Faelan turned back to Oliver with a discerning frown. The bloke Harry was chatting up looked perfectly acceptable and not even all together ugly. What was Oliver seeing?
If Faelan had been in a better mood, his first thought might not have been that he himself must also be a slag, or he would recognize a slag when he saw one.
Instead of getting a clue, Faelan just sank into his seat further and felt worse about himself.
"I'm empty," he observed idly, noting his dry glass. He pushed it aside and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. Tipping them in his brother's direction, he asked, "Want a fag?"