Why are you shouting?

Light came streaming through the hastily shut curtains, the bright, burning light sending Callum groaning and rolling to face away from it. The rolling motion, however, landed him straight on the hard wood floor, sheets tangled around his legs and sweat drenching his partially clothed body. With a groan, the man attempted to rub his eyes and face, only succeeding in poking himself in one shut eye. The morning was off to a great start. Grumbling various profanities under his breath, he opened one eye and attempted to peal the tangled sheets from his legs. Only a moment later, he gave up and curled up on the floor, wrapping his arms around his head. There was entirely too much...something last night. Parting his arms so that his mouth was free, Call let out a belch and then smacked his tongue around in his mouth for the taste. Vomit, more vomit, a little bit of dirt, and oh yes, the lingering taste of too sweet wine. He frowned. Wine was delicious, but damnit, it hit hard and the hangovers were even harder.

Fleeting memories came rushing into his pounding head, the most detailed of which was a finely sculpted ass he knew to be Ardent’s. Damn, it had been a good night. As his mind tried to piece together bits and pieces of the night previous, a frown deepened on his face. The Royalist prick, Ardent, talking, flirting. Creator, he knew Ardent had her methods for getting the information the Rebellion needed, but he wished sorely that the Gray Wolf hadn’t found himself on her list, the damn list Call himself couldn’t seem to get himself on, no matter how hard he tried. Stupid Ardent and her stupid rules. Just once he’d tap that ass. An image of Muscles flooded his head too, the large man and his mustache in a jacket that was entirely too tight on his friend. A chuckle left Call’s lips, followed by a groan at the nausea the motion caused. And there had been wine, a lot of wine. He vaguely remembered a few glasses shattering on various surfaces, maybe a bottle or three as well. And a plant, he definitely remembered the plant. They had exchanged some words, the plant and him, and had grown closer because of it, or at least, that was what he remembered. Granted, he knew plants couldn’t talk, but that didn’t mean that his drunk ass didn’t have a life changing conversation with a woman who was near a plant, or something along those lines. However, knowing his usual drunk state, he was pretty sure he had a life changing conversation with the plant itself, and maybe the pot as well. From the dirty taste in his mouth, he was pretty sure the conversation turned physical, and thus things must have been really serious. Another chuckle began to shake his body, but he suppressed it with a grimace. He had to stop doing that.

After a few moments, he was convinced that he would fall back asleep, but his scumbag heart thought otherwise. Suddenly aware of his heart beat, he began to feel the pounding of his pulse as it raced through his head and ears and even in his fingers and toes. It was like his whole body was rocking with each pulse. On top of that, he was pretty sure the room was wiggling. Creator, he was going to be sick. Unwrapping his arms from around his head, he half rolled and half awkwardly crawled a few feet away where a small wash basin sat cracked on the floor. He had a strange feeling that he had lost a good portion of his stomach’s contents in it the night prior, but it was clean despite his memory. Likely his roommate. But why was it still on the floor -- Call’s abdomen heaved violently as a terrible smelling bile type liquid projected from him and barely into the cracked wash basin. He wouldn’t be washing anything in that basin anytime soon, it seemed. His sides heaved again and more of the foul liquid left his mouth followed by a groan. Mother fucking wine. He was never drinking that shit again. Okay, so he probably would, but not anytime in the near future. Wiping his chin with the back of his hand, he knelt precariously, suddenly thankful for the lack of shit to cling to his sweat drenched body. The room was hot...and spinning.

Call fell to his side with a thud and curled himself around the vomit filled object, closing his eyes. Sleep, he just needed to sleep all of these things away. However, only a few moments after closing his eyes, the room began to wiggle and spin and do all sorts of cruel things. Opening his eyes a little, he crossed his arms over his forehead and rolled to lay on his back. He felt like hell. Perhaps water would help. Turning his head towards his bedroom door, he sighed. It was so far away. Damnit. Rolling onto his stomach, Call pressed himself up onto his hands and knees shakily before using the bed to stand, his sheet wrapped legs wiggling underneath him as the room began to spin rapidly. Fuck. Falling back to his knees, he lost a good deal of fluids three times over into the cracked basin. He wasn’t going anywhere it seemed.

Giving in, he fell back to his side on the floor and curled into a small ball. Even if he wasn’t moving, he still wanted water, at least to wash out his mouth. A bath might be nice later, much later. Maybe Muscles was awake. He considered calling out for the man, but his stomach wretched before he could speak. It appeared that his body had other intensions, and they all involved vomit. Clutching the basin in one hand, he concentrated on keeping liquids in his body while simultaneously wishing that Errol would hear his vomiting and take pity on the man and bring him some water.

It had been a slow morning for Errol, taking his time to dodder about. After sleeping heavily, brought on, he believed, by a combination of nerves and relief that the Grey Wolf hadn't eaten them alive, he awoke to the sound of the nearby market. It had trundled to life many hours ago, he knew, but he was well pleased to have missed it. There really was nothing quite like lying in bed while other people went about their lives, going places and doing things. While idleness bored him, well-earned rest was quite the opposite. Indeed, it seemed likely that he would be able to stay there for most of the day, soaking in the buttery sunlight coming through his thin drapes and drifting in and out of dreaming. The sheets felt soft against his skin though logically he knew they were rough and probably in need of a wash, but they always seemed that way regardless of how many times he washed them. With the sun and the warmth and the softness... But really, for all he knew he deserved to lay about, he also knew he wouldn't. There were chores to be done, and judging by Call's state the night before (how the man had gotten that drunk that fast was mystifying to him; had he drunk heavily before the party?) he would not be doing them.

Allowing himself a few more minutes, and then a few more, he finally eased himself up with a sigh, brushing the sheets aside. Ruffling his short hair with a distracted hand, he yawned broadly and planted his feet on the cool wood floor. Mm, yes. Time to get dressed. And so began the hunt for clean underclothes, not that he had may pairs to begin with. In and out of each drawer and under the bed he searched, eventually settling on the ones he wore yesterday. On came the undergarments, then his most threadbare pair of breaches; it seemed unlikely he would need to impress anyone today and if Callum was still vomiting, well, these pants it was. For safety's sake. The arm of his cotton tunic was rolled up inside itself and Errol fussed with it, trying to get it the right way out before giving up and just putting the damn thing on, forcing the sleeve back the right way with his arm. Taking a moment to finger comb his mustache in the cracked, cloudy mirror next to his wash bowl, he set about tidying up his room. Fastidiously, he made his lumpy little bed and brushed the cobwebs from the edges of his window. Most anything he thought needed washing was bundled up and dropped into a sack, for later. Much later.

Padding barefoot into the main room of the apartment he shared with Call, he paused and cocked his head, listening for sounds of his friend. When none met his ears, he continued on his mission of general cleanliness, picking up this thing and that, putting them back where they belonged or at least where they would be less in the way. A few things were tossed into the small woven basket they kept waste in, to be thrown in the gutter later. Once he was satisfied with the general state of the room he turned his attention to the kitchen space but gave up immediately; that was business for another day, one where he had help. Instead, he speared an apple with his favorite knife, the one with the antler handle and the deep trough along the blade (which he knew was for blood but that was fairly laughable on a three inch blade), and settled into a well-loved armchair to peruse one of the books Callum had lying around.

He awoke a short time later when the apple core and knife clattered out of his limp hand onto the floor. The book had fallen to his chest, still open. Groggily, he sat up and shut it, setting it aside. That wasn't what he had intended at all. Picking up the apple core, he set the knife back on the table and tugged on his shoes. If his mouth tasted disgusting from falling asleep after eating an apple, he could only imagine how Call would feel; that, and he was sure to be dehydrated. Grasping the handles of the two heavy jugs, Errol unlocked the front door and hip checked it closed before juggling things so he could lock it. The apple core went to the gutter immediately, where it was set upon with great gusto by several pigeons.

Whistling merrily to himself, he made his way to the communal tap a couple of blocks over. The old hand pump was a meeting spot of sorts, a place everyone needed to go at one point or another. Getting in line behind an old woman half his height, he greeted a few of the people that walked by and was joined for a few minutes by a friendly acquaintance that decided to help him pass the time. When it was finally the turn of the woman in front of him, she looked up at him expectantly. "Well?"

Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, Errol smiled jovially and stepped to, pumping her water for her. At least he hadn't needed to prime it this time. And then, of course, the man behind him stepped forward and asked if he would be so kind, and then of course the woman after had her small sons with her and then... Half an hour later he filled his own needs and called it quits, heading home slightly disgruntled. And lo, but he arrived just in time to hear the melodious sound of vomit hitting the inside of a bowl. Good, it was at least in the bowl. Slipping out of his shoes, he poured some of the water into a cup and took the rest of the jug with him. Another time he would have knocked at the door, but that just seemed cruel. He let himself in, not bothering to shut the door, and hunkered down next to his friend, setting the jug on the floor.

"Good afternoon, Callum," he said cheerfully, softer than his normal conversational tone but not that much softer. Wrinkling his nose, he laughed. "Better seasoned than an Undan stew, you are. Come on, I've brought you some water." Holding out the cup, he tried to ignore the pungent scent of the bile next to him.