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He was no Mozart. But damn if times like this didn't make him feel like it.

The rush was always like this whenever Mo sat in front of a piano. The moment the plump polar bear plopped onto the leathery piano stool; the moment his snowy fingers rested on the even more ivory keys, greeting him like a row of perfect teeth begging him to adore their radiant smile, he was gone.

Now, the bar was filled with music.

Now, he was drawn in once again. The loud hoop-and-holler of drunk furs fell silent at the mercy of the song. The clinking of glass and jug gave way to hammer and string. Every key snatched away the buzz and chatter of tipsy talk. It drowned out everything.

And Mo was just fine with that. It wasn't that he particularly disliked the constant hustle and bustle in the Glass Half Full piano bar. Especially on a Friday night, where every fur was packing in, shoulder to shoulder, to drink under the dim orange light that cast shadows over the black wood walls.

It was more to harsh the hustle and bustle in his own busy thoughts. And if his boss was more inclined to sit Mo at the keys whenever there wasn't a booked player in that particular time slot in order to draw in a crowd, the polar bear had no real complaints.

The Glass Half Full wasn't a very popular bar, despite its busy moments. It was mostly the same locals from town, all cramming into the chipped mahogany bar stools to chug back a pint after a hard day's work. The cold winter air frosted the dark windows, and Mo was just thankful that the haze of cigarette smoke and booze undermined the scent of wet fur from the snow outside.

Mo's fingers glided across the piano keys like a light, tender massage, caressing from it note after note.The song was called An Autumn Carnival. It was possibly the crappiest name he could have given a song he wrote in the middle of winter, but the logic of a high school cub wasn't always straight-on. And now well into adulthood, Mo was still teasing out that same tune he had recounted time and time again since.

The song ended. And the bar roared with applause. Mo turned around off the stool to give a curt bow. His wild icy-blue hair often obscured his vision, braided into a long tail over his right shoulder. He was the color of winter itself, from his powder-snow fur; to the sugar cream colors that ran down the bottom half of his face across the front of his body; to his blizzard-hued eyes, one silver and one cobalt respectively.

The polar bear didn't bother with a wave or a thank you as most musicians who booked the block did. Instead, he exited the stage with all the duty of a soldier, snatched a black apron up from off the coat rack he had hung it on, and returned to his post back behind the bar.

Mo had been the only bartender that had showed up that night. Like the bars of song, the list of liquor ingredients and types fell in perfect harmony as he mixed tonic and vodka and brandy alike for customers piling at the counter.

He picked up an empty glass left behind by one of his prior customers before he went to play. She had left a generous tip underneath.

And a phone number.

Mo grimaced silently. Not that he didn't appreciate the old-school bravado the customer mustered up. He just wasn't interested, as evident of him discreetly flicking the napkin into the trash bin when he thought no one was looking.

"And for all you know, that was your future wife's phone number."

Denzle was ear to ear with the most toothy grin he could muster, like a grade schooler that had just found a love letter in their best friend's locker. They were friends, in spite of the heavy-set cocker spaniel being his boss. Though when he made comments like that, Mo couldn't help but temporarily reconsider.

"She was half-drunk and talking about whether or not a campfire marshmallow would bleed rainbows if you cut it." Mo huffed as he swapped out an empty bin of orange slices for a full one. "Not really winning any wife-of-the-year awards with me. Just saying."

Mo always did an awful job at hiding his accent. Even though he wasn't from the Highlands like his mother, her speech patterns always had a nasty way of turning up in his own.

"At least give her a ring. That hippo was pretty damn hot. Could definitely teach me some marshmallow anatomy if she wanted." Denzle stepped out from around the kitchen window to fish the phone number napkin out. Mo was taller than the russet canine by a couple head's height. The cocker spaniel was downright feminine in appearance, from his pear-shaped body squeezed tight in a pitch-black apron, to the overly intricate ponytail he kept high on the back of his head.

"You have a wife and pup, should you really be that jealous?" Mo asked. He expertly shook a tropical margarita to a perfect blend.

Denzle batted his scarlet eyes flirtatiously--a habit he had picked up when he had learned once that Mo had a crush on him. Now, he just did it whenever Mo pointed out the obvious.

"Ain't nothing wrong with looking, Moshi--no need to be a stick that deep in the mud." A repulsed shiver ran the length of Mo's body. Any other fur wouldn't have dared to use his full name so flippantly. But this was Denzle he was talking about, who seemed hellbent on pressing the polar bear's every button on an almost daily basis. But Mo just rolled his eyes and poured the drink in front of the patrons sitting at the far end of the bar.

"That was some fairly impressive playing back there." The fox stated as he slid his drink closer. Mo muttered a thanks and made to leave, but the customer spoke again.

"An Autumn Carnival. You've played that song quite a few times here. I've also heard them play it on the town's local radio station too." He said.

"Are they? I thought they'd stop that by now."

Or at least so he was told. It was Denzle who had convinced him to put the song up on the local radio. It was probably also him who kept it on the air even after Mo told him not to.

"Well, I'm happy you enjoyed the performance. I'm sorry though, I don't quite remember your face." It wasn't a first, though Mo did try his best to remember as many of the locals as he could. But the fox must have been a newcomer. He just tipped his drink, then pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

A bar was probably the worst place for an ex-smoker to work. As the fox shoved the butt of the cigarette into his maw, Mo could practically taste the nicotine himself.

Though he would never touch another cigarette again.

"You must have had one hell of a piano teacher." The customer said through a puff of smoke.

Mo shrugged, already prepping a cocktail for an already smashed couple that just arrived at the bar counter.

"I'm self-taught." He answered, "Couldn't really be bothered to find a tutor as a kid. And I may or may not have been flat broke." It wasn't that Mo minded the smalltalk. On the contrary, it was a part of a bartender's job to stir up conversation to keep the bar lively.

But not when the conversation was about him. And certainly not when there was something so official about the fox, that it was a bit off-putting. Maybe it was how compulsively pressed his black suit was. It was straight as opposed to the open-jacket-loose-tie combo every other fur normally rocked when getting sloshed after work. Or maybe it was the overly intelligent gleam in his yellow eyes, like someone who was mentally sizing the polar bear up.

Mo put another margarita in front of him, hoping that the faster he got him drunk, the faster that look in the fox's eyes would drown.

"So what are you planning on doing with it?"

"Come again?"

"Your musical talent. What are you planning on doing with it?" The fox asked more insistently this time. He fumbled with the garnish in the drink, more focused on making smoke rings in the already hazy air.

"Or do you even have one?" He asked again.

Mo closed his eyes halfway, though that was impossible to tell under the curtain of his bangs. He had been asked this question a few times before. And his brain started flipping through the gallery of generic, ready-made responses he normally gave.

"Mo, honey." Denzle slid up from the other side of the bar next to the fox patron. He reeked of cologne and booze, meaning he must have been out on the floor helping his servers bring drinks across their full house.

"Iwaki and Naname just called in sick tonight and I need you to cover their closing shift. I can man the bar for you tonight." He winked, his crimson eyes glimmering and shouting that he was there to bail Mo out.

Mo nodded in relief, thanked the fox for his time, and strode out onto the floor to help the servers.

The only job Mo didn't do in the bar was cook. And that was to save Denzle's small pub the embarrassment and ruin only a string of lawsuits from multiple accounts of food poisoning could bring. Denzle had once said it made him a valuable employee. Though now, it was grounds to tease the polar bear every time he turned down a promotion. But that was just fine.

Mo wanted to keep it simple.

He wanted to keep it routine.

He couldn't let himself have any more than that.

It had been this way since he came to the bar straight after high school and had been there for the past three years.

There was another fur on the piano now, though judging from how savagely he was banging on the keys, he probably had a bit too much to drink and risked getting benched for the next pianist booked.

Mo worked the floor serving food and drinks to the many furs that had packed into the bar throughout the night. The late shift normally lasted till about midnight. That usually gave him about thirty minutes to catch the very last train home. Mo briskly pushed the broom across the floor, thankful he never got stuck rolling silverware into napkins like half the other servers did at the end of the shift. It made it all the more easier to get out of there on time.

And for Denzle to suddenly smack the polar bear on the forehead with what looked like an envelope.

"I'm pretty sure that's harassment." Mo quipped.

"If it was a paycheck, you'd change your tune." Denzle waved the envelope teasingly in front of the big-and-tall polar bear. "Don't you wanna know what's inside?"

"Are you giving me a choice?" Mo bonked Denzle on the head playfully with the broom in retribution.

"Nope--and that's harassment, by the way." Denzle stuck his tongue out as he swapped Mo's broom for the envelope. Mo looked it over. It was faded yellow, with an official-looking seal clamping it shut. He opened it up.

It was an invitation. An invitation from a school, branded with fancy letterhead and a short-but -sweet paragraph that was cordially inviting him to an audition. Mo knew this school. There wasn't a fur in the state that didn't know this prestigious school of music, or how entering was more cutthroat than two vultures fighting over a scrap of meat. Let alone them personally dropping an invitation to take their entrance audition like this.

This wasn't the first of these he had received.

And it wasn't the first to get tossed right in the trash bin.

"Geeze, Moshi, how many times are you gonna make me dumpster-dive in one day?" Denzle huffed as he fished the invite out of the trash, neverminding Mo's visible cringe at his full name again.

"I'm not asking you to. I'm not going to respond to it." Mo said simply.

"And why the hell not?"

Mo's black nose wriggled. He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he mentally thumbed through his response gallery. He found the response that told him how hard it was to get in that school. He found another response telling him that he really did love music, even if it just started as an outlet for his anger.

He found the response that told him that he couldn't allow himself to go.

And so, Mo fell back on the next default response fed to him.

"Because you'd be afraid of losing a valuable employee if I get accepted."

"I'm more afraid of you staying stuck in one spot." Denzle's playful voice took an unnatural tone of seriousness. The cocker spaniel walked around to Mo's front, the letter clutched in his paws. His eyes were like two rubies reflecting a bit of wisdom Mo hadn't yet gained.

"Mo, you know me better than any fur in this bar. And you know wasted potential is one of my biggest pet peeves."

That was an understatement. Denzle was four years Mo's senior. And ever since they were cubs, Denzle had always pushed Mo into anything he thought the polar bear was remotely good at.

To Mo's chagrin, clearly.

The two gazed at each other for a moment. Silent, unmoving. Until Mo noticed the clock on the wall.

"Boss, I gotta go." Mo said, and started to move when Denzle suddenly grabbed his paw. The canine slipped the invitation into Mo's palm, gently, with the affection of a brother and the concern of a parent. He carefully curled Mo's fingers around it for him.

"They aren't going to keep coming forever, you know that?" Denzle said softly. "At least think about your future a little this go around?"

His future. That was something Mo had placed into a box a long time ago. It was something he had gently shoved away into the recesses of his mind ever since he walked into the bar three years ago.

And Mo hated that look. He imagined it was the same look Denzle gave his pup whenever he wanted her to do something, or whenever he was giving her a stern talking-to. It was the look of concern that threatened to override the unchanging routine he had set for his life.

It made Mo clutch the invitation and give a single nod on his way out the bar, and into the frosty winter outside.