asher was touched that fitz seemed to understand him. not surprised, exactly. fitz understood asher better than most when it came to music the need to make something out of feeling, to take all the noise inside his chest and give it a shape people could hear. still, asher reached over on instinct to stop him from hitting play.
the video started with rustling. the soft scrape of a chair leg against the floor. a quiet little curse under someoneâs breath. rowan, somewhere off-camera at first, getting his guitar settled, the tuning pegs clicking as he adjusted them one by one.then his face filled the screen. asher forgot how to breathe.
rowan looked exactly the way memory made him and nothing like it at all. dark hair falling messily over his forehead, sharp cheekbones softened by the low light, mouth slightly parted in concentration as he leaned over the guitar. he had that stupidly beautiful face that always looked like it belonged half on a stage and half in some private dream, all restless energy and soft edges, eyes bright even when he wasnât looking at anyone. when he finally glanced toward the camera, his smile came easyâcrooked, luminous, devastating. alive. rowan was alive on the screen. âiâve actually been working on this since i met asher,â rowan said.
asherâs eyes filled immediately. he heard his own name in rowanâs voice, warm and casual, like asher was going to walk through the door any second. like there was still a world where that happened. like rowan was still somewhere just out of frame, waiting for him. âjeremy, i think the drums need to build with this one,â rowan continued, glancing into the camera giving the drummer who wasn't there instructions. ânothing too heavy at first. it started from some random rhythm ash was tapping out one dayâŚâ his fingers moved over the guitar, playing a few soft chordsâjust enough to give the shape of it. and there it was. the rhythm. asher knew it before he could name it, because it was his. the little pattern he tapped when he was thinking, when he was nervous, when music was moving through him before he had anywhere to put it. rowan had heard it and had kept it.
asher let out a small, broken laugh, staring hard at the screen. âhe always had a specific vision for each song,â he said, voice thin around the edges. he still didnât look at fitz. he couldnât. if he looked at fitz and saw pity, or understanding, or anything kind, he was worried he might not be able to keep speaking. on the screen, rowan adjusted his grip on the guitar, cleared his throat softly, and started to play. quiet, at first. just acoustic guitar and his voice.
âyou hum like the city after midnight
soft electricity under your skin
every room bends toward your rhythm
like the night is learning how to listenâ
asherâs hand came up to cover his mouth. he remembered rowan teasing him about humming. remembered rowan looking over from the studio couch with that fond, exasperated smile and saying, do you ever go quiet, love? remembered asher grinning and saying no, probably not.
âi tried to write silence before you
but the chords kept turning your name
now every note i follow leads me
back to the sound of your breathing againâ
rowanâs voice wavered slightly on the last line, not because he was sad, but because he was still finding it. still shaping the song as he sang. unfinished. private. not ready for anyone. not ready for asher.
âand i donât know where the music ends
or where you beginâ
asher closed his eyes for half a second, but that made it worse. without the screen, it was just rowanâs voice in the room. rowanâs breath between lyrics. rowanâs fingers moving over strings.
âi learned your frequency slowly
between the silence and the strings
tuning my heart to your static
hearing you in everythingâ
the tears slipped before asher could stop them. he didnât wipe them away. not yet. he couldnât move.
âyou laugh like the lights coming on
in the back of a crowded bar
and the world keeps moving around us
but somehow youâre where the songs areâ
asher remembered that too. some bar in london, maybe. or berlin. or maybe all of them blurred together now. rowan watching him laugh with the band, rowanâs gaze catching his across a crowded room like a secret only the two of them knew. asher had thought heâd been loved. he hadnât known heâd been heard like this.
âso if you leave, leave the echo
leave the noise in my bones
iâll keep the signal you gave me
even when iâm aloneâ
a sound caught in asherâs throat because rowan was the one who left. rowan was the echo now. rowan was the signal asher kept chasing through old files and half-finished tracks and dreams where his voice still sounded close enough to answer.
âi learned your frequency slowly
between the silence and the strings
tuning my heart to your static
hearing you in everythingâ
on the video, rowan stopped singing for a moment, the guitar continuing softly beneath his hands. he looked down at the strings, smiling to himself like he knew the next part was too honest and loved it anyway.
âyou hear music where the world goes quiet
i hear you in everythingâ
asher pressed his palm harder against his mouth. rowanâs voice softened.
âso if you leave
iâll still be tuned to youâ
the last chord rang out, gentle and unfinished. for one impossible second, there was only silence. then a ringtone cut through the room. rowan laughed on the screen, startled and bright, and turned his head toward the sound. âoh, itâs you, ash baby.â asher broke. just a sharp inhale that caved in on itself, his shoulders folding as the nickname hit somewhere nothing else could reach. on the screen, rowan looked back toward the camera, smiling like he was sharing a secret with it. âiâll show you this later. you know how i am.â his laugh filled the production booth. asherâs heart clenched so hard it hurt. rowan answered the phone, voice warming instantly. âhey, baby. i was just thinking about you.â then the video ended.
the screen froze on rowanâs face, mid-smile, eyes bright and alive and gone. asher stared at the still image for a long moment. he didnât know when he had started crying properly, only that the tears were on his cheeks now, hot and humiliating and impossible to stop. he wiped under his eyes with the heel of his hand, then sniffed and let out a shaky breath. âsorry,â he said, voice rough. âi guess i shouldâve⌠watched this before you came over so i didnâtââ
he waved vaguely at himself, at the tears, at the mess of him sitting in front of a laptop like an idiot who thought grief had an expiration date. he wiped his eyes again, then finally looked at fitz. the question came out too small for the room. âwhat do you think?â he asked, trying for practical and failing. âcan we answer him?â