In this fic, Anthony and Sören are almost the same age [Anthony is 22, Sören is 20] and Nicholas is in his early 40s, so if you're saying "huh?" because you're used to more of an age gap with Anthony and Sören, and Nicholas being over 50, playing timey-wimey was how I made this AU make sense.
The band name Mystic Rectangle is a shout-out to Daria and also rectangles are an in-joke with SemperViridis. Also, there's a shout-out to Weird Al!
Seattle, Washington
February 1992
"No, no, that won't bloody do."
Macalaurë Fëanorion - living among mortals as Mark Lauer - dramatically dropped his mic and scowled, while Nicholas winced and Sören clapped his ears with a squeak at the feedback. Though Mark and his bandmates were also lovers, Mark really didn't want music critique from a twenty-two-year-old British punk.
And that was precisely what Anthony Hewlett-Johnson gave, once Mark cut the mic feedback. "Your voice is too pretty for this song. If we're going to cover Nirvana, we have to do it right. You need to... sing in a harsher, raspier, kinda whiny voice."
"And you're too precise articulating the words," Sören said, his Icelandic accent rolling its r-sounds in a way that was usually quite pleasing to Mark under other circumstances but hit like bullets now. A twenty-year-old Icelander who failed Eurovision a year ago was even less qualified to critique Maglor's singing, but here they were.
Anthony nodded solemnly. "You need to, like, mumble."
Nicholas sighed and lowered his head. "As you know, they're correct. What is it the youth say? Harsh realm."
"Mkay." Mark rolled his eyes. Of course, he was familiar with what Kurt Cobain sounded like - he was the one who suggested that Mystic Rectangle add a cover of "Smells Like Teen Spirit" to its live performances. And he knew that the criticism was valid, but he was still annoyed by it.
We'll make it up to you later, Sören spoke into his mind with ósanwe and a knowing look. Mark couldn't help but smirk in response.
"Here," Anthony said, picking up on Mark's tension, coming over to give a supportive hug. "I know what will help."
Anthony put down his metallic-shimmer navy blue Fender guitar, Sören rested his flames-on-black Ibanez bass, and Nicholas rose from his Tama drums. They went over to the corner of the studio garage where there was an old beat-up grey couch and some colorful beanbag chairs; Anthony sat next to Mark, while Nicholas's exceptionally tall frame looked ridiculous in a bright blue beanbag chair on the floor.
Sören rolled a joint and they passed it around. When the buzz kicked in, Mark dropped his glamour, revealing his pointy ears as his hair flowed down from the middle of his back to his waist, his eyes went from plain grey to iridescent silver, and the air glowed faintly silver-gold around him - not that his boyfriends compelled him to disguise himself but it was force of habit to blend in with humans and not cause incident. It was bad enough they had to keep the true nature of their relationship to one another a secret in a homophobic society, never mind the world finding out Mark Lauer, lead singer and rhythm guitarist of the up-and-coming Mystic Rectangle, was not actually human.
Mark found himself calming down about the criticism, looking fondly at the men he loved and who loved and accepted him as he was: Sören with his shoulder-length black curls and short beard framing full lips, the sweet expressive brown eyes, wearing a red plaid flannel shirt over a heather grey T-shirt. Anthony, with spiky black hair and green eyes behind wire-rim glasses, with black nail polish and heavy eye makeup, wearing a black Joy Division short-sleeved T-shirt over a long-sleeved charcoal grey thermal shirt. Nicholas, in his early forties, with greying dark hair and beard and dark eyes, olive-complexioned and handsome in a severe way, wearing a cozy brown knit sweater and the only one of the four men who was not in ripped jeans. They weren't just easy on the eyes but Mark found them endearing - Sören was a sad clown, Anthony was a snarky jerk with a heart of gold, and Nicholas was icy reserve in public and all warmth and tender loving care to his chosen family. They made him feel alive again; Mark couldn't stay angry with them.
He would try, to keep the band afloat. To keep their dream alive.
"Try to mumble the song now," Anthony encouraged.
Mark took a few deep breaths, then began to sing the first verse of "Smells Like Teen Spirit". A few bars in, Sören and Anthony looked at each other - Anthony's eyebrows shot up and Sören pursed his lips.
Mark stopped. "What."
"It's not working. You're still too... understandable." Anthony scratched his head then stroked his chin, thinking for a moment. "Maybe just sing a mixture of the wrong lyrics and gibberish."
"Gibberish." Mark rolled the word around.
"Jæja," Sören spoke up. "Weird-sounding words that don't make sense."
"He knows what gibberish means," Nicholas said with a sour look on his face, crisply emphasizing the "hw-" of "what".
"I would think so, he has to listen to you."
Anthony snorted and Mark restrained a laugh at Nicholas and Sören bantering, which usually resulted in spankings for bratty Sören later. Mark resumed singing - and trying. "It's hard to bargle nawdle zouss with all these marbles in my mouth..."
Anthony facepalmed.
"Close!" Sören said with a thumbs up and an encouraging smile. Then his face fell. "Er, but not exactly."
"You've almost got the whiny rasp right but you're still..." Anthony made a vague hand gesture. "Try only gibberish this time, no real English words. And really mumble it. You've almost got the voice down."
The first thing that came to Mark's head was scat singing, but that was more of a jazz thing and would be comically out of place with grunge. Then he thought of Cocteau Twins and Liz Fraser's glossolalia-like vocalizations, and a lightbulb went off in his head.
He began to moan and slur the lyrics of the Noldolantë, in Quenya. It felt odd to be singing the words to a different melody... and yet also appropriate, considering "Smells Like Teen Spirit" was such a powerful anthem of disaffected youth.
It felt like an act of magic, like gently nudging the flow of the Song... the fate of his kin. Like he was transmuting poison, like he was lancing a fëa-deep wound and cleansing it, for himself and for all of them. To never yield to the Doom, never sell out to the Valar who were worse than useless. A denial.
"Holy shit," Anthony said when Mark was through, his eyes wide. "That's... convincing."
Sören and Nicholas nodded.
Mark gave a wry smile. "Smells like success."