R.A.B.

Icy, argentine irises scanned the snow covered parking lot as their owner slung a faded army green duffel over his shoulder. The initials on the bag read 'R. A. B.' in blue magic marker along with various other doodles, and there was a worn out skateboard strapped to the side of the bag. The sun was just touching the horizon, so the sky was all hues of red, yellow, and a twinge of green. It was quiet, but then, everything was quiet compared to Tokyo. The man looked back at the airport he'd just walked out of, tugging the collar of his coat closer to his neck. 'This is it, Rory. You're home.' The thought brought a warm smile to his face. He hadn't been able to call a place home in almost a decade, having to live his busy life on tour in hotels and buses.

Rory Adrian Barclay, better known to the world as the famous guitarist and lead singer for the new wave grunge band, Memory Lapse, was home for the first time in eight years. The only person that knew he was returning was his sister and a couple of his friends. They'd agreed on him staying in her studio apartment until he could find his own place. She'd mentioned something about a roommate, but Rory doubted he'd be at her home much, spending most of his time out with Ary, Belle, and the rest of the gang. He grinned like Christmas morning when he thought of his old friends. Eight years, and hardly any contact with anyone from back home, mostly by his choice since he figured prolonged contact would make him want what wasn't there, making him all the lonelier; lonely indeed, and he couldn't wait to see them. Maybe they'd go to the park and see who could count the most stars, like old times.

Not like he hadn't tried to contact any of them, though. He'd contact Ary and Ace several times a month, and his sister pretty much everyday. Abbi sent him little trinkets and candies for his birthdays and holidays. But... Belle never answered her phone, and when he asked his sister about her, she just said she was always too busy. The guitarist had long ago accepted, bitterly, the fact that Jezebel had moved on, but that didn't mean that they couldn't be friends, did it? And it certainly wouldn't change the way he felt for the dancer.

The rockstar was pulled out of his nostalgia by someone bumping his shoulder and muttering apologies into the frozen air. Rory nodded his forgiveness and continued on the task at hand. He scanned the parking lot once again, looking for his old truck that Caitlin was supposed to have dropped it off here since she was busy most of the day and couldn't pick him up. He'd gotten the keys from the woman at the front desk, now all he needed was to find the truck itself. It was a 1993 Toyota DX pickup with 4-wheel drive, the color of nicotine stained white. Kind of like what happened when you smoked too much in a white-walled room. Rory figured that it must have been a hard color to market, but it was his truck and he loved it. It was the only moving vehicle that he was comfortable with. He had so many memories with it.

Rory spotted the truck in the far corner of the lot and made his way over to the mechanical beast, guitar case and duffel in hand. He tossed his luggage in the truck bed and slipped into the driver's seat. Gods, did it feel good to be back in his own truck again. It took a while to get the thing started, but eventually he was mobile. Memories flooded him while he drove.

Flash. Hunger Strike. September 17, 1989. The truth is... No five-year-old should ever have to know the pain of death and the loss of parents. They tried to put he and his sister in separate foster homes, but he wasn't having it. She was only four, and she cried so much. She needed him, and he needed her just as badly. Crying alone in the orphanage, Rory put on a brave face and promised Caitlin that he would never let them take her from him.

Flash. About A Girl. August 1, 1991. He was seven, and had just moved into town with his sister and their newest foster parents. He and Caitlin had been dumped off at the local playground while their parents were shopping and fixing up the new house. A young girl was being picked on by a couple of older kids, saying she talked funny. He'd clambered up to them, ever confident seven-year-old he was, and punched each of them square in the nose. He helped the girl dust the sand off of her dress, and beaconed his sister over as the boys ran away. "See? Now they talk funny too, so they can't say nothin'!" He logicked to the girl. Rory had never forgotten the way she laughed at that. She said her name was Jezebel, but Rory, explaining to her that he didn't like the letter 'Z', just called her 'Belle'.

Flash. Smells Like Teen Spirit. April 5, 1994. The truth is... No ten-year-old should ever have to know the pain of death, and the loss of an idol. They said it was suicide. The man was on top of the world! What was so bad that he had to end it? He wondered if his idol really wanted to die, or if he just wanted to escape. Ten years old, and he didn't understand much in the ways of the life, but in that time he realized that everything was fake and the world was steeped in hypocrisy, so he could either own it, or be consumed by it. He chose to own it. He promised them all that he'd make something of himself, and that they'd all be friends forever.

Flash. Santa Monica. June 23, 2000. He was 16 and mobile. He'd just gotten his license, and inherited his foster father's old truck. It was the first time his parents had let him go anywhere without their supervision, and somehow, he'd convinced everyone else's parents to trust him. Only the gods knew why they agreed. Wind in his hair and stereo blaring his favorite songs on a mix tape; his sister, Ary, Abbi and Ace in the truck bed as they drove to the beach. Beautiful Belle with her hand on his thigh, sipping a Vanilla Coke, leaning over every few minutes to give him a sip. Rory couldn't have been happier.

Flash. Glycerine. December 20, 2001. Christmas break. He was 17. A "borrowed" mattress in his truck bed, conveniently located in an abandoned park outside of town, and far out of range of police notice. A ton of blankets and a sixer of Guinness. He never thought he'd tasted anything sweeter than Belle. The guitarist told her he wanted this forever, and sang the lyrics of his first song to her on his acoustic. The press of fiery kisses and tumbling nude under the blankets. Passion, emotion, sweat and orgasm. It was the best night of his life.

Flash. Creep. March 27, 2002. The weight of his bags was so heavy, and never had the demon felt the urge to cry so hard to hold back. Teary goodbyes. Signed and dated luggage and a pair of blue jeans never forgotten or thrown away. The end of his life at home, and the beginning of his life in Tokyo. Rory had never been able to tell Jezebel he was leaving. The night before was a happy one, his eighteenth birthday, and he wanted his last memory of her to stay that way. He'd only told his sister he was leaving.

Rory unlocked the front door of Caitlin's loft (He was the only one who could get away with calling her by her full name most of the time.). The place was huge. He left his duffel by the front door and slipped out of his coat, revealing that he was wearing his favorite outfit: His signature hand-knit gray beanie with the pale blue stripe, a worn out Nirvana shirt with holes in the back around his bottom from failed skateboard endeavors, a set of ripped jeans that he and the gang had written all over in Sharpie and Magic marker, and a pair of worn out Chucks; the baby-blue ones this time.

He called out into the loft out of habit. "Hello?" But as far as he knew he was alone. Caitlin said she'd be out late tonight, and her roommate was away on business. The guitarist flipped his phone open and mass-texted his sister, Ace, and Abbi. They were the only ones who knew he was coming back. 'Hey guys! I'm back! I'll be at the loft if you wanna see me. Caitlin, see you when you get home. ~Rory~' Pending. Sending. Send successful. He smiled and pocketed his phone, picking up his guitar case as a replacement.

Rory carried his guitar with him into, what he could only assume was, the living room since the only rooms in the studio apartment with walls were bedrooms and bathrooms, closets and such. His silver eyes locked onto his old acoustic(Gods, how long had it been since he'd seen that?!), sitting on a stand in the corner of the room. Nothing else touched it, and his picture was on the wall behind the guitar, along with a collage of tour dates, magazine cut outs, and other pictures of him and his band. There was a world map with tacks and strings marking a path of his European and Asian tour. A warm smile crossed the rockstar's facial features, and he felt the first sting of tears behind his eyes since he'd returned. 'I know Caitlin was less than thrilled with me when I left, but it's nice to know she missed me.'

He absently ran his fingers over the neck of acoustic, sighing at the feel of the cool metal strings on his fingers. Slender digits wrapped around the neck of their owner's old guitar, as Rory settled down on the couch, bringing the instrument across his lap. The guitarist was lost in his own memories as he played 'Glycerine' for the first time in over eight years.