It's live music night at the Multiverse Cafe. Scott's never been here during one of these before, but the thought alone is exciting. He's always loved gatherings of musically talented people; friends, strangers, or anyone in between. Having the chance to see what alternate versions of himself and his closest friends might come up with?
Damn, he's excited. And also nervous. The thought of playing to a roomful of people, many of whom have the legitimate right to be his worst critic, is both terrifying and exhilarating.
It goes better than he expects. Goodbye From Lonely is well received, even with an unseen alternate Scott humming riffs along with him from the darkness over the crowd, thankfully in a decent harmony. Their audience even requests an encore, and so they sing Fantasy because if they can manage it when Scott trips and accidentally pulls the plug on poor Zak, they can sing it with just taped background music without much by way of preparation.
Still, Scott's grateful when they're done and his nerves can settle, and all he has to do is have a beer to rehydrate and watch others kill it onstage for the rest of the night. There's another Superfruit duo, this one choosing Guy.exe and then Everything, and a couple of Pentatonix groups, one with Matt, one with another bass Scott only vaguely remembers from their time auditioning for them. The group with Matt is significantly better and Scott's perversely pleased to have their decision confirmed so blatantly, even if they already knew they'd made the right one.
But then, after a few more performances, some fantastic and some not, there's another Mitch onstage and Scott's brain shorts out.
He's by himself, centered under a spotlight with no sign of an alternate PTX or even another Scott anywhere near him. But that's not a problem in the slightest because he doesn't need them. He's a showstopper all on his own.
It's amazing. Scott's always loved Mitch's voice. He's met plenty of Mitches who are singers as well as those who aren't. Mitches who are DJs instead, or actually actresses. Mitches who are visual artists or fashion designers. Bartenders and therapists. Detectives and con-artists. There's even a wrestler or two, not to mention a motherfucking wizard. But without fail, one and all of them have beautiful voices. They might not have trained them. Might not know their head voice from their mix, or an arpeggio from an avocado, but they're all lovely to listen to, speaking or singing.
This though? This is beautiful. Heavenly. Literally angelic.
"You know," Mitch says quietly from the other side of the booth, staring at his counterpart on stage. "I always thought I couldn't possibly be more gay, but it turns out I was wrong."
He has a point, and Scott nods absently, although he'd argue that both of their performances for Lip Sync Battle may conceivably have been gayer than this. But starting that debate isn't the foremost thought on his mind. "Where do you think he got that?"
"The harp?" Mitch asks.
The harp is nice. The harp is beautiful. The harp is not what Scott's talking about. "No."
Mitch snorts and gives him a look. "Absolutely not."
"You don't know what I'm talking about."
"I really, really do and I'm not wearing that."
And okay, it doesn't at all match Mitch's current aesthetic phase, but it's disappointing to hear all the same. "Look how hot you are in it." It's see through, little windows showing delicious skin. And clingy. And the white of it sets off Mitch's tanned torso and accentuates all his lithe lines.
Scott's a fan.
Mitch's nose crinkles. "It looks itchy."
It's lace, so Mitch is no doubt right that it's probably itchy. But the point -- the point -- is that he's failing to see the potential. "Precisely how long do you think you'd have it on if you wore it for me?"
Mitch purses his lips, turning back to watch his counterpart onstage who chooses that precise moment to strum some complicated glide thing, pressing pedals with his toes that Scott didn't even know existed at the base of a harp. But what's really attention-grabbing is the way the he leans back, hitting what has to be a G5 with his voice as his head tilts, harp rocking on his shoulder, neck stretching beautifully and torso arching. The white lace strains around his chest -- Scott has no idea how it's staying put -- and as his hands flutter along the strings, Scott's dick hardens in a way that has him gritting his teeth to keep from whimpering.
"Wow," his own Mitch says, and Scott tears his eyes away from the stage to look at him.
The expression on his face must be as wildly turned on as it feels, because his Mitch snorts softly, but says, "Okay, fine. I'll ask him where he got the lace tube top once he's done."
Scott reaches over and takes his hand, swallowing heavily as the Mitch on stage hits his final note, as high and perfect as the one before. "I love you."
Mitch rolls his eyes, but nods as his performing counterpart bows and wheels his harp to the edge of the stage. "I lov-- oh my God." His gaze sharpens and his expression turns...hungry?
It doesn't take long for Scott to figure out the cause of his distraction. The next Scott waiting to take the stage is carrying a violin and wearing leather shorts and body paint and not much else besides glitter and okay, yeah. Guess Mitch won't be the only one playing dress up after a shopping trip once they get home.