#fleabag thread

It was a vicious cycle really, when he wasn't hungry he'd end up in a barrelhouse or bar with money he had stolen to drink. There weren't a lot of things that Siridean really did for his own enjoyment, life didn't afford him that much. Things had gotten better since hanging out with Remmick- food was easier, and thus, it meant more time could be spent doing what he enjoyed. Drinking. Of course Remmick wasn't around to protect him during the day, and Siridean didn't always sleep or just wait around for the other man to wake up, nor did he always need the vampire's protection. But the thing about Siridean was, after he had a few pints or bottles in him, he had a pension of making other peoples angry. He loved plucking on nerves, and also didn't hold his tongue when people started shit talking. One could only imagine what he said or did this time around but a good number of men at the bar didn't enjoy the way the Irishman spoke to them.

An altercation ensued, broken bottles, fists and bar stools flying and given the number was four to one, Siridean was not the winner of this situation. He'd done a number on them sure, he was a scrappy man, but he was inebriated. They kicked and beat the fight out of him before picking him up by his baggy clothes and throwing him right out of the door of the establishment.

Siridean hit the dusty ground with a grunt, his face bloodied, bruised, along with his knuckles and arms, a piece of glass still somewhere in one of the cuts, his nose was crooked- broken, again. He spit crimson into the dirt before slowly pushing himself up with a wobble, stumbling backwards and accidentally into Madeline and her mother. He wasn't a very tall man at all, 5 ft even if one had to guess, relatively scrawny with the way his dirty clothes hung about his frame. Freckles under the dirt, blood and other grime, eyes as green as the woods and hair a wild array of russet. "Shite, sorry-" he mumbled to them, his voice sounding strange with his broken nose.

He didn't expect help, nor did he ask them for it, only began to shuffle his way to an alley to cool down and take stock of himself. He'd have to explain to Remmick what happened, probably, rightfully, be called an eejit for biting off more than he could chew. But oh well, such was the púca's life.