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.
He’d used to shred in his free time until the strings broke. He would practice for hours until his callouses rivaled any grandma’s 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 band’s debut album, he enjoyed a resurgence after they headlined a festival. A label reached out and contracted him for 2 more albums—the first of which enjoyed a moderate success off nostalgia; the second…didn’t flop…it 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, he’d accepted.Â
But mostly, he—the two of you—live off the interest from his initial payday and royalties you’d insisted he invest on pain of walking out of him. It’s not a glamorous life, but you live comfortably—way better than two punks who used to squat in a co-op ever dreamed of.
When you can’t find him immediately, you know exactly where he’ll 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.
Mary’s puttering away in his home studio, back crunched over the soundboard and one giant headphone up to his ear. He’s been working on his solo, “comeback” album for years. Decades. And maybe he’ll finish it; maybe he won’t. Maybe it’ll hit the zeitgeist just right; or maybe it’ll be completely tone deaf. However, the hope keeps him occupied, so when he’s at it, you generally let him be.
But dinner’s on the table—steak, rare—and you don’t feel like eating alone tonight.
When you slip into his lap, Mary’s 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 they’re more grey than blonde).
“You in it, or can you come eat?”
His arms wrap around your middle, and he presses his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply.
“Gimme 10min. Just wanna wrap this up.”
You quirk an eyebrow with your tone. “I’ve heard that tune before, mister.”
He chuckles and pulls back to look into your eyes. “Yeah, but I was almost finished, anyway.”
You smooth one of his eyebrows. “Whatcha working on? Stuff for the album?”
But Mary grins at you, flashing his full set of snaggle teeth, and the dark circles (that aren’t the product of makeup) brighten.
“New project. Something legit. ”
You perk up for him. “Oh?”
It must be good—he never gets this into projects solely for other artists.
“It’s just a song collab—” he shrugs his shoulders, but you can tell it’s with contained excitement “—but I’d be on the record. Not just in the fine print—in the byline.”
“That’s excellent! Have I heard of them?”
When Mary tells you who, all you can do is gape. He’s 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.
“Oh my god, Mare—really?” He nods. “That’s gangbusters!”Â
You kiss him full on the mouth, and it’s just supposed to be a quick affirmation, but Mary’s 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 you’re straddling him in the pliable chair.
It’s been ages since you fucked in his studio—since you couldn’t keep your hands off each other—and if he asked, you wouldn’t say no. But the heat recedes (and honestly, you knees aren’t what they used to be), and Mary presses his forehead into your collarbone.
“I don’t know if this is a second—fuck—third chance. But even if it’s a one-off, just getting out there again…”
You pet your hands down his head.
“You know I’m happy, right? Even if this is a one off, I’m happy with us.”
He tilts his head up to look at you, his eyes all at once tired but wide.
“Fuck. I promised you everything. And then I didn’t deliver.”
You press a hand to his heart.
“Hey. I always had everything. You’re my everything. I’m excited because I just want you to be happy, Mare. I know what this means to you.”
He clasps your wrist so he can bring your hand up to kiss your palm.
“Fuck. You were always too good for me. This—” he gestures around his tiny studio “—is for you too. So you never have to hustle again.”
You give him a lopsided grin. “Mare, you realize I’ve 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.”
He sighs before grasping you close…
…and then spinning the chair around.
You squeal in delight even as you grouse at him.
“OH MY GOD, MARY! If I ralph, then I’m doing it on you!”
(Your stomach isn’t as iron as it used to be.)
The two of you swivel to a stop, but Mary’s adoring gaze never fades.Â
He reaches up to tuck a lock of errant hair behind your ear.
“It could be a few appearances…or another tour if this means I can get my solo album out.”
“Well, then there’e only one thing to do.”
“Yeah.” You tug on his shortened bangs. “You gotta grow these out again, and I’ll break out the airplane glue.…”
“Mary Goore’s back in town.”
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