Malek Ackerman
You're my water. You're my wine.
As his gray eyes open, Malek drags a hand across his face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he lays there for a while, enjoying the silence in that dark bedroom. Yesterday was interesting, to say the least. He had been hunted by a fellow vampire and it was altogether confusing, though he did rather enjoy toying with Arlo. A chuckle emits from his throat at the recent memory as he pulls himself from the bed, shaking the slumber from his limbs as he moves towards the bathroom, cranking the shower on as hot as he can stand. Slipping under the endless stream, he hums his appreciation as he lathers his body quickly so he can simply enjoy the heat emitting from the water.
He finishes only when the water begins to run cold, stepping from the shower he wraps a towel around his waist, the water streaming from his hair in rivulets. Giving a small shake to his head, as if he were a dog, he quickly grabs another towel to dry his hair as best as he can, but it's still damp even when he is dressed and on his way out of his home.
Clad in jeans that are slung low over his hips and a loose fitting black button, he shoves his hands in his pockets, strolling down the sidewalk as the cool air nips at his still drying, unbound hair. An easy smile is stretched across his lips as he makes his way through the now familiar neighborhood reaching his favorite bar. Pushing through the doors, he's delighted to see that it's a fairly busy evening, perhaps he will have another exciting evening.
With hopeful eyes, he raises a casual hand to wave at the bartender, who in turn, gives him a nod and has a drink ready for him as he slides into an empty barstool. Commenting his thanks, he swirls the amber liquid in his glass, taking a sip, his eyes brighten immediately giving a nod of appreciation.
Turning in his barstool, he leans his elbows along the bar, his drink held in such a casual way, the alcohol forgotten for the time being as his steely eyes roam over the rather exotic crowd tonight. Brows furrowed at the brightly clothed patrons, he looks over his shoulder, brow raised in confusion at the bartender, "What is all this?" he asks lazily.
"Some sort of rave," the man shrugs and goes back to polishing a glass. Again, his brows narrow slightly at the man, bartenders actually polished their glasses? In all his centuries, he had truly never seen anyone polish their glasses. Quirking a smile, he returns his gaze back to the crowd, an amused expression dancing across his features.
You're my whiskey. From time to time.