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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"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.

"We can cut the cake now," Lancelot confirms, and pointedly keeps hold of Faolan. He isn't escaping, not while Lance has a say in it. "There's a few different types, you two can have first pick since you're here. Come on --"

He shifts a hand to draw the small of Faolan's back to gently but firmly guide him along, pacing back into the kitchen and steering him to the chair he was in before and the abandoned plate of sausage rolls. It gives him the chance to free up his hands so he can begin tugging the cake boxes out of the fridge and setting them on the kitchen table.

Faolan finds himself being led back into the kitchen and down into the chair he'd been seated in earlier. With the sausage rolls, he thinks to himself, sardonically. He tosses a brief glance over his shoulder towards the direction of the door, wondering if there's a chance he could make it, but it's a ridiculous thought and he registers that even as drunk as he still remains. For one thing, he still hasn't quite got his feet about him. For another, there are a lot of guests and obstacles to get past or through to get there, and if Lancelot catches him he suspects he'll be planted right back here. As many times as it takes for the idea to stick, he supposes.

So he looks back to Lancelot, hoping the look on his face isn't too painfully obvious as he thinks it is, but he feels rather like he's drowning here, and he has no idea how to stop himself from sinking further. He shouldn't have done that. He's ruined everything. Sooner or later, the other shoe will fall. And then of course there's Gwaine. Try as he might Faolan can't seem to force himself to act normally. So he decides silence is perhaps the best option, slumping forward on the table in front of himself instead.

The down side to that is that Faolan is now rather obviously projecting his discontent, and as people circle in toward the cake Lancelot is cutting they shoot him curious looks. Lancelot quietly brushes it off by telling them he drunk a bit too much punch, which seems to work at least, and shares out slices of cake to people.

You don't even need to announce cake, people instinctively seem to know and gather.

He sets a piece down beside Faolan that has a brownish colour-combo which suggests some sort of coffee-chocolate flavour, turns away for a moment and then sets a tumbler of water beside him too. People loiter a while to chat and compliment the food, and Lancelot drops into a chair beside Faolan to eat a piece of his own.

Then, one by one, they start to leave. As the sun starts to set people find their way home, until eventually even Gwaine gives up and makes to retrieve his things.

"You be all right dealing with that?" he prompts, inclining his toward Faolan.

"We'll be fine," Lance assures him, and gives Gwaine a last parting hug before they're alone again.

(Aside from Lily, of course, who crashed out in exhaustion onto the kitchen floor long ago).

The cake, for what it's worth, is very good. Faolan is either not too shaken, angry, or upset to eat cake, or he's too drunk not to, when it's set right in front of him. He looks up at Lancelot in response to the water, and then shoots him a wary glance when he sits down near him as well. But he's staying quiet now at least, and mostly cooperating.

He doesn't really have the presence of mind to register the curious looks from the others, but he does catch something of Lancelot's parting conversation with Gwaine, and he slumps forward even further in his chair in response to it. Trouble. That's what he is for this man, he bemoans internally. That's all he ever is for anyone after all. And that's all anyone ever sees him. He glances down at Lily, oblivious to his drama, and wishes his life could be as simple. But it's not, and even intoxicated as he is, he registers lying down on the floor with her would be frowned upon. So he reaches for his glass of water and systematically continues forcing himself to drink it down, resolutely trying to understand why he's still here.

Lancelot sees Gwaine out, pads back into the kitchen placidly and begins to slowly tidy up the last remnants of the party.

"That just leaves us," he says, "and you certainly aren't going anywhere in that state. I'd ask if you want to talk, but..." he pauses in the middle of filling the dishwasher, tilts his head a little. "You mostly look like you want to throw up. I can make up the futon for you."

Since he isn't sure Faolan has the coordination to do it, and it's probably best he get some sleep sooner rather than later. At least asleep he can't do anything else unexpected.

Faolan does feel sick, although he can't be certain whether most of it is emotional turmoil or whether it really is the drink that's causing this.

"I'm not going to throw up on you," he says, which he intends at least to be reassuring. One less thing for Lancelot to have to clean up. Or rather, more specifically, one less thing for Lancelot to clean up after him. There's a part of him that really does want to talk as well, but the rest of him recognizes that it's perhaps better left until he's sobered up somewhat at least. Which probably won't be until the next morning at the very least.

He toys with his water glass for a moment, glancing over to the futon and then back at Lancelot. He wishes he could leave. He wishes he'd never made such mistakes. He wishes he were not so drunk so he could be up to be helping him clean up like he'd meant to, at the start of the evening. Sleep, on the other hand, sounds good right about now. That's probably the only thing he's sure that he can't mess up at this point.

"Good to know! Forgive me if I'm a little careful just in case, regardless."

He moves to dump off a few more plates into the bin, fills the dishwasher as much as he can before closing it and starting it up. Lily moves to sit up a little and yawns as she watches the proceedings. All those people were very tiring, she had so much greeting to do!

"I don't know if you want to change or anything," Lancelot begins, walking around to the futon to begin tugging it out to fold flat. "I can grab your bag for you. You can use the bathroom if you want to wash up? I don't mind, I'll probably be up before you tomorrow anyway. If you have any more breakfast requests speak now, or else I'll probably be googling good food for hangovers and making whatever rates highest."

Faolan shakes his head slightly, although he realizes belatedly that Lancelot probably has no idea what he's responding to. He had said a lot of things just then, it's a lot to process in his current state.

"No requests," he says. He glances to the hallway before back at Lancelot. He still doesn't know why he's keeping him here. He feels like there are a lot of things that should be concerning him now, questions he wants to have answered, but he can't really wrap his mind around it. The only real question he can get behind is why does Lancelot still want him here, after--

"I should..." Use the toilet at the very least. Get changed he supposes. He runs a hand over his face and pushes himself to stand. "You don't have to take care of me. Like that, I mean. I don't." Deserve it. Don't know how to handle it right now. "It's your birthday," he finishes, lamely.

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