[Open] The Nights

[Reinhardt (DELETED 8150)]

This club was so two-thousand-and-late. Reinhardt would never turn his nose up at a good tune, no matter how dated, but whoever was in charge of the turntables tonight had clearly just crawled out from under a rock. Casting a judgemental glance towards the DJ’s booth, he lifted his tumbler to his lips and polished off his third drink of the night. Three free drinks, and it was only half past eleven. Tonight was shaping up to be a good night, he thought gleefully to himself; though after three drinks, he was already sporting the metaphorical rose-tinted glasses. Another drink or two and he’d be happily dancing to whatever song on the DJ’s **** playlist.

Setting the empty tumbler down on a table—any table, Reinhardt began his pilgrimage towards the bar once again. Aware of his loosening grip on his inhibitions and mental faculties, he squared his shoulders and walked with as much dignity as he could afford given the constant, haphazard bump of moving bodies.

It was a novel experience to be at a club alone. He had put it off for as long as he could before the itch made itself known. His need for the distraction a night out entailed outshone his displeasure at going out on his own. Breaking the dry spell wouldn’t hurt either, the unscratched itch now less of an itch and more of an unshakable tension pulling at his core. It was as physical a need as it was emotional. He realised that he’d have to stop being so goddamn picky and accept more than drinks from strangers if he wanted to get anything out of tonight but a hangover.

Reinhardt wouldn’t admit to himself that he felt rather lonely; he’d cast off any and all familial connections when he’d left Minneapolis. The few friends he’d had, he’d estranged with his sudden decision to leave. It was amazing how easy it was to do, and saddening how few people took the leap. He’d met people along the way, but nothing ever urged him to stay in one place.

This city had claimed him and so he took a chance, but Harper Rock wouldn’t truly feel like home until he had a new social circle that accepted him for who he was. It didn’t help that he was still in the process of figuring it out. Tonight, he wanted to just be.

“What are you drinking?
I think I’ll get one of those.
Do you want another?”

He settled his hand on the back of their stool, resigned to this being as close to the bar as he’d get with this crowd. There was no such thing as personal space in a place like this, and the alcohol coursing through his bloodstream denied him any discomfort or guilt from imposing his presence on an unsuspecting patron.

“Garçon!” he called towards the bartender, lifting his hand over his head to try and catch the bartender’s attention.

[Patrick Bishop]

Why the **** was he had this club? Oh yeah because he wouldn't know anyone here. Same question with the drinking when he couldn't get drunk. Same answer, he didn't know anyone here. So many people had gone missing as of late and he couldn't find them, didn't know if they wanted to be found. In most cases if someone didn't want you to know where they were, you weren't going to find out.

The music in this place was **** though. He had half a mind to go the dj and do his job for him. The people in here didn't seem like they would like his taste in music much. The effort didn't seem much worth it either. The place did have one thing going for it though, the bodies. People were everywhere and that was just fine with him. They came as a distraction more than anything but with luck, his next meal was near.

He had been lucky enough to get a stool at the bar, but when you were silver tongued, that was not a hard thing to achieve. He feels the slight change in weight as someone leans on the back of his stool as they try and get the bartenders attention. That was always tricky. Pat quickly downed the last of his whiskey and placed the glass back down and let out a loud whistle. It didn't go unnoticed as the bartender made his way back over to the man.

"Get me another and my friend here whatever he wants." He said in his heavy Irish accent as he gestured to the man behind him.

[Kaspar]

Kaspar's nose wrinkled in distaste, he'd been leaning against the bar, chatting to a fellow patron who was trying too hard to garner his favour. He'd been polite, but was looking for an out of the conversation and fast. She was smiling her prettiest smile and his eyes were darting towards the young dark haired man who rudely called to the bartender, waving his hand over his head. Kas laughed, catching the eyes of the one behind the bar, spotting the short eye roll.

One of those nights.

His attention focused on the little group beside him, a guy with an Irish accent declared his order after a sharp whistle that had Kas cringing. These two would do nicely. "Excuse me." He murmured to the girl, shifting his place up the bar, leaning beside the two guys. "Make it three, and it's on me. Plus a tip, for the **** you put up with." His laugh was easy, relaxed, as if he owned the damn place. He didn't but he might as well have, he was recognised here and treated well.

The blonde pulled out a few bills, slapping them into the bartender's palm. "Keep them coming, ja? Thank you, J-man." His accent was German but the way he pronounced English was clear, precise. He didn't wait around to see what the other wanted ordered, the bartender just pouring three whiskey's and serving someone else while the other guy decided. "Prost, gentleman, cheers!" He lifted one glass, raising it almost in challenge to the other two.

[Reinhardt (DELETED 8150)]

That was a remarkable whistle; he’d be unable to pull off such a feat himself. Reinhardt decided then and there that this man could hail any New York cab if the urge or need ever struck, even in a torrential rainstorm. Were the music not pumping in the background, that would be a deafening sound, surely. Considering the music that was playing, he wouldn’t be averse to temporary deafness.

“Oh...”

The Irish accent had his dark eyes widening, expression radiant. He was about to comment, but a lean blond stepped into the space between them, the bar, and the next stool, drawing all of Reinhardt’s attention. He had always been jealous of those who could pull off such brightly coloured hair, naturally or bought. Flaxen hair would never suit him; he’d resigned himself to that reality a long, long time ago. It might have taken a few bottles of hydrogen peroxide and a weeklong neck crick from bending over into the kitchen sink, for him to admit such defeat however.

“Hm,” he sounded out thoughtfully, glancing towards the bartender. J-Man. J-man. It wouldn’t be a nickname that suited him, no. He’d stick to his current sobriquet until... well, until someone could convince him his real name could sound better than the way his mother had etched it into his mind. Perhaps it was her Minnesotan accent that he despised, or the shrillness of her voice.

Without another word, contented with his thoughts and taking in sight of tumblers being filled and bills being exchanged, Reinhardt shifted his weight to better see both his drinking companions. How fortunate for him. Picking up one of the three glasses, he smiled broadly at both men, in turn, and lifted his glass.

“To Europe!” Reinhardt chimed in delightedly, unable to pick between the cheers, sláinte and prost his mind supplied. There was an unhelpful bon apetit hanging heavy on the tip of his tongue, but the first sip of whiskey thankfully singed it away. Oh, that was horrible. A fantastic way to push his light weight *** into full gear past ‘tipsy’, but a horrendous taste. Momentarily slack-jawed, he eyed both strangers.

Glass hovering close to his chin, he jutted his index finger out and pointed between the two of them, “Where do you fine gentlemen come from, then?”

[Patrick Bishop]

"To Europe!"He said as he quickly threw the drinking back, letting the liquid slide down, burning the whole way as it kicked himin the teeth. He should just up and head back to Europe, tell the fathers he'd failed them and let them do as they saw fit with him. With any luck death would be quick but he knew that was not their way of thinking or doing business back home.

"Thank you my friend." He said turning to the blonde that had been gracious enough to pay for the drink. Where had this one come from? He really should pay more attention to his surroundings when he was out by himself, especially with Michael wanting him dead and gone.

He turned to the one that had been behind him and smiled "Not clue, but I was raised in Dublin." He had a clue but it didn't matter anyway. His whore of a mother was probably already dead and he hoped his father was face down, rotting in a ditch somewhere.

[Kaspar]

To Europe? Kaspar gave one of his broad laughs, raising his glass in silent salute before taking a hearty sip. He watched the pair, trying to figure them out a little better. The dark haired man of the trio didn't waste time in asking questions, those quick eyes taking them in. Kas dropped a friendly wink to the Irishman who thanked him, letting the man answer first as he took another sip of his drink.

Dublin, huh? This place really was a melting bit of nationalities and cultures, he wondered why so many had made their home here, it was a bit of a hell hole at times. Perhaps it was the supernatural element, certain people were drawn to it whether they knew that or not.

"You'd have to be more specific, just now? I came from over there." He gestured up the bar to where the girl he'd ditched was looking somewhat put out, "Before that I came from my studio." He gestured vaguely in the direction, "However if you are asking my nationality... I'm German. I moved here when I was around 16, moved back to Europe, and returned around a year ago... I'm Kaspar Grube, or you can call me Hel if you prefer."

He flashed a lopsided grin, something non-commital. "What about you? What's your story, morning glory? Oh, and do order a damn drink you like." He hadn't missed the man's expression, no, Kas signalling casually for J-man to top his up when he had a second.

[Reinhardt (DELETED 8150)]

“Dublin!” he repeated. Sure, he’d caught the accent earlier, but oh, Ireland! It was one of the many places he wished to visit one day, more so than Germany. He’d heard enough about it in his history classes. He was one more WWII conversation or documentary away from telling people to get over it. (He wasn’t going to say that out loud, however. It’d put him in the same league as his mother.)

“Hell? Well that’s sombre,” he chimed, mouth set into a cheeky grin as he trained his gaze on Kaspar. “Though I suppose it matches what you’ve got going on here…” he added thoughtfully as he motioned towards the German’s finger tattoos, his tone light. Motioning was hard to do with a glass in hand, and so he threw back the rest of the screech and set the empty tumbler back down onto the countertop.

Reinhardt would certainly not be having a second one of those. It took three beats for his face ‘unscrunch’ itself, amiable veneer returning though his eyes watered slightly. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, willing the taste to go away.

“I—” he croaked out, answer stifled by a rough cough. The brunet wiped at the corner of his eye and laughed out loud. “Wooo!” he breathed out. “Morning glory indeed. Far too delicate for a drink of that caliber! Name’s J though, J Reinhardt. No idea how you’re not a dead man walking, Dublin, throwing it back like that.”

Running a hand through his hair as an other bout of laughter pulled at his lips, he glanced across from him at the bartender, “Rum and Coke, bro. Light on the rum.”

[Patrick Bishop]

Patrick eyed the man that was calling himself Hell. There was something about him that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Had he seen him before? Was he another vampire? A Palladian perhaps? **** it. It would come to him eventually. He turned back to the bartender"I'll have another, while you're at it." He should of just asked for the bottle but he needed to slow down before people started to look at him funny.

He turned back to his two new 'friends' and chuckled "The trick is, I've been drinking for almost seventeen years and it helps that I'm already dead!" He let's out a heavy, throaty laugh this time. It's not like he had lied. He was technical dead though it didn't matter much either way if they found out. The one was already mostly drunk and the other was German, so morbid humor was probably nothing new to him.

"What brings you two gents out to a place like this?"

[Kaspar]

Kaspar shook his head in disbelief, this kid was a real joker but some reason that rather appealed to Kas and he found himself easily laughing, even wiggling his fingers to show off the two tattoos on his hand. "Hel...H-E-L, it's an old nickname, my middle name is Wilhelm and... Long story, but hey it's my stage/band name so you know it works." He hitched his shoulders in a shrug, watching the dark haired man drop back the last of the drink with a healthy dose of displeasure wrinkling his features.

Yeah, he was amusing, he could stay.

The Irishman was downing them with an ease that Kaspar was surprised, but not impressed, by. His gestured to the glasses, shrugged and pointed out a bottle to the bartender as the other spoke again.

J? He went by J? Well, ****.

"You're J, huh? I know a lot of those, I think we might have to work on something a little better. I might have to call you Glory until we do. Or Reinhardt, but that's a mouthful and not of my favourite variety." He smirked, distracting himself with draining the last of his own drink. What he chose not to say was that one of the guys he slept with, hell, lived with half the time was a Jay, not wanting to make the kid uncomfortable. He too was laughing at that point, enjoying the laid back attitude of the other two, until the guy announced he was dead.

Hel stiffened, gaze drifting over the man, a hand slipping subtly to brush over his wrist, acting if he was reaching for the bottle that was placed in front of them and simply missed. Cool, pulse free. Vampire. His head ducked for a moment, speaking in a harsh whisper. "Dead, huh? How very ALLURING." The word was emphasised, but the volume kept at the same hushed level. Another allurist, the blighters were everywhere.

Kaspar straightened once more, tipping a decent slosh of amber into his glass, considering the question. "Dead drunk, am I right? Well, Dublin, I was just here to relax tonight. I've finally got a bit of free time to myself, although part of my work includes coming to these places and checking out talent. Between you and me, this isn't my favourite club in the city but it will do. And you?" He gestured between them, intrigued now as to what they might say, and also whether J.Reinhardt might react to the "dead" comment.

[Reinhardt (DELETED 8150)]

The mention of glory and mouthfuls had a decidedly mixed effect on him.

“Cheeky,” he accused playfully, though his expression growingly vacant.

There was a noticeable shift in the conversation, but Reinhardt’s attention span was much too short to pick up on it. He kept his eyes trained on the bartender, contently leaning his weight into the back of Dublin’s—what’s his name again?—stool. Dead drunk? Yeah, that’s what he’d be if he kept this pace going. It was only quarter to twelve. Halfheartedly, the brunet made the resolution for this to be his last drink of the evening.

“First night out on the town,” he replied, glancing around. Talent was decidedly not something he’d use to describe the current DJ. “I walked past here earlier this afternoon and figured **** it—so here I am. Had to start somewhere.”

He reached for his fifth drink of the night. This three person conversation was becoming too complex a thing to hold his attention. Everything was moving both too fast and too slow. Shifting his weight, he realised he was tired of standing, and thus inched closer to the Irish man. “Hey, scoot, scoot,” he quietly urged, determined to lean his weight into the edge of the leather seat. They were becoming such good friends after all, and sharing is caring, right?