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It was the blue eyes that captured you. New school, new classmates, new teachers, everything was new, and just as ever, you chose to stay away from everything and simply focus on studying and yourself. The people would come to you if they really wanted to. No one in particular interested you. Some were too loud, some too annoying, some just didn't look like the kind of people you wanted to be around. For you, they were all just strangers, passer-by's. Someone had brown, someone blond, someone red hair. Some dyed them crazy colours, like that bitch from maths class that dyes them a sky shade of blue, or that condescending brat from chemistry who had his bangs a vivid purple that stood out in his dark blond hair. It was not really dark, but in comparison to your nearly white hair appeared almost brown. Yeah, you hated that guy.
It was in your freshman year, and you met him in the halls. The kid was around your height, only a tiny bit shorter than you, wearing a blue hoodie over a black shirt. You are almost sure it read Back to the future, though you are not entirely certain. Another person passing by, and you couldn't care less. Your attention was drawn by his vivid, bright blue eyes that shone with excitement as he talked to some grumpy redhead boy. Those huge, deep eyes with the sparkle of joy in them. You felt like in one of those Japanese animes your Bro watches, when the guy walks past a cute girl and the time slows down just for them so they can look at each other. Or, in your case, watch the boy walk by.
Since that day, you kept noticing him. You shared maths classes together, his seat right beside the blue-haired girl. They seemed to get along, and at times, you found yourself being jealous of her. Besides that, you had English together. His spelling was pretty decent, and his grammar as well. You noticed he sometimes skips the apostrophe, or writes the dot in I that is not supposed to have one Jesus fuck the concept is simple! You found out his name is John in biology classes. And you found out he is not too fond of physics on the lessons of exactly that.
You learnt a lot of things about him. You know that his taste in movies sucks major dick, and that his taste in music is only a little bit better. He listens to literally anything, honestly. Movie soundtracks, especially from his favourites. His ringtone is fucking Ghostbusters theme, and you fought yourself not to laugh when his phone rang in the middle of a physics exam. You learnt that he can play the piano on music lessons. Besides his shitty movie soundtracks, he enjoyed classics, too. He once played For Alice at the school concert. You were mesmerized. After that, he had the basic music taste, listened to what was in, from Nicki Minaj to Fall Out Boy, never really interested in the bands oh so much. He isn't picky, really.
You are in your junior year now. Since the first time you caught John's eyes in the hallway, you probably harboured a crush on him. Who are you lying to. You are head over heels in love with the buck-toothed dork with literally no taste in anything that is allergic to peanuts and wears the thickest glasses in all existence. And you want to scream.
The bell finally rings and you thank God and all the saints that the endless literature is finally over. It's not all that bad, as long as you don't talk about romanticism. Everyone died. The end. That's it. In Russia they killed each other off in duels. In Germany they commit suicides left and right and all you can visualize is a man making his endless monologue about his love and all that bullcrap while the other stands behind him, checking the damn pocket clock like 'are you done yet? We're in a hurry here' and points behind him at a line of other guys. Damn you Werther.
You head over to the cafeteria and drop down in your usual seat, by your usual table, surrounded by the usual friends. Your sister Rose who pays little to no attention to your arrival as she flips the page of her book. Jade, with her usual cheerful grin, at least says hi to you, and you greet her back. You don't engage in any longer conversation, since another member of your miniature group arrives and throws the backpack angrily at the table and slumps beside you. The same red-headed guy with freckles and angry glare as in your freshman year.
“Sup,” you greet him with a smirk.
He looks over at you, that look he's giving you could kill a man, but you only grin more.
“I'll wipe that shit eating grin off your fucking face Strider,” he hisses.
“What? Hard day?” you tease.
“Chemistry. With. Eridan.”
You need to hear no more to feel sorry for him. Right. He sits right beside that asshole.
“You got the CD?” you change the topic quickly, trying to hide the excitement and hope in your voice. A little bit of it slips past.
“Yeah, I do and I swear if I have to deal with more of this crap and John's constant questions how I like the artist any longer I will just tell Fuckbert you wanna 'tap his choice booty'.” The quotation was not exactly necessary… During his complaining, he opens the bag and pulls out a CD in a transparent cover, revealing a nice green print on it. “This one is the worst so far.”
You nod at him and take it from his hands, stuffing the plastic box in your own bag.
“Thanks man, I owe you. Remind me to get you some chocolate to help you calm down.”
Your witty comment is rewarded with a glare.
.
The rest of the day passes quickly. You get home, make a copy of the songs to your computer, however illegal that is, and copy a few on your phone to listen to.
You drop down on the bed and press play, the sound flowing through the headphones and filling your ears. Karkat was right. Awful. The sound is tearing your ears, and the words are cliché, it's bad it's so fucking terrible you want to break your headphones, throw the phone on the wall and scream. But you bear, you deal with it and simply listen to all those ten awful songs, out of which only one sounds a bit new, and you think that this one is the 'good one' in the album. Still bad, though not as much as the others. You could write an essay about how the instruments are not in harmony, how the voice is too pitched and then too deep, how it doesn't even go with the music, and how much the lyrics make you want to barf. Hell, you could even write a book about it, longer than the whole Twilight saga. But you just take a deep breath in. And accept it.
Your crush has an awful taste in music.
.
Cut. Cut. Delete. Tweak. Pitch. Cut.
This is how you work. You tweak the songs you consider to be better than the rest in your computer, add something from you to make them better. It's impossible. It's three in the morning, already Saturday, and the whole song is fucking awful and you just click the tiny red 'x' and close the whole thing without saving. It has no point. It's still the same, you copy the work and change it, you tweak some, you mix them together. You rap some of them. Still nothing. You can't find the right tune, the right melody, the right rhythm (the song has none, what is there to work with?)
You give up and go shower, then head to bed.
.
Two weeks pass like nothing. You've re-listened to the whole library of the songs you simply keep in folder named 'J'. In case your brother looks over your stuff in hopes to find something like, who knows, your nudes, or nudes of someone you are dating (you're not, you're not interested and turn down all the girls from your school) or maybe hopes you have your own personal diary saved in your documents. If he found a folder named after someone, he would question it.
There is something in the songs that keeps repeating, the topic, the instrument used. John really is a sucker for piano.
You listen to classics. You check the most famous piano compositions, recognise some from the lessons, from what you've heard John play at school. Some are actually really nice and relaxing.
You clean your head of it all and yet keep it all on mind, take a sheet of paper and start scrapping ideas. Sounds, emotions, nature, what is lyric about? You really don't want to go into anything deep, just those cliché topics, so blunt and uninteresting by now, yet loved by many.
The time passes and you have something that reminds you of chorus. You have a melody in your head, you hum it for yourself. You record yourself for later use.
An hour or two later (you don't really know, honestly, you've lost track of time a long, long ago) you have something that looks like lyrics of a song. You have the main melody, the basic idea. You take another paper and rewrite the whole thing you had already done.
And then again, a few days later.
And then you repeat the process.
In the meantime, the music is starting to form. You're not a genius, you just enjoy it, it's your hobby in a sense (a hobby started and fueled by your small obsession in the beautiful deep blues of his eyes), but you want to give it a nice form. You're an artist after all, and want your work to be as perfect as you can make it be.
This little craze had you put your webcomic on a hiatus for time being. It was not forced. It's fun. You're enjoying yourself.
You work when you get back home from school, barely scribble your homework before rushing back to your computer, to the papers. You play what you have again. You don't really know if it works this way in music industry, you just like music and you know that this little part needs to speed up some, and you do just that.
You tweak the sound. You delete it right after. You sigh and start over.
You play the whole thing.
You listen.
You think you're satisfied.
.
The YouTube channel you use has enough subscribers. When you finally press publish, it doesn't take all that long for the number of views to increase.
It takes maybe 15 minutes after that for the comments to appear.
'I didn't know you're a musician! It was great!'
'MARRY ME'
'Pretty nice'
'I love it'
'New ringtone!'
'Will you publish more of your work?'
You read them all, every single one you get, and as the number of views increases your hope that John listened to it too grows.
You're wrong.
It's lunchtime once again, nearly two months since Karkat gave you the last CD from John. Some people crowd around you. Jade is the first one to ask you about the song you wrote, telling you it was great, she loves it! You give her a faint smile as a form of thanks before turning over to the rest of the people. Praises, encouragements, pats on back. You know the video already reached past 10k views, and you can't help but wonder how, the music, the theme, everything is so basic. Maybe that's why they like it.
Behind your aviators, you scan the people standing around you. No black hair. No stunning blue eyes. Once you are left alone, your eyes wander around the cafeteria to find the one you wrote the song for. John's sitting on the table, talking to some people, Karkat amongst them. You hope he supports you. Maybe John hasn't heard the song just yet?
'...this new song by turntechGodhead!'
You catch that. A girl sitting next to John is already offering him one earphone and he puts it in his ear. Your song. You feel your heart sink and throat tighten.
Your eyes are set on them for something over three minutes, just how long your song is. You wait for the reaction.
When John removes the earphone and returns it to the girl, he gives a smile. It's not the smile you were hoping for. Not the excited smile.
'I dunno. It's not new. It reminds me of something a lot.'
You smile to yourself and shake your head. Obviously. The same as his favourites, you should have known he would see right past it. You want to hear more of what he thinks about your song. You can't learn without criticism. You don't really mind if he speaks ill of the song. You want to hear it.
.
Strangely enough, the song caught on. The cashier in mall, you were getting a new shirt when his phone rang. Your song.
The girl at the bus sitting beside you. She pulled one earphone out and you could hear your voice.
The number of views grows, and so does the number of subscribers and comments. Asking for more.
You can't really deny them. You're glad people like your music taste, and, well, you still hope to show John you can do better.
You attempt again. Tweaking, scratching, screaming into your pillow.
The pace is much quicker this time, the bass more vibrant. The text has a bit of an angry undertone, your own way of scolding yourself for screwing up with the first song. This one is less of a love song. There's something almost arrogant in the text. You are not sure what this song is even referring to.
You think if you know a song with this thematics. Maybe one. The idea feels unusual.
John wanted something new, and you're gonna give it to him.
.
The new song catches on even faster than the first. People are ecstatic that you produced more content. Ask what you were thinking of while writing this one, where you got the idea. The point of it is vague, there is so much and yet so little.
People take it differently. Drugs, sex, the usual themes, but you don't know what it is. Just your own angry ramble that managed to become a song.
John says it's better than the first one. Though, it doesn't sound like he likes this either.
.
Fans keep asking for more. It's December and the number of your subscribers is four times higher than at the start of the school year.
You find that you enjoy producing music. A way to get things off your head, off your heart and just spill without anyone needing to know. And so you do. You write about what you see. The drive in the bus, the railway you see from the window, about the crows you see flying outside. Their cawing. Some wondering. That is your third song. John is still not convinced.
.
It's shortly past New Years. The Christmas break is barely over when you get a phone call. You answer lazily, it's Sunday and who fucking dares to call you at this ungodly hour of thirty minutes till noon.
You jump when the person introduces themselves. You're awake almost immediately. A music producer.
Your music is pretty decent. People seem to love it. You're quite popular, 'Godhead.'
When the call is over, you can't really believe what just happened. The man just dealt with you to meet the next Saturday, have a word. You're gonna be famous.
.
The day comes and you awkwardly sit outside of the office in a thick red turtleneck, tight fitting black jeans and some boots. The original colour of these was black. Not anymore. Your Bro is there with you, partially for support, partially since you are still not of age and you have to be with your guardian.
You're finally allowed in to face the producer. Anxiety washes over you as you walk inside and the door closes behind you.
'Please take a seat.'
You start with some small talk, but he cuts it short after a few formalities. He asks you about your music a bit. He asks if you want to record it professionally. You linger just half a second before saying a yes to it. After a while of discussion, with your brother finally taking part in it, there is a contract. You read through it carefully before signing.
You've officially become part of music industry.
.
There is no one at your school who knows about it just yet. You told Rose, but well, obviously, and she would have figured out anyway. How is beyond your knowledge, but you have the feeling she knew something even before you told her the great news.
You don't mention it to Jade, just in case. You trust her, but not with things like this. You hope you can trust Rose.
The only person you mention it to is Karkat, and you beg him to keep it a secret. He's your best friend and has the right to know.
“Great, I worked my ass off to get you all those shitty CDs and now you become famous.”
“I'll mention you when I win the Grammy.”
He groans and turns his back to you, walking of to his class. You're reminded that you still have school to do when the bell rings and rips you out of your thoughts.
.
By the end of February, you are already recording in the studio. It's all the same, you write your texts, and you make your own music. Though now there is someone to tell you certain things shouldn't be there, and what can be fixed. You're thankful for the feedback, it helps you improve after all. You still argue about some parts that should be kept in the song.
The first song you produce like this has cheerful atmosphere, quick pace and sexual undertones in the text.
You said you don't want to do music videos.
The first CD with your single is sold out incredibly fast. Kids at your school crowd around you to congratulate you. Ask for autographs. You thank them, you sign the covers of the CDs, the papers, anything. John is still not amongst them.
You're asked to do your very first interview. You're nervous, but relax and warm up soon enough. You think you've done well, and within a week, you see your photo on the magazine with the title 'Rising teen star'. Your heart skips a beat.
By March you are almost done with another song, and SBAHJ has an official hiatus banner on it. You give yourself in to the music.
The themes and lyrics vary, but are still slightly based off of the songs John likes. Nobody seems to mind or notice. It's popular, it sells. No need for complains.
You refuse to do anything else for your career but record music in studio. No tours, no recording. You have school, and it's always good to have a backup plan in case your music career shatters and vanishes just as fast as it came. You try to study as hard as before, and try to get good grades despite having so little time after the last bell rings to let you go home.
You deal with the producer to give you more freedom and more time after that, meet only twice a week. Since Wednesdays are easy days, you go to the studio every Tuesday, and then on Saturdays. It continues this way till April.
By then, your YouTube is barely a vlogging channel, where you publish a life update every once in a while. Mostly every three weeks, sometimes more if there is something interesting going on. Why lie. There's nothing. It's always about the same, school's tiring but fun, family the same, bro is a dick and your sister is strange, there is never any apple juice for some reason. Yeah you are working on more songs, don't worry guys.
You make a twitter account, one that is for your fans, a public one. You make the one you already have private so that they don't stalk you. Lots of questions come there, many of them repeating. You are not surprised they asked, and you answer some of them immediately, but mostly just screenshot them to answer later in your newest life update video.
April 27th is the day you release it. The title is 'Big News!' and you pray it doesn't end badly.
You make sure to lock your bedroom door, fix your hair and make yourself presentable enough for the camera, add a little make-up on some places, put on some nice clothes before you start recording. The producer knows you make these videos. You're a bit scared and your voice sounds shaky on the camera. In total, it has around four minutes, and you ramble for about three before you get to the point. You thank the fans for support, you mention the comments, talk about how you expected so many of them, all those 'are you dating anyone?' 'who was the first song written for?' questions. You say you do have a crush, but you won't say their name. When you get to the part where you're asked about the whole thing with why you deny all the girls, your hands are trembling and you talk a bit faster than usual. Your poker face is still on, and you're glad you're wearing shades when you finally get to the whole point. Your eyes are stinging and you have the feeling they water
“Yeah I know, girls are nice and all but eh… it's not that I'm not interested in the person I just...” Inhale, exhale. “I'm gay.”
After that you take a moment to breathe, and then ramble for a bit longer. Hopefully nobody minds, hopefully people won't hate you for that, all this. You just needed to say it out loud before you drown in the comments about crushes and love.
.
Surprisingly enough, your classmates are accepting. You expected to deal with homophobic comments and slurs. Somehow you avoid them all. Maybe cause you're famous. That's a plus. People are much more supportive when you're popular.
You have an interview about it for one of the teen magazines. Photos of you plastered all over the page, text, sometimes broken with some of your answers in red to bring them out.
It's not the only magazine that mentions you. You've gained your fame. Whenever you walk in a store, there is your face staring at you from the covers of the magazines. People recognise you in the streets. This is probably what it means to be famous. When you get in the bus, there are some girls calling you over to sit beside them. You are rarely left alone. You leave your apartment less for that reason alone.
This is what is is like to be famous. Magazines full of the new uprising star named Dave Strider. All attention is centred around you. You're starting to feel like a prince.
You like the attention.
There are a few more songs produced, this time for a proper album with around ten songs, two of them being remixes of the ones you already wrote before the contract. The ones that were only published online.
It's difficult to sing the last song when you're studying and writing finals. You're glad that the lyrics are still the same they were, there was no need for editing. You don't think you would change them at all anyway.
You do a shoot for the cover. You're wearing red and black as per usual, hair pushed back to show your helix piercings of varying shades of red with some silver here and there. You have your make-up done, your freckles still revealed, even though much less visible now. You're given a choker and are sent over to pose.
Everything is done for you, you're told to position yourself this way and that. There are roses around you, and it seems far too stupid, far too romantic, it's just kinda wrong for you, but then you remember the lyrics of the last song in the album. You sigh and give in. Just before the photographer starts shooting, you are asked to remove your shades. You don't understand why, and you don't want to show your eyes. You're told it will look better that way. You don't argue, but only under the condition there will also be photos with the aviators on. The photographer complies.
.
A week later and you are shown the new cover of the new album. It's… better than you thought. Your right eye is covered with a rose, besides that it's just a few crimson petals around you, matching the colour of your eyes. The type of text reminds you slightly of Gothic writing, the letters dark shade of red, reading 'Iris' as the name of the album.
You hope all is ready and they won't need you any longer for this album.
.
The album causes a boom as soon as it's out. People are screaming at you since the start of the day about your eyes being red, everyone is surprised, but all of them say they fit you and that they couldn't imagine a better colour.
The most questions, besides your eyes, are circling around one particular song, the one the whole album is named after. It's your favourite song so far. You don't comment on a single one. You're painfully aware that the news are going to be full of it. All the teen magazines, all those 'yellow press' magazines and fuck do you hate those. The fact that one should be coming out tomorrow or maybe day after that is not helping.
You tap the tablet pen on the table and hum the melody of your songs under your breath. The school year is nearly over and you finally push yourself to update SBAHJ. You're lost in your thoughts and the canvas stares at you, empty. Your phone is vibrating with new messages, and you check the notifications. Red eyes, red eyes, Iris, red eyes, the new album O-O so good. Iris, Iris, Iris. The song is a phenomenon. Something about it still sounds ridiculously cliché, so cheesy, the same, the expected, but it's… not really what you used to write before. Maybe that's why the song is so popular.
...Those pretty blue iris's and messy hair,
The sky and ocean could never compare
To anything like these gorgeous blue orbs.
That drew me in the second I saw them,
They distracted me to no end...
At that point you said fuck it. You were tired of trying to copy the other artists, knowing you would fail. You simply took a paper late at night and scribbled what came on your mind. The deep blue you always had somewhere there at the back of your mind no matter what. You thought of them now, and the words came to you. You didn't want to change anything about the lyrics, and the producer never asked you to.
The main instrument in the song is piano, somehow it fit there, and you didn't have to force it at all. It all just somehow happened. The process is a blur in your mind.
After several long minutes of staring at the canvas, you pull out your video camera, fix your hair, do something with your look. A quick thank you video to all your fans for support, a thank you for liking the album, for not freaking out over your eyes. You actually remove your shades for the video.
It's nearly 1AM when you upload it.
.
You're a bit sleepy the next day. It's the very last day of school year and you have only enough energy to roll out of your bed and get ready. Bro gives you a ride. You nearly nod off on the passenger's seat.
When he kicks you out of the car, people flock around you, giving you CDs to sign, ask for you to remove your shades to see your eyes.
After what seems like ages, you are finally allowed to go. That is when you hear a voice behind you.
“I liked the album. Can you sign it for me?”
You turn around, nearly annoyed that more people want stuff from you. It's tiring, you just want to get this day over with and go back to sleep.
Your red gaze meets deep blue.