when you are not fed love on a silver spoon, you learn to lick it off knives
Finn has forgotten about this part of the brothel experience. Mornings after. The world howls and rages outside, making it impossible to sleep off whatever the hell is left in his system, and so he's opted to try and flush it out instead. He's cleaned up his space as best he's able in his current state, leaving the window open a crack despite the weather in order to lower the temperature for when he does finally retire back to bed, and now he's downstairs in the lounge area.
In his customary spot, he lays comfortably upon a couch to await any clients, not that he really wants them right now. The ice water he's sipping at has been served in a wine glass, but it doesn't make it any more alcoholic for looking that way. Sipping at it and leaning his head into the couch cushion to rest his eyes, he keeps his ears sharp for any voices, any opening doors.
In his customary spot, he lays comfortably upon a couch to await any clients, not that he really wants them right now. The ice water he's sipping at has been served in a wine glass, but it doesn't make it any more alcoholic for looking that way. Sipping at it and leaning his head into the couch cushion to rest his eyes, he keeps his ears sharp for any voices, any opening doors.
Finn?
