Chapter Text
Here’s the thing about Sundays. At least, for you.
It’s your off-day. Notably. It’s the day you don’t work, the day you don’t have school, the day you spend in your bed, or on your couch, or at your desk tinkering with a radio. And when it happens, when you get that shot, it is bliss.
But generally, it’s also the day your family is home.
And listen: you love your family. Your mom and your brother have been there for you through everything. You’ve been through hell and back, all as a team. You eat dinner together, squeeze in movies when you get the time, surprise each other with gifts. They’re very, very dear to you. You value them deeply. Their support means a lot.
You would just love a quiet day.
Sure, there are the off-Sundays where you work, or your mom works, or your brother isn’t home, but the chances of that have become so slim that you’ve stopped hoping for it. You’ve learned that you’re always going to wake up to the sound of Dustin breaking something, or to your mother yelping as she burns her hand. Or to your cat licking you awake, but that one’s not so bad.
Like today. You woke up to the sound of an impromptu karaoke session coming from the kitchen: your brother and mother dramatically vocalizing to the Miami Vice theme song as it played on TV.
You had sighed loudly, covered your head, pulled the covers tight, but the noise didn’t budge. It was much, much earlier than when you planned on waking up, but it was just one, simple inconvenience. No big deal.
Then, you looked in the mirror: an absolute hair disaster. Like, seriously, you gasped out loud at the sight. You can’t tell if you slept extra hard or if it’s just your luck, but it’s bad. Really bad. It sticks out in all directions, looped over itself awkwardly, and no amount of smoothing it out seems to get the job done. It’s a matter of hair product and God, and you know it.
You’ll fix it when you shower tonight, you think, knowing you’re not going anywhere today. You just want some peace and quiet. It’s just a little hair.
So, you tried to do the homework you had procrastinated all weekend. All fine and good until your brother came banging on your door asking if you could help him with his. Since you’re nothing but a sucker for the poor kid, you gave in, and spent no less than an hour trying to explain to Dustin what a thesis statement was.
Well, by the time you were done with that, it was lunch, your mom was up and at ‘em, and you still had homework. You dragged your body to the kitchen to make a quick sandwich, only to find your family cat, Mews, with her mouth buried into what was left of the bread loaf. She got a light scolding from your mother and you got a thin apology, but she was back on her lap by the time you microwaved leftover pizza.
After finally, finally getting that paper done, you were exhausted once again, an afternoon wasted by your academics. You tucked up in your bed, prepping for a quick power nap, just to finish the day…
…until your mom turns the TV on. And turns it pretty much all the way up.
“You know you can always crash here on Saturdays,” your best friend Jonathan tells you over the phone, your complaints quite familiar by now. “My house is always quiet in the morning. You'd wake up here and the problem is solved.”
You sigh longingly, twirling the cord around one of your fingers. “I’d have to bike there after work. You live further away from Mindy’s than I do.”
Jonathan scoffs. “So?”
“So, it’s goddamn cold,” you complain. “It’s October.”
“If you think this is cold, you might die in December.”
You sigh annoyedly. “Okay, it’s not…colder than normal, I just mean that it’s cold. Blanket statement.”
“Uh-huh.”
You prop your legs up on your desk, crossing them over one another as you sink further into your chair. The pictures hanging over you on the wall grin like you’ve said something funny.
“You wanna come over anyway?” Jonathan asks. “Or we can go out. Whatever. I’ll pick you up.”
You raise your eyebrows. “Your mom doesn’t need the car?”
“Bob’s driving her around,” he explains. “Besides, I’m gonna need it. Will needs a ride to the arcade.”
You roll your eyes. Oh, the arcade. Only the most talked about place in the house you live in nowadays. When your brother isn’t home, he’s with Jonathan’s brother and their friends, playing Dig Dug from the second it opens to the second it closes. You can’t say that’s the kind of thing you’re nerding out on, especially because it just eats up all the spare change you make in tips from work, but the boys are thirteen. It’s pretty much the height of entertainment for them.
So, you sigh. “Wonder if my mom knows about those plans,” you remark.
Jonathan laughs. “Probably not.”
You hum. “Yeah, probably not.”
“So, pick you up? Yes or no?”
You weigh your options. Even though your radio is churning out an ABBA song you like, whatever your mom is watching on the TV is much, much louder. Like, seriously, you could probably determine the plot if you listened hard enough. Your “quiet day” slipped through your fingers before you could even wake up.
You open your mouth to answer, but are very rudely interrupted by banging on the wall sharp call of your name.
“STOP HOGGING THE LINE!” yells Dustin, from the other side of the wall, where his room is. “YOU’VE BEEN TALKING FOREVER!”
“You have the Supercoms!” you shout back, rolling your eyes and pushing the receiver back to your ear.
“--hell was that?” you catch on the other end.
Rolling your eyes, you offer a half-hearted laugh. “Dustin,” you clarify. “Always Dustin.”
Jonathan laughs too, knowingly. “Sounds…loud.”
“It is,” you say breathlessly.
“Won’t be loud in the car.”
You roll your eyes. “Fine, sure,” you say, unraveling yourself from your chair. “I have to do my hair, though. It’s really bad. And I have to get dressed, too.”
“Can you be ready in ten minutes?” Jonathan asks.
You scoff. “Ten minutes?” you ask annoyedly. “Do you want me to do the Olympics too?”
“Ten minutes is objectively plenty of time,” your best friend huffs. “Like, so much time. Like, an abundance of time, even.”
“Not my fault you get dressed like old people fuck,” you remark boredly, opening your closet.
“Not your fault I what?”
You laugh under your breath. “Hanging up now!” you announce. “If you’re not here in ten, I’m calling back!”
“Don’t you dare, you know how loud the ring--!”
Slamming the handset back onto the phone stand, you punch the wall you share with your brother with the side of your fist. “DONE!” you shout, because you’re a benevolent and generous older sister.
He doesn’t answer, but that’s no bother to you. You’re already scanning your closet for the right outfit choice; something casual, but at least like you put some effort in, in case Jonathan drags you to do a photoshoot -- which, you have a sneaking suspicion, is the true reason for him picking you up.
You have a new shirt halfway on when your door bursts open.
“Jesus!” you screech, tugging your shirt all the way on as fast as you can.
It didn’t matter. Dustin is already wailing and covering his eyes, acting like he’s been personally violated because he saw your back with a bra on. Like the implication enough was reason for panic.
“Why are you naked?!” he asks you incredulously, though you are actively in both a shirt and jeans.
You squint at him incredulously, smoothing out your top. “It’s my room,” you spell out, like he’s stupid. “You didn’t even knock.”
“It’s my house. I shouldn’t have to knock,” Dustin insists. His nose is turned up pretentiously.
You shake your head. “Oh, sorry, are you paying rent every month?”
Dustin’s face burns bright red. “Shut up!” he whines. “I’m going to the arcade. Do you have any quarters?”’
You scoff. “Okay, so, first you yell at me through the wall, then you barge into my room without knocking, and now you’re asking me for quarters? And not so much as a please?”
Dustin rolls his eyes. “I’ll pay you back!” he says. Notably not a please.
You grab a pair of earrings from your dresser and cock your head to look in the mirror, fitting them into the holes in your lobes. “You won’t.”
“I will!”
You drop your arms and deadpan him. “With what money?”
He shrugs. “I dunno! Chores!”
You could pinch that look off of his face. “You get paid in nickels, like, once a week, dude,” you laugh.
Dustin spreads his hands. “Which is only five weeks of saving, if you think about it.”
“So, then where’s that saving now?”
He drops his hands, his forced comedic grin dropping with it. “Look, do you have quarters or not?” he whines.
“Not,” you confirm, walking for the door. “Or at least, not any for you.”
Dustin groans and leaves as you do, stomping around like you’ve absolutely plagued him with some sort of unforgivable, incurable curse. You have to laugh -- he’s seriously not intimidating, like, at all -- especially as he parades towards his next victim, your mother. You wander into the bathroom, pulling out your hair product, but you can’t help but pay attention through the reflection in the mirror.
Your mom is parked on the couch, as she often is, petting the cat and watching some drama on TV. Dustin storms in like he owns the place (which, according to him, he does) and shoves his hands between the couch cushions. He’s doing it for show, you know, to prove to you that you’ve totally inconvenienced him.
He lights up when his fingers wrap around something shiny, but darkens when he sees the bronze. “Another stupid penny!” he groans.
You shake your head and put the product in your hair, laughing under your breath when you notice a similar annoyance from your mom. Dustin, unsatisfied, chucks the coin across the room -- it flies past your mom, making even you blink in surprise.
“Dusty, watch it!” she whines, a hand over Mews’ face. “You almost hit Mews!”
You roll your eyes and turn back to the sink. Your hair seriously is a mess today; Jonathan was crazy to insinuate it could be fixed in ten minutes. You grunt a little, scrubbing a bit harder, watching bubbles foam up at your roots. You’re satisfied here, in all of the two seconds that it's quiet. Then:
“Can I please check under your cushions?” Dustin mewls, like a two-year-old.
You roll your eyes. “Kiss-ass!” you shout down the hall.
“Shut up!” Dustin yells back. Then, all sweet and innocent, “Mom, please? It’s an emergency!”
For a moment, you are giddy with a rush of excitement, because you’re so very sure that Dustin is about to get what’s coming to him. That he’s being a total spoiled brat and your mom is about to tell him so.
And yet, she just sighs. Carrying the cat, hefted up on her hip, your mom moves out of Dustin’s way.
Your jaw basically falls off of your face as Dustin skips over to the couch, digging his hands in between each cushion. “What the hell?” falls out of your lips without thinking.
Grinning like an idiot, Dustin stands, holding two shiny silver quarters in victory. “Love you, Mom!” he sings, skipping down the hallway over to you.
When he passes you, he flashes the coins at you, his shit-eating, winning smirk nearly as bright as they are. You roll your eyes, flipping the faucet on to dry your hands.
“See? I didn’t need your pity money,” Dustin announces when you don't engage. He’s already run back into his room by the time you’ve turned your head.
“It’s not pity money if you begged for it,” you insist.
When Dustin returns to the hallway, he’s slung his backpack over his shoulder, and is stuffing his feet into his shoes. “I asked for it,” Dustin clarifies. “Very nicely, might I add.”
You huff. “You didn’t even say ‘please.’”
“‘Please’ is just a word. My kindness is an essence.” Dustin shakes his head overdramatically. “If you knew me, in my heart, you would know.”
“‘In your heart?’” you ask, plugging in the hairdryer. “You don’t have one of those.”
“You probably ate it.”
“You probably shit it out.”
“Well, you--”
You flick the hairdryer on wickedly. “What?” you call. “Oh, that’s so crazy, it’s so loud. I can’t hear shit.”
Dustin practically rolls his eyes into goddamn Narnia. “Turn that off,” he commands.
You hear it loud and clear. “What?” you shout anyway. “You’re so quiet! What?”
Dustin shakes his head, turning down the hall. “Asshole!” he yells over his shoulder.
“Bye, love you!” you say.
Dustin shakes his head. “Love you.”
“Have fun!”
The front door slams shut, a gust of cold forced inside from the impact of the door. Mews squeaks, digging further into your mom’s lap. She mutters comfort into her fur.
You huff again, but take a second to actually use the hairdryer, running your hands through your hair and flipping it to hit every crook and crevice.
WHAM! The door slams again. You hear your name.
“Jonathan is here!” Dustin hollers.
You roll your eyes. “What? Already?”
Dustin shrugs. “He’s in the driveway!”
You glance at the time -- ten minutes later, as promised -- and curse under your breath. “Tell him ‘one second!’” you request.
Dustin rolls his eyes. “You do it.”
“Oh my God, D, he’s right there,” you groan. You move the hairdryer in bigger circles like your hair will magically lose its dampness.
“Mike is waiting! Bye!”
“Dustin--!”
WHAM! The door slams. Again.
What was that about Sundays being quiet days?
Sighing, you give up on drying your hair and unplug the machine, leaving it askew on the counter and flicking the lights off. You don’t even enter your room, just reach an arm around the corner to grab a windbreaker and loop it over your shoulders.
“Jonathan’s?” your mom asks, familiar with routine.
You hum. “See you later.”
“Have fun, honey.”
You shuffle out the door, jump from the porch, and hit a soft jog to Jonathan’s car. Sliding in and tucking your legs under you, you’re met immediately with the bump of the radio. The highs and lows of Joy Division.
Before you say anything, you’ve already pulled the mirror from the sunvisor down.
“I told you ten minutes,” Jonathan says, offering his hand: a fist bump, then a finger interlock; a twist, then a thumb link, then finger guns.
“I told you that was bullshit,” you reply, no malice to your words, eyes locked on the mirror. “Look at me. My hair looks insane.”
Jonathan cocks his head, his eyes flitting over the top of your head. He winces, a bit embarrassedly, before his eyes fall back to your face. “I don’t…I don’t see a difference,” he admits.
You gasp. “Take that back right now.”
“I’m sorry!” Jonathan shrugs, laughing. “It’s just-- I don’t know anything about girls’ hair--!”
“Are you kidding?” you yelp, smoothing it out manically. “You’re actually hurting my feelings.”
“I’m sorry--”
“I look like a hyena,” you stress. “Are you looking? A hyena.”
“You look fine,” Jonathan says, very absolutely. He doesn’t even bother comforting you any more than he has, knowing it’ll continue either way. “It’s just me, man.”
Your vision dances into the backseat, a very notable bag in the back. The one Nancy gave him for Christmas (unprompted, you’d like to add), with the pretentious film and band pins. The one that carries his most prized possession of all.
You sigh. “And your camera?”
Jonathan smiles sheepishly, caught. He doesn’t fight. “It’s sunny today!” he defends.
You groan, throwing your head back, a hand dragging the skin from your eyes to your chin. You look crazy -- like, truly crazy -- and you don't want this look memorialized.
“Please?” Jonathan whines. “Just a few shots! There’s this sick area over by the train tracks that Will found and it would look so cool with the sunset--!”
Dragging your hands through your hair, you mess it up a bit more. You make a funny face in the mirror. “Am I looking forlorn to you today?”
“Well, you know what I think,” Jonathan quips. His hand hangs over the wheel. “C’mon, please? I’ll buy you-- I’ll buy you a milkshake.”
Well, that gets your attention. You whip around, a grin sliding across your face. “Right now?” you ask excitedly.
Jonathan blinks. “‘Right now?’ We just got here!”
“It’s not even sunset yet!” you point out. “We have time to kill! You can bribe me. It’ll work.”
“I know it will, that’s why I offered.” Jonathan yanks on the stick shift, and shakes his head. He doesn’t continue, even when you wait.
“So, milkshakes?”
Jonathan rolls his eyes. “Don’t ask before I change my mind.”
You squeal childishly, leaning over to turn up the music. “And suddenly, I want to listen to Joy Division,” you announce cheekily.
Jonathan just laughs -- it's melodic; small, but refreshingly him in a way other people don’t fulfill. It’s the closest you’ve gotten to your quiet day.
Oh, well, you think to yourself. You don’t work this weekend, so you’ll have time then. The time for quiet.