Work Text:
In his mouth, the pick tastes strangely floral. Frowning, he double-checks the colour of it; gaze slanting down the close blur of his nose. Nope, definitely one of his. Almost masochistically, he flicks his tongue across the tip for another taste, skirting its sharpened edge.
Something sweet and artificially cloying, tinged with bitterness. Tasting of autumn complexity. Something like the burnt sugar of caramelised apples.
Warmth blooms on his tongue, metallic red.
He sighs noisily though his nose; huffing shoulders as he picks the item from between his teeth, and wipes the bloodied edge of it on the leg of his jeans.
Charlotte “borrows” his picks sometimes– they are never seen again.
Charlotte doesn’t use any hand moisturiser, despite the cracks along her fingers.
A bright red car zooms past the windows of the diner, slashing through the rain. Dings of oven timers from the kitchen, wafts of warm meals mingling together with the bodily odour of all patrons. Squeaking chairs and conversation dimmed by the cold weather.
Somewhere on the other side, the rat-a-tat-tat of a shoebill stork mother reprimanding her child floods the closed space– other customers folding their ears and glaring in the child’s direction.
Stanley folds his own ears too out of reflex, and immediately feels bad for doing so. The child may be at fault, but weren’t they all once? Did the small transgression of spilled food warrant such deathly stares from everyone in the vicinity?
“Ever the empath, I see,” comes the soft chuckle, and Stanley–
He doesn’t know what to name this– this swirling mass of messes they never cleaned up. Every feeling on the spectrum entangled, hardened into a ball which he lugs in the space between his ribs–choking him in the darkest hours of every endless night.
Xeno slides into the opposite seat with a preternatural grace, bypassing the customary squeaking of synthetic bench shuffles in the booth. His nose twitches as he peruses the menu– as if it had changed at all from every single the times they’ve been here.
Glasses so oversized they dwarf his face. Soft cap concealing the ostentatious pompadour reads ‘I can drink coffee’ in an Instagram font two years past trending. Thick workman’s jacket about half the other customers too own a variation of. When the waitress arrives, stabbing at the stubs of her shedded caribou antlers; Xeno points and grunts at the item on the menu– a necessary sacrifice of politeness to avoid using his distinct voice.
Irritation rises to the forefront of his chest amidst the swirling mass. He chews hard on the pick– having forgotten the tainted scent of it until he did; anger increasing. He damn well knows who’s obsessive enough to moisturise their hands at any given moment. He’s more surprised that the scent has lasted this long.
“Your hair’s getting long,” and even though he hasn’t raised his voice above a whisper; the mundane words still manage to drive a stake into Stanley’s heart.
He turns to face the window; away from those bottomless dark orbs. He kicks himself for noticing how in the watery light, they shine with a deep cobalt tinge reminiscent of the sea. “Yeah well, ’s been a year.”
“Has it really?” Throwaway comment so light, it expires on the table without a sound.
Stanley chances a glance; takes in the way the rabbit is completely unmoved, save for nails tapping out of tune on the glossy menu.
Envy. Jealousy. Loss. Hate. “Must be nice,” he sneers, baring his fangs, “to be so successful that you lose track of time.”
If he didn’t know the signs, he would’ve missed the subtle straightening of the rabbit’s spine, the forceful control exerted on keeping his ears relaxed; not plastered to his scalp in anger or distress.
Xeno casts him a perfect smile– the one he’s seen on every press release– waving his hand to dismiss the backhanded praise. “If only I were that. Sadly, I still have a long way to go,” he laughs. Thin, hollow. Unassuming enough for everyone to project whatever they want onto him.
Stanley’s claws dig into the battered seat, leaving new marks. “So, why the hell did you call me out here for?”
Sculpted brows disappear into the cap, “You chose the place.”
Is it pathetic of him, to bask in the minute annoyance leeching from the other’s tone? To hear the grit of something real beneath practiced perfection? Is it stupid of him to hope?
If he reaches across the table right now, will he still be allowed to hold his hand?
Stop, you fucking idiot. Stop. He spits the pick into his palm, downs the tall glass of apple cider in a go; slamming the cup onto the table.
Xeno sighs, “Must you?”
“If you’re gonna play games, I’m leaving.” He swings his legs sideways to exit the booth, only to be stopped by Xeno’s own. “Move,” he hisses, even as the voice in him pleads “Don’t.”
Xeno waits until the agitated fox faces him again, before delivering, “Withdraw from the contest.”
“Hah?” Stanley growls, “Have you finally gone crazy or what?”
“You won’t win,” Xeno states matter-of-fact, clean tone bereft of emotion.
“Motherfuc–“
“Nothing you’ve released this past year has made it,” Xeno raises his voice just enough to interrupt, rubbing salt into wounds. “There’re barely any sales to speak of. Your follower count on all social media platforms have been dwindling, despite the band’s best efforts.”
“And whose fault do you think that is?”
“Stan,” Xeno sighs; the fox recoiling from his name in that voice, “you still have other options.”
Golden eyes meet dark ones, aflame with fury. His hand moves of its own accord.
Xeno braves the splash of ice cold water without a sound, mindful of the public and their stares. The waitress arrives with his order of blueberry pancakes and extra maple syrup. She hands him a stack of napkins from the neighbouring table, utterly unfazed. Xeno nods in thanks.
“Well,” he splutters as he wipes down as much as he can; which is very little with the cheap napkins. “That was deserved–”
“You’re gonna need to be drowned in the goddamned sea for it to be remotely deserved.”
“Eloquent as always,” Xeno sneers back. “Whatever will the world come to without your creative insults?”
“Bland as your music,” Stanley shoots to kill– but even he has to admit that it means nothing. The crowds, the sales, the charts; all say otherwise. The part of him which recognises and appreciates good music say otherwise. Xeno has always been a genius.
A shadow flits across the rabbit’s face, settling into the nooks darkly. For a moment, Stanley’s past year hasn’t happened.
“I won’t be warning you again– retreat now, and your remaining fanbase may still stick with you through the decision.” He tilts his head, angled extremely downwards and towards the side, “But test me, and I’ll ensure your overwhelming defeat. Who knows how many people would still listen to you again.”
“Bring it on,” Stanley grits through his teeth, ears and tail raised painfully stiff. He shifts to lean forward; realises that their legs still touch. The swirling mass chokes him.
Xeno’s eyes are glassy when he catches them; his long ears flattened so much that their black tips droop to the ground in a right angle. The beginnings of a word forming on his chewed lips– a word which lingers abandoned every time.
Why?
Stanley ignores the countless phantoms of Xeno’s exact same question asked throughout the years, superimposed into a haunting mirage. He turns a deaf ear to the pleading of that voice. He disregards the knife twisting in his chest.
“I’ll see you on stage,” he breaks free from the barrier of their legs; tosses a few bills on the table even though he knows Xeno can more than afford it now.
He can feel the pits of dark eyes on his neck even after he leaves the diner, searing two perfect holes into his skin that even the rain can’t flush away.
( 01. ▶︎ · ၊၊ || ၊ | ။ |||| )
You never say anything
Even though you always ask ‘why?’
Why is this silence
So noisy and wild?
Please don’t stay silent
Please break through this
Stillness
“I’ve told you before, I don’t play well with others.”
The sigh on the other end of the line nearly puts out his cigarette. “How long are you gonna be stubborn like this.”
“What’s with the rummaging?” Stanley segues, the metallic clicks and clangs from Brody’s end weirdly comforting.
The beaver curses as a particularly loud clang travels through the airwaves. “I swear to god, if I don’t murder this intern by today–”
Stanley dodges a gaggle of giggling geese; shoots them a playful wink and earns high-pitched honks for it.
“–Are you even listening?” Brody’s agitated voice is tinny as Stanley traverses Shibuya crossing, thousands of others marching forwards as the lights flash blue; all neat in their own lanes. “On behalf of the unsuspecting good denizens of Japan, I should get you a restraining order.”
“How about some of those Setouchi lemons, since you’re there anyway.” The masses of Shibuya drown out any response. “Catch you when I’m back, right now there’s a beautiful flagship Fender calling my name.”
“Of course you’re only invested when it comes to guitars,” the visual of Brody shaking his head easily imagined. “Go have fun, but don’t you dare buy another guitar. Between your shit and Maya’s drum kit, we gotta start climbing over the couch at this rate.”
“No promises,” Stanley chirps, ending the call with the tail end of Brody’s curses in relish. He’s dealt with the annoying, self-entitled band as a support guitarist for three days now; he deserves some entertainment.
Late evening sunlight glimmers off the glass buildings; a city on fire. Titan poster of this month’s featured guitarist graces the front of the flagship Fender store, intimidating yet intriguing. One of these days, a small, young voice within him sounds; but he folds it away, tucks it under the others of being a pilot, of being a top sniper. Dreams returning to where they belong.
“That was amazing!” Maya rises too fast, topples over her drums. “You should be in a band!”
Brody scoffs, helping right the excited Kodiak bear’s kit. “You think I haven’t tried asking?”
“I don’t think a band is for me,” Stanley replies measuredly, lifting the crash cymbals from the floor. “I don’t play well with others.”
“But do you like it?” Maya receives the cymbals with a giant grin, “Playing with others.”
He sidesteps a clingy couple hogging the sidewalk, just as he does always to Brody’s unnervingly piercing glare beneath minuscule sunglasses.
Tinkling keys from a grizzled condor picking his way through a tune, tucked beneath a concrete tree. He’s not very good, but the way he closes his eyes in savouring every note–
Callouses on his fingers splitting open again, blood stroking the strings. Dry winter air threatening frostbite in addition to his numb hands. Flecks of snow stained with dirt as soon as they descend, white dots swallowed by the hectic aimlessness of the New York subway.
Commuters rush past in a flurry, bumping into the case he’s left on the ground. His own five dollars in it, as an incentive. As a plea.
Sounds of other buskers and wailing of the rails an impossible competition.
His stomach growls at the sight of water buffalo salaryman chowing into two fistfuls of Big Macs; taunting him for his lack of proper food for five days now.
The blood on his fingers has congealed into stickiness, hindering his strumming.
His eyes sting from the dirty snow.
He covers popular songs.
He unearths his originals carefully to nothing.
He matches improvised tunes to the movements of commuters.
He keeps playing.
His can’t feel his fingers.
He keeps playing.
No one listens.
Sudden wave of clapping yanks him back to the sidewalk. Someone in the crowd shouts for an encore in English; a rarity. Stanley peers over the shorter heads of the crowd easily, wonders what gimmick has caught the attention of the vapid masses this time, and oh–
Orange flames lick at thin and poised fingers, trailing a blaze with every note. This melody–unheard of, something improvised, something new. Movement, pitch, energy– hurtling forwards in jarring yet harmonious percussion, in time with the pianists’ playing.
The grizzled condor from before, looping a simple line of a tune; elevated thanks to the contributions of the new presence.
Silver coiffed hair, black-tipped ears bouncing with every hit of the keys. Zooming this way and that, coat flapping around his legs; churning out the infectious melody with a preternatural grace. Wide grin boarding on manic. Eyes full of stars, seen even from here at the edge of the crowd.
Stanley can’t breathe– gasping through the sharp pain of his heart stuttering back to life.
His fingers twitch– plucking an accompaniment on invisible strings.
The crowd cheers as the rabbit and the condor shake hands, already beginning to disperse. Stanley fights against the current as politely as he can get away with, wishing for once that the Japanese weren’t so orderly. The crowd spits him out in front of the piano; Stanley’s head swerves to spot a pair of black-tipped ears.
There, his heart lurches; legs burning as he hurdles over a line of metal bicycle racks. “Hey,” he wheezes, the rabbit’s elbow bony in his hand.
Thick furrowed brows; bottomless dark eyes which glare at the contact pointedly.
He should let go immediately– but he doesn’t want to. Those talented fingers, that drumming melody, those endless eyes–
“Can I help you?” the rabbit scowls, tugging his elbow back.
That voice. That voice. Something at the back of Stanley’s brain snaps (he suspects it’s his sanity).
His hands clasp at the rabbit’s own, startling their owner.
“Form a band with me.”
The night air is only slightly cooler compared to daylight hours; tradeoff being stifling mugginess. Stanley decides he dislikes both. His fingers still tingle with the warmth of another’s a few hours prior. He decides he hates the whole world.
He slumps to the ground with a growl of frustration, hands squeezing his head to pop that idiotic melon. What was he thinking? Was he even thinking?
Who in their right mind would agree to a stranger’s pleas right off the bat; much less form a band with them? He must’ve looked insane. The throbs of his heart as he recalls the melody proves that he still is insane.
Stanley muffles a yell into the plastic bag of the store– he may be broke, but there is no way he’s leaving a Fender store without buying something; anything. Even if that something is as pointless as another guitar pick to add to the hundreds he already has lying around everywhere back home.
At least the rabbit was gracious enough not to call the cops on him– leaving the fox to gape all he needed to at a set of public benches before regaining his senses.
Buzzing phone in his pocket. Group message from Charlotte, half-blurred picture of her and the band she was assisting; tall beer glasses raised in triumph. Maya and Brody’s congratulations. He psychs himself up for enough upbeat energy to do the same.
Curious, he follows the link to the band’s TikTok account, scrolling through the reels in a mishmash of heavy metal noise.
“Oh, they’ve changed their drummer.”
Stanley can never deny how high he leaped– he’s still surprised at the distance. He will however, vehemently deny how much he stuttered, how much his whole being shook, and how the rabbit had to grasp his hand in a crushing grip to ground him.
“I’ll join your band,” the rabbit declares– but Stanley’s brain hasn’t rebooted.
Thousands of questions swarm his head, but the first he can articulate is “Why?”
The rabbit grins, the promise of a whole new universe gleaming in his eyes. “You’re a guitarist, yes?” He nods to the instrument strapped to the fox’s back. “I’ll be needing you.”
( 02. ▶︎ · ၊၊ || ၊ | ။ |||| )
Among the city’s
Countless melodies
Yours is the voice
Cutting through it all
Cruel yet transparent
The untravelled path
Of our dreams–
I choose it freely
“Cover up, idiot.”
Xeno flips him a middle finger without looking up from the scratching of his pencil.
Stanley does the same to the back of that bowed head, sighing in defeat as minutes measured by steady scratches tick by.
“You spoil him too much,” Charlotte warns preemptively from her perch on the faux toadstool stool, headphones slung around her neck and bass balanced across her knees.
“What’s the temperature?” he grunts instead, snatching the long scarf– the one he painstakingly knitted thanks to countless sleepless nights those early days, supercharged with excitement and dread of their murky path. The style of it copied from Xeno’s favourite Doctor in Dr. Who. Wraps it around Xeno’s neck and shoulders even as the rabbit keeps working, disregards the long flattened ears signalling displeasure. “You’ll get sick again.”
“No I won’t,” comes his immediate retort; fingers shuffling the pages, searching for the unseen.
Stanley rolls his eyes as Charlotte announces “24 degrees celsius.”
“In this weather?”
She shrugs, “Last one to set it was Maya, I think.”
“Yoo-hoo, you called?” said Kodiak bear pokes her head through the doorway, entirely too cheerful.
The guitar pick between Stanley’s teeth flicks against his lip painfully. “Maya,” he jabs a thumb towards Xeno who has a hand waved in greeting; appendage sticking out comically from the thick coils of colourful scarf, “temperature.”
“Oof, sorry Doc,” the bear claps her hands together, dangling plastic bags of food steaming in the cold air. “You okay though?”
Xeno shoots her a thumbs up; his right hand keeps working.
Maya thrusts one of the bags into the fox’s face, “See, he’s fine.”
“Because we’re here,” Stanley mimes tying the scarf.
“Because you’re here,” Charlotte elbows him on the way to grab her meal. “You, a red fox?” she snorts, “Try mother hen more like.”
“You worry too much,” Maya chuckles; then starts a litany of clucks to which Charlotte joins, flapping her white feathers. Stanley bites down hard on the pick to keep from awarding the swan and the bear a good knock to the head.
The door creaks behind Brody, “Did Stanley finally snap? Breeding chickens seems on brand, at least.”
“Brody, does Stanley worry too much?”
“Oh, undoubtedly,” comes the beaver’s instantaneous reply, as he lugs a set of dusty mixers and a MIDI controller towards Xeno’s station– adding to the rabbit’s fortress of mixing equipment.
Maya slings an arm across Stanley’s shoulders, and noogies him with a guffaw, “Careful there foxy, your cholesterol levels are gonna shoot through the roof!”
“No thanks to all of you,” he growls, fighting in vain against the bear’s insane strength. “If only some of my bandmates were less immature.”
“If only one of our bandmates could remove the stick shoved so far up his ass when it comes to all things Xeno,” Charlotte’s comment breezes in saccharine ease.
“Don’t provoke him,” Brody cautions; as Maya whoops, shoving the disgruntled fox into the ring.
Charlotte already has her bass at the ready.
Stanley grabs his cobalt Squier Affinity Stratocaster by the neck, its maple frame sturdy enough to be swung to his front by. “You think you can do better?” Sharp teeth gleam in menacing rows, “I taught you.”
Bass yelling a sonorous boom as the swan strums down hard, expression not shying away from the challenge. “Eat metal, old man.”
A prim clearing of the throat halts the battle. Thin white hand raising like a spectre, “Xeno would like to announce that the song is complete. Xeno also requests that you postpone your egoistic battle; preferably relocating to outside of the studio as well.”
“Xeno speaking in the third person is creepy,” Maya lobs from the back, Brody nodding with crossed arms in agreement.
The rabbit scrunches his nose, twirling his laptop around in a huff, “Xeno’s bandmates seem to have forgotten that he can hear them; and quite well in fact.” He points to the long ears rotating in small arcs; the room collectively grimaces, mumbling their apologies. He waves them off, “No matter. What’s important is this.” He hits the play button unceremoniously– betraying the utter vibrancy and catchiness of the song.
Something you could bounce to. Something to lift you up on your darkest days and your every humdrum morning. Playful, a little bit cheeky; yet full of understanding and relatability. Like being served a warm, comforting breakfast with a pat on the back and a smile. Like a home away from home.
“That was–” Stanley gulps, breaking the silence. His eyes already on Xeno’s own; he can’t tell which pair are the watery ones. “That was good.”
Xeno crows in triumph, hopping with a twist in the air. He turns to the rest of them, sparkling from head to toe, “What say you?”
“I’m still recovering from the song, and then you did a binky…” Brody mutters, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses, checking if everything up till now has been a mirage.
Charlotte and Maya give their positive reviews (along with Brody when the shockwaves have tided over), cooing over a red-faced Xeno at how cute rabbit binkies can be.
Something in Stanley’s gut twists; an irritant at his snout. “Okay, okay, lay off before he faints,” he swats, the uncomfortable feeling dissipating as his body wedges itself between them.
“I’m not a lettuce,” Xeno scoffs, fingers flying over the keys as he balances the laptop in a hand. Stanley reaches out automatically to help him steady it. “Besides, you’ve missed the best part.” The rabbit’s smile is smug as he scrubs back on the song, de-enhancing several features.
The bouncy staccato backtrack which pulses throughout the song morphs, devolving into Charlotte and Maya’s joking clucks from right before.
“You crazy bastard!” the bear exclaims in awe, shoving Stanley away to take a look at the screen; uncaring of how the fox stumbles over a rack of wires to face-plant into the floor. “You actually included it?”
Fingers crossed into an ‘X’, “But of course. Anything has the potential to be music.”
Charlotte claps enthusiastically, stray feathers unloosing to the ground.
Xeno allows himself to preen for a moment, “We’re aiming for the top, yes?” Dark eyes land on each member one by one, an unknown future shining with promise in them.
They could. They would.
With this team Xeno places his faith in; Stanley will make sure that his trust is returned a thousandfold.
Xeno picks up the microphone, curling the unruly wire into obedience. The room snaps to attention– in a flash everyone is ready with their instruments, eyeing the pages of notes on their tablets. Tips of their fingers buzzing in anticipation.
Deep, soft voice; devastating velvet.
Engulfing.
“Let’s try this from the top.”
( 03. ▶︎ · ၊၊ || ၊ | ။ |||| )
I might not have much to say
I don’t have a rare talent
Even so, I want to shout it out loud–
This unnamed sound which resonates
Deep from within my soul
Listen.
Fun fact: the crowd thinks that the louder they scream, the better they are heard by their favourite musicians; but the opposite is true.
On stage, everything mingles into a wall of noise which rattles your bones. It’s a constant battle to hear everything at once– the enthusiasm of the crowd, the playing of your bandmates, the instructions from backstage and the mixing control panel. He doesn’t need to look at his guitar to play it; but he sure as hell needs to hear it.
Then too, the moments which the swirling abyss below stage beckons; luring feet forwards to pitch into the dark as the crowd roars hypnotically–
Warmth pressed against his side, sweaty shoulders bumping. A hand on the back of his neck, snatching him back from the deep and quiet dark. Sticky forehead against his, strands of escaped silver hair twining with blond ones. That godsent voice, amplified by proximity; by the way that Xeno practically howls the words straight into Stanley’s mouth.
It’s a unique type of torture, watching their lead singer launch away, working the crowd at the very front edge of the stage; when the ghost of his lips lingers more persistently than any lipstick Stanley could ever find.
His tongue darts out unconsciously, tasting nothing but the salt of sweat. His arms and fingers ache from playing; from wanting.
It’s a unique type of blessing when Xeno drags him to the front with an arm slung around his shoulder, gesturing and jumping a little in excitement as Stanley pours every ounce of energy he has into shredding the bridge to pieces; as the crowd’s screams triple in intensity.
When the set ends, they bow with linked hands. Gold eyes catching dark ones, cheeks flushed high, breathless from exertion– Stanley squeezes the singer’s hand tightly, feeling like he could eat the whole world raw.
Post-concert cooldown is conducted via various preferred activities. Brody needs the quiet; so they know to leave him barricaded in a room, where he will call his sweetheart during a more reasonable hour. Maya’s excess energy needs to be pumped out at the gym, or in bed with whoever caught her fancy that day. Charlotte takes scalding baths, and faceplants into her worn sheep Squishmallow for hours after.
As for Stanley and Xeno? They need to eat.
Puffs of smoke steam his face, easing the congestion of his nose. He sniffles noisily, practically inhaling the noodles in a gulp. Normally, Xeno would glare at him witheringly, moving his bowl away from the fox to make a point– but post-concert cooldown has no rules.
They keep slurping, elbows knocking into each other at the narrow bar counter. Xeno reaches to dump spoonfuls of pickled garlic into both their bowls; while Stanley helps the rabbit grind sesame seeds into his. They wrangle for the last of the spring onions from a half-drunk parrot patron who mumbles and caws in laughter at only something he remembers. Twin slams of their empty bowls on the counter, having matched their bites beat for beat.
It’s something about moments like these– muscles sore but fulfilled, belly and chest filled with warmth, lingering phantom of familiar notes in his fingers, Xeno’s mirroring greasy grin brighter than any spotlight–
Kitchen staff greet new customers, chairs scrape, bowls thump with a satisfying weight on wooden surfaces. Xeno pulls a sheaf of papers from the mysterious depths of his knee-length jacket, splays them across the bar counter. “Need to poke your noggin a bit,” he jabs at one of the contracts from a major label, “think it’s worth our time?”
The fox dutifully peruses the document as Xeno fronts the bill, stowing the receipt somewhere in his magical jacket to be charged to their manager after. A thin hand nudges at his shoulder, steering him towards the exit as he flips the pages.
Chilly night air blasts into their faces, refreshing compared to the cramped heat of the ramen shop. Xeno whistles disjointed notes which crystallise into white smoke. Stanley scrapes the edge of a fang on his lip as he reaches the end of the document.
He hands it back to the rabbit with a solemn shake of the head. “Disadvantageous. I’ll admit it sounds good, especially since they’re offering less mandatory hours which Charlotte wouldn’t have to suffer for her uni classes; but–”
“But?” Xeno prompts, slight lilt in his voice betraying amusement.
Stanley sighs, bonks the rabbit lightly on the head without halting his gait. “You damn well know that we’d all choose not to make any music at all, rather than subject ourselves to commercialised control.”
Xeno hums, calculations running behind his eyes– so distracted he doesn’t even make a peep at the damage done to his carefully styled hair.
Stanley flicks the edges of the papers gripped loosely in the other’s hand, “What?”
“What?” Xeno echoes, stowing the papers; mind still far away.
Worn shoes slapping on the pavement, passing by dark windows of a residential area; most fast asleep at this hour. Away from the muted bustle of the main road where late night revellers still gathered; the quiet here only serves to magnify the eerie silence, pillbox houses crouching in wait.
Stanley too, has always been good at waiting.
“Remember our grand plan?” Xeno’s voice is nearly a whisper. “The very first one.”
“The one you terrorised that poor waiter for,” Stanley answers immediately.
Xeno clicks his tongue, “‘Terrorise’ is an awfully strong word to use. I merely asked for more paper napkins.”
“To scribble on,” Stanley hold up a finger to count, “which is already weird when you finished a whole stack of ‘em like they were a bag of popcorn.”
“They were not scribbles–”
“–And,” the fox interrupts with a second finger, “you were working on another full stack stolen from the table over. Which is to say,” Stanley smirks, “how could I ever forget?”
The rabbit rolls his eyes, “Please refrain from thinking you’re smooth, Snyder. That was a poorly executed attempt.”
Stanley faux huffs; feet stomping to a brief stop just before a circle of LED streetlight. “Excuse you,” he sweeps a hand up and down himself, hoards would kill for this.”
“Hoards, sure,” Xeno cackles, barely dodging the fox’s swipe. “May the hoards of your rabid fanbase succeed then.”
Stanley pounces, locking arms around the rabbit’s neck for a noogie without any real heat. “You little shit,” he tries– failing to sound even slightly miffed at the hopping cadence of Xeno’s laugh. He can feel the rabbit’s thinner hands curled round his forearm, the heat of the other’s back against his own front, the scent of burnt sugar.
Xeno’s laughter peters out into the chilly night. Hands curl as his shoulders do the same. Stanley senses the familiar direction they’re headed. “It’s not too much is it?” Fragility switching to self-depreciation, “The demands of this so-called ‘genius’.”
“Standards,” Stanley corrects without leaving a gap between words and between them, leaning his chin on the other’s shoulder as an excuse to hug him closer. “Expectations. Motivation. Hopes, and cliché as this shit sounds; dreams.”
Quiet from the other front, gears churning.
Stanley closes his eyes, mumbles into that shoulder. “You’re overthinking it.”
“And you are heavy.” Fingers rake through blond locks, posed to shove– but don’t.
Stanley pushes further into those fingers, just a little. “Don’t go underestimating them; they’re freaks like us who’d do anything to achieve the best sound.”
“Still–”
The fox lifts his head enough to glance sideways, lips half-muffled, “Think any of us would’ve stuck around for so long if it ain’t true?”
Xeno’s exhale glows a ghostly white in the night air. He shakes his head slowly as he comes to terms with the notion, beginnings of a smile twitching at lip corners. “Well, if you spin it that way–”
“Shut up, you know I’m right,” Stanley shushes, hiding the heat creeping up his face into black fabric. “ ‘Sides, this level ain’t hittin’ our goals just yet.”
“Oh, and what’s the ultimate goal then?”
Stanley’s head pops up, says as even as possible, “World domination.”
Xeno snorts, has to turn away from the fox’s serious mien to keep from wheezing into laugher. “That should be the title of our next tour.”
“Why not?” Stanley shrugs, returning to his post on the rabbit’s shoulder, “Leonard’ll appreciate the shock factor.”
“If we don’t drive him into a heart attack first,” Xeno retorts with a grimace, paying their Borzoi manager.
“Nah, let’s just take over the world together with our music. Less hassle.”
Xeno chuckles; soft and cautious, but there. “I’ll hold you to that.”
The fingers in his hair trace circlets of a tune. Stanley hums an accompaniment.
( 04. ▶︎ · ၊၊ || ၊ | ။ |||| )
Smiling mysteriously,
You calmly rearrange
The order of things
That are important to me
When I can't hear
The noise of your life,
I become uneasy
I’ve realised that
I can never return
To the person I was,
Before I met you
Pain doesn’t bloom across his knuckles as he wants them to.
“Cool it,” Brody warns, as the fox struggles against Maya’s hold.
A clicking growl reverberates from Stanley’s throat, teeth bared. “That bastard’s walking free–”
“You’re going to cause a scene,” the beaver reminds him sternly over his sunglasses. Dexterous fingers flick the fox on the forehead, “Think: what would be more troublesome for Xeno? Hurtful comments, or you being hurt in the process?”
“The latter, obviously.”
Everyone jumps apart at the smooth entry of their lead singer’s voice, silhouetted by the harsh stage lights at the doorway.
The animal in Stanley propels him forwards with worry, “Xeno, they–”
“Stan,” Xeno smiles– strained but gentle, reassuring. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not–”
“Stan,” the rabbit repeats, firmer. Slides a cool hand into ones curled so hard, nails marking angry crescents. “Thank you for defending my honour, but I’m fine.” A shrug, too casual, “Nothing I haven’t heard before.”
You shouldn’t have to. You of all people, shouldn’t– Stanley bites his tongue at the torrent of past instances; every insult and doubt directed at Xeno’s genius, every backhanded compliment, every overt hateful comment.
Xeno loves music; but the world hates him for having it love him back.
“’S not fair,” Stanley grumbles, distantly aware that he sounds like a petulant kit. Catches the other members shaking their heads out of the corner of his eye.
“Would be tedious if it is,” Xeno counters haughtily, mischievous smirk in place. “At any rate, worry not my fellow sufferers, I’ve already something nice planned.”
Charlotte sighs “Oh no”, as Brody sends a prayer up to whichever deity is listening.
“Doc,” Maya sweat drops, “what did you do?”
Xeno lifts a finger to his lips, winking, “That’s a secret.”
Stanley forces himself to keep his mouth shut. For all the bravado the rabbit puts on, the sight of his back as it leaves is still unbearably sad and lonely.
Stanley makes sure to beat their rivalling band soundly, shredding the strings with blood in his nails. It’s the least he can do.
( 05. ▶︎ · ၊၊ || ၊ | ။ |||| )
What goes up
Must come back down
Heavy is the crown
Which pulls me down
Lucky me
(Leonard glares at them with eerily controlled anger the next day, phone in his hand playing the viral video on a loop.
In it, the lead dragonfly singer from yesterday– that bastard who insulted Xeno– falling to the floor as if tasered, wings spasming and foaming at the mouth. On the table before him, a daintily wrapped bouquet of roses and a giant fish sticking out of it; slime oozing across everything, dead eyes unnerving.
Xeno bumps the fox’s shoulder with his own, not bothering to conceal his smug smile.
Stanley has the sudden urge to kiss him for it. )
He finds him in the kitchen this time, upper half sprawled across the island table, papers like dead butterflies scattered everywhere. Fingers shaking from what he’s sure is a lack of rest and sustenance; even though the singer is literally situated in the middle of every available snack known to man (he doesn’t begrudge Maya for her honey-coated salmon protein bars, or Charlotte for her watercress pie; if they don’t do the same to his raw egg and berry shake). He supposes he should find the irony of it funny; if he didn’t feel so anxious.
“Food. Light or heavy?” he announces, sliding an arm around the rabbit’s waist to sit him upright; ignores the other’s whines about losing the flow. “You can work yourself crazy later,” the fox chastises, dragging Xeno– chair and all– to the counter free of musical clutter.
Sandwiches the workaholic between the counter and the stove, traps him by being the barrier of that pocket of space. Scrutinises the ingredients left in the fridge and the pantry. “Either I’m making you a cheesy omelette, or a loaded salad bowl. Choose.”
Xeno grumbles endlessly, selecting option one. Stanley nukes the omelette with as much cheese as the rabbit’s health can get away with.
“Coffee?” comes the tentative tone, the hope in shimmering eyes, and–
Damn, Stanley has to slap himself with the spatula to resist. “Makes you jittery, so no.”
“Tch, killjoy,” arms crossed, long ears flattened tight against his skull.
“Better than gettin’ you killed.” Stanley flips the omelette onto the plate, the egg arching masterfully in the air before landing onto its intended target.
The heavenly smell of rich cheese and egg ultimately prove too much to resist– Xeno tucks in with relish, demolishing it at breakneck speed. He asks for seconds; which Stanley happily obliges. He asks for a third helping; which Stanley regrettably has to cap his sudden large amount of food intake off.
“Tastes like balls,” Xeno complains around the cup of peppermint chamomile tea.
“Like you know how that tastes,” Stanley scoffs, drying off the pan.
The hooded eyes and sultry smirk Xeno projects is downright sinful. “Don’t I?”
Stanley chokes on his own spit, spluttering at the sink as the other cackles with unbridled glee.
He runs the bath hot as possible later in revenge, rendering the rabbit’s skin as red as his own.
“Sure you’re okay?” he pinches at the edge of the blanket, tucks it in more securely.
“Yes. mom,” Xeno drawls, hands peeping cutely from the edge of the blanket. “You’ve been so thorough, no demon would even dare appear. Heck, I reckon god himself has been spooked away by the utter weight of your menacing glare. Poets shall immortalise your unrivalled strength to be told and re-told; a hundred, nay a thousand years– ”
Stanley slaps a pillow momentarily over his face, “Go to sleep.”
Bushy brows furrow, upturned nose scrunching cutely, “I demand a lawyer. That was assault.”
“Hello, Leonard?” Stanley mimes. “Budgeting’s been a pain lately, yeah? Yeah, so Xeno says he does’t need the month-long booking at that prestigious studio anymore.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Xeno mock gasps. “He’ll never believe you.”
“Hn, weird that he changed his mind?” Stanley continues the charade, eyes narrowed. “Well, you know how he is. ‘Sides, we can shovel some of that moolah into merch R&D. Yeah, yeah, taking more money from the fans, and ruining the purity of music.”
Xeno’s jaw snaps shut, seething. He flips onto his left side, burrowing beneath the blankets. “You’re absolutely brutal, Stanley Snyder.” A pause, then the peek of ears and a shiny forehead from the covers, “But that’s also what makes you an excellent guitarist.”
Liquid light flood his veins; he feels like floating. “Not all guitarists have to be, “ he grunts past the heat in his face, “plenty of other good playing styles out there.”
Xeno sits up more, revealing a full face. “But yours is the only sound I need.”
That’s it. He’s done. Deceased. “You–”
“Hm?” Xeno’s ears perk up, tilting his head to the side.
He feels something unnameable– a need to protect, to possess, to cherish for the rest of his life. Something which beckons; something which stays. Something which says ‘Here. This is where you’re meant to be. Don’t run. Don’t leave. Stay.’
“I’ll wake you in the morning,” he swallows, closing the door with a final click. Sinks his head to his hands immediately after, screaming internally.
( 06. ▶︎ · ၊၊ || ၊ | ။ |||| )
There’s a song I could hear
Since before I was born
Though it was formless–
It held everything
“No, that’s not it,” Xeno’s sigh through the speaker is more laboured that usual. “That’s not the sound I’m looking for.”
“What are you looking for then?” Stanley rips the headphones off, fingers stinging from the god knows how-manieth take they’ve done for this particular riff. Even he has his limits. “Xe, I can’t fucking read your mind.”
“You don’t need me to tell you,” Xeno snaps from the control room beyond the glass, hands bunching in his hair. “I didn’t write this song for you to blindly follow the route of my melody.”
“The hell are you going on about? This is your song–”
“And I’m saying it doesn’t have to be!” Dark, dark eyes– eyes the fox has loved since the start– wild and frantic. Afraid.
Stanley’s heart drops. “Xeno…what–?”
Xeno’s breathing is uneven, every inhale a shuddering endeavour. His hands shake, but he doesn’t have the energy to hide them.
Beyond the glass, Stanley is as impressive as the first time he heard him play– intrigued by the sudden offer on the street to form a band; looking up ‘fox guitarist recent festival’ in the search bar till he spots swept blond hair and a fierce mien; watches a phone-recording of a live show with shitty audio, the fox’s intense performance rattling him to the bones.
He sees the same fox from before, but not the same guitarist now. His heart aches.
“Let’s take a break.” The singer flees in a flurry, door slamming before the guitarist has even inched from his seat.
“Oi, Xeno!” Stanley hurtles through the booth door; scrambling for the main one, and cursing a blue streak when his pinky is caught in the locking mechanism, wedged painfully between door and frame. After a few tries he finally wrenches it open, sneakers skidding on the hyper-polished floor.
Outside, endless pails of rain drench the windows, streaking the world in shadow. He dives in headfirst, lashing jets of water freezing him instantly. “Xeno!” he yells, fighting against the roar of the sky, “Xeno! Where are you, you crazy idiot!”
He wipes the water off his face in useless hope, squinting into the half-dark of the studio courtyard. Xeno hadn’t worn his jacket; he should be easy to spot in the worn red hoodie that once used to be Stanley’s own before it was spirited away. But the damned rain offered near zero visibility, and Xeno has always been good at hiding in plain sight.
“Xeno!” he yells with cupped hands, over and over.
He’d be drenched. He’d be cold. He’ll get sick. He’ll be sad he can’t sing for the upcoming concerts. He’ll be in pain the whole time– and it’ll be Stanley’s fault for not being enough.
“XENO!”
There’s a tick of a moment which is suspended– he feels his sneaker slip against the ring of rocks encircling the pond. He sees himself falling in slow-motion. He anticipates the brute pain of falling on the rocks behind him. He braces–
–for a fall that doesn’t come.
“The hell do you think you’re doing?!” Xeno floods his vision, hair flat as his ears, matting across his skull. Panicked dark eyes, rapid breaths which don’t reach his lungs. He feels the solidity of limbs underneath him, entangled with his own.
Stanley’s hand is removed from his body, moving on autopilot. He watches in a mix of horror and primal contentment as it caresses the rabbit’s cheek, skimming across his parted lips.
Impossibly, he hears the soft ‘Why?’ folded into the rain. He lifts himself up, creaking in pain. Something doesn’t feel right around his ankle, but he ignores it for now– he has more important matters to attend to.
“It’s your song,” he reiterates, meeting dark and confused eyes. His fingers itch for cigarettes he quit smoking after forming the band; for the guitar picks he chews on to stymie the lingering urge, for anything. “It’s your song, and that’s precisely what I love about it. Xe,” he barrels on, stopper on his emotions popped open with such force it scares him. “There isn’t a version of this where I’d willingly ignore or abandon the you in that song; that’s the one thing I won’t compromise on.”
Xeno ducks, concealing his expression into the hoodie. “Then,” his voice wobbles– a first. He grapples for words which don’t come as easily as composing; for words which are unpolished and raw. The singer’s voice is a wisp in the rain, “Before it’s stained,” hand encircles the guitarist’s wrist in a vice, “can you break it?”
He smells the panic, the desperation. The hand around his wrist a welcome shackle. “Is that what you want?” Stanley’s tone matches the other’s, wobbling. “You want me to break the thing I love?”
Dark eyes dart away before steeling themselves. “Yes please,” Xeno rasps, hand tightening. “Can you?”
There’s a hollowness knocking at the guitarist’s chest, settling cold and yawing into the space next to his heart. he doesn’t want to; but if it’s for Xeno, if it’s to make him happy– “I can,” he grits, more painful than any physical injury could ever incur.
The rabbit nods, trying for a smile of gratitude which only ends up soggy and pathetic. “If we head back now, we can most likely finish before dinner.”
“Right,” Stanley replies on autopilot; the hollowness robbing his appetite for everything. Hisses as he pushes himself up, ankle visibly swollen to a purplish red even in the midst of torrenting rain.
Xeno bites his lip in guilt, “I’ll fetch Leonard–”
“Later,” Stanley grates, limping towards the building.
Genuine concern floods his voice, “Stan–”
“After the recording,” he insists, batting away the rabbit’s proffered hand.
“Don’t be stubborn,” Xeno links their arms to support him, “and you don’t have to prove a point.”
How can you say that after all this? Of course I have to. Stanley maintains silence the whole way, speaking only to double-check that they’ve begun recording.
Fingers jam hard onto the fretboard, picking jarring notes and riffs which clash with the main melody. Every new lick and hammer-on a devastating blow, destroying it completely with the final upwards shred of the bass E-string; reverberating angry and loud in the smallness of the booth.
He doesn’t know if the liquid dripping down his face is sweat, rainwater, or tears.
“Mm, that’s the one,” Xeno’s voice crackles over the intercom. Through the glass partition, he bows his head, “Please let me use this version.”
What could he do– say no? Elbows leaning against knees, the pain returning with a vengeance. “Call Leonard.”
He lets the band and staff sign his ankle brace afterwards, pretending to grumble about their poor penmanship offending his aesthetic sensibilities. Saves the prime spot on it for Xeno’s signature, swopping and all-encompassing.
( 07. ▶︎ · ၊၊ || ၊ | ။ |||| )
I realised wherever my happiness was
The way you held your umbrella
You were always standing right by its side
Taught me everything about kindness
And right by your tears
I hung my head and cried
I vow to play for the rest of my life
Afraid you’d see through my imitation
There are good times and bad ones from being in a band.
Brody’s intriguing sculptures left out for anyone to stub their toe on. Maya’s giant bear hugs, and her atrocious morning singing. Charlotte’s gift of random trinkets on her walks, her quizzing university-level topics for her assignments at the drop of a hat.
Brody’s tools, Maya’s exercise equipment, Charlotte’s makeup; cluttering every spot imaginable outside the designated music room.
Stanley’s own array of guitars, lined up in neat racks next to Xeno’s overflowing nest of audio equipment, both bought and scavenged.
Synergy when playing, connections made zinging. Arguing about the most asinine topics.
Shared ideas over hearty meals and bright laughter. Messes piling up in the kitchen if he doesn’t take charge.
Keeping up with everyone, being able to see them almost every day. Sadly having to keep up with everyone, because he sees them almost every day.
Brody’s reliable execution, Maya’s energetic determination, Charlotte’s respectful devotion. Xeno’s genius leading them all.
Xeno, who wants too much, and does too much; always.
Xeno, who enjoys being part of the band they created, who finally feels like he could belong.
Xeno, who cannot live without music; who would rather die than consider the alternative.
Xeno–
It’s the only thought in his mind as he storms into the shared music room, everyone startling from their stations with their instruments. He beelines towards the singer, grabbing the collar of his puffy sweater and slamming his back against the rows of MIDI keyboard controllers.
The others sound off in alarm behind him, but he’s being choked by the feeling, he’s drowning and downing–
“You–” he growls with teeth bared, shaking the rabbit hard enough for his head to loll.
Dark eyes depthless and searching. “Ah,” Xeno smiles gently, “so you found out.”
Anger exploding; he has to pull away, has to redirect the rage onto a poor speaker, pummelling it into a shower of sparks. He shrugs off Brody’s hands, dodges Maya’s arms and Charlotte’s lunge.
Xeno remains where he’s left him, half sprawled across the controllers– and he wonders why he’s never taken better note of the pale pallor, the sunken eyes, the laboured breaths. Chalked it up to stress and exhaustion, even when he knows that Xeno can be the most secretive bastard on the planet; that the genius would willingly suffer in pursuit of his love.
He crosses the small space between them, pulling the singer flush to his chest; a hand buried in silver locks at the base of his neck, the other wound tightly around bony shoulders hidden beneath oversized apparel for too long.
Xeno doesn’t stiffen or melt into the embrace. Stanley’s harsh exhales tickle his ear, fluttering the fine hairs there. “Where did you see it?” The arms around him constrict close to painful.
“Does it matter?” Stanley mumbles into the crook between his neck and shoulder.
“It does, to me.”
“… you left the report in the latest song notes.”
“Ah, I was careless then.”
Stanley launches them apart, seething, “Were you ever planning on telling us? Any of us?”
Xeno doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he had forgot about forgetting in the first place, that the details of the report are a fuzzy blur in his corrupted mind’s eye.
“Tell us what?” Charlotte’s voice is small.
Xeno closes his eyes, just for a beat, just to recalibrate. He can’t look at them without wanting to cry. He knows the words, has lived with them for a few months now; but they remain unbidden. “Stan–”
“No,” the fox digs his heels in, shaking his head. “You have to say it yourself. You have to say it, so that it materialises, so you can stop fucking running away from the problem.”
“Stanley,” Maya chastises– but Xeno knows he’s right.
Knowing and doing however, are not always in tandem. Xeno’s head pounds.
The slam of Stanley’s boot against one of his prized Gibsons jolts them all. Amber eyes blazing, “If that’s how you’re gonna be,” Stanley snatches his jacket and backpack off the floor, “I’m leaving.”
“Where are you–”
“If you leave now,” Xeno raises his voice with effort, “that would spell the end of our band.” Forces himself to face the distress marring the other, “Do you really want that?”
Stanley holds their gazes, “Is that a threat?”
“It’s the truth.”
He’s beside the singer in a second, hand raised and hovering, unable to decide upon an action. “I love the band too. I love music too,” Stanley shoves a hand repeatedly at the rabbit’s shoulder, “and I love your music most of all.”
“Then–”
“But more than music, I care about you,” the fox grips the other’s shoulder, peering. “Can you understand that?”
Xeno swallows, throat still parched. He’s scoring and falling simultaneously at the admission, at the pleading visage; expression open and hopeful, so painfully hopeful. The simple “No” he utters tears his throat, glass shards sparkling.
Stanley’s expression shutters, lets Xeno go. He curses, pulling one-handedly at his hair as he backs away. “You can find another guitarist. One who isn’t concerned about being an accomplice to murder,” he spits, pivoting on his heel. The other’s hand catches his elbow; as he did to him, lifetimes ago.
“No,” Xeno has the faint sense that he’s begging, but he can’t lose him, not now, “Stan, yours is the only guitar I want to hear.”
He wants them to continue. He wants their days to always be fun and bright. He wants to pull him into a hug and never let go.
He shrugs off Xeno’s hold, door slamming on his way out.
He doesn’t see anyone for a week.
Phone blowing up with a constant stream of messages and calls. He switches it off, packs for a camp in the mountains.
He moves to a new location every day within the ranged area. He subsists off cardboard dry bars and allowed prey, trapping fish and small birds. He misses the freedom of wielding a rifle as he did in the States. He has to admit that a guitar can never substitute.
He tries hard not to think about Xeno, about the band, about his own uselessness. He sobs into the inflatable pillow every night. He pretends that in one fell swoop, he hasn’t lost everything he loves. He screams at the greenery.
He returns to a hill of spam mail overflowing from the slot on his door; reminds himself to make a point about commercial littering to the landlord. The inside of the apartment yaws, untouched. Dust motes dance as he disturbs the peace.
The number of notifications on his phone is astounding. He scrolls through some of the recent ones, strangely dissatisfied. Types the name into the search function.
1 message from Xeno Houston Wingfield (#1 idiot)
>> I’m sorry. Please call back.
He drops the phone face fist onto the table, ignores the mess of emotions swirling into a knot inside him.
He needs a thorough shower. A hot meal that’s not ramen, no matter how much he craves it. A long slumber; he’s going to try for selective hibernation.
The phone rings. And rings. And rings.
Notification he’s set for messages from the band; the one that they all crouched over the phone to yell ‘Ding! Ding!’ at.
He curses at his inability to resist.
From Charlotte, an emergency message to check the news right now. He scrolls up instead, scaling the wall of worries texts, of her long initial message after his sudden flight.
That Xeno had explained about the brain tumour. That the projected timeframe was a few years; but no one can know for sure. That although it may look bleak, it wasn’t so bad.
The second part of the message is what sends Stanley on a frenzied search for the TV remote he barely uses, scattering everything everywhere.
On the third day of Stanley’s self-imposed exile, Xeno had gathered them all, and announced his departure from the band. He doesn’t want to drag them down. Not them, of all people. He tells them about his plan to go solo until the end, conviction for music unwavering. However, he admits that his health is not what it used to be, so he’s hiring a new hand to help him deal with the instrumental side of things.
A brown rat named Ishigami Senku, another prodigy– famous for his innovative melodies which challenge the norm, and his ability to produce the sound of any instrument only from a set of MIDI keyboards and controllers. Music made digital, made easier and more efficient.
The television boots to life– and there he is.
Stanley reminds himself to breathe.
Perfectly coiffed hair, jet black turtleneck, and rusty red coat. Eyes half closed, thin hands wrapped around the mic; singing a ballad of all things. His voice, that silky voice which enraptures flooding the stuffy apartment; seeping into the walls.
Aways behind him on stage right, Ishigami Senku mans the controller set, trilling keys and buttons with ease. During the bridge of the song, Xeno turns to Senku and the controllers, cooing haunting strains, dark eyes filling with so much emotion–
Stanley flicks off the television; sinks into the couch.
He hates it, all of it.
He doesn’t know who to blame.
When he has enough sense to blow his nose and sniffle the tears away; maddeningly, the apartment is visited by the ghost of burnt sugar.
( 08. ▶︎ · ၊၊ || ၊ | ။ |||| )
A nostalgic melody
I keep pleading for it
Like a child asking
Over and over
I started this determined
To carry it alone to the end
Where stubborn pride
Fades into a wind so clear
Even if it isn’t
Love
I’d like to drift
Together with you
On the hills which
Smell of happiness
There are no wrong notes
With your unwavering truth
I thought I could live
In this cruel world
The emcee ends their explanation about the event to a smattering of polite applause.
It’s toddler levels of simple: two bands will battle it out, and the audience gets to vote for the winner. If so desired, the bands can set parameters for number of songs, genre, or any other rule they please.
For Xeno and Stanley, they won’t need the aid of so many bells and whistles.
They’re slated to go first; on account of Xeno’s health. Beyond the curtain, a hungry crowd awaits. In the opposite wing, his former bandmates are clustered to the front for a good view. At the centre, the person whom he’s hurt the most because he’s loved him the most.
Xeno closes his eyes, clutching at the pain in his chest. Still do.
“You ready, old man?” Senku fidgets with a purple sapphire his hand, rubbed smooth– his partner Gen’s good luck charm sourced especially for him.
Xeno straightens his back. Nods, saving all that he can for his breath. Staff members slide the curtains open, stage lights blinding. He’s sweating already from the heat, made worse by the thousands of bodies packed like sardines in the small hall. His head pounds from the wall of noisy appreciation; audience invisible in the darkness below stage.
He splays his arms wide to soak it all in– this view which he doesn’t know when he may never see again.
Calms the crowd like a conductor, offers his best smiles while thanking them for coming all the way. He doesn’t know how to apologise for eventually abandoning them, these strangers who love his music so much.
He feels their anticipation, feels Senku’s steady support, feels Stanley’s eyes boring into the back of his head.
He feels the thin thread of music from the universe, guiding him forwards.
“Without further ado, please listen to this new song, Vibrato.”
The crowd gasps in surprise at the casual drop, activity stirs from the opposite wing. Senku hits the first key.
Drowning in sorrow
Without being loved–
I won’t acknowledge it
What sort of day
Lies beyond the end?
‘Hey Xe, can we make a stop at the guitar shop? Huh? Don’t sigh at me like that, you know I go through them strings pretty quickly.’
‘Fine, fine, I’ll buy you the damned pistachio tiramisu later. Just know that the gimmick is gross as heck.’
Shaking, shaking
Quivering voice
Sang out in
Full vibrato
‘Fucking hell, Xe! Xe did you see that? Did you see how happy they were out there? And we did that. We did it, Xe!’
Frustrations and struggles
Of our past–
Wishing for this
Limitless future
‘I’m fine.’
‘I said I’m fine.’
‘Stop worrying so much about me. Worry more about yourself; genius doesn’t excuse being a slob.’
Singing this song without
An end
‘Ohh, just three skips? They do say that odd numbers are unlucky for cooperation.’
‘Give it here, I’ll toss the stupid rock for ya.’
‘Of course I can make it an even number. Ten? You got it, boss.’
‘… Well fifteen’s not so bad, is it.’
I’m so glad I met you
I’ll never forget the day–
‘Form a band with me.’
‘Let’s just take over the world together with our music.’
‘I’ll wake you in the morning.’
Even if this body weakens,
My heart will not.
‘That’s it, get up. It’s been near 36 hours. You need to eat.’
‘You want me to break the thing I love?’
‘More than music, I care about you. Can you understand that?’
We’ll surely overcome this
So light, do not fade
‘Don’t you think moving this section to the second verse melody would be better?’
‘Huh, a cool riff? I just played you so many, take your pick. The hell you mean they’re not cool enough; you come and try then.’
‘You can find another guitarist, I guess. One who doesn’t mind being bossed around to unreasonable demands– Ow, that fucking hurt you little shit! Come back here!’
Even if my body weakens
My heart will never wither
‘Xe, I can’t fucking read your mind.’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘I won’t keep playing to kill you. You can find another guitarist.’
It’s the song of our love
‘Hey, Xe–’
‘Xe, look–‘
‘Xeno–‘
‘I’ll see you on stage.’
The final note wrenches itself free from his throat, leaving it scratched raw. Lights flashing, crowd cheering; the pounding of his pulse in his own ears a comfort to how he’s still here.
His leg wobbles; leans on the mic stand heavily to wave at the audience, to continue protecting their hopes and expectations. Senku appears at his elbow, helps make a show of dragging a reluctant Xeno off the stage by the shoulders, secretly supporting his limping gait.
“Thank you for your hard work,” he bows to his teammate; to the staff members who clap kindly, and who’ve prepared a plastic chair for him to sink into by the wing. He collapses into it, the hard plastic better than nothing.
“You’re a mess.”
Xeno jolts upright, tension straining in every part of his body. He can’t look at him; not now when his soul has just been flayed and exposed–
A sports drink bottle from the obscure brand he likes, straw punched through the cap. A face towel and a handkerchief; one for the sweat and one for the accumulated snot. He accepts them reflexively; gratefully.
Hovering hand, hesitating. The emcee announces the contenders. The crowd cheers.
Xeno bumps his head gently against that hand, Off you go.
The fox clicks his tongue,; but his fingers pat down firmly, his bushy tail brushes past the rabbit’s legs. You better be watching.
Dark eyes meet honeyed ones then, serious and firm. I always am.
“Oi, Senku,” Stanley jerks his head to the rabbit, “make sure he doesn’t run.”
“Rude,” Xeno gasps in mock hurt, as the brown rat snickers, flashing an ‘ok’ sign.
Xeno sips on his drink, steadily replacing lost electrolytes. He keeps his eyes on Stanley, steadily replacing jumbled feelings.
He kicks off the show with a loud strum, and the band follows.
“Our opponent,” he snarls into the mic with bravado, snatching it off the stand, “has been so kind as to grace us with a new song.” A wave of oohs and ahhs from the audience.
“It’d be really fucking rude of us–” he times his words to the beats of Maya’s drum, to the leaping clashes of Charlotte’s bass, and Brody’s piano; strutting with the mic across the stage.
“–to not”
Drum.
“–do”
Bass.
“–the same.”
Piano.
The crowd’s roars are deafening, disbelieving of their luck.
Stanley slots the mic back in place, swing his guitar to be positioned properly. “For this next song,” screams and cheers from the crowd. “You better enjoy it,” he teases with a wink, whipping fans into a frenzy; he swears he could see a flash of Xeno shaking his head fondly.
“This next one,” he tickles a phantom of the riff, priming; “is something that the band– that we all– hope will resonate.” Stares straight at Xeno then, “Please enjoy it; Glass Heart.”
In the gaps of a fading night
Your voice echoes
‘Your hair’s getting long.’
‘You’re a guitarist, yes? I’ll be needing you.’
Unfulfilled wishes
Scatter beautifully today too
‘Withdraw from the contest.’
‘An extra cool riff for this part, please and thank you.’
You keep asking "Why?" again and again
‘Stan, why–‘
Why don't you say anything back?
Why does this silence
Flow so loudly inside me?
‘Please call back.’
You keep asking "Why?" again and again
Why don't you say anything back?
‘If you leave now, that would spell the end of our band.’
‘Do you really want that?'
Along with fate itself, with your own hands
Tear it all to shreds!
‘'Stan, yours is the only guitar I want to hear.’
Even though we met
Through a humdrum fate
We kick it aside–
Soaring higher together
‘It’s a terribly unhygienic habit, but I suppose I’m glad it replaces the cigarettes.’
‘Stan, quick! We’re going to miss the train!’
‘Stan, have a listen, there’s this part that’s been bothering me–’
‘Hm? Of course I want you to listen; I trust you.’
Ringing out
In every fleeting moment
A sound that even God
Has never heard
‘Oh, so we’re planning to fight god now? As expected of my elegant partner!’
‘What do you mean you don’t trust me to build a guitar; I’m a verified genius you know.’
‘Hush Stan, let the magic work.’
‘… let it not be said that experimentalism is a core of science.’
‘Ow! Okay, okay, I’m sorry! I’ll buy you a new guitar!’
As long as I’m with you
We can play it together
‘Stan, over here!’
‘Stan, pass me that would you?’
‘Stanley–‘
I’ve got that feeling
‘You know what that is. Stan?’
‘Absolutely brilliant.’
I’ve got that feeling
His fingers feel numb, shaking the final note from heated strings, vibrations of the guitar travelling straight to his bones. Cheers from the crowd rattle his brain, galvanise his heart.
Around him, the others aren’t any better– panting from just one song; the exertion of sending their message to the one recipient who matters–
Stanley whips his gaze towards the shadows of the wing– seeing nothing but a empty plastic chair.
“Hey you! Scary Mr. Fox!”
Stanley growls at the mention, pivoting on his heel to march towards the heckler. He recognises that nasally voice anywhere.
Senku raises his hands in surrender, backing away instinctively. It takes the fox a while to notice the set of keys dangling with a promise. He groans tiredly, scrubbing a hand down his face, “Why’s he gotta be so damned dramatic all the time.”
The brown rat shrugs, handing them over. “Roof. Also, you chose him.”
‘Form a band with me.’ That he did.
Loud smack of an open palm straightens his back, pitching him forwards. “Go get him already,” Maya grins, “we’re making caldo de queso for dinner if he joins!”
“The Arturia KeyLab 61 Mk2’s been acting up. It’ll be a bust if he doesn’t fix it,” Brody baits, waggling nonexistent brows.
“And he still owes me ten dollars for that mascara,” Charlotte chimes.
Senku snickers, sticking a pinky into his ear. “Looks like you’ve all got it figured out, so–”
Maya claps a hand on his shoulder, engulfing his frame completely. “What are you mumbling about? Of course you’re joining us too!”
“What? No, I–”
“Oh you should ask your partner too,” Charlotte whips out her phone from nowhere, scrolling till she lands on Gen’s name. “Wouldn’t be right if the manager of all people, doesn’t show,” she traps, leaving no room for argument.
Brody guffaws fully from his broad chest, hands on hips, “Give up, kid. You lost the moment we clocked you.”
Senku pales, splutters excuses which go unheard.
Stanley leaves him to the forceful mercy of his bandmates.
“I’ve thought about it,” Xeno’s raised voice traverses the wide expanse, ears flopping in the wind.
“A dangerous past time,” Stanley returns easily. He settles himself into the space expected of him– back against the chain link fence, Xeno on his right. His guitar has always been on stage left.
“You love playing guitar.”
“Yeah.”
“You love being in a band.”
“Yeah.”
“You love that people are actually moved by our songs.”
“Yeah.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Xeno nods sagely. “They make you happy.”
“Wouldn’t be here if they didn’t.”
Xeno hums; willing the other to meet his gaze.
Stanley does.
“Do I make you happy?”
Yes. No. Sometimes.
Lies.
Stanley licks his lips; past the swirling mass which chokes him, past the screaming beats of his own heart. “Always.”
Xeno looks like he’s been shot, breaths shallow and uneven while a fearful clarity lights his eyes. He ducks away for a moment, the truth heavier than hers ever known. Stanley waits him out.
Pinpricks of water fall onto their shoulders; gradually increasing in volume as the sky tears open a pocketful of tears, drenching them in spite of the sun being brightly out.
Ah right, it was raining back then too.
“So then,” Xeno offers an upturned palm, “play guitar by my side, for the rest of my life.”
It’s Stanley’s turn to be shaken– confusion and elation mounting with every passing second–
Can’t help the colourful curses, the searing blush, the overflowing tears. The barking laughter escaping him hurts in the best way. “What as an exclusive? I don’t come cheap you know.”
Xeno laughs too, eyes crinkling around the corners, “I’ll have to save up then, don’t I? Can’t have my guitarist cheating on me by supporting other bands.”
“You’re the only one,” Stanley takes his hand, wrapping fingers carefully. “You’re the only person in the world who asked me back. The only person I’d agree to.” Lifts their linked hands to press a long kiss on the back of Xeno’s own, cementing his promise with each peck to the rabbit’s thin fingers.
“It wasn’t all bad, was it?” Xeno sinks his free hand into the bushy tail curling around his waist.
“No, no it wasn’t.” Stanley rakes silver tresses matted by the downpour, “And it won’t be.”
It isn’t fair; how the fox knows exactly which notes to play to render all the walls Xeno has built into pathetic putty. “Stay?”
Stanley surges forward, seals his vow against Xeno’s lips. Taste of burnt sugar dissolving in the rain. When he pulls away, Xeno remains.
“Are you going to cry again?” the rabbit teases, easing his arm from the other’s python hold to poke at his cheek.
Stanley scoffs, nuzzling the rabbit’s throat in retaliation. “ I’ve cried enough tears for a lifetime over you,” he mouths into that neck, over the singer’s ticklish laughs.
“What a shame,” he drums fingers across the fox’s lips, “Perhaps I should attempt to sing until you cry.”
“What’s with that weird-ass obsession,” Stanley nips at the fingers, soothing immediately after. “If that’s how you’re gonna be, then I won’t cry for the rest of my life.”
Oh Xeno could die right now; and he won’t be the least bit mad for it. Peppers a barrage of kisses which pale in comparison to the fullness of his heart and soul. “Stanley Snyder,” he breathes, shaking his head with a grin wide as the Mariana trench. “Stanley Snyder.”
“Xeno Houston Wingfield,” Stanley responds in turn, each syllable a cradled precious gem. “Form a band with me.”
Xeno’s laugh rings crystalline in the rain– beautiful. He cups Stanley’s face, presses their foreheads together. “The end credits soundtrack; let’s make it the best one possible for us both.”
“Yeah,” Stanley hums, “let’s.”