open: don't let the wine go to your brains

[untamedantinous]

It shouldn’t be this hard to prepare for a meeting. He’s done it countless times before. However, this time, it somehow is difficult. He’s never really had to set things up at times like this; and he knows as well as anyone else that he is not the best at social niceties. Granted, this meeting is in a much more well-appointed cafe than any he had ever been accustomed to holding space in in Paris. At least they have the benefit of a larger space. Consequently, Enjolras has spent much of the day of the eighth of Menestheus preparing, a little uncertain of how to plan a social gathering that is not immediately centered around planning a revolution. He is trying his best, at least.

Most of the tables and chairs have been pushed a bit more to the center of the room; the couch is arranged off to the opposite side. There are even various pillows scattered about, should anyone choose to sit on the floor. Arranged on a few of the larger tables and the counter there is a modest spread of food: of course, some of Laertes and Galahad’s pastries; but Enjolras has also procured what amounts to a few charcuterie platters: sliced sausages and meats, a selection of (mostly French) cheese, and various sliced loaves of bread and crackers are laid out for perusal, and spreads to go along with them. In an effort to provide multiple options of entertainment, Grantaire has set up a table somewhat near the food, with an assortment of wines and liqueurs. Off to one side, there are a few pots of brewed coffee, cream, sugar, and whatever else anyone might like to add to their beverage of choice. If anyone is drawn to the liquor cabinet, they will find three cups filled with various pieces of paper sitting atop it.

Enjolras himself is lingering on the couch with a glass of wine and some bread. He’s not sure how many people were even informed about this gathering, though he had done his best to advertise. If no one arrives then perhaps he will try again another time; but at least a few in attendance other than himself and Grantaire would certainly be welcome.

Comments

[onthewillowsthere]

Galahad nods, signing his name more fluidly with the ease of familiarity. Then he gives Lan Wangji a questioning look: has he chosen a name-sign?

[lightbearinglord]

Before answering, Lan Wangji signs Galahad's name again, already more easily. As for his own name, he shakes his head a little. He has only the sign Magnus showed him, the hand at his temple and then his thumb drawing a line across his forehead ribbon, so he does that, with a tiny quirk at the corner of his mouth.

[onthewillowsthere]

In spite of himself, Galahad smiles: he still sees the echo of father in that sign. He copies it, however -- and then he points across the room to Claudius, deep in conversation with Laertes, and signs C-snake-dragon.

[lightbearinglord]

Lan Wangji knows two of these signs. Later, he will have to ask someone or look up the third one. Still, following Galahad's gesture toward Claudius, who is clearly enjoying himself on a level completely inaccessible to either of them, softens his face with fondness, and he dutifully copies all three, once and then again to be certain he can remember for whenever it becomes relevant.

[onthewillowsthere]

His own expression is soft too, though there's a little of that what-if ache inside him again. He's so untried -- but Claudius looks so happy with his glass of wine and his animated conversation, the rather wry set of his mouth and the way Galahad can almost hear the drawl as he speaks. He laughs at something Laertes says, and Galahad's heart clenches like a fist, not in anxiety or jealousy but in love.

He wants to tell Lan Wangji that they're betrothed -- he hasn't told anyone yet, because Claudius himself already told Magnus, and Claudius should certainly be the one to tell Lan Wangji, his best friend -- but Galahad wishes he could, nonetheless. He rubs his thumb along the braid of his watchband, and tries to resolve the ache of both love and uncertainty inside him.

[lightbearinglord]

Lan Wangji watches again as Galahad toys with his jewelry. Although Galahad's face is often as unmoving as his own, the realization of how similar they are makes it simple enough to perceive that there must be a multitude of thoughts and feelings behind that inexpressive expression. If they were not sharing this silence together, surrounded on all sides by clinking glasses and arguing voices, Lan Wangji might gently make space for Galahad to speak about it, but that will need to wait. For now, he can only guess. He knows what it is to be a man who lived all his life in the quiet and then gave his heart away to a smiling, laughing whirl of flirtation and precious, frivolous words. He had thirteen years to, without knowing he was preparing for something, become the man Wei Ying needed. Galahad is very young.

He picks up his tea and takes a measured sip, such that Galahad can follow his lead. There will be another time for them to speak, if it is necessary.

[onthewillowsthere]

Galahad's gaze flicks back to Lan Wangji, and he lifts his own cup in turn, copying the slow, thoughtful way he drinks his tea. It tastes green and earthy; Galahad savors that taste. It's late enough in the evening that he's allowed to drink now, the sun having disappeared beyond the tree line, and after a day of fasting the warmth of the tea in his stomach and the flavor of green on his tongue is as heady as the mulled wine at Wanderers Gather. He closes his eyes. The noise recedes to a bearable level as he lets himself stop being present and sink into his field instead, and as he sits cross-legged there watching the heads of wheat and the fish move as if caught in an invisible pull of tides he feels such immense gratitude towards Lan Wangji.

[lightbearinglord]

Galahad's eyes shut, his young face turning smooth and his aura palpably calming. His breathing slows and deepens. It almost makes Lan Wangji smile to witness it. He remains alert, to keep an eye on Galahad, but he matches his breathing to Galahad's, a small reminder to both of them that this is a moment they are in together. He could be meditating with his brother, or even with Sizhui; there are, he is realizing here, a thousand ways to brush up against the reality of another human spirit, none of them quite the same but nearly all of them worth nurturing. He drinks his slowly-cooling tea, maintains quiet awareness of his companion, and lets the bustle of the room wax and wane apart from them.