Disclaimer: All characters (Save those I make up myself - which I will
note) belong to the great Sandra Delete. Tybalt included. You may worship
Sandra now. ::worshipworship::
Perhaps it wasn't his best move.
Wasting time in a bar downtown wouldn't help him over the damnable blond. Maybe it would have been better just to stay in his studio and to paint. Sculpt. Hell, draw on Oekaki boards online. Anything, surely, would have been a better move than this.
Still.. The drinks had their appeal. Sitting under a dimming yellow strobe light, listening to the few murmurs of those not quite drunk yet, he found he could relax his shoulders and slump on the stool. A soft, humming of some elder tune without words tickled his ears. Somehow, the familiarity gave him a mental itch. It was right on his tongue - the name of the song, and the memory from which he had heard it - yet so far out of grasp. Not worth trying to remember.
His eyes circled the rim of the glass in his hand, still resting upon the bar. Faintly he recalled drinking songs and those that mentioned this famous mixed drink. Apollo shunned it for its popularity, and Mik hadn't liked it so much.
The lids closed over his emerald irises. It wasn't good to think about Mikhael now. Not when that great oaf had stolen back what he thought he owned. It made him wonder why Harley would stay with someone like him, when he..
Tybalt snorted, tossing the cliché from him. '..when he could have someone like me.' It occurred to him that he used the phrase all too often..
It did hold as much appeal as the drinks. Using clichés. The damnable things popped up everywhere now.. Apollo had managed to squeeze one into their conversation earlier, as Tybalt was walking out the door. 'Love hurts..' And how right he was. He seemed to be right more often than he should be nowadays. Tybalt noted and drew a red circle around one line on his to-do list in his mind: 'Make sure to prove Apollo wrong more than once a day.' That was, of course, below 'Make Mik pay;' 'Seduce Harley away from ex,' and 'Ravish the cute blond.' But the checklist's fifth entry - for Tybalt had an odd way of keeping track of these things - was for Skids. 'Talk to Skids - have not talked to him in a while.'
Skids. The very name was laughable. The blond's invention, no doubt, and such a suitable name. Unusual, yes, but at least it was only a nickname. From what conversation Tybalt had picked at with the boy, one of his friends' names was a bit more eccentric than his own. And it was a real one.
Tybalt stared down at the bartop in front of him, sighing. It was a wonder he had stopped driving at all, so angered had he been. Angry, yes, and lonely again. Disappointed.
The empty bartop in front of him.
Glancing frantically about, he spotted the bartender, half-asleep with boredom, a Hurricane in hand. Not his drink. Glancing down at himself, Tybalt made sure he hadn't spilled it in his lap. The dark jeans were dry and clean. Then..
"Margaritaville isn't the best place to be on a night like this, sugar.."
The redhead turned slightly on the stool. An auburn-haired woman smirked at him, clutching his drink in one hand. "What's your name?"
"My drink, if you don't mind."
Silver eyes scanned him, merry with mischief. "Not until I learn your handle, tiger."
The damnable woman! Keeping his margarita away from him. And she looked like a prostitute, to boot. Hmph. After a day of bitter sarcasm, loss, and annoyingly clichéd ranting, maybe a little fun between the covers wouldn't be so bad. His mouth tipped up into a grin, not lecherous, but not totally innocent, either.
"Tybalt."
The woman handed him back the glass.
Perhaps it wasn't his best move.
Wasting time in a bar downtown wouldn't help him over the damnable blond. Maybe it would have been better just to stay in his studio and to paint. Sculpt. Hell, draw on Oekaki boards online. Anything, surely, would have been a better move than this.
Still.. The drinks had their appeal. Sitting under a dimming yellow strobe light, listening to the few murmurs of those not quite drunk yet, he found he could relax his shoulders and slump on the stool. A soft, humming of some elder tune without words tickled his ears. Somehow, the familiarity gave him a mental itch. It was right on his tongue - the name of the song, and the memory from which he had heard it - yet so far out of grasp. Not worth trying to remember.
His eyes circled the rim of the glass in his hand, still resting upon the bar. Faintly he recalled drinking songs and those that mentioned this famous mixed drink. Apollo shunned it for its popularity, and Mik hadn't liked it so much.
The lids closed over his emerald irises. It wasn't good to think about Mikhael now. Not when that great oaf had stolen back what he thought he owned. It made him wonder why Harley would stay with someone like him, when he..
Tybalt snorted, tossing the cliché from him. '..when he could have someone like me.' It occurred to him that he used the phrase all too often..
It did hold as much appeal as the drinks. Using clichés. The damnable things popped up everywhere now.. Apollo had managed to squeeze one into their conversation earlier, as Tybalt was walking out the door. 'Love hurts..' And how right he was. He seemed to be right more often than he should be nowadays. Tybalt noted and drew a red circle around one line on his to-do list in his mind: 'Make sure to prove Apollo wrong more than once a day.' That was, of course, below 'Make Mik pay;' 'Seduce Harley away from ex,' and 'Ravish the cute blond.' But the checklist's fifth entry - for Tybalt had an odd way of keeping track of these things - was for Skids. 'Talk to Skids - have not talked to him in a while.'
Skids. The very name was laughable. The blond's invention, no doubt, and such a suitable name. Unusual, yes, but at least it was only a nickname. From what conversation Tybalt had picked at with the boy, one of his friends' names was a bit more eccentric than his own. And it was a real one.
Tybalt stared down at the bartop in front of him, sighing. It was a wonder he had stopped driving at all, so angered had he been. Angry, yes, and lonely again. Disappointed.
The empty bartop in front of him.
Glancing frantically about, he spotted the bartender, half-asleep with boredom, a Hurricane in hand. Not his drink. Glancing down at himself, Tybalt made sure he hadn't spilled it in his lap. The dark jeans were dry and clean. Then..
"Margaritaville isn't the best place to be on a night like this, sugar.."
The redhead turned slightly on the stool. An auburn-haired woman smirked at him, clutching his drink in one hand. "What's your name?"
"My drink, if you don't mind."
Silver eyes scanned him, merry with mischief. "Not until I learn your handle, tiger."
The damnable woman! Keeping his margarita away from him. And she looked like a prostitute, to boot. Hmph. After a day of bitter sarcasm, loss, and annoyingly clichéd ranting, maybe a little fun between the covers wouldn't be so bad. His mouth tipped up into a grin, not lecherous, but not totally innocent, either.
"Tybalt."
The woman handed him back the glass.