Chapter Text
When Xander drinks, usually he drinks alone.
He’ll drink to health at feasts, of course, or sometimes to ease into the celebrations of a festival. And on occasion, he might even have a glass of wine with his dinner, washing down the fatty foods and leaving his palate clear.
But when Xander wishes to drink for the sake of drinking—largely to unwind and relax—he prefers to be solitary. To let his thoughts dull away without the concern of scrutinizing eyes. He’ll drift off, alone and content, until the morning comes.
Tonight, however, that isn’t the case. After a tiresome and long day of decision making, and meetings, and some very tedious conversations, Xander even still had more work to finish. There are times where it seems never ending—and there’s some truth to the sentiment, in reality. However, Xander’s diligence is defining to him as a prince.
But to his surprise, Laslow offered to help lighten the load. Xander was near certain he was in town and causing trouble again, but Xander found him aimlessly roaming the castle halls instead. The two of them struck up a short conversation, and Laslow extended himself, claiming he wanted to get something off his mind.
No matter the reason, Xander was pleased to take the help. Laslow isn’t usually so generous with his free time, in that he wouldn’t normally fill it with more documentation. But together, they were able to work much less deeply into the night than Xander would've alone.
And once they finished, they got to talking again. Which led to relaxing, and eventually to drinking. Xander doesn’t think he’s ever spent an evening with Laslow quite like this. It was nicer than expected, easier than expected. At least for the first while.
Laslow's had a bit of an edge the entire time they’ve been together, and it isn’t intolerable by any means, but he's drunk more than Xander. He's been full of nervous gulps, and sighs, and jitters. And as the night’s stretched on, Xander’s begun to wonder just what it was Laslow needed to get his mind off of.
He truly caught Xander’s attention when he mentioned Elise. She stole Laslow away for a short while today, Xander knows, and he was curious about what they did together. But Laslow shrunk into himself (and took another drink), so Xander decided to probe a little further.
“Uh,” Laslow tries, legs crossed on Xander’s couch and eyes elsewhere. His face begins to redden—and at first, Xander’s concerned Laslow might admit he was less than honorable towards Elise, and was rightfully rejected. How bold of him it would be to go to Xander for comfort after such antics.
Laslow sniffs, and he stares into his wine glass. “I just,” he begins, an unexpected waver in his voice. “...I think she must hate me.”
Xander blinks. “And why is that?” he asks, not convinced of his innocence. But in the next moment, Laslow hiccups, and much to Xander’s surprise he suddenly bursts into tears.
“She said everyone hates my personality!” he cries, throwing his arm over his eyes. “Waaah!”
Xander doesn’t move, still in the process of registering that Laslow has unceremoniously started crying on his couch. “What?”
Laslow leans down and pushes his head into a pillow, pressing enough that his words are muffled. “I’m hated! I’m despised!” he continues dramatically, drunkenly, and holding his glass up in one hand. “I thought maybe I just wasn’t good at—talking, or, or, the fish just didn’t bite, but—I’m just miserable to be around! Waaaah!”
Xander frowns, sitting uncomfortably in his chair. “You’re—exaggerating,” he tries, not sure what else to say. He’s never seen Laslow like this. He doesn’t even properly know what happened.
Laslow straightens himself up on the couch, then takes a long and final drink from his glass until it’s empty. Tears still dripping down, he sets it loosely on the ground, and then watches forlornly as it tilts and rolls.
“You—you hate me too, Lord Xander. I know so,” he says. “You don’t have to indulge me. I am capable of being my miserable self in my lonesome.”
Xander sighs, and he puts his drink aside as well. This is simply how his night is going to go, then. He does need to manage what’s openly weeping in front of him. “I don’t hate you.”
Laslow loafs back down onto the couch, laying on his back this time. “Yes you do.” He sniffs again. “You get mad at me all the time. You make me sit on my feet.”
“Because you misbehave,” Xander says. He massages his temple for a moment, then shakes his head. “I wouldn’t be sitting here and letting you cry on my couch if I hated you.”
“I’m not crying,” Laslow says, crying. Though he’s calmed himself down some as he’s babbled. He rubs his hands over his face, as if making a point of clearing away the tears. “Kick me out, then.”
“No,” Xander says, and Laslow pouts.
“Why not?”
This is quite the stupor he’s worked himself into. And where Xander isn’t sober now, he’s nowhere near Laslow’s state of mind. He’s hardly being rational, any scant remains of proper thought now far elsewhere.
Though drunk or not, Laslow’s still crying. It isn’t as if Xander enjoys seeing him so distraught. Settling into his chair and resting his elbows over the armrests, Xander tries again.
“I’m not only indulging you,” he says decidedly, despite how Laslow squints at him suspiciously. “You would not be my retainer, who I trust with my life and kingdom, if I hated you. Nor would you be my friend, who’s time with me I cherish—that I even look forward to—if that were so. Do not accuse me of such a foolish thing. I don’t appreciate it.”
Laslow stares for a moment, an unwavering gaze, not even clouded by his drunkenness. He rolls onto his side, frowning and looking tired, just looking at Xander.
“I wish you loved me.”
Xander freezes in place, suddenly gripping the armrests of his chair tightly. He assumes he misheard, he must have—but Laslow’s eyes are still so expectant and persistent. And he waits.
Xander scowls, then swallows. He stands and crosses to the couch, kneeling in front of where Laslow lays. Laslow presses his lips together and continues to stare at Xander, eyes beginning to droop, as if the weight of what he said is bringing him closer to sleep.
And Xander, perhaps feeling his drink just a little too strongly, leans down and kisses his forehead.
“Let’s talk when you’re sober,” Xander says. And Laslow shuts his eyes.