The Wet Wick is a place that Kuras finds himself in often, though not for reasons that so many others do. He does not generally partake in drink and revelry; his ventures here are far more often for business than pleasure (though pleasure is not outside the realm of possibility on some evenings).
Tonight, he moves carefully between the drunken bodies of Bloodhounds and regular patrons alike, mentally cataloging which of them may come to see him in the morning for a bitter, albeit effective, serum for hangovers. Perhaps none will. They are all too familiar with the effects this much drinking can have, and how to navigate a day with the resulting throbbing head.
He is not here for that, though. No, tonight he is here to find Leander, a feat that is not difficult, given his outgoing nature and penchant for showmanship. Kuras isn't annoyed by it. Truthfully, he finds his friend rather charming in ways he himself could never be. With the faintest of smiles upon his lips, he carefully places his hand on Leander's forearm, letting the touch linger a moment, before moving to sit on a stool at the bar. He will wait for the man to finish; tonight, he is in no rush.
the usual crowd at the wet wick never seem to tire of leander's tricks ― which suits the incorrigible showman in him just fine. oh, he puts on a good act: a sigh here, a fond roll of the eyes there, as if he isn't thriving on the attention and the cheers of the small crowd gathering around him - as if their excited mood isn't infectious. besides ― a little exertion of energy and a few fancy light shows are hardly much to ask in exchange for the smiles of those around him.
he's close by the bar tonight, standing amidst a loose gathering of drunken folks. there's space between him and them, like always: nobody ever seems to cross that invisible threshold and move near enough to touch, as if by some unspoken agreement they feel they ought not to. leander would welcome the closeness, but few ever seem to breach that barrier without his prompting.
he's performing for the crowd, fed by their cheers and laughter. green tendrils of magic glimmer at his fingertips, reflecting a ghostly kind of illumination upon his features beneath the bar's dim lights. his heart thrums in time with his creations: magic pulled from the very air, from his very lungs - no incantation, no magic circle, only leander smiling as he plucks a light show from nothingness. he creates one single flower tonight, testing how long the magic will hold out before it vanishes.
as the flower blossoms into existence in his palm, a light touch presses upon his forearm. warm skin against skin. leander's gaze shifts from the fragile bloom in his hand, to kuras. he feels himself smile, broad and bright and welcoming. quite without his notice, in his excitement to see a friend, his magic has grown brighter: green sparks spiralling gently into the air. he feels a little colder when kuras draws away, and hastens to wrap up his little performance. the flower vanishes before he's quite done promising his bloodhounds another show next time.
❝kuras!❞ he bounds to the good doctor's side, opting to lean against the bar next to him rather than sit. ❝are you here to see me?❞
are you finally going to share a drink with me? is implied, but not pushed - not tonight, not when kuras looks so peaceful and content. leander doesn't want to go saying anything that might prompt him to leave.