Laura cries over music sometimes.
The two of you don’t discuss music choices much.
Laura’s playlists are far too riddled with Taylor Swift for you to go anywhere near, and Laura always complains that your music hurts her ears.
You’d left it at that, and stopped trying to steal her earbuds.
But it’s a gray winter morning when you pad sleepily into the kitchen to drape yourself over Laura as she sits by the window, watching rain lash the glass.
And when you slip your arms around her waist, her resulting exhale isn’t a ragged breath like you’d hoped. Instead, it’s a choked sob.
“What’s wrong, cupcake?” You whisper over her shoulder, breath finding her collarbones.
She swipes briefly at her eyes.
“Nothing, it’s nothing.”
You look incredulous.
“It’s really stupid,” she warns. “Just, I was looking out at the rain, and listening to this one song, and it-”
She trails off when she realizes that your sudden, silent shaking isn’t from cold, but from laughter.
“You’re crying,” you say into her shoulder, voice muffled by pajama fabric, “over a song.”
“Yes!” She squeaks, indignant now. “I told you it was stupid.”
You decide to be a mediator.
“Not stupid, cupcake. Just very,” and you press a lingering kiss to her cheek, “...you.”
She seems pacified by that, and her attention returns to the window and her softly steaming coffee (not that it can really be considered coffee, with all the cream and sugar she puts in it).
You’re just glad she doesn’t tell you what song it was.
-
It has to be below thirty, you think, puffing warm air onto your hands and rubbing vigorously.
You’re not winter’s biggest fan, but you positively dislike it when it’s this harsh. Fortunately, Laura’s home, and knowing her tolerance (or lack thereof) for the cold, it’ll be at least seventy degrees inside.
You fumble for your keys with numb fingers and are greeted by a welcome rush of heat when you manage to open the door. Surprisingly, however, the scent of cinnamon-heavy hot cocoa is absent from the foyer. This is a bad sign; Laura always makes hot cocoa.
You find her in the bedroom.
Curled in a ball under the covers, your headphones over her ears.
Crying.
You sigh deeply, a sound she doesn't hear over whatever song is currently making her cry, and let yourself fall forward onto the bed next to the vaguely-Laura-shaped heap of blanket and sad tiny gay.
You reach for her and tug at her shell of blankets, bringing her closer and tugging the headphones down around her neck.
“What song was it this time?”
She sniffs, and you barely pick out her quiet voice among the covers. “Transatlanticism.”
Of course.
“Cuuuupcake,” you drawl. “You know Death Cab isn't good for days of emotional instability.” This is what you've become, you think briefly.
She doesn't respond, and your attention turns to the mug on the bedside table.
“Tea?” You say quizzically after sampling, having expected something a little sweeter than English Breakfast (your English Breakfast, to be exact; today Laura seems especially keen on stealing your things). You set the mug back down with the faint red imprint of your lipstick on the rim. A lingering reminder of shared belongings.
“Hot cocoa is only for happy days,” she says, like it's a rule of the apartment.
You’re dating a child, you think. A child who cries over sad songs and whose veins run with Swiss Miss.
But you just crawl underneath the covers beside her (she grumbles briefly about your cold hands) and promise to make her a playlist or two.
-
You’re not anticipating the day that her music makes you cry, too.
Every so often, Laura remembers that you took several years of ballroom dance, flicking eagerly through her playlists for something waltz-worthy and dragging you into the living room.
Tonight is one such night.
Your wrist is held loosely in her hand as she tugs you along behind her.
You heave out a sigh when she looks at you expectantly with big Bambi eyes, but you still draw her against you with one hand on her hip. She taps her phone a few times and slips it back into her pocket with a grin.
But the melody that blooms from the television speakers makes you freeze.
Debussy.
Clair de Lune.
This was your song, you and Ell. She would play it for you, fluttering, delicate fingers dancing over ivory keys, and you would sit enraptured or drop kisses along her throat until she couldn't keep playing.
They also played it at her funeral, but the pianist her mother hired didn't quite measure up.
Those familiar strains strike chords in you that you weren't aware still sung and before you know it there are traitorous tears burning in your eyes.
Laura’s realizing she's done something and while you try to remember what exactly motor control is again, she frantically tries to pause the music.
But you stay her hand gently and start slowly moving around the living room, hand pressing against her hip like a silent plea.
Everything is hurting like a bitch and yet it's so goddamn beautiful, just like all those times before. Those turncoat tears are tracing long-forgotten paths down your cheeks as you twirl Laura, who's looking at you like she can see your heart through your skin, sitting and hurting behind your rib cage.
And then, it's over.
She presses her hands to your cheeks, thumbs softly swiping under your eyes.
“Are you okay?” She whispers, like a raised voice will break you open. “Sorry about the song; I didn't know it meant something to you.”
“It's alright, cupcake. Just old memories.”
You try for a smile and are fairly optimistic about the result.
“Let's keep dancing, shall we? Just something more….modern this time, perhaps.”
The next song flares up in a warm thrum of guitar, like a match lighting.
You, by The 1975.
You (no pun intended) can work with this.
It's not much of a waltz, but you make it work over crooning, British-lilting vocals.
And you smile at her in a patchwork of sad-happy and you're crying again, but so is she, and maybe, you realize, you're not quite as okay as you once thought; maybe it doesn't serve to push things down the way you always seem to, until you can't see them anymore and call that resolution.
But maybe this is good enough for now.
At the very least, you realize you’re not allowed to tease her the next time she tears up over Skinny Love.