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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God, well there's the answer as to whether he needs to or not. He steels himself, looking down at the drink for a moment, playing with it some more, fighting with the right words on how to respond.

"For. The dramatics," he continues. "The... Ranting." He glances up at the other man, catching his eye before glancing away and flushing slightly at the way that he's watching him. "For the kiss. It wasn't. I hadn't meant for things to go that way..." To let him know, he had hoped for a much different way of breaking it to him. In much different circumstances.

He stares down Faolan for a long moment, studying the way his eyes flick away and the flush of his cheeks, the awkward stilt of his words.

"All right," Lancelot says finally, and drops his eyes back down to stir the eggs. "These just need a few moments longer. Do you want anything on them?"

Setting the bread toasting he digs out salt and pepper, opens the fridge again and regards it thoughtfully. Faolan generally doesn't want tomato ketchup on things, but would hollandaise sauce be too much on a delicate stomach?

'All right?' Faolan wants to ask. What was that supposed to mean, then? He had... Well, he couldn't remember exactly what he'd said or done, but he'd kissed him, and he's pretty sure that he'd made some sort of declaration or another at the time as well. And then Lancelot had levitated things in his flat in response to the gesture. He didn't really know whether that really meant that things were 'all right' or not then. Especially since the last time he'd done so had been in response to the decapitated head in a box in Faolan's office.

"...no," he says, after a moment, lifting his head to glance at the other man, trying to figure it all out. "Just. Salt." He plays with the drink in his hands for another moment, taking a sip of it before he can't help but ask, "...are you sure?"

"Very sure," Lancelot says, "I have been timing them."

He lofts an eyebrow at Faolan in a way that says perhaps he might know what the man really means, but for the moment... he is leaving it. Stirring the water he checks the time again, waits until the toast pops then begins arranging things quickly on the plate.

"This might be messy if you eat it there, do you think you can sit up? Or, I can bring it over there if you think you can keep from getting it everywhere."

Faolan takes in a breath and lets it out in a little sigh at that answer, that look. Because something tells him that Lancelot does know what he's asking. But if he's not going to answer... It was hard enough to ask the first time, never mind push further.

He nods slightly, looking, feeling like a child at the moment. Feeling as though he's being treated like a child for that matter as well. Though he supposes he deserves that much too. He has made a fairly big mess of things as it is.

"I'm fine," he says stubbornly, moving to push himself up and slide across the futon, though it takes him a few moments sitting on the edge of it before he stands. One hand clutching the banana drink, the other grasping the blanket around his shoulders. His head is still throbbing and his stomach really isn't 100%, but the sooner he eats, the sooner he can get out of Lancelot's flat and stop making problems for him he supposes.

He looks up again at that, tilts his head slightly as Faolan struggles to his feet.

"You are surprisingly unsteady for someone who is fine," he points out, and pads quickly over to pull out a chair and gently guide him into it so he doesn't trip over the end of the blanket and crack his head open. "Please, Faolan, just... let me."

Then Lancelot flits away again to finish plating up the food, re-appears after a moment to slide a plate in front of Faolan. It's simple enough, toast with a little cured ham and a poached egg on top -- no sauce just in case it was too rich for an unsteady stomach. Stepping back he grabs the salt and pepper and sets them on the table before picking up his own plate and sliding into a chair, half watching Faolan as he begins to cut into the food and half staring down his own a little more than necessary.

Edited (say no to cannibalism ) 2016-05-29 23:06 (UTC)

Faolan isn't foolish enough to refuse the other man's help, not in the least because he probably would have tripped over the blanket if he had been left to his own devices, and probably knocked himself out on the edge of the table. And then he supposes that Lancelot really would have a reason to fuss over him, and he really would have had a reason for his head to hurt. Again by his own doing. No, while it might have been exciting and would have gotten his mind off of the rest of his dramas, perhaps it's better that he hadn't.

He glances down at the plate that's set in front of him, setting his drink before him and shifting in his chair to wrap the blanket further around himself before he reaches for his utensils. Cutting off a very small bite and carefully lifting it to his mouth. Chewing it slowly, glancing up at Lancelot as he feels himself being watched. "It's good," he says. As if there would be any doubt to that. Despite the fact that he's only taken one bite. One very small bite.

"Hopefully it steadies your stomach."

The whole situation is suddenly intensely awkward, and Lancelot finds he has no idea how to ask anything he wants to ask. He tries to focus on eating, but the silence grates and finally he pauses to get up and pour himself a glass of water -- fidgets with it a moment.

"Have you felt at all different lately?" he prompts finally, "forgive me if the question is odd, it is only -- perhaps... you drank something enchanted? Like the tea before, although I suppose it doesn't have to be tea. Perhaps it does not even have to be a drink, for that matter."

Faolan notices the awkward silence, but he feels too awkward himself, and too under the weather, to really feel like doing much of anything about it. He makes a soft noise of agreement in response to the other man's words and sets about cutting himself more small bites and going through the motions of eating. Not because it isn't good, but because it's definitely taking some effort to force himself to eat around the headache and the slight feeling of nausea hovering just below the surface.

He's so focused on the food and the atmosphere that he almost doesn't register what Lancelot is asking at first. And then almost doesn't believe it when he does. He pauses in his motions, looking across at Lancelot, actually stumped for a moment. Why would he...

"Different?" Now it is his turn to force the other man to explain himself, he thinks with some level of satisfaction.

Lancelot presses his lips together and drops his eyes away, something that isn't awkwardness this time -- an inscrutable sort of expression that speaks of controlling something he doesn't want to show.

"February," he prompts, "I know you have not forgotten. Faolan, trace this back. If someone is manipulating you in some way, then -- the more information we have about when it started the quicker we can do something about it."

Faolan watches the other man's expression for a few silent moments, trying (and failing) to determine just what that look means. Or rather, what it could mean on Lancelot's face in particular.

He licks his lips, contemplating how to respond. He could lie, of course. Or only tell a portion of the truth. Something about being asked the question has him questioning whether he really has been dosed for a moment. Whether this is a leftover of the tea, perhaps, that never quite went away. Or perhaps something else that he never even registered that had been targeted specifically at him. But even thinking about it, knowing how he's felt, knowing how it's progressed, he knows that that's ridiculous and he quickly pushes the thought away.

Faolan glances down at his plate, prodding at his food for a moment or so, before putting his utensils down entirely. "Lancelot, I don't..." He reaches up to gather the blanket closer around himself. "Unless it should have been a terribly long-lasting sort of enchantment, I don't really think..." He trails off, more than a little self-conscious about being forced into such an admission in such a way.

"How long?" Lancelot pushes, "since February still? Is it possible it never truly wore off before? I admit, I assumed it had since you seemed... better. The fae I asked told me such a thing was temporary, yet they were not the ones who mixed and made the potions. Perhaps it is even different for each individual, the way medicine can be. Well, it does not matter. If it did not we can look into it."

Fae magic, after all, is so difficult to truly pin down. So changeable, unpredictable. Yet surely something can be done? If they look into it, perhaps asked more specifically for help from the fae even...

Faolan's eyes narrow slightly, the expression on his face equal parts confused and incredulous. Does Lancelot honestly believe that this is related to the tea? ...had he really been as bad as that last night? He honestly can't remember all that well, the alcohol having obscured not only his judgment in the moment but his recall here in the light of day. But honestly, to assume that over the far simpler truth of the matter?

"...I should go," he says, at last, moving to attempt to push his chair back, trying to ignore the roiling in his stomach, now caused not only by the amount of alcohol he'd consumed the night before, but also because he thinks it's a spell and the thought of it makes him sick and angry and he should get himself out of there before he does something he regrets. Something else.

"Why?"

And Lancelot's expression is guarded now, because he doesn't want to fight Faolan -- although he doesn't think he'll be moving far fast anyway. He's done this before, made him stay, and he knows how it goes. Faolan tries to leave, Lancelot stops him, Faolan simmers like an animal backed into a corner.

Yet at the same time, why? Deep down Lancelot suspects the truth, but part of him cannot truly accept it until he hears it.

Faolan shakes his head, clutching the blanket to himself tightly as he weighs his options. Wanting to continue hiding himself in it, knowing how exposed he'll feel without it, but knowing that he's going to trip over it if he doesn't let it go, and so it is with great regret that he lets it slide off of his shoulders as he rises to stand. Feeling more vulnerable than he really should, standing there half-naked in front of the other man.

"I can't," he says simply. "I can't just sit here and have you ask me--..." He shakes his head again. A spell. "I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't have... I should go." He steps away from the table, towards where he'd left his bag by the edge of the futon. Rather, where he's fairly sure he's left his bag by the edge of the futon.

Lancelot blinks as Faolan stands and shrugs off the blanket, equal parts confused and taken back.

"Why?" he prompts again. "Faolan, please, help me understand. I cannot do anything for you if you will not talk to me. Do not walk away from this. It will not make things go away."

"Because it's not a spell!" Faolan bursts out, whipping around to face the other man, throwing off his balance slightly, but he valiantly presses on. "Christ Lancelot. Is it really that difficult to imagine that I might care for you of my own free will? How can you think--"

But of course he knows why he thinks it might be a spell. Because he's held himself back from the truth, from admitting anything even remotely resembling the truth, and from letting Lancelot see anything close to it either, save for when he had been under the influence of the potion in the tea.

"The tea was temporary. And the only reason it worked so well on me was that I already had the emotions in place to begin with. What more is there to understand?" Faolan asks, bitterly. "You cannot fix this, Lancelot. There is no counter spell to the truth. And I have done my best to ignore it, but it will not go away. But I can." If this has made things too uncomfortable between them, now that the truth is out, then he will go. And stay away, if necessary. Even if it should hurt. Maybe it would be better that way. He turns to reach for his bag again.

For a second he's visibly startled by the outburst, although this time nothing floats at least. Then Lancelot's expression shutters once more to something forcibly blank, pressing down on a whirl of conflicting thoughts.

"Forgive me for saying so, Faolan, but you're in no state to being going anywhere. Come here --" and he steps forward to pick up the blanket Faolan has discarded, moves to drape it over his shoulders again. "Finish your breakfast. I doubt even I can save you from Sylvia's wrath if by chance you win the election and are caught tripping on your face the same day with a hangover."

Edited 2016-05-30 20:36 (UTC)

Faolan reaches up to grasp at the blanket as it's draped around him, turning to frown at the other man over his shoulder. To frown at the look on his face and the fact that, although he seems to want for him to stay, that he seems to want to take care of him, he still hasn't acknowledged a word that he's just sad. For all the pushing, once the truth is laid bare, it is Lancelot who is now the one denying it.

"Stop," Faolan says, turning to face him, unable to stop himself from continuing. Feeling stripped and laid bare before the other man even though he is almost covered head to toe by the blanket as he stands before him. "You and I both know that I'm never going to win that election, so stop pretending like there's going to be any other outcome than me losing this, because that's what I do, Lancelot. I fuck things up, and I've fucked it up here now too, so if I've made you uncomfortable I'd rather you just throw me out or just let me go and be done with it than keep on like it's all going to be okay when it's obviously not...!"

Lancelot visibly flinches at the outburst, at Faolan's distress, but manages to keep hold of him still -- gently turns him and helps him hold the blanket closed as he inches him toward the table.

"I'm not throwing you out," he continues, as sedately as he can manage, "so you may as well sit back down before your food gets cold."

Lily drops her head a little nervously, slinks past both of them to the corner of the kitchen to hide in her basket for safety. It makes Lancelot's heart ache a little, especially because in that moment he rather envies her ability to just opt out and hide.

Faolan notices the flinch, but he's upset himself, and Lancelot is still just fussing. Fussing and taking care of him and ignoring everything about the situation that is uncomfortable or displeasing, and he wonders for a moment whether he has even really bought his explanation at all or whether he'll still be wondering after a cure afterwards. He doesn't know, Lancelot just keeps fussing over the food, and that's what frustrates him most of all.

He lets the other man guide him to sit nonetheless. None the least because he's still not feeling 100%, and even if he were Lancelot would still be able to easily overpower him. If he really didn't want him there... Then he'd better not be keeping him just because he thinks that it's the right thing to do.

"Why not?" Faolan asks once he's seated, a bit more sedately but the fire is obviously still burning there just under the surface. "Why do you still want me here, Lancelot? And don't give me that, about Sylvia and the rest of it. Or walking in front of a train or something. I have money. You could call me a taxi. I've made enough of a mess of things as it is, last night, this morning. I just don't want to..." He looks up at the other man, the look in his eyes equal parts hurt, frightened, and insecure. "I don't want to make it even worse than I already have done."

"You will make it worse if you leave," Lancelot hisses, and holds Faolan down into the chair for a second as he closes his eyes and takes a controlling breath.

Then he's letting go, sliding back into his own chair and trying to steady himself. He takes a slow sip of his drink, eyes mostly on his food and the table -- avoiding meeting Faolan's for now.

"You are one of my dearest friends, Faolan. I do not want to fight with you."

Faolan winces slightly at the hissed words, at the press of his hand on his shoulder, at the look on Lancelot's face as he settles down in his chair and forces in a breath, and his own eyes fall onto his plate at Lancelot's words. One of my dearest friends, Lancelot says, and Faolan feels himself flooding with guilt all over at that.

"...I don't want to fight with you either," Faolan admits, his voice falling low. He doesn't even really want to leave, truth be told. He's just not sure how he won't make things worse by staying either. But if Lancelot wants him here... Faolan clutches the blanket tighter around himself and slumps slightly in the chair he's been pinned down into. "I just. I don't know what..." he says, before trailing off again, eyes fixed on the table in front of him as he does.

"Then don't fight. Please. Just..."

Lancelot hesitates, struggling to find the right words. He doesn't know what to say, nor what kind of thing he even wants to, he just wants Faolan to stay here while he works that out.

"... Please, just. Eat your food. You will feel better for it. Let us deal with one problem at a time, not... everything at once. Or at least let me finish my food if you will not, I can think better after I've eaten."

He offers Faolan a pained sort of smile, desperation to just be allowed to do something normal and easy for five minutes before they wade any deep into potential disaster.

Faolan glances up to see the smile and he lowers his eyes to the table again, the strain on Lancelot's face both evident and pretty obvious that he's the cause of it. He hunches forward in his chair slightly, slouching in it at the same time, and nods once. He isn't terribly hungry, but Lancelot had made this for him. Especially for him. Because he's an idiot. So he owes him the time to eat it, and he owes him his best effort of finishing it himself.

He clutches the blanket tighter around himself, wishing he could just suffocate himself in it and be done with it. "...I'm sorry," he says, after a long moment. "You should... Go ahead. Before it gets any colder. I'll..." He trails off, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. Trying to will himself to stop reacting and just. Do as the other man says for a change.

"I'm sorry," he says again, for what feels like the thousandth time, this time very low and very quiet. Not quite knowing what he's apologizing for anymore. Perhaps the lot of it. For himself. For his feelings. For ruining it all like he always seems to do. He's no good for anyone and he knows it. So why does he keep trying anyway?

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