"Good choice," Lancelot says, and flashes Faolan a smile before pacing through to his bedroom to grab a t-shirt. He taps the screen of his sound-system on the way past, waking it up and swiping down the volume. The soft strains of guitar begin to feel the flat, Dire Straits, and a moment later Lancelot jogs back through with a t-shirt in his hand. It's a greenish grey sort of colour, declares properly trained a man can be dog's best friend. The slight smirk Lancelot wears indicates that he might find this funny.

"Here," he prompt, "see if this works."

He imagines it won't be too small, but he has a few different cuts and fits that might work better if necessary. It's short sleeved at least, so he won't need to worry about if he'll be rolling up the sleeves.