Work Text:
Life has a sound.
In simple terms, at least.
It's more of a symphony, maybe even a cacophony, a cadenza with infinite movements and instruments and measures. The earth and stars and universe sit and obediently listen to lifetimes playing out before them time and time again, humans living and dying and falling in love in endless, dissonant rounds.
Their life starts like this: on a June evening, on a lazy November afternoon, a baby's life begins in loud cries and a mother's soft coo. It sounds a bit like I love you, or, perhaps, please stop crying. Soonyoung, Soonyoung, one mother says. Jihoon, love, says another. Mothers press kisses to sticky, newborn skin. My pretty baby boy.
Somewhere, a curtain is drawn, house lights are lowered. A show begins.
....
Soonyoung is six when he meets Jihoon, and he lauds it upon the shorter when he finds out that in addition to the three inches separating their equally awkward frames there are five months, a whole five months between their birthdays. It really doesn't mean anything, Jihoon says, and Soonyoung will shake his head in childishly stubborn response. It really doesn't mean anything, maybe, except that when they play Soonyoung will be king and Jihoon the servant; Soonyoung will be the dad and Jihoon the mom; Soonyoung will kiss Jihoon's cheeks in the name of fulfilling whatever kitschy 50s household gender stereotypes they believe in and not because he likes the way it makes Jihoon flush crimson and scarlet and pretty in his hands.
They just fit together. Friendship like this is easy. Natural. Smooth like the way Soonyoung's name rolls off of Jihoon's tongue and Jihoon's name off of Soonyoung's, the way they can talk and play and run together all day and sit together panting during dinner, tired, but never of each other.
In the midst of a humid summer, where Soonyoung is six and Jihoon is five (a grumbled almost-six), Soonyoung and Jihoon become SoonyoungandJihoon.
...
And if you strain your ears, you might be able to hear—
(“What’s that one called?”
“Sirius, I think.”
“What about the one next to it?”
“I think that one’s called ‘I’m not a damn astronomy major but I am hungry as hell, so please pass the chips.’” A rustle of plastic, a crunch. Youth tastes like stale Doritos and sleep deprivation.
“That’s kinda long for a star name, dude.”
A laugh. “You think?”
Silence settles around them like falling stars, falling leaves, almost like falling in love. Above them, stars do not dare break from their cradles, but a boy dares to break their silence: “What’s ‘star’ in Japanese?”
Curiosity has a sound: an uptilt of a voice, a question from one student to another. Seconds pass; words are lost and searched for and found in translation. A reply:
“It’s 星.” Hoshi comes out, soft, hesitant, nervous, on a tongue still unfamiliar to the foreign sound. “What about...” A pause, unsure. “...What language do you take again?”
“I’m a music student, remember?” A scoff, free of malice. Teasing, but pleasant.
“Oh, yeah, of course”. A lie. Followed by an idea: “How do you say ‘star’ in music?”
“Like—” Embarrassment has a lilt, and it dances on his upturned tone.
“Like, you know." He does know. "Express the feeling. But in song!” Teasing, but loving.
“You’re asking me to—”
Voices overlapping, voices in harmony: “Sing for me.” “—sing for you?”
A smile, so bright it can almost be heard, can almost procure a sun of its own in the darkness. "Yes, exactly."
A thick silence, filled with unsaid words. A boy thinks in melodies and tunes, tries to blink his nerves away, tries to swallow down a beating heart.
Above them, a star winks in jest. You're nervous, it whispers.
I am, the boy replies.
The sound of a body shifting closer, the sound of a warm arm wrapped smaller, shaking shoulders, the sound of you're nervous, but you don't have to be said by fingers, whispered by mouth.
It's quiet, but feels like it echoes.
The boy inhales slowly, exhales even slower. If stars had a sound, they would sound like—
...
"Hey, Soonyoung?"
"Mmm?"
"I love you."
"Oh."