A/N: I got this idea after a conversation with my sister, who couldn't help but laugh at the fact that off-stage, the boys' lives played out like Goodfellas, but on-stage, they were there with the big smiles and the catchy numbers and those sharp dance moves. She wondered aloud how they even managed to rehearse the steps without feeling stupid... and then the idea grew and grew and - well. This is it. It's just a bit of silliness for a Wednesday afternoon!
Disclaimer: Frankie Valli, Tommy DeVito, Nick Massi and Bob Gaudio are their own people. This probably never actually happened. I would love it if it did, but it probably didn't. Please, don't sue me for libel. Thank you. I own absolutely nothing but a love of the music and a rapidly growing addiction to John Lloyd Young's face.
Frankie and Bob heard Tommy's roar of frustration from the other end of the corridor. They looked at each other for a moment, eyebrows raised in surprise, before shrugging and turning their attention back to the music sheet in front of them.
"I dunno, Bob - it doesn't look right to me," Frankie said, his fingertips tracing over the notes as he leaned over Bob's shoulder. Bob absently played three chords on the piano before turning and looking up at him.
"I think I know how to write harmonies, Frankie," he said, impatiently. Frankie shook his head.
"No, it's not the harmonies, it's this middle eight section. There's something about it, it doesn't connect with the rest of the song," Frankie said, frowning. Bob took the sheet off him and started studying the section Frankie was pointing to. "It's just like one chord progression away - somethin' needs to link it."
"Son of a BITCH!"
Frankie and Bob stared at the empty doorway, fully expecting Tommy to burst into the room at any moment to rant about whatever his latest grievance was.
"What's with him?" Bob asked, jerking his head towards the corridor. Frankie shook his head.
"What's ever up with Tommy?" he said with a breath of laughter. He tapped the music sheet. "I'm serious, will ya just take a look at this?"
"Left! You go left, Tommy!" they heard Nick shout, his patience finally wearing out. "Other left, jackass!" Frankie and Bob looked at each other, their expressions completely incredulous.
"What the hell?" Bob asked, finally turning around and standing up. Frankie had already poked his head around the door and looked down the corridor to see if there were any further signs of life from Tommy and Nick's room.
Everything seemed to have gone deathly silent from inside the room and Frankie exchanged a worried glance with Bob. Bob nodded his understanding and they jogged down the corridor to the appropriate door. They listened for a moment and couldn't hear anything, until Tommy finally let out another groan of despair.
"I am fucking TRYING to go fucking left, but you keep fucking changing which direction left fucking IS, NICKY!" he shouted, the vein in his temple starting to throb. By this time, Frankie and Bob daren't even begin to imagine what on earth was happening behind the door.
"The fuck is his problem?" Frankie muttered, knocking loudly on the door. "Will you two stop murderin' each other in there?!" he yelled. Moments later, the door opened and a red-faced Nick stood before him, a bloodthirsty gleam in his eye. Frankie knew that if somebody didn't separate them soon, one or both of them would end up in hospital.
"He's an asshole, I ain't talkin' to him," Nick grunted, before storming out of the room and down the corridor in disgust. Bob and Frankie looked at Tommy, who attempted to look innocent.
"Hand to God, it was not me this time!" he insisted.
"It's like havin' a child, you know that?" Frankie asked, shaking his head as he walked in. "Francine gives me less trouble than you do and she's three years old."
"What happened?" Bob asked. Tommy glared at him for an instant before turning to Frankie and directing the conversation to him. Bob sighed. They'd gone straight to number one with their first single, which he himself had written - and still Tommy thought he was just the new boy that he could fire at will.
"It's this stupid dance for the television we gotta do. I can't fuckin'... I... who the fuck dances when they sing?" Tommy demanded, his eyes flashing angrily.
"You never danced before, Tommy? What about with girls?" Frankie asked, incredulously. Tommy looked away and shifted from one foot to the other uncomfortably.
"I kinda skip the dancin' part," he muttered. Frankie and Bob looked at each other and promptly burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter, which only made Tommy more angry. "Fine, you ain't gonna help, fine - we all look like a bunch of punks on the screen - not my problem!" he shouted, throwing himself backwards onto his bed. "I don't gotta fuckin' dance, I got a fuckin' guitar on my fuckin' back! These goddam television idiots don't know what a musician looks like!"
"Fine, fine, c'mon, we'll show you, it's easy," Frankie said in a soothing voice, patting Tommy's shoulder comfortingly. "We can't have you makin' us look bad out there!"
While Frankie and Bob expended every last possible drop of their patience into teaching Tommy how to complete the very simple dance steps, Nick headed straight to the hotel bar and sat down, rubbing his hands wearily over his face.
"What'll it be?" the bartender asked with a friendly smile. Nick shook his head.
"I don't care, just make it wet and large," he said, resting his elbows on the bar and burying his face in his hands. He felt a gentle tap on his shoulder and he looked up to see a pretty blonde girl with a mischievous smile stood before him. "Can I help you?" he asked, quickly finding his most charming smile and bestowing it upon her.
"May I sit here?" she asked, expectantly. He nodded. "You're not waiting for anyone?" she asked as he helped her onto the barstool.
"Getting away from someone," he said, shaking his head. She raised her eyebrows, a little curious. "You ever hear the best way to win a war, beautiful?" he asked.
"You get the tiny victories," he answered with a grin, indicating a space of about an inch between his thumb and forefinger. He suddenly started chuckling to himself and shaking his head.
"What is it?" she asked, an equal mixture of confused and amused.
"I'm on television tomorrow night with my group," he began. Her eyes widened and he grinned. "We got a few steps to do durin' the number and the guy I room with is, pardon my language, a real asshole. So he was practicin' tonight and... I coulda screwed with his head over which way's right and which is left, maybe accidentally on purpose," he admitted. She let out a shout of laughter and he giggled. "That idiot's probably still there now twistin' to the left when he should be goin' right!"
"Which show are you on tomorrow?" she asked. "So I know to catch it and look out for you?"
"Let me buy you a drink," he offered, signalling to the bartender. "First, let me ask you a question," he said, watching carefully as the bartender poured out a large Martini into a glass.
"Fire away," she answered. He grinned at her and leaned closer to her, so that his lips tickled her earlobe as he spoke in a low voice.
"What shall we have for breakfast?"