What a tired old man he had become. Years had passed since the last time he’d taken a moment to study himself in a mirror; his hazel locks were now streaked in white, so much so that their earlier color was a little more than a memory in his mind. He still had a full set of hair on his head, despite him pushing 60 and he was still charming as ever, eyes adorned by the spark you would only see in a teenager ;; his skin was another story, filled a with a few more cracks than he would’ve liked but it had been a while since he’d paid any mind to the daily reminders of his own mortality. If anything, he was completely dumbfounded he’d lived past 30, so he would take as much time as he could even if he ended up looking like a dried old prune. His body, still as tiny as it was if not more, held up alright ;; he got away with nothing more than a little creaking and cracking in the morning and he was perfectly fine with that.
“All set, darling?” It was silly that after all these years Ian still got goosebumps at the sound of Beck’s voice. He was standing at the door, half hanging through it with a smile pinching a slight pink hue in his cheeks. He was gray too, just like Ian but admittedly much more beautifully so. Beck was the example of how a man his age should look and Ian had never been more in love. The youngest took a few steps toward the door, leaning in close to place a kiss on his husbands lips ;; a deep breath is taken and ian takes a second to straighten his jean jacket, the one he wore on his very first gig in this same pub — his very first gig ever, actually. “I’ll be out soon, gimme a second, babe.” with a small nod, beck dipped out of the dressing room, leaving the musician with his thoughts. Things were different now — well for a while now — he was in his early thirties when someone actually noticed him and it wasn’t no easy success story either. Ian would harass producers to listen to his music and after evading a few lawsuits, someone actually listened. It was a blur after that ;; one of the best singer-songwriters of his generation, people called him, but Ian would laugh in disbelief.
If there was ever a moment where he felt like a success, this was it. Back where he started, a story full of misery and loneliness that would’ve ended much differently if Ian was alone the whole way through. He walks slowly towards the vanity on the other side of the room, on top of which laid an ashtray with the last few drags of the blunt he had been smoking. It hit different that day, a warmth covering his body that could only be described as pure happiness, though he wasn’t completely sure it was the weed. He takes another deep breath and spares himself another glance at his reflection...he smiles and nods and after all these years he’s finally proud of who he sees smile back.
The walk out to the stage is short, the wooden floor screeching under his shoes but the low rumble of conversation behind the curtain seems louder as he moves closer to it. A brief moment is taken in hesitation before he steps into the spotlight. Another deep breath.
The crowd screams but the sound is almost muffled before it reaches his ear. He’s in a daze as he looks on and it seems to be the biggest crowd he’s ever stood in front of. The tiny bar is filled to the brim with people, most of them spilling through the doors and onto the street outside. He waves as his gaze returns and there they are, front and center — his family...his boys, cheering him on like they always did, like they’ll always do.
He takes a seat on the stool and his guitar is handed to him — melissa, the very same guitar he used all those years ago and the one he will always use to write music with. A final look is given to the crowd before it shifts to his feet and then onto his fingers... “Alright, let’s play some music.”
