Ficlet
Sometimes Courfeyrac doesn't know what to think, when Sagramore's dark eyes grow dreamy over the wine, and he talks softly of "my lord" in a voice of deep and reverent love. Or when, tucked under the blanket with an arm around Courfeyrac's waist, he asks about his friends, about his life before. How explain?
Sometimes he thinks Sagramore might understand. But that, he knows, is dangerous. He remembers his father and brother, the lover whose name he's made himself forget; sensible men, intelligent, good. None of that is a guarantee. Why should he expect understanding from this man, out of another age entirely? At best -- at best, he thinks, Sagramore will laugh at him ("how you talk, helyes!"), will look on his life with friendly contempt, and on his death with distaste. At worst, will distrust him, despise him, dispense with him.
And if that's so -- if he can hope for no better -- shouldn't Courfeyrac leave him, as he left the other? Should he do it even now? He has not seen Enjolras since he met Sagramore; he can envision the look on his friend's face, patient and fastidious and uncomprehending. Why on earth...?
But I love him, Courfeyrac pleads inside his head, while Sagramore dozes against his shoulder. He's beautiful, he's kind, he makes me laugh, he makes my heart pound, there's nothing wrong about him. Only he doesn't understand.
But you have to understand, chéri. It was real, it was right. I would do it again.
And when he's utterly lost between arguments, when he no longer knows what to think, he turns and wakes Sagramore again with a kiss.
Sometimes he thinks Sagramore might understand. But that, he knows, is dangerous. He remembers his father and brother, the lover whose name he's made himself forget; sensible men, intelligent, good. None of that is a guarantee. Why should he expect understanding from this man, out of another age entirely? At best -- at best, he thinks, Sagramore will laugh at him ("how you talk, helyes!"), will look on his life with friendly contempt, and on his death with distaste. At worst, will distrust him, despise him, dispense with him.
And if that's so -- if he can hope for no better -- shouldn't Courfeyrac leave him, as he left the other? Should he do it even now? He has not seen Enjolras since he met Sagramore; he can envision the look on his friend's face, patient and fastidious and uncomprehending. Why on earth...?
But I love him, Courfeyrac pleads inside his head, while Sagramore dozes against his shoulder. He's beautiful, he's kind, he makes me laugh, he makes my heart pound, there's nothing wrong about him. Only he doesn't understand.
But you have to understand, chéri. It was real, it was right. I would do it again.
And when he's utterly lost between arguments, when he no longer knows what to think, he turns and wakes Sagramore again with a kiss.