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Pete’s thirteen when he gets his first six-string.
Like most of his things, the guitar was a hand-me-down from one of his cousins, who bought it during a yard sale in Kentucky on a whim and never got around to actually learning how to play it. Pete, bored out of his mind during those long, hazy summers, had picked it up and was instantly hooked.
It had sounded terrible at first, its wooden body too wide to fit over his gangly teenaged arms, his fingers awkward and unpracticed on the fretboard. He’d spend entire afternoons scouring through internet forums and dusty library books, learning chord shapes and memorizing tabs for the songs he liked, picking notes out by ear for those he couldn’t find within the pages of the local library’s copy of the Let It Be Me Song Book, Encyclopedia Edition. He ran his beloved Rumors CD ragged from pausing and rewinding it in tiny three second intervals, painstakingly learning each song note by note until he could begin to hear melody emerge from the mess, experimenting with different patterns with his picking hand, slowly learning with each song what made a decent tune.
Playing music felt like a reintroduction to god, something he could finally put his faith into. Years later, it would become the only thing holding him together, alone in an empty apartment in New York barely big enough for a mattress and table, his guitar a constant through the drug-haze that had long replaced those early summer memories. Whatever happened, he still had his music. For a long time, he could almost convince himself that was enough.
--
“I hate this place,” Kingston declares, unfolding himself from a structurally unsound plastic chair planted in the middle of a muddy grass pavilion. “Why am I here? This ain’t my scene, and I’m too old even try and fit in with these youngsters.”
They’re in Hoboken, of all places, waiting for the opener of a music festival whose lineup included charmers such as Kick Ass, Laugh, Repeat and Grunge Rot Thunder Thighs. Pete can feel sweat collecting down the back of his shirt.
“This isn’t my scene either. And it was your idea for a group bonding session,” Pete reminds him, surreptitiously trying to wipe at his back before it could stain his shirt. He feels hot and irritated, the sun too bright and the people too loud, himself entirely too sober. He wants to join the crowd of faceless revelers, feed off their energy, but he’s too wired to do anything but let it pass through him, too distant to feel anything more than light sparks of swirling chaos that stick to him like syrup.
“Okay,” Kingston grants, “but Hoboken?” The voxes shudder in unison.
The only reason they came all the way out was because Sofia had promised them pizza rolls and beer at her place, had enticed Pete with the promise of a free haircut, and had told Misty that some big names were going to be headlining the festival. The only big name Pete had seen was an enormous sign advertising for Bertinelli’s bread. “Where is Sofia, anyway?”
As if on cue, the woman herself appears from behind the long line of porta potties, looking a little worse for wear herself. Pete feels a pang of sympathy at her flushed and sweaty face. At least he isn’t the only one.
“Whew!” Sofia exclaims, slumping into the seat next to him, “If that line was any longer I’d’ave legitimately pissed myself.”
They watch as two clearly drunk men start whooping as a roadie plugs in a guitar, wincing in unison as they yell at the boy to start playing something to “save us from the boredom”. The roadie scrambles off the stage quickly.
“Um, Sofia, what are we doing here?” Pete asks. “Not that I don’t love hanging out with you or Kingston, or anything, but this doesn’t really seem to be most people’s thing. I think I saw Misty leave, like, an hour ago.”
Sofia looks puzzled. “Misty doesn’t want to hear you play?”
“What?” Pete stands from his chair. Kingston nearly falls off his.
“What?” Sofia snaps defensively. “I said there was a big name coming!”
God. At least the ferry ride to Staten had had an open bar. This shitty festival didn’t even have wine coolers.
#this has been in my drafts for maybe two years now?#the unsleeping city#tuc#dimension 20#pete conlan#kingston brown#sofia bicicleta#it was supposed to be a larger one shot of a musician!pete au but as with many things i never finished it#but i cleaned it up and here it is!! if anyone wants more feel free to send a prompt or smth idk how this (my brain) works#musician au#myfics#the band names were from a random band name generator#also i’m sorry to anyone who lives in hoboken#i don’t know anything about the place and im sure it’s lovely
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