Partially inspired by a certain album, partially inspired by S02 E12.
"Later, Daria." Jane shut the door of Casa Lane after her friend and walked into the kitchen. For no particular reason, she opened the refrigerator, knowing there would only be a single beer, a half empty (or full, depending on your outlook,) bottle of water and a few packets of mustard inside. "Nothing to see here." She grumbled.
Upstairs, she got out her canvas and paints. She'd been working on an avant-garde piece for a couple of days and she was ready to finish up. "Hey," Trent called from her doorway.
"What's up?" She dipped the paint brush in mauve.
"Would you mind listening to something?" He sounded unsure and somewhat nervous. In asking her opinion, he had exposed some insecurity, apparently. She shrugged and followed him to his room.
Since they were small, Trent and Jane were closest to each other in their family, including their parents. They supported one another and that's just the way it had always been. She could still remember a time when he asked for her opinion quite often.
Trent sat with his acoustic on the floor amid a sea of dirty clothes. "Okay, it starts off like this..." he strummed a few chords and a refrain. When he finished, he looked up at her, as if he were a dog awaiting a treat.
"Trent, I'm not a musician. I don't know exactly what you want me to tell you, but it sounded nice."
"Oh. It was just something I was tinkering with before the gig in a few minutes."
She raised an eyebrow, "a few minutes? Doesn't that mean you're going to be late? Again." Jane was less than surprised, but she assumed the motherly tone she hoped would one day motivate him more.
"Yeah, I guess I better go. See you later." He got up, hugged her, and left. They hadn't initiated much physical contact since childhood, so the hug caught her a bit off guard.
When she heard the door click downstairs, it pulled her out of her thoughts to where she still sat on Trent's perpetually unmade bed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the bolded, scratchy letters, "PRIVATE! DO NOT READ!" Of course, she was extremely tempted to do just that. Her brother wasn't exactly the deepest of bleeding heart musicians, but he was genuine.
"Maybe just a little peek." She flipped the pages of the notebook and stopped at a random point.
Jane, why do you look so down?
You know I'll always be around,
Why do you seem so torn up?
I'm here to stitch your heart up,
Don't cry, Janie, don't cry,
I'll give you all of my apple pie
Her cheeks instantly turned pink. "I really hope 'apple pie' isn't a metaphor for something."
Jane lay the book back down in the place she had found it, halfway underneath an empty chip bag, and went back to her own bedroom where the canvas waited.