Feuilly

Damn right they did, they are in his way.

...yeah, he might be a touch on edge.

But it's Harry, so an explanation-- or at least a rant-- is surely forthcoming eventually. And come it does, at last, in the form an abrupt: "Dost ever speak of me? To others?"

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"Um?" At least he's not asking while Feuilly is standing tiptoes on an old log trying to reach the quintain's crossbar; he's back on the ground and doesn't fall over at the abruptness. "I--suppose I must, sometimes, with friends? I--how do you mean?"

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"That fellow, that-- Jim." The name comes out derisively. "He would speak of thee to me. It seemed to me impertinent-- I know not."

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"Jim--?" It takes him a moment to place the name; when he does, he frowns. "Oh, I met him. Um, about so tall, dark hair, from England? When everyone was handcuffed, he was stuck with Monmouth. So, you know, I said hello to him the next time I saw him." Had Harry even come up in conversation? He doesn't remember now. "We didn't really talk about much, just--Milliways. What was he saying?"

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"Vulgar things," he says flatly, though he can't quite look at Feuilly as he said it. "He presumed much, asked much, and claimed it all a custom in his time."

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"Vulgar--?" His own conversation with Jim hadn't been anything but ordinary. Feuilly rests the wooden crossbar on his knees and looks at Harry. "About me? About our friendship?"

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"Yes." He feels stupid for bringing it up. He takes a swing with the hatchet. It... doesn't help, really.

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Feuilly frowns. Slowly. "I don't think I mentioned you at all. If I did, it was just in passing. And he didn't say anything--anything vulgar to me. He'd been drinking--"

He casts his mind back, as alert now as if he were evaluating a new and questionable political contact for one of the Amis. "He'd been drinking, but not all that much. We talked about Milliways--the library, the ground--about movies. There wasn't anything I'd call personal. He talked a little about Monmouth, about meeting someone from history."

Jim had been--what, a little dull, a little tactless, but not malicious in the slightest. And he would have had to be more than a little tactless to keep pushing Harry, of all people, on vulgar subjects. "Was he drunk?"

Edited Date: 2016-02-29 12:32 am (UTC)

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"I do not think so. He did not say you had spoken of me," he adds hastily. "I know not why I spoke of it, it means nothing. He is a fool, there is no more of say of it."

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"I don't think--" Feuilly drums his fingers on the wooden piece. "Well, I don't know if he's a fool. But someone must have got him thinking about us. And he'd have to be--he'd have to have seen you weren't interested in talking about it."

It's just possible that Jim from I.T. is an asshole, is what he's trying to say.

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"He did not need to see it, I said it." His irritation over the matter is quickly rekindling. "I do not think it a subject for common gossip, and with one I know not, and like not, and trust not!"

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"Well, it's not," he says very quietly.

He puts down the woodwork and pulls up his knees, wrapping his arms around them. "It's not, and I don't know why he'd bother. But it's a small place and people do gossip."

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"I care not," he says. Look at him not caring! He doesn't care at all. "There is naught to be done, I cannot think why I spoke of it."

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Yes, Feuilly can see how much he doesn't care. That is a man who cares not.

...Feuilly might need to take over some of the not caring for the both of them. "No, well, that's true--his opinion isn't worth much to me. Someone who'd go out of his way just to, to rile up your temper? And--and that's all he can do, really, isn't it." He laughs suddenly at the realization. "That's all anyone can do--just--be annoying."

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"They can indeed," Harry agrees, though he doesn't sound remotely amused by the notion. "And were I in England, I could silence them. Here, one may do nothing."

Except, of course... not react. But really now. This is Harry Percy.

"I should cudgel a man would speak so of thee!" he bursts out.

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He sobers again. For him, it's a fundamental change to have the power of saying all he can do is be annoying. No one here can fire him, evict him, denounce him to the police, kill him. (Yes, Security could lock him up; there are plenty of people here who could beat him badly. But even those are less pressing worries than in Paris.) What power he has, just knowing that!

But for Harry, of course, it's a matter of power taken away. Feuilly rubs his face. Harry and power. "But you didn't." He's sure of that, he'd have heard a different story if Harry had been drawn into a fight. "But you didn't, which I appreciate." More than he'd appreciate a cudgeling.

He gets up, walks over to Harry, and pokes at some of the brambles. It would be needlessly condescending to point out that not hitting Jim from I.T. looks better for his Security application. And indeed makes him a better candidate. "What did he say? Or would you rather not--"

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Of course, he never really had as much power to hit the people who really irritated him as he always wished he had, or perhaps imagined he had-- but now he hasn't any at all. At some point, the thought that he's helped his chances with security will likely console him, but not quite yet.

"He asked if I knew thee, I said so-- he did quibble on the claiming of the hounds, if they be mine or ours, and when I did claim thee my dearest friend, he said for such knowledge, he would ask my counsel in dating. I knew not the word, and told him so, and he-- why, he made it sound a vulgar thing, base and rude, and not at all worth compare with any true friendship!"

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"--Oh."

Oh. That--that doesn't sound nearly as bad as Feuilly was thinking. Possibly just ordinary tactlessness, without any malice. "Well--well, um. Y-- um. Yes, well--some people would--probably say that we're-- It's not a, a word from my time, but I think some people use it to mean a--friendship--?"

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Hey, you can't forget the important factor of this being Harry Percy, with his hair-trigger sense of insult.

"Naught but skulking in corners, he made it sound," Harry mutters.

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Feuilly...is not forgetting that, no. Now he feels just a little twinge of guilty for assuming the worst of Jim. Who is almost certainly tedious and tactless, but might not be terrible!

"Well--"

Um.

"It's, um--" Feuilly is not sure he's up for delivering a quick course in the history of social attitudes towards same-sex relationships, especially since he really doesn't know much...at all...about it. He rubs the back of his neck. "I don't know him, I don't know how things are for him. In his world. Maybe people need to be--wait."

Wait, hang on. "Why was he asking you about dating?" Harry isn't the first person Feuilly would go to for relationship advice, and he's in a relationship with him.

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"I know not. Because when he would wish me-- us?-- luck, I said a friendship needed no such fortune, when all hearts be true. At this he laughed, and said he would seek my counsel on the question."

The part about wanting advice about seducing King Henry V specifically didn't emerge until later. And Harry would prefer to steer clear of that thought of as long as possible.

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...Oh.

Feuilly bites his lip on a fond smile. Suddenly it all sounds innocuous. He punches Harry's shoulder gently. He'd been a little wrong in his assessment a moment ago, hadn't he? Because he would ask Harry for advice about friendship, when all hearts be true. "--Well, I'd ask you for advice, when you make it sound like that. But--really--if he was being rude, deliberately--"

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Was someone having a conversation? The voice coming out of the woods and apparently aiming for the back seats of a theater disagrees!

"--there on a dirt road
where only hawks now go
three lines in stone
to a passing world still say

Love knows no reason,
no rhyme and no season,
justice is cold -- hey, then!"

Bahorel walks into the clearing with no particular change in pace, until he can start poking at some of the odd structures in it. "This wasn't on this path yesterday." Also, hi, Feuilly and Harry!

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...hi Bahorel. Don't mind Harry, he's just... holding a hatchet, looking only faintly more murderous than usual.

"We came across it some days ago."

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Right, okay, change of topic!

"Hullo. It used to be a, a tilting practice place." Thing. Whatever you call it. "The post there used to be a quintain--I need to fix it--and we'll need to clear the ground a little--"

Babbling to cover awkwardness? Surely not.

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Yeah, babbling noted, Feuilly, but Bahorel's not going to waste a lot of time wondering why two men alone in the woods should be in an awkward mood. He solved that mystery to his own satisfaction many many years ago.

Instead he pokes at the quintain. "That looks pretty old--if that sort of thing matters at all here. Are you two saving it for the art of thing, or is there a joust coming?" Either is interesting, really! But obviously one involves running at people with weapons, so it's more interesting.

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"I thought to make some use of it, if it may be sufficiently repaired," Harry says, coming over to join Bahorel in the idle poking. "Though I know not if there be horses fit for't."

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"The crossbar and the metalwork there need to be replaced, for sure." Feuilly picks up the piece he had taken down. "I don't know whether the whole thing needs to be replaced. I found a book in the library with directions for making a quintain, but it's all modern--modern materials. Something called PVC pipe?"

He'd rather work with wood, honestly. "But I was going to start by seeing if we can just replace this part. I'll need the, the hardware. --And we'll need to clear the ground. Some of that has to wait for spring, I think, but we can take down the, the saplings and brambles now."

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Bahorel nods at the mention of PVC pipe. "Right--I've read about it being used for things like this, in other lands.Used for swords, too, for practice. It sounds like useful stuff." He looks at the edges of the clearing thoughtfully, assessing something invisible. "I think we could even use it to make seating, but that might need reinforcing."

His eyes refocus on the brambles that are definitely there. "--Did either of you bring gloves?"

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"Seats?" Harry echoes dubiously. "But one post, in such a little space-- 'tis scarce fit for spectators. And there are not riders enough for a contest worth the sitting."

Gloves! Bar did give them those! He pulls them out of his belt and displays them to Bahorel: see? They're totally prepared.

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"We weren't thinking of seating." But that sounds a little more ungracious than he means it to. "That is--I suppose anyone is welcome to come and practice and--watch, I guess? But it wasn't--"

Gloves! Yes! Bar saw them sensibly provided, and Harry and Feuilly are sensibly...not...using them. Oops. "Do you want mine?"

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Bahorel laughs. "If they fit you, they won't fit me, unless Madame Bar has invented a truly impressive new design." Even the frustrating stretching fabrics he's worked with since coming here couldn't make up that size difference, and wouldn't be useful anyway. "But if you hold the branches back, I can dig out the roots a bit, and Harry can cut them down at the base." He's already walking along a patch of thorns, looking for"-- ah, there's a main branch!"--Anyway, I know at least one person here who'd like to see even practice, if you get the place working. You don't know who else might be along, spectators or riders."

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"The repairing of it makes some business for us, and I ask for no more," Harry says, following Bahorel over towards the bush. "Whatever use may be made of it after-- as thou say'st, we may see."

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The ground is too hard this time of year to really get at the roots much; they'll have to go over the area again when things start to grow. But Bahorel knows that as well as Feuilly does. "Well, let's get it ready for practice before we start worrying about seats. --Who do you expect to want to practice?"

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"Oh, I will, certainly; Jehan will never forgive you if you don't let him try; Courfeyrac will want a go; even Enjolras might try it." And will probably be a natural, with trumpets sounding from nowhere when he wins. Bahorel smiles, but keeps that to himself; Feuilly and Harry are about as likely to see the joke there as Enjolras would be. "And there's Brienne, maybe Ysalwen. Maybe even some of the fighters from worlds without horses, for the practice of it."

Ah, there's a main stem--and getting at the roots in warm weather will be much easier when there's only a main stem. Bahorel pulls it out towards Harry as much as he can, to make it easier to chop apart.

"And maybe some from worlds with horses would even bring one in, for the fun of the practice."

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Harry begins to hack away at the stem as carefully as he can. He has a lot of faith in the infirmary, but why test it?

"It is no less the question of the horse than the man," he says. "They have it not in their nature, to charge unflinching at some obstacle, but must be trained to the task."

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"Harry isn't sure Duncan is up to the work," Feuilly says, with a bit of a smile. "I say we should try him. But--yes, of course, if anyone else wants to use the space, they're welcome. --Especially Prouvaire," he adds, stifling laughter. Because yes, especially Prouvaire.

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Bahorel grins. "I won't be surprised if he does better than me; I've never ridden a horse at all. Unless you count an old cart-hauler who makes Duncan look like a thoroughbred charger."

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"I know not how those of your day get place to place-- ha!" With one last whack, he's through the stem at last. One down? "Try as thou wilt, indeed-- but I will not answer to thy friends if thou dost crack thy head a-tilting with a horse that likes it not."

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"Cart-horses count," says Feuilly firmly. "As someone who hadn't ever been even on that much of a horse before coming here? Cart-horses count."

He starts gathering up the tangle of hacked bramble, and--ow--okay fine, yes, he'll put on the gloves. "--We'll have enough for a small bonfire by the time this is clear, Bahorel."

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"If I could bring Turnip here, you'd renounce the claim. I feel I slander his memory by calling him a horse instead of a hammock." It's a fond memory, at that, but not exactly something to instill Bahorel with faith in his own equestrian skills. "--We could make it a large bonfire!" There's a whole forest!

...With lots of dead branches. Burning the whole forest would be a bit beyond a bonfire. Also, boring.

Edited Date: 2016-03-01 02:10 am (UTC)

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"Are such customs kept in France, too?" he asks. "Bonfires, and the like?"

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"All sorts of bonfires! Bonfires for all occasions! They bless and purify, and by chance, do a splendid job burning the wastes that builds up in the fields and streets. But they must be forgiven their usefulness, for the sake of the revels they support." Ah, there's another thick trunk of a briar-stem, to hack at when Feuilly's ready to hold back stray branches again. "What do you mark with your bonfires?"

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"For harvest, and such festivals are they seen," Harry says, following Bahorel over to this next branch and setting to work.

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Feuilly is already on it with the branches. (After rolling his eyes, just a little, at Bahorel's rejection of the cart-horse. Come on, when you've grown up in a village where everyone takes turns borrowing the biggest farm's single mule, you don't take even the laziest old cart-horse for granted.)

"Well, I don't know what occasion we'll find for it, but we might as well have one ourselves."

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