Chapter Text
He hates networking.
It’s not so much the idea of it--he understands its necessity and, actually, he’s a perfectly capable conversationalist. It’s what he does, it’s what he’s good at-- finding a topic of interest and digging, picking away at it with the meticulous dedication of an artist, though his personal interest in the conversation can be(usually is) feigned.
Which is fine, he thinks. Fine if he had no prior interest at all in something until he finds a person absolutely enraptured by it. Things like stamp collections and action movies and the team that won that Monday’s game. Emotions are infectious, he finds, and excitement especially so.
So it’s not making connections that he finds tiresome, superficial as those connections may be--it’s the events. These crowded places with fluorescent lighting and linoleum flooring, where bodies are packed too tight together and Asher can’t make out one coherent conversation but imagines he can hear every individual footstep on the fucking tiles.
“Penny for your thoughts?” he hears, before an administrator slides onto the stool beside his.
Grant, he realizes. And then, thank god.
“I find this party to be so boring as to be offensive, if you must know.” He takes another puff of his cigarette, squinting when the smoke hits the back of his throat.
“I believe you’d find it a great deal more entertaining if you’d care to join the rest of the assembled personage,” Grant muses, amusement tinging his tone. “And when did you take up smoking?”
“Half an hour ago,” he says, not bothering to dignify that first statement with a response. “Asher.”
“Asher?”
He waves his hand dismissively. “Ash tray. Pass it. This stuff is foul.”
Grant pushes one of the ash trays on the bar towards him. “I do believe you’ve made the right choice.”
“Yes, well,” he replies, punctuating the sentence by pressing the burnt tip of the cigarette into the ashes. “To be truly human is to be constantly exploring. This particular exploration was a resounding failure.”
He downs the rest of his whisky as Grant chuckles. His laugh is so deep Asher can imagine he feels it more than he actually hears it, and the intrusive thought that follows is touch his chest, right here, right now, diaphragm under your--
Well, he thinks. That was bizarre.
“If I am not being too forward--excuse me if I am--you may feel free to accompany me back into fold.” He leans a little closer, a corner of his thin lips tugging upwards, almost conspiratorial. “Bracket’s with me. I daresay he’s almost as excited to be here as you are.”
“Bracket?” he repeats, slowly rounding in on Grant. “Royce Bracket? Bracket Towers Bracket?”
“The one and only.” He leans away again, and Asher finds himself wanting to lean towards him in turn. He doesn’t.
“I’m sure two intelligent young men can find some common ground. You can start with your shared distaste for public functions.”
Asher hurriedly shoves his hands in his pockets, looking for the small notebook he carries around with him. Not finding it he settles on a stack of napkins he grabs from across the counter. “Have a pen?”
“I’m afraid whatever information you’re going to try to weasel out of him will be much more easily procured if you approach him under the pretense of casual conversation,” Grant says, easily prying the napkins from his hand, placing them back over the bar. Journalistic integrity. Right.
“Duly noted,” he says, hopping off the bar stool. Or he thinks he does--his blood-alcohol level at this point ensures that it is a less-than-graceful slide down while he feels out for the floor with the tips of his feet.
Maybe it’s the alcohol that makes him lay a steadying hand on Grant’s bicep, too. “Lead the way, then.”