25 December, 1894 — Dempsey Estate, Galway

Christmas morning. Don Juan was not hungover but was pretending to be, so that he could nestle into one of the big armchairs with a cup of coffee and not be asked to get up to do anything or help with anything, and so that he only had to engage with the conversation when he wanted to. He loved his family, but there were a lot of them.

Breakfast was eaten. Gifts were exchanged. Don Juan was mostly interested in watching people open the ones he'd procured, because nothing material was as satisfying as being lavished in attention, however briefly. Things were going smoothly until Endymion opened his. It wasn't anything particularly special: a bottle of nice alcohol, which was the standard I have to buy something for a man and have no idea what else to do gift. But something twigged his memory about the label; had it always been that color? He thought it had been different. He couldn't exactly sneak a closer look when he was supposedly the one who had carefully selected it, but he did lean in a bit when his brother showed it to someone else and tried to puzzle out what seemed off about it.

He'd wrapped the wrong bottle, he realized. This explained why the brandy he'd had two weeks ago which was meant to induce hallucinations hadn't seemed to have much affect. He must have spent the evening sipping down all of the liquor he was meant to be gifting to Endymion, while the actually-laced substance lay hidden beneath the tree. Well then.

He didn't say anything in the moment and let the parceling out and unwrapping of gifts continue, but he did begin thinking up how he might reasonably get it back from Endymion without too much fuss. He could try to just take it — his brother probably would not even notice its absence, much less miss it, he guessed — but that might not even be necessary. He was sure Endymion didn't want it; he could just explain the situation (or hint towards it) and probably have it sorted relatively quickly.

The gift exchange finished, attentions turned towards brunch — the entire day would be spent either eating or celebrating, or both, if tradition was upheld. Don Juan wasn't hungry yet but did make himself a cocktail. With orange juice, so that it seemed appropriately breakfast-y.

"So," Don Juan said to Endymion when they next crossed paths. His tone was conversational; if he was anything other than casual about this he was afraid his mother would start listening in, and he'd rather not explain this little mishap to her. "I'm going to need that gift back, actually. I think I gave you the wrong bottle."

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