#asher 001.

Wandering around the botanical gardens with a drink in hand and the sun at his neck isn't the worst way to spend an afternoon, Silas has decided. It certainly beat getting wood dust in his lungs from sawing. He's more aware than he usually would be of his surroundings because he's on mild Jordan-alert, not quite sure if she loved him or hated him this week and felt inclined to let him know either way should she have the same idea as him.

He does spot a familiar face, though it's a newer one, about as recent as they can be.

location: VICE.

“Just make the fucking shot and then I’ll go,” Silas says to the bartender who looked puzzled as can be at the man who was demanding a starburst shot. The ingredients? Silas couldn’t conjure them at present, there was too much whiskey and tequila flowing through his system for that but he’s sure he could identify it if he tasted it -- and his inebriation wasn’t allowing him to understand he was trying to lay down an impossible gauntlet as closing time creeped ever nearer. 

( Whack. ) 

The place had been full of bodies when he arrived, so much so he had been promised the chance to do body shots off a very friendly blonde who had led him out onto the dancefloor with a purpose. That had to have been two hours ago by then, and somehow in the time that had elapsed it had dwindled down to three. Him, the bartender and the man sat one stool away who looked vaguely familiar to him.