[ 'Bro' promptly earns a scrunched nose. Why does he have to deal with a bro-jock on top of this hangover headache. The mention of supplies does have him raising his head a fraction, and Fuuta blearily squints at the remainder of the tray -- is there pills? There's gotta be painkillers. Surely.
He groans loudly and ungracefully as he rolls over onto his stomach, then manages to crawl forward ... half an armslength before sagging back into the bedsheets, face buried in the fabric.
Another groan before he pats his hand on the sheets, trying to get Beowulf's attention, then holds his hand out palm-up. ]
no subject
He groans loudly and ungracefully as he rolls over onto his stomach, then manages to crawl forward ... half an armslength before sagging back into the bedsheets, face buried in the fabric.
Another groan before he pats his hand on the sheets, trying to get Beowulf's attention, then holds his hand out palm-up. ]
Gimme the painkillers.
[ No please, just the rude demand. Sorry 'bro.' ]