"It'ss int'ressting," Nero says, taking another drink.

"Harris! Nishe to meet you. I'mmmm Nero. Only, I'm not really." He leans close to Max and says in a hused tone, "I'mm actshually th'god of death an' dreams an' sleepish stuff in the body of a human," he confides.

It's sometime past eleven, and he's obviously had a few drinks already.

He's visible through the big, smoky windows that the Twa sports-- a young man with dusky skin wearing an off-white sweater and light jeans, slumped over on a high stool at the high bar, one arm cradling his head, the other still holding a glass that was recently drained. This is a man in a definite state of drunkenness. The bartender doesn't seem to care, so long as the money keeps coming.

His dark, thickly curled hair spills over the crook of his elbow and the lumpy eggshell fabric it's covered in.

If he hasn't passed out, he seems well on his way there.

((Reserved for Hat. Hat gets a lot of things reserved for him, it seems.))

((*feels mighty special*))

Max, in true Maxytimid form, wandered into Twa with little idea what to do. It had been a bad day, what with a test he was terrified of failing recently behind him, Max felt the need to get raging drunk. Or, as raging drunk as Max could get.

There was a familiar shape at the bar... Jon? Jon! He hadn't really seen him since freeing him from the evil oppression of... well, death. Jon wasn't so thrilled then, but maybe things had changed? Hopefully.

Ordering a drink farther down the bar, he sat, gathering what little courage he possessed. Once it was gathered, he made his way down to Jon and attempted a conversation. Appempted, because Jon looked very s ick.

"You ok?" was all he could manage.

"Nobody likes me," he mumbles, not moving his head from the crook of his arm. The words aren't quite slurred except by the wool of his sweater, so he's probably not falling-down drunk quite yet.

He doesn't move from his slumped-over position.

"Whaddya mean? Lotsa people do," he replied, taking a seat. He was being a good friend (again) and trying to comfort the poor kid. "I do. So do lots of other people, I'm sure." He wasn't sure whether he should touch him somehow, like an arm over the shoulder, so he just took a drink. He wasn't drunk enough for that yet.

If past experience was any indication (and it was), Max soon would be that drunk.

He lifts his head and raises an eyebrow skeptically at Max, a rather intricate gesture for a rather drunk body.

"I didn't think," he says, his words stallering but not slurred, "That you liked... meverymuch."

He holds the gaze, not trying to make a point but rather trying to gauge Max's expression.

His eyes are white, not brown. It's Nero, not Jon.

A look of shock went across Max's face quickly, but he covered as fast a she could.

Ha ha. InnerMax was laughing. Shut up.

"What, uh, what made you think that?" he asked, feeling a bit of pity now. "It was just some conflicting points of view, y'know?"

"Hah!" he says, waving a finger unsteadily at Max.

"Don't... trytohideit. You don't like me. No one does. Everybody hates death and, and they just don'tcareabout dreams."

Nero clicks his stolen fingers at the bertender, who nods and slides another drink down. It's unclear exactly what sort of drink this is.

"I'm necessary, you know."

"Hey, lotsa people like dreams." Latch onto something you know, something true. "Without them sleep would be... really... boring?" Really weak. At least he's making an effort.

"And I know it necessary, but so is the dentist." Ok, bad comparison.

Nero frowns, pauses, and then shakes this line of reasoning off, continuing down another path.

"S'your fault, you know." He pauses to sip his drink and continues, "You toldme to get drunk... in a human body. I don't think I like it."

He frowns, tilting forwards a bit then pulling himself back into a more-or-less sitting position.

"I don't usuallycarethat... no one likes me. They all hate me. Stupidmortals."

"Uhhh..." Max avoided looking at what he had caused. A drunk god. How... wrong.

"Yeah, we're stupid. That's why we have you, so you can help us along, right?"

((Blarshort.))

"No, I'M here... to KILLyou." He glares half-heartedly at Max, then turns his attention back to his drink, which he sips.

"And give you dreams and stuff, and other stuff too, but I don't talk about that." He waves a hand unsteadily.

"And everybody's scaredofme. Even you. Evvvvverybody." Another unsteady gesture, this one expansively taking in the room and, probably, the world. "Just because I could take away yourlifewithout... a second glance, and y'never know what'scoming next."

Max was unsettled by the killing comment. Unsteady god could do anything, as far as he knew.

"Well, maybe you should talk about it. People wouldn't be so scared of you if you were the god of Dreams."

Max shrugged. "That what makes it scary. We don't know what's coming."

"I am godofdreams," he mutters, slouching back onto the table and doddling on the tabletop with his fingertip-- a distinctly Azrael habit.

"Jus' people seem to focus on, on the death part more." He fornws. "Can't do it now, but usually, usually when I'm not in summun's body, I can go skeletal like that," he messily snaps his fingers, "Whoosh. Because it's whatpeople expect."

He pushes his drink around.

"They expect. the Grim Reaper. Summun you can jus' love to hate."

Max frowned as well. Grim Reaper. Yeah, that was easy to hate. Max took another drink. He needed it.

"Well, maybe if you weren't all expected, y'know? Go for a look no one'll think it's you, and then poof they're... gone and can't say anything about it."

You're telling a bod to disguise itself? Some help you are, grumbled InnerMax.

"I do," he says with a shrug. "Sometimes. S'just, you get used to a form,y'know? 'sides," he mutters, "It's easier to be expected." This is true. Spends less power and all that. He normally wouldn't mention it to a mortal.

"Anyways, s'not the dead thatbotherme. They're dead. Iss all you shupid living ones." He takes another drink, rather more than a sip this time.

"You hate me. Iknowyoudo. I'm... a god. I know." He mutters something unintelligible and continues, "...and even they're scared of me. I don't think thiswassuch a good... idea."

'This' probably refers to the getting-drunk-in-Jon's-body.

"Put some effort into your work. Go for something userfriendly, or something." He was feeling a bit looser already. Watch the liquor, warned InnerMax as Max took another drink.

"'Sides, if people do hate you, who cares? They all gotta meet you sometime and I'm sure they'll find you... delightful." Strange choice of words.

"A'course it's a good idea. It's always a good idea to let go sometimes."

"You," Nero says accusingly, stabbing a finger unevenly at Max, "Dint like me... atall. An' Jon won't even talk to me." He giggles drunkenly-- a very strange sound coming from what are, after all, Jon's lips.

"I should just make the whol business self-serve, eh?" his words beginning to slur together a bit more.

Jon... hey, that's right.

"Where's Jon?" he asked, his turn to be accusing. "I thought you gave him up." He squinted one eye, keeping the other one open for balance or some other similar reason.

"And whaddya mean self-serve? People can't handle self-serve checkout counters, how're they supposed to handle this? That? Whatever?"

Nero taps his temple as he sits, weaving gently back and forth, on the barstool.

"He's inhere. Asleep. Gonna have... onehelluvaheadache, though. Heh." he grins, squeezing his unnaturally white eyes shut. His eyes, Jon's face.

"Yeah... s'my job." Nero frowns. "Stupid job."

The forwn deepens. "Stupid mortals. I... hateyouall." With this, he allows his forehead to meet the counter.

Well, good to know Jon wasn't hurt or thrust out or anything. That was good, yeah.

"Stupid mortals? We can't be all that bad. I mean, can we? You seem to have enough fun when you're not drunk." He didn't knwo what else to say. Even if he weren't being impaired, he wouldn't know.

((Blah.))

Nero downs the rest of the drink and motions to the bartender to make another. The bartender, looking faintly amused, nods.

"Yeah." He giggles again. Probably it's the intoxicants in his blood-- well, in Jon's blood-- making him do that.

"S'because you're amusing."

His expression changes, and the frown returns. "Only, y'know, your friend's body is doing strange things t'me. S'veryint'resting, only it isn't."

Because now, he wants people to like him. And it's bothering him.

Max was confused. "So then why d'you hate us?" He blinked, his strangely empty glass giving up no drop. He didn't remember finishing it. Or even drinking it much.

"What kinda strange things?" he asked. If Jon could do something to Death, maybe it wasn't so bad for him to be possessing him on the down-low.

That's not right.

Shut up.

Nero gestures drunkenly towards his/jon's chest, giving Max a serious look with half-lidded white eyes.

"S'the human body, right? It'sgot... stuff. Emotions, and hormonesandthings. Glands." The bartender slides another drink down and Nero catches it sloppily, taking a drink immediately.

"Lots more'n I'm used to. And... soIhavetodeal with that. S'very shtrange."

"...Oh." It sounds like Max didn't know most of this. He just takes 'em for granted and goes with the flow, y'know?

"I guess it would be." His voice is full of doubt and confusion, the latter clearly written on his face. "What're you doing to deal with it?"

"Getting drunk!" Nero shouts, almost cheerfully, waving his glass in the air.

"The typical human response to emotional instability."

"Amen," Max concedes, raising his glass in both toast and request for another drink. Once full, he takes a large drink.

"Do y'know, the only reason I di'n' like you is cause you took Jon. I don' think it woulda been so bad if I'd just met you on the street or somethin'."

Right.

Though' I said shu'up.

"'ve taken more people'n Jon," Nero says, taking a sip from his glass. "Loooottttsssssh more."

He leans back and gestures to Max with his drink. "Why 'you talk to y'self so musch?"

"Yeah, I know that," he replied. "But I mean Jon specif... spec... Jon."

Max frowned. "I dun talk to myself. I talk to the person in there who makes fun of me. I dunno his name."

"Jon is pretty," Nero states, stroking a hand possessively down his/Jon's face, then dropping it.

"An, you talk t'y'self a whoooolelotmore than mostpeople. I can hear you." he waves a hand by his ear, lurching forwards a bit, then balancing back again. "Buzzbuzzbuzz. Can't heard words. S'to..." he frowns. "Hard, from in 'ere."

"Yeah, ok." Max blinked.

"I toldja, it's not me. It's that little voice in my head, y'know? It makes fun of me and tells me when I'm doing something wrong. It's kinda like my own personal Jiminy Cricket, but in my head. And not really a conscience because it just makes fun of me and stuff."

"S'a part of you. There's no one elseinthere. I'd know." He leans closer and taps Max in the chest with a finger.

"Buzzbuzzbuzz."

Nero takes another long drink. "No one's better'n you for making fun of you."

The news comes as a bit of a disappointment. Max had only not gone crazy becasue of the fact he thought it was someone else.

"You shure? I'm not that mean." He took another drink. "Least, I don't think I am."

"'Course s'is you! 'Course!" He waves his hand emphatically.

"Human's're shilly, they... just... you're crazy." He taps his own head. "It'ss all very strange."

He leans on the bar for a moment, to keep from falling over.

"I could make it shumone else, if you wann'ed."

"Make it real? No, don't think that'd be good at all..." Backtracking a bit, he frowned in indignation. "Hey, 'm not crazy." He took a drink. "No, not crazy. Can't be, or I'd have medication and stuff. It just lets me know when I dun somethin wrong."

Yeah, right. You're crazy, you know it. Max ignored the voice this time.

"S'real, anyways," Nero says, leaning forwards and prodding Max heavily in the chest. "Buzzbuzzbuzz. I c'n tell y'r'talking, but I can't hear it." A thought seems to occur to him.

"It needsh to be abletotalk. Out loud, I mean." He squints at Max and prod him in the chest again. A brief pale glow appears around his/jon's body, like the god's escaping, then it condenses back.

Uh-oh.

"Whaddya mean?" Max asked, squinting in the glow. Then he spoke again, but his voice changed.

It got deeper, gruffer, and lost the drunk quality. "He means I get control of your voice now." Max blinked, thoroughly confused.

"Who was that?"

"Me."

"...what'd you do?"

"He gave me a voice."

Max looked at Jon/Azrael with a mixture of horror and confusion. He didn't say anything for fear of incurring InnerMax's wrath.

Nero, on the other hand, looks absolutely delighted.

"Letsh give him a name!" he exclaims, waving the drink around. It sloshes violently.

"How about... jim. No, that'sh no good. Harris." he suggests, taking another sip from his drink.

"Harris... I like Harris." Max tried looking at his mouth as it spoke without him. He couldn't quite manage.

"No! Dun name it! Then you make it real! I will not call it by that name. It's not real!"

"I am too real, and you know it. Get over it. Have another drink, it'll do you good."

Max followed the advice, choking down a large gulp. "Now other people have to live with it," he moaned.

Max may not have been here as long as Nero, but he was quickly drunkening up to meet him. It was just as well, as had he been sober he probably would have pulled away from the possessed body's breath.

"God of death and dreams and sleepish stuff, huh? Well, what're you doing in there?"

Max slapped a hand over his mouth and fought for control. When he could speak for himself, he said, "'E's in there so he could got drunk, like any normal person could do." His grasp of grammar was beginning to loosen. He wanted to ask Harris if he could get drunk, but still refused to talk to it like a person. It made him sad that he wouldn't know.