(no subject)

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"It doesn't matter if the glass is empty or full when it's At-lan-te-an," sing-songs Patrick.

In his booth, sipping the wine from (a Bordeaux Grand Cru from the Ridel Glas Sommelier collection) a drinking vessel (it's just a glass).

Comments

[mogget_cat]

Under the table, something pounces clumsily on his shoes and snickers helplessly.

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

He begins to peek under the table at the thing--oh, no--the cat that is not exactly a cat. Patrick starts to cackle, attempting to muffle the sound by slapping a hand over his mouth. "So cute."

[mogget_cat]

It trips as it steps over Patrick's foot and goes sprawling, paddypaws kicking at air. "Heee! Heeeheehehehehehhee! Oops."

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

Patrick starts to giggle in hiccuping gasps of air, muttering between his spread fingers, "One of these things is not like the others, one of these things just isn't the same--" the hand falls away from his mouth, finishing off this glass and squeaking to call over a wait-rat for another.

While he waits he peeks back under the table, manicured nails meaning to scratch a white cat's belly. "Such a daaaarling."

[mogget_cat]

The scritching sends the kitty's paws flailing even more as the pink nose purrs madly against Patrick's left shoe. The deer blood splotching his fur leaves patterns on the floor, spread by a wiggling cat-hair brush.

"Noooooo, heehee. Not. M'mean. Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinah."

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

The cooing tone of voice that is usually reserved for small, fluffy animals and small, alien-faced newborn babies. "Yes you are, oh, yes you are. Very mean with the teeth that bite and the claws that scratch." Fingers scratching, he nods. With false solemnity, "So misunderstood. Evil needs love too."

[mogget_cat]

The flaily snickering comes back, a forepaws' claws catching at Patrick's sleeve. "M'not... not evil, either. Resholutely Unnaffff..." He blinks, cutely crosseyed for a moment.

"Silly shape. Silly, silly... thinger."

"Unaffilllllliated."

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

Yrael's claws catch at the sleeve of his (this John W. Nordstrom two-ply cotton shirt in a subtle herringbone pattern is available in a variety of modern colors) blue dress shirt. Snagging threads, he pulls his fingers back just to bat at the flailing paws. "Neutral. You are the Switzerland of cats."

[http://users.livejournal.com/_to_the_bone/]

"Are you drunk, then?"

Very solemnly, Jack cocks his head at him, pausing on his way to search for Mercutio.

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"I would be very drunk, yes, yes I would." Patrick mutters, nose resting on the wide rim of the very elegant glass that has been refilled with the very potent wine. He thinks its wine. Actually, he couldn't care less what he thinks right now. Still maintaining a polite demeanor, he asks, "How are you, Jack? Frost? Staying cool? Chilling oooout?"

[http://users.livejournal.com/_to_the_bone/]

"Oh, you are drunk."

He places a hand over his mouth for a moment, and doesn't laugh.

"I am very well, thank you. Fresh home from China with Parker."

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"Fresh Parker from China?" Patrick repeats the question he just heard, an eyebrow arching and a most knowing smile spreading slowly from ear to ear. "Oh. That's interesting. How was h--it?"

[http://users.livejournal.com/_to_the_bone/]

"Extraordinary."

He returns the smile, rather more politely.

"Thank you. How much wine have you had?"

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"I don't know." Gravely serious, he inhales more of the Atlantean, sighs in appreciation of it and downs the rest of the glass one second later.

[http://users.livejournal.com/_to_the_bone/]

He shakes his head, with a sigh.

"Drink water in the morning, yes? Although odds are you will not remember. When next I see Satan I think I will try to get him to taste Atlantean. It is, you know, enough to inebriate such creatures as he."

To see a human trying this.

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"...I think they're watering down the drinks in this here joint. I wouldn't be here drinking if only the door was open and I would have used the pry bar to open the door but I traded it for a golf club and after the thing in the lake threw back the ball and gave me a black eye I tried to return the club but the bar wouldn't return the pry bar--come on--what's all that about?" He pauses to breathe, and rests his head against his arm.

[misterparker.livejournal.com]

"Leave the singing to Madonna," Parker advises. He slides into the seat across and raises an eyebrow. "A lot of wine?"

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"I don't know."

One glass, for sure. He might think that he's drinking it now. It might be cider. It might be Chardonnay. It's not rat-piss, but Patrick thinks he would be able to tell the difference.

Hopefully.

"Parker," Patrick murrs, smiling widely. "China? Did you have the EggFooYoung?"

[misterparker.livejournal.com]

Parker looks puzzled. "Not that I know of. Jack did most of the ordering."

Mostly they ate things with meat that made him vaguely curious but at the same time not (he's been to Mexico). A lot of rice, and for a while he thought that he was done with rice forever, until he learned to like it again.

He looks at Patrick's glass uncertainly, shrugs eventually. Whatever.

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"Fun?" He asks Parker, and peers through his glass at him. All wavery and glowing glow. It's an interesting affect and Patrick starts to laugh a little, to himself. "As pretty as a mango and twice as sweet."

[misterparker.livejournal.com]

Paker's eyebrows go further up. "I'll take that as a compliment, Patrick. And yeah, we had a lot of fun."

A lot of sex.

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"I see through that." He continues to laugh until there's a stitch in his side and he gasps for air, "I'm--I'm--Fuck, I can't stop--" A giggle. He shakes his head, muttering, "I'm jealous."

[misterparker.livejournal.com]

"You're," Parker frowns, uncertain. "Jealous? Of what?"

[giftedthom.livejournal.com]

Hey.

*Thom drops a knife on the table -- sharp, expensive, stolen -- and says*

For you.

*He walks away.*

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"Thank--"

he starts to mutter, but Thom leaves.

Patrick accepts the knife, sliding it up his sleeve.

Even drunk, he never manages to cut himself.

And he promptly passes out.