tu_vas_triompher | (no subject)

(no subject)

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.

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"Yes, well, I, um. Wasn't imagining he'd be running Northumberland from the, the cradle."

What do earls do? ...What do babies do?

"I'm glad to hear he's, he's-- I'm glad your family is keeping its place." Well, all right, he isn't philosophically in favor of earls, but still. It's good that tiny Harry Percy is taken care of. "He-- your father, is he, um--"

Seriously, what do babies do?

"He is dead," Harry says flatly. And look, see? Harry doesn't care at all.

Feuilly has had a passing acquaintance with many babies--they were all over the place in his foster mother's house--but suddenly that seems quite unrelated to thinking about a dear friend's own particular baby. For once he hopes that baby earls are better protected against ills and dangers than baby foundlings.

--And, oh. Harry's father.

Oh.

Harry might wear no expression, but Feuilly is still going to rest his head on his shoulder.

That's alright. Harry is silent there for a moment or two.

Then he nudged his head against Feuilly's and says, "Come, shall we practice?"

He leans a little harder before straightening up and giving Hector's ears a ruffle. "Sure, let's. Outside? Or do you want to try the practice space indoors?"

"O, let us try it," Harry agrees. "Unless it please thee match the heat of practice with a chilling air."

Edited 2016-01-10 20:54 (UTC)

"Indoors," he says mildly. "I don't love the cold for its own sake. Come on, let's get our swords."

"--I would not do well in the keeping of a child," Harry says abruptly as he starts towards the door. It's plainly a thought that's been rattling around all the while. "Methinks it is better thus."

"Oh--" Feuilly stops in his tracks. "Oh, no, I think you would do just fine."

But it's not an option, is it. He tugs a hand through his hair. "You'd learn. But it sounds like he'll be all right."

Harry shrugs, unconvinced. He's never been a fast learner, after all, in anything that isn't to do with war.

"Kate shall manage passing well," he agrees. "Were she a man, the terror of England would she be-- belike her son shall be so, too."

He gives Harry's shoulder a little punch, at a loss for any useful words. Feuilly would argue that any father who didn't willingly walk out on his children would be a good father--but it's not a very helpful point, under the circumstances.

"--He'll be a little small Harry Percy," he says finally. "Probably a terror, sure."

Harry punches back, mock-offended. "Nay, a fine, quiet child I was."

"Mmhm." Punch. "That's what you're always telling me. What a, a quiet studious boy you were."

Harry grins. "But 'tis not all a lie! I made clamor enough, 'tis true, and yet spoke little. --as a child, I would say." Clearly that changed somewhere along the way.

"But thou--" A punch back. "Thou wast all study and sweetness, I am sure."

Well--yeah, all right, actually.

"I was terrible and wild. Remember? They called me Léon for my ferocity." He bites his lip; the next punch really just turns into resting a hand on Harry's chest.

"Ay." He traces his thumb down the back of Feuilly's hand. "I did forget. A very lion, Feuilly the fierce."

"Just so."

If it were someone else, he'd press to talk more about the father. But it's Harry. Hitting each other with practice swords is probably more effective at starting a conversation. So Feuilly rubs Harry's chest for a moment and then nods towards the door. "Practice?"

Edited 2016-01-11 01:04 (UTC)

Harry nods and claps Feuilly on the shoulder. "Ay, let us go. Thou canst display thy ferocity."

"Yes, beware."

They have to stop by Harry's room to get his sword anyway, so Feuilly takes Hector along to leave him with Lady for another strenuous round of napping. "I think he's getting even blinder," he says as they head down to the practice room. "Doesn't seem to bother him much, though."

"No, indeed," Harry agrees. "Think'st thou all the marvels of this place could not aid him?"

"I don't know. That is--I suppose there's probably someone who could do something, now that you mention it." He glances over his shoulder, back towards Harry's room. "I could ask Joly or Combeferre about it. I don't want--well--a Paris doctor wouldn't take it well, being consulted about a dog. But Joly's mad about his cats..."

"Is he indeed? All in all a kindly soul, he." Harry grins. "But as thou say'st, he minds it not."

"Ha, haven't you met his cats? His and Lesgle's, I should say." Feuilly likes cats quite a bit himself, but he's still going to laugh a little about Joly's cat situation. "--I'll ask him. I don't know anything about--oh, dogs and medicine. The answer might just be that he's old and there's not much to do about it."

Harry nods-- and here they are. It is, he has to concede, in many ways nicer than being outside: warmer, cleaner, the floor not quite as hard as the ground.

On the other hand, there's no promise that no one will show up. Which is something to keep in mind.

"Very well, then!"

When it's not January, Feuilly definitely prefers the field by the stable, even if there are better places for practice. But right now? Yeah, he'll take an indoor climate that isn't going to turn his hands into stiff, cracked, aching, useless lumps--all by itself, without any help from getting bashed over the knuckles.

Still, the room holds sound in a way the open air doesn't, and he warms up self-consciously.