undergrounds | Semi-open: May 05

Entry tags:

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! ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"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?

He shakes his head at that, drops his eyes to his food as he begins cutting it up.

"Stop apologising, Faolan. I'm not angry with you, I'm not going to make you leave so please just -- stop apologising. You've done nothing wrong. Well," and Lancelot winces -- jerks an eyebrow slightly as he looks up. "I could have done without the fighting and drunken antics, admittedly, but you've already apologised for that anyway. So please, just -- take a breath. Eat your food. Just... allow me a minute to catch up with all this before you jump to your own conclusions and leave. Please?"

Faolan almost apologizes again before he realizes what he's doing and shuts his mouth, offering Lancelot a quiet nod instead. Reaching forward to pick up the banana drink and clutching it close as well. Taking a tentative sip and looking up to offer the other man a plaintive glance. He's trying. Really he is. He doesn't mean to be this way. To push Lancelot into such situations himself. He just can't seem to stop himself.

He doesn't know what to make of the 'jump to your own conclusions' bit either. But he'll stay. For Lancelot, he'll stay. For Lancelot, he'd do pretty much just about anything he's realizing. Even if he might not do it well.

Faolan falls into something of an awkward silence, uncertain how to respond, uncertain what to do beyond just...what he's told, really. His eyes falling to the plate in front of him as he forces himself to stay where he is and cut off another small bite to eat. Managing as much as that before he's speaking up quietly to say, "You should be. Angry with me. I wouldn't blame you. I don't think anyone would, really, but least of all me."

"It is my choice how I feel, Faolan, not yours -- you do not get to dictate such a thing. Just as I cannot dictate how you feel."

He studies Faolan for a long few seconds, the way he picks at his food, then drops his eyes down and around to Lily. She peers at him warily from the corner of the kitchen where she has retreated for safety and he holds out a hand, beckons her over and reassures her with a quick cuddle before snagging a bit of ham from his breakfast to offer her. Once will not hurt, and she deserves it for being a good dog.

Faolan glances down at Lily as she sneaks forward towards the other man before he glances back to his plate where he continues to slowly pick at his food. He is eating it! But what little appetite he may have had before has relatively vanished in the face of the rest of it all. And now that he's sitting still and not panicking, threatening to leave, he realizes just how terrible he feels. Even despite the medication, his head is ready to pound itself apart, and it's only through practice of having been through similar binges (and worse) that he's managing to keep his food down at all.

He understands that just about every time he has opened his mouth he has come to regret it. So he falls silent -- for good this time -- slumped forward over his plate as he makes his way through it. Small methodical bite by small methodical bite. Seriously lamenting the fact that his stomach is really not doing well enough for a coffee, because he could really use one right about now. And trying not to feel too guilty about everything he has done wrong in the last 24 hours. It's quite the list at this point...

Now that the awkward conversation isn't so enforced Lancelot eats a little quicker, working his way through his breakfast while stroking at Lily's soft ears. She sits with her face in his lap, blinking in sedate pleasure at the soothing feel of his hands on her fur. Her closeness comforts Lancelot too, who seems to calm himself of the awkward tension he had a moment earlier, and mixed with the quiet it begins to help him focus his thoughts too.

"How long?" he prompts finally, "you said it had been a long time, and that you think the tea... worked more because there was already something."

He lifts his eyes finally, studying Faolan curiously -- one hand drawing his drink closer while the other still smooths Lily's fur.

By now, Faolan's picked apart as much of the meal as he can. It's mostly eaten, although there's a bit of leftover toast he just couldn't bring himself to finish that he's poking about as if it will just magically disappear. He glances up at Lancelot at the question before looking back at the plate and forcing himself to put down the utensils at least. Reaching for his drink, taking a sip, playing with it in his hands a little, swirling it in the glass, before he finally responds. Taking in a breath and letting it out slowly to steady himself. Flushing slightly, no less.

"You made me a birthday cake," he says, awkwardly, knowing that will give Lancelot an idea of the timing without actually mentioning that it had been since November.

Lancelot takes a sip of his drink as he waits, expecting Faolan to go on....

But he doesn't, and while it's somewhat endearingly sweet (you made me a birthday cake), he can't help but feel a slight flash of confusion that this is... apparently it?

He knows Faolan appreciates what he does for him, that he seems unused to the easy style of friendship Lancelot offers, but is that really all it takes?

Hesitating a moment he tries to think of a way to prompt him on that won't come over... offensive? Dismissive?

"And that's... when you realised?" he tries, quietly willing there to be something more to it than the cake was so good I felt loved.

Faolan chews on his lip, playing with his glass and shaking his head slightly. Yes and no, honestly. He knows that he owes the other man more of an explanation than cake. He just isn't sure how to explain himself. Not in a way that should make sense to the other man at all. Not without feeling like a fool. But he should try anyway. After as much of a fool as he'd made of himself already, what should it matter anymore?

"It wasn't the cake. I mean, it was, sort of, but. Not in the way that you're thinking," he says, seeing the look on the other man's face. He reaches up to run a hand through his hair and turns so that he doesn't have to look at Lancelot as he struggles to put this into words.

"I... I had just come back from being under cover. I had missed you. I'd missed a lot of things really, but." He swallows. "You made me a cake. You cared. About me, and about something that I hadn't even given a thought to in years. And I hadn't even told you the day. But there it was. And there you were. And I was just so glad to see you, I..." He lets his gaze fall to the floor, still not looking at Lancelot, his voice falling low and quiet as well. "It. Was after that, that I realized..." He trails off, shrugging slightly.

He feels peculiarly stuck on the cake (You made me a cake, Faolan says, and You cared about me, and he isn't entirely sure he fully understands why a cake is so significant.) and yet clearly, strange as it seems, this was important to Faolan. Perhaps because he felt so tired and wrung out at the time, it all felt such a contrast. Perhaps Faolan truly has been lonely enough that any sign of care feels threefold strong. It strikes a painful note of pity in Lancelot, the thought that perhaps anyone who showed kindness to Faolan could have ended up this way. That perhaps Faolan was so starved of kindness his gratefulness for it had swollen out of control.

"Faolan," he murmurs gently, "you deserve far better than this. And you will find that person -- I know you will. Someone as strong and kind as you are, but... forgive me for saying so, you should not settle for cake."

Lancelot's words confuse and surprise Faolan, enough to have him glancing up and over to the other man in turn. It takes him a moment to process the analogy, the fact that Lancelot has made it at all surprising him so much.

"Settle for...?" he asks, raising his eyebrows slightly at that. "Lancelot, I don't." He shakes his head for a moment. "I don't know what you're trying to say about me, or. What you're trying to say about yourself for that matter. But I'm not settling on anything. And what I deserve? You've always been far kinder, far more supportive, far more forgiving than anything I've ever deserved. That's what I've been trying to tell you."

"Then you do not give yourself enough credit, Faolan. You deserve plenty."

Lancelot is not even sure why he thinks he would not. Faolan has worked hard, and perhaps he has made mistakes but does not everyone? Is anyone truly free from making mistakes?

"Whatever you may think of me I am not any more deserving of anything than you are."

Faolan stares at the other man incredulously. He had understood that Lancelot was a humble man, of course he had, but he supposes until this moment he had not realized perhaps that Lancelot's opinion of himself was as low as it is. Of course he knew that the other man had questioned why anyone would be interested in him before. And he knew, hazily, from yesterday's conversation that because of his background, he had had to grow up with less than others might have done. But the way he acted most of the time, Faolan wouldn't have thought that it bothered him. He's either very good at hiding the fact that it does, or. He's convinced himself that he's somehow lesser, that this is what he deserves. And Faolan can't figure out which thought hurts more.

"I may have had a lot to drink, but I do remember some things from yesterday. Enough to remember what you said, about me. How I make things 'more interesting than necessary', I believe your words were," Faolan retorts. "There are plenty of other people out there who are far less of a challenge than I am, and I know it. And yet here I am, despite all that. You said that I was a good friend. That my...difficulties didn't cancel that out." He frowns up at the other man. "So why should this be any different?"

He blinks at Faolan like he doesn't fully understand the question himself, frowns in confusion.

"Faolan, you're head of Hillingdon faction. You were voted to stand for a position on the Night Council. Even if you don't win that says that... whatever you think of yourself, plenty of people believe in you and trust you. Who am I?"

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject