When Dante Algernon Pulitzer was born, he was left on the doorstep of a fire station in San Francisco, as if he solely existed to fulfill some cliche movie storyline forced upon a mediocre writer by a washed up Hollywood executive, grasping at straws to stay relevant. His mother, Vivian, would tell him this story every year on his birthday with a look of great disdain on her face; Sure, it made her angry to think of a poor baby waiting out in the cold, wrapped in nothing but a single blanket. But the true disdain came from how trite she thought it all was. The firehouse baby was an ancient trope that barely had any relevancy 30 years ago, much less 25 years ago when it happened to Dante - why would somebody want to bring it back? 

Vivian Barnes Pulitzer, aged 55 when Dante was born, was three months out from retiring from her career as a firefighter and opening her own bookstore when the baby fell into her care. She took him in temporarily at first, giving him a temporary name from a few of her favorite books, just so she would be able to refer to him as something while she took care of him. Temporarily.

Evidently, that did not work out. When the time came to give him over to the foster care system, Vivian held him tight and told the social workers to Fuck Right Off. She'd made up her mind - this kid was hers, and she was going to raise him to be an even better writer than Dante Alighieri, and even smarter than Algernon. 

She spent the next 20 years telling her son that he was destined for literature, and that she couldn't wait to run the store side-by-side with him. She wanted literature to be engraved in his heart and etched into his very being, and while she was successful in garnering a love of books in him, Dante didn't believe in destiny. He didn't believe he was destined for anything. If the universe really had a hand in how human beings lived, all Dante knew was that it was cruel and unforgiving, and didn't much care for any plans it might've had for him. He agreed to help her run the store for a bit once he was done with school, but only out of filial piety, not out of responsibility to some made-up destined path. 

Every time they had this argument, Vivian would sigh, give him a kiss on the head, and tell him,

"Dante, I love you, but you're such an asshole. Destiny's coming for you, whether you like it or not."

She was a woman with a strong conviction and the stubborn head of a bull. Her dry sense of humor often left Dante and the rest of her friends reeling, and her inability to compromise or change her mind was her greatest strength and her deepest weakness. When Dante had her gravestone engraved the day before her funeral, he made sure it said:

Vivian Barnes Pulitzer

1945-2020

Book Lover, Fire Fighter, Surprise Mother

Headstrong asshole we'll love for all time

After Vivian went to the big Bookstore In The Sky, and left her small bookstore on the ground in the care of her son, Dante left his creative writing program at NYU to come back to the Inner Richmond district of San Francisco to keep this relic of a store open. At age 20, he had no idea how he was going to keep this store afloat. He had a little bit of help from his aunts - who were really just the gaggle of lesbians that Vivian kept by her side at all times - but he knew he had to find a new way to keep the doors open without relying on ever-aging, grumpy, old ladies. Paradiso Books had to stay open; it was all he had left of her. Plus, he lived above it - it would be really depressing to close his bookstore and have to pass by its corpse every time he left his apartment.  To Dante, there was no other option; the store stays open, by any means necessary.

"Jesus, fuck," Dante groans, hand reaching behind him to grasp at the partner of the day, "Can we, haa, move away from the - the Biography back stock?" His hand shakes as it finds purchase on this man's suit pant leg. "I-I'm close but I can't, ah," he catches his breath, "I can't finish all over my inventory, please," in desperation, he tosses his head back, catching the slightest glimpse of the top of his customer's head. Sweat drips from his partner's forehead onto Dante's head as he feels a hand gripping at his curls that bounce with the force of every thrust. Dante's body gets pulled upwards until his back is pressed against this near-stranger's chest, and his head naturally falls back onto the strong shoulder structure behind him.

"Thank you, gorgeous," he breathes, exhausted, and at a complete loss for what this guy's name might have been. It doesn't matter - he always ends up calling these men Tony out of pure laziness, and it's not like they're doing this with marriage in mind. He reaches his arm up and wraps it around 'Tony's' head, grabbing a fistful of his short hair, and pulls him in for a long and deep kiss. Dante knows he's good with his body, but he's even better with his tongue. As expected, with a sharp and sudden flinch and a choppy groan, Dante feels his partner finish inside him, filling the condom to the brim. As not expected, he also feels the sensation of him pulling all the way out. 

"Um....?" Dante questions as he turns towards 'Tony', still at full-mast, having yet to feel the same sensation, "Are you... are you done? or are you forgetting something?" His face shows a stifled yet still slightly present look of bewilderment as his customer slips the filled condom off, ties it up, and throws it in the tiny trash can behind the counter. 

"Oh! Oh.. well," the man shrugs, zipping up his pants and buckling his belt, "I mean, I'm not paying you so that you can finish. It's not my fault you held out so long." He grins. 

Dante suppresses a pout. Held out 'so long'? What the hell is he talking about? He lasted barely 5 minutes!, he thinks, but he knows it's futile. 'Tony' is right. When the customer is done, the customer is done, and anything else is just up to Dante. It's still an asshole move, but he decides in that moment that he doesn't really care that much. 

"Fair enough," Dante concedes, "Can't argue with you there." He pulls his shirt down and tuts annoyedly at the bite mark he left on the hem from holding it up with his mouth earlier. He tugs his boxers back on and grabs his jeans off the ground, stopping to take a few deep breaths to calm his dick down, hoping to avoid the dreaded boner-jeans-tuck. He has to get back to running the store soon, and he doesn't really want to be helping people find books with a fully pitched tent. Just as he finishes zipping his pants up, he sees his Tony handing him a wad of cash. 

"Is.. is this the right amount?" the man asks, obviously nervous, "I've never really done this before," he says. He looks so sheepish, Dante almost feels bad for him. Taking the cash, Dante counts it out. 

"Yeah, this is good, thanks." Dante smiles half-heartedly and goes to put the cash in the register, ringing it up as an old copy of Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov. 

"Well... good. Cool. Um. Thank - thank you, for um. For seeing me," the man says, awkwardly squeezing out from behind the counter to head towards the door, "Hopefully I'll see you next time?" 

Dante chuckles a little bit. "Yeah, sure, okay. See you later, Tony," he responds, quieting down at the last part as he lets his stupid nickname for this guy slip through  his lips. 

"Oh, Wow," the stranger says, nodding a bit, "he remembered my name..." 

As the door bells jingle with Tony's exit, Dante laughs to himself, knowing that he may never get to tell anyone why that was funny to him. He heads back to the door to re-open the blinds and flip the "closed" sign to "open." It's not super convenient to take clients in the morning before the shop opens, but Dante's customer base has started to shift over to tech-bro transplants that want to get their rocks off before they go to work. He remembers hearing something about how they want to "have stuff planned before and after work so that work isn't the main focus of the day," or something like that, but he's not sure. It's easier just to tune them out when they start to talk casually. He doesn't have to like his clients, he just has to get paid by them.

Other workers in this industry have a strict screening process that ensures safety and compatibility - and while Dante loves and respects that, his screening process is more "Are you going to pay me? Are you going to kill me? and Are you going to give me something I can't get rid of?" and as long as the answers are yes-no-no in that order, people get cleared through screening just fine. It works for him. He doesn't have to worry about his feelings and it gets him enough money to pay the mortgage. it hasn't failed him yet.

Dante heads back into the back staff-only area behind the cash register, and begins to wipe down the part of his work desk with a gentle sweat-stain in the shape of his ass. After five years, he's gotten used to the ritual of cleaning up after a client. The act of wiping it all away is his own form of aftercare; it's like giving himself a clean slate. It used to make him feel so humiliated when he started. He started probably too young, and no amount of meticulous research prepared him for the realities of the job; but now, the shame has melted away, and he's learned to accept the life he leads. There's no reason to feel humiliated anymore. It's nothing but a job. 

Once he successfully re-organizes his staff area, Dante goes to wash his hands in the employee bathroom, and catches a quick glimpse at his face in the mirror. His face is still puffy, still a bit flushed. The redness of his cheeks and forehead make his slightly bloodshot hazel eyes look crazy. His hair is messy and no longer neatly styled from Tony's abrupt yanking. Today was Day 1 hair - meaning Dante had literally just washed and styled it earlier that morning. To have it already fucked up was beyond irritating. He tries to fix it with water from the sink and a bit of wishful thinking, but eventually, he admits defeat and grabs his emergency white bandana from the usually un-utilized towel rack and ties it around his head. He lets a few still-styled curls poke through the front, but pulls the rest of his rats nest underneath a tightly tied head wrap. 

In the distance, Dante hears the door bells jingle. Realizing he has to get back to his actual job, he splashes a bit of cold water on his face to alleviate some of the puffiness, and walks briskly back to the cash register to greet the first customer of the day. 

Customers come and go all day, either browsing or purchasing or reserving. Dante spends most of the day balancing his finances and haggling with vendors, trying to get a new stock in that won't put him into financial ruin. As the minutes tick by, and closing comes closer and closer, he grabs a glimpse at his calendar. He's got a shift at the restaurant later today, and a meeting with his support group before that. Tomorrow, another client, another full bookstore day, another shift; and more of the same the day after that, and the day after that. Eventually, he might get a break, but he knows he'll find a way to fill the time with gig work. There's no time to sit still, no time to waste. Mortgage is expensive. Books are expensive. Living is expensive. 

Vivian, you lucky son of a bitch, Dante woefully ponders as his calendar fills, you got off easy. 

Before his mind can wander to a darker place, the door bells jingle again. He snaps out of his concentrated daze and puts on his award-winning smile.

"Hey! Welcome. We're closing in about half an hour, but still feel free to browse..." He trails off of his thoroughly rehearsed greeting when he finally gets a look at who has walked in the door.

The guy's cute, he'll give him that. He looks about Dante's age, maybe a year younger or so. His pin straight black hair  is cut neatly above the tops of his ears, with a gentle fade toward the bottom hair line, and his deep brown eyes look almost black in the incandescent lighting of the bookstore. His face is more flushed than Dante's was earlier in the day - it looks like he's been sprinting, or at least briskly walking for a few miles, and he's either sweating buckets or somebody dunked him in a water tank. Regardless, the man is soaking wet and panting. Usually, that's exactly how Dante likes them, but not like this, and not surrounded by this many paper goods. 

"You're soaked." Dante remarks, not trying nearly hard enough to hide the grimace on his face. 

"I fell. into a puddle," the man says between deep heavy breaths. He points half-heartedly toward the door, "outside," he finishes. 

Dante slowly nods, "So... you thought you'd.. come to a bookstore?" 

"This was the closest place to the puddle," the man explains, "it seemed like a sign."

"A sign?" 

"Yeah, like, from the universe."

Dante presses his lips together and nods. Christ, why did this have to happen right before closing?