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“Doctor?” Sound knocks.
“Come in,” a voice replies, and he pushes open the door to the office, unfamiliar as it is uncomfortable. “Ah, Mr. Saran. Sit down, please.”
Sound nods awkwardly, sitting down. “Did the - is the report here?”
Pushing her glasses up her nose, the doctor nods. “Yes, I was just looking at it, in fact. It’s - well.” She types something on her computer, then turns the screen around so it’s facing him. “You have to be careful, Mr. Saran,” she taps the screen, pointing at something on the blurry ultrasound that makes no sense to Sound. “You have tendonitis. See this area? Your wrist’s tendon is completely inflamed. You cannot let it get worse.”
Sound looks down at his left hand, frowning. “I won’t.” His wrist had started hurting again, and at Win’s insistence he’d come to get it checked out, but he hadn’t expected it to be this serious. Maybe he should start physiotherapy again, and -
“I mean it,” the doctor stresses, interrupting his train of thought. She looks up from the screen, taking in his expression, and sighs. She looks exhausted. “You’re a guitarist, right?”
Sound blinks. “Yes,” he says, though it comes out as more of a question. He doesn’t know what that has to do with anything.
“No more guitar playing, Mr Saran.”
…what?
The doctor’s expression softens into something like pity. “I’m sorry, but you have to allow your wrist to heal. You can’t be putting it under any strain for the next few weeks. The more careful you are, the faster it will heal, and -”
She keeps talking, but Sound can't hear anything except for the ringing in his ears, insistent and loud and drowning out everything else. He can’t play guitar.
Sound can’t play guitar.
That’s not - he doesn’t -
Sound Saran cannot play guitar.
—
There’s a voicemail. ‘From Mom’, it says.
Beep. “Sound, I got the report from the doctor. How did you injure your wrist? Be more careful. And don’t slack on your practicing.” Beep.
Sound wants to laugh. He doesn’t really know what he expected.
—
“Give me your wrist,” Win says, holding the cold compress in one hand.
Turning away, Sound shakes his head. “It’s fine, I don’t need -”
“Sound,” Win interrupts, sharp. “Wrist.”
Looking up at his boyfriend’s face, Sound can’t help the anger that seeps into his expression. He’s not a child. “I said I’m fine, I don’t need you to -”
Win sighs, aggrieved, and puts the compress onto the side table before kneeling in front of Sound.
Words caught in his throat, Sound pauses. The anger is still there, frustration building into something bitter and heavy, but he can’t yell at Win when he’s looking up at Sound like that, eyes soft and frowning and upset.
“Give me your wrist,” Win says again, but this time it’s quieter, gentler. He holds out his hands.
Sound swallows. “Win.” He knows Win just wants to help, but it feels like -
“Please.”
Biting the inside of his cheek, Sound lifts his wrist and places it in his boyfriend’s waiting hands, palm down.
Win nods. He keeps holding Sound’s wrist with one hand, easing the other one out to reach out and grab the compress. “It’s cold,” he says, then gently places it down.
It is cold. Sound winces slightly, but doesn’t move. Win keeps his gaze trained to the compress.
After a moment, Sound curls his fingers around Win’s hand - the one still supporting his wrist. “Sorry,” he murmurs. He didn’t mean to take out his frustration on him.
Shaking his head, Win looks up. “I get it.” Eyes flicking down, he adjusts the compress and sits down properly. “Just - don’t take it out on me, okay?”
Sound nods instantly. Yeah.
They stay like that for a few minutes, not talking. The silence isn’t uncomfortable - it never is with Win - but Sound’s wrist keeps aching and he can’t play guitar anymore. He’s not allowed to -
“You’ll get to play again,” Win interrupts Sound’s thoughts.
Startling, Sound looks at him.
Win smiles ruefully. “You started tensing.”
“I’m -” cutting himself off, Sound shakes his head. “I can’t not play guitar, it’s…my life,” he exhales. The guitar is a part of him, Sound can’t just - stop. The feeling of the fretboard and the strings and the comforting weight is more familiar than his own skin, how is he supposed to stop?
Leaning back slightly, Win hums. “If you heal faster, you’ll be able to play sooner, you know.” He takes the compress off, finally, reaching into his pocket to pull out a bandage roll.
“I know, logically, but - you play bass. You know what I mean,” Sound says, brow creasing in frustration. He watches as Win takes the bandage and starts wrapping it around his wrist, movements careful and precise. He swallows. “Who am I if I don’t - play guitar?”
The words make Win’s hands freeze, head jerking up sharply. “Sound.”
But Sound doesn’t take it back, doesn’t apologize, because he really doesn’t know. His wrist pulses with pain.
The surprise in Win’s expression fades into anger. “Don’t say that. Ever. You’re not what you play, or what you create, or - anything like that. You’re just Sound.” He’s so painfully earnest, like he really believes it.
“I -” Sound starts, then cuts himself off. Win’s grip tightens slightly, a comforting pressure, and Sound’s gaze drops to the bandage around his wrist. “Every time I pick up my guitar,” he starts again, voice quieter than he means for it to be, “it gives me a purpose. I know how to play.”
Win still doesn’t say anything, quietly observing.
“I want my playing to be good enough for people to like, and be proud of. Maybe -” his voice catches. “Maybe my parents will be proud of me. Because it’s the one thing I know how to do. But even this, I can’t -” he stops again, frustration building in his throat. “I can’t do this right.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the way Win’s posture tenses slightly - he’s never kept it a secret how much he dislikes Sound’s parents. Sound doesn’t blame him. “You don’t owe them anything, Sound,” he says, voice low. “You don’t have to do anything to make them proud. The people who love you are proud of you already.” I’m proud of you already, he doesn’t say, but Sound hears it anyway.
“Yeah,” he breathes, nodding slightly. “Yeah, I know. But I just -” Finally he looks up, and something in his expression makes Win straighten.
Reaching up with his free hand, Win carefully cups his face - a familiar motion, hand slotting against Sound’s cheek perfectly. “You’ll get better, Sound. I promise.”
Staring at his wrist, Sound’s face twists. “I just want to play again.”
“You will.”
“Not anytime soon.”
Win inclines his head. “Maybe, but you will play again. And you’ll still be annoyingly good at it.”
Sound inhales. Exhales. He flexes his hand. It hurts.
He wants to cry.