A/N: Um, so, here's the deal guys. I'm kind of stuck on the main story right now, good job me. But, well, I sat down and wrote some backstory--here it is. This probably is the story I should have told in the first place, anyway......

So prelude, here it goes. Hopefully it's comprehensible to new readers (if new readers are out there)? The characters are Olive and Spencer Hurd, whose band is called the Silent City. That's probably all you need to know?

Read!

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I met Spencer when I was fifteen. He was so selfless; he didn’t ask a thing from me. I acquainted myself with him better in the desolation of my attic and the chilly light of winter. I held his words to me like talisman; in need of guidance or inspiration I would look to them. He never wanted a thing. He need food or sleep. He lived in my iPod.

I was different, then. I don’t want to talk about my parents much, but there was darkness and there was light. Now that I think about it, I was so sheltered and so innocent; I lived in a world padded with the love from my boyfriend and my best friends. I doled out love and trust generously, thoughtlessly; I was warm, shy, laughing, wide-eyed.

The summer before I went off to college: Copenhagen. What a city. Cobblestones pounding with the flash of patent shoes. A shock of blue sky. I felt that if I breathed in deeply enough, all the life and glory of the city might come in to me all at once. I lived with Catherine, one of my best friends, whose hair was like a bristling red mane. She was interning at some famous house of fashion design, while I noodled around on my guitar.

By then, I had released an album and now operated under the moniker of a “serious professional musician.” Naturally, I gravitated towards members of the Copenhagen scene; the small, sputtering rock scene that looked frail compared to the thriving techno scene. But thank god for rock musicians, we could laugh and grow close despite the fact I spoke approximately four words of Danish. I met Erik, and this is important because he worked at an important Danish venue. Every time a band would come through town, Erik would meet them and Erik would engineer the sound and probably have drinks with the band afterwards.

This is important because The Silent City came into town. I got to the venue two hours before doors opened to find at least twenty hardcore fans in front of me. I tapped my foot with excitement; my heart swelled with an unknown tension. I had been to a million concerts before; this wasn’t just a concert. The doors opened and I clawed my way to the front, pulling a disoriented Catherine along with me.

There was an opener, and then another opener. I didn’t care. They were good, but they were wasting my time. My foot tapping step up. I felt hot and itchy with impatience.

Oh my god, then he walked onto stage. Spencer didn’t look like your typical rock star, didn’t act like it. He was squat and pale but sturdy; he had a loopy smile and a quiet demeanor. He looked at the crowd without really looking at us—looking through us, beyond us, rather—like a philosopher or a man in a dream. He dressed sloppily, like a teenager rather than a fairly wealthy 33-year-old.

We cheered enthusiastically. He nodded to us and sat down at his keyboard. The music began.

Who would know, passing Spencer on the street, what he was? He was so unremarkable; cute, yes, in his dreamy, shy sort of way, but not exceptional. Soft-spoken and modest, that’s my Spencer, alright. But his hands, brown and darting, weren’t average; they weren’t human. They were divine or demonic, I don’t care, they were brilliant, awe inspiring, powerful and unreal. Quick and infallible. His talent humbled me while calling out so strongly.

My blood ran in a wild frenzy; I was enflamed, possessed, by the sound. I couldn’t take my eyes of him for a second. Spencer. My god. The poor man didn’t stand a chance; I was so in love with him then, I fell in love with the little voice on my iPod ages ago. How bizarre it seemed that Spencer, my hero, a veritable deity, stood just a yard in front of me. How bizarre it was the he was breathing and sweating and living in the same room as me when before he had been an abstraction, a concept, a beautiful idea.

I danced like a lunatic. Catherine shrank away from me a little bit; I think she was embarrassed. I danced and head banged like a loopy child. A girl raised by wolves. I felt like screaming, howling to the moon with joy. I must have been making a complete and utter ass of myself because, in the middle of a song, Spencer looked down. For a millisecond, our eyes met; shocked and mortified, I dropped his eyes and calmed my dance.

The show ended, as I suppose everything does.

It was all I could have asked for from my favorite band; a great show. And that would have been it. I would have gone home. I would have met someone else; I don’t know, maybe it would have been Daniel? But, like I said, I knew Erik.

Erik waved me backstage after the show.

My heart skipped. Catherine and I hopped onto the stage and made our way into the side room.

There he was, with his band, having a beer, looking peaceful. I just looked at him, dumb.

It’s one of those weird things. If or when you ever meet your idol, what do you say to him or her?

Erik knew how much I loved The Silent City, so, smiling blithely, he seized my hand and dragged me over. I resisted; did I want to meet Spencer?

“Spencer! This is Olive,” Erik said cheerfully, through a thick and enthusiastic accent. “she such a huge fan!”

He looked right at me, good-naturedly. Oh god, I wasn’t ready for that. My tongue was caught on my teeth. I tried to stammer out a word but failed. Where were my thoughts when I needed them? I was shy, I have always been shy, but why did I have to shy at that moment?

“Hi.” Spencer said, softly. His wide, drunken smile. Kind, nonjudgmental gaze.

“Olive lovesss you!” Erik trilled. “She’s sooo pretty, isn’t she? Haha! She’s also a musician, too, you guys should hang out!”

“Well, nice to meet you.” He said. Maybe there had been other fans who hadn’t been able to talk when they met him. The band’s bassist, Terry, called over and Spencer’s attention shifted towards him—

I don’t know what came over me. I think it was the childish part of me that took over; simply, innocently, I wanted him to come with me.

I walked over to him and grabbed his hand.

“Wha—“ he looked bewildered but he didn’t stuggle against my little hand on his strong ones. My tongue was still broken, but I willed him towards me with my eyes.

“Go with her! She’s nice!” Erik laughed and waved us away.

To be fair, I had told Erik that I was 24. To be fair to me, he believed that ridiculous statement. I was a young 18; I looked like a 20-year-old but I thought like a 15-year-old. As for Spencer, I don’t think he cared. He never worried about the same things that the rest of us do; he’s above that kind of concerns.

Whatever, I don’t know what happened, why it happened, or how in hell I had the courage to do it; but suddenly I had him by the hand and he was gamely trailing behind me. Then we were in my apartment; I was silent, he said something like, “hmm;” but he waited patiently as I grabbed my guitar and a bottle of wine. Then we were down by the port our legs dangling off the cobblestone bank, basking in the streetlight.

“I’m Olive.” I said. My voice was quiet and small and no competition with the lapping of the waves.

“I know.” Spencer said. He looked at me levelly. If it was anyone else I would say that he was just humoring me, some crazy fan who stole him away. But it wasn’t condescension. He was just there, without judgment, patient and expectant.

I played him my songs and he listened. They were like a gift to him, extended tentatively, shyly, out in the palm of my hand. We drank wine. He leaned his head on my shoulder and we looked out at the port, twinkling and enchanted in the throws of night.