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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"'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--"

"Why, many a soldier has done so, on watchful lights when no fires may be lit," Hotspur says stubbornly, but then breaks into a grin and flicks a bit of bread at Feuilly. "Thou shouldst not disdain it. Truly, the smell is not so very bad."

Feuilly ruffles the breadcrumb out of his hair. "Well--then get one for yourself too. Delicate noble blood and all that-- I'm the sturdy peasant here."

Hotspur lifts his brows. "Shall I be thy valet? Well, so I shall."

He hoists himself up again and retreats into the stable. When he returns, he drops a blanket right on Feuilly's head: not, in fact, a horse blanket at all, but the blanket from the cot in the tack room.

Well, when he puts it like that...

Feuilly is not going to be his valet. But he doesn't feel any great need to say so out loud. He yelps and flails the blanket cheerfully off his head, then shakes it out and wraps it around himself, rubbing his damp arms and shoulders a little before looking to see whether Harry did indeed get one for himself. "Thanks. --I've never been to Scotland, so I can't say if this is much like it. But it was winter when I got here, with plenty of snow and cold."

Okay, so he's talking directionlessly about the weather.

In fact, he didn't, as there was only the one blanket on the cot, and he probably has enough of a horsey air about him at the moment without compounding it with an actual horse's blanket.

"Too little rain," he says firmly. "To be very like Scotland, there must be more rain."

"And Northumberland is about the same?" Feuilly looks over at him, sighs, and lifts a corner of the blanket around his shoulders. "--You could have one end. If you want. It's a big blanket." And neither of them takes up very much space.

Harry nods. "Ay, very near. Paris is warmer, I warrant."

He scoots a little closer and grabs on to the offered corner, though he's plainly making an effort not to tug any of it actually off of Feuilly.

"A little, I think," he says doubtfully. "Lyon was warmer than Paris--and much less rain. Paris is very grey. --But beautiful." It's the best city in the world, especially if an Englishman asks.

The fraught nature of this rivalry is clear in the way he scoots closer as well, setting himself shoulder to shoulder and knee to knee with Percy until the blanket stretches far enough for two.

"I think I would like to see it Paris. With an army at my back, to be sure," he adds cheerfully, knocking his shoulder against Feuilly's to assure him that it's only a joke. He stays there, just slightly leaning, the damp of Feuilly's sleeve pressing into his.

"--what, to get a decent meal? It's all right--you don't need your army--our Paris gamins aren't that dangerous."

He jostles back, likewise to show that it's a joke, but really there's not much room to get closer, is there?

"Ay, that Lesgle showed me your French foods-- all soft and sweet--" He makes a face, but really can't complain further, since he really quite liked it.

"Mmhm. You take your coffee black, do you?"

"Coffee? I know it not."

"We'll have some tomorrow, then."

"I would not keep thee from thy--" A vague gesture. "--thy books, thy fans."

"I've done my work for the day," he says slowly, choosing to take it at face value. He's not sure whether he's looking for an excuse to stay or to go, and probably he should make up his mind. For now. "--But if I'm to get an early start tomorrow--"

"Oh, ay-- and thy shirt, thou shouldst--" He straightens, taking his weight back off Feuilly, letting their shoulders part.

"Yes--yes, my shirt. I--" (It's wet, his shirt. Probably soaking into Hotspur's. Feuilly gathers himself a bit, looking in the direction of the main building, and then thinks of Harry's admission that he has dreams.) "--I can find another blanket if we get cold."

A flash of surprise crossed Harry's face (but not bad surprise, not at all) before he can conceal it. "There's more to be found, I doubt it not."

"Probably horse-blankets. Well, and the stable's warm."

He leans against Harry's shoulder again, and stops trying to find excuses about things.

Harry slings his arm around Feuilly's shoulders, bringing his hand up behind to rest on the back of Feuilly's head. "'Tis warm-- wouldst go in?" (He means nothing by it, it sounds as guileless as he ever does.)