Wordless


The wet cobblestoned streets of the City seemed silver-coated in the pale grey light of morning, the early sun shining through a fine mist. Alone, Martin Courfeyrac wandered among the tall, silent buildings, and laughed his special, quiet, how-very-amusing laugh at everything. His hair was tied back with a bright silver ribbon, and it matched the silver-greyness of things. It was a rather long ribbon, silk, and it trailed down his back, fluttering in a silver-grey breeze.

He paused when he noticed he'd wandered his way to the bridge over the river Seine, and rushed to one of the sides, leaning on the stone and peering down into the water. He looked about himself eagerly for a rock to throw in, aware of his childishness, and very pleased with it. He darted about easily, his coat flying out behind him, splattering his breeches with mud as he sprang through puddles in his search.

He turned quickly at the sound of footsteps, and looked up to see Enjolras standing by the bridge, shaking his head, and holding out a small, round, white stone. He grinned, ran to Enjolras, and took the stone, squinching his eyes shut in thanks. He kissed Enjolras' cheek, in a very over-pronounced social manner, before returning to the bridge, and dropping the stone over the edge. He watched it fall, spinning a little, down and down and down until finally it hit the water. A small, dark splash went up, and then the stone was gone.

He felt Enjolras standing beside him, their shoulders brushing, as they both watched the spot where the white stone had fallen.

Although the current should have swallowed up the ripples, they continued to spread, first dark, then grey, then pale, and at last a beautiful, clean white. Martin giggled, and pointed at it, feeling as though it would be close enough to touch, and to dip his fingers in the white.

Enjolras took Martin's hand, laughing a little at his silliness, and kissed it, smiling. Martin jumped up on the side of the bridge, and sat there, gloating because he was taller than Enjolras, and then looking comically put out when Enjolras climbed up beside him.

Perhaps they spoke. Perhaps they exchanged more kisses. Martin doesn't remember exactly. He does recall standing by the bridge with Enjolras' arms about him, feeling warm and happy, feeling a soft wind blow over them.

It was a beautiful dream.

And so, now, in bed next to Enjolras, he runs his hand over Enjolras' lovely golden hair and promises to himself that tomorrow, he must buy a silver ribbon at a nice shop, buy it a little too long, and use it to tie up his hair, and then he must walk about Paris very early. And, too, he must stop by the River and make sure it's the correct colour. It wouldn't do for the Seine to be white, of course. Quite improper. Dreadful.

He smiles sleepily, and curls up close to Enjolras. Tomorrow, that is.


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