Camillo is going to have that existential crisis now.

So ... this doesn't ... actually ... seem a lot like a normal dream. For that matter, that weird space dream earlier in the week didn't seem a lot like a normal dream. He's starting to think that the cute dream alien may, implausibly, have been for real.

Cool. Fine. This is normal.

Probably this logic doesn't make any sense and he just can't see why because he's dreaming, and once he wakes up it'll be obvious. Unfortunately, he doesn't seem to be waking up just yet, so he's stuck with what he's got.

He's going to have to kill someone.

Cool.

(Because Camillo is human, he's having his existential crisis while watching Dorothy.)

Dorothy has made it out of the chair onto the floor, and is riding her girl’s face in front of the fire.

The room is still echoing with laughter and songs along with the screams and moans. A few of the warriors are sharing a girl between them, her jug forgotten and spilled on the ground. A few people, warriors and apparent civilians alike, are hovering around the fire, watching.

What's a guy gotta do to be a girl around here?

(...is he just going to have to kill people until someone wakes up?? This is a lot of people!! They look hard to kill!)

Camillo's boner is distracting him from his crisis. ...actually, his boner is distracting him from his boner. That is not the size his dick usually is. He's not complaining but it sure is unusual.

There is in fact, out of the corner of his eye, a boy of similar stature and delicacy to Dorothy’s girl being bent over a table by one of the warriors.

The crowd is passing around a glazed earthenware cup — everyone who takes it drinks from it, and then winces, and then passes it on.

Dorothy takes it, when it comes to her, and sits back so her girl can catch her breath as she drinks. (The girl’s feelings on this seem very mixed.)

That's alcohol. Camillo knows about alcohol. It tastes bad.

He keeps trying to think about how aliens are apparently real and invading his dreams, but this is just not an environment conducive to deep philosophical thought. There is a cute boy being railed right over there.

He'd try to get up the courage to join in -- at least join the circle of warriors -- but his leg hurts, and Z told him to stay here. So he plays with himself idly, more for the pleasure of feeling his new size than anything else, and feels warm and comfortable.

A woman who was standing behind him puts the cup in his hands.

Its contents are a dark olive green, and smell more yeasty and vegetal than alcoholic. They still don’t smell great, though.

He's not chicken.

It tastes a little like someone blended spoiled rosemary, underbaked bread and oversteeped tea, with strong lingering notes of an uncoated pill you left on your tongue for too long.

In short: it’s bad.

(He does get a cheer about it, though.)

It takes all of Camillo's strength of character not to gag or spit it right back into the cup. He would take another leg wound over that, thanks.

He passes the cup off and tries to be subtle about scrubbing his tongue with the back of his hand.

There’s a laugh from the local crowd about the face he apparently made, but a good-natured one. Someone passes him a horn of, unfortunately, the same amber-colored alcohol as before, as the next poor soul takes a drink and grimaces.

"You know," Camillo informs the horn sotto voce, "the idea that people in the Middle Ages didn't drink water is a common misconception."

The horn has nothing to say to that.

His mouth tingles.

Oh god he's about to discover his first ever allergy and die because the ancient Vikings or whoever don't have epi-pens.

Okay. It's a dream. None of that is even a problem. Except if someone is stuck in an alien dreamscape forever because he turned out to be allergic to medieval rosemary. This is fine.

His heartbeat gets a little faster, his face flushes, a little more blood goes to all his extremities.

There’s a loud thump as Dorothy knocks a woman flat onto her back on the floor.

Camillo wonders briefly if they're fighting or fucking, before realizing the idiocy of trying to make such a distinction.

He has clearly died and gone to Valhalla. That really seems like the most parsimonious explanation of everything that's going on. Much more sensible than dream aliens.

His head swims a little. The blood flow to extremities is now concentrating in one extremity in particular.

Dorothy has torn down the pants of her possible sparring partner and is riding her dick like a woman possessed, pinning her to the floor by her shoulders.

...oh. Oh. Okay.

Not allergic, exactly, then.

It would be really great if Z got back really, really soon. Like. Before he finds out exactly what he can get away with doing to that cute boy with the long curly hair and the nice ass. That seems like it would be rude to Z. Like going to a party together and then going home with someone else. Which he's pretty sure is rude. He's not actually really a party guy.

The cute boy is looking back at him, and doesn’t seem to disapprove.

He doesn’t seem to be a warrior, but he doesn’t carry himself like the other civilians either. He’s wearing gold, but there’s not a spot of blood on him.

He looks Camillo up and down, considering him.

...Z will forgive him if he hauls himself upright and limps over to the cute boy and shoves his face into a table.

This is apparently not what the cute boy in question was expecting.

He does his level best to push himself up and turn to face him.

Wow rude. Camillo has been paying close attention and he's definitely following protocol here.

He could definitely win this fight if he were committed to it, he believes this with all his heart, but his leg hurts and it sounds like a lot of effort to take anything other than the path of least resistance.

The path of least resistance, naturally, is letting his new friend turn around but pulling him down to his knees by his pretty hair.

Ow.

Once he’s down, he seems to pull himself together, and laughs.

“Big for your boots already, aren’t you?”

He presses his cheek against Camillo’s hard dick, rubs one thumb over the tip.