[It isn't inaccurate to make that call of judgment, Sunday's eyes turning down to his own appearance in a moment of self-recrimination — his hands attempt once more to smooth and flatten the wrinkles of sleep. As Ratio tucks his feet into a pair of ducky slippers, he sees his own glossy dress shoes, which can only mean...

He slept with them on, in bed.

Disgusted with himself, Sunday turns away in time for that request to reach his ears. His brow furrows, a headache beginning to form in hairline cracks of pain at his temples.]

If neither of us recall the situation last night, then we ought to share the blame. [Please...] I would never have gone to sleep in this state. It's unbecoming.

[Acquiescing with great reluctance, first he goes to the pillows — circling around the other side of the bed to get out of Ratio's way, of course — and begins plucking up his own feathers. Don't touch them? This is his mess to clean up?]

Am I to understand you've also arrived in this place against your will, then?