The streets of New Orleans’ French Quarter are a bustle of people, lights, and music. It’s rowdy, to say the least, and over the past week, the festivities had just kept ramping up and up. Remy hadn’t been lying about the sheer volume of people, especially now that it was later into the night, and nobody seemed to have a problem with openly drinking out on the streets. There are bright colored lights, loud singing, and maybe the occasional fireworks overhead.

It’s absolute chaos, and Remy seems to be thriving in it.

He’s got several strings of fake, plastic beads hanging around his neck. Every time a nearby float from the parade throws them out, he stretches out his arm and catches a handful of them. He seems to have no issue pushing around shorter folks to win some cruddy plastic prizes. Which is either the influence of the alcohol or just Remy being Remy.

“How ya doing?” He asks, a broad grin stretching over his face, swooping his arm around to drape a string of multicolored beads across your neck. His cheeks have a tint of red to them, his lips still slightly wet from the bourbon you’d both drunk at the last bar. There were a lot of bars in the French Quarter, and alcohol seemed to be especially cheap during Mardi Gras. Or so Remy tells you, he’s the one that’s been buying all of your drinks.

“Yeah, yeah you feelin’ it,” He chuckles, his hands gently put on your shoulders to lead you through the crowds of people. His accent seems more pronounced now, probably a mixture of being back home in the city, and the fact that he seems just as tipsy as you are; just a little more functional. “Let's getcha some water, cher.”

It was months ago when Remy had brought up bringing you to the Madri Gras celebration, and you didn’t think he’d actually go through with it. But here you both were, stumbling down jammed sidewalks, with Remy singing something completely indiscernible at you that may be in French or may be gibberish. A little bit of a serenade while he’s looking for water.