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<Keagan> Most of his days were spent in the dark mausoleum, where layers of stone comforted him and concealed him. And his nights? He spent his nights juggling his responsibilities. Keagan maintained his position at the school, but he’d relinquished his job at the hospital. He’d given up his dream job and fallen back into the shadow of his illness. Imaginary figures and voices lured him away from the rest of the world, away from humans and vampires alike, and he became less of himself and more of another statistic. Keagan became a walking, talking mess of a man, one held together with the basic understanding of what it meant to have schizoaffective disorder and what it meant to be a vampire. Even though he had a line of communication with his sire, even though he had a line of communication with Castalia and Leiren, Keagan felt as if he’d been thrust into the world of vampires, as if he’d been thrust into life all over again. He was a newborn.

For the last three weeks, Keagan had been struggling to keep himself together. He woke up at a set time, and he went to sleep at a set time. He followed the strict regimen prescribed by his former physician. And yet, since his turning, he’d been unable to keep the pills down. He’d been unable to call forth his fangs. He rode the highs and lows, even though he did everything he could to maintain some semblance of balance. If it weren’t for his band, he might have given up and found some way to end his life. He would have found his maker and demanded she take what she had given him and stuff it up her ***. Keagan didn’t need her kindnesses: He didn’t need the job she’d given him or the money she’d given him. With every passing night, he fell into a dangerous pattern of mapping out incoherent thoughts. Only his brief meetings with familiar faces, fellow vampires, kept him from descending into absolute madness, or so he assumed.

Rita. His girlfriend. His ex-girlfriend. Keagan had yet to tell anyone about Rita, about what had happened between the two of them. Just the thought of Rita forced Keagan from his thoughts and broke the spell cast over him by the familiar tink and clink of connecting glasses. The Metronome Club had a stage, and it was a good venue for live performances, specifically acoustic sets, but Keagan wasn’t an overall fan of the environment. People came and went, so the noise level grated on his nerves. He’d grown more irritable with every passing night, and he knew he was reaching yet another breaking point. He’d disappear again, just as he’d disappeared before, and he’d reappear whenever he felt as if he could maintain himself. No, he told himself, he meant to think about Rita.

Keagan sat at the bar, his guitar case propped against his stool, and toyed with his shot glass. He slid the glass back and forth across the bar, always blocking the glass with his left hand. The rings on his fingers clinked against the glass, adding to the chorus of sounds coming from the rest of the club. Rita. He’d brought Rita to the Met once, and she’d loved the place. She’d wanted to dance for hours. Keagan had to glue himself to her side to make sure she wasn’t a snack for another of his kind, and she thought his behavior meant something more, something akin to commitment. Not every memory elicited the ghost of a smile. Not that long ago, he’d dumped Rita, the clingy, dim little broad from Coastside; Rita, the girl that made him want to stay out later to avoid going home to their place. Keagan cut off those thoughts and tugged his phone from within the right pocket of his jacket.

Cas, it’s acoustic night at the Met, r u in?

<Castalia> It had been months since she’d been human and the time had its ups and downs. Her ‘family’ often got on her nerves, although she’d created what she hoped was friendships amongst some of her ‘siblings’ and her sire was in her circle. As she had once said, Castalia would only check the Acheron board after she had coffee to maintain her temper and as she leaned onto her elbow as it rest on her desk, the woman stared at the computer screen with disinterest clear in her teal and hazel eyes. The apartment was quiet, her old place where she chose to go when she needed a place to think, a place she went when she hoped she would awaken and find it all to be a dream. Occasionally, she hoped that Nolan would be sitting on the edge of the bed, telling her it was all a mistake.

Shaking her head as these thoughts entered her mind, Castalia checked the auction house for more parts for Kika. When she didn’t find anything at a reasonable price, her fingers lingered over the cloak that sat to the left of her and after a moment, the brunette typed in the amount she wanted to sell and then placed her item up. Her shoulders rolled, a muscle pulling in her left one until she worked it out and stood. After tending to her businesses, she’d changed out of her slacks and blouse for something more comfortable, a pair of jeans and a purple tunic that she had bought at a Christmas sale to replace one that zombie gunk had ruined.
Castalia lifted her arms above her head and let out a small noise of pleasure before she padded barefoot back into the kitchen to collect half of the sandwich that Rhys had left her. When her phone made noise, she glanced towards the device and took a bite, the tanginess of mustard causing her to wrinkle her nose unhappily before she made her way over, bringing her snack with her. Collecting her device, she set her food down and used her clean hand to brush a few crumbs off her tunic after a grimace. “When’s the last time I heard from him?” She wondered. It had been a little while, hadn’t it? She contemplated if she still had contacts in the apartment and then frowned. Afterwards, she sent a text in reply: Yeah, I’m in. Bringing a friend. Pausing, she sent another text to Cedric, Going to the Metro with a friend. He’s a musician, too, you interested?

The next moment, Castalia went to put her sandwich away and washed her hands before heading to the bathroom where she flicked at the lightswitch. Her mismatched eyes moved to the medicine cabinet resting over the porcelain sink where the mirror had yet to be replaced. Standing in the small room brought the memory of her turning back to her and she could still feel the glass biting into her fist as she smashed the mirror in horror at the corpse she’d seen. It sent a chill down her spine, the raw wound of her beauty falling to pieces causing the woman to immediately open the cabinet and search for contacts.

“Rhys!” She shouted, knowing he was in the bedroom, “Where did you put the amber contact lens?” After he’d made a twilight joke at her expense, she’d pointedly worn them out in public with him the last time they went out.

<Cedric Costello> The nights were spent at restaurants and saloons, playing the piano for consumers who barely even listened. But he did it for the money; did it so that he might be able to afford his own place, one day. Where he’d have the piano elevated in the middle of the room. Maybe a rotating stage; maybe he’d hire a singer, too - a curvy, deep-voiced female who’d accompany the piano. It would be like stepping into the past. Yes, the more he thought about it, the more he wanted this place of his to come to fruition.

Some of the places he played didn’t need him every night, however, and there were only so many zombies he could slaughter to kill the time. When he received the text from Castalia, he was just stepping out of a new establishment - he’d been on foot, scouting the city looking for any bar or restaurant that had a piano inside. More often than not, the managers or owners thought he was overqualified. It was hard to get a paying gig in this city. Hard to get a job when all one really knew how to do was play a piano.

Cedric glanced down the street. The Metro. He thought he remembered it. Had he ever been inside to look for a job? He couldn’t remember. Maybe, maybe not. Maybe they didn’t offer the kind of job he was looking for. Whatever the case, it would be a change of scenery. And perhaps Castalia would enjoy the fact that he was clean, for once - she wouldn’t have to spray him with disinfectant or try to rub him clean with a small cloth. As he typed out his reply, he was smiling to himself.

I can meet you there. What time?

He didn’t wait for her to answer, though - he started to walk in the direction he knew the Metro to be. If he got there earlier, so be it. He would hang around - order something that he wouldn’t be able to drink, mingle. Though, to be honest, he wasn’t really the mingling type. Maybe he exuded an unintentional seriousness. It didn’t particularly bother him, but he did feel the need to widen his circle of acquaintances.

<Keagan> Keagan hadn’t anticipated her reply; he hadn’t anticipated her inviting a friend along. He wondered if she meant to bring along a date, not that the idea bothered him. In fact, the idea of her bringing along a date excited him. Good for her! If he were a liar, he might have thought those thoughts or mumbled those words, but he told the truth. For some God-awful reason, he always told the truth. So when he read the text message over again, he frowned at the words. He didn’t want her to bring a friend along. Three people should have been a perfect amount, where each one contributed to the group and they became a triangle. Triangles worked. Triangles were perfectly fine. He didn’t want to be a triangle. Triangles didn’t exist, not when it came to groups of people. One person always became the third wheel. Since Cas had been the one to announce that she was bringing a friend, that meant Keagan, without his consent, became the third wheel.

The changing chords brought him out of his momentary melancholy. He still had his own opportunity to perform, and his performance had become more of a need than simply a desire. His guitars kept him going. The music overcame the constant chatter, covering it like a blanket of beautiful noise.

“Hey, kid. You look like your dog died.” The patron beside him interrupted Keagan’s inner mantra and drowned out the sound of the music that had drifted from the back of the club. “Whoever she is, she ain’t worth it. Women, they come and go. Like my ex-wife. That *****. Ran off with my best friend. My best friend. Said I didn’t treat her right. I should have slapped her around. Treated her right--I bought her everything, I did everything she asked. Fifteen years of my life,” the man stopped, making a noise and a motion to signify his life going down the drain.

“I’m sure she’s as awful as you say, but I’d rather not talk about this with you. I don’t know you,” Keagan sighed. The look on the other man’s face was one of heartbreak. “Fine. Go on then. Let’s hear about your ex-wife. Then we’ll have a go at my ex-girlfriend.” And so Keagan listened to the man next to him and waited for his last name (Fitzgerald) to be called and his companions to appear.

<Castalia> It took her a few minutes, with Rhys’ help, to find her bag of contacts that she used to conceal her eye colors - she’d never liked the fact they weren’t the same color and her children had their father’s luck. With his arms folded across his chest, Castalia’s thrall and favorite bartender watched in amusement as she fussed with her appearance as she always did. “You having your boyfriend meet your other boyfriend tonight?” He asked and grimaced when she shot him a dirty look. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a proper response.” She hissed before looking back to her phone and looking down at the colored lens on her finger, and then carefully sliding it into place.

The grin was enough to tell her that he had gotten the reaction that he wanted. Her phone buzzed and Rhys read off the text message, Castalia putting in her second contact before blinking. “What should I tell him?” The man asked and followed her into the main part of the apartment again, tripping on a boot that had fallen as she collected her jacket. “Just that I’m heading there now, doesn’t matter when he gets there.” It had been Cedric’s turning that reminded Castalia of the cold weather, that she wouldn’t be wandering around without wearing another jacket, and as she watched Rhys send the text, she glanced around the room for her boots. “Try not to get hammered again?” He smirked at her, holding out the device after she had found her shoes and put them on.

“Bite me.” She replied, snatching her phone away and then patted herself down for her wallet. Afterwards, Castalia made a saluting motion as Rhys returned back to the bedroom where she could hear Breaking Benjamin beginning to play just before the door clicked shut behind her. Playing with her phone in her pocket as she walked, she stepped into the empty hallway before using her tome to the abandoned factory that Ambrose had claimed for their blood. From there, she slipped through a fadeportal to the flats where she stepped inside and looked around. She spent quite enough of her time there in the evening to know the area was familiar.

Pulling her jacket closer around her thin frame, Castalia ignored the sight of the zombies and almost expected to see Cedric amongst the vampire fighting the undead. “***.” She said aloud, thinking about when he’d given her a hug covered in gunk before she made her way to the portal that would take her to the apartments where her sire’s place was. It wasn’t too far a walk from there to the Met, she’d been there only a few times when scoping out bartenders to see what they were selling, if any of them had any advice, or when she was simply hiding from Nolan in the early times of their separation.

<Cedric Costello> The wind was brisk as Cedric walked, and his pace was matched to it. He wore only a single layer - two, maybe - but the jacket wasn’t really thick enough for the kind of cold that surrounded him, which now blanketed the city. As he walked, he smoked - at least that was one thing he could now enjoy, with the added benefit that he knew it wasn’t going to kill him. Those that passed him by could mistake the cigarette’s smoke for the natural steam that a human might emit in this kind of weather. And he probably looked as if he were walking fast only to get where he needed to be because he was cold - because walking fast heightened body temperature. When really, Cedric walked fast because he didn’t know how long ‘now’ meant - and he didn’t want to keep Castalia waiting.

When he got there, however, he realised he didn’t have to rush. As his bright blues scanned the area, he couldn’t see his sire. There was a stage; it looked like some kind of open mic night. There was a small piano up there, which was the first thing to catch Cedric’s eye. And, he could say that he hadn’t been here looking for a job. He’d been inside, but he hadn’t asked. It didn’t look like the kind of establishment who’d pay a regular - especially one who mainly played only the classics.

Failing to locate his sire, Cedric meandered toward the bar where he took a seat to wait. The bartender asked what he would like, and he ordered a glass of Cognac. Expensive for a drink that he wouldn’t consume, but it was what he used to drink. The scent would be enough.

It was hard not to eavesdrop on the conversation nearby; one guy, spilling his woes to another. Were they acquainted, or strangers? It made Cedric smile. Wasn’t that part of the reason he’d gone that bar the night he’d met Castalia? He wouldn’t have admitted to himself, but he’d wanted to get drunk and cry on someone’s shoulder. And look where it got him! Not that he would complain. Castalia hadn’t been kidding. Something new, indeed.

Trying not to listen to a conversation which may or may not be private, Cedric instead turned his attention to the stage; vaguely watching, listening. Enjoying watching someone else play live, for a change.

<Keagan> “That’s when you knew she wasn’t the one. I’ve got it,” Keagan reiterated, finding some sort of rhythm between the music and the man’s words. George--yes, the man’s name was George--had quite a lot to say about his ex-wife, Lorraine, so much that Keagan hardly got a word into the conversation. Neither of them broached the topic of Rita, but Keagan had never expected to discuss his former flame. Focusing on someone else drowned out the incessant chatter and shifted his attention to someone, and something, beyond himself. “So this Lorraine,” he paused, lifting the shot glass to his lips. If he hadn’t caught himself, he might have taken the tequila and had to excuse himself to vomit. But he remembered that he couldn’t stomach his favorite alcoholic beverage. “Did she get everything in the divorce?”

Just like that, George went off on another tangent. Keagan nodded and grunted, whenever he thought he had to reply; otherwise, he remained silent, distracted by the sudden onslaught of applause. No one had to register for the night’s event, but he’d tossed his name into the figurative hat. When the next performer went to the stage, the bartender came over and interrupted the conversation. George, forced to cease another lengthy story, turned his attention to another victim.

“Fitzgerald, right? You’re up next, man.”

He nudged his fist against George’s shoulder, silently bidding the man goodbye, and then collected his guitar case. As soon as he stepped away from the bar, someone claimed his stool. Keagan went toward an empty booth, set his case upon the table, and took out his guitar, a Breedlove. There were original songs he could have selected, but most of the other performers had chosen cover songs. Keagan leaned against the edge of the booth, his guitar on hand, and loosened to the woman croon the latest pop song. He didn’t mind the genre. He didn’t mind the fact that she didn’t have the voice to reach the high notes she’d obviously insisted on attempting.

<Keagan> Keagan went over the route he needed to stage to the stage. And his song selection. Of course he’d taken the time to practice, to memorize the chords, to master the lyrics. He hadn’t needed to practice, not when he’d spent years of his life listening to and playing the same songs. Classics. Historical pieces. His dad’s music. With the stage vacant, Keagan weaved his way up to the empty stool and sat down. He adjusted the mic to his level and cleared his throat. He had to turn his head to the side really quick to cough, something he always did before his acoustic sets.

<Castalia> When Castalia arrived, she had no issue getting through the door and removed her coat just as she noticed Keagan sitting on stage. While she had been outside, she had wondered who had been strangling an animal rather than hit high notes, her hearing bothering her due to the way it was enhanced. She smiled lightly, lifting a hand and giving a half wave before lowering it to use her thumb and forefinger to whistle. There were women that glanced in her direction and she ignored them as she began to make her way through the crowd. Just from the amount of people alone, she knew it wouldn't be a bad thing to start drinking early.

The bartender recognized her vaguely, but unlike Frank, he didn’t have her preferred drink on hold. And, it took him a few minutes to even get to her - something Castalia didn’t mind as she looked around. Her jacket was folded over her arm, her appearance immaculate as she straightened her tunic and stood up on the balls of her feet.

In her boots, she was two inches taller and she appreciated these two inches as she looked over the backs of men that had hunched over on stools or past women who gathered for something fruity. By the time she had spotted her childe, the bartender had reached her and Castalia dug a few bills from her pocket. “Sangria, please. I’ll be a bit down further, want a better view of the stage and a friend.” With a nod, the man grumbled something about bossy women and his ex-wife.

A look was shot at his back as he turned away and Castalia mentally wondered how far a seat in hell would she have for shooting the man. Shaking her head and deciding that it wasn't worth it, the woman made her way over to Cedric and slapped him on his back. “Well, I’ll be damned,” She said, her southern drawl evident as she looked amused, “He's clean. Someone ought to alert the media.”

Once her teasing was over, she pointed up towards the stage, “That’s the friend, Keagan. Met him a month after I was new.” The explanation was short and the bartender set her drink down on the counter, the woman taking the stool beside him after a man got up. It bothered her that it was still warm, her expression evident from it as she got up to set her jacket down and took a drink from her glass of wine. “How’s the job search?” She inquired, her eyes leaving Keagan only a moment to look at Cedric as she waited for her answer.

<Cedric Costello> Cedric couldn’t help but look. To watch. To take note of the two speakers; one young, one older. Actually, this George looked like he could be Cedric’s age, but he looked far older. He’d let himself go. Age always clung to those who let themselves go. Why should this young man have any interest in George’s life? Was he really that feeling, that caring? That empathetic toward the marital plights of others? For a few seconds, Cedric even stared, before he turned away again and stared over the heads of those watching the stage.

The bartender’s voice cut into the conversation beside him with a name. Fitzgerald. Soon, the lanky body of the musician meandered paste Cedric’s line of vision. Turning, he reassured himself that it was the same young man. Except, catching George’s eye was a bad idea. The man had a frown set so deep into his features that it seemed to form permanent lines in his forehead, a permanent droop to his jowls.

George, slightly inebriated, tried to keep going with his story. Tried to get sympathy from Cedric. Cedric, on the surface might appear to be kind. Except…

“George. Stop. I don’t care,” he said with a kind smile. An expression that contradicted his words. George, miffed and slightly stunned, turned away. At which point, Cedric’s gaze was pulled toward the sound of a whistle. Castalia, who was cheering the man on stage. Cedric watched as she made her way to the bar but didn’t call her over immediately. She’d find him, eventually, once she’d ordered. It didn’t take long until her hand had slapped his shoulder, and George slinked away like a puppy with its tail between its legs. Off to some other part of the bar, perhaps, to find someone else’s ear to bend.

Cedric’s smile broadened - something far more genuine - as Castalia teased. He even laughed when she put down her jacket to shield herself from the barstool, and no doubt from the germs that crawled all over it. “It was a struggle to operate, but I finally got the shower to work. Maybe I will use it every night from now on,” he said with a nod, clinking the rim of his undrunk drink to the rim of Castalia’s. His gaze, again, was drawn toward the stage and the friend that sat upon it. He was considering the guy in a new light, even as he answered Castalia’s inquiry.

“It goes. There are still a few more places I can seek interest,” he said, before nodding toward the musician.

“I thought that alternative musicians were, stereotypically, quite messy,” he said. Keagan had an acoustic guitar; it was a fair assumption to make that he was of an alternative genre. The kind that belonged to tour vans and sex and drugs. He had that kind of look about him, but Cedric could have been wrong. But, it was an easy way to tease. An easy way, perhaps, to find out more about his sire and the acquaintances she kept.

“How do you two get on?” he asked with a half a smirk and a raised brow.

<Keagan> The acoustic cover of the song sounded better than the original, at least in Keagan’s opinion. He’d added little things into the mix, whenever he felt that the song had become repetitive, because some of the chorus required quite a bit of repetition. All in all, he thought he did well. His fingers slid over the strings of the guitar, hitting chord after chord; his thumb touched against each of the six strings. The steady hum of the guitar acted like a beautiful rhythm, a backdrop for the lyrics to the song. Keagan’s voice, a baritone, blended beautifully with the sound of his Breedlove guitar. The maple guitar had a unique appearance, one as unique as the man playing, and it was one of six guitars he owned. He was an aficionado and a small collector, two things only inhibited by his monetary standing and his limited apartment space.

Not having any other instruments to add to his performance, he pressed his palm against the pick guard, his rings making a knocking sound to accompany and interrupt his playing. Keagan loved little performances, solo performances, but he also loved playing with his band. If he’d had his way, he would have retired altogether and gone on the road, since he had little left. Harper Rock had very few things to offer him. He’d been forced into leaving his job at the hospital, and his lessons at the university left him feeling inadequate, as if he were clinging to the last thing he had left. No, he had his band. He had his guitars. He had his job at the record store. And even though he had very little contact with his sire, he had her. If he reached out, he wondered if he’d get a response, if she’d acknowledge him in the way that he needed. As it was, he found himself struggling through his existence. He found himself feeling his way along, stumbling, groping, collapsing from the confusion--he was lost.

Even though he’d been distracted, he’d finished the song. There were claps from the people in his audience and he stood up to give thanks. Keagan raised a hand to wave at the people, and then he packed up his guitar and left the stage. Without the bright lights shining on him, he made out the familiar face of his friend. Castalia had made it.

“This your friend then?” His slight accent surfaced, an undertone of Irish. He was actually thankful that he had something leftover from his short life from his parents, that he had some piece of his family’s home country. “Nice meeting you,” Keagan spoke, holding a hand out toward the nameless man. Whether he knew Castalia’s companion or not, Keagan wasn’t rude, and he wasn’t antisocial. He pulled himself together and held on tight, enjoying the slight reprieve. His music kept him level, for the most part.