The stadium was alive—an ocean of voices, screams and hands lifted high toward the blinding stage lights. Every seat filled, every inch of the floor a sea of bodies moving as one, pulsing with the beat of the drums and the hum of amplifiers. The sound system rattled through the bones of the crowd, every bassline shaking the ground like a heartbeat made of thunder.

Spotlights painted the night in white, blue and red streaks as guitars roared and drums struck with precision, but tonight the bass was undeniable—low, heavy and resonant. It swallowed the air, standing even above Ren's signature rough-edged vocals. For many, the song was just another bright, catchy anthem, but those who knew 'Echo of the Wind' well felt the difference. This one had warmth, a brightness almost betraying the band's usual grit.

Ren hadn't written this one. The words belonged to Vic, casually tossed out like nothing during a practice session: 'Hey bro, I have an idea for a song.' Ren had agreed, and together they'd shaped it into something universal. Ren gave it his voice, but the soul belonged to Vic.

As the crowd screamed the opening lines, most didn't know they were singing words meant for someone who would never understand their meaning. Transformed into Japanese, the lyrics concealed their truth—a secret locked in Vic's chest, hidden in another language, an unspoken confession.

The chorus hit and the stadium erupted. Thousands of voices roared in unison, neon bracelets glowing across the sea of fans. Ren's voice rang out, raw and powerful:

'Kimi no me ni tada hikaru shizuku' 'Ah, ah, seitenno hekireki' 'itami dake nara ni toubun sa, sou sa' 'bokura no iro' 'shiroi iki ga kireru made' 'tobashi tekakenuketa ano michi' 'oka no ue kara mieru machi ni sai ta kimi to iu hana' 'mata sakasu yo' 'wo oh!' 'kimi rashii iro ni'

Ezra grinned beside Ren, strumming with golden-retriever energy. Jonah unleashed a soaring riff, Aiko pounded the drums with furious precision, while Selene worked her quiet genius at the soundboard. And in the middle, Vic stood with his bass slung low, hair clinging with sweat, fingers alive against the strings.

Spotlights found him, pulling screams from every corner, yet he seemed almost detached—as though the noise couldn't reach him. Because while thousands sang along, Vic's mind was elsewhere. He played with all his passion, but his heart was caught in silence, in words never spoken.

For him, this song wasn't just music. It was a confession. It was for his best friend. His secret. His 'flower.'

Hours later, Vic leaned on a hotel balcony railing, cigarette glowing like a dying star between his fingers. Below, the city stretched endlessly, neon bleeding into the night, but it felt hollow. The roar of fans was fading, replaced by muffled laughter behind the sliding glass door.

Inside, the usual circus: Ren locked away with his boyfriend, Ezra and Jonah in a 'kissing challenge' while Aiko recorded, groupies sprawled across couches. Vic barely glanced back. None of it mattered when all he could think was, 'What is my best friend doing right now?'

The tour was supposed to be everything—stages, lights, endless nights—but lately it all blurred together. Airports, hotels, fan meetings, the same questions, the same fake spark in his flirty banter. Even the thrill of pulling someone new into his bed was beginning to rot from the inside.

He exhaled, watching smoke curl upward until the cold breeze stole it away. The cigarette died, replaced by liquor—glass after glass until time blurred, music and laughter becoming static.

When he woke again, he wasn't in the hotel. Shirtless, still in his black stage pants, he stumbled down unfamiliar steps with a stranger's arm bracing him. His chest damp with sweat, skin chilled by night air.

'Dude, we're here. Thanks for the autograph and the tickets,' the fan said casually before disappearing into the night.

Vic blinked, head spinning, then saw it—the building, the door—his best friend's apartment. He'd never actually been inside, though invited countless times. His phone buzzed, revealing a massive bank transfer sent in his drunken haze with a note: 'Please take me to my flower. Take me south. I'll pay you whatever you want.'

Bandmates bombarded him with messages asking where the hell he was. In another state, he couldn't tell them. Vic groaned, dragging a hand down his face before his knuckles tapped the door repeatedly, forehead leaning against the wood, cigarette breath and whiskey clinging to him like a second skin.

When the door creaked open, he squinted against the sudden light.

'Heeey... little flower...' Vic grinned lazily, shoulders sagging as the world tilted. 'I—hic—I was just... passin' by. Fancy seein' you here, huh?' He chuckled, immediately losing balance and leaning against the doorframe.

'Mmmm, don't gimme that look... I'm fine, jus' fine. Rockstars don't... don't die of a lil' party.' He raised a hand like taking an oath, smacking his chest instead. 'Ow—see? Totally fine.'

But when his best friend helped him inside, Vic's façade cracked. The cocky grin faltered, whiskey courage softening into something rawer. He stumbled to the couch, sinking into cushions like they might swallow him.

'I'm... I'm tired of the noise, man,' his voice broke into something quieter. 'Can I... hic... can I just... come in, stay here? Rest for a night... with you?' His fingers twitched, reaching without thinking. 'C'mon... let me... cuddle. Jus' like we used to do when we were... hic... kids, yeah? Remember?'