He doesn't realize how strange his life has become until he walks up to the bar and sees Cana leaning contentedly against the bar, elegantly stirring a salt-rimmed cocktail with a small silver spoon. His eyes bug out as he takes in her new outfit. Sleek ivory satin clings elegantly to her body, hugging the slenderness of her waist and flowing down over the length of her legs. Loops of fine silver strands rest delicately over the front of her dress and wrap around her wrists. Her petite feet arch in unreasonably high silver heels.

She looks incredibly hot— and classy as fuck.

He has to clear his throat twice and tug at his collar before he can form intelligent language. "Damn, Alberona, you clean up nice."

She gives him a once-over, eyebrow raised mockingly. "You could stand to try harder."

"Fuck off," he tells her lightheartedly. "What ushers in this—very appealing— change in outfit?"

Cana wraps slender fingers around the stem of her glass and raises it towards him in a pseudo-toast. "There's nothing wrong with a little elegance once in a while, Dreyar. Something a plebian like you wouldn't understand."

He blinks. "Um—"

"I learned how to mix drinks yesterday." Seeing his uncomprehending stare, she elaborates heatedly. "I wanted to respect the nature of the alcohol!"

"Let me get this straight. You refuse to put on a shirt that covers more than your breasts, even if I specifically ask you to, but you'll change your entire wardrobe— just so that the alcohol doesn't feel left out?"

"It's my friend!"

"You're psychotic."

"At least I look classy as fuck. You look like something died on your coat."

"You look like something died on your face."

"—Just for that, I'm not mixing you any drinks."

"Like I even want your stupid drinks." They sit in fuming silence for a few moments, then: "What are you making?"

She's pulled two large cocktail glasses towards her, rubbing the rims with lemon rind. She extends her arms and daintily dips the now-wet rims into a flat dish filled with sugar. When she lifts the glasses up and sets them back down on the bar, the rims glitter with a sweet dusting. "It's called a Sidecar. I learned the recipe in Crocus."

He watches, mesmerized, as she fills a cocktail shaker with ice, adding lemon juice, cognac, and Cointreau. After shaking the container, she carefully strains it into the sugar-rimmed glasses. He whistles. "Neat."

She glares at him. "I'm not done yet, moron." Neatly paring the lemon into delicate slivers, she then garnishes each glass with a slice of lemon. The drinks sit on the counter, gleaming, captivating with innocuous amber liquid and cocked lemon slices. Cana leans back, adjusts the lemon slices' angles, and stirs each drink once, before declaring them complete.

Laxus picks one up and examines it. It looks classy. He sips, lets the taste seep into his tongue. Damn. It even tastes classy. "This is good, Alberona."

Cana hums in satisfaction as she sips it. "Oh, the taste of extravagance is so sweet." She lets out a long, slow sigh and tips her head back in bliss.

"Mmm." Laxus nods enthusiastically. "Makes me want to go put on my pearls."

Cana narrows her eyes at him. "I bet they bring out your eyes."

He smirks cockily. "Babe, they bring out my everything."

"Including your stupidity?"

"No, I borrow that from you."

She kicks him, and he growls. They bristle at each other for a moment. Then: "What's another one?"

"Another what?"

"Another one of these fancy drink things. I'm thirsty."

"Fancy drink— these are works of art, Dreyar! You have to savor the aesthetic." She huffs. "You can't just chug them because 'I'm thirsty!'"

"I am thirsty."

"Fuck off."

"Please?"

"God, you're pathetic. Fine."

She dumps their cocktails behind the bar and rifles around through Mirajane's cupboards, muttering about vintages and proofs. Emerging with two glasses, she slams them down on the counter. "I'm going to teach you how to mix a mint julep."

"Sounds weak."

"Shut up, Sparky." She slides a plate in front of him. "First we put the sugar on the plate— don't spill it everywhere, idiot. Good. Now moisten the rim of the glass with water— yeah, like that."

He rumbles unhappily. "I think my hands are too big."

"That's what she said. Suck it up, baka. Okay, next you're going to dip the rim of the glass into the sugar."

Her hands follow his soothingly as she guides the glass into the sugar. It comes out frosted with clumpy white crystals.

"Perfect. Now, we're going to put the mint leaves—no, no, those are basil! You want the mint— yes, those. Put the mint and syrup into the glass. Now we need to crush them up. Here, use this."

"Is this a weapon?"

"It's a cooking utensil. We call it a pestle."

"Bet I could kill someone with this."

"You could kill someone with just your ugly mug, Dreyar."

"…"

"Ow! Don't hit me with the pestle, idiot!"

"Don't call me ugly, moron!"

"… Fill it to the top with ice. Yes. Good. Now the fun part!"

"Bourbon?"

"Bourbon!"

He grins, watching the liquid stream into the glass until it swirls around the crushed ice. The movement thrills something deep inside of him, something that purrs to life, hot inside his abdomen.

Cana pats his head blithely. "I bet you totally got off on that."

"What? No!"

"Artistic license, my friend. Get off on whatever you want about this. This is art."

"You're unstable."

"I'm an artiste. Stir it with this."

"This is definitely a weapon."

She smacks him. "It's a swizzle stick. Calm the fuck down."

"Che, whatever, woman. Am I done yet?"

"Put this in."

"Leaves."

"Leaves make shit classy. Do it."

He leans back, examines the way the spearmint sprig rests on the rim of the glass, then adjusts it with one finger. There. "Done."

She fixes him with clear violet eyes. "Drink."

Refusing to back down from the challenge, he lifts the drink to his lips, letting it slip slowly over his tongue. His mouth tingles with the new sensations; the mint hums cool against the back of his throat, while the alcohol singes his stomach when he swallows. "Interesting."

"Che, you fucking love it, admit it."

"You get way too involved in this."

"You like classy drinks!"

"No, I don't!"

"Laxus likes being classy!"

"Goddammit, Cana, I don't like being classy! I'm tough, I'm strong, I'm—"

She arches one slender eyebrow.

"—Fine. I like classy drinks. Go ahead and mock me."

Cana grins hugely. "Why would I mock you? I like them too." Slipping away from the bar, she presses a minty kiss to the corner of his mouth. "And what can I say? I like a little class in a man."

He stares at her as she sashays away, ivory satin draped temptingly across the smooth span of her shoulders. Those heels do wonders for her legs, he muses to himself, still tasting the mint on his tongue. It makes his lips tingle, and he smiles.

Maybe, once in a while, I could learn to love a little bit of class.