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Arthur flops down on his bed, reaching over to grab his journal on his bedside table. He’d been working all day cleaning out the stables, and now he could finally relax and write about his day. And maybe about his current crush on Mary.
Cheeks heating, Arthur cracks open his journal, relishing the familiar creak of leather. He grabs his pencil, putting it to the paper—
Loud music begins to play from the room next door.
Arthur snaps his journal shut, wrinkling his nose and leaping from his bed. “Damn it, John!” he yells, rushing across his room and throwing the door open. “Turn that shit down!”
He leans out of his door, looking down the hallway. The door at the end of the hall is also open, Hosea standing in the doorway with a cocked hip and a disgruntled expression.
“This is your fault, old man,” Arthur grumbles, pointing his finger at him. “You’re the one who bought him the CD player for Christmas.” Ever since that wretched holiday, John has had no qualms about playing his music as loud as he pleases, and it’s been driving everyone mad.
Hosea huffs. “Dutch shares the blame too, you know,” he replies dryly. Dutch’s wounded “Hey!” comes from inside their bedroom. “Are you going to tell him to shut up?” Hosea continues, ignoring Dutch.
“Yeah, I will,” Arthur mutters, waving a hand at his father. “Go back to doing whatever it is you two do in there.” He steps out into the hallway.
Hosea smirks and cocks a brow.
“Ew!” Arthur exclaims. “Don’t be nasty! I don’t wanna know that ‘bout you two.” He scowls, crossing his arms.
Hosea cackles and walks inside his room, shutting the door behind him.
Arthur shakes his head before walking over and whipping the door to John’s room open.
“If life ain’t just a joke—then why are we laughing?” the voice blasting from John’s CD player caterwauls, no longer muffled by the shut door.
“John!” Arthur yells. “Turn that shit off—the hell…” His voice trails off, taking in the scene in front of him.
John is sitting on the floor in front of his full length mirror (or “vanity,” as Arthur likes to tease), holding scissors up to his hair. On the floor around him is a black nail polish tube, his laptop, and chopped hair.
He jumps, turning to glare at Arthur. “Get out!” he practically screams. He turns the scissors to point threateningly at Arthur.
“Um,” Arthur says intelligently.
“Get out!” John’s hoarse voice repeats. He’s standing now, holding his ground against his older brother. “You never knock!”
Not that you would be able to hear it anyway, Arthur thinks, wincing as the music continues. “Your hair,” he comments instead. “Oh, Tilly will be so sad.”
Their sister, Tilly, adores brushing John’s hair, inky black and down to his mid-back. Only now, John has messily cut it so that it brushes the top of his shoulders, choppy and sharp. John brings his hand up to card his fingers through the ends. “That’s why I did it while she was sleeping over at Karen’s.”
“Should’ve gotten her to do it, actually. Maybe then it wouldn’t look so… bad.” Arthur gestures at it.
John bristles. “It’s ‘posed to look like this.” Giving up, he sits back down in front of the mirror, bringing the scissors back up to his head. He holds the hair in front of his face outward, attacking it with the scissors.
Arthur walks into the room, watching his brother massacre his hair. “What are you doin’ now?” he asks, feeling exhausted at this point. He doesn’t think he’ll ever understand John, but he doesn’t know if he wants to.
“Bangs,” John answers curtly.
“‘Kay,” Arthur replies, moving to sit on John’s bed. He inches closer to the CD player on his nightstand and minutely turns the volume down. John turns to glare at him, but doesn’t say anything. He goes back to cutting his hair.
Arthur squints, looking at his brother’s reflection in the mirror. “Are they supposed to cover your eyes like that?”
“Yes,” John huffs. “It’s the style.” He reaches down and angles his laptop screen so Arthur can see the image on it. A boy (or is that a girl?) with a similar hairstyle to how John is cutting his pouts on the screen.
Why would anybody want their hair to look like that, Arthur thinks, humming in response to John showing him the picture. “If that makes you happy. What’s the nail polish for?” He stretches his leg out and points at the bottle with his toe.
John wrinkles his nose and puts the scissors down, grabbing his hair brush and brushing through his hair. “What do you think, smartass?”
“Do you even know how to paint nails?”
John hesitates. He looks back at Arthur. “It can’t be that hard,” he mutters.
Arthur smirks. “This is why we need Tilly here. She’d do you right.”
John rolls his eyes, grabbing the bottle and turning towards Arthur. He nods at the CD player. “Turn it down—not all the way!” he snaps.
Arthur obliges. He’s sure Hosea and Dutch are happily tucked into bed now without the noise (at least he hopes that’s what they’re doing). He’s happy himself that John wants to talk to him. His midnight chats with his younger brother were becoming few and far between. He knows it’s because of the age difference—ten years was a lot, especially now that John is in his awkward teen years.
John unscrews the bottle cap, bringing the brush to his thumb nail. “You don’t think it’s weird?” he ventures, looking at Arthur through his bangs.
Arthur clicks his tongue. “Nah,” he replies, laying down on John’s bed to look at the ceiling. There’s posters of bands covering it. “There’s nothing wrong about expressing yourself. Hosea’s gonna tease you, though, and Dutch will start his ‘where did I go wrong’ spiel. But it’s alright.”
“Thank you.” A beat of silence. “I think it might look better if you paint my nails instead.”
Arthur smirks, sitting up. “Alright, little brother.”
“John Marston!” Tilly exclaims, rushing through the front door the next morning. “What did you do to your beautiful hair?!” She grabs her brother by the cheeks, moving his head so she can examine the angles of his haircut. “Oh my. I’m going to cry. I can’t believe you’ve done this to me.”
“That’s exactly what Dutch said,” John mutters, an offended look in his eye from being manhandled.
Arthur and Hosea cackle from the dining room.