He's tired. Tired of working, tired of Bayfield, tired of his cats pissing outside the litter pan. Pretty much just plain pooped. He needed to get out, away from his shop. Things were busy and customers got pushy. So he goes to a bar.

The music's a far cry from his preferred entertainment and the drink not what he's used to. Whatever works, right?

Ethan sits at the bar in line with everyone else, drink hanging lazily in his hand while he watches the people. An old bomber jacket is almost enveloping him, the soft brown leather folding like silk. His curly hair's braided and tucked under the coat, it gets snagged too easily in places like this.

He shakes his head ruefully at the dance floor. Civilization really has plummeted, hasn't it? They remind him of cavemen, all the grunting and shoving. Where's the romance in it?

He fingers his human ears. It's a pity, he comes here to relax and can't even let down the glamour. Is that even relaxing at all?

He misses his real ears.

It'd be nice to say the crowd parts for Jason Wallace. It doesn't, but in a place like this, his flamboyantly bright clothing stands out and makes it almost seem that he is, indeed, parting the dark tide of eople as he moves through.

Dressed in an electric blue shirt pinstriped with bright green, bright pink and black, he looks something like a neon light, or maybe like a model from a gay magazine, come to life. his eyes are lightly dusted with blue sparkles, his brown hair's streaked through with electric blue chunks, and his jeans are faded and nicely tight. He gives an over-the-top wave to omeone he knows across the room, and then lands at his final destination-- the bar.

"Fuzzy Peach," he orders, and slides into a stool. Glancing across at Ethan-- noting that he's an elf despite the glamour-- the 22-year-old fae nods an acknowledgement frm one forgotten race to another.

Noted. He raises his glass in response before he downs it and gets a refill. He chuckles then, only a fae could be that secure. It's a nice sound, the way it seems to naturally flow out of him.

If he's going to be out, he might as well make friends.

"Good evening."

Or, at the very least, begin a conversation.

The brightly-coloured fae snaps off a salute in response, then grabs his ordered drink as it's slid across to him.

"Good? Hell, hun, it's great."

He takes a sip, smiling. The smie is full of self-confidence simply because Jay is, too.

"Yeah? Why's that, my friend?"

Ethan takes immediately to calling Jay a friend becuase that's just the type of person he is. A companion, a friend, a drinking partner, someone other than his pets to talk to.

Jay's everyone's friend. The amiability is part personal inclination, part a species thing. The fae may be capricious and self-centered, but they're capricious and self-centered in a social way.

"Oh, the music, the drinks, the company, the fact that I just got an A on my most recent film project-- your choice."

He raises his glass a biy.

"Cheers to ears!"

"Indeed," he raises his glass again, "Ears are the best thing about our kind." In his opinion, anyway.

"The music I can do without, though. 'S not my cuppa tea."

"'mnot an elf. But," he shrugs, "We're kin."

He glances around the room. "Oh, come on, honeybun-- what's wrong with the music? What'd you prefer?"

Yes, he does call everyone by the kinds of pet names that normal epople reserve for intimates.

Fae, elf--not much difference in his book.

"Music than can make you feel something," he looks down at his drink, then back, "You know, classical, baroque."

There's a big difference in Jay's book, but then-- they're all part of the folk, right?

"Oh, come on. You can't dance to baroque."

Plnating his chin on his hand and his elbow firmly on the bar, Jay inspects Ethan with eyes that can't compete with the bright blue sparkle-shadow, as light as it is.

"That's some accent you've got there."

He smiles again, another laugh accompanying it, then shakes his head before he looks at Jay.

"They've been doing it for hundreds of years, mate. Ever heard of the waltz?"

The grin turned a bit embarassed.

"Thanks, Australian if you couldn't tell."

Of course he could tell, anyone could tell. Ethan still felt he needed to explain himself.

Jay'd thought it was british, so he doesn't say anything. instead, he shakes his head dismissively.

"Don't you have to dance at least a foot apart? No way, doll. Can't dance to it. There's nothing sexy about a waltz."

And, well, consider Jay. Consider his personality and consider his species. of course he has certai expectations for dancing.

"You've never watched a waltz before, have you? The foxtrot, the mumba, quickstep, all dancing can be sexual. It just takes the right partners to make it work."

His parents had competed once, nothing big. Everyone could see the energy with them. The passion they had was what made the dance.

Oh well, to each his own.

"What about you, then? What would your idea of a good dance be?"

"Real close. Real hot. Lots of movement. You know... freestyle."

He winks.

"So, what're you doing in canada?"

He's trying to hold it back. Really, he is. There's just no helping him.

The fae winked at him and he just can't help himself.

It starts as a shaking of the shoulders until the covulsions seem to take over his body. A chuckle begins until it's full fledged roaring laughter.

It's not his fault. Really.

Luckily, Jay's good-natured. Er. Sort of.

"Whoah," he says, his grin widening, "Had a few too many already? I ahven't said anything that funny, though i know my natural charms are overhwelming."

Yes. Overwhelming. Of course.

"What, like this cheap stuff can get me drunk?" he shakes his head, "No, mate it was just--"

He starts up again, simply at the memory.

"It could if you had, like, thirty. I dunno how long you've been here."

He takes a sip of his drink, waiting for the elf to calm down.

He calms down, eventually, wiping a tear from his eye.

"I apologize. Whoo, that was funny, though."

Jay's probably still wondering what's so funny. Damned if he's going to tell him.

"Right."

Revise earlier estimate. Elves are crazy.

He glances off into the crowd, a smile still lingering on his slightly glossed lips.

"So, what bings you to canada?" We'll try again.

"Australia can get boring after so many years."

Partially. There are only so many times you can stand an aborigonal tribe chasing you with sacrifices. Stupid parents wanted to live someplace "quiet."

"Plus," he adds, "There isn't much a market for motorcycles down there. Whereas here people like to go fast and die in fiery explosions."

Err...right...

"I plan on dying by being crushed by an elephant atthe moment of orgasm while cushioned between two or three beautiful young men"

Cheers to anyone who knows where he stole that from.

"But I hear motorcycles are good, too. You sell them?"

"Good goal to live by."

Only if you're gay or female. Ethan is, unfortunately, neither. Pity. He'd have made a pretty lady.

He scratches his beard with a proud expression.

"Buy, sell, repair and custom. I even throw in a little auto work on the side. Why, you interested?"

Let it never be said that he let the opportunity for a sale pass him by.

"Nah, I don't ride." Pause. "Motorcycles."

Dirty mind, dirty mouth.

"Been doing good business?" Making conversation much?

His eyes wrinkle in the beginnings of a smile.

"Yeah, actually. It seems the guys at the track have been getting the word around. People do all sorts of things to their rides on Pete's courses. Bad for them, good business for me."

He takes another swig of his drink and considers entering a race tonight(if there is one).

"What about you, you mentioned something about film? You a student?"

"Keaton, grad studies. Film. Independant stuff."

Most of his films are in black and white. Few of them make sense to non-film majors.

"It's a good life."

"That's good. So, what, you gonna be a director, prop manager, that sort of thing?"

Small talk, polite 'get to know you' kind of stuff. It's not that he's not interested, but it's beginning to get boring. He starts playing with his ears again, trying to feel what should be there(but isn't) because he's so used to have something to do with his hands.

So it had been another average day. Most average days at least had emotion and tone, but not Nicht’s. Nicht’s average days were like scenes shot in monotone color, muted hues of grey and white. Business suits and asphalt roads, paper work and computer screens. Nicht, as usual, craved just a little color. For instance, green.

Nicht walks with his usual gait, hips swaying slightly, long black hair tucked behind his birth defects. Jacket slung over his arm, he approaches the bar, and then leans against it. Once he has the attention of the barkeep, he orders.

“Absinthe. On the rocks.”

He slams down some money and takes his drink. After a self-depreciating stare into the emerald liquid, he downs it. So much for colors.

"Neh, just... well, hello there."

Behind him he hears the jingle of ice cubes, and when he turns around, well, behind him at the bar is a rather cute young elf... with his ears showing.

Jay's eyebrows lift.

"Aren't you the obvious type." This is directed to Nicht.

That's just not fair. Not in Ethan's opinion, anyway. Here he is having to keep up a spell while this bloke's sitting plain as day with his ears exposed. It almost puts all of their hard work at secrecy to naught.

He continues rubbing his hidden ears.

Nicht is initially shocked that anyone speaks to him at all. But once that surprise wears off, he scowls. Isn’t he the obvious type? Obvious what? Obviously uncomfortable, obviously annoyed, obviously an alcoholic? That was it; he was sure.

Nicht tightens his grip on his glass, and places it down on the bar with exaggerated false calm. His other hand rests on the same surface. Barely turning to Jay at all, he responds.

“We all have our bad habits.”

Cute but bitter. Jay shoots a 'well would you look at this' glance at Ethan, then turns back to Nicht.

"Yeah, but your bad habit'll get us in trouble, too. I hope you tell people they're fake."

He says this low enough that is won't be broadcast to the entire bar. besides, this is Dark-- the 'tender's innish and so are a decent percentage of regulars.

"The least you could do is let your hair down over 'em and not be so damn righteous about it. Your 'bad habits' could expose us all, kid."

He was being a little sore, of course. It's not like he enjoys the secrecy but it's there for a reason. The kid should know better.

He tries to keep control of himself, not to over-react, and not to respond harshly to curiosity. He doesn’t mind a question about them, here or there. Really. But the comments are more than he is prepared to deal with, especially since it seems to be some sort of inside joke.

“Fuck off. It’s not funny. I was born this way. Christ, you’d think some people would have the fucking common courtesy to keep their fucking traps shut about fucking birth defects…”

He orders another.

"Birth defects," Jay bursts out, the words riding on the tip of a never-pronounced disbelieving laugh.

He turns to Ethan, his eyebrows raised-- not sure whether to laugh or be insulted.

"Birth defects?"

Ethan chooses to laugh, following the natural way he deals with most things: humor and good nature.

"Birth defects? You call those birth defects? Kid, you should see mine. You ain't got nothing on me."

So he's not proud of his heritage? They're going to have to change that.

"It seems we have ourselves a little family reunion," refering to their kindred species, "What say you introduce yourself?"

Nicht hates being thrown off balance. He is used to snide remarks about his physical deformities, but none have ever seemed as well-thought out and cruel as these do. He offers a stiff smirk and tenses up, bristling.

He turns to face them both fully, in a sort of sparkling disbelief. If you don’t look at the full glass of Absinthe in his right hand, he looks almost innocent.

“My name is Nick G. Robinson. I’m an attorney. I don’t know how malformations make us family.”

Nicht – it sounds like Nick, so he goes by it. Gwydion. It’s just plain odd. So he shortens it to ‘G’. Robinson. The only name he’s not ashamed of.

"Jason Wallace, film student. I'm surprised you didn't see right through my glam." Glamour-- the illusion he's using to round his ears.

"But hey, come over here, sit with us."

He tips his glass in a mild greeting, smile still in place.

"Ethan Alvey, or Jake. Whichever. Thought crossed my mind, too. Is that why you're so pessimistic?"

Nicht could name a hundred reasons not to sit next to the boy covered in neon colors. But he ignores his logic for a moment, and sits next to him. After all, he came for color. And this guy was covered in it.

“Jake. Jason.”

He nods to each in greeting, and dips the tip of his tongue into the greenish liquid in his glass.

“I was born pessimistic.”