Summer Under The Sea [Open]

When Callum heard about the Pilot Ridge Community Day, the blonde almost jumped for joy. God how long had he hoped for something exciting to happen around the quaint town. As if the move from a big city to a quiet, quaint town was hard enough, his Facebook feed had been filled with his friends’ photos in the recently concluded Pride Weekend in Vancouver. God he wished he was there. Celebrities, a leading gay club along those parts, supposedly didn’t even check ID. FML.

But this was his chance to redeem himself. It might not be as extravagant as Pride, but it’s something. He hadn’t updated his Instagram account for a long time too, and it’s about time.

Going alone wasn’t really the Canadian’s style during events like these, but Patrick (the guy he’s supposed to come with) suddenly came down with the flu. Supposedly. If he knew any better, it’s just that the brunette finally wooed that girl a floor down and they’re, well, getting to know each other in a biblical sense. He’d normally be angry that he’s blown off for some random skank, but hey, he’s only known Patrick for three days and, well, it’s too early to call him a bro just yet.

So he went down by the lake and within an hour, he figured he’d explored most – if not all – of the booths. He’s already tried the ring toss, almost won the shoot-the-shark game and got the number of the blonde managing the kissing booth (as well as a few bonus kisses at that). The boy was feeling hungry and was currently looking at the food stalls when one particular sign caught his interest.

“Churchkey Bar?” he said as he approached the kiosk, eyebrow raised as he saw the sign about the drink selections and that they’re all non-alcoholic, “But you’re not serving alcohol? That for real? Boo.”

Maybe he can get his power to activate and make this man more agreeable. Maybe.

Damn he wished he knew how to activate it.

The blonde puffed his cheeks and gave the man a frown. Or in other words, his best attempt at a puppy face. Which, in hindsight, wasn’t exactly the best idea if he wanted the man to think he’s of age. (He was originally thinking it’ll just be three more years after all, then he remembered he’s in the United State of A-fucking-Merica and it’s 21. Just his luck).

“Really? Nothing you can do about it?” The man didn’t show signs of budging, and him being new to town and all (in case he ran into the man again and all that; considering the size of the town, that’s not a remote possibility at all), decided to not push it. Some other time maybe. (When he’s had better grasp of his powers). “You’re probably right. Old man’s knowledge and all that right?” he answered jokingly.

He looked at the fruit punches, and while they all seemed nice, he had no idea what they are. “What else do you have anyway? And are you offering any food items or just drinks?” Callum’s obviously too lazy to check Cecil’s signs. Apologies. “Cute dog by the way.”

Callum let out a sarcastic laugh when the man called him a kid. While he might be oblivious at times, that little hint was as clear as Pamela Anderson’s breasts were fake. (Because those can, in no way be, natural, could they?). “Such a drag,” he said as he rolled his eyes and flashed the man a grin, “You rode around the backs of dinosaurs? I would’ve thought you were around even before they started roaming the earth. My bad. I guess once you reach a million years, you just stop aging and all look like decrepit old men, do you?” His grin got a little bit wider after saying that, to the point that it looked fake even. Hopefully that’d convey that he’s only joking and what they’re exchanging was just playful banter.

Who knows, maybe if he got into the man’s good side he’d share some booze with him. Because Callum just can’t shake the feeling that he’s got some hidden on him, he just needed to figure out where and how to grab it.

“Brit-centric? I’m guessing you’re the owner?” said Callum, scratching his chin as he tried to decide which one he’d like to try, “I mean, that’d explain the accent and all. Unless you’re one of those who can fake it, then just fuck me gently with a chainsaw.” He’s not actually in the mood for something sour (which would probably cross lemonade and sour lemon and lime off), but he’s not quite sure he’s adventurous enough to try mixed better or orange and pineapple. “I’ll try the cider please. How much is it again?” Grabbing his wallet, he opened the zipper that had his change and laid them all down on the counter. “Sorry, American money still confuses the fuck out of me.” Why can’t they just be colour-coded (and colourful) like his home up north anyway?

“She’s a beauty. What breed is she? The only one I can think of right now is an American Bulldog but she clearly ain’t one and I don’t think I’d love to risk being laughed at anymore.”