#lyric Tenor

[opera-ghosts]

How to Become a Successful Singer

HINTS ON THE CULTIVATION OF THE VOICE.

By ENRICO CARUSO.

It has often struck me, in a lengthy experience as a singer, that there is one point in particular about the human voice which is far too little appreciated by the rising generation of aspiring vocalists, and that is its wonderful reciprocity. Tend it, nurse it, "feed it on a proper diet," and it will invariably comport itself in the most amiable manner possible. But neglect it, treat it as an organ which is best left to look after itself, and the voice will at once, in revenge for this callous behaviour, retaliate by behaving itself in a manner which is perhaps best described as of the "hooliganistic" order.

And yet, as an actual fact, but a very small percentage indeed of would-be singers ever really seem to think it worth their while to bear in mind this axiom, for axiom it surely is, that the voice requires proper care and proper exercise to keep it in its best form just as much as is a certain amount of exercise necessary to the maintenance of good health in every human being.

Unfortunately, however, there would seem to be a prevalent impression among many amateur and not a few professional singers that singing is an art which can be acquired in quite a short time. Thus, is it not curious that while many students of the piano or the violin will willingly devote years of strenuous and conscientious practice to the study of the technique of these instruments, would-be singers frequently seem to expect to learn how to use their voice to the best advantage after a period of vocal practice extending, maybe, over a year or so, but more often even over only a few months? This policy, I need scarcely remark, is absolutely ruinous to the future careers of young singers, for no matter how naturally talented any individual vocalist may be, he or she cannot possibly produce the best results as a singer unless the particular organs brought into play in the process of singing have been subjected to a proper and sufficiently long course of training. Since the days of the old Italian masters there can be no shadow of doubt that, musically, we have advanced considerably; but sometimes, when I think of the rather slipshod methods of cultivating the voice advocated by many so-called "professors" to-day, the thought impresses itself on my mind that the detailed principles of the old Italian masters who, above all other considerations, insisted on a long course of voice training as being the only possible means to the attainment of the best art, possessed more to recommend them than do many of the modern "artifices" of voice-cultivation proffered by many teachers of singing to-day.

In a short article, of course, it is obviously impossible to go in detail into all the rules which should be observed by singers who are prepared to undertake the task of cultivating their voices on a conscientious and sound basis. At the same time, I hope to be able to suggest various hints and wrinkles which should prove of real value to aspiring singers.

In the first place, therefore, let me say at once that it is the most fatal of all errors for a singer to make too much use of the voice, for the muscles of the larynx are so delicate that they cannot possibly stand the strain of the "learn-to-sing-in-a-hurry" methods of those who hope to attain the highest point of proficiency without devoting sufficient time to that "drudgery" which is absolutely essential to the real and perfect cultivation of the voice.

For this all-important reason I would counsel singers to see to it at all times that in the early days of their training they do not devote too much time to practice. If they will take my advice, until they become thoroughly proficient in "managing" the voice—a happy state of affairs which can only be acquired after long practice—they will at first never devote more than fifteen minutes a day—in the early morning is, perhaps, the best time—to practice. I can readily realise that this must seem a very short time to enthusiasts who are willing to give up all their spare time to the study of voice cultivation, but it is, nevertheless, quite long enough, for the slightest strain put upon the voice may retard a singer's progress by months, while, on the other hand, as I pointed out at the beginning of this article, if the singer will only bear in mind that the voice requires the most careful "nursing" of perhaps all the organs, and must on no account be strained, he will soon find that, though he may not be aware of any improvement in it, his voice is, nevertheless, slowly but surely improving and gaining in strength through his gradually-growing knowledge of technique.

Another point in the cultivation of the voice which I often think is not sufficiently strongly emphasised to-day is the fact that young singers can improve their methods in the most extraordinarily rapid manner by studying the methods of other and more experienced singers. In singing, as in the cultivation of the other arts, in time the student will get what he works for, but it is surely unreasonable for him to expect to sing effectively by his own inspiration. He will be wise, therefore, to seize every opportunity of studying as closely as possible the methods of those who have thoroughly mastered the technique of singing. For true art, of course, there must be more than technique, but I would point out that in singing there is no art without sound methods of execution, which, after all, to all intents and purposes constitute technique. In the cultivation of expression, technique, and sympathy in the voice, there is no better teacher than "a visit to the opera." Still, I make no doubt that of the hundreds of aspiring singers who visit the opera during the season but very few indeed would care to go through the years of drudgery as conscientiously as have those who seem to sing so easily and to combine the art of acting and singing at the same time with equal facility. After all, the highest art lies in the concealment of that art, and I take it that it is because a really proficient opera singer accomplishes his performance with such apparent ease that the difficulties of operatic singing are so little appreciated.

Still, as I have said, I am strongly of the opinion that young singers can learn much from studying the methods of operatic vocalists, that is to say, when they have mastered the rudiments of voice cultivation, into which I need not enter here, for my object is rather to show singers various methods by which they can attain the highest art when they have served a sufficient apprenticeship under masters whose duty it is to teach them the elementary rules of singing.

For my own part, I find that a singer's life, with its constant rehearsals and performances, is such a busy one that not much opportunity is allowed him for indulging in outdoor exercise. Many other enthusiastic singers doubtless find themselves situated in very similar straits, not perhaps on account of their public engagements, but through the "calls" made upon their time by business, social, or domestic duties. In the cultivation of the voice, however, a certain amount of exercise is essential to good health, as, by the same token, is good health a sine quâ non to the attainment of the highest art in singing. It may be of service, therefore, if I explain the rules I observe when I find the calls upon my time too numerous to enable me to get as much exercise as I should otherwise like.

No matter how busy I am, when I rise in the morning I invariably indulge in a few simple physical exercises, similar in character to those I used to practise when, as a young man, the time came for me to serve my king and country as a soldato, or, if I feel that these are becoming monotonous, for a few minutes I find practice with a pair of dumb-bells—not too heavy, by the way—very beneficial. But save these mild forms of relaxation I have, as a rule, to rest content with, in the way of outdoor exercise, an occasional motor drive. Nevertheless, I would point out that, in itself, singing, with its constant deep inhalation, is by no means inconsiderable exercise, though, to be sure, I am well aware that it cannot be so health-giving in its effects as actual exercise in the open air.

Yes, past a doubt, young singers can learn much about the highest art of the cultivation of the voice from watching the knowledge of technique of our best operatic artists, and from observing their methods of "managing" the voice. Still, to thoroughly grasp the progress of the opera-singer's art, it will be necessary for students to appreciate the fact that Italian singing has had two important culminating periods, each of which was illustrated by a group of great singers, the first of which was made up of pupils of Bernacchi, Pistocchi, Francesca Cuzzoni, and other contemporary teachers. These great singers brought the art of bel canto to as near a state of perfection as has ever been known. But one has to remember the conditions under which they sang.

Thus Victor Maurel writes:—"In the days of the schools of the art of bel canto the masters did not have to take truth for expression (l'expression juste) into account, for the singer was not required to render the sentiments of the dramatis personæ with verisimilitude; all that was demanded of him was harmonious sounds, the bel canto." In other words, all that the singer had to do was to sing, for the emotions themselves had not to be portrayed, the psychical character of the dramatis personæ not being taken into account.

In consequence, the perfection of the singer's voice was but slightly interfered with, as, at most, he had little or no acting to do, a conventional oratorical gesture or two being considered quite sufficient for the fashion of the period. And it is scarcely necessary to remark that the great singers of this period were skilful enough musicians to prevent such unimportant gestures, which hardly deserve the dignity of the name of acting, from being an obstacle to the high quality of their singing.

In the second period of Italian singing, however, the period which coincides with the Rossini-Donizetti-Bellini period of opera in its heydey, the conditions, we find, were greatly altered. The music at this time was at once more dramatic and more scenic, and although the singing was still bel canto, the opera singer of the period was called upon not only to sing well, but to sing dramatically, though it must be said that the music itself provided larger scope for the actor's art, in that it gave more favourable opportunity for specialising and differentiating the emotions.

In "The Opera Past and Present" we find the following intensely interesting allusion to these two great culminating periods of Italian singing:—"A comparison of these two periods of Italian singing indicates the direction matters have taken with the opera singer from Handel's time to our own. From then to now he has had to face an ever-increasing accumulation of untoward conditions; his professional work has become more and more complicated. From Rossini's time down to this the purely musical difficulties he has had to face have been constantly on the increase—complexity of musical structure, rhythmic complications, hazardous intonations.

"He has to fight against the more and more brilliant style of instrumentation, often pushed to a point where the greatest stress of vocal effort is required of him to make himself heard above the orchestral din; more and better acting is demanded of him, he finds the vague generalities of histrionism no longer of avail; for these must make way for a highly specialised, real-seeming dramatic impersonation; intellectually and physically his task has been doubled and trebled. Above all, the sheer nervous tension of situations and music has so increased as to make due self-control on his part less easy. The opera singer's position to-day is verily no joke; he has to face and conquer difficulties such as the great bel cantists of the Handel period never dreamt of."

It has ever been my contention that the conscientious artist should carefully read and re-read the whole libretto, so as to inform himself of the poet's purpose and meaning in the construction and development of the plot, as well as to ever bear in mind his conception of the composer's idea of how the poetry and the various aspects of mind of the characters should be aptly and effectively musicked and interpreted so as to awaken a kindred, or appreciative, feeling in the minds of his hearers.

Besides this, the opera singer who aspires to rise to great heights must possess a keen nervous susceptibility, for only a man or woman of high nervous temperament can reasonably hope to succeed as a lyrico-dramatic artist. Again, in the great operas a most severe strain is placed upon the leading singers, for while they are portraying various emotions—-Love, Hate, Rage, or Laughter—they have, at the same time, to watch the conductor with most minute care lest they fail in time and rhythm.

In fine, though I think but few other than really conscientious students of singing entirely appreciate the fact, the opera-singer of to-day is called upon to possess a far greater knowledge of vocal technique than was ever demanded of him before in the history of singing, as those "good and golden days"—golden only to the moderate performer with but little ambition—when the singer who perhaps scarcely knew more than a few notes of music could, nevertheless, still arouse the plaudits of the public are gone—never to return.

I hope, by the way, that it will not be thought that I have entered too technically into the requirements demanded from an aspirant to operatic fame to-day. I scarcely think, however, that I can have done so, for I feel sure every really aspiring vocalist would prefer to know the exact heights to which he must cultivate his voice either on the operatic stage or concert platform, or even for the drawing-room, that is to say, if he is ever to make a great name for himself in preference to resting content to remain one of the "moderates," of which the musical profession is altogether already too full, not because there is a lack of singers with good voices, but largely, as I have always maintained, because there is a far too prevalent tendency amongst singers these days to shirk the real hard work which must be accomplished before lasting success can be attained.

In conclusion, in order to allow singers' voices to develop in a satisfactory manner, let me counsel them never to attempt those selections in public the range of which taxes and strains them to the utmost, for when a singer "exceeds" his proper range injury to the throat is always liable to follow. Better rather, therefore, is it that a song should be transposed to a lower key if a singer is determined to attempt it than that the voice should be unduly taxed.

And now I will say addio, though I would add that it is my sincere hope that some of the few hints I have given on the cultivation of the voice and of the heights of excellence to which ambitious singers should aspire may prove of real value to those with sufficient pluck to face the task of studying the art of the cultivation of the voice in a really conscientious manner. Hard work accomplishes wonders where the voice is concerned. Let me, therefore, counsel singers never to despair of attaining a state as near to perfection as possible, for it is those who are most alive to their own imperfections who will assuredly "go farthest" in the singing world.

[caveguy22]

Goofball Buckley.

[rubenpaulwhitter]

Ruben Paul Whitter - Lyric Tenor (2022)

[julia-writes-things]

my brain:

my brain:

my brain: for heeeeeerrrrrrrrrrDAAAAAISYYYY *flips table* YOU SLIPPED THROUGH MY HANDS *slides on knees* no one understands how she has changed me!

[saintarmand]

Don Pasquale, English translation (the libretto starts on page 54, Norina and Ernesto's duet is on pages 84-85) Full opera on Youtube, English subtitles (the duet starts at 1:55:28)

Come, say the words I long for, say you are mine forever; never to part, no, never, our lives shall henceforward be one. Your tender voice shall quieten the tempest that rages inside me: Ah! With you, my love, beside me, I shall not tremble alone, I’ll tremble no more alone.

[dreamaze]

ONEWE ⟡ '천체 (COSMOS)' TongTong Culture performance excerpt (tr.)

[unrealcorvusmusic]

(lyrics and then chords follow photo)

my grandma in her kitchen door

summer's over by unreal corvus

i can still see grandma waving from the kitchen door at the table in the darkness grandpa lights his pipe heading home now, thirteen hours to sacramento summer's over

family reunions holidays and weekend plans crowded round the table those people were the whole wide world never realized wouldn't be that way for ever summer's over

all of them are gone now just memories and photographs of faces we're forgetting as we'll be forgotten too if it's all fading why does grief keep growing keener summer's over

another august ending just like every one before september escorts autumn the gathering darkness is her gown seasons ending equinox feels like a funeral summer's over nights grow longer and I fear the coming darkness summer's over summer's over it's all over

D(add11) G(b5no3) D G B E D G B E 0 0 3 2 0 0 2 3

D D(add11) D D(add11)

G G(b5no3) G G(b5no3) D D(add11) D D(add11)

D D(add11) D D(add11) I can still see grandma D D(add11) D D(add11) waving from the kitchen door D D(add11) D D(add11) at the table in the darkness D D(add11) grandpa lights his pipe G G(b5no3) G heading home now, G(b5no3) D D(add11) thirteen hours to sacramento D D(add11) summer's over

G G(b5no3) G G(b5no3) D D(add11) D D(add11)

D D(add11) D D(add11) family reunions D D(add11) D D(add11) holidays and weekend plans D D(add11) D D(add11) crowded round the table D D(add11) D D(add11) those people were the whole wide world G G(b5no3) G never realized G(b5no3) D D(add11) wouldn't be that way for ever D D(add11) summer's over

G G(b5no3) G G(b5no3) D D(add11) D D(add11)

D D(add11) D D(add11) all of them are gone now D D(add11) D D(add11) just memories and photographs D D(add11) D D(add11) of faces we're forgetting D D(add11) D D(add11) as we'll be forgotten too G G(b5no3) G if it's all fading G(b5no3) D D(add11) why does grief keep growing keener D D(add11) summer's over

G G(b5no3) G G(b5no3) D D(add11) D D(add11)

D D(add11) D D(add11) another august ending D D(add11) D D(add11) just like every one before D D(add11) D D(add11) september escorts autumn D D(add11) D D(add11) the gathering darkness is her gown G G(b5no3) G seasons ending G(b5no3) D D(add11) equinox feels like a funeral D D(add11) summer's over G G(b5no3) G nights grow longer G(b5no3) D D(add11) and I fear the coming darkness D D(add11) summer's over D D(add11) summer's over D D(add11) D it's all over

[grntaire]

ian mckellen michael sheen on graham norton dropping on the same night as aaron tveit sutton foster sweeney todd debut is a huge deal for me personally

[opera-ghosts]

A singing lesson with Giacomo Lauri-Volpi

The great tenor Giacomo Lauri-Volpi talks about the art of singing. This lesson was recorded in 1933 at the National Phonotheque.

[beangods]

does the band actually suck or do you just not vibe with the lead singer's voice

[void-tiger]

How can I pick up “weird” choral parts that aren’t a lazy “just singing a third below at all times”? Well, for one I got tossed into the deep end in college with the second soprano part being “whatever’s leftover ‘cause y’all can actually read. Now have fun or you’re getting kicked out, ya expendable surplus soprano!” (no really. weeks of that. the director didn’t Shut Up until I ended up having a public nervous breakdown, especially since he spent years taking my name off the audition list but letting freshman sopranos in after telling me I WAS good enough when I first enrolled years ago) in addition to my actual music theory and ear training classes (and accepting it’s NOT a “sour note”, the chord’s just dissonant. That’s the point!)

But in my own time? I just think of harmonies like counter melodies weaving a tapestry, and listening for whatever’s playing in the base, root, or main melody and making a “grab bag” of notes in the chord. Experimentation. What’s smooth or crunchy. (And when in doubt, droning the root is almost never wrong, but Not Every Chord Has A Third, Altos!! Music can have more texture than that!)

[omegalomania]

people bitching and moaning about fob "turning mainstream" as if that was never the entire point of fall out boy. that's In the goddamn dna of the band, it's baked into the ethos of why the band started in the first damn place. to be accessible to kids and especially to girls, who were often ridiculed and shunted out of the hardcore community. to be a gateway to bands that aren't as mainstream. to comment on the society they live in, as they live in it. people act like fall out boy "turning mainstream" was some kind of "betrayal" when from the start they were seizing on the trends of the time, putting their unique, unhinged fall out boy spin on them, and shooting them back out as a funhouse mirror. take this to your grave capitalized on the pop-punk zeitgeist that was big in the late 90s and early aughts and put their own spin on it: enmeshed catchy choruses with high-dexterity lyrical & linguistic skewerwork. infinity on high was basically a massive critique of the scene they were in - this ain't a scene it's a goddamn arm's race is a fucking thesis statement on what it is to be catapulted into fame in an industry that wants nothing more than a thousand cookie-cutter copycat acts of a successful formula, and fall out boy WAS the formula everyone desperately wanted to emulate. american beauty / american psycho blended sampling and modern hip-hop stylings with polished pop-rock and pointed those songs back at the snapshot of the 2010s we all lived in: commenting on racial injustice and the freeze-frame nature of relevancy. but even then they weren't doing it quite right - because fall out boy never does things quite right, they're never quite conventional, whether it's wentz's darkly confessional lyrics double-bagged in metaphor or stump's distinctive clear tenor or trohman's inescapable rock 'n roll edge or hurley's thunderous hardcore-punk-rock soul.

this band has always been too clever for its own critics, is the thing. but then, they always knew that. they knew they had a thriving fanbase of largely female fans so they were going to be mocked and belittled and ridiculed. they weren't quite right. they weren't quite so easy to market. pete wentz had to have all his hard edges filed off and cut down to size, skin lightened, literally whitewashed ("i feel like a photo that's been overexposed") to hell and back, even as he was marketed as the pretty boy of the band. and the other three members never even bothered with the spotlight: the soft-spoken vegan straightedge anarchist drummer and the wry, wisecracking, whip-clever guitarist who was more concerned with being the connective tissue than anything and the reticent vocalist who sang the words and wrote an awful lot of music but wasn't really the guy fronting the band. wentz's charisma carried the band, because the rest of them were really just some guys and never aspired to be anything else.

fall out boy is too pop. fall out boy is too mainstream. fall out boy isn't the real poster child of the emo movement. other bands are better. even within fall out boy's own narrative, they are repeatedly ignored, sidelined, and belittled, as though they weren't one of the only acts from the big 00s emo-pop movement to successfully not just survive the transition from the aughts to the '10s, and then later from the '10s to the '20s, but to thrive in it without banking on nostalgia. this band was supposed to be a flash in the pan. they weren't supposed to last and they weren't supposed to get big. they started off in joe's parents' attic because joe and pete were sick of how exclusionary and homophobic the hardcore scene was.

i think it's high time that people acknowledge how fall out boy has repeatedly succeeded where most of their other peers failed. cunning, clever, capable, and hyper-aware of the space they occupy in the culture surrounding them. that they are just as powerful, important, and artistic as any of the other bands in the scene that others might deify at their expense. that they deserve a hell of a lot more respect than they get from critics or hardcore punks who think they sold out. i hope one day they get that recognition. because they've earned it, time and time again, and the more i see people pushing back against that, the more certain i become of its inevitability.

[unrealcorvusmusic]

ghosts and the river

by unreal corvus (chords below lyrics)

man, i wish i could leave here where the fuck would i go? spent most of my life here this town's all i know the streets and the sidewalks wandered since i was young are all crowded with ghosts now their names ash on my tongue

don't see the changes day to day how did the years just slip away? no place could ever feel the same i hear the river call my name all the kids i grew up with wonder where they have gone guess they're all dead or scattered somehow i lingered on left for all sorts of reasons grass is greener it seems blown over the night sky on the winds of their dreams

don't see the changes day to day how did the years just slip away? no place could ever feel the same i hear the river call my name

i remember always running i remember having dreams river cabin summers the wimahl when she gleams i'd wake up in that old house with a future through the door but that house is gone now there's no future here any more

yeah i wish i could leave here my ghosts won't let me leave all the friends that i've buried hopes and loves that i grieve all the stories and grave sites family roots in this ground keep my soul firmly anchored keep me hanging around

i linger on from day to day endure the years that slip away once i ran here but now i'm lame the ghosts and the river call my name

ghosts and the river (chords)

by unreal corvus

Em G (x2)

Em G man, i wish i could leave here Em G where the fuck would i go? Em G spent most of my life here Em G this town's all i know Em G the streets and the sidewalks Em G wandered since i was young Em G are all crowded with ghosts now Em G their names ash on my tongue

C D Em don't see the changes day to day C D Em how did the years just slip away? C D Em no place else could feel the same C D Em i hear the river call my name

Em G all the kids i grew up with Em G wonder where they have gone Em G guess they're all dead or scattered Em G somehow i lingered on Em G left for all sorts of reasons Em G grass is greener it seems Em G blown all over the night sky Em G on the winds of their dreams

C D Em don't see the changes day to day C D Em how did the years just slip away? C D Em no place else could feel the same C D Em i hear the river call my name

D i remember always running C i remember having dreams D river cabin summers C the wimahl when she gleams D i'd wake up in that old house C with a future through the door D but that house is gone now C there's no future here Em any more

Em G yeah i wish i could leave here Em G my ghosts won't let me leave Em G all the friends that i've buried Em G hopes and loves that i grieve Em G all the stories and grave sites Em G family roots in this ground Em G keep my soul firmly anchored Em G keep me hanging around C D Em i linger on from day to day C D Em endure the years that slip away C D Em once i ran here but now i'm lame C D Em ghosts and the river call my name

[hazbinshusk]

husk x reader. requested by @jazziesanura. husk might be part feline, but his bird-like traits affect him too. so when the object of his affection is around, ever so occasionally, he finds himself singing.

featuring: 1.2k of pure fluff and a bashful husk being a gentleman.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

There were countless reasons you liked to linger in the lobby rather than up in your room, despite the chance of being enlisted in any number of tasks by the owner of the Hazbin Hotel. You’d hung more celebratory banners than you cared to count, but still, you often spent your time curled up on one of the lobby sofas with a book or one of Charlie’s latest art projects in your lap.

Sometimes the reason you preferred it was the endless entertainment provided by Niffty’s endless war on bugs.

Sometimes it was that Angel would grace you with his presence before work and you’d find yourselves swapping overly salacious stories that would make the spider demon cackle with joy.

Occasionally Pentious would slither downstairs in order to introduce you to his latest complicated creation, and sometimes his little eggs would find themselves in a turf war with Razzle and Dazzle and you’d be in tears trying not to laugh as you separated them.

But – even though you wouldn’t admit it aloud – there really was one real reason you liked to stay in the lobby.

Because every now and then, if you were lucky…

Husk would sing.

When the bar was empty and the other guests and staff were elsewhere, occasionally you’d hear the soft tenor of Husk’s voice ebb out to fill the space between you. He never sang very loud, just a soft crooning to himself as he polished glassware or wiped down the polished wood in front of him. It would just barely reach your ears, but it relaxed you and filled you with the most addictive feeling of butterflies all at the same time.

The strangest thing about it was, whenever you asked those who also spent time alone with him, no one else had ever noticed him sing.

“What song is that?”

You’d broken your own rule about interrupting him, and you cursed yourself silently as Husk stopped mid-lyric, letting out a small ‘wrrr’ of surprise as he looked up. He looked startled, even embarrassed by the question, pale pink blooming across his muzzle.

You grimaced apologetically as you stood up. “Sorry.”

“S’okay,” he replies gruffly, his shoulders relaxing slightly. Still, you notice his tail twitch almost warily behind him.

“It’s nice,” you continue gently. When his brows furrow you explain, “The song. It’s pretty.”

“Oh.” Husk clears his throat, setting the glass he was holding down on the counter. “You, uh… you want a drink?”

“Sure.”

***

Your smile is softened by the alcohol buzzing in your brain, and you lean your temple on your hand. Husk’s own lips are tilted in a similar smile as he pours the two of you fresh glasses of something he calls a ‘rusty nail’. It burns pleasantly down your throat and against your lips, and Husk hums approvingly as you toss back half the glass.

“Gotta say, sweetness, I never figured you’d be able to handle the booze as well as you do.” he notes, pouring the dregs from the shaker into your glass. “’s impressive.”

“’s not all I can handle,” you reply without thinking, and your face burns.

Husk blinks at you, eyes wide, for a moment before he coughs a laugh, shaking his head. His voice lowers and softens when he speaks next, and it send the warmth from your cheeks down to pool in your stomach. “I don’t doubt it.”

He holds your gaze for a long moment, an amused tilt to his lips, before you glance away again to take another sip of your drink. You clear your throat, trying to find a way to change the subject. You couldn’t let yourself focus on the way his expression, his tone of voice, was making you feel.

“So, uh… you gonna tell me what that song was?”

Husk glances down at the bar, rubbing a paw through the fur of his neck. “’s nothing. Just an old… ‘s nothing.”

“I liked it,” you tell him gently, your glass held just below your lips. “I always like it when you sing.”

Husk grimaces bashfully. “You hear that?”

You nod, still smiling. Maybe it’s the alcohol that loosens your tongue, maybe it’s the way that even though his tone is embarrassed, his eyes are watching your every reaction so carefully. Maybe it’s just being with him but you simply admit: “It’s my favorite thing.”

Hush flushes, dithering uncertainly for a moment before he meets your eye again. He studies your face, your expression, and your sincerity before he throws back the rest of his drink and sets the glass back on the counter. Husk rounds the bar and with a moment of hesitation, holds out a paw to you.

“C’mon.”

You raise a brow but take it, letting him pull you gently off the bar stool and lead you towards the middle of the lobby. He turns to face you, your hand still enclosed in his. His other hand comes up to hover near your waist and those butterflies swirl inside you again dizzyingly.

“…Can I?”

You nod slowly, confused, and a thrill runs through you as he touches your hip. His hand smooths over it to let his claws curl carefully against the sliver of skin between your shirt and the waistband of your jeans, and you release a shaking breath. He gives you a small, bashful smile, stepping closer to you, and his smile widens slightly despite himself when your breath catches.

“Relax,” he tells you softly, and when your free hand comes up to rest on his shoulder, he leads you into a slow, surprisingly graceful movement that’s something akin to a waltz.

His body is warm against yours and your fingers curl in the soft fur on his bicep, threading carefully through the silky hair. He hums a quiet tune for a few moments, leading you along with it, and you find yourself settling into his embrace as he begins to sing.

“I ran around with my own little crowd,

The usual laughs, not often but loud.

And in the world that I knew,

I didn’t know about you.”

His voice is honeyed and warm in your ear, his touch tingling against your back and against your palm. You wet your lips with the tip of your tongue, feeling as though you’ve been dipped directly into the melted caramel of his sweet tenor.

“Chasing after the rain

On the merry-go-round.

Just taking my fun

Where it could be found.

And yet what else could I do?

I didn’t know about you.”

You hesitate for a moment before releasing his hand to wrap your arms around his neck, letting your fingers twine in the fur at the back of his head. Husk’s hands take hold of your hips, sliding around to interlock against the small of your back. You hear him swallow, his voice shaking slightly as he begins the next verse.

“Darling, now I know,

I had the loneliest yesterday,

Everyday in your arms

I know for once in my life I’m living.

Had a good time every time I went out,

Romance was a thing I kidded about.

How could I know about love?

I didn’t know about you.”

Husk pulls back slightly, meeting your gaze with hooded eyes. The two of you are just swaying now, locked together in an embrace you never want to end. There’s an almost rueful curve to his lips.

“I didn’t know about you.”

.

Author's note: for those interested, the song is I Didn't Know About You by Duke Ellington. If you would like to hear a masculine voice singing it (although sadly not Husk's), I'd personally recommend Seth MacFarlane's version. It's absolutely beautiful.

[citizen-sade]

Rain Check

Inspired by this text post:

-------

Eddie glanced from his guitar to the digital alarm clock on the side table next to his bed, where he'd been idly strumming for the past hour, not really trying commiting the tune to memory.

He realized the upbeat lyrics of Bruce Springsteen in Steve’s off-key tenor from the bathroom two doors down had trailed off long ago. He vaguely wondered if he’d dozed off again.

Eddie grinned wryly as he recalled learning the hard way about Steve’s singular habit of falling asleep in the shower.

***

He bounced his leg impatiently, eyes darting to the bathroom as the minutes ticked closer to 8:00. Steve had been in there awhile and it was almost time for the Miami Vice marathon.

7:00 turned into 7:15... then 7:30... 7:35... This was stupid. He didn't even like Miami Vice. It was Steve's idea. So, what the hell was taking him so long?

Eddie set the bowl of popcorn on the coffe table before heading down the hallway and rapped his knuckles on the bathroom door, "Dude, what are you doing in there? Did you get lost?"

No answer.

Clouds of steam wafted out the door as he opened it to the sound of running water.

“Goddamn. Hot enough in here for you, Harrington?” he asked as he used the sleeve of his t-shirt to wipe off an area of condensation from the mirror above the sink.

He stared at the reflection of the seafoam green shower curtain behind him, waiting for Steve to peek out and ask him what he wanted, but his stomach sank when that didn’t happen.

“Steve?”

Still nothing. He inhaled deeply to steady his nerves. Dramatic though it may be, he couldn't help but think back to the time he'd discovered a former bandmate in a similar manner, unconscious in a hotel bathtub from an overdose. He was lucky Eddie had found him when he did, the dipshit.

But Steve was different. Steve Harrington wasn't a junkie. Steve Harrington was smarter than that.

Although, it wasn't like he'd given Eddie a comprehensive list of any potential health issues. Not that he'd asked for one.

Eddie licked his lips nervously as he turned towards the bathtub. He sighed, scratching the back of his head.

“Very funny, Harrington."

Nothing.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other before reaching for the shower curtain, half-expecting Steve to jump out at him.

“Ha!" The exclamation hung in the air as Eddie yanked the curtain to the side, revealing the lean, naked form of his boyfriend on the floor of the ceramic tub, slumped against the side.

“Oh, fuck—ohfuck—okay—uh—Hey! Steve! You okay?”

Eddie reached in to shut off the water and sat on the edge of the bathtub to lean over Steve, shaking him gently by the shoulder.

“Shit... shitshitshit... Steve! Hey!" Eddie eyed him with mounting panic, mentally compiling a list of emergency phone numbers, "Wake up, damnit!”

“Mmm—” the jock stirred, his forehead creasing under his dripping hair in annoyance as he mumbled, “five more minutes.”

Eddie stood up and cocked his head in bewilderment, "What the fuck?”

“Wha—” Steve sniffed groggily, “what’s going on?”

Eddie raised his hands to his hips, “Are you kidding me?”

Steve cracked an eyelid to glance quizzically at him, “Oh, hey, Eds. Everything okay?”

The cold air against his wet skin suddenly reminded him of where he was and he looked up at the trickling showerhead, his face reddening as he scrambled to cover himself.

“Oh, damn,” he groaned, running a hand over his face, “did I fall asleep again?”

"Asleep??" Eddie blinked in surprise but sighed with relief, “Again?! Is this a thing you do regularly?”

“I—uh—“

“You scared the shit out of me!”

“Gee, man, I’m sorry—"

"Thought I was gonna have to drag your naked ass out of there myself."

"It’s just a thing I did—do—ever since I was a kid—”

Eddie scoffed playfully, “Well... don’t fuckin' do it again.”

The sheepish grin he received by way of an apology all but dissolved any trace of genuine exasperation. It was a dumb thing to be mad at him for, anyway.

Eddie rolled his eyes and grabbed the towel from where it hung on the wall to throw it at Steve, hitting him in the face.

“Dry yourself off before you get all pruny. The show's about the start!”

***

It wasn't until later, during a moment of intimacy on the sofa, Miami Vice muted in the background and Steve's eyes locked shyly on their intertwined fingers and the prominent veins that traveled up Eddie's forearm, that Steve had explained how he'd adopted the practice of locking himself in the bathroom as a kid. The running water was enough to partially drown out the sound of his parents arguing in the living room, and he would stay in there a little longer each time, allowing the steady rhythm and comfort of the warm water to lull him to sleep—until he would inevitably be startled awake by the sound of his father slamming the front door behind him in a rage, followed by a hurried knock on the bathroom door and his mother yelling from the other side that he was on his own for dinner. Again.

In Steve's defense, he didn't do it every time... and in Eddie's, he couldn't just not tease him mercilessly for it when he did.

Eddie laid his guitar aside. He was careful not to make too much noise as he snuck to the bathroom, expertly opening and closing the door behind him without a single creak. Once again, the only sound to meet his ears upon entering was the hiss of the water.

He slowly drew back the shower curtain to the familiar sight of Steve curled up beneath the steaming water, damp hair clinging to his flushed cheeks.

Eddie smiled fondly at the shallow rise and fall of his chest and heaved an exaggerated sigh, reluctant to disturb the serenity of the moment.

But they had a game to catch. Lucas would be taking inventory of the party from the basketball court, and God forbid he and Steve show up late to anything together. He could hear the obnoxious kissy noises and prying questions now.

Eddie leaned in to wrap his fingers around the cross-handle knob and, with a quick twist, turned it as far to the left as it would go without shutting off completely.

Steve shrieked, cursing incoherently and clambering to shut off the freezing water.

“SHIT!” he panted, eyes wide when he realized he wasn’t alone. In a daze, he grasped the shower curtain to pull it closed, but instead, managed to tear down the metal rod that it hung from. The curtain rod bounced off his head and clattered against the tile as it came to rest in Steve’s lap.

“Gah! Fuck!” he hissed.

Eddie snorted and clamped a hand over his own mouth to keep from laughing as Steve glared daggers at him behind a veil of wet hair, looking like a drowned rat.

A very pissed off drowned rat.

The vision of the so-called King of Hawkins High—usually so smooth; so collected—now fixing him with what was obviously supposed to be an intimidating scowl while sitting naked and waterlogged in his bathtub made Eddie cackle so hard that he had to brace himself against the bathroom sink.

“I’m glad my suffering is so amusing to you,” Steve mocked.

“You should have seen your face, Harrington!” Eddie wheezed as he doubled over at the waist.

Steve blinked and shook his head, tossing his wet hair out of his face.

Eddie's laughter trailed off, “I’m sorry, babe, but you've been in here forever!”

“Oh, shit, you’re right. What time is it?”

“Almost 5:30.”

Steve groaned as he shifted to get his feet under him but failed against the slippery tub floor.

"Damnit, you need to put something in here."

"You mean, like, those... adhesive rubber ducks?"

"Yeah," Steve sneered, "I mean, like, those adhesive rubber ducks."

Eddie watched with glee as Steve made a second attempt to stand and extended his arm, "Don't just stand there, Munson, help me!"

"Okay, okay! Jeez," he grasped Steve's wrist to help him up, only to be yanked off his own feet, falling over the side of the bathtub and into Steve’s lap as he reached up to turn the water back on.

“You dick!” Eddie screeched, "what the hell—" he froze as his words melted into Steve’s mouth.

He instantly relaxed into him, the lukewarm water beating down on them all but forgotten as the tip of Steve's tongue teasingly slid past his lips. Eddie purred against his mouth and Steve withdrew with a cocky smirk. Eddie started as if to protest, but exhaled a heavy breath and hung his head.

“Alright. We're even."

“Mm, let's get you out of these wet clothes,” Steve said, tugging on the hem of Eddie's soaked t-shirt.

“Woah, there, big guy,” Eddie splayed a hand on Steve's chest in a gentle halting motion, “did you forget we’re on a schedule?”

Steve paused, immediately dropping the Casanova act with a petulant huff, “Aw, man!”

Eddie chuckled and pecked him on the cheek as he rose, pulling Steve up with him. He wrung his damp, unruly hair out over the bathtub before twisting to grab a towel and unceremoniously throwing it at Steve’s face. He then grabbed one for himself.

Steve cautiously stepped out of the tub onto the worn plush mat, securing the towel around his waist.

Knowing they couldn’t afford to waste anymore time, Eddie resigned to getting ready in the bedroom so as to allow Steve and his Hair™ their allotted time alone—but not before planting a playful smack on Steve's ass. Steve yelped and grumbled under his breath as he turned to his reflection and the white aerosol can with the picture of Farrah Fawcett that smiled at him from the counter.

Suddenly the door opened again and Eddie peeked in, "Hey, Harrington."

Steve paused mid-spray and rolled his eyes at him in the mirror, "Yeah?"

Eddie clicked his tongue with a wink and the cringiest finger-gun gesture he could manage, “Rain check.”

[nightxcreature]

Ramblin’ on

No warnings other than slight cursing and sleep deprivation. Pure fluff, I’m feeling lovey tonight. Enjoy!

Not edited, written fast.

Led Zeppelin IV had been trying to lull me to sleep for the last hour to no avail. No matter how many times Robert Plant’s tenor blares through the speakers, sleep evades me. Sam and Jo had given up in the back a few miles ago, leaving Dean and I the only ones braving the 10 hour drive back to the Roadhouse; both running on no sleep, a few cups of coffee, and the will to ramble on.

“Can’t sleep?” Deans voice breaks my thoughts, his hand moving from the steering wheel to rest on my thigh.

I shake my head, wrapping my fingers around his, “Nope. I told you I was going to stay up with you.”

He snorts and shoots me a toothy grin, his green eyes shining in the moonlight, “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

I playfully hit his shoulder before grinning back, “Shut up. I’m serious this time.”

He nods and wraps a big hand around my wrist, pulling me closer as he wraps an arm around my shoulders, “Sure you are, Baby.”

I blush at the nickname, before me only his beloved car was deemed ‘Baby’. “You’re the two most important ladies in my life, it’s only fair that I call you by the same name. And that way you can never say I called you by the wrong name.” He had said with a wink when I sent him a puzzled look after hearing him say the name for the first time. I had rolled my eyes at the time, but it was one of the greatest gifts he’d ever given me.

“I am! I’m gonna stay—.” I’m cut off by the world’s biggest yawn and Dean’s quiet chuckle, “Give me a few minutes for that last cup of coffee to hit and I’ll be up for days, I swear!”

With a shake of his head he shrugs off his jacket and helps me lay down in his lap, placing leather over my frame.

“Dean, I’m not going to sleep.” I argue, another yawn threatening to escape me.

His hand finds itself in my hair as his eyes stay on the road, “I know, Baby.”

I try my hardest to fight it, but ‘Stairway to Heaven’ and Dean’s fingers twirling through my hair slowly start to push me toward that abyss. I snuggle deeper into his lap and hear him quietly whisper the lyrics as lowers his hand to rub my back. Before I sink off into unconsciousness, I can barely hear him as he whispers, “Damn, I love you.”