Your Eyes
The lights are hot, making sweat bead up on his forehead as he stands on the little stage. It's too small, really, so small that he can feel the throb of the drums hit the back of his legs and he can't really move around. All he can do is tap his foot in place and focus on his own little bubble. In a way, the small stages are best, because when he can't move, he pours his energy into the music, into the microphone, and he swears that's when he puts forth his best work. He's done this dozens of times, loves the visceral thrill of hearing their music pour out over the room... and then the end, when people clap for them and the sound rolls back to hit him like thunder. It's a pure, clean baptism with his own sweat, and Sam's addicted to it.
It could be worse, after all; he could be hooked on drugs like his drummer, or pickling his liver for posterity like so many other musicians he's heard of. Not Sam Winchester, though. For him it's the music: the creation, the blending, the effort, and the reward. Sure, money's good, but this -- this is better. For him, fans have a different meaning; their love keeps him afloat in a world where the shadows are long and there are more valleys than there are peaks. Their faith and their eagerness for more fuel his talent, keep his mojo working and bouncing from one high to the next. That's why he squints against the heat of the lights to try and make out something in the audience, because he craves that connection.
No matter where he plays, Sam usually just sees outlines, maybe blurs of color or motion, or a sense of presence. But tonight, there's a new city, a new stage, and there's somebody standing not far away. Sam has an impression of denim and black, but they're just on the periphery of his senses. What really catches him is the eyes: brilliant, intense blue. They watch him like he's all alone up there, like he's the only thing that exists in the whole wide world, and Sam feels his heart rate accelerate. When the set's over, he rushes back out into the club with a bottle of water in his hand, eager to speak to the girl... but she's gone. He cranes his head over the faces that crowd him on the floor, his hand automatically signs plastic cases and glossy photos, but he doesn't see her anymore.
The eyes haunt him for weeks. Sam purposefully pushes their agent to book them at that club again, despite how cramped it was and how proportionally small their take had been from the gig. Everyone thinks he's gone off the deep end, but every time he thinks about that moment he feels alive in a way he swears he's never experienced before. It's thrilling... and frightening. The second time they play there, several months later, he's horribly disappointed when they leave at the end of the night and he didn't see those eyes again. It sends him into a tailspin that takes him weeks to dig out of... weeks that he spends writing, playing, rehearsing. So much that his bandmates threaten him with bodily harm if he plays That Damn Song again.
Four months to the day after that first gig, their agent tells him that since there hasn't been much work elsewhere, he's booked them up at the Songbird again. Despite his misgivings, Sam can't deny the little spark of hope that flares bright in his chest, though he's learned to keep his mouth shut around his band mates. He doesn't say much on the long drive in the van, and ignores their grumbling as they keep tripping over each other up on the stage. Cupping his hand around the microphone, he takes a deep breath and draws it toward his mouth. He can feel the electric line building itself between himself and his audience as the first notes drift out into a strangely quiet clubhouse.
There's something sweet in the way you lie Thinking it's all for the best Staying away because you think It'll make me miss you less What's the use in hiding in the shadows When I know, you know, I'm your light
I'm the light in your eyes When I think of you I forget to breathe One touch, one smile, and I'd die But oh-hh, I live, I live for your eyes
Sam builds the picture in his head - she of the blue eyes sitting at the bar, watching him and sipping a cocktail. What would she wear tonight, he wonders... Maybe blue heels to match and a flour sack dress because god knows Sam wouldn't look anywhere else but her face... His throat throbs as the words roll up and out of him, and he can hear the sound bouncing back from the walls, from the tables, from the warm bodies occupying the room. He can hear them breathe, feel their heartbeats fall into sync with pulse of the music, of the love letter he wrote to a stranger.
All my friends say I've gone crazy Because I miss a place I've never been And I'm on my knees begging you to Give me, give me my blue heaven I'm waiting here in the dark for a chance, For you to lead me to the promised land
I lost myself in your blue eyes When I think of you I forget to breathe One touch, one smile, and I'd die But oh-hh, I live, I live for your eyes
Even before he opens his eyes, he knows. Something in the room has changed, a stillness lying beneath the weight and the heat. Peering through his eyelashes, he knows that the woman he's been waiting for is out there. This time, he isn't willing to let her go. Moving his hand off the neck of his guitar, he extends it out into the audience and beckons. There's a shuffle of chairs and feet as people respond without thinking; Sam disregards them. He's only singing for one person, after all.
You're light on your feet and you dress to impress But baby I don't love you for your shoes You light me on fire, fire but truth be told What I really need are your baby blues All I know is that my life is waiting for me right there When the lights go down
I dream of your eyes When I think of you I forget to breathe One touch, one smile, and I'd die But oh-hh, I live, I live for your eyes... I live... for your blue... eyes...
Sam doesn't wait. As soon as the last word has throbbed itself to its end and the band is in the teeth of the conclusion, the brunette front man swings his guitar back and jumps down off the stage. He lands with a heavy thump, staggering a step before squinting thanks to the artificial gloom imparted by the glare of the lights. Now that he's out from under them he has to blink a few times to clear his vision... and the first thing he sees when everything clarifies is a pair of blue eyes. Hell, he can't help himself - he smiles and holds out his hand. It's a bit of a surprise when he realizes that it's a man who reaches from the crowd to slip his hand into Sam's sweaty one.
Regardless, Sam doesn't think twice about pulling the stranger out from the crowd and into his arms before whispering a soft hello in the split-second silence between the last note and when the applause starts. It's enough time for his life to start again, and enough time for the other man to reach up with his free hand and push it into Sam's mop to pull him down for a sweet kiss that brands itself on Sam's lips. Sam's heart still hammers a million miles a minute, he's lightheaded, there's a roaring in his ears, and the guitar strap is digging into his neck... but he's calm at last. This is where he was meant to be.
