#my dye job was fine turns out if your hair is wet and your scalp is red from a hot shower it will just look silly til those stop

[transmechanicus]

Don’t usually show my natural hair so be grateful and sweet to me, m’kay?

[ceilingfan5]

Casual affections: 15, please? thank u!

(washing hair) yall remember this one?

“Pink, huh?” Kravitz scoops hair dye onto Taako’s long hair and carefully slides it through. It smells funny, kind of like bubblegum flavored toilet cleaner, and it’s stained his gloves good and proper. “You know I got my cosmetology license out of the bottom of this box, yeah?”

Taako snorts, looking particularly silly with the towel clothespinned around his shoulders and his hair full of goo.

“It’s gonna be fine. It- It’s gonna be great, even. I needed a change, and this is a change, and it’ll feel- good. And different.” He sounds like he’s reassuring himself more than Kravitz, and Kravitz kind of has to give him credit there. He’s always been kind of shit at self-soothing.

“Yeah,” Kravitz says softly, pulling the dye all the way to the ends of Taako’s bleached hair. He tugs softly, kind of fondly. “It’s gonna be alright, Taako.”

Taako sighs, shaking a little, and Kravitz finishes putting the hair dye in in silence. He wraps it up and slips on the shitty disposable plastic shower cap to give it time to process. He carefully slips off his bright pink sweet-nasty gloves and snaps them like a surgeon that just got done carving up a fairy-thing, joining the three whole boxes of hair dye in the now very full bathroom trash can.

And finally, he can’t stand it anymore.

“Taako, why are you here? We both know you can afford a proper dye job from the best stylists in the country. And it’s been a year. I- I thought you moved on to...bigger and brighter things.”

Taako’s shoulders try to swallow him up and almost choke on his bones.

“I, um,” he chews his lip in a way that makes it look like it’s going to come right off. “I- Maybe, um, maybe I should start with...I’m sorry?”

“Couldn’t hurt.” Kravitz leans against the counter and folds his arms. Taako stares at the fluffy bathroom rug.

“Well. I am. I’m- Krav, I’m so fucking sorry. You know that, right? I- I never meant for things to get this bad, but they did--it was just one thing after another-- I thought the job would be a good idea, and I was so scared of long distance and I got prickly-”

“That’s one word for it.”

“And- and I thought it would be easier to rip off the bandaid than lose you slow-”

“Taako, you know-”

“I know! I know you would have been good to me even from a thousand miles away, okay? But I was scared, and stupid, and my head was full of cotton candy and bees, and it turns out bees can’t fucking live on cotton candy and it’s just a bunch of sticky dead bees up there now, and-” Taako chokes back a sob, and Kravitz sighs. He reaches out and takes Taako’s hands.

“So tell me about the job. How’s showbiz?”

“It’s-” Taako laughs, a harsh sound that doesn’t quite feel right. “It’s not exactly what I expected, Krav, there’s- there’s a lot of pressure, and I know that sounds fucking stupid, like, everybody wants to be a star, like, I should be so lucky, but-”

“But it’s gotten hard again, yeah?” Kravitz squeezes his hands gently, and Taako’s lip wobbles.

“Maybe.”

“I saw your nails.”

“Fuck your falcon eyes.” Taako shakes his head, smiling a little.

“And after this, I’m making you dinner. A proper one.”

“Krav...”

“Listen,” Kravitz says, firm, but emotional. “I know how you get when you’re stressed. I have eyes. And I know how that interview probably went. They poked too far, and you got defensive, and let out too much, and panicked, right?”

Taako is very quiet.

Kravitz aches for him. He shouldn’t step back in time like this. That open wound hurts too much to poke at it. But just because they broke up and Kravitz’s heart shattered into little pieces doesn’t mean he wishes Taako ill. They could still be friends. He was the one who tried (desperately) to keep things going, but Taako got scared, and he clammed up and isolated himself. And to a certain point, with him all the way across the country, there wasn’t much Kravitz could do to push that stupid boundary.

“Taako...” Kravitz checks a strand of his hair, and decides to process it a little longer. “You know I don’t hate you, right?”

Taako cries.

“You should,” he manages to get out, between big painful sobs. “You should hate me. I deserve it. I fucked everything up.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t. End of story.”

And he holds Taako, hoping not too much dye gets on his bathrobe, until it’s time to wash his hair out.

It’s tricky to position things, Taako’s head in the bathtub, Kravitz beside him with the shower head hose, but Kravitz shampoos his hair and scrubs it good, watching in silence as the pink circles the drain like Barbie Psycho. Taako sighs as he massages his scalp, doesn’t say a word as Kravitz rinses with just-warm-enough water over and over until it runs as clear as the box stuff can. It’s intimate, and gentle, and familiar, and it hurts and heals and it sets a bone neither of them realized was still broken.

Quietly, Kravitz pulls him up and wraps Taako’s hair up in one of his shitty towels, drying his face as tenderly as he can allow himself to. Taako fluters still-wet eyelashes and sniffles, and Kravitz, again, as always, like it was yesterday instead of a year ago, gets lost in his beautiful eyes.

“You don’t have to-”

“No,” Kravitz says, barely a whisper. “I don’t.” He leans closer, but at the last second, he kisses Taako’s forehead instead of his lips. Even so, it feels terribly, sorrowfully natural. How quickly things unchange.

“You can sleep on the couch, after you eat something,” he adds, to break the silence, to shatter that look in Taako’s eyes hurting for something he threw away. “I’ll get you some blankets.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” And Taako gets up, and he heads to the kitchen. Kravitz follows him, but not until after he’s looked at his pink-stained hands for a long, long time.

[whirlybirbs]

✩   --   BLEACH ON A BUZZCUT    ;   1 / 1

summary: captain rex needs to fix his hair. you help. pairing: captain rex x war correspondent!reader, established relationship warning: angst! and tenderness! mention of fives’ death. word count: 2.2k a/n: dedicated to @cyber-nya. i will probably write more about these two if people are interested. i really love this idea of a war correspondent for the HNN! would be fun. 

Captain Rex, in all his years, has always ensured one, simple thing through the long, grueling tide of war:

His hair will always be blonde. 

Save for that three month campaign on Kashyyyk, that is. Back then, dying his hair was the last on a long list of concerns. Food, shelter, and not drowning in the heavy monsoon months were at the top. His hair had grown out into angry little blonde tipped tufts, then. The roots of his hair looked like that of his brother’s. His beard, just as dark as the roots, itched. General Skywalker had laughed, citing the fact he’d never seen Rex with anything but his usual bleach blonde buzz. 

“You don’t look like the Rex I’m used to.”

He sighs and runs a hand over the grown-out buzz in the barrack’s bathroom mirror. 

The words stuck.

Anaxes reminds him of Kashyyyk. Different, but... 

He feels the same. Tired, weary, and alone. 

You plant your knuckles on the open archway of the bathroom as if you’d heard that thought from across the clamoring airbase. The rap-rap-rap snaps him from his stint in the land of self-pity. Rex’s eyes, warm and soft, land on you leaning in the doorway. 

You frown. You know that look on his face.

“Been looking for you.”

Rex, fresh out of the shower, moves to the bench where his blacks sit. Beside those, a half-used bottle of bleach that’s been living in his foot locker for the last month. Beside that, a cup he’s stolen from the mess. Kix had lended him a pair of mint-colored surgical gloves, as per usual. Sure, maybe it’s a gross disuse of GAR medical materials, but... His vanity outweighs his guilt. 

First though, he needs to shave. The three day old stubble is begin to rub the inside of his helmet wrong.

Rex, GAR issued towel hanging on his hips, snags the razor on the edge of the bench and turns back to run the water of the sink.

You’re moving across the room. You’re quiet -- and you’re watching the way the Captain wets the razor. You’re quick, snagging the GAR issued travel tin of dry-to-wet shaving cream from atop his folded blacks. You hand it to him, and Rex’s eyes sit on your for a moment. 

“Everything okay?”

You lean against the mirror in the space between his sink and the one behind you. Your arms are crossed tightly. 

Rex, ducking his chin and snagging a dab of the shaving cream, smears the foamy substance across the sharp curve of his jaw. You watch a bit enamored with the gesture, following the trail of white that paints the planes of his cheeks. Only when it’s even does he speak.

“Fine,” it’s tempered and slow, “You?”

You almost snort. “Rex...”

“Tired,” he supplies, then, realizing yeah, he’s being a little unfair, “I’m... tired.” 

“You’re being called a hero,” you push yourself off the wall, spreading your stance and tilting your head, “You and Echo and --”

“Yeah.”

Oh. Your mouth closes almost immediately. Guilt washes over both your faces. 

Rex drops his head again. “Sorry --”

“No,” you shake your head as he leans to grab the plastoid razor. The handle is battered and chipped. It’s his trusty one -- one that’s followed him in his pack on nearly every mission he’s run. It fits in his hand neatly. He drums it against the sink as you shake your head, “I... I know it probably sucks... Seeing him go.”

Rex snorts. Then, with an incredibly steady hand, carves a clean shaven path through the shaving cream along his cheek. He finishes the swipe, flicks off the foam, and huffs. 

“He’ll be okay,” Rex says, voice wavering, “Just, uh... I’d thought it might be like old days.”

Your heart whines. Hurt pulls at your features. Rex ignores his own heartache. 

Things are different. This isn’t Kashyyk. Not like when he had Fives and Echo and Jesse and Kix and Hardcase by his side. Not like when Torrent was whole, or when Ahsoka minded his recklessness and him hers. Everything is different. 

And he was stupid to think it could be the same.

Rex is quiet while he finishes shaving. By the end of it, he feels a bit better. Cleaner. Less run ragged. The blonde, bulky and wide with muscle, bends over and splashes his face clean in the sink. 

You touch his shoulder when he stands up. 

“Hey,” you say, “I’m not goin’ anywhere, you know.”

Rex’s lip quirks. 

You have long since become a fast fixture in his life. The affections between you both had blossomed and bloomed and... it had culminated in nights spent together in small cots on planets near and far. It was an unspoken bond -- one that was sewn together with stolen kisses and wandering hands in the final hours of war torn nights. 

You’d met him months ago -- before the Outer Rim sieges had risen to the escalation they sat at now -- when you’d been working public relations and doing press releases for Senator Amidala and the other Republic aligned senators. 

You’d shook hands with General Skywalker on the terrace of the Naboo Senator’s balcony, and then his Captain’s. The Jaigeyes on his helmet betrayed the kind eyes beneath. 

(You were beautiful, standing there in the sun before him. Even now, in the humming overheard lights of the Anaxes barrack bathroom, you’re beautiful.)

Two weeks later, you’d been sent to tail the 501st and report on the war for the HoloNet News in juncture with the Outer Rim Node. HNN had been wanting a reporter in the field for a while now and... Padmé had put in good word.

“Keep an eye on Anakin,” she’d smiled, “And Rex, too, will you?”

You kept that promise you made. 

Rex is standing before you now -- tanned skin marred with starlight colored scars. They dash across the planes of his chest and abdomen like comets in the sky. One scar, a large circular hole that swirls in the center of his chest like a collapsing star, has its own gravity. The scars on his body paint a universe in and of itself. Mapped and ever expanding.

He touches your cheek. His hands are warm and calloused.

“I know.”

The smile you give him is reserved for moments like this. Tender. Quiet.

You lean into the touch and kiss his palm. Rex chases the touch with a sturdy press of his lips to your forehead. He speaks against your brow.

“Gotta fix my hair.”

You laugh. “I do love blondes.”

Rex’s chest rocks in amusement. He moves away, towards the bench -- you linger. The electric buzzer, copped off Jesse, hums alive in Rex’s hands. You touch his forearm. Brown eyes look up in question.

“I can help,” you say, “I don’t mind.”

He lets you take the clippers from his hands. And then, he move to stand in front of the mirror again. You trail behind, a head shorter than the trooper, and crack a wry smile when Rex bends -- with an expression of haughty pride -- so you can reach his head. 

The peek of brown has climbed up his short bleached hair. It feels odds to reveal a trail of dark brown hair when you run the clippers over his head. You teeter on the balls of your feet, catching a smirk in the mirror on the Captain’s face at the need to get a better view of his head. You swat at his back. He laughs. 

The work is easy enough -- and in a minute or so, Rex looks more like Cody than himself. It’s disorienting. His hair was so... his... that the absence of the blonde made him look so much like his brothers. You’d not thought of him as a clone for a long time, now. This moment serves as a reminder.

It’s a bit of a punch in the face.

His life -- as treasured as it is in your hands -- is nothing to the Republic he fights for. The thought is one you’ve bitterly swallowed down for months. All of them... hundreds of thousands of men. Nothing but canon fodder. Nothing but numbers on a datapad. 

Rex notes the discomfort on your face. 

He runs his hands over his fresh buzz and drops his hands to his waist. The defined muscles of his stomach move as he exhales.

“I hate it, too.”

“Does it bother you?” you mumble, “Looking so much like...”

“Like Jesse?” Rex snorts, “Sure does. Ugly sonuva --”

Your laugh makes him sport a wry grin. You shake your head, moving to eye the job. You did a decent enough buzz. The bleach will hide the imperfections, of course. You swipe at the back of his head and brush some hair from his shoulders. 

"Why do you think I bleach the life outta my hair, huh?” Rex supplies as he leans around to grab the half used bottle of bleach -- the tube is blue and reads Fancy’s Hair & Dye down the side in Aurebesh. It’s the best brand he’s used; a favorite. No need for two rounds. Does the job in one sitting. 

“Because I like blondes?”

A joke.

He laughs. You snag the bottle out of his hands, then point to the bench as you read the label. 

“Sit.”

“Didn’t know you were a stylist.”

You swat his shoulder. Still, you’re reading. And when you finish, satisfied with the thirty minute wait time outline on the bottle, you hand it back and reach for the gloves.

“... You don’t have to --”

“Rex,” you mutter, “Shut up and let me dye your hair, will you?”

His smirk digs into his cheeks. “Why should I?”

You snap the gloves on and brace a knee on the bench beside his hip. In the mirror across the room, you can see the wrinkles along his cheeks return with his amused expression. You plant a sturdy kiss to his temple. 

“This,” you say, opening up the bleach and quickly making work at spreading it along his scalp. It reminds you of shitty bleach jobs you did in university -- drunk in communal bathrooms surrounded by your classmates. It’s not neat, but you try to make the bleach even along his head, “is the most relaxing thing I’ve done in weeks.”

“War’s hell.”

“Eugh,” you recoil, “This stuff smells like hell.”

Rex grins. “Extra strength.”

“It’s that Mandalorian hair,” you chirp, smoothing the bleach. Rex’s eyes lull shut, “I never realized how dark it was.”

“It’s deceiving.”

“I like the blonde better,” you say, then adding, “On you, I mean.”

"Not a fan of Crys’ hair?”

You scoff. The 212th trooper had sunshine colored hair. Not like the near silver of Rex’s. His look was high-maintenance. Rex’s was... battle-ready. Easy. Handsome. Not pretty like Crys tried for. 

“Despite the brotherly similarities,” you grin, satisfied with the now purple colored head before you, “I really do only have eyes for you, Cap.”

Rex rolls his eyes. “As if you wouldn’t drop me for Wolffe in a heartbeat.”

Another swat. Rex is going to start keeping count. You chuck the gloves in the trash, moving to prop yourself up on the bench next to the Captain as the bleach sets. “That was before --”

“Before you realized I was this handsome under the bucket?”

When you’d first began operating within the 501st, you’d had a few run-in’s with the Wolfpack. Their commander had readily stolen your attention, much to Rex’s dismay. He’d been pining for weeks by that point, and to hear you vocalize your evident attraction to the gruff vod’ika ticked a blonde right off. You still haven’t lived it down. 

“Wolffe is... mysterious,” you shrug, “His holonet segments got a lot of traction, you know. Almost as much as -- ...”

Almost as much as Fives.

Charismatic, kind, and handsome. Funny, too. 

Rex squeezes your knee. “Hey.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Still hurts.”

“Kills.” 

His arm snakes around your shoulders. Your cheek knocks his bare shoulder. The shared grief ripples around you both tightly. But there’s comfort there. Two souls, hurting -- together. Better than before, and Rex certainly doesn’t feel as lonely as he did when he first set out to fix the blonde on his head.

The kiss is a little jumbled. Your nose bumps his and your teeth clack. It’s sweet and tender and you have to laugh into the gesture. No matter how often you two come together like this, in comfort and in passion, it still yields lovesick results. The 501st Captain has you wrapped around his thumb. It shows, especially when you lean in to steal another moment of the kiss. 

Anaxes reminds him of Kashyyyk. Different, but...

He didn’t have you on Kashyyyk. 

Now, he’s not so tired, weary, and alone. 

But, still blonde.

[banashee]

Hi Folks, welcome to my second fic for the Archival Pride 2021 project! Look at their tumblr for more info :) @archivalpride

Archival Pride 2021, Week two (June 8-14) Prompts: identity, embrace, celebration, intersectionality, firsts

The key words I've used here are identity, embrace, celebration and firsts

-

Content Warnings: Once again, this is mostly a bunch of fluff but to be safe:

- the words "murder" and "crime scene" are there, but it's not related to anything serious, no one comes to harm here and it's only part of some jokes related to hair dye. - mention of Top-Surgery, nothing graphic - some swearing

----

Oh and by the way? Jon's move of accidentally dousing Tim with the showerhead was taken out of real life. My best friend fucking did that to me when helping me with dyeing my hair... Thanks, Dear. @bananaink I love you lots! ♥ Thanks for being my favourite human and being a great inspiration for shenanigans like this :D

-

 Wear your colours and be proud

 “Careful! The tub already looks like we murdered a smurf, if you move too much we’ll have to clean the entire bathroom... Again.”

 “Excuse me, Mx. Sims, if I recall correctly it was      you     who put the entire showerhead down the back of my shirt and scared the ever-loving shit out of me.” Tim complains good-naturedly, bent over the bathtub as Jon is standing over him and washes out the bright blue hair dye.

 “Okay, one: it wasn’t the      entire     showerhead, two: there was hair dye on your neck and I didn’t think it through. Besides, I already said I was sorry!” Jon is having a hard time not bursting into laughter again – they didn’t lie, they really are sorry, but washing off the dye from Tim’s neck before it stained too much, with what they were currently holding in their hand anyway, seemed like a perfectly logical thing to do at the time. The startled yelp of a dripping wet Tim informed them that no, it wasn’t, in fact, a good idea. Who would have thought?

 Jon had simultaneously apologized profusely and burst into laughter that had them wiping amused tears from their eyes. Okay, so, they hadn’t exactly planned this through as well as they could have.

 “You’re laughing. I am suffering, cold and wet, and you’re laughing at my misery!” Tim laments, but the amusement that creeps into his voice absolutely betrays him. Nevermind that it is in the middle of summer and anything but cold. It is a matter of principle.

 Behind him, Jon bursts into more helpless giggles – in their defense, they had too much caffeine already.

 “Aw, Love, I apologize.” This time, it doesn’t sound like it at all, but they keep massaging Tim’s scalp, blunt nails scratching gently even as the water begins to run clear. The happy, satisfied hum they get in response tells them everything they need to know.

 Jon has learned many many years ago that Tim will absolutely melt into a puddle under their hands if they give him head massages or even just play with his hair. They love doing it, but it also serves as a useful distraction sometimes.

 “On the plus side, we’ve got two more rounds of colour to go! Plenty of opportunities for me to not do that again.” Jon tells him innocently, wraps a towel over the back of Tim’s head and squeezes out as much residue water as possible.

 “Well, that’s reassuring, Dear.” He replies bluntly, but there is a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, before he gets up from the floor and then pulls Jon into a very wet, very tight full body hug, causing them to yelp.

 “Tim! What the hell!”

 “      Now     we’re even, my Love.” Tim tells them with a shit-eating grin, and then presses a quick kiss on top of his half-heartedly glaring partner's head.

 “…Would you like to blow dry it yourself or do you want me to do it?” They finally ask instead of a rebuttal, and Tim considers this for just a moment.

 “If you don’t mind, I’d like you to do it. Cover the mirror while we’re at it, then it’s a surprise for me as well.”

 “Of course, Love. Turn around?” Jon asks, and Tim does as he is asked, but not without turning the simple request into the beginning of “Total eclipse of the heart”, using a hairbrush as a makeshift microphone. Of course, he is putting his everything into the little performance. That is, until he is cut off by Jon and the hair dryer, which they are blowing directly at his face.

   Somehow, Jon, Tim and most of the bathroom survive their shenanigans for long enough until Jon lifts the towel away from the mirror and lets Tim take a look at his new hair colour.

 Hours ago, they started out by trimming his undercut, which is easy enough, followed by removing the rest of some particularly stubborn shade of green with bleach and giving his dark roots their own quick round of bleach. Then, the disaster with the blue dye starts. After that, the bathroom looks a bit worse for wear – indeed, it looks like a smurf crime scene and they keep joking about that. But Tim and Jon keep going, only having to take a break to fight off a giggle fit about two or three times.

 Even now, after so many years with them, Tim is amazed and happy to see and hear Jon laugh like that. He hadn’t known they were even capable of being so carefree, let alone silly, when they first met. For most people, it is still a rare treat to see, if they even get that honor at all. But after many years of being together and acquiring two more wonderful and lovely partners, things are different – and even better.

  They wouldn’t want to trade their family, this life together, for anything.

   After a round of bright purple hair dye and much of the same, they move on to pink, and by the time that last round is done, Tim is getting more than a little excited, but truth be told, so is Jon. They really hope that they did good on this dye job – they only ever helped Tim, and many years ago, Georgie and some of their friends at Uni, to dye their hair in one solid colour. This multicolour thing is new territory for them, and they hope it turned out well. At least they’d like to think it did, but what it comes down to really, is what Tim thinks of it – it’s his head, after all.

   As the towel falls from the mirror, Tim steps closer to take a look. Even under the unflattering bathroom light, his hair is shining bold and bright in the colours of the Bi Pride Flag. Pink, purple and blue in the longer hairs on top of his head, neatly sectioned off into thirds and dyed in hours of work. The smile on his face is bright and instant, but there is no trace of a joke in it. He looks really happy, and most of all, proud – as he should be.

 “It’s perfect!” he exclaims, turning his head a few times to look at himself at all angles, the genuinely happy smile still plastered all over his face as he pulls Jon into another hug.

 “Thank you, Love. I appreciate the help.”

 “Glad you like it, then.” They pull Tim down for a kiss, fingers brushing gently over the freshly buzzed sides of his head. It’s one of those feelings they’ll never get tired of. The soft, short stubble feels incredibly satisfying, and Tim just knows he’ll spend the next few days with Jon, Martin and Sasha constantly running their hands over it. Not that he minds – as if he’d ever turn down head scritches from anyone.

 Right now, just for a moment, the two of them remain standing in front of the bathroom mirror together. They are surrounded by and covered with various hair dye stains, despite best attempts to achieve the contrary. The bathroom needs a good cleaning session and both Tim and Jon are in desperate need of a change of clothes. But they look at themselves just for a moment, taking in how much they have changed over the years. It’s definitely for the better. Both of them are happy and comfortable with who they are, they have each other – and they have two wonderful people who they love dearly waiting downstairs to see the result of their hair shenanigans.

 Neither of them says any of this out loud – they don’t have to. But it is Jon who breaks the silence this time.

 “Let’s go show the others, we’ve been in here for hours.”

 “Oh they’re fine. 5 pounds say they’ll roll their eyes and just tell us –“

   “- All we heard was yelling, laughter and occasional singing, so we thought, you know, what else is new, they’ll be fine.” Sasha says without looking up from her phone. She’s nestled into Martins side, the both of them cuddled up on the couch with their phone and book, Crumpet dozing in the crook of Sasha’s knee while Gandalf has decided that a day with 26 degrees outside would be the perfect day to become a sentient scarf for Martin. The poor guy looks hot, but he doesn’t make a move to dislodge either the cat or Sasha.

 Really, it is too warm to cuddle, way too warm, but what can you do? The two of them are wearing shorts and matching Hawaii shirts and have an old but steadily blowing fan facing their direction on the couch. It helps a bit, but neither of them looks to be up for much. At least it’ll cool down a bit at night.

 “That about sums it up doesn’t it? Worth it though.” And with that, Tim rounds the corner, arms stretched out next to his head.

 “Tadaa!”

 A small cheer erupts from the couch, quickly followed by variations of

 “You look great!”

 Of course, Tim takes the opportunity to be dramatically fabulous and bows down in front of his audience and then makes a beeline for the couch where everyone else has now rearranged themselves.

 Being the catlike human that they are, Jon is immediately by Martin’s other side, leaning in as their hands find one another. Their hair is tickling his nose, but he is so used to it by now, he simply bends down a bit to press a soft kiss against the side of their head.   It’s only then that he realizes that Jon is drenched with water.

 Martin huffs a laugh.

 “Did you take a shower with your clothes or something?”

 “No, but Tim did.” they answer, a sly grin on their lips.

 “Jon means they fucking doused me. ‘By accident’ as I’ve been told as they laughed their arse off.” Tim corrects the statement, air quotes included, as he flops down on the couch on the other side. He wraps an arm around his partner, pulling them close for a moment, then his hold relaxes a bit and his fingertips travel over to Martin in search for more physical contact. He happily lets him, summer heat be damned.

 Tim continues with a shrug and a shit-eating grin of his own,

 “I just decided to share the joy, generous as I am.”

 The explanation is met with laughter from everyone, as well as an affectionate sigh of,

 “You two, I swear...”

 “In our defense, you knew bloody well what you were getting into with us.”

 Crumpet, annoyed by the human’s sudden loud behavior, gracefully gets up from her spot, stretches and then swaggers off, her head and tail held high. Gandalf, on the other hand, merely lifts his head from Martin’s  shoulder and only stares for a bit, as if to say “What on earth are you silly creatures up to now?!” but then goes back to sleep.

 Once again, it is too hot to cuddle, but that doesn’t stop any of them. At least, there is ice cream and the ancient fan that rattles for its life but still gets the job done.

 It’s the end of June, and that means it’s hot, way too hot to be bearable for your regular British person, or anyone really, who doesn’t enjoy boiling themselves in their own juice.

   End of June also means: its pride month and the London Pride Parade will take place very, very soon and that is a source of excitement for all four of them. Due to various circumstances in the past, this year is the first year that they can go to pride with the whole family together. That in itself is cause for celebration, really, but there are also the individual, personal milestones.

 For Martin, this is the first summer and thus, the first pride that he can experience post top-surgery. That in itself has him excited to no end, and as a result, he’s spent much more time in open chested shirts than ever before. His happiness alone would make him an utterly beautiful sight, but honestly, his partners would readily admit, very vocally, that they enjoy the view an awful lot.

 The first time he receives their plentiful heartfelt compliments, Martin blushes a bright scarlet red, but even more than that, there is euphoria and happiness. He might have cried a bit from being overwhelmed with too many feelings at once, but it had been a good day – a very good one.

   For Jon, it is going to be the first pride they’ll spend not hiding their gender - or lack thereof, depending on the day. For many, many years, even long after they figured it out for themselves and told a handful of loved ones – mostly those in their chosen family, really – they didn’t tell anyone. Mostly for work reasons, because it seemed safer and easier in everyday life.  It’s why they kept going by He/Him for their entire career in research, despite heavily preferring They/Them, but at that point, only Tim and Sasha knew.

 It really helped that they would avoid pronouns at work, and only call them by their name and refer to them as They when in private.

 Later then, they met Martin and got transferred into the Archives together. At this point, Jon felt comfortable enough to use their preferred pronouns at work, at least in their private circle.

 As of now, they stopped caring – they deal with so much bullshit, in general and from Elias, they simply stopped giving a fuck, and this is how they explain it. All things considered, it goes over relatively well, and thankfully, no one bats an eye when they arrive at the institute in skirts or with nail polish or anything else they feel like wearing that day.

   Early in the morning, with all doors and windows open in the house, so they can let in the fresh, cool morning breeze, Jon sits on the living room floor and in front of the couch. There are several bottles of nail polish scattered about in their lap, and Jon scowls with intense concentration as they slowly and meticulously paint each nail a different colour. Pink, purple and blue surrounded by two black nails on their right hand, which is still kind of drying, and yellow, white, purple and black on their left hand. They’re on their second coat by now, and as a result, their posture starts slouching again. Sasha gently pulls them back and closer to her.

 “Hey, stop moving away, I’m not done yet.”

 “Oh. Sorry, go on please.”

 Sasha adjusts her grip on Jon’s hair. There is a tablet open on the coffee table and Sasha skips back to an earlier part of the video tutorial that is currently playing, just to check if she got everything right.

 The thing is, Jon has a lot of hair as it is, but now, there are some bright purple clip-in extensions added to it. Paired with their natural black that keeps getting more and more grey over the time, it all creates a swirl of colours, dark and beautiful and very much resembling the Ace Pride flag. Originally, they would have gone for a simple, partially braided half updo but that was before Sasha had grabbed them by the bony shoulders, sat them down in front of her and said,

 “Don’t move, I want to try something.” – That had been about an hour ago, but just going along with it is a lot easier than arguing with Sasha, especially when she gets excited about something.

 Besides, being forced to sit still gives Jon the time they need to paint their nails properly without ruining them after 5 minutes because they couldn’t wait long enough for them to dry before they start doing something else. It also gives them the perfect opportunity to ramble on about the article they read the other day. This seems like a fair trade off: Getting a complicated hairstyle done that Sasha wants to practise, in exchange for an info-dumping monologue about tropical birds and their natural habitats.

 Their cats come and go, occasionally rubbing themselves against whichever human body part is currently closest, and there may or may not be a touch of cat hair in Jon’s manicure. Then again, there is always cat hair on them. All of them - it’s part of the wardrobe at this point. .

 After a while, Sasha cheerfully informs Jon,

 “And it’s done! Here’s a mirror, but you’ll see better when I take a photo from the back… Hold on…  And here we go.”

 Truth be told, Jon isn’t sure what they expected, but it certainly wasn’t a complicated arrangement of different kinds of tiny braids, falling down the back of their head in loops and little waterfalls, far down their back, surrounding what looks like little roses in the middle made of hair. There are four of them, and Sasha managed to sneak in more of those clip-in extensions, which leads to the flowers sticking out even more – each and every one of them is one solid colour. Black in the top, followed by grey, white and purple.

 “Oh, wow.” They carefully touch the back of their head – this is probably the most detailed hairstyle – or anything, really – they’ve ever worn.

 “Thanks, Sasha. This is really beautiful. I, I know I’ll feel bad whenever I have to take those out again” They pull her into a tight hug that she happily slips into and squeezes back just as much.

 “Thank      you     – I’ve always wanted to practice this, but it’s way too hard to do on my own head, my arms will fall off long before I’m done.”

 “…I’d offer help, but the result won’t be anywhere near as good or intricate as yours.”

 Still, Sasha smiles brightly.

 “Please do. Like I said, arms are falling off and all that.”

   So this is how their morning goes. By the end of it, Sasha’s long curls are in a half updo with fishtail braids and glittery hair clips in her pride colours. Black, grey, white and purple on one side of her head, two shades of green, white, grey and black on the other side. Together, they form a constellation of some sort on the back of her dark, shiny hair, and she seems to be thoroughly happy with it.

 In the meantime, both Tim and Martin  have managed to finish getting ready entirely. The two of them are currently sprawled out on the floor, right in front of their trusty old fan, now that it’s getting hotter again. They are holding drinks with ice cubes swimming in them.

 Martin and Tim patiently wait for Jon and Sasha to be done with their hair - those two have a truly impressive head full of it each - and they do so with their legs tangled into one another. Tim and Martin are currently discussing a video game that neither of the other two is interested in - something, zombies, something something. Thankfully, it’s still early enough in the day so no one needs to rush. Besides, it’s nice to just spend time with one another, in any way that presents itself.

 Meanwhile, Gandalf is living his best life. He is dozing on his back, nestled into Sasha’s lap while she happily provides pets and scritches for their giant spoiled feline wizard. Crumpet, on the other hand, has made herself comfortable on the back of Jon’s shoulders, completely unbothered by their constantly moving arms. By the time they’re finished braiding Sasha’s hair, the little black cat  still clings on, even by the time they make their way to get dressed for their day out.

 Jon knows it’ll be fruitless to try and dislodge Crumpet from her current place, but they still try it. Surprising absolutely no one, the little cat meows pitifully as if to say “No one in this house loves me anymore, oh how shall I live on?!”

 “I know, my little void, I know. Would you mind letting go of me for, like, 2 minutes?” Jon tries to soothe, but the next attempt to pluck Crumpet off of themselves results in her digging her claws into their T-shirt. Well -      technically     Tim’s T-shirt, but the tiny claws still end up in Jon’s shoulder since they’re currently wearing it.

 “Ow. Crumpet, please. I cannot and will not be going out in my pyjamas.”

 Crumpet meows again, more intently this time. Accusingly, almost. Jon sighs - they knew this was going to happen. While they gently, very gently pry off the cat claws from their person, they try to reason:

 “Yes, I love you, too. But you need to let go now, please. Thank you.” As they hold Crumpet up with both hands, to keep her from digging in her claws again, they blink slowly and return the gentle head bump, making sure the “I love you” will travel over in cat-language. Then, Crumpet is set down and immediately jumps into the open closet. Oh well.

 Jon starts rummaging through the shelves, looking for a specific top. It must be in there, somewhere, but in an array of… very mismatched clothes, it’s not that easy to find.

 To be fair, their part of the closet very much looks like the laundry baskets of several retirement home residents and a punk rock band got put into a blender and the result is what they wear on a daily basis. Although their work attire leans more toward cardigans and grandmother skirts than fishnets most days. Sometimes, just sometimes they’re tempted to try, just to see if they would get away with it.

 On their search for the purple fishnet top, they come across a swooshy, purple skirt they haven’t seen in a long time. They acknowledge their find with a surprised but happy noise. Quickly, Jon puts it aside on the bed and as well as the shirt that falls out with it. Upon closer inspection, they realize it is a shirt that they got for their first ever pride - it’s a simple black cotton shirt with a rainbow print, slightly too big for Jon and cut off in some places to make it look more interesting. It’s survived with them since uni, and they’re pretty sure it will always have a place in their closet, even when it falls apart completely one day.

 There are a lot of memories tied to it, a lot of stages to their self discovery. Naturally, it’s what they choose to wear for the big day.

 When the four of them step out of their house, they all but leave a colourful trail down the street on their way to the train station. Behind them, over their front door and tied to the rails of a small balcony, a rainbow flag is blowing in the wind. It is big enough to stretch across it the entire way, something every single person in this household is very happy about.

 They are chatting away and laughing, holding hands with one another for the entire way. Some people on the street shoot them odd looks - this isn’t central London, and here they stand out a lot more than they would there. But trying to find a house, let alone a flat there that is big enough for all of them, has been… Difficult. Especially since finding a place that would have a bedroom big enough for their double queen sized DIY-we-are-all-clingy-and-can’t-sleep-apart-bed while still allowing them to walk through the room has been hard. Harder even close to the city, which is why they decided to move here in the outskirts.

 Living there means a longer commute to the city and the institute, but it is a small price to pay for their collective happiness.

 On the train itself, there are a few more people and smaller groups, decked out with rainbows or their own specific pride flags. The closer they get to the city, the more people who are clearly coming to London for Pride Celebrations enter the carriage, and soon, everywhere is full of happy and excited people.

 By the time they step out into the streets together, there are people everywhere. Most, if not all of them are proudly wearing their colours and as do Jon, Tim, Martin and Sasha.

 Martin is happy and comfortable in his skin. Just like planned, he is wearing a white button up shirt with a light blue- and pink floral pattern, only closed halfway up. There are several bracelets on his wrists, one in matching pink, white and blue, one with bright pink, yellow and turquoise blue and one rainbow. Both of his arms are occupied though, with one arm wrapped around Jon and the other around Tim, whose other hand is occupied holding Sasha’s.

 She chose comfort over most things, settling for Jeans shorts and another older pride shirt. Additionally, she is wearing a split Aromantic/Asexual flag wrapped around her waist like a half-skirt - and her hair, of course. The clips are sparkling in the sun, instantly noticeable in her dark hair.

 Next to her, Tim is literally a walking Bi Pride Flag. His new hair colour is bright and bold as anything, shining in the sun, and then there is his shirt that stands out bold in the same shades of pink, purple and blue. Even if it wasn’t for his bright smile and loud laugh, he would be shining bright.

 On Martin’s other side, happy to be able to have one arm free to gesture around with while they’re talking, Jon is looking just as fabulous. Their skirt is dark purple, and the thick soles and front of a beaten up pair of Docs are only just visible under it. They successfully found the shirts they were looking for earlier, and they are wearing a belt made out of multiple small pride flags. There are four different ones - the rainbow, pink, purple and blue, followed by black, grey, white and purple followed by yellow, white, purple and black.

 Of course, there is the hair - it got them, and in addition, Sasha, many many compliments back home, where all of them admired each other shortly before leaving.

 “What can you do, all of us have great hair!” Sasha had said, and is 100% correct. While her own and Jon's hair is long, thick and structured, Tim always rocks some sort of fashion colours in the fluffy tuft of hair. Martin has just as thick, defined reddish brown curls that fall into his face sometimes, and a well-kept and well-cultivated beard to match it.

 There is a little bit of glitter stuck to them - all of them, actually, because no one remembered to stop Tim from getting into the loose glitter. Hence, all of them are wearing glitter now.

 That stuff travels, especially if one keeps hugging or kissing the culprit who brought the sparkly plague along in the first place. And it’s not like any of them keeps their hands off of each other for long. So, it spreads… It doesn’t take long at all until the tiny, sparkling specks find their way to everyone else.

 There is no doubt that they will carry the remains of it into the office next Monday, whether they want to or not. But right now, they couldn’t care less. They are here to enjoy the day, enjoy themselves and be proud to show their colours.

 For once, they fit right in.

[candied-peach]

ao3: “purple haze” rating: T warnings: food, sympathetic deceit, sympathetic remus, analodemus genre: fluff description: Virgil re-dyes his hair. ( @tsshipmonth2020 prompt: choice deceit ship)

"Please tell me why this is a four-person operation," Logan says, crowding into the bathroom where Virgil sits, perched on the counter as he peers into the large mirror Remus conjured up.

"Because it's difficult to get all of your hair in one go," Deceit answers for Virgil, holding up the dye container so Virgil can dip his brush in again. "That's why."

"Oh," Logan says, looking slightly mollified. Virgil grins sheepishly at him, his forehead and fingertips stained purple.

"Sorry, Lo," Virgil says. "I just- I wanna do a good job."

"Let me do it," Remus says. He's currently lounging in the bathtub, thankfully fully clothed (this time).

"No," the other three say in unison, alarmed. Remus shrugs, unbothered, as he pulls out a stick of deodorant. Deceit drops the dye container on the counter and stalks over to him, delicately tweezing it out of his grasp.

"No," Dee says. "No more deodorant. It tastes so weird when I kiss you."

"Try some rock candy, cephy," Logan suggests, picking up the bowl of purple dye and another brush. Unlike Virgil, he sports a pair of black gloves to protect his skin. "You like that, don't you?"

"Love it!" Remus squeals, conjuring it out of thin air and crunching it noisily.

"I can't get the back very good," Virgil says, craning his head from side to side and frowning. "Help?"

"Of course," Deceit says, conjuring another brush. He puts on a pair of black gloves to match Logan's over his usual gloves. (The thought of purple stains on his customary yellow ones makes him cringe.) Between the three of them actually dyeing Virgil's hair (and Remus providing running commentary on spots they had missed), before long, Virgil's hair was thoroughly doused in purple. Deceit steps back, eyeing him critically.

"Looks good to me," he declares. "How long do you have to wait?" Virgil shrugs.

"Dunno," he says. "I could speed it up, I think. It's not like it's the real world."

"...Couldn't you just turn your hair purple without needing to dye it?" Logan asks. Red blossoms across Virgil's face at the realization.

"Oops," he says. Remus snickers from the bathtub.

"Oh well," Logan says, stripping off the gloves and dunking them into the trash. "It has been enjoyable, spending time with you all, anyway."

"Likewise," Dee says, doing the same.

"Remus, out of there," Virgil says, hopping down from the counter. "I need the shower for a minute."

"I don't mind," Remus says, lounging deeper in the bathtub. Virgil sighs, stripping off his hoodie and placing it on the counter. Purple splotches spatter his hands and the back of his neck.

"Fine then," Virgil says, turning the shower on cold. Remus splutters, then grins, tilting his head back and trying to catch the icy drops on his tongue.

"We'll be in my room," Deceit says, towing Logan out of the bathroom.

"I don't trust them not to start a water fight," he explains to Logan as they walk. Logan tilts his head in consideration, then nods.

"You're probably right," he says.

Sure enough, Virgil and Remus trail into his room, both soaking wet. Virgil has his hoodie balled up in one hand.

"You're dripping on the carpet," Dee points out. Logan sighs and waves his hand at them both, instantly drying them.

"Thanks, Lo," Virgil says, grateful. Remus nods in agreement, although he also looks like he wouldn't have minded being wet a little longer.

"Come here," Deceit says, making grabby hands at Virgil. Or more specifically, Virgil's hair. It's a soft, rich purple that matches his hoodie, and Deceit loves it already.

"You look great, Virge," he says softly, utterly sincere. A blush stutters up Virgil's neck, red infusing his cheeks.

"Thanks, Dee," he says, crawling into bed and resting his head in Deceit's lap. Discarding his gloves to one side, Deceit lets his hands sink into the soft fluff of Virgil's hair, fingertips gently massaging his scalp. Remus flops down between Logan and Deceit, a happy whoosh of breath leaving him.

"I like this," Remus says simply.

"So do I," Deceit says. Remus conjures up another piece of rock candy and Dee sighs, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"But no eating in bed!"

tag list: @k9cat @paravigilant-virgil @ancient-fruity @airiervessel @did-he-just-hiss-at-me @ambersky0319 @yalltookmyurlideas @bexxbeauty @matthindavick @killjoy-3000 @littlestliu

[captainkippen]

RECKLESS • A PUNK! TYRUS AU

Summary: 

RATED TEEN for smoking and swearing. 

TJ never expected to fall in love with a guy who hung out in the library for fun. Cyrus never expected to kiss a guy in the middle of a mosh pit. Once in a while, life surprises everybody. 

Chapter One: Respect The Tub

"Shut up. I'm having a mid-life crisis."

"You're twenty-one."

"Fine, an almost-quarter-life crisis or something, whatever."

"You know, I've seen you overreact before, but this time really takes the cake. Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Pfft. It's a great idea. The best idea I've ever had."

"You literally just said yourself that you're having a crisis."

TJ let out a long suffering sigh and glared at Marty. Andi snickered from where she was perched on the edge of the tub behind him. She had two gloved hands covered in bright red sludge buried deep in TJ's hair.

"Don't worry, Marts," she said. "I used to help Bex do her hair all the time when she got bored. Well… one time. If it goes wrong, we can just cut it off. Hair grows back usually."

"Usually?!" TJ spluttered, attempting to turn and face her only to be held in place by her firm grip.

Marty snorted. "Still sure about this?"

"Shut up, Marty. Jeez. You're worse than my mom."

"Hey, your shut your mouth about your mom. That woman is a saint. How she put up with your annoying all these years without committing murder, I’ll never know."

That earned him the bird and he snorted again, blowing smoke into T.J's face. The bathroom of their crappy apartment didn't have a smoke detector, which was probably the only reason Marty was even sat in the room with them. 

"Gross," Andi said with an appreciative smile. She might have stolen the cigarette for herself had her hands not been busy. TJ wrinkled his nose at the two of them. He wouldn't say anything, it hadn't worked the first thousand times and it wouldn't work now, but he had learned that if he made enough disgusted faces Marty would eventually put the cigarettes away.

"Whatever," he rolled his eyes at TJ's face and stubbed it out in the sink. "I'm meant to be quitting anyway. I promised Buffy."

"You made that promise like three months ago."

"Well I gotta have at least one flaw, otherwise it wouldn't be fair to you mere mortals, would it now?" Marty grinned and stood up, stretching his arms up until his back gave a satisfying click. 

"Careful bro," TJ said. "If your head gets any bigger you won't be able to get out of the door."

It was Marty's turn to cheerfully flip him off. As he wandered out of the bathroom he called over his shoulder asking if they wanted any snacks, even though TJ was pretty sure he knew they only had ketchup and coffee left in the kitchen.

"So, this mid-life crisis of yours," Andi said, slipping some more dye on to TJ's head. It slid against his scalp cold and unpleasant, dripping down his neck in a wet mess. "You think Epic Death Red is gonna fix it?"

He considered this for a moment. The brand name was splashed bright and obvious on the bottle, and it glared at him from the sink. It had made them laugh at the time, but now it was in his hair it felt a little daunting. "Nah, probably not. But it'll make me feel better about it, feels productive."

"Turning in your assignments would probably feel more productive."

"Hey, I thought we banned school talk from the tub. The tub rules are sacred. Respect the tub."

"I'm just saying-"

"Did you finish your figure drawing assignment yet?"

"...touché."

They lapsed into a comfortable silence. After a few minutes, Marty loped back in holding a paper plate with an unwrapped Twinkie carefully cut into three pieces on it. Andi let him shove a piece unceremoniously into her mouth without a word.

It had become a sort of tradition. Well... not a tradition. TJ didn't know what you would call it. A habit maybe? Anyways, it had become usual for the three of them to hang out in the bathroom. Sometimes they'd be joined by friends and roommates. Two or three of them cramped in the tub, maybe splitting a bottle of cheap wine between them all, with someone else balanced on the toilet seat and another sprawled across the floor. But today, everyone else was out at work or class or living their life in some tub-free environment.

It was only TJ and Marty that lived in the apartment of the three of them. They had two other roommates, Walker and Jonah, who were pretty decent guys. Walker was an art major like Andi and Jonah had awesome taste in music. Sometimes he and TJ would walk to campus together, they were both based in the music department, but other than that and a shared interest in sports and skateboards they didn't really have anything in common. Buffy, Marty's girlfriend and (by apparent coincidence) Andi's childhood best friend with whom she was now reconnecting, would sometimes swing by to join them too. However, her disgust at  just how useless four boys could be at keeping their apartment in order mostly kept her at bay. Old take-out containers were not part of her ‘aesthetic’ or whatever. TJ was never sure if he was glad about that or not, the two of them spent most of the time squabbling, but she did make Marty happy and it was hard not to be cheerful when Marty was.

"So I had this dream right," TJ said. 

"Oh God."

"No, it's good right. Because it made me, like, realise I should be doing something."

Andi and Marty exchanged amused looks. They were used to it, TJ's various whims and impulses and Important Decisions About The Future That Usually Turned Out To Be Not So Important. They found it funny. TJ might be offended if it weren't for the fact he had listened to them spout of conspiracy theories more times than he could count.

"Go on," Andi prompted. 

"Okay, so like... I'm standing on this cliff, right? Like on the very very edge of it. And I'm staring out to sea all dramatic and shit, and then suddenly it gives way underneath me, right? And I'm falling and falling, and I look down and there's just like... nothing there."

Another pause. "...and that's it?"

"That's it. That's the dream."

"Okay, lay it out for me. How did you go from falling off a cliff to dyeing your hair red? Give me the logic. I wanna follow your train of thought here."

He takes a deep breath, trying to shake away the lightheadedness the mingling scents of cigarettes and ammonia is bringing on, then twists around to face her.

"When you're falling to your death you're supposed to reminisce about, like, all the good shit you did in your life before you fall to your death right? And for me it was a total blank. Like nothing. Like I haven't lived."

Marty groaned. "Not this again."

"What?"

"You have this same crisis like every other month. Last time you wanted to 'live your life' we got arrested for trespassing on private property."

"Well, if you had run faster-"

"Fuck you! I run faster than you, asshole. It's not my fault there were literal guard dogs-"

"Guys!" Andi interrupted before they could really get going. They both muttered half hearted apologies with a huff. Marty sighed and leaned back, stretching his legs up to rest on the edge of the bath.

"The point is," TJ resumed, knocking Marty’s foot away from his face. "The point is that I've done, like, zero important things in my life. And we're adults now, y'know? I can't just bum around doing nothing forever. I wanna do something that matters."

Andi rolled her eyes. "'Adult' is a strong word for a guy who just this week learned what fabric softener is."

"I never claimed to be Martha Stewart."

Marty laughed. "You're criminal enough to be."

"Okay but," Andi said, before another bickering match could spark up. "The real point is... we're only in our twenties. Pretty sure we're not meant to have everything figured out yet, right? I mean, we haven't even graduated yet."

TJ and Marty both hissed.

"The G word is also banned, remember?"

Andi made a face, but didn't press the point. She hated thinking about the future just as much as the guys did. None of them knew what they wanted to do. They spent all their time in sleazy bars moshing to terrible local bands, getting drunk in a moulding tub and watching Andi paint in the student studios. TJ couldn't imagine any of them with nine-to-five jobs, commuting or working for some big evil corporation. He said as much.

"It's two thousand and five," Marty complained in response. "We should totally have robots to do all the boring jobs by now."

TJ agreed. How could humanity not yet be at the point where they had hover boards and flying cars? They had the internet for crying out loud. The possibilities were endless.

"So what're you gonna do?" Andi asked. “How are you, TJ Kippen, going to change the world?

TJ pondered this for a moment. 

"I'm gonna start a band."

*

Sometimes Cyrus seriously hated his friends.

Not in an actual 'I wish I didn't know you' way but in an 'oh man, you suck so hard right now' kind of way. Tonight was one of those times. He would never say that to them, of course, he had no desire to hurt anybody’s feelings, but a little mental cursing never hurt anyone.

He shivered and pulled his jacket tighter around himself. Rain smattered down on the concrete around him. Water seeped through the canvas of his sneakers, soaking his socks and mood both at once. He was cold, wet and fed up. Buffy had asked him to meet her here, outside some dingy rock club filled with scary kids wearing studs and too much makeup, but she was nowhere to be found. She had answered her phone when he called, but the line mostly crackled and all he got was a muffled "-inside" from here.

Whatever. It was fine. It was totally cool that he was stuck out here being eyed by suspicious punks in leather jackets and scary scene kids with scary scene hair. It was great. He could totally cope with the fact that the bouncer wouldn't let him in because he forgot his I.D. and apparently he looked like he was twelve years old. Totally, totally fine. Really, it couldn’t get any worse.

It was as if the universe had heard this very thought and decided to have the last laugh. A large truck roared down the street, sending a fresh wave of freezing water over his legs and shoes. 

Screw this. He was going home.

He hadn't even wanted to come out in the first place. He should be back in his nice cosy dorm room, preferably doing the lit assignment he had due in on Monday, maybe wrapped in a blanket. Two blankets, even. Yeah, his dorm sounded pretty great right now, even if he did have the roommate from hell. Fate had other plans, though. Right as he made the decision to head back, he heard his name being called. Turning, he saw Buffy waving frantically from the door. Huffing to himself, he turned back again and headed to meet her.

"He's with me," Buffy said with a smile to the bouncer. The guy looked doubtful as Cyrus slipped passed, but he didn't question it again. 

"The reception is really bad in here," Buffy said apologetically, pulling him into a sideways hug. "But you found the place okay, right? I mean you're here, so that's good. I didn't think you'd come. I’m glad you did.”

She seemed unusually antsy, and he suspected she was a little nervous about introducing him to her friends. He would be nervous too if he was her, he knew he wasn’t much, especially to a group of cool and interesting people. He decided it was best not to tell her that he almost didn't come. He had been perfectly ready to stay in his dorm all night, even though it was a Friday night and he had little to no social life at the current moment in time with all the work his professors had been throwing at him. Except, Roommate-From-Hell-Reed had come banging into the room, all but yelling into his cellphone to some girl. Cyrus had been able to stand it for about ten minutes, and then he got tired of hearing the word "baby". A night at some dive being shoved around by sweaty drunks wasn't much of an improvement, but at least he didn't have to listen to Reed's obnoxious flirting. 

"It's good you came," Buffy continued. "You don’t get out enough. I think you'll like the band too, and they're friends with Andi and Marty. They’re pretty good - I mean, TJ is a little obnoxious, but they’ve already got a big following on MySpace, and they’re close to getting a deal with Cranked...” Cyrus let her pull him through the crowd, nodding in all the right places but struggling to keep up. Who was TJ? Cranked? What was that? He felt like she was speaking another language. “

They've even got some songs recorded now... did you know Gus- you know Gus Knight? He works at the dining hall. Apparently he’s local and has this whole studio set up in his mom’s basement. He has all the equipment and everything. It's crazy.”

"Crazy," Cyrus agreed, narrowly avoiding getting elbowed by a teary girl gesturing wildly at a boy that looked too out of it to be taking in what she said. The whole arena smelled like puked. He prayed that none got on him. "So when are these Cranked guys meant to go on?"

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Cranked is a record label, Cy. The band’s called Conduit For Gods.”

The problem was not that Cyrus wasn’t into music. He liked music. He thought it was fun, especially if you could sing bad karaoke to it, and who didn't like to listen to their iPod on the bus? But Buffy's friends' world seemed to revolve around music, more specifically punk music, and the whole scene that came with it. He had accepted a few of their invitations to hang out just to be polite, but most of them involved parties and shows. Parties and shows meant drinking and coming home with wild stories. Cyrus wasn’t a wild stories kind of guy.

As a kid, he had really wanted to be a wild stories kind of guy. He’d longed to be one of the popular kids who knew how to make friends with everybody, who was never bored on a Friday night and wasn’t totally invisible. He had never succeeded in becoming that kind of guy. Even at college, where he'd figured it would be easy. All the television shows and magazines had made it seem like that was what you were meant to do in college - party and drink. Become your own person. Become interesting. 

What he'd learned from actually being in college? He didn't like to party and drink. He had no problem with other people doing it, obviously, but he'd rather he was far away from them while they did. Drunk people had a habit of throwing up on him, and in crowds like this Cyrus had lost his shoe more than once. They might be drenched in grimy rainwater, but tonight he felt like keeping his shoes firmly on his feet. Preferably not covered in somebody's dinner. The other thing he’d learned was that he didn’t really vibe with the whole alternative music scene... or it didn’t vibe with him. He liked things neat and non-violent. In his experience, college-aged punks liked things sweaty and aggressive. Sometimes with a hint of insane thrown in. It’s not like it scared him or anything, he just didn’t want to die in a mosh pit.

“They’re on at ten. You want me to grab you a drink? I got us a table - I know you don’t like being in the crowd.”

He gave her a grateful smile, forgiving and forgetting the last half an hour in one fell swoop. Buffy was a really good friend not just sometimes, but all the time, even if she did make him hang out with scary people that wore studs and eyeliner. She always respected his boundaries.

As she disappeared towards the bar, he meandered his way over to the table she’d pointed out to him. There were a couple of bags and jackets strewn across the booth’s seats, but no people present. Scanning the crowd, he managed to spot Marty and Andi stood off to the side with a couple of other people. Andi caught his eye and waved him over, but he shook his head. She rolled her eyes, but smiled and sent him a thumbs up anyway. He smiled back.

Andi was a nice girl. A cool girl. She wore her hair cropped short and spiky, had a leather jacket with her name painted artfully across the back and her skin was constantly smudged with paint or coal or glue from her art projects. She’d known Buffy forever, and Cyrus was still surprised someone as cool as her was willing to hang out with a loser like him. It was the same with Buffy, honestly. He was always one step behind the laughter and she was the one making people laugh. Once, he’d made the mistake of voicing these thoughts out loud and Buffy had smacked him over the head with a copy of Rolling Stone, telling him he was being stupid and that he was cool. He knew she was lying, but he appreciated the lie anyway. 

A figure loomed over him and he turned.

“That was quick,” he started to say, but the words died on his lips. It wasn’t Buffy.

“Um, hi,” Said the most beautiful boy in the history of all existence.

Bright red hair. Green eyes ringed in black. Torn up denim jacket over plaid over faded t-shirt. Cyrus mentally catalogued all of these things and tried to unstick his tongue from where it seemed to be stuck to the roof of his mouth. He wasn’t sure what to do. How did English work again? What were words?

In the end, he stuck one awkward hand out before he could stop himself and stuttered out a greeted. The guy took it with a warm smile and shook. 

“I’m Cyrus,” Cyrus finally managed to say.

Understanding dawned on the guy’s face. “Oh, you’re Buffy’s friend. That’s cool. I’m TJ, Marty’s roommate,” he jerked a thumb back towards the crowd. Much to Cyrus’ horror, he realised Andi and Marty were watching them with interest. He dropped TJ’s hand quickly. “I was just grabbing the keys to the van, could you pass me that bag?”

Cyrus did as asked, expecting TJ to take it and flee from the obviously crazy person who had just shaken his hand like they were at some sort of business meeting instead of a nightclub, but he didn’t move from where he was standing. Instead, he rummaged through the bag for a second and then withdraw a set of car keys and dumped it back on the table. Turning, he signalled to one of the guys in the crowd and launched the keys through the crowd. 

“So are you sticking around after the show?” TJ said, turning back to Cyrus with a curious smile. 

No. Cyrus was going to go home and shower at least twice then snuggle up in bed and get a good night’s sleep where nobody could accidentally spill a suspicious substance on his nice clean pants.

“Yeah, I think so,” is what came out of Cyrus’ mouth.

“Awesome,” TJ grinned, the thousand-watt smile disarming Cyrus once again. “Well, I gotta scoot, ‘cause it’s my band…”

“Oh! You’re in Condu-whatsit?”

“Conduit For Gods,” he laughed. “Yeah, I’m the singer.”

Oh great, a cute guy in a band. Just what Cyrus needed to make this interaction less intimidating.

“Break a leg?” He offered.

He didn’t know if he was imagining it or not (probably) but TJ looked a little reluctant to go, but after a moment he flashed him another smile and departed. Cyrus resisted the urge to bang his head on the table and berated himself for not being able to hold a conversation like a normal person. Oh man, he had made himself look like a total idiot. Luckily, Buffy returned not long after, and he drowned his sorrows in his drink. 

*

“Okay, not to be dramatic but we have to play the best show we’ve ever played tonight,” TJ said, speeding over to Jonah behind the stage.

Jonah looked up from tuning his guitar in surprise. “I thought the label weren’t seeing us ‘til next week?”

“It’s not a rep,” he shook his head and sighed as dramatically as he could manage. “I just met the most amazing guy I’ve ever seen and I’m pretty sure we’re soulmates, so we have to impress him, okay?”

“Soulmates, huh?” Jonah grinned. “Do you even know this guy’s name?”

“Cyrus.”

“Cyrus? As in Buffy’s Cyrus?”

“That’s the one.”

“Okay, man. If you say so.”

The stage fright seemed twice as intense as usual as TJ clicked the microphone on. Through the glare of the lights and the packed room he could barely make out the table tucked away in the corner where Cyrus was sat. The crowd roared back as he greeted them, and it felt like the entire room exploded into life as the boys launched into the first song. For the first time ever, TJ worried less about cracking a rib as he surfed across the top of the crowd and more about how exactly he was going to ask Cyrus for his number without sounding weird. 

But by the time the show was over and TJ was drenched in his own sweat while blood dripped down from his nose from where someone had accidentally hit him in the face during the last song, Cyrus was nowhere to be found, and the question of the phone number became obsolete. 

[meditationsinausterity]

Self Care on a Shoestring: Hair

Let's talk hair. It is no secret to those who know me, or hell, even just follow me on Instagram, that my hair is essentially my pride and joy. I am at my happiest when washing and brushing my hair; I find the ritual of it relaxing and when I'm at my most low, sometimes even doing this can be enough to change my mindset and make me feel more motivated and like getting on with things and being part of the real world.

I grew up absolutely hating the naturally curly texture of my hair; I flat ironed the crap out of it from the age of about fifteen to, ooh, about 20. I cut it into a blunt fringed lego bob, and I dyed it black for almost all of my teens. Blame the goth phase, followed by the electroclash/bloghouse phase. Think all black lace slowly morphing into metallic American Apparel spandex and charity shop handbags. I should cringe at my younger wardrobe, but actually I looked pretty on point, especially as the Big Girl in my group of mates. The only thing I cringe about is the hour of my life I lost on the regular GHDing my way to split ends and a fringe that never quite lay flat, not to mention the endless tenners spent on box dye with stupid names, and the endless damage to perfectly innocent bath towels. Don't even get me started on the roots. The absolute state of the roots.

 I did also go through a redheaded phase after my masters, when I found grey hairs and panicked that my life of village pub employment and being in a serious relationship with a primary school teacher were making me boring, so I reached for the box dye. I moved to London a redhead, and stayed that way until my late twenties, but by that point I'd embraced my natural curl and texture. The redhead phase meant I commanded attention immediately, which naturally I loved, and my natural pallor meant I pulled it off. I took it so light I almost touched blonde at one point. But again: age, laziness, and self acceptance kicked in, and I started growing it out around about the time I could get away with it looking like an intentional ombre job. The last vestiges of the red disappeared when I worked at the Blues Kitchen in Camden; our Halloween fancy dress theme was the 27 club, and I bandaged my tits with the top of a pair of nude tights, lopped my hair off at the shoulder, and shirtlessly bartended as Jim Morrison. Great night for tips, that one.

Since then I've done nothing to my hair, dye, or styling wise. I have some greys, but I let it airdry into its natural curl, and let the colour change with the sunlight. I don't need the alert of that flash of red anymore, being confident enough to command whatever attention I need by myself, and I decided a long time ago that my time could be better spent than swearing at a mirror and burning my ears while attempting to defy nature. I think the initial decision was made to extend drinking time, now I just want more time in bed or to cook./ In some respects, My hair regime is incredibly low maintenance as a result, but in the washing, and inevitable wet brushing that comes with my hair type, there is a certain element of ritual and technique, that is both beneficial and incredibly relaxing. And specialist curly hair products can be pricey, so I thought I'd delineate how I manage to keep my hair in good nick while spending basically fuck all. Let's do this:

(My hair in it's full natural textured glory at the beach - I do let it get maybe a little too long in the summer but this is proof if it be needed that there's no need to mess with nature)

Cut

I have had some amazing hairdressers in the past. My favourite was Rosie, at Brooks and Brooks in Holborn, who used to cut my hair, ostensibly as a freebie (I tipped majorly though, I value skill, and think it should be rewarded) and do a bang up job of getting the bounce into my curls. Sadly, I no longer live in London, nor do I earn London bank these days. Also sadly, I do not trust most hairdressers with my curls, because most of them do not know enough about the hair type to do anything beyond butcher it. So I cut my own hair. I wear it long, in long, loose layers, and the curly wavy texture means a less-than-perfect line is pretty well forgiven when all's said and done. I have a pair of hair scissors I've owned for about five years, bought from Sally's Beauty Supply, sharpened regularly on a steel I use for kitchen knives, and used for Nothing Else, Ever.

My cutting technique is ridiculously simple. I wash and brush my hair, then turn my head upside down and brush my hair straight. all I do is cut along the bottom in a straight line, then hold the scissors vertically and chop a little bit into the line to thin out the ends (probably about a half centimetre). I always cut at least an inch less than I need to, because I know as my hair dries the curls will bounce up, unlike a lot of hairdressers I have had in my life. I aim to do this about every six weeks, but I'll confess in summer I get lax, because I want long mermaid hair, and always regret it come about September, when I have to cut off 2 1/2 inches or so in order to get rid of the sun-damaged, ratty ends due to my neglect and love of sunbathing. I will learn, next year, I promise (every year).

My hair thus stays as tame and breakage free as it's going to get. I'm fortunate in that I'm happy with the natural texture of my hair and therefore don't need a complicated cut. I do follow fashion, and am interested in style, but I don't slave to trends, and my long hair has become something of a calling card,but I'd recommend this as an easy money-saving maintenance trick for pretty much anyone who has any natural texture to their hair. It looks better, at any rate, than wispy, crazy lady ends.

(They can't all be winners - if I don't use enough oil on my hair in summer the humidity makes it go pretty major)

Wash

You wouldn't think washing your hair would be anything other than simple, would you? I'll lend you mine for a week and we'll see how you go with that attitude, eh?

I can only brush my hair when it's wet or I literally ruin all my definition and look like Hermione Granger. But I can't wash it every day because it dries out so quickly. So I operate on an every other day basis, sometimes skipping a day if my schedule is a bit much, but if I leave it any longer than that, the brushing is a task in itself, so I try not to.

I don't choose my shampoo amazingly carefully. Basically whatever is on 3 for 2 and says 'dry', 'damaged', 'curly', that kind of thing. I'm currently using L'oreal extraordinary oil, and it's just fine. Most shampoos basically do the same job anyway. The key with shampooing is all in the technique. I only ever apply it to my scalp, as you eliminate overwashing and breakages that way. I do however lather for at least ten minutes; the reasons for this are manifold: one being that I read somewhere as a teenager that actually shampooing for an extended amount of time will actually allow the active ingredients in your shampoo to work, which just makes sense, no? The other reason is that it stimulates circulation to the scalp, keeping it healthy and promoting growth. Not to mention, it is really relaxing, and as somebody who is not good at mindfulness for it's own sake, really concentrating on using the pads of my fingers and thumbs on my scalp and breathing in the scent of my shampoo allows me some time in my day to just be. A more direct plus point to this is that it relieves the tension I very much carry in my temples from constantly grinding my jaw. I really wish I could learn my way out of that, but until then I'll compensate for it in my beauty regime.

A further note, is it's worth mentioning clarifying shampoo. I do love a clarifying shampoo, used at least once a month, to remove build up and restore bounce. Sadly it's only the pricier brands that seem to make them, so I mostly hack one by adding a couple of tablespoons of baking soda to my shampoo and massaging as usual. It does create a pleasant tingling sensation, and really removes any buildup from the roots of the hair, but can be drying, so is best used sparingly.

(I do actually literally zen out after my hair is freshly washed. It's not even fully dry in this picture.)

Condition

Conditioner, to the thick-haired, is the holy, holy,hail mary mother-of-holy grail of products. If somebody told me I could only have one beauty product for the rest of my life, I'd be clinging to my conditioner bottle before they'd even finished their sentence. My hair would structurally be NOTHING without it. I go through a bottle at three times the rate I do shampoo. This is where the exploitation of the great 3 for 2 comes in handy; you can stockpile products you know you are going to pace through. Almost every time I buy hair products there'll be at least two bottles of conditioner in my basket.

The technique is essentially the opposite of shampooing. Almost totally ignore the roots, concentrating on the ends and shafts. In my case, particularly the point at my crown that inevitably snarls due to my work topknot being a near-permanent fixture. Leave on for at least ten minutes, usually longer in my case as I crack on with leg shaving, exfoliating, and so on. The wash-out process should involve only gentle combing motions to remove tangled hair, of which, if your hair is only able to be brushed when wet, there will be a lot, as you naturally shed what you would when brushing. I probably don't rinse my conditioner out that thoroughly, because my hair is basically the equivalent of aubergine, in that it will soak up any oil you throw at it, indefinitely.

I'm an advocate of the cold-water rinse. Freezing cold, to seal the cuticles. You can tell me it's a myth if you like, but I have a friend called Joe who has the glossiest long hair I've ever seen in my life, and he swears by it, so I'm going with what I can see. I notice the difference in shine when I may be feeling delicate on a December morning and skip it. It's a good way to jolt yourself awake, especially if you've zenned yourself out with a head massage, and in that department I need literally every helping hand I can get. It costs literally fuck-all but the difference is noticeable. 

(The ever-present work top-knot. It does actually cause almost all my tangle problems, but it's the only way I can keep it out of the way of everything for hygiene reasons at work)

Brush/Style

This is the mastery section. I have absolutely nailed brushing curly hair over the past thirty years. To the point where when I was staying with my friends at the beginning of this year, their little girl would seek me out to brush her incredibly cute curly blonde locks because I applied the Kirsty method, and used my magic products. And this was a girl who previously threw a hurricane-force tantrum at the sight of a hairbrush. No judgement from me; my earliest childhood memory is fighting back the tears at the futility of my mother snapping at me to keep my head still while she yanked at clumpy knots with a paddle brush.

You do need the right kit for this. I'll improvise with a hospital comb if needs be, but i'll suffer for it, and so will my hair, and let's not even talk about how fucking long it takes. I had a Tangle Teezer for ages, but lost it somewhere along my path in life. I would, previously, have sworn by it, and proffered no alternatives, but that was because I hadn't tried anything comparable , and it worked so well. I'd still say that for a tenner it's relatively good shout for curl maintenance when you break it down to cost-per-use, but I also have a mini WetBrush that I carry in my bag for dirty stopouts, and despite being smaller than my hand, it works a treat. Not to mention I recently replaced my Tangle Teezer with a clone from WIlkinson, that cost me under two quid and works just as well, is just as washable, and let me re-state, COST ME JUST UNDER TWO QUID.

Why all this faff over a brush? well, because tearing your hair is going to damage it and cause breakages. It's also going to cause a world of pain, and given how much of a meditative state I put myself into in the shower, the swearing, eye-watering, slap in the face that is attempting to tackle clumpy tangles with a rigid-bristle brush is entirely counterproductive. They do say you're supposed to use a wide toothed comb, but in my case, that would be like trying to rake Hyde Park with a fork. I rarely have that kind of time. I NEVER have that kind of patience.

Let's also take a minute to sing the praises of spray conditioner. I do tend to favour the Aussie hair care one, a pioneer in it's genre, and therefore readily available (much like the early craft brewers' wares these days), but I will use whatever's to hand, and cheap. I section my hair, starting to brush at the ends and working my way up. If I encounter a particularly large knot i'll gently brush it from the bottom and work up, too. Starting at the root and dragging it through the knot will be painful, rip out a load of hair, and probably not actually be any faster. It does take time, but I usually use it as an opportunity to put on music that's been in my head over a few days and sing along while I work. Because I'm cool. Once all the tangles have been worked out, a good brush from root to tip all over is pretty fundamental to catch any missed bits, and work over the scalp once again.

To finish, I apply a cream product. Anything that says for curly, dry, or damaged hair will do. I'm currently using L'oreal's Extraordinary Oil-In-Cream, but I've previously had success with a lot of other brands, Frizz ease and Schwarzkopf,and Toni and Guy are some relatively affordable 3-for-2 stalwarts that spring to mind. Just look for something that doesn't specify it's for heat styling, and prioritise looking for curly hair products. I section my hair and apply it from maybe just above the ears downwards, then use the leftover product on my palms and hands to gloss over the surface from the roots down.

I also always apply an oil product to the ends of my hair, to stop splits, and again, I'm not brand loyal, currently using L'oreal extraordinary oil, but I've used everything, from Argan oil from the 99p shop, to a bulk bottle of jojoba oil, to my beloved coconut oil. As the driest part of my hair, especially in not weather, the ends tend to benefit from a little extra TLC. Not to mention that this kind of treatment prolongs the lifespan between cuts. I section my hair into roughly four parts then apply to the ends, from about three/four inches up.

Then let it air dry. Simple.

(I literally do take pictures if I have a good hair day. I have literally always been about gratitude for the little things in this life)

 Additional notes

The multiple uses of hair oil

So I've mentioned hair oil in passing. it is the most versatile product ever. I use it to massage my scalp before a shower sometimes if I'm feeling particularly tense, or if my scalp is dry. I chuck a shot into my conditioner occasionally if my hair is feeling particularly dull and rough. I apply it to my dry hair to minimize frizz. I used to use all manner of serums and whatnot, but when one product does so much, I cease to see the point of buying so many single-purpose products. If you're using a natural oil like jojoba or coconut, you can also use it on your skin, and your cuticles and lips as well, so for versatility, oil really does cut it.

Masks

I do love a hair mask, and I am not massively brand-loyal. At the moment the one I'm really digging is for Afro-Carribean hair, and is by Free Your Mane. It's a curl enhancer, and I use it maybe every two weeks. I tend to either use masks that I'm given as samples, have snagged as part of a 3-for-2, or bought on the cheap at Sally's. I wouldn't say Masks are a vital part of proceedings, but my hair will literally take any oil thrown at it, so the extra moisture shot is amazing, and taking the time to do one makes me feel like i'm looking after myself, so if I have one in the cupboard it counts as a freebie.

 Finally, a little slutty trick

Spray a bit of your perfume on the roots of your hair at the nape of your neck. This place naturally gets warm so the fragrance will rise everytime you move, plus if you play with your hair as much as I do, the scent will naturally release when you're flirting. Thank me later.

[captainkippen]

Right, this is the beginning of the first chapter of An Fic. It is not finished. Nowhere near it. I’m giving freewriting a go. I have no plan for this please don’t ask me where it’s going. Tell me if it’s too out of character/too boring/too Not Andi Mack to continue. Maybe I’ll change the names and turn it into an original if so, who knows.

Anyway, TW for smoking I guess. PG 13 for swearing? Reader’s discretion advised?

"Shut up. I'm having a mid-life crisis."

"You're twenty-one."

"Fine, an almost-quarter-life crisis or something, whatever."

"You know, I've seen you overreact before, but this time really takes the cake. Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Pfft. It's a great idea. The best idea I've ever had."

"You literally just said yourself that you're having a crisis."

TJ let out a long suffering sigh and glared at Marty. Andi snickered from where she was perched on the edge of the tub behind him. She had two gloved hands covered in bright green sludge buried deep in TJ's hair.

"Don't worry, Marts," she said. "I used to help Bex do her hair all the time when she got bored. If it goes wrong, we can just cut it off. Hair grows back usually."

"Usually?!" TJ spluttered, attempting to turn and face her only to be held in place by her firm grip.

Marty snorted. "Still sure about this?"

"Shut UP, Marty. Jeez. You're worse than my mom."

"Hey, your mom is saint. I really admire her. How she put up with your annoying all these years without committing murder, I don't know."

That earned him the bird and he snorted again, blowing smoke into T.J's face. The bathroom of their crappy apartment didn't have a smoke detector, which was probably the only reason Marty was even sat in the room with them. 

"Gross," Andi said appreciatively. She might have stolen the cigarette had her hands not been busy. TJ wrinkled his nose at the two of them. He wouldn't say anything, it hadn't worked the first thousand times and it wouldn't work now, but he had learned that if he made enough disgusted faces Marty would eventually put out his smoke.

"Whatever," he rolled his eyes at TJ's face and stubbed it out in the sink. "I'm meant to be quitting anyway. I promised Buffy."

"You made that promise like three months ago."

"Well I gotta have at least one flaw, otherwise it wouldn't be fair to you mere mortals, would it now?" Marty grinned and stood up, stretching his arms up until his back gave a satisfying click. 

"Careful bro," TJ said. "If your head gets any bigger you won't be able to get out of the door."

It was Marty's turn to cheerfully flip him off. As he wandered out of the bathroom he called over his shoulder asking if they wanted any snacks. TJ was pretty sure they only had ketchup and coffee left in the kitchen.

"So, this mid-life crisis of yours," Andi said, slipping some more dye on to TJ's head. It slid against his scalp cold and unpleasant, dripping down his neck in a wet mess. "You think green is gonna fix it?"

He considered this for a moment. "Nah, probably not. But it'll make me feel better about it, feels productive."

"Turning in your assignments would probably feel more productive."

"Hey, I thought we banned school talk from bathroom time."

"I'm just saying-"

"Did you finish your figure drawing assignment yet?"

"...touché."

They lapsed into a comfortable silence. After a few minutes, Marty loped back in holding a paper plate with an unwrapped Twinkie carefully cut into three pieces on it. Andi let him shove one unceremoniously into her mouth without a word.

It had become a sort of tradition. Well... not a tradition. TJ didn't know what you would call it. A habit maybe? Anyways, it had become usual for the three of them to hang out in the bathroom. Sometimes they'd be joined by friends and roommates. Two or three of them cramped in the tub, maybe splitting a bottle of cheap wine between them all, someone else balanced on the toilet seat and another sprawled across the floor. Today, everyone else was out.

It was only TJ and Marty that lived in the apartment of the three of them. They had two other roommates, Walker and Jonah, who were pretty decent guys. Walker was an art major like Andi and Jonah had awesome taste in music. Sometimes he and TJ would walk to campus together, they were both based in the music department, but other than that and a vaguely similar interest in sports they didn't really have anything in common. 

Buffy, Marty's girlfriend and (by apparent coincidence) Andi's childhood best friend with whom she was now reconnecting, sometimes swing by to join them too. However, her disgust at  just how useless four boys could be at keeping their apartment in order often kept her at bay. 

"So I had this dream right," TJ said. 

"Oh God."

"No, it's good right. Because it made me, like, realise I should be doing something."

Andi and Marty exchanged amused looks. They were used to it, TJ's various whims and impulses and Important Decisions About The Future That Usually Turned Out To Be Not So Important. They found it funny. TJ might be offended if it weren't for the fact he had listened to them spout of conspiracy theories more times than he could count.

"Go on," Andi prompted. 

"Okay, so like... I'm standing on this cliff, right? Like on the very very edge of it. And I'm staring out to sea all dramatic and shit, and then suddenly it gives way underneath me, right? And I'm falling and falling, and I look down and there's just like... nothing there."

Another pause. "...and that's it?"

"That's it. That's the dream."

"Okay, lay it out for me. How did you go from falling off a cliff to dyeing your hair green? Give me the logic. I wanna follow your train of thought here."

He takes a deep breath, trying to shake away the lightheadedness the mingling scents of cigarettes and ammonia is bringing on, then twists around to face her.

"When you're falling to your death you're supposed to reminisce about, like, all the good shit you did in your life before you fell to your death right? And for me it was a total blank. Like nothing. Like I haven't lived."

Marty groaned. "Not this again."

"What?"

"Last time you wanted to 'live your life' we got arrested."

"Well, if you had run faster-"

"Fuck you! I run faster than you, asshole. It's not my fault there were literal guard dogs-"

"Guys!" Andi interrupted before they could really get going. They both muttered half hearted apologies with a huff. 

"The point is," TJ resumed. "The point is that I've done, like, zero important things in my life. And we're adults now, y'know? I can't just bum around doing nothing forever. I wanna do something that /matters/."

Andi rolled her eyes. "'Adult' is a strong word for a guy who just this week learned what fabric softener is."

"I never claimed to be Martha Stewart."

Marty laughed. "You're criminal enough to be."

"Okay but," Andi said, before another bickering match could spark up. "The real point is... we're only in our twenties. Pretty sure we're not meant to have everything figured out yet, right? I mean, we haven't even graduated yet."

TJ and Marty both hissed.

"The G word is also banned, remember?"

Andi made a face, but didn't press the point. She hated thinking about the future just as much as the guys did. None of them knew what they wanted to do. They spent all their time in sleezy bars moshing to terrible local punk bands, getting drunk in a tub and watching Andi paint in the student studios. TJ couldn't imagine any of them with office jobs. He said as much.

"It's two thousand and five," Marty complained in response. "We should totally have robots to do all the boring jobs by now."

TJ agreed. How could humanity not yet be at the point where everybody could just sit back and relax? They had the internet for crying out loud. 

"So what're you gonna do?" Andi asked.

TJ pondered this for a moment. 

"I'm gonna start a band."

*** 

Sometimes Cyrus seriously hated his friends.

Not in an actual 'I wish I didn't know you' way but in an 'oh my god you suck so hard right now' kind of way. Tonight was one of those times. He would never say that to them, of course, he had no desire to hurt anybody’s feelings, but a little mental cursing never hurt anyone.

He shivered and pulled his jacket tighter around himself. Rain smattered down on the concrete around him. Water seeped through the canvas of his sneakers, soaking his socks and mood both at once. He was cold, wet and fed up. Buffy had asked him to meet her here, outside some dingy rock club filled with scary kids wearing studs and too much makeup, but she was nowhere to be found. She had answered her phone when he called, but the line mostly crackled and all he got was a muffled "-inside" from here.

Whatever. It was fine. It was totally cool that he was stuck out here being eyed by suspicious punks and scary scene kids. It was great. He could totally cope with the fact that the bouncer wouldn't let him in because he forgot his I.D and apparently he looked like he was twelve years old. Totally, totally fine. 

A truck roared down the street, sending a fresh wave of freezing water over the legs of his pants and shoes. 

Screw this. He was going home.

He hadn't even wanted to come out in the first place. He should be back in his nice cosy dorm room, preferably doing the lit assignment he had due in on Monday, maybe wrapped in a blanket. Yeah, his dorm sounded pretty great right now, even if he did have the roommate from hell.

Fate had other plans. Right as he made the decision to head back, he heard his name being called. Turning, he saw Buffy waving frantically from the door. Huffing to himself, he turned back again and headed to meet her.

"He's with us," Buffy said with a smile to the bouncer. The guy looked doubtful as Cyrus slipped passed, but he didn't question it again. 

"The reception is really bad in here," Buffy said, apologetically. "But you found the place okay, right? I mean you're here, so that's good. I didn't think you'd come."

Cyrus doesn't tell her that he almost didn't. He had been perfectly ready to stay in his dorm all night, even though it was a Friday night and he had little to no social life at the current moment in time with all the work his professors had been throwing at him. Except, then, Reed (roommate from hell) had come banging into the room, talking loudly into his cellphone to some girl. Cyrus had been able to stand it for about ten minutes, and then he got tired of the word "baby". 

A night at some dive being shoved around by sweaty drunks wasn't much of an improvement, but at least he didn't have to listen to Reed's obnoxious flirting. 

"It's cool you came," Buffy continued. "I think you'll like these guys, they're Andi and Marty's friends, y'know? They've even got some songs recorded now... did you know Gus- you know Gus Knight? Did you know he's running a studio in his mom's basement? He has all the equipment and everything. It's crazy."

"Crazy," Cyrus agreed, narrowly avoiding getting elbowed by a teary girl yelling and gesturing at a boy that looked too out of it to be taking in what she said. "So when are they meant to go on?"

The problem was that Cyrus liked music. He thought it was fun, especially if you could dance to it, and who didn't like to listen to their iPod on the bus? But Buffy's friends' world seemed to revolve around music, more specifically punk music, and the whole scene that came with it. He had accepted a few of their invitations to hang out to be polite, but most of them involved parties and shows.

As a kid he'd figured that was what you were meant to do in college - party and drink. What he'd learned from actually being in college? He didn't like to party and drink. He had no problem with other people doing it, obviously, but he'd rather he was far away from them while they did. Drunk people had a habit of throwing up on him, and in crowds like this Cyrus had lost his shoe more than once. They might be wet, but tonight he felt like keeping his shoes firmly on his feet. Preferably not covered in somebody's dinner.