A slight groan elicited from the slender sleeping form just to Silas' right as the small bit of cloak––which the figure had been using as a blanket––was torn away from him. "Oh Nastasia, please! Beauty sleep is important... five more minutes..." the man moaned, moving to grasp the cloak back from its owner. His fingers, however, collided not with the cloak, but the subtler curve of Silas' hip. The sleeping man paused, traced an outline of an indeterminate shape along the effeminate man's physique, took a quick loving grasp of his side, and then sat up. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Oh dear," he yawned, stretching until one of his arms fell delicately poised around Silas' shoulder. "Pardon me, mademoiselle," he whispered lovingly, scooting his face ever so close to the poor smaller man's ear. "I seemed to have forgotten you were spending the night, but not to worry. I haven't forgotten the stars in your eyes." It was at that moment that he chose to part the cloak wrapped around Silas' shoulder, pressing his free hand in only to find that his palm failed to knead the soft breast he had been expecting to find. In fact, his palm lay flat against the slightly older man's chest. The flirtatious man paused, turned to get a better glance at his lady, and in half a second was on the other side of the room. "Mother of mercy!" he yelped, his smooth, dark voice from earlier having jumped up at least three octaves. "You're not Felicia... or Nastasia! Oh goodness..." he proclaimed, thrusting his head into his palm. "The press cannot find out about this," he reasoned, talking to both Silas and himself, "Aaron Strider cannot be involved in such a scandal!" He then turned his eyes to the man with whom he believed he had shared a rather... intense experience with. "We didn't––I'm not––I just had too much to drink. Damn that bartender and his champagne. 'Tasting the stars,' he said, 'brings about the truest passions' he said!" As if realizing the implications of that last statement, the man, clearly Aaron Strider the semi-famous dancer, retracted his statement with a simple shake of the head. "Never mind that," he uttered, bringing his long fingers to his temples. He closed his eyes and rubbed small circles. When he opened them again, he stared. Not at Silas, not at the other occupants of the room, but of the location itself. This was most definitely not his dressing room! How had he ended up here? He certainly hadn't been that drunk! He quite clearly remembered slipping back into his dressing room––that feather bed was much better than anything the inn could have offered him. So if he wasn't where he thought he was, and he wasn't with who he thought he had been with... "Then it didn't happen," he whispered to himself, taking a moment to breathe before returning to the shorter man's side. "My deepest apologies, sir," he offered with a humbling bow. "I wasn't quite myself there for a moment... although I do say, how did we end up here? I don't have the foggiest..." he trailed off, looking around the room before eying the blonde lady sitting on the couch. "Excuse me, miss," he began as he crossed, sashaying as he went. "I don't suppose you know where we are?"