Work Text:
+++
A low, rumbling noise awakens Win from what was supposed to be deepening slumber. He groans in frustration, his stubborn ears entertaining the noise despite his body wanting to stay glued to the bed. After several agonizing minutes, he sits up, his half-closed eyes roaming the room for the source of the disturbance, and a deep sigh escapes his lips when they land on Yo sprawled on the lower bunk bed with his mouth wide open.
Trying to make as little noise as possible, he pulls himself up from the sleeping mat, and the frustration over his abruptly cut sleep quickly turns to confusion when he realizes that the row of humans sleeping beside him was short one person. Another quick scan of the room confirms his suspicions, and he finds himself walking out of the club room, mind set on a mission.
It is the first night of Chinzilla’s week-long school sleepover in preparation for their first live performance at the 2022 Hot Wave Music Awards, and while sleepovers are nothing new for their band, he’s fully aware that this year would be a little different than the last. Not only were they hosting a student council member on their turf — something Yak will definitely lose his marbles over if he gets wind of it — but they also welcomed a new person into their squad, the one who he alleges is missing from his place on their large sleeping mat.
Turning around a corner, Win passes by the entrance of their building, and with a short peek, he finds the target of his unsolicited mission sitting on one of the wooden benches.
“What are you doing here, Sound?” he announces his presence with a question.
Sound whips his head toward his direction, eyes wide before calming down and replying, “Nothing, just getting some fresh air.”
For a second, Win senses a hint of panic in the other’s voice, but he brushes it off. He takes the empty seat beside his bandmate, eyebrow rising when he catches the other sighing and fidgeting in his place.
“What? I can’t sit here? Do you own this bench or something?” he mutters, trying to sound offended but he can sense his voice faltering.
Sound, on the other hand, just stares at him briefly before shrugging his shoulders and looking away, “I don’t really care where you sit.”
‘Of course, you don’t,’ Win sarcastically whispers to himself as he leans against the backrest and pulls his legs up to hug his knees.
The two shortly fall into silence, with only the night breeze breaking it every now and then, but somehow, Win feels no air of discomfort between them.
It has been several months since Sound moved to their school and joined Chinzilla, and anyone can easily tell that they got off on the wrong foot. Sound was partly to blame with his big ego and foul mouth, and so was Win and his extremely short temper. With that negative first impression of each other, it is no wonder they were always (and still are, sometimes,) at each other’s throats.
Still, humans are like onions. They have layers and peeling them off is not exactly the easiest and most comfortable task. But Win and Sound had to do it, most of the time for the sake of their friends’ peace of mind, and frankly, Win was grateful he did so because it opened his eyes to the many layers Sound had; layers that most people probably do not know exist because they only look at him with adoring eyes and never beyond the name Sound Saran.
“How was your workshop?” asks Win, his head now resting above his knees and facing Sound, who was evidently taken aback by the question.
“It was all right.”
Win hums, clearly unsatisfied with the answer, something Sound surprisingly catches onto.
“What?”
“Since you skipped band practice for it, I thought it was something major.”
If there’s any indication that he’s learned a lot about Sound during the time he’s known him, it’s instances such as this, when he observes the guitarist close enough to recognize the other’s habits, like how he avoids eye contact when he backed to a corner.
“Huh? I-I mean, y-yeah, we practiced for the very important scenes but that was… that was it. Nothing particular happened.”
Oh, and Sound will stammer over his words too sometimes. Especially when he lies.
Win nods, stopping himself from letting out more hums of suspicion. Honestly, he could just push the truth out of his bandmate, like how he made him admit he didn’t know how to play badminton weeks back, or he could just start another argument about how Sound should try being more transparent about his thoughts.
At the same time, however, the more wicked part of Win’s mind finds the process of solving the puzzle that is his bandmate incredibly charming. The satisfaction he gets whenever he successfully peels off another layer of Sound’s personality and feelings, especially knowing nobody else has done it before except him, is deeply immense to the point of terrifying.
So Win tells himself to pull back for now and simply wait for the right time to strike.
“What about you? How was practice?” Sound asks, seemingly eager to change the subject, and Win takes the bite.
“You know how it is for us. It’s practice for one hour, then eat grilled pork for the remaining four.”
Since it was Sound, their demon perfectionist bandmate, Win expected a long and loud scolding, maybe with some slaps to the back of his head. Surprisingly, however, the only thing he got was an amused chuckle.
“Carefree as always.”
Despite the tinge of mockery in his voice, the tiny grin on Sound’s face made his retort less insulting to Win than it usually is. Their band’s positive energy has melted quite a portion of Sound’s defenses and the guitarist has come so far from the narcissistic guy who joined them just to wage war against the school president, so much so that moments like this still catch Win off guard and leave him intrigued.
“Well, tonight, we didn’t have a certain someone cringing at the lyrics he’s singing every now and then. Maybe that’s why the practice went smoothly,” blurts Win, the nonchalant facade he’s trying to put on easily crumbling when Sound gives him a side-eye.
“You’re acting like you didn’t hate the song in the beginning,” Sound snaps, his nose scrunching up into his signature frown that only drives a laugh out of Win.
Sure, he was also against using Tilly Birds’ song (though not exactly for the same reason Sound and Gun were), and they all have done their best to successfully record the song and music video, but it still amuses him whenever he catches Sound break out of his singer persona during practices and cast a judging look at the words coming out of his own mouth.
“I’ve been wondering…” he resumes, the urge to tease his bandmate remaining strong and only growing bigger, “maybe you just suck at singing love songs?”
Win could’ve sworn he saw a hint of pink on Sound’s cheek, and he would’ve used that as ammunition for more teasing if not for the words that would faintly slip through the other’s mouth next.
“Shut up. You don’t know anything.”
For the first time tonight, Win feels like he actually did something wrong, because his bandmate clearly looks offended, or at least pained when he said that.
“What’d you say?”
Win is aware of how stupid his question is. He obviously heard what he heard but he just wanted to make sure the tiny percentage of drowsiness in his system was not imagining the hurt seemingly embedded in Sound’s words.
Unfortunately, he would not be able to do a double take as Sound simply brushes off his question with a curt “Nothing.”
With Sound refusing to reply, silence envelopes them once more. Seconds pass. Then minutes. And before they know it, it is already close to midnight. As the night gets deeper, the wind starts blowing past them in more frequencies and lower temperatures. Being naturally weak to the cold, Win thinks about going back inside, but Yo's snoring resurfaces in his mind, and he lets out a frustrated sigh, inevitably attracting his companion’s attention.
“If you’re feeling cold, get back inside,” Sound tells him, and Win rolls his eyes. Of course, Sound would assume he was dumb enough to not think of that option.
“I don’t wanna.”
“Didn’t you say you get cold easily? You’ll freeze in those thin pajamas.”
His guitarist friend is clearly nagging at him at this point, and yet Win is too preoccupied with the fact that Sound remembered something he mentioned in passing during that rainy night they went home after badminton practice.
See, that’s one of the few things they have in common. They both remember such trivial things about each other, and it’s particularly interesting that Sound can recall the ones even his bandmates of more than two years forget sometimes. Is it because Sound has more brain cells than all of them combined? Or is it a case of enemy profiling, like getting to know your enemy’s strengths and weaknesses to launch the perfect attack? Or maybe… is it something else he has not yet uncovered?
Clearly, this train of thought has fully caught Win in a mental spiral because it takes him a hot minute to realize that his body was no longer shaking like a leaf. He looks down, instantly feeling a rush of blood climb up his face and take over his cheeks. The cherished yellow jacket that Sound always wears over his uniform, the one he was also wearing tonight when Win found him, is now resting above his shoulders, protecting him from the chilly night breeze.
“Hey, you don’t need to—” Win protests, hands rising to remove the jacket, but he gets stopped by Sound, the guitarist’s calloused hands seizing his own in a firm yet gentle grasp.
“If you’re gonna be stubborn and stay outside, keep it on. I won’t allow you to get sick when we’re days away from the competition,” insists Sound, his tone commanding and clearly indicating he will not take no for an answer.
And normally, Win would be offended when he’s getting bossed around by Sound like this. Yet, for some reason, he finds himself frozen, the warmth radiating from the other’s hands sending off a sensation inside him that he cannot quite comprehend.
Taking a deep breath, he looks up, his eyes meeting Sound’s eyes. They say some people wear their hearts on their sleeves. But for Sound, it has always been in his eyes. The guitarist’s eyes are the biggest window to his soul through which Win peeks. That’s how he learned that Sound’s eyes sparkle whenever his favorite band gets mentioned, that Sound would never give up during a stare-down if he believes he’s not in the wrong, that Sound hates making eye contact when he’s in a vulnerable state, that Sound can be caring and genuine when he knows you need it.
When words fail, Sound’s eyes will always tell him the truth.
So the fact that Win cannot confidently pinpoint what those eyes are saying right now is driving him insane. Sure, he’s dumbed and currently half-asleep, but it doesn’t take a genius to know that there’s something hidden beneath the guitarist’s piercing gaze, something that used to be barely visible but has now gradually grown bigger, so big that it’s practically screaming at him.
And Win can also tell that Sound has no intentions of letting him figure it out, because the second he feels like he’s about to clue in on something, the other breaks eye contact and lets go of his hands. They pull apart and slowly return to their original spots, with Sound going back to leaning on the left armrest and Win tucking his face into his knees.
A layer of unspoken tension and awkwardness surrounds them, and despite the time passing by, Win is not calming down at all, his mind in a constant marathon thanks to his bandmate who he could’ve sworn was just angry at him minutes ago but then suddenly offers him his jacket as if he was some protagonist in a romantic soap opera.
Sound continues to be a confusing set of questions and answers, and Win is just a highly self-aware idiot who refuses to give up the mission.
Win hugs his knees closer to his chest, his entire frame curling up under the constraints of Sound’s jacket like a cocoon. Finally, after what feels like forever, the desire to sleep that he had lost hours earlier comes back to him. Strangely, having Sound’s jacket kind of helped, as not only was he able to cover his burning face and shield himself from his friend’s judging gaze, but he was also unintentionally inhaling Sound’s scent and if he had to be really honest, it’s not that bad of a scent at all. Maybe he should ask Sound what brand of fabric softener he uses.
“Win?”
Win hears Sound call out to him, but at this point, his eyes had already shut close, and they refuse to crack open. Having no more energy to formulate a reply in full sentences, he pushes out a groan. His voice comes out hoarser than he intended to, but that should at least let his bandmate know that he was still alive. His strategy — if you can call it that — works since Sound does stop calling out to him after a while. Whether falling asleep on a bench outside their school building is advisable or not, Win spares no time to think about it as his soul leaves his body and sets off to dreamland.
Or at least that’s what he wants to believe, because there is no other possible explanation as to everything that would happen next.
Win feels Sound (yes, Sound does appear in his dreams sometimes) move beside him, seemingly shifting closer toward him since he feels their elbows touch. He instinctively keeps his head tucked under the other’s jacket, not wanting to let Sound see even a glimpse of his sleepy face.
“I can’t believe you’re actually sleeping here,” Sound mutters, but his tone was far from the rude kind that he would often use in their daily banters, and while that was already peculiar on its own, what Sound does after uttering those words only makes Win want to believe even more that this is all a dream.
Thing is, Win would never admit it, but he actually has highly positive opinions about Sound’s voice. The guy was not named ‘Sound’ for nothing. Contrary to the foul and stern persona he always puts on, the solo guitarist of Chinzilla carried a voice that was soft, mellow, and soothing. It was indeed a sound — pun unintended — they did not know they needed until it came to them, bringing new color and mood to the band’s vocal quality, on top of his expert guitar skills and strong-to-the-point-of-annoying work ethic.
So when Sound starts humming a tune, Win genuinely felt the hairs on his nape stand up. This happens sometimes. At the start of every practice, Sound would do his vocal warmup along to melodies of various songs and pitches, and Win would find himself with a chill running down his spine and anticipation brewing in the pits of his stomach.
The time has passed but I'm still in love
I know that you don't think and don't care
The more you try, the more it fades
I could only hope for you to turn around
Sound Saran is a great performer. Win has been made aware of this fact many times since they met; the first time he sang their club song with them, the time they recorded their audition song and the vocal director complimented him, the time he helped Win complete the rap for the dance song they wrote in a rush for Yo. Every single time they needed him, Sound never failed to deliver a spectacular performance.
But, for some odd reason, the Sound in his dream right now is surprisingly far from the perfectionist of an artist he is known to be. His voice is trembling. He’s not hitting all the notes flawlessly. His breathing is all over the place. Sure, Win made a joke about how Sound sucks at singing love songs but that was what it was. A joke. In reality, and he would deny it a thousand times, Win knows Sound is a great singer, and this is not the kind of performance Sound would show an audience.
Maybe that’s the point, though. Maybe he was not meant to think of this as a performance, but an exhibition. A rare display of weakness and vulnerability. An opportunity to peek into Sound’s mind in its rawest and most sincere form.
Look up at the night sky
You'll see stars up there
Let's pray one wish
That you wanted to be just like in your dream
Then close your eyes
Imagine how you would be like
I close my eyes
And there's only one thing I want
Win vaguely remembers one of the nights when they were practicing for the class play at their groupmate’s house. On their way home, Sound coerced him — asked him rather, as Sound would correct him — to hang out for a while and eat some barbecue. Win thought it was a cheap alternative to the grilled pork buffet Chinzilla would have after practices, but he found himself taking the offer anyway, sitting with Sound in front of a barbecue stall minutes later. It was the first dinner they spent together with just the two of them. Of course, it went the way most would expect it to, with the two of them bickering over everything, from who should get the utensils to who ate the most skewers to who should pay for the meal.
But there is one thing that made that night particularly memorable. On their walk to the train station, they saw a shooting star. Being the superstitious boy he is, Win clasped his hands almost instantly and made a wish. Sound stood there, sending him judgmental looks before yelping when Win smacked him on the arm and made him do the same. As Sound closed his eyes and prayed in silence, Win wondered to himself. Sound is a person who already seems to have everything— talent, intellect, looks, popularity, career, a supportive family, and a stable future. What else would a guy like Sound Saran even wish for?
May you and me be together
May we love each other forever
Just me and you
If there is anything Win could wish for right now, it’s for all of this to be a dream.
Because if it’s not, how else would he justify the overwhelming mirage of emotions brewing inside him right now just from listening to Sound’s voice coated with the rawest passion and utmost sincerity? How else would he explain the jolt of electricity he feels when Sound rests his hand on top of his head, his fingers caressing him ever so gently as if he was piano keys made of glass? What reason should he give as to why his head is now in shambles just from hearing Sound singing about making wishes to the stars for requited and everlasting love?
In the cold night every day
I want you to hold me in the night
Heaven, please grant our wish
If there is anything Win could wish for right now, it’s for all of this to be a dream.
Because if it’s not, why else would he be praying to the heavens to never wake up from it?
+++
The city night sky is not always the most beautiful, not when the moon and stars are barely visible past the clouds of musky air. But the idea that even within this sea of darkness, there are tiny sparkles of light floating about just waiting to be uncovered somehow fills Sound’s heart with comfort.
Just like how he can barely see even a strand of Win’s hair right now but just the thought of his bandmate sleeping peacefully under the protection of his jacket makes him feel all warm and fuzzy inside, because he knows that hidden beneath that layer of fabric is the most beautiful person his eyes had ever laid on.
He peeks at his wristwatch. It was already 1 in the morning. He knows they really should be getting back inside. The night was only getting colder, and Win will definitely wake up sore if he sleeps in such an unconventional position. Not to mention, they’ll probably get in trouble if they get spotted by a school guard doing their scheduled patrols.
“Win,” he whispers, gently nudging his bandmate by the arm, a tactic Sound instantly regrets because Win not only refuses to wake up but also ends up falling down, and it takes all of the guitarist’s natural instincts to make sure the bassist’s head does not land on the hardwood they were sitting on.
Sound thought he was already in a predicament earlier, but he realizes he’s in an even bigger predicament now, because how exactly was he supposed to function properly when the love of his life is sprawled in front of him, his head laid securely on top of his lap and his body cushioned by his very own jacket?
“Win,” begs Sound again, making another attempt to get the man out of slumber and ultimately failing as Win simply fidgets in his spot, snuggling closer to Sound whose face is now ten times redder than it was seconds ago.
Why does he always turn into a weakling when it comes to this guy? He realized the answer to that question bit by bit, with every day that passes, with every time they cross paths, with every instance their eyes meet for both good and bad reasons, with every smile he manages to get from his bandmate. The discovery was gradual, and yet when it came, it was as if a tsunami had hit the shores of his mind, causing mayhem beyond repair. When he came to understand what it truly was that he felt for Win, nothing has ever been the same. The face that used to make his blood boil the second he catches a glimpse of it now makes his heart flutter. The ugly banter they would have every time their eyes would meet has now become the best part of his day. The love songs he has been listening to his entire life suddenly have Win’s face written all over them.
And it pains him, the thought of never having the chance to let Win know just how much love he has for him, not only because of the stupid music club rule but also because of his fragile ego that would never be capable of taking the brunt of Win’s rejection.
Pray for the stars to come
Me and you together at night
Pray for the stars to come
Me and you hugging in the night
So, Sound does the only thing he thinks he can do right now, the only way he could ever convey his deepest desires. He sings, even when his throat is far from being in the best condition, even when he’s barely keeping his sanity, even when the only thing running through his mind is wanting to plant a kiss on Win’s forehead. Sound sings his heart out, to the stars he can barely see from where he’s sitting, to the night sky that seems to have no boundaries, to the man who, even at this moment, is so close to him yet so out of reach.
Pray for the stars to come
Me and you sleep in the night
Pray for the stars to come
Please grant our wish
As Sound reaches for Win’s hand, his rough, guitarist fingers grazing the unusually soft tips of the bassist’s fingers, a shooting star appears right above them, a glimmer of light during the darkest hour, and Sound’s face breaks into a hopeful smile.
+++