Epilogue Present
Ry rolled his shoulders, the fabric of his shirt twisting with the movement.
The air in the backstage hallway hummed with a low, anticipatory buzz—the murmur of the crowd filtering through.
This was their first time on stage since Astro Calamitas had formed.
They were one of the opening acts, a novelty after years of commanding the headliner’s spotlight.
A wide grin stretched across Ry’s face, the familiar knot in his stomach present, but now interwoven with an electric current of excitement, a feeling he hadn’t experienced in ages.
Alex shook himself while Brand adjusted his glasses. Lon rolled out his neck, a series of soft pops echoing as he loosened his hands and legs. Ella had closed her eyes, rocking back and forth on her heels.
“You all ready?” Ry asked quietly.
The rest of the band turned to him and nodded, one by one.
“Nerves are normal; I’ve got them too, but we will absolutely crush it.
We are going to win over this audience, even if they already love us.
Why? Because we have to. This is our job.
Each and every time we perform, we owe it to them to rock out as hard as we can.
This show is for them. Let the world know how badass Astro Calamitas is. ”
“Yeah!” Lon yelled.
Brand grinned. Alex kissed Ry quickly. Ella, however, stuck her hand out. He placed his hand on hers, and everyone followed suit. They cheered on three.
The crowd was wild when the band’s name echoed on the speakers.
“This is it,” Ry shouted over the noise.
He climbed the stairs, their worn wood groaning under him, and burst onto the stage.
The venue was a cavern punctuated by the faint glow of scattered emergency lights, yet he sensed the dense press of bodies, a palpable hum of anticipation.
A wide grin stretched across his face. This was his element, the very air he was born to breathe.
“Hello, Los Angeles!” he yelled.
Another wave of screaming came at them.
He chuckled. “That’s what I like to hear! We are Astro Calamitas, though you may remember a little band some of us used to play in called Ghostfire. Well, we’ve got a treat for you tonight. Some new music!”
The crowd erupted in a deafening roar, a cacophony of cheers and screams that vibrated through the floor.
Ry, his face flushed with exhilaration, turned to Lon, a silent signal passing between them.
As the opening chords of “Los Angeles” ripped through the air, Ry's voice, powerful and resonant, soared above the swelling tide of music.
The band crashed in behind him, a unified, thundering force, a wall of sound that seemed to press in on all sides.
In the City of Angels, can I find what I seek
in the hazy glamour?
Encounter the devil with his salesmen,
their slick words gleaming like new cars
living in houses worn, paint peeling
will I discover love or an empty bed?
The rhythmic thrumming of Alex's bass vibrated through the floorboards, a deep pulse resonating in the air. Lon’s drums pounded a driving beat, a sharp crackle and boom that filled the room.
Ella, drawn by the energy, moved closer to the stage's edge, her singing a sweet, clear melody weaving in harmony with Ry's.
A thrill shot through the crowd as Ry launched into the next verse, his favorite part, his voice alternating lines with Ella's, their voices a captivating duet.
“Let me in, share your secrets,” he sang.
“Reveal your heart to me, Santa Monica,” she followed up.
“Give me your fame, your glory, your love.”
“Oh, our Lady makes dreams come true.” Ella closed her eyes.
Together they sang the chorus:
Your neon glow spills across the sky,
a hazy promise of heaven
in this palm-lined paradise,
apartment parties beat against the night
windows like scattered diamonds,
our beautiful mosaic
Ry danced around, as energetic as possible, reveling in the cheering masses. He had finally found home here, like he had when they’d first started out. Once the song concluded, he came back to the front of the stage.
“Thank you,” he said. “Did you enjoy that?”
The audience screamed that they loved it.
“What? It’s so hard to hear you guys.”
They cheered even louder.
“Now that’s more like it,” he grinned. “You may know some of us. I’m Orion, this here is Brand on the keyboard, Lon on the drums, Alex on the bass, and our lovely Ella here on vocals. How great is she?”
The crowd roared. Ry laughed. “Yeah, we think she’s awesome too. We’ve got a couple more songs for you. The next one is the first one Ella, Alex, and I wrote for our album. We called it Wanderer. I have a feeling you’ll like it.”
He winked at the audience.
Brand's fingers caressed the keys, each note a slow, steady build of anticipation.
Ry, eyes locked on Ella, felt the familiar rhythm course through him, a practiced pulse honed by countless rehearsals.
The air in the room thrummed with the music, a resonant hum that seemed to wrap around the house.
Alex's guitar wailed, a richer, more vibrant sound than any recording, while Lon's touch on the drums was a whisper.
Ella’s voice, a crystalline melody, soared high above Ry’s, each note a shimmering, almost angelic cascade that hung in the air, achingly haunting.
The rich tapestry of her song seemed to vibrate against his eardrums, a sweet, ethereal sound.
He had to anchor himself to his own instrument, a grounding force against the breathtaking vulnerability of hers, to keep his singing steady.
“I need your hand to pull me up,” Ry said, gesturing to Alex. “Instead of these pills and tears.”
Alex moved closer, and Ry rested his head on his shoulder.
“Lift me up from this hellish ground,” he sang.
A soft smile touched Ry's lips as Alex’s gentle kiss landed on his hair, a silent affirmation in the hum of the expectant audience.
Ella wove the song's finale, her voice a powerful, soaring melody that filled the space. Ry’s harmony, a rich counterpoint, rose to meet hers.
As the final, lingering notes dissolved into a profound silence, the crowd erupted.
A deafening roar, a cacophony of cheers and whistles, washed over them.
Ry turned, his lips still locked with his boyfriend’s, defying the thousands watching.
The noise intensified, a wave of exhilaration crashing against them.
Ry’s grin widened. He finally pulled away, his gaze finding Ella.
Her face was alight, cheeks flushed a vibrant pink with shared triumph.
Taking a subtle step back, she ceded the spotlight, and Ry, sensing her desire for a less exposed space, moved to the edge of the stage.
“Well, how’d you like that? It’s one of my favorites.”
This time, he could make out a few words screamed from the audience of “I loved it!” This, this was what made him happiest.
“Good! We’ll be playing this one a lot, so come to all our shows. We’ve got a few more songs to go, and one old classic just for you. Ready?”
The rest of the set dissolved into a kaleidoscope of flashing lights and a deafening roar.
The air hummed. He loved crafting melodies and lyrics, but the raw, electric thrill of performing ignited his soul.
Not the sterile grandeur of massive arenas, but the close, visceral connection of these smaller venues.
It was the untamed energy coursing through the crowd, the seamless, breathing rhythm of the band.
Alex scooped him up in both arms, the warmth of his body pressing in, and kissed him. The cacophony of the audience faded to a dull hum for a fleeting moment until his feet met the hard ground again. The sudden, deafening roar rushed back in, leaving him dizzy.
“Thank you, Los Angeles!” he yelled.