Open Heart Night

DISCLAIMER: Don't own Gulcasa, Roswell, or Nessiah (Sting does). I own the idea for this living situation, though. "Broken" © Seether, Amy Lee.

(10pokes prompt #4 – karaoke; she's got a new microphone)

Even though it was ten-thirty, the nightclub was still filled with people—there was someone at almost every table, and all the bar stools were taken. The waitresses clicked along energetically in their spiked heels, cheerfully balancing full platters of food and drink off to those who'd made the orders, asking if they were sure they didn't want anything else with that now, honey.

At least, Roswell imagined they were clicking along. He couldn't hear much beyond the confines of his own table; the speakers were much too loud for that. He hadn't been to a bar late at night in some time, and now it was a bit of a culture shock to be back at one.

Not so for Gulcasa. The tall redhead lounged in his chair with an easy smile, one hand on the strap of his black guitar case and the other wrapped loosely around his shot glass, the toe of his shoe going up and down to the time of the music. Roswell was sure that this was the most relaxed he'd ever seen Gulcasa since he and Nessiah had moved in—with the possible exception of when he was asleep.

The club was called the Clare d'Lune, and Nessiah had told Roswell on the way here that its main attraction was the way that on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday nights, there was an "open mic"-type stage where local bands and singers and the occasional star could get up onstage and try their hand at wooing the crowd. The stage was also a good karaoke bar in its own right, so that just about anybody could get up and give the microphone a try if he or she wanted to.

The radio went off somewhere around seven at night and stayed off until about one-thirty or so, when the staff had to shoo their customers off to start closing. Between them, Gulcasa and Nessiah had managed to get them all to the club after the majority of the spotlight hogs were getting finished, and within the first fifteen minutes of their arrival, Nessiah had successfully commandeered the stage.

Roswell had heard Nessiah sing before, but he never really got tired of it. It had to be impossible to—with Nessiah's pure voice and wide range, he was knocking out the list of all the DJ's best material and adding quite a few a cappella numbers. Both Roswell and Gulcasa told him only half-teasingly that he ought to enter some of those nationwide talent competitions whenever they caught him singing to the car radio or in the shower or along with his player when he had headphones on. Nessiah always shook his head at them and said the only reason he didn't was because the excessive media attention would drive him insane in a few seconds. They all got a good laugh out of that—because it was true. For as long as Roswell had known him, Nessiah had always needed his privacy; if he didn't get it, he got bitchy.

A finger in Roswell's shoulder interrupted his train of thought; he turned to see that apparently Gulcasa had been trying to get his attention for a while. Roswell made a face and leaned closer. "I'm sorry, what did you want?"

Wearing a crooked grin, Gulcasa jerked a thumb in Nessiah's direction. "He sure is something, isn't he?"

Roswell smiled. "He most certainly is—though, at the moment, I'm almost given to admire you more!" He pointed at the shot glass in Gulcasa's hand—it was his fourth of the night. "It only takes half of one of those for me to be unconscious on the floor. I don't know where you put it all."

Gulcasa nodded. "That's right—you don't drink, do you? Well, there's one upside to you not being able to hold your liquor—the rest of us know there'll always be a designated driver around, so we can get good and smashed." With that, he knocked back the rest of his tequila; Roswell had to laugh.

Nessiah seemed to have finished his song. When the applause died down, he smiled and looked around and asked, "Can we get another mic up here?" As a waitress hurried to get one, he walked to the edge of the stage and beckoned.

Gulcasa was already halfway up, the empty glass on the table and his guitar cradled close to his body. There were murmurs of excitement as he pushed past the other tables to get to the stage and clambered up, sitting in a chair Nessiah had gotten pulled up with the extra microphone. There was a brief pause while they got the stand adjusted, and finally Gulcasa crooked his fingers along the frets and began to play.

Nessiah stood and watched even as the clientele did as Gulcasa closed his eyes and began to sing softly.

"I wanted you to know that I love the way you laugh; I wanna hold you high and steal your pain away. I keep your photograph; I know it's served me well. I wanna hold you high and steal your pain, 'cause I'm broken when I'm open and I don't feel like I am strong enough. 'Cause I'm broken when I'm lonesome, and I don't feel right when you're gone away…"

Roswell leaned forward, fascinated. Gulcasa's voice was rock-star rough, and better yet, the notes held real pain and love when he sang them. Nessiah's singing was professional-quality, to be sure, but Gulcasa could probably hold his own in those nationwide talent competitions if he ever entered them.

Gulcasa kept playing, but Nessiah picked up the second verse.

"The worst is over now and we can breathe again. I wanna hold you high, you steal my pain away. There's so much left to learn, and no one left to fight; I wanna hold you high and steal your pain…"

They were looking at each other now, and half-ignoring their audience—it was plain to see that both of them meant the words as a personal sentiment.

"'Cause I'm broken when I'm open and I don't feel like I am strong enough. 'Cause I'm broken when I'm lonesome, and I don't feel right when you're gone away…"

This was obviously a long-standing ritual between the two of them, Roswell realized; Nessiah consciously held back and muted his words slightly so as not to overpower Gulcasa when they sang together. It was so natural that it had to be well practiced; Roswell himself only noticed it because he was knowledgeable about music.

When the song was over, the crowd roared its approval; Roswell cheered with them. Beyond it being a wonderful thing that Gulcasa and Nessiah had performed that song so well, he was overcome by this place itself. It was so rare to find a nightclub in a small town in Michigan where two young men could get up and sing a duet—a love song—like this and be hailed for it instead of harassed; hell, it was rare to find one where the odd trio of a Jew, a witch, and an agnostic could walk in without someone rushing to make a bad joke about it. This place… truly was special.

"Hey, we got any more mics in this place?" Gulcasa called over the clamor, his expression cheerful and wicked.

Apparently there were, because the waitresses were scurrying into the back to find another.

"If there's a Mr. Branthèse in the house, we'd like him to join us," Nessiah said mildly, the picture of innocence and charm.

You're not serious, Roswell thought.

"And, yes, we're serious, so if you please…?" Nessiah went on.

Unbelievable… But Roswell got up and picked his way to the stage with them, standing in front of it and staring up at them with his hands on his hips. "What is all this for?"

Gulcasa just grinned down at him cheekily. "Hey, you live with us, you sleep with us, you sing at the Clare with us. It was in the fine print of your contract."

Nessiah didn't add anything; it looked like he was too busy holding back laughter.

So that's what this is about…? Roswell wasn't being put on the spot or made fun of—at least, not just. He was being included—by Gulcasa, no less. So that he could go from being the interloper, the third partner, to fusing their unit together. "If I sing, I get to pick the song, right?" he asked blithely.

"Seems fair," was Gulcasa's reply.

Roswell smiled. "How much Savage Garden do you two know?"