You were so glad that you bought VIP tickets those few months ago to see your favorite singer. All those conversations led up to this very moment, being in the house that Charlie had bought with his newfound fame. You both sat in his room, and he seemed to be a couple of drinks deep, trying to teach you how to sing, the hard stuff. Vocal riffs, death metal screams, the whole lot.

To give him credit, his voice never faltered, even when he was woozy on good booze. In fact, he seemed to grow an intolerance, having downed so much while saving the world. He sat, in casual yet formal wear, his body slumped in a manspread while he swung his microphone around stylishly by the cord. He would catch it every so often to call out to you, despite you being in his room. You found it kind of silly as he spoke, thick aussie accent with a scratchy timbre, nearly cooing to you in his state.

"Maybe you'll be lead singer at this rate, Sweetie."

He jabbed, a grin on his face as he lowered his head and began to swing the mic again, green hair covering his eyes as per usual.