Work Text:
“hhhhhh”
Beat trudged through the door to her apartment, flopping dramatically onto her bed. “Finally… It's over.”
While being a hospital receptionist was…tolerable and money was money, dealing with the idiots known as “the general public” was generally not how she wanted to spend her afternoons after class.
Ever since she had woken up from her coma, Beat had been doing her best to put her life back together. She re-enrolled in college (just barely holding onto her old credits), got a job at the hospital she’d just woken up from thanks to her sister, and somehow managed to not screw up being an actual decent sibling for the first time since maybe forever. She'd even managed to get herself a second outfit. A second outfit. That's twice the amount she had before! Her room was also “clean” (clean is a relative term) most of the time, compared to the none of the time it was before.
But no matter how much time passed, the memories from her coma were always on her mind. Memories of a world where music summoned nothing creatures that attacked people. Memories of a world where she was a nothing creature that attacked people (although cops being people was debatable). It shouldn't have been real. It couldn't have been real. A normal person would have assumed it was a dream. A slightly less-than-normal person might have chalked it up to getting therapy from God themselves. But to Beat, it felt real. Every punch, every kick, every single wall or floor she found herself getting punted through. Every person – toothpaste cop, the twins, Rest, that b*tch Sforzando – felt real. Real, and alive. And, even though she'd never felt it before, the adrenaline from performing on stage just felt right. Like she was, for once in her life, truly alive. With a band that actually supported her. With people who actually liked her. Gods, she missed them. Treble, Clef, Quaver. Especially Quaver. Adorable, tenacious, too-young-for-this-cruel-world Quaver. But now, they were somewhere impossibly far away. Somewhere Beat could never reach. Somewhere in the dreams of someone who was barely clinging onto life.
Beat let out a wistful sigh and sat up on her bed. As much as she enjoyed her fresh start, some part of her still wanted to go back. Back to the people who helped her realise what she was missing. To the days spent making faces in washing machine doors and getting annihilated by haunted batting cages. And so, she pulled out her guitar. And she began to play.
“𝅘𝅥𝅮 You're just a part of my life…”
Even if she might never see them again, or if they were never real in the first place, the songs they wrote together were real. And she would make them real again, putting sheet music to guitar one chord at a time.
“and you're just a part of my life…”
Although they were no longer there with her physically, when she played their songs, it was almost as if they were standing side by side next to her again. Almost as if she was back standing there next to them, on stage, for one more final.
“and I won't get rid of you.”