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fannore!!!!!!!!! I finished! I finished I finished I finished!
All four fics contain ink in some way, whether it is a great deal (*cough*Courfeyrac*cough*) or only a mention of the word. Prouvaire/Combeferre; Courfeuilly; 'Ferre/Enjolras; Archie/Horatio. Please toenjolras enjoy.
(I still want an Enjolras Angora. Heaven.)
A Snow Day
Jehan sat idly by his window, his fingers splayed against the glass. It was cold, the glass, and snowflakes blew against it outside, and his fingers turned white from resting against it. When he took his hand away, a very pale blue sheen stuck to the pane, blue ink that had rubbed off on him the day before and was now rubbing off on the wet from the cold window. Writing poetry was bliss, and calligraphising it was heaven, and therefore he was often sticky and blue, if not sticky and green, or sticky and red. He rather liked the effect it created on his window-glass, however. It looked rather like stained glass and reminded him of churches.
He was not writing now; he was simply listening to the silent snow falling, and watching the heavy, grey clouds that covered the sky. His purple-blue eyes reflected the clouds, and it seemed as though he were half-asleep. Perhaps he was. At any rate, the inkpot before him was capped, and the quill that lay beside it dry, and the parchment that was always scattered over his desk had only sentiments written on it that he'd written yesterday.
His room was a rather small one, with space enough for a small bed, a small washstand, and his small desk, with one window - though it was a large window - and a small fireplace, with a small, pathetic fire in it. The clothes in the chest in the corner were mismatched with quite tasteless combinations of colour. Indeed, the only thing that would have hinted he had some amount of money was the presence of the blue ink. The clothes he wore now were composed of a very loosely tied green cravat, a white linen shirt, fawn breeches, and a bright purple waistcoat; part of the reason he hadn't bothered to go to Musain was because he didn't wish to be teased by Courfeyrac. The waistcoat was his favourite, but Courfeyrac tended to rag him mercilessly over it. The other part of his reason was the snow. It was a beautiful snow, half-silver in the sun, and when he'd woken in the morning he'd wanted nothing more than to stay home and look at it, perhaps to write a poem, but only if he felt like it, and as it turned out, he didn't feel like it.
So he instead sat before his window in an old wicker chair, wrapped himself in a moth-eaten blue quilt, and smiled drowsily out at the snow. A few moments later, he fell asleep, and dreamed of hot coffee and feathers.
When Guillaume slipped in quietly at noon, Jehan was still asleep, one arm draped over the arm of the chair, and the other holding the quilt together limply. Guillaume looked fondly at him for a minute, then shook him gently.
"Jehan."
Jehan woke quickly, as easily as though he'd never been sleeping, and beamed at Guillaume. "Combeferre! Oh dear, Enjolras wasn't displeased with me for not coming?"
"No, no, nothing like. He sent us home when the snow deepened. A revolutionary, but no madman."
"Oh. Good," Jehan smiled.
Guillaume ruffled his hair, and looked about for a place to sit. At that, Jehan tried to rise to his feet, blushing, and tripped over his quilt. Guillaume caught him before he fell, laughing.
"Gracious, Jehan. What you'll do to yourself if you're not careful." He unwrapped the quilt delicately. "I fancy you need a new one. It's a good thing Christmas is so close. You can ask."
"I shan't either. I love my quilt." Jehan buried his face in it, clutching it in both hands, and reddening at Guillaume's soft chuckle when his fingers poked through the fabric. "It's that way for conveniency! So I can wear it and pick things up. Like gloves with the tips cut off. It's made to be useful."
"Of course it is."
Jehan looked up at him, put out. "You're laughing at me. You're as dreadful as Courfeyrac. You all laugh at me because I don't dress properly, and I write lovesick poetry to whomever I fancy, and any time Enjolras asks me a question I answer with whatever daydream first comes to my tongue."
"But I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing at your cleverness." He petted Jehan's hair. "Tell me, what were you doing before I came?"
"I was sitting at the window. I was thinking how nice it would be to run out in the snow and have snowflakes in my hair and be soaked, and then come back inside and have coffee. I'd have coffee in one of the nice cups Belle gave me before I left home. And I'd wear my lovely quilt. Then I realised I'd have to go for a cafe for coffee, and I didn't want to. So I fell asleep."
"Do you still not want to go to a cafe?"
"I... wouldn't mind, now, I suppose."
"Then we shall go out in the snow."
"Truly?" Jehan forgot instantly the he was supposed to be annoyed with Guillaume.
"Truly. I'd like to. If you would?"
"Combeferre! Merci!" He flung his arms about Guillaume, for which he received a gentle smile.
"Please call me Guillaume. If I call you Jehan, you must call me Guillaume."
Jehan looked troubled. "Guillaume doesn't have as many rhymes as Combeferre."
"Don't rhyme. Just come with me."
Jehan did. Without bothering to put on an overcoat, he scampered outside, turning his face up to the snow. Guillaume followed at a run, feeling rather innocent of a sudden. Jehan was so shameless, as though he were still a child, unconcerned with propriety. He twirled about, sometimes with his arms thrown out, sometimes hugging himself. He ran around in circles, hopping, just to see the flurry of snow that kicked up and scattered on the air. Guillaume couldn't watch him for long without wanting to join in, and when he did, Jehan seemed utterly delighted to have him. They caught hands once in a while, and jumped and danced and fell. Three times Jehan tumbled into the snow, and twice Guillaume slipped and ended on his back. Jehan must know they were being stared at, Guillaume thought, but he never reacted to it. It was only in what must have been the space of an hour later that he finally fell panting at Guillaume's feet, and breathlessly told him, "We must have our coffee now..."
"Oh, yes, right, the coffee. I'd forgotten about it." Guillaume pulled him standing.
"I hadn't. We must hurry. It's getting dark."
"But, Jehan, that's only because the clouds are thickening."
"We must still hurry. We could be snowed into a coffee shop. It would smell like heaven, but be very upsetting if we couldn't get home."
"Very well, we shall hurry."
So they hurried, and Guillaume held the door open for Jehan when they arrived. Jehan had snow in his hair, and in his pockets, and it was melting through his shirt as well, and his hands were white as china. Guillaume felt a surge of worry, but it passed as they ordered coffee and sat together, laughing over the steaming cups. When he looked again, the colour was coming back to Jehan's hands; terribly slowly, but still coming back.
When they had finished, Jehan insisted that Guillaume come home with him, for the streets were becoming even more covered in snow, the sky was even darker, and Guillaume himself was soaking wet.
They had just sat down before Jehan's tiny fire, and Guillaume was jabbing it repeatedly with the poker, and trying to make it burn with an old newspaper, when they heard a church clock somewhere strike three, muffled by the ever-deepening snow. Jehan shook his head.
"It's clear you can't go home tonight."
"I suppose it is. I hope you won't mind my being here."
"Of course not. I should never mind a chance to avoid loneliness. My flowers have died, and I can no longer see out the window, and I don't want to write. I should be terribly ungrateful if I minded your being here."
"Thank you..."
Suddenly the fire burst into light as the newspaper caught, and they were both utterly distracted, trying to feed more paper into it and keep it going. By the time it became clear there was no possible way to reason it to burn, they were helpless giggling, and clinging to each other. Then Jehan composed himself enough to fetch a book, and they read for a while. Jehan lay on the floor beside Guillaume, and listened to his voice as he read, and thought how nice the day had turned out to be after all. When they tired of the book, they began to tell each other stories of things that had happened to them ages ago. Jehan explained the reason behind Belle and the peculiar coffee cups, and Guillaume spoke of his brothers, and the idiocy that went on when they were all young: how they laughed about things that weren't amusing, and how they made fools of themselves doing simple tasks. Jehan told all about the play he'd seen last week, and Guillaume about the lecture he'd attended three days ago.
And when at last the muffled church-clock struck nine, they managed to both find a comfortable position in Jehan's small bed, and Guillaume fell asleep with Jehan's now-warm hand pressed against his heart, wondering if anything so lovely could ever happen again.
Jehan waited until he heard Guillaume's breathing even, then kissed his forehead, and promised himself he'd find a rhyme to the name. It wasn't proper to fancy someone this much unless he could write the person lovesick poetry.
~~~
Time and Time Again
Courfeyrac sat by himself in the back room of Musain one afternoon after classes, with a few books spread out on his table, along with a piece of paper, a quill, and an inkpot. His sleeve was rolled up to his elbow, and he was scrawling terrible drawings on his arm in black ink. The general idea seemed to be a cat on a fence, but it was surrounded with a few oddly shaped flowers as well. He had used too much ink, and it was running sloppily all over, but he didn't appear to mind; indeed, it seemed to amuse him greatly, and once he had completed his left arm, he attended to the right. He found this much more difficult, for his hand shook and refused to work correctly, and even more ink covered this arm. He was surveying the mess ruefully when Feuilly came through the door.
"What the hell...?"
"An experiment." Courfeyrac held up his dripping arms, grinning wickedly. "To see how much hand control I have. Virtually none. Come here, Damien. I want to greet you properly."
Feuilly started to edge back through the door. "No, no. I can greet you well enough from here. Good afternoon. How are you? Pleasant? That's wonderful. I'm a bit peaky myself."
"Why on earth?"
"The stench of ink is quite overwhelming..." Feuilly put a hand to his forehead and swooned.
Courfeyrac looked at him for a moment, stifling a laugh, then rushed over and caught Feuilly in his arms. "Darling, don't worry! I'm here! You provided me with the perfect opportunity," he murmured, holding Feuilly dramatically close.
"Martin! My clothes!"
"Oh dear. Well, black is a lovely colour on you."
Feuilly stared. "This isn't black! It's black and white splotched!" His sleeves were smeared with ink, and so, he noted with displeasure, was his face, and the telltale wetness seeping through the back of his shirt proved he'd been touched there as well.
"Ah, there's nothing to be done. You must allow me to give you a shirt of mine. In exchange, you know. I fancy that one terribly. You give it to me, and I'll give you one of mine."
"Liar. I wish to God you'd all stop with the kindness to me, being ever so careful not to show your charity. Don't think I can't tell."
"I mean it! Here, I'll exchange with you now. Take it off."
"No!" Feuilly glowered at him. "You really don't have any dignity, do you? Any sense of what standards one keeps in society?"
"Of course I do. But my standards are quite different from yours. In my standards, one helps one's friends out. Also, if one finds a shirt one wants, one barters for it. You want a clean shirt, and I have one; you have a nice shirt and I want one. According to my standards, that's a rum situation, and it calls for a trade."
"Not here!"
"Look, I'll lean against the door and you can--"
"Absolutely not."
Courfeyrac rolled his eyes and gave up. "Absolutely not, then. But I want that shirt tomorrow, and I'll bring a one of mine from home."
"Fine." Feuilly sighed in exasperation. "Now clean yourself up. The others will be here any minute, and Enjolras will be far less tolerant of an inky embrace."
Courfeyrac's eyes ceased rolling immediately and lit gleefully. "So he will! I should get more on!"
"I sincerely doubt that."
"As do I, man. I'm not utterly mad."
"Oh, you're not, are you?"
"I'm not. But clearly, it'll take a lot to convince you so. Now, look here, dear man. I have a playful soul. You must seek to understand me. Aren't you a good Christian? Have pity for my spirit and attempt to reconcile me with the forces of light. Really, you're not doing your part."
Feuilly held out his arms wide to either side. "Frankly, considering the state of my shirt, I hope you go to hell."
"Ah! You dreadful, dreadful person!" Courfeyrac stepped forward, and Feuilly eyed him distrustfully. "You have ink all over your face, dear." He kissed Feuilly's cheek, streaking ink over his own, and then stepped back again to see the reaction.
Feuilly raised his eyebrows. "And you really expect me to think you're not mad?"
"Certainly I do." He caught Feuilly in his arms, quite amused, and kissed him again.
"Stop that! You're getting both of us filthy with the stuff."
"Rather... Was that a rebuke? Do you scorn my love?"
"That was love?" Feuilly's eyebrows went up again.
"For God's sake! What must I do? Ask you for your hand in marriage? I simply want to be able to walk out with you. Surely you won't refuse me that?"
"I suppose not. But you must promise me not to come covered in ink. No matter how fashionable you find it, it is still a ruin of good shirts."
"Very well. Conditions accepted. We shall walk out together."
"This is a fancy, not a will?"
"Damien..." Courfeyrac sprawled in his chair. "A fancy, with a will. If nothing else, you can keep me about for laughs."
"So I can. How very useful."
"Isn't it?"
Feuilly pulled out a chair beside him. "You've ink on your face."
"So have you."
"I wonder what Enjolras will say."
"He'll stare disapprovingly at us. The dear man's such a spoilsport."
"That's hardly the word I'd use."
"And yet it's the one I would." Courfeyrac kissed Feuilly again, cheerfully. "Everyone has such high praise for sensibility. Well, I say if you're not having a good time of it, to hell with sensibility."
"Does this count as having a good time?"
"It does."
"Dear me." Feuilly shook his head.
"Salut, Enjolras!" Courfeyrac called over his shoulder, grinning.
"Salut, Courfeyrac." Enjolras looked dubiously at them. "You seem to have had some bother."
"We have! Let me tell you about it!" Courfeyrac cried.
"Suppose you don't," muttered Feuilly.
"But, damn me, what's the use of having a splendid spot of bother if you can't tell anyone about it?"
"It has its uses. --Enjolras, we were just about to go. We both need to change clothes."
"Yes... Yes, it does seem that way. Should I expect you later?"
"Later, yes. Excuse us." Feuilly took Courfeyrac's arm, and began tugging him gently to the door. Courfeyrac didn't resist, fixing Enjolras with a grin.
When they were gone, Enjolras moved to their table, picked up the inkpot, and shook his head. He was looking curiously at it when the door opened behind him. Startled, his hand moved, and ink splashed over his shirt.
Courfeyrac, who had returned to fetch his books, could not help but burst out laughing.
~~~
A Little Fall of Rain
"God, what a day." Combeferre looked up at the sky, and rain splattered over his face, dripping in his ears, slicking his red-gold hair down, and trickling between his lips. His eyes squinched shut unintentionally to block out drops. Spectacles, he had learned long ago, pretended to be useful for protection of the eyes, but truly did nothing of the sort. It was as easy for him to be blinded with a spray of mud as it was for any other man.
The rain was coming in torrents, far heavier than it had fallen in several months. He wore a coat, but it was a cloth coat, a greatcoat, and he was completely drenched. His spectacles really were too clouded to see much, but he seemed pleased, smiling at the clouds amiably. He was seated on a set of steps before a rather nice boarding-house, his knees drawn up to his chest, and his head back to drink the rain.
The door behind him opened suddenly, and a booted toe nudged him gently in the back.
"Phillipe? What are you doing? Come in."
Combeferre turned about slowly, drawing his eyes up from brown linen calves to a pale face with golden curls dripping past it. Anxious and dark blue eyes met his, and he smiled again.
"Isn't it lovely?"
"It's grey. It's dark. And cold. Come in."
He shook his head, and sighed. "No, it's much more than grey and dark and cold. It is those things, I grant you. But much more."
The boy knelt beside him, the rain pouring down on his slender shoulders and his golden head. "What do you see in it? I only see that more of the people I want to save shall be cold, and lonely, and they shall be sick and no one shall care for them."
"If you look at it and think that, you shall never be able to look at it and love it. You must try and find the good in it, as well. What good things shall happen because of it, Michel?"
"The fields shall be given drink. But the rivers shall swell. They shall flood their banks, Phillipe. People shall drown. I can't think of anything good."
"Isn't it beautiful? It's going to wash the world clean. Like crockery. Surely."
The beautiful boy sneezed.
"Is it? Suppose everything just mildews."
"No, but you can't let it look that way. It's a fresh start, not more misery added on to what's there already. Well. I shan't argue with you."
Combeferre went back to looking out at the rooftops and the grey mists and the expanding puddles that scattered over the streets. Suddenly, the boy touched his shoulder.
"You must. You must argue with me. I'm wrong, aren't I? Show me what's right."
"You'll learn that yourself. You're still learning, clearly. But you're only nineteen, Michel. You can afford to keep learning." He laughed at himself. "You can always afford to keep learning. May I show you something I call right?"
"What is it?"
"Come with me." Combeferre stood and brushed the dripping hair out of his face. The boy followed him obediently, shivering without a coat. "I would offer my coat to you, you realise, but that it won't do any good. We're both soaked to the skin."
"Yes, I know."
They walked on in silence, and then Combeferre made a sudden sharp turn, and kicked an old wall gently, experimentally. It was a terribly old wall, with pieces broken out of it and vines creeping up it. Combeferre inclined his head to it, in a greeting, and took hold of one of the vines.
"Well, come along."
The boy stared. One moment, his companion was on the ground, the next smiling at him from the rooftop above. "But how did you do it?"
"I climbed. You shall too. You shall learn even more things, and you shall come to understand what you're doing. And one day, you'll fight for the right to keep on with what you're doing, and to make it so everyone can do it. But that's no matter now. Climb up."
The boy clutched a vine awkwardly, and scrambled, in an entirely undignified fashion, clawing at the plaster and stone, and slipping rather frequently. It took him ten minutes to achieve what Combeferre had in one, and even that required some assistance. At last, he stood on the rooftop, looking about himself in wonder.
"Now, see, doesn't the world look better from up here?"
"My God... is this allowed?"
"Michel, Michel, you're seeking to create a whole new world, against the will of everyone else in this one. You worry that to come here is not allowed? It doesn't matter either." Combeferre sighed and wrapped his arms about the boy, daring now when no one could see them.
"It is beautiful. You were right."
"You've learned to see the beauty of it. It didn't just become beautiful. Your eyes changed." He turned the boy about, carefully, and tilted up his chin with three fingers. "Yes. Your eyes changed. They're darker now. You're learning. You must remember the things you learn. You mustn't forget them. You'll need them." He kissed the boy's forehead. "Don't forget."
~~~
Enjolras sighed, and for the third time he scraped a thick, black line over his sentence. He wrote again, and frowned, and sketched the sentence out again, pressing hard. The tip of the quill cracked and smashed beneath his hand, and ink splattered over the pages. He let out a low moan of despair, still holding the ruins of the quill.
It was late, and the Amis were gone, but Combeferre had remained. It was his place to do so. Of all of them, it was his place to look after the leader. He fulfilled his occupation admirably, and his head came up in worry at the sound, and he stood. "Enjolras."
"No, don't tell me I'm working too hard, I must rest, I mustn't make myself go on so long. I'm tired of hearing that. I have work to do."
Combeferre stepped over to him, and gently slipped his arms about the man. "Yes, tired. Tired is the word."
"Phillipe...?" Enjolras' voice was tentative, experimenting with tones it hadn't used in a terribly long time. "Phillipe, do you remember when you took me with you up on the rooftop?"
"Of course."
"Will you take me again?" he whispered.
"Certainly I will. Come along. It's not far from here." Combeferre took his hand and drew him towards the door. "It's cooler there, and it's lovely now that it's nearing summer. When there's a breeze, one can feel it so well. You'll like it."
"I will," Enjolras smiled.
Combeferre was surprised, later, how quickly Enjolras fell asleep in his arms. He had been watching the stars in utter delight, with Enjolras' head against his chest, enjoying the soft weight, and at once he leaned close to tell him what the name of that bright star over there was, and found that Enjolras was sleeping. His blue eyes were closed, and his chest rose and fell rhythmically. Combeferre was enchanted, and he kissed Enjolras' hair. It had been a long time since he'd done that, he thought.
He couldn't bear to wake Enjolras, though he tried for a short while. He told himself that it would be so much easier to sleep in a bed, and that they'd both wake up stiff, and likely catch cold, and anyway it was a rooftop, for God's sake, but somehow himself wouldn't listen.
So, in the end, he carefully set Enjolras down on the roof, and spread his coat over Enjolras' cold shoulders as a blanket. He lay down beside Enjolras, and put his arms about him protectively, just in case. So if they rolled off the roof, they'd roll off together, he told himself in amusement. Then he too fell asleep.
When he awoke it was raining.
~~~
Pieces
"Captain Sawyer? Do you really mean it, Captain Sawyer?" Archie's blue eyes widened wonderfully, and Horatio was highly gratified by his surprised look. "Captain James Sawyer, of the Renown?"
They sat on the window-bench in Horatio's cabin below decks, with a candle on either end of it for the darkening sky. Horatio rested his head back on the windowpanes, surveying Archie with pleasure, and feeling quite self-satisfied by the expressions flitting over Archie's face.
"Yes, yes, Archie; Captain James Sawyer of the Renown."
"Captain Sawyer..." He breathed a sigh of delight.
"I think we've established his name by now," Horatio smiled.
"But this is splendid. We must celebrate, Horatio, for it is splendid. Have we shore leave?"
"Indeed we do, Archie."
"Then what on earth are we waiting for? Drinking Portsmouth dry is the only worthy enough tribute to our good fortune. We must repay Fate somehow. What better way else can you see, Lieutenant Hornblower?"
"Not a one, Lieutenant Kennedy."
~~~
Archie looked into his tankard with his special shy grin, swirled the contents, then lifted his gaze to Horatio's face. "Congratulations, Lieutenant Hornblower, on your transfer to the good Captain Sawyer's command," he announced solemnly.
"And congratulations to you too, Lieutenant Kennedy." Horatio laughed softly.
"Cheers." He lifted it rather, and drank deep, only half-hearing Horatio's answer. Captain Sawyer. The honourable, venerable, heroic and brave, clever and courageous and the host of other praises attributed to the man. Of course, the fact that Horatio would transfer to his command didn't surprise Archie in the least. Horatio was always given such honours. Horatio was always sought out in the crowd of quick, bright young men. It was Archie who was left behind, to call out "Well done!" when Horatio came home with new honours. It was Archie who adored and loved and longed to be given an opportunity to prove to Horatio he could do as well. And therefore it was Archie who was astounded to learn that he, too, would go along to the Renown. He would not wait alone on the Indy; he would come along this time.
He looked up again to find Horatio watching him, and propped his elbows on the table, grinning his special grin.
"Yes, Lieutenant Hornblower?"
"I asked if you should care for more of the Celebratory Drink, Lieutenant Kennedy."
"Why, of course, Lieutenant Hornblower. I shall return presently." Archie rose, saluted briefly, and disappeared into the small crowd surrounding the wooden bar.
Horatio watched him, feeling a little odd bit of sad. Archie was always the one who fell ill, who panicked, who was hurt by doubt and hurt by the wrong combination of words, as far as Horatio could see. He was worried, he supposed, for Archie would be the one who failed in some tiny way and then blamed himself for it and spoke terribly of himself, and smiled in that bitter manner and made some biting remark on his own weakness. It wasn't fair that Archie should always be that one, Horatio thought. He could do well enough, and he was a brave man, and a good companion. Horatio was pleased that Archie would come on Renown with him, but deep inside, he was worried. He was worried that something would go wrong, some little thing, and Archie wouldn't forgive himself.
He remembered El Faroll, and the exchange of words, and "You'd do just the same for me were I in your shoes!" "But you're not, and you never will be," and he felt guilty. It was likely true. Archie needed looking after, and that would always hurt him.
Horatio sighed, but managed a smile as Archie returned. The latter gave another salute, which was returned, and fell smoothly back into his chair.
"They brew a fine beer here.."
"Indeed they do, Lieutenant Kennedy."
But it seemed as though Archie weren't interested in playing the game any longer, so Horatio fell to his drinking silently. They both made several journeys to the bar and back without speaking, and then quite suddenly Archie leaned forward earnestly.
"God, Horatio. No one will remember me. I'm barely more than a m'man. I can't ever be worth anything spending my life shooting at frogs."
"Of course you can. Captain Sawyer is only becoming more renowned shooting at frogs." Horatio smiled at his cleverness.
Archie giggled, but shook his head. "It's no good. Horatio, I want to write a play. I want to do something. And wouldn't my hands look better covered with ink instead of rope burns?" He held them out sadly.
Horatio frowned and took them gently. "Your hands are fine the way they are, Archie."
"Oh, no. I want hands like Shakespeare's."
"But you don't know what his were like. He might have had rope burns."
"He did not, Horatio."
"He might have."
"Except that he didn't." Archie pulled Horatio's hands to himself, touching them softly with his fingertips. "He might have had hands like yours. Yours are nice." He kissed them, feeling just light-headed enough to do it.
Horatio pulled them back, dragging a clinging Archie half across the table with them. "They are?"
"Mmhm! Horatio, you shouldn't be here. You shouldn't be on the sea. You should write a book or invent something wonderful, or anything but waste your life like I am."
"You're not wasting your life."
"Of course I am. I'm not doing anything that anyone shall ever be able to look at and think, what a clever man to do something like that. It's why I want to write a play. I think I could write a play. I'd write about the sea."
"What about the sea?"
"The sea sings, did you know that? If you're quiet, you can hear it singing."
"Archie, I think you're drunk."
Archie blinked his wide blue eyes are Horatio, still half-across the table. "Really."
"Yes."
"Of all the things." Archie lifted his hand, and brushed along Horatio's cheek, tangling his fingers in Horatio's hair and kissing him, braced on the table.
He found he couldn't stop kissing Horatio after that, giggling a little and gasping heartbrokenly, as though he'd lost something immensely precious. He thanked God several times in his head, with the thanks tripping over themselves, that Horatio didn't seem to mind. The difficulty was that Horatio seemed rather to be too surprised to react other than laying his hand on Archie's back.
A few moments later, he finally did react, by whispering: "No. Not here."
"Please--"
"I said 'not here', not 'stop'. It's all right." Horatio touched Archie's hair wonderingly. "We must rent a room in town for the night, something like that."
"Can we?"
"Of course. We have shore leave." Horatio stumbled to his feet, and Archie managed to wriggle off the table and stand beside him. He clung to Horatio's arm then, though, having never wanted to stop his kisses and afraid to ever begin them again.
Once in a room -- in the very same tavern they had drunk in -- Horatio paused, seeming unsure of what to do now. Archie swallowed, and kissed his cheek, and suddenly it was as easy as before, because now Horatio was returning the kisses, slipping his arm about Archie.
He went back to thinking his confused, quick 'thank Gods', and meant them with all his heart.
~~~
In the morning, Archie woke early, head aching, unable to sleep in a bed that wasn't rocked by his singing sea. "Didn't do a very good job of drinking Portsmouth dry, did we?" he murmured.
"We did well enough," Horatio told him, and kissed his forehead shortly. "Well enough, Lieutenant Kennedy."
"Thank God, Lieutenant Hornblower."
EDIT:
Actually? That was Iron Chef he did that to.
Hmm.
Have to laugh. This is entirely true. The Selerazion AU fandom is almost entirely composed of slashfic.
*laughs*
fannore!!!!!!!!! I finished! I finished I finished I finished!All four fics contain ink in some way, whether it is a great deal (*cough*Courfeyrac*cough*) or only a mention of the word. Prouvaire/Combeferre; Courfeuilly; 'Ferre/Enjolras; Archie/Horatio. Please to
(I still want an Enjolras Angora. Heaven.)
A Snow Day
Jehan sat idly by his window, his fingers splayed against the glass. It was cold, the glass, and snowflakes blew against it outside, and his fingers turned white from resting against it. When he took his hand away, a very pale blue sheen stuck to the pane, blue ink that had rubbed off on him the day before and was now rubbing off on the wet from the cold window. Writing poetry was bliss, and calligraphising it was heaven, and therefore he was often sticky and blue, if not sticky and green, or sticky and red. He rather liked the effect it created on his window-glass, however. It looked rather like stained glass and reminded him of churches.
He was not writing now; he was simply listening to the silent snow falling, and watching the heavy, grey clouds that covered the sky. His purple-blue eyes reflected the clouds, and it seemed as though he were half-asleep. Perhaps he was. At any rate, the inkpot before him was capped, and the quill that lay beside it dry, and the parchment that was always scattered over his desk had only sentiments written on it that he'd written yesterday.
His room was a rather small one, with space enough for a small bed, a small washstand, and his small desk, with one window - though it was a large window - and a small fireplace, with a small, pathetic fire in it. The clothes in the chest in the corner were mismatched with quite tasteless combinations of colour. Indeed, the only thing that would have hinted he had some amount of money was the presence of the blue ink. The clothes he wore now were composed of a very loosely tied green cravat, a white linen shirt, fawn breeches, and a bright purple waistcoat; part of the reason he hadn't bothered to go to Musain was because he didn't wish to be teased by Courfeyrac. The waistcoat was his favourite, but Courfeyrac tended to rag him mercilessly over it. The other part of his reason was the snow. It was a beautiful snow, half-silver in the sun, and when he'd woken in the morning he'd wanted nothing more than to stay home and look at it, perhaps to write a poem, but only if he felt like it, and as it turned out, he didn't feel like it.
So he instead sat before his window in an old wicker chair, wrapped himself in a moth-eaten blue quilt, and smiled drowsily out at the snow. A few moments later, he fell asleep, and dreamed of hot coffee and feathers.
When Guillaume slipped in quietly at noon, Jehan was still asleep, one arm draped over the arm of the chair, and the other holding the quilt together limply. Guillaume looked fondly at him for a minute, then shook him gently.
"Jehan."
Jehan woke quickly, as easily as though he'd never been sleeping, and beamed at Guillaume. "Combeferre! Oh dear, Enjolras wasn't displeased with me for not coming?"
"No, no, nothing like. He sent us home when the snow deepened. A revolutionary, but no madman."
"Oh. Good," Jehan smiled.
Guillaume ruffled his hair, and looked about for a place to sit. At that, Jehan tried to rise to his feet, blushing, and tripped over his quilt. Guillaume caught him before he fell, laughing.
"Gracious, Jehan. What you'll do to yourself if you're not careful." He unwrapped the quilt delicately. "I fancy you need a new one. It's a good thing Christmas is so close. You can ask."
"I shan't either. I love my quilt." Jehan buried his face in it, clutching it in both hands, and reddening at Guillaume's soft chuckle when his fingers poked through the fabric. "It's that way for conveniency! So I can wear it and pick things up. Like gloves with the tips cut off. It's made to be useful."
"Of course it is."
Jehan looked up at him, put out. "You're laughing at me. You're as dreadful as Courfeyrac. You all laugh at me because I don't dress properly, and I write lovesick poetry to whomever I fancy, and any time Enjolras asks me a question I answer with whatever daydream first comes to my tongue."
"But I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing at your cleverness." He petted Jehan's hair. "Tell me, what were you doing before I came?"
"I was sitting at the window. I was thinking how nice it would be to run out in the snow and have snowflakes in my hair and be soaked, and then come back inside and have coffee. I'd have coffee in one of the nice cups Belle gave me before I left home. And I'd wear my lovely quilt. Then I realised I'd have to go for a cafe for coffee, and I didn't want to. So I fell asleep."
"Do you still not want to go to a cafe?"
"I... wouldn't mind, now, I suppose."
"Then we shall go out in the snow."
"Truly?" Jehan forgot instantly the he was supposed to be annoyed with Guillaume.
"Truly. I'd like to. If you would?"
"Combeferre! Merci!" He flung his arms about Guillaume, for which he received a gentle smile.
"Please call me Guillaume. If I call you Jehan, you must call me Guillaume."
Jehan looked troubled. "Guillaume doesn't have as many rhymes as Combeferre."
"Don't rhyme. Just come with me."
Jehan did. Without bothering to put on an overcoat, he scampered outside, turning his face up to the snow. Guillaume followed at a run, feeling rather innocent of a sudden. Jehan was so shameless, as though he were still a child, unconcerned with propriety. He twirled about, sometimes with his arms thrown out, sometimes hugging himself. He ran around in circles, hopping, just to see the flurry of snow that kicked up and scattered on the air. Guillaume couldn't watch him for long without wanting to join in, and when he did, Jehan seemed utterly delighted to have him. They caught hands once in a while, and jumped and danced and fell. Three times Jehan tumbled into the snow, and twice Guillaume slipped and ended on his back. Jehan must know they were being stared at, Guillaume thought, but he never reacted to it. It was only in what must have been the space of an hour later that he finally fell panting at Guillaume's feet, and breathlessly told him, "We must have our coffee now..."
"Oh, yes, right, the coffee. I'd forgotten about it." Guillaume pulled him standing.
"I hadn't. We must hurry. It's getting dark."
"But, Jehan, that's only because the clouds are thickening."
"We must still hurry. We could be snowed into a coffee shop. It would smell like heaven, but be very upsetting if we couldn't get home."
"Very well, we shall hurry."
So they hurried, and Guillaume held the door open for Jehan when they arrived. Jehan had snow in his hair, and in his pockets, and it was melting through his shirt as well, and his hands were white as china. Guillaume felt a surge of worry, but it passed as they ordered coffee and sat together, laughing over the steaming cups. When he looked again, the colour was coming back to Jehan's hands; terribly slowly, but still coming back.
When they had finished, Jehan insisted that Guillaume come home with him, for the streets were becoming even more covered in snow, the sky was even darker, and Guillaume himself was soaking wet.
They had just sat down before Jehan's tiny fire, and Guillaume was jabbing it repeatedly with the poker, and trying to make it burn with an old newspaper, when they heard a church clock somewhere strike three, muffled by the ever-deepening snow. Jehan shook his head.
"It's clear you can't go home tonight."
"I suppose it is. I hope you won't mind my being here."
"Of course not. I should never mind a chance to avoid loneliness. My flowers have died, and I can no longer see out the window, and I don't want to write. I should be terribly ungrateful if I minded your being here."
"Thank you..."
Suddenly the fire burst into light as the newspaper caught, and they were both utterly distracted, trying to feed more paper into it and keep it going. By the time it became clear there was no possible way to reason it to burn, they were helpless giggling, and clinging to each other. Then Jehan composed himself enough to fetch a book, and they read for a while. Jehan lay on the floor beside Guillaume, and listened to his voice as he read, and thought how nice the day had turned out to be after all. When they tired of the book, they began to tell each other stories of things that had happened to them ages ago. Jehan explained the reason behind Belle and the peculiar coffee cups, and Guillaume spoke of his brothers, and the idiocy that went on when they were all young: how they laughed about things that weren't amusing, and how they made fools of themselves doing simple tasks. Jehan told all about the play he'd seen last week, and Guillaume about the lecture he'd attended three days ago.
And when at last the muffled church-clock struck nine, they managed to both find a comfortable position in Jehan's small bed, and Guillaume fell asleep with Jehan's now-warm hand pressed against his heart, wondering if anything so lovely could ever happen again.
Jehan waited until he heard Guillaume's breathing even, then kissed his forehead, and promised himself he'd find a rhyme to the name. It wasn't proper to fancy someone this much unless he could write the person lovesick poetry.
~~~
Time and Time Again
Courfeyrac sat by himself in the back room of Musain one afternoon after classes, with a few books spread out on his table, along with a piece of paper, a quill, and an inkpot. His sleeve was rolled up to his elbow, and he was scrawling terrible drawings on his arm in black ink. The general idea seemed to be a cat on a fence, but it was surrounded with a few oddly shaped flowers as well. He had used too much ink, and it was running sloppily all over, but he didn't appear to mind; indeed, it seemed to amuse him greatly, and once he had completed his left arm, he attended to the right. He found this much more difficult, for his hand shook and refused to work correctly, and even more ink covered this arm. He was surveying the mess ruefully when Feuilly came through the door.
"What the hell...?"
"An experiment." Courfeyrac held up his dripping arms, grinning wickedly. "To see how much hand control I have. Virtually none. Come here, Damien. I want to greet you properly."
Feuilly started to edge back through the door. "No, no. I can greet you well enough from here. Good afternoon. How are you? Pleasant? That's wonderful. I'm a bit peaky myself."
"Why on earth?"
"The stench of ink is quite overwhelming..." Feuilly put a hand to his forehead and swooned.
Courfeyrac looked at him for a moment, stifling a laugh, then rushed over and caught Feuilly in his arms. "Darling, don't worry! I'm here! You provided me with the perfect opportunity," he murmured, holding Feuilly dramatically close.
"Martin! My clothes!"
"Oh dear. Well, black is a lovely colour on you."
Feuilly stared. "This isn't black! It's black and white splotched!" His sleeves were smeared with ink, and so, he noted with displeasure, was his face, and the telltale wetness seeping through the back of his shirt proved he'd been touched there as well.
"Ah, there's nothing to be done. You must allow me to give you a shirt of mine. In exchange, you know. I fancy that one terribly. You give it to me, and I'll give you one of mine."
"Liar. I wish to God you'd all stop with the kindness to me, being ever so careful not to show your charity. Don't think I can't tell."
"I mean it! Here, I'll exchange with you now. Take it off."
"No!" Feuilly glowered at him. "You really don't have any dignity, do you? Any sense of what standards one keeps in society?"
"Of course I do. But my standards are quite different from yours. In my standards, one helps one's friends out. Also, if one finds a shirt one wants, one barters for it. You want a clean shirt, and I have one; you have a nice shirt and I want one. According to my standards, that's a rum situation, and it calls for a trade."
"Not here!"
"Look, I'll lean against the door and you can--"
"Absolutely not."
Courfeyrac rolled his eyes and gave up. "Absolutely not, then. But I want that shirt tomorrow, and I'll bring a one of mine from home."
"Fine." Feuilly sighed in exasperation. "Now clean yourself up. The others will be here any minute, and Enjolras will be far less tolerant of an inky embrace."
Courfeyrac's eyes ceased rolling immediately and lit gleefully. "So he will! I should get more on!"
"I sincerely doubt that."
"As do I, man. I'm not utterly mad."
"Oh, you're not, are you?"
"I'm not. But clearly, it'll take a lot to convince you so. Now, look here, dear man. I have a playful soul. You must seek to understand me. Aren't you a good Christian? Have pity for my spirit and attempt to reconcile me with the forces of light. Really, you're not doing your part."
Feuilly held out his arms wide to either side. "Frankly, considering the state of my shirt, I hope you go to hell."
"Ah! You dreadful, dreadful person!" Courfeyrac stepped forward, and Feuilly eyed him distrustfully. "You have ink all over your face, dear." He kissed Feuilly's cheek, streaking ink over his own, and then stepped back again to see the reaction.
Feuilly raised his eyebrows. "And you really expect me to think you're not mad?"
"Certainly I do." He caught Feuilly in his arms, quite amused, and kissed him again.
"Stop that! You're getting both of us filthy with the stuff."
"Rather... Was that a rebuke? Do you scorn my love?"
"That was love?" Feuilly's eyebrows went up again.
"For God's sake! What must I do? Ask you for your hand in marriage? I simply want to be able to walk out with you. Surely you won't refuse me that?"
"I suppose not. But you must promise me not to come covered in ink. No matter how fashionable you find it, it is still a ruin of good shirts."
"Very well. Conditions accepted. We shall walk out together."
"This is a fancy, not a will?"
"Damien..." Courfeyrac sprawled in his chair. "A fancy, with a will. If nothing else, you can keep me about for laughs."
"So I can. How very useful."
"Isn't it?"
Feuilly pulled out a chair beside him. "You've ink on your face."
"So have you."
"I wonder what Enjolras will say."
"He'll stare disapprovingly at us. The dear man's such a spoilsport."
"That's hardly the word I'd use."
"And yet it's the one I would." Courfeyrac kissed Feuilly again, cheerfully. "Everyone has such high praise for sensibility. Well, I say if you're not having a good time of it, to hell with sensibility."
"Does this count as having a good time?"
"It does."
"Dear me." Feuilly shook his head.
"Salut, Enjolras!" Courfeyrac called over his shoulder, grinning.
"Salut, Courfeyrac." Enjolras looked dubiously at them. "You seem to have had some bother."
"We have! Let me tell you about it!" Courfeyrac cried.
"Suppose you don't," muttered Feuilly.
"But, damn me, what's the use of having a splendid spot of bother if you can't tell anyone about it?"
"It has its uses. --Enjolras, we were just about to go. We both need to change clothes."
"Yes... Yes, it does seem that way. Should I expect you later?"
"Later, yes. Excuse us." Feuilly took Courfeyrac's arm, and began tugging him gently to the door. Courfeyrac didn't resist, fixing Enjolras with a grin.
When they were gone, Enjolras moved to their table, picked up the inkpot, and shook his head. He was looking curiously at it when the door opened behind him. Startled, his hand moved, and ink splashed over his shirt.
Courfeyrac, who had returned to fetch his books, could not help but burst out laughing.
~~~
A Little Fall of Rain
"God, what a day." Combeferre looked up at the sky, and rain splattered over his face, dripping in his ears, slicking his red-gold hair down, and trickling between his lips. His eyes squinched shut unintentionally to block out drops. Spectacles, he had learned long ago, pretended to be useful for protection of the eyes, but truly did nothing of the sort. It was as easy for him to be blinded with a spray of mud as it was for any other man.
The rain was coming in torrents, far heavier than it had fallen in several months. He wore a coat, but it was a cloth coat, a greatcoat, and he was completely drenched. His spectacles really were too clouded to see much, but he seemed pleased, smiling at the clouds amiably. He was seated on a set of steps before a rather nice boarding-house, his knees drawn up to his chest, and his head back to drink the rain.
The door behind him opened suddenly, and a booted toe nudged him gently in the back.
"Phillipe? What are you doing? Come in."
Combeferre turned about slowly, drawing his eyes up from brown linen calves to a pale face with golden curls dripping past it. Anxious and dark blue eyes met his, and he smiled again.
"Isn't it lovely?"
"It's grey. It's dark. And cold. Come in."
He shook his head, and sighed. "No, it's much more than grey and dark and cold. It is those things, I grant you. But much more."
The boy knelt beside him, the rain pouring down on his slender shoulders and his golden head. "What do you see in it? I only see that more of the people I want to save shall be cold, and lonely, and they shall be sick and no one shall care for them."
"If you look at it and think that, you shall never be able to look at it and love it. You must try and find the good in it, as well. What good things shall happen because of it, Michel?"
"The fields shall be given drink. But the rivers shall swell. They shall flood their banks, Phillipe. People shall drown. I can't think of anything good."
"Isn't it beautiful? It's going to wash the world clean. Like crockery. Surely."
The beautiful boy sneezed.
"Is it? Suppose everything just mildews."
"No, but you can't let it look that way. It's a fresh start, not more misery added on to what's there already. Well. I shan't argue with you."
Combeferre went back to looking out at the rooftops and the grey mists and the expanding puddles that scattered over the streets. Suddenly, the boy touched his shoulder.
"You must. You must argue with me. I'm wrong, aren't I? Show me what's right."
"You'll learn that yourself. You're still learning, clearly. But you're only nineteen, Michel. You can afford to keep learning." He laughed at himself. "You can always afford to keep learning. May I show you something I call right?"
"What is it?"
"Come with me." Combeferre stood and brushed the dripping hair out of his face. The boy followed him obediently, shivering without a coat. "I would offer my coat to you, you realise, but that it won't do any good. We're both soaked to the skin."
"Yes, I know."
They walked on in silence, and then Combeferre made a sudden sharp turn, and kicked an old wall gently, experimentally. It was a terribly old wall, with pieces broken out of it and vines creeping up it. Combeferre inclined his head to it, in a greeting, and took hold of one of the vines.
"Well, come along."
The boy stared. One moment, his companion was on the ground, the next smiling at him from the rooftop above. "But how did you do it?"
"I climbed. You shall too. You shall learn even more things, and you shall come to understand what you're doing. And one day, you'll fight for the right to keep on with what you're doing, and to make it so everyone can do it. But that's no matter now. Climb up."
The boy clutched a vine awkwardly, and scrambled, in an entirely undignified fashion, clawing at the plaster and stone, and slipping rather frequently. It took him ten minutes to achieve what Combeferre had in one, and even that required some assistance. At last, he stood on the rooftop, looking about himself in wonder.
"Now, see, doesn't the world look better from up here?"
"My God... is this allowed?"
"Michel, Michel, you're seeking to create a whole new world, against the will of everyone else in this one. You worry that to come here is not allowed? It doesn't matter either." Combeferre sighed and wrapped his arms about the boy, daring now when no one could see them.
"It is beautiful. You were right."
"You've learned to see the beauty of it. It didn't just become beautiful. Your eyes changed." He turned the boy about, carefully, and tilted up his chin with three fingers. "Yes. Your eyes changed. They're darker now. You're learning. You must remember the things you learn. You mustn't forget them. You'll need them." He kissed the boy's forehead. "Don't forget."
Enjolras sighed, and for the third time he scraped a thick, black line over his sentence. He wrote again, and frowned, and sketched the sentence out again, pressing hard. The tip of the quill cracked and smashed beneath his hand, and ink splattered over the pages. He let out a low moan of despair, still holding the ruins of the quill.
It was late, and the Amis were gone, but Combeferre had remained. It was his place to do so. Of all of them, it was his place to look after the leader. He fulfilled his occupation admirably, and his head came up in worry at the sound, and he stood. "Enjolras."
"No, don't tell me I'm working too hard, I must rest, I mustn't make myself go on so long. I'm tired of hearing that. I have work to do."
Combeferre stepped over to him, and gently slipped his arms about the man. "Yes, tired. Tired is the word."
"Phillipe...?" Enjolras' voice was tentative, experimenting with tones it hadn't used in a terribly long time. "Phillipe, do you remember when you took me with you up on the rooftop?"
"Of course."
"Will you take me again?" he whispered.
"Certainly I will. Come along. It's not far from here." Combeferre took his hand and drew him towards the door. "It's cooler there, and it's lovely now that it's nearing summer. When there's a breeze, one can feel it so well. You'll like it."
"I will," Enjolras smiled.
Combeferre was surprised, later, how quickly Enjolras fell asleep in his arms. He had been watching the stars in utter delight, with Enjolras' head against his chest, enjoying the soft weight, and at once he leaned close to tell him what the name of that bright star over there was, and found that Enjolras was sleeping. His blue eyes were closed, and his chest rose and fell rhythmically. Combeferre was enchanted, and he kissed Enjolras' hair. It had been a long time since he'd done that, he thought.
He couldn't bear to wake Enjolras, though he tried for a short while. He told himself that it would be so much easier to sleep in a bed, and that they'd both wake up stiff, and likely catch cold, and anyway it was a rooftop, for God's sake, but somehow himself wouldn't listen.
So, in the end, he carefully set Enjolras down on the roof, and spread his coat over Enjolras' cold shoulders as a blanket. He lay down beside Enjolras, and put his arms about him protectively, just in case. So if they rolled off the roof, they'd roll off together, he told himself in amusement. Then he too fell asleep.
When he awoke it was raining.
~~~
Pieces
"Captain Sawyer? Do you really mean it, Captain Sawyer?" Archie's blue eyes widened wonderfully, and Horatio was highly gratified by his surprised look. "Captain James Sawyer, of the Renown?"
They sat on the window-bench in Horatio's cabin below decks, with a candle on either end of it for the darkening sky. Horatio rested his head back on the windowpanes, surveying Archie with pleasure, and feeling quite self-satisfied by the expressions flitting over Archie's face.
"Yes, yes, Archie; Captain James Sawyer of the Renown."
"Captain Sawyer..." He breathed a sigh of delight.
"I think we've established his name by now," Horatio smiled.
"But this is splendid. We must celebrate, Horatio, for it is splendid. Have we shore leave?"
"Indeed we do, Archie."
"Then what on earth are we waiting for? Drinking Portsmouth dry is the only worthy enough tribute to our good fortune. We must repay Fate somehow. What better way else can you see, Lieutenant Hornblower?"
"Not a one, Lieutenant Kennedy."
Archie looked into his tankard with his special shy grin, swirled the contents, then lifted his gaze to Horatio's face. "Congratulations, Lieutenant Hornblower, on your transfer to the good Captain Sawyer's command," he announced solemnly.
"And congratulations to you too, Lieutenant Kennedy." Horatio laughed softly.
"Cheers." He lifted it rather, and drank deep, only half-hearing Horatio's answer. Captain Sawyer. The honourable, venerable, heroic and brave, clever and courageous and the host of other praises attributed to the man. Of course, the fact that Horatio would transfer to his command didn't surprise Archie in the least. Horatio was always given such honours. Horatio was always sought out in the crowd of quick, bright young men. It was Archie who was left behind, to call out "Well done!" when Horatio came home with new honours. It was Archie who adored and loved and longed to be given an opportunity to prove to Horatio he could do as well. And therefore it was Archie who was astounded to learn that he, too, would go along to the Renown. He would not wait alone on the Indy; he would come along this time.
He looked up again to find Horatio watching him, and propped his elbows on the table, grinning his special grin.
"Yes, Lieutenant Hornblower?"
"I asked if you should care for more of the Celebratory Drink, Lieutenant Kennedy."
"Why, of course, Lieutenant Hornblower. I shall return presently." Archie rose, saluted briefly, and disappeared into the small crowd surrounding the wooden bar.
Horatio watched him, feeling a little odd bit of sad. Archie was always the one who fell ill, who panicked, who was hurt by doubt and hurt by the wrong combination of words, as far as Horatio could see. He was worried, he supposed, for Archie would be the one who failed in some tiny way and then blamed himself for it and spoke terribly of himself, and smiled in that bitter manner and made some biting remark on his own weakness. It wasn't fair that Archie should always be that one, Horatio thought. He could do well enough, and he was a brave man, and a good companion. Horatio was pleased that Archie would come on Renown with him, but deep inside, he was worried. He was worried that something would go wrong, some little thing, and Archie wouldn't forgive himself.
He remembered El Faroll, and the exchange of words, and "You'd do just the same for me were I in your shoes!" "But you're not, and you never will be," and he felt guilty. It was likely true. Archie needed looking after, and that would always hurt him.
Horatio sighed, but managed a smile as Archie returned. The latter gave another salute, which was returned, and fell smoothly back into his chair.
"They brew a fine beer here.."
"Indeed they do, Lieutenant Kennedy."
But it seemed as though Archie weren't interested in playing the game any longer, so Horatio fell to his drinking silently. They both made several journeys to the bar and back without speaking, and then quite suddenly Archie leaned forward earnestly.
"God, Horatio. No one will remember me. I'm barely more than a m'man. I can't ever be worth anything spending my life shooting at frogs."
"Of course you can. Captain Sawyer is only becoming more renowned shooting at frogs." Horatio smiled at his cleverness.
Archie giggled, but shook his head. "It's no good. Horatio, I want to write a play. I want to do something. And wouldn't my hands look better covered with ink instead of rope burns?" He held them out sadly.
Horatio frowned and took them gently. "Your hands are fine the way they are, Archie."
"Oh, no. I want hands like Shakespeare's."
"But you don't know what his were like. He might have had rope burns."
"He did not, Horatio."
"He might have."
"Except that he didn't." Archie pulled Horatio's hands to himself, touching them softly with his fingertips. "He might have had hands like yours. Yours are nice." He kissed them, feeling just light-headed enough to do it.
Horatio pulled them back, dragging a clinging Archie half across the table with them. "They are?"
"Mmhm! Horatio, you shouldn't be here. You shouldn't be on the sea. You should write a book or invent something wonderful, or anything but waste your life like I am."
"You're not wasting your life."
"Of course I am. I'm not doing anything that anyone shall ever be able to look at and think, what a clever man to do something like that. It's why I want to write a play. I think I could write a play. I'd write about the sea."
"What about the sea?"
"The sea sings, did you know that? If you're quiet, you can hear it singing."
"Archie, I think you're drunk."
Archie blinked his wide blue eyes are Horatio, still half-across the table. "Really."
"Yes."
"Of all the things." Archie lifted his hand, and brushed along Horatio's cheek, tangling his fingers in Horatio's hair and kissing him, braced on the table.
He found he couldn't stop kissing Horatio after that, giggling a little and gasping heartbrokenly, as though he'd lost something immensely precious. He thanked God several times in his head, with the thanks tripping over themselves, that Horatio didn't seem to mind. The difficulty was that Horatio seemed rather to be too surprised to react other than laying his hand on Archie's back.
A few moments later, he finally did react, by whispering: "No. Not here."
"Please--"
"I said 'not here', not 'stop'. It's all right." Horatio touched Archie's hair wonderingly. "We must rent a room in town for the night, something like that."
"Can we?"
"Of course. We have shore leave." Horatio stumbled to his feet, and Archie managed to wriggle off the table and stand beside him. He clung to Horatio's arm then, though, having never wanted to stop his kisses and afraid to ever begin them again.
Once in a room -- in the very same tavern they had drunk in -- Horatio paused, seeming unsure of what to do now. Archie swallowed, and kissed his cheek, and suddenly it was as easy as before, because now Horatio was returning the kisses, slipping his arm about Archie.
He went back to thinking his confused, quick 'thank Gods', and meant them with all his heart.
In the morning, Archie woke early, head aching, unable to sleep in a bed that wasn't rocked by his singing sea. "Didn't do a very good job of drinking Portsmouth dry, did we?" he murmured.
"We did well enough," Horatio told him, and kissed his forehead shortly. "Well enough, Lieutenant Kennedy."
"Thank God, Lieutenant Hornblower."
EDIT:
Actually? That was Iron Chef he did that to.
Hmm.
Have to laugh. This is entirely true. The Selerazion AU fandom is almost entirely composed of slashfic.
*laughs*
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2004-01-09 11:37 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-01-10 02:31 am (UTC)But thank you, anyhow. ^_^
(*wails* But didn't you like the 'Ferre/Jehan? I worked so hard on that!)(no subject)
Date: 2004-01-10 04:45 am (UTC)But the Courfey/Feuilly made me giggle much, and I was feeling very giggly this morning
(no subject)
Date: 2004-01-10 05:01 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-01-10 12:13 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-01-10 02:33 am (UTC)Coherence v. overrated.