i.

You and Arya weren’t at all close when Zaman Reaksi first began. There was always this distance that separated the two of you some miles apart; even when you recorded Zaman Reaksi’s first demo together, when you tried to get closer, to walk down those miles, you two were still so far away.

Maybe it’s because Arya had never been the center of attention so he’s close with whoever he knows of and you—au contraire—you’re always surrounded by people even though none are your confidants. Or maybe it’s because Arya didn’t trust you, once; those days where he kept opting out of your hang out invitations. No reason given. Even after you’ve tried so hard to know him closer. You two, afterall, are bandmates.

You’ve asked him before. Why? What’s the matter? But Arya never answered. He just sat there, smiling inscrutably, and the silence engulfed you two until you had enough and left. You didn’t know why he was reluctant to trust you. Six years after, you still don’t know, and Arya still smiles wordlessly if asked.

ii.

At the end of 2021, Zaman Reaksi made its mainstream debut on TV.

You kept heaving while your band was preparing everything at the backstage. Mentally you rehearsed the song you’re about to perform, again and again. A dying bird trying to breathe. All of a sudden you wanted to disappear, struck down by a severe stage fright, as if your many experiences debating and making grand speeches on international forum didn’t get you anywhere.

Orating and singing—so similar yet so different. Both demanded you to maximize your voice, to be heard, to be admired, but with speeches you never had to worry whether you did well or no. Whether your standard was the same with people. You—Irfan Ma’arif Hasibuan, defending champion of debate and oratory contests; you were never concerned with your skill. In oratory you came armored. But singing was another entire different matter.

There’s something more vulnerable in singing; cold stares, judging ears, your tongue brushing against every words. You could lie and still appear fantastic in oration, but singing—here you are, naked with every inch of your honesty.

People don’t listen to your speeches to realize something abtract, the way they do with your songs.

Five minutes.

You felt like disassociating. Light. Vacuous. Inundated. You couldn’t recognize your own fingers drumming to your knee.

Then Arya patted your shoulder. All at once you were pulled back, like Stephen Strange after The Ancient One knocked his soul out, and you blinked.

Arya sighed. “We’re up after.”

You nodded, dumbfounded. Tongue-tied.

“I thought it will be more woah than M-Net,” he said, peering at the stage. “Well, it’s alright. M-Net is much scarier, though.”

You frowned. What was Arya talking about? Out of nowhere bringing up M-Net like that. You followed his gaze; sea of people. Oversaturated lights. M-Net isn’t like this. This is more like the one conference you once attended—

Then you smiled.

(If it was you, there’d likely be too much words until it lost all meaning and be too bacot—but Arya didn’t have to do that. He eased it off so easily. So lightly.)

Uka called out; your turn had come. You walked. Slowly. Surely. That stage felt like home and whatever you were worrying about disappeared with no trace.

Under the blinding spotlight, you perspired, throbbed, lived, and your mainstream debut was a massive success afterwards.

iii.

Arya always fell asleep past midnight and woke up at ten, if there was spare time.

After Zaman Reaksi suddenly gained crazy fame, your tour bus only stopped venue to venue for the most part. No more hotels. The move cut all your resting time even though fantastic shows require fantastic energy.

Usually you went to sleep when there’s time. So did Sam and Cakra. Uka was even worse; he passed out right off the bat when his head touches any surface. Arya, however—

He spent it going out, or listening to all the songs he loves. His rest, of course, was shorter than the four of you.

You scolded him once. “You’re gonna get your ass sick if you keep up with that sleeping hours.”

Arya laughed. “Yeah, well. I’ll rest in the hospital.” Whether he was joking or not, you smacked him rather hard because it really wasn’t funny.

Arya woke up late today, too. He sat on the edge of his bed, eyes unfocused, not yet fully awake. Exhausted, it seemed. His hair was sticking out everywhere and you wanted to laugh; if you upoad this to Twitter, it’d make a big ruckus among the fandom because Ambun Arya never appeared with a flawed look.

Instead you brought him a glass of hot coffee. “Coffee, gak? I just made it. Pasti enak.”

He looked up, face blank. The corners of his mouth twitched. You could see he’s gathering up his energy and mind.

“Sure.”

iv.

One show in Glasgow, Arya rested his head to the crook of your neck. You ruffled his hair and kept on singing even though you almost screamed out the wrong lyrics. This is your stage ritual.

You heard his chuckles. His words: this is our lives now.

v.

And this is your lives now:

World tour, airport to bus to venue to bus to venue to airport; paparazzi; Twitter tweets and Tumblr posts; neverending fan gifts; Uka breaking up your fights and yelling at you two for disturbing his sleep; Cakra and her game consoles; Sam talking about his favorite plays every night; you and Arya, fighting and laughing and messing up together.

The crowd shouted back the lyrics that Arya wrote to you, to the five of you. How magical, all of these. Stage lights bouncing off colors. Uka jumping down from Cakra’s drum platform, who shook her head, sweating. Sam running to high-five outstretched hands.

The night was alive. As alive as your heartbeat. As alive as the pulse of your music.

You laughed.

At the other end of the stage, whilst also playing his guitar, Arya laughed as well, glancing at you mischievously.