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

[untamedantinous]

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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[timebethine]

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."

[untamedantinous]

“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.”

[timebethine]

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."

[untamedantinous]

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

[timebethine]

"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."

[untamedantinous]

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

[timebethine]

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

[untamedantinous]

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

[timebethine]

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.

[untamedantinous]

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."

[timebethine]

"Did thou never believe thou couldst win?"

[untamedantinous]

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

[timebethine]

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

[untamedantinous]

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

[timebethine]

"Was thy hand forced?"

[untamedantinous]

"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."

[timebethine]

"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."

[untamedantinous]

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

[timebethine]

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

[untamedantinous]

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

[timebethine]

"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.

[untamedantinous]

"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."

[timebethine]

"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."

[untamedantinous]

"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."

[timebethine]

"Has it helped, to write of them?"