six: silence before jean-jacques (open)

[untamedantinous]

A wildfire burns quickly and hot until it is extinguished. In some cases, Enjolras' passion has been likened to a fire. Here at the mansion that fire tends to be mostly banked; but the embers remain. It is easy enough to stir it into wakefulness; and Enjolras' dreams of late have done just that. (They have passed, now, but the burning need to do something remains.) So he is in the café as he usually is, sat at a large table with various piles of writings strewn about.

Off to the side, one might note a flier that is still obviously a work in progress, set off to dry a bit while he works on something else. The general air of disarray suggests that he has certainly been here for hours at least, though he does look a good deal happier than he had the last time he had taken refuge in the café. The warmth and fire of his passion has awoken another familiar friend: writing like he's running out of time.¹ It is in truth very much what he would be doing in Paris, and there is a relaxed pleasure that is evident in the way he sits, in making himself feel useful even if it is for goals of his own making.

He has clearly been at it for some time, fingers inkstained and coffee grown cold beside him. There is a copy of The Social Contract open in front of him, and every so often he makes a thoughtful noise, writes a few things down, then turns to the next page. It is truly only a thought exercise that he's working on, a passing fancy to abridge a work that he is already intensely familiar with; but he appreciates the challenge. It is entirely different from the other, more private writings he has been working on, which are kept in a small notebook currently buried under all those sheets of paper. Regardless, the work pleases him --though the coffee does not. He picks his cup up to take a sip, makes a face, and rises to go start himself another.





¹ Wrong musical, same vibes.

Comments

[untamedantinous]

“Oh, I hardly know. Moths. Take a page from Combeferre’s book.”

[futaille]

He pauses. "Moths." It takes a moment for him to gather his thoughts, as it was very much not a topic he was expecting. "All right. The lowly cousins of butterflies. Blessed with the same general form but lacking the appreciative reception. Regardless, there is much to appreciate. After all, what they are perceived to lack in natural beauty, they make up for in a definite taste for fashion. Also, they appreciate and are always seeking spots of brightness in the world around them. When I think on it, perhaps I have a great deal in common with them."

[untamedantinous]

“My. You may compete with Combeferre soon enough,” he replies with an amused smile.

[futaille]

It's met with a laugh. "Oh, I hold no such pretensions. I am more likely to compete with a moth itself. Grow wings and antennae and fly at a nearby flame."

[untamedantinous]

“Well, I should appreciate it if you do not engulf yourself in flames too quickly. It would be strangely quiet without you.”

[futaille]

"I shall do my level best to avoid immolation, although if you do see me begin to sprout wings, let me know so that I may take special care."

[untamedantinous]

"Unless you have irritated one of the magic users here, I do not see how that could be a possibility."

[futaille]

"Well, the mansion could have a day when it turns us all into animals¹," he points out reasonably². "Although I do admit that it would be unlikely for me to enter a moth stage without wrapping myself in a cocoon first. I should probably be careful with my bedsheets."

¹ Silly R, if fursona day happens, you're not gonna be a moth, I promise you.
² Only here could that actually be reasonable.

[untamedantinous]

He gives Grantaire a faintly bewildered look and shakes his head, bemused. "You are absurd, R."

[futaille]

He grins. "You must admit that there are any number of things that have happened here that you would have called me absurd for hypothesizing before they happened. Although I will admit a cocoon unlikely, apart from perhaps in a metaphorical sense."

[untamedantinous]

"Tch," he says absently, sitting back and crossing his arms over his chest. "Very well, I will admit it, but only because this place is unfathomable."

[futaille]

"Precisely!" He grins. "And as I am also unfathomable, it follows that my peculiarities have become wisdom."

[untamedantinous]

“Oh, I do not know if I would call it that.”

[futaille]

"Ah, and then what would you call it?"

[untamedantinous]

“Certainly not wisdom. I would still call them peculiarities. I would also not call you unfathomable; this place is much more frustrating than you could ever hope to be.” There’s a pause. “That was not a challenge.”

[futaille]

He laughs. "I will not take it as one. I fear even I have my limits and to try to outstrip this place would be a folly well beyond them."

[untamedantinous]

"Indeed it would," somewhat amused. "I suppose you are not as foolish as all that."

[futaille]

"Make no mistake, I am indeed a fool, but simply not that kind of fool."

[untamedantinous]

“You would likely say we’re all fools.”

[futaille]

"Of course I would. It's part and parcel of being human. Foolishness makes us so much more interesting."

[untamedantinous]

“I suppose.” He reaches to take a sip of his coffee again.

[futaille]

He laughs. "You sound skeptical. I approve."

[untamedantinous]

"Am I not allowed to be skeptical? The does seem a bit unfair. Men are fools, but some are not, and we must all work together in order to reach a common goal."

[futaille]

"You're allowed to be as skeptical as I'm idealistic," he says cheerfully. "And I would temper your 'some are not' with instead saying sometimes they are not. And determining which times are which makes the fate of common causes an interesting game of chance."