There came a rap at the door hosting a sign reading "Employees Only." Isuelt was searching for Keaton, she had sauntered into the Caf? with the intention of repeating the previous night. They had gone to one of Keaton's favorite jazz clubs. And while that was probably the last place anyone would ever think to find the Scathachian sourpuss, she actually had a memorable evening. It was something remarkable when Isuelt could actually fully relax. In fact, she couldn't remember the last time she wasn't tracking someone, or looking over her own shoulder. She had found in Keaton someone who could accompany her on outings that would aid her in forgetting the intense everyday life that she had become accustomed to. Keaton was the beau of her Scathachian sister, Trixie. And while she sometimes disapproved of her sisters' picks, she thought this sister had secured a gem of a gentleman.

"Keaton?" came the call from the whiskey-stained voice. "You in there? Come on, let's go! You got me all hot and bothered for jazz music, you cretin!" She grinned and stepped back from the door, folding her arms over her chest as she waited.

"Fusion, huh? Well, no one has ever accused me of 'too much, too soon' so I guess fusion it is," now leaning up against the wall, one boot crossed before the other, Isuelt watched Keaton searching for something. Her guess would be shoes, seeing as how he was barefoot; and that last place they went wouldn't really dictate a dress code of "shoes optional." True, the music was interesting enough, though the floor's hygiene left something to be desired.

"Hey, listen," Isuelt pushed up off the wall and walked over to the squatting musician as he searched under a second table. "Thanks for letting me sort of...decompress. It's been...well lately....well, you know," those dark eyes were centered on the floor before they flickered a bit. The corners of her mouth lifted lightly as her hand pointed to a leathery sole hiding under a nearby chair, "That something you'd be interested in, Keat?"

"Well, we've got to make sure we give an 'up yours to ska' then, don't we?" oh yeah...sarcasm dripping from every syllable. Still, it was something to do with someone that wasn't a helpless whelp.

"But Keat," as they made their way out of the door, "if there's a mosh pit, I ain't goin' in after you again." She smirked as she tossed him a sidelong look. "That's what Trixies are for."

They had broken up. Trixie and Keaton.

The fox was still in shock, barely believing that he had done it... barely believing that he had done a lot of things. The tension with Issy had finally reached the point where the "warning of his conscience" could no longer be ignored, and he told Trixie, and they flipped out at each other. Not once, but twice.

The first time, it was in the middle of the common room, and he had walked away from her for the first time.

The second time, she put a hole through the door of his room upstairs. They'd cursed at each other, each outdoing the other with progressively worse remarks, for no real reason but an unwillingness to back down, until, at the top of the stairs, she told him she didn't want to see him, her boyfriend, or Issy, her fellow Scathachian... for both of them to keep away from her... and he dumped her. He told her it was over.

It made her pause... but not for long. She walked out of the common room, and he was pretty sure at that time, out of his life forever.

He couldn't stop thinking about why all this happened, even after maybe ten drinks that night. He'd brought up his own worries, something trivial, to her, that he knew would piss her off... because he felt guilty, for letting it get out of hand. His fault in the first place. And why had he broken up with her?

Pride. He wasn't going to let her say the things she said.

The day of their first fight, Keaton had a mudfight that involved Issy and later a woman named Lilly who he'd just met. And what did he do with them, but flirt shamelessly and thoughtlessly. Hadn't hurt anyone before, he reasoned. A lie, and maybe it'd hurt someone now.

Musicians always said pain was good for the soul, good for getting those creative juices flowing... but Keaton stared at his notepad for hours and hours, and he couldn't think of a goddamned thing worth writing.

I mean, Trixie. It's over. Shit.