(no subject)

[seeking-bucho.livejournal.com]

With a groan, the mariachi wakes up in his booth. His mouth feels like he's been chewing cotton, and his stomach is threatening to revolt. Moving slowly, he sits up fully and notices a cloak and a blanket covering him. He tries to remember the previous night and is partially successful; images of Whistler, a twirling ballerina, and an impromptu guitar jam session blur together. He'll sort them out later. The mariachi slides out of his seat and makes his way up the stairs to his room, stumbling only a couple of times.