"Who?" for ashes_ascending
Notes: Right off the bat I have to say, I don't like this. I don't like not being able to fit a song into a drabble without having to resort to something like 'oh the characters are listening to it'. That said, I don't know how else I would've been able to fit this song to these two. I'm sure you'd meant for me to drabble your adult muse, but as I don't even know what I'd have done in irony, wee muses it is. Thanks for making me write something!
Erik whips his head to face Phoenix as he hears the boy ask, voice tiny and confused, "Who?" It's a common occurrence when they talk. He often forgets that Phoe is younger, so there's bound to be things that he doesn't know. Erik smiles his crooked smile and breaks off into an elaborate explanation.
"You know. The Beatles. John, Paul, George, and Ringo. Band from England. Let it Be. I Wanna Hold Your Hand. Helter Skelter. Tomorrow Never Knows?"
Phoenix stares blankly at him, clearly not knowing any of the songs. That doesn't sit right with the boy, so Erik grabs Phoenix by the hand and tugs him inside. He tells Phoe to just go on to the living room and heads to the kitchen for milk and a plate of his mama's snickerdoodles. They're always fresh because he loves them just as much as his mama. This batch probably won't make it past today, with the number of cookies he's grabbed. Returning, he finds Phoenix sitting on the couch. Erik sets the plate down, stuffs a cookie, his third, between his lips and practically skips to the record player.
"Which one should we listen to first?" he asks mostly to himself, as Phoenix has no idea what to say without knowledge of the band.
He flips through the covers. Passing by the classical music, he makes a face; his nose crinkles in utter disgust. Those are his daddy's records. The old man listens to them after dinner while he's drinking. Finally, he spies the white cover with the strange illustration of the men in the band. Revolver. Erik slides the vinyl from its sleeve, placing it upon the turntable, and puts the need on the record. The record rotates, needle scratching the surface, and the first bits both boys hear is nothing but crackles and pops.
They listen mostly in silence, nibbling cookies and gulping down tall, cold glasses of milk. Erik interjects every so often to provide little anecdotes about the band and let Phoenix know which songs he likes best. Eventually, the strange noise that reminds Erik of seagulls comes through the speakers. The album is almost over. This is his favorite song. He isn't quite sure why, but it calms him. Kind of like Phoenix, actually, he thinks. He flashes a smile at the other boy.
"I think this is your song, Phoe."
Erik whips his head to face Phoenix as he hears the boy ask, voice tiny and confused, "Who?" It's a common occurrence when they talk. He often forgets that Phoe is younger, so there's bound to be things that he doesn't know. Erik smiles his crooked smile and breaks off into an elaborate explanation.
"You know. The Beatles. John, Paul, George, and Ringo. Band from England. Let it Be. I Wanna Hold Your Hand. Helter Skelter. Tomorrow Never Knows?"
Phoenix stares blankly at him, clearly not knowing any of the songs. That doesn't sit right with the boy, so Erik grabs Phoenix by the hand and tugs him inside. He tells Phoe to just go on to the living room and heads to the kitchen for milk and a plate of his mama's snickerdoodles. They're always fresh because he loves them just as much as his mama. This batch probably won't make it past today, with the number of cookies he's grabbed. Returning, he finds Phoenix sitting on the couch. Erik sets the plate down, stuffs a cookie, his third, between his lips and practically skips to the record player.
"Which one should we listen to first?" he asks mostly to himself, as Phoenix has no idea what to say without knowledge of the band.
He flips through the covers. Passing by the classical music, he makes a face; his nose crinkles in utter disgust. Those are his daddy's records. The old man listens to them after dinner while he's drinking. Finally, he spies the white cover with the strange illustration of the men in the band. Revolver. Erik slides the vinyl from its sleeve, placing it upon the turntable, and puts the need on the record. The record rotates, needle scratching the surface, and the first bits both boys hear is nothing but crackles and pops.
They listen mostly in silence, nibbling cookies and gulping down tall, cold glasses of milk. Erik interjects every so often to provide little anecdotes about the band and let Phoenix know which songs he likes best. Eventually, the strange noise that reminds Erik of seagulls comes through the speakers. The album is almost over. This is his favorite song. He isn't quite sure why, but it calms him. Kind of like Phoenix, actually, he thinks. He flashes a smile at the other boy.
"I think this is your song, Phoe."