I wrote this tiny little thing in spring 2017, after binge-watching season 3 in a day. Now, with season 4 fast approaching (are you as excited as I am?!), I read it again, and seeing that there are far too few fanworks for this wonderful show out there, I decided to share it. Maybe it can put a smile on the face of a fellow fan.
Please enjoy.
Rodrigo's mind was a mess.
Now, admittedly, he often thought so. Other people were telling him that constantly. But this time, it was different.
The music was missing.
When Rodrigo rode his bicycle through the streets of New York, this huge ugly beautiful city he had so gotten used to, he always had music playing in his head. His best ideas were born on the streets, but mostly inspiration came from little things. A pigeon cooing in a way that reminded him of a piece would accompany him for a while, the sound of jackhammers a few blocks away would carry him through the next couple of minutes. Even at home, he would always quietly hum to himself or at least play with a simple tune in his head, at times weighing it against others, comparing and combining.
The music had stopped playing the moment Hailey had pulled him through her door. His mind had become a blank slate, and all he did was feel - with every sense he had. His mind was full of her, of her alone. He didn't need anything else, didn't want it.
This had happened once or twice before, with Ana Maria. The music had always reappeared the next morning upon waking.
Now it was the evening of the next day and it still hadn't returned.
During his tours through the city, he had heard and seen a lot of things, as always. But instead of music, Hailey was everywhere.
Bits of memories appeared in his mind every other moment. What she did. How she looked. Everything. When a pigeon flew over his head, its beating wings reminded him of the way her eyelids had fluttered when he'd moved just so, the rustling and bustling of a lively café didn't make him think about a new arrangement, but the impatient way she'd hurried him inside, stepping over the strewn clothes and plates and things of her roommates, softly laughing all the while.
Now he was sitting in his room at Cynthia's, and when he's alone it's even worse. Liszt appeared for a moment to talk about women. Obviously. Rodrigo sent him away.
She had stolen his music. She had stolen his mind, his consciousness, making him think about nothing but her, her lips, her eyes, her laughter. It scared him. It warmed him. He felt completely lost, missed a part of him, didn't know how he would live on without the music in his head.
And the worst part was that he wouldn't change a thing.