So I started writing this story last year, and I posted it thinking that it was great and beautifully written and all that crap (it wasn't at all). I ended up hating to write it, and, well, it just wasn't very well written in general.
That being said, I still loved the concept of it, so I decided to go back and rewrite it. Like, completely rewrite it. If you were unfortunate enough to read the first version on here, then you might see a few similarities, but for the most part, it's been revamped.
This is the sequel to a one-shot that I posted a while ago called "Falling Down", so it would make sense to go back and read it. If you don't feel like reading it though, it's not so essential to the plot that you miss out on certain references :)
As for the story, it's angsty. It is. It's hopefully not going to be to the point where it's overdramatic, but it's going to be a bit depressing :/ If you're into that like I unfortunately am, please read and leave a review :D
DISCLAIMER: In no circumstances do I claim Austin & Ally or most of the songs featured in this fanfiction
"You're my last chance to breathe," I write on the napkin. "Can't look back, the past will swallow me." The words are crooked, messy. I can hardly see them through the fog in my head. My hand automatically goes to the glass of God-knows-what, downing the shot as if it would help.
The bar around me is rowdy, but it was nothing compared to the pounding in my head. I could hear her echo trying to break through and invade the forefront of my thoughts. In response, I ordered another glass and took a huge swig.
My fingers shake and I tear through the fragile layers of the napkin with the tip of my pen. It's as if it knows that what I've written is complete bullcrap, that I don't have a chance to breathe anymore.
Another swallow goes down and I try to start again.
"I promise that I'll stand soon, just need a moment to lean on you."
Also not true.
I crumple it up and it joins the many other failed ideas on the counter. I don't know why I try anymore. I guess it's because I'm Austin Moon, the twenty-year old superstar that exploded onto the music scene when he was 18. I guess it's more of a reputation thing to write my own songs. The problem is, I don't have the inspiration anymore.
My mind goes back years. Two years. A certain set of guitar chords is implanted in my head, certain lyrics tattooed to the inside of my eyes.
"Try to outrun all the memories, but I keep falling down," I sing under my breath. Against my will, the pen starts to trace the first letters onto the thin leaves of paper.
A rough set of hands grabs the neck of my jacket and drags me away. I couldn't complain much, but I wish I hadn't lost my grip on the pen before I was pulled back. Damn, that was a good pen.
I'm led to a limo and set down, while a big man motions to the driver to go. I stare hazily into the face of Michael Evans, head of SkyHigh Records. Also known as my boss.
He fumes at me during the entire trip. I avoid his gaze by watching LA fly past my window.
He refuses to say a word as he hauls me up to my pad. I agree to this silent game by keeping my own mouth shut. This continues until he tosses me onto my couch, after which I groan because that fricking hurt.
He takes this as a cue to begin. "What the hell are you thinking?" he says in a low growl. "You couldn't wait another 7 months, could you?" He starts pacing. "Underage drinking, I swear to God. How long were you there?" he asks sharply.
I stare at him blankly, giving him my answer. He runs his hands through his hair and blows his breath out of his cheeks. "Please tell me the paps didn't fint out," he murmurs. A message comes in on his phone and he curses when he sees it.
"Too late for that?" I ask dumbly.
I was honestly expecting him to blow up at me at that point. He glowers for a moment, but he cools down a bit. He doesn't exactly soften, but I don't feel like he would be shooting laser beams into my head either.
He looks defeated. Angry and sad and utterly defeated. He puts his head in his hands and holds that position, as if it helped him think.
Still in this position, he says, "You're going back to Miami."
I felt an arrow piercing the fogginess of the alcohol. No, I think. No no no.
I couldn't go back. I couldn't. Not to her. Never to her.
"Go home," he continues, blind to the look of horror I must be giving him. "Maybe you'll clean up your act there."
I feel every breath leaving me, but nothing comes back in. It feels as if it's always just out of reach, that last puff of air that could keep me alive.
His breaths clouded up in front of him like clouds. The chill in the early morning air left him shivering, but he knew it wasn't the only reason.
His feet dragged him away from her gravestone. He didn't know if he wants to follow them, but he sure as hell didn't want to stay.
He felt himself running. To where, he didn't know. He just had to go somewhere, anywhere. Anywhere but her.
The guitar, splattered with paint, thumped across his back, like a second heartbeat he knew wasn't there anymore.
He saw himself packing up his clothes. Heard himself calling the airline for a ticket to LA. The stewardess asked him, By yourself, son? He asked again for the ticket, which she reluctantly finished the transaction for.
He felt himself gently placing his guitar in its case. The old "Austin & Ally" sticker on it seemed to be mocking him, but he couldn't bring himself to peel it off.
The glass is slightly warm from the August sun, but I can feel it cooling from the night air. Los Angeles blinks at me behind it, the lights never failing to shine.
The light blinked off, letting him know he could take his seat belt off.
He went through the airport checkpoints in a daze. He was in one of the airport gift shops when he realized that he has no idea what he's doing. It was always Austin and Ally. Now half of them was gone. What was he now?
He checked his phone while sitting on one of the benches around the food court. Ten messages from Dez. Three from Trish.
Eighteen from his mom.
He finds himself calling her before he knows it. She didn't pick up, and he's left with the answering machine.
His voice cracked a bit as he left the message. "Hey Mom," he said. "It's me."
He took a big breath and leaned back a bit. "I'm sorry for doing this. I kinda just need some space right now. There's been too much going on, and, I need some time to just, figure it all out."
He paused before he adds the "I love you."
I watch LA begin to disappear over the horizon. When the last bit of light blinks out, I turn back to the inside of the plane.
Evans is sitting across from me typing like a madman on his laptop. He keeps muttering stuff like "Stupid tabloids", "At least he wasn't driving", "Why this?", and my personal favorite, "Why do dating sites keep showing up?"
I feel my chest tighten up every minute as we get closer and closer to Florida, as if I was running there.
Michael Evans looked at him. "Don't you already have a contract?" he asked.
He shook his head. "I cancelled it. I wanted to move to LA and Starr Records can't help me here."
Three hours later, he was standing in his new flat with a new contract, new phone, and a new life. He put his old phone in a drawer, just in case he ever needs it. He didn't think he ever would though.
The LA lights glare at him through the huge window in his living room. He didn't quite like all the light, but he admired the fact that they never change.
He'd had too much change.
We take a taxi from the airport. Evans doesn't seem to want people to know I'm here. I wanted to say that the private jet with both of our names plastered on it didn't help, but I managed to keep my mouth shut.
More and more familiar places flash by, and I'm finding it harder and harder to breathe.
It's impossible once we stop in front of Sonic Boom.