Angel (Fuenciado)

Chapter 5: A Blanket of Songs

"You went to Taco Bell?"

Clover is particularly energetic today as I tell her about the events of the previous week. I nod.

"Yeah. With Mike and Kellin."

She turns a little pink and smiles. "Oh-kay."

I really admire her ability to hold back that screaming fangirl inside.

"And nothing happened did it?"

"No."

"Mike didn't suddenly burst into flames because he happened to be in public?"

I laugh. "I guess not."

She holds up her hands, pencil intertwined between the fingers if her left hand. "I told you it'd be fine."

"But I felt so stressy afterwards even though it was perfectly lovely. I don't know why."

She shrugs. "That's pretty inevitable. You've barely been out in nine months. It's just something you're going to have to deal with for a while. It'll go."

I tilt my head and bite my lip. "I suppose...but being out with Kellin made me realize I felt really tight and tense all the time. It's exhausting."

She looks serious as she nods and I reach for my drink. "I see. Vic, when was the last time you played a guitar?"

I sigh and look down for a second. "About..."

"Nine months?"

I purse my lips and she lets her arms flop over the sides of the chair. "Have you sung at all?"

"Not seriously."

She closes her notebook. "Face it, Fuentes. Music is as big a part of your life as Tony was. Ignoring music for you is like ignoring the fact that you need air to live. It made you who you are now, and I think that maybe you're forgetting that. You're forgetting who you are."

I look down again, unsure what to say.

"Tony would be so mad if he knew you'd given up on music."

I nod. "He'd be angry."

I look over at the PTV poster on the wall and home in on Tony. He's unmistakable. Those searching eyes...Tony knew secrets about you before you knew them yourself. And he was funny. Daft. Collectively, Pierce the Veil were a bit dysfunctional. And Tony had that goofy smile that was a little too big for his face. And I know, if he knew I hadn't so much as touched a guitar since he died, he would not be smiling.

But it's almost like touching a guitar would be like moving on. Like leaving him behind. I'm not really sure I want to. Even though Clover is right and my life is most certainly more dull without the music in it, having the music back would only further alert me to the fact that Tony will never be coming back. And never is a word i don't like to deal with.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

"It's not like you have to go back to it straight away," Jaime assures me, handing me my toffee-crisp ice cream. "When you first touched a guitar, did you start by writing King For a Day?"

I take a lick of the ice cream, which is refreshingly cold in the blazing San Diego sun. "Well, no, but -"

"Exactly. You started by learning how to pluck the strings and make notes by putting your fingers in different places and then you started playing chords and then you started playing songs. Now I'm not saying you have to go right back to basics, but don't start by going right into it. Just ease into it. Don't bellyflop into the pool, man."

I laugh at this because it was a bit random and didn't make a lot of sense. But it actually did. In a way.

"You have to start letting go, Vic." Jaime says sternly and I sag.

"I'm not sure if I want to let go."

"It's harder living in the past."

"Is it though?" I stop walking for a moment and Jaime turns, and even though I can't see his eyes behind his sunglasses I know he's giving me a look. "If I'm living in the past, I don't have to worry about what will happen in the future."

Jaime freezes, the ice cream halfway to his mouth. "What a loud of bullshit."

I huff with laughter and some of my ice cream almost comes out of my mouth. "Are you calling my bluff, Preciado?"

"I am, Fuentes."

We start walking again, cutting through the park - a shortcut back to my flat. Jaime somehow coerced me into leaving Mike alone. He's like a wizard that way.

"But have you played guitar since the accident?" I retort. Jaime hurriedly catches a drop of ice cream that was melting.

"Once or twice. It's there; my guitar. It sits in the corner of my living room. Some days it feels like it's staring at me."

"We should go somewhere," I suggest randomly. Jaime raises his eyebrows.

"What? Now?"

"No. Not now. But we should. Sometime. I'm starting to remember what the outside world is like. It's kind of nice. There's all this green stuff and three dimensional people."

"And ice cream. Don't forget the ice cream."

I grin. "Right."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When I get home, Mike is asleep in his room and the house is too quiet. It's also too big. We used to be together all the time, we four musicians, so it was never too big or too quiet.

Now it feels...ghostly. Lonely.

The only thing that could possibly make it more like the home I used to know is what both Clover and Jaime suggested. Music.

Hm.

I step up one of the stairs and stop again. I can't possibly do it. Who am I kidding? I can't.

Another step.

No. No, I really can't. I know they keep saying I need to move on but I'm not sure I really want to move on. I don't want to leave it behind.

I sit down on the third step and sigh. What happened? Is this my life now? I never wanted it to be this. I'm overprotective of Mike, I don't let myself relax. I just feel like a giant knot. Like a rope that's been kicked and tossed around and now I'm so tangled no one can undo me. Too many things have gone wrong.

And I bolt up the stairs and make my way to the back room. By the window, leaning against the wall behind Mike's drum kit is an acoustic guitar. A light golden brown, a rusted red kind of colour. It is old, now, careworn. A layer of dust has settled on the strings and on the bridge, on the frets. It must be so out of tune now. I cross the room  slowly, as if making a sudden move might startle it away. Then I touch the top of the guitar and a million memories come flooding back. A thousand smiles, whispers, all blanketed by various songs.

No.

Before I can stop myself, I've made my way through a glass of wine and I'm pouring another. I realize that alcohol doesn't solve my problems, but it does make them seem less significant.