undergrounds | Semi-open: May 05

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Semi-open: May 05

Who: Lancelot and friends!
What: It's a birthday party! With both regular people and supernatural types. What could go wrong?
When: May 05
Where: Lancelot's flat & garden, Richmond!
Warnings: Gratuitous doggy! Probably a punch up later. Possibly some drunk kissing.

Lancelot's garden is not exactly an acre-large tented paradise.

He's not made of money.

It's big enough to just about fit the people invited across the patio and grass, with Lily variously herding them and rolling around, and he's flitting between them and the kitchen and living room and generally doing his best to butterfly around all of them making sure they're happy. The garden is relatively tidy, as tidy and well kept as a garden that suffers an enthusiastic dog can be. The hedges are neatly trimmed, the tree in one corner healthy and big enough to throw a little shade, and the one flowerbed border seems to mostly have some roses that are yet to fully bloom.

For those who he's only known since the incident last year he's given them a warning: not everyone who will be there is aware of the supernatural side of things, so try not to blurt it to people you don't know.

Despite it being his own birthday Lancelot is, of course, playing host. There's a table set up outside with finger food, salads, drinks and all sorts -- and food strategically inside for those who can't be out in the sun too. He appears to still be checking on more in the oven every so often too, but Lancelot does like to cook -- and he seems quite focused on making sure everyone has something they could eat.

Some of the drinks are alcoholic. The punch isn't that strong, but he has a few other drinks along the side for people who want them and some bottles of beer in an ice bucket. If someone decides to do a little mixing of course then it might wind up stronger.

His sound system is playing the soothing strains of Dire Straits through the place and all in all, for now at least things are going smoothly. So long as nobody says the wrong thing to the wrong person, it will probably be a nice evening. With the mixture of factions present alongside those who have no idea what a faction is, of course... that may be difficult.

[ OOC: Feel free to mingle away on the post with others here! ]

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Faolan has had far too much to drink to be appropriate for a birthday party at this point. He really should have cut himself off a while ago. But every time he told himself he'd stop there and switch to water, there was something else that drove him to drink. A wink, or flirtatious glance. A coloring on a certain face in response to a comment, or a shy response given in turn.

And then there had been his interactions with Kathryn, awkward and stunted. And Nancy, angry and bitter. And after that, Faolan isn't sure that he shouldn't just excuse himself from the rest of the festivities. Instead he finds himself sitting out in the garden where he'd absconded to after his showdown with the young witch, sitting on the stairs and trying to cool his head as the air around him begins to cool as the sun sets. At least most of the people left in the gathering seem to have left him well enough alone, and he's managed to (scare everyone else away and) claim this corner of the party as his own.

Lancelot wants to fuss.

His instinct is always to go to people who are upset, to talk to them and soothe them, but Faolan has an explosive temper and Lancelot is quietly unsure how much worse it would become if he pointed out that Faolan really wants absolutely as diplomatic as he could have been.

So he lets Faolan cool off a while, half keeping an eye on him so he can be sure the man hasn't slunk off and half trying to decide how to approach things.

He finally re-appears beside Faolan with what is most definitely a bottle of water, and twitches a weak smile.

"Try not to dehydrate yourself," he offers, because he's definitely aware how much Faolan is drinking.

Faolan glances up at Lancelot, his eyes focusing on the water bottle for a long moment before he reaches out to take it from the other man, playing with it in his hands as he glances away again.

"Thanks," he says, though he spends some time fiddling with the bottle in his hands (whether he's actually trying to open it and failing or just playing with the thing no one can say) before he opens it and takes a drink. He's struggling to try and find the right words for the other man. Perhaps to explain himself, perhaps to apologize.

He isn't even sure whether Lancelot's going to stick around again or whether he's done what he meant to find him for and he'll be off to entertain his more pleasant (female) guests instead. The thought fills him with bitter anger and he forces himself to take another sip of water before he starts to boil over.

He hovers awkwardly as Faolan plays with the bottle, fighting down the urge to ask if he needs help opening it until he finally manages it. Then Lancelot is unsure agin, because Faolan isn't saying anything else and Lancelot isn't sure what he wants him to say. He studies him a moment, lowers his eyes uncomfortably and darts them away across the garden before lifting them to the other man again.

"There should be cake soon," he adds, "if you're still hungry. Or, there's still some of the other food left if you prefer."

Something to soak up some of the alcohol Faolan has been downing so he doesn't have a raging hangover.

Faolan shrugs slightly. He'd like the cake, but he'll need some real food besides. He can practically feel himself sloshing at this point. A hangover is near inevitable, but it's true, at least if he tries to soak some of it up he'll be a little better off.

So he pushes himself up to his feet after a moment, swaying slightly in place before he gets his bearings. "I probably should. Is there any of the pasta salad left?" he asks, in a neutral tone. As though he hasn't spent the better part of the last while sitting out on the step fuming as he has. He moves to take a step or two towards the door before he pauses to glance back at Lancelot, turning dark, guarded eyes up at him. The look in them apologetic, wounded, and altogether tumultuous besides before he looks away.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. For Nancy, for Kathryn, for his behavior even before that, for the way he's responded since. "I just..." He trails off shrugging slightly before he abruptly shakes himself off and reaches for the door. "Coming?"

Well, it's an apology at least. Not even a particularly defensive one. Lancelot will take it. He studies Faolan as he shakes and it off, thinking a moment before nodding.

"Of course. Let's find you something. There might be some pasta, if not I can probably fix you something else. Just to try and make sure you can still move tomorrow."

He flicks a faint smile, gestures for Faolan to walk ahead. He's half expecting to spend at least an hour tomorrow studying good hangover cure food. At least, he supposes, that means Faolan won't be going unpunished for his sins.

Faolan makes his way inside the other man's flat, and blissfully, for the most part everyone stays out of his way. Whether that is because they are otherwise preoccupied or because his reappearance combined with the mood he'd sunken into earlier had served to scare them off he cannot say for certain, but he'll take it.

He makes his way to the kitchen, catching himself against the counter with one hand as he tries to focus on what he was doing. Food. Plate. Maybe he'll just stand still for a moment. At least Lancelot seems to have accepted his apology. Small blessings, he supposes. He supposes that Lancelot is going to have to help him with this much as well.

"I should have gotten you something better than that mug," he mutters, circling the same thoughts he had been all night, this time aloud.

Lancelot watches Faolan wobble and catch himself, frowns as he tries to work out what is the easiest thing to eat he can give him and the least breakable plate.

"It's a very nice mug," he says patiently, opening the fridge and digging through, "and you should sit down before you fall down."

Maybe something... not too heavily seasoned. Just in case Faolan's stomach decides to be delicate, he'd rather not have it purge itself all over his kitchen.

Faolan turns to watch the other man over his shoulder, shaking his head as he does. Maybe he should sit down but there aren't any seats right here now are there? He's comfortable right where he is, leaning against the counter (or hanging onto it as the case may be).

"It was safe," he says, the alcohol in his system loosening his tongue. "I knew you would like it. I knew you'd probably have something like it. But I could have tried harder." He falls silent for a long moment, the conversation moving internal. He did try harder. But he's no good at this. And that much is clear. And when he's up against so many other players like this, how is he to compare at all?

"You should let me take you out," he says. "Not now, I know you've got the party. But let me take you somewhere nice. Just you and me. Not because I owe you. Because I want to. Please."

"The mug is fine," Lancelot assures him, "I do like it! There's nothing wrong with a getting something you know a person will like. It seems a pretty good idea to me. Who am I to judge a person for buying a mug? I bought you a thermos, if you remember. Here --"

He digs out some more sausage rolls -- plain enough and easy to eat without making a huge mess.

"Eat some of these. You can worry about buying me lunch when I know you aren't going to fall over."

"Don't..." Faolan says, accepting the rolls and taking a bite of one before putting it down. Blindly following the other man's instructions then catching himself for it. "That's not it, it's not. That's not the point! It's not -- you like it but you don't. You don't like it." Like there is a difference if you just say it differently. It's not a bottle of wine though. Or whatever it was that Natasha had given him, that had put that look on his face. It was never a look Faolan himself had managed.

"What else did you get?" he asks. "What else did people bring you?" Was Lancelot just humoring him? Had he been doing so all along? Is it because it wasn't expensive or classy? What is he doing wrong? What is wrong with him...

"Faolan!" Lancelot scolds, "it isn't a competition. I like it, I promise you. Please -- just..."

He lets out a soft huff of frustration, rests a hand on Faolan's upper arm and backs him toward the breakfast table and the small group of chairs.

"Here, sit down."

Before he wobbles and falls down.

Edited 2016-05-13 15:34 (UTC)

Faolan doesn't have much fight in him at the moment -- physically at least -- and even if he did Lancelot is far stronger than him, so it doesn't take much effort at all to get Faolan seated where Lancelot wants him.

Just because he's sitting down doesn't mean he's going to drop it. Because it rather is a competition, to him at least. And despite the fact that he's the one whose bag is sitting in Lancelot's room, he wasn't the one who had put the hopeful look in the other man's eyes. Who had made him shy and bashful and -- he doesn't stand a chance does he?

"It's because I'm trouble isn't it?" he asks, turning his gaze up at the other man. "Isn't it? Don't say I'm not. Nancy hates me, Sylvia thinks I'm a nuisance, most of Hillingdon wants nothing to do with me. Even the vampire is doing better than I am here," he says, and the acidity in his voice around the word is practically dripping.

"What is?" Lancelot prompts, and his face scrunches up in confusion -- because he really has rather lost track now. What is Faolan so upset about?

"Faolan, please, just..." Just what? 'Just calm down' seems like something that might not work, he needs to be more... roundabout with this. Clearly he's upset, and clearly he's drunk a little too much. How does his broach this? He flickers his eyes around to gauge how many other people are nearby. Maybe he doesn't want to explain in public? Lancelot finds it hard to read Faolan sometimes, his emotions tend to spike in odd places over things that seemed minor. "Just... tell me what's troubling you. If... it's personal we can go somewhere quieter?"

"It never will be personal!" Faolan counters, too intoxicated to catch the other man's wary (and perhaps somewhat pointed) glances around the room at the people nearby. Too intoxicated to understand (or perhaps more accurately care) that his train of thought is only making sense to Faolan himself.

"And that's the problem! Not if I'm buying you mugs that you like," he bemoans. "Not if I'm the 'friend' who makes life more exciting than you care for it to be. Weren't those the words you used?" Or something along those lines anyway, he doesn't really remember the exact words at this point. "Not if you're placating me with sausage rolls instead of listening to what I have to say." He had asked him out, after all. Hadn't he? He'd meant to, at least. It's all getting to be rather jumbled.

The more Faolan talks the more confused Lancelot gets. It's a problem if he likes a mug? Feeding him sausage rolls isn't listening? None of it makes sense, and not only that but Faolan's jumbled ramble seems to be increasing in volume.

"All right," Lancelot soothes, "all right. I'm listening. Here, let's -- let's take this somewhere I can listen better, shall we?"

Somewhere where Faolan's dramatics will draw less attention. He's bound to be embarrassed in the light of day, but at least if Lance can drag him where people can't seem him then maybe he can save the worst of it from being in the pubic eye. He waves Faolan to follow him, puts down the plate after a moment's thought so both his hands are free as he steps back toward the hallway -- just in case he needs to catch him.

Faolan struggles to keep himself calm -- he doesn't want to be yelling at Lancelot, what would that solve? But he is angry, and moreover, jealous. Jealous of things he has seen from the other man directed at other people, things he had never seen from the other man for him.

He pushes himself to stand but he doesn't really know where Lancelot intends to take the conversation. He'll go where he's led, it's just that with the state he's in just now, he'd as soon as continue right where he is as wobble elsewhere to continue it. "Don't patronize me," he growls, even as he complies.

"I'm not trying to patronise you, Faolan, please -- just... help me understand why you're upset."

He keeps one hand on him, leading him away down the hallway back toward where he dumped his bag. At least he is just growling now rather than raising his voice as he was before. Maybe there's hope of keeping this dispute (if that is even what it is?) quiet yet.

Faolan at least waits until they're in the hall where Lancelot wants him, if only for the fact that he can't concentrate on walking and talking and thinking at the same time. (Not that he is doing all that much thinking to begin with, of course.)

Why is he so upset? Well, he supposes it's as good a place to start as any. "Your face," Faolan explains, turning to the other man angrily, although at least he doesn't attempt to shake Lancelot's hand off of him. "The way you looked at her. At both of them. All of them, I don't know. You're. It's not the same. It never has been. I just didn't understand. Not until today." He shakes his head as he rambles. "I just thought. I mean, I'm always here, and you let me stay. But why?" He looks up at the other man, his eyes dark and hazily unfocused from the drink, but also troubled. Almost hurt. "And why not me? Am I too safe? Is that it?"

His face? What -- but then Faolan is carrying on. The way he looked at her, he says, the way he looks at -- both of them? All of them? It isn't the same? Lancelot blinks at him incredulously, brow furrowing deeper in confusion. Why does he let him stay? Is he too... safe?

He blinks again, trying to process this.

"Why -- I let you stay because you're my friend, Faolan. I was unaware that I shouldn't? If it -- bothers you to be here you are not obligated to be, I... suppose I thought you were fine with it?"

Edited (English) 2016-05-13 20:55 (UTC)

"Fine?!" Faolan counters, unable to help the outburst that it is. He makes a noise that is almost a scoff, incredulous to the very idea of it. "Why the hell would I keep coming back if I didn't want to be here? That's the problem." He wants to be here. But what's the point of it, if all he has turned out to be is just another stray the other man has taken in. And a hopeless one at that.

"I want that. I want more. But who am I to want anything? Everything I do is wrong, it all turns out wrong, and you just brush it off like it never happened. You just brush me off. But the way you looked at them, at her." He shakes his head angrily, throwing his balance off and swaying in place slightly with the ferocity of the motion. "I've been here the whole time you know!"

Slowly, through all the yelling, something finally starts to click. Lancelot reaches out for Faolan as he flails and begins to wobble, trying to steady him as his mind races.

"Faolan I didn't mean to brush you off," he begins, because he genuinely didn't even know he was doing it. Has he really brushed him off? Is he -- is he really reading this situation right?

"But you did!" Faolan counters, frowning up at the taller man. "You do. And I'm just..." He trails off, gesturing towards the kitchen. "Sausage rolls. You might as well put a bowl out for me in the kitchen with Lily. And I'd settle for it. I have. That's the worst of it. Maybe that just means that I'm the problem. Maybe I've been the problem all along."

He leans into Lancelot's hand, even as he moves to take a step back. "Maybe I should just go," he says, even though he'd hardly get out the door of his own accord, never mind across town and back to his own flat. "Maybe that would be better for everyone."

... Sausage rolls? Lancelot doesn't even know where Faolan is going with such a thought (what one earth does he mean by settle for it? That he has settled for it? Hasn't Faolan been a good friend? He cooked him a whole birthday meal and cake, invited him over for the holidays -- how is that not enough?)

Yet then Faolan is backing up, and Lancelot focuses then. Takes a step closer to block his way and keep backing him up.

"Oh no, no. You're far too drunk, Faolan. Stay here."

Lancelot doesn't want to be responsible for Faolan getting into trouble trying to navigate home in this state.

No, it was true. Lancelot has been good to him, there's no arguing that. He's gone above and beyond the requirements of any normal friend. But Faolan doesn't want a friend in Lancelot. And that's the true crux of the matter.

He shakes his head again at the other man's insistence, and the world swims around him slightly. "I know I am!" he admits to the other man, reaching out to take hold of him to catch his balance -- he is right there after all. "Can't you see? I don't want to! That's what I've been saying! But you've never even batted an eyelash! And you're just going to sit me down and brush this all off again. I know you. Tomorrow you'll forgive me for this too. 'You had too much to drink, Faolan, you weren't thinking straight.' That's how it works. That's how things are. Even now...!"

He looks up at the other man, frowning as he hazily studies his face. "I don't want to be tidied away, Lancelot! I want--..." But how to make the other man understand, when his words are obviously getting away from him. Faolan supposes there's only one way.

And so unsteady though he may be, Faolan tugs Lancelot closer and kisses him.

Closed to Lancelot

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