Chapter Text
The first thing Est hears is not his name.
It’s William’s voice.
It’s distant, older than he remembers. Filtered through speakers backstage where he is waiting for his chance to join the anchor. But unmistakably his.
A voice that was once his constant companion through school hallways, quiet sleepovers and shared headphones. A voice he has heard a thousand times over the last ten years over the crackly speakers of his laptop in award speeches, livestreams and interviews. A voice that now belongs to millions as much as it once belonged to him.
Est freezes in the hallway outside the studio and misses the rest of what the anchor says. A production assistant says something to him and hurries away. Someone calls for a camera check. A burst of applause filters through the crack of the door.
He hears none of it. William is laughing at something the anchor has said.
The sound hits harder than it should. Est has heard William sing for years. He knows every song he has written, has every album the band put out, has watched every blurry, late night performance captured by fans halfway across the world.
He has heard William sing about heartbreak and longing, about growing up and moving on.
But this is different. This is William, unscripted - talking without thinking, tumbling over his words while excited, laughing over sharing silly anecdotes.
Suddenly, Est is seventeen again, sprawled across a bedroom floor complaining about homework, while William laughs at his complaints while writing a song at his desk.
It’s been ten years.
Ten years since they stood in the same room.
Ten years of watching William on billboards, magazine covers and giant screens at airports.
Ten years of hearing his voice everywhere except where he wanted it most.
A fresh wave of laughter spills across the room and Est can somehow still pick out William’s peal of laughter among all the others. His chest tightens in response.
His ears have always been tuned to William’s voice, to William’s laughter. They have been since he met a scraggly, angry boy at fourteen, all sharp elbows, guarded eyes and a voice that had almost been made quiet by the world.
His mind flashes back to the last time he heard it directed at him and he almost misses the cue announcing him.
Because the last time Est heard that voice properly, it had said:
Good luck at nationals. Call me after, okay?