Chapter Text
The van door slammed shut with a sound that echoed through the quiet suburban street. Rainwater trickled from Rodrick’s hair onto his jacket, leaving faint dark spots on the denim. His backpack slid off his shoulder as he fumbled for his keys, already tired from school, already thinking about the noise and the music waiting for him downstairs.
He hadn’t even made it halfway through the living room when he heard it - tiny, uneven footsteps thudding across the hallway floor. They came fast, frantic almost, like the sound of a puppy running across tile.
“Wotwick!” a small voice shouted, the “r” lost somewhere between excitement and air.
Rodrick stopped mid-step, and his mouth curved before he even turned around. “Oh, no way,” he said softly, pretending to brace himself. “Where’s my favorite little dude?”
Greg came barreling around the corner - two and a half years old, small legs pumping, curls sticking out in wild directions, his socks half fallen down. He collided with Rodrick’s knees, arms up without hesitation.
Rodrick laughed, scooped him up easily, and spun him once in a wide circle. Greg squealed, clutching at his jacket, tiny fingers cold from playing on the floor. When Rodrick stopped spinning, the boy rested his cheek on his shoulder like it was home.
“Hey, kiddo,” Rodrick murmured, bouncing him lightly. “Did you miss me or what?”
Greg nodded seriously. “You gone all day.”
“All day,” Rodrick repeated, feigning shock. “Tragic. Did you at least get something to eat, dude?“
Greg shook his head. “’Soo-san forgot,” he said, his voice small but matter-of-fact.
Rodrick’s jaw clenched for half a second before he forced the anger down where Greg couldn’t see it. “Then it’s good I’m home,” he said with a half-smile. “C’mon, chef Greg, we’re making noodles.”
He set the boy on the kitchen counter, right next to the pasta box. Greg swung his legs, humming to himself while Rodrick boiled water and dug around for sauce. The air filled with the comforting smell of tomatoes, garlic, and steam. Greg pointed at the pot every thirty seconds just to ask, “Done now?”
When the noodles were finally ready, Rodrick split the portion in half - Greg’s served in a little plastic bowl with cartoon frogs on it. He poured apple juice into the small spill-proof bottle Greg liked, the one with bite marks around the cap.
“Okay, dinner and a show,” Rodrick said, balancing both bowls in one hand while nudging open the door to the basement with his foot. “You, me, and the gang.”
Greg grinned, eyes lighting up. He loved the gang. Drew, Nate, and Bill weren’t just Rodrick’s bandmates - they were his too.
Downstairs, the “band room” smelled faintly of dust, metal, and old soda. A set of Christmas lights framed the ceiling, casting everything in goldish glow. Against one wall, next to the amps and drums, was a small corner that looked completely out of place: soft blanket pinned to the carpet so it wouldn’t wrinkle, a pile of toy cars, a plush turtle, a box of crayons, and a miniature table with two stubby chairs.
That was Greg’s corner. His safe place. His home-within-home.
Rodrick set down the noodles and juice on the table, crouched to Greg’s level. “Alright, bud, we’re eating here today. Then the guys are coming, and we gotta rehearse a bit, okay?”
Greg nodded, slurping his noodles with total focus. “Can I dwum later?”
“Yeah, yeah, you can ‘dwum,’” Rodrick said with a grin. “But only after you finish eating, Mozart.”
When the food was gone and the juice bottle was half-empty, footsteps echoed above them - muffled laughter, a slammed car door, and then the familiar creak of the basement stairs.
“Yo, the gang’s here,” Rodrick said as Drew’s head appeared in the doorway.
“Sup, man!” Nate called, already carrying his guitar. Then he noticed the small shape sitting cross-legged on the blanket and softened immediately. “And sup, little man.”
Greg’s whole face lit up. He scrambled to his feet, holding both arms high. “Hi, Nate! Hi, Biww! Hi, Dwoo!”
Each of them gave him a gentle high-five, and Drew ruffled his hair. “You get taller every time we see you, dude. Gonna be playing bass soon.”
Greg giggled, hiding behind Rodrick’s leg.
“Alright, rockstar,” Rodrick said, kneeling beside him. “You know the rules. We’re gonna practice for a bit, so you stay here in your corner, yeah? You can draw, build, whatever you want. If you need anything- snack, water, bathroom - you just tell me. Deal?”
“Deal,” Greg said solemnly.
The music started rough, as always. Drew hit the first few notes too loud, Nate cursed, Bill’s cymbal clattered. Greg clapped anyway. His little hands made soft pat pat pat noises that somehow made every mistake feel worth it.
After fifteen minutes, the energy shifted - the rhythm found its pulse, the melody carried. Rodrick stole glances at Greg between beats. The kid was on his stomach now, crayons spread out around him, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth.
When the band paused for water, Greg sprang up and dashed over, clutching something in both hands.
“I made you somethin’!” he said breathlessly.
“Oh yeah?” Rodrick crouched, accepting the wrinkled page with paint smudges. It was a riot of color - four stick figures with guitars and drums, huge red hearts floating around them, and a fifth smaller figure with messy hair in the middle.
“That’s you,” Greg explained, pointing. “That’s Dwoo, that’s Nate, that’s Biww. An’ that’s me.”
Rodrick blinked hard and smiled so wide it almost hurt. “Man, this is perfect. We’re hanging this up, right here.” He pinned it to the side of the drum set with a spare clip. “Band mascot art.”
Drew leaned over Greg’s shoulder. “Hey, I got one too?”
Greg nodded eagerly and handed him the next picture. “You get hearts, ‘cause you always smile.”
By the time everyone got their drawing - Bill’s with lightning bolts, Nate’s with sunglasses, and Rodrick’s with the biggest heart of all - the basement felt brighter somehow.
Practice turned into laughter. Laughter turned into chaos. Eventually, the guys declared “snack hour,” and Rodrick decided they all needed air.
“Alright,” he said, slinging Greg’s jacket over his arm. “Pizza run. Everyone in the van.”
The rain had stopped, leaving the pavement wet and shining. They piled into the van - four teenagers in dark hoodies and one tiny boy buckled carefully into the child middle seat, swinging his legs.
The pizza place was a small one on the corner, the kind that smelled like melted cheese and warm bread. Greg sat beside Rodrick in the booth, feet nowhere near touching the floor. The waitress brought a children’s cup without even asking.
“Thanks,” Rodrick said. He broke a slice into smaller bites and slid the plate toward Greg. “Eat slow, champ.”
Greg chewed solemnly, looking from one teenager to the next with awe, like sitting at the table with superheroes.
Drew leaned across the table, stage-whispering, “Hey, Rodrick, we’re totally being judged right now.”
Rodrick smirked. “Yeah, four delinquents and a preschooler. Let ‘em.”
Greg didn’t care. He was too busy watching Rodrick pour his soda into his cup, too busy stealing one of Bill’s fries, too busy existing in the soft safety of belonging.
For once, no one forgot him.
When they walked out later, Greg’s hand was tucked into Rodrick’s, his tiny fingers sticky with pizza grease and safety. The neon sign behind them flickered OPEN / CLOSED in lazy rhythm, painting the wet street with red light.
“Wotwick?” Greg said quietly as they reached the van.
“Yeah, bud?”
“You my favorite,” Greg murmured, pressing his cheek to Rodrick’s arm.
Rodrick froze for half a heartbeat, the lump in his throat sharp and unexpected. He smiled instead of speaking, lifting the kid into the van, buckling him in tight.
“Yeah,” he said finally, voice low but steady. “You’re mine too, little man.”
The engine started. The rain began again, soft and forgiving. And for the drive home, the world felt - for once - perfectly, impossibly okay.