A/N: An extra update is coming this week as it is quite short and will frame the coming events. Keep an eye out for it!
Hold on. Hold on, hold on, hold on, et m'attends gentiment, bien? I need a moment to catch up.
Just when Maurice thought he'd gotten so sick of being angry that he'd never be able to do it again, he kept finding worse and worse things to be angry at. Like – this – idiot – here. Well. Both of them really. But mostly Bahorel. God damn it, Bahorel, why do you keep doing this to him and more importantly how? And how do we fix it? And...I need to lay off the coffee. At some later point. This is more important. Right now I'm busy trying to comprehend what he just said.
"That was it," Maurice said to that same idiot of a Bahorel. He got no answer and Perceval drooped a little lower. "That…was it?"
"Yes. It was," Bahorel said defensively. You've got no right to be on the defensive, you. Not after all this.
"You're a right bastard, you know that?" Joly hissed at him, which errr…in retrospect possibly not the best idea because he's glaring again, and nobody wants to cross Bahorel but…oh hell, let him do what he wants. If he gets offended, so much the worse for him. He'll have the whole League on his heels anyway if he keeps this up.
"Yeah."
"I think I should get drunk," Perceval cut in in a truly awful tone. Sort of a singsong gallows tune. Tone. Thing. "Obviously I'm a better friend soused out of my mind."
"Do not touch that bottle," Maurice said very firmly because that is the last thing we want right now, isn't it. Perceval didn't say anything, just looked at him blankly and then at the bottle blankly and then back at him still looking like he'd died inside and gone to hell. "Better all round," Perceval said slowly, as if he hadn't heard Maurice at all.
No – no, no, no, it isn't. Joly brushed past Bahorel and took the bottle from Perceval's limp hand. Come on, now. We both know you're better than this – you've shown your good side before and I'm not going to ever let you forget it. You're a man, Perceval, and really a good man too, except you're afraid to try when you don't have a good excuse and a really good mask. Somehow none of this came out of his mouth, though, and what came out was a somewhat shrill but very insistent "You're not going to get drunk."
Perceval blinked back at Maurice once, twice, before something started to wake up behind his eyes again. "Right," he said. "Not going to get drunk."
Shunk. Maurice recorked the bottle and stuck it away in the cabinet, which was not a good long-term solution but, for the moment, Quite Good Enough, don't you think? "Not."
"Whatever you say, Harlequin," Perceval said quietly, humbly.
"Good." And now Harlequin was messing about in Scaramouche's kitchen, let's see, what's going to be best for him? Hmm. Aha, coffee! Does wonders for me, at least in moderation, although, not quite sure about how to go about defining moderation, hmmm, that does smell good. And Daniel doesn't get cross until the fourth cup or so. So one for me, one for Perceval, and one in case it becomes necessary to pretend to like Bahorel sometime in the near future. And now, while the water heats (is it really necessary, or quite safe, to keep matches in between falling-apart books, Perceval?) let's go and see what Scaramouche is making of our dear prodigal traitorous ami, shall we.
Apparently Bahorel was being idiotic again and talking about blame and who should be sorry (supposedly, him rather than Grantaire - and wasn't that the truth!) Hmph. Maurice took the water off the heat and watched the liquid as it percolated instead of listening to them talk. It was less painful.
"Didn't call you ami…didn't dare think you'd want me as an actual friend," Perceval was saying hollowly to a disturbed-looking Bahorel when Joly returned. "Didn't want to presume. So…maybe that's what I did wrong, isn't it? I'm…yeah." He shook his head a little. "I don't warm up quickly." He shut his mouth very tight as Maurice slid him his cup of coffee and began to sip at his own, watching him. In all the time he had spent with Grantaire recently, he hadn't seen him like this, so hurt, so…unresponsive. Perceval finally spoke after a long, tense silence, once his expression had finished metamorphosing from blank to tight. "…well now, Harlequin, I've made a right fool of myself, haven't I?"
Mind if I'm honest, ami? You need it. "A bit, but you saved yourself there at the end."
Perceval broke his control to smile a little, fondly. "Or you saved me, as usual."
Maurice shook his head. "Mostly you."
Oh, but you can't bear hearing that, can you? There you go again buttoned back up in the tension of your mind. "I should probably get rid of those dam' bottles," Perceval said tightly. "Apologies to you, Bahorel. Ignore it. Sometimes I talk too much."
"It's nothing," Bahorel said in an uneasy way that indicated he didn't really mean it. Funny thing, usually you could count on Bahorel to say exactly what he meant. For once, it was better this way. "…Grantaire…'m sorry," he said again. "Really."
Somehow Perceval managed to swallow and take a breath around that lump in his tight throat – Maurice could see the muscles straining in his neck. "That's all right," he said finally. Really, though, this is not all right, Perceval, and why are you leading Bahorel to think that it is? You shouldn't be standing for this. Maurice gave Bahorel a look of deep disapproval and watched in satisfaction as he appeared to struggle to bite back some smart remark or other. Perceval continued on with his coffee in silence and suddenly Maurice became aware that his own cup was empty and that unless he wanted to dig for those matches again and risk sending them all up in flames, he should probably just take Bahorel's share (God knows he didn't feel like being friendly to him!), but Perceval beat him to it. "Coffee, Bahorel?"
"Oh…" Bahorel said, as though he weren't sure whether to be grateful for the acknowledgement or reluctant for having to stay on with Joly glaring at him like that. "Sure, thanks."
Maurice continued to look on disapprovingly as Perceval left the room to get the coffee. Just because he says he forgives you is not sufficient reason for me to actually forgive you, you bastard. "You really came to apologize?"
"Yes, I did," Bahorel said, looking a little defensive and annoyed again.
"And you did that already, didn't you?" he said flatly.
"Yes, I did," Bahorel repeated and started to look a little angry. Not that I care, do I? No. No, I don't. Not at…dieu, I wish I had a bit more coffee right now! "Look, if you're trying to kick me out, just say so, would you? I'm used to it."
Maurice folded his arms across his chest – oh good, Bahorel, you can take a hint. "Go on, then."
"Fine. I see how it is." In a few rigid movements he had his hat again and was out the door, just as Perceval came back with the coffee.
"He's gone," Maurice said, and with Bahorel leaving he suddenly felt a great deal of confidence falling away along with his anger, because all in all he really hadn't accomplished much besides making Bahorel angry at them again. And even though he didn't particularly want to make up with Bahorel right now, they had all been angry with each other for really a very long time already.
"He left?" Perceval said with some surprise. He seemed to relax a little at the revelation, not quite so taut, not under quite so much pressure to keep his mask on.
"He did what he came to do," suddenly he felt a bit awkward about his role in the whole thing because wasn't that Perceval's decision really? But it was – truly – probably – right now – all for the best. "Perceval, you don't need him upsetting you."
"I'm just fine," Perceval said, and – oh, there you go putting your guard up again.
"No, you're not," and Harlequin patted Scaramouche's arm and stole the departed Bahorel's coffee.
"I should be," Grantaire insisted. "He apologized."
Joly frowned. "I don't think an apology is enough for what he did."
"But…ami…"
Joly sipped on the coffee (cold, and possibly bad for his respiration that way) and remembered all the very long conversations they had had over and over again through the last month of Perceval-sleeping-on-the-couch-and-occasionally-refusing-to-be-anything but old-beaten-down-Grantaire. "Were you listening to him at all?" he said in the most Daniel-like tone he could think of.
Perceval's eyes registered a flicker of amusement at the imitation, but he just shrugged. "Yeah – I guess. Didn't he have a point, though?"
"Not nearly enough of one to justify all that," Maurice said firmly.
"Maybe." Perceval rubbed his face and collapsed forward onto the table and sighed. "'Mi?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you heading home?"
"Yeah," don't know anywhere else I feel like going after all that, really. A thought popped to the front of his mind suddenly. "Did you want to come?"
Perceval nodded a little. "I don't…think I want to be alone right now." He raised his head and mustered a small sort of smile. "There's far too much wine in the world, and far too little willpower in the heart of Scaramouche."
"Of course, ami." And I really am glad we're amis, whatever we're getting ourselves into. "There's more willpower there than you give yourself credit for."
"Thanks…" Perceval got up and took the coffee out of his hands. "But sometimes I think you give me too much credit. I am, after all, a redoubtable drunk." He looked across at Maurice, who merely shrugged (what am I supposed to say to that, ami?), and returned a crooked smile that could mean anything. "Let's not keep Pedrolino waiting."
"Yeah, let's not." Maurice sighed a little over the coffee being poured out the window, but Harlequin buttoned his coat back up and went for his hat anyway – ha, and there's my missing scarf that I came for! Bahorel was sitting on it, the ass.
Let's go home, Perceval, and maybe forget how much just went wrong…again.
