(no subject)

[le_centre]

 
June, 1832.


Courfeyrac does not so much walk through the door, as fall. Well, Milliways has had more dramatic entrances, and he is not concerned with appearances at present. He sits up, and blinks, and casts his gaze around curiously.

Well.

He looks down at himself. He cannot help but notice that while his clothes are rather bloodstained - and his cravat appears to have stayed bound around Marius Pontmercy's head - the wounds which caused them to be so have disappeared.

Well.

He looks around again. This is...peculiar.

'It is one thing to lack a life,' he declares, mostly to himself. 'But to lack a pithy comment is quite another.'

Well. If there is a time to be found lacking, this may well be it.


[OOC: Sorry guys, my internet's not playing ball tonight, and I'm about to chuck my laptop out of the window. Best call it a night - will pick everything up tomorrow. Thanks for tagging. <3]

Comments

[street_sparrow]

After all that's happened in the last few days - weeks, months, almost-year - Gavroche doesn't stop to think, or remember that he isn't the boy Courfeyrac last saw, when he hears that voice.

He just runs, and throws himself bodily to cling to the dearest of his friends.

[le_centre]

...this is increasingly unusual. Not that Courfeyrac is against random embraces, but there are usually a few words exchanged first, at least. Wine is often involved. Or brandy.

'Hello?'

Nevertheless, he laughs.

'I suppose it is not the worst attack I have endured today. Good day to you, sir.'

[street_sparrow]

"It's not an attack", he mutters, and looks up with suspiciously bright eyes but an equally shining smile. "Hello, Courfeyrac."

[ostro_goth]

There is a dark-haired man in black, sitting near the fireplace with a small harp.

"Greetings," he says. "You shall find your pithy comments soon enough, once you are used to the lack of life."

[le_centre]

'Easily enough, I am sure,' he agrees, amiably.

'It would be far more agreeable to have both, but one or the other would do if that is not permitted.'

Perhaps this man is in charge of such things. The harp would suggest it, if one believed in such cherubic notions...not that this fellow fits that image at all.

He stands up, because being dead is no excuse for sitting on the floor. Wine is a better reason; death should have earned some more dramatic pose, possibly.

[ostro_goth]

"You are sure that you are dead?" the dark, grim man with the harp asks.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

Lesgle hasn't strayed far from the Bar since getting here, not with everyone warning him about the dangers of this-that-and-the-other. Getting lost in the halls between the bar and his room is enough without getting eaten by a mermaid. (But what a way to go that would be!)

He's working on a plate of carp, relatively sober, when Gavroche rushes past his table and launches himself on--

--on Courfeyrac. Bossuet nearly knocks over his chair standing up, and then pauses with his mouth open. Courfeyrac, bloodstained and pale. Has he come from Enjolras's time?

((I can move this dork over to the thread with Gavroche if you like, or not? *waves excitedly either way* I'll be on and off this evening, though.))

[le_centre]

Courfeyrac, for his part, is staring back at Bossuet.

'Lesgle.'

He looks better here - wherever that is - than he did a few moments ago.

'You have had time to order a carp dinner?'

Dead mere minutes, and already at supper. They were all very hungry, he supposes; still, it is an unexpected sight among a hundred others he could point at.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

His hesitant expression turns into a wide smile. "And a bottle of wine. Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac." Hugs? Explanations need to happen--and he'll defer to Enjolras there--but there are priorities, damn it all.

[pro_patria_mortuus]

[Mostly not here for an hour or two yet, but I had a break and couldn't resist.]

Enjolras was seated at a table, coffee at his elbow, face abstracted, deep in thought.

The door flies open, and a bloodied shape tumbles in. A bloodied, familiar shape.

His chair teeters, nearly tips over, resettles a yard back from the table; Enjolras himself is on his feet and rushing towards the door.

[le_centre]

[OOC: *cackle* Any time, any place. <3]


'Enjolras.'

Well, that is reassuring. Courfeyrac grins as easily as he ever does, and lets his hands drop from the wounds that are no longer there.


...and after a moment's thought, he has nothing to add. Which is rare, but hopefully excusable under the circumstances.

[pro_patria_mortuus]

Enjolras is no longer covered in the blood and sweat and mire of a barricade's last stand; he wears the black of mourning, clean, with the tricolor a bright splash on his lapel.

"Courfeyrac."

He's smiling; of course he is. It's small, and a little disbelieving, and utterly heartfelt.

Courfeyrac is on his feet, Bossuet beside him. Enjolras reaches to clasp his arm, but he half-expects to be pulled into an embrace instead. He's not at all loath.

Last he saw, that fresh bloom of blood on Courfeyrac's chest was just spurting forth as he spun, and fell, and was lost beneath the gunsmoke and the boots of the soldiers and National Guardsmen. And now Courfeyrac is here, and on his face is that same dear grin.

[vorpatril]

Ivan almost trips over Courfeyrac as he enters from the lobby of his apartment building, he's in civvies today, nice slacks and a button down shirt.

Then he notices the blood and this comment, "Oh great, you're like Miles. Need some help up?"

His life is feeling full and he was just going out to do some shopping.

[le_centre]

'Am I? Then Miles must be a fine fellow, if he resides so often on the floor. One with such lack of concern for standing must certainly be worth knowing.'

He looks up. Confused, yes, but amiable enough.

'In answer to your question - why not?'

He offers a hand to be pulled upright.

[vorpatril]

He pulls him up with a roll of his eyes as he looks over the blood and the outfit, which reminds him of the two men who argued with him about monarchy,

"He has his moments. What happened to you?"

[immortalthief]

Amanda offers her hand to help him up.

"Welcome" given with a smile.

[le_centre]

'An angel!'

This is far more the sort of thing he would expect, if he ever expected anything like this at all. He readily takes her hand, though his wide smile is rather more confused than it usually is.

[immortalthief]

"I've been called worse."

She helps lift him up, "Please call me Amanda."

[closesecond]

A middle-aged bald man, dressed from head to toe in black, is gently swirling his glass of Atlantean. He looks upward at the new arrival.

"Not to worry," he says. "I'm sure your wit will find you soon enough."

He takes a sip of wine.

"Welcome to Milliways. I take it you've just died."

[le_centre]

'It is not in the habit of wandering off. I suppose it may yet find its way back.'

He agrees amiably enough, and stands up. It's easier than it should be. Nothing hurts, anymore.

'I should think so. I cannot claim to have been present in the moment between standing and finding myself on this floor, but any other outcome would cause me more surprise.'

[closesecond]

"It needn't hurry, then," Kane says. "You have all the time in the world.

"You can have a seat, if you like. Or a drink. Your first is free. And your tab is covered thenceforth, if indeed you are a dead man."

[rudderless]

This is part of the drama that Eponine missed out on in both incarnations of her existence. His sudden entrance makes her start in surprise before smiling.

Gav will be over the moon, won't he?

"Have you ever been left without a quip?"

[le_centre]

'I suppose there were a few moments as a babe, unless you consider squalling to hold wit. Since then, I would hope not - but if ever there were a time to lose it, I suppose now would seem appropriate.'

He does not look as though he has lost his smile, if the sight of it is anything to go by.

[singthesong]

"That wasn't so bad!" The Balladeer, sitting nearby and watching the entire thing with undisguised interest, takes a sip of his drink. "Most people I've seen die are don't even try after the fact. What happened to you?"

[le_centre]

'Never let it be said I am lazy. Unless in the matter of examinations, and sometimes arriving for classes at all. In those cases, I will allow the slander.'

Courfeyrac has a very wide grin, and he is not shy in using it. Even now.

'Though I no longer have to think of ways to avoid them, so it hardly matters. As to what happened - a great many things, monsieur.'