happy hour

[i_am_your_host]

Outside it is winter
But in here it is so hot...


When the Master of Ceremonies receives a note from Bar, he politely acquiesces to her desire to sleep. But before he takes on his duties, he brings in from his world a portable Victrola and a collection of jazz records.

One could do with light entertainment whilst partaking of a drink or three.


Happy Hour

Specials:
Gin
Absinthe
Schnaps
(apple, pear, cherry, etc.)


There. Simple enough.

Then, pouring himself a glass of gin, he lights a cigarette, and tightens the belt of his leather trench coat around his waist.


[OOC: It's happy hour somewhere, yes? Early today because I might be busy tonight. Insta-slowtimes please because of work. Also, open forever!]

Comments

[mogget_cat]

"Oh, absinthe, of course," says the thin, albino young man in white approaching the bar with a smile. His eyes glint green enough to rival the drink itself.

[i_am_your_host]

"As you wish, darling," he purrs, and pursing the end of his cigarette between his lips, he proceeds to pour a shot of the potent liquor for the young man.

Sliding the glass toward him, he regards him with a rather feline gleam of amusement.

"I'm sure you're aware that it brings out the color of your eyes."

[mogget_cat]

"My thanks," he says, accepting the drink neat with a smirk. His teeth, where they show, are an even starker white than his skin or hair. "For both the drink, and the complementing compliment."

"I don't believe we've met. I am called Yrael."

[i_am_your_host]

He's someone even paler than himself for a change.

"A pleasure, Yrael," he replies with winking cordiality. "I am called the Master of Ceremonies, but all my boys and girls call me Emcee."

[mogget_cat]

"Quite pleased to make your acquaintance, Emcee," smiles the not'cat over the rim of his glass. "Where and when is it that the ceremonies you master are held?"

[street_sparrow]

"Schnapps?" Gavroche asks hopefully, because he's rather come to expect people to refuse him alcohol. It comes of being seventeen and looking younger. "You pick the flavour."

[i_am_your_host]

The Emcee has known youths to come into his nightclub, charming paying patrons for free drinks and other handouts, so it's no surprise that this one appears before him seeking something stronger than a glass of milk.

After a moment's thought, he selects a flavor -- clear green apple (green seems to be the theme of the evening) -- and pours out a shot.

"Perhaps this is to your liking, mein Junge."

[street_sparrow]

"Green is promising." He grins and knocks back the shot. "And apple is very good. Thank you."

[i_am_your_host]

"You are most welcome. Another?"

He holds the bottle up, ready to pour.

[street_sparrow]

"Why not." He proffers the shot glass. He'll limit himself, but two isn't going to do much harm.

Well, he thinks it won't.

[the_cupbearer]

"It's been a long time since I've heard that tune," says the young man who slides up to the bar in black jeans and a vibrantly blue shirt with a small set of numbers embroidered on the edge of his collar.

[i_am_your_host]

"Has it now?"

The Emcee turns to him with a look of curiosity at first, but it melts into some kind of vague familiarity. It has been quite some time since their paths crossed, and he's not even sure if it wasn't an opiate-fueled dream. But he would never forget a god as beautiful as this.

[the_cupbearer]

Ganymede grins back and takes a seat, resting his chin on one loosely balled fist. "Indeed it has. Nearly ninety years," he murmurs.

"I might put myself in your hands as far as a drink," he says. "And take whatever you deign to give me."

[i_am_your_host]

He smirks at him with a slow, feline blink of kohl-stained eyelashes.

"Mm, so you trust me with what I place before you? Very well, then..."

It's but a coy jest, as he selects the sweetest schnapps to his taste, the pear flavor, full and rich and aromatic, and pours out a glass for him.

"Perhaps you will enjoy this, darling."

[the_cupbearer]

He's not the only one wearing a thin ring of kohl around his eyes, and Ganymede smiles sweetly. "Perhaps I will. Pear, then?" he asks, smelling the liquid.

[dreamed_a_dream]

"I like that music Monsieur." Fantine wanders over with a smile. "It is much catchier than what I am used to."

[i_am_your_host]

His coal-black eyes glimmer when they alight on the young woman.

"Do you, Mademoiselle Fantine? Then come sit for a while and listen, and keep me company in the meantime."

[dreamed_a_dream]

"Thank you, Monsieur. What do you have on offer tonight as specials?" She has realized quite starkly lately that she does not know how to read, but is a bit too proud to let anyone know.

She pauses with a smile. "And what is that music called?"

[i_am_your_host]

He glances over his shoulder at the sign, but perhaps she's only asking for an elaboration. It makes no difference to him.

"Tonight I offer some of my personal favorites: gin, absinthe, and schnapps in a variety of exotic fruit flavors. And the music that graces your ears, darling, is called jazz. It comes all the way from America. Is it not absolutely delightful?"

[dreamed_a_dream]

"Fruit flavoured drink?" She smiles. "I would very much like to try that. How is it usually drunk?"

A pause to take in the music. "It is wonderful. It feels warmer and more exciting than much of the music from my time."

[herr_bookman]

Autor almost finds it almost unfortunate that the music draws him to the bar today, as he's not sure he likes it. But it is novel, and that is everything.

He floats on down on his carpet to peek at the music player. A quick peek, really, that's all he needs--until he notices the bartender. The rather made-up bartender. "What genre is this?" the boy asks, trying not to sneeze at the cigarette. "And what year is the"--he glances at the label--"is this Victrola phonograph from?"

[i_am_your_host]

The Emcee flicks his dark-eyed gaze up at the boy. A boy, on a floating carpet.

Hm.

Taking a drag off his cigarette, he slowly exhales a cloud of smoke.

"It is called jazz, darling. And the Victrola?"

He glances at it with a faint line between his brows, thinking.

"I do not know the exact date of this particular machine, for I bought it used from a pawn shop, but I believe it is only a few years old, at least in my time. I am from 1931, if that is of any help to you."

[herr_bookman]

"Ah, that is, very much so," Autor says. He waves a hand to clear the smoke. "Jazz. It's quite distinctive. Are you a musician?"

After a pause, the boy rests a hand on the back of his neck, murmuring, "And I'm not your darling."

[i_am_your_host]

A slow, feline smirk curls his lip.

"I tend to call everyone 'darling'...darling."

He notices the boy's aversion to the smoke, but makes no move as of yet to extinguish his cigarette.

"I am not a musician as such, but I am a stage performer and I run the shows at a nightclub. We have dancers, singers, and a band, and jazz is our main music of choice. Do you like it?"

[herr_bookman]

Autor tosses his gaze elsewhere and settles it on the Victrola, trying to figure out whether to be annoyed or mortified at the smirking. "Why?" the boy asks. "To engender a reaction, or just an old habit?"

He cocks his head at the question. "I'm not sure," he says. "But I can see how it would be useful for dancing in a nightclub. Its meter is prominent, and there's a great deal of improvisation, and the tone colors are unique."