Let’s grab life by the throat and live it to pieces
We can choose, we can change and if we don’t
We’re just afraid of living life like we’re loved
Rain and wind often come together, which, Enjolras think, is the worst part. Still, at this exact moment she is tempted to curse the heavy materials of her dress more than the elements themselves. At least she knows Feuilly kept the pamphlets that had just been printed, so they won’t be too damaged – although Enjolras can’t say as much for her clothes; she can’t remember the colour her shoes were before they were covered in mud. Every step she takes, she feels like one of her shoes will leave her feet and stay stuck, probably sinking in the mud.
Thankfully, Enjolras manages to keep both of her shoes on, though by the time she reaches Feuilly’s rooms, she is certain she will never feel dry again.
“Here.” Instead of a greeting, Feuilly hands her a towel as soon as she opens the door to let Enjolras in, her expression a cross between amused and disapproving. “You didn’t have to come in this weather, you know.”
What a pitiful sight Enjolras must be to warrant that look. Feuilly’s face is pale – she has been working longer hours than usual, Enjolras knows, her workshop having lost several workers in the recent breakout of cholera. There are ink stains smudged over her cheek and nose, but she looks more respectable than Enjolras does, at the moment. Enjolras can feel cold strands of hair sticking to her face, dripping down her back. She choses not to address Feuilly’s question.
“I couldn’t even find a ‘bus,” she says instead.
“I can’t blame them, really.” Feuilly shakes her head stiffly. “Take off your dress and your shoes. Hopefully they will have time to dry a little by the fire while we work.”
A few minutes later, Enjolras is standing in front of the fire, wearing a linen nightdress of Feuilly’s that was too short for her, tickling her lower legs were it falls. Her thick blond curls are still dripping, but the dry clothes make her feel, at the very least, a little more human.
Feuilly is sitting on her bed, shoulder slumped. Enjolras had noticed she was looking tired earlier – but now that she, herself, is calmer, she can’t help but notice her friend looks especially exhausted.
“Sit here with me?” Feuilly calls, probably noticing Enjolras’ staring.
“Oh. I wouldn’t want to drip all over your bed,” she says. Feuilly’s bed looks so carefully made, every corner of the blanket tucked under the thin mattress, the thicker wool blanket folded at its foot.
“I’d rather you did that ruin the pamphlets.” Feuilly says, and Enjolras feels her own face heat up despite the chilly humidity of the room. She sits down.
“Besides, my bed is worth much less.” Feuilly continues, nervousness punctuating her words. “I’m not sure I could get them printed again so soon – ”
“We can be patient.”
“Well, you’re here, aren’t you? Because you weren’t patient.” Feuilly’s tone is disapproving, but she reaches up to comb a hand through Enjolras’ ruined curls. Enjolras’ closes her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she says. Feuilly doesn’t respond, but her fingers continue combing through Enjolras’ hair, closer to the back of her neck, short trimmed nails scratching her scalp. Enjolras won’t force her to talk – she knows that rarely yields any results with Feuilly – but she lets her play with her hair, untangling strand after strand, a small puddle of water forming on the blanket. The pamphlets are still carefully hidden away inside a book on Feuilly’s shelf, and neither of them makes a move to grab them.
“I’m sorry, too,” Feuilly says eventually. “It will be alright.”
Enjolras feels herself nod, and Feuilly tugs her closer. She rests her head on Feuilly’s shoulder, and notices the room feels a lot warmer.
“Combeferre, have you got a minute?”
Combeferre rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses. He’d been staring at his stupid computer for way too long, but he only had until midnight tonight to finish this lab report.
“Not really,” he said without looking up. “Can it wait?”
“Sure,” Courfeyrac said, but even from deep within his own mind Combeferre could hear something tense in his tone, like a rubber band pulled too tight. Combeferre looked up to better appraise the situation, but Courfeyrac was already slamming the door behind him.
“Shit,” Combeferre muttered, rising to follow him. “Courfeyrac!”
“And that–” Courfeyrac lifted his pen with a flourish. “That is the last! No more than we deserve, I suppose, daring to use a printer other than the illustrious house of Enjolras–” And a careless printer at that, one who had missed a very obviously stricken-out name (and Combeferre had gone back to the manuscript at least thrice to be certain of this) and included it instead, leaving repairs to be made by hand before the pamphlet could be distributed. By the hands of Courfeyrac and Enjolras specifically. What felt like all night long.
“I suppose we– oof, Enjolras, have a care–” But the sudden weight against his side wasn’t Enjolras using Courfeyrac to hoist himself up, but a presumably unintentional consequence of Enjolras having drifted to sleep right there where he sat. He slumped against Courfeyrac, his face pressed against Courfeyrac’s shoulder, his gold curls spilling into his face. Courfeyrac smiled and very carefully tucked a curl back out of the way.
“I hope you don’t think I’m going to let you sleep there all night,” he said softly. “You look perfectly comfortable, but I would be in agony. I suppose you didn’t think of that, did you.”
But he could sit there for a minute or two more.
“Will y’all be having dessert today?” the waitress asked as she cleared their plates.
Courfeyrac smiled expectantly across the table at Feuilly, who tried not to blush.
“Nothing for me,” he said, turning his own polite smile up at her.
“Blasphemer,” Courfeyrac stage-whispered, grinning at the waitress when she laughed. “I’d like the churros, please.”
Feuilly felt a twitch of wanting; he hadn’t had churros in years, but even being in a sit-down restaurant was a splurge. Dessert would be overdoing it.
“I saw that,” Courfeyrac said, and Feuilly could feel his stomach sinking. “Come on, you so want some. Treat. Yo. Self.”
“N-no,” Feuilly insisted. “I’m really too full, honest. I’d never be able to finish them.”
“Fine, fine. You can have some of mine.”
“Oh, that’s really not –” Feuilly sputtered as the waitress made her way back to the kitchen.
“I insist!” Courfeyrac said grandly. “A good meal just isn’t complete unless you round it out with something sweet.”
Feuilly ducked his head and stifled a series of embarrassing thoughts about Courfeyrac’s presence more than adequately filling the position of “something sweet.”
“Only because you ordered churros,” he relented.
“That’s the spirit!”
On your left.
So while doing some pirate research for the play I’m writing I stumbled upon one of the most amazing things I’ve ever read. In the 5th century A.D. there was a Scandinavian princess called Alwilda who’s father tried to set her up to marry Alf, the Prince of Denmark. Alwilda wasn’t cool with this so she and some female companions dressed as men, stole a ship, and sailed away. Eventually they met a company of pirates who were in need of a new captain and they were so captivated by her that they elected her as their new leader. Her crew became so infamous that Prince Alf was sent out to stop them. When their ships met he took Alwilda prisoner and she was so impressed by Alf’s skill that she agreed to marry him after all and eventually became the Queen of Denmark.
I stopped caring whether this was factually accurate about halfway through because it’s completely AWESOME.
Medievalist here for triumphant fact-checking: this story is, if not true, at least true according to the history of the Danes (Gesta Danorum) written in the 12th century by Saxo Grammaticus. You can read his account of Alwilda’s story in the original Latin here, or in English translation here. Highlights include:
She exchanged woman’s for man’s attire, and, no longer the most modest of maidens, began the life of a warlike rover. Enrolling in her service many maidens who were of the same mind, she happened to come to a spot where a band of rovers were lamenting the death of their captain, who had been lost in war; they made her their rover captain.
I love the implication that there were lots of Danish maidens just WAITING for the opportunity of a life of piracy…
Reblogging my old post for this A+ addition to it
concept: instead of hedwig, Harry goes into the pet store and this little snake in the back of the store talks to him, obviously gets his attention more than the other animals, and harry feels sorry for it so he takes it home. Then the snake helps Harry throughout his years at hogwarts as harry carries it wrapped around his hand all like “pssssst, haaarryyy, the dark lord isss coming sss” or just petty shit like “haaaarrryy, now is the time, assskkk out cho chaaannngg”
The snake getting really agitated in second year and Harry like ‘Aw, what’s wrong little friend?’
And snake’s like ‘Nah don’t worry it’s cool, it’s just that big fuck-off snake in the pipes that keeps making you think you’re hearing things—it’s like, ten thousand foot long, and I’m a corn snake, so you know. Bit intimidating.’