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F.A.Q. ♦ RULES ♦ PLOT ♦ FACE CLAIM ♦ CANON SPECIFICS ♦ BIO FORMAT ♦ CANONS ♦ DEATH TO MARY SUE! ♦ BELIEFS ♦ EVENTS |
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JOLY Technicolor-Werewolf SISTER SITES  
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| Look at all my trials and tribulations...; ...sinking in a gentle pool of wine... | |
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| Topic Started: May 25 2009, 09:02 PM (359 Views) | |
| Elise | May 25 2009, 09:02 PM Post #1 |
 
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He stared at the bottle, wondering when it had happened. Why it had happened. It didn't make sense, really. Combeferre had woken up that morning and looked out the window. The sun barely illuminated the sky, everything was still dark. It hardly qualified as morning. And yet, despite his exhaustion, he couldn't sleep. He had lain awake that night, staring at the ceiling, his stomach twisted over itself from anxiety. But he didn't know why. He counted reasons why he might feel ill on his fingers, dancing around a conclusion until it siezed his arms and pulled him to. And he had sat bolt upright and gasped. He wanted to cry. Non. Non, non, non, non, non--- this wasn't right... this couldn't happen. This wasn't meant to happen. It kept him awake, let him sleep an hour or two, then condemned him to another day. Running a hand through his hair, he decided to skip the meeting. For today. Just today. Long enough to not see... him... and recover. It was the heat. It was his athsma. It was... something. Anything. Not... not... he didn't want to use the word love. That wasn't it. It couldn't be... Not love. Not for him. Nothing but... but... And he found his mind wandering back to him. To Enjolras. It made him sick. His feet dragged him restlessly around his flat until the stopped in front of a little cupboard. His fingers closed on a bottle and uncorked it. An hour later, the bottle was gone, another bottle had replaced it, and his head swam in a warm and gentle haze of wine. He wiped some tears from his eyes, and stared at the bottle. Half-empty or half-full.... |
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| Skazka | May 26 2009, 06:53 PM Post #2 |
all the ships go down/following the sound
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Emotions had never been Feuilly's bag to deal with. Stirring sentiments, appeals to brotherhood, patriotism, virtue, that he could do (with care on that last one, because it never leads to anywhere good) but people were more difficult than they let on. His coat was not yet somewhere in the realm of the theoretical, but still, he felt self-consciously shabby. In winter, one could bundle up, hide under layers of overcoats and charity mufflers and gloves. In summer, even on a cool day, there was no chance of camouflaging that. While none of their fellows would ever flaunt their advantages, Combeferre in particular made a point of looking crisp and tidy at all times. Embarrassing. Pushing a hand through his hair anxiously, Gabriel finally gathered the will to approach. "Combeferre, you know we need you..." His voice taking on that annoying, wheedling landlady tone, before he had the presence of mind to get rid of it. A polite rap on the door was probably in order, rather than an obnoxious (and repeated) rattling of the doorknocker. It was true; they really did. If their resident philosopher was sick-- he didn't seem like the type to overindulge. |
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| Elise | May 26 2009, 07:28 PM Post #3 |
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He looked up dimly; as the door was talking. Talking. The door needed him. "M' coming..." he mumbled, pushing himself out of the chair by leaning on the table, nearly upsetting the half-full glass and the two bottles that resided there. He gently touched the door with his fingertips, asking it where it hurt. Wait... the door wasn't sick... he was sick. No... there was someone outside the door. Antoine unlocked it, and cracked it open. "Feuilly." he said, less of a question than a statement. "Wha's wrong. Are you sick?" he asked, opening the door more to allow him in. Wouldn't do to have Gabriel sick, non, non. He brushed his hair out of his eyes, and stood back, clearing a small path for Feuilly to enter. "C'm in.... c'm in..." he mumbled, bordering on incoherent. Not that he cared at all. Don't be sick, he silently pleaded. I have nothing left within myself to give to help you... |
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| Skazka | May 26 2009, 09:01 PM Post #4 |
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all the ships go down/following the sound
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"I'm not. Grantaire is," he finished, somewhat curt. As if that offered sufficient explanation, he stopped abruptly, taking in the tableau behind the door like a church triptych behind a rack full of candles. That wasn't... the natural order of things. Perhaps for R, but any of the rest of them, especially those medically inclined, would be firmly in bed after a night of drunken carousal, rather than out and around during daylit hours. And it didn't seem like... it'd stopped. Ah, well. Judge not, lest ye be judged. Gabriel stepped inside, hands folded, and with a burning self-consciousness that kept him from letting his eyes wander too far. Though he did take his hat off. Only common decency, that. Stupid questions. Stupid, stupid questions came to mind-- but he wouldn't be the one to ask them. Come to think of it, he really hadn't been in here before... |
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| Elise | May 26 2009, 09:41 PM Post #5 |
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Antoine closed the door, looking around in more or less total confusion. "He is? What's... what's he got..." he half-asked, letting his head hit the wood with a soft thud. "Is he here? Where is he?" He lifted his head and opened the door again. "Grantaire. Grantaire!" he shouted down the hall, barely catching himself on the doorposts. He blinked several times, then turned slowly and stared at Feuilly. "He's not here." he said simply, withdrawing back into the room and closing the door again. "I's dark in here." he said, wandering to the half-open curtains and gently pulling them back. He squinted in the light, nodded, and asked "That's much better, isn't it?" He sat at the table again, and picked up the glass. He glanced at Gabriel, and drained the cup. How rude, he suddenly thought. "I'm so... so sorry. Did you want some?" he asked, stumbling out of the chair and aiming his body at the cupboard. Rude little wretch. Forgot to get your friend a glass. |
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| Skazka | May 27 2009, 05:16 PM Post #6 |
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all the ships go down/following the sound
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"He doesn't think he is." Look at the floor, look at your shoes, something to make the situation less uncomfortable. "But then again, he never does. Should I have brought him?" He gave Combeferre a solicitous, though still wary, look. Something told him his friend was... not right. The light didn't do much, but it was better than letting the promising doctor ruin his eyes, and significantly lessened the odds of Feuilly walking into a table. Unlike Feuilly's living space, for all that it smelled vaguely like wine, it was big enough to accommodate more than two people, and wasn't strewn with bits of paint and borrowed books. Gabriel followed obediently, but didn't jump to take a seat... "I suppose. Won't turn down a drop or two. Look, are you quite all right?" |
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| Elise | May 27 2009, 06:07 PM Post #7 |
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"Mhm?" He looked behind his shoulder. "What're you talking about?" he asked, gently swaying back to the table and setting the glass down. Don't say a word. Don't say a word. No one can know. It's better if no one knows... He sank into the chair, and poured a sizeable dose of wine into the clean glass. He waved a hand at the empty chair, and asked "Won't you sit down? I won't make you stand all the time..." Pulling off his glasses, he rather harshly rubbed his eyes, which promtply proceeded to appear even more bloodshot than they had before. He put the glasses back on, leaned his back onto the chair, and moaned. His lips twitched, the pain eager to escape. Just tell him... Gabriel won't tell anyone... Non, non, non...non! "I don' know what you're talking about... I'm... I have... never... I'm fine. Do I look sick?" Wrong question. Well, firstly, his hair was down and creeping into his face, he had not bothered to tie a cravat that morning, not expecting to leave the house, his shirt was wrinkled and rumpled and the first two buttons were undone, he wasn't wearing shoes, only knit socks, his eyes were swollen and bloodshot from crying... and to top it all off, he hadn't noticed. He poured himself another glass, and mumbled "I'm fine." |
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| Skazka | May 27 2009, 08:09 PM Post #8 |
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all the ships go down/following the sound
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"Well, you look very drunk." Feuilly sidled over to the proffered chair, leaning forward on it lightly as he continued his observations rather than settling down. Perhaps that was a touch too blunt, but he'd never been too skilled at tact. 'Drunk' about covered it, though 'distraught' and 'out of sorts' came to mind first. Pity they were both reserved almost exclusively for the fairer sex. Though Antoine was arguably quite fair, the insinuation wouldn't be appreciated. "Or at the least very hung-over, if you'll pardon me saying. Should you look sick?" Questions were easier than conversation. Much easier. Perhaps this was all an elaborate test-- just like a philosopher. Wouldn't put it past him. Some orchestrated plan to test Feuilly's brotherly commitment, or some odd permutation of the Good Samaritan parable. This was all wrong-- Combeferre was never honestly ruffled, let alone bedraggled and upset. Trouble in the family, that had to be it. Feuilly felt frankly embarrassed, and somewhat sheepish, after staring for so long-- taking a seat, and swirling the wine in his glass idly with a motion of the wrist. Just like the physician among them to keep working through exhaustion. (Well, excepting Joly, and the man had trouble carrying his big black doctor's bag. Had no choice but to be tired all day.) |
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| Elise | May 27 2009, 09:57 PM Post #9 |
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Drunk? Just drunk? Non, non, Antoine, he had said 'very drunk'. Give credit where it's due. Gabriel's no idiot.... Unlike you. You sick, selfish, wretch... "Might be..." he said, sliding back further into the chair, as if it could hide him. Oh chair. Made of unpainted pine. You are my only friend. "I... I am." he said decisively, noticing with some sadness that the glass he had just poured himself was gone. He pondered the empty glass, wondering where it had gone. He certainly didn't remember drinking it. Drinking. Grantaire, yes, Grantaire drank. Grantaire drank much and drank often, and Enjolras didn't approve-- At the thought of the man, his eyes began to water unrepentantly. If he sees me like this... a tear slid down his cheek, and he quickly reached for his face with the back of his hand to wipe it away. Before Feuilly notices. It gave rather the impression of punching himself in the face, but he didn't care. Provided that the tears stayed put in his eyes and didn't go racing down toward his neck. It suddenly occurred to him that Feuilly might not have come alone. There might be another one of his friends outside the door, either waiting on a verdict or diagnosis, or perhaps waiting their turn to come inside-- "Gabriel." he said, his voice suddenly thin and panic-stricken, "...are you here...you came... no one else is here, yes?" Enjolras. If you are waiting for me outside my door, I shall die. |
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| Skazka | May 28 2009, 04:43 PM Post #10 |
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all the ships go down/following the sound
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(( My shortness here. Ain't even funny. )) "...no?" He turned to look back himself, as if unsure. Maybe he had been followed. Another test. Wasn't the whole point of this errand that mighty Enjolras didn't need to interrupt his running dialogue for the sake of a poorly participant? Unless R had suddenly dissolved in a puddle of blood, and he needn't bother. Gabriel made himself at home a bit more than he should have, right off the bat-- leaning back in his chair, though stopping short of unlacing his boots or doing any unnecessary grooming. "Oh, did you want this?" Nothing wrong with a moody drunken stew, but they really oughtn't last overnight. Or this early in the morning, if that's how it was. He smiled briefly, attempting to joke, but it didn't last in the face of Combeferre's visible distress. Allergies, or grief for the state of society these days, or girl trouble. None seemed particularly likely. Did philosophers often get like this? Poets did. |
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| Elise | May 28 2009, 06:35 PM Post #11 |
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((His bedroom is right off the room they're in now. He's only got like... two or three rooms, don't panic! >.>)) Whatever Feuilly had been trying to say, trying to make it better-- bless his soul-- didn't break the fog surrounding Combeferre's head. He nodded blankly, still staring at the door, mumbling "That's... that's good. That is very very good. That's... wonderful. Best..." he stopped, suddenly stricken by a sharp, painful nausea. Of course, Antoine. You see, when too much alcohol is consumed by an individual, seeing as it irritates the stomach-- He pulled himself up as quickly as he could manage, with his reflexes slowed and whatnot, and stumbled frantically in the direction of his bedroom. "What did you need, Feu--" he asked, before coughing loudly. Not now, not now... "What did you come--" he began again, pushing the door open, falling forward, and more or less catching himself on his bed. And for whatever reason, it had become too painful. "D-don't tell him! Don't tell him I'm..." he stopped again, to catch his breath and wrap an arm around his stomach, as if it could stop him from vomiting. "Don't tell him I did this..." he pleaded loudly, his voice breaking and muffled in the unmade sheets. He can't know, he can't know... he'll hate me if he finds out... I don't want him to hate-- Oh, Dieu, have mercy! His shoulders shook with the effort of silencing his sobs. Stop that! If you want to keep this secret, you can't let anyone see! Not that he didn't trust Gabriel to keep it secret. Non, he trusted Gabriel to tell the others if questioned. He'd want to know if, say, Lesgle had been roaring drunk. Feuilly had a right, non, a duty, to tell on him. Serves you right, you selfish, selfish wretch. ((...aaaand I apolgise for him being so dang whiny. He's such a girl... if I keep sucking so much at writing him, I might have to drop him T_T. Which saddens me infinitely, but he's being such a girl...)) |
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| Skazka | Jun 3 2009, 09:53 PM Post #12 |
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all the ships go down/following the sound
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(( I am wary of Combepuking. And don't worry, he's not being a girl-- he's a freaked-out, somewhat drunk man. Rings true to me. Short post is short T_T )) Ugh. Feuilly took another precautionary step back, and was very nearly put off his drink. (Perhaps that was a merciful act, taking it away from him-- Gabriel needed it more than he did, though the wine already felt like it had gone to his head. But it couldn't have. Surely? Not that fast. He set down his glass, just to be sure.) Hung over this early in the morning. Joly was supposed to be the one with the delicate constitution, and Grantaire the one who suffered enough hangovers for all of them. No, not suffered, relished. He got out of his chair, hurrying forward pacing around where Combeferre had fallen nearly prone. "It's fine, it's fine. We've got other doctors, it's no hurry. Did you have a death in the family or something?" Rather than callousness, this was voiced out of legitimate concern-- even if it didn't sound like it. Gabriel still kept a careful distance, wary of more unprovoked hysterics. |
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| Elise | Jun 3 2009, 10:36 PM Post #13 |
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He shook his head slowly, trying not to move too quickly. Every movement brought a fresh wave of nausea and a headache that seeped into his skull and deafened him with a loud ringing in his ears. His fingers closed tightly on the sheets, as he tried to pull himself steady. Antoine held his breath, hoping that it would slow his heartbeat and ease the sobbing. He met mild success for a few seconds, buying enough time to hear Feuilly ask if anyone had died. Only me. I deserve to die. "No." he mumbled, lifting his head and staring at his friend. "I'm so sorry, Feuilly." Giving a bitter chuckle, he asked "I'm pathetic, aren't I? Just...." he shifted to the floor, no longer leaning on the bed. His face blanched and he fell forward, barely holding himself up with his arms. He gagged once, and was promptly sick on the floor. Perfect. How perfectly humiliating. Trembling, he dragged himself up, his face white as the rumpled sheets on the bed. He moaned something to the effect of 'I'm so sorry' and wiped the corner of his mouth with his hand. "I'll clean it up." he whispered, following the wall out of his bedroom. Anywhere but there. ((Meh, short and pathetic. And now his mouth tastes icky... T_T)) |
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| Skazka | Jun 4 2009, 08:29 PM Post #14 |
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all the ships go down/following the sound
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The sight of this seemed to return him to his faculties. Immediately, self-recrimination reared its ugly, familiar head, and guilt started at him like a nestful of wasps. How could he be just standing here? How could he have just sat and watched and drunk his friend's wine while the man was falling-down drunk and distressed? Moreso than usual. Intellectuals didn't get like this, and certainly not doctors. (Well, doctors did get falling down drunk in his experience, they were men, after all. Gabriel couldn't recall ever just tasting water, unless it was a raindrop, or a patch of clean-looking snow.) He turned from this little tableau to watch his friend attempt to steal back to the door. "If this is how you define pathetic, I'm sure we're all guilty. Look-- is something wrong? Really. You're beginning to scare me." ... unwell. And Combeferre had always seemed like the vigourous, level-headed one among them. Now despondent and physically ill, and it wasn't even the afternoon yet. (( You think your post was short and pathetic? I'm nasty, brutish, and short. Hobbes would approve. )) |
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| Elise | Jun 4 2009, 11:35 PM Post #15 |
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Antoine stopped moving, struggling for balance and reason. On the one hand, he could tell Feuilly everything. The truth. The whole truth. Leave nothing to poor Gabriel's imagination. On the other hand, he could keep it to himself. No point in scarring poor Gabriel for no reason, if it could be avoided. That, and oh mon Dieu, what if he told everyone else? Not that Feuilly seemed the type to gossip, but still-- --just answering honest questions would be enough to... He sank against the wall, letting his forehead rest on the cool plaster and closing his eyes. "I don't want to scare you. I didn't mean for that to happen..." he began softly, still facing the wall. "It's... no one's dead..." he began, barely sure of what he was saying himself. "It's just that... I've... I am... I'm just..." the words danced before him, scattering like butterflies on beautiful pink flowers in maman's garden, while Auguste and Adrien plot how best to kill the prisoner with their guns made of sticks... little Antoine! Maman! Maman! He's doing it again! Get Papa! He's not breathing again!... The room suddenly seemed unbearable. He wheezed noisily, his shoulders heaving as he tried to inhale. Just breathe... don't move, just breathe... count Antoine, count! Un... deux... trois... quatre... cinq... mon Dieu, where is all the air? Where are you hiding your blessed air? A faint murmur "Help." Help? You're the doctor, Antoine. Go heal yourself. ((Meh, this is just 'Ferre-abuse. Elise wants him to stop talking, so she gives the poor baby an athsma attack. ...stupid mean Elise)) Edited by Elise, Jun 4 2009, 11:36 PM.
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| Skazka | Jun 8 2009, 07:31 PM Post #16 |
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all the ships go down/following the sound
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No. No. This wasn't happening, and it wasn't right, not without somebody to help-- why did people always come to him when they died? Mama had died, and he'd been spared, and that wasn't his fault-- her insides dissolved in a flux of blood, and papa gone short after. Gabriel-- they had left him a name, even if it was not their own-- asleep like an angel, and spared. Another child, a girl, died of hunger on his lap and he hadn't noticed. Birds and cats, dead. The grass you walk on, dead. You're a regular angel of death, Gabriel. Perhaps that's why you compensate-- if you care for the poor, even the distant poor, it'll make up for the family you won't have and the girl you can't get. He pulled Combeferre to face him with a little more roughness than strictly necessary-- what had he done? Choking, or having a fit, but not having a fit-- he remembered something dimly about swallowing one's tongue during something like this-- no, it wasn't a fit. God, not him too. No blood. Which was good. A hopeful sign. "God, you're supposed to be the doctor!" he blurted out, and instantly regretted it. It started as a thought, and came out anyway-- how rude could you get? A bit of colour went to his face. "What do you want me to do?" Taking some of his weight seemed an appropriate move. If Antoine were about to keel over. Or faint. Or drop dead. |
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| Elise | Jun 8 2009, 08:14 PM Post #17 |
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Antoine! Antoine, mon ange! Mon petit ange! Auguste, get your papa! Antoine, mon petit enfant... And his mother's warm, soft hands pulled him closer and whispered soothing lullabies while honeybees buzzed above and sweet, sticky summer grass tickled him below and counting and numbers, in and out, in and out, in and out... Mon Dieu, give me air! Saint Antoine, tell Dieu I need air! He felt fingers closing on him and turning him around. Auguste? Adrien? Bernard? 'Bastien.... Non, Gabriel. Poor Gabriel, confused and panicking and so lost. He realised in a moment of guilt with a pang of regret that he had never formally told the Amis of the ABC that he had athsma. He had mentioned it casually, he had walked out of meetings discreetly to catch his breath, he had dropped hints, but he had never called everyone's attention and said it plainly. And now? Feuilly had no idea what to do. Probably thought he was dying. Could well be dying, actually. Athsma is very dangerous. "Ga...briel....athsma." he gasped, drawing slow half-breaths between. "I... have... athsma..." Better late than never. He wheezed so loudly he thought the window would break, and tried to gather himself. Perhaps he should explain the mechanics of the disease... no time. Not now. Later perhaps. "I need... to lie... down... and rest..." Speaking was hard enough. Just a few more words, Antoine, please. "I'll... be fine..." He siezed Feuilly's forearm as tightly as he could, although his grip had faded considerably, and clenched his teeth. Tears leaked out past his eyelashes, spattering onto his glasses. This was embarrasing, to say the least. He barely stood, leaning on Feuilly, slowly but surely dissolving into a gasping puddle of tears. "Help me... get... to... my bed..." he gasped, already taking a few short steps there. It hurts... oh, mon Dieu, it hurts to breathe... my chest is too tight... wound too tightly on a sinful heart... |
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| Skazka | Jun 10 2009, 09:25 PM Post #18 |
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all the ships go down/following the sound
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His head spun, and he hadn't even been doing any of the drinking. What? This wasn't fair, Combeferre the doctor being sick with something Gabriel couldn't recognise-- what did it matter? The way to treat it would be the same, whether it were consumption or asthma or a bloody hangover. Putting him to bed, and hoping it would fix itself. He shifted to take on more weight-- Antoine was bigger than he was, in height and build, but not much heavier-- should he carry him? No. Wasn't an oversized child, though he wept and desperately needed care. And Gabriel couldn't treat him like one. Couldn't condescend to treat him as an unfortunate. Now then, let's hobble along, it's not far... "Hold on to me, let me do this--" Was there any way to do this that wasn't horribly undignified? The answer was no. With one arm still drawn around the man's waist, he managed just about the last few feet. Please don't die. Please don't die. Don't. |
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| Elise | Jun 11 2009, 01:52 AM Post #19 |
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He obediently clung to Feuilly, resting against the other man as if he were a crutch. He was a crutch. It was really about all he could do, help Antoine drag himself to his bed. Combeferre heard himself breathing, and coughed. Good, coughing. Coughing meant that it was almost over, almost-- "Watch out for the...." he began quickly, stopping yet again to catch his breath. Gasping, he added "Here..." and tried to lead Gabriel around the small puddle of vomit on the floor. He finally bumped into the bed, let go of Feuilly, and fell onto it, the sudden shock of his back hitting the mattress making him cough noisily. He pulled his legs up and curled up over his sheets, listening to his breath even out. Almost over. Here's the air. The wheeze was smaller and less raspy, less terrifying, hopefully. Small enough to allow him to spit out sentences. "I'm sorry, Gabriel." he whispered. He let his eyes close and began to weep. They'll all hate you. Starting with Feuilly and ending with Enjolras. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that he had to be the one to start feeling that way about Enjolras. It wasn't fair that he couldn't ever tell him. It wasn't fair that everyone else in the amis of the ABC could go on happily attending meetings and talking to Enjolras without feeling ashamed-- Mon Dieu, man, pull yourself together! It's not fair that Feuilly has to stand here and watch you stagger around drunk! And all you can think about is yourself! Like a final blow from a sabre, he immediately stopped dwelling on himself and began instead to sharply reprimand himself. If he had taken a moment out of his increasingly violent mental self-chastisement, he would have noticed that he was now sobbing like an infant. |
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| Skazka | Jun 15 2009, 06:04 PM Post #20 |
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all the ships go down/following the sound
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"You know where I grew up, right?" He flashed a brief smile that might as well have been a muscle spasm for how long it stayed. "A little mess isn't going to bother me." Still, Feuilly kept track of his feet, and was mindful of any unexpected coughed-up blood, to go with the more mundane aspects of a formidable hangover. Everyone was dying, even if they didn't know it. It made more and more sense to him that one would try to drown one's sins in wine... The removal of Combeferre's weight was a relief, but he quickly alit on the side of the bed as well, ignoring how the mattress sank under them both. Maybe he ought to have come with a speech prepared. Something to stir Antoine's blood and cheer him up again. "Stop crying. You've got nothing to be sorry for. Just stop crying, all right?" If this were a different situation, he'd put out a hand to stroke Antoine's hair reassuringly, but he blocked the impulse right out. His hand fell, still comfortingly but less invasively, on the flat of Combeferre's shoulder. |
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