Don Juan was sober and irate about it, which meant he was distracted by his own head and not being the most compelling conversation partner, but even so, throwing champagne at him seemed a bit extreme.

If he'd had any sense of decorum he would have planned to be sober tonight; it was his sister's party, and everyone Oz worked for and with and over was here, and he ought to ensure he didn't make an ass of himself. But his sense of decorum had been thrown by the wayside when Griffith introduced him to a new substance earlier that month. Every time he came down he was back asking for more. It was only Griffith having been an ass about it most recently that had gotten him here tonight sober — hence his being annoyed. And while the young woman spoke he was making the appropriate responses, but mostly he was turning over all his various interactions with Griffith in his head and trying to guess whether he would be an ass next time, too. Griffith was unpredictable — conversations with him were playing with fire, and the longer Don Juan continued the higher the risk he'd get burned — but that stuff he made was so good, and it kept the opium withdrawals at bay.

"It's not the best champagne," he joked with a shrug. "But you might've gotten rid of it in a slightly less dramatic fashion by waving down one of the staff." He stepped back from the sticky patch of broken glass and did exactly that, though it wouldn't help her skirts or his trousers.

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