The frenchman was not known to hold their alcohol very well. It was to be expected, given their small frame- not a lot of places for the drinks to go except for straight to their head. It shiuld come to no surprise to their friends that they were now very, very tipsy.
“Alexander!” they exclaimed, slightly too loud for a room that only held four bodies. “-I have missed you so, my poor heart could barely LIVE in France. Comment ai-je fait sans toi?”
They moved to clear off the table, clumsily grabbing the dishes, stacking them in a haphazard tower so they could attempt to make the least amount of trips possible. Lafayette was always headstrong- and this extended to all tasks, large or small. They continued to speak to their friend as they swept off to the kitchen; somehow keeping the grace of a dancer as they did.
“I miss this city when I leave, almost as much as I miss you- there is no one in France quite like you, you are….” They search for words, looking towards the ceiling as if there would be a guide there. “.. unique en son genre. Comprendre?”
They disappeared around the corner for just a moment before reappearing with a new bottle of wine to replace the now empty one that took residency on the table. It would probably benefit the entire party to stop while they were ahead- but it would be rude to refuse the grace of Lafayette, wouldn’t it?
& — Life, as of late, was but a series of tumultuous disasters, each more catastrophic than the last, and within the eye of it all, standing amidst this hurricane that surrounds him, Alexander; surviving the past month or so has been quite the task, even moreso with his previous friend group having long since physically separated. Distance was a cruel, fickle thing, and it seemed the prayers he muttered into the night have been answered; his best friends, returning in synchronized rhyme, parallel hope — dinner plans are made, and he accepts the invitation for both himself and his husband with ease. The meal is eaten, wine abundant and flowing like the river Styx, carrying desolate thought downstream, and all the while, Alexander is beaming like the sun; he realizes, later on, that this is the first time he’s been genuinely happy for at least a month now. He isn’t entirely satisfied with the thought.
Lafayette goes to begin to clean up, however hastily, rambling in their melting pot language of both English and French, and Alexander shakes his mind trying to search for effortless translation; he learned French in grade school, or at least to the conversational level, but time oft unjustly stole this sort of knowledge in times of great drought. He recognizes a few key words, and hopes to himself that this sparse understanding would last him the conversation. “ – you should know you can’t live without me by now,” he says, ego inflated through social encouragement; this was what his friends did: they lifted him up, for better or for worse. He realizes this, now, wine coursing through blood, inebriated thought circling his friends’ names in red highlight. Lafayette disappeared around a corner, going to and from the kitchen, and Alex listens, still, to the best of his abilities.
“Ah…no sé,” he says, mostly to himself; the languages in his brain are combined too easily in this state, but he quickly shrugs and continues his train of thought. “Oh! One of a kind, maybe?” he offers, the translation presumably a terrible attempt at the term, just before Lafayette sets a new bottle of wine onto the tabletop. Alex quirks an eyebrow, almost as if to say, “okay, so we’re doing this.” Instead, he says,
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