undergrounds | PLEASE BE STRONG I KNOW I'M NOT WRONG (Closed to Lancelot)

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faolan,
lancelot

PLEASE BE STRONG I KNOW I'M NOT WRONG (Closed to Lancelot)

Faolan has for the most part stayed out of the politics of the other factions. He has enough to worry about being at the till at Hillingdon. Trying to understand what the faction wants, trying to understand what sort of direction to take it in. He knows that he's going to have to take a step up sooner or later, and he knows that whatever he chooses to do, he cannot under any circumstances disobey the oath he took as Guardian.

The oath that they are hanging over his head as they use him as muscle to force him into peoples' homes, under whatever pretenses they can think of, to upend their lives for dark magical objects. Anyone they are seen to be using dark magic will be arrested, while the rest are written fine after fine for everything unearthed. Faolan doesn't like it, it makes him uncomfortable to be thrust into other people's lives like this, and the objects themselves, the people he's being forced to investigate, are making him uncomfortable in another way that he just can't put his finger on at the moment.

To top it all off, Willard has left, and with him left all the organizing of Hillingdon's paperwork to Faolan himself, or for Faolan to find someone else to delegate it to instead. And no one is exactly jumping at the chance. The combination of it all has left him in worse of a mood than usual, and he has no intention of returning home to his flat to drink himself into something even worse as he sits alone in the sad, empty little place.

Which is why he finds himself ringing Lancelot's bell. Really he should have told the other man that he was coming over. Asked if he was going to be interrupting anything. But one foot had led in front of the other and he had found himself there before he realized where he'd been headed.

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He's definitely overly warm to touch, focus a little fuzzy as he flits his eyes up and then away again. Faolan's hand feels pleasantly cool in contrast, and he closes his eyes for a second before rallying to try and answer the question.

"I'm not sure," he admits after a moment, "I don't..."

And here he hesitates again, a little cagey as he tries to work out how to word his theory.

"I am no expert, but I think this might not be a... natural headache. Not one my GP could help with, at least."

He winces a little, feeling considerably awkward about admitting a weakness to Faolan, wets at his lips nervously before trying to cover.

"It may go away -- perhaps it is tied to... well, the new talent the Night Council granted me. If I grow used to it then it may well go away?"

Although Lancelot doesn't think so, and he's a terrible liar truth be told. He has suspicions, no doubt his lack of real belief in what he says shows in his face.

Faolan frowns up at the other man, not believing his words for a moment. Grow used to it? He'd obviously just been letting the headaches run their course and instead of 'growing used to it' as Lancelot had suggested that he might do, he'd only gotten worse. He looks dubious about the other man's reasoning.

"Whatever my opinion might be of Sylvia," Faolan says, "she wouldn't have awarded you a power that would also debilitate you besides." He shifts his hand on the other man's forehead again, adjusting the cloth, wondering if he might be able to swallow any paracetamol or whether the attempt might be a poor decision instead.

"Tell me what happened," he requests, gently. "Did I make this worse? Was it using your ability like that? Is that why you think that they're connected?" He searches Lancelot's face as he kneels in front of him, fussing slightly. Maybe it is Lancelot's power. Maybe it isn't. The last thing Faolan wants to do is assume that it will go away and then the other man's condition worsen, only to find out that he could have done something to stop it.

"Faolan, you have not made it worse -- I swear it. It is as I said, I didn't even mean to use my ability that way. I suppose it just --"

Lancelot hesitates again, awkwardly trying to think of a way to word it that doesn't sound... volatile, or that will not make Faolan yet more guilty.

"I was already feel unsteady before you arrived. I was thinking of laying down a while, honestly. I suppose it just... reacted defensively, perhaps, forgive me I --"

He sighs, realising he's going in circles a little, and lifts a hand to rest on Faolan's arm.

"Whatever you may think, Faolan, I could never hurt you. You've taught me a great deal, been patient with me. You are one of my dearest friends." Lancelot twitches a small smile, a little weaker than he'd like but something at least. "I only hope I'm not a few minutes away from throwing up on you and embarrassing myself entirely."

Faolan shakes his head slightly. "Don't worry about it," he says. "Even if you do, it'll clean up." He falls silent for a moment, kneeling before the other man, unable to help his concern for him besides, nor how plainly it shows on his face.

"Are you sure that you don't need to see someone about this?" he asks, at last. "Has it ever been this bad before? Did something set it off this time, do you think?" He shifts the cloth again. If it's making any different at all, he'll need to cool it down again soon. Could Lancelot just be sick? He does seem warm. But then again, a fever would not have lingered for so long, nor peaked in quite such a manner. Maybe there is something supernatural to the explanation. ...Has he been cursed, Faolan wonders with a start.

Lancelot shakes his head slowly, eyes dropping away again.

"It's been getting worse, slowly. It's been bad before, always feels worst during the day in truth when I'm at work. I..."

He pauses, lifts his eyes to study Faolan uneasily.

"I have wondered... I have told you before that I have some memories... suppressed."

Could it be related to that? Could it be... them trying to fight through what suppresses them? Or worse, the suppression magic trying to take hold again?

Faolan keeps his eyes fixed on the other man's face as he talks, chewing his bottom lip slightly in thought as he does. Suppressed memories causing headaches? Is Lancelot sure he doesn't need to see a doctor? Or go to the hospital? If it's only getting worse... Faolan tries not to think worst case scenario, tries to keep the explanation focused on what the other man is telling him. There has to be something that they're missing...

"Did the memories cause this sort of thing before, then?" he asks, shifting on his heels slightly. If Lancelot's jumping to that sort of conclusion, maybe they did? Faolan doesn't remember Lancelot mentioning having gotten headaches before, but then he's only known him for six months now. Maybe this was before they had met?

"... A little," Lancelot says, and he shifts uncomfortably. "The first time they were... jogged, I suppose. It made my head hurt, made me feel... dizzy. Disorientated."

Lancelot lifts his eyes to Faolan a second, drops them to Lily quickly and smooths fingers over her ears.

"Perhaps that means everything else will come back to me? I suppose I should be grateful, then, if a little headache is all it takes. After all, it's not as high a cost as it could be."

Although it would be nice if painkillers would touch the headaches. Still, who is he to complain? Plenty of people have a far worse time of it. A headache is not the end of the world.

Faolan scoffs at the other man's choice of words. A little headache? The man was swaying on his feet. He can only imagine how terrible he must feel, to be driven this far, to actually have to admit to it. He gets the feeling that, for all that Lancelot enjoyed fussing over Faolan himself, he's much like Faolan is in that he doesn't quite enjoy needing to be fussed over personally.

It doesn't stop him from fussing, though. He gives the other man a dubious look, trying to determine whether he should believe that should explain it, or whether he should push for something else. "Have you gotten any memories back through all of this, then?" he asks. It's the logical question. A month is a long time to have headaches like this -- if that's what's causing this, then he would think that there would have been something.

Therein lies the problems.

"... Not yet," Lancelot admits. "Although I admit, I'm not even sure how the magic works. I assume it was never meant to buckle and let through memories to begin with, but I may even be wrong about that."

He swallows uneasily, not sure what he'd prefer -- still unsure, in truth, if he wants lost memories back. Who knows what they might contain? He comes to a decision, reaches out a hand to the counter beside him and moves to get up.

"I should drink something, at least, perhaps some tea might --"

Only he's barely halfway to his feet when he wobbles, gropes out suddenly for for Faolan and hangs on to him precariously.

Faolan shifts his hand off of the other man's forehead where he'd had the cloth pressed, and he'd just been setting it aside when Lancelot pushes himself to stand and nearly falls over on him.

"Whoa, whoa," he says, quickly reaching up to brace the other man, not trusting Lancelot to keep himself on his feet or upright at all. "Easy, yeah? Take it easy. Here, lean on me. Are you okay?" he asks, knowing the answer is of course, no, but not knowing what else to ask in order to determine whether Lancelot's about to throw up on him or... Who knows. Start bleeding out his eyes.

"Ah," Lancelot answers helpfully, and gropes his way up to try and find Faolan's shoulder -- to try and give himself a better sense of things than he currently has. Which appears to be no sense at all. "It... may be... better if I lay down after all. I..."

He fumbles out his hand blindly away from Faolan to grope out for the counter top again, for the edge of it to try and judge how to move around it. He nearly trips over Lily in the process, who has moved directly in front of him out of a doggy desire to help.

Faolan quickly pushes himself to stand and grab for the other man, uncertain what he's attempting to do, but whatever it is, he's anything but steady while he's doing it. "Hey, hey, hey," he cautions, slipping his arm further around Lancelot's waist and pulling him closer to his side, trying to ignore how warm he feels and the fact that he isn't certain whether he's ever touched the other man as much as he's done in the last few minutes.

"Slow down. We'll get you lying down, alright? Just take it easy. The last thing you want to do is trip and crack your head on anything, yeah? Then you'll really have a headache, and I'd really call you an ambulance besides," he threatens. He glances down at Lily, gesturing her out of the room before them. As much as she might want to help, the best help she'll be right now is out of the way.

"Here," he says, gently manipulating the other man's arm around his shoulders. He's not sure that he'll be able to truly hold all of Lancelot's weight if he winds up passing out on him, but this will give him a good start. "Stop trying to be so goddamn noble and just let me help you, alright? Just lean on me. I've got you." He tightens his arm around Lancelot's waist for emphasis.

Lily stands watching a few moments longer, ears perked forward as she surveys the proceedings in concern, then she relents and backs out of the room -- turns to trot to where the hallway turns toward the living room and stands to watch from there instead. Lancelot lets himself be shuffled about -- in truth he feels as if he hasn't got much choice, he's struggling to place himself spatially in the room when he can't see. Which feels strange, because he's lived here for years and he can picture it perfectly.

"I don't need an ambulance," he protests, hand stuttering along the counter as he tries to edge himself past it toward the bathroom door. It hits the wall and fumbles up the door frame as he tries to judge how to aim himself through it.

Faolan watches the other man fumbling with the door frame and frowns at him harder, before pulling him closer against his side, steadying him further. What he's trying to accomplish with that, Faolan can only imagine, but whatever it is it's not helping them get across the flat to the bedroom any faster.

"Well then quit pushing yourself and let me help you here," he says. "Are you okay to make it that far? If you need me to stop for you, I can. No one's in any hurry, here." Except maybe Lancelot himself, it would seem, groping about as he is. Faolan takes a few experimental steps forward, beginning to lead the other man out of the bathroom and into the hall.

Faolan takes a few steps and Lancelot flails out to keep balance, seemingly leaving the entirety of the steering to the other man himself. He stumbles slightly, still feeling for the wall to guide himself then sliding his hands around on the bedroom door searching for the handle as they near it.

"Forgive me Faolan," he says, with some small amount of embarrassment. "You need not stay. I will be little good as a host in this state. Do not feel obligated to watch over me, I am sure I will be fine with a little rest."

Faolan looks at Lancelot with an expression to suggest that he's said something stupid -- which, as a matter of fact in Faolan's eyes, he has. "I'm not still here because I'm waiting for you to recover enough to entertain me, Lancelot," he says, frowning harder. "I'm still here because..." He stumbles over his explanation slightly, words and explanation like this not nearly as easy for him as it seems to be for Lancelot, but he soldiers on. "Because you're my friend. And since the day that we've met, you've always been there for me. Please. Just let me return the favor for once, yeah?"

"Come on," he says, reaching forward to get the door for the other man, since he seems to be having some trouble with it. "Don't worry about me. I've stayed here long enough to practically have my name on the futon, remember? I think I know my way around by now."

He might not see the expression but Lancelot hears the tone, hears the incredulousness in it -- even if Faolan stumbles.

The door moves away from his hand and he flails uncertainly, steps hesitant even with the other man to guide him. Lancelot trusts Faolan, of course he does, but he doesn't trust himself when he can't see. He's bound to keep knocking himself and walking into things. He flails vaguely ahead of himself, reaches out and down a little in an attempt to make sure the door is open all the way and feel when he steps close to the bed so he doesn't stub his foot against the edge.

"Thank you," he says, still a little quiet. "You may have to... steer me in the right direction."

Faolan watches Lancelot reaching for the door, shuffling forward uncertainly, and his chest tightens for a moment, his heart stuttering and picking up speed as he realizes what's going on. And what the other man isn't telling him. He feels... Angry at Lancelot, for keeping this from him. Scared for him, for what's happening to him. His arm tightens around the other man's waist as he struggles to keep himself in check.

"Were you planning on telling me there was something wrong with your vision," Faolan asks the other man, automatically slowing their progress across the room towards the bed once he realizes what's going on, "or were you hoping that I wouldn't notice and leave you here to fend for yourself like this. God damn it, Lancelot..." Faolan growls, and he wants to say more -- that he's really concerned here, and the least that the other man could do is take his own condition seriously as well. That he has half a mind to turn around and march him to the front room and really call that ambulance, for real. What if he's got a brain hemorrhage? What if something worse is coming? What if? What if?

"Once I was laying down?"

Lancelot slows as Faolan does, wobbling slightly and flailing out a hand. Has he slowed because they're near the bed? Will he warn him once he reaches out? He sighs, a sound filled with his mix of frustration and pain and exhaustion.

"Faolan, it only went just now in the bathroom. It's probably dizziness or low blood sugar, I've been queasy all day. Please, I'd just like to lay down a moment?"

He has far too much of a headache to indulge Faolan's nervous anger.

Faolan takes in a deep breath as well, trying to calm the emotions roiling inside of him, trying to keep himself from lashing out at the other man. He's scared for Lancelot because he is ill, and terribly so, and his anger at the other man for hiding further symptoms from him isn't going to fix anything or even make him feel better himself.

"You should have told me then," he chides the other man, and though Lancelot might not be able to see the frown on his face, he should be able to hear it in his voice. He steps closer to the other man, reaching out to take the other man's flailing hand in his own.

"Here," he says leading him forward and guiding Lancelot's hand to the edge of the bed. "I'm not stopping you from lying down," he says, trying to sound more reasonable, but it comes out gruff. "But if you want me to help you, then let me help you. If you keep pushing yourself you're only going to make it worse, you know."

He flails out for the bed, grips at the sheets and moves to ease his other arm from around Faolan's shoulders so he can shift to sit on it. He sways a little, unsure exactly which way he's facing, then fumbles out a hand again to try and judge as he flops onto it.

"I'm not stopping you from staying," Lancelot says finally, then flinches suddenly as he feels something fluffy near his face. Lily. "... If you do stay, though, if you could... help with my friend here..."

Shuffling he tries to move away from the edge, misjudges and nearly half-falls off the other side in the process until he orientates himself properly and crawls himself up the length of the bed so he can lay out.

Edited (html) 2016-01-14 19:04 (UTC)

Faolan can do more than help with Lily. He frowns at the other man insisting on doing everything himself, frowns at him refusing to ask for help, wondering whether he's going to be forced to offer. Uncertain how well that would go down, whether Lancelot would refuse even his insistence as well or not.

He glances to Lily, meeting her eyes before jerking his head towards the door. "Lily, come here," he commands her, although his tone isn't too harsh. He's never really given her commands before but she either knows this one or she simply knows what he wants because she listens, even if she seems to be apprehensive about the whole thing. He reaches down to snake a hand into her collar for good measure nonetheless before turning back to the other man.

"Do you... Want me to get you anything?" he asks. "When's the last time you ate?" That could have something with the way the man's feeling as well, after all. He hopes.

"This morning? I skipped lunch."

Finally having crawled up the bed he drops his head onto the pillow, rubs at his forehead as he thinks.

"Stomach felt too..." Lancelot gestures vaguely. Weird. Unsettled? Something like that. He knew it was his headache, really, but he was a little worried he might not keep something down and not keen to test during work.

"There should be some plain biscuits in the cupboard. That might be an easy start. Maybe some... juice. It might be my blood sugar isn't helping."

"Yeah, alright." Faolan nods and turns to head across the room, shooing Lily out the door of the bedroom before turning back to the other man. He frowns at him, taking in the sight of him lying where he is, the slightly blank look in his eyes which Faolan now recognizes is because the other man's vision is being affected by the headache as well.

He thinks about asking if he should need anything else, but he shuts his mouth as soon as he's opened it, and shakes his head, heading out the bedroom door and shutting it behind him, to give Lancelot peace without Lily trying to 'help' him. He finds the biscuits easily enough, and he pours out a small-ish glass of juice on the side, not wanting to force too much on the other man at once. He can always refill it if so desired. He indicates that Lily should stay, which she does, reluctantly, although she looks as though he has betrayed her in some way by exiling her to the living room as he has, as Faolan re-enters the bedroom and closes the door behind himself again.

"Here," he says, softly. "Biscuits and juice. I can get you something else if you want. Toast, if this sits well enough? Something for your head?" He moves to sit on the edge of the bed beside Lancelot, balancing the plate on his lap and wondering how this is going to work, with the other man unable to see and yet so stubborn against his help. "Have you taken anything lately?" he asks. He reaches a hand out again, before thinking better of himself and awkwardly laying it on his lap. "You're very warm."

Lancelot feels the bed dip, turns a little in the direction of Faolan and frowns as he tries to focus past the headache.

"It wasn't helping," he begins, "painkillers, that is. Then again, perhaps you're meant to take something other than ibuprofen for headaches that are magical in nature."

He moves to try and sit up slightly, squinting and hesitantly holding out his hands. On the bright side, his vision is starting to fade back in -- dark shapes helping him make out where Faolan is in the room.

"Unless you'd like me to grope you it's probably advisable you hand things to me."

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