Chapter Text
The morning after the party, the world felt too loud.
Trin sat in a quiet café tucked behind the university library, stirring his coffee absently, untouched notebook open before him.
His pen sat poised, but the numbers refused to align.
Formulas blurred, deadlines slipped into background noise.
He couldn’t stop thinking about the way Tawan’s hand had felt in his.
The warmth.
The rhythm.
The audacity.
He closed his eyes.
The music came back in soft echoes.
That crowd.
That grin.
That moment where he almost forgot who he was supposed to be.
Trin opened his eyes and shoved the notebook away.
This wasn’t him.
He was control.
Order.
Logic.
He didn’t dance.
He didn’t laugh in the middle of chaos.
And he didn’t crave…
His phone buzzed.
Unknown Number
Next time, wear shoes that know how to have fun.
– T 🎸
Trin stared at the screen.
No emoji.
No name.
Just T.
He hated how his stomach flipped.
Across the city, in a studio that never slept, Tawan lay sprawled across a futon that smelled faintly of turpentine and coconut oil, guitar on his chest, fingers lazily plucking out unfinished melodies.
He hadn’t written a full song in weeks.
His usual well of inspiration felt…flat.
But since that night, every time his fingers touched the strings, the melody that came wasn’t his usual chaos.
It was cleaner.
Sharper.
Precise.
Like Trin had seeped into his chords.
Jay walked in, yawning, holding a half-burnt toast.
“Still playing the Tax Boy Tune?”
Tawan didn’t look up.
“Shut up.”
“You’re obsessed.”
“I’m curious.”
Jay raised an eyebrow.
“Since when does curiosity make you hum?”
Tawan grinned faintly.
“Since he danced.”
Later that week, Trin found himself in the architecture building’s back stairwell, alone.
He’d come here often quiet, shadowy, perfect for when he needed a breath.
Except today, someone was already there.
Tawan.
Sitting on the steps, guitar in hand, wearing paint splattered jeans and a shirt that definitely violated school policy.
Trin froze.
Tawan didn’t look up, just strummed a slow, haunting chord.
“You walk like someone who hates being surprised.”
“I don’t walk like anything.”
“That’s exactly what someone who walks like that would say.”
Trin sighed.
“How did you even get in here?”
Tawan finally looked up.
“Asked the janitor. Told him I was writing a love song about exposed brick.”
“That’s not…”
“I lied.”
Trin’s mouth twitched.
He hated that Tawan made him want to smile.
Again.
“What are you doing here?”
Tawan shrugged.
“I had a feeling you’d be avoiding people again. Figured this is where a guy like you goes to not feel feelings.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“No,” Tawan said, strumming a single low note, “but I know what your heartbeat sounds like when you dance.”
That shut Trin up.
For a long moment, the silence hung thick between them.
Then Tawan patted the step beside him.
“Sit.”
“I have a class.”
“Then be five minutes late. Live dangerously.”
Trin hesitated.
Then, without knowing why, he sat.
Tawan played.
For ten minutes, there were no words.
Just guitar, footsteps echoing faintly from the halls, and the way Trin leaned just slightly closer without noticing.
“Is this… new?” Trin asked, nodding toward the melody.
“Half finished,” Tawan said.
“Can’t figure out the ending.”
Trin tilted his head.
“You’re always in the middle of things, aren’t you?”
“I don’t believe in endings.”
They sat like that, two mismatched puzzle pieces pretending they weren’t starting to click.
Finally, Trin stood.
“I’m late.”
Tawan didn’t try to stop him.
Just smiled, soft.
“You’ll be back.”
Trin didn’t answer.
But he didn’t deny it, either.
That night, Trin dreamed of the party.
Not the music.
Not the dance.
But of a hallway lined with mirrors, each one reflecting him but only versions where Tawan stood beside him.
Laughing.
Singing.
Sometimes just looking.
In the last one, Trin reached for him.
And Tawan didn’t vanish.
The following weekend, a new invitation arrived.
Handwritten again.
Moira’s seal.
Gold wax.
This one read
“Art needs an audience. And lovers need excuses.”
“Come. There’s a rooftop, a piano, and a full moon waiting.”
– Moira
Trin folded the note, pulse quickening.
Across the city, Tawan received his own
“There’s someone I want you to sing to. But I think you already know that.”
Night of the Gathering
The rooftop was velvet blue, city lights blinking like lazy stars.
Moira’s gatherings were always half-dream, half trap.
Tonight, the trap was music.
Guests lingered near the piano, drink glasses chiming like wind chimes, while the stage sat waiting.
Tawan arrived first.
Barefoot.
Hair wind-messed.
A black shirt barely buttoned and a silver chain catching the moonlight.
Trin arrived fifteen minutes later.
And saw him instantly.
They locked eyes.
Neither moved.
Moira smiled like a god watching her puppets fall in love.
“You’re late,” Tawan said.
Trin blinked.
“You’re barefoot.”
“You’re overdressed.”
“You’re impossible.”
Tawan grinned.
“You’re here.”
Moira called out like a ringmaster.
“One song. Each performer. No repeats. And no hiding.”
Trin tried to slip into the shadows.
Moira caught him.
“You. First.”
He turned pale.
“I don’t sing.”
“Then speak.”
He looked at Tawan.
Tawan gave the tiniest nod.
And somehow, that was enough.
Trin stepped forward.
Took a breath.
And recited something that wasn’t a poem but sounded like one.
“I don’t believe in fate.
But I believe in timing. I don’t trust chaos. But I’m starting to trust the way you look at me. I don’t dance. But I did. And I think you knew I would.”
The crowd held its breath.
Tawan stepped up next.
No words.
Just guitar.
The song was slow.
A little raw.
His voice cracked on one line, but he didn’t stop.
“You walk like silence, But you look like thunder. You pretend not to feel it, But you listen like you’re drowning. So maybe I’ll be the noise you hate And maybe you’ll miss me when it’s quiet.”
No one clapped.
They couldn’t.
Not when something had just broken open between them.
Afterward, as people danced under paper lanterns and drank more than they should, Tawan found Trin on the edge of the roof, looking out over the city.
“You really can’t dance, huh?”
“Shut up.”
Tawan leaned beside him.
Closer this time.
Their shoulders touched.
Trin didn’t pull away.
“You know,” Tawan said, “You can’t go back to your perfect little world now.”
Trin looked at him.
“No,” he admitted.
“I think you ruined it.”
Tawan’s smile was slow.
Sincere.
“Good.”