Viktor felt blurred, fuzzy, like the dark stain that hung in the corner of your eyes late at night. The room felt blurry too, the deep theatre red of the curtains blending with the gradients of black and blue, the soft stage lights lighting less than even half of the stage. He was pressed in a tiny drama room with at least 40 other people, all older, all of whom he had never seen before. And he had no clue what was going on.

He, of course, was not skipping his fourth and fifth-period classes. He'd gotten express permission to present a parting gift to the speaker at this week's workshop on songwriting. His high school ran these workshops for a week every year, and the topics varied every time. He could only be grateful that he had gotten assigned to the songwriting workshop this time around, something he personally enjoyed, being an amateur musician himself. However, this scene was not at all what he had imagined such a workshop would include.

He was sandwiched in his seat by the undulating crowd of senior students, wearing shirts from obscure concerts by bands he had never heard of, baseball caps backwards on their heads, the odd few clutching a guitar, or drumsticks. A few kneeled gamely by their friends, talking and laughing in hushed voices. And on stage… an older, balding man adjusted the amp connected to his dark red fender. A long-haired woman in a large hoodie thrummed her bass guitar, checking the tuning. And another student adjusted the tall mic with a poker face, seemingly unfazed by the island of burning gold the stage lights cast.

There was a sudden surge of chatter, and a young man stumbled laughingly out of the front row and hopped onto the stage, goaded on by his friends. He grabbed the mic and announced he'd be singing two jazz classics, his mouth too close to the mic for Victor to make out the names. His dark skin glowed under the golden glare, and his backwards baseball cap and hipster shirt were worn with an air of sarcasm he had never seen in anyone else. And apparently, he was popular, because half the room cheered at his declaration.

The boy turned to the guitarists and murmured a few words, far too quiet for Victor to properly make out. Then, he turned back around, positioned himself at the mic, and took a deep breath. As he breathed out, the drums started a low and steady bdm bdm bdm and he grinned, before bursting into song, the guitar not far behind. And god could he sing. Victor was blown away at the talent permeating the room.

The next hour or so passed in the same odd, dreamlike haze. There was no speaking, rarely even an introduction for each new singer. Band members were occasionally switched out for members of the audience, yet still, there was no mention of songwriting. The most Victor could figure was that the odd fugue that had taken over the room was the result of far too many avid musicians in one room. Still, he couldn't complain. While this wasn't what he had signed up for, he found he enjoyed the hazy feeling of being an outsider in this odd world.

He even found himself humming along to a few of the songs, recognizing the basic melody behind the lofty pretense of acoustic jazz and warbling, indie voices. It was during a performance of 'Somebody to Love' that Victor finally let his voice ring out, singing with wild abandon at one of his favourite songs. He lost himself in the twang of the strings and soaring acoustics of the singer, the hushed cheers and enthusiastic whooping as good as any percussion. Letting the cape of exam stress, the numb focus of a straight-a student fall from his shoulders, he smiled, feeling at peace in his surroundings, content to be another shadowy form in the theatre. And of course, that moment didn't last long before—

"You should go up there! You have such a nice voice!" The voice came so unexpectedly from his right side that he stopped singing to look over, spotting a sunkissed redhead sitting next to him. She adjusted her long white skirt to fold over her legs and then ruined it immediately by crossing them and throwing him a mischievous smile, reminding him suddenly of a sky-fallen angel with the way the dusky shadows hid her face and illuminated her pale eyes and the folds of her dress.

He cleared his throat unnecessarily and gave her his patented tired smile, stretching his cheeks just wide enough to even be classified as one, responding, "I uh, I'm kinda shy," he hoped that was enough to dissuade her. Sadly, she persisted, insisting that no one here would make fun of him. For a moment, he considered it. No one in the crowd seemed ready to pass judgement on his voice, let alone his fashion sense. It seemed that acceptance was the norm here. Still, the thought of baking under those hot stage lights and laying his heart bare and unprotected made something in him squirm, and he shook his head once more.

Sighing, she turned away, and he felt a quick pang of guilt for seemingly disappointing her. Still, he reasoned, it was for his own peace of mind. Reassured, he turned back to the stage, just in time to catch the next performer.

The boy awkwardly clambering on stage with his dark blue acoustic didn't seem to be well known; in fact, most of the people in the auditorium seemed a bit confused at his appearance. Victor found it a bit odd that in this theatre of friends, someone could be so obscure. Of course, he had to concede that he, too, had no friends in this room. The boy stumbled onto the dark wood of the stage and turned to whisper nervously to the band. As he turned, the stage lights caught on something, a bright flash of burgundy red flaring into view and oh, those are his eyes. Victor was spiralling.

The boy looked anxious, withdrawn, hints of youth still lining his face, a flat, wide nose and big warm brown eyes, glowing like a cat's in the shadows cast over his face. He wore a large black hoodie, his hair ruffled as if it were unused to being out in the open, more accustomed to hiding under his hood. And he was beautiful. A striking portrait of casual elegance and nerves. Victor wondered what he had to be nervous about. Perhaps his voice was awful and croaking, or his guitar work shoddy. Either failing didn't detract from the fact that he had stolen Victor's heart.

After addressing the band, they shuffled to the sides, leaving the stage clear for him. The boy walked up to the microphone and cleared his throat awkwardly, before whispering, "I'm Yuuri, and..," he dithered, and ended with, "yeah." Before turning his red face to the frets of his guitar and quietly plucking at the strings, checking the tuning. He turned back to the mic and mumbled, "This is 'Ain't No Sunshine' by Bill Withers."

And then, he began to sing. And god, was Victor mistaken. His voice was indeed croaky, but something about the honest and raw quality left him breathless. And when the guitar joined in, they formed a quiet duet. The shadows cast over his small form and the emptiness of the stage lent to the feeling of privacy, and Victor almost felt as if he should turn away as if he were watching an illicit tryst, rather than a performance in a crowded room. Yuuri sang slow and sweet, and each strum left the strings vibrating beautifully in the nearly silent room.

By the time he finished the song, an odd hush had fallen over everyone, eyes glued to the tiny form on the stage in awe and anticipation. Yuuri began to open his mouth before applause began to resound somewhere to Victor's left. A chorus of 'Shhhhhhhhhhhh' was heard, and Yuuri once again blushed, the pink spreading over his cheeks like spilled ink. Victor could wax poetic for hours, every action of his eliciting an odd yearning pull in his chest that he'd never felt before.

Yuuri introduced a second song, more confident than earlier. Victor didn't quite grasp the name, being too focused on the small grin on the boy's face. He began to pluck at his guitar, the notes falling like raindrops and shattering on the floor, a steady thrum building. This song was louder, faster, but sadder. Victor couldn't quite catch the words, but something about it made him flush. "... Quiet hands… Of the dead..," There was something both strangely erotic and gut-wrenchingly horrifying that he couldn't grasp woven in the words, in the strange warbles of Yuuri's voice in certain parts. When he finally finished, he finished soft and sad, eyes downcast, to the thunderous applause of the audience.

He jumped but smiled, an odd sheen to his eyes. Once more, he stepped up to the mic, and that's when his eyes locked with Victor's. He froze for a second and they stared into each other's eyes, glowing warmth on Victor's own blue. Then Yuuri spoke, eyes still glued to him, "Baby Blue," Victor flushed a dark red, struck suddenly by the thought that he might be speaking about him. People had called his eyes many things. Piercing, cold, icy, even electric. But baby blue… That was soft, worn, gentle. No one had ever thought him gentle, and the idea made his breaths come hitching and fast. But Yuuri seemed to shake himself out of it, turning his head as his cheeks bloomed once more, and finishing his sentence with "...by King Krule."

When he sang, however, his eyes held Victor's, and the odd, distant contact made something small and tremulous in his chest sing as well. The things he sang of seemed to echo Victor's own thoughts, thoughts of sandpaper breaths and distant meetings, of a promise to meet again, of a wish, to paint the skies baby blue, and the realization of what he could or could have had. The thought made his heart race, vibrating with the strings of the guitar and suddenly Victor knew they were meant to be. This feeling, this sweetness, it couldn't be a coincidence. He was meant to be in this place, at this time, with these people. He belonged.

He thought about Yuuri even as the boy bowed quickly, slipped off the stage, even as he sat, flushing at the praise of his peers, even as the singing and playing continued and the crowd recovered from the twilight silence of Yuuri's performance, beginning their cheering and whooping once more. He thought about their locked eyes even as he watched Yuuri studiously ignore his gaze, head ducked down and ears red. He thought about him as he lost Yuuri in the crowd, as he stayed till everyone had left in the hope of finding him and even as he eventually left, crestfallen. He thought about him as he stumbled into the bright chaotic light of a summer afternoon, as he biked home and even as he fed his dog.

And he thought about him all summer long, spent sleepless nights listening to the songs he sang and remembering the warmth of his gaze, the rough earnestness of his voice. He thought about him as he learnt the songs on his own guitar, playing in the warm and stuffy darkness of his bedroom. And he's thinking about him when he knocks someone over as he heads into the school, caught in the mad rush of the first day.

"Oops, I'm sorry I wasn't looki—" he cuts off because he recognizes that face, those eyes, even the hoodie. How could he not, when this boy had been in all of his dreams, had lived in his head and his heart and the hollow of his guitar all summer. And judging by Yuuri's face, he remembers Victor too. "Hi," Yuuri blurts, red dashing over his face at his blunt statement. The sound of his hoarse and warm voice mutes everything else, the two caught in their own warm, strange hush. And Victor hopes he never has to live without it again.

Victor's experience here is definitely based on my own, but I didn't fall in love with the amazing guitarist who sang/played these songs. Here's a chronological list of the songs sung by Yuuri, all of which I first heard from the beautiful guitarist I did not fall in love with:

Ain't No Sunshine by Bill Withers
John Wayne Gacy Jr. by Sufjan Stevens
Baby Blue by King Krule

Check them out! And as always, follow my tumblr, where I may someday actually be interesting, at kingfishling . tumblr . com