Work Text:
Alex haunts his meditation room.
Trevor knows this thanks to yet another one of his insomnia nights, when he finally gave in with his battle for sleep around midnight and decided to take his therapist’s advice and do some nighttime meditation. With his glasses on and a mug in his hand, still in his pajamas, Trevor pushed open the door to the meditation room to find the incense already lit, candles burning, and one of his Bowie albums was playing “Survive”.
“Very funny,” he mumbled at the song choice.
He assumed Alex was intentionally haunting him, but he startled the ghost so badly not only did all of the incense and candles go out but the power in the whole damn house shut off.
Bowie kept playing, even with no power.
“I know it’s you, Alex,” Trevor sighed, trying the lights, but the power was completely cut. “Dude, come on, cut the lights back on. This is creepy.”
Even though he gave the order, when the lights flickered back on, the incense and candles lit up again on their own, a shuddering breath still escaped him as a cold sweat washed over. The music shut off, as though to say: the room is all yours.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” Trevor announced sarcastically. His heart was pounding as he looked around, trying to figure out where the phantom was. He could almost picture Alex sitting there on the floor, legs crossed and breathing deeply, trying to manage a late-night anxiety attack. Did ghosts have anxiety attacks? With a sigh, he gave in, not having the heart to kick him out. “You can stay, Alex. This meditation stuff is right up your alley, anyway.”
The lights flickered on and off rapidly in appreciation, and Trevor shook his head, incredulous.
“I thought about you, you know, the day Bowie died,” Trevor admitted as he took a seat on the floor. One of the oversize pillows shifted on the floor and his heart stopped at the confirmation of Alex's presence. “Have you guys met him? Or Prince?”
The lights flickered twice, he assumed for ‘no’.
“Bummer.”
When his therapist would ask for an update on his battle with insomnia, he would absolutely leave out the part where he spent the night catching the ghost of his best friend up on post-95 Bowie music. All she had to know was that he tried the nighttime meditation thing.
Luke haunts his home studio.
Admittedly, Trevor always feels Luke’s spirit in the studio. It doesn’t matter if he’s working at home, his place up in the mountains, or if it was back in the day in a rented-out studio space downtown, he always feels Luke’s presence when he’s working.
On a good day, Trevor has learned to channel Luke’s energy, his passion for music, the way he could bounce around with that guitar for hours and lived and breathed music like it was his very reason for existing.
On a bad day, Trevor is drowning so deep in survivor’s guilt that it feels like his guitar was a life raft and Luke is tugging it away from him.
Tonight, Trevor retreated to his studio at midnight, after he couldn’t sleep thanks to a melody wracking his brain, keeping him up until he finally gave into try to make something of it. He pushed open the door with yet another late-night mug of tea in his hands, only to find his collection of guitars had been moved around. None of them were on the same stand they had been in that morning.
“Cute,” Trevor shot bitterly, grabbing an acoustic, “if you break anything, I’m billing Julie.”
On the first attempt, Trevor was able to find the melody easy, but he could only work out a few measures. The only lyrics he could manage were empty, canned lines: lost without you, promise you I’m trying. After an hour of playing around he angrily strummed out minor chords in frustration; everything had been so clear in his head all night, until now.
As the chords died down a riff from someone else's acoustic guitar sounded through the studio. Trevor’s heart stopped as he looked around, expecting to see a guitar playing by itself, but he was alone. The house was so silent that despite his absolutely certainty of being haunted…he couldn’t be completely unsure he hadn’t just imagined that.
He really needed sleep.
With a heavy sigh, Trevor turned back to his guitar, trying out the opening melody again…and again there was the echo of soft acoustic. He stopped, listening closely as he realized: Luke was finishing his melody for him. Shaking, Trevor tried out the chord progression Luke had just played and an electric shock of excitement went through him, that familiar feeling of epiphany, when a song suddenly worked itself out.
Trevor could never get the lyrics right, but for the next couple of hours he and Luke exchanged ideas via playing. He could feel his old friend there with him, could practically see Luke in one of his sleeveless shirts and beanies, hunched over his guitar as he played around with the melody. His breathing uneven and chest tight as they played, Trevor couldn’t bring himself to say a word to the ghost, selfishly giving in instead to how good it felt to be playing with him again, in any capacity. Whatever Luke was haunting his house for tonight, whatever the ghost was trying to work through, Trevor had a feeling that this time, it wasn’t about him.
The next morning, Trevor woke up on the sofa in the studio, with a blanket from the living room draped over him and his guitars all back in their proper places. There was a piece of paper resting on the side table, and his world stopped when he picked it up to find a completed version of the song they had worked on, scribbled out in Luke's barely legible handwriting.
A tip jar sat on the table beside the song.
Reggie haunts his car.
He really shouldn’t have been surprised; Reggie had always loved driving around. Trevor couldn’t begin to count the number of late night or first thing in the morning calls he had gotten from the Peters’ house (or worse, from the neighbor’s phone), with a shaky, quiet, voice asking him to pick him up. He'd drive up to find Reggie sitting on the beach down from his house, flannel wrapped around him, tear tracks stained on his cheeks. His friend wouldn’t say a word as he climbed into the van, and the two would just drive.
That particularly night, Trevor gave up on yet another battle with insomnia, seeking fresh air. He decided to take advantage of Carrie sleeping over with her band and thought a late night drive might be the perfect way to clear his head. It was after midnight, but his mind was wide awake, his whole body was buzzing with restlessness. Meditation wouldn’t help on a night like tonight, and he didn’t feel like he could stay still enough to write.
An odd feeling sank over him as soon as Trevor stepped into the garage. The lights were already on, for one, and his eyes flashed around instinctively, looking for signs of ghosts. Everything looked to be in place, until his Tesla starts up on its own. Trevor let out shaky breath, but he’s dealt with enough ghosts in his life by now that he doesn’t want to run. Instead, Trevor crept carefully toward the car, somehow fully expecting to see his seventeen year old friend alive and well in the passenger seat, grateful smile on his face as he fiddles with the radio.
The Tesla’s empty.
Trembling a little, Trevor opened the door and slid in the driver’s seat. A shiver ran through him; the air felt icier in here than it did in the garage and he knew for sure now that he wasn’t alone.
“Hey, Reggie,” he greeted quietly. The headlights flash, and his eyes widen. “Bad night?”
The headlights flashed again.
He couldn’t even begin to understand what could be going on in ghost land, he couldn’t even understand what they were doing here, playing with Julie like they simply woke up after the Orpheum and decided to start a new band. What Trevor was starting to understand was that it didn’t feel like the phantoms haunted him out of spite anymore. They found solace in being with him.
And who was he to not at least give them that?
“It’s okay, Reg,” Trevor breathed. Tears brimmed in his eyes, knowing in no world was any of this okay. “Let’s just go for a drive.”
His phone synched up to the car stereo on its own, blasting Patsy Cline.
I go out walkin' after midnight
Out in the moonlight
Just like we used to do, I'm always walkin'
After midnight, searchin' for you
With a faint smile on his face, Trevor backed the car out of the garage and headed down the drive. Placing an arm across the passenger seat, Trevor could have sworn he felt a weight settle in there, could have sworn he heard a familiar, child-like laugh as they hit the road and picked up speed. The passenger window rolled down on its own, and Trevor could clearly picture the bassist sticking his head out the window like he used to do, letting the wind sweep through his hair as he breathed in fresh air. Navigating them toward the coast, Trevor couldn't help but to let out a laugh at the mental image of the phantom living up the joy of twenty-first century driving. With his soul feeling lighter than it had in years, he let down his window as well and belted out along with Patsy Cline. He couldn't hear him, but Trevor knew Reggie was singing along too.