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Nonetheless, he snorted. Cascati gave a quick glance to the make-up of Pickles And Toast; "I don't think any of them could knock up a girl in an IVF clinic," he said, and considering their fresh-faced look and exquisitely similar chain wallets he was cruel but probably correct. Pickles And Toast were much less tight and polished than Damn The Author had been: their song was also screamy and hair-band and nigh-on-undanceable, which prompted mutterings amongst the now dangerously caffeine-hyped Brawndo!-high crowd.

The gargoyle said something into Ophelia's ear which was more than likely "screw this", although she couldn't be definitively sure. Pickles And Toast's follow-up (Que Aloe Vera??) were equally limp, and by the time the emcee came up again there was audible relief that Que Aloe Vera was over. "Okay, I'd like to thank all our bands," he said, "please have a palate-cleanser as the judges make their decision with our own in-house band, buy the album, pay for it on iTunes, Bad Night In."

Surprisingly, Bad Night In started off with a slow song, and even more surprisingly, Casca simply took Ophelia's hands and put them around his neck, fingers meant to lace around just behind his hoodie. Slow dancing seemed to consist entirely of just standing there moving almost minutely, but Casca leant his head down and said into her ear, "God, at least we can talk like this. Mohitos won, bet you five dollars."

It was awkward. It really was awkward. When you were at the point where you were slow dancing, especially the kind of slow dancing where you were wrapped around each other, there were only two admissions that could comfortably be made: eternal love or that you were gay. Things could proceed from either angle from eternal love or I'm queer. Casca thought about coming out as queer just to kill the awkward. It didn't quite work.

Thankfully they weren't in the middle of the dancefloor (that would have been death: who danced in the middle of the dancefloor) but were situated by one of the club's pillars, mostly out of the way of any real social eye. Casca found himself butting Ophelia's head very lightly with his forehead, the bridge of his horns to her hairline, and spluttered at it, honest to God spluttered at it, said "What the hell," distantly to himself and then found himself adding on in some consternation -- "God, that was such a ******** gargoyle thing to do, what the hell."

Then they were very awkwardly kissing. Casca was rigidly close-mouthed at first, though whether it was from the awkward or just Casca Naborn as-ever trying to keep his cool wasn't readily apparent. His tail had latched around her ankle like a seahorse trying to keep itself tethered to a piece of kelp in a current; they ditched dancing and kissed instead. He was much taller than her, forcing her to teeter on her tiptoes, but they were kissing, so it was some kind of achievement.

It wasn't exactly a Hollywood movie kiss either. He found nothing more intelligent to say than "So, uh, yeah," and they kissed again, chastely.

"So, yes, I have to sort of wonder who cares," said Casca, and kissed her again. Behind them, the emcee announced to absolutely nobody whatsoever's surprise that Last Of The Mohitos had won the battle of the bands, though there was a disappointed cry of Davy!! that came up from one of the baffling Seersucker fans that had apparently come along tonight.

Mentally he uncongratulated himself for the most halfassed 'suave' comment he'd ever made.