Play That Song (Band)

[Simon and Cyrus Ettinger]

To anyone who spent more than a minute in either man’s company, it hardly came as a shock that Cyrus had taken the lead in band formation. The empath, all extroverted charm and everlasting stamina, over the last few months as he took a shine to James, had started in as he did with his other half, taking over tasks the music teacher might find difficult or unpleasant because they hardly affected Cyrus at all and certainly not in the same way.

They could have played duets together, but those pieces differed greatly from what one could achieve with a couple of guitars and some percussion blended in. Moreover, unlike the disastrous tale of James’s discourteous closet case of an ex-boyfriend, he spoke so fondly, eyes lighting up and smile settled on his lips, of the band he’d joined during his years at college. His interest was pure, free of the conflicting memories and associations that lessons created for the Ettinger brothers, where they had not chosen the pursuit and had been given no control even over the instrument that they played.

He knew, not merely through his powers, that his suggestion had surprised James; their first conversation about playing an instrument had led James to incorrectly assume that their only experience involved the shrill and squeaky recorder. Left behind as soon as they graduated from third grade to fourth. His friend had no reason to suspect that they had a violin in their closet, which had been a part of their lives for years prior to graduation and still traveled with them from apartment to apartment, never left behind in a move no matter Simon’s resolution never to rosin a bow for as long as he lived.

Thus, Cyrus had, upon consulting with James about preferences, printed the fliers for the staff room and the Pilot Ridge community bulletin board. His email address and phone number, and not James’s, had been given out as the point of contact. Why inundate James before they were screened? He had spoken with their potential band-mates, first over email and the phone, and then meeting up for coffee to ensure that they weren’t creepy, threatening, or too intense and thus delusional about what this band was.

This was casual. He and James had day-jobs, and Cyrus had Simon’s life onto which he would never encroach. Anyone with stars in their eyes and dreams of platinum albums in their heads would best look elsewhere.

In the end, they found their three desperately seeking bandmates. Not quite the same as a staff band - a veterinarian a few years their junior, and two music store employees in their early to mid twenties, one who worked full time and the other only part-time because he was also a student. He had been a chipper fellow, while his breath reeked of gin long before sunset. Something to keep an eye on. All three were some flavor of MSM to one degree or another. That hadn’t been Cyrus’s intention but he couldn’t say that he was disappointed with the outcome.

The day of their first meet-up and rehearsal had arrived, and Dr. Jay had generously offered to host. His house on the outskirts would allow them to play as loud or for as long as they wanted without disturbing neighbors who might bang on their floors or ceilings with broom handles or worry about bothering roommates in the case of their new drummer. Cyrus and James arrived fifteen minutes before the agreed upon time (having cleared this with Jay because the empath wanted to help set up). He carried his violin case in one hand and a covered dish with the other, home-baked treats to grease the wheel of this first day. They were ushered inside, where he facilitated introductions and took charge of their host’s living space, clearing away furniture to better accommodate instruments.

Soon the doorbell rang as their other new bandmates arrived. 

[Dr. Jay Murdoch]

Seeing those fliers about starting a band had the vet rather excited. After ripping off a little paper tab with a number and email address, Jay first discussed it with Sherman to get the mule’s opinion, and then promptly emailed the fellow in charge.

It’d been years since he picked up his guitar. Ever since graduating from vet school, he really hadn’t had time to pluck strings while searching for a job and then running from farm call to farm call. But since the flier, he dusted off both his banjo and guitar to pick a few songs and retrain the muscle memory. Sherman rather enjoyed the tunes; Strawberry didn’t seem to think much of it as she chewed on a stick, trying to pin it down with her one and only forepaw.

So the rust in his fingers had been greased away and Jay happily volunteered his little humble cabin to be their practice location. To welcome his new bandmates, he’d tried to put together some form of dinner, running himself a little haggard with how spotty his culinary skills were. He tried, though, and in the end he had a little assortment of mashed potatoes, beans, chicken, corn, and biscuits. Some of it was from what he canned out of his own garden and the biscuits he’d actually had the time to make from scratch. No better way to make friends than over food, right?

He’d just stuck the doughy biscuits into the oven when Strawberry began barking and a knock came from the door. Cyrus and James were the first to arrive and were greeted by both Jay and the three-legged Strawberry. After introductions, he offered Cyrus to set the dish on the table next to the other plates and then what little furniture the vet had was being moved to make room for rehearsal.

”I dunno if y’all wanna eat first, but, either way works for me. I don’t mind coverin’ the food up.”

[Moonie Hayes]

Music had always been a source of respite for the Hayes brothers, as they had spent a lot of their childhood together, listening and playing music together. Rell loved to play a game with Moonie where they would play a song for one another with the goal of guessing the song's name, the artist, the album name, and even sometimes the year the song released. Rell was 5 years older, and so he'd often turn Moonie towards certain bands and genres, becoming somewhat of a musical index.

It made perfect sense that Moonie would take up the offer of joining a band in Pilot Ridge. In his highschool days, he used to write lots of songs and poetry. Picking up the bass guitar and an acoustic 6 string was what got him through some of his tougher times. Things were different now, as Moonie hadn't been writing music much anymore, but he never stopped playing. Getting baked and plucking for inspiration was one of his favorite activities.

The taxi bumped on the dirt road as Moonie looked out of the window. The area reminded him of home, lots of fields and open land. Farming was the industry back in rural Missouri. Anyone who was anyone in his hometown was either a farmer or had family ties to those who worked the land. As the old log cabin came into view, Moonie's mind drifted back to the present. Nerves usually took hold of Moonie when he visits new places and people, but this time Moonie spent some time sedating himself at home before heading out. Hoping that they wouldn't care that he smelled of weed, he had properly prepared himself for this kind of situation.

The taxi coasted to a stop in front of the cabin as Moonie's thoughts returned fully to the moment. After paying and thanking the taxi driver for the ride, Moonie opened the trunk and retrieved the two guitars he'd brought along, throwing the straps over each shoulder. The first was his trusty bass guitar, the other an old "ovation guitar before ovation" acoustic six string that had been gifted to him. It was not only his first guitar, but a gift from his brother, and therefore special. Removing an amplifier and a couple bags from the trunk, he closed it back down, and made his way towards the door.

Knocking a few times, Moonie stepped in after hearing a greeting from behind the wood grain, his eyes scanning the room around him. Others had already started getting things set up, the food sprawled out on the table. Setting his things down against the couch, Moonie procured one of his bags and moved his way towards the table. "Hey guys, I brought some drinks. Good call, I guess," Moonie said through a warm smile before laying out an assorted selection of beverages, a few beers and sodas here, and some other healthier beverages there. Dusting off his usual leather jacket, Moonie looked towards the host. "Nice place, man, reminds me of home! And the food? Looks great!" he told him, relief filling his mind as the new location felt more like home than half the places he'd visited in the past year.

[James Fawcett]

James kept close to Cyrus, helping to clear away furniture rather than attempt any awkward small talk. Cyrus was familiar; the other members of the band not so much. It wasn't that he intended to be unfriendly. He wanted to befriend his new band mates! But unlike his school band, where he'd known the members before forming their band, here there were several new people all at once.

He needed to acclimate.

Once the furniture had been cleared away he set up his keyboard, not paying much attention to the food talk. He wasn't hungry, but it would be rude to turn down food from their host when he'd worked so hard on preparing this for them. He tapped idly against his keys, then, only to realize...

Oh, yeah, he hadn't plugged this in.

He inhaled deeply, grimacing slightly as he was hit with the dank smell of weed. That was going to require a shower later; as much anxiety as he had, he'd never attempted weed to mellow out, and had in fact bought in a bit to the morality brigade regarding its usage. Unsurprising, perhaps, given his Evangelical upbringing that he hadn't yet shaken away.

"Umm. Sorry to interrupt," He began as he approached the little group that had formed around the kitchen table. "Is there an outlet I can plug my keyboard into? I don't wanna overload anything."

The last time he'd taken his keyboard anywhere he'd caused a breaker to flip, and he hoped to avoid that outcome this time.

[Cole Scott]

Cole had jumped at the opportunity to be a part of a band. He had never been in one, officially. There were a few times he and a couple of students at Hammel had gotten together to jam, but between him not using the instrument as much because of the side effects of his ability and the fact that it was hard to have a drum solo in the dorms without several students and a dorm monitor coming to complain, he hadn't really gotten serious about playing until after graduation. His roommates were more than happy that he was going to be playing out of the house. Though they were all cool with him playing during daylight hours, Cole's none existent sleep schedule had lead to a few house discussions about when was the correct time for him to be banging on his drums.

And of course, anything to get him out of the house and surrounded by people and making new friends was excellent. He couldn't help but grin as he pulled up to the house, all of his drum equipment loaded in the back. He wouldn't admit it, but he has spent quite some time selecting his outfit for the night and had finally settled on something he hoped fit the "fun new band mate" look without putting anyone off with something he'd wear out to the club. He had settled on a a simple white tank top with an over-sized jean jacket covered in music, queer, and some pop culture patches and pins he'd collected over the years and some threadbare, tight baby blue pants. He finished off the look with some eye shadow that matched his pants. He almost skipped walking up to the house and probably would have if he hadn't also been carrying his snare drum and a few symbols.

He arrived just as Moonie was walking in and followed his co-worker into the house. "Did I hear someone mention drinks?" he asked. of course he had pre-gamed a little before arriving.

He made a round of introductions and was pleased in a way to see that Moonie was the only person he had known before. New people! "Can I get a hand with the rest of my drum stuff?" he asked starting to set up as far out of the way of the others as he could.

"I could do with a little snack," Cole said, realizing it had been since breakfast that he'd had a proper meal. "But I'm eager to jam with you gorgeous guys too." He said, trying not to seem over eager. He could tell that some of the band mates, James in particular, were a little anxious about the first practice. Social anxiety had never really been an issue for Cole, but he tried his best to be empathetic about it.

"Should we leave it up to our faithful leader?" he added as he finished setting up his drums. "What do you say Cy? Food or Tunes?" He gave the older man a glance to see how he felt about the nickname. He was still working on letting his ability figure out everyone. Moonie of course, he had spent time with enough to know that guy was the picture of chill and always down for a good time, but he was still getting a read on Cyrus and the others.

"Or maybe drinks first?" he added with a grin.

[Simon and Cyrus Ettinger]

Cyrus had paused by the door long enough to pet Strawberry and introduce himself, a friend to all animals like St. Francis of Assisi himself, albeit younger, fully-clothed, and every ounce as Jewish as the Catholic Church was gentile. Their moment was brief but meaningful, and after a final pat to the dog’s head, he straightened and followed Jay into the kitchen as directed, found have found his way there through the delectable aromas of country cooking had the veterinarian offered no formal guidance.

Unlike James and their host, the empath had no memories associated with rich fried foods; home to him was the industrial North, the lower Midwest and New England for the time he had spent in each. Fried foods were largely limited to potato pancakes and doughnuts during Hanukkah and then whatever he might eat at an amusement park or at a fast food restaurant rather than a staple of their diet. Yet, he couldn’t deny the enticing effect of fat and salt (and with the sugar of his dessert, they had the dietary trifecta under one roof).

“We can see how everyone feels and go from there,” Cyrus said decisively. Following Jay’s direction, he set down his own covered dish, stating first, “I whipped up a batch of brookies. No nuts.” He patted the top of the carrier for emphasis and then changed the subject slightly. “Dinner smells delicious. My compliments to your skills.”

Undoubtedly he would offer praise a second time, after scent gave way to taste and he sank his teeth into crispy skin and dark meat, and shoveled starchy side dishes into his mouth.

However, his priorities were setting up and ensuring that the other two members of their band arrived safely, and after leaving the kitchen, he made short work of arranging chairs - with Jay’s permission as he had no interest in taking over the man’s home after Jay so generously offered the space to them - and checking his equipment. The violin was the easiest and smallest of the group to set up, less cumbersome than drums or a keyboard, and entirely accoustic, requiring no power source between nimble fingers and a properly-rosined bow.

Each time the bell rang, Cyrus glided to the front door, greeting Moonie and Cole in turn and assisting with the most rudimentary introductions. More satisfying ones would follow.

When the living room had been transformed into a makeshift rehearsal space, Cyrus stepped back to appraise, clapping his hands together in satisfaction. “Let’s not start with drinks,” a minor admonition coupled with a look shot in Cole’s direction; he needed the other man sober at least for their first rehearsal. “But there’s no harm in having a bite and playing getting to know you before we get started.”

Before they could file into the kitchen to serve themselves, he added, “If everyone can take a minute to introduce themselves? I’m the only one whose met everyone so far.”

Better to do so on a voluntary basis and allow the other men to work out an order for themselves rather than point at them with his bow, lecturing the way that his brother did in his classroom. Far too formal for a hobby group ostensibly made up of equals.

[Dr. Jay Murdoch]

He couldn’t help but beam with a little sense of pride over the praise for the food. Jay’d really tried and he hoped that it all tasted as great as it smelled; he hadn’t prepared this big a meal in quite some time, and even then, it’d been a while since he really, truly tried cooking. (Shamefully, he was habitual with those TV dinners and liked how easy they were to fit into his hectic schedule.) And with rarely having visitors, there really wasn’t ever a need to go all-out like he was doing for his bandmates.

”Thanks.” Jay’s grin was genuine at the compliments he was receiving and the smile didn’t stop when one of them - James - quietly asked about an outlet. ”Yeah! This’n here, I use it for a space heater sometimes so I know it can take a load.” He ushered the man toward an outlet that was conveniently close to where they would be practicing. ”We can move things too if you need more space. I don’t mind pushin’ things around.”

Anything that Cyrus thought needed to be done, the redhead gave the okay for. Jay hadn’t been part of an informal band such as theirs and so he wasn’t exactly sure what all needed to be done; Cyrus, at least, seemed to know what they needed to do, so the host had no problems stepping aside to let the man work.

The others arrived and he greeted each of them, picking up the hints of weed from one. Personally, he didn’t care much for it since the smell wasn’t pleasant to him, but there were far, far worse things out there. Weed was nearly the least worrisome. Besides, Jay had a habit for nicotine when his emotions ran ragged from work, so he wasn’t one to speak on vices.

He pulled a stack of plates from a cabinet to set down at the table as Cyrus vetoed the drinks (for now) and suggested they eat a little while getting to know one another first. Not a bad idea at all, and so he decided to speak up.

”Well, I’m Jay. Bein’ a vet’s my day job. Hmm… I’m originally from Cumberland, Kentucky; only reason I escaped workin’ in the mines is ‘cause I developed powers, so that was a blessin’ in disguise. I graduated from Hammel in 2007, went t’ school at NC State, then came back up here t’ practice veterinary medicine ‘cause I love it here.” Also because rural Kentucky was not somewhere a meta should live, and it had also been due to his parents’ encouragement that he remain up North in a more accepting town. They visited often, thankfully, but that small piece of more personal information could be saved for later.

”’n’ that’s Strawberry,” he added, pointing to the three-legged dog already sitting and staring at the table of food, ready to beg from anyone who would be susceptible to her sweet eyes. ”Sherman’s outside so don’t worry if you see somethin’ big movin’ out there when you leave later. He free roams.”