haru overhears rin singing elvis presley's "can't help falling in love" quietly to himself one day while rin is towel-drying his hair after a shower at his tokyo apartment and it makes him feel things, even though he doesn't understand the words.
he decides he likes it, and before they go to sleep (haru on the bed, rin on a futon on the floor because haru is too chicken-shit and uncharacteristically overcome by shyness to suggest sharing the bed) he asks rin, "what was that song you were singing?"
"hm? what song?"
"the one you were singing while you dried your hair."
rin hums thoughtfully and pretends he doesn't notice the way haru is boring holes into the side of his face. he thinks hard because: a) rin sings (or hums) all. the. time. to fill the silence, b) he must've done it subconsciously, and he cannot, for the life of him, recall what he'd been singing earlier and c) the fact that haru had even noticed is both mildly embarrassing and wildly distracting him from the very act of sifting through possibly >50 songs he sings/hums a day. today. he is sure he'd have sung at least the amount today, because being with haru means learning to be comfortable with prolonged silences sometimes (but also working to fill those silences).
he sings a lot when he's around haru (not that he'd admit to it). he thinks being around haru makes his heart sing (not that he'd admit to that either).
"song... song... what song was i—"
and then it clicks, and his blush shoots up to his hairline.
haru, despite having the emotional perception of a proverbial tree stump but being an expert in all (well, maybe not all) things rin, senses the several stages of embarrassment that play upon rin's features and decides to be merciful.
"it sounded nice," he says tersely. the smile that he gives rin is placating. a peace offering of sorts. "i liked it."
rin glances at him furtively before awkwardly coughing and clearing his throat. "you did?"
"mmh."
"do you... would you like me to sing it again?"
haru hears a soft tapping sound—probably rin's finger on the linoleum floor—and pays it no mind. chalks it up to a nervous tic of rin's.
"yes," is all he says. the tapping stops.
the room is silent for a second too long, but rin breaks it. all too suddenly.
rin's voice is unabashedly one of haru's most favourite things about him in the world. his speaking voice is a rich baritone, sometimes raspy, maybe even bordering on sultry whenever he teases him. it makes the tips of his fingers tingle like he's being charged with minute amounts of steady-flowing electricity from the ground up. it makes his heart beat a few paces faster; it shoots adrenaline through his body like absinthe pumping in his veins. it excites him. angers him. frustrates him. maybe even enamours him, sometimes.
but his singing voice? it drips over his soul like the smooth silk of honey from an upturned jar, leaves every fiber of his being covered in its sticky sweetness. it's gentle and mellifluous, which haru finds absolutely ridiculous, because rin is anything but gentle or mellifluous in nature. it's calming. soothing. reminiscent of the lullabies his late grandmother once sang him to sleep. it makes his eyelids droop like he's lying peacefully at the bottom of the sea because he feels so safe and comfortable, like he's floating atop a cloud.
okay.
maybe he's exaggerating.
but rin's voice is lovely, and in haru's mind, he's walking on air.
"rin," haru calls out gently, ignoring the mild disdain he feels over the fact he'd had to interrupt rin's singing for this. "i can't hear you well from the futon."
rin blinks. "are you suggesting that i—"
the blanket rustles, and even in the dim light of the night lamp, rin sees it. haru has scooted to the corner by the wall, one hand holding up half of his blanket gingerly. an invitation.
well if haru insists.
they lay in the bed, close, but not nearly enough. haru looks at rin tenderly, blue eyes glistening in the moonlight, silently urging rin to carry on where he'd left off. but rin is stalling. or staring, rather. his carmine eyes look back at haru, matching in tenderness. he shifts slightly, exhales deeply. haru itches with impatience.
"rin," haru calls out again, gentler this time, voice laced with sleep. "sing?"
rin's eyes go dopey and he obliges, easing into the chorus.
"wise men say..."
haru doesn't even remember being lulled to sleep.
bonus: after rin returns to australia, he sometimes receives calls from haru, telling him he's having trouble sleeping. haru never explicitly asks rin to sing to him, but rin knows him like the back of his hand and does it anyway. when the line goes silent and is gradually taken over by haru's soft, even breathing, rin chuckles. he likes how haru enjoys him singing this one particular song, even if it's in english and haru doesn't understand a word. unbeknownst to him, rin means every word he sings.
("like a river flows surely to the sea, darling, so it goes; some things are meant to be")
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