Electric Avenue [g.way x gn!reader]

CHAPTER 1: the fear

"This is the sound of someone losing the plot,
Making out that they're okay when they're not."

-

"Okay, now stay still..."

You peered up at your dentist through your smudged glasses, who was peering into your mouth, eyes squinted through his glasses (you hoped his name was Kevin, that was what you remembered); your jaw was shaking a little, as he moved forward with his mirror, and inspected right at the back of your molars, the cold metal harsh against your spongy flesh. He stared for several long moments, before, much to your relief, nodding to himself in satisfaction, and withdrew to move the blinding lamp away from your face.

"The blood clot looks entirely healed, back to normal gum," he explained in his New Jerseyan accent, as you sat upright in the chair blearily. "So you can go back to eating normal foods now. Just be careful, since there'll still be some soreness there, from where we opened the gum, so I would suggest not eating anything like nuts or seeds."

You cleared your throat, as you touched the side of your mildly achy jaw tenderly. "What about the wisdom tooth on the top right?"

Kevin shook his head — "I wouldn't worry about it. The X-Ray seems to show that it isn't gonna interfere with your other teeth, so there's no point in removing it for now. But if there are any issues with it, then let us know, and we can do another quick surgery for you."

"Right," you nodded, letting your hand drop, thanked the dentist, before sliding off the chair and out of the room.

Moving out to the reception, you reluctantly paid the stinging fee of 160 for an appointment, before you left the dental practice, and began to hastily walk through the streets of Newark, to get home as soon as possible. It wasn't that you didn't like Newark; not Newark in particular; America in itself had been a task to get used to. You'd been uprooted from country to country three times in your life now, and the adjustments, while they got easier, were still initially hard to deal with. Especially considering the fucking batshit-crazy reason you'd even decided to come here for in the first place.

You were in a band. Allocated as the lead guitarist, despite you being the only guitarist — there were only three of you, and you all shared a stinky, cheap apartment down in the suburbs of the city. Though, to be fair, you got along as well as three college friends could.

First, there was Naya. Intelligent, beautiful, and so off-putting it spun back around to being endearing, you'd met her at university, while you'd been studying an Art History degree, while she'd been doing an English Literature course; you met through a debate club, and bonded over your mutual fascination of Marxism. She had a tendency to be brutally honest, which was something you found appreciating greatly, since you never had trouble misconstruing what she felt/said like you did with other people.

She was also, very openly, transgender, which from what you could tell from subtextual hints, didn't go down with the majority of her traditional, Indian family, though she'd said her parents had been incredibly supportive.

Speak of the devil, she was slung across the couch in the living room, wearing a pale, pink dressing gown, as you walked into the flat; the television was lit up, playing an old bollywood movie you'd never seen, and she was watching it with rapt attention. "How was the dentist?" she asked without looking your way, as you tossed your keys into the basket by the door.

"Okay," you responded blithely in your South London accent, taking off your faded jean jacket to hang up, "gum's still achy, but nothing that's gonna kill me."

"Shame, I was planning your funeral," Naya offered a sly grin over her shoulder, as you made your way to the kitchen.

"Don't stop just because I'm still here," you huffed out weakly, opening the fridge; only for your face to melt into an expression of disgust. "Jesus, fuck, the milk!"