FIC: Burning a Fragment of the Eternal - Robespierre/Saint-Just - Chapter V
Title: Burning a Fragment of the Eternal - Chapter V (of ?)
Author: Maelicia
Rating: R
Era: Summer-Fall 1793.
Pairing/Characters: Robespierre/Saint-Just; Éléonore, Charlotte, Augustin.
Word Count: 6332.
Summary: This story is about the tension between the public self and the private self, between the Stoical and Inflexible Conventionnel and Saint-Just’s younger, almost libertine self, the conflict between the political man and private man who both struggle to accept each other…
ROBESPIERRE’S POV.
Beta'ed by estellacat and elvenmongoose. Special thanks to nirejseki who helped a lot with the first versions of the big dialogue in the big flashback scene. ♥
Burning a Fragment of the Eternal
~ By Maelicia.
“Human souls want to be coupled to achieve their full worth;
and the united strength of friends, like that of artificial magnets, is
incomparably greater than the sum of their particular strengths. Divine
friendship, here is your triumph. But what is friendship alone next to this
perfect union, which joins to all the energy of friendship bonds one hundred
times more sacred?”
~ Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Julie ou La Nouvelle Héloïse, Deuxième partie, Lettre XIII.
V
Robespierre took his time before returning to the gathering. He dwelled upon his last feelings, upon the loneliness of this corridor which was still inhabited, not so long before, by the cold fury of his young friend. His fingers trailed against the wooden door, nails gritting against it absent-mindedly. He missed him already. But he couldn’t go. He couldn’t run after him just now. Not now. They needed time. He knew Antoine would need the silence of the streets, of the Seine, where he would, no doubt, walk.
He sighed when he finally resolved it would be the right time to return to his other friends. Only, before he could do so, his eyes caught a sight of himself in the mirror on his left. He looked as he feared he would; a few hairs were slightly coming out from his loosened wig while the collar of his frock coat now appeared quite misplaced. He looked like a disaster, but maybe this was just the impression given by his eyes, sad and hollow. Antoine, his mind whispered repeatedly, even though he knew that these mental calls would not bring the younger man back. Maximilien placed his hands against the table, right under the mirror, fingers fidgeting against the side, tapping it slightly, one after the other. The candelabra seemed misplaced suddenly, too far toward the right edge. He placed it back in the middle where he assumed it belonged. With this last gesture, he supposed it was time to return to the parlour.
Not much had changed since he had left with Saint-Just, a few minutes before. He would like to imagine that no one had noticed his short absence. And indeed, maybe they had not. He sat in a cosy armchair, thankful that it was partially withdrawn from the rest of the parlour and was bathed in the semi-obscurity of the half-blown candelabra. Resting his right elbow on the arm of the chair and his forehead against his palm, he observed how the scene of this gathering had evolved. The three painters still seemed to be arguing, though with Maurice and Françoise Duplay, this time. The poor couple didn’t seem quite convinced by David’s expansive arguments. Élisabeth, who had truly refound her natural vivacity, was now accompanying Buonarroti on the harpsichord, insisting that her husband and sister-in-law follow every move of her skilful fingers. He also noticed a small crowd had formed around the table which was more or less at the centre of the parlour. He didn’t remember it from before he had left. When a couple of guests he didn’t know very well - friends of the Duplays, very likely - retired, he could see that this new centre of interest was a chess game, in which his brother seemed to gleefully participate. Ah, he thought. So this is what you were doing...
Suddenly, a faint touch against his shoulder brought him out of his reveries. He didn’t startle too much - his reaction was nothing compared with Élisabeth’s, earlier that afternoon. He slowly looked up to see who was the owner of this hand, unfortunately too small and too feminine to be Saint-Just’s. Sadly, he knew the man too well to even imagine he would attempt a come-back contrary to his last, headstrong recommendation. And yet, he had hoped.
“Maximilien,” the woman who had so lightly placed her hand against his shoulder whispered. It was Éléonore. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Non,” he shook his head slightly. “Merci bien, mon amie.” His hand came up to reach the young woman’s, patting it comfortingly. It was very brief, like the initial contact, and soon she was stepping away from him. She took a seat nearby, smoothing her green skirt as she sat. The ribbons of her hair matched her dress, Robespierre suddenly thought. She must have cut them from the same material.
“What are you doing here, all alone, and almost in the dark?” She shook her head gently, a concerned smile on her lips. So she had noticed. And she had noticed him. His hiding place wasn’t the success he had expected it to be.
“Ah,” he began, hesitating on the reply he would give. “I thought it would be quieter here.”
“Is it a migraine? Or your eyes hurting again? I can leave if you prefer-”
“Non, non,” he insisted nevertheless, as she motioned to stand. “I’d like you to stay here. Speak with me, so that it feels less lonely.”
“Only you can feel lonely at a gathering, Maximilien.”
She gave him a knowing smile. He returned it to her when he saw she was settling down comfortably into the armchair next to his. His eyes wandered to the activities taking place in the parlour, and he suddenly heard the music changing. Élisabeth had stopped her duo with Buonarroti and was now speaking with Le Bas’s sister, observing and probably commenting on the dress the younger woman was wearing. It was indeed nicely patriotic in tones, Robespierre couldn’t stop from noticing. A bit like the gowns Maximilien’s sister wore, at times.
“You were speaking with Henriette Le Bas earlier, n’est-ce pas?” He asked, not without an idea behind this new topic of conversation he suddenly decided to hold.
“Yes, she’s a very sweet girl,” Éléonore naturally replied. “Still timid though; she’s not very used to Paris yet.
“She arrived recently, didn’t she?”
“Two weeks ago,” the young woman joined in looking at Henriette and Élisabeth. “Shortly after his wedding with Babet, Philippe received a letter from his family, in Frévent, saying that his young sister was suffering from a fever-”
“Nothing bad, I hope?” Maximilien interrupted. The name ‘Henriette’ already brought back bad memories of his own sister; he hoped it wasn’t a bad omen in general.
“No, it wasn’t severe,” Éléonore immediately reassured him, knowing her fiancé’s fears. “Only the bad weather of the North, as you should know-” a grim precision, Robespierre thought. How he knew, indeed. “-which put her into a melancholy, bringer of a form of fever. However, once she arrived here, she already felt much better.”
A melancholy - interesting, the man thought, though what he said was: “Fort heureusement.”
“It turned out to be a good thing, finally, that she agreed to come, because it was precisely at that time that Le Bas learned that he would leave on mission with Saint-Just, and he didn’t want poor Babet to stay all alone in their apartment. They who have just barely been married! Of course, we are here for her, but she needs more company than Maman, Victoire and myself. She demands so much energy from the others and Henriette is young enough to become a good friend of hers.”
“How old is she?”
“She just turned eighteen years old, I believe.”
Eighteen years old; indeed, that is close enough to Babet, still aged of twenty years. Though, would this be too young for Saint-Just? Le Bas married Élisabeth at thirty years old, while Saint-Just had barely turned twenty-six the month before. As far as age was concerned, she seemed appropriate for his young friend, Robespierre mused. Not to say that it would make Saint-Just part of the political family, a brother of alliance. If he were to marry Éléonore, who was Élisabeth’s sister, Maximilien would become Philippe’s brother, and if Saint-Just married Henriette, he would become Philippe’s brother, and thus Maximilien’s. It all seemed like such a clear and obvious plan, suddenly, in Robespierre’s mind, that he wondered how it could fail to work. It was perfect.
“I have observed,” Robespierre cautiously began. “That Henriette seemed to enjoy the company of Saint-Just.”
Éléonore laughed quietly, understanding. Of course, Robespierre had witnessed the exchange of whispers between the woman and the girl, and so he knew that Éléonore must know, already.
“I think so,” she replied.
“Tell me more about Henriette.”
Robespierre listened carefully to what his dear friend had to say about the girl’s life, habits, patriotism and virtue. And yet, no matter how much he tried to concentrate on Éléonore’s words, his mind couldn’t stop wandering from his initial objective. Maximilien was suddenly shocked by some odd chronological coincidences, or fated similarities, in Éléonore’s recounting. Philippe and Élisabeth had married on August 26, one day after Saint-Just’s birthday. Henriette had arrived in Paris two weeks ago. Two dates which seemed to parallel the cause of his still too recent rift with Saint-Just almost too perfectly. It suddenly embarrassed him immensely to be speaking of Saint-Just’s possibilities with Henriette - with Éléonore what’s more, whom Robespierre loved and who was his fiancée - as a means to change his mind about what had happened not even half an hour before, just next to this parlour, in a far too dark little room. He clenched his hands together, fingers fidgeting once more, as thoughts he tried so hard to suppress didn’t listen to him and kept on arising in his conscience, again and again, like waves of torment.
He could have been yours, one of these thoughts whispered to Maximilien. Twice. Or perhaps more. But it wasn’t what Maximilien wanted, could accept to desire.
And yet...
And yet it would be so easy...
And yet it would have happened, already, twice.
The same way as last time...
It would have been more appropriate to say ‘the same way as the last times’. August 25 and September 25. Two dates, so symmetrical. Like in Éléonore’s tale. Two dates Robespierre wished he could erase from his mind, acting as if they didn’t exist - if only they didn’t beg to resurface. And now... Why now? But Robespierre remembered.
His hands. His hands moved along the younger man’s body, his beautiful body, suddenly feeling so wet. Antoine was sweating under this shirt, Maximilien could feel it, a shirt tightening around his torso. It was beautiful to watch. Beautiful, he knew it, and yet... and yet he wanted to keep his eyes shut. Sometimes, he glanced, opening his lids swiftly, and he saw an image he knew he could never erase from his mind. And it frightened him, so he shut them again, firmer than before. It wasn’t the way he wanted to remember Saint-Just. But... Antoine. So beautiful. His eyes, his beautiful eyes, heavy and warm with feverish passion. Sweat was beading on his forehead, glittering here and there, and his hair matted to his temples, splitting into knotted curls in disarray. Maximilien passed his fingers through them, and they felt as wet as Antoine’s shirt. The young man suddenly moaned, languid, arching up his body and pressing it against his friend’s. Maximilien tensed, resisting all the movements he wanted to give into, resisting merging with the man under him, who was stretching so lazily.
It’s improper, a thought told him.
Roll under him, another added.
Put an end to this, a last one urged.
But he didn’t want to, not now, it felt too good, it felt too beautiful. And as he moved to reach his friend’s lips, he was welcomed by a tongue, exploring, meeting him. Maximilien’s answered. At first, it was shy; then as graceful as such a dance could be. Finally, he pursued his first idea and kissed Antoine deeply, drawing from him a long, slightly muffled moan.
And, oh, all the things he wanted to do with him. All the things he wanted to let him do. But he couldn’t. He would never. And his fists suddenly gripped stronger on Antoine’s waist, tearing at this shirt he was starting to dislike. This obstacle. This shield. And Antoine moaned again, pressing himself against Maximilien once more, moving against him. And Maximilien moved as well, answering, complying... then finally taking the lead. Antoine broke free from the kiss and gasped, before starting to chuckle, incoherently, almost madly, as if he were triumphing over something. Maximilien didn’t really understand this reaction. Saint-Just glued his cheek to his friend’s and whispered, hotly, to his ear. “Maxime...” His name sounded so hoarse. Robespierre didn’t know his name could ever sound like this, be pronounced like this. “I want you... this way... differently.”
Robespierre opened his eyes; they seemed so lazy, suddenly, they didn’t want to cooperate as easily as he wished. “What do you mean?” He asked, unsure, and amazed that his voice could sound so quiet. “How differently?”
“I want you to stay where you are,” Saint-Just answered. His eyes, his beautiful hazel eyes, were brilliant and burning. “And to be... passionate. And a little more...” He hesitated, and swallowed. His throat seemed dry, probably as much as Maximilien’s was. “...physical than usual.”
Robespierre didn’t understand. “What?”
“Be less predictable, Maxime.” It sounded so simple, the way Saint-Just had breathed it. In only one breath. “Take me. Do as if we were wrestling a bit.” His hands reached up to cup Robespierre’s face, caressing his hair, his cheeks. His smile, languorous, was entrancing, captivating. “You know how much I love touching you... You love touching me too, n’est-ce pas?” And Antoine’s hands came down to continue undressing the older man, tugging at each piece of clothing, pinching the skin hiding underneath slightly.
“Yes, but...” Robespierre paused for a gasp when one of his friend’s hands suddenly cupped the swelling of his breeches. “Why wrestling?”
“To add some urgency to the proceedings,” Saint-Just breathed, again, against his cheek this time. “To see you being strong and confident. Like this afternoon.” Maximilien’s mind seemed to turn into confusion and bewilderment and his vision blurred an instant. He felt a hand, so deft, so swift, so firm, slipping inside of his unbuttoned breeches. “Just... be rough.”
“Be...?” The word echoed in his confusion, suddenly hurting more than it should have, dragging his spirits out of a sweet numbness in which he wished they had remained. But the juxtaposition of Saint-Just’s words suddenly troubled him, and he looked, wide-eyed, at his friend. “Was I rough this afternoon?
“No,” Saint-Just’s dismissal sounded more like a questioning of Robespierre’s doubts than a real reassurance. “No... I meant... Be that way now.” This precision didn’t work so well to soothe Maximilien’s mind and one of his hands reached down, gently, to take Saint-Just’s wrist. Antoine didn’t object and, starting to fondle his friend’s shoulders and chest in a continuous movement, he continued his line of thought. “We just need to push each other around a bit. It’s playing. Like boys.” Robespierre wasn’t convinced by Saint-Just’s words or examples, but he didn’t want to stop him from speaking. “And I’ll let you win. Just you. Because you’re the only one who I’d ever let win against me. Because I love you. Do you love me?”
Robespierre couldn’t resist replying to this, looking deeply into the eyes of his friend. “Yes, I love you...” Except there was something. He wasn’t convinced. And he didn’t understand. “But... What would be the point of this?”
Maximilien observed how Saint-Just took his time before replying, reclining on the bed covers and giving him a smile, that smile which never lied and never failed to attract his attention, to fascinate him.
“To make me yours.”
And Maximilien froze.
Beneath him, lying before his eyes, was a young man expressing a sensuality Maximilien refused to acknowledge. It contrasted so much with his usual, everyday rigidity, the stiffness of his bearing. Camille had often mocked it, noting to his childhood friend how artificial and contrived it appeared. But it intrigued Maximilien. Feigned or not, the older man had seen that Saint-Just possessed qualities he admired and his rigidity seemed, in his eyes, the only nature the young man possessed and should possess. Except, he had never wondered: what if Camille was right? Camille was rarely right; he ridiculed and teased, he made fun of everything (everything outside of himself and outside of what he momentarily revered) and thought that everything should be, in a way or another, taken lightly, and this applied even to death - weren’t his journals a sufficient proof of this tendency of his? No, Camille wasn’t to be taken seriously... but Saint-Just, Robespierre couldn’t stop thinking, why are you confirming his insinuations? Saint-Just, you are more than this. You are not like this.
But Antoine was clearly losing patience and his beautiful hazel eyes obscured themselves with doubt... or fear. It was the second time Robespierre saw his friend’s eyes turn this shade - and both time, it had been the older man’s doing.
“What is it?” Saint-Just asked.
Robespierre sighed and sought a way to escape from his young friend’s eyes. But where to look? To the untidy bedcovers around them, far too revealing of what was about to happen, and what was already happening? To their pieces of discarded clothing left here and there, on the bed and on the floor? And Saint-Just’s face was still so eye-catching, so gorgeous with the sweat beads chilling on his forehead. How beautiful he was... and how impossible it all was.
“I don’t want you to be… mine.”
“It’s just a figure of speech, Maxime.” Saint-Just’s voice - and eyes, no doubt - tried to be reassuring, but Robespierre refused to look or listen to him. His friend must have noticed, and so he caressed the older man’s cheeks and tried to bring him to look at him, to remind him of what they were doing, what they were about to do. “It doesn’t compel anything.”
And for one short instant, Robespierre was tempted. The fingers of his right hand came down upon Saint-Just’s cooling skin, touching so very lightly the line of this nose, the edge of this cheek, following the contour of this chin until his thumb posed itself against the warm lips. They opened, very faintly; just enough to catch the tip of the thumb between them, kissing at such a slow speed it soon became entrancing, even to Saint-Just himself. He had held Maximilien’s stare, until his eyes shut, and he suddenly seemed to become absorbed strictly with the attentions he was giving to this thumb. Antoine’s tongue slid between his lips and moistened the tip - and Maximilien could feel his nail scraping against it - before a lick brought it deeper into the younger man’s mouth. Maximilien felt his breath racing through his lungs and a strange, rasping noise coming out with the air he released. His lips felt dry but he couldn’t move to moisten them, his eyes, wide-open, fixed on the vision of his thumb stuck between those rounded lips, and the sensation of warmth and wetness that overcame his imprisoned touch. He felt a fire igniting deeply inside of his chest, and farther than this, lower than this, confounding his mind in ways he never allowed. And he may have given into it, had Saint-Just not suddenly decided to open his eyes at that precise moment, and to give him a hazy gaze Robespierre could not abide, an aching gaze that screamed directly into his mind words he reviled: devotion, abandonment...
He blinked.
“I can’t do this.”
He didn’t know where this strength was coming from; he guessed it was his conscience. He accepted it, unthinkingly, and suddenly moved to sit nearby on the bed, repeating to himself that he would not regret the warmth of his friend that he no longer felt around him. He rubbed his thumb against the sleeve of his shirt, hiding his hand inside of the cuff, cursing himself for allowing this wetness to be on his skin, where he could still feel the saliva lingering and slowly drying.
“Do what?”
Robespierre heard the bed creaking near him, and he supposed that Saint-Just had sat up. But he didn’t look at the younger man; he couldn’t, still haunted with this vision he feared would now be imprinted into his mind, every time he shut his eyes, every time he was alone, and thinking of his dear friend. He struggled to speak, but he didn’t know what to answer and, finally, it came out this way: “Please, would you put your clothes back on?”And as he expressed this wish, he looked down at his breeches and noted how indecent he was, and he was profoundly ashamed. He buttoned them up and gripped his waistcoat, when he found it - in fact, he was sitting on it - and buttoned it too, fast.
And then he heard a sound. It seemed like a sob, but it was impossible. It couldn’t be a sob. And maybe Robespierre had imagined it - that was what he had decided he would believe, until he looked at his friend, at last conceding to do it, even though he feared it.
What he saw stabbed him right in the heart, gripping him - poignant. Though Saint-Just’s face - Saint-Just’s entire being, in fact - was completely still, motionless, his eyes revealed everything Robespierre wished he hadn’t seen, which he had never seen before: they seemed broken, from the inside. He had shattered his soul with this refusal, and it shattered his own as well, in return, with guilt and shared sorrows.
“Maxime,” Saint-Just muttered, as he finally had his friend’s attention. “Don’t you… want me?”
There was a hesitation, to which Robespierre replied.
“You’re not my… wife.”
This was all he could think. This whole thing about claiming and taking... it was perverse, he felt; it wasn’t them. It couldn’t be done unless there was more to this relationship - and there could not be, because of what they both were, by nature.
“Am I not your lover?”
“No; you’re my friend. You’re my colleague. You’re like my other younger brother.”
Robespierre didn’t see that it was a painful answer; he could only reason that it had to be said. This was how he had seen it, always. And thus he overlooked the consequences-
“But… you love me, don’t you?”
-for example, that Saint-Just might misinterpret it.
Suddenly horrified by the implications, Robespierre attempted to restate his own words. His face must have looked terribly worried, for Saint-Just suddenly considered him differently. “Oh, yes. I do love you.” He moved closer on the bed, taking his friend’s hands into his, comfortingly petting and stroking them. “I love you so much,” he insisted. “That is why I can’t do this. It would be wrong. You wouldn’t be my beautiful Spartan, my beautiful Roman, stoical, imperturbable, stern, inflexible, proud, independent and free, anymore. My image of you would be… broken.”
He was trying to be soothing... but Saint-Just’s hands brusquely slipped from his. The younger man frowned.
“Do you only love me for my image?”
Robespierre frowned too. “What?... No, I love you for your principles, which create this image of you. It’s the personality I described that I’m in love with.”
“What you don’t seem to understand,” Saint-Just began. His beautiful stare was suddenly so harsh. “Is that my personality - my image - will always be the same, and won’t differ because you take me against that desk over there, or against a wall in the dark, or even if I pleasure you as I tried one month ago!”
This time, again. Robespierre thought Saint-Just had forgotten, as he had tried to do himself.
“Don’t say that...”
Saint-Just was already walking away, straightening his clothes and heading for the desk under which he had left his stockings and boots. He didn’t reply.
“Antoine…” Robespierre whispered, distressed.
Saint-Just wasn’t answering, nor turning his head: he merely sat on the chair and forcefully pulled his stockings, then his boots, onto his feet and legs.
“Antoine, I love you,” Maximilien repeated.
The older man suddenly didn’t care if he sounded frantic. He walked to his friend, who immediately stood, about to walk away once more, to avoid him. Maximilien tried to embrace him, though he still showed some hesitancy - thus allowing Saint-Just to resist, pushing him away with his fists and his elbows. Finally, though, the young man stopped and accepted the embrace. Maybe Maximilien’s gaze had helped in soothing his friend, as he wished or hoped it had.
“I love you, and I love your soul,” Robespierre added. He brushed his fingers against Saint-Just’s cheeks, cupping them to make him look at him. “I wouldn’t want to change a part of it. And I know that your soul is what I described. I don’t know why you’re angry. I’m afraid I may break something. That I may hurt you.”
“You won’t,” Saint-Just snapped, gripping at the older man’s wrists and pulling them away from his face - thus stopping the tender contact. “And you don’t know me. You don’t know my soul, as you say. If you knew it, you’d know that you’re not going to hurt or break anything. I thought I had already given my soul to you, and that you had accepted it.”
Saint-Just’s sentence brusquely stopped in the end, his breath catching and his eyes fixing the other man a long moment before swiftly glancing away. As if he had said too much. Robespierre didn’t know what to reply, and he watched, silently, as his friend walked back to his bed, in front of which, on the ground, he found his waistcoat. He slipped his arms into his waistcoat, not yet buttoning it, fixing the collar of his shirt and shaking his head slightly, so that his hair fell onto his shoulders.
“In the coach I was thinking,” Saint-Just paused, sneering very faintly. He didn’t turn to look at Robespierre, and continued speaking to his wall. “I had sworn to give myself to you, to give my body, since you already had my soul. But you won’t take my body, and you won’t even take my soul.”
“Why is it so important that I ‘take’ your body?”
“I wish...” Saint-Just hesitated, again, still not facing his friend. “I wished you would make it more than the loathsome dust I consider it to be.”
Robespierre was confused.
“I don’t have magical powers, Antoine. My touch won’t make you different.”
“Sometimes I believe you think and talk this way because you don’t love me.”
“I do!” Robespierre insisted. “I love you. You know this. I love you so much.”
Maximilien walked closer to the bed, attempting to take Saint-Just’s hand, who refused the touch. The older man felt hurt, deeply, but didn’t insist again, letting his friend walk away towards the window, walking away from him. After a moment though, Saint-Just turned and lifted his eyes to Robespierre: this stare hurt him as well. But he knew, oh, how he knew, that he deserved it.
“And if you do, what are you so afraid of?”
“That what they think of us is true. I won’t make them right in our intimacy.” Robespierre didn’t hesitate; he didn’t pinch his lips before replying; he didn’t even nervously comb his wig which, however, must have been looking quite like a mess at the moment.
“Who?”
“I see they were right about you. But I forgive you, because I love you.”
“Stop the nonsense, Robespierre!”
There were only two occasions when they referred to each other by their family names: in public, of course, and... when they argued in private.
“If you don’t want to tell me who that ‘they’ is,” Saint-Just continued. “At least, tell me what they said about me!”
Robespierre walked to the window, attempting another contact with his friend who, surprisingly, didn’t try to avoid it this time.
“You know,” he said. “You heard it! You think I did not? You think I don’t hear their sarcasms?”
Of course, Robespierre had seen what the deputy had done in the Convention, and he had guessed what he could possibly have said. There were many possibilities, but they all came back to say the same things. It horrified him just to think of this, and so he had to change the subject, even though he suddenly knew he was going to become even more incoherent.
“Why do you want those things, Antoine? Why do you want me to want them too? What are you doing to me?”
“I don’t-”
“You make me desire things I refuse and reject!”
And thus it was said. But still Saint-Just couldn’t understand. No one could.
“Maxime, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Robespierre’s contact intensified: he felt his fingers tightening their grip on Saint-Just’s shoulders and he only hoped that his eyes could reflect all the emotions he wanted his friend to see. Because this was so important, and Saint-Just didn’t want to understand it.
“I’m haunted with the fear of hurting you, isn’t that clear enough?” He said again, trying not to shout it. All of his words were very calm, each weighed, thought over, prepared.
Saint-Just shook his head, until Robespierre suddenly grasped it between his hands, forcing him to look at him.
“I am not better than you! I am not more perfect than you! I am not your... superior and you are not my disciple.”
Saint-Just frowned, and pushed him away, moving without looking at him to sit on the edge of his bed. However, he was clearly still listening.
“I have learned from you as much as you have from me,” Robespierre continued. “And I wish this nonsense from the old age would disappear! Is this a new world or are we all pretending?”
“Why do you see it this way?” Saint-Just murmured without lifting his eyes.
“Because you do. ‘I want to give myself to you’: what sort of drivel is this?”
“Now you’ve just successfully hurt me,” Saint-Just’s eyes were harsh again as he bitterly stared up at the older man. “Congratulations.”
“I am trying to make you understand that what you ask is fated to hurt one of us! To hurt us both!”
“Fated? You don’t believe in fate or in fatality, Robespierre!”
Maximilien had grabbed his last discarded items and threw them back on himself, very hastily. Then, he left the apartment without adding anything. The last thing he heard from his friend, as he was shutting the door behind him, was: “Robespierre, you look like a mess.” - referring, of course, to the state in which his clothing and his wig were. When he had arrived home, he just blamed it on the rain.
The next day, at the Committee, Robespierre had shyly attempted to smile at Saint-Just, who hadn’t smiled back. Robespierre had thus decided to let time do its work. Indeed, it had worked. It had taken a few days before the conversation between them found its old rhythm and its old tone again. Robespierre assumed the young man was trying to forget the ‘event’, much as he himself was. However, Saint-Just had clearly not forgotten.
He shouldn’t have surrendered, in the little room. He shouldn’t have. He was stronger than this. But... Antoine’s presence, Antoine’s closeness, Antoine’s warmth. He missed it.
And it was with this thought that Robespierre remembered where he was, who he was with, and what this person was telling him about, as he had requested. What folly, what absurdity...
“-Philippe once told me that Henriette reminded him of their mother. Her eyes, especially. They were the same colour, according to him anyway.” Éléonore paused, looking up at Robespierre. “Did Philippe tell you about her?”
“Of whom?”
“Of his mother of course,” she smiled. “He loved her very much, and he always speaks of her so fondly.”
“Ah,” Robespierre whispered, remembering, his mind joining the conversation again. “Yes.”
Éléonore shook her head gently, possibly to forgive him for thinking of something else, as he often did. Only, if she knew what he was thinking of, and how different it was from his usual concerns...
Suddenly though, something else captured Robespierre’s attention: his sister. He had seen her, earlier this evening, speaking with a deputy who was soon to leave on mission with Collot d’Herbois, his colleague: Joseph Fouché. She had been speaking with him for very, very long, Robespierre suddenly realised. Far too long. And the way they were speaking - not to say, the smiles they were exchanging - appeared to be quite inappropriate. He frowned.
“Forgive me, Éléonore,” he muttered a bit louder, clearing his voice and chasing his thoughts away. “I think I have to speak with my sister.”
He stood, and he could feel the eyes of the young woman following him. He was sure she would understand when she noticed the situation Robespierre was now determined to interrupt. And he was certain Éléonore would shake her head, her beautiful brown curls dancing slightly on her shoulders, equally upset with Charlotte’s attitude. The two women shared a mutual ‘animosity’; for some reason, such feelings seemed frequent within Robespierre’s inner circle.
“Bonsoir Charlotte,” he gritted between his teeth as his lips contorted into one of his politest smiles.
“Maximilien!” She exclaimed, oblivious to her brother’s sudden mood or... perfectly aware of it and purposefully ignoring it. It wouldn’t be the first time. “I suppose you know Citoyen Fouché, your colleague?”
“Yes,” Robespierre muttered, however thinking: though not quite my colleague; a political acquaintance, merely.
“While you were discussing with Éléonore,” Charlotte needed to point out, far too innocently. “This good patriot was telling me of his recent missions.”
“Was he?” Maxime’s eyes widened as he tried to keep his smile. “How interesting.”
“Très intéressant.”
“You don’t mind-” Robespierre told Fouché, putting an end to this game before he lost his already hard-to-keep smile. “-if I steal my sister from your attentions?”
“Not at all,” Fouché replied. It was hard to tell if he had seen through their game or not, but Robespierre didn’t want to wait any longer.
He turned and touched his sister’s arm slightly to make her understand she should follow him. They started walking through the guests and, when they were a few steps away, he finally whispered in Charlotte’s ear. “You know he was with the Oratorians?”
“No, was he?”
“The rumours say so,” the man murmured. “And he’s now supporting the déchristianisation - and that is not a rumour.”
“Well,” Charlotte shrugged, provocatively. “It happens.” Maximilien lifted his eyes to the ceiling, repressing a sigh that threatened to be very loud.
As the conversation quieted between the siblings, Maximilien noted that the clock had started tolling, half-way through Charlotte’s last reply. He looked at it and saw that it was nine thirty: how long since Saint-Just had left for his ‘walk’? How long since Robespierre had thought about it? Had he? He had tried. Maybe he did have something to tell him. Or maybe he didn’t... What he knew, though, was that it was time to subtly sneak away from this gathering.
However, he also needed to be sure someone would keep an eye on his purposefully troublesome sister - if only she acted her age.
But, one thing at a time: first, he needed a... pretext.
“I think I’ll go and walk Brount,” Maximilien suddenly announced to his sister, his eyes still fixed on the clock.
“What, walking Brount?” Charlotte exclaimed. She nudged him, on the arm, bringing him out of what she imagined to be strange reveries. “Now? With all the guests?” Robespierre didn’t answer, blinking. His sister raised her hands to the ceiling, eyes following, as she sighed, irritated. “Only you could think of disappearing from a gathering to walk a dog, Maxime! Fortunately you never tried this one at the salons of Arras. Sometimes, you just ashame me.”
“Charlotte, don’t start this again.”
Maximilien took her arm, trying to calm her before she continued hissing and scoffing. “Let’s speak with Augustin,” he whispered.
They walked towards the table where Maximilien had seen his brother sitting, a little earlier. He was still there, finishing a game. There were still as many people crowded around the players, but the two Robespierre siblings had no difficulties walking through them and reaching their younger brother, aided with smiles and polite apologies. Augustin turned his head when he saw the movement of the crowd and his face lighted up as he saw his brother and sister. Though this smile was perhaps addressed more to his brother than to his sister - an odd reaction only the two brothers (or anyone who knew Charlotte) could truly understand.
“Ah, Maxime!” Augustin exclaimed. “You’ve arrived at just the right moment,” he added while pointing the chess board. “I was just about to take down the King.”
Maximilien, half-way between mental exhaustion and exasperation (caused by his recent conversation with his sister), replied without really thinking through the possible impact of his answer. In fact, such things happened very rarely.
“Yes, we already did that.”
Maximilien heard some amused laughter in the small crowd around them, and he suddenly pinched his lips, realising what he had said. He felt slightly ashamed of this, mostly because he was so unused to amusing people with sudden and unprepared remarks.
“Augustin,” he continued, still sounding slightly weary. “Would you like to entertain your sister with your next game?”
“Euh-”
Augustin didn’t have time to reply before Charlotte interrupted him to assert her own perspective on the matter. “I find this game extremely boring, mes très chers frères,” she added in a far too cheerful tone, with one of her (often artificial) courteous and polished smiles.
There was more laughter from the crowd - especially from those who knew the sister’s mood - but they didn’t distract Maximilien from his goal.
“Bien, peu importe,” he retorted in a similar manner. Charlotte uttered an offended gasp, which didn’t seem to matter to her older brother either. Maximilien added, opaquely, “I will be back shortly. Or, I don’t know.” And he left.
Again, Augustin didn’t have time to ask his brother anything else. He took Charlotte’s hand to attract his sister’s attention, as her eyes were still fixed on her other brother, making his way through the guests once more and heading towards one of the parlour doors. She shook her head reprovingly.
“Where is he going?” the younger man asked.
Charlotte turned to Augustin and huffed. “To walk his dog! Can you imagine? His head is always in the clouds!”
***************************************************************************
Author’s Notes.
1. I thought that adding the backstory of Henriette would make the whole thing a little more interesting to the “you’re like my brother” theme.
2. The flashback is made of various fragments, some of which were written a few months ago already. The original idea from it comes from a RP with nirejseki dating from August: at times, playing Robespierre (I did it) seemed like walking on pieces of broken glass. We stopped before the big argument begins. However, I inspired myself from a few lines said by Saint-Just (which nirejseki wrote), when he was trying to seduce him (the idea of ‘wrestling’ for example): I modified and adapted them, integrating them to the long dialogue.
3. Fouché may have been on mission in the Nièvre at the time this fic takes place, though it isn’t very clear... I can’t find any fast place to check and... um... I really wanted to write that scene with Charlotte and Maximilien. Forgive me this shocking historical freedom I took. It hurts me more than it hurts you, certainly. >.>
4. The conclusion of the flashback parallels the ending of A Matter of Pride, except the opposite reactions of Robespierre to his looks is perhaps the interesting/symbolic part of it.
5. Also, please, forgive all historical foreshadowing and bad puns in the conversations at the end. -_-;
Chapters:
Chapter I (Rated R)
Chapter II (Rated PG-13)
Chapter III (Rated PG-13)
Chapter IV (Rated R)
Chapter VI (Rated R)
Author: Maelicia
Rating: R
Era: Summer-Fall 1793.
Pairing/Characters: Robespierre/Saint-Just; Éléonore, Charlotte, Augustin.
Word Count: 6332.
Summary: This story is about the tension between the public self and the private self, between the Stoical and Inflexible Conventionnel and Saint-Just’s younger, almost libertine self, the conflict between the political man and private man who both struggle to accept each other…
ROBESPIERRE’S POV.
Beta'ed by estellacat and elvenmongoose. Special thanks to nirejseki who helped a lot with the first versions of the big dialogue in the big flashback scene. ♥
Burning a Fragment of the Eternal
~ By Maelicia.
“Human souls want to be coupled to achieve their full worth;
and the united strength of friends, like that of artificial magnets, is
incomparably greater than the sum of their particular strengths. Divine
friendship, here is your triumph. But what is friendship alone next to this
perfect union, which joins to all the energy of friendship bonds one hundred
times more sacred?”
~ Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Julie ou La Nouvelle Héloïse, Deuxième partie, Lettre XIII.
V
Robespierre took his time before returning to the gathering. He dwelled upon his last feelings, upon the loneliness of this corridor which was still inhabited, not so long before, by the cold fury of his young friend. His fingers trailed against the wooden door, nails gritting against it absent-mindedly. He missed him already. But he couldn’t go. He couldn’t run after him just now. Not now. They needed time. He knew Antoine would need the silence of the streets, of the Seine, where he would, no doubt, walk.
He sighed when he finally resolved it would be the right time to return to his other friends. Only, before he could do so, his eyes caught a sight of himself in the mirror on his left. He looked as he feared he would; a few hairs were slightly coming out from his loosened wig while the collar of his frock coat now appeared quite misplaced. He looked like a disaster, but maybe this was just the impression given by his eyes, sad and hollow. Antoine, his mind whispered repeatedly, even though he knew that these mental calls would not bring the younger man back. Maximilien placed his hands against the table, right under the mirror, fingers fidgeting against the side, tapping it slightly, one after the other. The candelabra seemed misplaced suddenly, too far toward the right edge. He placed it back in the middle where he assumed it belonged. With this last gesture, he supposed it was time to return to the parlour.
Not much had changed since he had left with Saint-Just, a few minutes before. He would like to imagine that no one had noticed his short absence. And indeed, maybe they had not. He sat in a cosy armchair, thankful that it was partially withdrawn from the rest of the parlour and was bathed in the semi-obscurity of the half-blown candelabra. Resting his right elbow on the arm of the chair and his forehead against his palm, he observed how the scene of this gathering had evolved. The three painters still seemed to be arguing, though with Maurice and Françoise Duplay, this time. The poor couple didn’t seem quite convinced by David’s expansive arguments. Élisabeth, who had truly refound her natural vivacity, was now accompanying Buonarroti on the harpsichord, insisting that her husband and sister-in-law follow every move of her skilful fingers. He also noticed a small crowd had formed around the table which was more or less at the centre of the parlour. He didn’t remember it from before he had left. When a couple of guests he didn’t know very well - friends of the Duplays, very likely - retired, he could see that this new centre of interest was a chess game, in which his brother seemed to gleefully participate. Ah, he thought. So this is what you were doing...
Suddenly, a faint touch against his shoulder brought him out of his reveries. He didn’t startle too much - his reaction was nothing compared with Élisabeth’s, earlier that afternoon. He slowly looked up to see who was the owner of this hand, unfortunately too small and too feminine to be Saint-Just’s. Sadly, he knew the man too well to even imagine he would attempt a come-back contrary to his last, headstrong recommendation. And yet, he had hoped.
“Maximilien,” the woman who had so lightly placed her hand against his shoulder whispered. It was Éléonore. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Non,” he shook his head slightly. “Merci bien, mon amie.” His hand came up to reach the young woman’s, patting it comfortingly. It was very brief, like the initial contact, and soon she was stepping away from him. She took a seat nearby, smoothing her green skirt as she sat. The ribbons of her hair matched her dress, Robespierre suddenly thought. She must have cut them from the same material.
“What are you doing here, all alone, and almost in the dark?” She shook her head gently, a concerned smile on her lips. So she had noticed. And she had noticed him. His hiding place wasn’t the success he had expected it to be.
“Ah,” he began, hesitating on the reply he would give. “I thought it would be quieter here.”
“Is it a migraine? Or your eyes hurting again? I can leave if you prefer-”
“Non, non,” he insisted nevertheless, as she motioned to stand. “I’d like you to stay here. Speak with me, so that it feels less lonely.”
“Only you can feel lonely at a gathering, Maximilien.”
She gave him a knowing smile. He returned it to her when he saw she was settling down comfortably into the armchair next to his. His eyes wandered to the activities taking place in the parlour, and he suddenly heard the music changing. Élisabeth had stopped her duo with Buonarroti and was now speaking with Le Bas’s sister, observing and probably commenting on the dress the younger woman was wearing. It was indeed nicely patriotic in tones, Robespierre couldn’t stop from noticing. A bit like the gowns Maximilien’s sister wore, at times.
“You were speaking with Henriette Le Bas earlier, n’est-ce pas?” He asked, not without an idea behind this new topic of conversation he suddenly decided to hold.
“Yes, she’s a very sweet girl,” Éléonore naturally replied. “Still timid though; she’s not very used to Paris yet.
“She arrived recently, didn’t she?”
“Two weeks ago,” the young woman joined in looking at Henriette and Élisabeth. “Shortly after his wedding with Babet, Philippe received a letter from his family, in Frévent, saying that his young sister was suffering from a fever-”
“Nothing bad, I hope?” Maximilien interrupted. The name ‘Henriette’ already brought back bad memories of his own sister; he hoped it wasn’t a bad omen in general.
“No, it wasn’t severe,” Éléonore immediately reassured him, knowing her fiancé’s fears. “Only the bad weather of the North, as you should know-” a grim precision, Robespierre thought. How he knew, indeed. “-which put her into a melancholy, bringer of a form of fever. However, once she arrived here, she already felt much better.”
A melancholy - interesting, the man thought, though what he said was: “Fort heureusement.”
“It turned out to be a good thing, finally, that she agreed to come, because it was precisely at that time that Le Bas learned that he would leave on mission with Saint-Just, and he didn’t want poor Babet to stay all alone in their apartment. They who have just barely been married! Of course, we are here for her, but she needs more company than Maman, Victoire and myself. She demands so much energy from the others and Henriette is young enough to become a good friend of hers.”
“How old is she?”
“She just turned eighteen years old, I believe.”
Eighteen years old; indeed, that is close enough to Babet, still aged of twenty years. Though, would this be too young for Saint-Just? Le Bas married Élisabeth at thirty years old, while Saint-Just had barely turned twenty-six the month before. As far as age was concerned, she seemed appropriate for his young friend, Robespierre mused. Not to say that it would make Saint-Just part of the political family, a brother of alliance. If he were to marry Éléonore, who was Élisabeth’s sister, Maximilien would become Philippe’s brother, and if Saint-Just married Henriette, he would become Philippe’s brother, and thus Maximilien’s. It all seemed like such a clear and obvious plan, suddenly, in Robespierre’s mind, that he wondered how it could fail to work. It was perfect.
“I have observed,” Robespierre cautiously began. “That Henriette seemed to enjoy the company of Saint-Just.”
Éléonore laughed quietly, understanding. Of course, Robespierre had witnessed the exchange of whispers between the woman and the girl, and so he knew that Éléonore must know, already.
“I think so,” she replied.
“Tell me more about Henriette.”
Robespierre listened carefully to what his dear friend had to say about the girl’s life, habits, patriotism and virtue. And yet, no matter how much he tried to concentrate on Éléonore’s words, his mind couldn’t stop wandering from his initial objective. Maximilien was suddenly shocked by some odd chronological coincidences, or fated similarities, in Éléonore’s recounting. Philippe and Élisabeth had married on August 26, one day after Saint-Just’s birthday. Henriette had arrived in Paris two weeks ago. Two dates which seemed to parallel the cause of his still too recent rift with Saint-Just almost too perfectly. It suddenly embarrassed him immensely to be speaking of Saint-Just’s possibilities with Henriette - with Éléonore what’s more, whom Robespierre loved and who was his fiancée - as a means to change his mind about what had happened not even half an hour before, just next to this parlour, in a far too dark little room. He clenched his hands together, fingers fidgeting once more, as thoughts he tried so hard to suppress didn’t listen to him and kept on arising in his conscience, again and again, like waves of torment.
He could have been yours, one of these thoughts whispered to Maximilien. Twice. Or perhaps more. But it wasn’t what Maximilien wanted, could accept to desire.
And yet...
And yet it would be so easy...
And yet it would have happened, already, twice.
The same way as last time...
It would have been more appropriate to say ‘the same way as the last times’. August 25 and September 25. Two dates, so symmetrical. Like in Éléonore’s tale. Two dates Robespierre wished he could erase from his mind, acting as if they didn’t exist - if only they didn’t beg to resurface. And now... Why now? But Robespierre remembered.
His hands. His hands moved along the younger man’s body, his beautiful body, suddenly feeling so wet. Antoine was sweating under this shirt, Maximilien could feel it, a shirt tightening around his torso. It was beautiful to watch. Beautiful, he knew it, and yet... and yet he wanted to keep his eyes shut. Sometimes, he glanced, opening his lids swiftly, and he saw an image he knew he could never erase from his mind. And it frightened him, so he shut them again, firmer than before. It wasn’t the way he wanted to remember Saint-Just. But... Antoine. So beautiful. His eyes, his beautiful eyes, heavy and warm with feverish passion. Sweat was beading on his forehead, glittering here and there, and his hair matted to his temples, splitting into knotted curls in disarray. Maximilien passed his fingers through them, and they felt as wet as Antoine’s shirt. The young man suddenly moaned, languid, arching up his body and pressing it against his friend’s. Maximilien tensed, resisting all the movements he wanted to give into, resisting merging with the man under him, who was stretching so lazily.
It’s improper, a thought told him.
Roll under him, another added.
Put an end to this, a last one urged.
But he didn’t want to, not now, it felt too good, it felt too beautiful. And as he moved to reach his friend’s lips, he was welcomed by a tongue, exploring, meeting him. Maximilien’s answered. At first, it was shy; then as graceful as such a dance could be. Finally, he pursued his first idea and kissed Antoine deeply, drawing from him a long, slightly muffled moan.
And, oh, all the things he wanted to do with him. All the things he wanted to let him do. But he couldn’t. He would never. And his fists suddenly gripped stronger on Antoine’s waist, tearing at this shirt he was starting to dislike. This obstacle. This shield. And Antoine moaned again, pressing himself against Maximilien once more, moving against him. And Maximilien moved as well, answering, complying... then finally taking the lead. Antoine broke free from the kiss and gasped, before starting to chuckle, incoherently, almost madly, as if he were triumphing over something. Maximilien didn’t really understand this reaction. Saint-Just glued his cheek to his friend’s and whispered, hotly, to his ear. “Maxime...” His name sounded so hoarse. Robespierre didn’t know his name could ever sound like this, be pronounced like this. “I want you... this way... differently.”
Robespierre opened his eyes; they seemed so lazy, suddenly, they didn’t want to cooperate as easily as he wished. “What do you mean?” He asked, unsure, and amazed that his voice could sound so quiet. “How differently?”
“I want you to stay where you are,” Saint-Just answered. His eyes, his beautiful hazel eyes, were brilliant and burning. “And to be... passionate. And a little more...” He hesitated, and swallowed. His throat seemed dry, probably as much as Maximilien’s was. “...physical than usual.”
Robespierre didn’t understand. “What?”
“Be less predictable, Maxime.” It sounded so simple, the way Saint-Just had breathed it. In only one breath. “Take me. Do as if we were wrestling a bit.” His hands reached up to cup Robespierre’s face, caressing his hair, his cheeks. His smile, languorous, was entrancing, captivating. “You know how much I love touching you... You love touching me too, n’est-ce pas?” And Antoine’s hands came down to continue undressing the older man, tugging at each piece of clothing, pinching the skin hiding underneath slightly.
“Yes, but...” Robespierre paused for a gasp when one of his friend’s hands suddenly cupped the swelling of his breeches. “Why wrestling?”
“To add some urgency to the proceedings,” Saint-Just breathed, again, against his cheek this time. “To see you being strong and confident. Like this afternoon.” Maximilien’s mind seemed to turn into confusion and bewilderment and his vision blurred an instant. He felt a hand, so deft, so swift, so firm, slipping inside of his unbuttoned breeches. “Just... be rough.”
“Be...?” The word echoed in his confusion, suddenly hurting more than it should have, dragging his spirits out of a sweet numbness in which he wished they had remained. But the juxtaposition of Saint-Just’s words suddenly troubled him, and he looked, wide-eyed, at his friend. “Was I rough this afternoon?
“No,” Saint-Just’s dismissal sounded more like a questioning of Robespierre’s doubts than a real reassurance. “No... I meant... Be that way now.” This precision didn’t work so well to soothe Maximilien’s mind and one of his hands reached down, gently, to take Saint-Just’s wrist. Antoine didn’t object and, starting to fondle his friend’s shoulders and chest in a continuous movement, he continued his line of thought. “We just need to push each other around a bit. It’s playing. Like boys.” Robespierre wasn’t convinced by Saint-Just’s words or examples, but he didn’t want to stop him from speaking. “And I’ll let you win. Just you. Because you’re the only one who I’d ever let win against me. Because I love you. Do you love me?”
Robespierre couldn’t resist replying to this, looking deeply into the eyes of his friend. “Yes, I love you...” Except there was something. He wasn’t convinced. And he didn’t understand. “But... What would be the point of this?”
Maximilien observed how Saint-Just took his time before replying, reclining on the bed covers and giving him a smile, that smile which never lied and never failed to attract his attention, to fascinate him.
“To make me yours.”
And Maximilien froze.
Beneath him, lying before his eyes, was a young man expressing a sensuality Maximilien refused to acknowledge. It contrasted so much with his usual, everyday rigidity, the stiffness of his bearing. Camille had often mocked it, noting to his childhood friend how artificial and contrived it appeared. But it intrigued Maximilien. Feigned or not, the older man had seen that Saint-Just possessed qualities he admired and his rigidity seemed, in his eyes, the only nature the young man possessed and should possess. Except, he had never wondered: what if Camille was right? Camille was rarely right; he ridiculed and teased, he made fun of everything (everything outside of himself and outside of what he momentarily revered) and thought that everything should be, in a way or another, taken lightly, and this applied even to death - weren’t his journals a sufficient proof of this tendency of his? No, Camille wasn’t to be taken seriously... but Saint-Just, Robespierre couldn’t stop thinking, why are you confirming his insinuations? Saint-Just, you are more than this. You are not like this.
But Antoine was clearly losing patience and his beautiful hazel eyes obscured themselves with doubt... or fear. It was the second time Robespierre saw his friend’s eyes turn this shade - and both time, it had been the older man’s doing.
“What is it?” Saint-Just asked.
Robespierre sighed and sought a way to escape from his young friend’s eyes. But where to look? To the untidy bedcovers around them, far too revealing of what was about to happen, and what was already happening? To their pieces of discarded clothing left here and there, on the bed and on the floor? And Saint-Just’s face was still so eye-catching, so gorgeous with the sweat beads chilling on his forehead. How beautiful he was... and how impossible it all was.
“I don’t want you to be… mine.”
“It’s just a figure of speech, Maxime.” Saint-Just’s voice - and eyes, no doubt - tried to be reassuring, but Robespierre refused to look or listen to him. His friend must have noticed, and so he caressed the older man’s cheeks and tried to bring him to look at him, to remind him of what they were doing, what they were about to do. “It doesn’t compel anything.”
And for one short instant, Robespierre was tempted. The fingers of his right hand came down upon Saint-Just’s cooling skin, touching so very lightly the line of this nose, the edge of this cheek, following the contour of this chin until his thumb posed itself against the warm lips. They opened, very faintly; just enough to catch the tip of the thumb between them, kissing at such a slow speed it soon became entrancing, even to Saint-Just himself. He had held Maximilien’s stare, until his eyes shut, and he suddenly seemed to become absorbed strictly with the attentions he was giving to this thumb. Antoine’s tongue slid between his lips and moistened the tip - and Maximilien could feel his nail scraping against it - before a lick brought it deeper into the younger man’s mouth. Maximilien felt his breath racing through his lungs and a strange, rasping noise coming out with the air he released. His lips felt dry but he couldn’t move to moisten them, his eyes, wide-open, fixed on the vision of his thumb stuck between those rounded lips, and the sensation of warmth and wetness that overcame his imprisoned touch. He felt a fire igniting deeply inside of his chest, and farther than this, lower than this, confounding his mind in ways he never allowed. And he may have given into it, had Saint-Just not suddenly decided to open his eyes at that precise moment, and to give him a hazy gaze Robespierre could not abide, an aching gaze that screamed directly into his mind words he reviled: devotion, abandonment...
He blinked.
“I can’t do this.”
He didn’t know where this strength was coming from; he guessed it was his conscience. He accepted it, unthinkingly, and suddenly moved to sit nearby on the bed, repeating to himself that he would not regret the warmth of his friend that he no longer felt around him. He rubbed his thumb against the sleeve of his shirt, hiding his hand inside of the cuff, cursing himself for allowing this wetness to be on his skin, where he could still feel the saliva lingering and slowly drying.
“Do what?”
Robespierre heard the bed creaking near him, and he supposed that Saint-Just had sat up. But he didn’t look at the younger man; he couldn’t, still haunted with this vision he feared would now be imprinted into his mind, every time he shut his eyes, every time he was alone, and thinking of his dear friend. He struggled to speak, but he didn’t know what to answer and, finally, it came out this way: “Please, would you put your clothes back on?”And as he expressed this wish, he looked down at his breeches and noted how indecent he was, and he was profoundly ashamed. He buttoned them up and gripped his waistcoat, when he found it - in fact, he was sitting on it - and buttoned it too, fast.
And then he heard a sound. It seemed like a sob, but it was impossible. It couldn’t be a sob. And maybe Robespierre had imagined it - that was what he had decided he would believe, until he looked at his friend, at last conceding to do it, even though he feared it.
What he saw stabbed him right in the heart, gripping him - poignant. Though Saint-Just’s face - Saint-Just’s entire being, in fact - was completely still, motionless, his eyes revealed everything Robespierre wished he hadn’t seen, which he had never seen before: they seemed broken, from the inside. He had shattered his soul with this refusal, and it shattered his own as well, in return, with guilt and shared sorrows.
“Maxime,” Saint-Just muttered, as he finally had his friend’s attention. “Don’t you… want me?”
There was a hesitation, to which Robespierre replied.
“You’re not my… wife.”
This was all he could think. This whole thing about claiming and taking... it was perverse, he felt; it wasn’t them. It couldn’t be done unless there was more to this relationship - and there could not be, because of what they both were, by nature.
“Am I not your lover?”
“No; you’re my friend. You’re my colleague. You’re like my other younger brother.”
Robespierre didn’t see that it was a painful answer; he could only reason that it had to be said. This was how he had seen it, always. And thus he overlooked the consequences-
“But… you love me, don’t you?”
-for example, that Saint-Just might misinterpret it.
Suddenly horrified by the implications, Robespierre attempted to restate his own words. His face must have looked terribly worried, for Saint-Just suddenly considered him differently. “Oh, yes. I do love you.” He moved closer on the bed, taking his friend’s hands into his, comfortingly petting and stroking them. “I love you so much,” he insisted. “That is why I can’t do this. It would be wrong. You wouldn’t be my beautiful Spartan, my beautiful Roman, stoical, imperturbable, stern, inflexible, proud, independent and free, anymore. My image of you would be… broken.”
He was trying to be soothing... but Saint-Just’s hands brusquely slipped from his. The younger man frowned.
“Do you only love me for my image?”
Robespierre frowned too. “What?... No, I love you for your principles, which create this image of you. It’s the personality I described that I’m in love with.”
“What you don’t seem to understand,” Saint-Just began. His beautiful stare was suddenly so harsh. “Is that my personality - my image - will always be the same, and won’t differ because you take me against that desk over there, or against a wall in the dark, or even if I pleasure you as I tried one month ago!”
This time, again. Robespierre thought Saint-Just had forgotten, as he had tried to do himself.
“Don’t say that...”
Saint-Just was already walking away, straightening his clothes and heading for the desk under which he had left his stockings and boots. He didn’t reply.
“Antoine…” Robespierre whispered, distressed.
Saint-Just wasn’t answering, nor turning his head: he merely sat on the chair and forcefully pulled his stockings, then his boots, onto his feet and legs.
“Antoine, I love you,” Maximilien repeated.
The older man suddenly didn’t care if he sounded frantic. He walked to his friend, who immediately stood, about to walk away once more, to avoid him. Maximilien tried to embrace him, though he still showed some hesitancy - thus allowing Saint-Just to resist, pushing him away with his fists and his elbows. Finally, though, the young man stopped and accepted the embrace. Maybe Maximilien’s gaze had helped in soothing his friend, as he wished or hoped it had.
“I love you, and I love your soul,” Robespierre added. He brushed his fingers against Saint-Just’s cheeks, cupping them to make him look at him. “I wouldn’t want to change a part of it. And I know that your soul is what I described. I don’t know why you’re angry. I’m afraid I may break something. That I may hurt you.”
“You won’t,” Saint-Just snapped, gripping at the older man’s wrists and pulling them away from his face - thus stopping the tender contact. “And you don’t know me. You don’t know my soul, as you say. If you knew it, you’d know that you’re not going to hurt or break anything. I thought I had already given my soul to you, and that you had accepted it.”
Saint-Just’s sentence brusquely stopped in the end, his breath catching and his eyes fixing the other man a long moment before swiftly glancing away. As if he had said too much. Robespierre didn’t know what to reply, and he watched, silently, as his friend walked back to his bed, in front of which, on the ground, he found his waistcoat. He slipped his arms into his waistcoat, not yet buttoning it, fixing the collar of his shirt and shaking his head slightly, so that his hair fell onto his shoulders.
“In the coach I was thinking,” Saint-Just paused, sneering very faintly. He didn’t turn to look at Robespierre, and continued speaking to his wall. “I had sworn to give myself to you, to give my body, since you already had my soul. But you won’t take my body, and you won’t even take my soul.”
“Why is it so important that I ‘take’ your body?”
“I wish...” Saint-Just hesitated, again, still not facing his friend. “I wished you would make it more than the loathsome dust I consider it to be.”
Robespierre was confused.
“I don’t have magical powers, Antoine. My touch won’t make you different.”
“Sometimes I believe you think and talk this way because you don’t love me.”
“I do!” Robespierre insisted. “I love you. You know this. I love you so much.”
Maximilien walked closer to the bed, attempting to take Saint-Just’s hand, who refused the touch. The older man felt hurt, deeply, but didn’t insist again, letting his friend walk away towards the window, walking away from him. After a moment though, Saint-Just turned and lifted his eyes to Robespierre: this stare hurt him as well. But he knew, oh, how he knew, that he deserved it.
“And if you do, what are you so afraid of?”
“That what they think of us is true. I won’t make them right in our intimacy.” Robespierre didn’t hesitate; he didn’t pinch his lips before replying; he didn’t even nervously comb his wig which, however, must have been looking quite like a mess at the moment.
“Who?”
“I see they were right about you. But I forgive you, because I love you.”
“Stop the nonsense, Robespierre!”
There were only two occasions when they referred to each other by their family names: in public, of course, and... when they argued in private.
“If you don’t want to tell me who that ‘they’ is,” Saint-Just continued. “At least, tell me what they said about me!”
Robespierre walked to the window, attempting another contact with his friend who, surprisingly, didn’t try to avoid it this time.
“You know,” he said. “You heard it! You think I did not? You think I don’t hear their sarcasms?”
Of course, Robespierre had seen what the deputy had done in the Convention, and he had guessed what he could possibly have said. There were many possibilities, but they all came back to say the same things. It horrified him just to think of this, and so he had to change the subject, even though he suddenly knew he was going to become even more incoherent.
“Why do you want those things, Antoine? Why do you want me to want them too? What are you doing to me?”
“I don’t-”
“You make me desire things I refuse and reject!”
And thus it was said. But still Saint-Just couldn’t understand. No one could.
“Maxime, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Robespierre’s contact intensified: he felt his fingers tightening their grip on Saint-Just’s shoulders and he only hoped that his eyes could reflect all the emotions he wanted his friend to see. Because this was so important, and Saint-Just didn’t want to understand it.
“I’m haunted with the fear of hurting you, isn’t that clear enough?” He said again, trying not to shout it. All of his words were very calm, each weighed, thought over, prepared.
Saint-Just shook his head, until Robespierre suddenly grasped it between his hands, forcing him to look at him.
“I am not better than you! I am not more perfect than you! I am not your... superior and you are not my disciple.”
Saint-Just frowned, and pushed him away, moving without looking at him to sit on the edge of his bed. However, he was clearly still listening.
“I have learned from you as much as you have from me,” Robespierre continued. “And I wish this nonsense from the old age would disappear! Is this a new world or are we all pretending?”
“Why do you see it this way?” Saint-Just murmured without lifting his eyes.
“Because you do. ‘I want to give myself to you’: what sort of drivel is this?”
“Now you’ve just successfully hurt me,” Saint-Just’s eyes were harsh again as he bitterly stared up at the older man. “Congratulations.”
“I am trying to make you understand that what you ask is fated to hurt one of us! To hurt us both!”
“Fated? You don’t believe in fate or in fatality, Robespierre!”
Maximilien had grabbed his last discarded items and threw them back on himself, very hastily. Then, he left the apartment without adding anything. The last thing he heard from his friend, as he was shutting the door behind him, was: “Robespierre, you look like a mess.” - referring, of course, to the state in which his clothing and his wig were. When he had arrived home, he just blamed it on the rain.
The next day, at the Committee, Robespierre had shyly attempted to smile at Saint-Just, who hadn’t smiled back. Robespierre had thus decided to let time do its work. Indeed, it had worked. It had taken a few days before the conversation between them found its old rhythm and its old tone again. Robespierre assumed the young man was trying to forget the ‘event’, much as he himself was. However, Saint-Just had clearly not forgotten.
He shouldn’t have surrendered, in the little room. He shouldn’t have. He was stronger than this. But... Antoine’s presence, Antoine’s closeness, Antoine’s warmth. He missed it.
And it was with this thought that Robespierre remembered where he was, who he was with, and what this person was telling him about, as he had requested. What folly, what absurdity...
“-Philippe once told me that Henriette reminded him of their mother. Her eyes, especially. They were the same colour, according to him anyway.” Éléonore paused, looking up at Robespierre. “Did Philippe tell you about her?”
“Of whom?”
“Of his mother of course,” she smiled. “He loved her very much, and he always speaks of her so fondly.”
“Ah,” Robespierre whispered, remembering, his mind joining the conversation again. “Yes.”
Éléonore shook her head gently, possibly to forgive him for thinking of something else, as he often did. Only, if she knew what he was thinking of, and how different it was from his usual concerns...
Suddenly though, something else captured Robespierre’s attention: his sister. He had seen her, earlier this evening, speaking with a deputy who was soon to leave on mission with Collot d’Herbois, his colleague: Joseph Fouché. She had been speaking with him for very, very long, Robespierre suddenly realised. Far too long. And the way they were speaking - not to say, the smiles they were exchanging - appeared to be quite inappropriate. He frowned.
“Forgive me, Éléonore,” he muttered a bit louder, clearing his voice and chasing his thoughts away. “I think I have to speak with my sister.”
He stood, and he could feel the eyes of the young woman following him. He was sure she would understand when she noticed the situation Robespierre was now determined to interrupt. And he was certain Éléonore would shake her head, her beautiful brown curls dancing slightly on her shoulders, equally upset with Charlotte’s attitude. The two women shared a mutual ‘animosity’; for some reason, such feelings seemed frequent within Robespierre’s inner circle.
“Bonsoir Charlotte,” he gritted between his teeth as his lips contorted into one of his politest smiles.
“Maximilien!” She exclaimed, oblivious to her brother’s sudden mood or... perfectly aware of it and purposefully ignoring it. It wouldn’t be the first time. “I suppose you know Citoyen Fouché, your colleague?”
“Yes,” Robespierre muttered, however thinking: though not quite my colleague; a political acquaintance, merely.
“While you were discussing with Éléonore,” Charlotte needed to point out, far too innocently. “This good patriot was telling me of his recent missions.”
“Was he?” Maxime’s eyes widened as he tried to keep his smile. “How interesting.”
“Très intéressant.”
“You don’t mind-” Robespierre told Fouché, putting an end to this game before he lost his already hard-to-keep smile. “-if I steal my sister from your attentions?”
“Not at all,” Fouché replied. It was hard to tell if he had seen through their game or not, but Robespierre didn’t want to wait any longer.
He turned and touched his sister’s arm slightly to make her understand she should follow him. They started walking through the guests and, when they were a few steps away, he finally whispered in Charlotte’s ear. “You know he was with the Oratorians?”
“No, was he?”
“The rumours say so,” the man murmured. “And he’s now supporting the déchristianisation - and that is not a rumour.”
“Well,” Charlotte shrugged, provocatively. “It happens.” Maximilien lifted his eyes to the ceiling, repressing a sigh that threatened to be very loud.
As the conversation quieted between the siblings, Maximilien noted that the clock had started tolling, half-way through Charlotte’s last reply. He looked at it and saw that it was nine thirty: how long since Saint-Just had left for his ‘walk’? How long since Robespierre had thought about it? Had he? He had tried. Maybe he did have something to tell him. Or maybe he didn’t... What he knew, though, was that it was time to subtly sneak away from this gathering.
However, he also needed to be sure someone would keep an eye on his purposefully troublesome sister - if only she acted her age.
But, one thing at a time: first, he needed a... pretext.
“I think I’ll go and walk Brount,” Maximilien suddenly announced to his sister, his eyes still fixed on the clock.
“What, walking Brount?” Charlotte exclaimed. She nudged him, on the arm, bringing him out of what she imagined to be strange reveries. “Now? With all the guests?” Robespierre didn’t answer, blinking. His sister raised her hands to the ceiling, eyes following, as she sighed, irritated. “Only you could think of disappearing from a gathering to walk a dog, Maxime! Fortunately you never tried this one at the salons of Arras. Sometimes, you just ashame me.”
“Charlotte, don’t start this again.”
Maximilien took her arm, trying to calm her before she continued hissing and scoffing. “Let’s speak with Augustin,” he whispered.
They walked towards the table where Maximilien had seen his brother sitting, a little earlier. He was still there, finishing a game. There were still as many people crowded around the players, but the two Robespierre siblings had no difficulties walking through them and reaching their younger brother, aided with smiles and polite apologies. Augustin turned his head when he saw the movement of the crowd and his face lighted up as he saw his brother and sister. Though this smile was perhaps addressed more to his brother than to his sister - an odd reaction only the two brothers (or anyone who knew Charlotte) could truly understand.
“Ah, Maxime!” Augustin exclaimed. “You’ve arrived at just the right moment,” he added while pointing the chess board. “I was just about to take down the King.”
Maximilien, half-way between mental exhaustion and exasperation (caused by his recent conversation with his sister), replied without really thinking through the possible impact of his answer. In fact, such things happened very rarely.
“Yes, we already did that.”
Maximilien heard some amused laughter in the small crowd around them, and he suddenly pinched his lips, realising what he had said. He felt slightly ashamed of this, mostly because he was so unused to amusing people with sudden and unprepared remarks.
“Augustin,” he continued, still sounding slightly weary. “Would you like to entertain your sister with your next game?”
“Euh-”
Augustin didn’t have time to reply before Charlotte interrupted him to assert her own perspective on the matter. “I find this game extremely boring, mes très chers frères,” she added in a far too cheerful tone, with one of her (often artificial) courteous and polished smiles.
There was more laughter from the crowd - especially from those who knew the sister’s mood - but they didn’t distract Maximilien from his goal.
“Bien, peu importe,” he retorted in a similar manner. Charlotte uttered an offended gasp, which didn’t seem to matter to her older brother either. Maximilien added, opaquely, “I will be back shortly. Or, I don’t know.” And he left.
Again, Augustin didn’t have time to ask his brother anything else. He took Charlotte’s hand to attract his sister’s attention, as her eyes were still fixed on her other brother, making his way through the guests once more and heading towards one of the parlour doors. She shook her head reprovingly.
“Where is he going?” the younger man asked.
Charlotte turned to Augustin and huffed. “To walk his dog! Can you imagine? His head is always in the clouds!”
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Author’s Notes.
1. I thought that adding the backstory of Henriette would make the whole thing a little more interesting to the “you’re like my brother” theme.
2. The flashback is made of various fragments, some of which were written a few months ago already. The original idea from it comes from a RP with nirejseki dating from August: at times, playing Robespierre (I did it) seemed like walking on pieces of broken glass. We stopped before the big argument begins. However, I inspired myself from a few lines said by Saint-Just (which nirejseki wrote), when he was trying to seduce him (the idea of ‘wrestling’ for example): I modified and adapted them, integrating them to the long dialogue.
3. Fouché may have been on mission in the Nièvre at the time this fic takes place, though it isn’t very clear... I can’t find any fast place to check and... um... I really wanted to write that scene with Charlotte and Maximilien. Forgive me this shocking historical freedom I took. It hurts me more than it hurts you, certainly. >.>
4. The conclusion of the flashback parallels the ending of A Matter of Pride, except the opposite reactions of Robespierre to his looks is perhaps the interesting/symbolic part of it.
5. Also, please, forgive all historical foreshadowing and bad puns in the conversations at the end. -_-;
Chapters:
Chapter I (Rated R)
Chapter II (Rated PG-13)
Chapter III (Rated PG-13)
Chapter IV (Rated R)
Chapter VI (Rated R)