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Before Iosif could begin to explain the complexities of his act (these complexities being "shooting things" and "shooting other things") Grete had moved on to another topic entirely, and it took the inebriated Russian a few moments to catch up with her. His already meager understanding of English only seemed to dwindle under the influence of alcohol, and Iosif gave Grete a very puzzled look as she seized his wrist and started tugging, but once she explained what it was she wanted to do, he seemed to catch on.

After a few seconds of contemplation, Iosif staggered on to his feet and began wobbling away from Grete. "I am thinking this is not an idea very good," Iosif said, laughing easily. But he wasn't backing away from Grete because he was opposed to to her suggestion - rather he knelt by his suitcase and after a moment of fumbling procured a clean, if slightly wrinkled, suit jacket. "Fancy!" he declared, holding it up with an air of pride, before sliding it on. Of course to complete the look he'd have to don a tie, but he ignored that for the time being and moved back to Grete.

"Outside," he ordered, planting his hands on her shoulders and steering her towards the door. It was a bit worrisome, since Iosif could barely direct himself, let alone Grete, but eventually they managed to escape outside without too much trouble.

Soon as they had made it outside the trailer Iosif began to arrange Grete's arms: one he placed on his shoulder (the height difference didn't make it too easy, but Iosif scarcely cared), and the other was raised up, with their hands clasped. "You maybe is knowing foxtrot?" he asked, raising his eyebrow.

"Hey, yes, this I am knowing! Am very much classy gentleman," Grinning, Iosif pulled his hand away from Grete for a moment to tip an imaginary hat before resuming his original position. Perhaps their posture wasn't as stiff or as proper as it ought to have been - what with the nine inches of height difference, and the fact that both dancers were rather tanked - but it would work for this purpose.

"Okay!" Iosif exclaimed, flashing Grete his brightest smile. "Foxtrot very much easy, yes? You take two steps slow, two steps quick-quick." Leading Grete carefully, Iosif demonstrated with his own feet: slow, slow, quick-quick. Slow, slow, quick-quick. "Basic step," he explained, with a smile and a shrug.

He remembered back when he was first learning to foxtrot. He was probably drunk at that point as well.

Iosif was an early riser, if only because he rarely slept too well. He was a bit of an insomniac and while he did self-medicate with the occasional third of a bottle of alcohol, he generally spent as little time sleeping as possible. He'd learned to do fairly well on just a few hours of sleep and besides, the earlier he got up, the earlier he could get things done. Iosif was an active person who preferred to be productive - not much work was completed while sleeping, so he embraced his insomnia as some sort of gift.

"Early, maybe," he replied, giving a vague shrug of his shoulders. At the moment he was trying to keep his feet steady and rhythmic; the alcohol was certainly combating any attempts, but muscle memory kept him moving as he ought. "What is next you is thinking? We move!" It was easy enough to remain stationary, but when actually moving across a dance floor things became a little more complicated: you had to keep your feet going, maintain what the folks in the business called "continuity", and juggling all this with the alcohol the two had already consumed. Grinning with mischief, Iosif began to lead Grete slowly into a counter-clockwise manner.

Good question. Iosif wasn't too sure himself. If he'd been sober he might've recalled better, but as it was he was dedicating what little brain power he had on keeping himself upright, nevermind actually remembering things that didn't rely on muscle memory. So in response he pursed his mouth, came to abrupt stop, and dipped Grete carefully.

"I am thinks with brain, but nothing! Long time ago." It was the best he could manage at the moment. Righting Grete, he pulled his hands away and pat her head lightly with his scarred hand. The alcohol had kicked in full swing and Iosif knew that dancing wasn't the best idea at the moment. He grinned at Grete and crossed his arms over his chest, surveying her with a feigned critical look. It was almost too sharp - he had quite a glare without trying, let alone when he was acting. Still, he laughed soon and said, "Wonderful! Hey, you is a dancing profesh - profeshinal." His pronunciation was a bit off, but he got it! Sweeping Grete a surprisingly elegant bow, he took her hand and pecked it lightly.

Always show your appreciation to a lady. It was a lesson he'd learned a long time ago.

Iosif scarcely minded being pat on the head, though he did raise an eyebrow in amusement at Grete. No one had done that before. Whatever! He appreciated the gesture, and laughed a little as he straightened up, teetering haphazardly on his feet. Of course it wasn't long before he found himself swept up in a fit of motion, staggering best he could behind Grete. She seemed awfully excited about something - Iosif was the exact opposite, as alcohol had the tendency to stabilize his mood. He was a serene sort of alcoholic, one of the few where the booze actually improved one's personality.

It wasn't long before the two arrived at the trailer, and Iosif lingered in the doorway, leaning against the frame in order to maintain his balance. Room was spinning! In all sorts of directions. My, it made things a good deal more interesting. He didn't seem to be paying much attention until Grete held something shiny aloft, and immediately his interest flickered into place.

"Piano, eh?" Iosif asked, pushing away from the door frame. He bent forward at the waist, inspecting the key as though it was some sort of magical artifact. Admittedly, he hadn't played a piano in ages - it stopped being his job, and he had little time for it - but it was a rather tempting notion, especially to his inebriated mind. He grinned and snatched the keyring from Grete, the thought of asking never even crossing his mind.

"Hey! We go now?" he asked, glancing at Grete. At least he was asking permission for that - and also he didn't know where they kept the instruments.

Iosif followed, mildly obedient as Grete led him hither and thither; he swayed and occasionally had to stop to collect his bearings, but he'd always had a good sense of balance and he didn't crash into any trees on the walk. That alone was worth merit in Iosif's ever-so-informed opinion, and he smiled blearily at Grete as she fiddled with the keyrings, attempting to find the right key. Soon as the door opened Iosif moved inside, stooping so that he could fit in the small entrance of the trailer. Inside was a vast array of instruments, including some he did not recognize. Of course, the piano was easy to find - especially with Grete seated upon it, in a manner that Iosif believed exhibited her legs rather nicely. He tilted his head to the side for a moment, mouth pursed and eyebrows knitted together as he allowed himself to briefly consider the view.

After what was possibly an awkward moment, he straightened and gave Grete and eager, wide smile. "Yes - it works great! Hey, is piano so everything is good." Laughing, he tossed some nonexistent coat tails and sat down on the piano bench, spreading his fingers slowly over the yellowing keys. A knot in his stomach had formed without him noticing, and it was now tightening in a manner Iosif found rather disagreeable. Still, he tapped a key lightly with his pinky finger and immediately leaned back, pulling his hands away and laughing nervously.

"Is little off tune, yes? Out of pitch? Eh - " Perhaps it was the alcohol, or the fact that he hadn't played piano in so long, but Iosif was finding it rather difficult to play now that he had finally been presented with the opportunity. What if he wasn't good at it anymore?