Halcyon Halls

Who: Noah and James
Where: Bar down in the city
When: Monday night


Alcohol... well it didn't seem to solve any problems. However it did a damn good job of blurring the fact that problems did in fact exist. That was really all that Noah was aiming for at the moment. A deep seeded desire to... well fuck what did he exactly wish? That he'd never said anything to Natalia? That he'd done something a hell of a long time ago... Honestly Noah wasn't sure. Was there a better option? Well logically speaking growing a pair of balls and getting over his own set of issues a hell of a lot earlier was the better decision but logic rarely seemed to play a role in Noah's thinking.

Instead, he was torn between just wishing he'd managed to keep his stupid mouth shut and between wishing he'd never been so damn pig headed to begin with. Problem was it didn't seem to matter what he wished because none of that changed his current predicament. You know that situation where his best friend and the woman he knew he loved really didn't want to go that particular route with him. Instead she was shacking up with some guy just down the hall.

It really didn't work so well for Noah with the full moon the next day. It was kind of like ripping open some wound and dumping a bottle of salt in it and giving it a good rub. Well maybe not quite like that but his temper was already on edge and the last thing he needed was the accidental run in in the hallway. He'd pass thanks.

So like every day that weekend and the vast majority of the week before Noah had his ass parked on a bar stool. Big ass bowl of peanuts in front of him as requested and begrudgingly provided by the bartender, a beer and Noah was as... well he was just staying there regardless of how he felt. It included ignoring that itch that went through his every muscle with the pull of the moon.

"'Nother one..." Noah said pushing his empty bottle toward the bartender who gave that look that said he didn't really want to get Noah another but seeing as how he didn't appear overly intoxicated there wasn't much he could do. Probably had more to do with the fact that Noah was running low on funds and therefore a shitty tipper. Yeah life was a bitch whatever.

Something pricked at the back of his senses. A familiar... scent or annoyance or something. Noah rolled his shoulders trying to shake it off. Had to be the moon.

Who: James and Fisher
What: Drinking until we can't feel feelings anymore
Where: The Local Dive
When: Night


It was Thirsty Thursday, and Fisher felt he deserved a little numbness. He had agreed not to imbibe alcohol as part of his condition for being at Halcyon, all expenses paid, but... fuck that. The old man (who Fisher did not even know) had no clue what life was like in Fisher's shoes. He didn't deal with random dead people asking favors of him, or with the strange looks received when Fisher told said needy spirits to shut up. There were students here who had it worse, that was true. But it didn't make Fisher's situation suck any less. Besides, he wasn't drinking to get totally smashed. He just needed to relax. That and find something to do. He'd come in too late in the semester, so he didn't have classes yet to occupy his time.

The bartender set down a shotglass in front of Fisher, tossed in three ice cubes and poured in two ounces of straight scotch from one of those tiny portion-nozzled bottles. Fisher nodded a thanks, then sipped. He could've gulped it down, but rehab had benefitted him enough for him to know that yes, he had had a drinking problem and it hadn't solved anything. So it was best not to try and drown yourself.

Fisher's garb was subdued tonight, decked out in his Gears of War hoodie and downplayed zipper pants. Fisher liked emo clothing- the style was far too ridiculous to resist, and before living like a hobo he had access to a lot of money. Coming from a wealthy family had its advantages. Luckily he'd managed to keep most of his clothing, despite having nowhere to live for months at a time. He'd decided not to get all decked out tonight, just in case the locals at the bar did not approve of rich boys who dressed like they knew a damn thing about hardship. (It didn't matter that this former rich boy actually did know hardship- when you wear clothing that costs more than some people make in a week, you lose the right to complain about anything.) So tonight there were no hanging chains on his pants, not eyeliner around his eyes and his long, unruly hair was at the very least pushed behind his ears.

As he took another sip of his poison, he sighed contentedly and readied himself for a peaceful night alone.

Who: Open to all
Where: The Lux Hotel ballroom
What: Halcyon's first art exhibition
When: Evening

In about another minute, or so, he was going to collapse. For a guy who was normally laid back, and chill, Wes had been running around, like a chicken with it's head recently lopped off. That had been the theme of his movements for the past few weeks. Ever since he'd been told that the Lux wasn't going to be available for the original date he'd decided upon. Fuck, he could still murder that fucking kid... As it was, he was making do the best he could. It didn't hurt that he'd had help, from local friends, and a few eager art students.

The last week had been a crunch, getting all of the partitions constructed, and making sure they were structurally secure enough to support the art that would be hanging on them. The ballroom had been completely transformed. The vast open space, was now filled with half walls, elaborate lighting, sofa's, and table where the food, and drinks were located. In truth, Wes had fashioned it after the Lincoln gallery in the Smithsonian. He'd always liked the set up, thought it made for a good warm environment.

It wax relaxing enough, but not so comfortable, that people would want to lounge about, rather than be up, and enjoying all that was displayed. The turn out for art had surprised him. More people had decided to enter work, than he had expected. People outside of his own classes, for one, and the quality of work was higher than he thought it would be. He himself had work hanging about. Seven pieces in total. Newer works as well as some older pieces. He'd even already kicked of the bidding on a couple himself. Primarily two of the pieces Kat had dropped off. The Day of The Dead girl, which he'd fallen completely in love with, and the skull. Now, he just had to keep a close eye on their bidding.

"Remember, unless they show you a student i.d., proving that they are eighteen, or older, they don't get shit. I'm not getting in trouble for a bunch of drunk, idiot kids." He instructed the hired bartender, as his eyes raked over the table of booze. Vivian had originally been tapped to take care of the drinks, but her ass had fled the school... what the fuck was wrong with her? Leaving with that sadistic ass? He'd never understand some women. So, one of the tenders, from back in Vale's day had been asked to handle things, thankfully, they'd agreed.

The food had been another headache. At first, he had thought to ask Cat, but with it being such a grand order that would need filling, he didn't want to lay all of that on her. Too much work to stress over. Plus, if she was too busy fucking around with food, she couldn't spend time with him. See, Wes was a thinker, oh yes. As it was, he'd decided on Indian vegetarian. The spices put it well beyond bland, so, he couldn't see any of the carnivores complaining about it either. Besides, it was an art show, not a sit down dinner.

An hour before the show, when everything had progressed beyond the point of possible falling apart, he knew it was safe enough to dash off, and change for the evening. Which he did, catching a cab over to the parlor to change. Even with this being a fancy to do, he wasn't about to cram himself into a monkey suit, and be uncomfortable the entire night. No way in hell. But, he was so what dress. A red, gray, and black vertical stripped button down, black leather jacket, and unpacked jeans had replaced the normal... 1970's roadie look that he normally sported. His hair was still uncombed, but, at least his black leather combat boots were clean.

Fuck the haters, if they didn't like it, they could get the fuck out. After dressed, he'd returned to the ballroom, a pair of aviators sat perched on his nose, a jack, and coke in his hand. It was going to be an interesting night... he could tell.