Gathering Post - Singles' Night (These Are The Times)

[prodigalflame]

The Tavern, as it was called, brought to mind images of faded Tudor quaintness: of whitewashed exterior, black beams, windows barred with cast iron, mulled mead and a fireplace in every room.

In truth, the pub was anything but. Located in one of the gentrifying suburbs, it was a modern bulwark of concrete, iron and glass. The first two stories were the pub proper, and the next ten were apartments. The owners had called it 'The Tavern' in a display of hipster pride, as if it was the only pub that mattered. Snaking through the two levels were a series of pipes, as small-scale brewing took place on site.

It was usually a lively sort of pub, populated mostly by the fussy, the well-off, the well-educated and those that aspired to be, although situated near a tube station meant it also got a lot of randoms peering in to grab a pint. The alcohol menu was diverse, the food menu was dominated by various pulled meats and a cheese board (if anyone cared) and there were probably far too many male graduate students with neckbeards who nodded enthusiastically at each other as they discussed Kant.

Still, on Saturday night it was even more bustling than usual. People stood on the stairs, beers in hand, and chatted. Every seat was taken. The wait staff had their hands full (literally), and moved with ease and grace through the throng to deliver food to tables, and collect numbers and plates.

Tonight there would be music. Tonight there would be bands. Tonight was Singles' Night, a guarantee of no sappy love songs, no heart break, no angst. Two local bands were playing: first there would be a set from The Flamethrowers, with a mix of classic rock and pop standards, and then after a break, there would be an electro-synth duo to allow for dancing well past midnight.

So at about 9pm, patrons were treated to the sight of the first band tuning up. There wasn't really a performance space, so much as a corner on the ground floor of the pub that was currently unoccupied by tables. It was a four-piece band: some shaggy-haired cross between hobo and hipster on rhythm guitar and vocals, a slightly older british caribbean guy in glasses with goatee on double bass, a short-haired woman in her mid-20s on percussion and vocals and a tendency to beat the ever-living fuck out of the drum set, and another woman, more long-haired and willowy, on keyboards and vocals. Mr Hobo-Hipster of the shaggy hair and blond tips sang lead most of the time, but he gave it up for each of the women through their eleven song set, and there were duets. The keyboard was set to produce a more honky-tonk piano sound, and combined with the double bass, most of the covers had a dirty feel to them, all loose chords and guitar slaps. Clearly they'd played together for long enough to have a good feel for each other, which just added to the looseness, the occasional digression or ad hoc solo.

And Mr Hobo-Hipster didn't so much as introduce the band members as say "Hey. We're the Flamethrowers" and then let his guitar speak for itself as they launched into a funked-up version of Money. His voice was a little rough, almost a growl, and his stage presence was contained but not muted. Even without posturing, John made it very clear that he was the driving force behind the band: he didn't preen or strut, he didn't need to, and only the hint of a smirk could be seen around his eyes. There was no grinning, not now: now he was controlled and contained and came off a little bit contemptuous of having to perform. He sang, sure, and he played, and played pretty well, but his focus were the frets of his guitar, the lyrics of the songs. That night, he was sleek and dangerous and full of pride. That night, he had no reasons to smile or grin or show how happy he was: he'd lost those along the way. He was pared back to his disdainful core. Overall, the band was good but not great, and with John being Intense, the performance probably came off somewhere between 'bluesy rock band' and 'satanic death cult'.

Grooving through the set-list for roughly 45 minutes, the Flamethrowers played a series of stripped-back, funked-up covers. Rock the Casbah. a slowed-down take on Time after Time. Versions of Dangerous and Sweet Dreams (are made of this) that were dominated by the keyboards and a sparse double bass. Everybody Wants to Rule the World. John's wry grin came out for a guitar driven, lazy run on Carole King's "It's Too Late", before he paused to finally introduce the band, have some water, and explain that the point was to avoid the melancholic and romantic: to not make anyone feel bad for being single.

Four more songs, and they then closed with Mama Told Me Not To Come, having meandered their way past some INXS, Living End and Lynyrd Skynyrd.

In the end, John thanked the band (again), thanked everyone for showing up, and hoped they passed the audition. As a nicety, he promised there would now be some 'music you can dance to' after a little break, and then disappeared to pack up his guitar and amp and find himself a drink and a quiet corner.

The night went on without him, and that was just fine.

[OOC: Saturday night at an upmarket pub and destination of note. Feel free to show up before, during or after the band. Complain about the noise, the locally brewed artisan beer, the hipster food, the even more hipster band, or just dance the night away.]

Comments

[prodigalflame]

John had thanked the band individually, and personally, as he'd packed up, although it had been little more than a meaningful nod and a clap on the arm by way of thanks. Lately, well, he'd been keeping his emotions pretty close and his counsel tighter. Besides, they'd done a good job: they were even something like friends, if he was the sort to have friends.

But he wasn't the sort. And so John sat, tucked away in the corner, nursing his neat scotch slowly, and just observed the people with their lives and their loves and their friends like it wasn't some big pile of crap. His arms were crossed on the table in front of him when he wasn't taking a sip, shoulders hunched, and he knew he looked like a worn out, defensive grumpy bastard. He didn't glare though - he didn't care enough for that - and exchanged civil greetings with anyone who came up to talk about the band, before fobbing them off with a sort-of-half-smile-half-shrug and gestured to his glass.

[utterly_mysterious]

"You were marvelous," said Angelique as she drifted up to the singer's table practically out of nowhere. She offered him warm smile that made her dark eyes twinkle, lingering next to his table with a drink in hand cradled by silver-tipped fingers. "I love the Cyndi Lauper song, and I was ready to hate you for covering it, but you converted me.

"Though it doesn't look like you're enjoying the, er, fruits of your success." As in, no groupies were flocking to the grungy, soulful-looking singer.

[prodigalflame]

"Thanks," John said, a bit taken aback by the company before he settled into something a little more friendly, awkwardly standing so he could pull back one of the chairs. "Sit, if you want. I'll pass on your praise to Kendra, she was lead vocals on that one. I just did guitar." And the arrangement, but John was happy to let others get praise as long as he got the recognition he deserved.

It wasn't that he hadn't expected praise - he knew the band didn't suck - but he knew he was more...stand-offish, these days. He might as well come with a 'Do not feed the animals/poke the bear' sign.

Realising how he looked, all alone, hunched over, John snorted at the woman's remarks, and absently scratched at the scruff that was growing along his chin. God, why had he ever shaved? "It's fine. I'm fine," he clarified, hand shifting to absently play with the engagement ring on his finger. "You can always judge an artist by the quality of their fans. I'd rather someone honest than all the bullshit, right?"

[utterly_mysterious]

Angelique did sit, giving him a smile of approval despite the unaccustomed way he handled himself, and his obviously gruff manner. "Honesty is one of my most glaring qualities, I've been told. Besides, it's not just the vocals that convinced me. Your arrangement was thoughtful, respectful of the original but growing it into your own, too. I can't bear covers that don't offer something original. A copy is just an imitation. There nothing real about it."

And Angelique knew a fair bit about both imitation, and being real.

[prodigalflame]

"No point in this world in not being real," John declared, and fiddled with his engagement ring again, the words triggering a subconscious level of anxiety and discomfort. He knew what he was, what he'd had been, and yet to go on alone - that was all there was? It nagged at him. "People will judge you for it, sure, but people will judge you If you're unoriginal. People will judge you, period," he mused, and snorted.

"So, should I get you a drink? My manners are terrible, but I remember that, at least."

[utterly_mysterious]

She lifted up the glass she was carrying, which hadn't been terribly visible the way she'd swept up into his dark-cloud corner, and was still mostly full. "No obligation beyond conversation," Angelique assured him. Tipping the wine glass to her lips for a drink, she regarded the singer across from her. Then, very bluntly, she asked, "Are you terribly concerned with the judgment of others? Utter strangers to you?"

[prodigalflame]

John was thankful the ground rules had been established. No drinking, no obligation: he appreciated knowing where he stood. Because knowing that was half the battle.

"Not concerned," he shrugged, and thought it was true. "Aware. The world typically has more dumbasses than you can punch. Not that I'd expect a respectable beauty such as yourself to dirty herself with fighting." His lips curved in an almost quirk as he took a sip of his drink: she could probably stab him with something before he moved. She didn't look mean, but she did look capable.

[utterly_mysterious]

Angelique graced him with an approving smile. That was an appropriate response. "I wear heels, and I know where to kick," she answered him. "Every girl does." Angelique just with a more intimate understanding than most.

"But anyone who has an issue with me simply isn't worth the waste of my breath and energy. I don't spend any time thinking about them. Not when there is so much else to consider in the world. You've been over here for awhile, all on your own," she went on. She'd seen him while she'd been milling about, sampling the patrons. "What have you been considering?"

[prodigalflame]

"Oh, not much. I'm a college student, so it's all music and booze and hating deadlines. I'm really..." The smile played around his lips more as he said it, wry, amused even, "...normal." Because what else did you call just another twenty-something who grew his hair first chance he could, picked up a guitar, and liked his drink?

"I'm practically a cliche," he added, and took another sip of his drink. "I'm just lucky to have some sparkling company. What brings you here? You don't look the type to be drawn to neckbeard city."

[utterly_mysterious]

"Poor life choices," said Angelique drily, but there was a smile behind the sip of her drink. "Though, really, the people I was with thought it amusing to slum it for the evening. They're artists, you know." She rolled her eyes. "So going among the humdrum masses is a novelty for them. I, on the other hand, quite enjoyed the entertainment and elected to stay. I'll either make my own way home, or find someone to take me," she ended her explanation in an exaggerated purr.

[prodigalflame]

"Of that I have no doubt," John murmured. He was teasing, but it was mostly good. He even pictured Bobby rolling his eyes and telling him to not be a dick, and felt a sudden pang for the guy so real and so deep in the gut that it made him draw in a breath and shift one hand to worry the engagement ring he still wore on his finger.

"...People admire intelligence and personality," he shrugged, after he composed himself again. "Especially in places like this. I'm sure all the someones will be falling all over you in time." He paused, more of his sharp, amused-at-everyone-else confidence returning: "Just ignore the babble about how smart they are? If another person in this place tries to pick me up by asking if they've seen me in their Philosophy class, I'm gonna punch someone."

[utterly_mysterious]

There was that ring again. Angelique had noticed it before, and now he was fussing with it again. It was on the wrong hand for a wedding ring, she thought, being something of an expert on men who wore wedding rings. Angelique let her attention fall on it, not exactly pointedly, but with enough weight that he could be sure she saw it. Yes, she understood -- the singer wouldn't be one of the 'someones' she'd be prowling tonight.

"But the pertinent question is, are you in the Philosophy class?" Angelique asked lightly. "Thank goodness I'm safe from that particular chat-up line. Anyone inquiring if they've seen me in class is clearly fishing."

[prodigalflame]

John saw her looking, and looked at her looking at him, and - well, he tucked that hand down next to his leg and tried to ignore the ring he still wore, like a prayer. "Nah, I only did Philosophy in freshman year," John said good-naturedly. "I did-" well, Mutant Studies didn't exist anymore, but that was okay -"literature and history type stuff, and there's enough big ethical questions in those to enable me cut through the typical college hipster crap. And now I'm a grown up, and doing my doctorate, so fuck you, philosophers."

[prince_of_nymphs]

Fin's phone had been going mad for the last twenty minutes, buzzing in his pocket almost constantly- Which meant either something awful was happening on his social media, or his agent was desperately trying to get hold of him. Both were fine, but it wasn't as if Fin could just sit down and look at his phone. His magic did its best, but it wasn't clear enough to read messages- So checking his phone was a bit of a process. One that involved a quiet place to sit, and putting in his earpiece so his phone could read it all out to him.

The venue was crowded, and his magic was struggling to show him everything, but there was a table nearby that looked somewhat empty, and he slowly made his way over. The sound of his cane tapping against the floor lost almost completely under the thudding music, but Fin spoke loud enough to be heard.

"Sorry, do you mind if I sit here for a moment?" he asked, removing his thick, black sunglasses from his face as he spoke. As much as he wasn't keen on being recognized, or having people gawk at his slightly milky and unfocused gaze, it did stop people from assuming he was some prat wearing sunglasses indoors, usually.

[prodigalflame]

"Help yourself," John told him - and then realised that he'd said that to a blind dude, gesturing at the seat like a dumbass, and hurriedly stood up to awkwardly shuffle around a little and pull the seat out. He'd heard the cane (John was good at hearing things, also good at dodging a bullet) but he assumed it was someone's heels on the wooden floor or something. "Uh, you need a hand?" He asked, still awkwardly, and tried not to hover.

[prince_of_nymphs]

"Oh, no, I'm alright," Fin assured him, slipping one earbud into his left ear, but leaving the other out so he could hear the stranger. "Bloody phone wont stop ringing is all. Just need to be sure the world's not ending."

He sat down, placing the phone on the table and crossing his legs. It was an iphone, but Fin had so many special apps installed on it that the interface looked quite different. Though he continued to speak even as he dragged a finger over the phone's screen, letting a voice in his ear guide him as he checked his texts.

"I do apologize for crashing your table though, quite busy tonight it seems," he said, fingers gliding over glass as he spoke.

[prodigalflame]

John didn't quite smirk at the man's comments, or raise an eyebrow, but a somewhat amused cast came over his face. "There was a band here tonight," he said offhandedly, and shrugged. "Guess everyone came to see."

"If the world is ending, let me know?" he added, after a pause. "I could get a few more drinks in before the apocalypse." There was something familiar about the guy, but John always had a shit memory for people who weren't threats. He definitely couldn't remember seeing a blind dude around campus or anything.

[prince_of_nymphs]

Fin snorted, tapping away, then shaking his head. "World's not ending, turns out my agent just really, really wants me to do some soap."

That didn't appeal though, and Fin shook his head again as he turned off his phone and tucked it into his pocket.

He rubbed at the hint of stubble on his jaw, then crossed his legs as he slouched slightly in his seat. "The band was good," he noted, "Not my taste, but certainly talented. I can see why they'd have so many admirers. Are you a fan?" he asked curiously.

[prodigalflame]

"Oh, yeah, you're that actor, right?" John had put it together. "I dunno if I've met you around or just feel like I've met you, because you're on a bunch of magazine covers when I go on the tube." Celebrity was ubiquitous: he felt like he knew half a dozen people who were famous, mostly just by flicking through breakfast TV, and he didn't really like any of them.

"Soap's good," he shrugged. "Steady work is good, right? They'll only fire you if there's some fucking twist and they want to kill you off. And half the time they can bring you back to play your twin brother." John had grown up taking care of his sister. They'd watched a lot of soaps because at times he hadn't known what the hell else to do, once homework was done, and books were read, and meals were eaten.

"...I'm the lead singer," John confessed, with a bit of a laugh, and slapped the table, probably far too pleased with it that he'd kept that to himself until this far in the conversation. "Sorry man, it was just nice not having someone know. People coming up and asking where I learned to play, or why I like those songs, or if they can have my drummer's number...Yech. I'm over it."

[prince_of_nymphs]

Soaps didn't appeal to Fin though. Perhaps he was being a snob, but he just felt he could do better, blind or not. There had to be other parts out there.

Fin flinched a little when the man slapped the table, and smiled faintly at his amusement. "I am, indeed, 'that actor', though most people call me Fin, far less wordy. As for not recognizing you, I apologize, I am at a slight disadvantage in that regard," he smiled, gesturing at his eyes. "However, if you don't want to talk shop, I understand. I'm not a fan of chatting about my work either," he admitted.

[prodigalflame]

"It's just there's only so many ways you can say the same damn things," John said a little helplessly, and shrugged. "I thought being a campus rock god would be a lot different. Probably like being a soap actor," he teased, good-naturedly.

John had gone to school with all sorts of people who might be considered 'disabled' but in practice whatever deviations from the norm they had concealed far greater gifts. At the least, Fin could probably hear a pin drop, all of that.

"So why does your agent think it's a good idea for you to do a soap, and why do you not?" Laying out in those terms interested him: everyone had their own perspective.

[prince_of_nymphs]

"Mmm, I imagine being a 'campus rock god' has its perks though," Fin replied, reaching for his cigarettes, then remembering he probably couldn't smoke here. "As for the soap- My agent knows I'm focusing on my writing now, but he's worried that I need to keep up my exposure. Also, I did express an interest in trying to continue my acting career, and parts for blind actors just don't come up very often. I'm grateful for the opportunity, I'm just not certain soap acting is for me. It's hard work. You get the script the day of filming sometimes, which is hard for me. It wouldn't leave much time for other pursuits. ...Besides, I'm actually dabbling in music myself at the moment. My partner's a musician, we've written a few songs together, though we've yet to record them."

It was hard still referring to Will as his partner- But honestly, he wasn't sure what else to call him.

[prodigalflame]

"Oh, writing," John told him, with something close to a young man's casual dismissiveness. "Fin, I'm a student. Everyone is writing their novel, or some music. Everyone thinks they'd gonna make it - everyone wants to be the hero." He stopped then, the idea of a bunch of deluded wannabes causing him to feel a thrum of nostalgia for his own sharper need for success.

"I just mean that work's work, you know? Gift horse, mouth, don't turn down what's on your plate, all that. You should take it, because the publishing company might go bankrupt and your songs might only be streamed and pay you nothing. Steady work beats being a starving artist, and that's straight from the 'campus rock god.'" Even with all the money he had now, even with all the security, he still remembered the day his dad had walked in the front door and told them he'd been fired, and the messy, tenacious existence his family had fallen into as a result.

John knew how quickly things could end up in the crapper.

[prince_of_nymphs]

Fin raised a brow, but decided not to be insulted by the dismissive tone. Honestly, it was sort of nice to talk to someone who had no idea about his career. It made the conversation feel a bit more genuine.

"Well, I've already got an award winning play and a bestseller under my belt, so one might argue I've already made it as a writer. I'm also not in danger of starving any time soon, I've- Well, I'm very good at saving and investing. I spent several years completely homeless, so money's something I tend to be aware of. ...It offers me the luxury to do what I love, rather than what I must."

He had more money than he knew what to do with, actually, thanks to the wish he'd made when he first met Will, and some wise investments and savings. It had been, honestly, the only thing he'd desperately wanted from their arrangement. More than having his play read by the people who might find worth in it, the luxury of never having to worry when he'd eat next had been priceless to him.

[prodigalflame]

John shrugged. The people were rabble, their taste was frequently in the toilet, and money didn't account for ability. Still, he did understand - he had enough money to buy a house in London, to study, to do what he wanted. He had more leisure now he was no longer a criminal, come to think of it - but less reputation. That annoyed him, a little.

"Well, maybe that's your problem," John suggested. "People are supposed to fall into a slump with their second novel and stuff, right? Especially if the first was good."