Archive of Our Own ^beta

Their story begins like this: 

On a snowy winter night, Sound sees Win from across the square in Sapporo, Hokkaido for the very first time. 

For a single suspended moment, their eyes meet. 

He shouldn’t be staring at a stranger, he knows; it’s rude, for one, especially for people who don’t know each other at all. There’s something about him, however, something that forces Sound to keep his head held high, gazing into the distance at him as he tries to puzzle out where he knows him from. 

“Hey,” The stranger says, his mouth twitching in amusement as he crosses the distance in no time at all, his long legs carrying him forward, “Do I know you?” 

Sound startles at the familiar sounds of his mother tongue springing forth at him in a country so far from home. “You know Thai?”

The stranger tips his head at him. “So do you,” He points out. 

“I’m Thai,” Sound explains, “I was born there— I’m only here on exchange for a short while at the local university. Then I’m going home.” He jerks his chin at the stranger. “What about you?” 

“Vacation,” The stranger says, “For the next week. Then I’m going home too.” 

Where is home? Sound wants to ask, but is too afraid to sound rude.

The question must show on his face anyway, because the stranger grins boyishly and rakes a hand through his hair to dislodge the snow collecting in the soft waves of his curls. 

“Bangkok,” He offers, in the silence of Sound’s unsaid question, “I’m assuming that’s where you’re also where you're from?” 

“Are you sure we don’t already know each other from somewhere?” Sound laughs, amused. “There’s no way you got that from the minute-long conversation we’ve just had.” 

“Nah,” The stranger winks, “It was just a hunch. I’m Win, by the way.” He holds out a hand for Sound to shake.

“Sound,” He replies, taking Win’s large, calloused hand in his own. It’s impossibly warm. “It’s lovely to meet you.” 

"Do you have plans? After this?" Win asks, his hand tightening around Sound's. "We could get something to eat." 

Sound actually does have plans, and they are going to be ruined, but as Win's eyes soften and his lips twist into a crooked grin when Sound nods shyly in response, he finds that he can't find it within himself to mind. 

Win's hand already in his, Sound leads him to a cozy hole-in-the-wall ramen shop located in a small, dimly-lit alleyway squeezed in between two large buildings that completely dwarf it in comparison. He never stays in a single place for too long, but this is one establishment he tends to frequent for the simple reason that he particularly enjoys the ramen served here, the direct result of late night discoveries due to hunger pangs so severe they forced him to venture out into the cold to search for something with a little more substance than the usual convenience store food. 

Win whistles when he sees the size of the shop. 

It’s small, and it can barely fit six people in it, sans the shop owner, standing behind a workstation as he cooks ramen noodles and pours freshly made soup broth into bowls for one or two hungry customers waiting to tuck into their noodles. 

He eyes the two university-aged girls slurping at their noodles with gusto. “You come here often?” 

“Something like that,” Sound says, and takes a seat in front of the workstation. He pats the seat beside him. "It's the best ramen place in Hokkaido." 

Without missing a beat, he orders in fluent Japanese, pausing only for Win to chime in with his own order. The shop owner slides over a membership loyalty punch card, the kind where ten visits to the same store will earn you a side dish on the house, and Sound immediately slides it in Win's direction without a second thought. He already has too many of them to count. 

“And you’re sharing it with me?” Win says, impressed, once the shop owner has thanked them with an enthusiastic arigatogozaimasu! and started on their orders, “You’re not afraid that I'm going to post it on social media and have your place overrun with tourists?” 

“Nah,” Sound says dismissively. He pours out two steaming cups of hojicha — one for Win, one for himself. "Of course I wouldn't want that happening, but I know you won’t. Most people forget to.” 

Win accepts the cup. He wraps his fingers around the cup tightly and savours the warmth that bleeds through his skin, warming his hands through and through. 

“I won’t,” He warns, “My memory is good.” 

“We’ll see about that,” Sound laughs again, like Win has just said something terribly funny.

It is not a joke Win is privy to. He doesn’t laugh along— he can't, anyway, he doesn’t have the appropriate context— only watches the way Sound tries to smother his laughter behind his hands with deep-seated intrigue. 

“What’s so funny?” At the very least, he doesn’t sound offended. 

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out,” Sound replies glibly, putting on his most charming smile. “Now tell me— what brought you to Hokkaido?” 

They talk about everything and anything. 

“I don’t have many friends,” Sound says. 

“Me neither,” Win replies. "People tire of me easily." 

“I like to play the guitar and write songs. I occasionally upload them to Soundcloud if they’re good enough.” Sound tells him next. 

“I produce music for a living." Win's grin is warm, and he looks at Sound as though he's found a kindred spirit in him. "You should let me listen to your work sometime.” 

“I’ve never been kissed before,” Sound admits.

“I find that hard to believe,” Win answers, shifting heavy-lidded eyes down to Sound’s lips before slowly dragging them back up to his eyes.

Sound swallows thickly.  

He isn't necessarily one for idle conversation, but the way Win throws his head back in between bouts of laughter, exposing the long, smooth column of his throat, has his mouth going dryer than the Sahara Desert, and he finds himself picking at the deep recesses of his memory for something, anything, to tell him, to keep the conversation and the laughter flowing— anything that will prolong their time together. 

He splays his hands on the smooth grain of the mahogany wood table on either side of his empty bowl. Sound turns to Win with a conspiratorial glint in his eye. 

“Do you want to know a secret?” 

Win motions for him to continue. 

Sound smacks his lips together and waves Win closer. 

“I’m cursed,” He whispers, his mouth barely an inch away from the shell of Win’s ear, his deepest secret spilling forth from his lips, breathed into existence in the boggy atmosphere of the tiny ramen shop. 

Win’s slow to react. 

He raises an eyebrow and relaxes into his seat, spreading his legs languidly as he knocks back the last of his tea. 

Sound’s own cup has gone cold, his attention miles away from something as unremarkable as hojicha. His eyes linger on the plump softness of Win's lips, his entire being spellbound as he remains transfixed by the way Win’s mouth curls around the familiar vowels and consonants that spill forth when he speaks.

“What makes you say that?” 

“It’s true,” Sound replies, shrugging. “My bloodline is, so I am too— always have been, actually.” 

Win doesn’t ask what he’s been cursed with, doesn’t ask why he’s been cursed; he just stares at him with eyes of liquid obsidian, deep dark murky depths gazing into Sound’s soul as if he can read him like an open book, every bit of his sordid life history written in painstakingly clear detail on his skin for Win’s perusal. 

“Why are you telling me this?” Win asks eventually. 

“Because you won’t remember by morning,” Sound replies. 

Win listens, stony-faced and serious, his mouth twisting and his expression unreadable, but he doesn't laugh. He simply nods and carries on the conversation as if nothing had been said, and Sound lets out an airy exhale of relief. 

They stumble out of the ramen shop somewhere between 1AM and 2AM, and as Sound turns to say goodbye, Win catches him by the arm. 

“Remember how you told me just now that you’d never been kissed?”

His voice is husky, and he’s looking at Sound with something indecipherable in his eyes. 

His gaze flicks down to Sound's lips. “What if I could change that?” 

Sound feels the familiar flurries of butterflies begin to awake deep in his gut.

He isn’t someone to befriend a random stranger he made brief eye contact with, he isn’t someone who enjoys partaking in idle conversation, he isn’t someone who kisses someone he’d just met that very day— but it appears Win is his exception to every rule. 

He wants and he wants and he wants.

Win won’t remember this in the morning anyway. 

“What if I wanted you to?” Sound whispers back, stepping closer.

That is all the answer Win needs. 

He grins boyishly, all windswept hair and musky cologne and so, so handsome, and then he’s tilting Sound’s chin upwards with one hand and slipping the other around his waist to draw him in. 

Sound’s eyes slip closed; they collide in a scintillating symphony of sparks.

In a matter of seconds, Win’s lips are on his own, pressing insistently against him as the air is punched clean out of his lungs from the thrill of it all. His touch is electric, sending jolts of static like little fireworks skittering across his neck, his jaw, all along the patterns Win's fingers map out on every inch of his bare skin. 

Win kisses him like a man starved and yet holds him with a gentle reverence, licking into his mouth with a crazed sort of fervour as he braces himself against the full brunt of Sound's weight— it's as if he never wants to let him go.

They break apart for air laughing, barely feeling the winter cold stinging their faces due to the warmth of the twin blushes riding high on their cheeks.  

“I don’t think I’ll be able to forget that anytime soon,” Win says to Sound, a bright grin splitting his face in two as he thumbs at Sound’s cheek fondly. 

“I’m not so sure about that,” Sound says, ever the pragmatist. “I am cursed, you know.” 

“I don’t believe that,” Win says. “Give me your Line ID, and I’ll text you in the morning. This way you’ll see that I didn’t forget about you.” 

Sound obeys, fishing a pen out of his pocket.

Win hands him the receipt; it takes Sound all of five seconds to scribble down his ID and fold the receipt up into a neat square, tucking it into the front pocket of Win’s jeans. 

“I’ll be waiting,” Sound says, and then, feeling bold— he winks. It draws a delighted laugh out of Win. 

He doesn’t mean it though.

He knows Win will forget by morning, anyway. 

Their story goes like this: 

Somewhere far, far down the Sreevichayasawat ancestral line, there once lived a miserable man, who had been so severely self-absorbed and stupid that he'd managed to piss off the most powerful witch Siam had ever seen, and in doing so, had managed to get a nasty curse placed on his bloodline for centuries to come.

Due to the nature of the Sreevichayasawat curse, for far too long, many people in Sound's ancestral lineage remained blissfully unaware of its existence and how it manifested, until— to the future generation's immense benefit— it showed up in a particular Sreevichayasawat matriarch (in the 15th century, Sound believes) who'd happened to be a historian. 

By the time she found out about the family curse, it had been far too late for her to avoid passing it down the bloodline to her children, of which she'd already had three. 

Nevertheless, she'd used her superior intellect and all the resources at her disposal to gather together as many records as she could find on her ancestry and the impact of the curse on the family throughout history, eventually piecing together a more-than-sufficient narrative now passed down like a fable from generation to generation of Sreevichayasawats as a warning, just in case the next happened to be the unlucky one where the curse happened to manifest. 

Sound finds out about the curse the day after his sixteenth birthday. 

The day before his sixteenth birthday, his parents had told him that they had something important to tell him. In about two days, they'd take him to see his grandfather, his father had said, and they'd have their talk together then.

This was weird.

Sound's maternal grandfather was a man of few words, and fewer still for Sound— he'd always seemed to regard him with a frigid sort of apprehension all throughout his growing years, a stern frown a permanent fixture on his brow whenever Sound visited him for New Years or Christmas. To know that his parents saw the need to speak with him in his grandfather's presence was not only out of the ordinary, but also concerning, to say the very least. 

Immediately, Sound had paused by the door, with one shoe on and the other in his hand, and he'd asked them to tell whatever it was to him right there and then, since it had been important enough to warrant his grandfather's attendance— but they'd refused. 

"Let's enjoy your birthday dinner first, okay?" His mother had told him. "We just want this day— your day— to be happy."

She'd smoothed his hair down gently— had to tiptoe a little to do it, with how fast Sound had been shooting up recently as a result of his growth spurt, this was something she'd never had to do before, but the action had somehow felt practiced all the same, well-worn like she'd already done it a million times before instead of just once— and she'd smiled at him, something warm and tender and full of love.

He hadn't seen this smile of hers for some time. 

Gratefully, he'd smiled back at her, and together with their father, they'd gone and shared a wonderful dinner.

At the end of the night, he blew out all sixteen of his candles in a single breath, and his parents had clapped for him with an intense sort of enthusiasm they hadn't mustered for his birthday in years, not since he was four and still learning how to blow out the candles without getting flecks of spit all over the frosting. 

Normally, Sound wouldn't have thought much of it; it simply isn't in his nature to question the obvious— the volume of their cheers does not quantify if his parents love him any more or any less. 

However, things had been strange lately. 

His mother had been oddly forgetful, always leaving her things in places she would never be able to find two hours later, forgetting to buy things at the market despite having stuck to the same grocery lists for as long as Sound could remember, and she'd sometimes walk into a room and then stand there staring at Sound confusedly, having completely forgotten what she'd walked into the room to do in the first place. 

Once, she'd promised to pick Sound up early from school for a wisdom tooth extraction.

As per their arrangement, Sound had excused himself from class at 10AM sharp, and had stood outside the gates to wait for her to swing by with the car so she could drive him to the dentist. He'd left his phone at home by accident, but it wasn't a big deal.

His mother had never been late before. He could always count on her to show up for him. 

Seconds stretched into minutes, and minutes into hours, ticking by into the eternity that seemingly passes as Sound stood there in front of the school gates, his bag clutched loosely in his hands as he stretched his neck to peer down the road for the familiar silhouette of his mother's car that never appears. 

The time for his appointment came and went. 

She didn't show. 

The school bell rang; Sound's friends gave him questioning looks as they passed by him on their way home, remembering his hasty exit hours earlier that morning.

She still hadn't showed.

When the sun finally dipped below the horizon, turning the sky a murky, ominous grey, his teacher pressed her lips into a thin line and laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. 

"Would you like me to give her a call?" 

Sound shifted his weight from leg to leg to soothe the ache in his calves. The ache in his mouth from the wisdom tooth poking through his gums was almost negligible to the mounting feeling of fear like a tightening gyral in his chest, strangling all the air from his lungs. 

Numbly, he'd nodded.

His teacher smiled down at him pityingly, but in a matter of minutes, his father— not his mother— had pulled up to the school gates and ushered him into the passenger seat. 

"Your mother wasn't feeling well," He explained on the way home, "We've already rescheduled your appointment for tomorrow." 

Sound had clutched his bag to his chest and tried not to think about how wrong those words made him feel. 

His father wouldn't tell him what had happened to his mother, but she'd seemed normal enough over dinner, so Sound resolved to put it from his mind, thinking that it had most probably just been one of those days. 

However, she'd slipped into his room right as he was about to fall asleep that night to speak to him. She'd knelt by his bed, smoothing her hand over his hair comfortingly like she used to do when he was a young boy as she murmured soft apologies into the silence of the night, her voice oddly strained. Her eyes were hazy and unfocused. 

"I'm sorry," She told him, "I forgot. I don't know what happened. Will you forgive me?" 

He'd forgiven her, of course, because what was he to do? She must've had a reason for it, he'd reasoned with himself, maybe she'd been particularly busy, or like his father had said, she'd been too unwell to remember Sound's dental appointment that day. It wasn't her fault. He wouldn't hold it against her, not for something so small as forgetting. 

And yet, he hadn't been able to shake the nagging feeling that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

The tipping point was reached two week before Sound's sixteenth birthday. 

It began as a day like every other, with Sound quietly having breakfast at the dining table before his parents woke up. The bus to school arrived pretty early, so it wasn't uncommon for Sound to be the first of them all to wake, puttering around in the tranquility of the early dawn to get breakfast ready and on the table for all three of them. 

His mother was the second to wake, as per usual, and she'd glided into the kitchen with her usual grace, her footsteps almost soundless save for the gentle swishing of the fabrics of her pantsuit as she moved. 

She'd hesitated by the fridge, blinking in surprise at Sound. 

"Good morning," He'd called to her, and flashed his mother a sleepy smile. 

It earned him an uncomfortable grimace back. 

"I'm sorry," She told him, slowly shuffling backwards to put distance between herself and her son, "Who are you? What are you doing in my kitchen?" 

Sound froze. 

So did his father, who had been coming up right behind his wife, and had overheard the entire exchange between mother and son. 

Sound had searched every inch of his mother's face for humour, for mischief, for anything that might suggest that she was simply pulling his leg— but he'd found none of those things. All he saw reflected back at him was fear and confusion, and a frightening lack of recognition in those clear, wavering eyes of hers.

He met eyes with his father over her shoulder. He had gone starkly ashen, all the blood having been drained completely from his face. 

There was indeed something very wrong, here, and there was no denying it anymore. 

The doctors hadn't known what was wrong, either.

They asked her a million questions and performed every test possible— full neurological workups, EEGs, brain MRIs— none of which yielded any useful results. Her brain activity was normal, she didn't have a tumour pressing on her temporal lobe, and she didn't fit any of the diagnostic criteria for early onset dementia, which is what they'd initially suspected she had, given her sudden decline in cognitive function, specifically memory-related processes. 

She hadn't seemed any different in the following weeks either. 

Despite initially forgetting who her son was, she'd seemed to recall who he was by the end of the day, although some of the finer details were still lost on her (his name was Saran, not Sarin), and she was almost completely back to normal by morning the next day. 

However, it wasn't just something they could ignore; how could she have forgotten the son she'd raised for the past sixteen years? 

Days passed, and they still hadn't managed to get any answers— not until Sound's father, in an act of desperation to help his wife, had turned to his maternal grandfather.

The very same one Sound was brought to meet the day after his sixteenth birthday. 

He was taciturn as always as Sound dipped his head in a wai to him, greeting him politely as he'd been taught to. It was only when they'd all settled in his study— his grandfather in his ornate chair, his parents on the wooden bench by the bookshelf, and Sound on the floor in front of his grandfather— did he speak, his voice deep and reverberating in the room.

"I was afraid this would happen," He'd said, and he shook his head with a heavy, drawn-out sigh. 

He'd begun the conversation by addressing the elephant in the room. Sound's mother's condition, he'd explained, was nothing medical; it was why the doctors were unable to find any physical evidence to suggest that something was wrong with her.

No, the problem was spiritual, and it had everything to do with the Sreevichayasawat family history. 

"You are cursed," He'd explained to Sound, his gravelly voice grim as he gestured towards him, "It is not because you have offended someone, nor have you angered any spirits; you have simply been unlucky enough to be born into this generation." 

The 'chosen one', his grandfather had called him, a term ironically bestowed upon him that would typically have been given to those inheriting a destiny bound to bring fame and glory, instead of a centuries-old family curse due to some miscellaneous fucker all those years ago who'd been unable to keep his abominable mouth shut and offended Siam's most powerful witch as a result. 

There were three things that they knew for certain about the curse thus far. 

1. The curse worked by causing people to forget. 

The closer Sound was to someone, the more time he'd spend in their presence, the more they'd forget. 

They wouldn't forget everything all at once, of course. People are bound to notice large chunks of their memory missing from one day to the next. The curse wouldn't have been able to go unnoticed for so long in the Sreevichayasawat lineage otherwise. 

No, the memory loss would creep up on them gradually, starting small— an assignment undone, a test unstudied for, an appointment missed— all the little, innocuous things that would just remain minor blips in the grand scheme of things, nothing significant enough to draw any attention or worry to what was happening. They would simply start to forget, their memory slipping away from them little by little, bit by bit, until all that remained would be a vague, hazy approximation of what once had been.  

Eventually, with enough time, they would forget him entirely, every fact about him they'd learned, every moment they'd shared with him, the curse working to scrub every trace of his existence in their memories till no reminder of him remains within their consciousness. 

And even then, they might continue to forget, the curse eating away at their memories like a parasite, sparing nothing and taking everything.

Until they forget who they are entirely. 

It was why every cursed Sreevichayasawat would eventually be forced to make an incredibly difficult decision, Sound's grandfather explained, to leave behind their family and friends when the curse manifested, in order to protect them from the inevitability of the curse causing them to forget. They could never stay in one place for too long lest it start to affect the people around them, and though things were marginally better nowadays with the invention of modern technology, it was still an arduous and mentally taxing process to constantly have to sever their ties and uproot themselves ever so often, with no home to return to.

Distance, his grandfather had said, would be his most familiar friend. 

His grandfather couldn't meet Sound's eyes as he spoke of his future, but Sound wasn't looking at him.

He was looking at his mother, and realising that her recent distractedness, her memory loss, everything— it had all been because of him. A family curse, sure, but at the end of the day, it was a family curse that had befallen him, and she was suffering for it. 

His mother looked back at him and wiped the tears leaking from both eyes with the back of her hand, but her expression flitted between mournful and vacated, as if her thoughts were so scattered that she couldn't quite grasp what was going on anymore.

She looked as though she might've been crying, but Sound couldn't be sure if it was for the misery of the fate he's been assigned or for him. 

He didn't know how much of her was still there.

2. The curse was tied to the Sreevichayasawat bloodline. 

The one good thing about the curse was that it didn't affect every single generation.

That meant some children born with the Sreevichayasawat blood flowing through their veins would have a chance at happiness, free from the shackles of the curse that condemned them to a life of solitude. 

There was no telling, however, which of the Sreevichayasawat offspring these fortunate children would be, and conversely, which child would be unfortunate enough to have the curse manifest within themselves. It didn't happen every generation, neither was there any specific temporal pattern of distribution to the way the curse manifested within the family; for the most part, it appeared to be random, appearing in a single Sreevichayasawat every ten years or so by pure, sheer, dumb luck (or lack thereof). 

Despite the vagueness of the curse, they knew it was connected to their bloodline; however, it only ever affected those with Sreevichayasawat blood flowing in their veins, and even within those whom the curse lay dormant, they tended to be more susceptible to the effects of the curse from their family members who were affected. 

This was why Sound's mother was forgetting, and forgetting fast— between her and her husband, she was the Sreevichayasawat child, and the curse was acting quickly in forcing her to forget, scrubbing her brain clean of every memory of the son she'd borne from herself. 

It had likely begun much earlier than just these past few weeks, Sound's grandfather concluded, something insidious lurking just beneath the threshold of discovery until the amalgamation of signs grew too obvious to ignore. 

She would most probably continue to forget in the following weeks.

And Sound's father would follow soon after, and he too would slowly have his memories of his son leeched from him as the curse took effect, more slowly in a non-Sreevichayasawat but steadily all the same. 

3. The curse was unbreakable. 

It wasn't for a lack of trying, however. 

Every generation after that first ancestral dumbfuck that had had the misfortune of having the curse manifest in them within their lifetime had tried every means possible to break it— they'd tried every potion, every spell, every ritual that the witches and shamans of their time were able to procure and perform— alas, the witch had not been known to be the most powerful in all of Siam for no reason.

Even she would have had no means of breaking the curse after it had been cast, had she found the benevolence within herself to make an attempt. 

They had tried and failed to prevent the curse from being passed down from generation to generation as well. There was no letting the curse die with the bloodline; the witch had made sure of that. The curse didn't manifest at any specific age, and when it finally did show up, it was typically in middle-life, already far too late to prevent the cursed individual from having children, especially with the child-bearing traditions of their ancient ancestors. 

In a way, Sound was an anomaly to have the curse manifest in him so early. At the age of sixteen, at least there was still time to do something about passing it along to future generations. 

Not that Sound's grandfather had any need to worry about that, if he'd known what his grandson knew. 

Which was that Sound was a raging homosexual with absolutely no interest in women whatsover; unless men suddenly evolved the ability to bear children within his lifetime, the bloodline— and the curse— would die with him. 

But there was nothing to be done for Sound himself.

That day, his grandfather, who had never been an affectionate man, leaned forward to sweep Sound up into a hug, tears beading at the corners of his eyes. 

"The path you will have to embark on is a very, very lonely one," He'd warned Sound, his words coming out choked as he squeezed Sound into what might've been one of the last hugs he'd ever receive from his family in this lifetime, "I am so sorry, child." 

Sound had felt like crying too. 

The tears, however, would not fall. He would not allow them to; there was no point crying over something he could not change, no matter how much he wished it to. 

Because he'd still been too young to fend for himself entirely, he'd had no choice but to live the remaining two years of his childhood in his parents' home, their memory gradually fragmenting and falling away with each passing day. It didn't mean that he'd spent his time doing nothing about it, though; he'd studied incredibly hard to be accepted into one of those fancy universities in Central Bangkok, far, far away from his parents, where their memory would be safe and protected from the deleterious effects of the curse. 

Where they would be safe from him. 

By the time he'd been able to move out of his parents' home and into campus housing, the curse had all but reduced their memory to tatters; if Sound was fortunate, some days they'd remember that they'd had a son— even if they remembered nothing else about him, they remembered he'd existed at some point at the very least, and that had been good enough for him— but for the most part, they treated him as though he was barely there, like an invisible ghost haunting the premises. 

The day he left, he bade his parents a strained farewell at the door and cast a final look at the house he'd grown up in but would never return to, hating every second of it. 

They'd barely even reacted. 

Since then, he'd been on his own, in a one-bedroom apartment in the middle of Bangkok.

It was hard at first, being alone. 

Harder still, to open his phone to texts from his family asking after him and remembering that there was no way possible for him to return home to see them without putting them all in danger. 

He could never be so selfish. 

It was hardest the year of his twentieth birthday— two years since he'd last seen his family and closest friends— when he'd opened his Instagram to see the big birthday bash that had just been thrown for Tinn, Sound's same-aged cousin and lifelong rival. 

There, in a tiny square on his phone screen, he could see Tinn smiling as he cut into his three-tier birthday cake, flanked on either side by his parents, who had proud smiles plastered all over their faces as they celebrated their son's twentieth birthday with him. There were presents piled up behind Tinn, along with large bouquets of helium balloons gathered in bunches set against a glittery golden foil backdrop, undoubtedly put up carefully by people who loved him enough to put in the effort to painstakingly decorate the house for his birthday.

Swiping to the right revealed a new photo of Tinn cheek to cheek with a grinning boy, their noses smeared with cake frosting as they beamed at the camera, wide and unrestrained— a boyfriend, Sound realised, when swiping to the right again revealed another photo of the same boy, love in his smile as he pressed a tender kiss to the deepening smile lines on his cousin's face. Swiping right a final time revealed a photo of everyone who had shown up to celebrate Tinn's birthday with him. 

It didn't take Sound more than two seconds to locate his parents in the upper left corner of the photo, partially obscured by those ridiculously large helium balloon bouquets. 

But they were there. 

Sound had just celebrated his twentieth birthday a month ago.

He hadn't bothered with a whole cake; there would've been no one to share it with, and it would've simply gone to waste, so he settled for buying himself a slice of cake from the convenience store on his way home from school. In the privacy of his kitchen, he'd eaten the entire thing in one go, the silence loud, echoing, and empty.

He also hadn't seen his parents in two years, but there they were, tiny and pixellated on his phone screen, celebrating Tinn's birthday with him. 

His cousin's life was good, and Sound hated him for having everything he didn't— for having the chance to grow up with his family, to connect with others and form meaningful friendships, to have a boyfriend who loved him and would continue to love him for years to come without the looming threat of a curse peering over his shoulder.

It simply wasn't fair; why could Tinn get all the good things in life? And why couldn't Sound?

Why was he the one who'd been doomed to be forgotten? 

They were almost identical in every way except that Tinn had had the privilege of being born a Jirawattanakul. He was Sound's cousin on his father's side, which meant that he'd never had to take part in the genetic lottery that determined whether he was to die alone or not.

Unlike Sound, who'd lost the competition before he even knew he'd been competing. 

Growing up, Sound had always found that there was much to resent Tinn for. He wanted for nothing, he consistently topped all of his classes, and the worst part of it all was that he was a genuinely nice person that Sound couldn't hate, not even a little bit; but nothing had ever struck him with such immense hatred for his cousin before that photo that afternoon, the day after Tinn's twentieth birthday and a month after Sound's twentieth birthday. 

Eventually, though, Sound realised his anger towards his cousin was largely misplaced.

It wasn't as if Tinn had cursed him himself; just as Sound could not write his own destiny, Tinn was not master of his own either. It all boiled down to sheer dumb luck, which Tinn had in spades and Sound had none. That was where the difference between them lay. 

By the time Sound's twenty-first birthday rolled around, he'd accepted his fate— people were going to forget him, and no amount of cursing and swearing and bemoaning his destiny would change anything. There was nothing he could do about the curse except accept that it existed, and do his best to live his life to its fullest in spite of it. 

His life would go on, because it had to. There was no other way but forward. 

Throughout the year that followed, Sound learned not to hope.

He learned to recognise the polite look of confusion people tended to wear when they were too afraid to admit that they couldn't remember him, familiarised himself with the sting of countless loose ends left untied until it barely hurt any more, and ultimately grew to expect to be forgotten before it had even happened.

It was just the way things were. 

Which is exactly why Sound gets a rude shock in the middle of January when he wakes up to the shrill sound of his text tone going off, notifying him that he's just received a new Line message. 

He shoots up straight in bed, fumbling uselessly for his phone charging on the bedside table. Sound disconnects his phone from the charging wire with a single hand, blearily blinking the sleep from his eyes as he flicks open the message without much thought. 

He doesn't get texts.

People generally didn't remember him well enough to give him a second look when they passed him by, let alone drop him a text asking about his day. It was probably some scammer trying to steal his money again, as if Sound needed any more misfortune in his life. 

unknown 

hey

Sound's just about to block the account when another series of texts comes in, lightning-quick. 

unknown

it's me

i didn't forget

Memories come flooding in of a wintry evening warmed by twinkling eyes of mischief, of kisses traded in a dark alleyway five thousand and seventy-two kilometres away. Of windswept hair, musky cologne, and a smile that was so, so handsome. 

Win. 

Sound's mouth goes impossibly dry as he stares down at his phone, the new messages winking at him from the dimmed screen. 

Back then, he hadn't gotten a text in the morning like Win had promised, so he'd assumed that the curse had taken effect and wiped his memory clean of every trace of their night together; it happened far too often for Sound to have expected otherwise. He hadn't even been waiting for anything from Win in the days that followed, and quite frankly, had nearly forgotten all about their encounter until he'd received his texts this morning. 

Win shouldn't have remembered— there was no way he could've remembered, not with the curse— but here he was, texting Sound on a Wednesday morning, almost two months after they'd first met. 

sound         

i didn't forget you either         

win

u back in bkk?

want to meet? 

Sound lets go of the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. 

No one, not in the three years since he'd started living on his own, had ever remembered him before. They typically forgot by morning, or the end of the week if Sound was lucky— but Sound was never lucky, and there wasn't a single person who had ever remembered him at the end of two long months, especially not after an encounter as fleeting as the one they'd shared. 

He feels the unfamiliar stirrings of hope begin to rise from deep within, but he tamps them down quickly. 

The curse is unbreakable, he reminds himself forcefully, and it will do him no good to believe in impossibilities. 

Still, he's curious to find out more, to talk to him and see what exactly he remembers, and why he chose to text Sound back after all that time had elapsed. 

His being exactly Sound's type has nothing to do with it. 

sound         

nueng nom nua, 2PM         

don't be late         

Sound can pinpoint the exact moment, down to the second, that Win walks into the store. 

There's a certain hush that falls over the store and the earth itself seems to stand still, his presence commanding the attention of the dining customers as he walks in, footsteps heavy and head held high as he makes great strides directly in Sound's direction. The din resumes as he slides into the seat opposite Sound, dropping his bag onto the ground with a thump by their feet. He flashes Sound a grin, close-lipped and lopsided, and it sends Sound's stomach flip-flopping in a way that makes him feel like fidgeting. 

Win looks exactly the same as he had two months ago. 

His hair is shorter, maybe, and he's got a light smattering of freckles sprinkled across his cheeks that Sound had never noticed under the dark cover of the night, but he's just as magnetic as he had been in Sapporo, Hokkaido— windswept hair, musky cologne, and far too handsome for Sound's good. 

Win clears his throat diffusely; Sound realises he's been sitting there just staring at him for far too long without saying a word. Taken aback, he blinks at Win repeatedly. 

"You're late," Sound states, if only to distract him from the fact that he'd been caught staring. 

Win flicks his wrist to reveal the watch that sits beneath his sleeve. 

"No," He says casually, scrutinising the clock face intensely for a moment, "It's 1:58PM— I've still got two minutes." 

"No, I—" Sound sighs frustratedly. "Your text. It's two months late." 

Win raises an eyebrow, the telltale beginnings of an amused smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. 

He leans over the table, the bracelets stacked on his wrists clicking together as he shifts, and he wraps a large hand around Sound's wrist which lies on the table between them, thumbing at the skin there affectionately. 

His touch is still electric— Sound suppresses a full-body shiver. 

"You were waiting for my text?" 

Sound snatches his wrist out of Win's grasp. "Don't flatter yourself," He scoffs, "I wasn't waiting for anything." 

Win grins, bright and brilliant. "But I was hoping you'd be." 

Huffing, Sound crosses his arms and leans back in his seat, eyeing Win with disdain. "Tell me why." 

"Why what?" 

Sound makes a vague gesture frustratedly. "Why did you only text me two months after you said you would?" 

Win has the decency to look slightly ashamed. "I dropped my phone and broke it after we said goodbye; I was going to buy a phone the next day, but it didn't really make any sense to do it in Japan, so I only got one when I got back to Bangkok." 

"You were only in Sapporo for the week," Sound points out. 

"You remembered?" 

Sound ignores him. "A week," He emphasises, forcing the conversation back on track, "Not two months." 

"I know, I know," Win admits reluctantly, looking away from him for the first time that afternoon. His face contorts into a vague approximation of guilt. "But I was too afraid to text you after that." 

"Afraid?" Sound splutters. "Why would you be afraid?" 

Win's smile turns wry. "Wouldn't you be, if you were me?"

He looks up at Sound, stormy eyes like uncharted waters as he gazes at him with something completely undecipherable written all over his face. 

"I couldn't sleep at all the night we met because I couldn't stop thinking about you," Win says, "And even the day after that, the only reason I would've chosen to buy a new phone in Japan was so that I could text you before you forgot me, but I chickened out in the end, because I was just too afraid to text you— it scared me how much I liked you from the very moment I met you." 

"And then by the time I came back to Bangkok and I got my new phone, SIM card, everything; over a week had already passed. I kept the receipt with your Line ID on it, but I was afraid you'd already forgotten me by then, so I worried about texting you, until— well, I mustered up the courage to eventually, two months later, and that's when you got my message."

Win wrings his hands together nervously. "I really do like you, Sound," He says softly, his voice barely above a plea, "And I'm hoping you'll give me a second chance." 

"I am sorry I didn't text you back when I said I would," He adds, when Sound continues to fail to find anything worth saying, "But I agonised over it daily, I promise you; it was— well, you were— all I could think about." 

This time, Sound cannot stop the surprised 'How?' that slips from his lips.

Lucky or not, written reminder or otherwise, by all the rules and conditions of the curse, there is no possible way Win should even have had the capacity to think about; but here he is, looking at Sound expectantly, asking him for another chance for them to be something. 

Together. 

This time, the spring of hope that bubbles forth from the shreds that remain of his worn and fraying heart is so bountiful that try as Sound might, it cannot be contained, permeating all throughout his entire being as he allows himself to look at Win and harbour the glowing hope that somehow, he'd be immune to the effects of the curse, and there would finally be someone for Sound to have and to hold, that could put an end to the void of loneliness he'd been trapped in all these years. 

"Well," Win answers, his eyes softening, "Who could ever forget someone as captivating as you?" 

Sound snorts. 

If only he knew. 

"Cheesy," He sneers, but he doesn't hate it, not in the slightest. 

"You like it," Win says, and Sound can tell he's trying to appear nonchalant about it, but there's an uptick in the tone he uses that betrays how hopefully curious he is for Sound's answer. It's hopelessly endearing. 

Win's right, though, in more ways than one— he does like it, and it does scare him too, how much he's liked Win from the very moment he'd first laid eyes on him.

"So about that second chance," Win starts, "How about a date?" 

Sound pretends to think about it. "When?" 

"I was hoping we could start right now," Win says, grinning.

He puts his hand back on the table between them, his palm open and upturned toward the ceiling. He looks at it and then at Sound, his eyes open and beckoning.

"What do you say?" 

When Sound was younger, long before he'd learned of curses and forgotten memories and the aching emptiness that loneliness brings, his mother liked to remind him to hope. Even in the bleakest of situations, she believed hope could be found anywhere, if only one knew where to look. It was a worthwhile endeavour to hold onto hope, she would assure him, speaking fondly of the times where hope had lent her the very strength she'd needed to overcome her life's most formidable obstacles; her greatest wish in life was that her son could too find the value within something as simple as having hope. 

"Hope is a good thing," She used to say, "And good things never die." 

For the past five years, Sound hadn't believed in hope. 

But here, as he rolls his eyes and looks away when he slips his hand into Win's and interlaces their fingers, an electric thrill running through his veins when his palm comes into contact with the calloused skin of Win's own, he thinks he might start to believe again. 

Win squeezes his hand and— flashing him a grateful grin— holds on tight. 

Loving Win is just about the easiest thing Sound has ever done. 

Win isn't perfect, not by a long shot.

He loves to complain, for starters. He severely lacks a sense of self-preservation and can spend hours on end in his studio fine-tuning the overtunes in his music that anyone barely hears without a single break for food, or water, or sleep. He's got a jealous streak a mile wide, he's intensely grumpy a lot of the time, and oddly defensive of the things that matter the most to him.

And he hates cats, which, in Sound's humble opinion, causes the rest of the list of his faults to pale horribly in comparison. 

"I already told you that it's because I watched a stray cat eat my pet hamster when I was ten, okay?" Win complains, far too familiar with this whole song and dance, "Anyone else would've been scarred by that." 

"Sure," Sound tells him, because a pouty Win is a cute Win, and Sound loves it when his boyfriend is playing at being cute, even if he'll never admit it, "Whatever helps you sleep at night, cat-hater."

But Win isn't just the sum of his perceived slights.

He is so, so much more than that. 

Looks aside— and truly, looks aside, because even with Sound's most amateurish attempt at describing the full majesty Win commands, it would take him hours to even finish describing the swoopy feeling he gets in his gut when Win looks over at him with the cheekiest of smiles, like he's indulging him in a secret that only they know— Win is intensely passionate and determined. When he wants something done, he will get it done; it's not a matter of whether, simply a matter of when. He's mentioned it before to him, in those exact words and then some.

It's something Sound admires greatly about him, about his immense drive and focused intensity, how he never backs down from a challenge. 

Speaking of a challenge, Sound loves the way that every day with Win feels like a good-natured competition, thrilling in it's entirety.

They keep count of their wins. It hangs over their fridge, a scrap piece of composition paper divided into two filled with tally marks on every available bit of space. 

Sound – 21; Win – 20. 

Their competition makes him feel invigorated, breathes life into his dull days— Sound has never been the most motivated individual, because what use was there in trying to stand out if no one remembered you well enough for you to make a difference— but Win makes him want to try. There's an unspoken sort of beauty there, in the way they rib at each other daily, pushing the other to work hard at their overlapping passions to fall into stride beside each other at the top. 

Besides, the way Win crowds him against the fridge to kiss him silly makes each victory even more honeyed in its aftermath.  

They don't fight very often, him and Win. 

Sound used to think this might be a problem; every Reddit thread he's read detailing their relationship in painstaking detail always has a paragraph or five— or at the very least a footnote— of how difficult love is, even if the person you're with seems like the soulmate you never know you needed; fights are commonplace, and they're healthy, or so the Internet seems to claim. 

And Win does snap and snarl and sneer and he is aggressive and defensive all the same, but he's never been forceful for the big things, things that are so real and ugly and terrible that Sound can barely fathom clawing them out of the deepest, darkest parts of himself to put them out there for the world— for Win— to see. He's understanding and he's gentle, and when Sound says not now, Win, I can't talk about it right now, Win will get a look on his face like he's torn between pushing and letting go, but he always, always lets it go. 

"Later then," He promises, and Sound knows he wants to ask, but he doesn't. 

He doesn't push, not even later— he won't mention a single word about the situation until Sound is ready to talk about it, waiting patiently for him to approach him slowly on his own terms, and he stays silent the entire time Sound speaks about his problems; about the real, the ugly, the terrible. He only moves when Sound finishes and falls silent, and even then, that is to gather the pieces of him back together in a warm hug that feels like he could mend Sound whole with the strength of his love alone. 

It's a good thing too, to not fight very often; Sound is immensely grateful for it. 

It becomes routine for Win to show up with an extra helmet wrapped in his arms for Sound, his own already strapped onto his head.

Every evening, he waits by the entrance to Sound's lecture hall for him to wrap up his classes; it's not uncommon for him to walk out of his final lecture to find Win framed against the darkening blue of the evening sky, the sharp-edges of his silhouette softened by the golden glow thrown upon him from the streetlight he'd been leaning against, his motorcycle a stone's throw away from him. 

He helps Sound to put the helmet on, making sure it fits snugly and the straps are properly adjusted. 

Each and every time— even though Sound is a twenty-two-year-old adult capable of doing it himself— for the sole reason of leaning over to press an enthusiastic sniff kiss to both cheeks that Sound cannot escape with his face already trapped snugly between his boyfriend's surprisingly strong hands. At first, their helmets used to knock together clumsily as they clambered onto Win's bike, because Sound had had particular trouble getting used to the way the weight of the helmet bore down upon his neck and turned him into a bobble-head figure. They'd laughed it off then, and after a quick assessment for injuries, resumed trying with dogged perseverance; now, they hop up on the bike and speed straight towards Sound's apartment with a fluid, practiced ease. 

Win tears his eyes off the road for a few seconds at a time to make sure his boyfriend is still safe and sound, Sound screams at him to keep his eyes on the road so they'll stay safe and sound; and despite the flagrant display of disrespect for road safety rules, everything is absolutely perfect. 

In a city full of people, Win is the only person who remembers Sound from dusk to dawn, morning after morning. 

Win is kind, considerate, and loving. He makes Sound want desperately to be a better person. 

And Sound—

Sound has never been happier. 

At first, when he'd first started dating Win, he hadn't known what to make of it all.

It had been so long since he'd shared his life with someone; there was suddenly a lot less space and freedom in his life than he'd been originally used to. The space he used to occupy in the world that had been comfortably big enough for him alone now had to be expanded to accommodate two, and he found himself forced to trade in his daily routines for new ones that were a little less Sound and a little more Sound and Win. 

Not that he was complaining, of course, but it was different— unexpected, really, in very many ways. Sound just needed to adjust. 

Now, though, he can barely envision a life without Win.

In fact, if he didn't know any better, he'd call him his lucky charm: every day, Sound wakes up and finds another reason to continue living, good things springing out of the woodwork and falling into place like pieces of a puzzle right after Win decided to make himself right at home in Sound's life, which— right now— is as close to perfect as it can possibly be. 

It's hard to believe that they've only known each other for less than a year. Sound's life, as he knows it, has been divvied up into two seasons; there is before Win, and there is during Win. There is an age-old familiarity that bleeds into the way they gravitate towards each other, sharing hugs before they leave in the morning and return to twine around each other in the night— sometimes, it feels like they've been together forever. 

"I think I'm in love with you," Sound whispers into the darkness on a silent, still night, as he lies in bed with Win, their hands clasped together even as Win slumbers on, dead to the world. 

"I know I'm in love with you," Win tells him in the bright light of day, leaning his head on Sound's lap as the latter holds his hands up high to block the rays of sun shining onto his boyfriend's face.

Somewhere between their sixth-month anniversary and the seventh, Sound graduates magna cum laude from Chulalongkorn University with a bachelor's degree in business administration. He gets a job at a small nondescript company located in a high-rise building a 7-minute walk away from the Asok BTS station and a 1-minute elevator ride away from Win's music studio located on a different floor— though he will deny that the last part had anything to do with his decision to work here. 

His job isn't anything fancy, just an entry-level position that Sound suspects he'll be stuck in for a while since his supervisors won't be able to remember him well enough to promote him, but Win insists on taking him out on a date to a fancy restaurant to celebrate anyway.

"It's not a big deal," Sound had protested, "It's not a prestigious company, and the pay is so-so—" 

"Babe," Win said, effectively cutting off his train of self-deprecation before it had even had the opportunity to begin, "It's your first job; whether you like it or not, it is a big deal." 

"Besides," He adds as he steers Sound in the direction of the table he'd booked for the night, "The little things are worth celebrating too— they make life meaningful." 

They share dinner on a rooftop bar under the watchful eyes of the stars. Win sections his steak in half and shares it with Sound, who transfers half of his lobster to Win's plate. The food is so sinfully good that neither of them are quite able to get a single word out throughout the course of dinner, their brains long having shut down from sheer gastronomic bliss as they scarf down their food with single-minded purpose. 

Win pays for them both at the end of the night. "You get the next one then," He says, shrugging dismissively, when Sound begins to protest. 

"The next one," Sound threatens, but it's more like a promise.

When date night rolls around again, Sound is the one to pay for it this time with the money from his very first paycheck. He is repaid in full by Win in a different currency— Win presses him into the sheets at night and kisses him until he's dizzy, from the lack of air or the abundance of love, Sound isn't sure. 

"Hey! You found my sock!" 

Sound holds up a single white sock, one of those with the comically big googly eyes and magnetic hands, and frowns at Win. "This?" 

Win accepts the sock from him gingerly and holds it with tender reverence. "Yeah, I haven't been able to find it for weeks— where on Earth did you find it?" 

Sound jabs a thumb towards the dryer. "In there."

"Huh, that's strange." Win scratches his head. "I could've sworn it wasn't there when I did the laundry two loads ago; and I lost it five loads ago." 

"Maybe we're haunted," Sound suggests, and the unimpressed look Win gives him in return is nearly worth the hour he's spend on laundry so far. 

"Ha-ha," says Win sarcastically, "Very funny. Ghosts aren't real."

Sound shrugs unenthusiastically.

He's never been someone who believed in ghosts or vampires or whatever other strange supernatural entity people seemed to think existed out there in their vast, vast universe, but as someone who was cursed to be forgotten by everyone he's ever met and was actually forgotten by almost everyone he's ever met, the possibility of ghosts existing isn't something he's too keen to reject just yet. 

They don't figure out what happened to Win's sock for quite a while after, not even after Win loses one half of his pair of socks two more times to the dryer on two separate occasions. 

It's on the third time that Win loses one of his socks that they decide to finally do something about it and look for the reason his socks have been going missing, a feat accomplished by having Sound half-crawl into the dryer (and not Win because according to him, he's got allergic rhinitis and an incredibly sensitivity to dust) and stick his head inside to look for wherever the sock might've vanished to inside the dryer. 

Sound finds the sock pretty easily. 

It's wedged pretty tightly in one of the little metal depressions on the upper aspect of the dryer, anchored firmly in its gravity-defying position by the two magnets lying in the scraps of fabric that constitute the sock's arms.

The magnets are no match for Sound— their magnetic pull gives easily with the slightest of tugs, but Sound can see how it could potentially have stayed up there, unnoticed, held up by the strength of both magnets— if not for Sound crawling through the opening to take a look at the interior of the dryer, with his upper body stretched past the gaping maw of the dryer and his lower body jutting out of the hole half-collapsed on the kitchen floor. 

Before he makes his tactical exit, he twists his arm to shove the sock out backwards in Win's vague direction.

He's not about to let the sock get stuck up there again; it was hard enough for him to fit into the dryer the first time around, and he's not about to go back for a second. 

"Hand-wash only," He warns Win firmly before he releases the sock into Win's position. "If not, you're crawling in here to get it out yourself next time." 

"Aye-aye," Win choruses, with a jaunty little salute, but his attention is quickly diverted back to his socks. 

Hw draws a sock from his pocket, the other half of the pair (and really, Sound was going to have a word with him about carrying socks in his pockets), and gently lowers it towards the once-missing sock until their magnetic arms collide with a soft little 'click'. 

Win's grin brightens. "Must've been lonely." 

"Hm?" 

"I said," Win repeats, "It must've been lonely." 

Sound looks around the kitchen. There's no one here but him and Win, and the pair of socks staring up at them from the floor. 

"Uh, who?"

"The socks," Win says, vesturing vaguely at the socks. He makes a noise of dissent in his throat. "You know, supposed to be a pair, one half missing, that type of romantic bullshit— c'mon babe, keep up." 

He's only teasing, of course, but Sound chooses to ignore him anyway. He pays zero heed to the cheeky grin his boyfriend directs to the side of his face in favour of picking up the pair of socks lying forlornly on the floor. They're kind of cute, Sound thinks, in the ugly-but-adorable sort of way; but if Win likes them, then so does Sound. 

"Doesn't look so lonely to me anymore," Sound says. 

Friday nights are movie nights.

Sound struggles with the rising crowds at peak hours on the BTS to get home to Win, who works a 4-day work week from Monday to Thursday, courtesy of his company's unique work policy.

"For the creative mind," Win likes to quote at him direct from the company website, "You can't get anything of true quality done if you're overworked."

At least he's welcomed at the doorstep with a warm hug, his work bag dropping to the floor as he sinks his tired body into Win's strong embrace. 

Win, ever the helpful boyfriend, supports the full weight of his limp and tired body all the way across the threshold into the apartment, and drops him bodily on the couch. Sound sinks into the cushions like a heavy stone. 

Win watches him and makes a sympathetic noise. "I'll get started on the popcorn— you go get showered first." 

Sound can only grunt in response, the fatigue turning all his bones into jelly, but he reluctantly drags himself to the bathroom when he hears the plink plink plink of popcorn kernels hitting the ceramic surface of the large bowl Win likes to eat his popcorn out of. He might love to rot on the couch and feel the promise of peace from weekend's rest condense upon his entire being, but he loves fresh popcorn more, even more so when Win's the one to make it. 

When he emerges from the shower, he's fresh and clean and significantly more awake than he'd been five minutes ago. He smells like Win's bodywash, which has always been one of life's lesser-appreciated comforts, and the heat of the shower has done wonders to soothe the soreness of his aching muscles.

The smell of warm, buttery popcorn permeates through his apartment; Win waves him over when he sees Sound poke his head out of his bedroom, already making space for him on the couch. 

"What are we watching tonight?" Sound asks, settling in beside him with his feet kicked over the armrest. 

"Suits," Win says, "I like the lawyering bits— don't they seem super cool?" 

Sound puffs out his chest petulantly. "Lawyers aren't anything like that. They might seem good at what they do but no lawyer actually handles that big of a variety of cases; they have to specialise, just like doctors do." 

Win smacks his thigh in reproach. "Of course I know that, but it's a drama; it doesn't have to be real. Just shut up and watch." 

Sound sticks out his tongue in response but turns to face the television as he's told.

Despite his complaints, both Sound and Win grow immersed in the show as it goes on, some tricky situation playing out on the screen here and there that the main characters have to find a way to get out of using their superior intellect and knowledge of legal loopholes, even though the jargon completely flies over their heads. 

They languidly trade kisses when the show lulls, in between bites of popcorn. Win is considerate enough not to put his hands on Sound's face to draw him closer, his hands sticky from the popcorn, which means Sound has to strain his neck upwards to meet him halfway. He knows there's a very real possibility that he'll spend Saturday nursing an ache in his neck, but the effort is well worth the reward, so he doesn't complain. 

Win's kisses are sweet and buttery like the popcorn they've been eating, but nothing is as sweet as the downturned, close-lipped grin Win flashes his way whenever Sound catches him looking, the lights of the TV casting long shadows on his face. 

"Hey," He says, "Thank you."

Sound cocks his head to the side, confused. "What for?"

Win looks at him gently, like he's made of precious metal, his gaze soft and adoring. 

"For giving me that second chance."  

It's too good to be true.

That's what Sound tells himself at the close of each day, repeats to himself like a mantra, so his heart won't get complacent and go and do something stupid like hope, not for something that was never meant to be. 

If something is too good to be true, then it probably isn't— true, that is.

He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the world to stop spinning when Win looks at him with oblivion in his eyes and confusion in his frown as his curse finally takes effect and robs him of the love and companionship he's grown to crave. 

But it doesn't. 

The Earth continues to turn. Win continues to remember. Each kiss continues to be sweeter than the last. 

Sound relaxes.

He's starting to think the other shoe might never drop. 

The other shoe drops.

Sound is too lost in the rose-tinted haze of his relationship to notice.

Not until it's too late, anyway.

Their story devolves like this:

Sound gets a call one afternoon while he's at work.

He's holed away in his cubicle, fighting the post-lunch sleepiness as he skims a few financial statements he'd been tasked to look over by the end of the day, when his phone rings. 

At first, he almost ignores it— it's the middle of the work day, and even though Sound doesn't think his manager particularly remembers him, curse and all, he's not really looking to give her a reason to remember him at all, particularly for slacking off on the job— but he just. He gets this feeling, this inexplicably bad feeling that blots out every other thought on his mind, and without a moment's hesitation more, he's swiping to answer the call. "Hello?" 

"Hello," comes the tinny voice on the other end, "Is this Mr Sound Saran?" 

"Yes, yes," Sound replies, his voice hushed. "Who's asking?" 

"This is Samitivej Sukhumvit Hospital calling," The voice on the other end says, "Mr Win Pawin has you listed down here as his emergency contact." 

Sound almost forgets how to breathe. 

"Mr Pawin was admitted earlier today," The voice continues, in a calm voice that does nothing for his nerves, "He is alive and well at the moment, but he is currently asking for you; I would suggest you come down as quickly as possible." 

"Okay," Sound says shakily, his hands trembling around his cellphone, "Thank you for calling." 

Sound doesn't wait for the line to cut.

Immediately, he shoves his phone into his pocket and sweeps whatever's left lying on his desk into his bag. He stumbles out of his cubicle haphazardly, nearly crashing into the divider as he goes, and he staggers unsteadily all the way to the elevator, where he fights the urge to punch the down-button repeatedly in his haste to leave. He feels like a tightly-wound spring on the verge of bursting, the tension wearing him thin as he stands there, shaking but not really shaking, but definitely more afraid than he's ever been in his life. 

The elevator takes forever to arrive, and when the doors slide open, he finds himself standing face to face with his manager. 

She gives him a cursory look from head to toe, really surveys his general state of hapless disarray, and says nothing. 

Sound thinks he should say something at least, given that he's probably going to disappear for the next while, so he hems and haws for a minute before settling on a vague, "Something urgent cropped up," by way of explanation.

His manager takes a sip of her coffee and grimaces at the bitter taste. "Sorn, was it?" 

Sound stares at her. The elevator is still taking forever to reach the first floor. 

"No," He says, and marvels at the way his voice doesn't shake. 

"Hm," She says, and doesn't ask why he's leaving. "Sarin...?" 

The elevator doors slide open. 

"Still no," Sound tells her, just to be polite, and then he's off like the wind, racing to get to Samitivej Sukhumvit Hospital to be by Win's side, no matter what condition he's in. 

The nurse on the phone had sounded calm— although Sound's pretty sure she wouldn't have been in hysterics even if Win had been on the verge of death, her general lack of urgency does help to assuage Sound's fears even by the littlest bit— she'd assured him that his boyfriend was alive and well, and considering Win had been well enough to bother the nurses repeatedly to call him, he most probably wasn't hanging in the balance between life and death just yet. 

Still, it doesn't stop him from worrying. 

It's about a forty-four-minute train ride or a sixteen-minute drive between his company building and the hospital.

Sound makes it there in seven on the back of a Grab motorcycle. 

By the time he gets there, however, Win is nowhere to be found in the observatory bay in the emergency department. A kind nurse passing by informs him that Win's been brought into surgery, and helps him register his visit— she takes down the details on his driver's license, adds him to the visitor log— and accompanies him all the way to the waiting room outside the operating theatre where he sits and waits for the head surgeon on Win's team to come out to have a word with him on his condition.

After what seems like ages, the door slides open and the surgeon steps out, pulling his mask away from his face with a fluid, practiced ease. He takes one look at Sound's dishevelled state, huddled in the seat closest to the sliding doors, and says, "Mr Win Pawin?" 

Sound jumps to his feet. "That's me," He babbles frantically, "Or, well, that isn't me, I mean, that's just who I came for—" 

The surgeon patiently lets him finish what he's saying. 

"I'm Sound," He exhales after a few more seconds of fumbling, "How is Win?" 

"Remarkably good," The surgeon says genially, "You don't have to worry." 

Here's how things happened: Win had been brought in to the hospital via ambulance just past one. He'd been on his way back to work after meeting with a client, and had stopped to cross the road. Just as the pedestrian sign turned red, Win looked up and stepped onto the road. The motorcycle, driven by a frantic teenager fresh out of riding school, hadn't been able to slow down before it collided with him, the impact sending him flying. 

"Fortunately," The surgeon adds, "He only sustained a head laceration and a compound fracture to the tibia. His head laceration was sutured in the emergency department earlier, and we've just completed the tibial IMN for him in the operating theatre; we'll keep him in the hospital for a day or two for us to manage the progress of his healing, but he should be good to go in no time— the physiotherapist will be with you after he wakes up to discuss post-operative care— you with me so far?" 

Sound nods; the surgeon takes this as his cue to continue. 

"He's going to be fine," He concludes, laying a gentle hand on Sound's shoulder. "It could've been much worse, I will admit, but someone out there must be looking out for him because he's going to walk away from this relatively unscathed. And you're going to be there for him, right?" 

Sound exhales slowly and tries not to let the crashing waves of fatigue overtake him there and then as the adrenaline high that had been powering him through most of the day finally subsides. 

"Yeah, of course," Sound says, "Where else would I go?" 

Win's set up in one of the private rooms in the hospital— courtesy of his high insurance payout. 

He's a little out of it when Sound arrives, drooling unattractively out of the side of his mouth onto his pillow as he dozes lazily, the anaesthetic medication working its way through his system. 

Sound sets up camp in the room and sinks into the chair by the bed. 

Win wakes up about twenty minutes later, infinitely more alert than he'd been when Sound had first walked into the room, and the first thing he does is smile dopily at his boyfriend as if he hadn't just been involved in an accident and underwent surgery on his leg all in the span of four hours. 

"Hello handsome," He says, like Sound's face isn't messy and streaked with panicked tears, "What brings you here?" 

"Why would you ask me that," Sound says, aghast. 

Eyes softening, Win beckons him closer. "I'm sorry," He murmurs, into the crown of Sound's head, "I wasn't careful enough; I scared you." 

Sound scrunches his eyes shut and fists his hands in the fabric of Win's hospital gown. He smells like antiseptic and sterility, nothing like his usual blend of bodywash and soapy detergent. He holds Win close, suddenly painfully aware of the possibility of losing him forever— he always thought Win might forget him one day because of the curse, or he might grow tired of him and leave, but he never thought he could lose Win because he died. 

"Why didn't you see the motorcycle coming?" He asks, exhausted. "You should've been careful." 

Witnesses at the scene said that he hadn't seemed distracted. He'd seemed in possession of all his faculties, wide-eyed, awake, and alert; yet, when the pedestrian sign turned red, he'd stepped onto the road and walked. 

"Didn't you see the light change?" 

"I saw the pedestrian light go red, but—" 

"But what?" Sound presses, "Were you on your phone? Is that why you kept walking?

"I wasn't using my phone at all, I just—" Win cuts himself off frustratedly, raking his free hand through his hair in exasperation. "I just forgot, somehow."  

The blood in Sound's veins turn to ice.

He pushes Win away, holds him at arms length. "What did you say?" 

Win's brows furrow. "It's weird, I mean, for a moment there, I forgot that the red light meant stop." 

It had been too good to be true. 

Years ago, when Sound was sixteen, his mother knelt by his bed and told him that she'd forgotten. She'd had a faraway look in her eyes as she spoke, her expression hazy and unfocused. 

Years later, and Sound is twenty-four now, he kneels by his boyfriend's bed as he tells him that he'd forgotten. Win has a faraway look in his eyes as he speaks, his expression hazy and unfocused. 

"You okay?" Win's voice cuts through the haze in Sound's mind.

His face drifts back into focus before Sound's eyes, set in a deep frown as he scans every inch of his boyfriend's face in search for what could be bothering him.

"You're looking a bit pale." 

Sound's nose sours uncomfortably; he scrubs at it violently with the back of his sleeve. 

"Yeah, yeah," He answers dismissively, "I'm just a bit shaken about everything, I think, I mean— I didn't think—" 

Win's eyes soften. "Hey, I'm fine; the doctors said that my injuries are considerably minor and I'll be out of here in a day or two, right? I'll rest, and I'll get better, and it'll all be okay— you know how I know?" 

"How?" 

"Because I have you," Win says, "And I know it'll always be okay when you're around." 

Sound refuses to look at him. 

All the same, Win spreads his arms as far as the wires sticking out of his hands will allow, seeking reassurance from his boyfriend, and Sound shuffles closer tentatively to melt into the familiar comfort of his embrace. When Win reaches over to curl his fingers lightly around the back of Sound's neck, thumbing gently at the soft, downy tufts of hair growing there, he lets out a deep, shuddering sigh that wracks his entire frame, feeling impossibly fragile, but he doesn't move away. 

They stay like that for a long time, finding respite in each other and the silence that lingers.

Later, in the early evening, the team of doctors comes around to do their rounds, and Sound is ushered away for them to conduct an unobstructed evaluation of how his boyfriend is coping with the treatment. 

Sound excuses himself to the hallway as they speak.

He walks and walks and keeps on walking—

It's only when he is absolutely sure that his feet have carried him miles away from Win's hospital bed that he finally allows his heart to break. 

The accident is his fault. 

There is no other way about this, nothing else Sound can do but accept the cruel truth, that without him, without this fucked up curse of his, Win would never have been put in a situation where he'd be in any sort of danger. Now, the truth is painfully clear to Sound; despite his best efforts to prove to himself otherwise, all he ever will be is a danger to the people he loves, and for their sakes, for Win's sake, he will have to take his leave. 

He'd doubted his decision only once.

In the first few days immediately after Win's accident, he'd briefly allowed himself to entertain the thought that what if, and just what if, it had only been a momentary lapse of judgement, and the knowledge that the pedestrian sign turning red meant that he'd had to stop and wait at the crossing had simply slipped his mind, as information is wont to do when one is tired. 

But it didn't make any sense.

Win grew up with these traffic rules and used them daily. They wouldn't have been short-term memories; they were long-term memories that should've been indefinitely stored in his brain and brought forward to be applied in a matter of seconds.

There was no way he would've forgotten, not unless the curse had tampered with his memories, losing them to vague and incorrect understandings of the truth he'd once known.

There is no other explanation. 

With that, Sound wonders just how much of Win's memory still remains. 

As it had been with his mother, he'd completely missed when Win's memory had first started to deteriorate. He badly wants to say that it's because the curse operated at a level far below detection, but that would've been a lie. He'd just been too afraid to recognise the signs for what they were and admit to himself that the curse would once again rip someone he loved from him after two years of dormancy— just as Sound had been beginning to hope again. 

And it had nearly cost Win his life. 

This, if not anything else, solidifies Sound's decision to leave. There is nothing in the world worth sacrificing Win for, not even Sound's own happiness. If leaving is the price he has to pay to keep Win safe, then so be it. 

It will hurt, Sound knows, leaving always does— but he is no stranger to that pain. He left his parents, he got by barely living, but he lived. It will be the same for Win, no matter how much it hurts. His world will go on turning, he will go on living, and one day, all this will be but a distant memory, like an nagging itch one has to scratch instead of world-shattering heartbreak.

As for Sound, he has to leave.

He knows first-hand that in the best case scenario, Win's recent memory loss only marks the start of the complete degradation of Win's memory; if he doesn't leave now, Win's mind will turn into a sieve, memory after memory sifting through the cracks until all that is left is the barest bones of what makes a human human— Sound could never do that to him. 

He could never be so selfish. 

Judging by Win's age and general health, he will need two to three months to recover from his tibial fracture and subsequent surgery and regain a baseline level of independent functioning; Sound will stay only until then, because Win will need help getting around, and he cannot simply leave him in the lurch to suffer the consequences of his own choices. 

He quits his job to stay home and take care of Win. He doesn't tell him that, only vaguely skirts around the topic by implying that he'd taken a two-month leave to take care of him; even so, Win had protested vehemently against it, citing his worries about Sound's future employment, but Sound assures him that his manager won't mind at all, and that she'd sent him off with well-wishes for Win's speedy recovery.

All lies, of course, but Sound was already lying to him about the curse; what was one more little lie in the grand scheme of things? 

Besides, it wasn't as if his manager would mind much— she barely remembered who he was. The day he'd handed in his resignation letter, she'd pursed her lips at him impassively and said, "You were always a good worker, Sarawat. We'll miss you." 

It had never been her fault, but Sound just couldn't resist; he tapped the resignation letter he'd just handed to her, drawing her attention to the words printed at the top of the page. 

"In case you forgot," He'd said primly, "My name is Sound."

And then he'd left. 

He wasn't going to need this job anymore, anyway. 

Just for these short few months, Sound will allow himself to continue to live this lie. He will savour these moments he has left with Win until he has to return to his life of solitude. He will not hope anymore, will not let his heart chase after people who were never meant to be his. 

The curse is unbreakable, he tells himself, for the first time in two years, and it will do him no good to believe in impossibilities. 

"Why are you doing that?"

"Doing what?"

Win levels him a look like he knows Sound is being evasive on purpose, but he doesn't say anything.

Sound frowns down at his hands. "No, really— what am I doing?"

"You're looking at me weird again." Win sighs, and shifts so Sound can help him unbuckle his seatbelt. 

Sound pauses, half of his body bent over the passenger seat of the car as he struggles to free both Win and his giant surgical boot from the space constraints of the tiny car. "What do you mean, again?"

Win squints at him dubiously. "You really think I haven't noticed? You've been acting strange lately; not only do you look at me like you're hiding something that you don't want me to find out about, but you're also..." Win shakes his head, cutting himself off. "It's crazy if I say it like that." 

"Say what?" Sound asks cautiously. 

Win hesitates for a moment, then sighs reluctantly. He's never been able to deny Sound, especially not when his requests are so earnest. 

"You look at me like it's the last time you'll ever see me," Win tells him softly. For the first time ever, Sound is at a loss of what to say. Win looks at him sadly with knowing in his eyes. "Why does it feel like you're telling me goodbye?" 

"I'm not," Sound says, when he finally finds his voice, "I just— I have a lot going on at the moment." 

"It's not a big deal," He adds retroactively, when Win levels him with a flat look, "I'm handling it— I'll tell you about it later, I promise."

Win looks almost as though he wants to contest this, but his mouth twists and he nods in sharp assent. "Okay," says Win, "Later then." He drops the matter entirely, even though his face clearly tells Sound that he has a million questions left unanswered that he'd very much like to ask, and yet, he doesn't push him to provide him with an explanation, and neither will he go on to press Sound for answers he's clearly unwilling to give. 

That's just the type of person Win is. They don't fight very often, him and Win. 

Sound used to think that it had been a byproduct of his endless patience, that it was because he cared for his boyfriend's mental wellbeing so much that he chose not to bring up the situation to have a discussion about it before Sound had been ready to bring it up himself, but now he's not so sure. 

Now he wonders if it's because Win simply couldn't remember. 

And when the leaves have begun to fall from the trees, a dizzying myriad of reds and oranges that colour the pavement the same bright crimson of Sound's bleeding heart, the warmth disappearing from the earth as the winter winds herald the farewell of autumn, so does Sound disappear from Win's life, leaving behind no trace of the fact that he'd ever existed in this space that used to hold them both; nothing except for the faintest memories of a time, long gone and long lost, where they were happy together. 

Sound doesn't bother leaving a note. 

He knows Win will forget by morning, anyway. 

Their story ends like this: 

On a snowy winter night, Sound sees Win from across the square in Sapporo, Hokkaido for the very last time. He has his hand around some girl, someone Sound doesn't recognise at all. There is a healthy glow to him, the kind earned from a life well-lived and well-loved. 

For a single suspended moment, their eyes meet.

The moment passes; Sound breathes, deep and slow on the exhale. 

There is love that persists there, in the spaces Win used to occupy, love that will continue to remain long after the rivers of time have run their course. And it is this love for Win that overflows still that forces him to keep his eyes trained forward and legs moving, walking and walking and walking and walking until not even the slightest shadow of Win remains in his periphery, till he's sure that he's completely faded from sight. 

He tells himself that it doesn't hurt anymore to see him. He repeats it until he believes it.

It can’t hurt anymore, shouldn’t hurt anymore— as cruel as it sounds, Sound wishes that he is the one who forgets instead of the one who makes people forget, that he could wipe the slate clean, scrub at his heart’s tattered residues until no trace of the one person he’s ever truly loved remains. Maybe then he could finally find some truth in the lies he repeats to himself. 

But Sound knows he won't forget by morning, anyway.