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Feuilly ([personal profile] tu_vas_triompher) wrote2017-03-28 08:02 pm

Labyrinth

One moment, the Labyrinth doorway. The next, a narrow bed in a cold room. A scuffling sound at the window pane, sparrows landing and then taking off again. An argument in some other room, muffled by walls but not very well: Go to hell, you're not my husband, you can't come here and talk like that to my kids.

It's all in French.
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[personal profile] harryhotspur 2017-03-29 07:51 pm (UTC)(link)
Sounds! Well, let's follow the sounds, certainly. He wonders dimly, as he makes his way down the stairs, where that woman thought he ought to be.
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[personal profile] harryhotspur 2017-03-29 10:47 pm (UTC)(link)
Iiiiinteresting. It's nothing like any building he knows. He makes his way down and down, and finds himself at last opening the door out to the street.
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[personal profile] harryhotspur 2017-03-31 04:03 pm (UTC)(link)
The pipe smoke, and then the sudden damp, cold air of the street sets him coughing again. He braces himself against the frame of the door as he tries to catch his breath, and dimly wonders if he should go back up. But all those stairs are an unpleasant prospect in this wheezy state, so he presses on.

(After all, it's Feuilly's body, but he's still Harry.)
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[personal profile] harryhotspur 2017-03-31 04:49 pm (UTC)(link)
He turns towards her and, --ugh, that pipe. He angles away slightly, brings his sleeve to his mouth so he doesn't cough in her face.

"I--" He has no idea what the answer is. "Why do you ask?"
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[personal profile] harryhotspur 2017-03-31 05:02 pm (UTC)(link)
"No," Harry cuts in immediately. "No, I just--" why do people not go to their job

"No," he says again, firmly. She said it's none of her business, so he just won't elaborate. "I have work."
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[personal profile] harryhotspur 2017-03-31 05:15 pm (UTC)(link)
"It's nothing. A cold, it's nearly gone." He's never been this easy with Feuilly's type of French before-- he's not entirely sure he actually is now, or if something in the Labyrinth is translating it even to his own ears. "Anything else?"
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[personal profile] harryhotspur 2017-03-31 05:35 pm (UTC)(link)
Oh. Shoot.

"That's very kind of you," he says quickly. "Thank you. That would be-- very nice."

He can't muster much of an appetite, but he should eat. And it's something to do besides aimlessly wander the strangely busy streets.

What is he meant to be doing here anyway? Maybe a dragon will leap out of the soup pot and he'll have to fight it?????

...seems unlikely, somehow.
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[personal profile] harryhotspur 2017-03-31 08:37 pm (UTC)(link)
Harry is very used to just letting speech wash over him (unfortunately, especially when it's from women), but he tries not to look too troubled by the things that pop out. This is his life, after all, none of this is new to him.

How old is Feuilly now, he wonders? The indistinct reflection in the dirty glass didn't make it clear.

God, she's still talking. He feels an impatient comment bubbling up, but another wave of coughing gives him time to pause and reflect. He's supposed to be Feuilly, right. What would he say?

"How long have you, um, kept this house?"
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[personal profile] harryhotspur 2017-03-31 09:07 pm (UTC)(link)
Now that it seems plainer she won't take illness as a reason to toss him-- or, more importantly, Feuilly-- out on the street, Harry admits, "I might have a touch of fever still."

Enough to make him feel oddly clammy, anyway. He brushes his hair back and, yes, there's sweat on his forehead. But the soup smells good, and the warmth of it feels even better. He tries for a moment or two to remember Feuilly's way with table manners, but quickly gives it up and digs in eagerly.
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[personal profile] harryhotspur 2017-03-31 09:32 pm (UTC)(link)
He nods as he slurps down the soup-- mm, yes, stove, yes, burn the house right down, right-- but looks up, startled, when the woman bursts in.

"I'm-- here," he agrees, bewildered. "I'm, I was--" Whoops, coughing. Actually, he thinks, that's probably best. He has no idea what to say. I wasn't on my way to work because I don't know where it is or how to do my job?
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[personal profile] harryhotspur 2017-03-31 09:44 pm (UTC)(link)
"I can go," Harry says, instinctively stubborn, realizing far too late that she has handed him a perfect excuse to not have to try and hide his inability to paint fans.
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[personal profile] harryhotspur 2017-03-31 10:39 pm (UTC)(link)
"Who--" He begins to ask, but right. A coworker, apparently, and one who's out before he can thank or offer any kind of farewell. That sort of brisk fussing, he thinks, seems to suit Feuilly perfectly. And he's glad, as a shiver runs through him-- does that mean the fever's getting worse, or better? He can never remember-- that there is someone to do it-- that Feuilly wouldn't have been left to confusedly wander the streets of Paris.

"I will have that Michel out for her, if he won't go," Harry says, because really, it seems only right to offer something.
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[personal profile] harryhotspur 2017-03-31 11:14 pm (UTC)(link)
"I could," Harry mutters, but happily seizes his chance to slip away.

His progress up the stairs is slow and dizzy, and he has to pause on several landings to steady himself or to cough then catch his breath. At one stop, someone pokes their head out of the door and gives him a dark look, so he hurries onto the next. By the time he reaches Feuilly's room, he all but topples onto the bed, wheezing. Ugh.

Or perhaps more accurately: ugh, poor Feuilly. He wonders if this is real, an actual-- moment, or memory, or just something the Labyrinth made up.

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