17th October, 1895 — Monster Melee, The Velvet Veil, London

Tybalt liked to think he hadn’t lost all sense of fun, even if he had turned thirty last month, and been a married, vaguely sensible Ministry man for about as long now as he hadn’t. So he had gone to watch a friend’s quidditch match, and gone out for drinks after with some old professional quidditch pals.

So far, so ordinary. But then someone had dragged them all here. Not that anyone had needed dragging, exactly – and, in Tybalt’s defence, he hadn’t known there would be an entry fee, and he hadn’t known what to expect inside, because he hadn’t actually been here before.

Still, he hadn’t expected... all this. There was, er, dancing of some kind happening on a stage – he was trying not to look too hard at the dancers – and a crowd that he could only call interesting, but he was trying not to look too closely at any of the clubbers either, lest they looked too closely at him.

He half-thought he ought to have bowed out already, and just gone home, only – well, then the rumours would be proven true, that he was truly tedious and boring and not worth being friends with anymore. This could be a laugh. This was a laugh. He could hang around for a while, poke some fun if nothing else.

And his entry fee had come with a drink, so... it would only be sunk money if he didn’t have it. He had stepped away from the bar – finding a table not too close to the dance performance to loiter by – and the drink in his hand had suddenly turned from yellow to blue in the light. Tybalt lifted it up to better examine it in curiosity. When he took a dubious sip and lowered his glass again, pulling a face at the sudden tartness in taste, he looked up and realised someone in the vicinity had been watching him, and possibly laughing at him too.

---

The following 2 users Like Tybalt Kirke's post:2 users Like Tybalt Kirke's post
   Don Juan Dempsey, Gilbert Prusseneit

---

Olixander was not thrilled to be back in England. In fact, he hated it. He’d been perfectly happy cavorting around Spain and having joined their national quidditch team. Between practices and games and all the society events his abuela still made him attend, he’d had more than enough to keep himself occupied. And, for once, his life had almost had meaning. Purpose, with a capital P. But now— Mama had called him back to do Merlin knows what— something about saving face? Showing up? Being the heir. Si, that was it. Something about being the heir…? Oli took another swig of his fire whiskey and snickered at something Lestrange was saying to his left. He was well and truly on his way to knackered and it was really the only homecoming that could have possibly made sense.

Across the room there was a stage with dancers shimmying in costume and it was the perfect backdrop, Oli thought, to the miserable, rainy, destitute time he’d have amongst the English ton this winter. (He was just lucky Mama hadn’t made him quit the team. He didn’t know what he’d do with himself if he had to give up the one thing that had given him direction.) But alcohol wasn’t enough to drown out his self-pity. No, Oli had special little pills for that. (And not the ones abuela’s healer had given him either; those were stupid.)

Pushing away from his table, Oli wandered off to the restroom. It had been awhile since he’d been back here and the Green Room was too far a walk. Besides, he didn’t want to share with Lestrange and the others. That done, he made his way back through the ruckus and noise. For a moment, he found himself a little disoriented. Then, deciding it didn’t well matter, Olixander plopped himself in a seat across from a man he’d never met before. (It was weird that the guy had been staring through the glass at his drink. Maybe he was on something fun too.)

“Not to your taste?” he asked, snorting a small laugh like they were old buddies.

---

Tybalt Kirke lol idk what version of oli this is, sorry tyb <3

---

  

A stranger had been observing him, and had taken a seat with an air that was either confidently languid or just a little dazed and confused. Tybalt couldn’t tell. Fortunately it was another man though, someone who looked harmless enough – or at least, someone who couldn’t be any worse an influence than his old quidditch friends.

“No, I, ah – not what I expected,” Tyb explained, taking a second sip in succession of the drink just to prove he could manage it without pulling another face. The following sip of it was slightly better than the previous one – there was a sweetness to go with the tartness. “It’s the werewolf, apparently,” he said (which was an uncomfortably hot topic at the moment, but had at least looked less dubious than the vampire cocktail, and he didn’t want to accidentally sign up for drinking spiritus sancti, just in case that was the ghostly looking one was); and then added, in jest, “...I had no idea werewolves tasted so fruity.”

“What are you drinking?” he added, of his new, uninvited company. He was grateful for it, though: if he kept his concentration on the younger man across from him, at least he definitely wasn’t looking at the stage!

---

  

---