West
"Another," Griffith roughly demanded of the bartender after slamming down his empty glass and making the remaining ice clatter.
Griff had been drinking firewhiskey on the rocks since he had arrived with West and West's poofy hair. With the first flash of a camera, he had excused himself to get a drink and he hadn't returned. At this point, Griff had no idea where West was in the milling crowd and he'd be pressed to recall his letters. For whatever reason, however, the barman took pity on him, or maybe he was just expecting a generous tip, and continued to serve Griff. Regardless of origin of the charity, Griff was pounding them down, attempting to get completely smashed as quickly as possible before West had the chance to observe his antics and put a stop to the binge, or worse, join in.
To put it simply: Griff was in a mood and that mood did not cater to being sober. He grumbled when a hand landed on his shoulder and gripped in a way that he knew from whom the grasp originated.
"Oy, let me drown," he muttered thickly with the edge of the glass pressed to his lip before he glanced to West with a self-loathing frown.
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