Work Text:
"Surprise!"
Lancelot watches Vane lift the six bags of groceries in his arms as high as he can just as the front door to Siegfried's small house opens. Siegfried certainly looks surprised, but whether it's happy surprised or angry surprised Lancelot can't tell. He takes in Siegfried's worn khaki shorts, the Iron Maiden tour t-shirt from before any of them were born, the red and white flannel tied around his waist. God, he's cool. Lancelot makes a mental note to try and tie his hair in that same casual messy bun when he gets home. How does Siegfried make it look like he just rolled out of bed, anyway?
Vane's arms are straining under the weight, and Lancelot notices the vein in his neck start to pulse, so he taps him on the shoulder. With a grin, Vane lowers them to a much more acceptable height. Siegfried leans in his doorframe, crossing his arms on his chest.
"What are you two doing here?" he asks. "I wasn't expecting company."
Oh, he knew this was a bad idea. That's got to be Siegfried's angry tone. It sounds suspiciously like his normal tone, but there's no way that's true. Lancelot clears his throat to apologize when Vane just shoves his way right inside the house oh god. Lancelot stares, trying to keep his mouth closed, feeling his eyes bulge at the effort. Even for Vane, that's so presumptuous, and-
Siegfried's off the doorframe and waving him inside with a small smile. "Come in, Lancelot."
"Sorry for the intrusion," Lancelot mumbles. Siegfried ruffles his hair as he enters the house and he instantly feels his shoulders relax.
"It's such a nice day Lancey and I decided to barbeque!" Vane says, already half down the hall. In fact, from the sound of his feet, he's already made it to the kitchen. "But, of course, we don't have a barbeque! I mean we did, but you remember how it broke-"
"Weren't you trying to barbeque in the middle of winter?" Siegfried asks. The two of them enter the kitchen, where Vane is making quick work dumping the various bags they'd purchased on every counter surface available. Lancelot had offered to carry a bag or two the four blocks to Siegfried's house, but Vane insisted since he was skipping 'arm day' at the gym for this, he'd carry them all.
Lancelot does help him unload, though, as Vane gives his signature hearty laugh.
"Well, yeah, but I didn't expect a sheet of ice to fall off the roof of the apartment and break it!" Vane says. "I still have the scar from the stitches. On the bright side, the steaks were delicious."
Siegfried and Lancelot exchange a look, both knowing full well that no one ate any of the steaks, as they were frozen solid beneath a sheet of ice by the time Lancelot returned from the hospital. No one had had the heart to tell Vane in the past five months, though. Not even Percival.
Lancelot unpacks various condiments and sauces from the last bag, sliding a bottle of hot sauce so warm he's pretty sure it's producing its own heat towards Vane. Vane's washing his hands, pulling out knives, and setting to work on the ground beef mixture for patties, measuring spices and flavours.
"Well, while I appreciate you coming by, there is just one small problem," Siegfried says. He picks dirt out from under his nails. Lancelot pauses as he tears apart a head of lettuce. "I don't have any propane."
Lancelot's shoulders go rigid and his heart sinks through the floor and into Siegfried's unkempt basement. Oh, god, no. Why was everything going so wrong today?
"What!" Vane's delayed shout rattles the windows of the kitchen and adjoining rooms. Siegfried puts a hand up to still the overhead light before it shakes so hard it falls. "But it's barbeque season!"
"It's May second," Siegfried counters, "and until last week, it was below zero, which isn't barbeque season for... most of us. And my car's in the shop, so we can't just roll out and get more."
There's a glint in Vane's eyes. "I could-"
"You're not carrying a tank of propane here, Vane," Lancelot interjects, finding his voice. "That's not safe."
"Aww, always lookin' out for me Lancey! But you need to eat three square meals a day, so I'll make you food even if I have to produce propane my-"
"That won't be needed." This time Siegfried interjects, his eyes edged with concern. They both know Vane is about five seconds away from Googling how to make propane and will attempt whatever the first site tells him. "There is another solution here. We do know a guy who could help."
Vane furrows his brows, holding a saltshaker in his hand, and cocks his head to the side. He shoots a 'We do?' look to Lancelot, who sighs and puts out his hand towards Siegfried.
"I'll call, but he doesn't answer if I do it from my own phone," Lancelot says. "And Vane doesn't even have his number. He changed it and didn't tell anyone for two weeks when he discovered I gave it to Vane. Then he mailed me a very strongly worded letter about privacy."
"Mailed?"
"It was handwritten. Postage stamped. We live in the same building."
Siegfried gives a light laugh and nods. Vane, still confused, returns to making burger patties. Lancelot wipes his own hands clean on a dishtowel as Siegfried pulls out a phone that was probably made during the Iron Maiden tour on his t-shirt. It weights at least five pounds. It takes Lancelot two minutes to figure out how to make a call, and even then it fails. Siegfried points to an antenna he needs to put up.
Three rings later, he finally gets an answer.
-
"This is beneath me," Percival says, staring at the unlit barbeque. His arms are crossed over an expensive looking Oxford patterned with anchors, his navy shorts probably even more expensive, the sunglasses pushing back his hair the most pricey of all. He taps one sandaled foot in annoyance. "You insisted on the phone it was an urgent matter-"
"It is!" Vane huffs. Lancelot has no idea where he got it, but he's dug up a pink 'Kiss the Cook' apron and is standing with his hands on his hips beside the redhead. The patties sit, covered, on a plate resting on the side burner. "I have to barbeque!"
Percival treats him to his Level 5 Scowl of Disproval (Vane Interrupted Me Edition), and Lancelot has to bite his lip not to laugh. Siegfried is less successful, and covers it with the fakest coughing fit of all time. Thankfully, they are both, for the moment, beneath Percival's attention.
"Hardly a call for crisis, let alone for my services, mutt," Percival scoffs. "And why not ask me to merely replenish the propane levels, if you're all so impoverished that you cannot afford a new tank?"
"Because I'm impoverished," Siegfried says, lounging on his $400 lawn chair on his patio outside his half million dollar home and drinking apple juice from a crystal wine glass. "And your services are free. If it's too difficult a feat for you, of course, we can always ask you to step out for the propane, so long as you can cover the charge."
"Too difficult?" The change is instant. Percival's scowl twists, slightly, into a sneer. He angles his head back two degrees and juts his chin forward. Lancelot steps back, and Siegfried curls his knees to his chest to give him a space to sit. It's really quite a comfy chair. "Hardly. The act is so simple it barely warrants my talents. A child could do it."
"Great!" Vane grins, pointing at the barbeque. "I need you to maintain a consistent temperature so I can cook these properly. Oh, and keep the flames from leaping up at me when-"
"We have already established my thorough knowledge of the inner workings of a barbeque," Percival snaps. He shoves Vane aside (for no reason, as Vane wasn't even blocking his path to the barbeque). A little bit of fire leaps from his finger into the grill, then a little more. In a matter of minutes, the burgers are cooking, Vane and Percival elbowing each other to keep their positions.
Lancelot turns back to Siegfried, who's since finished his juice. They meet each other's gaze. Lancelot nods towards the kitchen, and the two sneak their way in through the screen door the moment the first shouts of "That's too warm!" and "Your thermometer's broken, cur!" begin.
"It would have been a lot quieter to get more propane ourselves, I see," Siegfried notes. He begins pulling trays out as Lancelot returns to preparing vegetables where he left off.
"With Vane? Not a chance," Lancelot replies. "Now he has to wait his turn to speak at least."
Siegfried laughs, seating himself on the counter beside the sink. He's refilled his glass, though Lancelot has no idea when, and this time it looks a lot less like juice and a lot more like alcohol. He drinks it slowly as Lancelot makes his way through chopping tomatoes, peppers, and doing his very best not to cry as he finishes the onions.
Since he fails spectacularly at the 'not crying', he spends the next two minutes holding Kleenex to his face and sniffling. Siegfried shifts from his seat to pat Lancelot's back, quietly reminding him that it's all a part of the natural order, and grief comes in different forms. Then he offers the rest of his wine.
Lancelot chugs it. God Siegfried is cool.
They take the toppings and buns outside just as Vane plates the burgers. He has a new giant mustard stain on the front of his apron, and also at the side of his mouth, and Lancelot isn't sure he wants to know what happened. He and Siegfried slide the plates onto the patio table.
"He just consumed an entire bottle of mustard, aside from the obvious spillage," Percival notes, following Lancelot's gaze to the large mustard stains. "I cannot suffer this knowledge alone. It was horrible to witness."
"I was hungry!" Vane replies with a huge laugh. "That's all the flames I need for now, Percy. It's time for you to become a fire fighter, instead of a fire lighter, eh? Eh?"
Vane elbows Percival in the side once for each 'eh', grinning widely. Percival cracks his knuckles, one by one. Flames shoot straight up from the barbeque, twenty feet in the air, red and dangerous. Siegfried's hand clamps down on Percival's shoulder, and Lancelot ducks around to tug Vane to the side.
"So, uh, tell me about the burgers, Vane," he says, glancing over his shoulder at Siegfried's cool smile. Percival looks livid. The barbeque is smoldering, though the flames are gone. Maybe it was a good thing they didn't have any propane.
"Oh! Since we each like different things, I made each burger to suit our tastes," he says. His excitement bubbles up through his shoulders. "This one's for Siegfried. Since he's old and mature, I added in blue cheese, black pepper, and Dijon mustard. I know he likes to load up on veggies, so I only gave him one patty!
"Percy's is equal ratios cumin, hot sauce, meat, and habanero pepper. Okay, not really equal ratios, it's kind of obviously mostly meat, but it'll pack a punch! I hope it tastes alright, I was afraid to try it out..." he slides two patties to the plate, one on each side of the bun.
"Next is yours, Lancey!"
"Just Lancelot is fine, Vane."
"That's what I said, Lancey!" His grin is infectious. Lancelot can't help but match it. "Yours is a more classic style, cause I know that's your favourite: simple herbs and spices, with your cheddar premelted in at gooey way you like, not half done like inferior burger joints we've been to. And I made you bacon! There's three patties since you need to eat more!"
Lancelot feels his face fall as, indeed, three patties slide onto his bun, followed by layers of bacon. He is never going to finish.
"Finally, my own burger!" The final two patties make their way onto the plate. "Rosemary, garlic, a hint of Worcestershire sauce and Colby Jack cheese... perfection."
"This is really impressive, Vane," Lancelot says. "I'm looking forward to eating it..."
"Especially the three patties?" Vane's elbow is in his side.
Lancelot wilts, the weight of guilt and Vane's happy expectations on his shoulders. "Especially that, Vane."
"Let's eat then," Siegfried slides in and grabs his plate, his other hand pocketing what Lancelot thinks is a large cheque. A quick glance over his shoulder at the smoking, blackened remnants of the barbeque, Percival's scowl, and his gold plated chequebook confirms, well, everything.
They load up on condiments. Siegfried does indeed turn his burger into what Lancelot would deem a 'salad sandwich that happened to have a burger patty in there'. He isn't sure Siegfried can fit that much lettuce in his mouth. Percival puts hot sauce on the burger, possibly not realizing it already contains some (Lancelot really, really hopes he doesn't realize). He follows this with half an onion. Nothing else.
Vane puts a respectable amount of everything on his burger, with mustard notably absent. Lancelot tries to get away with just a bit of ketchup and relish, but Vane's there at every turn, adding vegetables and sauces on his plate. Lancelot has to politely decline a third pickle seven times before Vane huffs and lets him actually close the burger.
They stand around Siegfried's patio set, the smell of burning metal in the background, the leftover vegetables and bottled condiments scattered. Siegfried appears to have unhinged his jaw to take his first burger bite, and Lancelot has never been so wowed by another human being. Vane's made short work of his and is eyeing a jar of corn relish thoughtfully. Percival takes one bite and chews slowly, thinking it over.
Lancelot feels himself begin to smile, bringing the monstrosity of a burger to his mouth. The first three bites are perfect: tender meat, a great combination of sauces, surprisingly not too meaty.
Bite four is a disaster.
It starts at the back of his mouth: an odd sensation, somewhere between itching and biting his tongue. He makes the foolish mistake of swallowing to try and investigate further. It's then his mouth heats, fire spreading from tongue to palate, up into his brain. He chokes. He bends over. Tears spring to his eyes. He may or make not make some pathetic whimpering sound.
Someone rubs his back. He reaches out for water, and is handed a bottle of ranch salad dressing, Percival's expensive sleeve cuff in the corner of his blurring vision. He drinks it anyway. It doesn't help.
"Oh, crap," he hears Vane mutter, a thousand eons beyond his layers of mouth pain, "I think I got one of those patties mixed up with Percival's."
"You don't say!" Siegfried remarks. His voice is heavy with sarcasm. "And here I thought Lancelot couldn't handle light seasoning."
"He can't," Percival says. "The burger isn't even that spicy."
If Percival considers deathly mouth burning pain 'not spicy', Lancelot isn't sure he wants to know what is. He tries to comment, makes another wimpy choking noise, and coughs vigorously. Nothing helps. Vane appears, putting a glass of cold water in his hand, apologies tumbling from his lips in an incoherent stream. Lancelot chugs the glass like it's the last water on earth.
"You should invite me to more of these," Percival comments, his burger finished and his hands quickly fishing the offending patty out of Lancelot's burger. "This makes for great dinner theatre."
Lancelot, around the cup and tears and the slow relaxing of his burning throat, flips him the bird. Siegfried and Vane burst out laughing.