Short Christmas fic done spur of the moment. I demand that you love it. GAHAHA.
DISCLAIMER: HoND is not mine. Otherwise, I'd be rich.
T'was the season to be merry. Or, in this case, merrier than usual.
That included, thus far, singing exceptionally loudly at unseemly hours of the day and night, dancing rambunctiously throughout the streets, stringing up an innocent cow with festive ivy and holly, donning his most atrociously bright outfit, and generally creating such a pandemonium that several people had thus far attempted to murder him – or at least shut him up for a few hours.
It was, in fact, a celebration that would carry on until the Feast of Fools. Two weeks of festivities, followed by perhaps a month of city-wide recovery. Personally, Clopin thought it was, in a word, divine.
There were problems, mind you.
His joyous bounce was stunted by Esmeralda's sluggish pace, and he paused mid-twirl to look at her with raised eyebrows. Now, she had never been quite as interested in celebratory action as he, but Clopin could spy a foul mood from ten feet away while blindfolded. It was all in the posture, you see. The bowed head, the dragging feet, the slumped shoulders.
"Hark, did the Herald Angels miss you, mon cheri?" He asked teasingly, still rum-pum-pumming under his breath and swaying about in the chilly breeze. "T'is the season of good will! Peace towards men! And women! Mon Dieu, even your Satanic goat!" Said hellish beast bleated at him and Clopin dodged a well-aimed headbutt.
Fourteen, and full of pre-adulthood angst (or whatever children were full of, Clopin couldn't quite recall), Esmeralda pursed her lips together. "I'm not in the mood." She ducked under a sprig of holly that he tried to pin in her hair, and for a moment he pouted spectacularly.
Jingling along (oh he did love these boots!), Clopin walked backwards, eyeing her curiously. "A penny for your thoughts, Esme? Mind you, I don't actually have a penny." Holly and ivy were cutting into his miserly funds.
"I don't want to talk about it."
"If you do not talk about it, your frizzy head will blow up. What a mess. I won't be cleaning it."
"My hair," She began in a dangerous tone, "Is not frizzy." Ah, what was this then? Clopin nodded sympathetically and wheeled back around, slinging an arm over her slender shoulder before she could react.
"Troubles in paradise, mon amour?" Well clearly. Esme was never remotely self conscious unless she had a reason to be. "What has your lovely curls in a tangle, eh?"
It was like magic. Her shoulders slumped down miserably and she released the sigh of a pained woman. "Jean sa-"
"Jean, is that the boy who couldn't hold a beat if it was locked in a box?"
"Ye – what kind of saying is that?"
"Eh, I don't know, I just made it up." He waved a hand for her to continue.
She gave him a very common look of confused exasperation. "He said my skirt washideoux."
Now, Clopin got a great deal of respect for not laughing outright, though he couldn't contain a smirk from creeping up on his lips. "Agh, hideous is a bit strong, yes." She stared at him, aghast. "Non, non, I am not serious. Your skirts are all very pretty. Now,Mon petite ange, why would you take someone so talentless seriously?"
Esmeralda looked away and huffed, folding her arms and hunching her shoulders. "I just thought he could have been kinder about it."
He laughed then, boisterously enough to draw a scathing look from a passing gentleman of high standing. "You will get used to it, Little Esme. He was not even worth your effort."
"My effort?" She spluttered. "I wasn't trying anything!"
"Ah, but l'amour is fickle, is it not! Is it a warzone? Is it a field of flowers?" He cackled when she aimed a fairly strong punch at his shoulder. "Once bitten, twice shy!"
She wheeled about then on her heel with an expression of deepset loathing. "You. Are.Impossible!" She ground out before marching away.
With an expression of bemused humor, Clopin continued on his merry way, intent on his mission of bedecking Frollo's beastly steed with an armful of ivy and holy. In the back of his mind, however, a new notion began to brew.
Clopin Trouillefou, King of Truands, was without any doubt a master of the needle.
He watched with amusement as she pranced about energetically, spinning to allow the light material to catch on the breeze, jingling the small metal tokens that had been painstakingly sewn into the hem. Purple had been the only color he had available, but it did work quite well – certainly better than red. Red was much too bold; he didn't want to give her any reason to stand out.
Putting on an expression of innocence as she flounced nearer, he smiled benignly. "Where did you get that, eh?" He gestured at the product of a sleepless night and seven stabbed fingertips. "Ah! It jingles!" To complete the act, Clopin reached for one of the gleaming metal pieces, only to snatch his fingers away from a mouthful of angry goat teeth.
Esmeralda seemed to puff up with pride. "I'll have you know," She began importantly. "Ihave a secret admirer!" She twirled again and the sash tinkled merrily, making her plain skirt look anything but. More importantly, she seemed to have shirked her miserable outlook for the time being.
"Secret admirer?" Clopin grinned, more to himself than her. Ah, to know ones work had paid off was always beneficial. "Well, Jean certainly cannot call your skirts hideous now!"
"Jean?" She scrunched up her nose and he barked with laughter. "Mon Dieu no. He wasn't even worth my time." Esmeralda swayed again, grinning from ear to ear. "I wonder is Auntie Lucille has seen yet?" Her voice had risen to a near shout in glee.
"Well, go find out! Prance! Prance!" Clopin cried back, perfectly delighted to be swept up in Esme's euphoria.
She began to do just that, but paused and turned back with a mischievous grin. "Did you decorate Judge Frollo's horse yet?" She asked in mock innocence.
Clopin let out a raucous laugh. "Without you, Esmeralda? Where would be the fun in it? Ineed your professional opinion on such things, you know."
She nodded with exaggerated dignity and stuck up her nose. "Of course." She descended into giggles that made the sash jingle merrily. "Five minutes!"
"Oui, mon ange!"" Filled with rather inexplicable good humor, Clopin folded his arms to wait.
Pere Noel, eat you heart out.