Chapter Text
"The drop of a Needle" 217 Rivington Street, New York, NY 10009
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In a small corner of Manhattan, the shop smelled of vinyl and old wood. Outside, a handwritten sign read We Buy Records!, the red paint slowly fading into baby pink.
Inside, the place was messy, overflowing with records — vintage pressings stacked beside new releases, plastic and dust hanging in the air.
It was exactly how Johnny liked it.
Just another day. Johnny stood behind the counter cleaning a new batch of arrivals.
This is therapeutic.
He carefully wiped each record — precise, almost tender, making sure not to leave a single scratch beneath his long fingers.
“Oh wow, you really know your stuff, don’t you?”
A deep, honey-toned voice spoke behind him, touched by a faint foreign accent.
Johnny didn’t turn around — only a small, prideful grin tugged at the corner of his lips.
“You’d be surprised how many people don’t.”
“Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to buy some… Christmas records.”
Johnny finally looked up.
The man was tall and sun-kissed, as if winter had never touched him. In December, Johnny had the complexion of unbaked pizza dough. Next to him, the guy looked blessed by the sun itself.
Lucky bastard.
The stranger scratched the back of his head, clearly noticing Johnny’s resting bitch face.
“Well… here’s what I picked.”
Johnny abandoned the record he’d been cleaning and took the discs, flipping through them with the same care one might use sorting trash.
“Let’s see… Mariah. And Wham.” He snorted.
“Look, I don’t really care — but if you’re already buying this stuff, at least go grab the Ella Fitzgerald record.”
The man stared at him.
“You do know who Ella Fitzgerald is, right?” Johnny said flatly.
“No shit I do” the man shot back, rolling his eyes.
Johnny gestured toward the back, he turned his head down to the vinyls he was cleaning - trying to hide his slight flush on his cheeks.
“Same section. Wooden box. Covered in the cheapest plastic snowflakes you’ve ever seen.”
“Thanks!” The man grinned and went to swap the records. When he returned, he placed the vinyl carefully on the counter for Johnny to scan.
“Need anything else?” Johnny asked.
The man hesitated — maybe a moment too long — then pointed.
“Well… I’d like one of those caramel apples on a stick, if that’s okay.”
And there we go - that stupid grin again.
“Yeah, yeah, sure.”
The man casually grabbed the apple and unwrapped it like a 5 year old while Johnny scanned the records.
A Crack.
Johnny froze.
The caramel had stuck to the guy’s—
…golden?
…grills?
What the hell?
Before it could get into his hair, Johnny grabbed a napkin —
Too late.
The caramel tangled in it immediately, amber and sticky.
“Shit— ”
“Yeah, no,” Johnny sighed, handing him the napkin.
“Just use this.”
I ain't paid enough for this.
At least it ain't Christmas no more.
The store manager burst in, talking rapidly like she’d just won the lottery.
“Guys! We have a newcomer joining us! He’s going to be a huge help — oh, I can’t wait for you to meet him! He should be here any minute now!
He’s Italian like me, which I personally love — but don’t tell him I said that,” she laughed--something that was a rare occurence.
She huffed a laugh?
“He could get cocky easily… well, I would, if I were him.”
The door creaked open and Johnny recognized him immediately.
Why does god love torturin' me like this? - Johnny thought.