A knot formed in Amari’s throat at the introduction and he only nodded again, pulling his hand away from Yangyang and continuing to the stage. He heard a light chuckle behind him and felt embarrassed for no particular reason.

Before he reached the stairs, Ziggy quickly called out from behind. “Ah, Scotty, they are old school, so there are a lot of cords and cables up there, tsé?”

Raising his hand as a thank you, he shifted his steps slightly to make sure he wouldn’t trip. The drummer was still fooling around, not playing anything seriously, and Amari barely waved in the person’s direction as a greeting. The bassist was wandering, plucking a few strings to test the amp, so he ignored them.

Some bands liked to bring their own roadies or do their own setup, but most left it up to Ziggy, and he always kept the stage arrangement the same. The Basement was no concert hall. Most of the musicians it hosted were local indie bands, area singer-songwriters, or other small-time artists. They didn’t bring or need anything elaborate.

Amari initially wondered if it had always been this way or if Ziggy did it for him, but he quickly dropped such a self-centered idea. Though he was always joking and flirting, the man was serious when it came to business. He wasn’t the type to make changes just to convenience one person.

He shuffled slowly toward the mic at the center of the stage, banging into something on his way. He winced, having stubbed the same toe twice in an hour, but this time he made no noise.

Fucking pedal boards, he thought, and let out a breath as he continued around the object.

“Test, test.”

He blew into the mic, then tapped a few times, making sure the sounds echoed well and there was no feedback. Just to the side of the mic stand, he felt out the guitar, slowly picking it up. Running his fingers down the fretboard, then along the body, he tried to picture it in his mind. Fender Strat, maybe. It was already plugged in, and he was about to strum, when a hand reached out and grabbed the neck.

“The amp isn’t on,” said Ziggy in a quiet voice, gently pulling the guitar away from Amari’s grasp. “How about I play today, hein? I am a little rusty, but still better than you.”

The last comment was playful, but caring, and he nodded.

There was more shuffling on the stage, another guitar plugged in, amps turning on, and from behind the pedal board, a clear C chord rang out.

“I should probably do introductions,” said Yangyang, muting his strings. “Scotty, this is our drummer, Bowen, and Zach, our bassist.”

Amari raised a hand but didn’t turn.

“I guess if Scotty’s singing, he should pick the song?” Yangyang’s voice was close, and Amari fought to stop his gaze from shifting in that direction.

“C'est bon. He has pretty varied taste.” Ziggy’s tone was full of confident pride, as if Amari was his own son. “As long as it isn’t too obscure, he’ll know it.”

“Yeah?”

Yangyang paused, making a clear humming sound as he thought of something he wanted to play.

“Let’s have some fun then? Can’t pick anything too new, or the old man won’t know it.” Ziggy only snorted in reply, and continued adjusting the volume of his amp. “Black Keys, Lonely Boy? I can sing backup on the chorus.”

Amari gave a thumbs up in his direction and stepped closer to the mic. Ziggy started rhythm, drums joining right after, and Yangyang came in on lead, with a perfectly distorted sound. It had been a while since Amari had sung with a full band, especially one as polished as this group, and he couldn’t hold back a smirk.

As he started singing, he heard the briefest falter in Yangyang’s strumming, and his smirk almost turned to a smile. He didn’t typically care what people thought of his voice, and he regularly ignored compliments, but for some reason, the idea of catching this guitarist off-guard made him a bit happy.

His voice was heavier and more soulful than one would expect to come from his small body, but it was still clean and pure. If he had been singing casually on the street, it was a voice that seemed to go well with pop or ballads, but singing rock with a band behind him, he gave the song a unique sound, showing a deeper, bluesy side of himself.

Oh whoa oh-oh...

Yangyang’s vocals weren’t bad in the chorus, but his guitar far surpassed any talent he had in singing. Even in this simple song, he shined, and Amari was unconsciously pulled along with the sound.

By the end of the three-minute song, he felt loose and calm, and he was smiling, only thinking about what they would play next. He heard a deep chuckle come from beside him and froze, realizing he had lost himself too much in the music.

“Well, that was unexpected.” Yangyang was delighted, an excitement in his tone. “Scotty, your voice is... Why are you working here, and not out there singing?”

He didn’t respond and didn’t turn to look in Yangyang’s direction. After a moment, he heard him shift on the stage.

“Well, let’s play another, yeah?”

The others agreed and Amari nodded. Cage the Elephant, Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked - Arctic Monkeys, Do I Wanna Know - The Libertines, Can’t Stand Me Now, and finally The Strokes, Reptilia, during which, Amari immediately turned toward Yangyang, his riffs so effortless he felt slightly disappointed he couldn’t see him play.

By the end, he was sweaty and tired. He had never moved so much or sung so loud on a stage, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so good. Closing his eyes, he tilted his head back and took in a few deep breaths, jumping at the sudden touch of a hand on his shoulder.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Yangyang’s voice was back to normal, deep and kind, and his hand moved away.

“That’s okay,” replied Amari quietly, lowering his head, but not opening his eyes.

“I just wanted to say that you were amazing.” He was unplugging and packing his pedal board as he spoke. “I wasn’t expecting you to be able to sing all of those.”

“Yeah...”

Amari wasn’t sure how to respond, scratching timidly at the side of his head. He rarely spoke to anyone other than Ziggy and Cate, not willingly, and making conversation wasn’t a skill he possessed.

His eyes wandered around the club floor to avoid the man next to him. “I spend a lot of time listening to music.”

“You have good taste, apparently.” Yangyang had stepped up closer, finished with his packing. “Are you hungry? Come eat some of that lasagna with me. And maybe there’s a spare beer somewhere?”

Amari moved away a little. “I should help Zig.”

Part of him wanted to continue talking, but part of him said to end it, a panicked warning in the back of his mind to stop here.

“Scotty, c'est bon, là,” called Ziggy from the back corner of the stage. “We’re fine here. Go heat up the pan so we can all eat when we’re done.”

Amari turned and scowled at his friend, then sighed, gesturing for Yangyang to follow him.

“You can wait at the bar. There’s beer in the fridge back there. I’ll throw the food in the oven.”

He carefully made his way off the stage, intentionally walking down the side of the room so he could run his hand along the entire bar counter, searching for the pan. His fingers hit the edge and he grabbed it, directing Yangyang to sit. As he walked away, he heard the the cap pop off a beer bottle, followed by a satisfied sigh.

When the food was finished heating, Amari brought it back to the bar and placed it near Yangyang, then took a seat a couple stools away. The man laughed at his actions and shifted to sit beside him.

“I’m not going to bite you or anything,” he said softly, joking but understanding at the same time. “You’re pretty anti-social, aren’t you?”

Amari spread his arms out in front of him, resting his face between them. Without thinking, he gave him a muffled “uh-huh” in reply.

Shit. Why’d I actually respond to that? He sighed inside his arms.

“That’s too bad. I had a good time tonight. It’s been years since I’ve jammed that comfortably on stage. My sister Yinyi is our vocalist, but your voice... Well, it isn’t the same. You have a great ear.” Yangyang paused a second, the added, “Thanks. For singing with us.”

The genuine pleasure in his tone made Amari's head turn in his direction. “Uh, yeah. It was fun.” The words came out on their own, but he was glad he said them.