Blaine Anderson just turned 21 years old. He was supposed to go to the bar, to have his first drink. Perhaps a second, and then a third. He was supposed to get drunk, get pissed, maybe flirt with another hot guy. He was supposed to get a really, really bad hangover the next day.

But he didn’t.

Ok, well, he DID get his 1st drink. (“ A tequila, please!” Inserts charming smile.) And then he turned around, hands leaning on the counter. He surveyed the bar, not knowing what he really is expecting. It’s his first time in here, and quite frankly, he doesn’t know how does one behave in a bar.

Blaine Anderson had been dapper his whole life. He puts on this smile-the kind that never really reaches his eyes-everyday. He tells everyone he’s fine, he’s ok, and he’s doing well. He never bothers someone else with his problems, because he was taught, since he was a kid, that you mind your own business.

And so he minds his own business.

Until his eyes reached the stage, where a pale, lean guy was setting up the mic. The guy said,so quietly it was just above a whisper:” And the next song---Blackbird, by the Beattles.”

That was the moment his hazel met the grey, a grey colour that doesn’t seems like it is grey at all. And he stares, past the crowd, past the noise, past the everything , and he knows.

The owner of that pair of grey eyes smiled the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He opened his mouth, and Blaine Anderson could swear that was the most beautiful voice he will ever heard in his life.

Oh-there you are, I’ve been looking for you forever.