Fears


Girald sat listlessly at a table in Musain. It was a table chosen, it seemed, completely at random, one of the older tables - the wood was warped in places, and the legs didn't quite all match. It fit his discomfort, and that was why he had taken it. The chair he graced was hard, and his back hurt, but he proudly refused to move, and instead looked resentfully at his hands.

His hair was tied back far less casually than usual, the leather strips holding it from his face with the intent to be intimidating. It had been brushed carefully and arranged in such a way that it threw his cheekbones into accent, and his eyes looked almost Asian. His cravat was done tightly, he hadn't taken off his coat, and his arms were folded, though this was apparently only for the purpose of spoiling his effect by knotting his hands nervously in the material of the sleeves.

He surveyed the cafe anxiously, resisting a strong urge to escape. This urge was rather painfully biting inside his chest, and he would gladly have obeyed it.

But I promised Jehan... I promised.

He brushed his forefinger along his cheek, and stared mournfully at the tabletop, before turning his gaze back to the door. All the waiting was what was worst. This would likely be over quickly - if he had any say in it, it would - and then he could leave. Or anything. But having to wait was awful. His pride rebelled against what he would do, fighting and insisting that he should be at home; wasn't schoolwork, or one of his speeches for Saturday, more important than this? Of course it was, anything was more important than this, but he'd promised he would, and thus, integrity won out over pride.

He eyed the waitress, and momentarily thought he might order a glass of wine, just to cause a slight stir and distract his attention, then considered the reputation he'd built. He was intended to be resolute, strong, pure. That was his image. It wouldn't do to smash it just because he wanted to do something differently. There was the trouble. Always wanting to stand out. Couldn't have that, causing everyone to look at him by "losing his morals". That'd be no good.

Not to say he wasn't being looked at now. When an angel sits among mortals, of course they look. They're attracted to sparkling things that catch sunlight. They're like magpies. And one must be careful, or they'll try to capture the lovely thing they've spotted. There're so many people to be careful around. Edge past whores, pretend grisettes don't exist, watch yourself around the ones you know are thieves, be sure to only give so much to beggars and make sure they're not just going to spend it on liquor. Wish good day to the policemen, and give them that innocent, beautiful smile, and pray they won't question you or check the papers you're carrying. Make them think college boys are all silly youth, never insurrectionists. Help the women when they need it, offer a hand when they climb into their fiacres, give them directions to such and such a place, and for God's sake never let them begin to think about wanting you. Be polite but be cold, or you never know what could happen. Wouldn't that be lovely, now, if some girl began flirting with you? God, no. Mustn't let them do that. Keep the smile from them. And it's always careful. You have to be careful around everyone, really; there's not a person in the world you could be on ease with.

Saving Jehan. Jehan's all right. You can trust him. You can love him.

Girald's eyes shot to the door as it opened. No, not the man, just someone else you don't know. You really don't know anyone. Though that's more because no one knows you.

There's the door again. Dear God, it's him.

He stood, unfolding, letting the coat smooth itself out, and walked with halting steps to Andre, tilting his face rather defiantly without realising he was.

Andre looked up at him, eyebrows raised, half-smirking, but for all that, ready to take whatever Girald said with utmost seriousness. He tucked his hands behind his back and nodded solemnly.

"Bad day to you too, m'sieur. I remember that you do not like hearing 'Bonjour'."

A look of surprise crossed the golden-haired young man's face. "--Oh! Yes... I did say that..." The intimidating air he'd worked so hard on died, disarmed and easily slaughtered by Andre's greeting.

"Yes, you did. Hmm. May I join your revolution yet? Is that why you've sought me out? Actually, if you've sought me out, it must be something far more important than that. You've not decided to renounce Prouvaire and declare your undying love to me, have you? I hope not."

Girald blushed, feeling a slight soft anger warm his body. "No. Jehan and I are -" he stumbled rather over the words "- very happy. I've come to thank you. Jehan told me that you were the one who discovered where I'd gone when I... visited Michel."

There. That went all right. It was easy to say, just as he'd thought. It sounded all right, and that pause before 'visited' was hardly noticeable. What could be said, though? What on earth would it be called, going to Michel's... world? Place? Time? Parallel universe? There're no words, really. Oh, damn, missed what he said.

"--But at any rate, that was nothing. A child's talent, truly. And anything to be of service to you, you know."

"Oh... thank you..."

Andre smiled brightly. "That's nothing, either." "Ah..." Girald turned to the door, feeling relief. It's over. What was promised to Jehan is done. Go home, now. Get away.

"Ah yes." Andre touched his shoulder, for perhaps a second too long. "Easter is steadily approaching. Seeing as you've a sacrifice to make, I wondered if that was when you'd planned it."

"No. It'll be later than that."

"All right. That's more time to spend coming up with a good argument why I should be part of it."

Andre's saying that didn't bother Girald as much as it used to. It was something he'd grown accustomed to. Something he'd always be asked. He smiled.

"Au revoir, Grantaire."

"Hm? Oh, right, au revoir."


Chapter Ten.
Back to Chapter Eight.