Faolan quirks something of an eyebrow at the suggestion of Hawaiian print, not even sure that he can imagine himself owning anything like that, never mind wearing it. After a moment, he trails into the bathroom, digging around in his meager medicine cabinet for the strongest painkiller he knows he can take on top what he's done already, tossing back some water from the sink and splashing it on his face before stumbling back into his bedroom and taking account of his situation.

He's acutely aware, as he undresses himself, that he hasn't shut the door between the bedroom and whatever you would call the main space of his flat, he certainly doesn't know. As awkward as he feels about changing with the other man just on the other side of the wall he feels equally awkward about the thought of shutting it and leaving him out there on his own. He compromises by being as quick as he can, slipping into a white shirt and his suit trousers, frowning at the selection of ties he has -- navy, black, what he supposes might be called grey? Or was it blue? Blue-grey? And another that was more definitely blue.

He pulls his jacket off the hanger and grabbing the lot of them, makes his way back in to Lancelot. Holding the lot of them out in front of him and raising an eyebrow in a way that he hopes conveys how hopeless he feels in the moment. He can probably count on one hand the number of times he's had to dress up in the last decade, and he feels severely out of practice.