newroutines | 'STACHE BASH, Dapper Mansion on Phoenix Way, Friday Evening

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'STACHE BASH, Dapper Mansion on Phoenix Way, Friday Evening

It was Friday evening and as had been promised by the posters earlier this week, that meant party time! The mansion was ready, and the mustaches were ready.

No really, there were theme-appropriate balloons.

All that was needed now were some people to have a good time.

[ooc: OCD up! Come party!]

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Mustache plates and things! Mustache candy (thanks, Wonka's)! Chocolate mustache pops!

Also various chips and stuff in non-mustache forms and shapes.

Tonight's punch is the Pom Selleck. Yes, really. It even has a sign next to it that says so. There's also glazed donut vodka because the world is a strange place. (All the beer and other ~~moddable~~ drinks are a little more ordinary, though.)

"'Pom Selleck'," Atton echoed dubiously. "Okay. Apparently that's a thing."

Tamsin didn't care what any of these things were called, okay? She was hitting that Pom Selleck hard.

Éponine glanced over from where she was hovering by the vodka and snorted with slightly less concern about sounding marginally dignified than she might have had a couple of glasses ago.

"Got yourself a mustache with a mind of its own, have you, Mamselle the Mayor?"

Tamsin's eyes flicked up for a moment at the mustache taped to her forehead. "Hey, the mustache does what it wants," she said. "It's a rebel."

"And you're inclined to let it?" Éponine asked, though it sounded like she approved. "It isn't as if the signs said how we had to wear them, anyhow, or even that we had to wear them at all."

Yes, she'd looked for the loophole. Habit.

"I'm one of like two people who didn't go with the mustache that was cool approximately around when Jesus was born," Tamsin said, nodding at Éponine's handlebar. "I'll probably throw it in the trash after the next glass of whatever the hell this is. Mike can bite me."

"It's ridiculous, isn't it?" asked Éponine, twirling the stick around in her fingers to watch the mustache flutter. "Ridiculous, and I don't have to put up with it after I leave here. I think that's why I chose it. Imagine having to take care of one of these every day! No thank you."

She raised an eyebrow at the punch. "Is that stuff any good?"

"I don't know," Tamsin said, eyeing her glass contemplatively. "I think I've stopped being able to taste it."

"Good enough, then," Éponine decided. "Hard to tell, with a silly name like it's got."

The cultural reference of which was lost on her.

"It's part of the long and storied tradition of naming drinks stuff that sounds funny when you're drunk," Tamsin said. She offered the glass to Éponine. "You've got vodka? Wanna trade?"

"But not so drunk that they forgot the silly name the next day? Here --" Éponine held out the vodka, but just in case it was a deterring factor added, "It tastes like donuts."

"Also the kind of thing people come up with when they've been hitting the booze too hard," Tamsin said. She was going to take it anyway, though. "How've you been?"

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. . . the glazed donut vodka was officially Éponine's new favorite thing in the world. Yes, it was strange, but really, so was she.

She might be hanging out near the vodka for a large portion of the night.

"Digging the weird vodka?"

He was pretty sure she was but hey, never hurt to ask. He also snickered.

"Nice pick with the mustache, too."

"If a drink's going to burn that much going down, why not have it taste like dessert, too?" Look, Éponine thought this was a perfectly reasonable thing to expect of alcohol. "I might have to ask you where you found it, or I'll be tempted to steal the whole bottle."

She waved her mustache-stick at him. "Good evening, Monsieur Mike. Thanks for having us. Why the mustaches? I like them, d'you know, but what gave you the idea?"

"Someone told me I wasn't allowed to grow one, and I'm a mature adult," Mike explained, smirking. Because he knew that wasn't a very good explanation. He rubbed his chin. "So I showed him."

Yeah, he was getting a little bit of a headtilt for that explanation, but Éponine could go with it.

"What's it matter to him what you do with your face, anyway? And I think it suits you."

"Thank you." He inclined his head. "And apparently the problem was that he's the one who has to look at it. Which doesn't even hold up, because not liking something you see is no reason to ban it completely."

"Who's that, now? The other fellow who lives here?" Éponine guessed. "Well, that's silly, since I doubt he's got to stare at you all day and all night. And I can't see what would be so awful about that anyhow."

"It's Derek. He's weird." That, he felt, covered just about everything. "I'm liking the positive feedback I'm getting from pretty much everyone else, though."

"Oh, does everyone else seem to like it, too? That's good! Because it's true. And now you're making him have to look at an awful lot of mustaches." Éponine smirked faintly. "That's a bit devilish of you. Clever, though."

"Thank you, I thought so too." This time, he actually bowed a little. Because he felt like it. "And I get to be entertained, and Derek gets to be outside his comfort zone for a while. Everyone wins."

"And I get to drink this!" Éponine held up the vodka. "Then I tell you what, I'm glad you've a mischievous streak. Has anyone tried to wear the candy mustaches yet?"

And if not, someone should get on that, rapid subject change though it was.

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