~fingers~
Orsino's bout with the bottle of scotch earlier this week had been very uncharacteristic - generally, the more alcohol he consumed, he did not become lethargic and sleepy. He suspected he'd fallen asleep on Gid's couch from a combination of losing sleep and worrying about his dad's apparent date with the law. Right now, after having enjoyed a decent about of the firewhisky, he was notably friendlier than one might be used to. Not exactly gregarious, but at least he didn't look perpetually startled by anything that was said to him.
He, too, was sitting on the floor, resting his back against the front of the sofa. At the question, he tilted his head back and looked up, as though he might find the answer written on the ceiling.
"Ahhh..." he started, drawing out the syllable for dramatic effect, "not counting the pairs of random lady-fans' knickers I tend to get in the mail now and then," (not that those were always embarrassing...) "I got a bright pink jumpers mailed to me third year...it was supposed to be for my sister but the owl got confused."
He leaned forward suddenly and snatched a sandwich from the plate, then sat back and just held it idly.