lanselos_du_lac | [Open Post] ..only want to glean the purpose..

Since they learned of Shen Yuan's death, things have been subdued; rightly so, Lancelot reasons. He has done what he can to be a support for those he loves, and to keep his own worry and anxiety at bay. He worries about how they are all doing, about whether or not they are safe, about what he can do to make anything better -- which often feels like nothing. It's unsettling, and he wants to stay settled and present for them, so he determines to find a way to be so.

As has always been the case for him, being outside helps. The weather is warming and true spring is settling in. (He has difficulty keeping track of what time may be like back in Britain¹, but he suspects that it is early summer there. If so, then he supposes that means he is another year older, which is a strangely hopeful thought.) And so, after his lunch with Susan, he heads back out -- he might ride, or walk through the woods, or explore the lake. Whatever keeps him out in the sunshine, under the sky.

^{1: He has not quite realized this yet, but he has generally stopped thinking "at home" when he means Camelot, or Britain in general. That this place -- no, these people -- have become home in so short a span is something he has to take by degrees, lest he worry about what it means for his relationship with those he left behind there.}

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"I am delightful when drunk."

"Oh, I didn't contest that."

"I would say you're usually delightful, drunk or no."

"Wouldst thou?" He's practically beaming.

Sagramore just laughs and shakes his head. "Are we even going to look for the paint?"

"Of course I would-- Oh right! The paint!"

Mildly, into his glass, Lancelot says, "This is a better distraction."

"It's not a distraction! This is very important to me!"

A solemn nod and Grantaire quickly drains his glass. "He needs his chicken accomplishments. Enshrined for futurity."

"I see. Much like his pinball accomplishments."

"Christ, thou art like a dog with a piece of bone! I said I would prove myself to thee. Up, then, let's go."

"The bones must be good or the dogs wouldn't be so interested," he points out as he stands.

"Aye, so says I -- as a dog, I suppose. But Grantaire, know thou-- he knew I could never let it be."

"Then let's go. On thy feet, sir."

"Yes! We have places to be!"

Lancelot drains his glass, then turns to grab for Grantaire's hand, saying in a tone of confidentiality, "He hates when I do this. Though certainly Sagramore, of all people, should know my weaknesses."

"What are thou accusing me of now?"

"Oh, is there an accusation afoot?"

"It's not an accusation!" His tone is somewhere between petulant and laughing; he tangles his fingers with Grantaire's. He is, as it happens, more drunk than he realized before they stood up. "It's only that I suspect it's annoying when I can't let something go."

"I don't hate when thou dost anything. Thou mistakest me. I just want to clear the air. Grantaire, sweeting, take us to the game room."

"Of course." He squeezes Lancelot's hand, grabs Sagramore's with his other, and heads determinedly towards the game room.

Lancelot laughs a little and lets himself be led without any further protest.

Sagramore follows cheerfully. He's a bit unsteady on his feet, but nothing serious.

Grantaire is arguably the least drunk member of this procession¹, so he leads them quite ably through the halls until they arrive at the game room. "Your classroom, sir!"

¹Or rather, the one with the highest alcohol tolerance, sigh.

"Aye, noble champion, instruct us!"

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sagramore - 2024-09-23 19:19 (UTC) - Expand