tu_vas_triompher | (no subject)

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

harryhotspur

Harry still has one hand braced against the back of Feuilly's head, and now he slides it round to cup Feuilly's cheek, which is a little red, because there is blood under there, because he is alive or at least something that looks like it.

He has protested, in his time, that he is no good at talking-- which is a bit silly, of course, because he's perfectly capable of talking incessantly-- but only about himself, about ideas, about what must be done. When it comes to what has been done, what is praiseworthy, what deserves-- condolences? sympathy? he doesn't even know what-- he is, as now, entirely at a loss. So he just leans his forehead the little way down to press it against Feuilly's.

From:

tu_vas_triompher

That's fine. That's fine, Feuilly can stand there like that and close his eyes and not think very much for a little while.

Eventually he pulls himself together and raises a hand to swat at Harry's shoulder, protesting his own self-indulgence, but it turns into just resting a hand on Harry's chest instead.

After that, he can pull himself together, and laugh softly under his breath at the both of them.

From:

harryhotspur

"I did not mean to speak of it," Harry says, his voice low. "It has-- it has been all this morning on my mind."

From:

tu_vas_triompher

"I don't mind. Speaking about it, I mean. --What do you remember from your fight? Before you came here?"

It's not exactly the same as saying that he's pretty sure Harry is as dead as he is. For one thing, he's really not sure.

From:

harryhotspur

His gaze drifts to a place somewhere over Feuilly's shoulder. "I saw-- I thought I saw-- the prince. And of all others, I wished to match with him. And all else is-- I know not-- I have-- dreams--" He looks down at the ground, and seems to want to turn away, but as with Feuilly, the gesture doesn't really manage to take him anywhere.

From:

tu_vas_triompher

He nods thoughtfully. Dreams. Feuilly has his share of those, and has the impression that his friends do too. Some of them are much clearer than his waking memories of the fight, and he doesn't know which to believe.

His hand is on Harry's arm; he rubs it gently. "I don't know. I mean--I don't--" Feuilly doesn't have any answers. "I don't know any more about it than you do."

From:

harryhotspur

Harry shakes his head, then ventures a smile. "Nay, thou'rt a scholar. 'tis thy business to know all things, and to speak of them at such a length, we poor unlearned wish we had not inquired."

From:

tu_vas_triompher

Feuilly gives his arm a little shove, just a very little one. "I've told you, I'm not a scholar. I just read books. And I only speak at, at such a length, about history--" And education, and justice, and his friends' virtues, and equality and humanity and oh God this friendship is doomed. (Friendship. That's what to call it, right?)

Edited Date: 2015-07-01 07:17 pm (UTC)

From:

harryhotspur

Grinning, Percy shoves back, of course, probably a little harder. "True, true, thou speakest aright-- thou hast never yet bored me to distraction, thou canst not be a true scholar."

From:

tu_vas_triompher

"--I dare you to ask me about the partition of Poland. Only--not right now. You should probably--we should probably practice first. Then you might sit still after." His sword is still somewhere nearby; he looks around for it. At least he hasn't been stepping on it with all this--all this.

From:

harryhotspur

"'twas always my tutors' way," he agrees cheerfully, at last letting go of Feuilly. "To set to their schooling when I was too tired to protest. But it shall be I who wearies you in this, I think." He ducks down to retrieve his own sword (which he... brought with him from the stables before shh).

From:

tu_vas_triompher

Oh, right, letting go, that's-- right. Feuilly gives himself a little shake and tries to get back to where they started. Feet, elbows. Grip. Chin up: Thou needst not look to thy feet, they are still there.

Breathing.

(He hopes Hotspur's tutors were paid enough, and then some.)

Edited Date: 2015-07-01 07:37 pm (UTC)

From:

harryhotspur

--the "letting go" bit only lasts for a few seconds, honestly, as Harry is immediately right back at Feuilly's side, nudging his arms a little, giving the side of his knee a gentle thwack to remind him not to lock them.

From:

tu_vas_triompher

Oh, damn, right, knees. Feuilly mutters under his breath that he's not a horse, Harry can stop swatting him, but there's no resentment at all there.

From:

harryhotspur

Harry just laughs. "Now. The thrust of yesterday: show me. And after show me again, and again after that, until thou needst hardly think of it."

From:

tu_vas_triompher

This is what he was expecting; he takes a breath and gives it a try. It's not very good, but it's a genuine effort. He's not just here as an excuse to talk.

Feuilly is expecting to be very sore by the end of this.

From:

harryhotspur

"I think thou hast a talent for this," Hotspur says cheerfully after several minutes. He has picked up the jar of salve and is tossing it from hand to hand.

From:

tu_vas_triompher

Feuilly grunts, but doesn't dare to put down the sword, not under that watchful eye. He's fairly sure he does not have a talent for this. He has a talent for various other things. But--motivation and practice make up for a lot, don't they?

From:

harryhotspur

They do! Harry takes up his sword after a few more repetitions and says, "And now, thou shalt block me. And after that, thou shalt recall such forms mean fair little in battle, and will do what thou canst to disarm me."

From:

tu_vas_triompher

He refrains from making a noise of disbelief. Yes, yes, he'll block. And then do what he can to disarm Hotspur.

Hopefully Feuilly gets the grace of a moment to find his stance again, for the first part of that.

From:

harryhotspur

Harry grins-- it'll be fun! But yes, he moves slowly but firmly through his repetitions of the attack, hoping to help Feuilly find a rhythm in the movement, the logic behind the gesture.

From:

tu_vas_triompher

Feuilly...does, in fact. Somewhat. At least--he thinks he has a sense now of why people talk about a sword's balance and how a person can find a point where its weight and one's own work together.

His tufty wiry hair is now quite damp with sweat and he's breathing hard. If he's going to try this disarming business, this is the time to do it, so he makes a sort of a feint or a--

--yeah, that's not really. Not really very effective. Unless Hotspur lets it be.

From:

harryhotspur

Hotspur laughs and lifts his brows and avoids the attempt quite easily. "Ah, art ready now? Have at thee, then--"

From:

tu_vas_triompher

Ahaha no he's not ready, his arms hurt and his legs hurt and he's panting, and the late-afternoon sun has turned into sunset sun that's in his eyes--which Hotspur almost certainly has noticed--

Well. He tries.

From:

harryhotspur

Hotspur is quick and strong and, you know, has been doing this since he was a tiny child-- but he's also still very much feeling all those Bahorel-derived bruises, and so he's definitely starting to flag somewhat sooner than he normally would. Not that he'd say so.

"Come, come," he laughs. "Didst never fight with other boys when thou wast small? Think not of form, do what thou must!"