It used to be he owned one worn fender strat that his mom got from a pawn shop for his 16th birthday. Once a gleaming white, it came to him dull with scuff and scratches he could never polish out.
Now, he owns pristine, limited release guitars that he never plays.
Heâd used to shred in his free time until the strings broke. He would practice for hours until his callouses rivaled any grandmaâs sewing finger.
Now, he rubs icy-hot into his fingers to relive his joint pain.
He used to live on a diet of ramen or rice with beans, washed down with shitty beer.
Now he shops organic fair trade and buys local brews.
After the cult success of his bandâs debut album, he enjoyed a resurgence after they headlined a festival. A label reached out and contracted him for 2 more albumsâthe first of which enjoyed a moderate success off nostalgia; the secondâŠdidnât flopâŠit just failed to meet expectations despite 2 years of rigorous touring.
There were no more albums after that, and when the label had offered him contract songwriting and/or producing roles, heâd accepted.Â
But mostly, heâthe two of youâlive off the interest from his initial payday and royalties youâd insisted he invest on pain of walking out of him. Itâs not a glamorous life, but you live comfortablyâway better than two punks who used to squat in a co-op ever dreamed of.
When you canât find him immediately, you know exactly where heâll be.
Your bare feet slap against the wood floor as you make your way down the hallway, your fingers trailing along the mounted guitars. At the end of the hall, you turn the knob to the reenforced, soundproofed door.
Maryâs puttering away in his home studio, back crunched over the soundboard and one giant headphone up to his ear. Heâs been working on his solo, âcomebackâ album for years. Decades. And maybe heâll finish it; maybe he wonât. Maybe itâll hit the zeitgeist just right; or maybe itâll be completely tone deaf. However, the hope keeps him occupied, so when heâs at it, you generally let him be.
But dinnerâs on the tableâsteak, rareâand you donât feel like eating alone tonight.
When you slip into his lap, Maryâs whole body uncurls; he leans back, spreading his legs, and the headphones drop around his neck.
You wrap an arm around his shoulders and press a kiss to his temple (his roots are showing, and these days theyâre more grey than blonde).
âYou in it, or can you come eat?â
His arms wrap around your middle, and he presses his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply.
âGimme 10min. Just wanna wrap this up.â
You quirk an eyebrow with your tone. âIâve heard that tune before, mister.â
He chuckles and pulls back to look into your eyes. âYeah, but I was almost finished, anyway.â
You smooth one of his eyebrows. âWhatcha working on? Stuff for the album?â
But Mary grins at you, flashing his full set of snaggle teeth, and the dark circles (that arenât the product of makeup) brighten.
âNew project. Something legit. â
You perk up for him. âOh?â
It must be goodâhe never gets this into projects solely for other artists.
âItâs just a song collabââ he shrugs his shoulders, but you can tell itâs with contained excitement ââbut Iâd be on the record. Not just in the fine printâin the byline.â
âThatâs excellent! Have I heard of them?â
When Mary tells you who, all you can do is gape. Heâs only collaborating with one of his idols and well-known name in the genre.
Way to bury the fucking lede, Goore.
You take his face in your hands.
âOh my god, Mareâreally?â He nods. âThatâs gangbusters!âÂ
You kiss him full on the mouth, and itâs just supposed to be a quick affirmation, but Maryâs arms tighten around you, pulling you into the warm line of his body. His hot mouth devours yours, and you reciprocate eagerly. When your back protests at the awkward twist, you shift carefully until youâre straddling him in the pliable chair.
Itâs been ages since you fucked in his studioâsince you couldnât keep your hands off each otherâand if he asked, you wouldnât say no. But the heat recedes (and honestly, you knees arenât what they used to be), and Mary presses his forehead into your collarbone.
âI donât know if this is a secondâfuckâthird chance. But even if itâs a one-off, just getting out there againâŠâ
You pet your hands down his head.
âYou know Iâm happy, right? Even if this is a one off, Iâm happy with us.â
He tilts his head up to look at you, his eyes all at once tired but wide.
âFuck. I promised you everything. And then I didnât deliver.â
You press a hand to his heart.
âHey. I always had everything. Youâre my everything. Iâm excited because I just want you to be happy, Mare. I know what this means to you.â
He clasps your wrist so he can bring your hand up to kiss your palm.
âFuck. You were always too good for me. Thisââ he gestures around his tiny studio ââis for you too. So you never have to hustle again.â
You give him a lopsided grin. âMare, you realize Iâve spent more years here in the home we built together than I ever did on the street. You doing this for you? That will make me happy.â
He sighs before grasping you closeâŠ
âŠand then spinning the chair around.
You squeal in delight even as you grouse at him.
âOH MY GOD, MARY! If I ralph, then Iâm doing it on you!â
(Your stomach isnât as iron as it used to be.)
The two of you swivel to a stop, but Maryâs adoring gaze never fades.Â
He reaches up to tuck a lock of errant hair behind your ear.
âIt could be a few appearancesâŠor another tour if this means I can get my solo album out.â
âWell, then thereâe only one thing to do.â
âYeah.â You tug on his shortened bangs. âYou gotta grow these out again, and Iâll break out the airplane glue.âŠâ
âMary Gooreâs back in town.â
vaporwave
origamiaround
germansingergirl
gummygunk
discoholicmusic
romaincrisis
