untamedantinous | quatre: they will put away the sword

Grantaire is walking into the kitchen to grab a snack and almost doesn't recognize Enjolras in the clothes he's not used to, but only almost. He pauses in the doorway, blinking a few times, before he enters. "Found a new pastime?"

"Mm?" He turns and glances at Grantaire, continuing in his work. There is --flour everywhere, including on his face, but he is making the effort at least. "I suppose so. I have never tried it before, but--" he shrugs. "The boeuf bourguignon the cold box gave me the other day was quite frankly an embarrassment, and I was hoping I might do a little better."

"Well, if you take to it with the diligence you do anything else, I have no doubt it will be a fine loaf of bread indeed." He pauses. "Also, you have flour on your face."

"I wouldn't bet on it. I do not think I have ever baked a thing in my life." He frowns and brushes at his face, which just serves to smudge the flour around some more. "Do I? Thank you."

"Well, you'll at least get there eventually, then." The attempt, though, at wiping the flour off his face makes him stifle laughter. "That didn't... here." He only hesitates for half a breath before stepping forward to wipe the flour off himself.

He clears his throat. "There. Good as new."

Edited 2023-12-23 02:07 (UTC)

Enjolras gives him a small smile and a nod, moving back to let the dough rest a little and wash his hands. "Thank you. It is a bit of a mess in here. Hopefully I can straighten it up some while the dough sits. I think that is the next step."

Grantaire steps back as well, lightly rubbing his fingertips against one another¹. "I could help?"

¹ To knock the flour off. Clearly. Obviously.

"If you'd like," he offers, turning his attention to the recipe book. "What have you been doing with yourself, then, the last few days?"

Grantaire shrugs and starts to collect mixing bowls and the like to clean. "Eh, you know me. Drinking, carousing, playing pointless games."

By the power of wibbly-wobbly time, Enjolras deposits the dough in the greased bowl, covers it, and moves to help Grantaire as well. "That does sound like you," he agrees, with a wry kind of look. "--I am glad we got to see Courfeyrac and Combeferre."

He nods. "So am I." He scrubs at a mixing bowl. "Whatever else this place does in the future, I'll be grateful to it for giving them back to you for a day."

"You and Courfeyrac seemed to have a good enough time," mildly. "Though I am sorry it did not think to bring Joly or Bossuet."

"Oh, we had a good enough time, yes," is the just as mild reply, although a smile flits across his face as he says it. "That said, if our visitors could number only two, the right two came."

"--Well, Joly would have thought he was going to get a disease from Temeraire, undoubtedly. And Bossuet would have fallen off of him, I'm sure."

And that's a surprised laugh that falls out of him as he turns to look at Enjolras. "Both true. Oh, one eagle which should certainly never try to fly."

Enjolras' eyes are twinkling, a little, but he's not about to mention it. "Certainly not unless he was latched on very securely."

Grantaire's own smile tries very hard to stay wry, although it's more an overwhelming swell of fondness being actually displayed. "And I'm sure his luck would keep the straps ever so secure."

"Well, surely Temeraire knows how tightly one must be latched on. He is a very intelligent dragon." His own smile grows a little wider.

"Of course he is. Interesting bout between L'aigle's luck and Temeraire's brilliance, then." He starts to wipe down the counter.

Enjolras will settle into rinsing out and washing the bowls, then. “Yes. He has told me he does have his harness here, perhaps I can convince him to take me flying sometime.”

He nods slowly, continuing to clean. "It seems appropriate. If the Bonaparte of his world has gotten to fly on a dragon, it is only fair that a better man by far from ours should be able to do the same."

He makes a little ‘tch’ sort of noise, but he’s smiling at the bowls as he washes them. “It is not hard, to be better than Buonaparte. Unless you venerate him as Pontmercy does.”

"I venerate very little as much as Pontmercy venerates Bonaparte¹."

¹ Do we even need to state what the notable exception is at this point?

Edited 2023-12-23 06:07 (UTC)

“Alcohol, perhaps,” somewhat drily. Why yes, he is going to avoid the elephant in the room.

He laughs softly and tosses the washcloth he was wiping the counter with into the sink. "Ah yes, that must be it."

There is only so much bowl-washing one can do when baking bread, there’s only a few bowls involved, after all. So he finishes up and settles against the counter. “You shouldn’t,” he says quietly, knowing Grantaire is going to ignore this as he always does. “I am not—I am nothing so good that I should be venerated.”

Grantaire pushes himself up to sit on the counter he just cleaned, and he regards Enjolras closely. "The supposed great men of history, you're a fair sight better than any of them." He shrugs. "You're not perfect, I know that, but..." He shakes his head, waving a hand airily. "I know, it's nothing you want to hear, that's fine."

“Of course I am not perfect,” earnestly. “I’ve killed men. Men that were no further apart from me than you and I are just now.” He hesitates a moment, and goes for his until-now abandoned coffee, sipping at it as he considers his next words. “You missed it,” he continues carefully. “But it was necessary at the time.”

"I know you had," he says, tone several shades more serious than is usual for him. In fact, it's comparable to what it was in their brief exchange before he passed out at the Corinthe. "I was probably the only one who found a way to avoid that, and that's hardly to my credit."

"--Not the only one," quietly. "Though theirs was unintentional." He takes another quick sip of coffee to fortify himself. "Bahorel was the first to fall, before the fighting had even properly started. He would be disappointed to know he missed the bulk of it, I think," with a rueful smile. "And Prouvaire, he was taken prisoner. We were going to trade him for a police spy, but --it was already too late."

Grantaire's answering smile is a bit bittersweet itself. "Of course Bahorel was the first to fall. He'd probably consider it an honor. Jehan... he shouldn't have had to be alone."

"You are right." His voice turns a little brusque, here --but it is mostly aimed at himself, not Grantaire. "He was..very brave. Got caught up in the first attack, in the confusion when Pontmercy arrived."

He nods. "Of course he was." He reaches over and rests a hand on Enjolras's shoulder.

Enjolras sighs a little and reaches up to clasp his hand briefly. "I am sorry," he says quietly. "I think this is the first time we've spoken of the barricades; it is ...difficult."

Grantaire's hand doesn't move. "Harder for you, I'd figure. I saw little and did less. But I knew them too, and I'll remember them alongside you."

Neither does Enjolras'. "That is all I can ask," he replies, attempting to summon up a smile. It doesn't quite work. "They need not have died for my sake. I know it was not for me, but -- it does feel like it at times."

Grantaire shakes his head, squeezing Enjolras's shoulder slightly. "They followed you because they believed in the same things you did. They didn't die for your sake, they died along with you, for France's sake."

"You didn't." He turns to look at Grantaire then, a little uncertain, but clear in his purpose all the same. "At least, not for France's sake. I was not afraid of dying alone. I expected it, in fact. I have said it before, but I...ah. Thank you. If I needed to die --at least I had someone who cares for me at my side." His eyes are still on Grantaire's, watching him cautiously. It is not often -- hardly at all that he unburdens himself thus to Grantaire, and so he is not entirely certain where to go from here.

He meets Enjolras's eyes, not averting his gaze. "I couldn't not. I knew where it would likely end, and that's why I stayed." He'd been a Cassandra soaked in alcohol, in truth. "I'm only grateful you permitted it." By that he means both that he stayed and... the obvious.

He smiles, then -- a very similar to the smile he gave Grantaire on that day, and nods. "I knew you weren't entirely hopeless," he says, in an effort to lighten up the conversation. "I may have said something to that effect before that, but -- " A shrug. "There was not time for many things, then."

"I know," he says with a smile of his own. "I'm only mostly hopeless anyway."

"Especially mostly hopeless in fencing," almost teasing, that smile turning a little fond. "We should practice again, sometime."

"If you wish it. I'll point out, though, that there are several other pastimes available here." Have a slightly impish grin, Enjolras. "And on account of your sensibilities, I won't even mention billiards among them."

"Thank you," primly, and he waves at the covered dough. "Yes, I know there are, I am doing one of them right now, if you recall. What else did you have in mind?"

"I found an entertaining game called pinball. Or if you insist on more physical activity, we could probably fashion up a strange variant of tennis in lieu of an actual court. I think I saw some racquets on a shelf in the game room."

"Well, it will have to wait until I can put this in the oven and such, I think perhaps it may be almost ready. It should have doubled in size, in theory."

"I wasn't expecting right this second. You'd be surprised at how patient I can be."

"At least one of us can be," with a playful sort of smile, and he leans to check the recipe. "--Ah, I was mistaken anyway, there is another rise after this one."

Grantaire looks incredibly amused. "Ah yes. Sometimes there needs to be several uprisings before the desired results."

"Mm." He lifts an eyebrow. "Would the oven, then, be Louis-Phillipe, in this case?"

"That depends on if you see him as a necessary step in the recipe."

"I mean, he did put an end to the uprisings." He taps his chin, looking amused. "I shouldn't like to eat an unbaked baguette. But I also shouldn't like to subject my dough to Louis-Phillipe, so perhaps he is not the oven."

He laughs a little. "As kings go..." But he shrugs. "But surely not the fire you'd want for your bread, no."

"No. Apparently baguettes like to be difficult, one must make steam in the oven when putting them in to get them properly crispy."

He laughs, a fond smile blooming. "You do like to make things difficult for yourself sometimes."

“Oh, come, you know you would like a proper baguette as much as I would. Nina would probably like them too.” But he’s returning the smile.

"Oh, I'm hardly denying I would enjoy a proper fresh-baked baguette. Or an improper one if that's all you can manage to produce."

"Very well, we shall get first tasting rights. Simply because we will know what to look for."

"Of course. It takes someone of discerning taste who knows a baguette to judge a baguette."

"Yes. I will come and find you when they are done, unless you're still here, of course."

"I have nowhere else to be, and I do not anticipate having somewhere else to be before it's finished, so that makes me much easier to find."

"Well, it will need another 45 minutes of rising before anything else happens." So saying, he gets up and prods at the dough, picking it up once it's deflated and turning it over again. "And then perhaps another 15 minutes after that."

"And of course I've never stayed in one place for an hour before." He hops down from the counter and goes to the fridge.

"Well, of course you have, but it is hardly stimulating, watching bread rise. ...Unless you are Combeferre, I suppose."

He pulls a bottle of beer from the fridge. "And that is why I will not be leaving you here to watch bread rise by yourself. Because that is what conversation is for."

"Alright then," agreeably. "What shall we talk of?"

He hops back up onto the counter and opens his bottle, taking a sip. "So, how bad was the boeuf bourguignon to inspire you to bake?"

He wrinkles his nose. “Truly terrible. It was barely seasoned, the wine wasn’t even good.”

Observe a dramatic recoil. "Oh! The tragedy!"

“Well, perhaps some things do not translate well to the house-provided food.”

"Still. Truly awful for you to have to experience."

"Yes," solemnly. "It was life-shattering."

"Or at least stomach-shattering, I would assume."

"I wouldn't go quite that far. Suffice to say, it was not the best introduction to French food for Little John."

"An insult to both our cuisine and him, in that case. Good to see you trying to rectify it."

"Perhaps the baguette will be a decent peace offering, though considering his size, I do not think it will fill him up."

"Considering his size, I don't think a dozen baguettes would fill him."

"Probably not, no," laughing a little. "He is good company, though."

"Oh, extraordinarily good company! A most amiable man."

He slants a half-amused, half-resigned look Grantaire's way. "You got drunk with him, didn't you."

His answering grin is bright and shameless ."We may have had a drinking contest, yes."

"A contest. I hesitate to ask who won."

"Oh, you can ask all you want, but I honestly can't say I remember the answer."

"Of course not." He busies himself with taking a sip of coffee.

He takes a sip of his beer. "It was a light wager anyway. A tour against teaching a game of some kind, so I'm satisfied regardless."

"Well, I'm certain you've discovered a number of games here."

"And yet I'm always happy to learn more." He pauses, thinking back. "Although I think he may have wanted to teach me archery."

"I do not think I would trust you with a flying, sharp object." There is no sharpness in it, clearly meant teasingly.

"That's just the thing! I don't think I would trust me with a flying, sharp object," he says, laughing.

"Well, at least you see sense in that regard," with a grin.

Have a grin back, Enjolras. "Oh, I am an exceedingly practical man, as I have always been."

"Of course you are," extremely dry.

"I am ever so glad we agree, Enjolras." He takes another drink.

"Are you going to go to Sagramore and Laertes' dance?" He hops up on the counter himself, debating on refilling his coffee.

"I intend to. Are you?"

"I have been invited, and told I must dance," with a resigned sigh. "I have not danced since I was still in the south, I think."

"Oh, that you must. I'm sure you were overjoyed at that news." He shrugs. "If you need to practice at any point, I'm willing to help."

“Claudius was quite insistent.” He hops down from the counter to go start himself a cup of instant coffee, and clears his throat. “Perhaps. I don’t even know when it is.”

Edited 2023-12-25 02:43 (UTC)

"Insistent or not, you don't have to go if you'd rather not, though." Another sip. "It would be good to see you there but awful to see you there miserable."

“No, I will go, Laertes and Sagramore would both be pleased if I was there.” He finishes preparing the coffee and returns to his seat on the counter. “Besides, there will be others besides us there as well.” Though he’s not counting Grantaire out for company at all.

"All right." He nods. "But if you change your mind and want to escape unnoticed while you're there, just let me know and I can be extremely obnoxious to draw attention."

“Oh, I don’t know, you are usually so very quiet and calm at functions.”

He grins just a bit. "I'll find it in myself to make the sacrifice."

“Your valor is appreciated, mon ami.”

Grantaire pauses and takes another pull of his drink. He shrugs. "I suppose I had to find some somewhere," is his airy reply.

He laughs and sips his coffee. “In a mansion neither of us could have thought of, two months ago? You may as well.”

He leans back a bit with another shrug. "Well, it provides everything else. Except good boeuf bourguignon, apparently."

“Yes. I haven’t looked for anything more involved than that, yet.”

"Somewhere a drawer full of valor, a cupboard of diligence, who even knows?" He grins. "If I ever find a box of temperance, though, I'm immediately closing it and walking away."

“Mm, I do not think I have ever seen you entirely sober. ….Aside from the once.” He takes another sip of his coffee.

"I am not often entirely sober, so that stands to reason."

“I might think you a different person entirely, should that day ever come.”

He has another sip of his drink. "A person you'd prefer?"

“I cannot say, I have not met him.” He purses his lips a little, thoughtful. “We would likely butt heads just as often as we normally do.”

"Very likely, and I doubt he would be nearly as entertaining while doing so."

“We have very different definitions of entertaining,” he replies, mildly enough. “But no, I do not think I would prefer him. I prefer getting to know you better.”

He smiles wryly and shrugs. "There's not that much to me, really, but you're perfectly welcome to it."

“Oh, there is more than you’d think, I’m sure. For example: do you have any siblings at home?”

"Just one. A sister. But I didn't know her very well. She was barely walking when I left for Paris."

“Quite the gap,” says the young man with no siblings. “How old were you when you came to Paris?”

Grantaire blinks. Enjolras actually taking an interest is so strange. "I was fifteen."

He may have had some quiet conversations with Combeferre while Grantaire was otherwise occupied, is all. “Ah.” He nods. “…I was seventeen. Paris seemed massive to me, even coming from Toulouse.”

Otherwise occupied is an excellent way to phrase that. "Paris is massive, even when put up against any other city in France."

“Quite,” he nods. “It was a little overwhelming,” he says with a wry smile. “Thankfully I met Combeferre not too long after that.”

"And history was made," he says wryly, taking another drink.

"I...suppose?" He sounds a little amused.

"Oh, it's undoubtedly true. Every action creates history, even the small ones. Possibly especially the small ones, for all they're buried under the grand idiocies."

"It does not seem all that historic, to me, but I would say that I am quite biased."

"Well yes, you're a devotee of the grand idiocies." It's said fondly, though, with little of the acid his opinions were often served with. "They're the bricks of history, but the mortar is made up of thousands of small idiocies made by all the people whose names are never taught."

He simply rolls his eyes, but it is fond, and takes another sip of his coffee. "Mm. We never got to that last bit."

"True enough. Bricklaying accident." He has another sip.

"Would that our walls were so strong." He sounds extremely dry, but --Grantaire tends to bring that out in him, apparently.

His smile grows a bit wry. "You were shorted on your delivery of mortar."

“Much to Combeferre’s displeasure,” with a wry shrug. “We did have a cannon, at least.”

He pauses for a moment before bursting into absolutely delighted laughter. "Oh, well played."

He looks a little pleased with himself, but nods. “We wouldn’t have had the room anyway.”

"Perhaps so. It was cozy enough."

“I suppose. I do not think Mère Hucheloupe favored us taking over her café, but—“ He shrugs.

"But it was recompense for being such loyal customers over the years, clearly."

“Oh, certainly,” with a bit of a laughing look.

He grins. "Now, the fact that we frequently didn't pay is irrelevant."

“Perhaps that was you,” a little chiding, but it’s teasing. “I paid.”

"Now, I paid when I could! But it was certainly not only me."

"I'll allow that, but I know Feuilly and Combeferre and I always did."

"For which the rest of us were incredibly grateful. You built up the goodwill that made Père Hucheloup so accommodating to the rest of us."

Enjolras may have covered Feuilly's tab a few times, but he will never tell. "Mm, well, someone had to if we were going to take up their entire back room."

"And their entire establishment, eventually!"

“There is that small matter as well, yes.”

"Well, if Mère Hucheloup arrives here, I vow now to apologize wholeheartedly."

"Ah, and so we should. She does deserve it."

He looks a bit amused. "Perhaps you could make bread for her."

"I -- honestly, I am not certain what she would make of that."

"Oh, but it would be so interesting to find out."

"It certainly would be." He shakes his head in amusement.

"Well, should she arrive, I'll remind you of this conversation. And should Père Hucheloup arrive, I'll beg him for the carp recipe."

He laughs a little and shakes his head. "I'm sure Laertes would be delighted to have it, if he does."

"And I'd happily give it to him, because I certainly wouldn't be able to cook it."

“He is quite a good cook, isn’t he,” he says fondly. “And a good teacher as well.”

"He is a good cook, if the pastries he's given the café are any indication. As for the teaching, I shall take you at your word."

“He is, he makes meals for myself and a few others quite often.” There’s a small smile. “As you should, if he has patience enough to show me things.”

"Showing you things isn't the accomplishment so much as inducing you to pay attention to what's being shown," he says, amused. "So he may deserve a medal."

“I pay attention when food is involved. Some of the time.” There’s a wry grin.

And that wry grin is matched by another. "Liberté, égalité, soufflé."

“I am not even going to dignify that with a groan. Really, Grantaire?”

"No, you're right. That was far from my usual standards. I beg your forgiveness."

He’s doing his best to hide a smile. “You are forgiven.”

"And no penance, either. Your mercy is unmatched."

He wrinkles his nose a little. “That’s assuming I remember any of the penances I had to do, which was…hm. Nearly ten years ago, I think?”

He laughs. "It was far from a complaint."

“Good. I should not like to be a priest, save perhaps of the republic.”

"A prophet of the republic if anything, I assure you. Heralding the coming."

He rolls his eyes a little. "Mm. Unfortunately, not yet."

"That's the way with prophets, unfortunately. At least you actually do know it happened."

He sighs. "Yes, and at least Combeferre and Courfeyrac know as well, now."

"And therefore, swords to plowshares. Or, I suppose, carbines to cuisine, in your case."

He snorts and rolls his eyes again, mildly. "I would not consider myself an expert by any means."

"How fortunate I didn't call you one, then."

"Good. This bread will be, in effect, my first attempt."

"And such good fortune indeed that you should have such an unassuming critic to judge it as I."

"Perhaps a somewhat biased critic all the same."

"Ah, but then, I dare you to name a time when my bias has stopped me from critiquing nonetheless, instead of, perhaps, actively encouraging it."

"I do believe that is one of your favorite activities," he replies thoughtfully. "I do not think there has been one."

"Exactly. Therefore I pledge honesty in the matter of your bread."

"Well, thank you, though it will still be some time until it is ready."

"I did assume so, on account of it not even being in the oven yet. Did you think I would abandon you for the wait?"

"No, of course not, though I am astounded I haven't bored you yet." Throughout their conversation, he has been dutifully turning dough out and covering it at certain points, and by now they're on their way to the second rise.

He laughs and polishes off his drink, tossing the empty bottle in a nearby trash can. "I cannot even imagine you doing anything to bore me."

"Not even sleeping?" with some amusement.

He stops dead, contemplating a sleeping Enjolras for a moment. "You know, I think I would manage to avoid boredom."

"Mm. I cannot imagine how." --The thing is, he truly can't.

He huffs out a little laugh. "Perhaps I'm simply easily entertained." He hops off the counter and back to the fridge to grab another beer.

"....I suppose I should not contradict someone who is an expert in entertainments, self-styled though it may be," he says teasingly, and returns to take a sip of his coffee.

"Oh, you may contradict me all you like. It wouldn't make me less correct." He returns to his seat on the counter and gives Enjolras a wry smile.

"I suppose not." He shrugs and continues sipping at his coffee.

"Well, if you should ever like to test it," he says airily, "do let me know."

"What am I being meant to test?"

He waves a hand absently. "Don't worry about it."

He looks a little dubious, but nods. "Very well."

"So yes, you are not boring." He looks over at the rising dough. "But the bread is. You are truly lucky I am here, or you may have fallen asleep just from this waiting."

“I had brought a book. Or if you had not shown up, I would have set a timer and gone to find Temeraire.”

"Between the two, I would have recommended the book." He grins. "Not because of a dislike for the dragon, but because I think your conversation would have made you forget to heed your timer."

“It would depend on the conversation, I think. I have been reading him Rousseau, lately.”

Grantaire laughs, delighted. "Of course you've been reading him Rousseau. What else would a dragon need but the Social Contract?"

"He does enjoy it, he's quite a philosophical fellow."

"And therefore Rousseau. It makes complete sense."

"That's what I thought, yes."

"And I return to my previous point. You would absolutely forget your timer, dulled as it would be by the raucous delight of philosophy."

"--Very well, you are probably right."

"Precisely. So you're lucky I'm here."

“I do not recall saying I wasn’t.”

"Not today, true enough."

"Have I, in fact, said anything along those lines since we've been here?"

"Well, no. You have not."

"Well, there we are then."

"There we are." A beat. "Could I extend it to extraordinarily lucky?"

"I mean, I might be stuck with Pontmercy for all eternity, so you might, yes."

He laughs. "Luckier than that, maybe, but I'll stay shy of extraordinary, I think. You could also, after all, have been with Combeferre." A grin. "Or perhaps Saint-Just."

"I could have, yes." He considers this for a moment or two, an odd, closed-off expression passing over his face at the mention of Saint-Just. "I should like if Combeferre were here in addition to you, of course."

He sees that reaction and takes note, but declines to comment on it, for now. "Of course. And half a dozen others, at least."

"Well, so would you, I should think."

"Obviously. It would make for quite a lively time. Although I'm already extraordinarily lucky."

“Oh?” He tilts his head curiously.

"Of course. Fortune smiles, and I am grateful."

“Mm. It is certainly better than, ah…nothing.”

"It seems to be thus far, at any rate, having attained the experience of nothing on many occasions."

Laertes has his own baking to do--he's going to attempt a steamed nutbread, although he'll be using walnuts instead of kulunuts. When he sees Lucien at the counter, though, he tucks the recipe back into his pocket. "Hallo," he says warmly, coming up behind Lucien to wrap his arms around him. "Might I lend a hand?"

"Hallo," with a warm smile in return, and he leans back against Laertes a little to look at him properly. (There is flour smudged on his cheek.) "If you'd like to, yes. I'm afraid I've made a bit of a mess of the entire counter."

"And thyself." Laertes runs his thumb over Lucien's cheek, smearing away most of the flour. "What art thou making? How can I aid thee?"

"Baguettes. I had some bourguignon the other day that was --truly terrible, and I thought I might at least do better than that. I do need to let this rest though, I think, so if you would like to grease one of those bowls there, that would be helpful."

"At thy command," Laertes says, and lets him go. "Butter, or olive oil?"

"Mm, I do not think it says." He frowns over at the recipe for a moment. "Ah -- olive oil, it looks like."

Then Laertes gets out the olive oil and pours a little into the bottom of the bowl, swiping it up the edges with a paper towel until the bowl is fully greased.

"Thank you," with a smile, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He takes the dough from the board he was kneading it on and deposits it in the bowl, covering it with a cloth. "There, now it must rest for a half hour or so, I think. Until it has doubled in size."

"I confess, this is the hardest part of baking bread," says Laertes ruefully. "Many's the time I've forgotten the bread while it proved, and come back hours later to find my yeast run amok."

"Hopefully that will not be the case, otherwise I may well get discouraged." He's joking, clearly, and moves to go scrub the excess dough from his hands. "Have you made baguettes yet?"

"Not yet--what makes them different from other breads?"

"The outside is very crisp and should crunch when one bites into it, but the inside is soft and chewy." He reaches to inspect the recipe. "I think it is due to the water in it, or some such thing, according to this. I can say they are very good with cheese, or a bit of butter and jam."

"I'll not guide thee, then--I've been learning brioches for Grantaire, and rye bread for myself, but this style is as new to me as to thee." Laertes comes over to glance at the recipe, and asks as he draws near, "How art thou?"

He shrugs a little in answer, busying himself with gathering up bowls and wiping down counters for a moment or two before he settles on a reply. "I miss them, but it is easier to bear now." There is a pause. "Are you well?" He had, of course, encountered Reynaldo -- and though Laertes had never mentioned him he had been cautious all the same.

Laertes doesn't answer at once, which is a kind of answer in itself. Even now, a part of him is convinced that he'll see some other agent of his father--a part of him is convinced that there is no safety for those he loves here, and that he would be better off disappearing into the woods and never emerging. And as long as that part has its back to a wall, he won't truly be well. "I will be," says Laertes at last. "I'm glad to have met thy friends. I see now why thou wouldst have remade the world for them, and with them."

"I am very glad you got to meet them as well. They both seemed to quite like you." He sets down a dish towel and turns his attention to Laertes properly, now, moving to take his hand. "I would never let anyone take you from us," he says, firm and quiet. "I know Sagramore would not, either. I would remake the world for you as well, if I could -- though it seems you are intent on doing that yourself."

That firm, earnest declaration makes Laertes's heart clench with fondness--and then reminds him of a project they've yet to pursue. "I know a way that we can pass the time while we wait for the bread to rise," says Laertes (a thought that has overproved many a loaf). "Let's begin our hunt for a printing press."

"Ah! Yes, I had nearly forgotten, what with the cafe and everything." There is a slight pause. "Have you a pocketwatch, or anything to mind the time?"

Laertes casts about, then finds a kitchen timer that's whimsically shaped like a chicken. He cranks the dial on it to thirty. "This will ring when our time is up," he says. In his hand, the chicken ticks. "And none will question why we're sneaking from room to room with a chicken sculpture clutched in our hands."

“A ticking chicken, indeed.” Enjolras can’t help but laugh a little, and takes Laertes’ hand with no hesitation. It is a mark of how comfortable he has grown with Laertes these past few months; with anyone aside from his closest friends he is usually quite aloof. “Surely there must be one here somewhere, we’ve ballrooms and room enough for fencing, the place is large enough.”

"And it answers our needs; I think we've thought long enough about a printing press to have at least sown the seeds of one." He bumps his shoulder companionably against Enjolras's as they walk. (In his own world, Laertes, too, had been aloof. It pleases him more than he can say, that he has a friend with whom he is not afraid to be seen holding hands.) "We should start on this floor--a printing press would be too heavy for the upper stories."

“Yes, that’s what I was thinking. Perhaps past the cafe? I did not look too far down the hall when I was gathering furniture, I may have missed some rooms.” Or the mansion, being contrary, may have added a few rooms recently. “Have you found any more of Combeferre’s science books?”

"I have! I've been reading more on molecular chemistry--I understand only two words in five, but the deeper I delve, the better my understanding. I know not what to do with this knowledge," he admits, laughing, "but it pleases me to have it."

He shakes his head fondly, smiling. “Just like Combeferre. I knew you two would get along. With Courfeyrac as well, though he was certainly in a…playful mood during their visit. I do apologize if he was too much.” Someone needs to make up for his and Combeferre’s tendency to be serious, after all.

"Never too much, my heart--although I did later learn that he and my husband thoroughly enjoyed each other with Grantaire," he says, grinning. "I'm glad for them; those three rogues are well-suited in temperament."

“Of course they did,” half-laughing. “I am not surprised at all. I am only sorry you did not get to meet all of them.”

"One day, perhaps, we should be so lucky--who knows? The brief excursion that thy friends made to this place may beat a trail between there and here, and speed the way back for them and for others."

"It may, yes. I may even get to meet your sister. Surely a much more welcome visitor than the last, hmm?" He grins and nudges Laertes with his shoulder a bit. "I don't even know what I should say to her. I am -- really the only lady I have spoken much to here is Mlle Nina, and she is no noblewoman, as far as I know."

"My sister seldom speaks like a noblewoman--her manner is plain and forthright; she's clever, but does not delight in her cleverness, as some men of our acquaintance do," he says, meaning Claudius. "She tells a story well. She knows all there is to know of herbs and flowers. Thou wouldst like her--what curiosity there is in me, and in Combeferre, is in her as well."

"I have no doubt," Enjolras replies with an easy smile. "You know how to take the full measure of a person, and if you say we would get on, I do believe you." He heads for a nearby door, knocks, then pokes his head in and sighs. "Only furniture in this one, unfortunately."

Peering over his shoulder, Laertes grins. "Leftovers from stocking thy café? Or just a new harvest of chairs and tables, waiting to be distributed?"

"Perhaps a bit of both," he guesses, grinning. "I think the cafe is well-stocked, now, though." Even with any --distractions that had come while he was busy preparing it. "Further down, then?"

"Ay, we'll make a thorough search." Laertes crosses the hall and tries a door, which opens onto a traditional sauna with a wood-burning stove. "That might be needful as the days get colder, but it's no printing press."

"It is not, but I cannot say what it is," somewhat dubiously. "Is it a bathhouse, of some sort?"

"Oh! Ay, it's a sauna," says Laertes. "They hail from north of Denmark--see, the stove heats the rocks atop it, and then thou canst dip up water" he indicates a basin with a little metal dipper hanging near it on a peg "and toss it on the rocks to make steam."

"Ah! I suppose it does get much colder up in the north than it does in Paris or Toulouse. I do wonder how cold it will get here. Hopefully not so bad that we would need a steam room to warm up."

"Thou wilt not credit this," says Laertes as he shuts the door, "but they go from the warmth of the steam room and into the freezing cold to bathe, then back in, then out again. As though, the heat having lost its savor, they hunger for ice again."

He laughs and shakes his head. "Northerners must be quite mad," with a teasing look at Laertes. "No, thank you, I would as soon stay in the warmth. A good fire is quite preferable to a snowstorm."

"I mind not the cold, but I would happily keep thee company by a fire." Smiling, Laertes opens another door onto a painting gallery. Every single painting depicts a small black cat wearing a ruff.

"You might keep me company whenever you like." He studies the paintings, looking amused. "--I wonder if Grantaire has found this room. I should like to hear his thoughts on it, as an art student."

"As would I--if nothing else, he's a merry fellow; he'd speak some pleasant nonsense in praise of this cat, then liberate the paintings to fill out the gallery in the café."

"Oh, probably. I am surprised Courfeyrac did not carve anything into the wall when they were here, perhaps he did not find time. He did in one of them at home." He moves a few doors down and pokes his head inside to find --a curio cabinet full of fancy spoons. "--Cutlery is in here, apparently."

"We're coming closer by turns; we've found art, and dozens of pieces of metal meant to work in sets. Surely the next door must be--" He flings it open, eyes winced closed, gesturing Lucien to identify whatever lay behind it.

The mansion spirits must have had some pity on their search, because there, plain as day, is an iron printing press. Enjolras laughs in surprise and shakes Laertes' shoulder to get his attention. "Look! We've found one!"

"What--amazing!" says Laertes as soon as he takes it in. He darts through the door to look it up and down, taking in all the supplies laid in readiness: paper and ink, trays for holding letters, boxes on boxes of moveable type. "It's so much smaller than I'd imagined! The two of us could work it with ease."

"Yes! We just need to learn how to now," laughing a little. He follows Laertes in, looking at all the supplies as well -- and takes a moment to pull him in for a celebratory kiss, smiling brightly. "Now we must find books on presses, in addition to my bread experiments."

Laertes lets himself be pulled, and slings an arm around Lucien's waist to keep him close even after the kiss ends. "What wilt thou print first?"

"Oh, I haven't any idea. I did not expect to find one so soon." Still smiling, he considers. "Something for Magnus, perhaps. He had wanted to learn about a great number of things, some time ago. Is there anything in particular you would like to print?" He snuggles in to Laertes' embrace a little, content for now. His general air does seem somewhat easier than it was before the events of the other day; but perhaps it is only contentment in knowing at least two of his friends approve of the relationship that has begun with Laertes.

"Instructions for things, like the cookware in the kitchen," says Laertes after a moment's thought. He settles his chin over Lucien's shoulder, contemplating the possibilities. "Signs, that others might know what lies behind the doors we've opened. Labels for plants in the greenhouse, with their names and uses."

"Ah, yes, quite practical of you. We might also make labels to try and organize the library, M. Aziraphale would like that, I think." He takes a moment to press another kiss to Laertes' cheek, smiling. "Something small would likely be easiest to start with."

"We might put up a sign on the welcome table, asking what people would have printed," Laertes offers. "There may be some more urgent need that we've both missed."

"Another good idea. I'll do that when the bread's done, there is still some time to go on that, though."

"At least fifteen minutes, or so the chicken says." He hesitates, then says, "I'd wondered if thou mightst not write of thy history, and thy friends."

"Oh--" There's a quiet, considering noise. "I am not much for prose, that was more Prouvaire. But I might consider it."

"What, all invective?" Laertes teases.

"When it calls for it, yes," grinning and giving him a brief kiss. "I have not had cause to use it here, thankfully."

"I'd like to hear it, shouldst thou ever have cause again," says Laertes, letting go. He strolls over to the type cases and starts idly laying out letters--Library and Kitchen, backwards upon the tray.

"Mm, if there is cause, Grantaire may well be involved. He generally was at home." He follows a touch behind, to watch Laertes. "But that is not the case here, we --have not argued in some time."

Laertes looks up from the letters."For want of speaking? Or is there an accord between you?"

"Somewhat of an accord, I suppose, though we haven't put one into proper words yet. He was as pleased to see the others as I was."

"That's well. A man with such joy in his heart ought not to be sunken in mourning."

"Mm. I am trying to keep that in mind."

"Hast thou thought any more on what he told thee of his feelings?" Laertes asks.

“I…not really, no. But I am becoming quite fond of him.”

"Good. Then thine affection springs from true enjoyment of his company, and not a sense of obligation to match his feelings with thine own."

"He hasn't even brought it up. I do not think he means to, he only told me when I asked him directly."

"Then I'll stop mentioning it, myself, if I do more to keep it before thine eyes than he does."

"I --perhaps it is necessary, though, to have someone check in every so often." There's a wry sort of smile. "Otherwise I am quick to ignore such things, and I know Grantaire will not say anything about it; he never did before."

Then Laertes lets himself push just a little. "What does it spark in thee, to imagine him kissing thee as I do? Joy? Dread?"

"I don't know," he says quietly. "--Curiosity? Not dread. He does not...I do not think we are close enough for all that, yet."

"Then perhaps--" but whatever he was going to say, he's cut off by the clamorous ring of the chicken timer. "Ah, that will be the bread."

"--Yes." He sighs a little and pulls himself away from Laertes' embrace. "I think I must turn it over again and wait, or something like that."

"Ah, it's a bread with two rises?" asks Laertes. He scoops up the timer from where he'd placed it on the printing plate and starts heading back toward the kitchen.

"Yes, and then I think it must rise again after it's shaped. But not as long as the others. They are apparently quite complicated things, baguettes." He follows along, in that case.

"Before I came here, I lacked a proper appreciation for the work required of bread," Laertes laughs. "Yeast alone hath a fickle temper; either it refuses the rise entirely, or it runs wild if given the least free reign."

"I think I must also put steam in the oven, as well, when it starts baking. Hopefully it will be worth all this trouble." After a few minutes, they've made their way back to the kitchen, and he washes his hands and sets to deflating the bread and turning it over for its second rise.

"Does it require kneading, before the second rise?" Laertes goes to take a glance at the recipe book.

"No, I do not think so. It just needs to be deflated and turned."

"We can spend the next rise looking for instructions for working a press," Laertes offers. "Or in any other employment thou wouldst care to practice; I have no other object." He has completely forgotten about the nutbread recipe in his pocket.

"Mm. Have you set a date for your dance yet? I suppose I should practice at some point before that." So has Enjolras, in the excitement of finding the press.

"Claudius has set a date, but I forget what it is," says Laertes. His eyes are bright and merry. "It's soon enough that we should take our chance, while we have it."

"Very well." He's acting more resigned than he actually is, and it's hard to hide the smile that is threatening to bloom. "Be patient with me, I am not nearly as skilled a partner as Claudius is."

"To speak plainly, I am not nearly as skilled a partner as Claudius is," Laertes says confidingly. "He is certainly the best of us." Then, cranking the chicken once again, Laertes leads Enjolras off to the practice room.

"I don't know if I believe that, cher, I saw you at the talent show." He follows along, slinging an arm around Laertes' waist.

"Lead is easier; it needs more strength than skill." Laertes is more than happy to be reeled in, and knocks their shoulders together companionably as they walk.

"I cannot even recall the last dance I went to," pulling him a little closer as they walk. "It was certainly likely before I came to Paris."

"And thou wert still a boy, not yet grown into thy legs!" He laughs and nuzzles Lucien's shoulder. "Worry not about the fashion of the dances. We'll dance a few from our home courts, and a few new dances at Claudius's urging--but for most of them, it will be enough to take hands with the rest of the party and move in a circle, or to hold a partner in a close embrace and to sway."

"That sounds about my level of capability," he laughs and shakes his head. "But thank you for being willing to practice with me."

"If thou hast a taste for it, I'll teach thee other dances," Laertes promises. "Little pleases me more than to dance, and to teach." He contemplates the small collection of records that he's moved into the practice room, then chooses one that has the sort of slow pace that will be easy to teach. (And, he admits, one with words that remind him fondly of Sagramore.) There's a slight hiss of the record player, and then the opening drums and piano of 'Truly, Madly, Deeply' begin to play.

"This," says Laertes as he opens his arms, "is a song for swaying."

Enjolras looks dubious, but nods and steps into Laertes' arms. He is a little uncertain of where he should put his hands, and settles for the waist, for now, that seems easiest.

Laertes twines his hands together at the back of Lucien's neck, letting himself be clasped into the casual frame of the dance. Their hips are close enough to trade heat, their chests only held apart by the straightness of Laertes's arms; he gazes up into Lucien's eyes with a luminous smile, and he slowly starts swaying them to the rhythm.

Enjolras follows along, a little awkward. Eventually he moves his hands so one is at Laertes’ waist and the other at his shoulders, smiling back even though he feels hopelessly silly. Perhaps this isn’t so bad.

"Sweet man," Laertes murmurs, and lets his embrace collapse until they're only resting against one another and swaying. "Is it truly so bad?"

“No,” laughing a little and moving to rest his head on Laertes’ shoulder. “I am just not used to doing things for —ah, fun, is all. This is not very practical.”

"Is there no practical use in pleasure, then?" He splays his palm deliberately between Lucien's shoulder blades, encouraging him to feel the swell of his ribs with every breath as he stands pinned between Laertes's hand and his chest. "In a place where all of our needs are met, what greater purpose is there than ensuring each other's pleasure?"

“I suppose you are right.” He lets himself sway along with Laertes for a moment or two, enjoying the feel of Laertes’ hands on his back, the slight press of his nearness. “Another thing I am still getting used to, then.”

"If there are pleasures thou wouldst try, I'll try them with thee," says Laertes. "Any craft or game, any song or dance or poem. Any dish, savory or dainty. Anything that makes thee say, 'I am glad to be alive.'"

“Mm,” he leans for a slight kiss. “At the moment,” he says, after a moment’s thought, “—That would be this. Chiefly because of the partner, less so the dancing.”

"It's good to touch," laughs Laertes, with another darting kiss. "I knew not what a pleasure it was to keep someone in my arms, ere I came here."

“Yes,” returning that kiss and cupping the back of Laertes’ head briefly. “It is the same for me; if you had not noticed by now. Courfeyrac was always the one to draw us into hugs.”

"Didst have a chance to hold him, while he was here? Or Combeferre?"

“Mm, he held me,” fondly. “While you and Combeferre were talking about science.”

"He's the kind of friend to thee that I am," Laertes ventures.

“I…” He considers this for a moment, thoughtful. “Yes, in a way. He is as close to me as Combeferre, in different ways. We were—brothers, friends, comrades-in-arms…he would probably have liked to, ah..” There is a vague gesture. “He liked to do that sort of thing often and easily, he is…a very giving fellow.”

"Thou art not so easy with thy gifts." Laertes eases them back out of the close embrace, into something nearer to a waltz frame. "May I ask ... why didst thou bestow them on me?"

“You charmed me,” laughing a little as they start moving a bit quicker. “When you made me chase you. It reminded me of him, and —as I told you at the time, I wanted to …want to learn.”

"I'm still learning. I think I may spend my whole life in learning how to be loved, and not account it time wasted."

“Well.” He draws him into a soft, searching kiss, or as much of one as he can manage whilst in a waltz. “You have certainly made quite a good start of it.”

"And thou hast made a good start on dancing," says Laertes, grinning. "Not a single missed step, and thou wert talking all the while."

“You distracted me,” fondly. “I suppose I am not as rusty as I thought; my mother would be proud.”

"Would she be proud to see thee dancing with me?"

“Oh, likely not,” with a laugh. “She would be confused, I think, mostly. I do think she would like you though.”

"I'm glad." The music has trailed off without his notice, and now there's only the easy sweep of the dance, the joy of matching each other step for step. "Wilt thou dance with me, when the time comes? I would like to have thee in mine arms, and have all of my friends see how I care for thee."

“Of course, if you do not mind me potentially making a fool of myself.” He is, in fact, moving with much more grace now that he is distracted. It’s not perfect by any means, but it will do. “I am sorry we have not seen each other much as of late; I was wrapped up in the café.”

"I'm glad thou wert. It makes me happy to see thee flush with purpose--I hope what little I and Sagramore can offer by way of coffee and pastries is helpful to thee."

“It is, yes,” he assures, with a brief pause for a kiss. “It is very gracious of you both, I appreciate it.”

"So many kisses!" Laertes laughs. "I've tried to be moderate for thy sake--should I be amorous?"

“Not too amorous,” with a grin. “I shall have to separate the dough soon, I’m sure. I am just, ah, enjoying your nearness for now.”

"If thou wouldst like it, I could share thy bed tonight," he offers. "We need do nothing but hold each other, and enjoy each other's nearness. But I would like to spend a night with thee."

“I would like that too,” he smiles. “….I…I am sorry, at times, if it seems that I do not want you. I do, it is just not—“ He makes a vaguely frustrated noise, trying to find his words. “It is not immediate, I think? I don’t know if I am explaining myself well. It is …present, but…muted. So sometimes, just lying with you is lovely. Other times, I would like more. Do you see?”

"It's well," says Laertes warmly. "I do not account myself stinted. It's enough to hold thy hand, and to comfort thee by it. If thou shouldst never want more than for me to hold thy hand, I would still account myself a very lucky man to have thee thus."

“Sweet man,” with a smile and a nuzzle against him. “I am becoming extraordinarily fond of you, you know.”

"And I of thee--fonder still, for having met thy friends. It suits thee, to hold them so openly in thine affections."

“They are more family than friends, in all truth. I am very glad you all liked each other so well.”

"Art thou making more friends, here?"

“No more than the few you already know of. I have been reading to Temeraire, sometimes, when Galahad is not.”

"A dragon in arms against the crown--there's fine revolution." Laertes urges them into a turn as they near one of the walls of the practice room.

Enjolras is still doing a decent job of following, though he does miss his steps a few times. “I cannot say that is even my fault,” he says, laughing. “Temeraire was a Jacobin before I ever met him, but I suppose I am encouraging it.”

"As thou shouldst! I think I've even got Sagramore to see the main thrust of The Social Contract; soon thou wilt have all the lively discussion of Rousseau and Voltaire thou canst wish."

“I have given Claudius some other writings from the first republic as well, let me know if you are interested.”

"Always, my heart. I'd know everything that nourishes thy mind."

“Ah, well. The men whose writings I gave him did not have the happiest of ends; their desire for order and justice turned bloody soon after they came into power.” He shrugs a little. “It is still important to read them, however, some of their ideas were sound.”

"I could say the same of many great thinkers; Aristotle and Marcus Aurelius likewise had their faults--" And there's the chicken again, ringing so loudly that Laertes nearly leaps out of Lucien's arms. "That cannot have been forty-five minutes."

Enjolras jumps too, a little more startled than he would like to admit, eyes wide and lost for just a moment before he realizes that Laertes is talking. “Ah—it doesn’t seem like it was, but the chicken would not lie to us,” he says, knowing how ridiculous that sentence is and attempting to sound as grave as he can.

Laertes can't help laughing at the gravity in Lucien's voice--nor can he help kissing that serious frown. "The chicken is a knave and cannot be trusted."

“Perhaps so,” as he returns the kiss. “But my baguette calls to be divided, and then you may have me for —however long I must let it rest again.”

"Tell me more of the great minds of the First Republic," Laertes urges as they head back toward the kitchen. "That will certainly pass the time while we wait."

“Ah, well! There are many I could speak of; of course. Would you prefer to hear about the ones whose writings I gave to Claudius? Or others, unjustly killed by them?”

Laertes considers the names he remembers from his brief, intense research jaunt. "Tell me of Saint-Just," he says. "He did great harm in pursuit of a perfect republic; I would know what cause he thought deserved so many of his countrymen's lives. He was younger than I am now when he died. I cannot ... I cannot imagine holding such horrific power."

"The safety and security of his compatriots and their defense of the republic, for the most part. He was a great friend and admirer of Robespierre, and a part of the Committee of Public Safety -- they were charged with ensuring the defense of the Republic from both foreign and domestic enemies. The Committee itself likely had far too much power, it served as a provisional government for much longer than it should have."

He pauses a moment, and sighs. "I think they may have gotten so used to seeing threats and defending from them that they could not discern innocent from guilty at a certain point. Desmoulins and Robespierre and Danton were all friends, for the most part, at the beginning." While he has been speaking, they have presumably made their way back into the kitchen.

"What lesson wilt thou take from this?" Laertes asks as he follows. He recognizes all too well how it shatters the bonds of love, to be ever watching for threats.

"It does not matter so much, here, especially since -- things ended how they did, at home." (Did he plan on surviving their revolt? That's another question entirely, and one he is not willing to go into at this time.) "But --I am aware, if I let myself slip...if I go too far in pursuit of justice, I could easily become another Saint-Just." It's quiet, said mostly to the dough as he separates it into three equal pieces. He clears his throat a little. "It scares me," he adds, even quieter.

Laertes lays a hand on Lucien's shoulder and squeezes. "And in thy friends, thou seest the remedy--a line thou canst not cross. A love that asks what new world justice can build, and not what enemies it can destroy."

He glances up from the dough that he is folding over and gives Laertes a brief smile, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I--yes. I...they...you make me less cold. If I was not, I know it would be all too easy to fall into, ah, who I was at the barricades."

"Needst not speak of it, unless thou wouldst," says Laertes gently. "I'll listen."

He shrugs. "Claudius knows of it, you may as well, too. Grantaire does not know all of it." He finishes forming the dough into three equal sized balls and covers them, settling back against the counter. "I mentioned, I think, after we were forced to speak truths...I killed a man, for dishonoring the barricade. He had killed an innocent, so I killed him. It was very easy to distance myself from everything, in pursuit of our goals."

"It sits ill with thee," Laertes guesses. "Even believing that what thou didst was just."

"Yes. It should not have been as easy as it was. Even when it was another man, someone who could have been my brother had things gone differently -- it was still easier than I would have liked it to be."

"Because it was justice? Or some other reason?"

"Yes, because it was justice. It was what needed to be done for the republic." He sighs. "I cannot let myself be as -- literal as they were, for want of a better word. Even though it would be far easier."

"What wouldst thou be?" Laertes asks. "An thou hadst thy choice, what wouldst thou be?"

"I don't know." He scrubs a hand across his face and sighs. "Not the angel of the republic, not Grantaire's marble statue... Human?" There's half a laugh there. "I sound ridiculous, I am sorry."

Laertes gathers him up in a tight hug, rising on his toes so that he can slot his chin over Enjolras's shoulder. "No--no, an thou couldst be anything in the world, I'd have thee be a man. I'd have thee know mortal joys and sorrows, and live on the scale of a man, and not a republic."

There's another tired-sounding laugh, and he carefully wraps his own arms around Laertes, clinging just as tight. "I am trying. It is more difficult than I anticipated."

"It is," Laertes admits. "But this is the work of being a man: loving, and being loved. Making bread. Dancing and laughing. Making thyself a part of the world."

"Thank you," he says quietly, nuzzling at Laertes' cheek. "I did not mean to unburden myself so in the midst of all this...baguette mess." --Well, he hadn't meant to at all, really, but Saint-Just had come up and brought out all his insecurities. "You keep me grounded," he adds quietly. "If you had been in Paris with us, we would have been -- you, me, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, we would have been a force to be reckoned with. Even more of one than we were.'

"But instead, we're here. Thou needst not be a force--and if thy friends return, thou canst be a man with them." He kisses Lucien's jaw, his cheek, the curve of his lower lip. "I would have fought beside thee, if I found myself in thy Paris three hundred years after mine own time. I would have been proud to do it. But now, I'm proud to be thy friend, and to have no more pressing duty than to learn to make baguettes with thee."

He is still clinging, slightly, though it is mostly for the reassurance of Laertes' arms around him, telling him that he is real, he is flesh and blood; and he settles his hands at Laertes' waist for just a moment before giving him a brisk kiss. "Yes, the baguettes," he says, eager to change the subject. "A few more minutes, I think, and then they may be rolled into shape and there is one last rise to contend with."

"As long a rise as the others?"

He disentangles himself from Laertes enough to make a grab for the cookbook, glances at it, and nods. "Yes, I think so? It says here until they look 'marshmallowy'--which ....it is well on its way, I think, but not quite yet."

"Any bread that's spent so long in rising must be light as air," Laertes grouses mildly. "How thou hast the patience, I'll never know."

"Oh, it is, though," Enjolras says, with a slight smile. "The outside must be crisp, of course, but the inside is light and fluffy and perfect when it is warm and has just a bit of jam, or soft cheese. The only reason I have the patience is because you are here keeping me company, I do not know if I will have the patience to do all this again."

"We'll have to find employment for ourselves during each rise," says Laertes thoughtfully. "I might wash cups. Sagramore and I tend to forget to return them to the kitchen once we've finished with them; a rise is just long enough to get through all of them."

“Yes, and I’ve already cleaned most everything else up. The next bread I try shall not nearly be as intensive, I think.” He hums thoughtfully. “Would you like help with your cups?”

"Oh, no, they're done--I was only thinking ahead to the next time. I'd like for thee to have good baguettes. Thou shouldst know any pleasure thou desirest."

“I have already promised Grantaire the first taste, but you might have the next, if they are any good. They may not be.” He sets the recipe book back down on the counter. “Mm,” with a nod. “I am not accustomed to asking for them.”

"Then we'll train thee to the habit of it--name some other pleasure thou wouldst like."

“Ah, I don’t know.” He thinks a moment. “I would say coffee and good company, but I am in possession of both of those. Hmm. Sweets, perhaps? We had violettes at home, violets crystallized in sugar. Or macarons, those are quite good as well.”

"I love sweets--happily, then," says Laertes. "We'll learn to make them together, so that thou canst have them whenever thou likest."

“Alright.” There’s a slightly wry grin. “Pray do not make me think of anymore, that was hard enough as it was.”

Laertes grins in answer. "Wouldst like to be surprised with pleasures? I'll happily ambush thee with sport and entertainments."

“I have no doubt you would, cher,” he replies fondly. “That would certainly be easier than trying to think of them myself.”

"Then prepare thyself; thou wilt never be safe again. I'll turn up at all hours for a game or a dance or a kiss."

“Mm, I fear I may have given you too much leave.” He laughs a little. “If Sagramore should find this out, I will have no peace, I am sure.”

"No, he's a thousand times worse than I am; he'll take thee drinking, and thou wilt forget not only thy cares but thine own name."

“Then I will thank you not to tell him I have only been drunk twice before,” laughing a little. “And neither Courfeyrac or I were good company at the time.”

"I've only been drunk once," Laertes confides. "I have not Sagramore's stomach for liquor."

“I tried it once with Courfeyrac, and then again after the failed revolution in 1830. Neither of us were the best company.”

"No, I can't imagine thou wert." And that's a keen bolt of sadness lodged in his chest--the thought that drink is not meant to speed merriment or quell grief, but to answer heartache with more heartache. "Needst not drink, here, an thou hast not the inclination. I will not ask it of thee."

“I do not think I will, but this place can surprise a person.” He nudges Laertes with his shoulder, grinning a little. “You are welcome to do the others, though.”

"I'd love to fence with thee next. The books I've read here tell me that the sport is much changed since my day--it has formalisms of weapon and stance that are new to me. And some of the grips on those foils ..." He shakes his head, laughing. "All the same. I love to watch thee move. It would be a treat, to watch thee fence."

"I am certain you would beat me in a minute, though I have been practicing. But if you would like, we can do it sometime. Or I could show you canne de combat. We've much to occupy ourselves with."

"So much to look forward to," says Laertes. That's what makes this place a miracle, for him--that he can look upon the future with hope, and savor the anticipation.

"Yes," he agrees, laughing and nudging Laertes again. "I am certainly looking forward to getting trounced by you."

"Oh, hey dude," says Magnus, coming into the kitchen, smelling of the cold wind blowing outside. It feels like it's probably going to snow soon, so he's stocking up. Food first, and then he has vague plans to find a tarp or two lying about somewhere. "Whatcha doing?"

Enjolras turns and glances over his shoulder, smiling briefly. "Hello! I am making a baguette, or attempting to. I have never done it before. What are you up to?"

"Raiding the refrigerator to stock up my camp," Magnus says, suiting action to word on the hunt for things easy to prepare over a campfire. He has an eye out for some of Heidrun's mead, too -- it's getting chilly enough outside for it to feel a little brisk even to him, though not enough for him to be truly affected by it -- and the mead, in addition to being energizing, is warming even when it's cold. "How's the baguette going?" He looks over his shoulder at what Enjolras has going on, but it mostly just looks like a bunch of dough.

"It is more fickle than I anticipated," he says, laughing a little and trying to brush some errant flour off his shirt. "There are two rises that I must contend with, and they are both about 45 minutes. I did not think there was this much sitting involved in baking." To be fair, there is probably not much sitting at all involved if you are employed as a baker, but Enjolras has never done that. "But hopefully it will turn out better than the stew I got the other day."

"This must be why there's not a lot of baking too the death classes in Valhalla, I guess," Magnus says, divesting the fridge of all of its hot dogs and snacks and moving onto the pantry for better shelf-stable items. "Too much lag time, too little assurance that you'll come back to life in time to -- whatever it is you do between rises."

"Today, I have been mostly talking to people. I am not certain what one generally does in this case." He wrinkles his nose at a particularly stubborn smudge of flour. "Timing is, at least, important. Or so Laertes has said to me, he has baked many more things than I have,"

"Laertes does a lot of cooking," Magnus agrees. "And he's really good at it! Between the two of them, he and Galahad have been keeping me well fed in my time outside. But it's getting cold so I'm trying to do better about fending for myself." The pantry has a ton of canned and dehydrated foods, and he dumps them all into his bag. He's strong; he can manage their weight.

“He is,” nodding with a smile. “And quite patient about teaching it, when I’ve a mind to learn.” He lifts an eyebrow.

“Do you prefer it more, outside? It is turning too cold for me already out there, but I am from southern France, it is a little warmer there in general.”

"I do like it outside! And anyway, I don't really feel most temperatures," Magnus says, glibly. "Extremes, yeah -- Muspellheim is burning hot and Niflheim is deadly cold, but I'm Middle Ground guy when it comes to, like, regular Midgardian seasonality."

“That must be convenient,” he replies a little enviously, thinking of a few quite cold winters he had spent in Paris. “If you’ve ever need of a fire or a warm drink, the café is always available. I hesitate to offer good company, since it is mostly mine,” with a little grin. “And Grantaire’s. I do have more interests other than politics, I can assure you.”

"The cafe did seem pretty sick during the talent show," Magnus says, enthusiastic. "And -- I'm happy to hear about politics if you wanna talk about them. I don't really know how a lot of things work outside of my specific area of experience. Obviously all cops are bastards, but..." He shrugs, and then squints at Enjolras, debating asking about how Grantaire is doing -- he still sometimes thinks about Enjolras's shining memory of Grantaire, the one he saw when he was healing the guy.

He settles for waggling his eyebrows. "A shared cafe, huh? How's that going?"

“I am intending on giving you some writings, whenever I get around to it.” Once he gets his printing press all settled, that’ll be ready. He squints a little. “‘Cops’? The café is going well, I suppose. People seem to like it in any case.” ….Yes, he is mildly aware that that is not what Magnus was talking about.

Edited 2023-12-28 18:44 (UTC)

"Yeah, I was totally focusing on the 'cafe' part and not the 'shared' part," Magnus teases. "Cops are police."

"Ah! Then -- yes, they are. There was one at the barricades," he says off-handedly. "He was shot." But that, again, is not what Magnus was asking, and so he continues. 'It is...as I said. Going well." Magnus may not know him well enough yet to know when he is being purposefully evasive, but the slight hint of pink in his cheeks may as well be the answer he was looking for.

Magnus can tell, but mostly inasmuch as he's still careful to pay attention to boundaries -- here, and everywhere. "Cool," he says, dropping it. "And I bet there was one at the barricade. Those guys are like cockroaches. Never welcome, always scurrying about when you turn on the lights." He wrinkles his nose. This is rude to cockroaches. Alex can do a remarkably gnarly cockroach, and she would never shift into a cop. Point one to the cockroaches.

Edited 2023-12-30 14:17 (UTC)

"Mm, yes. We only found him out because a young boy recognized him for what he was and called him out." He shrugs a little. "We would have traded him for one of our own, but -- at that point it was too late."

"He died?"

“Our Prouvaire was shot before we could make the trade, yes.” He sighs. “We all died, aside from one. I suppose it’s a good thing he’s not here.”

"The cop didn't die? That's so much worse," Magnus says, sadly, even though he of all people definitely knows that death isn't usually the end of a life.

“Oh, he may have. I heard the gunshot, I did not see him again after that.” He doesn’t sound as if he particularly minds. He is, however, incorrect in his assumptions.

"Huh." Magnus is slightly mollified. He gets back into action sweeping snacks into his backpack. "Okay then."

“I would have shot him myself, but a volunteer offered. He had just saved Pontmercy’s life; so —“ He shrugs. “It seemed fitting to give him what he wanted.” He watches Magnus for a moment, thoughtful. “Would you like something warm to drink to bring out, as well? I could make tea or coffee, or vin chaud.”

"Oh for sure, wouldn't necessarily want that on your own wyrd either," Magnus nods. "What's vin chaud?"

“Ah, mulled wine? It is served during the winter, generally. Hot wine with spices in it, it is very good.” If Magnus doesn’t want any, Enjolras may make some later; but he figured he would offer.

"I'm not really into booze," Magnus says, apologetically. "So I'll pass on that, but thanks! I'm more, like, Hot Chocolate Guy."

"Ah! Also quite good, yes. I'm sure we can find some if you'd like." Don't mind Enjolras, Magnus, literally everyone drinks wine when he's from. (He does, clearly, though less so than other Frenchmen we could name.)

"Oh yeah, that'd be sick," says Magnus, immediately going around the kitchen and opening a bunch of cabinets, looking for some.

He blinks a little. “Oh, is there some that comes in packets like the coffee? I have only ever had it already made.”

"I guess? All I know is that hot chocolate involves chocolate."

"Yes, and probably a good deal of sugar. Well, let's look." And so he dives into the cupboards as well, looking for anything and everything that might say 'chocolate.'

Magnus helps. Turns out there's a lot of chocolate chip energy bars in there! He puts them all in his backpack.

Enjolras will helpfully pass those along, too, as he has no idea what they are. Eventually, he does manage to find a box of instant hot chocolate, and studies it, lips pursed. "Is this it?"

Magnus glances over. "Looks like!"

"Ah! Good, then." He hands them over, with some triumph. "...I suppose we should figure out what we do with it, hm?"

"You mix it with hot water or milk," Magnus says. "And hey presto!"

“Ah! That seems easy enough then.” He’s just —going to continue poking around the pantry, then, mostly just for fun.

Magnus follows him. "Anything cool in there?"

"All sorts of herbs and spices and things, I don't know half of what they are for. Laertes might."

"Ooh, like what?" Magnus asks, trying to peer into the cabinet.

"Mm." He takes a bottle down and looks at it. "This one says 'Grains of Paradise.' Have you ever heard of such a thing?"

"I think that's a kind of pepper," Magnus says. There's a jar of powdered sumac next to it, and he makes a triumphant sort of noise, grabbing it. He doesn't know a lot about food, but he does know that when Amir puts this stuff on things, it tastes even better.

He tilts his head. "I have never heard of that one, either, it is quite an interesting color. I wonder if Laertes has found any of these yet."

"He's definitely found the sumac," Magnus says, thinking about some of the dishes he's gotten from Laertes since he's been added to the dinner list.

"Ah, it is one you have had before then? I do not think I have had anything made with it before."

"You can try it, if you want," Magnus says, passing the jar over. "It's kinda sour."

He takes some and gives it an experimental lick. “Oh! It is. But I can see how it would go well with certain meats and the like.”

"Yeah! It's pretty good." Magnus glances over at mess of bread-stuff on the counter. "When do you have to do your next step?"

"Ah, it is some time yet. I picked a decidedly complicated bread to make for my first attempt, unfortunately."

"You should totally pick some random spices and dump them on different sections of the baguette," Magnus says. "I bet that would be a fun way to figure out how they taste and what they're good for."

"Perhaps I will," he says with some amusement. "It may very well improve the taste."

"It could!" Magnus moves away then, going back to pack the last of his discoveries into his backpack. "So. Hot chocolate?"

“Ah, yes, it shouldn’t take long if we want some now.” He inspects the package. “Would you want it with milk or water?”

Magnus shrugs. He's hitting his limit being inside. "Whatever's easiest?"

"That would certainly be water, as milk, I think, would not be good in the kettle." He sets to boil them some water and then starts searching for a nice portable double-walled cup Magnus can take outside with him.

"Thanks, man," says Magnus, grateful, as he yanks the pantry door open for a final ransacking of the shelves.

"Of course, mon ami." Luckily he's found them some cups and spoons by the time the water gets to boiling, so it is no great matter to make the hot chocolate once it's all ready.

Magnus takes the thermos of prepared hot chocolate gratefully when it's done. He doesn't need the warm drink, of course, but he loves chocolate and he really appreciates the gesture. "Maybe I'll come back inside tomorrow and see if there's any bread left for me to try," he says.

"If it survives the baking, you are welcome to it," he says with a grin. "Of course you're also welcome to any of the pastries in the cafe, if you ever go in there. Laertes makes plenty."

"Oh, I eat his pastries," Magnus says. "I've never tried your bread before, though. So." He offers Enjolras a crooked smile. "Anyway, good to see you, man. I'll catch you later?"

"Yes, of course." He can tell Magnus has been getting a little antsy, for lack of a better word, and gives him a small nod and a smile. "Do enjoy yourself out there. Too cold for me."

And with one more smile, Magnus is off.

quatre: they will put away the sword

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