untamedantinous | cinq: there's a pain goes on and on (open)

cinq: there's a pain goes on and on (open)

The cafe is generally empty, this early in the morning. Enjolras is grateful for that; he did not sleep well and is in no mood for company. He looks --not quite as tired as he had upon his arrival, but certainly rough, unshaven and bleary. It has been slightly over a month since their unexpected visitors, the two friends he had longed most for, and he still sees them in his dreams. Last night's were particularly vivid; he had been out with his musket before it had gotten dark, the lingering smell of gunpowder had done him no favors. There was Combeferre with three bayonets to the chest, still trying to help a guardsman despite it all; Courfeyrac standing at his side as the national guard advances upon them.

They are all covered in blood and gunpowder. Everything is, even him, though he was unwounded at the time. At the end, everything had gone silent. It was strange, to be surrounded by so much blood and gunfire and all the chaos that comes with a battle; and yet Enjolras had felt as though he was moving through a haze. He feels similarly now, sitting in a dark corner of the cafe with a mostly drunk cup of coffee nearby. He would rather be awake than chance more dreams. Perhaps someone will come along and distract him from this bout of melancholy.

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This is a usual time for Lancelot to be up and about, and recently he's gotten into the habit of starting coffee and having a cup before he goes out to do his morning drills.

He almost doesn't notice Enjolras -- usually the café is pretty empty around this time -- but when he does, he says, in a level tone, "Good morning, Enjolras."

It takes him a moment to respond, and when he does, it's a little lost sounding. "Good morning."

Lancelot gentles his tone a little, trying to leave space for Enjolras to tell him to go away. "Would you like some coffee, once it's done?"

"I suppose I have finished mine." He doesn't particularly sound as though he wants Lancelot to leave; but he's also not quite in a mood for conversation.

"Very well," easily, and in a manner that suggests he is perfectly content not to converse. "I shall bring it over."

"Thank you," he allows, with a small yawn. "You are up early."

"Oh, 'tis ever thus," easily.

“Mm, that is why I do not see you training during the day, then.”

"Just so," with an easy smile, "It is best to start with routine, I find. Then the rest of the day goes easier."

"Mm. Mine usually begins here, but a bit later than this."

Lancelot smiles, "That is well, except-- are you unsettled?"

He shrugs. "I did not sleep well."

By now, the coffee is close enough to done for Lancelot to finagle a cup for Enjolras. "I am glad to listen, if it helps. And if not, no harm done."

"Mm, I do not know what to say. Suffice to say I had nightmares, but that is apparent enough."

"Aye, that does seem obvious." He returns to the coffee maker to let it finish so he can pour a mug for himself. "I'm sorry to hear it."

He shrugs. “They will pass soon enough, I have had them before.”

Lancelot nods, "I have experienced something similar."

"Have you?" He sips at the coffee absently. "What did you do?"

"About the dreams, do you mean?"

"Yes. How did you deal with them?"

Lancelot gives a wry, quiet laugh, "I am sorry to tell you that I don't believe I dealt with them in any way. Now and again, one comes -- not always the same. And I... rise and go to drill and hope that my head is empty by the time I'm done."

"Mmmn. That is what I am hoping for, but it will not come." Maybe he needs to go exhaust himself, later. (That is not the answer anyone should resort to, but Enjolras has ever been a stubborn man.)

"I am happy to spar with you, however you like, if you think that will help," he says, warmly. His tone turns sympathetic. "But-- this asks for a routine. In early days, that's hard to come by."

"Mm. I have already been thoroughly trounced by Laertes, and I do not think I have the fortitude for it just now. But I may accept your offer at some point."

"I am at your service," he turns, coffee in hand, and gives Enjolras a wry smile. After a pause he says, "I understand. Know this-- anytime you ask, I will spar with you, or keep time with you, or-- whatever you need."

He nods, and gives Lancelot the briefest of smiles, like the sunrise creeping over the horizon. “Thank you. I do appreciate it.”

Lancelot nods in return, raising his mug in a little toast. That smile is warming, even as brief as it is.

He says gently, "Shall I leave you?"

“Mm. I fear I will not be good company, so you can if you like.”

He gives a little shrug, "I'm not looking for good company, but I'll not ask any more of you."

"Thank you for the coffee." It's not exactly an order, but it does certainly have an air of dismissal about it.

"You're very welcome, sir," another little bow, "Be well."

And then he politely excuses himself.

The sun's barely up, but a baker's day starts before dawn, and Laertes takes his promise to supply the café with pastries very seriously. He comes in yawning, laden with a tray of pistachio, date, and honey twists, and immediately starts making coffee with the cezve on the café's hot plate once he's set his tray down. He's gotten all the way to pouring himself a cup of coffee when he notices Lucien there, and he pours a second tiny cup and brings it over. "My heart," he says as he sets the coffee down near Lucien's elbow. "Thou lookest dire."

He starts a little when he notices Laertes' approach, almost looking like a frightened deer. It's just for a moment, though, as he relaxes as he sees who it is. "Mmn. I did not sleep well."

Laertes sits, far enough away not to crowd but close enough to touch, should Lucien wish it. "Wouldst thou speak of it? Or dost thou want distraction?"

"I don't know," he says tiredly. "I have not spoken of it, at all, I think. I tried distraction earlier." He had been practicing fencing before he ended up here.

"If the wound is too tender, I could share thy bed, and see if thou canst sleep in my arms," Laertes offers. "But if thou wouldst speak, I'll listen." He sips his coffee, and lays his hand out on the table where it will be easy to take.

"I think I have had too much coffee to even attempt going back to sleep," he says, with a nod at the empty mug beside him. He takes the little cup that Laertes has set beside him and takes a sip of that as well. "I am already tense enough as it is, anyway. I'm just trying to figure out where to start."

It strikes Laertes that Lucien is not the kind of man to be careful of his hurts--he's the kind of man who pushes through them, who tends to himself as though he is a furnace to forge a new republic. If it does not stoke the flame hotter, it is of negligible concern. "I'm here," he says. "Not altogether awake, but I'm here."

“I am also not altogether awake,” he says tiredly. “Mm,” he continues with a yawn. “I suppose it is unnecessary to say I dreamed of the barricades.”

Laertes knows, by now, that that means, I dreamed of my death--of my friends' deaths, which all came before my own. "Such a thing must surely weigh upon thy soul," he says gently. "It would be stranger if it didn't."

“Mm. I know they do not regret it, but I do wish I could apologize to them.”

"For thine own sake, more than for theirs--so that they would know that they were at least as dear to thee as thy cause."

"Yes, and --they could have done so much more, if they had not followed me."

"Would they have forgiven themselves, if they hadn't?"

"Ah, likely not." There is another sip of coffee. "It was so quiet, after the guard took the barricade. It hardly felt real."

Laertes quiets in his turn. Lucien hasn't taken his hand, and so he tentatively lays his fingers over Lucien's wrist, sharing a little of his warmth.

He shifts a little at Laertes' touch, scooting a tiny bit closer to him. "I knew what was coming," he continues, quiet, his voice a little rough. "We all did, of course; I knew I was not going to live. They would not have let me."

"Did thou never believe thou couldst win?"

"For a time we did. Until the second day came, along with no one to help us."

"Oh, my heart." Laertes squeezes Lucien's wrist just a little. "Thou wert not wrong to hope for better."

"I know -- but the weather was poor, and the people were frightened. It was not the time."

"Was thy hand forced?"

"Not precisely. It seemed the correct time, a man who the people loved had died, we started a riot at his funeral procession; and things went from there. But the will of the people is -- like a candleflame. Sometimes it spreads into a bonfire, other times it gutters and extinguishes."

"And even thou couldst not burn brightly enough to keep the revolution aflame. I'm sorry. My heart, I'm sorry. Thou couldst not have known."

“I know, but it is …very hard not to regret things.”

"I know." Laertes quiets, finishing his coffee and sliding his fingers into the hollow of Lucien's palm.

"Mm. Is there anything else you would know?" He moves to lean against Laertes properly now, face still tired and wan.

"I do not ask to satisfy my curiosity, my heart--only because I can see that these burdens weigh heavily on thee, and I would ease them if I could." Laertes rubs his cheek lightly against Lucien's hair, a catlike gesture of familiarity.

"I know, but --" He sighs and absently returns the gesture. "I am not certain what else to speak of. It is hard to describe if one wasn't there. Perhaps I might write of it."

"Set it down, naked upon the page, that thou might'st see the whole of it laid out plain before thee," Laertes agrees. "Then, perhaps, thou wilt not wander from horror to horror like a ghost in thy sleep."

"I shall add it to my list. I have been writing of my friends, from time to time. Perhaps I shall print a copy for Grantaire, if he would like it."

"Has it helped, to write of them?"

"A little. There is much to write on any of them."

"Might I ... might I read of them?" Laertes asks. "I would help thee remember them."

"Of course." He nestles a little closer. "Remind me, next time you are at my rooms."

"It may be soon--coffee or no, thou art half-asleep in thy chair."

“You are welcome to join me, if you like,” he offers drowsily, not seeing much point in arguing since it is plainly true. “Unless you’ve things to do.”

In truth, he should be starting on what he can make ahead for Wanderers Gather--but he presses Lucien's hand and says, "Nothing more needful than to sleep at thy side."

Lucien nods again and stifles a yawn. "It may be easier with you beside me. Shall we go?"

Edited 2024-01-22 19:40 (UTC)

"We shall." Laertes takes their empty cup to the bin where dirty cups go, then goes to catch Lucien by the arm and bundle him back towards his room. (They've spent very little time there, Laertes realizes; they more often spend their time together in public places or unused rooms. It strikes him suddenly how much he wants the intimacy of a private space, where Lucien might be fragile and unguarded with him.)

That will take some doing, though he is just tired enough that some of the walls he's put up might ease. It is all too simple for him to slip into stoicism, put that marble statue facade up --he is not used to fragility. The closest he has gotten is times like these, where he is exhausted and doesn't quite know what to do with himself, or at the barricades, which he still does not have words for. In any case, he is uncomplainingly bundled up to his room --which Laertes will find is spartan for the most part, though there is a painting of eight familiar young men in a cafe hung on the wall. There is a small table and comfortable chair off to the side of the bed, but other than that it's bare.

Laertes's heart aches as he sees this barren space, adorned only with that single painting. It doesn't look like a place where someone lives; it looks like a room arranged to be let, a brief stopping-place on a journey. He's spent enough of his time traveling that he knows that impersonal kind of furniture all too well.

As soon as the door's shut behind them, he starts to help Lucien undress--less like a lover than like a manservant, all deft, light touches.

Lucien laughs a little and shakes his head. "You needn't, I can manage." But he doesn't make too much of a fuss, regardless, only helping with buttons where Laertes hasn't quite gotten to yet. The room, of course, is not entirely bare, the table is piled with various philosophy books and the pages of writing Lucien has been doing of his friends; but it does indeed give the sense of a boarding-house.

And Laertes calmly disregards the protest. Once he's managed to get Lucien undressed, he swiftly skins off his own clothes, then eases back the cover on the bed and climbs beneath them to settle closer to the wall. (Lucien, he thinks, would not want to feel cornered there.)

Once again, Lucien cannot help but be reminded of Combeferre, a little. Laertes' manner is brisk and businesslike, very like what he would imagine his friend's would have been in the hospital. He snuggles into bed without another word, then, slipping his arms around Laertes' waist as he does.

Laertes pulls him close--strokes his back, kisses his temple, reminds Lucien through sheer heat and presence that he's here. He asks no questions and makes no demands. His skin still smells slightly of orange and sage from last night's bath, with a touch of cinnamon and honey from the morning's baking.

“You smell good,” Lucien offers sleepily, snuggling into Laertes’ shoulder. Even with the coffee, now that he is in bed, his body is starting to realize how tired it is. His eyes drift close after a few more minutes of silence; though it is a few minutes more until he eases into a slightly fitful sleep.

Laertes doesn't quite sleep, but he does drift on the shores of wakefulness, like a ship cradling Lucien against the waves. It's good to be here, resting in the pale light of morning, his lover warm in his arms.

Thankfully, Laertes’ presence seems to stave off the worst of the dreams, though he does toss and turn a bit. He is grateful for the warmth at his side, though he doesn’t have the words for that either, just now. In any case, he sleeps for some time; Laertes may choose to slide out of his grip if he wishes. He is, after all, quite busy.

Laertes could, and he thinks more than once of doing it--but he would hate to have Lucien wake alone. Only when Lucien stirs awake will Laertes kiss his brow once more, and take his leave.

Aziraphale rarely sleeps, which makes it comparatively easy for him to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as he meanders into the café in search of a cuppa. He is immediately aware of the human presence in the corner, however, and he approaches with as much gentle benevolence as he knows how to muster. "Monsieur?"

Presumably that’s quite a lot, considering he’s an angel and all. Enjolras seems lost in a daze, but he straightens and gives Aziraphale a brief nod. “Good morning.”

"Is it a good morning, then?" Aziraphale takes a seat near Enjolras, although not directly next to him. "Forgive me for saying so, but you look rather... burdened."

He shrugs a little. “I did not sleep well. This seemed a better alternative.”

"The dreams, still?" Aziraphale looks at him with a faint frown. He supposes he can't simply offer poor Enjolras angelic intervention every evening going forward. That's a bit not the point of free will. "Is this place treating you well aside from that?"

"It is, yes, I am learning many things." He tries for a smile, though it's a little shadowed. "The dreams do not happen all the time, only every so often."

"I'm given to understand that that is roughly the nature of dreams. I don't often sleep," admits Aziraphale. "It's privilege of divinity."

"Would that I didn't need sleep," he replies with a rueful smile. "I would get much more done."

Aziraphale becomes genuinely curious at this. "What needs doing around here? This building provides for most needs, doesn't it?"

"It does, yes; but I keep myself busy regardless. I write, and I read to Temeraire, and cook -- Laertes and I are teaching ourselves how to use the printing press on the first floor."

At that, of course, the curiosity persists, but it is joined by some equally genuine, and excited, interest. Aziraphale leans a bit closer to Enjolras. "What sorts of things are you planning to print?"

"Well, we are still learning it; but whatever needs printing. We have been making labels, we might print more of Mlle. Tress' pamphlets for the information tables --ah, any writings I might come up with. I only ever paid for their services at home, it is interesting to learn something new."

"Oh, Mlle. Tress! She does work too hard, doesn't she? It would be kind of you to make it easier on her."

"She does! Like a number of my friends." And him, too, but he does not say that. "I intend to. We also intend to try and help Mlle Susan with her organization project and make labels. Though the library seems to defy any sort of order."

"Oh, the library." Aziraphale groans, a bit theatrically but also sincerely. "I've tried to tame it countless times. I'd like to impose order on it. There's order in my bookshop at home.¹"

¹Order incomprehensible to anyone but him, but still.

“You and Mlle. Susan both. I do think I have found at least three or four copies of The Social Contract in there. Not that I especially mind multiple copies of that.”

"Well, there must be countless different editions." This is even more interesting to him, of course. "Do you wind up with a different one each time? Or are they all the same?"

"I am certain there must be, but I think they are all the same? I have been reading one to Temeraire, and I gave others to Claudius and Laertes, so they might read them." He hasn't particularly checked, but he would not think to.

Aziraphale really is trying to play the kind and benevolent angel in this interaction, so he manages only a brief glance of vague horror about the fact that Enjolras said I think about the matter of whether he has been giving out the same edition of a book each time. "Well," he says, with great bravery, "I shall have to ask them. Temeraire is lovely, isn't he?"

Edited 2024-01-26 20:18 (UTC)

Aziraphale is truly the bravest and most benevolent of angels. Enjolras is, alas, unaware of the horror his statement has caused; as he basically has most of The Social Contract memorized anyhow. "Yes," he replies, brightening some. "He is quite well-read, too, for a dragon. I did not think they would like reading so well."

"Oh, yes," says Aziraphale, more happily now. "I admit I'd never met a dragon until him, but I'd anticipated more rampaging and pillaging, based on the rumours and literature. Don't tell Temeraire I said that!"

“Oh, I shall not,” he replies with some amusement. “He says his mate is of a much different temperament than him, perhaps she does the rampaging.” Though it is easy to imagine Temeraire would be a formidable opponent, even at his current size. “If we had had him at the barricades, perhaps we might have succeeded.”

"Perhaps." Aziraphale's expression softens a bit. He knows all too well the specifics of Enjolras' fate. "He's demonstrated a remarkable ability called Divine Wind to me -- we ran a brief experiment far out into the woods here."

"Mm, yes, he has told me about it, but I have not seen it. It sounds quite formidable. He has also said his mate breathes fire, I am sure between the two of them, doing battle against them must have been quite terrifying."

"Ugh, battle," says Aziraphale delicately, with a laugh. "Not my favorite way to pass the time. I prefer to appreciate the heroics from afar when possible."

"Indeed not, but sometimes it is necessary. Temeraire has of course seen a great deal more than I have."

"Sometimes, yes." Aziraphale softens a bit. "Will you ask me if you need assistance with those dreams of yours? Divine intervention, if you will."

He huffs out an unamused chuckle. "I do not know if I am deserving of all that, but -- yes. I will, should they come again."

Aziraphale isn't in the business of deciding who and isn't deserving, thank you very much. He reaches to pat Enjolras' hand. "As I said, I rarely sleep. I'm usually in the library at all hours. Do let me know."

Instead of shying away as he normally would, Enjolras simply accepts the hand pat and gives Aziraphale a small, tired smile. "Of course. Thank you, monsieur."

"Anytime, dear boy." Aziraphale stands, then, and bustles off -- but he truly would be more than happy to help, if the wayward revolutionary in question can find it in himself to ask.

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cinq: there's a pain goes on and on (open)

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