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"Actually, Pat, Gary broke his own heart. He rejected his own self, when he walked away," I cut in with my own response as Jordan gives Pat a nod to accept the offer of another drink. Pat smirks, paying me a sideways glance before he jogs off to busy himself with making Jordan's drink.

"Pat? Gary? I go away for one minute and you're already on first-name basis with the entire bar," Jordan says, finishing his Long Island. He laughs as I roll my eyes at his exaggeration. Jordan's eyes light up as he spots someone entering through the doors behind me, but I won't fall for that twice. He begins to wave for them to join us. "Edmund! Over here!"

Edmund? Jordan never told me his friend's name, but I find that I like it for some reason. I don't know why, but I actually think that the name sounds rather pleasant, perhaps because it feels like it would only be the name of a character in a very English fairy tale from olde. As I turn around, I'm greeted by a gentle wave and a warm smile, the haunting beauty of his eyes as pale as ice contrasting sharply against hair as dark as the midnight sky. I return his smile, drinking in the uncommonly pleasant name that happens to pair so well with his uncommonly good looks.

"I'm Dalton, although my friends typically abbreviate that into Dalt," I say, finding myself standing before him and reaching for his hand as if my whole body maneuvered me into the position of its own accord. He smirks as he takes my hand into the warm softness of his skin, his hand is smooth and without a single callous, like a true noble's hand, unacquainted with any hard, manual labor—apparently, not unlike that of my own hands.

"I'm Edmund, although my enemies typically abbreviate that into Ed," he says, clearly mirroring my words with a nice touch of a twist, his very pleasant and very unexpected English R.P. accent stands out, completing the charm of his entire persona. "It's a pleasure to meet you—may I have your permission to abbreviate your name?"

"Of course, but you'd hardly needed to ask—nobody else ever did," I reply, finding it quite charming that he bothers to ask permission, even if I might consider it unnecessarily formal in the case of my own name.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Dalt," he says, redoing his last pleasantry, but with the formal addition of my name within it this time. His accent is so alluring that, truth be told, I wouldn't mind hearing him say my full, non-abbreviated name if ever he wished to.

"The pleasure was all mine, Edmund," I return and we share a smile. I gesture toward my drink, raising my bourbon into the air within the slightly less than arm-length of space between us. "Shall I get you caught up?"

"I accept, on one condition," he says.

"Very well," I say, turning to motion for Pat, who apparently seems as if he was already waiting for me or Edmund to order, because he happens to be standing nearby. I raise my glass as I tell Pat, "three drinks for my friend, Edmund, so he can get caught up—two of these, and a Guinness."

"Was that not a bit hasty, ordering my drinks before you've even heard my condition? What if you find my condition disagreeable or inappropriate?" Edmund asks with a slight smirk—is he flirting with me? Or is it just me? Disagreeable? Inappropriate? Just what is it that he's implying? What seems to be on his mind?

"I have every confidence as to the gentlemanly qualities of your character, Edmund," I say, smirking, trying to attempt to keep the blush that's surely creeping over my cheeks from undermining what I've just said. As the music changes, getting louder, Edmund leans in close, his pale ice eyes now merely inches away. He turns his head as he leans into my ear, close enough for me to inhale the faint tinge of mint on his breath as well as the hint of a deep, dark, and yet, still refreshingly citrus cologne that emanates from the smooth, pale skin of his neck.

"Perhaps, your every confidence is, in fact, misplaced, Dalton," he whispers into my ear, sending unspeakable shivers down my entire spine as I am not lost as to why he uses my full name—perhaps he's sending me the message that he's open to being more than just friends. He leans in even closer still as I can feel his lips brush against my ear, jolting every fiber in my being as he says, "perhaps you've misjudged me."

"Ahem!" Jordan clears his throat, rather conspicuously, reminding me of his apparent, continued presence as it is—I feel bad for not having noticed that he was still around. He motions towards a set of three drinks on the table, apparently Pat has already dropped off Edmund's drinks—and, apparently, I was oblivious to all of that as well. Edmund backs away from my side, perhaps reluctantly, or at least he seems so to me anyways. He turns his head to regard all of the drinks that stand before him. Jordan continues, "if you're going to drink those, Edmund, best if you do it now before this place turns into a night club."

"Right," Edmund says as he stares at the drinks as if one of them hides a deadly poison. He seems frozen in place, hesitating to drink from any single one of them. I narrow my eyes, perhaps in concern for him, although I'm not entirely sure what I'm feeling or sensing as his spheres of pale ice narrow—or wince maybe?—before they fall to the floor. He glances at me, but quickly returns his attention to the array of drinks again, shooting them all down, one after another, in one swift and surprisingly smooth motion. I'm so impressed that I'm speechless, because, clearly, he's done that before, but also because he didn't even seem too happy to be doing it at all in the first place.

Later, drink after drink, I am vaguely aware of dancing as the music gets unbearably louder and the dim lighting changes to colored spot lights, beams dancing through the air with all the brilliance of a rainbow. I'm vaguely aware of dancing with Jordan and Edmund, but especially with Edmund. The vague, seemingly out-of-body experience of feeling something pleasant but foreign, grinding against the sides of my thighs, pressing itself into the small of my back—of ordering more drinks for myself as well as for someone else—of going home with that someone—of that someone's warmth, lying together in that someone's bed—then, it all goes blank, black like the dark heart of midnight.