Faolan had been equally as otherwise preoccupied. However where there were melodies playing through Danil's head, through Faolan's there ran strategies. Or so the attempt was being made, at any rate. He really wasn't his best before his first cup of coffee. Which he'd gotten to go, after a group of rowdy teenagers had sauntered in behind him and filled up his moment of quiet caffeine worship with laughing and talking and just existing that had been at its very source an intrusion to his moment.

He'd gotten it to go, but he must not have put the lid on right, or maybe in the jostle he'd hit it just right. Regardless, rather than drinking it, Faolan was now wearing it. Liquid only just this side of scalding because he'd had a few minutes to cross the street and round a corner trying to get his bearings on where to go from there. Faolan hissed slightly, shifting the cup in his hands, shaking the coffee off, trying to assess whether he's actually hurt or not (he wasn't -- he'd had worse burns than this before, and he knew it).

"Shit," Faolan muttered to himself, hands and shirt and one leg of his trousers drenched. At least he'd missed his jacket, he noted. It was his favorite, after all.