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psalm_onethirtyoneWell. Guess what? I must, apparently, have the other toenail removed as well. Just when the first one was healing, too.
One of the Powers That Be has it in for me.
On the other hand, here's Sam. Sam who is finally approaching cuddle-ness with his 'Ferre, and making much more progress than Christophe-Marie and Rodolphe, since he's only on his eleventh chapter, too. *groan*
Samuel had brought his book along, clutching it close as he followed after Combeferre. Again, he'd thought with annoyance, again he was following after Combeferre. And yet, it was worth it, he decided quietly, sitting on Combeferre's bed with his book open.
He always sat on beds with his knees sticking out to the sides and his small feet pressed together. It was comfortable, and it made him feel small and slightly innocent and-- Besides, there was something about Combeferre's throw rug bedspread that demanded sitting like that.
He smiled across the bed at Combeferre, tilting his head. Combeferre was flipping through a large blue textbook, and his grey eyes darted back and forth quickly as he read the lines. He read more quickly than anyone Samuel'd ever known, and, watching his eyes continue to flicker over each line, Samuel was quite entranced. He began to study Combeferre. His hair was tied back with a yellow ribbon, which really didn't suit him, and his spectacles had slipped down the bridge of his nose. He sometimes pressed his knuckles against his lips, and when he frowned at something in the book, it was always accompanied with a little noise (of incredulity or disagreement) made in his throat.
Samuel closed his book, sat up on his knees, and moved forward, trying to peer at what Combeferre was reading. It didn't take a moment for him to overbalance and fall forward, knocking into Combeferre' shoulder.
"I'm sorry!"
Combeferre laughed. "It's quite all right. Here." He helped Samuel up.
"What are you reading?"
"Botany, God help me, and the author can't punctuate. It's rather annoying." He smiled. "It's my own fault, however, for being so rigid in such matters. If I can't stand it when this mark is used instead of that, I must learn to be more patient."
"Isn't it more the fault of the author, for publishing a book when he can't correctly punctuate?" Samuel asked.
"If it was a book on composition, I should say yes. But it's botany, which has very little to do with how such a thing is spelt or written. Should we lose all this knowledge of flowers and plants because a wise man who knew them and could draw them couldn't put his comma in the correct place? The knowledge really outweighs the small annoyance I feel for the imperfection."
"That's true."
Samuel rubbed one arm self-consciously, feeling almost as though he'd been chastised. Combeferre had resumed his reading, but he was smiling now, and he'd pushed his spectacles back in place with his finger.
Suddenly, Samuel lay back on the bed, looking at the ceiling. "Ah, God."
Combeferre looked over quickly. "What?"
"I'm sorry, I'm tired. Do you mind if I sleep for a while?"
"Of course not. I'll get off the bed." Combeferre had been sitting with his legs crossed, and he easily unfolded himself and stood. Carefully, Samuel turned back the rug and snuggled under. Combeferre glanced at him fondly, sitting down again in the only chair. "I'll wake you in an hour or so, shall I?"
"Yes, thank you."
He didn't quite sleep. Instead, he watched Combeferre through half-closed eyes, with his head pillowed on his arm, feeling the soft warmth of his breath on his hand when he exhaled. At last he closed his eyes fully and really did try to sleep.
Combeferre propped his head with the back of his hand, looking at Samuel. He stayed still for a long moment. Then he stood and stepped over to the bed, and bent, kissing Samuel's forehead.
"Sleep well," he whispered.
Finally asleep, Samuel smiled.
One of the Powers That Be has it in for me.
On the other hand, here's Sam. Sam who is finally approaching cuddle-ness with his 'Ferre, and making much more progress than Christophe-Marie and Rodolphe, since he's only on his eleventh chapter, too. *groan*
Samuel had brought his book along, clutching it close as he followed after Combeferre. Again, he'd thought with annoyance, again he was following after Combeferre. And yet, it was worth it, he decided quietly, sitting on Combeferre's bed with his book open.
He always sat on beds with his knees sticking out to the sides and his small feet pressed together. It was comfortable, and it made him feel small and slightly innocent and-- Besides, there was something about Combeferre's throw rug bedspread that demanded sitting like that.
He smiled across the bed at Combeferre, tilting his head. Combeferre was flipping through a large blue textbook, and his grey eyes darted back and forth quickly as he read the lines. He read more quickly than anyone Samuel'd ever known, and, watching his eyes continue to flicker over each line, Samuel was quite entranced. He began to study Combeferre. His hair was tied back with a yellow ribbon, which really didn't suit him, and his spectacles had slipped down the bridge of his nose. He sometimes pressed his knuckles against his lips, and when he frowned at something in the book, it was always accompanied with a little noise (of incredulity or disagreement) made in his throat.
Samuel closed his book, sat up on his knees, and moved forward, trying to peer at what Combeferre was reading. It didn't take a moment for him to overbalance and fall forward, knocking into Combeferre' shoulder.
"I'm sorry!"
Combeferre laughed. "It's quite all right. Here." He helped Samuel up.
"What are you reading?"
"Botany, God help me, and the author can't punctuate. It's rather annoying." He smiled. "It's my own fault, however, for being so rigid in such matters. If I can't stand it when this mark is used instead of that, I must learn to be more patient."
"Isn't it more the fault of the author, for publishing a book when he can't correctly punctuate?" Samuel asked.
"If it was a book on composition, I should say yes. But it's botany, which has very little to do with how such a thing is spelt or written. Should we lose all this knowledge of flowers and plants because a wise man who knew them and could draw them couldn't put his comma in the correct place? The knowledge really outweighs the small annoyance I feel for the imperfection."
"That's true."
Samuel rubbed one arm self-consciously, feeling almost as though he'd been chastised. Combeferre had resumed his reading, but he was smiling now, and he'd pushed his spectacles back in place with his finger.
Suddenly, Samuel lay back on the bed, looking at the ceiling. "Ah, God."
Combeferre looked over quickly. "What?"
"I'm sorry, I'm tired. Do you mind if I sleep for a while?"
"Of course not. I'll get off the bed." Combeferre had been sitting with his legs crossed, and he easily unfolded himself and stood. Carefully, Samuel turned back the rug and snuggled under. Combeferre glanced at him fondly, sitting down again in the only chair. "I'll wake you in an hour or so, shall I?"
"Yes, thank you."
He didn't quite sleep. Instead, he watched Combeferre through half-closed eyes, with his head pillowed on his arm, feeling the soft warmth of his breath on his hand when he exhaled. At last he closed his eyes fully and really did try to sleep.
Combeferre propped his head with the back of his hand, looking at Samuel. He stayed still for a long moment. Then he stood and stepped over to the bed, and bent, kissing Samuel's forehead.
"Sleep well," he whispered.
Finally asleep, Samuel smiled.
