tu_vas_triompher | (no subject)

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hotspur

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It turns out that you can't actually just lie around in the grass forever; for one thing, bugs start biting you, and other residents come strolling by or want to visit the stable, and the day wears on. So Feuilly had gone to his work--belatedly--and Harry had gone about whatever Harry does--presumably horse things? Knight things?

And Feuilly had set himself to start his painting and his translation work an hour earlier the next morning. He'd fit more hours into the day if he could, but until Joly or Combeferre discovers something along those lines, he'll just sleep less! It's a workable plan!

So Feuilly has circles under his eyes as well as bruises under his shirt when he wanders to the stable in the late afternoon. With his practice sword! With his practice sword held rather awkwardly, because he's not sure if he and Percy actually have a...scheduled...arrangement to meet...? But, you know, he's just. Wandering over to the stables. With a sword.

Like you do.

Well, also a basket of food. He'd been hungry after their training session.

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Well, that gets a snarl out of Feuilly. No he didn't fight with other boys very much when he was small--not very much anyway--and he's not going to be laughed at when he's trying--

He's not truly angry--and he knows he's being baited--but it does get him to put a little more into his attack.

He says something really incoherent about France. And Poland.

"Nay, thou didst promise to speak of Poland after, when I may blame our practice if I should fall asleep!"

You can't be as easily baited as Hotspur without knowing how to bait other people. He's not trying that hard! Feuilly could do it! Feuilly could particularly do it if he were to realize that for all his experience and training, Hotspur very much expects people he's fighting to follow all the same rules of chivalrous combat that he's following.

That...would help if Feuilly had indeed spent much time fighting with other small boys. Or winning, anyway. At the moment, the mun is terribly sorry to say, he's just sort of whacking in the direction of Hotspur's sword. And trying to barrel into him?

--yeah, eventually, Hotspur has mercy, and takes a step away. "'tis well enough for now, what think'st thou?"

Feuilly glares at him and makes one more swipe.

Harry had started to lower his sword, and when Feuilly swings he hastily brings it up again. But he's a second too late, and the swipe strikes his arm; a combination of pain and surprise causes him to lose his grip and let the sword fall. He looks down at it, rather startled by this development, then back to Feuilly. He grins.

He hadn't been aiming at Hotspur's arm! He hadn't been aiming at Hotspur's arm and he's at least as startled, and he starts to apologize.

The apology doesn't get far before it dissolves into panting laughter.

Edited 2015-07-01 23:12 (UTC)

"Thou canst not apologize to thy foe--" He's burst out laughing, too.

It's true, he can't apologize, he's laughing and panting too hard to make the words properly. But he can wave a hand wordlessly, swatting away Hotspur's remark, before standing up straight again and looking for that basket he'd brought.

There's water in there.

Harry, useless person that he is, sinks gingerly down to the ground, then sprawls himself out on the grass.

Well.

Fine.

In that case he can just.

Wait to have a drink of water.

Until Feuilly is done.

...There's not enough in there to drink and wash his face, so after gulping down about half the bottle, Feuilly drops it at Harry's feet and then makes for the bucket of water by the stable door.

When he's a little cooler, and a lot more dripping, he finally lets himself flop down on the grass too.

He's a brat sometimes, this is known. When Feuilly returns dripping wet, he considers that that really is a good idea-- but not enough to be bothered with all that standing up business just this minute.

"Well then," he says. "Wouldst talk of Poland now?"

"...You think I won't?" Feuilly wipes his face on his sleeve. "All right. In your time--I think--the Polish-Lithuanian union has just begun to form. I know more about the history closer to my time, of course, but--but it's worth noting that very early on the Polish-Lithuanian Union featured a--government that, that stood out among the, the growing absolutism of the neighboring monarchies--"

He shouldn't be this tired, dammit.

"And those neighbors are..." He decides to venture a guess. "...Bohemia?"

Feuilly blinks and rolls up on his elbow to look at him. "Well--yes, in fact."

--he wasn't actually expecting to be right! "And this, my friend, is the sum of all I know of Poland."

"Well, but it's right, Bohemia is one of Poland's neighbors." Yes. Good job, Harry Percy! Now--where were they? "--Right. Um. Europe in general was tending more and more towards absolutism, absolute monarchies. In Poland and Lithuania the nobility controlled the government--a large nobility, all equal to one another, with guaranteed freedoms. Nice for the nobility, though the peasants still had nothing--"

He's losing the thread of his speech, and he suspects he's lost his audience's attention, and maybe he's said enough to make his point for now.

"Wouldst rather tell it another time?" Harry asks, trying not to sound too amused at Feuilly's tired fumbling.

"...You'll still have to listen." You're not going to get away from history and political theory that easily, Harry Percy! But yes. Maybe another time. The sun has dipped below the buildings now; the grass isn't so warm as it was. They should probably get up--eat--find drier clothes--

Feuilly realizes he's been staring absently at Harry's face, and looks away. "There's food in that basket. Bread, cheese."

"I did swear I would, and so I shall! I have tormented thee this past hour and more, sure thou'rt due payment in kind."

Harry brightens at the promise of food and scrambles carefully up to his feet to go investigate, reaching out to ruffle a hand over Feuilly's hair as he passes. He returns a moment later with the basket in tow, sits, and only then begins fishing through it, unearthing first a piece of bread which he offers to Feuilly.

Feuilly spends the time in sitting up himself. It's a bit of work. He takes the bread with a silent and grateful nod and bites into it, and nods again a few times before he attempts further words.

"--It's getting late."

Such oratory.

"'tis," he agrees, squinting up at the halo of sunlight about to disappear behind the buildings beyond. "When I left England, 'twas high summer, and the sun set slow and late. I know not what the season is here."

"The beginning of July. And they say the climate is a lot like Scotland's." So--probably familiar, as much as anything here can be. And yes, they still have quite some time before it's truly dark.

"Scotland," he echoes thoughtfully. Hell is a bar in Scotland? That seems entirely probable.

"Thy shirt--" He reaches over to give the damp collar a tug. "Thou'lt catch cold, soaked so in the night air."

But for all that his words imply a recommendation that they get up and leave... you know, it's really only twilight still-- so he only moves to break off a piece of cheese and offer that, too.

"Mmmh." He doesn't really want to sit here in his wet shirt; it would be all right in the noon sun but it's chilly and clinging now. But he doesn't want to go back to his room... His mind shies away from the thought of going with Hotspur into the warm dimness of the stable building, in search of something else to wear, and he lets it for now.

But after he takes the piece of cheese, Feuilly snickers suddenly. "--If you propose throwing a horse-blanket over me, I'll--"