Perfect Stranger (SevenxBathos)

[sevenpercentsolution]

The palm trees in Echo Park swayed rhythmically to the beat of the summer breeze, but the night air was so hot that the wind provided no relief for anyone looking to find comfort out of the ridiculous tropical temperatures; even at eight in the evening when the sun had long gone down, men and women alike moved through the streets in as few clothes as they could legally get away with wearing.

But within the gilded walls of the Giza Ducasse restaurant, the temperatures were carefully controlled and monitored, and the clients inside - they weren't diners in the Ducasse, for the amount they paid, they were clients because they had to be a very particular sort to be able to afford the place - were dressed respectably, the sort of high society gathering that paid more for their suits and skirts than most people paid for their cars.

As a rule, Nicholas Godwit usually kept out of these sorts of places; it wasn't that he couldn't afford them - far from it, in fact, he was so well-off and personally successful that finances were never a question for him, even in the trying times of recession - but it was more that he had never quite felt right about it, had always felt out of place, a bit like he was sitting in someone else's skin when he set foot in fanciful, gourmet five-star restaurants. He adjusted the tastefully striped silk tie around his neck; he looked the part, of course - at thirty-three, Godwit was tall with a healthy tapering build, a man with fine dark features and the broad, graceful hands of a pianist and he was currently dressed in a flawlessly tailored black Armani suit, surrounded by a table of ten, most of whom were friends and acquaintances of his - with the exception of those on either side of him.

The rough, tall thing to his left was Michael, a man he had known for years and one of the few who would understand precisely how uncomfortable he was in a restaurant like the Giza, and to his right, in stark contrast was his fiancee of three months, Bianca. It was currently her twenty-fifth birthday and it had been her wish to dine there, and Nicholas - always eager to please, particularly when it came to the object of his affections, of which there had been an unfortunate many - had essentially bought the reservations just to ensure she would have what she wanted for her birthday.

And despite the new string of sparkling diamonds that surrounded her toothpick-thin wrist, Bianca did not look like she was having a particularly happy birthday; in fact, as Nicholas rose for a toast and lifted the over-priced champagne, she looked positively sour - she was a beautiful woman in the way that ice sculptures were beautiful, and she was about as cold too. Obsessed with her weight, at a height of 5'9", Bianca was lucky to weigh 115 pounds while soaking wet; when Nicholas had first met her, she had been a brunette, but since then had bleached out her hair and eyebrows to a white-blonde, and with her blue eyes, colourless skin, and her current choice of a nearly sheer white dress, she appeared about as welcoming as a winter storm, an ice floe next to the tropical warmth her future husband's dark suit, honey-coloured eyes, and dazzling white smile.

"Well," Nicholas said, shuffling on the spot and clearing his throat nervously as the entire table turned their eyes to him; he tugged at his collar reflexively, which earned a laugh around the table, which he responded to with a sheepish smile, "To the lovely future Mrs. Godwit, happy birthday, my love - I hope to share many more of these days with you."

Eyes flicked to Bianca, who pulled one of her thin little cigarettes from her clutch purse, and lit it efficiently; she took a draw on it, and blew the smoke irritably upwards, her blue eyes narrowed at Nicholas. When she realized she was being watched by a suddenly awkward group of people, a smile appeared on her face, but it was a distinctly unpleasant expression because it drew up her face and never touched her eyes, and there wasn't even a hint of teeth in it. It was a smile that indicated the exact opposite of what it should have.

She flicked her head back, knocking some of her hair away from her neck and shoulder before she put the cigarette down onto an ash tray, picked up her glass of red wine, and stood as well,

"I also propose a toast," Bianca said, and her throaty voice was lined with a distinct poison, and she directed her gaze to the rough-looking man to Nicholas' left, "First, to Michael, whose constant, constant presence in our lives is just so, so appreciated. It's good to know that, should I ever need to consult someone about which trashy skin club would be the best to visit, I will merely have to browse around my fiancee's condominium on any particular day and find which room he's been occupying at the time."

There was a general holding of breath at the table, and Nicholas' 100-watt smile had faltered and had changed to a gritting of teeth, like a man bracing himself for an oncoming wave,

"Now Bianca," Nicholas began, but Bianca raised a pale hand, sticking her index finger in the air in a visual 'shush' before she actually placed a hand on his shoulder and steered him back into his seat; despite being much, much bigger than her, Nicholas was too stunned to disobey, and Bianca came up behind him, keeping one hand on his shoulder,

"And secondly, to Nicholas, my dear Nick," she said, "We've been together going on a year now, most of which has consisted of you being away on business trips, and as good as you look, and as good as your wallet looks, I find that you are ultimately so utterly suburban that I can't even imagine spending one more birthday in your uncultured presence. I'm afraid I'm going to have to replace you with a newer model, but really, thank you for the diamonds."

And then, with nothing left to say, she soundly dumped her glass of red wine onto the top of his head, picked up her cigarette, and walked away, leaving the table in silence - in fact, leaving the entire restaurant in silence, and Nicholas quietly absorbing wine into the collar of his white dress shirt. After a time, he shifted his jaw, carefully picked up a napkin and blotted some of the wine out of the corner of his eye, and said,

"So, I suppose no one is really in the mood for souffle at this point."

 

[Bathos]

With a carefully neutral expression, Michael Jones stared at the elaborate display of haute cuisine on the plate in front of him. If one cared to look closely enough, they might find the subtle tremor in the corner of his mouth as he wondered, not for the first time, if he was actually supposed to touch the food, or if maybe the party was meant to fill their bellies with sparkling water and ancient table wine. In the past, when he'd been dragged to these things, the high-class cookery at least looked like food and not a print from Jackson Pollock: The Lost Years.

So he knew the name of a painter. It wasn't like he was raised in Jersey.

Michael stayed that way throughout dinner; eyes down, uncharacteristically quiet, stone faced. Hungry.

It wasn't like it was worst thing in the world to be swept around in the folds of his buddy's coattails from time to time, but that night was particularly intolerable, because--

"Oh, gimme a break," Michael groused under his breath when Nicholas stood up to toast the latest in a long line of evil skanks. Michael's eyes sought out the woman of the hour, the birthday princess, as Nicholas recited a charming, tastefully brief speech about-- Well, Michael was willfully blocking all sound from his higher consciousness by that point, but he knew it was somehow related to her.

It wasn't jealousy. It was absolutely nothing like jealousy. Aside from the part where he wanted to gouge out Bianca's eyes with an ice pick--because, obviously, that was the only tool for the job--there was nothing whatsoever resembling jealousy as far as Michael Jones was concerned. It was just.

Nicholas. He let these women turn him into such a pansy, showering them with flowers and jewelry and gourmet whatever, catering to their every whim like he was the lucky one. Like there weren't hordes of them ready to tip right over with their legs spread wide at just the slightest inkling of interest from Nick.

And some of the women? They weren't all that bad. But time after fucking time, it was a Bianca, or a Sophia, or an Angelique, with their perfectly drawn eyes and their perfectly pouty lips and their perfectly vapid personalities when, obviously, what Nick really needed was a girl--nay, a woman--who was into sports. Maybe not all the same teams, but at least knew the difference between a halfback and a tight end. A girl who liked beer, maybe even domestic brews, on occasion. And who could kick his ass at Halo ... and looked good naked.

Maybe a blonde, with legs clear up to her ass and a tight little--

Michael's head jerked up at the mention of his name, eyes going instinctively wide and guileless, telegraphing to anyone who cared to pay attention, I so wasn't having naughty thoughts during the evil skank's birthday festivities. I am a gentleman and Nicholas is not a moron for appointing me his best friend.

The innocent look was promptly swapped out for the red-faced, humiliated look which, in its own time, moved on to fiery, skank-slaying murder eyes. Newer model?!

Michael jumped to his feet and froze, caught between the desire to strangle a bitch with a brand spankin' new diamond tennis bracelet, and the one to comfort his best friend who'd just been publicly dumped by the woman he allegedly loved. (Though Michael had some theories on that front.) One look at Nicholas, however, composed and airy and way too fucking balanced, and his decision was made. Bianca would live to skank again.

"Look, guys," he said to the rest of the table, "maybe you should just, uh." And wasn't this awkward? Michael had barely spoken ten words to these people, and even those were dragged out of him, clipped and monosyllabic.

He opened his hands, at a complete loss. "I got this. Why don't you all just ... Just get outta here."

The din in the restaurant was steadily normalizing, patrons were either going back about their business or gossiping amongst themselves about the scene Bianca had just caused, and at least everybody was trying to be subtle about their rubber-necking.

"Nicholas, if you need anything," one guy started--some suit with stupid hair and a bad tan--like maybe he was going to offer words of condolences or a shoulder to cry on or some sappy shit like that and, goddammit, that was Michael's job, so he cut him off clean.

"Dude. Just go. I got this. Really." And maybe he was overstepping his bounds here, bossing Nick's people around like this, but no way in Hell was Michael going to let these assholes see his boy while he was down.

Slowly, as if in a daze and struggling to believe what they'd just witnessed, the party began to trickle away. When he was sure they were all going, Michael fell heavily into his chair and looked over at Nick.

"Food sucked."

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

Bianca strode away from the table, elevated on eight hundred dollar ivory Manolo-Blahnik stilettos that she had purchased with Nicholas' credit card, walking on them with the expertise of a supermodel on the catwalk, never once lowering her chin from its upwards direction nor glancing back towards the group she had left in stunned silence - really, it would just ruin the look of the thing. As far as she was concerned, there was little that was more humiliating than shaming a man in front of his friends, which she had just done with incredible efficiency - at the Giza no less, though she still wasn't entirely sure how Nick had even managed to get reservations. No one had before, not that she knew.

He wasn't even that important, he just had money, not the fame to go with it. Godwit was a nobody with good savings.

Though, no amount of money would buy off the awkwardness that had settled upon the upper-class gathering; too polite to say anything, all of them sat quietly in the shadow of Bianca's exit, waiting for something - anything - to happen. Eventually Gerard - a fifty-something insurance agent who had made a very lucrative career out of others' misfortune - managed to find his voice; the misfortune was that he used it for the purpose of thinly-veiled pity. Certainly, it was kind of him to extend a hand, but unless he had the ability to change Bianca's mind - or, perhaps, go back in time so he could reserve a table at somewhere cheaper - then there wasn't a lot of sense to it.

And it would figure that Michael would be the one to get tired of it first; Nicholas could have kissed him for speaking up, if that sort of thing didn't raise all sorts of questions about how quickly he bounced back. Gerard looked mildly put off by Michael's brevity (and possibly by being called 'dude') but he begrudgingly nodded his acqueiscence before peering around the rest of the table and beginning to play Nicholas off-stage by leading the rest of the cast away from the table.

As it turned out, ten people could clear a room with astounding efficiency when they had the proper motivation, and social anxiety happened to be an excellent catalyst.

Of course, Nick rose from the seat and said his extraordinarily polite goodbyes and gave well-wishes with the good cheer of the suicidally optimistic, thanking them for coming and even joking that next time they could probably just wring him out to fill up their wine glasses.

And then, once they were all gone, Nick followed Michael's example and slouched back into his seat,

"It did. I don't actually know what they served us - I wasn't sure if I was supposed to eat it or wait for it to do something interesting." he agreed finally, expression neutral and dark hair still dripping expensive claret; a rivulet of it moved down his temple, "I think she may have actually kept the glass full all evening for that purpose. I should have known when she asked for wine to begin with, she always did go on about how alcohol had far too many calories."

He touched at the droplets of alcohol on his face and rubbed a bit of it thoughtfully between the heavily calloused pads of his fingers,

"It's really a shame," he added, "It was a good year."

There was another moment of silence, and then he dug into his pocket and removed his wallet, tossing down an envelope that was likely filled with a disgusting amount of money to pay for the evening.

"The upside is that everyone here tonight also got entertainment with their abstract expressionist meal," he said brightly, rising from the seat, "So, you know, not a complete loss."

 

[Bathos]

Michael knew Nick was full of shit, that he couldn't possibly be as okay with everything as he was letting on, but it was still an eerie thing to watch. He was barely acknowledging that anything had even happened. And though Michael just wanted to roll with it, happy to have Bianca permanently out of the picture, there remained the fact that she was the woman with whom Nicholas wanted to spend the rest of his life.

All he had to say was 'it was a good year' and 'not a complete loss,' and it just didn't sit right. But then who was Michael to judge Nick's coping mechanisms? They were a far cry closer to healthy than picking fights in bars and shoving illicit shit up his nose and falling into bed with the first set of damaged goods that would have him on any given night. With that thought in mind, Michael resolved not to push it.

His resolve was the approximate consistency of wet tissue, apparently, because it'd all but collapsed by the time they hit the muggy outdoors. As they were passing out of the building, Michael stopped short and turned to Nicholas.

His face screwed up in obvious discomfort, he asked, "Do you wanna, like, talk about it or something? Because you can. If you want. I mean ..." A soft laugh, stilted and nervous, punched out of Michael and he scrubbed absently at the back of his neck. "She laid into me pretty good, too, I guess, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't ..."

Because he would. If Nicholas needed him, needed anything, Michael could pretend for a minute that Bianca wasn't one of the absolute worst things that had ever happened to either of them. He would pretend that she made Nick happy and that her leaving could, in any sane dimension of reality, be considered A Bad Thing. He hoped with all his heart that it wasn't the case, but all Nicholas had to do was ask and he'd do it.

Michael cleared his throat loudly and said in a deeper, gruffer voice, "Just sayin' 'I'm here' is all."

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

Nick stuffed his big hands into his pockets as he moved down the sidewalk, broad shoulders hunched like a kid might do after getting in trouble - he even scuffed a shoe against the ground to knock away a bit of garbage that was clinging to the curb before giving Michael a sideways look. For a long moment they stared at eachother in the uncomfortable silence that happens when two grown men have the urge to say something affectionate, but testosterone gets in the way.

After all, he had known Michael for years and despite the fact he sometimes did borderline retarded things, he was a good man and his best friend, acting as a counter-balance for the times when Nicholas let his work take over his life, occasionally forcing him to go out places to stop thinking about where he would need to travel to next. For years, Michael had been the one he would sit and play video games with, have a beer with, or generally just act like an idiot with - Michael was the comforting, down-to-earth reality in a world that Nicholas had come to know as being filled with people like Bianca and Gerard. Michael didn't come from their world, he came from one that seemed more familiar to Nicholas.

"I'm sure she'd be willing to come over and dump another glass on my head if I wanted clarification on exactly what she meant by it." Nicholas said, choosing to forego any embarrassing sentiments in lieu of being good-naturedly self-deprecating. He picked at his collar then, readjusting it from where the wine had creased the material, then threw a smile in his friend's direction; like the rest of him, Nicholas' smile was attractive - it was broad and very white - he even had dimples.

"I'm alright, Mikey," he said finally, putting an Armani-clad arm around the other man's shoulders and briefly tugging him close to his side before releasing him again, the manliest show of affection he could manage without just resorting to punching him, "Really."

 

[Bathos]

Michael endured the brief embrace in the same manner he suffered through all of Nicholas' frequent touches. That is to say he averted his eyes, tamped down viciously on the girlish flutter in his chest, and made every effort not to behave like an ecstatic, attention starved puppy. He tilted his head away, clapped Nicholas on the back and, the moment it was over, re-established his dearly coveted personal space by taking a step backward.

Nick insisted that he was fine, and Michael wanted to believe it. Not just because it would help him sleep a little easier that night--which it would--but because he genuinely wanted Nicholas to be all right. He looked up at Nick again, and the expression he wore was uncharacteristically fierce as he searched for any physical indication that Nicholas was not, in fact, all right. His eyebrows knitted together low on his forehead and in the dim light of the street lamps his blue eyes were almost black, glittering with something that was not unlike a predator defending its young. His mouth, usually slack and full and threatening to break into a silly grin at any moment, was a thin, pale line against the darkness of his stubble.

When it became apparent that Nicholas wasn't about to break down and confess his secret desire to end his man-pain with a bottle of wine and a handful of horse tranquilizers, Michael relented and nodded.

"Yeah, okay," he said, and those two words sounded a lot like surrender. "In that case I'm gonna go grab a cheeseburger. Because, in case I forgot to tell you before, the food sucked." Just like that, footloose Michael was back.

"I'm this way," he said, pointing up the street. Michael did not, nor would he ever, trust the chuckle heads decked out in little red vests with one of his vehicles. "So, uh, call me if you need ... Well, just call me. Take 'er easy."

There was one more moment of awkward avoidance, during which Michael rolled his weight from the balls of his feet to his heels, his face alert and sort of blank in an I'm-carefully-thinking-of-absolutely-nothing kind of way, and then he said, "Okay," pivoted, and walked away.

"Oh, and burn that suit!" He chipperly called over his shoulder. "It's got evil bitch cooties all over it."

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

Nick fell back as Michael continued on, knowing he was heading for his car; for a long moment, the two men stood several feet from eachother, backlit only by the orange glow of street lamps, Michael rocking awkwardly on his heels and Nicholas watching him in silence, hands jammed into his pockets. The quiet wasn't exactly awkward, but it seemed to be heavy with something left unsaid - however, Nick didn't bother to question it, he just nodded his head in response, because the food really did suck, something that he was being reminded of right then, when it finally occurred to him that he was hungry.

Though, despite this, he found he wasn't particularly interested in eating; the entire night, after all, had left a particularly bitter taste in his mouth, and not just from the wine.

"This was an expensive suit." Nick replied promptly, looking down and plucking at the tastefully striped baby blue tie - which was currently stained - and looking back up again. He gave another of his smiles, a lightning-quick flash of brilliant teeth, before calling after Michael:

"I'm sure the cooties will come out with the proper dry cleaner."

After a long moment, he apparently decided it wasn't a suitable ending to the conversation, so he added:

"And get a haircut, you bum!"

Before turning on his heel and heading in the opposite direction, doing his best to ignore the way the brand new Italian leather shoes squeaked and creased against his feet with every step as he made his way to his own car. For a man with as much money as Nicholas had, his taste in automotives was - conventional; it wasn't sleek, sporty, or particularly expensive, and it's only winning feature was a customized leather interior.

In fact, the car wasn't even good-looking; it was the sort of vehicle that was used solely for the purpose of getting from point A to point B: four doors with an average engine V6 engine, good mileage, and painted in basic black. It was unexceptional in every way, and Bianca had made a point of refusing to be seen near the thing, appalled by the sight of it and perpetually questioning Nicholas' attachment to it - for the year-and-a-half they had been together, it had been a point of animosity on Bianca's part, but it had been the only whim of Bianca's that he hadn't catered to. The car had stayed.

Well, the car and Michael.

After all, Michael had been around before Bianca. And before Angelica. And Carmen. And Simone, Tiffany, and Delilah. When it came to women, Nicholas ended up as malleable as sodden tissue paper, but he had always refused to bend when it came to the subject of his best friend - even if Michael could, very occasionally, act like a horse's ass.

Kicking at the wheel of his car to knock away a bit of grit that had clung to it - and partly because he wanted a bit of dirt on the fine leather shoes - remotely unlocking the door, he slouched into the front seat and sat there for a long moment, eyeing himself in the rear view mirror and chewing at his bottom lip. After a long moment of this, he scowled, then gently tilted the mirror away.

 

[Bathos]

Two staccato chirps rose up in the darkness and the parking lot was suddenly illuminated with the beams of Michael's headlights. He opened the driver side door of his truck and made as if to swing up into his seat, but he gave pause at the last moment. Slowly, as if the thing were made of glass, he slid the borrowed suit jacket off of his shoulders. It was one of Nicholas'.

Michael gripped the jacket by the collar and held it out from him, as if it were contaminated with something hazardous to his health. He stared at it for a long moment--at least, it would seem long to an ignorant bystander, though Michael hardly noticed the passage of time, he was so absorbed in his thoughts. His thumb rubbed absent-minded little circles against the inside lining.

Unbidden came the image of another of Nicholas' jackets - specifically the one now stained with bad memories and expensive Bordeaux. Nick's suits were unfailingly well tailored and crisp, but the wine had set into his collar and shirt with great speed, ruining the meticulous folds and, with them, a perfect white shirt. It beaded in his hair, too, and gathered at his temples until it rolled like a teardrop down the side of his neck and disappeared between flesh and fabric. Michael imagined the combined flavors of salt skin and finely matured wine would change his dubious opinion of the drink in just one taste.

Abruptly, Michael's thoughtful expression crumpled into a scowl. "Son of a bitch," he snapped to no one at all, and balled the garment up almost violently and threw it into the cab. It hit the opposite door and fell into a heap on the seat. Michael slammed the door when he got in and squealed the tires when he sped out of the lot.

He fumed all the way to the golden arches and halfway through the drive-thru line before he got his mobile out and scrolled furiously through his list of contacts. The phone rang four times before he got an answer.

There was tinkling laughter on the line and then, absently, Bianca said, "Yes?"

"We're best fucking friends," he said by way of salutation.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm his best friend. We're supposed to hang out constantly. It's in the friggin' job description."

There was a long pause and then Bianca, more alert now, said, "Oh my God, Michael? Why are you even--"

"And for you to imply anything different is just- It's stupid, okay? And bitchy. And- Oh, hold up." Michael rolled his window down. "Yeah, I'd like a Double Quarter Pounder Meal, large sized, with a Coke, thanks."

"You really are a complete neanderthal, aren't you?"

"Hey," Michael snapped back, "you shouldn't knock eating until you've tried it."

"I don't know why you're so bent out of shape about it. Just think, with me out of the way you can commence with your big, gay love affair. Nothing stopping you now."

Michael's cheeks went suddenly hot and he spluttered audibly. "What? You don't- you don't really think that he ... and I. That we're--"

Bianca laughed. "I'm joking, of course. Relax. His taste is far too good for that." There was a low voice in the background suddenly, and Bianca's own voice went quiet and distant for a moment as she said, "Michael. He's my ex's hetero life partner. I'll explain later.

"Okay," she said, loud and clear once more. "Why am I talking to you, again?"

"Are you with a man?"

"I'm hanging up now, Michael."

"Bianca! Is there a man--"

The line went silent.

----------------------------

In retrospect, with his face flattened against the sidewalk and his arms wrenched painfully behind his back while a surprisingly solid she-cop slapped his wrists into cuffs, it was easy to see how driving over to Bianca's place was a mistake. But he had to see for himself if Bianca really was as big a whore as he thought.

Turned out yes. Yes, she absolutely was.

When she was finished cutting off his circulation, the officer yanked him into a sitting position.

"Sir, there's blood on your shirt. Have you been injured, as well?"

Michael looked down at his white t-shirt, blinked a couple of times, and looked back up at the cop. Just over her shoulder he could see Bianca's new boyfriend--new, as in two-months-new, the cheating bitch--with his head tilted back and a rag held against his freshly broken nose, trying to make a statement to another cop.

Casanova was a bleeder. Michael clenched and relaxed his right hand with satisfaction.

"... Sir?"

"It's friggin' ketchup, okay!"

In the distance, he heard Bianca snort.

---------------------------

See, it went like this.

Michael wasn't actually planning to beat the shit out of Casanova. And, really, you couldn't even call three measly punches before getting clubbed over the head by the geriatric security guard beating the shit out of someone, but that was beside the point. The point was that things just sorta got out of hand and it wasn't entirely Michael's fault.

Okay, admittedly, he did swing his Inferno red Dodge Ram 1500 balls-out through the guard station, over the curb, and onto the middle of Bianca's perfectly manicured lawn. And he did leap out of the cab with hellfire in his eyes, hands balled into white-knuckled fists. But he really only wanted to talk.

To the floppy-haired, limp-wristed douche who was standing on the front step, pawing at the woman who, up until about forty-five minutes ago, had been his best friend's girl.

(And maybe "pawing" was too strong a word for a hand placed gently against the small of her back and the Harlequin-sweet kiss he was dropping on her forehead, and Michael was fully willing to admit to a minute element of over reaction on his part.)

Talk. He'd just wanted to talk. Specifically, Michael wanted to talk about feet, and where he'd be putting his, and how Casanova was going to be tasting shoe polish for the foreseeable future. That's when it got out of hand, and their cozy little chat escalated into a full on domestic dispute, and then Grandfather Time took a billy club to the back of Michael's head and then there was a lot of swearing and, yes, Michael would also own up to a few comments that could possibly be construed as ageist.

To be fair, he was hallucinating stars and a three-dimensional Jessica Rabbit at the time. He could hardly be held liable.

"Mr. Jones," the lady cop cut in flatly, fixing him with a stare via the rear view mirror of the squad car. "You really shouldn't be telling me this until you've talked with a lawyer."

Michael shrugged. "I'm just sayin'."

----------------------------

Hours later, when it came time for Michael's one call, he was dressed in his own jeans and one blazing orange t-shirt that read "Rampart Community Detention Center" across the back and smelled faintly of sanitizer. Despite his most fervent protestations, the arresting officer refused to believe that the red stain on his shirt was, in fact, ketchup, and she had demanded that he relinquish it as evidence.

He called her a pervert for her troubles.

It was with a greatly exaggerated sense of shame that he dialed the number to Nicholas' phone, but the truth was he simply had no one else to call. When the voice sounded on the other end, Michael spat out in one big rush,

"Hey, it's me. Could you maybe, uh, come bail me out of jail?"

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

It was 1 a.m. by the time Nicholas arrived at the detention centre with a lawyer in tow; the legal council - one Brian Meadows, who had been amongst their guests at Bianca's birthday party - appeared as though he had just been woken up from a sound sleep, his hair sticking out at bizarre angles; Nicholas, however, hadn't even changed out of the stained suit.

The two were forced to wait by the clerk desk for nearly an hour before they spoke to the arresting officer, who eyed his shirt for a long time before Nick explained that it was just wine. She didn't seem entirely convinced, but she led them towards the holding cells anyways,

"This has been a smashing night." Brian said drily, rubbing sleepily at his eyes before peering blearily over at Nicholas; brows furrowed, he gave the man a long, appraising look; Nick had since removed his suit jacket and was left in his dress shirt - sleeves rolled up - and tie, "That must have been a full glass. I don't remember there being that much of it."

"Cotton blends absorb well." Nick replied promptly, and Brian just squinted at him before shrugging his eyebrows in acquiescence, too tired to get into the subject of what suit materials were the hardiest against stains - and he was quite sure that Nick should be too tired and distracted for it as well, but there he was, as alert and chipper as ever, regardless of the fact that his fiancee had publically humiliated him and he was currently bailing his best friend out of jail. He was certain that Nick had some secret to his nirvana, but as a lawyer, Brian had long ago learned that some things were secrets for a reason - he really didn't want to know what drugs Nicky had to shove up his nose for that sort of perpetual calm.

As the two were led to the holding cell where Michael was presently being kept, Brian fell back and Nick stepped inside; the door closed behind him. Faced with a steel table, two chairs, a white room, and his best friend, here were a number of things he could have done right then - Nick could have called Michael an idiot, he could have asked him what he was thinking, he could have wordlessly smacked him in the head -

- but he didn't do any of those. Instead, he slowly cocked his head to the side and said:

"Hello, Clarice."

Before making his way across the room, folding himself into the seat, and resting his hands onto the arms of the chair, watching Michael. After a lengthy silence, he continued on in the same affected voice:

"Did you think punching the fop would silence the screaming of the lambs?"

 

[Bathos]

Michael sat slouched in a heavy, iron armchair, head tilted so far back on his neck that he was staring directly up at the ceiling. His fingers drummed idle little beats against the arm rests and his eyes blinked with increasing slowness, remaining shut a little longer each time. He had a massive headache, the kind that throbbed when he moved or sighed or thought. And if the fluorescent lights didn't do his eyes in, then the radioactive orange shirt was going to finish the job. And he was hungry again.

Jail was boring.

He wondered what Nicholas would think of his little predicament. There hadn't been much time to talk over the phone, just a minor rundown of the pertinent stuff. Stuff like, 'help,' and 'hurry,' and 'the crazy bull dyke with the .9 mm stole my clothes.'

He might be mad. He had every right to be mad. Only a pussy sent another man in to fight his battles, and that's exactly what it would look like to everyone else. He should be mad.

Michael really hoped he wasn't mad.

When the big, steel door finally creaked open in the wee hours of the morning, Michael had nearly dozed off. He jerked upright immediately, and a dose of adrenaline flooded his system because, seriously, Shawshank Redemption. Enough said.

But it was only Nicholas, so Michael relaxed a little and offered a weak, apologetic smile. He even turned his head a little to present Nicholas with his good side, operating under the theory that it would amplify the sweet and hapless look he was going for.

And then, after a short silence, Nicholas opened his mouth and proved, once and for all, that there was definitely a screw loose somewhere in the finer workings of his mind.

"Hello, Clarice," he said, and made himself look comfortable and regal and smooth in what had to be the worst chair Michael's ass had ever met. Michael was duly impressed. "Did you think punching the fop would silence the screaming of the lambs?"

The look Michael shot Nicholas was one of complete and utter bewilderment. He was quoting Anthony Hopkins at a time when he should have been decking Michael in the face, and that was just ... bizarre. Like so much about Nicholas was completely baffling, only this was baffling and disturbing.

And yeah, he kinda was trying to silence the screaming of the lambs, but only in the sense that, much like the critters in the movie, Nicholas refused to be saved from his own tragic ending (marriage to a frigid bitch) and Michael couldn't bring himself to cease his doomed crusade to rescue him.

Only in that sense.

"Uh, okay, psycho. No more rated R movies before bedtime for you." He shook his head despairingly, but on the last turn he cracked a smile. "So," he went on, hoping to gloss right over that part where he committed assault on Nick's ex-girlfriends front lawn. "Am I outta here or what?"

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

"I think," Nicholas said, leaning back in the chair to observe Michael, honey-coloured eyes made to glimmer strangely under the flourescent lights, "That we should start with the 'or what' option - you assaulted someone, Michael. You broke his nose, and it would be well within his rights to sue you for it. Brian is out there trying to smooth things over, with any luck we'll be able to get you out of here in the next hour or so - but from what I understand, coins should have popped out when you hit the guy."

There was another stretch of silence and Nicholas rubbed at the back of his neck, rolling his head to the side to stretch out the muscles before turning his eyes back to Michael; he let out a small breath, splaying his big, calloused hands out onto the cool surface of the table,

"What came over you, Mikey?" he asked.

And, just outside the holding room, Brian Meadows was deep in a private conversation with arresting officer Robson; the woman was built like a linebacker and had the same fortitude as one, yet after a few minutes of talking to Brian, her features had softened visibly. The entire scene was being observed from down the hallway by a tall, pin-thin man; Crowman had been doing the job long enough to know a vulture when he saw one, but he was especially aware when it came to a presence like Meadows - the guy went beyond what most lawyers did, he was a shark. If there was a loophole to be found in the legal system, Meadows was the one who would find it and manipulate it to his advantage; he was the sort of legal defense that made most cops want to throw their badge down and shoot someone.

But, instead, the Commissioner merely shrugged his mouth, cast a final, disgusted look in Meadows' direction, and went in to review the case that the shark was circling so intently.

 

[Bathos]

A look of genuine distress came over Michael just then, a true rarity considering he couldn't be bothered to break a sweat with assault charges and a stint in prison looming over his head. This could be misconstrued as false bravado by some, but those close to Michael knew well his offbeat sense of priorities. And in his mind, an impending legal battle was small fish compared to the hurt he was about to inflict upon his friend. But keeping secrets had just never been an option; not when it came to Nick.

Michael couldn't meet Nick's eyes for this, so he dropped his attention to the table, where the other man's fingers were spread flat against the metal. Another long silence stretched out between them, and it was so quiet inside the room that Michael could almost swear he could hear Nick breathing across the table.

He looked down at his own hand, red and swollen across the knuckles. He worked his fingers and shook them out like it would get rid of the dull throb. It didn't.

At length, Michael licked his bottom lip, gnawed on his upper one, and was out with it at last. "I called Bianca. And don't say anything, I already know, it wasn't any of my business and I was overstepping my bounds. I get that. I do. But ..."

He trailed off and chanced a glance up at Nick, his blue eyes all big and pathetic and bright, looking utterly wrung out. "We bickered. Whatever. Nothing new there. But there was this moment when I could swear she was with a guy, and I called her out on it and she hung up on me."

He looked down again, at the spot on the floor directly between his feet. "So I went over there, just to see if - He was kissing her, this guy. I never seen 'im before, so I asked him who the hell he was and he goes, 'I'm Bianca's boyfriend.' And I go, 'Since when, douche nozzle?' And he tells me."

Michael sighed. "Two months, man. Two months she's been seein' this guy. And I just ... I lost it. I couldn't hit her, obviously, so I just wailed on him 'til Deputy Depends came along."

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

Nick watched as Michael's eyes made a slow descent to the table, but he knew it wasn't because there was something of interest there - Mikey was avoiding his eyes. Nicholas lowered his head a little, cocking it to the side to get a better look at his friend's face, analyzing him for information, though it came out moments later anyways.

Nicholas' features registered no reaction at the intial mention of Bianca, he merely continued to watch Michael in a patient sort of silence, awaiting the completion of his explanation - and when it came, Nicholas slowly sat back in his seat, as though some invisible hand had guided him back, and he stared at Michael for a moment longer. His expression remained benevolent enough, but there was an odd little twist in the one corner of his mouth and a tiny divet near his right eyebrow - an unpleasant little quirk in a perfectly chiselled face.

"Ah." he said finally, but said nothing more - there was scarcely the time for it anyways, because moments later the door was opening, and the scarecrow silhoutte of the police Chief stood in the doorway. For a long moment, he regarded the two men with hard, lamplight-sized green eyes, and then he jerked his head towards the hallway,

"You're free to go." Crowman said, but the way he said it made him sound vaguely like he was swearing at them - it was something of an accomplishment; he put his eyes onto Michael, "I personally would have kept you here until tomorrow afternoon, but not everyone has the kind of connections you do. Consider yourself lucky, Mr. Jones."

His eerie gaze shifted over to Nicholas then, and for a long, long moment he simply stared at him, unblinking; Nicholas looked back at him, and almost in unison, both men cocked their heads very slightly to the left.

Then Crowman looked back to Michael,

"You can pick up your possessions at the front desk." he added coolly, about to turn to the hallway again, but pausing to add, "And until Mr. Chance decides whether or not he's going to press charges, we'll be holding your car in impound; as it turns out - the big, grassy area you left it on wasn't a designated parking space. For future reference."

He gave Nicholas one more hard look, and then he dissappeared from the room, leaving the door open; a few seconds later, and Brian appeared, glancing back a few times in the direction Crowman had gone,

"Let's go before he finds some reason to give us all a rectal examination." Brian said, and looked at Michael, "Hullo Michael. Do me a solid, will you, and next time you feel particularly hostile, could you please punch someone who isn't an election candidate?"

 

[Bathos]

"So that's why all the fuss," Michael chirped with forced mirth, but his own voice was a distant, tinny murmur in his ears. Even the skinny cop with the stick up his ass, who would have filled Michael with a borderline unhealthy sense of paranoia on even the best of days, was reduced to a meaningless peripheral detail.

At that moment, sitting in a holding cell at the Echo Park police station, hit with the news that he was indefinitely without wheels and possibly staring down the barrel at probation revocation and a brand new assault charge, probably in the second degree, Michael only had eyes for Nicholas.

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but he promptly shut it again. Whatever he had to say, he doubted Nicholas wanted to hear it. He wasn't sorry for what he did, that much was already clear. He wasn't sorry Bianca was gone. He was only sorry that Nick might be in pain--and that point was still a little unclear to Michael--and there wasn't much use in saying so.

Michael got to his feet with a groan. His shoulders and back made loud protestations against the metal chair where he'd been sitting for the past several hours, in the form of sharp, obnoxious aching. He rolled his shoulders, twisted left and right to the tune of a cluster of audible cracks, and then took up point in the shameful march out of the detention center.

When he retrieved his belongings from the front counter, it wasn't until he'd signed his name and poured his wallet, multi-tool, and Chapstick out of the clear plastic bag that he remembered to toss the clerk a wide, playful grin and a wink.

"So," Michael said, turning back to Nicholas and Brian, grin still in place, though the corners of his eyes were creased with something not unlike pain. "Either of you headed to Inglewood tonight?"

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

Brian gave Michael a look of utter exasperation,

"Yes. That's why all the fuss." Brian replied snippishly, tugging on his jacket and lifting his wrist to look at his watch; 2 a.m. "You managed to make a powerful enemy tonight, Michael, so let's just hope he doesn't consider you important enough to waste any time on, yeah? Otherwise, you might end up facing much worse things than a little jail time. Research, and then punch, alright?"

He huffed a breath out his nose then, and looked over at Nick,

"I'm going home, Nicholas," he said, and then his features shifted, changing his expression into something vaguely embarrassed, "Molly baked you cookies this evening. She thinks they'll make you feel better."

Brian put a hand on Nicholas' arm then, adding gravely,

"I'm sorry."

Nicholas looked equally grim then,

"Perhaps she won't have mistaken the powder detergent for sugar this time." Nicholas said, with a touch of hope, and Brian simply patted him on the arm again before leading the way out of the building. As they walked, Nick added casually,

"I'm headed to Inglewood tonight. Nothing makes me feel alive like getting shot at, after all."

 

[Bathos]

Michael laughed, short and humorless. "I can do that for ya, and you won't even have to change zip codes."

He nodded tersely to Brian when they parted ways in the parking lot and followed Nick to his car, wondering silently to himself whether Nicholas had actually intended to visit Inglewood that evening or if he was just saying it, so Michael would feel like less of a burden. Michael didn't deserve to feel like a less of a burden after the stunt he'd pulled, but that didn't mean Nick wouldn't be his same, unfailingly considerate self, anyway.

And if he was headed into Michael's neighborhood, what did that mean? He was going to belly up to the bar at his favorite little dive and drink himself into a stupor, most likely. Michael mused on that one until they were on the highway.

It was a short trip to Michael's place in the dead of the night. Rush hour traffic could bump the time to upwards of 45 minutes, but the way the roads were now, dark and desolate, it wouldn't take more than fifteen.

"You just say the word if I'm crossin' into chick flick territory here, man," he finally said, when the silence and the hour and weight of things not said got to be too much for him to hold. "But if you need me right now, we can grab a bottle of somethin' and, I dunno, hang. Swap sob stories. Chase some tail. Whatever."

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

The drive to Inglewood was an uncharacteristically quiet one; in the dead of the night, the city seemed unusually quiet, utterly lacking the sound of heavy techno music or the flashing lights of some rave party that normally disrupted the air - but when they could have used the noise, it was no where to be found. It left both Nick and Michael submerged in a silence that gradually became almost painful, until Michael broke it,

"Nah," Nick replied finally, giving his head a small shake, "It's been a long day, you know?"

He glanced over at Michael, then back towards the street,

"I think I'll just head back to my place - get some sleep." he lied, rubbing at his eye with the heel of his palm, "I need to prepare some information for an upcoming job anyways, I've been procrastinating - I'm a bad little consultant. I have to go to Russia next week, to this little division just east of Moscow, you wouldn't believe how many vowels they put into the city name: Zheleznodorozhny. I'm not sure how they'll even fit the entire name on my plane ticket, nevermind what a souveneir coffee mug would look like."

He blinked hard at the windshield, for the first time showing an edge of weariness,

"The guys I'm meeting with are insisting on taking me to a show afterwards." he added grimly, pulling into the side street that Michael lived on, "The circus, of all things. They told me I have to see the ice-skating bear. It wears a beanie, Michael. Russians are crazy people."

 

[Bathos]

Michael laughed at Nick's discomfort with, of all things, the circus. Although he wouldn't ever, under any circumstances, admit to it, the circus was one of Michael's favorite childhood memories. He would have jumped at the chance to go to the Russian circus. Of course, only if he was traveling alone and there were no cameras around and Michael paid in cash so there was absolutely no way a paper trail could lead back to him.

He'd also introduce himself as Paul and wear large sunglasses and sit in the mezzanine.

He had a hard time sympathizing with Nick on these kinds of things, anyway. The guy was going to Russia for a job for fuck's sake. That shit was glamorous and no two ways about it, and Mikey suspected Nick knew it, too.

As they pulled up to the house, Michael said between snickers, "Well, man, enjoy your fire eaters or whatever. And, uh, I guess you'll have Brian call if Mr. Politico makes some kind of decision, so ..." Michael pushed the door open, but lingered a moment, watching Nick for any indication that he didn't want to be alone.

After a thoroughly awkward silence, he cleared his throat. "Yeah, okay. See ya."

He ducked out of the car and shut the door behind him, giving the roof one solid good night tap before he headed inside.

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

Though only thirty-three years old, Nick had been doing his consulting job for roughly a decade, and during that period of time the frequent long distance travel had become a part of his every day life. Something so foreign and glamorous to others had become the norm for Nicholas, and very occasionally, getting on airplane after airplane could get - tiresome.

Some days, he just wanted to stay in one place.

"I can handle the fire-eaters," Nick said, putting an arm over the back of his chair to lean down and look at Michael as he got out of the car, "I'm just wondering how unhappy the bear is going to be with skates on. I wouldn't want to be the one to put the skates on it, you know?"

He leaned back a little then, and looked back at the windshield,

"Yeah, Brian will be on standby in case Chance decides to press charges; he'll know what to do." Nick said, "But I think you'll be alright. I don't think Chance will want this sort of thing to go public anyways."

He gave a nod as Michael lingered by the car, and then continued to watch him until he made his way to his front door and dissappeared inside. For a long moment, Nicholas sat in the driveway staring at the house, and then he let out a long, slow breath; he looked down at himself then, and took another look at the stains across the finely pressed shirt, and he sighed.

Nicholas didn't go home and go to bed; instead, he drove to Mr. Kobayashi's, a rundown old sushi bar that had been built ages ago within Inglewood, run by a Korean man - and his wife - who pretended to be Japanese for the sake of falling in line with North America's more recent obsession with Japanese culture. Nicholas wasn't a big fan of sushi, but after having stopped in once years ago, he had discovered the alcohol was cheap, and the place was open twenty-four hours a day, due to the fact that the bar was an integral part of the man's house.

That, and Mr. Kobayashi didn't like wasting any portion of the day; he wasn't even sure if the man ever slept.

So that was where Nick ended up, sitting at the worn - but sterile - bar in the ghetto part of Los Angeles, chin propped on his fist, several empty beer bottles near his elbow, and his eyes half-focused on an old tube television propped above the bar; he wasn't entirely certain what was playing at that point, but it didn't really matter anyways.

 

[Bathos]

Michael closed the front door behind him with a loud slam, fully intent upon walking straight into a scalding hot shower. Possibly followed by a ritual burning of the bright orange county property currently offending his skin with its presence. But he hesitated instead, turning to look out his darkened window at the car still idling in the driveway. It was an inexplicable feeling that washed over him, as he couldn't even see through the front windshield against the brightness of the headlights, but he felt suddenly like Nick was not as 'fine' as he had sworn, and that he was an asshole for ever accepting his claims in the first place.

He decided to put it from his mind and shower, anyway.

His hair wasn't even dry before he caved, but he spent another few minutes debating how big of a tool he'd come off as if, when he called, Nick was actually asleep in bed like he'd said. It would take some real finesse to come out of that one looking good.

Ultimately, he decided to go with his gut, flipped his mobile phone open, and pressed send. Nick naturally, was the most recently called number. He answered on the fourth ring.

"Ssssssssup?" came his friend's disturbingly chipper voice.

Michael held the phone away from his ear briefly, eyeballing it as if it had somehow betrayed him, put him through to the wrong dimension or something. He then put it back to his head.

"Uh, hey, buddy. It's me. You, uh. What are you doing?"

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

Nick wasn't exactly sure how many beers he'd had, and he couldn't be certain what else he'd had between them either, but by the time Michael called, there were several overturned shotglasses surrounding the army of empty bottles and Mr. Kobayashi was now sitting beside him, yelling at the television in Korean and on his third beer.

Neither of them heard the cell phone during the first few seconds, but eventually it's ringtone could no longer be ignored.

I never meant to be so bad to you, one thing I said that I would never do.

Nick ignored the way Kobayashi eyeballed him for having anything by Asia on his cell phone, too drunk to even be embarrassed about it, and he lifted the phone to eye level, staring at it for a long time, even squinting while he worked out who was calling. While Mr. Kobayashi continued to shout at the soap opera on the television, Nick finally stopped seeing double long enough to see what the caller ID said:

'Mikey'

"위에 파악," Nick said, and Kobayashi fell silent while he answered the phone, lifting it close and hissing out: "Ssssssssup?"

There was a long silence over the phone before Mikey responded, and Nick slouched against the bar, hanging his head a little to stretch out some of the muscles in his neck and back,

"Um," Nick said, "Nothin'. I'm not doing anything. A lot of nothing, all up in here."

He looked around the building then; there was no one else there, of course.

"Everyone else seems to be doing something." Nick said, and then looked at his watch; it took a lot of focus for that particular action as well. It was 3:30 a.m. "Like sleeping, I guess. Sleep sucks anyways."

 

[Bathos]

"Uh huh," Michael said, slowly and with a certain level of suspicion drawing out the two syllables. "All right, well. You just enjoy your nothin' and I'll talk to you soon, okay? Bye."

Mikey hung up the phone before Nick could get a word in, because now he was officially in a hurry. Oh, and an asshole, as he had previously feared, because Nick was fantastically drunk. Or high on something, and both scenarios were a little hard to swallow. But either one meant he was not okay.

He knew exactly where Nick would be, or at least had a pretty good hunch, considering how bombed he was and their proximity to Nick's favorite little dive. There was the problem of transportation to consider, however, so as soon as Michael clicked off the line he put a call into a taxi service and requested a car. He hated doing it, considered it a huge waste of money, but he couldn't very well ask Nick for a ride in this case.

It was just over twenty minutes before he arrived at the bar, dressed now in the same jeans as before--he only washed them every so often--and a snugly fitting gray t-shirt featuring Captain Beyond. He still needed a shave, but he was less menacing with the cartoon Captain depicted on his chest.

The first thing Michael noticed, upon arrival, was the little Korean guy who ran the place, settled on a stool next to Nick. Nick, who was merrily guffawing away at the television--Michael noted distantly that it was a late night infomercial, and not a particularly funny one--with Mr. Kobayashi.

The Korean looked at him when he walked in, and Michael looked back. Kobayashi's face was stern and disapproving, as if it were somehow Michael's fault that Nick was in the state that he was. As if Nick weren't a grown ass man fully capable of making his own decisions. As if it wasn't Kobayashi himself who got Nick drunk in the first place. The Korean looked at him as if all roads that led to Hell first started with Michael and then, after a beat, he was laughing again with Nicholas.

Michael's mouth twitched like he wanted to say something to defend himself, but he knew Kobayashi would feign innocence in the face of confrontation, so he kept it to himself, plastered on his own ridiculous grin, and bellied up to the bar with Nick.

"Hey, man. Looks like you've been ragin' it up in here. You need a, uh, ride home? That is, when you're done with your ... program?"

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

Nick stared at the phone for a long time after Mikey had hung up, but eventually he forgot precisely why he was looking at it and ended up discarding it onto the top of the bar, refocusing on Kobayashi and the television. It was a well-known fact amongst their circle that Nicholas Godwit had a tendency to be a little behind the times; due to the frequency of his travels, and his particular personality, he usually had zero patience or time for things like television, radio, or even internet. In fact, the extent of his relationship with technology seemed to be limited to his blackberry, which held his schedule and let him check for messages; beyond that, he was more likely to throw a computer at someone to catch their attention rather than e-mail them.

So, really, television was pretty novel to him. Especially while drunk.

He just couldn't remember why it was funny, he just knew that at some point Mr. Kobayashi had started laughing, and it had caused some strange giggle-loop that had them both snickering at absolutely nothing, merely laughing more because, at that point, the sound of laughter was also funny.

By the time Michael arrived, Kobayashi was also wasted, but much more aware than Nick was - presently, Nick had gained a slightly rosy tint to his cheeks, and somewhere along the lines, his tie had come off and had ended up around Kobayashi's head. When Michael spoke, Nick turned 180 degrees on the stool and lifted his arms up in the air like he had just scored a touchdown,

"Michael!" he enthused, and lowered his arms, "We have beer. I had beer. There's more beer though, if you want some."

"And vodka." Kobayashi added gravely, and shot Michael another of those looks, "Very much vodka."

"Yes, very much vodka." Nick agreed, having completely disregarded his friend's question; near his elbow sat a bottle of vodka, the contents of which had been significantly diminished over the course of the previous hour and a half, "I got to thinking that it was such a waste, all the alcohol on the, um, top of my head. And shirt. I figured I should make up for it. By drinking some. Kobayashi too, see? He's got my tie on, I think it works for him."

Kobayashi shrugged and flipped his head to the side so the tie swung around; Nicholas did another shot of vodka, which had been sitting at the ready on the counter, and as politely as possible, licked a trail of it off of his wrist from where he had unsteadily spilled it.

 

[Bathos]

Heat poured into Michael's face, fast enough that he thought he could actually hear the rushing blood flooding into his cheeks, and even as far as the tops of his ears. He looked at Kobayashi, not because he cared about Nick's tie--he did not give a flying fuck about Nick's stupid tie--but because it was someplace to look other than at Nick who was ...

Obviously, Nick was drunk and in an altered state, because the way he drew his tongue across his wrist was obscene. Criminally obscene. Mothers would draw their small children away in a blind panic. Churches would protest. The Republicans would pass laws about it, if they caught wind of this. And if Michael suddenly felt like the room was closing in on him and the heat had bumped up a few degrees and his clothes were suddenly ill-fitting and wrong, then it was only because he was uncomfortable. For Nicholas. He was uncomfortable because Nick would hate to know that he had behaved so badly in public.

He cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and did a double take because Kobayashi was smirking at him, the bastard. "Okay, Nick," Michael said, possibly an octave higher than his usual range. "You've had enough and your friend here"--cue Michael's hostile glance at the Korean--"needs to get to sleep some time tonight."

Slowly, as if he thought (knew) this was all going to end painfully for him, Michael slid his arm around Nick's shoulders and tugged him away from the stool. "Let's go, man. You can sleep it off at my place."

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

Kobayashi was watching Michael with a detached sort of interest, the tie hanging stupidly against his temple, his expression serious in comparison to the silk neckwear he had turned into a jaunty headband. Nick, however, didn't seem to be focusing on much of anything, but that was probably due to the fact he'd had far too much to drink by that point, and focusing on anything was virtually impossible, as the world had doubled.

As he was pulled off of the seat and onto his feet, Nick pursed his lips and looked skywards as though deep in thought, even while being led to the door,

"Um," he said, and then shrugged his mouth, "No. I don't want to sleep. Let's go somewhere. Um. Let's go to a waterpark. Or bumper cars. We should go on bumper cars. Do they - I mean, are there even any bumper cars here? I don't think there are, actually. Are - hey, Mr. Kobayashi, are there any - thingies -"

"Go sleep." Kobayashi said, tugging the tie off his head and flinging it in their direction; it landed on Michael's shoulder, "Get sleep. And you Michael, you shave! You need to shave!"

"No I don't need to sha - oh, Michael. Not me." Nick said, rubbing at his clean-shaven face, and then peering over at Michael, who was currently in very close proximity; he raised a hand to touch inquisitively at Michael's jaw, "Hey, wow, you do need to shave. That's kind of impressive. Was that there earlier today? I don't remember it. You're like a wookie. That's a man-beard, right there. Wait, what was I talking about?"