Chapter Text
Ridoc lived for moments like this.
The lights were dim, the mic was slightly damp (ew, and he was the first person?!), and someone had just finished fiddling with the dodgy AUX cable like they were preparing for brain surgery. Help. The ancient karaoke machine at Chantara’s gave a sad little beep as it loaded his song.
His song.
Ridoc cracked his knuckles like he was stepping into the ring. First performance of the night. The opener. The curtain-raiser. The vibe-setter.
It couldn’t really be anyone else, could it?
He had set himself precisely three goals:
- Electrify the crowd.
- Sweat profusely.
- Not fall off the stage (this time).
The lights flickered. He could feel his leg bouncing like a jackhammer. His ADHD was his co-pilot and tonight, they were taking this rocket ship to space.
The first piano note hit and Ridoc was off.
“Tonight I’m gonna have myself a real good time–”
He stayed as still as he could without bouncing on the balls of his feet, using his hand to dramatically gesture as he sang.
“I feel ali-i-i-i-ive–”
He did feel alive. Possibly too alive. Heart pounding, brain spinning, voice not so much singing as screaming on pitch with effervescent determination.
The bar was only half full, half paying attention – even among their crowd – but he didn’t care. He was a one-man tornado in skinny jeans and a sequinned bomber jacket he'd definitely nicked from Nadine’s closet.
“And the woooooorld, I’ll turn it inside out, yeah! Floating around in ecstasy, so… Don’t. Stop. Me. Nooooowww…”
He punctuated each line of the chorus with a head snap – as if he were looking into multiple different cameras and breaking the fourth wall. God he was born to be on stage.
He air-guitared the chord progression like Brian May had personally anointed him, spun on one heel, and nearly crashed into the speakers. Close call. Didn’t matter. Onwards, Ridoc! Then he launched across the stage like a caffeinated pinball, pointing at random people like they were old friends or mortal enemies (he hadn't decided yet).
“I’m a shooting staaaaar leaping through the skyyyyy like a tiiiiiger–”
He mimed claws. Actual claws. Literal growling. Xaden, standing at the bar, choked on his peanuts.
He danced like his limbs were controlled by different choreographers. There was no logic, no grace – just pure, unfiltered chaos. One arm was doing jazz hands, the other pointed accusingly at Violet’s brother, Brennan, eating chips. His leg kicked up so high behind him that he nearly dislocated his hip.
“I’M BURNING THROUGH THE SKYYY – YEAH!”
He dropped to his knees. Slid. Caught his own reflection in the jukebox and winked at himself. You magnificent idiot, he thought. You’re doing the Lord’s work.
He got the first proper laugh from the crowd around verse two, when he climbed onto a barstool and used a lemon wedge as a makeshift spotlight, gyrating and thrusting his hips as he held it above his head like a Shakespearean prop.
“DON’T STOP ME NOW!”
He screamed it like a battle cry.
“I’m having such a good time!”
He turned and hip-thrusted at Brennan again, who merely rolled his eyes like he couldn’t care less about Ridoc’s childish antics. Which, his loss really.
“I’m having a BAAAALL!”
Then the guitar break hit. Game over.
He leapt from the stool. He did three spins, a faux-striptease that involved nothing coming off, and a cartwheel that somehow, miraculously, didn’t end in blood.
He pointed at the ceiling, sweaty, red-faced, triumphant.
“I’m a sex machine ready to reload–”
Somebody spat their drink. He took it as applause. Literally nothing could stop him now, this was such a good song choice!
By the time he hit the final chorus, the room had transformed. People were clapping, laughing, shouting the lyrics back at him. Even the bartender, Felix – normally emotionally reserved to the point of catatonia – was nodding along.
“DON’T STOP ME, DON’T STOP ME, DON’T STOP MEEE—HEY HEY HEY!”
Final note. Full Freddie. He held it as long as his lungs would allow, then collapsed into a full dramatic bow, head nearly hitting the mic stand.
Silence.
Then – cheers. Claps. A whistle. Someone – Sawyer probably – yelled, “You alright, mate?!”
He stood, beaming, drenched in sweat, heart pounding like a drumline.
“Now it’s a party!” he declared, chest heaving. “You’re welcome, Chantara’s!”
He dropped the mic – not on purpose, just lost in his sweaty grip – and moonwalked off stage, tripping on a speaker wire but catching himself with jazz hands.
Flawless.
And now the party could actually begin.