Sorey thought he knew seraphim well – certainly better than he understood humans, in any case. After his big sleep (and the big changes that came with it), he'd hoped he'd be able to hit the ground running, culture-wise – he'd always been an odd duck when it came to humans, and sure, he'd probably be an odd duck when it came to seraphim, but maybe less of an odd duck, maybe just a slightly quirky duck.
"SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS-" chanted the Katz in high-pitched unison as they carried a ragingly drunk Lailah atop their heads, parading her across Katz Korner as she double-fisted bottles of whiskey. She swallowed, and spat out the whiskey in a mighty fountain of fire.
Sorey had always found seraphs to be calm, serene, sedate. But it seemed that on special occasions, seraphs apparently really, really liked to party.
His friends considered Sorey's awakening as a seraph to be a special occasion like no other in the past few hundred years. ("The last special occasion was when little Weebo single-handedly powerbombed that mangy fox into a million billion blobs of applesauce," Edna explained to him, unable to keep the fondness out of her voice. She smiled at the memory serenely, twirling her umbrella. "Every year Glenwood celebrates the anniversary. It's called Powerbombmas.") And so, they booked a VIP room in Katz Korner to celebrate. And celebrate they were. Celebrating rather severely.
Lailah lurched to her feet, hurtling off her Katz parade float, and flung herself face-first into the exposed cleavage of the nearest stripper. The stripper squealed in happiness. When they'd first walked in, Zaveid had tried to lead Sorey to the primo seats near the dance stage, promising lapdances and honkers until dawn. Thankfully, Mikleo had not so gently disengaged Zaveid's grip on his shoulders, and led him over to a quieter corner of the club to people-watch. Sorey couldn't avoid being the guest of honor, but he could at least avoid being accosted if his lap was already full; occupied by one (1) tipsy water seraph. Sorey didn't really know what a lap dance was, but if it involved Mikleo wriggling his butt against his hips like this, giggling as Sorey nuzzled his neck through his long, unbound curls – well, Sorey was down to keep going until dawn.
"Youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu," Lailah stumbled up to their table, clutching Edna to her chest, like an oversized toddler carrying a doll. She gazed at them, misty-eyed, and burst into tears, resting her reddened cheek against the crown of Edna's head. "We missed youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu…Soreyyyyyyyyyyy…"
"Can the former Shepherd please tell his prime lord to mellow the fuck out so his loyal former sub-lord can get back to her blackjack game," Edna said. One dangling heel petulantly gave a kick to Lailah's thigh. "Also, you might wanna tell the bartender to cut Zaveid off. He's crying on the DJ again."
"Do you know," Mikleo started, voice burned husky with drink. "What I learned. When you were away."
Mikleo's tongue flicked out to trace the outline of Sorey's lips. Sorey did not know, could not begin to guess, and would die if he didn't find out this very instant.
Lailah squealed and jumped up and down, prompting another flurry of hopeless kicks from Edna. "Did I hear PANTS OFF DANCE OFF?!" she screamed to the rest of the club.
Sirens began to go off, and disco balls descended from the ceiling. A pole appeared on stage in a puff of smoke. Mikleo rose up slowly from Sorey's lap, tugging his pants down slowly over his hipbones as he stood.
"BOTTLE SERVICE!" shrieked Lailah, hurling herself and Edna into Sorey's booth bodily. Edna grunted as Lailah's weight crushed her into the plush seating. Mikleo marched his way to the stage as if on a mission, his ass swaying with each step.
And that is how Sorey learned the true meaning of Powerbombmas.