"Stoppit! I'm leaving, you don't hafta push!"

Tyler Fishmann was unceremoniously dumped onto the cracking sidewalk by a scowling bouncer. He straightened with as much dignity as his eternally theatrical self could muster, yanking his black shirt downward.

The graduate student was usually surrounded by a group of drunken friends so late on a Thursday night. Tonight he had been the last to leave the Twa, refusing to be coaxed outside by his friends. Rather, thirty minutes later he had been kicked out, and this fact grated on his inebriated nerves the same way the cold cement sidewalk had grated his skin.

Stumbling as he moved towards a main street, he realized that all of his cab money had been spent on the binge. His vision was wobbling, forcing him to clutch a nearby lamp post to keep himself standing straight.

He was in no state to use the cell phone in his pocket, or even to remember that he owned one. Groaning, he hauled himself upward and took a few more wobbling steps. He tripped, swearing bitterly. Obviously the world was out to get him.

A pale white hand appears in his vision, offering the drunken man a hand up.

The slender, bony thing is attached to a similarly slender limp, which is attached to a young man with the kind of grin that makes one want to check that the toilet seat hasn't been Saran-wrapped before sitting down. Like Tyler, he's dressed in black-- but unlike Tyler, it's the kind of black that would be at home in vegas. Ripped fishnets, tight black bellbottoms, combat boots, and for no apparent reason a black tie with a grinning white skull on the end. The skull's smile matches that of the wearer.

The wearer is quinting his black-lined, white-irised eyes, waiting for a response.

The hand was accepted without thought, and Tyler's entire weight pulled against the appendage. He tried to steady himself, blinking slowly at the person who had helped him up.

"Thanks," The graduate student half-frowned, the polite response clearly reluctant. When drunk Tyler lacked his usual painfully eloquent speech, or control over his fine features. He wrinkled his nose as he focused his swimming vision on the man's tie. A skull. How...goth.

Sniffing superiorly to himself, the drunken man quickly pulled his hand away.

The pale young man tilts his white-haired head to one side, raising a bleached eyebrow that has one-- no, two-- rings through it. Both appear to be real silver.

"Not a problem," he says, sounding amused.

The voice is like the first star in a winter's twilight-- cold, distant, and utterly inhuman. It lays at right angles to reality, jangling against the senses as something wrong with the world. One of the reasons for this is that the voice is created without the use of compressed air and vocal cords, like a good human voice ought to be. The others are a bit less scientific.

Ow. That ringing voice made Tyler's head ache; he glowered suspiciously, hazel eyes narrowed. Clumsily he crossed his arms, overshooting the distance needed for this movement so that it appeared the graduate student was hugging himself.

"Nice tie," The tall man grinned foolishly, stricken by the skull. Awful, really, how some people tried so hard to make a statement. As if this town didn't have enough freaks already!

"Well," the stranger says, looking slightly miffed, "I like it, anyhow."

Stroking the tie, he gives the black-clad actor a white-eyed look.

"You're drunk,' he states, sounding vaguely amused.

The thin actor shrugged a shoulder dismissively, as though his inebriated state was not at all unusual.

"It's a Thursday," Tyler said simply. "I always drink on Thursdays. Why don't you?" He squinted again, trying to keep his swimming vision focused. He was rather certain that there was only one person before him, but he could see two.

"I find other entertainment of Thursdays."

He takes a step forwards to clap a clammy hand on Tyler's shoulder

"Know what today is?"

Curse-an-actor Thursday.

The graduate student frowned, the expression lengthening his entire face. He didn't like having an unfamiliar, clammy hand on his shoulder. He could feel the strength of the grip through his layers of clothing.

"Lemme go," He demanded insolently, trying to shrug the hand off. The question caught him off-guard; suddenly he was silent, his face pale.

"My lucky day?" He suggested with a weak, drunken smile.

"You could say that."

The god drops his ahnd and pauses, eyes almost shu, his expression contemplative.

and then, in a swift motion, he rounds tyler and pats him sharply on the back.

"Come on, let's get you home."

((I apologize for the crappiness of this post. Wait for it... wait for it...))

The unexpected pat on the back nearly sent Tyler flying. He regained his balance easily, though his arms swung comically about his lengthy body. The student frowned, glancing over his shoulder at the man.

This, however, made him walk in a zig-zag, and he nearly slammed into a lamp post. Mumbling curses beneath his breath, he brushed his aching forehead with a cold hand and stepped away.

"Good idea...I'm tired." To Tyler's shaky mind, it was perfectly plausible that the man know where he lived.

"Yes, i expect you would be."

The curse the god had been brewing up had been transferred to Tyler with that one encouraging pat. Now, as Azrael guides Tyler down the street with a gentle bit firm hand, he makes absolutely certain it's going to stick.

This, he feels, will be fun.

Tyler always got drunk on Thursdays, because he had arranged his class schedule to provide for continual three-day weekends. The sun blazed through his cheap blinds, and a sudden surge of pain shot through his limbs.

He woke in his bed, sheets twisted around his feet.

The actor lived alone; he preferred silence, finding it more condusive for studying and running lines. Most of his friends lived in the same apartment building, several floors above. Tyler propped himself up on his elbows, groaning as his head pounded horribly.

Even the flourescent letters of his alarm clock hurt his eyes. 4:45 PM. Well, he'd had quite a sleep. It hadn't helped much...he couldn't recall ever having a hangover so bad. It felt as though his scalp was going to rot off.

He was certain his skull was going to cave in under the pain. Oddly enough, his spine ached as well. Perhaps he'd taken a hard fall; all he could remember was getting very, very smashed at the Twa, and walking home in the dark.

Shit. He needed black coffee, and preferably a dozen or so Advil. He stood shakily, heading towards the bathroom. His stomach wanted to empty itself, and then he was going to soak his face in cold tap water. With luck he'd drown himself; anything to get rid of this horrible hangover.