“Open up!” Memory yells, banging on the wooden door, only for no one to answer it. He sighs, slumping down on the doorstep, letting the papers in his hand cascade down onto the floor.

It’s taxpayer season, which means Memory has to stop holing himself up in his apartment, dress up fancy in a vest and long-sleeved shirt, and go out into the terrible, terrible world to bang on people’s doors and ask them to pay their taxes. Usually, most people pay up without complaint. Usually, most people don’t cause him trouble.

Usually, most people answer the fucking door when someone knocks on it.

It’s been three days since he’s been knocking on this one door. Three consecutive days he’s come by in the morning, knocked, waited for an answer, and then walking to the next house when he doesn’t. Three long, sleepless days.

Memory might lose his job over this. He’ll be jobless, homeless, and then thrown out into the streets where anything could happen. Like him having to sell his organs to survive. Like him having to eat street rats and decomposing leftovers for food. It’s sending chills down his spine just thinking about it. And it’s all because this one taxpayer won’t answer their door.

The worst part is the fact that he knows that the owner of this house is inside somewhere. How, you ask?

Because of the incessant thump-thump-thump of Kpop blasting out of the house.

Memory is very surprised that no one has complained about yet. He knows he’d go crazy if he was one of this guy’s neighbours.

He taps out a beat on the door, sighing as he stands up again. This guy is his last stop - he’s collected the taxes from literally everybody that he’s supposed to except for him. He needs to hurry up and report back.

“Tis the season to pay your fucking taxes, open up,” he deadpans in his normal volume, before raising a hand to knock again.

The door swings open right as he’s about to knock.

The shirtless guy standing in the doorway is as shocked as Memory is, judging from his slack jaw and wide, pretty gray eyes. His brown hair is sticking out everywhere despite the fact that he has a blue cap on backwards, giving him a slightly tousled “I - just - rolled - out - of - bed - looking - this - hot” look, which Memory has to admit kind of works on him.

Then his eyes wander downwards, and oh fuck, he’s hot.

The shirtless guy seems to realise it at the same time, because he yelps, face flushing red (cute-) and slams the door shut, the obnoxiously loud Kpop music shutting off a moment later. Memory stays stock still in the position he was in before, before groaning out loud and dropping his face into his hands.

Snap out of it, Memory. He’s hot. So what? He’s still the asshole who hasn’t been answering the door for 3 days. He’s still the asshole who’s in danger of making you lose your job. He’s still the asshole who’s currently avoiding paying his taxes. Get it together, Memory!

Then the door opens again, and the guy from before is in front of him again, and everything that Memory was thinking about flies out the window.

“Um- Sorry!” the guy pants out while Memory is struggling to form coherent thoughts in his head, because that is an atrocious fucking shirt.

Get it together. Get it together. This guy is a tax frauder, an asshole who doesn’t answer doors. This is not the time to sass people, Memory. Don’t-

“If you think you can seduce your way out of taxes I have some suboptimal news for you, buddy,” he deadpans and instantly mentally slaps himself with the force of a thousand burning suns.

Awkward silence.

“I- I wasn’t trying to-” the guy splutters. “I just- forgot to put on a shirt- Wow, okay, I get it, stop raising your eyebrows at me!”

Memory just raises his eyebrows higher.

“Okay, okay!” the guy raises his hands in mock surrender, looking slightly panicked. “I’m a painter. It’s stuffy inside, so I usually just- paint shirtless! That’s it!”

Oh, that kind of makes sense.

“And the Kpop?”

“Mood music!”

“Not answering your door for three consecutive days, effectively commiting a form of tax evasion?”

“I thought you were one of those irritating door-to-door salesmen! Wait- tax evasion?”

“That’s what you’ve been doing,” Memory sighs, holding out a sheaf of papers. “Sign, and then money, please.”

“Don’t arrest me!”

“Do I look like a policeman to you?” Memory’s patience is wearing thin. “I’m a tax collector!”

“Sorry, sorry! You just look like- like one!”

“How do I look like- oh, nevermind. Just pay up.”

The guy has a pout on his face the entire time while he’s shuffling through and signing the papers, which would make Memory feel bad, except for the fact that it’s just cute on him. It takes a lot of effort for Memory to drag his gaze away from him.

“Your name?” the guy suddenly asks, and it startles Memory enough that he responds instantly.

“Memory. You?”

“B,” the guy signs the last of the papers with a flourish, before handing the stack back to Memory. “But you know, you could call me tonight .”

And then the bastard fucking winks.

“Wh-” Memory opens his mouth, slack-jawed at the notion, already feeling the hints of a blush blooming across his cheeks.

“J-just kidding!” B backtracks, waving his arms in the air crazily. “Uh, it was just a joke- haha!”

“Oh,” Memory manages to say. “Well, it was a poor joke, you know.”

“S- sorry,” B droops in disappointment, which sets off a multitude of cowbells banging in Memory’s head. You idiot! You made him sad! Fix this now!

With great difficulty and trepidation, Memory draws himself up to his full height. “You can pay me back by treating me to coffee, you know.”

“E-eh?”

“For example, at that nice coffee shop around the corner. I hear they sell delightful black coffee.”

“Eh?”

“Give me a few hours to drop off these papers at headquarters, but I can be back by four in the afternoon if you want.”

“EH?”

“Please don’t wear that awful shirt out. It’s absolutely terrible and a disaster.”

“My shirt’s absolutely fine!” B interjects, his face completely red. “And- and-”

“Yes?” Memory raises an eyebrow, mentally slapping himself on the back for managing to keep his cool this far.

“Is this a date?!”

“If you want it to be,” Memory replies smoothly, screaming internally all the while. “See you there, then.”

As he turns around and forcefully power-walks away from the house, clutching the stack of tax papers to his chest, Memory allows himself the space to wheeze out a huge sigh of relief at the fact that that went a lot better than expected.

Although he’s going to have to question his taste in men a lot more.

(If he had turned back, he would have seen a completely red-faced B hiding his face in his hands, peeking out from between his fingers as he watched the very hot and suave tax collector stride down the path.)