Faolan wordlessly accepts the tablets back from Lancelot, tipping them into his mouth and continuing to watch the other man as he sips at the water in his hands. In response to the question, he considers whether he really does need anything for his stomach before shrugging slightly. He doesn't really know, he's only just started sipping the water and he hasn't tried eating yet.

"My head is worse than anything," he offers, "but I suppose it couldn't hurt." He wonders what sort of an image he must make, sitting up on Lancelot's futon as he is, wrapped up tightly in the blanket and clutching the cup of vitamin water close to him in both hands. If he were actually ill it would be one thing, but the fact that he had brought this on himself... He's surprised Lancelot has any pity for him whatsoever. Especially after the spectacle he'd made of himself the day before.

"Don't...feel like you have to, though. Any of this, I mean," he specifies, realizing he probably sounds like a broken record, but he's really struggling to understand, here. Did the mistakes he had made the night before really not matter to the other man?