open: don't let the wine go to your brains

[untamedantinous]

It shouldn’t be this hard to prepare for a meeting. He’s done it countless times before. However, this time, it somehow is difficult. He’s never really had to set things up at times like this; and he knows as well as anyone else that he is not the best at social niceties. Granted, this meeting is in a much more well-appointed cafe than any he had ever been accustomed to holding space in in Paris. At least they have the benefit of a larger space. Consequently, Enjolras has spent much of the day of the eighth of Menestheus preparing, a little uncertain of how to plan a social gathering that is not immediately centered around planning a revolution. He is trying his best, at least.

Most of the tables and chairs have been pushed a bit more to the center of the room; the couch is arranged off to the opposite side. There are even various pillows scattered about, should anyone choose to sit on the floor. Arranged on a few of the larger tables and the counter there is a modest spread of food: of course, some of Laertes and Galahad’s pastries; but Enjolras has also procured what amounts to a few charcuterie platters: sliced sausages and meats, a selection of (mostly French) cheese, and various sliced loaves of bread and crackers are laid out for perusal, and spreads to go along with them. In an effort to provide multiple options of entertainment, Grantaire has set up a table somewhat near the food, with an assortment of wines and liqueurs. Off to one side, there are a few pots of brewed coffee, cream, sugar, and whatever else anyone might like to add to their beverage of choice. If anyone is drawn to the liquor cabinet, they will find three cups filled with various pieces of paper sitting atop it.

Enjolras himself is lingering on the couch with a glass of wine and some bread. He’s not sure how many people were even informed about this gathering, though he had done his best to advertise. If no one arrives then perhaps he will try again another time; but at least a few in attendance other than himself and Grantaire would certainly be welcome.

Comments

[summerdude]

"So you're dealing with your shit?"

[lanselos_du_lac]

He does -- somewhat to his shame -- have a little flash of anger at that. Who doesn't change, in an environment like this? Who could spend months here and not question where they've come from?

Lancelot pushes that down. He still feels disconnected but he tries to meet Magnus' gaze. "I am trying. I think most of us are. Are you?"

[summerdude]

Saying I slept inside four nights in a row would mean basically nothing to Lancelot, and require context that Magnus isn't inclined to give him. "Sure," he says instead, trying for a crooked smile, and waves a hand between the two of them. "I'm Magnus Chase (hi, Magnus), and it's been 140 days since I last died and/or killed someone else. Zombies obviously excluded. And hey, you've brought the grand total of friends' dads I've met and not defeated or killed to a whopping grand total of one, so. Setting some major new records over here."

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot nods, glances down. He does not owe Magnus an explanation, his time, anything. Even so. Magnus is, he understands (he thinks), trying to help.

He doesn't look up when he responds. He's willing to be honest but any additional vulnerability will be too much. (And besides, Magnus has already seen everything -- nearly everything -- that's dogging him.) "When I first arrived here, I did not even understand that I had been harmed. No, rather, I did not understand that I had been wronged. It took many conversations with Galahad, Laertes, Sagramore, Susan, to come to this realization. It has not been easy."

"Being here, things are very different. At court, after... Elaine, the Queen's reaction, every day was like," he shakes his head, "I don't know. Being burned. There was no relief or rest, and I would not take any of Arthur's comfort. That made it very easy, very likely, for me to lash out so I understand your concern. But here, there has been rest. I'm not being wounded, freshly, every day. My friends, and even Galahad, have given me other ways to understand things. When it overtakes me now, it is not like rage. I don't want to describe it, but maybe you know."

[summerdude]

Magnus fiddles with the label on his bottle of root beer. Mostly he still gets the anger, when he's, like, triggered or whatever. "Grief?"

[lanselos_du_lac]

"No," quietly, "That's separate."

He pauses, and then decides to risk describing it. Magnus is listening, maybe he can make himself clearer. (It still matters little to him, ultimately, whether Magnus likes him or not. It doesn't really matter. But if Magnus will insist on coming at him instead of just leaving him alone, Lancelot may as well give him some chance at understanding.)

"It is like slipping outside of my body, standing next to myself, waiting for a blow to strike that doesn't land. Or-- the way it feels when one has a very bad injury and you have to stay alert anyway. It feels awful. I can't think. Once it passes, I'm exhausted."

[summerdude]

"Oh, yeah, the dissociation." Magnus crosses his arms again. "Like I said, those books should be helpful."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"The what?"

[summerdude]

"Dissociation." Magnus says it slowly. "It's a--" he taps his temple a few times. "--thing."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Ah," with interest. Some of his caution ebbs off. "Susan called it a 'traumatic neurosis.'"

[summerdude]

Magnus shrugs. "Never heard of it."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Perhaps they mean the same thing. I've noticed terms change, over time. We had no word for it at all, in my time."

[summerdude]

"Huh," says Magnus. He supposes this tracks, based on his conversations with Galahad and, to a lesser extent, Sagramore. "I'm pretty sure in Valhalla they just call it 'proof of valor.'" This, for what it's worth, is a joke. A really bad joke.

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot absolutely does not grok that this might be a joke. He still looks thoughtful. "Well, since now I understand what you might mean, I will consider the books."

[summerdude]

Magnus sighs, drains the rest of his root beer, and tosses the bottle in an easy arc directly into the trash can, where it clatters against the walls as it falls. Oh, score.

Then he forces himself not to cross his arms again. Bigger man, he reminds himself. Lancelot is being, like. Surprisingly decent? Horrifyingly. To keep himself from crossing his arms, he wraps his fingers around the edge of the counter, letting it bite into his palms. "Look," he says. "Some of my issues with you are on me and my issues, not on you and your behavior. I'll own that."

[lanselos_du_lac]

A little nod. "I appreciate that admission."

[summerdude]

"Like," Magnus releases the edge of the counter long enough to gesture vaguely at Lancelot. "It's the cop energy. Your vibes. Also," he adds, and then slams his mouth shut. Galahad said Lancelot isn't a dad to him, so maybe Magnus shouldn't judge Lancelot for being a deadbeat dad. "Yeah."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"I don't understand cop energy." The question is sincere, even if it does come out a bit flat.

[summerdude]

"The energy of a cop," Magnus says, always the picture of a helpful young man. He knows exactly where Lancelot's confusion comes from, because nobody here knows what a cop is. "A bearing which evokes memories or the ambiance of cops." Then he relents. "Police officers. Sagramore said the parallel from your time might be reeves."

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot thinks for a moment, then nods and shrugs. "Perhaps knights as well," he admits. "I am sorry it is so, but--" That little shrug. "I was trained from a boy to serve and keep peace. There's little need of it here, so I try to keep to myself if I know someone dislikes me."

[summerdude]

Oh, gods, he's copping to his cop energy? This is grim. "The thing is," Magnus explains, helpfully, "All cops are bastards."

[lanselos_du_lac]

He has an initial thought about his parentage, then adjusts once Magnus' actually meaning dawns on him.

After a moment he says, "I am sorry, but I can change neither my past nor my training." He thinks, briefly, that there is little he can do about his demeanor, as well, but he isn't sure he agrees with that any longer. "I strive for peace and accord. I want us to get along. But I do not need you to like me, if you do not already. I will treat you with as much respect as any here-- and not just for Galahad's sake."

[summerdude]

"How did you 'serve and keep peace?'"

[lanselos_du_lac]

"I'll not bore you with history, but I was always meant to serve the High King of Britain. I fought with him against those who made war on him. We sought alliances where they could be found. I served Britain as he bade me." He knows this is a poor explanation. "There was nearly always war, in which nobles or kings made wreck of the land in their pursuit of power. Arthur's goal was to end that, unify Britain, so that the folks might prosper."

He pauses, wishing he had more bourbon, because he has begun to question how that was ever meant to work. But he's only begun to question it and so he will say nothing of that to Magnus.

[summerdude]

"So you tried to stop people from destroying the land, or whatever?" Magnus is quiet for a moment. "And what about the people who got in the way of that? What did you do?"