OUT OF THE RED ↝ dave grohl

one-hundred-one.

NOVEMBER 1st, 1994, SEATTLE, WA 

        THE SOUND OF a guitar being strummed was what woke Reagan up. She wasn't that deeply submerged in sleep, but the gentle sound drifting through the living room caused her to stir awake on the couch.

She lifted her head sleepily, blinking to clear her vision. 

It was definitely a guitar that she was hearing. She couldn't rule out that she wasn't dreaming, but as she sat up under the tangled quilt that someone (Dave - who else?) had laid over her, she realized that the sound of the guitar being played was indeed real.

It was magical and terrifying, all at the same time.

When was the last time that she'd heard Dave play? She couldn't remember. Every now and then, Reagan had caught snatches of strings being plucked from across the house, but they never endured for more than a minute before the guitar they belonged to was slammed down.

She had begun to truly miss Dave's playing. As time had passed, the melody of his musical talents had started to weave its way into her dreams, making her sorely yearn for the times when it had lit her from within. It had been so long -- too long. 

So unfair.

Reagan swung her legs quietly over the edge of the couch, standing up. Gracie was down for a nap, but that clearly had not deterred Dave from doing the thing he had so dreaded for the last several months. Like the flicker of lightning bug, a golden light was beginning to flutter to life inside the Grohl residence. With every note that gently rang out, the light grew stronger.

Reagan's heart thumped as she crept down the hallway, padding by each empty room with the cunning of an undercover spy. She knew by then that this opportunity called for her treating Dave like a skittish cat -- if he knew she was skulking up on him, he would quite literally drop everything and run.

She followed the guitar playing until finally, she was standing outside the door to the room that she and Dave had both abandoned. Inside of it was a graveyard of instruments. What had once been a place for them to both play, whether it was guitar or drums, had turned into a dusty, bleak museum of happier times. Even Reagan's hand-me-down drum set had been shoved into hibernation, taken apart piece by piece until she'd determined that it was effectively dismantled and forgotten.

Reagan curled her fingers around the door frame, the door slightly ajar in front of her. All she had to do was tilt her head further to the right and she would be able to see Dave through the crevice. Truthfully, that was all she wanted. To see him playing.

With her fingertip, Reagan nudged the door open wider. It parted with satisfying silence, giving her the chance to exhale with relief through her nose. 

Dave was sitting on one of the creaky stools that usually found its home behind a drum set. His feet were propped up on a rung and in his lap was an old Fender, one that Reagan had seen him play countless times in the past. His back was to her, hunched over the instrument, but she envisioned his face with perfect clarity.

Reagan didn't know if the mere sound of his playing was what was making her so sentimental, but she was overwhelmed by the urge to run up behind Dave and throw her arms around him. It didn't help that he looked strangely frail sitting on the stool, his thin back stretched into a curve and his hair brushing almost past his shoulders. He'd started growing it out again. 

A lump formed in Reagan's throat. The piece that Dave was playing was unrecognizable to her, but it was beautiful regardless. As far as she was concerned, he could have raked his fingernails up and down the guitar's neck, producing the kind of screeching feedback that would make most people cover their ears, and she would have been happy.