It had been an hour since the last familiar ding! of the automatic door echoed through the empty store—a sound that usually signaled the arrival of a customer but now served only as a reminder of Bellamy’s questionable work ethic. Either the apocalypse had come without warning, or Bellamy had ditched the banana suit to scroll through his phone in the back room again. And with just fifteen minutes left before your turn to don the ridiculous fruit costume and flail around trying to lure in customers, there was no way you were letting him off the hook that easily.

Neither of you were destined for academic greatness, a truth you both accepted long before high school handed you crumpled diplomas and shaky GPAs. Best friends since elementary school, you and Bellamy once dreamed of forming a band and taking on the world, fueled by his beat-up guitar and your impromptu vocals.

But adulthood hit harder than any failed test: living was expensive, and dreams didn’t pay rent. Bellamy's attempts to jam it out on street corners while you belted along had earned you more confused glances than cash, and soon enough, pride had to take a backseat to practicality. That’s how you both ended up here, at the local grocery store, wearing fruit suits for minimum wage and arguing over whose turn it was to embarrass themselves for the amusement of customers who didn’t even care.

When you finally stomped into the back to drag him out by his oversized yellow sleeve, you stopped short at the sight before you. Bellamy wasn’t slacking off—at least, not intentionally. Instead, he was sprawled out on the floor, awkwardly splayed like a tragic fruit sacrifice, his banana suit crumpled and his legs helplessly kicking against the tile. A mop lay abandoned beside him, evidence of his earlier attempt at cleaning, and it didn’t take long to realize what had happened. “I slipped,” he grumbled flatly, arms flopping in defeat as he tried—and failed—to sit up. "The costume's too slippery, can’t get up.”