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Orange and red bled, almost seamlessly, into the darkening blue sky of one Wyoming afternoon. As the light receded and the shadows crept forth, someone, somewhere - nestled deep in the greenery surrounding Hawk’s Rest - stumbled past through overgrown bushes and weeds as thorny vines scratched at the passing figure.
“Oww-” He winced. “Fuckin’ hell.” His hands came to cover the multitude of small cuts littering his arm as he turned around, checking the damage.
“Damn fuckin’ nature. I swear to god-” He muttered under his breath before sighing - allowing the fresh summer air to fill his lungs, calming him down.
He slowly walked further into the small, secluded spot as his eyes landed upon a lawn chair so familiar
A bit dusty, and maybe just a tad (Okay, it was a lot more than ‘tad’) dirtier than how he remembers it, but it’s definitely the same one. The same one that they-
Off to the side, empty beer bottles lay, long-forgotten.
His thoughts wander over, to memories of drinking countless nights away; a friendly face and a mop of dark brown hair beside him. Constantly smiling, grinning, laughing.
He remembers when he’d just lay down, staring at the stars as freckle-spotted hands would point at constellations in the sky, about how some of those impossibly far-away dotted lights would apparently form images: Constellations, his friend would call them.
The sight of that wide-eyed smile as he talked and talked all about them would never leave his mind. He’s ashamed, the longer he thinks about it.
He shakes those thoughts away, silently approaching the lawn chair before sitting down with an almost gentle softness. He has no reason to be so careful, really. He’s seen it handle so much more, but-
It’s… It feels wrong, to handle it with anything but a feeling of respect and care that even he himself is unable to explain.
Setting his guitar case down and dropping his rucksack to the side, he reaches within his bag - a hand reaching within until it comes into contact with the cooling touch of a beer bottle, one similar to the empty bottles scattered all around next to him.
Fyfe’s.
He angles the bottle’s cap next to one of the tree stumps next to him, before pulling downwards - flinging said cap open as a loud ‘hiss’ followed suit.
Tipping the bottle to his lips, he’s met with the same, familiar flavor that his mouth is more than acquainted with by now; The alcohol burns, as it moves down his throat.
He places the rest upon the ‘hand-crafted’ table (Really, just a log of wood held up by two tree stumps).
“Shit, man. Tastes just as bad as I fuckin’ remember.”
He says, to nobody but himself. He's half-expecting a response, before he remembers.
Nothing but the deafening silence of the afternoon winds. No budding remark, no satirical comment, no-
No nothing.
His eyes cast down upon the ground, he lets out a sigh before turning to the other side of the chair.
He places both hands each upon the guitar case’s locks, flipping them open with a quiet ‘click’, before pulling the cover open.
Inside, his guitar sits nestled safely.
Pulling the instrument out, he goes through the rounds: Checking for any visible damage, before beginning to re-tune each and every one of the strings.
The sounds of out-of-tune guitar aren’t met with any sarcastic comments about his playing skills, and he almost wants to hit mentally himself when he realizes that he’d been once again expecting said words to come.
Instead, he continues on his task of re-tuning his guitar, testing each and every turn of the pegs with a quick pluck.
Minutes later, he plays a quick jingle on it - it comes out completely in tune.
From his bag, he fishes out a piece of old parchment with his other hand. The paper in question has… definitely seen better days. Filed with creases all over the paper, alongside various tears littering the edges of the note.
In dried, old, and fading ink, lyrics of a song.
Taking another swig of the alcohol before placing the bottle firmly upon the note, he places his guitar in position - the words in front of him ready to be sung out.
He turns on a tape recorder, placing it to the side. His fingers glide over the strings, and he closes his eyes.
A note rings out, and then another.
None but the trees looming around him catch the way he sings the lyrics:
Sadness. Regret. Of the past, of the present. And yet,
A hint of hope, as slight as it was. Of the future.
The orange and red sky shifts dark.
A guitar stands solemnly, guarding a note and a tape.