I’m sorry for all the things I destroyed.
maybe monty notices how much weight aaron’s lost, or the lack of color to his complexion nowadays, or the circles lining his eyes. many have. aaron’s become public mockery -- another lost soul that drowned by the hands of celebrity. reaction photos have been made of his expressions while completely loaded on stage. crude tmz cameramen insult him when he walks down the street. even talk shows do parodies of him. the press doesn’t give a shit if you’re tired or unhealthy or depressed. they don’t understand that. you’re the idol. you’re the perfect one. you’re the... fuck. fuck.
maybe his former partner notices the resentful glances. aaron burned up in the sun but monty bathed in it: using his already-gained stardom from advertisement to promote his solo act which received more public demand than anything their band had done. how is that not insulting? this had not been aaron’s dream when he took up guitar as a child and said he wanted to sing on the radio. he didn’t ask to be overshadowed. he didn’t ask to take up bad habits and to later be betrayed by them.
they’re on stage. the crowd is screaming. it’s the reuniting of the year.
aaron’s doing his best at least, as best as attempted-twice rehab will get him. the vocals come out clear. he hasn’t forgotten any of his lyrics. he doesn’t strum guitar anymore -- his motor skills are too far gone for that from the medication he’d slowly ingested over the years.
but this isn’t their concert -- they’re just an act in the long line of other musicians playing to raise money for something aaron didn’t pay attention to reading. their two songs are over. they lock eyes from across the stage and aaron gives him a gesture that could read as offering for a hug. they’re moving towards each other. it feels alien.
their foreheads touch and monty’s hand is grasping the back of his neck. aaron’s eyes close. i’m sorry for all the things i’ve destroyed.
for a second, aaron nearly replies, what things?
the touch doesn’t make him remember the fact that monty’s the one who got him on hard drugs, or that he left his career in advertisement in the dust. the touch reminds him of an old friend -- two idiots in school with bad haircuts, then two idiots in their twenties in a living room without much change in haircut taste, then two older idiots who somehow landed a song on the top charts. eventually the haircuts shaped themselves. literally. he remembers the interviews where magazines had them read google searches and play party games and all the times they’d laugh their asses off and annoy everyone and not care. he remembers the kissing, whether it be public or privately shared. he remembers seeing japan for the first time. he remembers the freedom to be with each other. he remembers passion, love, and care.
what he doesn’t remember is that he has to say something back and so only delivers a smile and a shake of the head. he’s not sure what it means, if it means anything at all. if it means that monty and him are going to talk again. if it means that they’ll go their separate ways. if it means an i love you and it’s okay.
meaning or not, he makes a promise to himself to get high tonight.
