neither reason nor rhyme ✓

t minus 16 days

t minus 16 days / / christmas carols are not what they used to be

"what's this?"

"a walkman."

laughter bubbles from her chapped lips; her fingers curl around the buttons on the small device. they travel to the bottom, where a cord and two strings hang off the bed.

headphones.

"who still uses walkmans?" 

she bites her bottom lip to suppress a grin, and slowly trails down the cord to find the headset, and grasps her fingers around its frame, and the rubber feels good against her skin.

"clearly," henry starts, unwinding the headphone wires of his own device, "i do. and i'd appreciate if you'd show some respect to one of the greatest technological advancements of the human race."

he'd spent the entire night searching for them, and finally found the devices in his parents' closet, a place to which he rarely ventures; but recently, he's strayed from normalcy.

hazel places the headset where it belongs atop her head; the device is cold, but hugs her ears. 

"oh yeah? what's another one?" her hands fall back onto her lap.

henry notices that she's worn it backwards, 

but likes the way her lips are curved upwards, 

so he holds back his own words.

"the microwave. definitely." he places his own headphones atop his head, 

the plastic digging into his bourbon hair.

"you're not gonna get me one of those, too, are you?"

through thick eyelashes, he watches her tongue peek out of the corner of her mouth; her hair falls over the side of her face, but hands are too busy fidgeting with the walkman to push it away.

just ask. anything is yours.

he bites his tongue; some words aren't meant to be said.

"maybe one day."

they remain quiet; music is a push of a button away, but for some reason, hazel's fingers remain frozen as she scoots back in her chair. the strong aroma of coffee fills her senses, but it's gone quickly; she tries to swallow, but the lump in her throat intrudes.

"this is bullshit, henry. all of this. it's fucking bullshit." there are no tears in her hollow eyes; only pieces of a broken future and disastrous dreams, voice is now quiet, gaze cast downwards, and henry takes a deep breath; he knows words can't make it better. he knows all to well. so he does all that he knows how to do:

he makes mauve music from stunning silence.

he delicately guides her thin fingers to the play button on the device, and as she presses it down, pleasant awakening of instruments and a jumble of tainted voices fill her ears, and she closes her eyes to listen to all of the different colors of the guitar.

red, orange, and a little but of purple laced with maroon, a strange rainbow, distorted and wrong, a starless universe of imperfect perfection is what she sees.

he sees her, and 

only 

her.