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.

Comments

[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?"

[untamedantinous]

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

[timebethine]

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

[untamedantinous]

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

[timebethine]

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

[untamedantinous]

“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.”

[timebethine]

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."

[untamedantinous]

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

[timebethine]

"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.)

[untamedantinous]

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.

[timebethine]

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.

[untamedantinous]

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.