#goodbye to the buckley parents who never even cared that he spent his whole life feeling like a disappointment to them

[1doesnotsimplyhavejust1fandam]

Can’t say I’ve ever really heard a song that was SO fitting for a character that I needed to say it was theirs before. With that being said,, Evan Buckley OWNS “what do you want” by Benson Boone

[mused-amused]

I’m so in my feelings about Jeff Buckley right now. With uncanny prescience, I unwittingly spent many quiet nights with his ghost, and with his memory, as if leading up to the anniversary of his death tomorrow.

Mostly, I mourned that so many years have passed since his death. I imagined what his reaction would have been to the key moments in our world, culture, and society. And I mourned that he never got to experience the wisdom and contentment that come with old age.

So much has happened in the last 27 years. A whole other Jeff Buckley has probably been born, but could someone like that touch the world now? Could today’s  audiences honor the presence of sound, put their phones down long enough to be truly present as a powerful voice unites them in song?

In 1997, we lived in a much more innocent world. I was 17 years old, and I dreamed of attending art school, even though I knew my parents could never afford to send me. I was crazy about playing guitar, and alternative rock.

I had a college-age pen pal who I met through a music listserv, and it was thrilling to correspond regularly with someone who was attending a liberal arts school on the east coast. She was living the life I dreamed about, where academics and art mattered.

One day the letters stopped coming. I had thought it was merely because I lived on Guam and the mail was slow. But she eventually wrote to me, and said she was despondent that Jeff Buckley had just passed away, and she hadn’t been able to write. She was attending a memorial service in Boston later that week.

My pen pal and I lost touch soon thereafter, but my curiosity was piqued: who was this artist that could inspire so much sorrow and sadness with his passing? He wasn’t a big name, like Kurt Cobain who had infamously taken his own life 3 years earlier. I felt that one. I lived that one, along with millions of other fans all over the world.

Who was Jeff Buckley?

Music was still hard to come by on island those days—I couldn’t go to record store and find CDs easily, and Napster hadn’t made a splash yet. Those factors meant that finding amazing music just outside the mainstream was rough--local buyers had to have impeccable taste, and they just… didn’t. Eventually, I found a compilation CD that had a single Jeff Buckley song: "Last Goodbye." (That same compilation also had “Gang of $” by Shudder to Think, one of Jeff’s favorite bands. A good mix!)

“Last Goodbye” was unlike anything else I had heard at the time. It was wistful, yearning. If I had to group it with anything, the emotions it evoked are similar to the ballads in U2s Joshua Tree album: where love is so massive, it absorbs you, it forces you to feel, it makes you believe in soul connections and engulfs you in the simultaneous warmth of romance and the chilling prospect of losing it. Epic, if you will.

Once I got to college in the US mainland, I finally scored myself a copy of Grace. My musical life changed, and Jeff Buckley would forever be a part of my lyrical and musical lexicon. I began consuming what was readily available: Live at Sin-é and Sketches for My Sweetheart the Drunk.

Yet, I had never explored Jeff Buckley: the person. Lore didn’t interest me. He was a remarkable artist, influencing my musical journey, whose life ended tragically—nothing more.

And by all accounts, he wouldn’t want us to think of him outside of his musical legacy. Nevertheless, over the last few weeks, I dove deep into interviews, books, and live shows. I have glimpsed a portrait of an artist who was just beginning. Who at 30 years old, was still just a kid, trying to figure out who he wanted to be in the world, bravely taking on the mantle of being a beacon for positivity, joy, and love.

And to see that snuffed out was heartbreaking.

Here was a man who cared about art. Who believed that all of us have the ability to create and engage with art, if we recognize that power within ourselves. Here was a man who was tapped into the mystery of life, of the power of the moment, of NOW, and used every bit of his energy to seize joy.

Here was a man known for his singular voice, yet whose talents were heightened by collaborating with others. A man who freely admitted that he didn’t understand songwriting, and relied on the gifts of others to ignite his spark of genius.

Here was a man who was equally deep and goofy, who gave all that he had to the people he loved and lashed out with vitriol when he was pushed. He wasn’t a saint. He was a just a human, a skillful connector of words, sounds, and souls.

A person we would have loved to watch grow up and come into his own as an artist.

But the Wolf River had other plans. I have spent too many hours thinking about what he must have felt as the water took him. But in the best scenarios, I think of him reaching a moment of clarity and peace as he resigned himself to his fate: he was suspended in time, leaving us to our imaginations, giving us the freedom to wonder what could have been.

Rest easy, JB.

[bisexualbuck]

That Which We Carry

Day Five of the Evan Buckley Week 2020! The prompt was “You're a good liar” + comfort

Summary: Bobby stops in his tracks.

Buck is sitting on the ground, next to his own car, his keys and phone forgotten next to him. His breathing is loud and short and he has his head in his hands so that his face is hidden.

He’s having a panic attack.

[Read on AO3]

(Full text under read more)

Their shift has been over for almost an hour, but Bobby has taken the time to finish up some paperwork before heading up home.

He says goodbye to the relief crew and jogs down the stairs. This is one of those rare occasions where he can go home at a normal hour, and even better, Athena has a day off today that she has spent with Harry and May.

Bobby finds himself humming an upbeat song he’s been hearing on the radio. The sun is shining and there’s just enough of a breeze to make the temperature bearable.

He notices that Buck has left his car in the parking lot, but thinks nothing of it. The kid does spend an awful lot of time with the Diaz boys, Eddie and Buck probably left together. Bobby smiles, he does not know who they think they’re fooling.

Everyone knows they are closer than friends. If they are not together yet, it won’t be long before they are. He is thrilled for them, they truly deserve that happiness.

Bobby stops in his tracks.

Buck is sitting on the ground, next to his own car, his keys and phone forgotten next to him. His breathing is loud and short and he has his head in his hands so that his face is hidden.

He’s having a panic attack.

“Hey, Buckaroo,” he calls, softly so as not to startle him.

Buck flinches anyway. His breathing, already worrying, only gets more erratic. He jumps up and almost stumbles in his precipitation to get away, to try to hide his panic.

“Bobby,” he breathes out, a harsh and broken sound. “This – I’m – ”

Bobby puts his hands up and, slowly, gets closer to him, though he makes sure that he lets enough space not to make him feel crowded.

“It’s all okay, Buck. You just need to breathe, okay? Focus on my breathing.”

Buck nods, his eyes are wide and scared and fixed on his captain. Bobby takes one long deep breath in, and one long breath out, in, out, in out, until Buck’s breathing calms down, returns to normal. Neither move, the echos of Buck's breathing still resonating in Bobby's ears.

He watches in morbid fascination as Buck puts the pieces of his mask together. Before him, Buck smooths his face into a neutral expression, leaving no trace of his earlier panic. Soon enough, he flashes his captain a beaming smile that does not quite reach his eyes.

“I’m okay, Bobby. Thank you.”

“You’re a good liar,” Bobby realizes with a terrible pang.

And it’s true. Bobby would not have been able to guess Buck was having a full-fleshed panic attack just minutes prior if he hadn’t witnessed it in the first place.

That is a worrying thought because Buck is always wearing his heart on his sleeve, of that they have all been so sure. How many times did he hide how much he’d been suffering? Did Buck ever have a panic attack at the station and no one had any idea?

Shame and concern rise up Bobby’s throat, almost chocking him.

“I’m good. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I am worried though. Talk to me.”

“It’s nothing, okay. It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing if if caused you to have a panic attack in the station’s parking lot." His voice is too sharp and Buck takes a step back. Bobby takes a deep breath and, gentler, asks, "Is is because of a call?”

Bobby tries to think of anything that could have triggered Buck, but he can’t think of anything. They did not have any wild calls at all today and Buck hadn’t looked put out at all. Though he has just learned that maybe it doesn’t mean much. Buck has just shown he is quite apt at hiding his pain.

“Bobby,” Buck says, and the facade crumbles, just a little. “I don’t think I can. Not yet anyway.”

With a soft smile, Bobby simply puts his hand on Buck’s shoulder. Their eyes meet and Bobby hopes that the younger man can read what he can’t say out loud – the love, respect and admiration he caries for this kid. That having a panic attack does not change that, nothing ever could.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I’ll be there when you’re ready.”

The mask shatters.

Buck’s face falls. A sob bursts out of him, and he crumbles onto himself like a puppet whose strings have been snapped.

Bobby does not dare to hold him, afraid he is still reeling from his panic attack and the touch will only send him again. Instead, he keeps his hand on Buck’s shoulder, his grip firm, and Buck puts his own hand on Bobby’s, holding onto it like a lost man at sea holding onto a raft.

The parking lot is still empty when Buck calms down. He avoids his gaze but Bobby wishes he would look at him, he wants him to see that he is no judging him, that he is not disappointed or anything that must be going through Buck’s mind.

They sit down on the ground, only then letting go of each other.

They don’t speak for a moment. Bobby is lost – should he say something? If so, what could he even say?

Buck makes the decision for him.

“My mom called me,” he says.

He’s playing with his hands, a nervous habit that Bobby has noticed him doing from time to time.

“We’re not close – my parents and I. Maddie isn’t close to them either, but it’s always been different.”

He pauses, Bobby does not press. Buck has never been so open about his past and Bobby isn’t about to rush him and risk him closing off again.

“Our parents, they’re the type of people who had kids, not because they wanted to, but because it was the next logical step. They met, they got married, so they had to have kids, right. That’s how the story goes. It’s what’s expected.”

The way he stresses on the word “expected” has Bobby frowning.

“So they had Maddie, and they were done. One kid was more than enough. They were never affectionate with her, but they never loved me. You know there’s an age difference between me and Maddie, it’s because I wasn’t planned. I wasn’t wanted. They told me that many times growing up.”

He sounds so bitter, yet so resigned, and Bobby feels hot red anger burn through his whole body and he struggles to quiet it down.

“They were never cruel or violent. They were just absent.”

He laughs – sharp, no trace of humor in it.

“So today my mom calls me – ‘cause what if people ask about us right? She has to know what we’re doing. So she calls sometimes, and we fight as always. In her head, she has this idea of the perfect family that we ought to be but we just aren’t.”

He stops, bites his bottom lip down so hard Bobby is afraid it’s going to draw blood.

“Buck,” he says, softly, but Buck only shuts his eyes close, a sorrow so deep etched on his face that Bobby is overwhelmed with the need to smooth it down, any way that he can.

“She said that she didn’t know why she couldn’t ever love me but, in moments like those, where we fight, she’s glad she never tried harder.”

Bobby has never been a violent man but if he had Buck’s parents in front of him, he is not sure he would be able to restrain himself. Two emotions battle in Bobby’s heart – anger, at Buck’s mom for being so cruel, and compassion for Buck who never deserved to be treated like that.

Compassion wins out.

That’s what Buck needs right now, support and love.

“I’m sorry. You don’t deserve that.”

Buck does not seem to hear him, too deep he is in his own heartache.

“What does that say about who I am if my own parents couldn’t even give a damn about me? How can I expect anyone else to?”

“This doesn’t say anything about you,” Bobby says, firm but gentle. “It’s on them. I can’t tell you why they treated you the way they did, but it was never your fault. And you have people who care about you. You have the 118, you have Maddie, and Eddie and Christopher. Lots of people love you, Buckaroo.”

Buck wipes at his eyes, “Right. Yeah, I know.”

He looks unconvinced still.

“You don’t need them,” Bobby continues, hoping to reach, to convince him of his own worth. “It’s their loss that they’re not in your life. You and Maddie have become great people, and if they can’t see that, it’s on them.”

Bobby hates seeing Buck so small, so broken. Buck takes so much space with his big heart and his big smile. It’s so unlike him to hold himself like he is trying to disappear, and Bobby’s heart breaks at the sight.

“It’s dumb,” Buck says, shameful. “I’m used to it, I’m over it. Sometimes it still creeps up on me, but don’t worry. I’ll be good as rain in no time.”

“It’s okay to not be okay.” He pause but Bobby forces himself to continue, Buck needs to hear it even if it’s hard for him to say. “You’re not alone, you’ve got us. You’ve got me. Son.”

Buck finally turns to him again. His eyes search Bobby’s, and he must find what he is looking for because he smiles, small but moved.

“Thank you, Bobby.”

“Athena and I have the kids tonight. I was going to make some Cajun chicken. You want to come with?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I wouldn’t want to intrude in on a family night.”

“Buck, I am asking for a family night.”

Tears threaten to spill again from Buck’s eyes but he manages to hold them back.

“Okay,” he says, voice heavy with emotion. “I’ll be there.”

Neither of them are quite saying the words but both are hearing them anyway. Bobby loves Buck like a son, and he thinks Buck might just love him like a dad. Whatever it is, they don’t need to voice it, to put a word on it. They can be their own definition of family.

“Athena will be glad to see you, the kids too. They look up to you.”

“Not sure that’s such a good idea,” Buck jokes but Bobby reads an underlying sense of doubt.

“Buck, come on. We both know that’s not true.”

“Please, no more heartfelt comment. I think I’ve cried enough for today.”

Bobby shakes his head, amused. He gets up, offering his hand to Buck who takes it with a grin.

“I won’t say anything about this to Athena if you don’t want me to.”

“No, I – ” Buck sighs. “I don’t want you to keep secret from her. As I said, it’s fine. I don’t talk about it because it’s not very riveting but I don’t care. I’m used to it. It’s been like that my whole life.”

Once again, Bobby wishes he could have some words with Buck’s parents, but he buries the thought down to, instead, give a quick hug to the man he sees as a son.

.

As soon as Buck arrives at the Grant household, Athena draws him into her arms without even saying a word.

Although he is much taller than her, he feels protected and small in her embrace.

She catches his face when they let go. He isn’t even sure she notices that her thumb is caressing his cheek in a soothing maternal gesture. Her gaze is solemn but kind.

“They do not deserve you, Buckaroo.”

For what feels like the millionth time today, Buck feels overwhelmed and on the verge of crying. She must see it because she gives his cheeks a little squeeze.

“You are a good man with a good heart and you are always welcome here.”

“Athena,” he stars but his voice breaks.

She brings him down to press a soft kiss against his forehead. He wonders if that’s what a mother is supposed to do but, for once, the thought does not bring him pain, only curiosity – as if, maybe, now, he will get a chance to find out too.

“Go on, now,” she shoos him away, gently. “I know Henry’s been wanting to show you his latest game.”

“Thank you, Athena,” he says. “For everything.”

“Anytime.”

He catches Bobby smiling at him too, and Buck finally feels the anguish he has been carrying out all day gets lighter, less suffocating.

It’s not gone yet and maybe it never will be, not fully. But it’s getting better.

He is getting better.