"'Clover dipped in honey, and vanilla frosting...'"
Christophe-Marie awakens feeling tired, hot, and utterly bored with the room around him. His first thought is to try and sleep again, but he knows from experience that it only makes him feel worse. So he gets out of bed, changes his clothes, and listlessly begins to practice with his blade. Practice is, however, dull without a partner, and he gives up in a few moments, though he doesn't put down the weapon.
"I never said I hated you," he repeats, but this time he tells the foil instead of Grantaire. "I never said I hated you." Christophe lunges on the wall, and stops just before the tip of the blade hits. "I never said-- I said--" He turns around, losing interest, because on such days as this, nothing can ever hold one's attention long.
On the one hand there's the cafe. But that will mean seeing Grantaire. On the other hand, there's staying home. But his room is too hot and too small and too familiar. He puts a hand to his forehead. Ophelia. Cosette. He spins about on one foot, and parries the air. Hamlet. Horatio. He picks up the script-book from his bedside table, and flips it open. Horatio. Grantaire. Christophe sighs, and collapses on the bed. He never sleeps well. Why is to-day any different?
He can't go out into the city, for he's certain he'd walk to Cosette's house. Even sore lack of company wouldn't make him seek out Courfeyrac. He doesn't want to listen to Combeferre. He doesn't want to see Pontmercy ever. He can't face Grantaire.
Of a sudden, he's very lonely.
"I never said I hated you."
Christophe lunges on the wall again, and this time forgets to stop. His beautiful blade, his blunt foil, snaps against it. He freezes, and drops it, his hand aching from the shock.
"I never said I hated you..."
Well, there's an end to that. He sits on the bed, helplessly, puts his face in his hands for the barest moment, and then springs back on his feet. He catches up the pieces of his foil, and puts them lightly on his pillow. He rocks back and forth on his toes, looking in frustration at the door.
"What shall I do now?"
At last he throws up his hands, and leaves for the cafe. It looks exactly as it did yesterday, and the day before that. He sits unhappily at a table not far from Grantaire's.
"Enjolras?" Rodolphe looks over, eyebrows raised.
"I never said I hated you," Christophe repeats once again.
"Hellfire. You haven't been bothering about that all this time? Good lord, m'sieur, I'd almost forgotten I'd said it at all. It's no matter."
"Oh," says Christophe weakly, flushing a little. "Of course not."
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine..."
"Oh, good God. Are we forever to have this unfailing question-and-answer? 'Are you all right?' 'I'm fine'; I know you're not all right, and you know it too!"
"Be *quiet*."
"No! I'm sick of this, and it hath made me ill. Go home!" Rodolphe gestures at the door angrily, sitting up a little. Folk in the cafe are staring at them.
"For God's sake, Grantaire!" Christophe whispers, quite as angry. "You're drunk!"
"I always am. I don't see where it comes into this." Rodolphe stands, and comes over beside Christophe's table. "You will go home." He pounds his fist on the tabletop, but it doesn't manage to be very impressive.
"Very well. I didn't want to come in the first place."
"What?" Rodolphe stops short, quite shocked. That an Enjolras should obey him is utterly unheard of.
"I'm going." Christophe stands. "Come with me. Perhaps I shall rehearse at home."
"I'm beginning to hate this damned play," Rodolphe mutters quietly, but he follows obediently as Christophe-Marie starts back home. "Are you quite all right? I'm asking and mean it this time."
"No. Why should I be all right?" Christophe answers simply. He's tired of pretending all the time. Perhaps he's tired of acting. At any rate, he can't be bothered to keep up the pretence of Untouchable Leader of the Revolution.
"Why aren't you?"
"I'm tired, and discontent, and--" 'Tired', and 'discontent' are weaknesses, but in a peculiar way, they're both dignified weaknesses. They're easily forgiven, easily understood. 'Lonely', on the other hand, is not any of these things. "I don't know," Christophe finishes.
"Of course you don't."
"I don't know!"
They are quiet for a while.
"I'm saving. I intend to see this play, even if it causes me to lose valuable drink that could be purchased with the money."
"Oh, hell. You're coming?"
"Surely. Will you demand that I shouldn't?"
"No. Come if you like." Christophe sighs dismally.
When at last they arrive at his room, he goes in first, and tries to get the pieces of the broken foil out of sight. They've become a mark of failing. Rodolphe shuts the door silently.
"Sit down."
Rodolphe does so; he sits on the bed quite shamelessly. Christophe feels rather as though he doesn't have the strength to be irritated, and he sits there as well, wearily.
Rodolphe reaches over and touches his hair gently. "Are you ill?"
"No. Just tired."
"I see."
"No, you don't." Christophe shakes his head a little. "Oh, I want to sleep forever. But I can't, and I don't want to. I want to-- I don't want to do anything to-day. But I *do*!"
"Be quiet, you. And go to sleep."
"I don't want to. I hate my room. The paper is yellow."
"For God's sake!" Rodolphe cries, exasperated. "Bloody go to sleep! Ill Enjolrases, what a horror. What a terror. I pity your nursemaid when you were small. Go to sleep!"
"All right..." Christophe makes to lie down, then pauses.
"Why in hell are you looking at me like that? Do you want me to kiss you good-night?"
"No! --You're going to leave while I'm asleep, aren't you?"
"Not if you don't want me to."
"Oh... All right, then." Christophe lies down at last, and Rodolphe sighs, rolling his eyes. Then he relents, and ruffles Christophe's hair a little, and kisses his forehead.
He spends the next four hours or so shifting positions, trying to stay comfortable. One of the most boring things in the world is waiting around with someone who is fast asleep.
"Damn you," he mumbles at length, and pokes Christophe between his shoulder blades. Christophe stirs, and blinks a little.
"What?"
"Nothing. Go back to sleep."
"I'm not tired." Christophe sits up, and twists around. "I'm fine now."
"I'm sure you are. Do you want to rehearse, then?"
"Not now." Breaking the blade seems as though it happened rather a long time ago, and Christophe is quite disoriented, as one always is after sleeping during the day. "Or perhaps... Yes. Yes, I would."
Rodolphe grins, and picks up the script-book. "Very good, my lord. We shall do that."
"Mm." Christophe curls up on the bed, waiting for his cue. For some reason, he feels so much better at last.
Christophe-Marie awakens feeling tired, hot, and utterly bored with the room around him. His first thought is to try and sleep again, but he knows from experience that it only makes him feel worse. So he gets out of bed, changes his clothes, and listlessly begins to practice with his blade. Practice is, however, dull without a partner, and he gives up in a few moments, though he doesn't put down the weapon.
"I never said I hated you," he repeats, but this time he tells the foil instead of Grantaire. "I never said I hated you." Christophe lunges on the wall, and stops just before the tip of the blade hits. "I never said-- I said--" He turns around, losing interest, because on such days as this, nothing can ever hold one's attention long.
On the one hand there's the cafe. But that will mean seeing Grantaire. On the other hand, there's staying home. But his room is too hot and too small and too familiar. He puts a hand to his forehead. Ophelia. Cosette. He spins about on one foot, and parries the air. Hamlet. Horatio. He picks up the script-book from his bedside table, and flips it open. Horatio. Grantaire. Christophe sighs, and collapses on the bed. He never sleeps well. Why is to-day any different?
He can't go out into the city, for he's certain he'd walk to Cosette's house. Even sore lack of company wouldn't make him seek out Courfeyrac. He doesn't want to listen to Combeferre. He doesn't want to see Pontmercy ever. He can't face Grantaire.
Of a sudden, he's very lonely.
"I never said I hated you."
Christophe lunges on the wall again, and this time forgets to stop. His beautiful blade, his blunt foil, snaps against it. He freezes, and drops it, his hand aching from the shock.
"I never said I hated you..."
Well, there's an end to that. He sits on the bed, helplessly, puts his face in his hands for the barest moment, and then springs back on his feet. He catches up the pieces of his foil, and puts them lightly on his pillow. He rocks back and forth on his toes, looking in frustration at the door.
"What shall I do now?"
At last he throws up his hands, and leaves for the cafe. It looks exactly as it did yesterday, and the day before that. He sits unhappily at a table not far from Grantaire's.
"Enjolras?" Rodolphe looks over, eyebrows raised.
"I never said I hated you," Christophe repeats once again.
"Hellfire. You haven't been bothering about that all this time? Good lord, m'sieur, I'd almost forgotten I'd said it at all. It's no matter."
"Oh," says Christophe weakly, flushing a little. "Of course not."
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine..."
"Oh, good God. Are we forever to have this unfailing question-and-answer? 'Are you all right?' 'I'm fine'; I know you're not all right, and you know it too!"
"Be *quiet*."
"No! I'm sick of this, and it hath made me ill. Go home!" Rodolphe gestures at the door angrily, sitting up a little. Folk in the cafe are staring at them.
"For God's sake, Grantaire!" Christophe whispers, quite as angry. "You're drunk!"
"I always am. I don't see where it comes into this." Rodolphe stands, and comes over beside Christophe's table. "You will go home." He pounds his fist on the tabletop, but it doesn't manage to be very impressive.
"Very well. I didn't want to come in the first place."
"What?" Rodolphe stops short, quite shocked. That an Enjolras should obey him is utterly unheard of.
"I'm going." Christophe stands. "Come with me. Perhaps I shall rehearse at home."
"I'm beginning to hate this damned play," Rodolphe mutters quietly, but he follows obediently as Christophe-Marie starts back home. "Are you quite all right? I'm asking and mean it this time."
"No. Why should I be all right?" Christophe answers simply. He's tired of pretending all the time. Perhaps he's tired of acting. At any rate, he can't be bothered to keep up the pretence of Untouchable Leader of the Revolution.
"Why aren't you?"
"I'm tired, and discontent, and--" 'Tired', and 'discontent' are weaknesses, but in a peculiar way, they're both dignified weaknesses. They're easily forgiven, easily understood. 'Lonely', on the other hand, is not any of these things. "I don't know," Christophe finishes.
"Of course you don't."
"I don't know!"
They are quiet for a while.
"I'm saving. I intend to see this play, even if it causes me to lose valuable drink that could be purchased with the money."
"Oh, hell. You're coming?"
"Surely. Will you demand that I shouldn't?"
"No. Come if you like." Christophe sighs dismally.
When at last they arrive at his room, he goes in first, and tries to get the pieces of the broken foil out of sight. They've become a mark of failing. Rodolphe shuts the door silently.
"Sit down."
Rodolphe does so; he sits on the bed quite shamelessly. Christophe feels rather as though he doesn't have the strength to be irritated, and he sits there as well, wearily.
Rodolphe reaches over and touches his hair gently. "Are you ill?"
"No. Just tired."
"I see."
"No, you don't." Christophe shakes his head a little. "Oh, I want to sleep forever. But I can't, and I don't want to. I want to-- I don't want to do anything to-day. But I *do*!"
"Be quiet, you. And go to sleep."
"I don't want to. I hate my room. The paper is yellow."
"For God's sake!" Rodolphe cries, exasperated. "Bloody go to sleep! Ill Enjolrases, what a horror. What a terror. I pity your nursemaid when you were small. Go to sleep!"
"All right..." Christophe makes to lie down, then pauses.
"Why in hell are you looking at me like that? Do you want me to kiss you good-night?"
"No! --You're going to leave while I'm asleep, aren't you?"
"Not if you don't want me to."
"Oh... All right, then." Christophe lies down at last, and Rodolphe sighs, rolling his eyes. Then he relents, and ruffles Christophe's hair a little, and kisses his forehead.
He spends the next four hours or so shifting positions, trying to stay comfortable. One of the most boring things in the world is waiting around with someone who is fast asleep.
"Damn you," he mumbles at length, and pokes Christophe between his shoulder blades. Christophe stirs, and blinks a little.
"What?"
"Nothing. Go back to sleep."
"I'm not tired." Christophe sits up, and twists around. "I'm fine now."
"I'm sure you are. Do you want to rehearse, then?"
"Not now." Breaking the blade seems as though it happened rather a long time ago, and Christophe is quite disoriented, as one always is after sleeping during the day. "Or perhaps... Yes. Yes, I would."
Rodolphe grins, and picks up the script-book. "Very good, my lord. We shall do that."
"Mm." Christophe curls up on the bed, waiting for his cue. For some reason, he feels so much better at last.
