Chapter Text
It’s been three years since Sunset Curve met their untimely end and Bobby swore off playing any sort of music for good.
The first year they were gone was the worst.
Bobby barely remembered anything, flashes from the funerals crossed his mind from time to time. He played Home Is Where My Horse Is at Reggie’s, he had to rewrite Bright as a solo so he could play it at Luke and Alex’s combined services.
Their parents had wanted him to play, Emily finally realizing just how important the songs were to her son, and Alex’s mom and dad claimed to pay their respects for their own child. Homophobic assholes! Bobby shouted at them, Rose and Ray having to hold him back when they came to collect Alex’s drum kit, looking for a tax write off. Sunset Curve, Bobby’s family, his brothers were dead and all Alex and Reggie’s parents were looking for was a payout.
Reggie didn’t even have a proper funeral or service. He just had a house party that was mostly the Bradford’s business partners. His parents had cremated him, claiming it was the cheaper option, but in his heart Bobby knew it was because they couldn’t care less about what happened to their son. After the party Bobby had to break back into the Bradford’s house (with Rose parked down the street acting as the getaway car) and steal Reggie’s ashes. He found the urn left buried to be forgotten at the bottom of Reggie’s closet in his bedroom. Bobby tucked it under his arm telling himself that since he couldn’t help Reggie escape from his parents in life, at least he was doing it in death.
If he asked about the first year, which was rare, Rose’s eyes would just fill with grief. She’d lightly reach up to touch his face and start singing softly in Spanish. Bobby would fall apart in her arms all over again, a wave of tears crashing through him as he collapsed against her shoulder. “Ellas te amaron querido,” Rose would whisper, arms wrapping around Bobby. They loved you dear, she said, humming lyrics to an old song from one of her early bands.
Bobby was so eternally grateful for Rose, her patience and kind nature being the only constant through the worst year of his life. Sometimes, even now three years later, he’d still have bad days and she’d be there for him. Every single damn time. It was like there was an unspoken promise between them, even Ray started to come around more often to check out the studio equipment or just hang out.
It took weeks for the world to start to move on.
It took Bobby months, it took Bobby years.
How exactly does one get over the deaths of your brothers?
Bobby could remember the second year. Barely. It was a blur, the alcohol coming into play there more than not. He’d pick fights, be irritable when he’d drink, but it was better than the harsh reality of life. He was alive, his brothers weren’t, and the world moved on to the next news headline to hit the tabloids. Sunset Curve was officially a thing of the past, and he spent the first six months brooding in the dark studio if he wasn’t forced to attend school or eat meals. Idiota! Rose shouted at him in the blackness, the stench of beer filling the air. You have a gift! You can make people listen to you, use it!
They had the gifts! Bobby would shout back, lying on Luke’s couch with one arm dangling off the end. They had the talent! The sound of Rose’s boots thumping against the floor would grow distant, the garage doors slamming shut in her frustration. He managed to power through it though, shoving his grief down so he could pick up a guitar again. The first time he tried to play the chords were well… awful. The sound was discordant, squeaky and out of tune, but he was playing again.
He hadn’t played in so long he practiced using Luke’s songs, busking on the boardwalk just like Sunset Curve did before they got big. Bobby would spend hours on end on the beach or the pier, playing Luke’s songs and singing Luke’s words. It sounded so different, with just the guitar being the instrumental. He was starting to get his name out there again, Bobby Wilson, playing music again. But he wasn’t Bobby anymore, he couldn’t be Bobby anymore… except he was, and as much as he wanted to he couldn’t change his name.
Busking worked the first time around, and busking worked the second time around. Not soon after he started playing again Bobby was getting the attention from some small labels. The manager Bobby talked to said it was a good idea, one final performance as Bobby Wilson, formerly of Sunset Curve. Something to commemorate the death of his bandmates before launching into a new music career. The only reason Bobby agreed to it in the first place was because Rose agreed with the manager, convincing Bobby he could use the closure… which wasn’t exactly something Bobby could debate against.
So now Bobby found himself dressed in a suit that was definitely too tight riding in the back of a car from the label, speeding down a highway to some no-name cheap performance venue that was out of the press’s prying eyes. There were tiny bottles of wine available for him to drink, but he knew if he touched it he’d never look back so he settled for anxiously bouncing his knee up and down. Something curdled at the pit of his stomach, a brick settling, a silent warning that something was going to go so very wrong. He rapped his fist against the window and the driver rolled it down. “Uh, hi.” Bobby said, awkwardly leaning forward through the glass frame. “Everything okay up here?” The driver nodded, keeping his attention on the road.
“Road’s steady tonight sir. We should be arriving at the Tribute Hall in fifteen minutes,” the driver, Kevin informed him. Tired of fighting with the seat belt getting locked, Bobby unbuckled it. He nodded, his anxiety lessened slightly.
“Okay, okay great. Hey! Do you mind if I start playing my guitar? It usually helps with my anxiety,” Bobby asked. Kevin just shrugged silently in response and Bobby took that as a yes. Reached across the seat next to him to click open his guitar case and the last thing he thought was weird, I didn’t think we’d come up on a turn so soon, as bright headlights drove straight at their car.