Heath was a native, of sorts. There were no seas to travel or massive treks to make. He and his siblings had made the journey themselves, and on foot. They spoke French naturally, but there was nothing that made him miss the lands he had come from. He missed only those he left, and the ones he had traveled with and lost to these lands. The vodka would help those feelings, and all that accompanied them.
The male sniffed the bottle suspiciously, and Heath laughed. There was nothing to worry about; there would be no pain and no regret until morning. And that was only if he woke and didn’t cut the hangover with a few swigs. The tawny hybrid brought the bottle to his maw, drinking a single deep gulp. It burned, as the first always did. The quality, the age, made it less and made the taste something a man could crave in his dreams.
The two tested the first swallow, and the gold-eyed male could not erase the smile. Thoughts of his woman problem were no longer paramount. Instead he was happy to make a brand new friend. “Silas,” he spoke with a new found happiness. “Your from Russia?” he asked though he figured that he already knew the answer. “You had this all the time?” His questions were friendly ones, curious to know more about the land that gave birth to his favorite beverage.