bambi eyes || tradley

2. nineteen-seventeen

"Hey, You, what are you called?" Tristan asked as his vehicle sped down the road. He was already exhausted from somehow getting the nameless boy into his car. Initially, the stranger had wanted to drive it, and then he continuously called it an aircraft before Tristan had to explain to him his car could not fly.

When they'd finally climbed into the car and the small boy strapped himself into his seatbelt, (which he was very excited about, claiming that the seatbelts only proved that Tristan's car could fly,) he kept messing with the radio and freely going through his glove compartment and repeatedily rolling the car window up and down. Tristan was counting down the kilometers from the police station, getting more excited to how much closer he was getting to ridding himself of the stranger from his trunk.

"Human," the stranger obliviously replied, clicking on the radio. Dubstep music blared throughout the car causing the small boy to jump.

"No." Tristan let out a sigh and clicked the radio back off into silence. "What's your name?"

"Nineteen-Seventeen," he told him, his voice so positive Tristan would've believed that was his name if it weren't the fact he replied in numbers.

"That's not your name, You," he disagreed as the brown-eyed boy rudely clicked the radio back on.

The stranger furrowed his brows. "Yes, my name is Nineteen-Seventeen."

"The police aren't going to believe you."

"Then that is their problem."

Tristan wasn't sure how he was supposed to reply to him so he decided to say nothing at all. In most cases, the best reply is silence. Which is what Tristan's foster mum always told him. The twenty-one-year-old couldn't wait to tell her of his odd day, and the abnormal stranger, "Nineteen-Seventeen," sitting in his passenger's seat.

The curly-haired boy happily looked at the radio. "I like the sounds your aircraft makes. It is too loud for me, but it is likeable."

"This is not an aircraft," Tristan muttered.

"Does your aircraft make other noises?"

"Music," the blond corrected him. "It's not noise, it's called music."

"Music." He slowly repeated it, like he was programming it into his brain. He nodded and smiled over at the driver's seat. "Does your aircraft make other music?"

"Do you want quiet music?"

"Yes, I like quiet."

"Okay." Tristan extended his arm towards the radio and clicked through the different stations until he landed on the boring, orchestra-like station.

The boy smiled at the sound of it and leaned his neck to the side, like he's holding something in it, and forming his hand in a way like he's holding a bow before happily moving his hand back and forth with the song. "Violin," he explained as he air played.

"You know what a violin is, but you've never heard of music?"

"Piano," he said in response, moving his hand away from his "violin" and pretending to move his fingers across the dashboard, like he's hitting keys.

Tristan rolled his eyes. "Can you listen to me?"

"Cello."

"Nineteen-Seventeen -"

"Harp." Tristan clicked off the radio causing the boy to pout. "You made it go away!"

"I'll let you listen to the music, if you fucking reply to me!"

"I will reply to you," the curly-haired boy said. "But I will not effing reply to you."

"Nineteen-Seventeen," Tristan slowly said, trying to hold back his frustration with the boy, "do you know where you came from?"