Chapter Text
It’s the middle of summer, but the weather is the sweet, balmy kind that heralds the rain. The grass is soft and dotted with flowers in the little forest clearing, and the lake glimmers in the weak sunlight as it laps at the shore. The sky is a pretty periwinkle blue dotted with heavy clouds, and the wind is whistling coolly through the rustling trees. Hobie whistles with it as they sit by the lake, strumming their guitar.
It’s a nice day for tragedy.
Of course, Hobie hadn’t known it would be a tragedy until it had already happened. If they’d known, maybe they would been more careful. Maybe they would have reined it in before getting carried away by their music, playing with all the passion their body could conduct and making the very air electric with it, so wound up in the blazing crescendo of their guitar that they jumped a foot into the air, scream-singing, and didn’t even notice before –
Hobie blinks dumbly as a little splash! in the clear blue water seals the greatest tragedy that’s ever happened to them.
“Fuck.”
They’re at the water’s edge immediately, zero hesitation in toeing off their boots and wading in, the whole five stages of grief flashing through them in rapid succession as they stare at the place where they’d flung their guitar in.
Not even dropped it. Thrown it. Basically sent it flying into the water.
“No no no, I’m a bloody idiot, shit.”
They wade deeper, water lapping up to their waist. The lake’s almost glassy-clear, sparkling an ungodly amount honestly, but there doesn’t seem to be a sign of the guitar, or even a bottom. Hobie falls to their knees in despair, the water splashing around their waist and soaking their favourite jacket, but it’s hard to give a shit when their guitar, their lifeblood, the one thing that brings them joy, the core of their identity, has been ripped away from them by the cruel, cold hands of fate.
“Dramatic, aren’t we?” A voice interrupts, and Hobie hadn’t even realized they’d been lamenting out loud. “Kabhi socha hai ki maybe it’s your own stupidity to blame?”
“The fuck are you calling stupid?” Hobie whips around, glaring, but there’s no one by the water’s edge. Or anywhere in the clearing. “Who the –”
Now, it’s debatable if the clouds decided to part at that opportune moment to create a spotlight, or if the creature just glows like the sun – Hobie would believe both – but there’s a blaze of warm, syrupy golden light enveloping the figure in front of them.
Just as quickly, it’s gone, leaving Hobie blinking and staring into a pair of amused, curious dark brown eyes.
“Holy fuck, you’re pretty.” The words tumble out of their own accord.
The eyes widen for a split second, and then the indeed ridiculously pretty face draws back a little as the pretty, soft-looking lips split into a grin.
“I know.” The person laughs, and the sound is almost like music, and Hobie almost forgets about their guitar for a whole second, “I’m too sexy for you, mai tere haath na aa ni.”
He actually does sing-song that last part, and Hobie blinks.
“I’m plenty sexy myself, piss off.”
“No, no,” the person chuckles sunnily, finally straightening up instead of bending at the waist to talk to Hobie. His curls fall in his face, all soft and ink-dark and Hobie kind of wants to tuck them behind his ear, and forcefully focuses all their energy into Not Doing That, “I’m just demonstrating to you what good music sounds like.”
That snaps Hobie out of their weird trance immediately.
“’Aight, what’s all this then?” they scoff, “Never heard good music a day in your life, have you? Where’d you come from anyway?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” He shrugs, gold bangles and earrings sparkling with the movement, his red robes swishing like the rippling water, “Well, I guess I should head back. Since clearly, you don’t want this.”
And holy shit is that –
“Is that my bloody guitar?” Hobie sputters, as the guy just waves it casually in one hand, “Give that here!”
“Oh, my bad, so you do want it.”
Hobie’s fully willing to fight this weird, beautiful stranger with their bare fists, but just like that, said stranger is handing them there guitar back.
“Is this a trick.” They ask blankly.
“A trick? I would never.” Sunshine stranger pouts, and even with the entertained glint in his eye, his expression and body language seems genuine and friendly enough. Hobie’s more concerned with being reunited with their guitar than a potential threat to their life, anyway, so they take the guitar without complaint, sighing in relief once the familiar weight’s back in their hands.
“Thanks.” They smile softly at sunshine stranger, once it’s certain there’s no damage to their guitar. He grins back openly.
“Not a problem!”
Hobie actually has to look away, like they’re in danger of being blinded by that smile. Or exploding to death out of the warmth suddenly blooming in their chest.
“How the hell is this dry?” they frown, redirecting their attention to their precious guitar. There’s no answer.
There’s no lingering warmth in front of them either.
Hobie’s head snaps back up, and surveys the smooth expanse of the lake glimmering back at them innocently.
“Where’d he…” they gape. Scan their surroundings for a minute, then try a new tactic.
“Too bad you bailed. Could’a shown you what real good music sounds like!”
Still no answer. Maybe…
Maybe the faintest musical laugh blowing on the breeze?
It takes too long for Hobie to get their act together and wade back out of the shallows of the lake. They sit in the clearing for another half hour, waiting for their clothes to dry, and playing their guitar deliberately a little off tune to see if it will conjure up some mysterious sunshine strangers again. They almost contemplate throwing their guitar in the lake again, but just as soon as the thought arrives, Hobie discards it as patent insanity.
“Goin’ bonkers, I am.” They mutter, shuffling to their feet to leave. They take one last look around before they go.
The sky is still as muted and cloudy as ever, but Hobie could swear it’s brighter and warmer here than it was before.
Hobie comes back two days later. Mostly because the little lake in the center of the forest is one of the best thinking-thoughts-writing-music spots they’ve accidentally discovered in their entire life. It also helps that the lake is supposedly haunted by some kind of man-eating yokai or whatever; the entire village has dismissed it as an urban legend at this point, but they steer clear of this part of the forest anyway. There’s beautiful scenery, plenty of water and berries, and no annoying neighbours complaining about the volume of Hobie’s music.
So of course, Hobie comes back two days later. And of course, it has nothing to do with Sunshine Stranger.
Hobie sits there by the lake, absently playing some tunes so well-worn they’re practically second nature, waiting for… for what?
This isn’t a part of the forest anyone ever wanders. Even if Sunshine Stranger is real, and not in fact a dream, there’s absolutely no chance he’s coming back here. He’s probably just some traveller who was passing through who magically… what, fished Hobie’s guitar out of the depths of the lake and dried it off and returned it in less than five minutes?
Ugh, thinking is annoying.
Hobie therefore resolved not to think.
They go back to playing, and soon enough they’re working on a song they’ve been composing for a week now, stuck on a familiar bridge. Hobie bites their lip, frowning down at their guitar, and tries out three different combinations of notes.
The first one sounds too cheerful, too preppy. The second one is obnoxiously let’s party! but hornier. The third one is…
“Wow, that sounds like it should be played at a pet chinchilla’s funeral.”
And Hobie looks up for the second time that week to find a pair of bright eyes staring into their own. It’s nowhere near as shocking as the first time, and they raise an eyebrow, amused.
“Oddly specific. Why a pet chinchilla?”
“Must you question everything I say?” Sunshine Stranger sighs dramatically, and Hobie hums, eyeing him. He’s hanging upside-down off a branch of the tree Hobie’s sitting under, hands hooked around it and feet perched in an upside-down crouch. He’s dressed significantly lighter than last time, going bare-chested with a red dhoti instead of silky robes, but his bangles still sparkle on his wrists (although not as brightly as his smile, Hobie notes a little fondly).
“Always gotta question everything.” Hobie answers easily, “Never fall into the trap of conformity.”
Sunshine Stranger nods solemnly.
“Good answer.” And he jumps down gracefully, landing on his feet. Hobie pauses to look at him as he settles, cross-legged, elbows-on-knees, next to them. Their eyes meet, and Sunshine Stranger wiggles his eyebrows playfully. It’s stupid.
And cute.
“Go on, play me something better, than. No chinchilla-death marches.”
“Thought my music wasn’t good enough for you?”
“Exactly. Prove me wrong.”
“Tosser.” Hobie mutters, but obliges, going through the three combinations again. Sunshine Stranger squints at their fingers as they play, and Hobie observes him observe them.
“Do a mix of the first and second thingies you played.” He says decisively, once Hobie’s done.
“Thingies.” Hobie deadpans, “You just called my incredible music masterpiece thingies.”
“I don’t know music stuff, dude.” Sunshine shrugs.
“Yet here you are, judging me like the fucking Monarch of all Music.” Hobie snorts, even as they try out the suggestion on their guitar. It actually sounds… good. Very good.
“See? Bola tha.” He’s way too smug about it. Hobie tosses one of their foraged berries at him to humble him. He catches it in his mouth and eats it, grinning smugly. Then he winces at the sour taste, and it’s Hobie’s turn to be smug.
They sit there well into the afternoon, until the daylight starts to mellow, Hobie playing their guitar and Sunshine making the occasional remark, pausing to have some inane argument (and a thumb war to settle a bet one time) now and then.
Hobie plays the finished song one last time, grinning as the satisfaction rushes headily through their veins the way it always does at a perfect new composition. Sunshine claps brightly, an audience of one applauding them more appreciatively than any crowd they’ve ever played for.
“See? I fixed your terrible music.”
“Piss off.” Hobie huffs, smiling as Sunshine laughs.
“Once more?”
So of course, Hobie does. Sunshine watches them again, but when Hobie looks up, his eyes are trained on their face instead of their hands, the corner of his mouth quirked up softly.
“Better than your shite music, innit?” Hobie teases, because something about that gaze makes their cheeks a little too warm to let it continue.
“Tera milna hai us rab ka ishara mano,” Sunshine sings back with an infuriating smirk, his voice unfairly beautiful, “Mujhko banaya tere jaise hi kisi ke liye…”
“You’re not winning this.”
“Aren’t I? Better than your music.”
“Not.”
“Is.”
It leads to a wrestling match, somehow, and they end up with Sunshine sprawled over Hobie’s legs, humming as Hobie strums random notes on their guitar, staring at the sunset. Beautiful brown eyes are fixed absently on the side of Hobie’s face, glowing a little even in the settling dark, and Hobie resists the urge to stare back.
“Kuchh toh hai tujhse raabta, kuchh toh hair tujhse raabta…”
“Where do you keep disappearing to?” Gwen asks as Hobie stumbles into the house with the setting sun, immediately collapsing on the softest part of the floor they can find (not very soft, they groan inwardly).
“Well?” she prods, poking Hobie’s exposed side with a freezing toe and making them hiss.
“I reckon ‘s none of your business.” They mumble.
“I reckon you’re going to tell me anyway.” She informs them, poking her toes into their ribs yet again, “Or I’m going to stand here all night and annoy you.”
“Most annoying friend in the world, you are, Gwendy.” Hobie grumbles, forcing themselves to sit up. It’s more of a challenge than it should be. They’ve been feeling stupidly tired and sluggish lately, and maybe they’re imagining it, but Hobie could swear it increases each day, the exhaustion gnawing deeper and deeper into their bones.
“Dude, you look dead.” There’s worry in Gwen’s voice. Ah, not imagining it then.
“We’re all dead inside.”
“Fuck off.” She huffs, “So? Where have you been going? I don’t see you around the village anymore, you never do your little shows now. You vanish, no work, no food in your house that I can find, and then you come back all drained and tired.”
Hobie frowns. Had they been that obvious?
Well, there’s no need to hide it, really. It’s not like Hobie’s doing anything illegal (for once). They’ve just been dropping by the lake more and more frequently – every day now – for the past three weeks, to practice and write their music, and to meet Sunshine.
Pavitr, as he’d introduced himself after a week of hanging out.
Pavitr, who seems to appear out of nowhere and disappear even more suddenly, all of Hobie’s attempts to suss out how he does it failing. Pavitr, who smiles brightly and laughs even brighter, whose eyes sparkle in the sunlight and seem to glow even when it fades way, who fights and argues with Hobie for the sake of it and then jokes and chats about things Hobie can’t even remember later. Pavitr, who watches them play their music uncannily attentively, and then chimes in with his own songs, crooned in a language Hobie doesn’t understand but could die happy listening to forever.
Hobie has zero need to hide Pavitr, but for some reason, very much wants to.
Maybe because they’ve grown attached, scarily attached, more than they’d ever like to admit. Pavitr is… special, their special sunshine, and they don’t want everyone else crowding him and clamouring for his attention and light and warmth, not when Hobie wants it. Needs it.
So they shrug.
“Just out and about, lookin’ for inspiration in the forest and what not.”
“Oooh, are you working on a new album?” Gwen perks up immediately, “Care to share? We can play something together again, last time was awesome!”
“I’ll show you when I’m ready.” Hobie promises. They have been working on new songs, it’s true, aided by Pavitr who suggests tunes and lyrics with unending enthusiasm. It’s some of the best music Hobie’s ever worked on.
Huh. That’s probably why Hobie’s so tired, isn’t it?
Too tired to even remember half the music they work on. The improvements and updates on the songs always seem to slip out of the cracks of their mind by the time Hobie makes it home.
“Cool.” Gwen nods, “Anyway, I came to call you for dinner at Peter’s. We promised we’d go, remember? Miles is waiting outside.”
“… Sorry, Gwendy, ‘m too bloody tired.” Hobie sighs, even more energy bleeding out of them as they flop onto their back, “Maybe next time? I’ll make it up to Pete.”
“Are you sure?” Hobie doesn’t need to see her face to know she’s frowning, “You were all sleepy last week, too. At least get some food in you first.”
“I’m sure. I’ll eat in the morning.”
They close their eyes and curl up. It’s silent for a small eternity before Gwen finally moves. Hobie hums contentedly as a blanket is drape dover them, and the sound of the door shutting echoes through the room.
Hobie drifts off to sleep slowly, dreaming of chocolate eyes, sunshine smiles and raven hair.