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Futuristic ᴇɢᴏ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ




















  • Cyrus gave the guitar one last absent strum,
    letting the final note hum in the crisp air. Shortly after, Kurt, his wife, and son had arrived with the kids. Cyrus sent them a welcoming wave as thanks, beaming like a politician at a rally.

    But more than the sound of string instruments and youthful chatter filled the space. True to character, Angelo made a loud, swaggering approach, bottle cap in hand. Cyrus sighed, shaking his head with a lopsided smile as the cap clinked harmlessly against the stage.

    "Well, ''ey' to you, too, Angelo," Cyrus said, rising smoothly to his feet. "You must have mistaken me for a jukebox. Usually, those take quarters." The gathered children giggled at the quip, though the reference was beyond even most adults in the group.

    Cyrus had hosted countless gatherings since his group made it to the compound—book clubs and history lessons, explorations of art, music, and the finer things of a world that now only existed in discarded media. Angelo's appearances at the recitals had initially caught Cyrus off guard. But then he recalled the countless times low-fidelity audio from a CD player had been blasted over the radio channels, and it sort of started to make sense.

    He adjusted the strap of his guitar, tilting his head as he surveyed Angelo. "Tell you what," he said, giving the strings a slow, delicate strum, "If you think you’ve got the chops to impress this crowd, be my guest." He gestured toward the rowdy band of kids, then pointed with his eyes at the various instruments scattered around the stage area.

    Cyrus turned his attention back to the audience, his fingers settling instinctively over the strings as he struck a jaunty chord to raise the energy. He stepped back theatrically, holding the guitar out as if to offer it to Angelo. The children gasped and giggled in unison, their eyes darting between the men, already entertained by the prospect of inciting a showdown.

    Cyrus let his smile linger. "Well?" he prompted, holding the guitar out a little further. He glanced past Angelo to the edge of the gathering, where Fraley and Romar stood, offering a nod as one of the children bolted in their direction.










    ♡coded by uxie♡


 



















  • “You want me to show you up at your own show, for real?”
    Angelo asked with a hearty chuckle. The liquor within him was the perfect amount to have him completely fearless and prime to embarrass himself, which Cyrus could certainly pick up on. He leaned against the piano, looking down through his eyebrows at Cyrus.

    Cyrus did a quick, showy move with the guitar, which got an excited rise from the audience. Then, what Angelo had been waiting for happened: he offered him the guitar.

    “Well?” the man asked.

    Angelo grinned over at Cyrus. “You think I can’t do it? I thought you knew my old man.”

    (If indeed Angelo was right about Cyrus knowing his old man, that knowledge would not bolster any confidence in Angelo’s playing abilities, since the only publicly seen incident of Angelo’s father interacting with a string instrument was him breaking it over his knee in anger after drunkenly failing to play some obscure folk tune.)

    Angelo grabbed the guitar with an exaggerated confidence that made the young audience before him giggle. He muttered softly to himself, fingering randomly at the fretboard to get a feel for the worn guitar in his hand. “Hell, I…let’s see…” His words were indiscernible to anyone but himself. “C Major, A minor? Or A minor, C major? F over 7…” He gave the instrument a strum, then, frowning, gave the lowest knob a twist and strummed again.

    And then, he finally began to play, and, unexpectedly, though the notes the man sang were always just slightly out of tune and the guitar had a glaringly wrong note on each strum, the haunting words of the old folk song The Unquiet Grave were clear and resonate:

    The wind doth blow today, my love,
    And a few small drops of rain;
    I never had but one true-love,
    In cold grave she was lain.

    He took a few moments of creative liberty to howl, which made the kids, who had been sitting confused, burst out in a short fit of laughter.

    I’ll do as much for my true-love
    As any young man may;
    I’ll sit and mourn all at her grave
    For a twelvemonth and a day.

    The subject matter was in stark contrast to Angelo’s demeanor, but, strangely, the children in the audience seemed to pick up on their need to be quiet. Seemingly enchanted, they grew still and near silent as they watched Angelo strum and sway.

    The twelvemonth and a day being up,
    The dead began to speak:
    “Oh who sits weeping on my grave,
    And will not let me sleep?”

    A cough, then stillness again from the audience.

    ’T is I, my love, sits on your grave,
    And will not let you sleep;
    For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips,
    And that is all I seek.

    You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
    But my breath smells earthy strong;
    If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
    Your time will not be long.

    ’T is down in yonder garden green,
    Love, where we used to walk,
    The finest flower that e’re was seen
    Is withered to a stalk.

    The stalk is withered dry, my love,
    So will our hearts decay;
    So make yourself content, my love,
    Till God calls you away…

    There was a single moment of silence.

    Then, naturally, one of the children demanded, “Why do you sing like that?”

    Angelo, cocky, handed the guitar back to Cyrus. “‘Cuz I trained for it, kid.”

    “Sounded really bad,” the kid said to the child beside him, but Angelo clearly didn’t hear that.

    He looked over at Cyrus. “Bet you don’t even know the name of that one,” he said proudly.










    ♡coded by uxie♡

 

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