Alva
Cerberus Cabaret is a hotspot for nightlife in Hades' Abyss. This venue offers a unique experience where performers and patrons revel in the music, dance, and entertainment. The three-headed hound, Cerberus, serves as the symbol of the cabaret, welcoming visitors to a realm where pleasure and mystery collide.
Michael
``Down an unlit alleyway near Cerberus Cabaret. 01:23 AM.``
⠀
He took cover in the murky rivers of the city with the idiosyncrasy of a crocodile. Submerged in criminality, but with watchful eyes that held themselves above water. He was dressed in the bony scales of similarity, enough to blend in— but if one looked for too long, a gaze would be returned. The man was between delinquency and nobility. He lingered on the outskirts of immorality, and reclaimed his greying uprightness with small acts. Most men hoped that their good deeds would earn them their seat in heaven. Niklas was not concerned with the promised land.
⠀
The heat of the evening had abandoned them, and with the greetings of the moon, the air was cool and prickly. A jacket as dark as the night veiled most of his physique, and by the position that he stood, he was no different than a dreamt–up shadow. His hair gleamed in the scarce moonlight, slick with gel, and a single strand fell at his temple. It was the only detail that made him appear human; he carried more similarities to an apparition, an omen that concealed itself in one's peripheral. Niklas was less of an omen tonight and more of a spectator— his observations would not sway the outcome of the fights. He was the champion of Nemesis, his mentor of the demands of justice, but he would not misuse her powers lightly. On his mind, there were greater things. A brawl in the city was as common as the promise of the rising sun.
⠀

When men fought, he gathered that they were as bestial as dogs. No, Niklas believed that the acts of men were far more depraved. Canines fought with instinct, for survival, and men fought in these man–made rings for pleasure. For cash, the assurance of adrenaline, the thrill of spilt blood. It was more primal than the habits of a four–legged beast. The night–crawlers of the city had come out, and he stood among them. Vocal men stood in front of him, as if their shouting could derail the fight's result. He would not participate— his days of recreational scrimmaging were left in his earlier years— unless it was provoked, and then it was no longer for leisure.
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"One of you fuckers, end it!"
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It came from a man to the left of him, who stood like a drunkard and reeked of liquor. Niklas eyed the center of the imperfect circle, and without knowing, he kept his gaze on one fighter more than the other. He appeared younger than Niklas, but youth did not lack strength. There was a chill to his eyes that did not originate from the cold, and Niklas often found the same frigidity in his own.
⠀
There was blood marking the pavement with each swing. Among movement and hollering, Niklas was still, with arms crossed and lips pressed together. He could not assess the victor of the fight, but he often placed personal assumptions to himself. Niklas would not confess to who he favored.
⠀

He was, abruptly, shoved carelessly as the drunkard jumped with no restrain, eager to engross himself in the fight or end it unfairly. He disliked both recklessness and swindlers— his eyes, heavy with fatigue, did not contribute to the slim chances of his forgiveness. Irritated, Niklas undid his arms and took the stranger by the wrist. He squeezed until the man winced and had to turn to Niklas. His superior strength forced the man back, away from the fighters and to the outskirts.
⠀
"Do not play dirty in a fight that isn't yours. Not unless you want to be the next man tasting blood."
⠀
He took his hand from the man's wrist with a clenched jaw, eyes returning to the young fighter— he swore that their gazes met, if only for a fleeting moment.
Nancy
Arsenio knew what pain felt like, and at this point, he relished in it. 
The dark shadows were cast over his face, under his eyes, making him look more like a hungry animal. A busted line of red crest over the bridge of his nose and over his eyebrow. He'd been hit a few times, but this wasn't his first round of fights. He'd bested two out of three, and it was safe to say that by the middle of the third, he was finding some exhaustion. 

Arsenio was playing it safe. The new contender had much more energy than him, so he'd slow him down. A fire still burned, low and slow in his eyes. 
Sweat glistened off his shoulders, dripping from the ends of his hair that hung in his face and drenched his blood stained top. 
His knuckles burned, wrists screaming out for some kind of relief, but Arsenio was admittedly bullheaded. 
He'd walked into a new city, a place full of those stronger than him, and he needed to know where he stood.
So far, so good.

Feeling eyes on his back, he lead his opponent to dance through the circle. His gaze flicked up, and found a man who hadn't been a part of the night before that moment. He was steady, but equally out of reach. Like a shadow, summoned from the chaos of violence. 

Their eyes met. 

Something like thunder jolted down his ribs, and at first he thought he'd been hit. Until he realized he was the one extending, his gaze in slow motion moved to look at what he'd done. He'd hears nothing and no one passed the thrumming of his own heartbeat in his ear, collided his fist into his opponents mouth. 
His head twisted at a cruel angle, and the man's body crumpled like a bag of rocks being dropped down to the cement. 

Arsenio was hunched over, a caged animal, stalking the prey he'd captured. He spit out blood to the black landscape: an offering for his new title, the price he knew he'd have to pay forever. He'd won, but it didn't come with the ego some might think. He'd only beat himself, and what he thought he could do.

Arsenio knew when he co

Uldn't push himself any more. He gave one last look to the figure of the man that he'd locked eyes with. It was exploratory, flaying open his curiosity like flesh of a fish. 
Then Arsenio pushed through the ring of delinquents, out of the alley to the street, where he could catch his breath. 
His tired body leaned against the brick building, yet the air he sucked in was rich with the tang of iron.
Michael
There were many fights that concluded with little warning— a climax was not always necessary, for adrenaline was sporadic and haphazard. The victor was found, shrouded in sweat like an animal. Ruptures of vigor had been stifled, and Niklas was certain that the cement was jarring to tender flesh. Men that took pleasure in pain rejoiced in the fight's end, and Niklas persisted quietly. His eyes took a trail along the champion's back, and the way that the redness of blood met skin. It was pale and radiant by the glow of the moon, and he appeared like a beast.
⠀
All shared their remarks, except for the two of them. Niklas began to crave a cigarette, and the brawl's victor did not boast, nor did he smile in delight. It was infectious, for a man to wear his winnings on his sleeve like a delicate heart. The city's dwellers lacked tact or humility. Niklas took note of it, but did not dwell further. For a second time, their eyes reconnected, and his brow furrowed.
⠀
Had he been so noticeable here, dressed in shadows like they were above the comforts of skin? As if he was unsure, Niklas looked from the stranger to those that bordered him. He felt so unlike them, but in appearance alone, he was no different. Niklas would not be the first soundless observer, who articulated his judgment in thought above words. He was swathed in camouflage until he was seen— then, he was a sore thumb, a challenge to ignore.
⠀

The boozer that Niklas had previously dealt with shoved through the sea of men, and to the center; his short legs stumbled in the process, and Niklas grunted with dissatisfaction. The winner from before was gone, and now, a second competitor must fill the spot. With nothing worth seeing, the man was reminded of his lethargy.
⠀
The nights were long. Niklas was accustomed to the sight of the moon, the habit of making out bodies in the dark— but he was not entirely adjusted to a newfound purpose, the nearness of his retribution. To fulfill his revenge had always been so distant to fruition, a faint aftertaste that was bitter and empty. Now, in Olympian, he saw in unclouded lenses. The taste was so pungent that he could wretch to think of it for too long. His father, his brother. His *Mother* — the sorceress, who he heard in whispers and saw in his dreams. There was no way to flee. Germany was far, now.
⠀
Niklas took gracious steps from the alleyway, placing the men behind him. The alleyway was stifled in more heat than he knew, and the wind was charitable to him on the occupied streets, brushing intimately through his hair. Shops that basked in the sunlight closed, and those that catered to the ones that could not sleep were opened. He went to his pocket, taking a well–worn box of cigarettes from its hiding place, and saw the brute of a man. Propped against brick, eager for air. Niklas thought he looked more like a boy— covered in blood, hot to the touch. The stranger's muscles were prominent outlines, and he reeked of exhaustion.
⠀
Niklas did not address those he did not know often. It was done on a whim, or when it felt necessary. His eyes were black disks in the dark, and Niklas was plopping a cigarette between his lips. Beams of streetlight made his hair appear warm.
⠀
"Here."
⠀
He spoke, extending the packet to the brawler. There was only one left. Niklas hoped that this small act would amount to something— whatever that meant, he did not know.
Nancy
Exhaustion made his limbs feel like lead. His eyes were closed as he took note of his heart still beating in his chest, his consciousness still apparent. His face was already beginning to heal, and his hands and wrists had ceaesed their throbbing. 
Arsenio heard the soft scrape of a step taken nearby, and he jolted out of his resting position, adrenaline once more coursing his veins, until he realized it was that man. 

Up close, he looked much older than he'd seen earlier. Much was a blur just a moment ago, but the lamp nearby illuminated him in something like a revelation. 

He was handsome.

Arsenio wasn't one to fall so easy, but he couldn't deny what was objective fact. 
The man was blonde, and taller by a few inches. Beneath his coat, the younger demigod could tell that he was well built just in the way he carried himself. A seasoned warrior.

Arsenio glanced down to the offered pack, taking it and pulling the last one out. He gave a soft smirk and shook his head. 
Last one, huh? 
What was his reason for coming to find him? 
Kinship? Did something unknown yet mirror itself between them? There were only so many reasons strangers crossed paths, and gave up their last cigarette. 


Setting the slim cylinder between his lips, Arsenio pulled a lighter from his pocket, flicking the flame to life. He angled the tip of his cigarette closer to the other man's. His free hand was cupped to shield the flame from going out while he lit both of their cigarettes. 
He pulled in, and pushed smoke out of the side of his mouth, the cherry tip singing brightly in the dim cloak of night that blanketed them. 

Sure that the stranger's cigarette was also lit, the demigod released his thumb from the lighter platform, extinguishing itself, and the pocketing it. 
His fingers pinched the end, and he drew in another breath, and exhaling before finally speaking.

**"Name's Arsenio. Do I need to pay you back for this?"** He brought his hand up to emphasize the small token of some peculiar

Sense of similarity. 

**"Do you fight?"** He watched the other from the side, rubbing his thumb along his forefinger idly and indulging in the toxic heat that filled his lungs.
Michael
He was met with a smirk. Strange, was it not? Niklas eyed it, the rebellion that it had been sewn with, and then looked to the man's eyes. The lacerations that littered the sculpture of his face were improving. Less in severity, but the blood dried darker, like cuts of rust. It was the only proof that Niklas needed, to know that he was a demigod.
⠀
It should not have been so strange here, yet it was. His gaze did not express a shift in emotion, but it came to roaring life behind his eyes. How had life been for this man? Did he know the emptiness that Niklas knew, like a vacant cage in his chest? The hatchling in his heart sprang from its nest long ago, and did not flit for long before it fell to the earth. If the two of them were here, beneath the moon and the smell of iron, then they must have mutually known cruelty. No one of a pure heart came to observe men bearing their teeth— and none of gentle hands chose to fight up against them. Niklas had questions, yet he smothered them. He could have suffocated from all that he never said.
⠀

The cigarette was taken— an offering, perhaps— and the box was crushed with his hand, placed back in his pocket for him to forget. Niklas was readying to take the lighter from his left pocket, yet the flickering of a flame stopped him. The man was closer, now, and he could see the notable improvement of his wounds. Niklas had seen it on his own flesh for all of his weary years, but it looked new on foreign flesh. He was younger than Niklas, in the prime of his faultless years. The light was sultry and bright, and went out with the catching of their cigarettes.
⠀
He had been smoking since boyhood, and found more comfort in the act of it rather than the idle buzz. When his hands twitched for one, he felt slight awareness of his reliance to them. Niklas nodded in a subtle appreciation, taking the cigarette from his lips once he took a hefty drag. The man retreated to the wall, as well, only a few feet from the fellow demigod. Distance felt safer. It was closeness that brought discomfort, that allowed him to see details that he did not always wish to find.
⠀
The cigarette was between the pads of his fingers, and Niklas turned his head when the man spoke. Arsenio. He would remember his name.
⠀
"Niklas." He breathed outward, and a gust of smoke came from his maw, like a mighty dragon. "No. I am trying to quit." It was a frank lie, and there was some bizarre humor in it. His lip twitched with the temptation of a smile. It would be his only explanation for being so generous with the last cigarette. He could not explain it otherwise.
⠀

It was placed back in his mouth, hanging loosely from his lips. His tolerance for nicotine had become too elevated, and it hardly did much for the lulling of his mind. Niklas would stop on his way home and buy an excess of them. On nights when he could not sleep, he stood on the balcony until each of them were shriveled into trivial ashes.
⠀
"No," Niklas debated on speaking more, sealing a momentary silence with a breath inward of his cigarette. Olympian's occasional inhabitant walked past them with little concern. "I used to."
⠀
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Nancy
Niklas. 
The name fit the face and the aura that cast a long, brooding shadow over him. Yet, the kind click of the 'k' inbetween gave it energy. A potential that Arsenio couldn't be able to place for lack of knowing anything about this man. Except for the fact that he was trying to quit smoking and used to fight.

Arsenio found himself looking at the cigarette, juat accepting whatever excuse it was that the other had felt compelled to talk to him for. Sometimes the soul spoke for itself. Divine intervention or that pull of the inner child - neglected and lost - finding comfort in another Lost Boy.

**"A couple things you're still holding onto..?"** 

Arsenio's gaze had been boring a hole somewhere on the sidewalk when he asked. He lifted his foot to place it against the wall, his leg hiked out, highlighting the rip in his jeans that exposed his knee.
His eyes moved to Niklas' face, studying the angles and planes that made up his features. 

The question was admittedly vulnerable, but he'd just laid himself on the clothing line, at the whim of fate and the wind to come and take him out. Dying standards of masculinity by way of conscience were the last of his issues.
For now, his only concern was the way he so intimately paid attention to the other male. He mapped out his face, the bridge of his nose, the permanent crease inbetween his eyebrows and the sullen indent underneath his eyes.
He watched his cheek hallow out when he took a drag of the cigarette.

**"...Always told to hold back, slow down, don't over do it. Because you're ahead of everyone all the time? So you're held back, pissed off, sat down, and told repeatedly not to be so different."** 

Arsenio paused, realizing that he was speaking with out being direct. His throat felt like flowers bloomed there and words passed through thorns; uncomfortable as he tried to reel it all back in. 

**"You're like me huh? I've always wondered if they could sense it."** 

The accusation would only give Niklas more of an

Out for why he'd come to meet with Arsenio after witnessing him in the alley. Whether or not it was true, Arsenio wasn't going to get his hopes up.
Michael
The question was asked, and the air felt cooler. It was obscure and perplexing, and it swaddled the space between them, remaining long after it was spoken. There was an exposure to the question that Niklas could not place— it disarmed him, as if it were inappropriate to be spewed by a stranger. The inflection of it, however, kept him standing where he was. It was spoken as if they knew one another. Olympian had not shown him much visibility, until now. When he looked to Arsenio, he noted that he had already been staring at him. In a neglected crevice of his mind, Niklas questioned if the young man was taking in his features, remembering them for later.
⠀
The tale that Niklas wrote of his life was defined by what he could not release. His demons were to be avoided, yet they were his playthings, his companions settled on his shoulder. He trailed after the temptation of darkness with a focus that bordered on obsession. Niklas stuck to few things. It was why he was here, standing in a foreign city's stench, smoking with a city's foreign man.
⠀
"A few."
⠀
The man's eyes caught the sliver of flesh that was bare from the tear in Arsenio's jeans. It was as pale as the moon, and he looked away from it.
⠀

Already was there ash accumulating on the cigarette's end, and he tapped it habitually. Niklas anticipated for their exchange to follow with a lengthier silence. He knew the language of men— the soundless understanding of one another, the prolonged pauses. They could look to one another in this way, in a way that beckoned for closeness, and they could proceed without a goodbye. It would be bittersweet. A moment of clarity, and then it would become nothing. He spoke again, he spoke more, and Niklas was puzzled.
⠀
"I was never held back." He fluttered his lashes, compelled to drop the cigarette and crush it. He did not.
⠀
Niklas combated the accusation, but he spoke without defense. Admittedly, it came out with more pain than Niklas realized— there was a boy that lurked in the space between each word, begging to differ. Which was worse: to be tethered by the restraints of expectation, or to be granted freedom by abandonment? Niklas spent his boyhood with the posture of a dog, both neglected and treacherously free. His words would end with clamped jaws, and he frothed at the maw for conflict. He swung his fists and hit hard. In the face of his sorrow, however, his tail was tucked. Niklas had tied the ropes around his own wrists. He felt that he spoke too soon, but he did not retract his words.
⠀

He had partially lied, and did not know it until it came piling out of his mouth.
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``"You're like me, huh?"``
⠀
Niklas was holding the cigarette with more pressure than demanded, and he placed it in his mouth to avoid it. What did that mean, and what did the man see? No matter what it was about, Niklas had an inkling that he understood; it was a foreign tongue that he spoke easily, saturated in unwanted nostalgia. A secret that they confided with their pinky fingers knotted together. It was an anomaly, to be so comfortably recognized. He shifted his weight from one leg to another, and took a drag too long, inducing dizziness.
⠀
"Mm. It depends on how good you are at hiding it." Niklas breathed out, his voice a feathery thing from the intake of nicotine. He looked him in the eye, as if he was questioning Arsenio's performance.

"Ignorance is bliss." His accent placed weight on the final, uttered word.
Nancy
Arsenio brought the butt of the cigarette to his lips, pulling the smoke inwards and becoming conscientious of the acrid taste of burning nicotine. It wasn't quite the same as inhaling charred, damp newspaper when it was wrapped around hot glass, but it was similar enough. 

Niklas' response to his first question was a secret, and an answer all at once. This stranger... Quiet and introspective; rugged, and placed so perfectly among the dark - Niklas was more like an eclipse than another beacon in the night. 

Someone peeked out of the darkness around Niklas' iris' and Arsenio felt the door in his own chest come ajar. Understand was blooming like Midnight Phlox flowers in the cement they stood on, sweet and untouched, with their awkward, prong-like petals. 

Arsenio's lips pulled up to the side, a cute side smile making him look so much younger. He had already determined that neither one of them were very good at hiding their motives. The night had this odd aspect to it, becoming a black mirror that reflected the soul, casting like on the other side of everyone's metaphorical moon.

**"Niklas.."** 
Arsenio said again. Just to say it. He never knew if he'd get another chance to meet him. He was interesting, but it was too on the nose ask for his number. He glanced at the cigarette and brought back up to his lips, almost kissing it like one does to a lucky object. The soft pop of the air displacing around it had the new smoke billowing from his mouth and into his nose and cycling back out. 
Arsenio dropped his leg, folding an arm over his taut abdomen, and turning his face towards Niklas. He didn't look at him when he opened his mouth to speak... And words were buried underneath his tongue like a graveyard when he met his eyes again. 
Ignorance was bliss... And Arsenio pondered where he could find bliss this late. Maybe this little pocket was it. With this man he barely knew but saw.

The night time also had a way of bringing the spontaneous need to make mistakes. To find

Something to do. Arsenio could guess the answer, but he wanted to chase off the comfort of silence like people do when chasing off a flock of birds. 

**"You ride motorcycles?"** 

Arsenio look between their cigarettes, knowing they were nothing but timer's, counting down they were already short. He assumed Niklas wasn't the type to finish his completely, something about completion felt off for him.
Michael
He felt divorced from his own skin. His name, his title, uttered without skepticism. Niklas was driven by temptation, only for a moment; he looked at Arsenio as it was spoken. There was a dimple where his smile had been, announced with lips that were ripe and plush. The man feasted on the way that it was spoken, the way that his mouth conformed to the annunciation of each letter. He had mastered the brisk click in his name, something that many always failed to do. Niklas found it endearing. It was intimate, for there had been no demands to address him. He felt bare, more stripped and sultry than he would find himself on lonesome nights, and he huffed. Arsenio, surely, had been crafted with fire and ash. He was lit and vibrant, yet peppered with the German's desolation. A phase of the moon that Niklas had surpassed, ceasing to fully wane.
⠀
Niklas hoped that he would not.
⠀
His name had placed a frenzy in his belly, warming the tips of his ears. Arsenio's mouth took to the shape of the cigarette, and Niklas observed the lofty heights of each bordering building. The alleyway was swathed in disruption, yet it was muffled in his state of comfort.
⠀

He did not give it a response. The absence of dialogue was enticing him to take his leave, to sleep away their exchange as if it had been a reposeful revery. Niklas decided, then, to part with his cigarette first. It fell into a puddle, meddled with ash and rainwater. With assurance, it was obliterated by his heel, and the man looked to the other.
⠀
The gel in his hair was subsiding by the fatiguing hour, cornering the frame of his face by the coaxing of the wind. Amused, a brow twitched upward. Arsenio spoke as if he were a boy, without that memorable hue of velvet in his shirt or the remnants of improved bruises. Those that attempted to talk of such trivial things were often shut down in their lack of honesty. There were exceptions— those that discreetly wrapped him in tethers, succumbing to the design of their hearts. For a man of stone, he was exceptionally sensitive, exceptionally sweet.
⠀
"Are you saying that you do?" Niklas shook his head, answering the question speedily. They were both facing one another, but Niklas had a posture that indicated preparation. He was away from the wall, standing a little taller. His shoulders were broad, and an attire of black did not fail to outline every curve, every crevice, every advantage. "A biker and a fighter. Even for us, that is like asking for an early grave. Hm?"
⠀

Niklas had taken a step as he said it. *Us*. A confession hurled so directly, yet with such ease that it was hard to hold in one's hands. He was nearing a smile, with lines of history etched into the spot of his temples. It was spoken with the tone of an impish advisor, but the gleam in his eyes persisted in amusement, as if Arsenio's choices felt most appropriate. Niklas ran miles in the rain and swung fists at punching bags until they bled. He smoked until he became nauseous and steered clear of sleep as if it were a persistent lover. He knew a man's vices. They came in all forms.
⠀
Another step, and he was in front of Arsenio, halting to leave. Subtly, he looked the man over— surely, it was not so discreet as he might have believed, and it meant nothing to Niklas at the time. Hair, as nightly as the quills of a raven, tousled by sweat and riotous wrangles. The young man's jaw was more pronounced than his own, and the sky with its scarce light offered him the aura of a young prince.
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"Arsenio." He nodded, and advanced to leave him.
⠀
||
Nancy
*Us.*

The word was cast into the catcher's glove like a baseball, leaving Arsenio at the starting plate, bat up and eyes shimmering with the realization that the speed of the pitcher's throw was criminal. 
The amusement in Niklas' face was like the kind, that Hollywood paid millions of dollars for. Full of creases and valleys; an integrity that came from knowing more than one should at a younger age and holding all that wisdom to age in a oak barrel. It's flavor was smokey in the way specialty bourbon was, and Arsenio still couldn't get over how good looking he was. 
It would be his luck that he would find someone attractive outside of pounding music and flashing lights. There was something too normal about this, too close and yet... Not close enough.
He could hear Niklas' accent hiding from him, stifled down around the smoke. His gaze took in the contours of his body, underneath all the shades of black, carefully chosen to cloak himself perfectly. He wondered what this stranger looked like underneath all the antihero's wardrobe, wondered what that accent tasted like when it was mo—...

The younger pursed his lips, cutting his thoughts off. It was the adrenaline that streamlined that curiosity and Arsenio knew the reality was to make that fantasy moot. It was easy to imagine strangers for him, as that was the closest he'd ever get to something real.
Niklas spoke his name again, a bold period of ending rather than a semicolon. The "R" Was too harsh, and his lips parted as he watched him leave. He cursed, mentally. 

Coming up off the wall himself, a long ash had fallen from the cigarette as soon as he brought it to his lips again, not having realized that the other male had sobered him from the addiction for that long. He blew it out quickly, letting it fall into the same puddle. 
Words tumbled out into the stagnant air before he could catch them. 

**"You're invited to my funeral..!"** He called out to Niklas, grinning, and then turning the opposite direction to fi