seventeen ✰ rodrick heffley x reader

✰ chapter two

The sticky midsummer heat is unbearable, but you spend most of your time outside anyway. Your backyard is an oasis of lush green and brittle grass. You let the days pass by as you sit on your deck, doing as little as possible. You argue that it's too stiflingly humid to do anything else.

You've been lying motionless on your bed for the past hour when your mom shouts your name.

"(Y/N)! Phone's for you!"

You groan and slowly drag yourself off your bed. The hardwood floor is cold under your feet. You trudge into the kitchen and grab the phone from your mother's outstretched hand and shove it under your ear. 

"Yeah?"

"It's Rodrick. The band's here, wanna come over?"

You snort. "You actually want me to hear you play? You were serious?"

"Just get over here!" He says, mockingly affronted, and hangs up before you can respond.

You look distastefully at the phone in your hand and set it on the counter. "Mom, I'm heading out," you say. "I'll be back in a little bit."

"Have fun, honey," she says distractedly, standing over the kitchen table and a pile of papers. You can't make out what she's doing.

You wave and head out the door. The Heffley's is across the street, but you can hear the blaring rock music almost as soon as you step outside. It's not exactly horrible, but it's definitely not Mozart (or whatever the garage-rock equivalent of Mozart is).

You slip in through the back door and it's like a wall of sound slaps you in the face. Rodrick is sitting in the center of the garage, banging away aimlessly on his drum set. Two other people are in the garage, each carrying an instrument.

The door slams shut behind you and the music stops abruptly. Rodrick looks up from his drums and waves at you, a drumstick still in his hand.

"Hey, (Y/N)'s here!" He says, looking almost genuinely excited to see you.

"Hey, asshole."

"Rodrick."

You lean against the door and nod at the boys standing next to Rodrick. "I'm (Y/N)," you say as way of introduction.

One of the members, a weedy-looking boy with mousy brown hair and a nondescript face, looks at you, then at Rodrick. "What's going on?" He asks, rubbing his hand down the neck of his bass.

"Chris! Ben! Introduce yourselves!" Rodrick chides, tossing his drumstick in the air. "I invited (Y/N) to listen to us play. Because we're incredible, obviously."

You laugh. "Incredible's one way to describe it."

"Thank you, (Y/N)," Rodrick says enthusiastically, either not noticing your sarcasm or electing to ignore it.

"No offense, Rodrick, but why is she here?" The bassist asks.

You frown and look over to Rodrick, who chuckles nervously. "Chris, chill out, man."

Chris shakes his head and lifts the strap of his bass over his head. "I'm out, dude. That wasn't cool."

Rodrick looks at him, confused. "I just wanted her to hear us play. It's no big deal, really,"

Chris heads for the door. "I don't know, it's just embarrassing. It's not like we're that good, anyway."

Rodrick looks like he's been slapped. "Are you fucking serious, dude?"

The guitarist, Ben, moves towards Rodrick, hands outstretched like he's trying to calm a wild animal. You feel incredibly out of place—almost like you shouldn't be here, like you're watching some intense scene you have no part in play out in front of you. It's almost voyeuristic. Minus the sex.