whiskey, smoke and aces high

It's too bad. When did it get cool to be so sad? We're spinnin' backwards, did we all go mad?
Yeah, we're only human but w?'ve got hands and hearts and noses,
So stop and sm?ll the fucking roses

This is the ugliest shirt I've ever seen—inadvertently holding his breath and trying to think up a more pithy way of saying hey, go fuck yourself without also sounding like he'd be more than keen to help out—he exhales a shaky laugh to hear that Hallway doesn't hate it. "Thank god for that. Can't imagine if you hated my clothes two days in a row." He adds with a roll of his eyes, fishing out a pair of sweatpants (clean? eehhh... but clean enough?), only to find Irish shirtless just a few feet away.

He's staring before he can catch himself—at the wounds, if he's pressed to defend his gaze—before he tosses the other man the sweats. "Bathrooms' over there." He mumbles with a nod of his head and a blush on his cheeks. Please (don't) change here, Remi silently prays as he turns back to face the closet that he might strip off his own shirt. Not nearly as muscular as Hallway, Remi is already well on his way toward fulfilling the rockstar-with-tattoos trope; most of it is botanical and nautical in nature, with a few words and swathes of the cosmos thrown in for good measure.

ThE RoCkStAr