A much younger-looking Sparrow, around 18 or 19 years old, is sitting on a roof at night, staring at his phone as if bracing himself for something. Notably, he's missing his piercings and tattoos, and his clothes are much more, well, mainstream-looking: dark jeans paired with a white-and-blue polo.
When his phone rings, he watching it buzz through a couple rings—the name of the caller displayed is 'Mom'—before reluctantly swiping the green pick-up icon and holding the phone to his ear.
"...Hi, Mom."
A warm, middle-aged woman's voice responds. "There you are, sunshine. I've been trying to reach you all week!"
"Sorry, been busy." This is a lie; he's been pretending not to see her calls for the past two days and ignoring her texts for the past five.
"That's alright, sunshine, I just wish you'd let me know if you don't have time to speak. You know your father and I aren't strangers to being too busy to connect."
"Yeah, I know." A little guilt twists in Sparrow's gut.
"Anyway, I just wanted to follow-up on what we talked about when you came for dinner last weekend... Have you thought about your major yet?"
It's exactly what he's been trying to avoid. Sparrow looks down, picking at the edge of worn patch in his jeans. "A little."
Sparrow's mother barrels onwards, still cheerful and warm. "Your daddy's really hoping for Journalism. You'd be so good at it, sunshine, remember how good you were at getting people to open up in the Cloud Cadets? You just need to work on your writing a little, I know you can do so much better. Have you talked to Professor Rossby yet? He loved your father when we were in school, I'm sure he'd be happy to give you a few tips..."
That's exactly what he needs, a professor who's going constantly compare him to his father and be disappointed when Sparrow turns out to not be his father. "I'll think about it."
"No rush, sunshine, but you do have to make a decision soon. It's so competitive, you need to start taking your pre-reqs now, sunshine. And Journalism's a good field, especially in the Cirrus Network. We both know you could be so good at it if you tried."
"...Actually, I was thinking..."
"Hmm? You have a major in mind, sunshine? Goodness knows we're out of touch, maybe the Media school's developed a few new tricks since we were there."
About taking a break, Sparrow doesn't say. He hates college; he wants out, a break from the tests and classes and constant pressure to perform, from always never being good enough. He's never been a particularly great student anyway, at least where it matters to his parents. But he knows there's no point saying that to his mother. He already tried the gap year discussion and look where that got him.
"...I was thinking that we should try that new taco place this weekend."
"Oh! We should, your father keeps talking about it and now I'm constantly beset by cravings. That reminds me, Nora's back in town this week, so Theo's treating us all to dinner with his family, and you know how he is. Make sure you pack something nice when you come back this weekend."
The last thing Sparrow wants to to sit in a fancy restaurant hearing about how his old classmate Nora Gale is doing so well at her Ivy Association school. "Yeah, I know."
"I know you do, you have such a gift for remembering details, sunshine. You just need to find the right way to apply it. —Alright, I better go, these last few emails aren't going to answer themselves and I'm sure you have lots of studying to do. Love you, Arthit."
"Bye, Mom."
Sparrow ends the call, and sits there on the roof for a moment longer with the heels of his hands pressed into his eyes. It's fine. It's fine. He should be fucking used to this by now. He'll pack a nice outfit for this weekend and smile through dinner with Uncle Theo and his family and then he'll slink back to his dorm where he sits on the roof at night and thinks about stepping off the edge way too much.
It's fine.
A knock sounds from the window below. "Yo, Drought, you done? Party's waiting."
Sparrow scrubs a hand over his face, boxing the conversation away and tossing the box into a pit. Then he gets up, starting the climb back down to his room. "Hold your fucking horses, I'm coming."
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timeasmymeasure
call from Mom
Date: 2025-04-19 03:31 pm (UTC)*
A much younger-looking Sparrow, around 18 or 19 years old, is sitting on a roof at night, staring at his phone as if bracing himself for something. Notably, he's missing his piercings and tattoos, and his clothes are much more, well, mainstream-looking: dark jeans paired with a white-and-blue polo.
When his phone rings, he watching it buzz through a couple rings—the name of the caller displayed is 'Mom'—before reluctantly swiping the green pick-up icon and holding the phone to his ear.
"...Hi, Mom."
A warm, middle-aged woman's voice responds. "There you are, sunshine. I've been trying to reach you all week!"
"Sorry, been busy." This is a lie; he's been pretending not to see her calls for the past two days and ignoring her texts for the past five.
"That's alright, sunshine, I just wish you'd let me know if you don't have time to speak. You know your father and I aren't strangers to being too busy to connect."
"Yeah, I know." A little guilt twists in Sparrow's gut.
"Anyway, I just wanted to follow-up on what we talked about when you came for dinner last weekend... Have you thought about your major yet?"
It's exactly what he's been trying to avoid. Sparrow looks down, picking at the edge of worn patch in his jeans. "A little."
Sparrow's mother barrels onwards, still cheerful and warm. "Your daddy's really hoping for Journalism. You'd be so good at it, sunshine, remember how good you were at getting people to open up in the Cloud Cadets? You just need to work on your writing a little, I know you can do so much better. Have you talked to Professor Rossby yet? He loved your father when we were in school, I'm sure he'd be happy to give you a few tips..."
That's exactly what he needs, a professor who's going constantly compare him to his father and be disappointed when Sparrow turns out to not be his father. "I'll think about it."
"No rush, sunshine, but you do have to make a decision soon. It's so competitive, you need to start taking your pre-reqs now, sunshine. And Journalism's a good field, especially in the Cirrus Network. We both know you could be so good at it if you tried."
"...Actually, I was thinking..."
"Hmm? You have a major in mind, sunshine? Goodness knows we're out of touch, maybe the Media school's developed a few new tricks since we were there."
About taking a break, Sparrow doesn't say. He hates college; he wants out, a break from the tests and classes and constant pressure to perform, from always never being good enough. He's never been a particularly great student anyway, at least where it matters to his parents. But he knows there's no point saying that to his mother. He already tried the gap year discussion and look where that got him.
"...I was thinking that we should try that new taco place this weekend."
"Oh! We should, your father keeps talking about it and now I'm constantly beset by cravings. That reminds me, Nora's back in town this week, so Theo's treating us all to dinner with his family, and you know how he is. Make sure you pack something nice when you come back this weekend."
The last thing Sparrow wants to to sit in a fancy restaurant hearing about how his old classmate Nora Gale is doing so well at her Ivy Association school. "Yeah, I know."
"I know you do, you have such a gift for remembering details, sunshine. You just need to find the right way to apply it. —Alright, I better go, these last few emails aren't going to answer themselves and I'm sure you have lots of studying to do. Love you, Arthit."
"Bye, Mom."
Sparrow ends the call, and sits there on the roof for a moment longer with the heels of his hands pressed into his eyes. It's fine. It's fine. He should be fucking used to this by now. He'll pack a nice outfit for this weekend and smile through dinner with Uncle Theo and his family and then he'll slink back to his dorm where he sits on the roof at night and thinks about stepping off the edge way too much.
It's fine.
A knock sounds from the window below. "Yo, Drought, you done? Party's waiting."
Sparrow scrubs a hand over his face, boxing the conversation away and tossing the box into a pit. Then he gets up, starting the climb back down to his room. "Hold your fucking horses, I'm coming."