A little less than magic...
a little more than slight of hand.
Not in Andalasia, that was for certain.
Where there had been trees on endless trees, castles, royalties, and the like, there were now flashing signs, busy people, sounds from all around, and no one wearing that second-rate trend (only second rate because the prince that was definitely not Izzy and therefore not as good) of puffy shoulders that looked good on nobody.
If it weren't for the smell, that would almost be enough to make up for the fact that Izzy had no idea where he was, no idea where he was going, and knew no one on the street.
He wasn't naive enough to think that this was Anadalasia, so when he pulled someone aside (one who looked less formal and less vacant than half the people walking down the street) and said, "You're delicious and I'm lost. I think there's something there," he wasn't really surprised when he got a glare in return.
"What do you want?" Ishmael asked, tone anything but warm and friendly.
"You, a hot bath, and being hand-fed grapes. All of the above would be nice," Izzy answered with a grin. "I'll settle for a map and a tour at your gorgeous side."
The charming prince from Andalasia had already been given the time he needed to make up his mind about staying. It had been somewhere between the other prince being recognized for talents he clearly didn't have and this new world offered so much more, at least that's what the flashing signs said with moving pictures on them.
Andalasia was all well and good, for those who couldn't see what was clearly before them. This new world, whatever it was...had its perks already...perks like the brown-eyed grump who was currently staring at him like he came from another world.
Funny thing about that.
"No." The answer was less than perfect, but Izzy wasn't one to give up so easily.
"How about a walk around town, then?"
"No."
"Your eloquence gives me hope."
"Are you-?" Ishmael turned to stare at the persistent, strangely dressed, no doubt drunk or high or both, man looking back at him with startlingly blue eyes. "You really want a tour? That's it?"
"I also accept kisses," came the smooth reply.
The citizen of New York, the guitarist who had fewer gigs than he did shifts at the local grocery store, stopped in his footsteps. It had to have been a scam or a hustle, or like the damned girlscouts that came up with reasons why he should buy their cookies so they could get a bike. Maybe more like the last example because those damned girlscouts never went away until Ishmael gave in.
And maybe they sensed weakness to begin with, the weakness that Ishmael would, eventually, relent to the ever-growing pressure and incessant requests.
Maybe that was why he was always targeted.
Either way, Izzy of Andalasia, less confused than a particular ginger had been upon her arrival at New York, was given a "royal" tour as far as Ishmael was concerned. The tour, in all its glory, wound up being no more than Ishmael pointing out obvious features Izzy could easily use to move on.
"That's the public transit stop. You can use that to leave at any time." Which, of course, was only met with a pair of bright blue eyes and an easily uttered phrase that only made Ishmael grind his teeth to stop from trying to grin.
And of course, in the midst of his oh-so-helpful tour (like explaining that the yellow things are not herding, they are called taxis and they take people places. No, not like horses), Ishmael got to learn...very little about Izzy.
It wasn't that Izzy didn't have stories about Andalasia, oh, did he have stories upon stories (upon stories...upon stories...). It wasn't even that he was trying to enchant the grumpy user of monotone by being as mysterious as possible (though if that worked, he wasn't about to complain).
And maybe, in a way, that suited Ishmael, that Izzy didn't talk about his fairy godmother he hadn't seen in quite a while, the way he actually felt in Andalasia, or even what Andalasia was in the first place.
Because those weren't the important things about Izzy.
Important, eye-catching things like the way he held himself, as though he really was royalty. His chin up high, his stride mostly confident, the confidence of someone who likes to appear thusly. He almost did seem to be a prince out of a fairytale.
But that was just ridiculous as far as Ishmael was concerned.
Ridiculous as the notion that one tour would turn into a drink. Even more ridiculous than the notion that a drink would turn into two and somehow that would end up with Ishmael letting Izzy stay the night, "Only until you go back to Anda-what-the-hell-you-call-it."
Izzy only smiled brightly.