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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... 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.

"It is! Which means I get to decide what I do, and this is what I've decided to do."

He smooths the futon out and ducks away into his room, comes back with Faolan's bag and a pillow.

"Here you go, and..." Lancelot vanishes away again, finally emerges with a blanket. "There! That should do you. I can shut Lily in my room so you can sleep without her fussing. Not that she has much energy left, but she may in the morning. I can leave a packet of painkillers out as well if you like, on the off chance you wake before I do and don't want to move too far to get some."

Shaking out the blanket he drapes it over the futon, brushes out the wrinkles and studies Faolan for a long moment.

"There's no need to punish yourself, Faolan. I'm certainly not going to punish you."

Lancelot is fussing, and Faolan shouldn't be surprised by it, considering how much he's fussed over him in the past, but he is rather. Mostly because he's generally uncertain how to handle himself, after everything. And uncertain what Lancelot thinks of it all, for that matter. It's leaving him rather on edge although he's going to need to sleep and sober up to really comprehend and deal with it.

He grabs his bag and takes a step forward with it towards the bathroom, but. "Why not?" he can't help but ask. "I've. Been a terrible guest. ...among other things." Emotional rantings. Kisses. Which had seemed too much for the other man at the time, he might add. "I certainly haven't earned anything better, today. So. Why not?"

"Because you're my friend, Faolan. You don't have to be perfect every day to stay my friend."

He lofts an eyebrow at the man, studies him a moment longer before padding back into the kitchen for a bottle water -- setting it beside the futon for him.

"And you'll still be my friend in the morning. Painkillers should be in the cabinet over the bathroom sink if you want to keep some nearby."

That said he paces back into the kitchen to turn out some of the lights, locks the back door and then heads over to make sure the front door is properly closed up.

(And he locks that too, just to make sure Faolan doesn't bolt in the night. He doesn't trust him not to. Faolan is good at running away from his problems.)

Satisfied, he ushers Lily through to his room -- humming to her under his breath as she fusses around his feet.

"Just knock if you need anything," he adds, "I'm only closing the door to keep Lily in."

Faolan isn't certain that he'd blame the other man for shutting his door because of him at this point either. Or locking it, for that matter. He nods slightly in response to the other man's words, watching him in there for a moment, before he turns and steps into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

He takes time to use the toilet and wash his face, trying to snap himself out of the haze that he'd fallen into, but he's not really sure that it helps much. He glances up in the mirror at himself, trying to take stock of the situation before he shakes his head, coming to the conclusion that he really doesn't have the mental capacity for that right now.

He gets himself undressed without falling over and cracking his head on the sink, which is a feat in and of itself, all things considered. He makes it as far as to get his sweatpants on that he usually sleeps in before he decides that's good enough. Pausing a moment on the way out the door before stepping back and grabbing the painkillers that the other man had pointed out for him.

Dropping his bag by the end of the futon, Faolan crawls under the blanket Lancelot had laid out on it, setting the medicine aside for now but within reach for when he'd need it. He curls up against the pillow, pulling the cover as tight as he can without smothering himself, and wills for the night to come and swallow him up. While nothing so dramatic as that, he does find himself slowly lulled to sleep by the distant swishing of the dishwasher in the next room and the thrum of the alcohol still coursing through his system.

Which is, incidentally, what wakes him up again at last. Or rather, the thrum of his blood in his head and the distant swishing of what must be the shower down the hall. He groans slightly, groggily wondering where he had left his phone and if he'd have to move to retrieve that water bottle Lancelot had put out for him or not. Probably. He groans again and curls up further on the futon, squeezing his eyes shut against any light in the room and listening for the other man in turn. He'll try to make himself look less pathetic before he's out of the bathroom. If he doesn't fall asleep again first...

Lancelot is someone who finds morning relatively harmless, probably helped by the fact that he didn't drink nearly enough to end up in the shape Faolan is. The bathroom's extractor fan grows louder a moment as he opens the door and darts back into his room, the vague scent of damp and ginger body wash escaping into the flat, and a moment later Lancelot pads through quietly -- one hand on Lily to keep her moving so she doesn't bother their half-asleep guest. His hair is still in wet curls, only roughly towel-dried enough for him to get changed, and he's dressed down in a pair of worn grey jogging bottoms and a loose t-shirt that declares him The Dogfather.

Lily circles him until he puts down food for her, and then he vanishes back into his room and re-appears with his MacBook that he sets on the kitchen counter.

"Did you know that the NHS has an official 'hangover cures' page?"

He glances over at Faolan, flicks a faint smile before opening the fridge to dig out things.

"It says drinking more won't help, if there was any doubt. It suggests sports drinks, but I don't have any fancy ones. I do have vitamin water, though..."

Pulling out a bottle he grabs a plastic cup and pours out a little, pads over with it and crouches by the futon.

Faolan finds himself drifting more than not as Lancelot finishes his shower and pops out the door back to his bedroom, though he smells the shower, the other man's bodywash, and it's... Nice. He continues to drift in the smell of it and the sound of the other man padding around before he realizes that Lancelot has joined him and he doesn't remember him doing so.

He blinks at the other man where he's crouching in front of him for a moment, trying to gather himself enough to determine what he's supposed to be doing -- what Lancelot expects him to do, as he's crouched there with that cup of water that's presumably for him. He supposes starting with drinking it would be good though. And taking some of the medicine he'd brought out with himself earlier and then probably wound up sleeping on, since he'd left it on the futon beside him.

"...morning," he says roughly. And makes absolutely no move to get up just yet at all.

"Morning," Lancelot echoes, and he flickers a smile at how bleary Faolan looks. "Here, try a little of this. Do you have the paracetamol with you or should I fetch it?"

Since he thinks Faolan took it, but he can't see it on the floor by the futon and he doesn't know if Faolan has already taken some, for that matter. Better to ask.

Faolan blinks at him for another moment before making a sound that he hopes sounds like he's going to cooperate, though he takes a few moments more before he responds further. "I've got it," he says. "Here." And he moves to push himself up, wrapping the blanket tighter around himself as he realizes he's only half gotten dressed for bed last night.

He casts his hand around on the futon and produces the box after a moment, although he hands it out to Lancelot instead of trying to fight it open instead. Trading him for the cup of vitamin water, although he doesn't drink from it just yet. Just sits with the cup in his hands, wishing it were coffee, knowing there's probably a reason that it isn't though. Feeling a little lost, and not uncertain that he doesn't look that way too.

Lance takes the packet and opens it for him, presses out two of the coated tablets and holds them out in the palm of his hand.

"Here, take these, then I'll make us some breakfast. The internet claims bananas and eggs are both good things, and hydration is important, so I'll try to incorporate all three. Sip that, too, the sweetener in it should help steady you."

He waits until Faolan has everything, then sets the package by the futon and pushes to his feet -- dusts himself down and gently holds Lily back from coming to say hello.

"Do you need any anti-acid? I might have some, if your stomach feels like it needs something."

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