content warning: alcohol

One rare clear evening in December, Elliott made their usual trek up the wooded hill, the frosted grass crunching satisfyingly under their feet. As they reached the edge of the clearing at the crest of the hill, the night sky came into view, and they found themselves stifling a gasp, so bright were the stars that filled the sky. 

“The sky is always so vivid in winter,” a voice observed, and Elliott looked down from the stars long enough to notice the shadowy figure standing in the clearing, softly silhouetted by the light emanating from the sky. 

“Puck?” they asked.

“None other,” he confirmed, walking forward to meet Elliott at the edge of the woods. 

“Shall we?” Elliott inquired, leading the way towards the usual oak. 

“I was thinking,” said Puck, who hadn’t moved to follow, “now that everything’s out in the open, is there any reason we shouldn’t do something else?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, much as I enjoy your offerings, we aren’t exactly limited to the park.”

“What did you have in mind?” asked Elliott in a voice edged with apprehension. 

“I don’t know, let’s get a drink or something,” suggested the god. 

“You drink?” Elliott’s tone of apprehension was replaced with one of incredulity. 

“Why not? Is that not how mortals socialize anymore?”

“No, it is…”

“Then what do you think?”

“I don’t see why not,” conceded Elliott. “There’s a bar a few blocks away, as I recall.” 

“Great,” Puck chirped, “I can’t tell you how old it got being a teenager.”

“I might have some idea,” Elliott said with a sly smile, and led the way towards the bar. 

The bar near the park was of a much divier persuasion than the one near campus where Elliott usually met up with Ian. The building still retained the stale aroma of a time before indoor smoking had been banned, and the floor was sticky with spilt beer, yet at the same time gritty from the remains of pulverized peanut shells. Puck didn’t seem to mind -- he beamed, drinking in the atmosphere like someone visiting a nostalgic old haunt.

The two squared up to the rutted wooden bar and gave their orders to a middle aged bartender with a voice like coarse sandpaper. Elliott, who had yet to adjust to being a millionaire, ordered a cheap beer and showed their ID when asked. Puck ordered a brandy alexander and wasn’t asked for ID. 

When Puck was presented with his drink, Elliott gaped at it in surprise. It was a creamy, café au lait colored confection, served in a cocktail glass. Puck sipped it with the absolute confidence of a god before noticing Elliott’s expression. 

“You should try it,” he told them with a grin. “It’s delicious.” 

Elliott obligingly took a sip. “Jesus,” they laughed, “it tastes like chocolate milk, but flammable.”

“That’s more or less the basis of its appeal,” Puck concurred. 

They found a quiet table against the wall, away from the regulars who sat watching the television at the bar (Elliott had only been to this bar once or twice before -- not enough to recognize anyone -- but regulars of any dive bar have a way of quietly announcing themselves as fixtures of the establishment, usually via a certain air of gruff familiarity).

“Well,” said Elliott, a little nervously, “here we are.”

“Yes. We’re having an authentic human experience,” Puck agreed. Elliott marveled, not for the first time, at how their prior assumptions about reality had somehow kept them from identifying Puck as at least some sort of alien. The signs had been there all along. 

The two chatted away in hushed tones as they sipped their drinks. Puck finished first, having had a smaller volume to begin with, and went to order another. This time he returned with a highball glass full of a bright blue liquid and garnished with an orange slice. 

“What’s that?” asked Elliott.

“Blue lagoon. Want to try?”

Elliott eyed the cocktail suspiciously. “Are you sure it’s safe for human consumption?”

“Not entirely, but a sip probably won’t kill you.”

Elliott took a sip. “Citrusy,” they commented. 

“Yeah,” Puck agreed. “Probably should have had this one before the brandy alexander, but what’s done is done.” He tasted the drink, his mouth puckering slightly. “Yep, that’s sour…”

“And boozy,” Elliott added. “Does alcohol even affect you?”

“Happily it does! And best of all, no liver damage.”

“What about hangovers?”

“Nope! Perks of being a god.”

“Lucky,” muttered Elliott, who was a lightweight. 

The duo finished their drinks and ordered another round -- this time Puck got a violently pink Singapore sling. Elliott, who had learned their lesson about mixing alcohols, ordered another beer, but a nicer one this time. It was at this point that Puck noticed the jukebox in the corner. His eyes went wide with wonder, then looked to Elliott beseechingly. 

“Here,” Elliott handed Puck a dollar with a laugh. “Knock yourself out.”

The machine was the type that still used CDs, resulting in a significantly more limited catalog than the newer digital jukeboxes present in some bars, but Puck didn’t seem to mind. He pored over the selection with rapt attention, eventually landing on Jimi Hendrix’s Manic Depression. The pulsing rhythm permeated the room as Puck returned to the table, a satisfied expression on his face. 

“How long has it been since you caught up on current music?” Elliott asked.

“Oh, it’s been a minute, but good music never ceases to be good. Why do you think people still listen to Mozart?” Puck countered, then paused for a moment in thought. “People do still listen to Mozart, right?” 

“They do, yes,” Elliott confirmed, laughing. 

Throughout the night, more people had been trickling into the bar, and by now all of the tables were taken. A group had congregated around a pool table towards the back, and more people milled around near the bar. The music seemed to hijack the mood of the room, and soon even the guy who’d been playing video poker all night appeared more lively, striking up a conversation with the regulars at the bar.

Elliott already felt a little buzzed from their one and a half drinks, while Puck, who had very quickly finished off his third, swayed contentedly to the music from his side of the table, his face slightly flushed. 

As Jimi’s guitar reached the wailing crescendo of its solo, a scream issued from the direction of the pool table.

Fan Art Corner

Elliott and Puck, by I Hate Fridays! Check the episode description for a link to their projects!