Stillness


For the first time in a while, Nicolas is feeling happier, and he comes into Musain and spreads his things out on the table with a dignified, but pleasant, air. He always brings books with him places, although he cannot read them, and likewise he brings quills, ink, and paper, all residing deep in the pockets of his long greatcoat. There's no point, really, but he likes the feel of book covers, and he likes the round glass of inkpots. He likes the soft rough of parchment, and the lovely feel of feathers. These are his reasons. And, of course, if he needs to write a speech or something of the sort, he can accost a trusted Ami and supply his own writing materials. So he justifies his possessions well, tucks them into his pockets, and unloads them onto his table at Musain. He always puts them in the exact same places: this book here; that one there; the small pot of ink on the left-hand side, high. He knows where everything is, and it contents him and pleases him.

Today, he brings with him something new. Feuilly gave him a fan yesterday, a long, slender silk fan. Feuilly said it was painted with a white unicorn lying in a field of flowers. Of course, Nicolas doesn't know what a unicorn looks like, or flowers, but it sounds lovely, and it feels lovelier. Silk is such a wonderful material. He sets it down beside the inkpot, terribly carefully, then sits. The sun was out this morning, warm on his face, and he really does feel happy again. It will be a good day.

He stands again, hearing Combeferre's voice, and steps over to him. His face is innocently expressionless, but he radiates his pleasure nevertheless.

Combeferre touches his shoulder in greeting, and murmurs, "Enjolras, this is Jehan Prouvaire. He's new."

"Ah, I see. Welcome." Nicolas inclines his head politely. "Please come closer."

Prouvaire does so, obediently, and Nicolas begins running his fingers over the boy's face. It is quite clear Prouvaire is a boy. His face is young. It's almost sad, Nicolas thinks. This child may die for children. From the turn of Prouvaire's head, he seems to be looking away to Nicolas' left, but it doesn't strike him as very odd, for he's used to men doing that. At last, he draws back from young Prouvaire, and tells him once again he is welcome.

The boy's voice is shuddery and awed as he thanks Nicolas. He allows Combeferre to lead him to a table and offer him a glass of wine.

Nicolas himself returns to his table, though not before overhearing Prouvaire say, "He's amazing... His hands... Is that a ceremony?"

As it is, and Combeferre knows that, Nicolas doesn't take it upon himself to interfere. Combeferre is good at explaining things, and seems to like it too, so it's become his place.

He sits at his table, reaching out his hand for the fan. He stretches his fingers as far as they'll go, and realises he must have missed it. He reaches again, to the side, fighting down apprehension. It isn't there. He tries again, and stands, bending his back and searching, his sleeves getting in the way. The inkpot is gone as well, though the books are all there. He put it in the exact same place as always. As every day.

Nicolas' throat tightens a little and his search becomes slightly frantic. It should be here. They should both be here. He pushes back his hair as it escapes from its ribbon, and gets his fingers tangled by mistake. He straightens, shaking, and forces himself to untangle his fingers slowly. Then - slowly - he leans over the table again, running his hands over the entire surface, hoping desperately to find the things.

He can't.

He falls back a step, and startles as he comes up against something solid. "God!"

"Enjolras?" Prouvaire's soft voice asks.

"Pardon," he murmurs. "I was... looking for something I misplaced."

"These?" The boy has hands as soft as his voice, fingers far nicer to touch than Nicolas'. Prouvaire places them over Nicolas' hands for a short moment, and Nicolas recognises the shape of the inkpot and the feel of the fan.

"Prouvaire?"

"I noticed they were missing. I brought them back."

"What are you?"

"A poet."

"Not a conjurer?" Nicolas tucks the fan protectively in his waistcoat, but returns the inkpot to its usual place. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Prouvaire turns and walks away, his footsteps soft. Nicolas sits, but his happiness is gone. He berates himself silently, for the panic, for the foolishness. He realises, abruptly, that he neglected to ask Prouvaire where he had found the things. He sighs, and once again demands of himself how he intends to conduct a revolution when he can't even keep his belongings straight. If he shows so much worry and fright when the fan goes missing, what will he do if the fan-maker does the same?

Prouvaire, meanwhile, sits at Grantaire's table.

"Don't do that. It upset him."

Grantaire glowers fuzzily at the boy before him. "I shall do as I please. I can't help it, anyway."

"Of course you can. Stop it. I only chanced to see you taking them anyway. Next time you might get away with it."

"I have before."

"You'll make him go mad."

"I shan't either."

"Don't, any longer."

Grantaire snorts in answer, and returns to his bottle. Prouvaire stands, emitting an air of reproach and disappointment, and seeks out Combeferre. If anyone makes sense, he does.

Only Grantaire notices, and watches longingly, as Nicolas leaves the cafe, taking his books and papers and possessions with him.


Chapter Six.
Back to Chapter Four.