blank canvas ;; phan

.:two:.

The drive home was quiet. Phil had put both earbuds in his ears as soon as he entered the vehicle, the soothing beat of The Maine controlling his urge to rip of the skin of his chest from imagining a needle piercing them repeatedly, the only reward from the pain being a permanent string of words from a My Chemical Romance song that may or may not have been on Phil's list of favorite things ever to exist.

But that was besides the point.

Phil's eyes flickered to Maggie, who seemed to be subconsciously grazing her slim, pale fingers against the patch of gauze that covered her new tattoo, her other hand placed in B's. They were all listening to music.

For a moment, Phil wondered what they were listening to. But then he remembered their strict music preferences. Maggie would be listening to either Twenty One Pilots or My Chemical Romance. B's purple headphones were probably emitting something more indie. She'd mentioned to Maggie that someone named Hozier wasn't appreciated enough. He'd have to check that one out.

"What d'you mean you've never listened to Hozier before?!" B exclaimed from the hanging chair in Phil's room when they'd got back to Phil and Maggie's apartment. "Do you not listen to the radio?" She slipped her off-white Chucks from her feet without untying them. They landed with a softclunk onto Phil's floor.

"Actually, I don't," he said, jumping onto his bed. He assumed his regular conversing position on his mattress with his legs crossed, one red-clad foot resting above the other purple polka-dotted one. It was true: he didn't listen to the radio. The only songs they played were pop and rap and overrated love ballads. Phil simply couldn't let himself go through the pain of listening to the radio – that's what he had his iPod for.

"I'm tellin' you, Lester, you're one weird specimen." Phil rolled his eyes and opened his palm. B placed her own lilac-colored iPod in his hand – hers was a newer generation than Phil's. He plugged it into his speakers and hit the shuffle button under the playlist "Hozier".

"I dunno, B. This doesn't really sound like my type of music." He looked down at the title: Work Song. It wasn't bad, not as bad as the other atrocities Phil had encountered in his brief sessions of radio time whenever Maggie accompanied him on his random drives through the city. She'd always turn on the radio, and Phil always hated it. He'd contemplated getting it removed from his car, but that required effort – a thing Phil knew he only presented when it was extremely necessary.

"B, are you making Phil listen to your indie trash again?" Maggie's voice interrogated from the hall. Her freckled face appeared in the doorway, a slightly judgmental look aimed towards B.

"I take offence to you calling my music 'trash'," B said, her mouth forming into an astonished 'o'. She planted a foot on the floor so that she could turn the chair to face the door. "How would you feel if I called your emo music 'trash'?"

Maggie thought about it for a moment. "I'd agree with you, to be honest." B rolled her eyes.

"So, Philip," Maggie began, turning to face her brother. She entered his room and took a seat at the foot of his mattress. "You were pretty quiet today. Was it the fact that you witnessed a tattooing, or because Dan kept flirting with you?"

Phil gulped, hoping to push down the lump in his throat. He felt his cheeks heat with blush. "I-I uh, um ..."

"Uh, um, what?" Maggie mocked, her eyes showing a glint of enjoyment from Phil's discomfort.

"I dunno? Mag, he probably flirts with everyone who seems uncomfortable. Anyway, he's like, twenty-five –"

"Twenty-four, actually," B chimed in.