"How Old is Spring, Miranda?"
Mar. 11th, 2004 12:04 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
psalm_onethirtyoneSam-ness.
Samuel sat tiredly in a chair at the cafe, watching Feuilly, who in turn was watching him with those disconcerting black eyes. Feuilly's hair was more tousled than usual, and it made him look as though he'd been the victim of a strong wind. Except, Samuel couldn't help thinking, one had the suspicion that Feuilly was more likely to have conjured the wind up on purpose than been its victim. He was smiling the almost sarcastic smile that he always smiled, but his eyes, studying Samuel, were quite solemn. Samuel had an intense desire to look away.
"Bonjour, Enjolras."
Samuel's eyes widened, and he blinked several times, realising Feuilly had spoken. When one watches someone else's eyes, one never expects that someone to talk. It's almost like observing a statue or painting.
"--Bonjour."
"I see the little group is growing. Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Joly, Bossuet, myself, and now this Prouvaire boy, and Grantaire?" Feuilly's smile widened, in a way that seemed nearly indulgent. Samuel felt his throat tighten, and didn't know if it was because he was annoyed with Feuilly, or because he was extremely discomposed by him.
"Grantaire is not a member of this group. He doesn't even care about it."
"Oh, I'd forgotten. That's true, isn't it," Feuilly murmured. "The drunken cynic who forced his way in. I do think it extraordinary that he doesn't care about your group--"
"Our group," Samuel corrected automatically.
"--and yet he stays." Feuilly tilted his dark head and looked at Samuel. "Don't you?"
"I don't wish to talk about him," Samuel said.
"And it wasn't what I wanted to speak of to you, either. I know a man--have recently met him, really. He's called Bahorel."
"Oh?"
Feuilly shrugged his thin shoulders. "Yes. If you're interested."
"Of course," Samuel said with dignity. "New members are always welcome."
"Oh, good." Feuilly raised his eyebrows. "I'll bring him tomorrow. I also think you should speak with Joly and Courfeyrac. They're acting absolute fools, and never pay attention to you."
Samuel froze. He'd been thinking the same thing himself. Feuilly was gazing intently at him, and his black eyes looked utterly somber. It made Samuel think of dead leaves falling through sleet. He was thrown off his guard, and forgot for a moment that Feuilly had said anything.
"Well?"
"No!" Samuel sat straight instantly. "No, they're just--" he paused for a long moment. "They don't understand yet, do they? They're silly. They think this is a game right now. They think it sounds like a novel idea. They haven't--been out in the slums. They haven't seen things."
"What?" Feuilly looked taken aback, for the first time.
"Nothing," said Samuel, feeling highly embarrassed. Feuilly was staring at him in a slightly calculating manner, as though he was taking something new into account.
"Quite. Well." Feuilly stood and stretched a little, by arching his back and shoulders. There was a rather awkward pause.
Samuel felt obligated to break it by standing as well. "I'm going to find Combeferre."
"Do that."
Samuel edged off, casting looks over his shoulder. He was feeling the overwhelming discomfort that accompanies being watched by someone one can't see. He looked anxiously at Feuilly, and their eyes met for a split-second.
He was aware of being suddenly afraid and confused. He spent the rest of the afternoon with Combeferre, and never noticed that he was picking up a nervous habit of touching Combeferre's sleeve to comfort himself.
Samuel sat tiredly in a chair at the cafe, watching Feuilly, who in turn was watching him with those disconcerting black eyes. Feuilly's hair was more tousled than usual, and it made him look as though he'd been the victim of a strong wind. Except, Samuel couldn't help thinking, one had the suspicion that Feuilly was more likely to have conjured the wind up on purpose than been its victim. He was smiling the almost sarcastic smile that he always smiled, but his eyes, studying Samuel, were quite solemn. Samuel had an intense desire to look away.
"Bonjour, Enjolras."
Samuel's eyes widened, and he blinked several times, realising Feuilly had spoken. When one watches someone else's eyes, one never expects that someone to talk. It's almost like observing a statue or painting.
"--Bonjour."
"I see the little group is growing. Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Joly, Bossuet, myself, and now this Prouvaire boy, and Grantaire?" Feuilly's smile widened, in a way that seemed nearly indulgent. Samuel felt his throat tighten, and didn't know if it was because he was annoyed with Feuilly, or because he was extremely discomposed by him.
"Grantaire is not a member of this group. He doesn't even care about it."
"Oh, I'd forgotten. That's true, isn't it," Feuilly murmured. "The drunken cynic who forced his way in. I do think it extraordinary that he doesn't care about your group--"
"Our group," Samuel corrected automatically.
"--and yet he stays." Feuilly tilted his dark head and looked at Samuel. "Don't you?"
"I don't wish to talk about him," Samuel said.
"And it wasn't what I wanted to speak of to you, either. I know a man--have recently met him, really. He's called Bahorel."
"Oh?"
Feuilly shrugged his thin shoulders. "Yes. If you're interested."
"Of course," Samuel said with dignity. "New members are always welcome."
"Oh, good." Feuilly raised his eyebrows. "I'll bring him tomorrow. I also think you should speak with Joly and Courfeyrac. They're acting absolute fools, and never pay attention to you."
Samuel froze. He'd been thinking the same thing himself. Feuilly was gazing intently at him, and his black eyes looked utterly somber. It made Samuel think of dead leaves falling through sleet. He was thrown off his guard, and forgot for a moment that Feuilly had said anything.
"Well?"
"No!" Samuel sat straight instantly. "No, they're just--" he paused for a long moment. "They don't understand yet, do they? They're silly. They think this is a game right now. They think it sounds like a novel idea. They haven't--been out in the slums. They haven't seen things."
"What?" Feuilly looked taken aback, for the first time.
"Nothing," said Samuel, feeling highly embarrassed. Feuilly was staring at him in a slightly calculating manner, as though he was taking something new into account.
"Quite. Well." Feuilly stood and stretched a little, by arching his back and shoulders. There was a rather awkward pause.
Samuel felt obligated to break it by standing as well. "I'm going to find Combeferre."
"Do that."
Samuel edged off, casting looks over his shoulder. He was feeling the overwhelming discomfort that accompanies being watched by someone one can't see. He looked anxiously at Feuilly, and their eyes met for a split-second.
He was aware of being suddenly afraid and confused. He spent the rest of the afternoon with Combeferre, and never noticed that he was picking up a nervous habit of touching Combeferre's sleeve to comfort himself.
