Private Finished Deal With It

Cesare groaned with frustration as the vending machine spat his money out for the sixth time. For some reason, the stupid machine simply refused to take his money. It wasn't even old and wrinkled! It was crisp fifty-dollar note that he'd literally just drawn from an ATM the day before (which had been another fiasco, but that's neither here nor there).
"This machine is defective," he declared to no one in particular.
He turned and stalked away from the machine as its blinking lights continued to taunt him. He almost gave a huff of frustration, but contained himself. Huffing was beneath his dignity. Flopping down in a chair, however, was not - and so that's what he did.
...And his pique was rewarded with an ominous crack from one of the legs as the chair canted to a dangerously steep angle. Some might argue that a four hundred and fifty pound man condensed to the size of a man who weighed a third of that shouldn't be flopping down in chairs. They might accuse him of having forgotten that very simple fact. But Cesare knew the truth.
"Nothing in this place works as intended!"

Carefully, he stood. He proceeded to move the broken chair into a corner, where it could safely become someone else's problem. Then, very carefully, he lowered himself into a different chair, where could stew o-er, reflect on his sudden change of environment.
The well-constructed chairs back home didn't break when I flopped on them, he thought.
I miss Moscow.

He heard someone come in, but paid them no mind. That is, until it became clear from the slight scuffing sounds of their shoes that they were headed directly for him. He turned his head just in time to see a...cat person?...sit down beside him and offer a greeting of some sort.
Realizing that he had been staring, and ought to at least acknowledge the greeting, he said "No, we haven't. I'm Cesare Mayakovsky." He began to extend his hand, hesitated for a brief moment, but then offered his hand.
I swear to God, if this thing licks my hand, I will tear this school apart, he thought.
"Charmed, I'm sure," he said in a bored tone.
Please don't get hair on my suit, he added in his mind. Grandpa Vladimir had made it clear that there would be no trips to Savile Row during the schoolyear. He would have to get his suits sent to him, like a common so-and-so. Good thing his tailor already knew his measurements (mostly) by heart.

Then, his eyes lit up as he realized that this new person represented a potential source of information, of knowledge about his current surroundings. Knowledge was power. And what Cesare Mayakovsky needed most right now - at all times, really - was power over his surroundings and circumstances. So he asked the most pressing question on his mind.
"Hey, so, are there any decent nightclubs around here? And are the bouncers stupid enough to take my fake IDs at face value, or will I have to bribe them?"

Cesare let Kon's flirtation pass without comment. He wasn't interested in men, but who was he to stop this cat-boy from admiring a natural work of art?
He followed Kon's gaze to the other students and listened. He knew the spots around here, that was good. Cesare would have to do a little more digging to ensure that these places catered to all tastes rather than just the masculine and the...furry...but that could wait. All in all, this Kon fellow didn't seem to be a bad sort. But there were a few things that would have to be set straight.
"Who, those people?" he said in a tone of voice that made it clear that he didn't care if they heard him. "No, I think they'll mind their business. Most of them, anyway. The first one who meddles in my affairs will serve the rest as a great example of why they should never, ever do that," he added in a slightly louder tone, as he openly looked over at them and silently dared any one of them to meet his eyes.
"Besides," he said, turning back to Kon and speaking conversationally once more, "That's precisely what the bribes are for. I give the bouncers money, and in return they exercise the wisdom of listening to me rather than...spurious hearsay," he explained, in a tone that suggested he thought that perhaps the other boy truly had no idea what a bribe was.
"Anyway, putting aside the drinking and the dancing and the bathroom blood-sex, what else is there to do around here?"

Cesare nearly slapped his forehead when Kon mentioned college parties, but managed to hold back. Of course! There was a college here, and their parties would be sure to tick off all of Cesare's boxes. It wouldn't have a prayer of competing with Moscow's nightlife, of course, but when confronted with obstacles, one must simply persevere and play the hand dealt - at least until such a time as one could surreptitiously produce one's pocket aces. But his metaphor was getting away from him, as was the thread of the conversation. Blah blah lame community center, blah blah school groups - and then his ears perked up.
"Did you say 'arena?' Who fights there? Can we place bets? Can we compete? Against monsters, or people?" Honestly, if this Kon wanted to make friends, what he ought to do is stop burying the lead. If he was going to be a wet blanket about narcs and underage drinking in places of business, he could have just led with the arena.

Cesare's eager expression was slowly replaced with a scowl as Kon's words took hold. He leaned back in his chair slowly. His face settled into a mask of calm far too suddenly to be real.
"So basically," he began, "what I gather is that even the cool things on this island still kind of suck."
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as though the very prospect of confronting existence on Manta Carlos required him to marshal his strength. Without opening his eyes, he said "Never visit Moscow, Kon. Because if you got to experience Moscow, Kon, and then you had to come back here...you would throw yourself into a fucking bonfire."
Finally, he opened his eyes and assumed a more comfortable position, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair and his chin on his hand. For the first time, he actually took a proper look at Kon, taking in the colors and extent of his fur, his many accessories, his heart-shaped pupils...no, contacts - he could make out the edge...
Finally, he spoke.
"So, what is your deal, Kon? Like, with the fur and the ears? You are obviously some sort of cat-being, but I've never come across one of you before."

Cesare's brows furrowed as Kon explained the circumstances that led to his creation.
"So...scientists...in a lab...made cat people?...Why? I mean, to what end? And for that matter, who the hell would fund-well, no, actually, I guess I could see the appeal of creating a new form of life. Still, seems like a weird and random thing to do."
After a beat, Cesare realized that calling someone's creation weird and pointless might be seen by some as rude.
"I mean, no offense or anything, I think it's...great...that you're here, and a cat-person, and...yeah."
He nodded, as if to say 'yep, that cleared that up,' and then lapsed into silence for a moment.