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 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.

There are a few things Lancelot had been half expecting at this point.

Faolan to shout more, Faolan to stumble and fall over, Faolan to get into a shoving match, Faolan to ignore him and want to leave anyway --

For some reason, despite the slowly dawning realisation of why Faolan might be upset, being kissed wasn't on his list.

He tenses awkwardly as Faolan grabs him, freezes as he tries to work out how to handle it. His whole brain is shutting down into white-noise panic, and of all the times to picky why did this have to happen now, surrounded by other people, while Faolan is so drunk.

Lancelot carefully pulls back from the kiss (he doesn't want to shove Faolan but not the time absolutely not the time) and something catches the corner of his eye.

He turns just in time to realise a cushion from one of the sofas is floating slightly and snatches it out of the air with a slight look of panic.

Faolan doesn't know what he's expecting out of this. Truth be told, he hasn't really thought that far ahead of himself at all. He supposes that the tensing and freezing makes sense, peripherally. He hasn't been communicating himself well now, and Lancelot obviously hadn't caught on before, but there really isn't any way to misconstrue this.

Of course, then Lancelot is pulling back and rushing away from him and Faolan is so intoxicated it takes him a moment to realize why. The sofa cushion? Why would...? And then Faolan catches sight of the print that had previously been on the wall suddenly choosing to hover beside it instead. Vaguely, he wonders if whether this is localized to Lancelot's immediate vicinity or whether there might be other objects he's floating around the flat that he doesn't know about, before he realizes what he is seeing. And that the last few times he had seen Lancelot do this, he had been angry or upset. And suddenly Faolan wants to crawl down a very deep, dark hole and bury himself in it. And also be sick. The latter of which suddenly seeming far more likely.

Faolan takes a step away. If he had it in him, he would be out the door in a heartbeat. As it is, he finds himself going over backwards instead.

Lancelot is so busy trying to make sure nothing else is floating (and quickly snatching them to stop it) that he doesn't realise Faolan is falling until he hits the ground. He winces sets the cushion down and reaches out to offer him a hand up again -- eyes still flicking around in paranoia.

"Come on," he encourages, "we need to get you sitting down somewhere. I'm afraid you're going to have a pretty bad hangover after all this."

If he's falling down drunk then really, there's no hope of avoiding it.

Faolan's eyes are widened slightly himself, as though the knowledge of what he has said and done is only just now catching up with him. He shakes his head slightly, glancing first at Lancelot's hand and then up at the man himself. The shock of the impact of falling has sobered him up slightly. Not enough to be completely in control of himself, certainly not enough to feel like he can pick himself up on his own. But he's not sure he wants to be anywhere near Lancelot just now. In fact, he'd much prefer to be able to crawl into a hole and die there.

"I should go," he says, shaking his head again. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have--... I shouldn't be here, I. It's your birthday party and I--" He can feel himself rambling but he can't seem to make it stop.

"Oh no you don't."

He leans down further to grab for Faolan's hand to pull him up, his other moving out to brace Faolan's other arm.

"You don't get to run away now. That's not how this works."

"Ah, there you are!"

Gwaine materialises around the sofa and shoots a questioning glance between them, lofts an eyebrow as he shoves his hands into his pockets in a way that says he suspects something is going on but isn't going to ask.

"Arthur was saying he might need to leave soon. We going to cut some cake?"

Faolan doesn't fight the other man's grabbing him, but he feels awkward in a way he has never felt around the other man, and not just because he is more drunk and uncoordinated than he has ever been in front of him before.

He's just about to struggle further verbally when Gwaine appears and Faolan is reminded that there are other people there with them. That it is not that big a flat, and he spends a moment staring at Gwaine trying to determine what that look on his face could mean. Though he vaguely recalls that Lancelot had mentioned cake before all of this, hadn't he?

"I don't know if..." he starts to protest, glancing between Gwaine and back at Lancelot. Rather at a loss as how to handle himself.

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