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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[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.

[timebethine]

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.)

[untamedantinous]

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.

[timebethine]

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.

[untamedantinous]

“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.

[timebethine]

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.

[untamedantinous]

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.

[timebethine]

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.