Chapter Text
Tyler’s hand comes down hard on the alarm clock on the bedside table. The incessant beeping startles him awake. 7:00 am. Tyler sits up quickly, rubbing his bleary, sleep-crusted eyes. He sighs and stands up heavily, slipping on the pair of sweatpants he wore yesterday, and the day before. And probably the day before that. Tyler stretches, his aching back cracking.
He walks down the hall, too drowsy to bother turning any lights on, and knocks softly on the last door on the left while turning the handle simultaneously.
“Birdie? Time to get up, baby.” Tyler approaches his daughter’s bed softly, sitting down by her feet to rub her back, waking her up slowly. She blinks awake and yawns. When she sits up, her long blonde hair sticks up in clusters.
“Hi, daddy.” Birdie, Tyler’s eight year old daughter, was always a quiet child. She hardly cried, and went along with changes and routines easily. Tyler likened her to a duck floating on a pond, just content to drift over the ripples. She rubs her eye with one small hand and holds her other arm out, signaling Tyler to pick her up out of bed, as is their tradition.
“Alright, come on little girl.” Tyler mumbles and scoops Birdie up in his arms with an exaggerated groan. She clings to his chest like a koala while he carries her to the bathroom. He drops her off and retreats back to her room to pick out some clothes options and lays them on her bed. Then he trudges off to the kitchen, only turning the overhead light on after he hears the bathroom sink running.
Tyler pops in a few Toaster Strudels and pours a glass of milk, setting everything out on the counter. He leans back against the stove, letting his eyes flutter shut. His head falls to one side slowly, interrupted by the sound of the bathroom door opening. Tyler jumps and rubs his face, slapping his cheek twice in an attempt to wake himself up.
“Do you want your hair done, Bird?” Tyler calls loudly down the hall.
“I can do it, dad!” She calls back from her bedroom. Tyler shakes his head and blinks, wondering when she started doing her own hair. Tyler thought he felt old at age 37 on his own, but being around his kid makes him feel ancient. Where does the time go?
He watches Birdie eat breakfast and walks her down the driveway, waiting with her for the bus. The warm early June air drifts lightly around them, offering promises of perfect weather that day. They hug goodbye when it shows up, and Tyler shuffles back into the house, still in his slippers.
Tyler’s morning routine has been essentially the same for the past two years since his daughter came to live with him. His ex-wife Jenna, who lives across the country, agreed to let her move in with him after having a discussion with Birdie’s guidance counselor about how excessively she was being bullied. Kids her age don't really understand Birdie, but she's made a few close friends at her new school.
Jenna doesn’t know it, but Birdie also hates her mom’s boyfriend. She begged Jenna for a year to move in with Tyler, and it wore her down. Now they alternate holidays and special occasions. This year, Tyler has Birdie for her birthday and Halloween.
Tyler doesn’t bother to change. Or shower. Or eat breakfast. He scrolls his phone until 9:00, grabs a Redbull from the fridge, and then logs on to his work-from-home corporate data job. He plays music in one earbud and types away silently for four hours, getting up to stretch maybe twice.
Once the clock hits 2:00 pm, Tyler logs off for his lunch break. He digs his lunch out of the freezer, heats it up, and brings it out to the porch, where he has lunch every day. Tyler doesn’t get outside much, so he tries to get at least half an hour a day away from a screen. He spends most of it scowling at the birds that come and go from the nest they built into the scaffolding of the awning, the nest that Birdie insists Tyler not remove.
“This is my house. I pay the mortgage. They don’t even make enough money for rent.” Tyler usually says.
“Daddy, birds can’t get jobs!” Birdie usually retorts, and sometimes Tyler will tease her further.
“When is this bird gonna get a job?” He would ruffle her hair or point at her, and she’d giggle.
“Never! I’ll just live with you forever, dad.” She would stick her tongue out and say, and Tyler would scoff and shake his head dramatically.
If only.
Tyler finishes his shift just as the school bus pulls around the cul-de-sac, and Tyler waits in the driveway for Birdie to get off the bus. A lot of kids run to their front doors, or tackle their parents with a hug, but Birdie watches the steps as she walks down, making sure to thank the bus driver. She smiles quietly at Tyler, who takes her hand as the bus pulls away. They talk about her day as Tyler orders dinner, Friday being their takeout day. Birdie begs Tyler for the local China King for the fifth week in a row, and of course Tyler caves. They eat together on the couch, watching whatever Birdie picks out.
Birdie’s favorite part about getting chinese food is the fortune cookies. She cracks open hers first, reading it out loud.
“‘The early bird gets the worm’! I think we always wake up early. We should have a lotta worms by now.” Birdie smiles and opens Tyler’s cookie for him, like always.
“Dad, yours says ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’. I dunno, that’s how I always pick out books.” That makes Tyler laugh in earnest and he nods.
“That’s fair, kid.” He lets her eat his fortune cookie and cleans their mess off of the coffee table. Birdie tucks the fortunes into her pocket.
Tyler helps with any homework after dinner, then slowly eases Birdie into their bedtime routine. Sometimes she’ll sit beside him on the piano stool and listen to him play her favorite songs, usually lullabies. Tonight, he strums a soft tune on his acoustic guitar at the foot of her bed and reads a chapter of her book with her, stroking her hair as she drifts off.
Tyler ends the day the way he always does. He sits down at his piano with a glass of whatever was in his liquor cabinet and pulls out his notebook, scribbling like a madman and mashing the keys every time he doesn’t like what he came up with, which is often. He refills his glass at least five times before the melodies start to get depressing, which Tyler takes as his sign to crash.
He drops onto his unmade bed and fumbles blindly to shut the light off, drifting off to sleep face-down around 2:00 am. Another day gone, another one started.
***
Weekend mornings are probably Tyler’s favorite part of the week. He gets to have a real breakfast with his daughter. Birdie usually wakes him up by either knocking on his door or tapping his shoulder. The former must not have worked, because this morning Tyler sniffed awake to the feeling of little fingers prodding him.
“Dad? I’m hungry. Can we have waffles?” Birdie whispers, standing at arms length from the side of Tyler’s bed.
Tyler grumbles and throws a pillow over his head. “Can’t you make your own breakfast by now?” Birdie knows he’s joking and pulls the pillow off of him, much to Tyler’s chagrin.
“We always eat breakfast together. Come on, dad. Waffles!” Birdie tugs on his sleeve, and Tyler groans.
“Fine. Brush your teeth, you stink. Who raised you?” Tyler pushes her backwards lightly by her head, his entire hand covering her face. He gets up out of bed and looks down at himself. He fell asleep in his sweatpants, and he’s been wearing the same clothes for almost a week. He shrugs and puts on his slippers.
Birdie just giggles and runs to the bathroom. Tyler pops four waffles into the toaster and gets out all of their favorite toppings: Strawberries, chocolate chips, syrup, and whipped cream. Well, they’re Birdie’s favorite, anyway.
They concoct their waffle stacks together while soft music plays in the background. Once Birdie’s waffles have a sufficient amount of whipped cream on them, they bring their plates out to the porch. Tyler sits in his old, creaky wicker chair and Birdie sits on the top step, leaning against the railing. Tyler frowns at her, taking in her bare feet and matted hair.
“You look like I found you in the forest, Bird.” Tyler says while chewing a large chunk of sticky Eggos.
“That’s where I go at night when you’re sleeping. I made friends with a really annoying squirrel who tries to hide nuts in my hair.” Birdie deadpans, like she was talking about the weather.
If Birdie got anything from Tyler, it’s his humor. Tyler chokes on his food laughing.
“I’m gonna drop you off there after school from now on. Let the squirrels raise you.” Tyler points his fork at her and she laughs, the gaps in her smile from missing teeth on full display.
A loud sound pulls their attention, both their heads snapping to the side at the same time. Birdie puts down her plate and leans over the railing. Tyler cranes his neck to see.
“What’s Mr. and Mrs. Dun doing? Is that a bus?” Birdie tilts her head as she very obviously stares at their next door neighbors’ house.
Tyler’s next door neighbors in the cul-de-sac, Laura and Bill Dun, are pretty good friends of Tyler’s. They lived here before Tyler moved in 5 years ago. They watch Birdie sometimes when Tyler’s mom is busy, and they’re probably the sweetest people Tyler has ever met. They’ve taken in both Birdie and Tyler since Birdie moved in, claiming they would do whatever they could to help him out. Laura once said she couldn’t imagine having to raise her kids alone. At this point, they’re like Birdie’s honorary grandparents.
The vehicle Birdie spots in their driveway isn’t a bus, Tyler notices. It’s a U-Haul. There’s a crew of people standing around the back of it, and someone starts handing off boxes to them. Tyler narrows his eyes.
“No, it’s a moving truck. Maybe Mr. and Mrs. Dun are letting someone rent out a room–” Tyler’s initial hypothesis doesn’t land, and Birdie looks back at him before he can even finish his sentence.
“THEY’RE MOVING?!” Birdie almost shrieks, and it might be the loudest noise Tyler has ever heard her make. She really loves the Duns. Tyler thinks it’s because they actually cook dinner when Birdie stays over. Show-offs.
He huffs out an exacerbated sigh and waves his hands out, mocking her frantic reaction. “No, honey. The boxes are going in the house. Which means someone else is moving in. I wonder who…” Tyler searches for anyone who isn’t part of the moving crew, someone he doesn’t recognize, but he comes up empty. He’ll have to ask them later.
The rest of the day goes by like any other Saturday. Tyler watches whatever movies or Youtube videos Birdie wants, they play together, hang around the pool, eat, laugh, and relax. Birdie spends a lot of time with Tyler on the weekends. Tyler knows it’s a little unusual for an eight year old girl to be this attached to her father. A lot of her friends have started spending time in their rooms or on their phones. Birdie doesn’t have a phone. Tyler refuses to irradiate her mind until she’s at least 10.
Once the sun has been down for at least an hour, they get ready for bed. Tyler reads another chapter of Birdie’s book with her, and once she’s asleep, he wanders into his office. Typically, on Saturday nights, Tyler would be at the local bar, buying drinks with tips he makes playing their dingy, out-of-tune piano. His parents are on a three-month-long cruise right now, and Tyler didn’t get a chance to talk to the Duns, so he had no one to watch Birdie.
He opts for playing his own piano instead. He flops down on the stool with a freshly poured glass of whiskey. He sets the glass down on the shell of the piano and cracks his knuckles. He lowers his hands down, ready to play one of his newer compositions, but he gets interrupted.
An ungodly rhythmic banging sound is coming from somewhere outside. Tyler jumps, the noise breaking the silence harshly. He furrows his brows and snaps his head in the direction of the noise. It sounds like someone is playing music louder than should be possible for a typical sound system. The beat actually vibrates through Tyler’s skull.
He throws his head back and groans softly. “Are you fucking kidding?” He mutters under his breath. He stands up and walks toward the front door to investigate. Once he steps on the porch, the noise gets impossibly louder, becoming increasingly obvious where it’s coming from.
Tyler walks out onto the sidewalk towards the Dun residence. A light on the second floor that Tyler has never noticed before is on, and the window is open. The noise, now evident to be only drums, steadily crashes out of the house and floods the neighborhood. The closer Tyler gets to the house, the louder the sound becomes, Tyler actually having to cover his ears as he walks up to the front door.
Once he reaches the porch, Tyler knocks loudly on the door, half-wondering if they’ll even be able to hear him over the explosive drumming. He waits a few moments, then pounds on the door again, using his whole forearm. This time, the noise stops abruptly. Tyler sighs in relief.
After about a minute of waiting, the door unlocks and opens. The person staring back at Tyler is not who he expected.
A boy with curly, light blue hair and multiple piercings smiles at Tyler. He’s young, maybe 20, Tyler guesses. He’s wearing tons of jewelry. Chokers and chains hang off his neck, and he jingles when he moves. His features are familiar somehow, but Tyler can’t place it.
Tyler’s eyes flick up and down at the guy, really gawking at his outfit. He’s wearing a lot, but also nothing, somehow. The first thing Tyler notices is the exposed skin of his stomach, pale and freckled, which shows through between the low waist of his jeans and cropped band t-shirt.
His skin shows through every layer of fabric that Tyler can hardly call clothing. He notices the way the shirt hangs off the man’s shoulders, the neon mesh sleeves that wrap tightly around his forearms. His jeans are ripped at the knees, and they’re covered in paint and patches. Tyler’s gaze dips all the way to his shoes, which are probably the most non-descript aspect of the outfit. Black converse, untied.
The giant multicolored tattoo sleeve on his arm is icing on the proverbial cake, and Tyler actually tilts his head to ogle at it, eyes narrowed to push his sight into focus.
Tyler stares blankly, mouth hanging slightly open for far too long before the man angles his head to the side and speaks in a light, casual tone.
“Can I help you?” He says through a crooked smile, one of his eyebrows pulling up curiously. Tyler’s eyes hang on his sharp canines for a second.
Tyler can feel his face heat up, embarrassed to be addressing a stranger in his pajamas. He has on the same giant black t-shirt and stained grey sweatpants that he’s been wearing all week, and he probably looks like a wreck. He brings one of his hands up to run through his hair unconsciously.
“Uhm…” Tyler stammers out, face frozen in shock.
The boy in the doorway’s eyes light up and he points at Tyler. “You must be Mr. Joseph, right?”
Tyler nods slowly, narrowing his eyes. “And, who are you?
The boy smiles brightly and holds his hand out between them, intending to shake Tyler’s. “Oh, I’m Josh! Joshua. Laura and Bill’s son?” He keeps his hand between them, though it’s growing painfully obvious that Tyler is not going to return the sentiment.
Tyler realizes why Josh looks so familiar now.
“I haven’t seen you before.” Tyler tilts his head again, looking down at Josh’s hand in the air, then flicking his gaze back up to Josh’s face.
“I moved back in from LA today! My band–” Tyler didn’t let him finish.
“Well, Joshua, you’re making too much noise.” Tyler crosses his arms over his chest, and Josh finally lowers his hand, shoving it in his pocket instead.
Josh smiles again and scratches the back of his neck. “Sorry man. I couldn’t bring my soundproofing gear back with me. I’m saving up for new stuff, though.” Josh seems genuinely excited to be talking to him, and it makes Tyler even more aggravated.
“Doesn’t matter. Just stop it.” Tyler deadpans. Josh’s expression twists into something like pained disbelief.
“Come on dude, it’s not even 10:00 pm!”
“You’re going to wake up my daughter ‘dude’. If you keep making that noise–”
Josh interrupts him this time, his eyes narrowed and a smirk pulling on the side of his mouth. “You gonna call the cops?”
Tyler scoffs and shakes his head at the ground in disbelief. “Where are your parents? I’ll just talk to them.”
Josh scoffs back and crosses his arms, mirroring Tyler. “I’m 24, not nine.”
Tyler takes a step forward and stares into Josh’s eyes. “Go get your parents.”
Josh’s expression drops and his eyes widen slightly. “Okay…you bet.”
He walks backward into the house, leaving the door wide open. Tyler leans one hand on a support beam on the porch, waiting. After a few minutes he shifts, standing up straight with his arms crossed again, tapping one slippered foot. Eventually, he sees Laura approaching from the hallway.
“Hey, Tyler! What’s got you out this late? I thought you were keeping Birdie at home today! How are you, sweetheart?” Laura walks right out the door and embraces Tyler, wrapping him in a signature warm hug. Tyler has no choice but to reciprocate the gesture. Josh walks up behind her, leaning against the doorway. His mouth is pulled downward slightly, annoyed.
“Hey Laura. Um…your son is uh…well he’s being kind of loud.” Tyler pulls back from Laura and gestures with one hand toward Josh, who rolls his eyes. Laura turns to glare at him with her hands on her hips.
“Joshua, I told you, not to drum past eight! Real people with jobs live here, it’s not a dorm room.” Josh winces when Laura slaps his arm lightly and he holds his hands up in surrender.
“Jesus mom, sorry.” Josh hangs his head a little, obviously genuine, but embarrassed to be berated by his mother as an adult.
“Don’t apologize to me, apologize to Tyler! Go on!” Laura backs up to allow Josh to come face to face with Tyler, whose mouth turns up a fraction. He leans back, satisfied and expectant, his eyebrows raised.
Josh steps forward, hanging off the doorframe slightly before dropping down. He’s a little shorter than Tyler, and it takes him a minute to drag his gaze up to meet the man’s face. When he finally raises his head, he sucks on his teeth and rolls his eyes.
“I’m sorry Tyler.” It comes out forced through clenched teeth and a little robotic. He stares daggers into Tyler’s eyes, which are gleaming with smugness.
“Mr. Joseph.” Tyler retorts, and he has to press his tongue into the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. He doesn’t care what the kid calls him, he just wants to twist the knife.
Josh’s eyes widen with sharp irritation and he huffs out a breath through his nose, the sound nearing a growl. “Mr.… Joseph.” He over-ennunciates with a set jaw and stares up at Tyler. Tyler stares right back at him, letting the moment hang before clapping Josh on the shoulder.
Josh’s glare shifts to where his hand makes contact.
“It’s okay, kid. Just don’t let it happen again.” Tyler grips Josh’s shoulder tightly, and Josh has to physically wrench himself away to retreat back inside. Tyler thinks he hears him mutter under his breath as he passes the threshold.
“I’m not a kid.”