"You bloody Yanks; you don't have a clue how to drink."
I took a sip, letting it settle the butterflies in my stomach before I turned back to the...what was he? A Brit, definitely. Probably Scottish.
"And you would be far more experienced in that regard, one assumes?"
"Ooh, get you, being all fucking posh. Are you sure you don't have any English blood? Stiff upper lip and all that?" His smirk bordered on the mocking but something about him told me his teasing was absolutely devoid of malice.
"That's not the only thing about me that's stiff," I muttered into the mouth of the bottle as I took another sip. No point beating around the bush. I just needed to admit to myself what I was there for.
"You sound like my kinda bloke."
"Careful, you just uttered a sentence without any swearwords in it. You're slipping."
"Aye, you're right. Got to keep up the national stereotype. Uh...bloody. Arse. Or something." He threw back a mouthful of his not-American beer before grinning and looking at me sideways. "So with your stiff..." he paused, straightened, and turned to face me, still keeping one elbow on the bar, "...upper lip, is this where I ask if you have any English in you?"
"Then I say no, and you say would you like some?" Yeah, I needed to admit to myself what I was there for, but it had never happened this fast before.
"You'd be buggered in that case. Or not, as the case may be. I'm as Scottish as a haggis in a kilt. Playing the bagpipes. While drunk."
"So why are you drinking German beer?"
"Because it's strong enough to strip the enamel off your teeth and it's the only thing that reminds me of home. Scots tend to drink aftershave mixed with battery acid. This?" He mock-saluted me with the bottle. "It's the only stuff that gives me a kick that even comes close."
"Why are you here then?" I frowned, curious about what brought him all the way over here if the aftershave and battery acid back home was so delicious. He certainly didn't look as if he abused his body as badly as he claimed. He was just about as tall as me and I tickled six feet. Clean shaven, just the way I liked them. Stubble burn might have been trendy but it made for a metric fuckton of discomfort in the morning.
He looked around us, scanning the room, lingering at the sight of all the hips and elbows and white T-shirts on the dance floor. After a few seconds more, he returned his attention to me. "Trying to be gay."
"Trying?" I lifted my eyebrows in a request for an explanation.
"I think I need more practice."
If that wasn't a come-on, I didn't know what was. And I couldn't think of a damn thing to say in reply. Thank God I had a bottle of beer to drink from to kill a few seconds.
"This is a gay bar, right?" he asked.
"Yeah. Yeah, the pink neon lights around the bar would suggest so."
"And the men snogging in the corner."
"That too. Just wait 'til happy hour. The manager starts a daisy-chain jerk-off with the customers of his choice. First one to come has to suck him off in front of everyone else."
Nameless Scot snorted just as he was about to take another drink.
"Fuck. Jesus. I didn't think Americans had a sense of humour."
Dear God. I just called him Nameless Scot. And I always said I wanted to... I blinked a few times, as if such a move would clear my head. With someone whose name I didn't know. I coughed, attempting to bring myself back to the here and now. "Who says I was kidding?"
"Oh man, I am so glad to be here now."
"Speaking of which, you never did answer my question about why you're here."
"I told you. Trying to be --- "
"Not here in Archangel's --- "
"Those pink neon lights are a bit much, though. They'd be as well calling this place The Pink Palace of Raging Queers. If the D.J. starts playing Cher, I may very well have to call him out, sir. Yes, call him out."
"Stop avoiding the question. I mean in this country."
"Ah. That would be telling."
"Don't tell me. You're only here for the daisy chain?"
"Or something like it." He pursed his lips in the bastard lovechild of a pout and a kiss. "So do I just call you Daisy, or do you have a proper name?"
"Austin."
"Austin." He rolled the word around his mouth like he was tasting it.
"What's your surname? Texas?"
"Congratulations on your knowledge of American geography."
"Do I win a prize?"
"Lombard."
"Lombard? That's your surname? How did an American end up with an Italian surname?"
"You know Italian geography too?"
"Oh, not much." He held up a hand and brushed off my surprise as if the almost-compliment made him uncomfortable. "Just that Lombardy's capital is Milan. Italy's second-top tourist destination, don't you know?"
"And how I ended up being named after the region I don't know. I presume one of my ancestors fucked an Italian."
He shivered, perhaps theatrically. "Yeah, I can understand the temptation. So are you impressed that a Scot stayed sober long enough to learn something about the outside world?"
"Immeasurably so."
While leaning his forearms on the bar, he moved nearer to me, stepping sideways and leaning in close. "If you can point to Glasgow on a map of Scotland, I'll be your best friend forever and ever."
"Scotland?" I did my best to scowl. "Isn't that a small town somewhere in England?"
"Hey, fuck you, Texas."
"You wish."
He rolled his shoulders, making no reply beyond "Mmm. Well maybe I do." He cleared his throat and stood up straight again. "I guess if I'm going to be your best friend forever and ever --- "
"Or not, depending on whether or not I can point to Glasgow on a map of England, was it?"
He rolled his eyes,
