[Open Post] ..hell yes i mind..

[lanselos_du_lac]

It's been a long while since Lancelot felt this way: angry and adrift, too overwhelmed and in his own head to determine how best to manage it. (If Susan were here, it would be simple -- but the fact that his Susan is gone is part of the problem.) His anger is a hot stone at his center, a roiling mess, a weapon without a target. He still feels that he would like to smash something, start a fight, find some way to externalize everything all the things he could not bring himself to say to the Galahad who is far older than he ought to be, the quiet king of a quiet kingdom.

A fulfilled purpose. A completed quest. A long chain of manipulation and events that dragged Lancelot along in its wake, and that (in this other time, he has to acknowledge, not his time and not now) led only to the ruin of everything Lancelot had cared for. And for what? It makes him furious to think that the price of the Grail was Galahad's joy, Galahad's self, and that that price was somehow being paid long before Galahad was even born.

That's just the start of it; there is more, much more, and it feels like it will keep spooling out without ceasing.

His impulse, as ever, is to stalk off to his room and stay there until he feels he can manage himself. (He thinks, not for the first time, of himself ten years older and outwardly angry, angry enough that everyone sees it, fears him or dreads his company. A man who lashes out. He does not want that future, but this possibility has always been somewhere just under the surface; he's always known it. Sometimes it has worked for him, with him, but he knows that it is dangerous and there is no one in this place that he would want to bear witness to it.) If this were Camelot, that is what he would do.

Since he can't figure what to do, he settles for a middle ground. It's been a long while since he felt like getting very deliberately drunk, but that appeals just now, and so he heads for one of the smaller bars, just off the main corridor.

^{[Note: All are welcome! Those who care for Lancelot and/or those who also wish to fistfight God are particularly welcome.]}

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[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot, too, is both sweat-soaked and perhaps a little giddy. He draws his sleeve across his brow, "Aye. Shouldst have done. I am very good."

[timebethine]

Laughing, "My love, thou art shining."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Nay," he laughs as well, "No, that is what thou'rt about."

[timebethine]

"I but reflect thy light, as the moon does the sun."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Thou'rt too constant to be the moon," easily. "Is there cold water?"

[timebethine]

"Ay--inside, or in the cellar. Wouldst drink? Or wash?"

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Both, perhaps." He plucks at his shirt. He's taken to wearing his usual tunic with jeggings, most days.

[timebethine]

Laertes marks the plucking of the tunic with a normal amount of interest. "Couldst swim with me."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Yes," brightly, "I had not thought of that, somehow."

[timebethine]

Laertes has the distinct sense that Lancelot is ribbing him, but he lets it be; he hauls Lancelot in by the front of his shirt for a swift, declarative kiss. "Then let me take the soup off of the fire, that it should 'scape burning," he says, and reaches for what seems to be a hook from a fireplace poker set to lift the soup pan by its handle. He sets it gently down on a nearby table and puts the lid on it, then tucks the poker against the oven again. "There. Race thee to the water?"

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Wouldst make a man race thee after laboring all day over bricks?" He truly was not ribbing Laertes before, but he absolutely is now.

[timebethine]

"Nay, I should let thee dawdle and creep."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Aye, do-- and best of luck to thee!" And he's off.

[timebethine]

"Thou wretch!" he shouts, as though he wasn't expecting exactly this kind of sudden betrayal--then he takes off running after Lancelot, cackling all the way.

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot is laughing as well, and admittedly he is slowed by his efforts to undress as they reach the pier.

[timebethine]

Laertes is doing the same, so they're evenly matched--but Lancelot still comes out just a hair ahead. Laertes's bare feet are pattering down the dock soon after, though, and with a last wild fling of his underwear (they catch in a bush and hang there lewdly), he's plunging into the cool lake water.

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot joins him only a moment later, swimming out toward him, still beaming.

[timebethine]

"Joy looks well on you," says Laertes as they draw close to one another. They're still close enough to the shore that his feet touch the lake bottom; soft mud and tumbled stone shift beneath his toes. He reaches for Lancelot--almost reflexive by now, a moth's yearning to immolate itself in light.

[lanselos_du_lac]

He pulls Laertes in, "Thinkst thou so?"

[timebethine]

Even in the cold of the water, Laertes's skin is still hot to the touch. "I do."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Well, in this case it is thanks to thee." He gives Laertes a quick, sweet kiss.

[timebethine]

Grinning, "Art thou recovered from thy toils?"

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Quite refreshed. My thanks."

[timebethine]

"And now? Wouldst thou still be commanded?"

[lanselos_du_lac]

Wrapping an arm around his waist, he says, "I am much improved, but I could still be commanded."