<span style="font-size: 18px"><i>All I know /Is that I love you/ So much that it hurts</i></span><br/><br/><span style="font-size: 18px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff">Spencer's ears had heard such beauty before, the music flowing into every nerve of his being, sending chills down his spine and bringing sweet memories back to the surface. His pulse picked up a merciless pace in hopeful excitement. Though Spence was a realist, cynical and not daring to allow himself to believe for one second that he might recognize the visage of such a melodic tone. It couldn't possibly be</span><i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(255, 255, 255)"> him</span></i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff">. His mind and heart were surely only filled to the brim with wishful thoughts. And yet . . . he knew absolutely that no other could summon the same tenor brimming with such empathy that to hear it was to experience a merging of souls. The brunet pushed his way to front of the small crowd, tousled hair forgotten, camera neglected in his white-knuckled grip as he brushed passed a curvy, young woman who wrinkled her nose over her dark freckled skin at the unwanted contact. Spencer ignored her offended reprimand, hyper-focused on one thing and one thing, alone. He'd never claimed to be polite. In fact, most situations found him feeling socially inept unless he was in his element, wearing his false veil of over-confidence. In this moment, however, he was anything but. As he reached the front of the group of listeners, his body felt alien, tunnel vision taking over as he saw the man, at last. </span><br/>
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<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff">Spencer was transported, seventeen again and his birthday just around the corner. The magical Eighteen would be any repressed teenager's ticket to freedom. Granted, if repression was the worst of his dysfunctional family's problems, he could have dealt. Regardless, his parents couldn't reach him here, seated on his aunt's ratty, floral sofa. He was almost positive every lower-class, 90's era, working home had at least one of the them, with its uncomfortably useless wooden arms and velour printed with dull, brown foliage on a sandy background and, of course, decorated with more cigarette burns than a red-headed step-child. He didn't mind the well-worn furniture, the old floor-model box television with its two pixelated stripes of pink and green or the dusty photos framing the faces of people he was supposedly related to but had never seen before in his life. He was away from his parents here, which made it more of a home than the fancy, suburban Dutch colonial back in Kentucky. The one his father had been so proud of. The one reduced to embers for reasons Spencer didn't care to contemplate. <br/>
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He'd been staying with his cousin for three weeks, making himself perfectly at home, when the household had graciously received a second guest. Of course, Spencer had been less outgoing in those days, and slightly pudgy, baby-faced and more of a book worm who preferred to exist in the background where he could go unnoticed. And he'd liked it that way. A golden-haired seraph sat upon an ottoman in the middle of the room, his cousin and Aunt Anna Gale going about their business, drawing on a skateboard and watching game shows, respectively. Spencer, though, had sat his book to the side, the stories within completely abandoned in favor of giving this angel his unbridled attention as he was serenaded, hypnotized by such beauty that his entire life of aesthetic preferences would never recover. Though none could ever compare and Spencer's longing would never cease.</span></span><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff"><br/>
<i><span style="font-size: 18px">Cause every breath that you will take/ When you are sitting next to me/ Will bring life into my deepest hopes/ What's your fantasy?/ Cause I was born to tell you I love you.</span> <a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FGkuypwKUX2Y&amp;hash=bbb9b792629b47a0ed5ca4837f9e6b2b" href="https://youtu.be/GkuypwKUX2Y" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: 10px">(The Call, Secondhand Serenade)</span></a></i><br/>
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<span style="font-size: 18px">The younger boy had played a show all for him. And Spencer had never forgotten it, just as he'd never forgotten those eyes, those lips, or that dulcet voice.</span></span><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(255, 255, 255)"></span><br/><span style="font-size: 18px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff">His very soul froze.<br/>
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"Ayren?" The name was whispered, barely leaving Spencer's lips. Of course no one had heard him, thankfully, the man's song coming to an end and met by a well-deserved applause. Spencer was still unable to move, barely believing that his eyes weren't lying as a few tourists dismissed themselves by dropping their change into the open guitar case at Spencer's vintage high tops. A genuine smile spread itself across his face, though he didn't realize it was there. He'd forgotten the time and that he needed to get to work soon. He'd forgotten his search for film-worthy subjects. Nothing else mattered as he took in every syllable of that smooth, Cajun lilt, punctuated with artfully with bits of French here and there. He was just as perfect as Spencer remembered. Their eyes met, beryl blue crashing into the skies. And then that voice was directed at him. Ayren was speaking to him, smiling at him.<br/>
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Quite literally stunned speechless, Spencer did what he always did. A switch flipped inside him, anxiety gone in an instant and replaced by the charm he summoned nightly at The Door.  "Nothing would make me happier."  He flashed a flirtatious grin. "Than to listen to you all day, Mon Ange." He didn't think twice at throwing out the pet name, accurate as it was. Half the customers he drowned in vodka were given some sort of christening. None, though, had he ever referred to as his angel. "If you happen to know any Secondhand Serenade, The Call is one of my favorites." Of course, Spencer already knew that the blond would know it. He'd played it for him once upon a time in his aunt's dingy living room nearly a decade ago. He'd wanted to hear it again, sang in that sweet, sweet voice, for as long as he could remember.</span></span><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff"><span style="font-size: 18px"><br/>
Ayren's performance had managed to catch more than just the intense eye of Spencer, though. As he started up this new request, a more critical ear tuned in to listen. Mateo hung back, observing the crowd's reactions, taking in the effect this street busker's music had on the passing tourists. He noticed that quite a few stopped to listen for at least a few seconds and that the young man had managed to collect a fair sum of change. Though most likely untrained, his pitch was almost perfect. The few times the blond's tones lacked in professional touch, it made up for in raw energy. It's what Mateo liked to see in potential upstarts. A musician would never make it unless driven by a love for their own art, which it seemed this young man held in abundance. He could see this one going beyond the streets, even transcending the rabble of Bourbon Street bars and local gigs. He skirted the crowd, pushing designer sunglasses up the bridge of his nose as he waited for his opportunity to strike, his chance to learn a little more about the bearer of a rare talent that held the promise of making a decent sum of money for him. And the blond, too, of course. They both stood to gain quite a bit from a mutually beneficial relationship. Or at least that's how Mateo was prepared to sell himself.<br/>
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