Finding You || Dylan O'Brien

nineteen (edited)

___

"Minho has a sister?" She asked, pulling away from him.

"Yeah, technically, I guess. He hasn't spoken to her in ages" he said.

"Why?"

"He kind of...ran away?" He said. "His mum used to...hit them, and he...struggled, so his sister saved money so that he could go to school and everything. The moment he came to college his sister disappeared, and he didn't want to find her again."

Her brows furrowed. "So three days ago, when he and Thomas has the fight, and he ran away and...."

He nodded. "It reminded him of what his mum used to do. It took me years to build our trust."

She sunk into his shoulder, arms around his neck. He sighed. He knew there wasn't much left that they could do, other than hope and pray that Minho wouldn't do anything like it again. He wasn't speaking at all. Maybe he should try and talk to Thomas, and ask him for help.

"I have to go see Bonnie now." she said.

He nodded. "I have a shift in the library tonight. Maybe you could invite her. She could help us paint the wall."

She smiled. "You still haven't finished painting it?"

He kissed her on the forehead before pushing her up the stairs. "Not my fault that a certain girlfriend made a mess of my library."

___

"See ya, Dyl!" Ben called over his shoulder as he stepped out of the library.

The clock had just struck 11pm. Dylan waved and then slouched back into his chair, drumming his fingers on the desk. The library was silent, save for the torturously slow ticking from the clock. At the back, he and Ben had already cleared the area and prepared the painting mat, and thankfully Ben failed to recognise the mess he and Astrid had made.

All Dylan needed now were people to help him paint.

His phone buzzed.

Astrid :
Running late. The doctors were fiddling with Bonnie's tubes >:( We'll be there in ten minutes approx.

He threw his phone back and swivelled around to the radio that sat atop a few ancient boxes, filled with unnecessary paperwork. The radio was ancient too. It's black edges had been chipped and worn. The buttons were loose and grey, symbols half visible. It even had a tape deck; scratched and yellowed. But its most important function still worked, and it was the only source of music Dylan had, as he didn't have any space on his phone for music. 

He plugged it in and flipped the switch. Immediately, static filled the silence. He fiddled with the old controls, turning the tuner. Old jazz songs were cut off by guitar, which eventually got drowned out by loud techno music, which faded into more static and then someone talking. Finally, Michael Jackson cackled through the speakers.

He stood up and started to dance. His arms flailed out of synchronisation with his hips, and his feet were stumbling all over the place. It was lucky he was alone.

He mouthed the words, spinning in uneven circles around and out from behind the desk, towards the aisles. Ben had been restocking the aisles earlier, and the trolley of returned books sat forlornly in the P-V aisle. He danced his way over and grabbed the nearest book. Although, attention span was never something he had, so he managed to start using the book as a microphone.

He hip-thrusted the trolley and it wheeled away, leaving an empty aisle for him to perform in. Michael Jackson was faint now that he was so far away from the radio, but nevertheless, his arms flailed like no tomorrow.

"Wow."

He stopped, looking to see Astrid standing next to the front desk, Bonnie in a wheelchair in front of her. He cleared his throat and pushed his glasses up, walking over and turning off the radio. He stared at them for a moment.

"Hi," he said sheepishly. "I thought you said 10 minutes."

"Approximately." she said.

Bonnie let a giggle escape from the corner of her mouth. Astrid smiled.

"Is this what your mum interrupted last time she visited you?" She said.

He bit his lip. "Excluding the fact that I was naked, yeah."

"Great mental images." Bonnie mumbled, rolling her eyes.

Astrid scowled and slapped her shoulder.

"Anyway," she continued. Her hands gripped the handles of her sister's wheelchair. "The doctors said that Bonnie can't do much physical movement right now, so we're stuck with reading Harry Potter."

"What do you mean 'stuck'?" Bonnie protested.

"We're stuck, not you." Astrid said, wheeling her sister towards the seats.

"You know," Bonnie mused as she was wheeled into the seating area. "For a sister of a dying cancer patient, you aren't very sympathetic."

Astrid positioned her next to a chair, in which she then sat in. Dylan fell into a nearby beanbag. She flipped to the first page of Prisoner of Azkaban. They had obviously read more since Dylan's previous visit.

"That's because you won't die." Astrid said firmly. "Now, do you want to know what happens?"

In a moment of horror, Bonnie's wild eyes met Dylan's, staring with no movement. He froze. She stared at him for what seemed like eternity. She didn't blink; her eyes didn't flicker. Dylan didn't know what to do. Was she looking at him? Or was she day dreaming?

Then Astrid began to read and Bonnie's eyes fell down to the floor.

He sighed.

___

Bonnie's snores filled the library. Astrid slowly closed the book and motioned for Dylan to be quiet and follow her. Her grip was surprisingly tight as she lead them around the aisle and to the painting mat. The area had been cleared, their work of art displayed on the wall. Dylan felt his cheeks flush when he saw the handprints and imprint of the body in the midst of colours. She chuckled lightly when she saw it.

"That seems like forever ago." she whispered.

He turned to her, taking both her hands. "We should cover it up."

"I don't feel like painting. We'll probably just make another mess." she said, pulling him close. Her arms looped around his neck, his hands snaking around her waist. Her face buried into his shoulder. He felt her warmth. His mind wandered to what it would be like without Bonnie. He couldn't imagine Astrid without her. She'd be broken and lost.

"Dad hasn't seen her since she went into ER." she said quietly. "He's been working double to pay off my parking fines. I keep telling him not to, but he keeps on insisting. I don't....I don't know anymore. Everything doesn't make sense."

"I'm sure there's a way to fix all this. There always is." he said.

Her eyes were old, sad and dreary. Tired. "Like what?"

"Dance with me."

He started to sway, leading her around in circles. Her lips broke into a grin, swaying around uncoordinatedly with him. She kept looking down, trying to match his footsteps. She looked so vulnerable, and Dylan felt his heart melt. There was so much he wanted to say; his mind was alive with thoughts and expressions. But he kept quiet, knowing that anything he had to say would not be beneficial.

"This doesn't work without music." she said, feet stumbling over each other. 

"We don't need music to dance." he said. "Just flow."

She laughed quietly. "Like before? With Michael Jackson?"

"Stop ruining the moment." he said, grinning.

Her face buried into his shoulder again, as they swayed side by side in the centre of the paint mat, holding each other and imagining music washing around them. He suddenly felt something wet against his t-shirt. He didn't pull away to see what it was though.

Instead, he gripped her tighter in attempt to ensure that she wouldn't burst into more tears.