Ah, coffee, the ever-magnetic pull of Elm Street. Keye Tomlinson, sitting on one of those convenient benches, looks only slightly pleased with the rapidly cooling dregs in his styrofoam cup. His long fingers wrap around the white, shop-emblazoned cylinder, and his eye is fixed on the cold, brown liquid in the bottom of the cup as is his custom, but his gaze is somewhat absent. His mouth is drawn in slightly at the corners, causing pensive dimples to appear on his cheeks.
The oddness lies not in the coffee or his gaze, however. It is in his left hand, which is held out before him, the elbow propped on his thigh. In this hand, he hilds a compact mirror, which he appears to have forgotten (as he is looking into the cup rather than at it).
He is dressed in his usual mishmash of clothes, somehow managing to simultaneously wear too many colors and too many layers without being dressed appropriately for the cold weather (well, a short-sleeved shirt, a long-sleeved shirt and a vest still aren't a terribly warm combination).
He has his long legs stretched out in front of him, able to place them quite far out on the sidewalk with knees still slightly bent. He has his ankles crossed, one foot tilted slightly off the ground. His sneakers (which he has never replaced, despite his improved financial situation in the past year or so) are held together and on his feet with duct tape. Barely.
He bounces the propped-up foot lightly in time with...well, with nothing. He hums tonelessly, but it seems to have little or nothing to do with the motion of his foot.

"Hey, there."
Violet shouldn't really be able to sneak up on him the way her sudden greeting suggests she has. She spotted him when he was still quite a long way away, but, not wanting to wave and call out, and then have an awkward silence until she caught up, she pretended not to notice Keye until she'd almost drawn level with him.
She's buried in a heavy parka-like coat that probably covers a bulky sweater, and has her mittened hands stuffed in her pockets. A knitted blue hat keeps her hair in check, but for those few rebellious strands that poke out over the scarf tucked under her chin. She's dressed like a dare - specifically, the one that goes, 'Winter, do your worst.'
"What are you up to?"

"Huh?" Rather than look up, he tilts his mirror and slides his eye over to the angled, feet-first reflection of Violet.
"Oh." He swivels it to get a look at her face, his voice dull, though a bit less toneless than his humming of earlier. "I like your hat." Pause. "You look like a marshmallow. Um. Me? What'm I...? Oh. I'm..." his eye slides almost guiltily to his mug and then back to his mirror. "I guess I'm just...oh, sittin' and thinkin'. 'Bout maybe if I should cut my hair and stuff."

"A marshmallow." Vi smiles and looks down at herself. It's not the first thng she'd have thought. "Well. Thank you so much."
Her gaze is drawn by the mirror, which she eyes curiously for a few moments before leaning forward and to the side in an attempt to get him to look at her directly.
"Oh, neat."
She pretends to look over his hair, narrowing her eyes as if deep in thought.
"How short were you thinking of cutting it?"

He twists his body to look up at her with a faint smirk, flipping the mirror closed.
"Real short," he says, tucking the little black circle into his back pocket, with a slight shift in position to accomodate the motion. "Pretty close, like..." he sticks the fingers of his newly-freed hand in among the roots of his hair, then draws them upward just a bit, combing through the coarse blond strands, "Around there, maybe. It'd be easier to keep up with. Plus, my roots are showing, which looks pretty stupid."
But.
He frowns slightly worriedly.
"When I said marshmallow, I wasn't insulting you. I...I bet you're real warm."

Violet gives a small nod, to show she understands, and comments, "Hn. You know, I can't picture it." She tilts her head to one side, grinning. "You haven't had your hair short since I've known you - I might have a hard time recognizing you if you get it cut."
The girl laughs and waves a hand to dismiss his worries.
"I know you weren't. I just thought it was a funny comparison."

"Siddown, wouldya?" he releases his hair and pats the bench beside him, his smile widening to show a few flawed teeth.
"Arty thinks I should. I...d'you really think I'd look that different?" Again, the slight frown returns. "I wouldn't want people to not recognize me. Do you think it would look freaky? My ears stick out. I wouldn't want people to stare at me."
He's speaking rather rapidly and has to pause for breath, closing his eye as he does so.
"Arty said I shouldn't care anyway," he finishes in a rush, then exhales loudly and opens his eye again, looking expectantly at Violet. She's full of insight. He trusts her.

She takes a seat, her manner so careful it borders on primness. She takes her hands out of her pockets to absently fold them in her lap.
"You'd look... pretty different," Vi replies, frowning, but smiling at the same time. "At least to me. I'd still know you, though. I was just exaggerating."
Wait, he's been getting advice from Arty?
"Well... I guess he's right." This is said somewhat grudgingly. "But whether he is or not - it's just hair. You can do what you want with it. It'll grow back."

"Well--yeah. That's true." He nods slowly, consideringly, placing the tip of his index finger gently between his front teeth, though without really biting down.
"But--well, people stare now and I don't care. But I mean...if they were staring 'cause they could really see me instead of just this tall kid with a lot of hair, well..." his finger, which had been removed for the purpose of speech, returns to his mouth, and he bites down on the end of it this time. His words blurred by its presence, he finishes, "I think that'd be awful."

"It's rude of them to stare, anyway," Violet observes, smirking, and reaches over to gently pull his hand away from his mouth. "But besides that - if they're staring because they think they see something bad or strange about you, that's probably what they were looking for in the first place, right? And you shouldn't mind them. They're going to see what they want, regardless of what's there."
What is there, according to Violet, is a very tall little boy with a lot of (figurative!) inner demons, all wrapped up in unpredictability.
...Which isn't necessarily something your average person could determine at first glance.

He curls his fingers around hers for a moment, looking vaguely startled, then releases.
"I guess you're right," he agrees, perking up a bit. "I--I mean, I dunno. I...don't like the way I look much. But I guess it'll grow back, and I could always wear a hat."
And it's good to try something new, but is it worth the risk, whether real or imagined?
"Do you think I should?"

She frowns and thinks it over, trying to picture Keye with short hair. (It's not easy.)
"I think it's definitely worth a shot," she says finally, "It's not like you can't change it again if it doesn't work out."
Vi grins and musses his hair.
"Be sure to find a good stylist, though. You wouldn't want it to turn out wrong because you picked the wrong person to give you your cut."

He grins at her from under his mop, straightening in his seat.
Well, it could be interesting!
"Is there anyone you'd recommend? I...I do everything at home. I mean, all the dye and stuff, or if I need to trim it so I c'n see. So I dunno any...any stylists."

"Uh...no. I'm afraid not."
She winces.
"I cut my own hair, too. The last time I went to a stylist was,... um... it was a while before I came to Bayfield. I don't know of anyone here... maybe check the phone book? ...That, or next time you see someone with a haircut you like, ask them where they got it done...?"

"Wow. You do a real good job then. I couldn't cut that much myself, I'd hurt myself with the scissors. Don't they get your head wet when you go to the barber? Would they use one of those buzzing things? I don't like the noise they make."
He looks troubled, a boy with too many things bouncing around his head, with the wry, flushed look of someone who is about to ask an incredibly stupid question but is powerless to stop himself.
"D'you think I'm ugly?"

"They can just mist on some water instead of soaking everything,... I think they can do without, too, but it's easier for them if your hair's wet." She tips her head to one side. She might not go to a stylist now, but she used to, and it seems odd to have to explain things that she never thought twice about before. "The electric razor, you mean?...No, not if you ask them not to."
He gets another curious look for his last question, then a smile.
Her answer comes quickly, automatically: "Of course not."
Pause.
"Why would you ask that?"

He nods, taking in the information with all seriousness: Okay then, no electric razor. Just a little mist of water, no more than that. And please warn me if you are about to touch my ear or something.
"Oh, uh..." he flushes, embarassed, tugging at the roots of his hair. "I dunno, I guess. It was...it was a stupid question, huh? You couldn't say yes anyhow unless you wanted to be mean, so...so I guess that was a dumb thing to ask."

Violet quirks an eyebrow upwards, smirking.
"You don't trust me to give you an honest answer?" she teases. "...Seriously, though, where did that come from all of a sudden?"

"No." a half-smile back, teasing. "You're too nice."
He shrugs a little, uncomfortably, wishing he hadn't said anything in the first place. But sometimes he knows something is not a good idea and he does it anyway.
"I just thought--if I was gonna cut my hair, I should...or...oh, I don't know."

"You should what?"
Violet doesn't like it when people trail off in the middle of sentences, leaving her to guess their endings.
"You're not ugly," she reiterates, offering an especially genuine smile. "You really aren't. And I'm not just saying that."

"I should--I should know. Because why would I bother cutting my hair or anything really, if I was. I haven't had my hair short since I was...oh, probably thirteen."
Slowly, he winds his arms around himself, frowning stormily into the empty winter space in front of him.
"I'm scared of what I'll look like without it all."

She pats him on the arm, still smiling and almost completely at ease.
"You'll look like you with short hair," Vi says simply. "No one said you had to cut it all off at once. Maybe just get it a little shorter, then next time you get a trim get them to take a little more off than the last time. Build up to it, if it would be easier on you."
There's a pause which might be read as anxious, if that's what one expects of it.
"Not that it's anything to worry about."

"You're right," he reiterates. "And that's a good idea."
Yes. That's much less scary.
He pats her hand lightly in return.
"Don't worry about me, Vi."
This said fondly, with a note of weariness (he himself is quite worried).

"I can't help it."
She's teasing (for the most part).
"Anyway, if I didn't worry about you, I'd have to find a new hobby to take up the extra time."

His laugh catches.
"I'm sorry."

"No, don't - I,...that didn't come out right," she falters.
Violet gives her head a quick shake, closing her eyes for a moment.
"It's not something I mind doing. I actually like having you to worry about."

"You don't get as sick of me as I do?"
He shakes his head with a soft, halting laugh, part real mirth and part sarcasm.
"I know I'm being stupid. It's almost worse--all this time and I'm still being stupid, and the only thing that's different is now I can tell."

"It's not 'being stupid'."
She nudges him, just lightly.
"You're trying to get through, the best that you know how - same as anyone else. No one can fault you for that." A please-believe-me smile lights her face. "Okay?"

"Not getting through," he mumbles, "stuck."
But he has to relent at that smile, and he has to return it, so he does, a bit embarassed.
"Okay. I...I guess you're probably right again. I'm just kinda...kinda tired."

"Why? What's the matter?"
Violet leans over and rests her chin on the back of her hand.
"Not sleeping well?"

"Never. You know that."
He bats a hand in the air--sleep is not the issue.
(Actually, he'd probably feel better if he got better sleep, but he's so used to it that he doesn't even think of it anymore.)
"It's just that I'm trying real hard and it barely even shows. I'm trying to go forward but all I feel like is going sideways and sometimes even backwards, and that ain't any good."

"...Maybe you need a rest?"
Not just sleep-rest, though of course that couldn't hurt. Trying so hard all the time has to be exhausting.
"You could take a semester off school, and take it easy for a while."

"If I take a rest, I'll get scared and never come back. It...well, I guess school is part of it. It's real hard. But mostly it's me."
He sits straight, and one hand whirls briefly before hanging useless, failing to illustrate the point that he doesn't manage to make.
"I can't rest. If I let myself slide even a little, I can't trust myself--I don't trust myself anyway, but even less if I'm not concentrating or paying enough attention."

"You'll come back." This is said with quite a bit more assurance than necessary.

"Look at it this way,... what if you're finding things difficult because you're already sliding? If that's the case, it could be good for you to step down and just...stay where you are for a bit." Violet smiles faintly. "You've been through a lot these past few months, and you've kept going, and that's great. But maybe it's time to stop for a bit and settle."

"You don't understand." he shakes his head rapidly. "I don't want to die, but I might tomorrow, and that's why I can't let up even a little. It's my mind, Vi--I can't. I have to break it or it'll break me, and there just isn't any downtime."

She just looks at him, letting the silence last a beat too long before she speaks.
"What are you afraid of, exactly?"

He closes his eyes, shutting her out, afraid of what he might see on her face.
"Bein' crazy."

"I don't think you're crazy," she says timidy.
(Left unsaid, yet somehow tacked on to the end of the statement, is "for what it's worth.")
"...But have you thought about... you know..." seeing a therapist?

"Th-thanks."
He doesn't open his eyes.
"Have I thought about what?" he asks sharply, his tone guarded. Not this again, please not this again...

"About what, that,...about that thing we fought over..."
Because not stating it directly is bound to make him less angry. Of course.