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Phineas never used a pick. Milly only notices this when she catches a glimpse of the boy’s confusion at the counter in the music store. Staring blankly at a box of cheap picks for about five seconds, before quickly turning away and focusing his gaze somewhere else. After that, more details about his musical choices started to lose their invisibility.
The constant bandaids on the young genius's skilled fingers, which everyone brushed off as the result of constant adventuring. And the scars beneath them. As if he waited for the skin to heal just to tear it open again, continuing this endless cycle of bleeding fingers. Or the way Flynn grips his right hand when there’s nothing to hold onto—out of sheer habit. He never complained—no one batted an eye when the boy held his hand in pain, because his tone remained just as lively and cheerful.
And Phineas played intensely—with the same passion and energy he put into his inventions. Bending notes with bare fingers, he will pour all his restless energy into music, singing once again about some new adventure or invention. Over time, he learned to ignore the burning in his fingertips and rough skin from healing wounds. And Milly couldn’t understand: why? Why walk to the other side of the store when, for a couple bucks, he could ease his own burden?
She picks out three picks from the box and leaves the right amount of cash with the cashier. Phineas doesn’t even notice.
Later that day, the two of them found themselves sprawled on Phineas’s spacious bed, gripping game controllers and actively kicking each other’s butts in the chosen game. They’d been spending time together since early middle school, though they’d technically known each other since almost early childhood. Milly stopped being just another fireside girl on the background when Flynn—surprisingly to them both—realized they had a lot in common. Whether they were giggling together over nonsense in shared classes or gossiping on the bus ride home—it didn’t matter. They had fun together.
It wasn’t romantic, despite others clinging to outdated beliefs about the impossibility of cross-gender friendship. They’d found something special in each other: a connection where they could talk about things and know they’d get the right support. After all, his guy friends tend to push away «unnecessary» feelings—a dumb standard Phineas never followed. And with the other girls from her troop, Milly never felt this kind of confidentiality. That’s why she felt comfortable enough to, mid-game, ask the question that had been bugging her in a casual tone.
“You know tearing up your fingers doesn’t make you look more hardcore, right?”
Her words made the boy quickly lift his head. Expression tensed slightly, but he didn’t look away from the game.
“What?”
Milly smirks, easily knocking the last HP off Phineas’s in-game character. The victory screen flashes, and she sets her controller aside.
“I’m just curious. Why do you do that? Doesn’t it hurt?”
Losing didn’t bother him—but his friend looking him in the eyes, awaiting for an answer…
“It’s just more comfortable! Playing with a pick feels wrong, it's like—a barrier between me and the music.”
The fireside stares at him, her eyes conveying a message, «that sounds dumb».
“You’re such a music nerd.”
Milly doesn’t wait for a retort—she scoots closer and lifts his damaged hand, inspecting the torn-up areas. Flynn was never known for being careful—he was the kind of boy with scraped knees and constant bruises, so it wasn’t surprising no one had noticed. Several bandaids on his fingertips which—if you looked closely—still showed dried blood, outlined displeasure on Milly's face.
“You were literally bleeding this morning.”
Phineas also looks down, mildly surprised, as if his brain hadn’t even registered it as a problem before.
“Uh… yeah, I guess I overdid it a little.”
He gently pulls his hand back, clearly not taking the conversation as seriously as she was.
“Phineas.”
“Oh come on, Milly! Danny was there, picking up some junk for the concert—playing with him felt like a must.“
“Danny uses a pick!“
Phineas wants to respond but gets distracted in confusion, when the girl reaches for her bag on the floor, rummaging through her things without leaving the bed. She finishes by pulling out a small box and handing it to the stubborn inventor.
“What’s that?”
“Just open it.”
And so he does—lifting the lid to reveal three picks staring back at him. Not literally, of course they didn’t have eyes, but they looked so perfect, as if they could only belong to Phineas. Three picks, each different color. The logo of his favorite band, a cartoon drawing of a certain familiar alien, and a cool design featuring a character he never stops quoting. Milly knew him—she never stopped listening, always noticing Flynn’s preferences. It was the least she could do after all the insane gifts he’d surprised her with. To Phineas, those things meant little—he builds city-scale contraptions daily—but the girl still wanted to give something in return. The boy smiled.
“You made these yourself?”
You could hear the genuine surprise in Flynn’s voice. He had no idea anyone had noticed such a minor detail. Let alone spent their free time trying to help.
“I had a little spare time and some drawing skills. Thought you might like this.”
He takes one out and turns it over in his hand, examining every angle. Even though the back still showed paint smudges, the work was excellent.
“Whoa, this is awesome! Thanks!”
Seeing his expression was worth the few hours of effort she’d spent the night before. The fireside girl slides off the bed and moves to the other side of the room to hand Phineas his guitar—all covered in space-themed stickers, despite others warning that stickers could mess with the tone.
“Try it. If you don’t like it, you can go back to your masochist rituals.”
Flynn chuckled and held one of the picks between his fingers.
A strum.
The sound came out clear. A bit unfamiliar. He couldn’t tell—was it just his brain imagining it, or did it really sound different. Softer. The sound no longer came with the usual, faint discomfort.
“Woah.”
Milly grinned.
“You seriously never used one before?”
Phineas strums another note turns to answer.
“Maybe once or twice... a long time ago. I barely remember what it felt like.”
The fireside girl flopped back onto the bed, contentedly listening to Phineas’s next melody. It sounded like an instrumental of one of their older songs—she just couldn’t remember which one.
“Seriously, thanks, Milly.”
He kept playing, this time not wincing when switching to faster chords.
“Anytime.”
Phineas kept using the gift after that day, though of the time he’d forget—old habits die hard. But there were still days when he didn’t shred his fingers raw. When, between the strings, there was one of those very picks.