I watch him shuffle his music for the third time in the past two minutes. There's an impatience in every skip he presses on his phone and from the way he sighs when the music he needs doesn't play, I can tell it's not just the music he needs. I nudge him slightly, and he shifts. Our backs are against the unused cemented pipes, and we are hidden from the rest of the world.
He leans into my shoulder, making an effort to lower himself and I take his phone away from him. "Wh-" I shush him before he can finish the question.
"Just listen." I say and replace his earbuds with one of mine, and we listen to the music I have on. I can feel him let out a breath, something he had been holding back. I don't ask him what he needs, not yet.
I like our silences, filled with melodies as they are. That's usually all we need to talk. Two songs later, he takes my phone and plays another.
My breath catches: it's our song.
I take this as an unspoken "thank you."
This song is our gift to each other, a promise of stability to each other when the world shakes and breaks around us.
And then we begin to sing.
I can only hum in his presence, his voice is something I'd much rather hear than my own. But this song was made for the both of us, the two of us and I let my apprehensions crash. And we sing.
I want to look at him, stare into his eyes and sing, so that I can tell him that I mean it with every breath, every note, every lyric, the words I tell him.
I can't. But what makes it better, is that I don't need to. That we could sit next to each other for hours, and sing the same song and not have to convince ourselves that we are loved and we belong in this world we've created, because we already believe it. I believe it. I hope he does too.
The song ends, I catch my breath for the hundredth time, trying not to let what I feel get the better of what I do. The sun is slowly setting and I look at him. He doesn't notice, busying himself with the music I have, trying to find something else that doubtless would make him feel better. He glows softly, as the ghosts of shadows and orange sunlight lights him up: he's the most precious thing in the world to me.
I keep looking, and then wonder what colours I would use if I had to paint the scene. Grey, for my phone and the earbuds, golden-orange and soft pastel blue for him, a hint of green for his eyes and red to highlight the rest of him.
The painting is already in my head.
Someday, I decide, I'll paint him.
The beats of the new song jolt me out of my head and I can't help but laugh softly at choice of song. He looks over at me, smiles knowingly, and though I've realised it a billion times before, I know we don't need words to talk. I turn carefully, pulling my knees up and rest my head on my hands, staring at him.
He stares right back, the smile never leaving his face. And though we don't sing this song, I mouth the words to it.
He follows my lead, we take turns noiselessly whispering the lyrics to each other; this makes for a pleasant conversation.
When the song finishes, we sit in silence.
His eyes are a shade darker and the sun has almost set. I deign to break the quiet.
It seems he's decided to do the same.
"I want to st-"
"Can we stay a little longer?"
And we laugh; this isn't the first time this has happened. "Do you want to go home?" He asks and I shake my head.
I can stay here forever, I want to say, but what comes out is: "Absolutely not."
We sit there, and he shifts again, so this time our backs are against the wall opposite to the cement pipes. I lean against his shoulder, reaching up to do so. I can tell he's smiling at the effort I have to make because of my height.
I roll my eyes: this joke won't ever get old. Then he takes my hand, and I hold it tightly. "You're okay?" I ask, wondering if I handed him his phone, whether he would still struggle with his music. I desperately hope listening to mine has helped him, but I don't bank on it entirely.
"Better," he says. "Much better."
I know this tone well enough to not pry into what was wrong; but I am here for him and he knows just as much.
