AnnaBanna

     You move with the flow, shoulder brushing against denim jackets and backpacks stuffed too full. The music in your headphones hums steadily, grounding you as you walk. You think briefly about Dustin, about his curly hair, about how the afternoon sun slants through the high windows and turns the dust in the air into something almost golden.

September 26th, 1987

Friday, 2:45 pm

    The bell rang, and the scraping of chairs filled the room as the class filed out into the hall, which was quickly filling with teenagers rushing to go home. Music blasts into your ears through your walkman, [insert favorite artist] filling your head as you walk to your locker.

    Lockers line the walls like dented teeth, some plastered with band stickers and peeling tape, while others remain bare, except for chipped paint and scratches from years of use. Someone laughs too loudly behind you. Someone else shouts your name, or maybe someone else’s. The air smells like floor wax, sweat, and whatever cafeteria food is still lingering from lunch. It is Friday, 2:45 pm, and the building feels restless, like it knows the weekend is only minutes away.

     Your locker waits where it always does, slightly crooked, the number scratched and faded. You spin the combination without really thinking, the familiar clicks sharp under your fingers. When the door swings open, something slips free immediately.

     A folded piece of paper flutters down and lands near your feet.

     Your heart stutters. You glance around out of habit, but no one is watching. Most people are already heading toward the exits, conversations fading into echoes as the hall begins to empty. You bend down and pick it up.

     The paper is warm, creased like it has been folded, smoothed out, then folded again. The handwriting is unmistakable. Uneven letters, pressed hard in some places and light in others, like the writer couldn’t decide whether to rush or take their time.

     You unfold it.

“Meet me at the Squawk ASAP” -Dustin

     That’s all it says. No explanation. No jokes in the margins. Just urgency.

     Your chest tightens, a mix of curiosity and anticipation settling in your stomach. The Squawk. The radio station. You picture the brick building, the flickering sign out front, the way the place always smells faintly of coffee and warm electronics. You imagine Dustin inside, probably pacing, probably talking too fast, probably already looking at the clock.

     You fold the note carefully and slip it into your pocket before closing your locker. The clang echoes down the hall, louder than it should be. The music is still playing in your ears, but you barely register it now.

     Whatever is waiting for you at the Squawk, it is important enough for Dustin to write a note.

     The air smells like damp grass and metal. Your breath fogs slightly as you finally crest the hill, coasting the last few feet before hopping off your bike. Gravel crunches under your shoes as you lean it against the fence, the chain ticking softly as it settles. The Squawk stands quiet in front of you, brick walls darkened with age, windows reflecting a dull, cloudy light. The sign out front flickers once, then goes still.

     And that makes you quicken your steps toward the door.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ───• . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •───｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

    You hold the handlebars of your bike, dredging up the hill that leads to the Squawk building. The incline burns in your legs, thighs screaming with every push of the pedals, but you don’t slow down. The tower looms higher the closer you get, a thin metal skeleton cutting into the gray-blue afternoon sky. The hum of 50,000 volts is already hitting your ears, a low, constant vibration that settles into your bones before you even reach the top.

     That’s… weird.

     You step closer, hand brushing against the cool metal of the door handle. For a moment, you hesitate, listening. No music. No voices drifting out through the walls. Just the steady electrical buzz from the tower and the distant sound of traffic far below the hill.

     You pull the door open.

     The hinges groan as you step inside, the sound echoing far too loudly in the empty space. The lights are off. All of them. The lobby is washed in shadow, the only light coming from the narrow windows and the faint glow of the equipment racks deeper inside. Dust floats in the air, visible in thin beams of afternoon sun.

     “Dustin?” you call out, your voice bouncing off the walls.

     Nothing answers you back.

     You move farther in, sneakers scuffing softly against the floor. Posters peel from the walls, corners curling, old station schedules yellowed with time. The control room sits dark behind glass, boards and switches frozen in silence. Normally, this place hums with life. With voices, music, arguing over playlists.

     “Robin?” you try, louder now. “Steve?”

     The sound dies almost immediately, swallowed by the building.

     A knot tightens in your chest.

     You check the hallway, then the small office off to the side. Empty. Chairs pushed in, coffee cups abandoned on desks like whoever left meant to come right back. You move carefully now, every sound magnified. The building feels wrong without the lights, like it’s holding its breath.

     You find the door to the basement and pause, fingers curling around the edge. The stairwell below is dark, the air colder, heavier. You flick the switch at the top of the stairs.

     Nothing happens.

     “Great,” you mutter under your breath, then start down anyway. Each step creaks, the sound sharp in the quiet. The smell down here is stronger. Old concrete. Dust. Something faintly electrical. Shelves line the walls, stacked with boxes and spare parts, their shapes barely visible in the dim light.

     “Dustin?” you call again, your voice softer now.

     No response.

     You reach the bottom of the stairs and look around, heart thudding hard enough you swear it’s louder than the tower above. The basement is completely empty. No movement. No shadows shifting. Just silence.

     Slowly, you head back upstairs, checking every room again just to be sure. The studio. The hall. The lobby. All dark. All empty.

     You stand in the middle of the Squawk, lights off, door still open behind you, the hum of the tower vibrating through the walls.

     Dustin’s note burns in your pocket.

“Meet me at the Squawk ASAP.”

     You notice everything on the way up. The chipped paint along the stairwell. A loose bolt near the doorframe. The way the hum of the tower vibrates differently depending on where you stand. It all feels sharper now, like your senses are turned up too high.

     And wherever they are, they definitely aren’t here.

  ｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ───• . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •───｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

    You make your way back upstairs slowly, one hand trailing along the wall as if the building might shift if you don’t steady it. The stairs creak beneath your weight, each step echoing too loudly in the empty station. Without realizing it, you begin to hum under your breath, a few soft notes of [insert favorite song], the sound steadying your nerves.

     When you reach the top, you hesitate, listening.

     Still nothing.

     You push through the door and step back outside. The Squawk van sits where it’s been the whole time, parked alongside the building. Up close, the blue paint is even nicer than you remember. Deep and glossy, almost electric, like it was polished this morning. The logo is crisp, not a scratch in sight. A small but complex antenna rises from the middle of the roof, a careful cluster of metal rods and coils angled toward the sky, quietly doing its job.

     Your eyes drift past the van to the structure beneath the radio tower. The building is squat and utilitarian, half-shadowed by cables and fencing. You hadn’t paid it much attention before, but now the door catches your eye, slightly open.

     You head over, gravel crunching under your shoes, your humming starting up again, softer this time. The closer you get, the stronger the smell becomes. Metal. Dust. Ozone. Inside, the air hums with energy. Wires run along the walls in thick bundles, looping and branching like veins. Switches cover a wide control panel, some labeled in fading ink, others left bare. Rows of levers sit beneath them, worn smooth from years of use. Tiny indicator lights blink steadily, casting red and green reflections across the concrete floor.

     You move carefully through the space, eyes tracing each cable, each connection, taking in every detail. The tower above seems to breathe, the vibration constant and low. You stop near the center of the room, hands tucked into your jacket, listening.

     Then—

     A car door slams shut.

The sound cracks through the air, sharp and sudden.

     Your heart leaps into your throat. Footsteps follow, hurried and uneven, coming from outside. Gravel scatters as someone runs, and then your name is shouted, loud and frantic, cutting through the hum of the tower.

“Y/N!”

     You spin toward the doorway, breath catching as you recognize the voice immediately.

     “DUSTIN!” you shout back, relief flooding your chest as his footsteps get closer, his voice calling your name again, unmistakable and urgent.

     Relief floods through you the moment you see him.

     You just move.

     Dustin rounds the side of the building, breathless, curls a little messier than usual, backpack slung crooked over one shoulder. The late afternoon light catches on his face, and suddenly the tight feeling in your chest loosens, like you can finally breathe again.

    You don’t scream. You don’t shout.

     Your feet carry you toward him without thinking, quick steps turning into a run that’s more eager than urgent. His name slips from your lips, softer this time, almost a laugh.

     “Hey— hey, wait,” Dustin starts, grinning even as he tries to catch his breath. “I was just— I was looking for you—”

     You reach him before he can finish.

     Your hands find him first, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, grounding yourself in the fact that he’s real and right here. His skin is warm under your palms when you cup his face, warmer than the air, faintly rough where the day has left dust and sun behind. There’s a familiar softness there too, the kind that comes from smiles and laughter and being unapologetically himself.

     “Wow, okay,” he laughs, a little breathless as you kiss him once, quick and light.

     Then again.

     And again.

    “Uh— hi,” Dustin says between laughs as you pepper his cheeks, his nose, the corner of his mouth with soft kisses. “You, um… you found me.”

     He smells like outside and something sweet, and when he laughs, you feel it under your hands, the sound vibrating gently against your palms. His hands hover at your waist, unsure for a second, before settling there like they belong.

     “I thought you weren’t gonna show,” he admits quietly, voice dropping just enough to be real. “I mean, not that you wouldn’t, I just— the station was dark and I didn’t wanna freak you out.”

     You pull back just enough to look at him, your forehead brushing his.

     “There you are,” you murmur.

     He smiles at that, soft and crooked, eyes warm.

     “Yeah,” he says. “I’m here. Promise.”

     The hum of the tower fades into the background, the empty station behind you suddenly unimportant.

     You linger there for a second, hands still framing his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks like you’re grounding yourself in him. Then curiosity wins.

It’s just Dustin.

And you.

     “So,” you ask, smiling, “are you gonna tell me why you dragged me all the way up here? Or is this a secret forever thing?”

     Dustin’s eyes light up immediately.

     “I will reveal all,” he says solemnly, then cracks a grin. “But only if you come with me.”

       He gently lifts one of your hands away from his face, holding it like something delicate. Before you can react, he presses a soft kiss to the inside of your wrist, right where your pulse is. It’s brief, careful, but it sends a little shiver up your arm.

      Then he straightens.

     Still holding your hand, Dustin takes a step back and bows deeply, one arm sweeping out dramatically like a knight in a Dungeons and Dragons campaign introducing royalty.

     “M’lady,” he says, voice full of exaggerated honor. “If thou wouldst be so kind as to follow me to my humble chariot.”

      You laugh, shaking your head as he squeezes your hand, clearly pleased with himself, and leads you toward the Squawk van. The blue paint gleams in the afternoon light, impossibly clean, like it belongs in a commercial. The small but complex antenna mounted near the center of the roof catches the sun, all coils and careful angles, like something built by someone who really, really loves radio waves.

      Right before you reach the back, Dustin stops short.

     “Okay, important rule,” he says seriously. “Cover your eyes.”

     You raise an eyebrow. “You’re not gonna make me walk into something, are you?”

     “Nope. Probably. I mean— no,” he says quickly. “Just trust me. No peeking. This is a sacred reveal.”

     You laugh and cover your eyes, fingers pressed tight. You feel him shift closer, his hand still holding yours, guiding you carefully.

       “Two steps back. Okay, stop. Don’t move,” he instructs, sounding far too proud of himself. You hear keys jingle, then the metallic creak of the van doors unlocking.

      “Okay,” Dustin says, practically buzzing. “You can look.”

      You open your eyes.

     The back of the van has been transformed.

     A thick blanket is spread across the floor, patterned in faded colors, tucked neatly into the corners. A couple of mismatched pillows are piled near the side, one clearly stolen from a couch, another with a cartoon pattern that makes you smile. String lights, the cheap kind from the store, are taped carefully along the ceiling, casting a warm, golden glow that makes the blue walls feel cozy instead of industrial.

     There’s a small cooler shoved into one corner, the lid plastered with old stickers. A paper bag sits beside it, folded just right, the smell of fries and something sweet drifting out.

     Dustin watches your face nervously.

     “I figured,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck, “that we could do, like, a mobile hangout. You know? Radio van date. I got snacks. Fries were only like two bucks, and the milkshakes were three, which is honestly a crime, but still worth it.”

     He gestures vaguely to the radio equipment bolted near the front.

     “And we can listen to the station, or we can argue about music, or I brought cards,” he adds quickly. “Also dice. Just in case.”

     His face breaks into a grin so wide it looks like it might hurt.

     You laugh again, unable to help it.

    “This is… really cute,” you say.

     “Really?” he asks. “Because I was worried it was either romantic or extremely stupid.”

     “Both,” you say, climbing up into the back of the van.

     He follows immediately, bumping his knee and swearing quietly before laughing at himself. The doors shut behind you with a soft thud, muting the outside world. You both settle onto the blanket, knees bumping, shoulders pressing together.

     “Okay,” Dustin says, flopping back onto a pillow. “Important question. If we were trapped in this van during the apocalypse, who do you think would survive longer?”

     You snort. “Me.”

     “Rude,” he says, then grins. “Counterpoint: I have snacks.”

     A few hours slip by without either of you really noticing.

     You giggle, nudging him with your shoulder as the string lights glow softly overhead. The hum of the tower fades into the background, replaced by laughter, warmth, and the quiet joy of being exactly where you’re supposed to be.

  ｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ───• . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •───｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

     By the time you check your watch, it’s creeping past 4:00 pm, edging toward 5. Outside the van windows, the light has shifted. The sun has dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky painted in soft purples and fading blues. It isn’t dark yet, not really, just dim enough that the string lights inside the van feel brighter, warmer. The tower above hums steadily, a constant backdrop that you’ve both long since stopped paying attention to.

     You’re stretched out on the blanket now, shoes kicked off, back against the side of the van. Dustin sits across from you, legs crossed, a bag of snacks balanced precariously in his lap. Faint metal music filters in from the radio, low enough that it blends into the space instead of filling it, the guitar riffs softened by the walls and the distance.

     “So, okay,” Dustin says, mouth half full as he digs for another fry. “Hypothetically. If we got ambushed right now. Like, surprise attack. Who survives?”

      You snort, reaching for a snack of your own. “Define ambush.”

     “Like— boom. Out of nowhere,” he says, throwing his hands up dramatically. “No warning. Total chaos.”

     You think for a moment, eyes drifting to the ceiling lights. “I feel like you’d panic for three seconds, then immediately have a plan.”

     “Only three?” he asks, offended. “That’s generous.”

     “And I’d probably just freeze,” you admit. “But I’d notice something important while everyone else was freaking out.”

     He points at you with a fry. “Exactly. You’d be like, ‘Hey, why is that rock moving?’ and then we’d all survive because of you.”

     You laugh, nudging his knee with your foot. “So we’re a team.”

     “Obviously,” Dustin says easily. “I mean, I’ve got strategy, you’ve got perception. It’s basic party balance.”

     He pops another fry into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. The metal track shifts slightly on the radio, still low, still steady, the rhythm grounding in a way that feels comfortable instead of loud.

     “Okay, next question,” he says. “If we were stuck somewhere for, like, a week. No outside help. Who cracks first?”

      You don’t even hesitate. “You.”

     “What? No way.”

     “You’d run out of snacks,” you say, smiling.

     He gasps. “Cruel. Absolutely cruel.”

 “You’re too close,” you whisper, voice caught somewhere between teasing and breathless.  

     Outside, the sky continues to darken inch by inch, but inside the van, everything feels warm and unhurried. Just the two of you, sharing snacks, arguing over hypotheticals, and letting the evening settle in around you like it has nowhere better to be.

The van feels impossibly small, warm, and glowing with string lights. The music hums faintly in the background, guitars sliding through the speakers like a soft pulse. Dustin scoots closer again, knees brushing yours, and this time neither of you makes any move to pull away.  

 “Nah,” he murmurs back, voice low, grinning. “Never close enough.”  

     His hand finds yours, intertwining fingers, then drifts up your arm slowly, brushing lightly over your shoulder. The touch is deliberate, teasing, and it makes your stomach twist in the best possible way. You lean forward without thinking, lips meeting his again, longer this time. He hums against you, a soft vibration that makes your fingers tighten in his curls.  

     The kiss deepens, your hands moving along the curve of his shoulders and across his chest, feeling the warmth beneath his shirt. His hand trails down to your side, slipping gently under the hem of your top, tracing over your ribs, careful but insistent. You shiver, catching your breath, and he smiles against your mouth before kissing you again, slower this time, teeth grazing lightly, teasing.  

     “Dustin…” you murmur, voice shaky, as his hands wander, fingers tracing over your hips, over your jeans, tugging gently.  

     “Yeah?” he breathes back, lips brushing yours again. “Don’t stop.”  

      You laugh quietly, parting just enough to meet his eyes. His pupils are blown, dark and bright, and your heart hammers. His hands roam lower now, palms pressing over your thighs, fingers brushing under your waistband for just a second before teasing back up over your pants. Your own hands travel over his torso, under his shirt briefly, feeling the warmth and tension in his muscles.  

     He leans back just slightly, smirking, eyes glinting, and tugs you forward again. Your lips meet with heat, teeth nibbling, tongues brushing in short, playful bursts, the world outside the van completely disappearing. The string lights flicker against his curls, and the faint hum of metal music gives the whole moment a kind of pulse that matches your racing heart.  

     Your hands drift to his waistband, teasing over the jeans, feeling the familiar shapes and edges, while his hands explore every inch he can reach over your body, lifting, pressing, stroking through fabric with careful pressure. Every movement is slow, deliberate, testing limits, and it makes your chest feel tight, electric.  

     “Stop teasing me,” you murmur against his lips, voice husky.  

     “Never,” he whispers back, pressing a long, deep kiss that leaves you breathless, a laugh caught in your throat. He tilts his head, teasing, guiding your movements together. Hands press firmly over shirts and pants, rolling, teasing, cupping, exploring, until the heat between you is almost unbearable.  

     You pull back slightly to catch your breath, foreheads resting together, your chest heaving with laughter and soft gasps. Dustin’s hand stays on your hip, thumb brushing up and down, while your hands thread through his hair, gripping gently, tugging playfully.  

     “We should probably… slow down,” he murmurs, voice low but full of amusement. “Or else we’re never leaving this van.”  

     You laugh quietly, kissing him again, lighter this time, teasing, brushing against his lips, pressing closer, wrapping an arm around his neck while his hands remain everywhere, roaming over your sides, hips, and thighs.  

     “Maybe we don’t have to leave for a while,” you whisper, and his grin widens, a wicked little sparkle in his eyes.  

     The two of you settle into a rhythm, pressing together, teasing over shirts and jeans, lips meeting in constant kisses, hands wandering, teasing, cupping, gentle yet heavy enough to make every nerve hum. There’s laughter in between the kisses, gasps, murmurs, little playful complaints, and whispered names that make the space in the van feel smaller, warmer, and impossibly intimate.  

     Outside, the sky continues its slow fade into night, but inside the van, the lights glow softly, the hum of the radio and the tower above a quiet backdrop to the warmth, closeness, and the undeniable spark that seems to radiate from every touch and kiss.  

     You and Dustin are pressed together, hands roaming under shirts, lips brushing, teasing and laughing quietly as the heat between you builds. Every brush of his fingers across your hips makes your stomach twist, every playful nibble on your lips sends shivers through you. The hum of the tower and the faint metal track from the radio give the van a rhythm that matches your own racing pulse.

     Neither of you notices the low rumble of tires on gravel outside. A car pulls up quietly, the engine cutting off before either of you register it. Footsteps crunch across the gravel, light but quick, moving toward the van.

     Through the back windows, shadows appear. Two figures pause, peering inside. Their eyes widen almost immediately as they take in the scene: two teenagers tangled up in a blanket, flushed, hands wandering, lips locked in heavy, playful kisses.

     Steve groans audibly, stepping back a little, while Robin squints, eyebrows shooting up. “Oh—oh wow,” Robin mutters, voice low but incredulous. “Uh… okay. Didn’t expect… that.”

     Before either of you can react, Steve yanks the back doors open with an exaggerated groan, hands thrown up. “Not in the van! Come on!” he shouts, groaning again as the scene freezes like a photograph in his brain.

      You and Dustin scramble apart instantly, limbs tangled, hair a mess, cheeks burning bright red. He buries his face in his hands, peeking through his fingers to give you a sheepish grin, while you collapse onto a pillow, trying not to die of embarrassment but failing miserably.

     Robin shakes their head, trying not to laugh outright. “Seriously? Right in the… uh… van? You guys—”

     Dustin groans louder, voice muffled through his hands. “I—I can’t. I can’t believe you saw that!”

     You laugh nervously, wiping your hands on your jeans, still pressed against the pillows, “We didn’t hear you pull up… we didn’t notice anything!”

     Steve groans again, face in his hands, while Robin leans closer to the open doors, voice still trembling with restrained amusement. “Honestly… wow. That’s… impressive,” they say, glancing at Dustin. “And you, uh… yeah, you both need some boundaries or something.”