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Iosif was eager to drop off his belongings, as he had no desire to carry them around all day. Besides, he was nervous to leave them out of sight - this was a circus, and he had no doubt that some curious worker, or even audience member, might see fit to go through his belongings and remove a few of the more choice items. (What if they took his guns? He'd be devastated.) So he had asked Grete to show him to his temporary lodgings - as he wasn't intending to stay there permanently, just until he found out where he was actually supposed to sleep - and had picked up his belongings, though he palmed off the bottle on to Grete. At least it wasn't that heavy.

With everything gathered up, Iosif beamed at Grete, clearly looking forward to the prospect of a couch. Hey, it was better than a tree, wasn't it? "Lead the ways?" he offered, gesturing with his head. His hands were all occupied at the moment.

Iosif kept pace fairly well despite his heavy load, an excited skip in his step. Every so often he would switch the massive carpet bag on to his other shoulder, but the walk wasn't incredibly long, and Iosif wasn't exactly a man with a weak constitution. Still, by the time they had arrived at the trailer his breathing was somewhat labored, and he seemed somewhat relieved when Grete opened the door and allowed him entry.

Dropping his belongings - carefully - by the sofa, Iosif ran his hand over the upholstery to see how it felt. Not the comfiest thing ever, since the sofa seemed a little underpadded, but it was sure as hell better than sleeping under a tree. Fixing his bright grin on Grete, he nodded his approval and immediately bounced on to the couch, swinging his legs so they dangled over the arm of the sofa and stretching his arms behind his head.

"Hey, is perfect!" he exclaimed, giving the couch a loud, affectionate pat. It was like the sofa was some sort of family dog. Trailer was nice too! No squirrels of course, but Iosif would survive somehow. Beaming, he straightened so that he was actually sitting on the couch like a proper human being, hands resting on top of his knees. Now that Iosif was finally at rest it was easy to see the webbing of scars that covered the top of his palms and cut across his fingers like some bizarre road map.

Unsurprisingly, he didn't stay at rest for long.

Bouncing on to his feet, Iosif glanced round the trailer and then asked, rather hesitantly, "Rules?"

"Hey, no worries! I is not drinking your alcohols, yes? I has very much." Iosif bent down a bit to pick up the bottle Grete had placed on the coffee table, holding it by the neck and inspecting it quietly. There was no label or anything on it, but he knew exactly what it was, and its potency. It was pretty damn strong. That was what the Viola was known for really - good music, good girls, great booze. He'd nicked this before he left. Somehow, he doubted they'd miss it.

Grinning, he tossed the bottle upwards and caught it neatly before unscrewing the top and taking a quick sip straight from the bottle. "Girls isn't wanting old man," Iosif added, with a laugh. So far the rules weren't too bad. This, of course, called for a toast. Iosif wiped his mouth with his sleeve and offered the unidentified substance to Grete, his crooked grin widening.

"Whiskey," he said, giving her an encouraging nod.

Iosif didn't really feel bad. He'd had his fun when he was younger, noodled around plenty - beyond what was considered appropriate for his day and age, anyway. Besides, he took his age with the grace that only someone who never acted like they were forty-something to begin with could possess. It wasn't really a big problem, and he wasn't here for women anyway. (Although there seemed to be plenty of pretty ones walking around, but never mind that.)

Besides, women still found him attractive. He thought. He'd had propositions but usually work got in the way, so he very rarely followed through, and - Well, never mind. Iosif laughed in response to Grete's reassurance, and pat her mildly on the head. "Eh, is old, is young, is happening. Is not big thing to worry for!" It was always the anticipation of age that got you, not the actual age itself.

Ah, but the toast! He hadn't actually thought of what to toast. "New beginnings" was a tad too predictable for his tastes. So instead he sat down by Grete and carefully took the bottle from her, and decided to go back to his Russian basics. "Hey, in place where I am coming from, we toast every shot, yes? First shot, you toast to maybe the holiday, maybe friendship, you is knowing? Okay, so. To friendship."

Unfortunately for Grete, Iosif was doing an actual Russian toast - he was merely giving Grete the context. For the next minute or so Iosif babbled in Russian, occasionally gesturing at the bottle, at Grete, and himself. Then, with a huge grin, he tilted his head back and took a large swig of the alcohol. Clearing his throat when he was finished, he passed it off to Grete.

Was good stuff. Strong, even for him.

"Hey!" Iosif laughed, clapping loudly for Grete. "Is great toast! American toasting is so strange, yeah?" In Russia it wasn't unusual for a single toast to go on for over ten minutes; he was being a bit of a slacker in that respect. Taking the bottle, Iosif stared at it for a moment before continuing: "Second toast is for hostess, this time. This drinking is for your hospi-ta-bality!" Never mind the last word, at least he was making this toast a much shorter one - and in English. He knocked back a large swig and, grinning, held out the bottle to Grete.

Iosif's tolerance towards alcohol was pretty high, but a few more shots and he'd be drunk like all the rest of them. It promised to be a good evening.

Iosif's grin only broadened and he tapped the tip of his wide nose - though he nearly missed - and shook his head from side to side. "Is secret," he said, offering no explanation aside from that. It was mostly a matter of habit; when people asked Iosif where he got his alcohol from, he was obligated to keep quiet. If he gave away his sources there would be even more competition. Not that he was worried about Grete making a move on the providers, but - well, again, force of habit.

"A friend," he amended. Perhaps he ought to be more open with these people. They couldn't really do him any harm, and they were the closest thing he had to friends and family here. Still, he couldn't bring himself to be completely honest. Iosif was good at telling half-truths, and who was he to deny his own talent?

The amount of alcohol housed in the bottle was beginning to dwindle. Iosif had already had about a fourth of it the previous night, and between the two of them there was less than half remaining. Good thing it was potent! Iosif held up the bottle and turned to Grete, cheeks already somewhat rosy from the influence of the liquor. "Okay, is last toasting for this night. To love! In what way it may go, don't matter any much." With that morsel of philosophical eloquence, Iosif tipped his head back and swallowed more whiskey. He was beginning to feel a little lightheaded, but it was the pleasant sort, where his head just felt sort of detached.

"Your turn," Iosif said, offering Grete the bottle.

"Surprises!" he echoed, holding up an imaginary shot glass and knocking it back. One day he'd introduce Grete to a proper Russian toast: one that was long, silly, and sentimental (as Russian toasts tended to be) but for now he was more focused on enjoying his evening.

At her offer of alcohol Iosif shook his head emphatically. The gesture made him a little dizzy, but he stood up nonetheless and wobbled his merry way over to Grete, dropping on the floor next her and crossing his legs indian-style. He was tickled pink by the fact that he wasn't drinking alone, never mind who provided the alcohol. "In place where I am come from, you never open new bottle 'til old one is drunk and not full." He held out the remains to her, beaming. You weren't supposed to not finish a bottle! The only time you saved alcohol was when you wanted to use it the next morning to recover from the inevitable hangover.

Obviously.

She shouldn't be concerned anyway! She was letting Iosif stay in her place after all. The least he could do was offer her some whiskey.

"I am having amazing magic cures for the hangovers!" Iosif waggled his fingers mysteriously at Grete, as if he were a magician about to pull off some incredible feat, but instead all he did as plunk the bottle down by Grete's feet and proceeded to burst into another fit of his strange, girlish giggles. Of course he couldn't make things that boring - so Iosif flicked his wrist lightly and in his palm appeared the cap to the whiskey bottle. (Which he had been housing up his sleeve, in the hopes of such an occasion arising.) Perhaps it wasn't the most impressive or subtle trick, but Iosif was too drunk to care as he screwed the top back on the whiskey.

How did you combat a hangover according to the Gospel of Iosif? More alcohol, of course. Reaching over Grete, Iosif set the bottle on the coffee table and nodded his approval. It was bad luck to leave an empty bottle on a table anyway - this took care of the problem nicely. "And is no wasting!" he lectured, giving Grete his best attempt at a dirty look. Perhaps if he had been more sober it would've been effective - his face was intimidating enough with its sharp features and missing eye - but he could barely maintain the look for a second without bursting out laughing.

Apparently, Iosif was a happy drunk. It was hardly surprising.

He leaned back against the cabinet, sticking his legs out much like Grete and wiggling his toes idly within the confines of his shoes. The older man looked completely and utterly content. Why wouldn't he be? Good company, good alcohol, good-looking woman - he had nothing to complain about.

"Many nice people heres," he commented, in a half-drunken mumble. He turned his head to the side to face Grete, giving her a faceful of his characteristic grin.