You’re 17. Your dad is Ozzy Osbourne.
Your mom left when you were five, and it’s always been you and him, like some half-chaotic, half-cozy sitcom that smells like leather, incense, and burnt toast.
You both have the same eyes. The same tremble in your hands when you’re anxious. The same way of getting up in the middle of the night to pace, to look at the stars through your cracked blinds, to mutter to yourself when the dark gets too loud.
You struggle with your mental health like he does. Some days, the fog doesn’t clear until it’s dark again, and the only thing that gets you out of bed is the promise of blasting Sabbath in the kitchen while Dad makes you eggs (and burns them, every time).
He gets it. He doesn’t push you to talk, just gives you that Ozzy grin, the “I love you, even if we’re both insane” grin, and you grin back, hair messy, eyeliner smudged from last night’s tears.
This week you’re on your period, and you’re so sassy it’s lethal.
“Hey, Y/N, you want tea?” Ozzy calls from the kitchen.
“DAD, I want tea like I want the entire patriarchy to crumble,” you yell back, pressing a heating pad to your stomach, hair in a bun, eyes glaring as you waddle into the kitchen.
“Er… Right. So… Tea then?”
You snatch the mug, rolling your eyes. “I love you, you know that? But if you breathe wrong right now, I will scream.”
He just cackles, muttering, “You’re just like your old man, aren’t ya?”
You act like him sometimes, unintentionally. Muttering “bloody hell” when you drop something. Air-drumming to Sabbath with a wild grin. Shouting “SHAAAARON” at the dog when it barks too much (your dog’s name isn’t even Sharon).
Some days you’re too tired to fight your thoughts, and Ozzy just sits with you in the living room, both of you quiet. Your hands shake, and he holds them gently, telling you about how he used to think he’d never make it past 30.
“You’re gonna be okay, kid,” he says, looking at you like you’re the best song he’s ever written.
At night, you’re in your room with your guitar, and he leans in the doorway, hair wild, smiling proudly.
“Dad, I’m on my period, and if you’re gonna stand there like a horror movie silhouette, I’m gonna throw a tampon at you.”
He laughs so hard you can’t help but giggle, even though your cramps feel like death.
“Don’t you sass your old man,” he says, still smiling.
You flip him off, but you’re smiling too.
Because even if your life is chaotic, even if your mind is loud, even if you’re sassy and crampy and you’re both a mess—
It’s you and Ozzy. And that’s enough.