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There were lots of downsides to living in the dorms. Communal bathrooms were one. Then there was the shared kitchen, the drunk freshmen tramping through the hallways at 3 AM, and dealing with roommates. One of the things that Derek didn’t mind, however, was being close to the dorm’s practice rooms.
The practice rooms were small supposedly sound-proof rooms where dorm residents could practice musical instruments without disturbing their neighbors. It was a good idea, theoretically—except whoever had designed the building hadn’t apparently had a very good understanding of acoustics. Not only were the walls of every dorm room deplorably thin (Derek really shouldn’t have this good of an idea of how often his neighbor got laid), but the practice rooms were also not nearly as “sound proof” as advertised.
Derek’s dorm room was right above his building’s practice rooms. There were a lot of people who complained about the noise, but Derek found himself enjoying the quiet melodies that leaked up from the floor below him most evenings. It wasn’t like the sound was keeping him awake—the practice rooms were closed after eleven, and Derek was never asleep before midnight.
Tonight was an unusually quiet night. Someone had been practicing Bach on the clarinet a couple hours ago, but since then the floor below had been silent. It was starting to put Derek on edge. He had two different poetry assignments to finish tonight, and the words just weren’t coming to him. Nothing he wrote down seemed worth keeping.
And then, like a Godsend, there was music—a guitar.
It was quiet, almost difficult to hear unless he was listening for it. He didn’t hear guitars in the practice rooms very often; usually the room was monopolized by band and orchestra kids. Tonight, however, it seemed that someone new had entered the scene. The pleasant harmony of the musician’s warm-up chords was already starting to get Derek’s pen moving.
A choir at his fingertips, each string a voice…
The musician eventually transitioned into playing full songs instead of just chords. Even though he wasn’t sure exactly what the names of the songs were, Derek thought he recognized some of the artists—Ben Harper, Ray LaMontange, a little bit of early Coldplay. Old man music, Derek thought with a chuckle. It was totally different from the kind of music Derek usually listened to. Still, it sounded good when this person played it—acoustic, soft, slow. Sensitive, in a quiet kind of way.
He moved onto the floor, sitting with his back against the wall and his notebook balanced on his knee. The poetry was flowing freely now. Derek felt like he was sinking into warm water, letting the hushed strums of the guitar wash over him in the otherwise quiet room. If he listened hard enough, he could hear the guitarist singing the lyrics.
“When all of this around us falls over; I tell you what we're gonna do. You will shelter me, my love; and I will shelter you.”
Derek finished his poetry assignments in record time and found himself lying on the floor with his laptop, torrenting album after album of acoustic guitar music and trying to find the songs his neighbor below was playing. These songs, they were…nice. More than nice. Derek hadn’t felt this relaxed in a long time.
And then suddenly, the guitar stopped. The room was quiet again. It was like it had never happened.
Derek decided to go to bed early that night.
He couldn’t get the songs out of his head for the next week. They kept coming back to him during lecture, at lunch, when he was trying to read poetry in the quad. He started to wonder what the musician looked like. He had absolutely no clue, which was infuriating. All he had was a voice.
He began to pay extra attention to the music coming from the floor below, hoping he might hear that guitar again. No such luck. A week and a half of violins, trumpets, and clarinets floated by like a fog, heavy and monotonous. His poetry started to take on a dark, desperate edge, which was always a bad sign. His poetry tended to show symptoms before he did.
Then, finally, ten days later, he heard it—the soft strumming of chords, the warm-up set. He put down his homework, spread himself out on the floor, and closed his eyes. All the tension bled out of him in a sigh, and God , how had he gotten so reliant on this musician?
“ Green eyes, you’re the one that I wanted to find, and anyone who tried to deny you must be out of their mind.”
The music went on for another hour or so before it stopped this time. The moment the quiet started, Derek began to panic a little. What if this was the last time this person practiced here? What if he never heard them again? Before he really knew what he was doing, he grabbed his keys and headed out the door, making for the stairs. He took them two at a time and slid in front of the door of the practice room just as someone was leaving, and—oh.
Wow. He was kind of gorgeous.
“Oh, uh, sorry,” the musician said, slinging his guitar case over his shoulder. He had red hair and freckles and eyes that were some kind of impossible shade of amber that left Derek staring a lot more than he should’ve been. “Were you waiting for the practice room?”
“Oh, no, no, not me,” Derek stammered. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to fight back the sudden wave of anxiousness that clung to his throat. Chill, Derek. Focus. “Uh, I just. You sound good.”
“You mean the guitar?” the guy said. Derek nodded. “Oh. Thanks, man.”
“Do you play a lot?” Derek asked, desperate to keep the conversation going.
“Not as much as I’d like,” the musician shrugged. “I’m a CS major, so, you know. Not a lot of free time for music.”
“That’s too bad. You’re really talented.”
The guy looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, not really. Thanks for saying so, though.”
“No, I mean it,” Derek insisted. “Do you ever perform?”
“Huh?”
“You know, in front of an audience?” The guy shook his head. “Well, if you wanted to, I know this coffee shop a couple blocks east of campus. Every Thursday night they have an open mic session at six. It’s pretty chill.” Derek was aware that he was rambling, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from talking. “I go for the poetry most of the time, but there are always a few musicians. Musicians get the best tips, I think. It’s never a waste of time, you know?”
The guy looked a little shell-shocked. Shit, Derek had talked too much. “That… sounds interesting,” the guy said eventually. “Which coffee shop is it at?”
“Oops, sorry. It’s Annie’s.”
“Oh yeah, I know Annie’s.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, yeah. Thursdays at six, you said, right?”
“Yeah, Thursdays at six,” Derek repeated. “On days when I’m performing, though, I usually try to get there a little earlier, so I’d recommend getting there at about 5:45?”
“You perform?” his guitarist asked.
“Yeah. Sometimes,” Derek said. He scuffed his shoe on the floor a little. “Slam poetry, mostly.”
The guy was staring at him a little, like he wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. Derek tried to stand a little straighter. He and the musician were the same height, he realized. Fuck, that was kind of hot.
“Can I get your number?” the guy asked after a few beats. “Just—in case I have any questions, about the open mic. Um.”
“Sure, of course,” Derek said, a little too quickly. “That’d be—yeah, good thinking.”
“Here, if you want, you can type it into my phone, or—”
Derek had already taken a pen out of his back pocket and was holding it poised in front of him.
“Oh, I don’t really have any paper besides sheet music…”
“I could write it on your hand?”
“Oh. Sure,” The musician held out his hand, palm up, and Derek took it. The act of writing the numbers on his pale skin was surprisingly intimate. Derek’s heart was beating wildly in his chest, and he could hear the other student’s breath catch a bit. It was nice to know that he wasn’t the only one a little flustered by this encounter.
“There,” Derek said when he was done. “Feel free to text me if you have questions. I’m Derek, by the way.”
“Thanks. My name’s Will.”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Will,” Derek grinned in what he hoped was a charming way. “I’ll see you Thursday?”
“Yeah, you bet,” Will said. He smiled back, just the slightest curve of his lips, but it made Derek’s heart skip a beat. “See you, Derek.”
“Definitely,” Derek said. Then Will was walking up the stairs, and pretty soon he was gone. Derek was alone in the hallway in front of the door of the practice room.
Holy shit.
Derek slowly made his way back up to his room, his heart hammering fast in his chest. Did he really just give his number to the hot guitar player he’d been obsessing over for the past week? Fuck. This was happening. This was real.
He couldn’t wait for Thursday.