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Eridians are bad at karaoke.
Although Ryland understood that firstly, asking an Eridian to know English, then translate the meaning into Eridian concepts, then to manually suppress their native language’s grammar rules while trying to keep time with the vibrations to make the translator say the sentence correctly- that would be a headache for anyone. Still, Rocky and Adrian enjoy the challenge. When the two would attempt a duet it was often interrupted by them ‘giggling’ at their mad-lib-ed sounding chords. It truly was a sight to behold. And now with Simon in the picture, game night felt like a family gathering.
Simon didn’t join in- at least, not yet. Looking at him, Ryland felt a familiar, quiet determination; there had to be some way to gently crack open the protective shell Simon always retreated into. But to coax him out, Ryland would have to lead by example. And handily enough, it was his turn to sing.
His favorites for karaoke back on Earth were the crowd pleasers; Bohemian Rhapsody, Sweet Caroline. That way if he loses his place or fumbles it wouldn't be noticed as much. The audience more often than not will be singing along to pick up the slack. But for tonight, he had a different goal in mind.
Bypassing his safe bet folder entirely, Ryland’s fingers scrolled past the predictable anthems with a touch of wine induced bravado. Standard pop-rock wasn't going to cut it tonight. If he wanted to coax Simon out of that armored shell, he needed something completely, undeniably absurd- a song so utterly bizarre that Simon's analytical, survival-honed brain wouldn't even have a protocol to process it.
He took one final swig of his drink, setting the glass down on the side table, selected the track, and stepped back into the center of the room with a grin.
The B-52s' surf-rock bassline bounced out of the speakers, high-energy and completely ridiculous. Ryland set the microphone down on the coffee table, letting his raw, unamplified voice carry over the music. He didn't need the mic anyway; he needed to fully commit to the choreography, his limbs feeling loose and light from the steady warmth of the homemade wine buzzing in his veins.
Standing in the middle of the living room, he launched into what he believed was a spectacular display of retro new-wave dancing. His shoulders did most of the talking- jerking up and down in rigid, alternating shrugs, rolling to the rhythm like a malfunctioning toy.
"We were at a party! His earlobe fell in the deep… Someone reached in and grabbed it… It was a rock lobster!" Ryland half-shouted, half-talked in a sharp, nasal Fred Schneider drawl, throwing his hands out.
"We were at the beach… Everyone had... matching towels!"
Off to the side of the room, Adrien and Rocky watched the display with quiet, vibrating clicks. They had switched their digital translators off, their native chords humming softly in a frequency that was just ambient noise to Simon. But Ryland’s ears picked up the Eridian words instantly.
“Rocky,” Adrien chimed, a curious, questioning note in her voice. “Is this a human mating ritual? The rapid shoulder-shaking?”
“Do not know,” Rocky clicked back, his carapace shifting with interest. “Grace has many strange rituals.”
Ryland nearly choked on his next breath, fighting down a sudden, desperate urge to laugh. He kept his face completely straight, determined not to break character as he leaned into the groove. His neck popped and his elbows tucked in, looking less like a serious adult and more like a dorky puppet possessed by the spirit of 1979.
On the couch, Simon watched with wide, highly entertained eyes, a soft, wine warmed smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. With a sudden, dramatic shift in the beat, Ryland dropped into a hunch. Like a punk straight out of West Side Story, he kept his shoulders angled low, snapping his fingers in a slow, arms-swinging swagger as he finally closed the distance to the couch.
“Grace…?” Simon’s tone was a mix of warning and quiet amusement, the alcohol making the word rounder, softer around the edges as his shoulders tensed slightly.
Ryland stared back, entirely deadpan, his shoulders still twitching to the beat. “There is no Grace. Only Rock Lobster.”
Before Simon’s buzzed brain could even process the sheer absurdity of that sentence, Ryland dropped the theatrical snap, reached down, and gently took Simon’s hand. With a warm, encouraging tug, he coaxed Simon up from the cushions.
Simon stumbled slightly as he rose, the mild vertigo of the wine mixing with the sudden movement, and he instantly looked down at their feet to avoid Ryland’s bright, victorious gaze. He stood largely rigid at first, his left side automatically pulling back a fraction in a defensive, self-conscious habit. Ryland didn't let him retreat. Slowly, deliberately, Ryland brought his right hand up, letting his palm rest gently but securely on Simon’s shoulder, grounding him. With Simon’s right hand securely in his left and his right hand steadying Simon’s shoulder, they were locked in a loose, comfortable frame. Ryland began to sway them side to side, a simple, easy rhythm that didn't require any complex footwork.
Even this close, Ryland didn't drop the act. He leaned in slightly, mimicking Fred Schneider’s sharp, nasal, dramatic staccato right at Simon:
“Boys in-AND bikinis…”
Ryland tripped over the lyric, his brain short-circuiting just a fraction as he stared directly into Simon's eyes while singing about boys in revealing swimwear. He caught himself a beat too late, a sudden, very real flush of hot pink blooming across his own cheeks to match his wine buzz. He recovered quickly, throwing himself back into the rhythm with a slightly louder, over-compensating shout: “…Girls and surfboards! Twistin’ round the fire, havin’ fun! ...Bakin’ potatoes, bakin’ in the sun!”
A genuine, helpless chuckle finally escaped Simon, his eyes crinkling as he caught the sudden bashfulness behind Ryland's bravado. The combination of the ridiculous lyrics, the slip-up, and the pleasant, heavy warmth of the wine completely broke through his defenses. He kept his head down, a soft, shy smile playing on his lips as he watched their feet move, but his body actually began to sway with the movement. He let himself follow Ryland’s lead, a muted, careful echo of the rhythm. Step left. Step right.
“See? You’re doing it,” Ryland murmured, his voice dropping its goofy accent for just a second, entirely warm and fond.
Simon’s chin finally lifted, his eyes rising from their shoes to meet Ryland’s. The hyper-vigilant, exhausted lines around his eyes had completely softened, replaced by a quiet, incredulous warmth. He was still blushing, his cheeks flushed from both the wine and the attention, but he didn't pull away. He just let himself be held, dancing to a song about a rock lobster in a room full of alien musical chords.
As the final, chaotic surf-rock notes faded out, replaced by the digital hiss of the karaoke program resetting, the room was instantly filled with a frantic clatter of hard carapace on the floorboards.
“Rocky’s turn now! Statement. No more weird human mating dances,” the translator speaker blared, clicking furiously as the Eridian practically scrambled toward the laptop to queue up his choice.
Ryland laughed, finally letting go of the dance frame, but with the wine making his own balance a little soft, he didn't let Simon get very far. He guided Simon back toward the couch, collapsing heavily onto the cushions and pulling Simon right down with him. In the cramped space of the sofa, they ended up completely tangled together- Simon practically sitting in Ryland's lap, his back pressed against Ryland’s chest, completely surrounded by his warmth.
Simon didn't try to adjust or create distance. Heavy and content with the alcohol humming in his system, he just let out a long, quiet exhale, his posture entirely relaxed as Ryland wrapped his arms securely around his waist, resting his chin right on Simon’s shoulder.
Across the room, Adrien emitted a low, resonant chord of approval, settling into her own spot as Rocky began aggressively tapping at the keyboard with a claw.
"Do it, Rocky!" Ryland shouted toward the laptop, his voice full of pure, unadulterated hype as he squeezed Simon a little tighter. "Show 'em how it's done! Give us the Eridian remix!"
Simon tucked his head back against Ryland's neck, a smile settled on his face. The music started up again- something loud, electronic, and entirely unsuited for alien translation- and for the first time in a very long time, the world outside this room didn't matter at all.