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Pete needs to dye her hair.
It’s a hot afternoon in July, which is, of course, the prime time for Pete to make Bad Decisions. Impulsive decisions. She’s probably going to regret this in a day or two, but she needs a change; things have been sticking close and similar for the past year and one of the only things she can control in her life anymore is her appearance. Her hair’s been black for years. She can afford to switch things up a little.
So she walks down to the CVS a block away and buys an eight dollar box of hair dye (she settles on red, because it’s badass and the color of blood, and Pete, to be honest, has always kind of had a thing for vampires). It’s titled the ravishing name Luscious Cherries, because all hair dye is doomed to be named the most tragically over-the-top things possible.
It’s kind of cringe, but Pete sort of loves it. There’s an inherently subtle sexiness in the name that she likes. Also, Pete really likes cherries. She buys the dye and a box of bleach and heads out.
She calls Pat, after she gets home, mostly because if she asks Jo or Andy to help her dye her hair they’d probably just laugh. The last time Jo bleached her hair blonde, she had looked stupid. Pete doesn’t trust her near a box of dye. Andy would probably be willing to help, but they’re at work right now. And Pat’s probably overworking herself, anyway; she could waste a few hours with Pete helping her gain a little bit of physical color.
And after all, it’s a reason to get Pat’s hands in her hair and not feel like she’s a mistake.
***
Pat’s in her sweats when she comes over, sweaty and irritated from a morning of trying music that sings for it only to clash. She’s cute when she’s annoyed; her face goes all red. Pete dreams of those eyes. As soon as she walks in the door, she says, “What bad idea are you planning now, Pete?”
Pete takes one blissful moment to hear how nice her name sounds in Pat’s voice before turning to the matter at hand. “I need a change. I gotta switch things up.”
Pat is used to Pete’s antics, but she dutifully raises an eyebrow regardless. “Does this change involve--” she looks at the box in Pete’s hand, who gives it a rattle. “‘Luscious Cherries?”
“In this case, yes.”
“Delightful,” Pat says, rolling her eyes. “I’ve always wanted to be your Luscious Cherries partner in crime.”
“Aww, Pattycakes, you know you’re always my first choice.”
“Thanks,” Pat says blandly. “You’re gonna lose all your hair at some point.”
Pete settles her face into a pout. “I don’t dye my hair that much.”
“You kinda do. You’ll be bald.”
“What, you don’t think I’d look sexy bald?”
“I think you’d look hot any way,” Pat says, and Pete flushes. She can’t just say that. “But I do think that the loss of hair would decrease the sex appeal of you in particular. No offense to bald people.”
“Dude, whatever, you’d want to fuck me if I was bald,” mutters Pete, and tosses Pat the box of dye.
It’s Pat’s turn to blush, but it’s silly, because it was just a joke, and she probably wouldn’t even want to fuck Pete if she WAS being serious. It’s not that Pete wouldn’t want to fuck her, it’s just that Pat has always been infinitely too good for her. Like, she’s here in the hottest day of the summer, because Pete last minute asked her to dye her fucking hair.
Except that it doesn’t matter, because it’s not like Pat likes her anyway.
Pat says, “Shut up, let’s just color your hair already.”
***
“I’ve never actually done home dye, I usually get my hairdresser to do it,” Pete explains as Pat opens the box. They’re in the bathroom. Pete’s feet are bare; she can feel the towel that they’d covered the bath mat with under her toes.
“I am probably the least qualified person to permanently alter your appearance,” Pat says, nose deep in the instruction packet.
Pete doesn’t say, yeah, but your hands are the ones I want in my hair the most. Instead she says, “Andy’s at work and I don’t trust Jo to do my hair ever since she bleached hers.”
Pat snorts, oblivious to Pete’s internal warring. “Yeah, she looked like a fucking dandelion. It wasn’t good.” She’s still reading the instructions.
Pete takes them out of her hands. “No instructions. We’re gonna go off of vibes here. Fuck the rules.”
“Hey,” Pat protests, but she doesn’t try to get them back. Probably she’s more lax about this because she’ll be able to laugh if Pete ends up looking like an idiot. “Normally I’d go along with your fuck the rules shit, but I don’t wanna burn my face off with bleach or something.”
She glances at the box in Pete’s hand. “And of course you chose the color that would look the worst on the bathroom tile. If you’d gone with blue at least we could play it off as something artistic. If we get a drop of this anywhere, it’ll look like someone got killed.”
“It’s all up to you to make sure that no blood is spilled,” Pete jokes, and shakes the bottle of dye, which really does look like blood. Hmm.
Now Pat has pulled out her phone. “This website says that for black hair you’ve got to bleach it--”
“No instructions, only intuition,” Pete says, and takes the phone away from her.
Pat squints her eyes. “Do you want me to make you look terrible?”
“You’d never make me look bad, Patty.”
“I’m so glad you have faith in me, because I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“It’s okay, we can figure it out together. It will be a magical hair dyeing adventure.”
Pete smiles at the sound of Pat’s soft huff of laughter.
“Okay, so just, stand here, I can put tinfoil under your hair when I paint the bleach on,” Pat says, and a few moments later Pete feels the cold touch of Reynolds Wrap against her forehead as she slips it under the hair. Pete closes her eyes at the feeling. Pat takes a chunk of her hair to put it on top, and she’s so gentle about it. She really doesn’t have to be that gentle, but Pete appreciates it anyway.
It’s not that dyeing hair is that hard, or that bad; the bleach stings Pete’s nose but it’s more the fact that Pat is the one doing it; with her warm hands and gentle fingers and her face scrunched in adorable concentration. Pete swallows thickly.
She’s so close. Pete could lean forward just an inch and touch their lips together.
They don’t do anything. Pat keeps bleaching her hair in chunks and Pete keeps biting her tongue.
After they put on the color-- well, Pat does it, Pete just stands there-- they wrap it up in more tinfoil. Her whole head is covered in it, it looks ridiculous. Pete looks like a robot or something from an 80s space sci-fi flick. It’s stupid, but it’s also kind of great.
Pat finishes wrapping it and takes a step back to admire her work. Pete watches the smile grow on her face. It’s a truly evil grin.
“You bitch, you’re enjoying this.”
“Yeah, I am,” Pat admits. “You look dumb as hell.” She snaps a picture with her phone, because she’s terrible. Pete would have done the exact same thing if their positions were reversed, but still. Blackmail? Really?
“If you send these pictures to Andy and Jo I’ll--”
“Done,” Pat says gleefully.
“Asshole,” Pete mutters, but she’s not really mad. “How long do you think I have to wait for the dye to set? Thirty minutes? An hour?”
“I don’t know, because you took the instructions from me,” Pat replies. Bitch. Pete loves her so much it’s scary.
Eventually Pete caves and checks the instructions. They say to wait an hour. Pat sets a timer for sixty minutes and Pete sits down on the closed toilet seat, legs sprawling, to wait.
***
“I feel like I’m being waterboarded,” Pete protests as Pat shoves her head under the faucet again.
“Shut up,” Pat says sternly, and then she shoves her hands into Pete’s hair to work the dye out. Her fingers are strong; musician’s fingers, callused and rough but so gentle, and it takes all of Pete’s self control not to make a horrible embarrassing sound. This maybe really was a bad idea.
“Yes, ma’am,” she mumbles. The water is warm, running over her head and ears. Pete watches the red drop off the ends of her hair and run down the drain, like little trails of blood.
She must be fidgeting, because all of a sudden Pat grabs her shoulders with sudsy hands and barks, “Dude, I told you to stay still. Do you want me to do this or not?”
Pete decides against answering that question. Pat’s hands are running through her hair, and it feels so, so nice, like her entire brain is being massaged, every bad thing in her head is being chased out by Pat and her gentle hands wringing out the dye that painted on blood red and left a trace of it on her very being.
“Okay, I think it’s good enough,” Pat murmurs after a few more minutes. The water dripping off Pete’s hair is colored really pale pink. Pat turns off the faucet and sits back on her haunches to watch as Pete squeezes the water out, admiring the streaks of red now running through her hair-- first with her hands, second with a towel. Her hands are coated in the stuff, red like rubies or blood. She stands to look at herself in the mirror and admires the damp strands framing her face. Nice.
It’s good. The red looks good on her. Pete turns her head to get a better look at the streaks. It’s very emo, very vampiric. She cards her fingers through her hair, and they come back tinted pink.
“Looks good,” Pat says from behind her. Pete had forgotten she was there. She turns to look. Pat looks a combination of impressed and some complex emotion Pete can’t put her finger on. “Are you gonna dry it?”
“Nah, I think I’ll air dry,” Pete says, still admiring her hair. “I can flat-iron it down later.” It’s short and her curls are beginning to make an appearance again, tight coils that fall by her face. They’re short, but Pete likes them that way. Her mom always got mad at her for flat-ironing her hair, but it’s fine. It’s not like she doesn’t use a heat protectant, anyway.
“It’s going to bleed out on your shirt,” Pat points out, and Pete glances down to see that indeed, the red has begun to seep into the fabric of her white tank top where the color had dripped down. It was probably a mistake to not change before she did this, but the shirt was cheap, she can always get a new one. Pete waves away Pat’s concern, unbothered.
“I’ll just tie dye the rest of it, then it’ll match.”
Pat is still wearing that complex expression. Pete says, “What’s that look for?”
“Nothing,” Pat says automatically, and Pete raises an eyebrow. “You just look… really good.”
Pete grins, self-conscious. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
This feels like it could be something, maybe. Pete ventures, carefully, “...Good enough that you’d want to kiss me?”
If Pat says no, she can always play it off as a joke. One heart broken is better than two.
But Pat just rolls her eyes. “Pete, I always want to kiss you.”
Pete blinks. “Wait. What?”
Pat gives her a look, daring. “Yes.”
“I just thought…” she trails off.
“What?”
“I just thought that you didn’t like me like that. Why would you? You’re way too good for me.”
Pat’s gaze softens. “No. You think everyone is too good for you. When will you let yourself have good things?”
So Pete kisses her.
For a split second, she thinks Pat’s going to push her away, but she kisses her back, hungry and wanting. Pete lets herself relax, sink in; she pushes back the way she always does, always in search of more, always afraid of taking too much, but Pat lets her take and take and take.
It’s cherries in the summertime, it’s pinkies linked and fireworks in July. It’s better than Pete could ever ask for.
It’s the knowledge that Pat wants her-- fucked up as is; Pat’s hands tangle in Pete’s hair-- she gives a soft laugh into her mouth when she feels that it’s still damp, and Pete loves her, she loves her, she loves her.
When they break apart, Pat has drips of red dye on her face and fingers. It’s kind of the hottest thing Pete’s ever seen.
Breathless, Pete asks, “So, do you think that me dyeing my hair was a good thing?”
Pat considers her thoughtfully, and then grins and leans over to tug a strand. “Yeah. I think so.”
(The hair dye leaves its mark— red on the towels and the bathroom sink and Pete’s pillowcase— but the best mark, in Pete’s opinion, is the one that she leaves on Pat’s neck that night.)