Title: Somebody to Love
Rating: PG
Summary: Dethklok and Ofdensen hang out at a Midwest bar
Warnings: Drunkenness, language.
Characters: Charles/Nathan; Pickles, Skwisgaar, Murderface, Toki in minor roles
Disclaimer: Dethklok and Metalocalypse belong to Cartoon Network and Brendon Small/Tommy Blacha. All song lyrics are copyright of their respective owners. I'm not making a profit from this.
Author Notes: What can I say, I write what I know. Last month I knew crossword puzzles. This month I know the ancient Japanese art of karaoke.
Let's face it, they're rock stars. They can just about have their pick of any gin joint anywhere in the world. But the chances of being positively mobbed by their legions of adoring fans was just too great. It was Charles' idea, initially, to seek out smaller venues in the heart of Middle America to satisfy the boys' needs to get their drink on like in their pre-famous days. That's what led them to the Tumble Weed Tavern on the outskirts of Dubuque, Iowa, on this particular Tuesday night.
They hadn't counted on it being karaoke night.
For the middle of the week, the place was jumping, populated mostly by a collection the sort of which would regularly turn up on a weekly basis. Not much to do in Dubuque on a Tuesday night, apparently. Dethklok took it all in stride, huddling together in a booth toward the rear of the tavern, near the place's only pool table, where Murderface and Pickles had struck up a friendly game. At the front of the joint, a skinny kid in an Optimus Prime t-shirt was leading the crowd in his particularly faithful rendition of a classic Bon Jovi favorite.
"Gahd," said Pickles to nobody in particular. "Nothing in this world hurts like a whole bar full of douchebags singin' along to 'Livin' on a Prayer.'"
"I knows," said Skwisgaar from his spot in the booth. "Whoevers what has inventeds karaoke shoulds be drug out into the streets and shots. Strangled with his own microphones cords."
"OH YOU KNOWS IT!" screamed Toki in his ear, seconds before passing out face-first on the table, the drained vodka bottle slipping from his grip and clattering noisily below the table.
Nathan and Charles didn't even bat an eye at this new development. The latter was completely preoccupied with trying to drunkenly maintain his own balance, despite being seated rather comfortably between the front man and wood-paneled wall.
"See," said Charles, sloshing his bourbon around as he gestured just a bit too broadly. "That's... that's just the thing, though. Nobody here is a professional singer." He tipped over to rest his head on Nathan's shoulder. "Except of course for you."
Nathan snorted. "Yeah... uh... you might wanna watch it, you're, uh, spilling a lot there, chief." He pushed the CFO upright, only to watch him bounce against the wall with a hollow thud. Nathan winced.
"I'm fine, I'm fine," said Charles, righting himself. "C'mon, everyone's having fun!"
"Ja, everybody whats doesn't have any ears," mumbled the Swede. He cringed with great dramatic flourish as a pudgy brunette stumbled her way through Whitney Houston's "I Wanna Dance With Somebody."
"Yeah, there'sch a reaschon I don't sching," said Murderface between lining up shots. "If that'sch what I schounded like when I schang, I'd probably juscht kill myschelf."
"What are you talking about?" said Nathan. "I've heard you sing, like, once. You suck."
Murderface shot him a death glare. "Well, I'm better than thesche dildoes, that'sch for goddamned schure."
"Pfft. That's not hard," said Skwisgaar.
Charles lolled around in his seat, once more snuggling up against Nathan's side more than was intended. His tie, long since discarded, had done a fine job of sopping up the majority of the spilled liquor on the table. His shirt remained partway unbuttoned, exposing the alcohol-flushed skin beneath. Despite himself, he nuzzled up into the raven black hair of his makeshift pillow, taking in the scent of Jagermeister and Herbal Essences that typically made up the front man's scent. Nathan didn't make too much of a deal of it, at least not in this context. He liked the attention, and the only people who would give him any shit about it would be his bandmates, and they knew exactly what would happen to them if they did.
The waitress came by to refresh everybody's drink and collect the discarded bottles from under the table. If she recognized the men she was serving as the legendary Dethklok, she did them the courtesy of not letting on that she knew.
At the front of the bar near the makeshift stage, a skinny gentleman was pouring all of his heart and most of his soul into "Me and Mrs. Jones," albeit sounding nothing in practice like Billy Paul. His group of friends cheered him on wildly, while it was apparent the rest of the bar shifted uncomfortably in their seats, feeling for all the world sorry for the poor bastard and his musical desecration.
"Man," said Charles, picking his head from the table where he had momentarily joined the passed-out Toki. "I could blow that guy out of the water. Just sayin'."
Nathan raised an eyebrow. "That a fact?"
"Oh yeah," said Charles, downing the rest of his drink. "Eight years of boys' choir, I could smoke that guy, easily."
"Oh really?" Nathan smiled an uncharacteristically broad smile. "Well, put up or shut up."
"Huh?" said Charles with all the conviction of a man who had no earthly idea where he was. Nathan chuckled.
"Hey!" He thumped Pickles in the arm, causing the drummer to turn around abruptly, rubbing at the sore spot and sneering at Nathan. "Binder. Get me a binder."
"Are you crazy?" Pickles asked, leaning over to swipe a well-worn songbook from the next table over. "You'll be recognized in like half a second. They don't even carry us, dood."
"Not me," said Nathan, throwing the book into the manager's lap. "Mel Torme over here wants to sing one."
"Dood, seriously?" a wicked grin began its slow creep across his face. "Just promise me no Snakes 'n' Barrels."
Charles tittered as he heaved open the massive, plastic-coated tome before him, perusing the pages with the care and due diligence of a librarian consulting Webster's Unabridged New International Dictionary.
"So what's you goings to favor us withs, robots man?" asked Skwisgaar.
"Yeah, Peabo Bryson, let's go," chided Nathan.
"I'm thinking!" said Charles with an indignant shake of his head. He continued to pour over the beer-stained pages. "It's been so damn long."
Nathan nursed his latest beer as he watched his manager study the song list. He'd never seen the man so much as interest in music.
"Ok, I got it." Charles grabbed a clean bar napkin and pulled a pen from his jacket pocket, carefully taking note of the song code. Closing the binder with a heavy snap, he proceeded to maneuver awkwardly out of the booth, fully aware that he had to straddle Nathan to accomplish this. The manager took his time, reveling in their bodily contact, taking the opportunity to shoot Nathan a glance simultaneously wavering, smoldering and shy. He leaned in close to Nathan's ear, the bourbon strong on his breath, whispering so only Nathan could hear.
"This one's for you."
Nathan's breath caught as Charles spilled out onto his feet, cracking his neck and straightening out his gray suit jacket.
"How long do you think it's gonna be?" asked Pickles. "There's a lot of jack-offs ahead of you. We could be here all night."
"Leave it to me," Charles said, pulling a $100 bill from an inner jacket pocket and wrapping it around the bar napkin. He pushed his way through the crowd of people toward the DJ manning the karaoke booth, with the remaining members of Dethklok looking on with a mixture of bemusement and preemptive horror.
"He's not scherious, isch he?" asked Murderface.
"Ja, I'm afraid he is," said Skwisgaar.
Charles practically skipped all the way up to the DJ booth, eliciting a series of guffaws from the members of the band. He slipped his request into the DJ's palm, giving the poor kid a hearty slap on the back and whispering something into his ear. Almost immediately, the DJ leapt to his feet, practically vaulting over the soundboard and snatching the microphone out of the hands of the poor bastard wholeheartedly working his way through Garth Brooks' "Friends in Low Places."
"Alright!" he crooned to the crowd. "That was Mitchell, give it up for Mitchell everybody!" He hip-checked Mitchell right off the edge of the stage. "Next up we have a special request from," he paused to pocket the $100 bill and read the name at the top of the napkin. "…Charles! Let's hear it for Charles, everybody!" A smattering of applause trickled through the bar.
Charles cracked his neck again and took center stage, rolling his shoulders and loosening himself up, trying yet failing to maintain a standing position without the aid of the microphone stand. A single piano chord echoed through the tavern. Charles took a deep breath…
"Can… anybody… find me… somebody to love?"
He swayed slightly to the beat, while 30 feet away, four jaws simultaneously hit the floor.
"Each morning I get up I die a little
Can barely stand on my feet
Take a look in the mirror and cry
Lord what you're doing to me
I have spent all my years in believing you
But I just can't get no relief, Lord!
Somebody, somebody
Can anybody find me somebody to love?"
His voice rang out through the bar like an angel, his lofty tenor rolling melodically along the words and phrases. And every so often, between bouts of struggling to keep himself upright, he'd glance back to Nathan.
"I work hard every day of my life
I work till I ache my bones
At the end I take home my hard earned pay all on my own -
I get down on my knees
And I start to pray
Till the tears run down from my eyes
Lord - somebody - somebody
Can anybody find me - somebody to love?"
"Holy crap, dood," said Pickles. "Where the hell's he been keeping that?"
Murderface shrugged. "Coulda picked a lessch faggy schong…"
"Everyday - I try and I try and I try -
But everybody wants to put me down
They say I'm goin' crazy
They say I got a lot of water in my brain
Got no common sense
I got nobody left to believe
Yeah - yeah yeah yeah…"
In his seat in the booth, Nathan swallowed hard. The emotion in Charles' performance was clear and obvious to everybody in attendance that night. What wasn't so obvious was that it was directed squarely at the rave-haired front man. Maybe it's just the booze talking, Nathan thought. But maybe there's more to it than that. Sure, Charles had always been an affectionate drunk, but it was noticeably who his personal favorite was. Was there something there? His mind reeled as he pored over every little interaction he'd ever had with his manager, his manager who was now baring his soul – beautifully, at that – in front of God and a bar full of strangers.
"Oh Lord "Got no feel, I got no rhythm
Somebody - somebody
Can anybody find me somebody to love?
I just keep losing my beat
I'm ok, I'm alright
Ain't gonna face no defeat
I just gotta get out of this prison cell
Someday I'm gonna be free, Lord!"
The tavern went practically silent. Charles' eyes closed, his head rolling back, lost completely in his moment in the spotlight. The music swelled. Nathan watched with bated breath.
"Can anybody find me… somebody tooooo… loooooooove!?"
Cheers erupted from the bar patrons, and most people were positively certain in the backs of their minds that they had witnessed something extraordinary. Charles casually replaced the microphone back on the stand and sashayed his way back to the table, gliding with the kind of cocksure confidence that comes from a mixture of a job well done and a belly full of expensive alcohol.
When he got back to the table, he paused in front of Nathan, taking care to tuck a strand of the singer's hair out of his eyes and behind his shoulder. "How was that?" he asked.
Nathan finally closed his jaw. "Wow, that..." he stammered for a few seconds. "I didn't know you could do that."
"There's a lot about me you don't know." Charles stumbled slightly, tipping forward, and Nathan caught him, pulling him down into the booth. The smaller man buried his face in the larger's shirt. Pickles laughed.
"Ugh," said Skwisgaar. "I thinks I'm goings to step outsides for a cigarette."
"You don't schmoke," Murderface reminded him.
"Ja, but now's the times to starts." The three musicians exchanged brief, knowing glances, and quietly made their way for the exit.
Nathan ran his fingers through Charles' chestnut-brown hair, slightly dampened from sweat. He couldn't deny that he was flattered by the serenade, and in all honesty, he'd never really thought about his manager in that way, nor had he seen the man display so much as a genuine emotion. Nathan liked it. A lot. He rested his head against Charles, resolving to himself to explore these new feelings at a later time, when they were both sober.
Toki continued to sleep, completely unaware.