[fic] A Potential Christmas, 1832
Dec. 28th, 2006 09:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
patria_ou_mortTitle: A Potential Christmas, 1832
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nightangelca
Pairing: none...ish
Rating: G
Summary: December 25, 1832. Christmas bells are ringing. Post-camp. AU.
The cold December air carried the ringing of the cathedral bells as it carried his breath, crystallized and drifting. Most were probably at mass right now, but Enjolras had never been one for church services. Until he learned Latin, the ceremonies had bored him, and when he was finally able to understand what was being said, the messages repulsed him. Christmas for him was much like any other day, though the lengths to which the rest of the world went to prove the day to be something special were unavoidable. Still, walking the empty streets late at night, when the stores were closed and the people had packed themselves away in either reverence or revelry, he was able to find some degree of peace and quiet.
"My friend, why is it that I find you out, alone in the cold, tonight of all nights?"
"Combeferre," Enjolras acknowledged his companion with his voice, if not his eyes, which remained fixed on the stars.
"Courfeyrac said that you had taken off somewhere in this direction." He could feel the smile in Combeferre's voice. "I promised that I would bring you back with me, were I able to find you."
"You are a man of your word, and I, one of strong convictions. I am afraid that this conflict might have to be resolved with force."
"I do not think the situation has reached such a point. For I am here, but you, Enjolras, appear to be far, far away."
Enjolras finally turned his gaze upon his companion, who stood there, hands in his pockets, now taking his turn at gazing at the heavens.
"I know that you even less inclined toward Christmas traditions than I," Combeferre continued, "but that does not do anything to weaken the day's potency for remembering. Even more than All Hallow's Eve, I think that Christmas is the holiday for ghosts. Which ones are haunting you tonight?"
"I am not haunted."
"It is like you to be obstinate but unlike you to be obstinately blind in the face of truth." He lowered his eyes to meet Enjolras's, causing Enjolras to wonder how one could manage to be so gentle in one's certainty. "Ever since Lamarque's funeral in June, you have been increasingly prone to fits of brooding. You have always been thoughtful, but your thoughts now go someplace deeper, whence it can be difficult to rouse you. I have known you now for years, but I cannot see what it is that depresses your spirit so."
A long-forgotten phrase rose to the surface of his mind. "Cheer up, emo kid," he murmured.
"Enjolras?"
He shook his head. "Just remembering something I once heard said."
"From your trip abroad?"
Enjolras glared at the mischievous twinkle in his friend's eye that had nothing to do with the light snow beginning to fall and everything to do with his endless amusement at Enjolras’s ordeal.
"Does this all have something to do with that place, I wonder."
"Not all; but some, yes," Enjolras admitted.
Combeferre waited.
"I did my best not to give it too much thought," Enjolras continued after a moment of contemplation, "but while there, I did learn of things that laid in what was potentially my future. The Camp being the unnatural thing it was, there was little there that could be trusted, and to give too much credit to such portentous occurrences as those that concerned me would be agreeing to believe that the future was no more than unread chapters in a book, already written and able to be known. And yet it was with those omens in mind that I made my decision."
He blinked to clear the snow from where it had gathered on his fair lashes and remembered the inexplicable sadness of a girl with elf ears, the transformation of a boy-who-was-not-but-was into a man from the future, the observant words of an obnoxious doctor, the calm confidence of a young tennis player.
"It was for the best, you know," said Combeferre, finally breaking the silence. "Think of the lives that you saved. Had we been there, we doubtlessly would have perished."
"Perhaps that would have been better."
"How can you say such a thing?"
"Vainglorious sacrifice is not to be valued, yet neither is cowardly fleeing."
"You think too much. While our actions might have altered a great many outcomes, what they could not have changed was the fact that it was simply not the time. In hindsight, one can see that without any sort of supernatural assistance. But it has often been said of you that you have a gaze that sees into the future."
"But what has been gained?"
Combeferre gazed at his friend. "You underestimate yourself in the strangest of ways." He put an arm around Enjolras’s shoulders. "Come. We look like a couple of fools, standing out in the snow like this. I am not so wicked as to force you back to the party, yet wicked enough not to allow you to pass Christmas in that wretched solitude you so desire. Bossuet had been staying with me, but he is out with Joly tonight and doubtlessly will be going home with him, to say nothing of Musichetta."
"My flat is closer."
"Your flat is inhospitable."
"It is practical."
"There is a difference between 'practical' and 'spartan.' You need a woman. Or Jean Prouvaire. Though given the way the man dresses, I actually fear what he might do to a room."
"I am going to my flat; whether or not you follow is your decision."
"You are absolutely merciless..."
The December wind blew, wiping away the footprints that the men left in the thin layer of snow that was collecting on the street and causing the snow to dance around the streetlamps that glowed warmly, lighting the earth below while the distant stars pierced the overwhelming heavens above. Whether it was in celebration of the glorious fulfillment of Fate or man's triumphant defeat of it, or maybe even a Christmas miracle, none could say, but the cathedral bells were heard in many dreams that night, no matter the place and no matter the time, clear and beautiful and alive.
OMAKE
[see this]
It was not yet dawn, and Enjolras was asleep. The only thing lighting the room was the sedate glow of the fireplace as it languidly pushed away the winter chill. Being the good soul he was, Combeferre reached over to take the book from where is balanced precariously in Enjolras’s hands. For all the care he took in his extraction, though, something fell to the ground as he claimed the book from the sleeper.
Combeferre picked up the piece of paper that had slipped from between the pages of Enjolras's book. It appeared to be a list, written in some oriental language with French translations in Enjolras’s thin, sharp handwriting running along the margins. Twisting the note around, he leaned closer to the fireplace to read it.
All of the care he had taken previously not to wake his friend went to waste as Enjolras’s eyes opened to the sound of his snickers. The double-confusion of unexpected sleeping and unexpected waking clouded his expression for a moment, but as his gaze fell upon the piece of paper in Combeferre’s hands, understanding could be seen washing over his fair face.
Though it was difficult to tell in the dim glow of the firelight, it was, indeed, the first time Combeferre had seen his friend’s face flush in embarrassment.
He would have advised Enjolras about laughter being the best medicine were he not now doubled-up himself with his own prescription.
Author:
nightangelcaPairing: none...ish
Rating: G
Summary: December 25, 1832. Christmas bells are ringing. Post-camp. AU.
The cold December air carried the ringing of the cathedral bells as it carried his breath, crystallized and drifting. Most were probably at mass right now, but Enjolras had never been one for church services. Until he learned Latin, the ceremonies had bored him, and when he was finally able to understand what was being said, the messages repulsed him. Christmas for him was much like any other day, though the lengths to which the rest of the world went to prove the day to be something special were unavoidable. Still, walking the empty streets late at night, when the stores were closed and the people had packed themselves away in either reverence or revelry, he was able to find some degree of peace and quiet.
"My friend, why is it that I find you out, alone in the cold, tonight of all nights?"
"Combeferre," Enjolras acknowledged his companion with his voice, if not his eyes, which remained fixed on the stars.
"Courfeyrac said that you had taken off somewhere in this direction." He could feel the smile in Combeferre's voice. "I promised that I would bring you back with me, were I able to find you."
"You are a man of your word, and I, one of strong convictions. I am afraid that this conflict might have to be resolved with force."
"I do not think the situation has reached such a point. For I am here, but you, Enjolras, appear to be far, far away."
Enjolras finally turned his gaze upon his companion, who stood there, hands in his pockets, now taking his turn at gazing at the heavens.
"I know that you even less inclined toward Christmas traditions than I," Combeferre continued, "but that does not do anything to weaken the day's potency for remembering. Even more than All Hallow's Eve, I think that Christmas is the holiday for ghosts. Which ones are haunting you tonight?"
"I am not haunted."
"It is like you to be obstinate but unlike you to be obstinately blind in the face of truth." He lowered his eyes to meet Enjolras's, causing Enjolras to wonder how one could manage to be so gentle in one's certainty. "Ever since Lamarque's funeral in June, you have been increasingly prone to fits of brooding. You have always been thoughtful, but your thoughts now go someplace deeper, whence it can be difficult to rouse you. I have known you now for years, but I cannot see what it is that depresses your spirit so."
A long-forgotten phrase rose to the surface of his mind. "Cheer up, emo kid," he murmured.
"Enjolras?"
He shook his head. "Just remembering something I once heard said."
"From your trip abroad?"
Enjolras glared at the mischievous twinkle in his friend's eye that had nothing to do with the light snow beginning to fall and everything to do with his endless amusement at Enjolras’s ordeal.
"Does this all have something to do with that place, I wonder."
"Not all; but some, yes," Enjolras admitted.
Combeferre waited.
"I did my best not to give it too much thought," Enjolras continued after a moment of contemplation, "but while there, I did learn of things that laid in what was potentially my future. The Camp being the unnatural thing it was, there was little there that could be trusted, and to give too much credit to such portentous occurrences as those that concerned me would be agreeing to believe that the future was no more than unread chapters in a book, already written and able to be known. And yet it was with those omens in mind that I made my decision."
He blinked to clear the snow from where it had gathered on his fair lashes and remembered the inexplicable sadness of a girl with elf ears, the transformation of a boy-who-was-not-but-was into a man from the future, the observant words of an obnoxious doctor, the calm confidence of a young tennis player.
"It was for the best, you know," said Combeferre, finally breaking the silence. "Think of the lives that you saved. Had we been there, we doubtlessly would have perished."
"Perhaps that would have been better."
"How can you say such a thing?"
"Vainglorious sacrifice is not to be valued, yet neither is cowardly fleeing."
"You think too much. While our actions might have altered a great many outcomes, what they could not have changed was the fact that it was simply not the time. In hindsight, one can see that without any sort of supernatural assistance. But it has often been said of you that you have a gaze that sees into the future."
"But what has been gained?"
Combeferre gazed at his friend. "You underestimate yourself in the strangest of ways." He put an arm around Enjolras’s shoulders. "Come. We look like a couple of fools, standing out in the snow like this. I am not so wicked as to force you back to the party, yet wicked enough not to allow you to pass Christmas in that wretched solitude you so desire. Bossuet had been staying with me, but he is out with Joly tonight and doubtlessly will be going home with him, to say nothing of Musichetta."
"My flat is closer."
"Your flat is inhospitable."
"It is practical."
"There is a difference between 'practical' and 'spartan.' You need a woman. Or Jean Prouvaire. Though given the way the man dresses, I actually fear what he might do to a room."
"I am going to my flat; whether or not you follow is your decision."
"You are absolutely merciless..."
The December wind blew, wiping away the footprints that the men left in the thin layer of snow that was collecting on the street and causing the snow to dance around the streetlamps that glowed warmly, lighting the earth below while the distant stars pierced the overwhelming heavens above. Whether it was in celebration of the glorious fulfillment of Fate or man's triumphant defeat of it, or maybe even a Christmas miracle, none could say, but the cathedral bells were heard in many dreams that night, no matter the place and no matter the time, clear and beautiful and alive.
OMAKE
[see this]
It was not yet dawn, and Enjolras was asleep. The only thing lighting the room was the sedate glow of the fireplace as it languidly pushed away the winter chill. Being the good soul he was, Combeferre reached over to take the book from where is balanced precariously in Enjolras’s hands. For all the care he took in his extraction, though, something fell to the ground as he claimed the book from the sleeper.
Combeferre picked up the piece of paper that had slipped from between the pages of Enjolras's book. It appeared to be a list, written in some oriental language with French translations in Enjolras’s thin, sharp handwriting running along the margins. Twisting the note around, he leaned closer to the fireplace to read it.
All of the care he had taken previously not to wake his friend went to waste as Enjolras’s eyes opened to the sound of his snickers. The double-confusion of unexpected sleeping and unexpected waking clouded his expression for a moment, but as his gaze fell upon the piece of paper in Combeferre’s hands, understanding could be seen washing over his fair face.
Though it was difficult to tell in the dim glow of the firelight, it was, indeed, the first time Combeferre had seen his friend’s face flush in embarrassment.
He would have advised Enjolras about laughter being the best medicine were he not now doubled-up himself with his own prescription.
