Being the focal point of Ayren's intoxicating gaze had Spencer's pulse heightening. How long had he hoped to see Ayren again? How many years had passed since he'd returned to his aunt's place only to find the blond boy with the magical voice had moved away? How many days had passed since then, Spencer having given up hope and drifted through a throng of poor substitutes who couldn't even hold a flame to the spark that had been ignited within him that fateful day. And yet somehow, by an unusual stroke of circumstance, his footsteps had lead their paths to cross once more. He watched closely as Ayren seemed to puzzle over him for a moment, as if perhaps, just maybe, he might have recognized Spencer as the overweight, antisocial little creature he'd once been, a far cry from the lean and far less timid man he'd finally become.<br/><br/>Then it dawned on him, a slight panic growing inside his belly. What if Ayren<i>did </i>recognize him? He was radically different now, sure, but would he be able to shake the less than stellar first impression he'd garnered for himself as the quiet shut-in who'd barely spoken or looked up from his book in the  corner aside from just long enough to quietly utter responses to questions or watch the beautiful boy play? If he stood a snowball's chance in hell, Spencer couldn't afford to be dragged down by that recollection. Granted there was the possibility that Ayren recognized him anyways, in which case he was likely doomed from the start. As he watched the other tighten the cap on his water bottle, his throat moving as he swallowed down the last gulp and set it aside, Spencer was mesmerized, still, telling himself to speak and yet unable to do so, as if he'd become that shy little fat boy once more. His  confidence wavered, and then Ayren smiled, lighting the world with his laughter as he fingered the board of the guitar grasped lovingly with his long fingers.<br/><br/>It was then that Spencer decided he couldn't afford to let his shortcomings get in his way.<br/><br/>It was then that Spencer decided nothing would get in his way.<br/><br/>Spencer most certainly didn't mind hot water, especially as long as Ayren would be involved.<i>'Boil me alive for all I care, as long as it's you</i>.' He didn't comment as Ayren announced his song request to the congregation of listeners, but the blond's next words brought his heart to a stop, his lungs as well as he held his breathe, mulling the simple question over in his mind. Without a doubt, if he introduced himself, then Ayren would certainly picture the awkward teen he'd once been, the young man who hadn't even deserved the light of day from a deity such as this. He didn't have to be truthful, he  realized, but what would be the use in hiding? His real name would be unearthed eventually, if he got his way, which couldn't end well if he were to be caught in such a ruse. Then again, his obsession would eventually have to be released into the light of day as well, which would definitely blow up in his face. He couldn't lie, though, not to Ayren, and there were plenty of men named Spencer regardless. There was no guarantee that Ayren would even make the connection.<br/><br/>Considering the song he'd requested, though, a heavy sense of deja vu hung in the air between them as if the rest of the people milling about the streets didn't even exist.  As the chords began to play, leaving Spencer without a chance to respond, he grinned and followed up with a flawless wink, barely noticeable, as his earlier boldness returned. Ayren's music began to flow over the crowd, then,  sweet and mournful as it filled Spencer's soul with an unnameable emotion he'd been missing for years, his nerves coming alive. It was as if he'd finally become complete and yet he hadn't really. For as close as they now stood, he and Ayren, there was still such a wide chasm there between them, but a chasm that the photographer was determined to close.<br/><br/>It was immediately apparent that the blond's voice had matured, refined and transcended beyond the serenade that Spencer had received years ago. He hadn't thought it possible, that something so perfect could get even better. And yet here they were. His own eyes were glued to those impeccably soft lips, watching every syllable roll off his Cajun Prince's tongue as if he would expire if he dared look away. He didn't want to, anyways, had spent years imagining what their reunion might be like.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center"><div class="bbImageWrapper lazyload js-lbImage" data-lb-caption-extra-html="" data-lb-sidebar-href="" data-single-image="1" data-src="/proxy.php?image=https%3A%2F%2Fomazingkidsyoga.files.wordpress.com%2F2012%2F04%2Fmusical_notes_on_staff_divider_01.png%3Fw%3D570%26h%3D105&amp;hash=88735b6a049486c78d03b67c7f93a682" title="musical_notes_on_staff_divider_01.png">
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<br/>​</div><br/>"Why don't you just leave?! I don't want you here and neither does your son!"<br/><br/>"This is my fucking house, Woman! You leave, run on back to your parents and see how long it takes you to come back like you always do!"<br/><br/>There was a loud crash as, undoubtedly, Abram Reid had sent an unfortunate piece of furniture flying into a wall. Upstairs, Spencer Reid huddled in the center of his bed with his knees drawn to his chest, the headphones covering his ears on full blast as he held them closer to his skull in a futile attempt to block out the chaos of his father's tirade.<br/><br/><b><i>I was born to tell you I love you, And I am torn to do what I have to, To make you mine Stay with me tonight. </i></b><br/><br/>It wasn't the same as the angelic voice of the boy he'd met at his Aunt's place over the summer as the disc spun out the very same melody, the very same words, but in a voice that Spencer held no affection for. It was better than nothing, though, and the song had served to calm him ever since he'd heard it months ago. Or rather, the memory he associated it with took him back to a better place. He imagined holding hands with the blond, kissing him and telling him exactly how gorgeous he was. He wondered if the other would reciprocate. Would he push Spencer away? Did he even like guys like that? Probably not, much less the fat, shy kid that  no one picked to during PE. Not that he cared. Spencer kept to himself, really. The only person he wanted to open up to was miles away, unreachable and oblivious to the aching of Spencer's heart.<br/><br/>The severity of  his father's episodes had escalated over the years, though it seemed that lately they had grown more frequent. Maybe it was the increasing stress of his career that served to intensify Abram's post-traumatic stress disorder. Maybe it was the frustration that years of therapy and medication hadn't seemed to put so much as a damper over the frequency in his epileptic seizures. Regardless, Spencer no longer cared why or how, only that he had grown tired of living under this roof, tip-toeing on eggshells around the sensibilities of his land mine of a father.<br/><br/>Some of Abram's doctor's had claimed the seizures to be a genetic disease, while others, those not employed by Veteran's Affairs, swore the ex-soldier's epilepsy to be a result of over-exposure to the asbestos insulating the bunkers built overseas. His family had been urged to seek a settlement, but his father was a foolishly proud man, too proud to admit that he now suffered from crippling anxiety and violent outbursts, much less any physical abnormalities. On the outside, the Rieds seemed to be the perfect family, suburban home, two brand new vehicles in the garage, topped off by a perfectly manicured lawn and seemingly respectable in every way. However, behind the red door and those matching shutters that his mother had more or less chosen the house for, their family was a much different story.<br/><br/>Usually Spencer and his mother only expected to put up with fits like these a few times a month.<br/><br/>Lately it seemed as if his father's mental illness was his entire existence. Spencer loved school because there, even though he was teased for being chunky, at least he didn't have to put up with this. Living under his father's roof had become a real nightmare and Spencer wanted  nothing more than to run away again, run back to Lafayette, back to his aunt's chicken casserole, the ugly couch he'd slept one and, most importantly, back to Ayren. He didn't understand his crush on the younger boy that he'd barely spoken to, only that it filled his mind with a hope that maybe some day things might be better. Some day, maybe Spencer  might get what he longer for.<br/><br/>"You need help!" His mother was shouting again as Spencer tried yet again to turn up the volume, squeezing the headphones tighter into his mess of dark hair, but to no avail. "If you'd just take the pills! Go to therapy like you're supposed to!" It was the same argument every time, and one  that had become much more frequent, nearly three times a week, even. "You're sick!"<br/><br/>"I'm not sick! I just want . . . " Another crash and Spencer began to wonder, against his non-violent nature, if maybe he should intervene. Although last time hadn't ended very well for him. While his father wouldn't hurt a woman, apparently his own son was not an issue. "You are sick and you're getting worse every day!" Spencer silently urged his mother to stop, knowing that forcing Abram Reid to admit that something was wrong with him only made his ire worse.<br/><br/>Another crash sounded from the kitchen, a stumble? A scuffle? He held his breathe, the song reset, repeating for the fourth time, as he pulled the headphones away just for a moment, just long enough to listen and locate his parents' progress through the home.<br/><br/>"Abram, what are you doing?!"<br/><br/>"Call me sick again, Bitch!"<br/><br/>"Abram, please -"<br/><br/>BOOM<br/><br/>Spencer almost didn't recognize the resounding clap on a gunshot, muffled by the floor below as it echoed in his ears. He sat up, slowly, music still playing from his headphones as he abandoned them atop the quilt covering his bed, heart pounding in denial. He heard footsteps ascending the staircase.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center"><br/>
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<br/>​</div>Spencer blinked away that memory, returning to the past to realize that Ayren's eyes were boring into his own and immediately regretted that he'd squandered precious seconds of the blond's attention by ruminating on something he'd rather forget. He was past those events now, happy and on his own feet despite a rough start. He offered the musician a smile, a paltry compensation in exchange for the hope that had driven him to succeed for so many years, the light that had kept him going. Because he'd always known, no matter how bad things had gotten, that Ayren was out there somewhere.<br/><br/>Ayren's voice rang out the last lyric, long and sweet, haunting, and all Spencer could for a moment was close his eyes and fully appreciate the tone. When he opened them, he watched the blond stand from his bow, the crowd dropping change and small bills into the guitar case. Was this how Ayren made  his living, busking as surviving off tips? Then again, that wasn't so different from slinging drinks at The Door, he supposed, but every server owed him a due at the end of the night, in addition to what he collected from drunk tourists. He doubted playing on the corner earned the blond nearly as much. Spencer saw an opportunity here and he took it. Digging in his pockets, he fished out the corduroy wallet and folded a bill into his palm. A fifty was too large to drop into the case with the rest. Moving forward, he introduced himself at last, holding out his hand in a true greeting and ready to pass over the cash whether the other would accept such a large tip or not. "That was as beautiful as I'd hoped it would be." '<i>But not as beautiful as you.</i>' He didn't dare voice that thought for fear of seeming too forward.  "But you didn't give me a chance to answer. You can call me Spence."<br/><br/>And then suddenly Spencer found himself overshadowed by a voice to his left, his own gentle tones nothing in comparison to the strident tones of this newcomer. "Magnificent! You, Sir, have a promising talent. Tell me, do you have an agent? Have you ever performed in front of a real crowd?" Annoyance ruffled through Spencer as he refused to budge out of the way of this new presence now vying for Ayren's attention. He'd been waiting for this moment for nearly a decade. How dare this cocky son of a bitch deign to intervene. "Excuse you," he growled. "But we were having a conversation." Of course, the polite words, even dripping in salt as they were, were heavily filtered in comparison to the ones inside Spencer's head.<br/><br/>The older man gave Spencer a dismissive once-over, as if immediately determining his own superiority, before ignoring him completely and turning back to Ayren. "What's your name? Do you write your own songs?" He drew a card from his blazer, thrusting it between Ayren and Spencer as if Spencer was insivible. "<a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fi.pinimg.com%2F564x%2F3d%2F91%2Fe0%2F3d91e07d2e93e1f19d14776a79ee756c.jpg&amp;hash=11b80b9ae5a83551905d9acd2f81d080" href="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/3d/91/e0/3d91e07d2e93e1f19d14776a79ee756c.jpg" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">Mateo Arios,</a>but please just call me Mat," he rolled his tongue with a flair as he announced himself. "That talent of yours is going to waste here on the streets, believe me!" Spencer hated this man already. "I can get you into the front door, onto the bottom step of the stairway to fame." The front door? Maybe Spencer was no talent-scavenging agent, but he could get Ayren a gig at The Door easily. Maybe he was still unheard of, but with a voice like that, he doubted it would matter. "Of course we'll have to negotiate a contract-"<br/><br/>"I can get him a gig at The Door without a contract," he offered smugly, eyeing the look of distaste on this Mateo's face. "I work there." He turned to Ayren now, gauging his reaction, if the blond was even interested in performing anywhere else. If this is where he preferred to play then it was no one's place to stop him. "It's no trouble at all for me to pull a few strings, if you'd like that."<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center">​</div><br/><div style="text-align: center">​</div>