Disclaimer: I own none of the Connellys, nor do I lay claim to any other character from August Rush. The Donovans are mine.
The Connellys
Chapter One
Nobody's perfect. I'm certainly not, nor is anyone I know. And in reality, no one can really find a person by playing music. It just doesn't happen anywhere except in fairy tales.
I wish I could say this is a fairy tale. That my life ended in a happily ever after. But it never really ends with that, does it? After the cameras stop rolling, I mean. No one ever shows what happens then.
Sure, I've been told the story, many times. The orphaned musical prodigy runs away, goes to Julliard, and finds his parents. Louis and Lyla and Evan. The Connellys. Lyla starts to play again, Evan goes back to Julliard (when he's not in middle school), and The Connelly Brothers start to book gigs again. Everything is perfect.
But really, that never lasts. So I suppose you can blame this story on Steve's wife getting preggers.
The old garage Louis had managed to get for the afternoon is a shithole, frankly. And people aren't exactly lining up out the door to try out for the band. But Steve's new wife had discovered, just two days before, that she's got the newest O'Malley on the way, and so the happy da-to-be had (after fainting, to Marshall's endless amusement), hopped on the first plane back to sunny California, leaving the Connelly Brothers short one bass player for their gig that Saturday.
Muttering, the elder Connelly checks the amps one last time, taking stock of the three hopefuls out of the corner of his eye. Louis is talking to the youngest, who'd gotten here first; the lad still has horrible acne, and his voice is cracking. Like any respectable record label would take a second glance at them with that boyo on the stage. Pah.
Rolling his eyes, he looks over the other two men, both yuppies on their lunch break if his guess is correct (and it usually is).
"'Re we good to go?" his brother asks, jolting Marshall out of his thoughts, and he nods, giving him the thumbs up and stepping back. Might as well get this over with. Taking a seat next to Aaron on one of the folding chairs to the side of their makeshift stage, Marshall props his boots up on a plastic crate.
"Crappy place, 'n't it?" he mutters, and the drummer grunts in agreement. Louis joins them a moment later, and all three men sit back as the lad starts to play.
Half an hour later, Marshall sends a quick prayer for tolerance towards the ceiling as the third man exits the stage to his brother's (mostly) polite thanks.
Once he slams the door behind him, Louis grunts, dropping his chair back from two legs onto four. "What're we goin' to do?" he asks, sounding tired. "We can't play without a bass man."
"No shit," Marshall mutters, remembering the teenage lad's flat chords with a wince. He opens his mouth to say something else, but he's cut off by the door banging open.
"Are you guys looking for a bass?" a gruff voice calls, the sound echoing through the room as a tall guy with scruffy dark hair stomps in. When he gets close enough in the dim light, Marshall can see that the man's hair is threaded with grey, though he doesn't look old enough for it.
Pale eyes narrow as the guy eyes the setup. "Not bad," he allows, looking over their equipment. Turning back to them, he eyes first Aaron, then Louis, then Marshall, who hasn't bothered to stand like the others. "Don't suppose you've already found someone?"
"Not yet," Louis allows, one brow raised. Marshall just raises an arm, pointing towards the stage.
"All yours, boyo."
Smirking a little, the man nods, stepping up onto the stage and getting himself situated. A moment later, he starts to tune, and then looks over at them with his brows raised, expectant. Louis just waves at him to start.
And he does. All three of the men watching raise their brows as they listen.
He plays easily, looking comfortable enough up there, unlike the second man, who'd turned funny shades of green and looked so tense he might shatter. And he's good. Good enough to have played for years. Marshall glances at Aaron and then catches Louis' eye, nodding.
They've found one to suit them, thank God in Heaven.
When he's done, Louis beckons him over. "Can ye be here on Friday at seven?" he asks, and the guy grins, his face suddenly relaxing into a smile.
"I guess I could manage that."
"Good." Louis leans back in his chair, kicking another one towards the guy; he sits, after setting his guitar carefully in its case. Marshall watches him carefully; he likes a man who loves his instruments.
Louis is still going. "The show's at nine on Saturday, at the Mirror." He names a club in Manhattan. And then he seems to remember something, grinning a bit. "What's yer name?"
Grinning back a bit, the guy holds out his hand. "Gerry Donovan."
Louis takes it, and gestures to his brother and their drummer. "I'm Louis. That's Marshall, and Aaron Maguire." He smiles. "Welcome to the Connelly Brothers."