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On that chilly autumn morning, the college campus lay draped in yellow leaves, its alleys damp and quiet. He was rushing to make it to the lecture, suddenly froze in his tracks when the sound of jazz music drifted out from the cafeteria. Something in the tune held him rooted to the spot, as if the world around him had paused.
There in the middle of the hallway, stuck in place, Lukas just stares and listens carefully, a scene straight out of a romcom. It`s stupidly funny how Lukas`s brain screams to go try to still be at least not too late, but he stays.
There was no singing, only the instrumental, the bones of song, that took perfect shape. Blooming with expressive saxophone. There was a small thought at the back of his mind: “How in the hell did they drag a whole ass keyboard in here?”. Lukas stayed watching a dirty-blond-haired boy creating miracles with his guitar. But suddenly he feels his legs move—like on their own, carrying him closer to the band? He has no idea, but Lukas is sure he saw that guy somewhere around campus, maybe even during cooperative work with other majors; that day was too insane to keep up with all the participants.
Then, some girl shoves a flier into his hands; he glances down at a bit crumpled piece of paper, “amateur’s jam session” not sure if they were calling themselves amateurs, or maybe they had a weird sense of humor to name a band like that, but who is Lukas to judge? “The Doors” exist at the end of the day.
But he also stares at a familiar name… Alanas Brasas.. they definitely worked together that day. Lukas returns his gaze to “the amateurs” not even realising how close he got. Now, Lukas could definitely tell how blue Alanas` eyes were. He backs off, sitting down near someone in the makeshift fanzone, made up from cafeteria chairs in a maximum of two not-so-long rows, not even bothering to ask if the seat was taken, really un-Lukas-like. He clutches the strap of his cross-body bag and runs a free hand through his hair. The sign that he gave up on being not-so-late to the lecture.
Lukas doesn`t even try to hide that he`s staring at this too blue-eyed man, at how his fingers move to smooth the exposed nerve endingd that were sound of jazz. Even if Lukas didn`t know much about jazz, he could tell it was bebop, and he did think their improv sounded amateur, he would laugh to himself a little later, how ironic.
He stayed because the music tugged something deep down, still raw, still unhealed. A music-shaped wound. Lukas always dreamed of being something great, but in the field of creating music that would speak the unspoken. Something no one dared to speak aloud but only let be spilled once drunk and freed from what-ifs. To show sadness is not an ugly feeling that you have to hide, that everyone deserves to be heard, the thing he, himself craved the most. So he stayed to hear someone else. That will make him sad a little later; now he will let “The Amateurs” be heard. Now he will try to understand them, and he can sulk in his dorm a little later.
He stayed because the familiar features of a dirty-blond-haired man were too inviting; his smile shone to his bandmates, warm and forgiving. It wasn`t fair how this smile captivated Lukas.
It also wasn`t fair how he shot looks at Lukas. With a crooked smirk. An all-knowing smirk, as he kept forging magic with his fingertips sliding across the warm-toned fingerboard of his guitar. And the stupidest thing was that Lukas wasn't even ashamed enough to look away, answered him with a barely there upturn of his lips, and kept staring, also partly listening, but mostly огіе being there. This moment will haunt his sleep. For a very long time.
But not now, now, now he enjoys himself a bit too much, letting himself be cradled by the music, his dreams that didn't come true. And that stupid, too pretty for a boy smirk.