Archive of Our Own ^beta

- WINTER -

A tear rolls on his cheek. It goes from the bottom of his eyes, follows the flat curve and soft lines of his face, stops at his jawline. Suspense. The entire world holds its breath. The tear falls. Arundolyn exhales, eyes half lidded, seeing pipe dreams which will never come to life below his eyelids.

There’s hope.

He’s about to open his mouth to deliver his next like – just like he rehearsed – but a shrill sound echoes in the room, and the man facing him raises a hand as he fishes his phone out of his pocket. Arundolyn wants to hope, he really wants to, but he knows better. Perhaps the Arundolyn of a few months back would have been artful enough to believe he still has a chance in this audition.

“Yes?” the man says on the phone. Arundolyn rolls his eyes. He takes his coat, flings it on his shoulders, and before any of them can say a word, he’s out.

Another pipe dream has died, but it’s fair, he had expected it. No one has ever said being an actor, or well, aspiring to be one, is easy.

Most people don’t understand jazz. Or don’t like it enough. Today, jazz is underrated. That’s how youngsters would word it, Rostam believes, and it doesn’t matter that he’s only twenty-seven, younger people these days are weirder than he.

“You’re fired! I told you to stick with Chinese songs. That’s what you get for disobedience!” the man yells in his face. Something wet lands on his face, gobs of spit without a doubt. It takes him everything to not let disgust show on his face.

“Fine,” Rostam answers with a calm and collected voice. This is pointless, everything is pointless. He sees no reason why he should cling to this establishment unable to appreciate a pianist playing actual jazz.

He takes a last look at the bar he used to work to: everything is hued in blue or red. The colour patterns won’t be missed.

“Thank you,” he whispers to his manager when he passes by him on his way to the exit. This is freedom in some kind of weird way, and ironically, this tedious man has been the one to set him free: now, Rostam can weave hope back in his heart.

“Hey, I wanted to say that I really liked the song–” Suddenly, a red-haired man comes out of nowhere and stands on his way out, mumbling and bubbling about some nonsense: Rostam had a bad day, he feels a headache showing up (it’s the lights, it’s always the lights), in short, he has no patience to spare.

His shoulder hits hard against the man, sending him stumbling a few steps back. An offended cry follows him, but for now, Rostam can’t really bring himself to care. Besides, it’s most likely he will never see this stranger again.

This night, he dreams of an unnamed jazz bar, and even though there was no logo on the shopfront, Rostam didn’t have to look further in the matter.

It was his club. The one which existed only in his head, and one day perhaps in real life.

“You should go to the party with me,” Rosalyne says, perched on the far corner of his bed. She’s wearing her velvet dress, the one which fits her perfectly, has tied up her blonde hair into a complicated and sophisticated ponytail, and her make-up is already on. Arundolyn groans and fights the urge to roll over and turn his back to her. Since he’s a decent friend, he faces her.

“Give me three reasons why I should.”

His best friend rises to the challenge without batting an eyelash. She holds up a finger. “Brooding alone during weeks never helped anyone.”

“I’m not brooding. And it hasn’t been weeks–”

“Meeting new people is always good,” she adds another finger while she sends him a pointed look.

“What for? My romantic or professional life?” Arundolyn sighs. “Both are disastrous right now.”

“And that’s the third one for you: you don’t know, there could be someone in the crowd, and that someone could be the one you need to know.” She holds up a third finger with a triumphant smile.

“You didn’t even answer me.” The redhead slouches back on his bed, but the mattress bends down next to him, meaning that Rosalyne’s getting serious, or she’s merely laying next to him. She’s definitely laying next to him.

“That works for both.”

A beat. “Not afraid of messing with your hair?” Arundolyn teases.

“I’ve seen worse.” Rosalyne turns her head to the side so they’re both gazing at each other. “You should wear your white shirt with your new midnight blue pants. They suit you well.”

“Midnight blue?” Arundolyn grins. “Is that even a real colour?”

“C’mon,” She nudges him with her elbow. “You do need the change of idea, I know you.”

That’s true: he does need to clear his mind, and Rosalyne knows him since almost five years; he can’t remember a time when she wasn’t in his life. Rooming with her was possibly his best and worst idea at the same time.

“Fine.” His best friend props up on her elbows, face lightening up like a lamp, beaming at him as if he’d just said the most wonderful thing.

“You can’t take it back now!”

Arundolyn sighs as he sits up: this will be a long night but also, it could be worth something: Rosalyne is right when she told him he might meet the right person, and it’s been a long time since they both got out together.

The music is loud. Very loud. For a second, Arundolyn pities his ears and mourns the loss of hearing which will follow in the morning. But worry not, this is a problem for future hangover Arundolyn in the morning. Right now, he’s smiling wide enough for his cheeks to ache. Rosalyne’s still talking to people inside the big house, making friends, useful acquaintances for later, but he doesn’t mind: as much as the music is loud here, it’s nothing compared to inside, and he’s glad to have some ‘peace’ here, strolling aimlessly in the gardens.

People are jumping into the pool; splotches of water land on the top of his shoes and Arundolyn takes a step back since he’s not too keen on getting his clothes wet – he likes that shirt, okay.

Well, even if he didn’t find that ‘special someone’ or whatever in the crowd, he can’t take away that it was a fun party.

This afternoon, the sun is out in the sky, already warming up his bones. Rosalyne had insisted for them to go to that party; like always, Arundolyn had bent to her wishes. And now, he has grown bored waiting for her to come back: wandering around doesn’t seem like a bad idea at all.

When Arundolyn steps into the garden, there’s a band playing a reprise of ‘Take on me’ – hence the starting headache – and when he lifts his stare up, he can see them dressed in eighties clothes bouncing on their feet to give the impression they’re enjoying themselves. Well, at least most of them: a man, oddly familiar, standing behind the keyboard is stiff as a plank, scowling to himself while he pushes some keys. His blue hair catches the light in an unrealistic way – cut it off, Arundolyn wants to scoff.

Suddenly, it hits him why he feels like he already knows that man: he’s the one he bumped into when he had stepped into the bar last night. Arundolyn remembers trying to utter words of comfort after witnessing that man being fired, and he remembers even better being shoved. Well, Arundolyn isn’t a spiteful man; if the man doesn’t want his pitiful try at providing comfort, nothing can be done.

“Any song requests?” One of the musician yells over the crowd.

Well, a little teasing has never hurt anyone, right?

He raises his hand up in the air; it’s not difficult to get noticed since he’s in the front and wearing some kind of yellow (mustard, you don’t wear yellow canary, had said Rosalyne) jacket.

“You, the man in the front!”

“I ran,” Arundolyn suggests with a big grin, raising his voice above the clatter. The reaction is worth the wait: the blue-haired man’s lips slightly part, suddenly his brows furrow and soon, his entire face is distorted into a scowl.

“It’s my favourite song,” he says with a wink. Arundolyn has just lied, but the grimace of pure disgust written all over the piano player is rewarding beyond measure. There’s nothing funnier than the way the guy’s eyebrows pinch together or how his jaw tenses as he starts to reluctantly push some keys.

Despite what jazzman might think, Arundolyn does enjoy that song. Soon, the beat rises to his ears, and he lets himself be carried away by the music. He flashes a bright smile at the musicians, the best one he has in his collection. After all, this is his suggestion, he may as well take advantage of it.

“I recognise you now,” the blue haired guy says as he gets closer to where Arundolyn’s standing as he waits for Rosalyne to come back with drinks.

“You do?” he says, feigning surprise.

“Yeah. Last night at the club–” the guy trails off before squaring his shoulder and clenching his jaw as if he were preparing for a fight. Lucky for him, Arundolyn isn’t much of a warrior. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have acted like some kind of–”

“Of an asshole, yeah,” the redhead cuts in, nodding. The blue haired man seems startled at first, but he only sighs, accepting the label.

“I really am sorry.” The guy narrows his eyes at Arundolyn. “But seriously, don’t ask a professional musician to play ‘I ran’. Or just the fact it’s your favourite song–”

“I lied,” Arundolyn chimes in again, this time with a wide grin. “Sorry about that.”

“So, you just like to torture people for your own entertainment?”

“Do you believe me if I say it’s only for you?”

Jazzman lets out a long sigh. “And you seem to be such a nice guy when you’re not talking to me.”

“Perhaps you’re the problem.”

The guy snorts. “Or you’re the problem.”

“Right.” Arundolyn rolls his eyes, although he cannot hide the grin eating half his face as well as he would like. “Though, I’d like to borrow your clothes, I have an audition next week, and guess what? I’ll be playing an eighties guy.”

“Very funny.” A pause. “So, you’re an actor?”

He has stopped looking for Rosalyne. Now, his stare is riveted into the man standing before him. “Yes, but you might have more chance to see me at a coffee shop than in a movie.” He can’t help but to utter that phrase with a sigh.

The blue haired guy shrugs. “We all have to start somewhere.”

“Even in a band playing old eighties songs?” Arundolyn arches an eyebrow.

A snort rewards his clever phrase. “Smartass. The next set’s now.” With a gruff voice, the guy adds, “What’s your name?”

Startled by the sudden inquiry when not knowing his name didn’t seem to bother jazzman before, the redhead answers without producing a witty remark or jab.

“Arundolyn.”

“Well, Arundolyn,” the blue haired man says his name like it’s something heavy and forbidden, “I hope I’ll see your face on the big screen one day.”

With that, the guy leaves without giving his own name in return; Arundolyn’s left speechless and arms dangling by his sides. That’s how Rosalyne finds him when she comes back, holding the promised drinks.

“What did I miss?” she asks as soon as she catches a glimpse of the redhead’s face.

“Nothing.”

He liked how his name sounded on the blue haired stranger’s mouth.

The night is colder now that the sun’s warm rays have gone through the horizon. Arundolyn can’t repress the shiver running alongside his spine; even when he folds his arms together, the goosebumps never really disappear.

“Need a ride home?” a voice behind him echoes. The redhead knows all too well that timber with the infuriated inflexion; he doesn’t have to turn to guess the man’s identity.

“It’s very kind of you,” Arundolyn says, turning back. Jazzman appears before his eyes, moonlight catching in his hair. An ethereal sight. “I didn’t take you for the guy to help people with terrible music tastes.”

“I’m not cruel,” the guy snorts. Right. Arundolyn could have been fooled.

“So much kindness,” the redhead smiles like he’s genuinely impressed and delighted by the proposal. “My car is parked up there.”

When he turns his heels, he’s startled to hear the guy following him until they’re walking side by side, elbow against elbow.

“I’d hate to see your face on the news tomorrow with the mention ‘murdered’.”

“Once again, you’re way too kind.”

The corner of the man’s mouth tips upward. “I get that a lot.”

“Sure, you do.”

In silence, they start walking up the slope; focusing on his steps and his breathing is the distraction Arundolyn was waiting for, and soon enough, the whole situation feels less awkward.

“It’s a lovely night,” the blue-haired guy mumbles under his breath. Arundolyn startles; if anything, he hadn’t pictured the man to be one for small talks like this.

“Right.”

When he cranes his neck to get a better look at the sky towering above their heads, a stunning sight great his eyes: stars are shinning like little diamonds spread across the dark blue immensity. It is, indeed, a lovely night.

“Too bad it’s just you and me there,” Arundolyn whispers through his teeth, eyes glinting; when he ducks his head, he knows the light catches in his hair and gaze, giving him a spark which wouldn’t be there if it wasn’t for the stars.

“What do you mean?” the blue-haired man frowns, a genuine look of surprise on his features.

“I don’t make a habit of going out with guys wearing polyester suits.”

‘I have standards’ is left unsaid. Truth to be told, Arundolyn can look over cheap suits; he’s not one who cares much about every little detail when it comes to appearance. But if it means infuriating this stranger, he’ll take gladly the chance.

“It's wool.”

“Of course.”

The guy tilts his neck up to get a better look at the sky before he lets out a long sigh.

“What a waste of a lovely night.”

“True,” Arundolyn nods. “Perhaps a naive girl would have been delighted to be here with you.”

“Or perhaps an exuberant guy would have suited you perfectly well for that night.”

Arundolyn looks at the man by his side. His cheekbones are so sharp that the redhead could cut himself on it, his hair is dishevelled and messy; no matter how the moon reflects in those strands, chaos and bird nest are the keywords here.

But Arundolyn would be lying if he kept assuring that this stranger had not even an ounce of beauty in him. The hair has something charming and endearing, which leaves him wondering how passing his hand through it would feel. Dangerous slope here. The eyes are blue, pale powder blue, like a cold lake; his breath catches in his chest, and he’s left shivering on the shore when he enters the deep waters. But then, the freezing cold becomes familiar, welcomed even.

“You're not my type,” Arundolyn says instead of blurting out whatever picture his brain conjures and making a fool out of himself.

“Really?” The blue haired guy displays a little smirk on his lips, and gods, Arundolyn would do anything to wipe it off. Even if it meant kissing him.

“Really.”

“It’s a shame it’s only us.”

“Truly a shame,” Arundolyn agrees. “Any other guy or girl would love this swirling sky and those shining stars. But there’s only you and me.”

“Perhaps any other guy or girl would have a chance at romance.”

Eyes tethering on an unsaid question, the man slowly offers his hand, and without even questioning it, the redhead takes it. Without a warning, that blue-haired stranger raises their joint hands into the air above their heads. Arundolyn doesn’t need to catch his eyes or to lean closer to guess what that dammed guy desires.

Letting out a low chuckle, the redhead lets himself be carried away, and soon he swirls step by step, still clinging to that stranger’s hand like it’s his only lifeline.

When the twirling stops, he finds himself face to face with that blue immensity; Arundolyn can only blink blearily to adjust his vision. Their noses are brushing, the redhead almost recoils at the sudden touch. But when he gets a hold on his nerves, he refuses to be the first one to drop his stare: Arundolyn isn’t a man who fights a lot, but this is a battle of wits he’s not ready to lose.

“Still not a spark?” jazzman grins from ear to ear.

“Just a spark of irritation, don’t worry, dear,” he fires back with a matching smirk.

“The name’s Rostam.”

“Arundolyn. But you already knew that.”

“Lovely, meeting you here.”

The sarcasm isn’t lost on him. Arundolyn wiggles his eyebrows: if there's something they have agreed on, it’s that both would do anything to be anywhere else with anyone but the other. And yet— Perhaps there’s indeed a spark, but will it end in a small flame or in a blaze?

“I’d never fall for you at all.”

Jazzman, who goes by Rostam now, nods, “I’m frankly feeling nothing.”

“Is that so?” Fishing out his phone from his pocket, Arundolyn hands it over to Rostam who takes it without a word. “I think I’ll be the one to make that call.”

Rostam’s fingers stop hovering above the digital keyboard so the blue-haired man can get a better look at him. “Really? You’ll call?”

Arundolyn only answers with a small smile.

“My car is there,” he says with a shrug, but Rostam doesn’t seem to be offended by his abrupt departure.

“Good to know we agreed on something at least.”

“Which is?”

“What a waste of a lovely night.”

When Arundolyn starts his car minutes after, he has dreams fleeting before his eyelids, and for once, he’s not brandishing an Oscar but holding the hand of a man with deep blue strands flowing behind his back.

- SPRING –

“Are you mocking me?” Arundolyn hisses when he notices his unusual customer.

Rostam shrugs. “I was passing not far from here when I remembered you worked here.”

“What do you want?” he pushes. Even though he gave him his number, the redhead has yet to make the call. They aren’t friends, only acquaintances: he has no reason to come here except from taunting him, that’s Arundolyn’s best guess.

“A coffee.” Rostam arches an eyebrow. “Isn’t what you’re serving here?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“For god’s sake, please. I just want to feel awake.”

For once, Arundolyn complies, still watching Rostam carefully, even when he exits the shop. Well, whatever.

The grand romantic dream of becoming an actor is paved with disillusions. Here’s one: working as a cashier for a small yet well-known coffee shop isn’t his best future life plan. His life is tightly balanced between auditions and serving orders; some days, the only thing he really yearns for is crawling into his bed to sleep for the next twenty-four hours.

But Arundolyn can’t afford this luxury.

“A cappuccino please.”

“Which size?” he smiles out of habit without looking up.

“Regular.”

That customer’s intonation has something different from the others; that what makes him raise his head with furrowed eyebrows, only to come face to face with Rostam.

“S-Sorry!” Arundolyn sputters, throwing himself back, away from the counter. “I really didn’t notice you before.”

“It's alright.” Rostam’s eyes crinkle with mischief. “When’s your shift over?”

Arundolyn barely glances at his watch: he keeps a close eye on the hours passing by, since serving coffees and cupcakes isn’t quite an interesting thing.

“Thirty minutes from now on.”

A smile lights up Rostam’s features. “Then I hope you don’t mind if I whisk you away?”

“Depends on what you have on your mind.” With deft hands, or maybe it’s the force of the habit guiding him, Arundolyn starts up the percolator as he keeps his eyes on the blue haired man during the entire process.

“I know a good bar with good music.”

“What kind?”

“Jazz.”

“Ah,” Arundolyn bites his bottom lip. “I don't really like jazz.”

Rostam’s darkens until the smile is changed into a scowl; he wants to scoot away from the counter, but somehow, Arundolyn is glued in place, eyes fixed on the man he has upset.

“I don’t listen much to jazz, though,” the redhead says quickly to salvage what seems to be left of his—of Rostam. He can’t really say ‘relationship’ can’t he? If anything, they have been nothing but elusive when exchanging texts. ‘Friends’ is safe, and he owes it to Rostam after the dozens of coffees he has brought from this place.

Rostam had mentioned going out, but he’d never written the label assigned to them in black and white: Arundolyn had come to work without expectations, since he deemed it better than straight-up assuming things. So much for a first date now.

“Good thing I choose that bar then,” Rostam says, with a teasing glint in his eyes. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

The bar is cosier than he had expected. The wall is ornate with a deep turquoise paint, some old records are hung, and posters picturing old bands are pinned in the corners. In the back of the room, there’s people behind the piano, guitar, microphone, getting ready to play.

With a hand, Rostam motions him to get closer to a table.

“Ready to have your mind blown?” Rostam leans in and whispers in his ears. If it’s a blush he’s feeling on his cheeks, no, it is not.

“Whatever you say, jazzman.” Arundolyn winks at his friend like flirting with men is his everyday life (it isn’t).

There’s the faintest blush sprawled across Rostam’s cheeks – this is so endearing, he can feel his heart melting behind his ribcage – but other than that, there are no obvious signs of embarrassment.

“I’ve sent my application to this bar,” Rostam murmurs like it’s some kind of dirty secret. “I hope they’ll accept it.”

“Why not? Why would they refuse you?”

The blue haired man shrugs, “I guess that getting fired doesn’t look that good on a resume.”

“Well, you have to be better than some words inked on paper, then.” Arundolyn grins, even when he meets Rostam’s dumbfounded look. “For what it’s worth, I only heard you play once, but I believe you can do great things.”

The blue-haired man’s eyes water, and for a moment, Arundolyn almost fears that tears are going to spill, but Rostam only sniffles and adds with a strangled voice he labels as ‘holding back tears’.

“Thanks. I–” he trails off, his tone goes uneven.

“It’s nice, hearing that from time to time, right?”

After all, even if Arundolyn isn’t in the music business, he knows the struggles of being broke, skipping meals, and the pain of refusals. And the fear of not being enough: he wants to be an actor, but what if he’s not cut out to be one? What if he doesn’t have the talent?

Arundolyn doesn’t want to know the answer.

At the end of the night, he gets back to his flat with stars in his eyes, more knowledge about jazz and hope to nurse in his heart.

“Let’s do something unheard of,” Arundolyn says, leaning on his elbows at the table of the coffee shop where Rostam’s currently working.

His eyes don’t leave his screen as he answers, “What do you mean?”

“Well, people always go out to see movies, you know?” Rostam nods, eyes still glued to his laptop. “What if we went out to see the sky instead?”

That makes the blue haired man looks up from his work, eyes widened and mouth slightly parted.

“What do you mean? You can’t really see the stars here in Los Angeles.” He frowns as if an idea forms into his mind. “Or maybe it’s what you meant? Let’s drive off the city until we can see them in the sky?”

This is so ridiculous that Arundolyn can’t help but laugh. (If his manager catches him like that, slacking off, he’s done for.)

“I think going to a planetarium is a bit easier,” he says before Rostam can be offended by his burst of laughter. “What do you say about that?”

The blue haired man sighs, takes a long breath, closes his eyes as if he’s deep in thoughts. And then, “Fine. What time?”

Arundolyn smiles so hard that his cheeks ache.

The stars shine high above their heads. The planetarium is a wide empty sphere, a realm devoid of human life if it’s not for them.

The galaxies are spinning before their eyes, stars appear and disappear in flashes of light; they’re pulled together toward this display, feeling like they can touch these celestial bodies by holding out a hand. Like everything is possible, like they can defeat fate and destiny as long as they’re together.

A hand closes on his own. Arundolyn’s tempted to look down, but the show unfolding before his eyes keeps him from doing so.

‘I’m here’ the warmth of Rostam’s palm tells him. And Arundolyn believes him.

The fingers close on his own. Before he can think twice about it, he mirrors the action, squeezing back. That’s all it takes for Rostam to spark up in action.

Slowly but surely, he’s nudged to the right; the blue-haired man pulls on their linked hands, and Arundolyn opposes no resistance.

“Do you trust me?” Rostam says, eyes glinting like all the stars are here and not in the planetarium’s sky.

“Of course I do.”

Rostam doesn’t add anything; instead, he keeps nudging him into a direction until Arundolyn fully yield. The blue haired man drags his feet across the floor in a movement which shouldn’t be that gracious, and Arundolyn follows behind, trying to mimic the flowing and elegant gestures.

His hand lingers on Arundolyn’s hip, a ghost touch: he can almost feel the fingertips brushing against his clothes, the heat radiating from another body.

“Can I?” Rostam whispers, anchoring his stare into his own. Arundolyn cannot look away.

“Yes. Yes, you can,” he says in a breath, barely audible.

Without waiting, Rostam closes the bridge between them, reducing the distance separating their bodies to mere ashes. His hand rests heavily against Arundolyn’s hip, his warmth seeps through the layer of clothes until he feels a burning print on his skin. The redhead’s breath hitches, his heart beats soundly, and his stomach does a funny flip.

He’s swept off his feet, leaving him defenceless.

“Follow my lead,” the blue-haired man whispers in his ears, sending a shiver alongside his spine and goosebumps on his arms.

Wordlessly, Arundolyn nods.

With that, they start a strange ballet of two dancers only.

Rostam takes a step forward, Arundolyn takes a step back. Rostam slides smoothly on the left, Arundolyn follows him without questions. Rostam raises their hands up above their heads like they are reaching for the sky, fingertips grazing against galaxies.

Arundolyn spins on himself, hanging to reality only by the thread linking him to Rostam’s hand, his one and only anchor in this world made of planets and stars. He spins, spins, spins like a supernova out of control.

Everything stops. Their stares meet, and for one second, it’s like the whole world has come to an end.

The stars keep twiddling in the sky.

“So? How did it feel?” Rostam grins from ears to ears.

“Magical,” Arundolyn says in all honesty. He can still feel his heart beating wildly in his chest.

Rostam is leaning in dangerously close; their noses are already brushing. The redhead shudders. He stares at the planets behind Rostam’s shoulders, quickly at the ground, and then somewhere above the blue haired man’s head where he can see blue strands and stars.

Slowly, as if he’s dealing with a wild animal, Rostam’s fingers reach for Arundolyn’s chin, tilting his head. He’s using the only two inches he has on Arundolyn. Unfair. Yet, his breath hitches very audibly, his heartbeat goes into a frenzied state — he’s almost afraid it’ll fly up from his ribcage.

“Can I?” Rostam’s voice is barely a whisper. When Arundolyn gazes into his stare, he expects confidence, but not the distraught fear of rejection and the lacking assurance. Rostam’s hanging on his lips like his life depends on it.

“Absolutely,” Arundolyn whispers back because no world exists in which he refuses someone like Rostam.

The blue-haired man closes the gap between their lips. Fireworks explode in his head; all he can feel is Rostam everywhere, on his lips, on his heart, in his head. The smell of sandalwood fills his nose. Underneath his lips, Rostam’s are soft although a little chapped, but Arundolyn doesn’t mind the slightest.

Everything goes blurry, spots of lights in his eyesight as if they’re lost in their own city of stars.

They finally step back, panting, chests heaving, eyes widening in disbelief of what happened. (Arundolyn yearns for more.)

It’s Rostam who first breaks the silence.

“Let’s do this every day.”

“Every day,” he echoes weakly.

This is some kind of madness, agreeing to some kind of relationship so fast, but never something has felt so right in his chest. Doesn’t matter discarded pipe dreams and broken fantasies, if Rostam got Arundolyn and Arundolyn got Rostam, they will succeed.

“Let’s watch a movie,” Rostam says, squeezing his hand.

“Must it have jazz songs in it?” Arundolyn squeezes back.

His boyfriend — it's his boyfriend now — takes a deep breath, inhales, exhales, before riveting his eyes into Arundolyn’s.

“Fine,” he says like he has made the most selfless sacrifice.

Nothing has ever sounded more like ‘I love you’ than this small word, uttered from the tip of the lips.

They end up watching ‘Man Bites Dog’ — one of Arundolyn’s favourite movies, and even if he can tell Rostam doesn’t understand the whole thing, he still tries his best. It’s enough for Arundolyn to set his heart beating fast and his cheeks burning. So, this is what love feels like.

In movies, the confession, the three feared little words come with a grand scene in grand fashion — often at the airport for dramatics’ sake — that ends up with tears of joy and an overbearing love.

For Rostam and Arundolyn, it happens much quieter. They’re both at Rostam's place for once, Arundolyn always argues that his flat is more comfortable.

Rostam is laying on his couch, watching absent-minded a television program. The redhead has got up to fetch a glass of water — his throat is dry as hell for no good reason. He’s about to leave the kitchen when something holds him back: before he can really think about it, he opens the cupboard to grab another glass.

When Arundolyn sets both glasses on the small table before the couch, the blue haired man’s stare falls upon him, drawn by the sudden sound.

“Yeah, I grabbed one for you,” Arundolyn explains when he meets Rostam’s dumbfounded look. “I thought you could use a little refresh.”

Rostam’s whole being melts into the couch, like it’s the most romantic gesture Arundolyn has ever made (it isn’t).

“You’re perfect.” A silence. “Gods, I love you.”

Arundolyn freezes into place, eyes wide open and mouth agape, like he’s some fish trying to feed itself in the waters. Suddenly catching up the meaning of the words escaping through his lips, Rostam blushes, red clashing against his fair skin.

The world starts to spin again.

“I love you too,” Arundolyn says like it’s the most obvious thing.

It is. Life’s that simple.

Rostam is sitting behind the piano, plucking keys while Arundolyn is lost in the bar’s crowd. Their eyes meet, and that’s all it takes for the embarrassment to melt like snow under the sun.

When Rostam's fingers hit the keys, he moves hips, arms, shoulders, or legs, it doesn’t matter which part of his body, it doesn’t matter who’s watching him.

Rostam’s stare is on him, and Arundolyn’s stare never lingers far from the blue-haired pianist.

They’re lost in their own little world.

“When do I meet him?” Rosalyne asks, a day when they both watching TV side by side, eyes glued on the screen.

“I was trying to protect him from you.”

She hits him on the arm. “I’m perfectly nice.”

“Not with me.”

“That’s because you don’t deserve it,” the blonde huffs, shaking her head like it was common knowledge.

“And he does?” Arundolyn places a hand on his heart in a mortally wounded pose. “We’ve known each other for five years, Rosa.”

She makes a noncommittal noise. “Still, my point stands: you can’t have a boyfriend and not introduce him to your best friend.”

“Fine. I’ll try to think about something.”

“Really?” Rosalyne’s eyes leave the screen as she turns her entire body toward him. “I thought it’d be harder to convince you.”

He shrugs. “I just really like him, you know? And I can’t envision a future with someone if they don’t get along with my best friend.”

The blonde beams at him like he hung the moon and the stars for her. With that, it’s settled: Rostam will meet Rosalyne.

His best friend and his boyfriend get along so fast that it’s almost insulting. Rosalyne loves talking about music, new songs and singers, and Rostam listens to her, chin popped on his hands, sometimes adding his own thoughts to the blonde’s rambling.

Sometimes, they team up to make Arundolyn’s life worse, but deep down he wouldn’t trade his life for anything in the world.

“What do we eat tonight?” Arundolyn asks with a wink.

Rostam had assured he would cook this night, and he had been so secretive about everything concerning that damned dish.

“Lasagna.”

Arundolyn beams at the blue-haired man as he leans down to place a kiss on his lips.

“Did I tell you I love you?”

Rostam’s eyes are shining when he answers. “Quite a lot.”

It’s his favourite dish.

“I’m tired,” Arundolyn says, one day, without preamble.

Rostam discards the book he was reading on the night stand. “Do you want to elaborate?”

“I’m tired of not being worthy enough. Or talented. Or good.”

“You are, though.”

Deep breaths. Rostam does not deserve a lash out when he’s only trying to be helpful. “Casting directors beg to differ.”

“Who cares? They don’t know you.”

“I care!” His outburst wasn’t supposed to be directed at Rostam. It wasn’t. Seeing how his boyfriend recoils back in the couch, how his mouth quirks downward, he guesses he has failed to contain the anger within his head.

“Sorry,” he adds, much quieter. “I didn’t mean to yell.”

“Sorry,” mirrors Rostam, “It was clumsy of me. I just wanted to say that I believe in you, no matter what other people might think.”

Arundolyn nods, throat tight. His fingers clench on the hem of his T-shirt as if the gesture will hand him strength. “I know. I really do know, but – what if I’m not talented enough? What if I’m just not enough?”

“There will always be someone who will think that. Now it’s only up to you to prove them wrong or to wallow in misery.” Rostam’s stare anchors in his own. “Though, I still believe that caring about people’s opinions is pointless.”

It starts low in his stomach which churns over an unknown feeling, until it goes up and up in his dry throat, making his eyes prickle with unshed tears. Rostam must notice how shiny his eyes have become because he opens his arms without a word. Grateful, Arundolyn throws himself in the waiting embrace, letting the warmth engulf him, soothing away all the problems burdening him.

“Take a break from auditioning,” Rostam mumbles, placing a trail of kisses on the top of his head.

Arundolyn tightens his hold over his boyfriend. “I can’t.”

“You get into a state every time you come back from one of your auditions. Take a break. You’ll come back even brighter than before.”

“You think so?” he mumbles, head still resting into Rostam’s chest.

“Yeah. Take some time for yourself, it can only do you good.”

“I'll think about it.”

Rostam’s hold around him doesn’t weaken; if anything, it tightens.

There are days worse than others. There are days in which Rostam shuts down, unable to talk about what’s going on inside his head, unable to reach out for help.

There are days in which Arundolyn sheds his bubbly and sunshine personality and lets despair and anger take over him.

Every time without a fail, there’s a voice saying ‘I’ll be there’ and ‘you’ll be alright’ accompanied by this crazy feeling which comes with the embrace of loved ones.

Some days are uncertain at best, but as long as there’s this feeling lodged inside their hearts, they can only trust they will reach the outcome they long for.

“I’ll try to write a one man’s play,” Arundolyn announces out of the blue.

Rostam raises his head to look at him, and there’s so much pride and happiness shining in those eyes that Arundolyn could cry right here, right now.

“I’m proud of you,” Rostam says, even if words aren’t needed right now.

After weeks of trial period, Rostam gets a permanent work contract at the jazz club he was aiming for during the whole time Arundolyn had known him. That night, they open a bottle of champagne, they clink their glasses together to toast to a successful future.

Rostam’s lips taste like cheap champagne, the one they were drinking, but Arundolyn wouldn’t trade that flavour for nothing in the whole world.

“Let’s move in together.” Arundolyn scoots closer to Rostam on the couch while his boyfriend looks at him with wide eyes and mouth agape.

“What did you say?” he says with an uncertain voice as if he’s not sure about the words uttered.

“Let’s move in together,” Arundolyn says again, eyes glued to Rostam’s face, watching closely his reactions.

“I–”

“Think about it: we split a rent instead of full paying for a flat.” The redhead nudges Rostam’s shoulder. “Besides, isn’t it romantic?”

Rostam frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I know we can’t afford something big right now and we can’t buy it, but it can fuel dreams.” Rostam inhales sharply but says nothing of it; he keeps listening with wide eyes. “One day we’ll have a house big enough to hold at least two offices.”

“Just two?” Now, he’s smirking.

“Shut it, I’m trying to dream here.” His boyfriend leans back, lips still quirked into a grin. “Alright, let’s say four offices. And a pool outside with a huge garden. Four bedrooms, you know, for sharing with friends.”

“Rosalyne would be delighted.”

“A huge dining room with huge windows and even a chandelier with real candles.”

“Do you know other words than ‘huge’? Maybe I should get you a thesaurus for Christmas.”

The redhead doesn’t dignify Rostam with an answer, he swats the other man’s arm away. “Don’t be such a kill joy, are you not dreaming right now?”

“Absolutely, thanks for your wonderful descriptions.”

“And you love me.”

Rostam rolls his eyes although there’s no real annoyance, only fondness. “‘Course I do.”

Arundolyn leans in until he can rest his head on the blue-haired man’s shoulder. With a small sigh, an arm wraps around him, squeezing gently his elbow. Reinvigorated by the touch, the redhead speaks up, “Anywhere with you is a home.”

When he looks up, Rostam’s eyes are wet and shining with light. The hold over his shoulders tightens.

“I’ll move in with you,” Rostam says, voice uneven as their foreheads brush against the other, “even if our future flat doesn’t have four bedrooms.”

Arundolyn kisses him.

- SUMMER –

“Rostam!”

Hearing his name shouted in the street like this, the so-called Rostam turns around, with a scowl on his face, arms folded across his chest, fingers already drumming against his forearms. He doesn’t do well with strangers.

A round face which has lost the chubbiness associated with teenage years comes into his eyesight. Blonde messy hair with clear blue eyes with the uncanny ability to see through you; it doesn’t take more than a second for Rostam to recognise the stranger standing before him. Or should he say his old friend?

“Roland,” he exhales, dumbfounded by the sight.

“Rostam,” the blonde repeats, and it’s the only warning the blue-haired man gets before getting crushed into an unknown embrace. “It’s been a long time!”

“A very long time,” Rostam agrees, although his voice is muffled by Roland’s shoulder.

“Still obsessed with jazz?” the blonde asks as soon as he has released him.

“I’m afraid, yes.”

“Well, you know I always admired you,” Roland starts, and a bad feeling starts tugging at Rostam’s chest. He ignores it. “And recently I decided to start a band.”

The blue haired man clasps the blonde’s shoulder. “I really hope it’ll work out for you.” He means it.

“That’s the catch.” Rostam drops his arm as if the touch burnt him; if Roland noticed the gesture or took offence, he makes no moves to show it. “We start a tour soon, but we need a keyboardist.”

The thing is, Rostam truly appreciates Roland: he was one of his closest friends in high school even if life drifted them apart, he’d be happy to rekindle their relationship and to help him out. But he also knows what kind of music the blonde likes, and it’s far from jazz. His thoughts must have shown on his face at some point, because Roland raises a placating hand in the air.

“I know it’s not jazz. And I don’t want to pressure you into taking the job. But it’s well paid, some producer said we had talent, and I came up with your name. Give it a thought, alright?” Roland gives him a buoyant wink. “I didn’t change my number.”

It’s not like he can brush off an old friend like some dirt on the bottom of his shoe; Rostam might not be kind to strangers in the street, but this was a whole different situation altogether.

“I’ll think about it,” he says at last, mind in shambles.

Besides, it would be useless to turn down good opportunities, right? Right?

“He’s unemployed!” his mother yells across the phone.

“So am I. He tries his best, Mom,” Arundolyn sighs. For once, he’s glad she’s not right here with him. Her disappointed glare would be too much to bear. Arundolyn does love his mother, but sometimes dealing with her can be tiring, even more when she has settled her mind on something. Here it is Rostam not being adequate for a future with Arundolyn.

“He wants to make his dream a reality. Can you blame him for that?” the redhead tries instead. But she doesn’t relent.

“And will that give him money?”

“We are in this together, Mom.”

“You only have dreams too, Arundolyn.”

That’s supposed to be a simple jab, but it cuts deeper than all the others his mother has thrown at him. For a second, he’s tempted to hurl his phone across the room, but like she said, he only has dreams, and you can’t buy a new phone with dreams alone.

“And? I thought we were past that.”

“Past your career choice? Dear boy, we’re only worried you’ll end up bankrupted or heartbroken to chase a pipe dream that will never come true.”

He bites his lips; his nails dig into the palm of his hands as he takes a deep breath.

“Is it too much to ask for support?”

“It’s our job to look after you.”

‘This is not looking after me’ burns his lips, but Arundolyn bites his tongue to keep them inside his mouth, inside his head.

“Perhaps you’re not doing it well.”

“Arundolyn.” When his mother says his whole name, it does not foresee anything good. “We raised you. We know you by heart.”

Her tone grows colder: the redhead can tell she’s upset by his last phrase, but it’s only fair; how come she has the right to mess up with his head, and he can’t retaliate? It’s only fair. There should not be hurt and despair in her voice like Arundolyn is the one wounding her pride and dreams. Like he’s the only one to blame. She’s reaping what she sows, and now, she has the audacity to act like she’s the victim here?

Arundolyn has known unfairness, helplessness when it came to his parents, but never that overwhelming anger which destroys everything as the tide rises. He grids his jaw. Yearns to yell absurdities at his mother (‘did you know I tried smoking once?’) to hurt her pride and herself in the process (‘name my top three existential dreads’), absurdities to make her realise she has no idea of the young man he has grown into (‘you just don’t know me anymore, admit it’).

But he’s twenty-seven now, he knows his mother won’t answer anything he’d like to hear; he had the time to grieve those words.

“Can’t you trust me?” he settles for. It feels like a concession, a defeat; it tastes sour in his mouth.

The silence following is telling enough; Arundolyn doesn’t have to pry more to get a hold of what his mother’s thinking right now.

“Well, your concern is very touching,” he says with irony dripping in his tone. “We’ll talk later, Mom.”

“Are you upset?”

What do you think? The lie rolls on his tongue like he has learned in his youth; always be pleasant, never make a fuss, be calm and collected, and most importantly be smiley and cheerful.

“Goodbye, Mom,” he says, calm and collected, smiley and cheerful.

“Arundolyn wait–” But he hangs up before he can hear the full sentence.

The redhead lets out a long sigh: right now, his eyelids feel heavy. Climbing into bed to tuck himself in and sleeping through the entire day unbothered has never been so much of a luxury than at this precise moment. But he cannot afford a day of rest.

Shoulders slumping, Arundolyn grabs his laptop and gets to work; auditions won’t come ringing to his door, and he has a play to write.

In the shadows, Rostam trails in the shade, torn off between announcing his presence or walking back to their shared bedroom. Arundolyn’s face is focused on the screen in front of him, lips drawn into a thin line and eyebrows furrowed. If anything, he looks tired. Rostam exhales, and steps back, unnoticed.

It rings twice before Roland picks up his phone. For a quick second, neither of them says a word, the blonde’s waiting for him to start with anything – a refusal, an agreement – and Rostam teeters between the two paths laying before him.

“I’ll do it,” he says in one breath. He struggles to appease the wild beating of his heart.

This is for a better future with Arundolyn, he berates himself in his mind. The heartbeat doesn’t settle down.

More often than not, Rosalyne comes to their place.

“Hi, Mister-stole-my-roommate,” she greets Rostam laughing as she hugs him tightly, and his boyfriend hugs back.

Arundolyn rolls his eyes, falsely annoyed by his best friend’s antics, as he waits for her to make her way to him in order to place a kiss on his cheek.

“I missed you both,” she says as she sits down on their couch.

They both missed her as well; Rostam’s crinkle between his eyebrow, and Arundolyn’s wet eyes are proofs of that.

When Arundolyn opens the door, a soft melody greets him. Their flat might be small and lacking three extra bedrooms but they still found the space to put a piano (not a grand one, though) in their living room.

As expected, Rostam is sitting behind the instrument, plucking keys, fingers flying across the black and white keyboard.

“That’s nice, what are you playing?” Arundolyn leans against the doorframe. The music doesn’t stop, not even when Rostam cranes his neck to look at him right into the eyes.

“A new song. Do you like it?”

A smile blooms on his face. “Very much.”

His boyfriend exhales as a grin of its own takes place on his lips. “I wrote it.”

Arundolyn opens his mouth to retort a clever jab or something funny, but no words come out: he’s left speechless, gaping like a fish out of the waters.

“Are you alright?” Rostam stops playing, fingers hovering above the keys as he throws him a concerned look.

Arundolyn nods.

“Come here.” Rostam scoots to the right to make place for him right beside the piano. “I want to try something.”

When the redhead gets closer, his boyfriend shows him a score with highlighted parts. The realisation draws on him. “You want me to sing.”

“Consider this to be your actor training if it makes you feel better.”

“I don’t sing.”

“Yes you do. I hear you when you shower, did you know that?”

His ears are burning, and it would be a safe guess to say Arundolyn’s blushing.

“I like it.” He becomes redder. “Let’s give it a try, if that’s alright–? I promise I will never bring this up, you only have a say a word.”

A sigh. “Fine.”

Beaming, Rostam starts playing again accompanied by Arundolyn’s voice when the highlighted parts are reached. At some point, a giggle escapes from his mouth until he cannot contain his laughter anymore. Shoulders hunched, Arundolyn chuckles even though he’s trying his best to keep singing, and soon Rostam’s laughter rises in the room with his own.

The music doesn’t stop once, the tentative singing either, and just like that, it’s perfect.

“What are you doing?” Rostam says as he leans over Arundolyn’s shoulder.

Feeling playful, the redhead mirrors the gesture, trying to hide away from prying eyes – Rostam’s prying eyes – the piece of paper on which he was scrambling things down.

“What?” His boyfriend folds his arms over his chest. “Is it supposed to be a surprise?”

Arundolyn hesitates. “Kind of. But I wanted to show you as soon as I’d be finished so it’s not much of a one.”

Rostam scoots closer, keeping his eyes on his face despite his clear desire to catch a glimpse of the paper Arundolyn’s withholding from him. “When are you supposed to be done then?”

The redhead throws his head back as he laughs. “I guess since you’re here, you might as well see it.”

A bright smile lights up Rostam’s face as Arundolyn leans back, only to reveal the pencil drawing he was trying to improve before his boyfriend walked on him. On the sheet of paper, Rostam’s name – his nickname actually – is drawn in capital letters filled with black and circled together.

“It’s supposed to be neon,” Arundolyn says, tapping lightly the written ‘Ros’.

Instead of the apostrophe, he has drawn a note clinging to the ‘s’ of the name, sticking out slightly from the circle around the previous letters. At first, Arundolyn had meant to cramp everything in the same place, but it had seen too small. Well, even if it originated from a mistake, the redhead liked the design he had come up with.

“It’s–” Rostam starts but his voice breaks before he can get on the second word.

“It’s for your future club,” Arundolyn nods.

“How can you be so sure–”

The rest is left unsaid, but the redhead hears it so clearly in his head. ‘How can you know I won’t be a failure?’

‘How can you know I won’t give up on my dream?’

Sometimes Arundolyn wakes up saddled with doubts and anxiety pooling in his stomach, sometimes, he wants to crawl back in bed and stay here for the rest of the day, sometimes he wishes everything would stop, the hopelessly hope, the tiring waiting. But if there’s a constant in his life, a constant he trusts blindly, it’s that Rostam will do anything to open his jazz club.

“I know you,” he says.

It’s all it takes for Rostam to crumble down, as if the pressure of the previous weeks had finally caught up to him.

“Thank you for being you,” his boyfriend mumbles with a strangled voice.

“Thank you for being here.”

- AUTUMN –

Rostam’s departure is impending now; Arundolyn’s driving his boyfriend to the airport where he’ll take an airplane to New York, the first stop of their tour. They finish in Los Angeles – Arundolyn will be at the concert there – and even if he will miss Rostam during the whole month when he’s away, the redhead couldn’t be prouder.

“Don’t forget me when you’ll be a star,” Arundolyn says as he tugs Rostam closer, arms around his neck; his boyfriend indulges him, following his movements.

“Don’t you forget me when you’ll be a star.”

Arundolyn laughs louder, and Rostam takes advantage of this to close the bridge between them, kissing him senseless.

Without Rostam by his side, life appears to be dull as if all the colours have lost their shine. Sometimes, Rosalyne and he meet up to watch the new action movie in theatres; sometimes they wander aimlessly in that city which has lost its rising star.

Arundolyn feels empty inside, like he’s missing a limb and his clueless body’s still trying to find which one.

“Are you going to be okay?” Rosalyne asks every time they’re about to part ways. Concern is always shining in her big eyes.

“I’m fine,” he answers every time because he doesn’t want her to worry about nothing.

“It feels weird to come home without hearing the piano,” he confesses one night. Rosalyne stays quiet, watching him with shining eyes, and when Arundolyn fails to say anything else, she hugs him tightly. Like a drowning man finding a buoy, he clings to her as he would with a lifeline.

Like everything, Arundolyn gets used to the quietness of his flat, of the piano staying silent through the days. He gets used to loneliness. But at the same time, he uses the silence as a source of inspiration for his one-man play he’s still trying to write. Slowly, words start to form sentences on the screen of the laptop, and soon the sentences go on and on through pages and pages.

He misses Rostam, and Rostam misses him; they text often, call as soon as they can. It’s a fragile balance, but they manage. They will.

Arundolyn made a promise he intended to keep: when the time comes, he goes to Rostam’s last date of the tour, in Los Angeles. His boyfriend has managed to secure him a good place, right in the front.

And so, Arundolyn goes to the concert with Rosalyne by his side. They cheer when the crowd cheer, they scream when the crowd scream as soon as the lead singer appears on the scene, they dance along the beat, lost in a crowd of devoted fans.

Rostam does deserve the enthralled horde, the adoring fans, the screams, the popularity. The songs are nice, really are: they’re catchy, happy, it’s easy to dance in the rhythm and to hum the chorus.

Tonight, for Rostam’s sake, he keeps his mouth shut, doesn’t share his worries with Rosalyne next to him. He lets the beat sway him off his feet, making him dance like there’s no tomorrow until his feet ache and his heart bleeds.

Still, this is not what Rostam likes to play, to sing.

And Arundolyn doesn’t know what to do with that knowledge.

The ride home is quiet. Arundolyn is lost in thoughts, even though he can see Rostam stealing glances at him when he thinks he’s not looking.

“I’m tired,” he offers at last because Rostam doesn’t deserve silence, not after being a month away. If Arundolyn is having second thoughts about a job which isn’t even his, it’s his burden to carry, and his burden only: his boyfriend shouldn’t be involved in this.

“Did you like the performance?” Rostam inquiries with a quiet voice.

“Yeah, it was nice.”

‘Not your style, though’ is left unsaid, although Arundolyn has the feeling Rostam can hear it all too well.

There’s a storm brewing into the horizon.

“I made dinner!” Rostam greets him as soon as Arundolyn has stepped inside their shared flat. The redhead looks at him with wide eyes since his boyfriend tends to burn what he’s trying to cook.

“Really?”

“Really. Come here.”

Rostam steps toward him to grab his coat and the backpack Arundolyn had been carrying around with texts from his auditions – even though he has taken a break from a while, the redhead had started to get back at it, although he takes fewer of them now.

“What this is for?” he can’t help but to ask.

The blue haired man shrugs. “Can’t I just make my boyfriend happy?” The tip of his ears burns. It’s almost been a year since they’ve got together, and Arundolyn still acts like a lovesick highschooler. Pathetic.

“Also,” Rostam catches him by the waist; the redhead lets out an undignified squeak, “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

Rostam smiles and leans in to kiss him. Arundolyn melts in the touch like snow melts under the sun’s constant glare. The kiss deepens, Arundolyn slides his arms across Rostam’s neck to hold him closer. Their lips part, both of them huffing to catch their breath. His boyfriend rests his head in the creak of his neck, the feeling both familiar and rediscovered. Shudders roam his body, and Arundolyn throws his head back, giggling helplessly.

Against his skin, he can feel a smile drawing on Rostam’s lips.

“It’s going to be cold.”

Arundolyn laughs a while more until the blue haired man decides they won’t be eating a cold dinner tonight and starts pinching him in the sides where the flesh is tender. The effect is instant: the redhead yelps and squirms away.

“I put time into cooking,” Rostam says with a pout.

“Fine. Let’s go.”

The redhead leaves lingering kisses on Rostam’s arms to ease away the scowl on his face as he’s dragged along to enter the dining room.

To be honest, the plates are only slightly burnt – not that Arundolyn minds anyway, he knew what he was getting into before he agreed to move in with Rostam. Despite the soft burnt flavour, the dishes are enjoyable.

“Do you like it?”

“Absolutely, I do.”

Rostam grins from ear to ear when Arundolyn pipes up his answer, beaming at his boyfriend, and that’s all it takes the blue-haired man to feel assured about his culinary skills.

“What about the concert?” Rostam inquiries suddenly. The atmosphere goes dark. Arundolyn freezes and falls quiet.

“What about it?” he says to stall for more time to think of a decent answer.

“Did you like it?”

It’s Arundolyn’s silence which gives it away.

Rostam flops back on his chair, a dejected look sprawled on his face. “I knew it.”

“It’s not what it looks like–”

“Then what?” Rostam doesn’t shout, never shout, but his tone has grown cold.

“It–” his voice trails off. Arundolyn takes a deep breath to gather some braveness in his guts, but this is harder than he thought. “It doesn’t feel like you, you know?” Seeing how his boyfriend doesn’t even budge a muscle, no, he doesn’t know. “It’s not jazz.”

“I’m a professional musician, I know how to play other styles than jazz.” Rostam’s now frowning at him.

“And you do it well.” The redhead holds up his hand in what he hopes is a placating gesture. “But that’s not your dream.”

“How can you tell that? This is just a step toward it: playing in a bar won’t give me the money to open a club anytime soon.”

Despair builds up in his chest; Arundolyn wants to chase it away, to stop this conversation hurting them both, but he cannot.

“And how long are you going to keep playing a genre you don’t even like?”

With that, Rostam’s scowl eases into a grimace which looks like more sheepish and apologetic than anything else.

“Fine. That’s the catch: the tour was a success; they want us to get back at it soon.”

“How soon?”

Rostam winces. When he answers, his voice has dropped in volume. “In a week.”

The redhead recoils back on his chair as if an invisible hand slapped him across the cheek; at least, it does feel like it. It’s a wake-up call, leaving him shuddering with defeat and crushed hopes.

“How long?”

They stare at each other in silence. Then, “They didn’t tell us. Maybe a year. Or more if people like us enough.”

His inner turmoil must show on his face, because Rostam reaches for him across the table and squeeze gently his hand in his own. “I wanted to speak with you about it, I swear, but you’ve beaten me to it.” The blue-haired man offers him a weak smile. “I don’t want to leave you again, but this – this is a stable source of income, I can’t deny it.”

The room is spinning. Loneliness was fine with Arundolyn because he’d known this loneliness had a due date.

“Can’t you just – stay here with me?” This is selfish. He doesn’t want to turn into an egotistical being, but at the same time he can’t bear the silence of the flat anymore. Maybe they can find a middle ground somewhere.

“You should quit,” Arundolyn says, and as soon as the words have left his mouth, it sounds like a mistake. This is a mistake, a mistake he cannot help but make anyway. “You don’t even like what you’re playing.”

“I took that job because of you.”

“Because of me?” His voice dies in his throat as he chokes on his own words. Arundolyn’s sure as hell he didn’t advise him to agree, but then it hits him faster than a train. “You heard my phone call with my mother.”

He says it more like an affirmation than a question, although deep down he hopes Rostam will deny it, will tell him he has nothing to do with that. His wishes don’t come true, joining the long list of crushed hopes he’s been holding in his head.

“I didn’t mean it like that–”

“What did it mean then?”

Rostam’s the picture perfect of calmness even though aloofness has taken over his face, though Arundolyn can’t help but to raise his voice when despair and helplessness settle in him; he’s not screaming, he won’t, but he’s tired, so tired.

“I didn’t want you to sell your soul for money and drop your dreams like they meant nothing!” This is also the wrong thing to say, but what change does it make? A mistake over another, there’s no turning back now, Arundolyn was already in a dead end.

“So now I sell my soul. That’s how it is.” Rostam’s cold stare hits him harder than words and fists alike. “I think you liked to love me when I was a penniless jazzman with nothing but dreams.”

“That’s not true!”

“It made you feel better about yourself, didn’t it? You, the actor in being, you were still better than a pianist getting fired over and over again.”

The anger rises in him, destroying everything upon its wake until nothing is left except for shambles and ruins. His nails dig into his skin, ready to tear apart the flesh, leaving crescent marks.

“So, that’s how you see me. Fine!”

Rostam flinches when Arundolyn shouts the last word. Even though seeing his boyfriend with shadows dancing in his eyes pains a buried part within himself, Arundolyn can’t bring himself to care too much, not now, not when he has wounds of his own to tend.

“Don’t follow me,” the redhead throws behind his shoulder as he grabs his coat, slides his shoes on, and get to the door. He needs time alone.

The door shuts down, Rostam’s left alone in the now quiet dining room. The dishes have grown cold.

For the next days, Arundolyn buries himself into work, writing his play, making poster adds to pin them on the streets. It’s easier to be busy than to think about what happened.

So he writes, writes, writes until his fingers ache from tapping on a keyboard, until his eyes water and his eyesight goes blurry. His play is soon, too soon: Arundolyn would be lying if he would say his heart wasn’t stuck in his throat, and anxiety wasn’t pooling into his stomach. He doesn’t know if he can manage another of his hope being crushed.

Rostam is in the middle of a photoshoot when he remembers Arundolyn’s play starts today. He’s not ready for the strong guilt which washes over him, leaving him reeling. Things haven’t been great between them lately, but he had planned to go anyway. To fix things that went wrong, to talk it out like adults.

Cursing under his breath (Rostam never curses), he mumbles apologies to the staff members as he grabs his coat and flings the studio’s door open.

He will never make it on time. The guilt is back, eating him alive.

Arundolyn’s on stage. The lights shut down just like expected; in the dark he yells a ‘thank you’ to the ten or so persons who came to see his play as tentative clapping rises in the room. He doesn’t need to cast another glance at the audience to know Rostam isn’t amongst the small crowd gathered here – he would recognise his hair colour in a heartbeat.

To be honest, Arundolyn had expected tears, sobs rendering him unable to speak, but instead there’s just this crushing feeling on his chest. And the heavy burden labelled ‘failure’ over his shoulders. Arundolyn wants to tear his skin apart, gauge his eyes out, scream until his voice comes out hoarse and broken, crumble in a million of pieces because he’s everything (funny, clever, charismatic) not enough, never has been.

But Arundolyn stands, still smiling – a big wide smile revealing all his teeth even though he knows it doesn’t reach his eyes. He does not fall apart. He’s tired of being strong or pretending to be.

“He’s cute and has a charming smile, but gods, what was his deal with that damn lamp?”

“I know, right?!”

Whispers, whispers. Arundolyn pretends he doesn’t hear them as he makes his exit, head held high while he shatters inside his head.

“Arun!” Only two people in the world call him by this nickname, and it’s either Rosalyne or Rostam; given that his blonde friend does not have a voice that deep, only one option’s left.

“Rostam,” he says, and his tone cold surprises him.

“I’m sorry,” the blue-haired man blurts out. “I’m so sorry. For missing the play and – and for the last time.”

Arundolyn casts a glance around him; the street is empty save for some passer-by waiting for their cab, the sky is dark, devoid of any shine. He shudders. Los Angeles is a city missing stars, drained from the hope it held. There’s nothing for him there, now.

“This is pointless,” he tells Rostam instead of ‘I’m sorry too’ or ‘Let’s make things better’. He’s just so tired.

“What do you mean?” Worry grows in Rostam’s voice; he tries to reach for him, but Arundolyn shies away.

“The whole acting thing, it’s pointless.” Before the blue-haired man can speak, he adds, “It’s over. I’m going back home. At my parents’ house.”

Rostam must have been singled out by despair’s hand too, as he says nothing and makes no gestures to hold him back, head tilted down, eyes on the ground. Perhaps that’s love too, knowing how and when to let go.

When Arundolyn parks his car right in front of his parents’ house and he hears the door opening, he expects jabs, some ‘I told you so’ uttered his way, and he steels himself like a good little soldier ready to go on the battlefield. But none of these happen.

His mother steps out of the house at the same time he closes his car door. Not a word leaves her lips; she opens her arms and for once Arundolyn throws himself in the embrace without holding back.

She’s not forgiven, not yet, he’s not ready to push past their differences; that will take time, but for now he lets it go.

Rostam stares at the ceiling. The flat feels empty now, without Arundolyn’s clutter scattered across the room and the usual chatter which often comes with the redhead. The guilt threatens to swallow him whole, so Rostam doesn’t try to fight back the loneliness and the quietness of the place. It’s deserved.

Rostam stares at the ceiling. Minutes and hours go by in a blink of an eye; now, the blue-haired man couldn’t tell how long he has been sitting in that position, neck craned upward.

Something rings in the back of his mind. It starts low until it goes crescendo, echoing in his head, making it throb with a dull ache. The home phone. The home phone’s ringing, and it’s not going to stop anytime soon. For a second, he entertains the idea to let it ring until the caller gives up or gets bored – it’s most likely a scam – but Rostam changes his mind: talking to another human being after three days of silence isn’t a bad thing, even if said human being wants to sell him some bullshit.

“Hi,” he says as he picks up the phone, “what can I do for you?”

“Is Mister Arundolyn still living here?” a woman’s voice answers him. A cold dread washes over him, but Rostam gets a hold on himself before the dam breaks, and he starts spilling his life story to a total stranger. It’s unexpected, to say the least.

“Not at the moment,” the blue-haired man tells her. His voice doesn’t waver, and he’s proud of this small victory. “But I can take a message for him.”

There’s a silence at the other end of the line as she mulls over his proposition, and then, “Alright.”

Rostam draws out a sheet of paper with a pen. “I’m listening.”

“I’m Amy Brandt, a casting director,” Rostam’s eyes widen, good thing she can’t see him right now, “and I went to Mister Arundolyn’s play; I must say I was very impressed by his performance. I’d like to invite him to an audition tomorrow afternoon.”

This is huge. It’s most likely he won’t track down Arundolyn in time, but he takes the challenge gladly.

“Let me get the address and the time,” Rostam says quickly, and he scribbles down everything she says.

When he bids her goodbye with the promise Arundolyn will get the message, hope flares again in his heart: perhaps their relationship isn’t salvageable anymore, but he can do one last good thing. Rostam packs a bag of clothes, grabs his driving licence, and with that, he’s gone.

Rostam remembers Arundolyn saying he lived in Boulder City in Nevada during his youth. While that is most likely an important piece of information, he has no other idea to where his house could be, and roaming across the city for hours does not sound productive. Now, it’s on his brain to determine the success of his ‘mission’.

‘I used to go down on foot to the library’, he remembers Arundolyn saying at a bookshop when he whacks his brain for answers and memories.

He opens his phone in order to find the closest library around – if he’s lucky, Arundolyn’s parents didn’t move house – and soon enough Google Maps shows up with a few suggestions. Rostam doesn’t dwell on it: he starts with the closest one, and he will go up the streets, looking closely on the names pinned on the doors.

At the end of the day, he finds it without even needing to check the name tag: Arundolyn’s car is parked in front of a white house looking just like the others except for, maybe, the blue door. It’s late – the stars are already shining in the sky – and he knows logic would say that he goes to a hotel and come back in the morning, but they don’t have the time for politeness.

So, Rostam shields himself, grits his teeth, and goes to the door to ring the bell, and waits. It’s always the worst of all, waiting, not knowing the outcome, walking blindly. After what feels like an eternity – it’s more five minutes – the door creaks open, and Arundolyn’s face appears. The redhead frowns as soon as he registers who is the man standing before him – that’s fair, Rostam guesses that he’d have been surprised the other way around.

“What are you doing here?” Arundolyn whispers with angry tones. “You’re going to wake up my parents. And how did you find me?”

“I remembered.” He shrugs, “Come outside then, it’ll be quieter.” Eyeing him with suspicion, the redhead still follows him until they’re standing next to his car.

“I got a call,” Rostam says as soon as they’re facing each other.

“A call?”

A guarded hope’s shining in the redhead’s eyes, mirroring the stars above them; Rostam can’t think of a more enthralling and entrancing sight.

“From a casting director. She said she liked your play, and she liked it so much that she wants you to give a try at auditioning.”

Arundolyn looks a bit dumbstruck now. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Absolutely not.”

“This is madness.” This, Rostam can agree to.

“And this is the chance of your life.”

The redhead takes in his words, ponders, and then he shakes his head.

“I can’t.”

It’s now his turn to stare blankly at Arundolyn, eyes wide. “What do you mean?”

“What if I’m not good enough? What if I fail?” The ‘again’ is left unspoken but it hangs heavy in the air between them. “I’m tired, I don’t know if I can handle another failure.”

“You can.”

“You don’t know that.” Anger rises, Arundolyn clenches his hands. “Do you know how it feels to audition? I’ve gone through millions of them, and every time, every time, I get interrupted because, I don’t know, someone wants a sandwich, or they just laugh while I’m crying.” His voice breaks as tears form into Arundolyn’s eyes and start to run through his cheeks leaving trails, trails which turn into silver when they encounter the moonlight.

Rostam wants to reach out to redhead, soothe him telling him he’s good enough and everything that goes with it, but it would be pointless right now. He lets Arundolyn pouring his heart out. In the past, he has failed, but not now, not today.

“There’s also so many of them, guys who look just like me but prettier, handsomer, and more talented!” Arundolyn takes a deep breath, chest heaving as his shoulders slump forward. “Let’s face it: I’m not good enough.”

“You are.” Rostam forces the two words down his throat.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. I do know you.”

Arundolyn wipes his tears with a jerky gesture of the hand. “Well, you’re mistaken.”

“Alright.”

“Alright?” The redhead eyes him.

“Alright,” Rostam nods back. “I’m mistaken about you being talented, you being good if that makes you feel better. But you do have an audition tomorrow afternoon. Now you’re free to feel sorry for yourself and wallow in your misery or you can prove them wrong.” He shrugs. “Your choice. I’ll be there at nine.”

It’s nine in the morning. Rostam watches the door as time goes by, and there’s no sign of Arundolyn. When it’s been ten minutes already, he decides to start the engine to back to Los Angeles: it was Arundolyn’s choice to make, and now, the outcome is pretty clear.

When he’s about to lift the handbrake, his car door opens, and a redhead slides inside with a small bag.

“Sorry for the wait,” Arundolyn mumbles under his breath but Rostam hears him clear as day.

“It’s fine.”

They have left the Nevada’s landscapes for a while now in a total silence, when Arundolyn turns his head to the side to look at him square in the eyes.

“Thank you,” the redhead says.

Two words instead of three, but the meaning isn’t lost on Rostam.

“We’re planning to shoot a movie centred on the main actor. The filming will be in Berlin.” The woman looks at him behind the rim of her glasses. “Could you tell us a story?”

His mouth goes dry as hell; Arundolyn has to fight the urge to fidget with his hands.

“Which kind of story?” he says, gulping down.

“Whichever you like, it doesn’t matter.”

He takes a deep breath; he has done this a dozen million times before, this doesn’t change anything.

“My brother,” he starts but his voice comes out hoarse. He has to stop to inhale slowly. He needs to get a hold on himself. “My brother used to live in Berlin.” His voice grows stronger. “He was a bard; he liked to tell us stories about living abroad, and one day he said he jumped into the river.” His fingers go slack at his side. “He said he jumped barefoot, that he was sneezing for a whole month. But he told me he would do it again. He always lived with his liquor and an undying flame in his eyes. Our parents said he was foolish and careless, people said he was crazy to live a life like his, but I think he was the freer amongst all of us. One day, he told me madness was the key to open new doors, to feel the world and to discover colours.”

People are quiet, no one needs a sandwich, no one has to make a phone call; it’s the first time Arundolyn has ever felt listened to, he relishes in that sensation.

“He told me people like him, like us, were needed in this world to make it brighter. He told me he didn’t fear what life could bring him, pebbles, storms, hurricanes, he would brave them all. Here’s to him, a fool amongst the others who dreamt, here’s to him and others who were not afraid of heartbreak. I’ll always remember him, the snow, the Spree, and him saying he would plunge again.”

There’s a long pause after he’s finished talking. No one moves, no one utters a word. And then, “Thank you,” Amy Brandt says with a short nod. “We’ll keep you updated.”

That’s it. It’s over just like that.

“What are we going to do now?” Arundolyn says, and he hates the way his voice breaks over the words.

They’re sitting outside the planetarium of their first date. The sun is shining in the sky without much of a cloud; it’s warmer than it should be at this time of the year.

“We wait and see,” Rostam shrugs.

And what about our relationship, Arundolyn means to ask but words stay stuck in his throat.

Instead he says, “I’m always going to love you.” This should come as a surprise to him, but when he mulls over it, he finds only the truth: Rostam will always hold a special place in his heart, and nothing, not even time’s erasure, not even distance could take that away.

“I’m always going to love you too.”

Rostam reaches out for his hand, and Arundolyn lets him. Skin against skin, he closes his already wet eyes and allows himself to dream.

- WINTER, FIVE YEARS LATER –

“Stop mopping around,” Rosalyne says, hands on her hips.

“I miss him,” Arundolyn whines.

“You’ve been together for a month, Arun’. You’ll be back on your feet in no time.” Hearing no answer for him, his friend crouches in front of the couch he’s sprawled on. “You’re now a world-famous actor, Arundolyn. You have money, fame and talent. You’re allowed to have happiness too, you know.” She frowns. “Hell, gets up, we’re going out tonight. Maybe the person you were waiting for all this time is hiding in the crowd.”

Arundolyn groans, hoping it’ll talk her out of dragging him outside, but Rosalyne doesn’t budge easily, and so it’s him who gives in.

“Fine.”

Her yell of happiness blasts his eardrums, but she might be right after all. It’s a chance he’s willing to take.

Arundolyn hears the music first. They’re walking on the sidewalk when his ears catch a tune coming off the next building. Dragging Rosalyne along with him – she owes him that at least – he gets closer and closer to the sound when his eyes fall onto the sign adorning the door.

It’s a blue neon; three letters with a music note as an apostrophe circled by an oval. Arundolyn’s whole being freezes, his eyesight goes dark until there’s nothing left but this blue neon drawing him closer like a clueless moth.

Ros’.

Breathing becomes harder; before he can realise it, he’s biting his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. He almost shies away, drags Rosalyne away from this sign, from the club hiding in the building, but something keeps him grounded to place.

And then, “Let’s get inside,” he says with a wavering voice. Rosalyne shoots him a concerned glance but doesn’t speak. “I’m curious.”

When they step inside, everything is dark, dimmed blue lights here and there to shine upon tables, the path and the musicians on the scene facing them. They find an available table as the music stops and people start clapping and cheering. The man closer to the microphone whispers thanks with wet eyes as it seems it’s the first time his band plays on stage. But Arundolyn cannot focus on that, not like Rosalyne who seems to be drawn to the scene. His eyes roam the room, trying to catch a glimpse of blue hair, everything which could tell him that Rostam does indeed work here, does own this jazz club. Anything will do.

“Rostam, ladies and gentlemen, the owner of this place!” a man announces, and Arundolyn snaps his attention back to the scene. From the corner of his eye, he can see Rosalyne gaping at him.

Rostam steps on the stage, blue hair shining under the lights. He’s wearing a black suit, and despite a few wrinkles between his eyebrows, nothing has changed, not even the way he looks at the world surrounding him.

And then, their eyes meet.

Arundolyn’s taken aback like someone punched his guts – the feeling isn’t far from it; the air has left his lungs. He can see Rostam fumbling over his steps as he reaches for the microphone. He can see how hard his hands shake when he extends his arm toward the promised object.

“This,” Rostam gulps, takes a deep breath to soothe his nerves. “This is a special song for – someone special.”

Then, he sits behind the piano displayed on the back of the stage (professional musician, Arundolyn’s mind supplies unhelpfully), and his fingers hoover over the keys. As soon as the first notes rise in the air, the redhead recognises the tune.

He’s taken back in time to that cramped flat of their, but he loved it to death, to the planetarium they went for the first time, to this party where he asked some musician to play a cover of ‘I ran’ under a warm sun.

He dreams of a world where Rostam declined Roland’s offer to play in his band, if he had been there for his play, hidden amongst the public – for a second he’s on stage again, but this time people are clapping, sitting up, and in the middle of the room, Rostam smiles brightly at him, never stopping to applaud.

He dreams of a world where he got the audition and after the role, and Rostam followed him to Berlin. For a second, he can envision them walking hand in hand along the Spree River, Arundolyn chatting about the shooting, and Rostam explaining his future plans for a jazz club.

He sees them back in Los Angeles, his career flourishing and Rostam’s plans becoming real. He watches them as Arundolyn wins his first Oscar for the movie shot in Berlin, and amongst the clapping audience, Rostam is there.

He witnesses the first time they buy a house, their marriage with Rosalyne smiling brightly by his side, their first discussions about adoption.

Tonight, he catches a glimpse of them going out, except it’s Rostam with him instead of his dearest friend, it’s Rostam holding his hand as they go down the street giggling like teenagers in love. It’s Rostam who notices another jazz club other than his own on their path, it’s Rostam who drags him inside, still smiling like it’s their first date.

Arundolyn dreams of a world where their path never split apart, and he knows Rostam shares the same dream.

The music stops. His throat is tight, his eyes are wet and his hands clench the fabric of his jeans; Arundolyn doesn’t trust himself to speak without quivers in his tone. At his right, Rosalyne’s watching the scene, entranced by the sight of Rostam behind the piano but she squeezes his elbow with a death grip as if to remind him she’s here.

“To the fools who dream,” Rostam says in hushed tones in the microphone.

Arundolyn gets up. To the fools who succeeded.