Nightvale's Archivist

Karoke Bar

TW: mentions of SH/suicide, Abusive/toxic relationship(in the song), cursing, drugs/drug usage, alchol/alchol usage
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Of all the things that he could regret, Jon had never thought that promising to take Tim to a pub, one where just about everyone knew him, would be one of them. Yet here he is, not even a foot through the door and already a few people are giving him smug looks, the bartender included. Knowing his luck, Georgie would end up being here too.
From across the bar he can hear someone shouting his name. He gives Tim a smile and drags him over to the table he had suspected the shouts came from. If it were any other circumstance, he'd be more than happy to hear those voices again. Somehow he just knows that he's about to be relentlessly teased for his past.

They started easy, swaying him in with a solid drink or two, nothing too bad. Just enough to get him to let loose around his new friend. "Jon, we bought you drinks, now introduce us to your friend," the tall one scolds. Jon nods his head in complacency. "Right! So the one that just scolded me like they're my mother is Jess, the one that looks really intimidating is Basira Hussain, that's her girlfriend...," he trails off, unsure of Basira's exact relationship with Detective Tonner. She nods affirmatively, confirming his statement.
"Daisy Tonner, the one who looks slightly unhinged already is Marius, and the dumbass that's next to him is Tim. Which brings me to my next point, this here with me is Tim!" He can't help but laugh at the drunken confusion that comes from his friends. Especially the knowledge that Tim will continue to call Marius by his stage name, and consider it his real name until proven otherwise.
"I'm assuming Ivy couldn't make it tonight? Or Rachel?" Jess, being the only one somewhat close to sober, shows him a text that he had somehow missed, that proved him right. He lets out a low hum of discontentment, followed by a short, "pity."
He takes a swig of his drink (was he on his third already?) and continues on with his conversation. "Now then, how have you lot been," conversations while tipsy were much easier to deal with than the ones he has while sober. He receives dull answers from everyone, and is more than glad to see (or hear, in this case) the karaoke, however horrible it may have been, kick up.
Work Tim, as he had been dubbed by Jon's friends, insisted on being the first of their group to go. Safe to say, Jon was glad to have access to alchol at this time. The rest of the group gave Jon a look of pity and a half-hearted smile. He didn't know why at first, then after a few more people slur some words and call it a song, his mates try to throw him onto the stage.
He argues he has no clue what song to pick, and everyone else complains. His immediate reaction is "I should call my parents for help," but then thinks better of it, only because he is semi-drunk, and doesn't need his father (either of them) to know. He could do Old King Cole, get revenge on his traitorous friends, but knows he'd get lost in the song. In front of Tim. Which was a very bad idea.
He could do a Crywank song, make everyone wonder if he's doing all right mentally, which seems funny to him now, but will only be a nuisance in the long run. Maybe Cosmic love would work...no, he doesn't want to do that one, have it misunderstood and then die of embarrassment.
Which only leaves Open Water Reckless Fishes or The Horror and The Wild. Or he could do none of those. He could be his own person, seperate from the influences of his parents and friends.
"Just a warning," he slightly shouts, "Anything I say in this song is fake and merely me singing the lyrics written because I'm not a pussy!" His friends cheer him on as he goes up to do the song. He clears his throat once and begins.

Gentle strumming of guitar strings, soft echoes of the lyrics from the original singer, and barely audible drums begin to play. "Spit in my face my love, it won't faze me. Spit in my face my love, it won't change me. Spit in my face my love, I'm going crazy. Spit in my face my love, I've gone mad!"
His voice smooths out slightly, "This is your fault! And I don't need you anyway, stumble out the bathroom, stumble out your arms again." His voice picks up a bit, matching the song's pace. "Crank in the bathroom with a noose and a backwood, the bitch still call me crazy, lil hoe how does that work?" At this Jon seems a slight bit pissed, just a bit.
Nonetheless, he goes on. "She got the guest house jumpin up with smoke out the attic. You're right, I know we love to argue lets get at it." Jon's tone somehow switches from aggravated and angry to passive indifference. His voice goes from coarse and gravelly to soft disinterest. "Wasted, sippin on the liquor you can taste it. Girl don't touch that drink I know you laced it," his voice softens with concern.
It's the voice used when someone needs to or is currently being talked out of a suicide attempt, and he knows it. "I don't know anything except you're mine,'' and he repeats mine so many times he's sure his english teacher would've had an aneurysm.
"You crushed my heart and say it's nothing, you broke me down, I kept on cutting," His voice switches tone again, with so much ease it's concerning. "I bleed for you and now I'm gushing, I bleed for you, but you never cared," why was he angry? He's never self-harmed, not because of another person, not ever. Maybe it had something to do with Sober Jon's fears and feelings... Fuck Sober Jon.
He repeats the chorus, and jumps into the second verse with more fervor than he did the first. "Fo' Sho'! Tell me give it up, I'll leave everyone in the cold! All I wanna say is I'll do anything you can do," he pauses quickly before finsihing the line.
"Show me heroin, I'll shoot it through my motherfuckin bones!" And with that over with, he repeats the bridge, hook, and chorus all over again before giving a grandiose bow to his lovely audience and sitting down with his friends.

Much rather than ask about that performance, they keep drinking, talking, and eventually leave for home. Jon decides that he'll pass out the minute he hits the bed, not bothering to do anything more for a good while after the evening's festivities.