Faolan nods, stepping back and opening the fridge to fish out two bottles and setting them out on the counter. He opens them with a bottle opener from a drawer -- not about to attempt any fancy tricks and wind up making a mess to then have to clean up -- before padding over to the sofa, both of them in hand.

"I can get you a glass if you'd like one," he says, holding one bottle out to theo ther man. He never really bothers with them himself. Of course, he usually spends at least one day in any given week crashing on Lancelot's futon, so he really has no room to talk.