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Depressingly, there was no way that Admon Collier could go to a masquerade party and not be outed for who he was: as Carver had told him, even if they put a plastic bag over his head and set him in concrete, he was still inevitably going to be the tallest person around. And the largest. The heaviest. Probably the swearingest. He was the physical equivalent of a tree. So they'd gone with that. Ama had had a dusty old pair of brown jeans - they could do nothing about his tattoos, but Carver had spent an artistic hour with green and brown Magic Markers, covering the entirety of Admon's back, chest and arms with leaves and branches. Green kool-aid had been a momentary dye for the hair, though Admon's hair was far too red to really attempt this; his dreads were a kind of browny-green colour. "I look like a hippie fagasaurus," he'd said. (Nature had provided the mask. Oak leaves with holes. String had also helped.)

Carver had wanted to go as himself, but after an hour of Ama bitching that if he had to do it Carver had to do it, went the sad old route of pulling clothes out of his closet that he had been too frugal to throw away. "Gaaaaaaaay," Ama had proclaimed, as he put on the ripped jeans, "totally gaaaaaaaay," for the ripped excuse for a punk t-shirt, "a**l sex in bars," as he'd put back the nose ring and added a few more piercings to holes that he had been trying to encourage to close up. Admon braided and gelled his hair, also adding kool-aid (now they both smelled alternately of lime and grapes) while making a number of perverted remarks about what Carver would later do on street corners.

"I look fifteen," Carver had sighed, pulling on his eyemask and the ripped net gloves. Punk. "Fifteen with no fashion sense again. I look like I'm about to rob a store for a television set. Also, you know, you've been here over two weeks - "

"Shut up. All we need is Frankie with her dyke boots now and we'd be complete," Ama had said. "Come on."

So there was no point in even attempting to skulk in, but Carver had managed. (Badly.)

The purple-haired punk had managed to sidle away in the hopes that nobody would see him. The oak tree, on the other hand, sidled towards Natalie, beamed toothily and slapped her on the butt.

"Nice dress, Kneesocks," he said. "Sorry, babe, I can tell your tits from anywhere. Bird's eye view. 36-C. Don't ask me how I know, I'm the Boob Man. I've looked at chicks' cleavage ever since I was twelve. Hey, you clean up reee~al good. Sure you don't wanna ditch this popsicle stand and let me make you a wo-man out in the bathroom? Yeah? Nah? I'm a tree and you're a lady, how's about we go and get you rooted? Yeah, I was thinkin' up that one for the past hour or so. ********, I'm funny."

"Maybe I did and maybe I didn't," he said, through the love of causing trouble for his best friend. It was very nearly Admon's career. "You know he hates this s**t, Mysterious Tit-Lady. So, there any beer in this place for a hippie tree man? I did bring some liquor." (He hefted the two twelve-packs.) "I figure, whatever we don't drink, we give to the kids and film it."

"Meet me later in the bathroom with no panties!" (This was sadly said loud enough for the entire room to hear, but hey, at least he wasn't divulging her identity.)

Admon took this opportunity to go over to the food table to spike the punch. For one thing, he spotted a cat lady.

"Oh, 'scuse me," said the other occupant of the corner, who turned out to be the purple-haired punk boy from earlier. He was muttering, so it was hard to really make out what was being said. Mostly he seemed to be staring at the floor, embarrassed for some reason: he seemed embarrassed to be even existing. Somebody had written rude words on his knuckles in black Magic Marker. "I'll, uh, I'll leave if you want to sit here."

Natalie jumped - she hadn't expected one of the other nearby people to say anything. She turned to look at her companion.

He was the purple-haired guy who had been with Ama. She'd caught the purple, and that was about it. But if he had been with Ama...

Natalie blinked, looking at him, almost inspecting him. Carver? It had to be. A very irked looking Carver. Still, the punk look almost made it seem like he was her age, maybe younger. Intellectually, she knew he was in his thirties, but...

Well, it was a party.

She could play around a little, couldn't she?

It wasn't so much play, but Natalie wasn't quite ready to admit that she'd missed seeing Carver. That after everything had blown over with Thorn, she'd noticed little thoughts of him creeping into her mind. Making london broil reminded her of the day at her apartment, with Tristan. Ramen made her think of the day she moved in.

It wasn't much, but it was more than she knew was proper.

So... she would redirect this growing... crush? Was that what it was? to masquerade foolish flirtation.

"No, no, it's fine. I was just escaping some... less than savory company, m'lord." Her quiet time had let her recollect her act. Her voice was different, her intonation slightly changed. The way she came to stand closer to him had an edge of unfamiliarity to it.

"Are you enjoying the evening at all?" He didn't look it, but... she should still ask. Natalie clasped her hands in front of her, shackles and chains clanking.

Punk-Carver had been staring at the floor, anywhere but at Natalie, too distracted to really look at her and discern who she was; but he knew her voice too well, and looked up and smiled. The age came back again: part of the youth had looked like it was a large percentage of embarrassment. "I'm sure I will once I stop feeling so ridiculous," he said, and - "you look very lovely, Natalie. Please don't look at my outfit, Admon insisted and I found some old things in my cupboard. Or the hair. Now, what's that about less than savoury company? Was Ama being appalling? I didn't see." (The voice did not match the outfit.)