A/N: Rated T for mild infrequent swearing, Claude's voyeuristic tendencies and some rather lurid description. It should also be noted that the tone begins quite light and whimsically, but past the middle gets progressively darker, especially towards the end, in the penultamite chapter. Those that are sensitive to such things... consider yourselves warned. I also feel inclined to warn the reader that the structure to the fic is somewhat strange, but if you can't do bizarre narrative experiments on fan fic net, where can you? Oh, yes, and in my mind, apparently, the population of Paris speak like Londoners.
All that aside and without any further author ado, enjoy the fic.
Sweet Dreams
The Ink Bottle
Frollo groggily rolled over on the hard mattress. Once more he was not to be blessed with a dreamless sleep.
Face down, eyes blinked awake. Frollo rolled onto his back to find early morning sunlight spilling through a dormitory window. Light that meant only one thing to his fifteen year old self: He could read.
Immediately, Claude sat up.
Time not spent reading, when reading was possible, was time wasted. He rubbed one hand over his pasty face and cropped hair to banish any remaining disorientation of sleep, swinging his feet onto the cold floor without hesitation. Sitting upright and facing the rest of the hazily discernible room, his gaze fell on an older boy who was collapsed onto a second bed, Claude's unwanted room mate, Grégoire.
The nineteen year old was well rounded, due to constantly being well fed, with plump, ruddy cheeks, due to constantly being well drunk, and a mess of shaggy, sandy coloured hair. To Claude, Grégoire only served one useful purpose and that was to passively inform him, every morning, what day it was.
An untrained eye may have leapt to the conclusion that, due to the half empty bottle of wine still tightly grasped between Grégoire's fingers, last night was a Saturday, thus today must be a Sunday. However, Claude's eye was anything but untrained; the fact that the bottle was half full was exactly why last night couldn't be a Saturday. A fact confirmed further since Grégoire seemed to have retained his dinner during last night's drinking. No, Claude reasoned, today couldn't be a Sunday. Further inspection of the sad attempt Grégoire had made of unlacing his boots, indicating moderately heavy drinking, told Claude that last night was in fact a Friday. Today was Saturday.
Claude smiled; he had a whole day to dedicate to reading.
Making a mental note not to leave any of his belongings in the path between the door and Grégoire's bed, to do so tonight would most likely lead to unpleasant cleaning of said belongings on Sunday, Claude stood up.
He was about to make his way past the comatosed Grégoire, when his gaze fell once again on the half full bottle of wine. It was the only cause that young Frollo would momentarily postpone learning and, as such, Claude carefully pried the vile bottle out of Grégoire's pudgy hand. The older boy remained motionless. He was in such a deep sleep Claude could have smashed the bottle over his head and he wouldn't have voiced an objection.
Regardless of this tempting thought, Claude walked across to the window, opened it, and poured the alcohol out onto the street below. Every last drop gone, Claude took the empty bottle back inside to deposit it with its owner. However, on turning to look at the sleeping Grégoire, Claude decided it was a much better idea to finish the job properly. He tossed the bottle out the window, smirking as it made a satisfying smash onto the pavement below.
A blurred second later, and Claude had washed, dressed and skipped breakfast. He was ready to begin the day's studying.
He trailed his finger over the spines of the various leather bound books that stood proud and erect on his shelf. Volumes of science just waiting to be absorbed, knowledge waiting to be learned; Claude subconsciously licked his lips at the thought.
But, which discipline should he dedicate his mind today?
Physics, philosophy, biology, theology, chemistry; he wanted to do it all. Unfortunately for Claude, he was limited by his inability to read multiple books simultaneously. He would have to choose...
His finger skipped past three volumes of Galen, already devoured; continued to leap scornfully over a book on astrology, read only to better disagree; paused momentarily over Geber's "Book of Stones", Persian alchemy as yet unread; before finally selecting a Greek book on mathematical principles that he had taken from the library only the day before.
He extracted the thick manuscript from the midst of the bookshelf with utmost care to place it on his parchment strewn desk. Taking a moment to lovingly caress the cover, he turned to the first page and breathed in the smell of wise, aged paper that he so adored. This ritual complete, he quickly located a stack of blank parchment and a quill, in order to note down and experiment with what the book was about to so graciously share with him.
The necessary preliminary procedures all aside, Claude eagerly bent his head to immerse himself fully in knowledge. Halfway down the first page, defining rational numbers, Claude scribbled a note onto his parchment, and yet the familiar sound of the quill didn't seem quite right.
No ink.
Rolling his eyes at this obvious oversight, Claude located his inkwell, hiding under a page of Hebrew, to find it empty. He opened the drawer that contained his bottles of ink to find that this too was empty.
Claude's heart sank.
Furiously, he searched his desk for a single ink bottle, scattering parchment and belongings everywhere to no avail. Not giving up, Claude moved on to ransack Grégoire's desk - the only part of his side of the room that remained tidy due to its lack of use - to discover that the older boy had seemingly not purchased ink in weeks.
Claude let out a sound of irritation, a faint frown line appearing on his forehead. He would have to disrupt his blissful day of learning to buy ink, and to buy ink on a busy Saturday morning would mean at least an hour wasted. The faint frown line deepened at the thought. But it could not be helped – he could not study without writing and he could not write without ink.
It was then that Claude was struck with another sickening realisation: It was the second to last day of the month. The end of his allowance was nigh. Claude took his pouch from a drawer and spilled the few coins it contained onto the desk. Counting up the coins, he found that he was a few pennies short to buy new ink. Desperately hoping he had made a mistake, Claude counted the coins three times over to find that he was of course correct. His mind never made mistakes.
Claude Frollo had been born to an upper middle class family that earned a fair income due to the ownership of property. However, a fair income was reduced to no income once the fees for the University had been paid, resulting in a minuscule monthly allowance for Claude. Not that he resented this at all, Claude was strongly averse to spending money frivolously, just as his room mate was strongly averse to spending money thriftily, and his expenses largely consisted of only writing supplies and food. Claude always spent less on the latter to spend more on the former, skipping meals to be able to replenish his stock of parchment and ink was customary. Hunger could be ignored; his thirst for learning could not. However, even with the minimum amount of his allowance spent on the irritating activity of feeding himself, Claude always seemed to need more ink then he could afford.
Claude counted the coins for a fourth time. It didn't make any difference; he was still three pennies short of an ink bottle.
Yet he would never ask his parents for a larger allowance. Amongst the various reasons, it simply seemed impolite to request money from people he barely knew. Claude sighed; one day he would find a solution to the problem of money. Science could solve anything.
Behind him, Grégoire made a noise that was halfway between a snort and a slurp. Claude turned to look at the sleeping and drooling older boy for his eyes to catch on the stuffed purse that lay next to him. One corner of Claude's mouth twitched upwards; perhaps today his room mate could be useful twice...
Immediately, Catholicism tried to correct this thought with the phrase: "Thou shallt not steal". Claude downcast his eyes. But, he reasoned with himself, it wouldn't be stealing... he would simply be redirecting funds to a nobler cause. By removing three pennies from Grégoire's purse he was sparing them from being spent on sinful occupations. In fact, by taking the money, he would be directly saving Grégoire from sin. In that light, how could Claude pass up such a good deed?
He moved across the room to Grégoire's pouch of money. About to untie the cord that kept the pouch closed, Claude hesitated. Perhaps he should ask Grégoire first?
No, Grégoire simply wouldn't understand what was best for him. Claude had tried explaining similar logics to the older boy on many previous occasions, but he couldn't, or wouldn't, see sense. Besides, Grégoire would never realise if just three pennies went missing from his constantly over stuffed purse...
Claude loosened the cord and removed the money. Later, Grégoire would be thanking him for his kind generosity in saving his soul, Claude was sure of it. Slipping the coins safely into his own pouch, Claude grabbed the mathematics book and strode out the door. He may not have been able to read two books at once, but he had long ago mastered how to simultaneously read and walk.
Head bent down, chin upon his chest, Claude absorbed the first page while traversing the dormitory staircase. Completely oblivious as he passed another student on the stairs - a student who was well enough acquainted with Claude Frollo to know there was no point in attempting a "hello" - Claude turned to page four as the stairs morphed into the ground floor. Turning to page five, he walked through the entrance doors onto the hustle and bustle of the city streets.
On a Saturday morning, Paris was alive with its population. Everyone had somewhere to go and something to do, including the young scholar who wound his way through the faceless crowds without ever looking past the edges of his book.
Claude walked past the black smith, butchers, tavern, apothecary, shoemakers and bakery, his mind too preoccupied to take notice of his stomach's gurgling reaction to the smell of fresh bread. He walked around horse drawn carts and over the shite they left behind; he walked past street entertainers, jugglers, dancers and petty musicians; he passed by filth encrusted beggars, lame, blind and healthy, without giving neither a penny nor a glare. He ignored the clamour of market tradesmen, pushing all manner of goods from the home grown to the manufactured to the stolen. He made his way past stands of ripe tomatoes, sweet strawberries and fresh cherries, never sparing a glance to the stacks of succulent fruits. The sights, sounds and smells, delicious and revolting, of the Saturday morning Paris crush were lost to the student. Nothing existed to him except page fourteen of Greek Mathematical Principles. All else was reduced to a dream like haze of non existence.
Finally, Claude's legs had navigated him to the small corner shop that sold, amongst a variety of other goods, parchment, quills and ink. Head still firmly in his book, Claude pushed open the door to enter the murky surroundings of the shop, filled with a tight knot of featureless people, no doubt there to purchase that variety of other goods Claude considered insignificant. Regardless, Claude moved to join the back of the queue, oblivious as an older man cut in front of him - page twenty three was just too interesting for Claude to care.
"What you reading?"
Consider a square with vertices of O, A, P, Q each with a length of one. Easy, thought Claude. Next, consider the diagonal OP, transferring its length to the line identifying the point p'. This abscissa of p', and the equivalent length of OP, does not correspond to any rational number. But the line is drawn, Claude mused, there must be an existing number to measure it!
"I said what you reading?"
If only he had some dratted ink, then he could experiment with the principles the book described. And to think that he had wasted the last of it Friday evening writing on astrology, when-
Halfway through this thought, something poked Claude hard on the arm, breaking his academic reverie.
"I said what you reading?"
His head still bent to his book, Claude moved his eyes up to look at the something that had spoken to find a scruffily dressed girl standing in front of him. He scowled and turned his back to her. Claude found people irritating, girls more so.
He started to read again, but hadn't got through another sentence before becoming aware of a head trying to peer over his shoulder.
"Looks borin' whatever it is."
Girls were irritating, this one especially so. Claude persevered to ignore her, but the girl's stupid comments had made him lose his place on the page...
"Don't you talk?"
At this, he let out an irked sound of consternation. Dark eyebrows knitted, the faint frown line appearing on his forehead, Claude turned to face her. Between subconsciously gritted teeth, he growled, "It is not boring."
The girl smiled gleefully at getting him to break his silence. She was about his age, perhaps a little younger, with dark hair pulled back in a loose, messy ponytail that seemingly refused to obey a brush. However, the spattering of grime on her cheeks implied that it was likely her and not the hair that refused to obey said brush. The grime was a tell tale sign that whatever street she lived on, it was most likely the "dodgy end". Claude continued to glare at her. She seemed to oddly resemble a cat who had fallen down a chimney...
Her coarse voice abruptly awoke him from this reflection, "What's it about then?"
Claude's scowl deepened at having his thoughts interrupted. Likewise, the girl's smile burst into a grin. Claude got the feeling that she was fully aware she was annoying him, and that she was enjoying every second of it. In a response to her question that didn't directly involve interacting with another human being, he held up the cover, knowing she wouldn't understand the title that, like the entire book, was written in Greek.
Sure enough, as the girl glanced at the cover, her eyes momentarily portrayed blank miscomprehension, before quickly turning back to look at him. Claude's scowl turned into a smirk; he did enjoy being more intellectual then others.
"You really don't like talkin', do you?" the girl said, neatly avoiding the issue of literacy.
As if to confirm this accusation, Claude again turned his back to the girl and retreated to the diagonal line that confused Pythagoras. He lowered his head further into the book. If he could block out the clamour of the whole of Paris, then he could certainly block out this silly girl.
The silly girl persisted, "It looks like a thousand pages."
"… Six hundred and twelve," he corrected under his breath.
He apparently did not speak under his breath enough as his indignant muttering only prompted the girl to speak again, "So what's it about then?"
Clearly, she couldn't understand Greek, nor know when she wasn't wanted. Claude's head was bowed so far into page twenty three it would have been impossible to read unless he was long sighted yet, in the corner of his vision, he was acutely aware of the girl moving to stand in front of him again.
"So?"
Claude continued to respond with silence. She also responded without words, poking him on the forehead to cause a second faint frown line to join the first.
"So?"
Claude had the irrational urge to poke her back, but he smothered it, instead letting out an exasperated sigh of annoyance, "If I tell you, will you go away?"
"Prob'ly not," the girl giggled. Claude scowled.
"Then I will not tell you," he said with moody stubbornness.
"Then I ain't going away," she replied, equally stubborn. This girl was nauseatingly childish Claude thought, as yet another man pushed in front of him in the queue without his notice.
Finally, before she decided to poke him again, Claude gave in, "Mathematics."
The girl laughed.
"What you reading a book on that for? It's useless. And borin'."
Claude's thick eyebrows dragged together as if someone had just slung an insult at him. The notion that mathematics was useless was a slur Claude could not let pass.
"Mathematics is not useless!" he began to remonstrate, "It is the backbone of everything! All things are founded, created and understood by it. Good decisions are always based in mathematical principle and all problems solved by it. If there was no mathematics, then there would be no logic, no science, no anything," Claude spoke, his voice laced with a fevered eagerness. Finishing his explanation, Claude was surprised to notice that the girl actually seemed to be considering his words.
"That's bollocks," Claude's cheeks tinted pink at the phrase, "If it's the 'backbone of everything' how come I got out of bed, ate breakfast and am talkin' to you without doing no sums?"
Claude rolled his eyes. The girl, like everyone else, just couldn't understand...
"You here to buy things?"
Claude, whose eyes were back inside page twenty three, ignored her. She put her hand over his book to force him to listen, "Cause people keep pushing in front of you. At this rate you ain't never going to get to the front. Not 'till closing time."
At her words, and after a second spent staring blankly at the hand on his book, Claude looked up to the throng of people around him. Since he'd last taken notice of them, the mass of bodies had definitely multiplied and yet he was still standing at the back of the mob masquerading as a queue. Giving a sidelong glance and frown at the girl, he took a step forward to close the gap between himself and the man in front of him, who certainly wasn't there a few moments ago.
Before returning to the book, Claude's eyes slipped to the girl to find her grinning at him with an irritating, triumphant air that he tried to disperse by glaring at her. It didn't work.
"Don't you want to know my name?"
His eyes still fixed mutinously on her, he responded tersely, "No."
"I bet its nicer then yours."
"No name is better then any other. They are all simply meaningless labels people use to identify themselves," as Claude spoke, he moved along in the queue, the girl following him alongside.
"Y'know, you ain't half odd."
Claude grimaced inwardly. If he wasn't 'half odd' that meant he was either very odd or slightly odd, and Claude strongly suspected he knew which of the alternatives the girl was referring to. Everyone considered him to be odd, most of them told him so and the ones that didn't, thought it. Luckily, Claude didn't care what other people thought and, if he had it his way, he never would.
"So what's your name?" the girl asked.
Claude kept silent, willing her with all the prowess of his mind to go away. Yet she remained, her mouth clearly wanting to twitch up into a smile as she said, "Hasn't no one given you a label yet, book boy?"
Before he could answer, most likely with a glare, Claude finally found himself at the front of the queue, the brittle, old man at the counter asking him for his order. Claude blinked, for a second having to recollect why he came into the shop in the first place, before supplying the word, "Ink."
Once served, Claude turned back around to find that the girl had slipped away out of sight. Clearly, she didn't care to find out his name after all. His eyes started to scan the crowd for her, when he realised that being left alone was exactly the result he had spent the last fifteen minutes wishing for. Claude turned to chapter two of his book, bent his head and strode out of the shop back onto the crowded streets of Paris.
Frollo's body twitched.
Claude continued to swiftly walk, the pages of the book and Paris melting away to an inky blackness.