Donnie slouched over with his arms folded over his chest, staring out with beady blue eyes at the men gathered around like a regular bunch of nannies at their leader's abode. This was boring. He'd much rather be out on the street, getting the dirt of the city underneath his fingernails. He'd already gotten quite a bit, though he'd made sure to pick it out before Ethan saw it. Ethan was such a stickler. The last he'd heard from him had been their terse paper exchange, and Donnie still wasn't terribly pleased.
"Yeah, charming," Donnie grumbled along to Gabe. What a mop-head that one was, soggy and floppy and pliable. He couldn't wait until their dear poet arrived (whenever that would be, what a lazy old ass that one was). At least Kit was there, so he could sprinkle phrases that sounded lewd into his statements and watch the young man curl up onto himself in mortification like a crumpled sheet of old newsprint.
He had been ignoring his teacup, but as it seemed this meeting wasn't going to get any more interesting for another few minutes, Donnie sat up and slipped a flask from inside his jacket, trickling a line of pale amber liquid into his tea before hiding the flask once more.