Labyrinth

Mar. 28th, 2017 08:02 pm
tu_vas_triompher: (Default)
One moment, the Labyrinth doorway. The next, a narrow bed in a cold room. A scuffling sound at the window pane, sparrows landing and then taking off again. An argument in some other room, muffled by walls but not very well: Go to hell, you're not my husband, you can't come here and talk like that to my kids.

It's all in French.
tu_vas_triompher: (Default)
Once everyone has been warned about the hallucinatory flu situation, there's really not much a person can do but wait it out. At least, that's what Feuilly has been telling himself. So he's been bringing work down into the main room--books, sketchpad--and trying very hard to Make Sensible Use of the time...while mostly straining to keep half an eye at all times on Harry-who-thinks-he's-Ashley. And while ignoring a headache and a twinge in the back of his throat. And while managing the dogs.

Somewhere amongst all this Feuilly finds himself sitting on one of the couches by the fireplace. He's absolutely not going to lie down, because that way lies the danger of napping. But he might put his feet up. And he might rest his head on the cushion for a little while.

And his eyes might close in spite of all his best intentions; and he might begin to snore, just a little, the open book lying on his chest.
tu_vas_triompher: (Default)
In the mad world of Milliways, it's nice to have some constants. Like Harry leaving his shoes all over the floor--really, how can a single pair of shoes manage to be in so many places at once? And like arguing with the dogs that they don't sleep on the bed, and the dogs sneaking up onto the bed anyway a few minutes after the lights go out, and then arguing with the dogs that they're at least supposed to stay at the foot of the bed. And then adjusting to fit around Hector's very bulky bulk because dogs don't understand French or English.

In the mad world of Milliways, the bedtime rituals are constants. And waking up is generally much the same too these days. Dogs taking up too much space, Harry loudly still asleep, the still-delicious knowledge that Feuilly can wake up and lie abed as long as he likes, watching dawn light come in around the curtains.

Of course, in the mad world of Milliways there's also the constant awareness that anything might interrupt any of that at any moment.
tu_vas_triompher: (Default)
No matter what else may be happening in Milliways, some constants remain. Among them, the need to walk the dogs, or at least let them out, before going to bed. So Feuilly is out in the last light of the evening: just enough light to see the white tip of Lady's tail when she runs off to the edge of the mowed lawn and starts weaving in and out of the longer grass. Hector has no such flighty notions. He's a self-respecting lymer who likes his leash and likes to plod along at the length of it, nose to the ground, while he finds a suitable spot to do his business.
tu_vas_triompher: (Default)
Feuilly wakes up in the morning with a headache.

He's not much of a drinker, but he knows a hangover when he feels one, and this is a hangover. An especially bad hangover. How much...how much Greek brandy had been in those things?

He starts to drag himself out of bed: sheer force of habit. There's always something to get up and do, no matter how bad you feel. But wait, hang on, there isn't really, not here in this place. So he covers his face with his hands and groans pathetically. And hopes Harry isn't too annoyed with him.

kids

Apr. 13th, 2016 02:29 pm
tu_vas_triompher: (Child)
Food is one of the best ambassadors. Having eaten ham and cheese with Harry Percy, Jeannot Feuilly feels more than confident enough to follow him out to the lake, even though--

"Do you know how to swim?"

Jeannot does not. Would he rather admit that, or admit that the water looks really quite cold?
tu_vas_triompher: (Default)
If he thinks too much more about this, Feuilly will think himself back into his room. Which explains at least some of the urgency with which Feuilly trots down the hall to Harry's door, and knocks.

Nothing except the history of their friendship explains why he's bringing his training sword. But it makes perfect sense to Feuilly. They might need to go hit things with swords! Possibly each other! A certain amount of judicious hitting-with-swords has always been an integral part of their friendship.

(...so, yes, to the outside observer, it might look like Feuilly is charging down the hallway with a look of determination, armed, and pounding on Harry Percy's door.)
tu_vas_triompher: (Default)
It's a mild day--for February, anyway--the sort of day that one feels needs to be used before it goes away. So Feuilly had proposed a return to the quintain they had found. "We can take apart the broken section, and maybe clear some of the saplings if Bar will let us borrow a hatchet," he'd said. And bar had obliged, and he and Harry had set forth, and he had given Harry the hatchet, and--honestly, glancing over at Harry's attack on some brambles, Feuilly is a little concerned about the decision. Did the brambles commit some unforgivable offense?
tu_vas_triompher: (Default)
Feuilly is--surprise, surprise--working in his room. It's proving harder than he expected--no, well, it's proving just as hard as he expected--to break down the language of 21st-century pedagogy into pieces that he understands well enough to build from by himself. But the effort is rewarding in itself. Just reading the first pages of an article on "the challenges of adult student persistence in library literacy programs" is an exercise in the foreign and the familiar. Students expressed two types of learning goals: specific 'instrumental' goals that must be reached in order to realize longer-term aspirations and broader 'transformational' goals that entail major life changes, such as taking on a new social or work role. Just that one sentence holds struggles that he recognizes intimately--and a way of thinking and writing that would turn away much of his Paris. Aspirations, transformations, new social roles?

So...work is going slowly.
tu_vas_triompher: (Default)
It's good to be starting a new project, Feuilly reminds himself. It is, it really is: he's had trouble finding things to do, now that his fan commission is complete and his translation for Fawkes is done. He's been feeling selfish, lazing about the way he has been. So it's...good, to be staring at an empty notepad, an open laptop, and a stack of books, with no idea how to begin.

It's good.

Feuilly looks down at Hector, who is snoring and has no advice about pedagogy.

He looks over at his door, and hopes it opens with an interruption.

Snow!

Nov. 29th, 2015 06:17 pm
tu_vas_triompher: (Default)
Snow! It came on suddenly, didn't it? But maybe that's normal here. It had been snowy when Feuilly first arrived; he remembers barreling around outside in it, in his June clothing, hugging himself with his hands tucked up under his arms to keep warm, too excited by the strangeness to go inside--

That same excitement simmers in him all morning while he goes about his self-imposed schedule of work, and only after he has finished his Latin lesson does he hurry over to Harry's room. No Harry there, but the dogs are in: Feuilly gets their leashes on and bundles along outdoors. It seems very likely that Harry's already there.
tu_vas_triompher: (Default)
The switch from the desk in his room to a branch halfway up an oak is, naturally, a bit of a surprise. Feuilly's physical reflexes catch up to it before his thoughts do. It saves him a broken arm, maybe a broken neck. Thank you, Bahorel, for taking his body up into a tree without warning. A tree in the center of some strange landscape of--art?

It's art. It's certainly art. It's Bahorel art, but it's art. An art installation, that's what they'd probably call it in the future. Whatever Bahorel is in the middle of, up this tree, it involves knots--a rope web--cooking-pan noisemakers strung like beads--a bolt of Lyon jacquard silk--

Extracting himself from the situation is enough to keep Feuilly from thinking too much about the paint? all over his arms: he looks like he's been painted on fire, red and gold swirls on black. His hair feels as if it's full of--something sticky. He's wearing--oh, never mind

When he walks through one of the back doors of the bar building, his first thought is to go straight to his room, wash, and hide for a week. Instead he takes a deep, deep breath, and goes to knock on Harry's door.

How bad is it?
tu_vas_triompher: (Default)
This new Harry isn't going to be permanent, right? This is all one of those temporary Milliways things? It's Halloween, so Harry Hotspur of the 15th century is a Tottenham Hotspur of 2015 for the moment, and soon he'll be himself again. Right?

The alternative to optimism on this point being panic and despair, Feuilly is doing the only sensible thing, which is to take the amiable and vaguely...shiny...Harry Percy of the future out to hit things with practice swords.

--and hell, if it's his chance to win a playful skirmish or two, he's not above taking it.

"All right," he says cheerily, when they get to the yard near the stable. "Do you know how to hold it?"
tu_vas_triompher: (Default)
One thing had led to another. The afternoon finds Feuilly deep into the history of the FIFA World Cup, with an entire channel of klezmer music to listen to. He's been trying to untangle the complaints about the decisions to host the competition in Russia and Qatar, and humming along to the music, when he suddenly becomes aware of two things.

First, the song he's half-singing without thinking about it isn't quite what he was expecting.

Second, he's supposed to be expecting John Segundus any moment now; they'd made a plan to meet at his room and then go to the library. Now--how do you turn the music off--?
tu_vas_triompher: (Default)
Feuilly had, of course, sworn to fight at Harry's side in the matter of the dishes. Or, if Harry prefers, to lend moral support from nearby. He...hadn't really sworn to get up before dawn to do this, if only because Harry had neglected to explain his cunning scheme.

So it's his usual breakfast time when Feuilly comes down to the common room, his laptop under his arm, and pokes his head into the kitchen. And blinks to see Harry already there. "--When did you start?"

Uh, and good morning and stuff, that too.
tu_vas_triompher: (Default)
They eat their breakfast--lunch?--by the lake, occasionally chucking rocks into the water, but not talking much. Letting some time pass after the conversation in Harry's room. Letting the morning warm up. After they split the last cup of hot chocolate, they leave the satchel by a large rock, to be retrieved--later. (They'll remember, honest! Feuilly will, anyway.) It seems like a good time to meander around the edges of the woods.

There is a path. Feuilly looks at it doubtfully, glances at Harry. "I think that one doesn't do anything--you know--magical."
tu_vas_triompher: (Default)
Feuilly's new commission has rather shuffled around his usual schedule. The man wants it as soon as possible, so--as soon as possible Feuilly will have it. But it's an ambitious project for him. And ambitious means research. Lots of reference material. Reclining nudes. Reclining nudes with their faces turned away to show the curve of the neck. And boudoirs. Artistic lady's boudoirs.

Really, though, by the time you're sitting there trying to figure out how necks work, much of the eroticism has worn off. Or at least gotten pushed well out of the way. He fills some pages with sketches of naked ladies--and sketches of beds, painted screens, birdcages--then pats Hector on the head and calls it a reasonable day's work.

Off to grab a practice sword and fence a bit with Harry.
tu_vas_triompher: (Default)
The walk to Harry's room is made awkward by Feuilly having to carry a laptop computer, a practice sword, some books, a notebook, a tablet, pen and pencil, etc.

Also by the whole thing where Harry just appeared in the bar all bloody and cheerful after vanishing for a bit to go fight Viking raiders. That makes things a little awkward too. Not that Feuilly disapproves of going and rescuing villagers from violent murder! It's an excellent thing to do! But...he's never seen Harry so much in his professional capacity before.

Not knowing what else to do, he settles in to handle it the way he handles Bahorel adventures: stolid and pragmatic. They'll get Harry cleaned up and patched up and fed and watered and--sort out whatever else needs sorting out.
tu_vas_triompher: (Default)
Even the excuse of coming out of a very strange week of not being himself isn't enough to keep Feuilly from work--but he finds that in that week, barely remembered, he finished up his translation of the Pasteur volume, and made a great deal of progress reading it over! Or at least he thinks that's what he's done. The notebook with the translation is full of marks in green pencil, in his handwriting, making corrections that he certainly agrees with.

So for the morning he carries on correcting his work, now with a dog lying on his feet in a way that will be welcome in winter weather; and when his two hours are up he makes his way to the stables with an odd feeling of having gotten ahead of himself somehow.

(AU week)

Jul. 19th, 2015 01:14 pm
tu_vas_triompher: (Default)
Feuilly has been telling himself that it's all right to be bound here, after the bitter defeat to their cause. Time isn't passing in Paris--however that works--he's using the time to rest, to study, to learn for the republicans' next attempt--

--he's resting with Harry, Prince of Wales, and studying the swordsmanship of four hundred years ago, and learning how to communicate a few faint ideas of 1830 to a long-gone English kingdom.

So now, spurred by Bahorel's restless energy, the news of Joly's illness, he's pulled out the work he's neglected lately, a sort of extract or paraphrase or adaptation--whatever you want to call it--of the Communist Manifesto. It's challenging work, pulling it together in terms for 1830 Paris, but it's not so very far past their time as all that. It's not a moment too soon for socialism!
Page generated Jun. 23rd, 2017 10:28 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios