Ten Little Chances to be Free (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tenlittlebullets) wrote2009-06-05 10:01 pm
tenlittlebullets) wrote2009-06-05 10:01 pm
Entry tags:
Fic fragments
Since I haven't finished any fic in ages and ages, I figure that for Barricade Day I'll dump a couple of the less-sucky partially-written fics up here. Neither of them is more than a couple of pages.
Enjolras/Combeferre, written circa May 2007. Was intended as the smutty follow-up to a mostly-dialogue fic in which they argue about the role of women, but that one was never finished either and I'm trying to rewrite it right now. This would've stood pretty well on its own though.
They had fallen into bed together in all innocence, subsiding almost immediately into sleep, but when Enjolras awoke it was to the unfamiliar sensation of being held in Combeferre's arms. It was not yet dawn; Combeferre was still asleep, and seemed to have embraced him while still in the thrall of some unknown dream. It was the strangeness of being pressed so close to another body that had awakened him. Once roused to consciousness, Enjolras could not fall back to sleep in so unfamiliar a situation, and so he simply lay there, eyes open and sightless in the dark.
There was a certain sweetness in a friend's embrace, more real and meaningful than the vaguely imagined caresses of a lover. He was reluctant to pull away, but the urge to go back to sleep was stronger. He extricated himself slowly and carefully from Combeferre's arms, and it was only when they were again lying side by side that he realized Combeferre's eyes were open and he was watching him silently.
“Did I wake you up?”
“When you moved away,” said Combeferre. “I hadn't even realised I was holding you until then. I apologise.”
“There's nothing to apologise for.”
“I should have thought you would object to being embraced, after all you said last night.”
“It didn't seem like so useless a thing just now. Not with—someone I already respect.”
Enjolras said no more, refusing to follow that thought to its logical conclusion, but Combeferre smiled at him in the dark. “I see.” He looked at Enjolras thoughtfully for a few moments, then leaned in and kissed him on the mouth.
Enjolras froze, feeling himself on the brink of an abyss. Something stirred within him at the touch of his friend's lips, and the thought—a thought his temperament had never been amourous enough to supply on its own—struck him like a lightning bolt. To kiss, touch, embrace a man as he might a woman—he had skirted the idea all through their conversation the previous night, refusing to examine it or give it voice. Now it could not be denied, and the connection, once made, was irrefutable. He shuddered.
Combeferre was just beginning to pull away, shamefacedly muttering an apology, when Enjolras seized him by the shoulders and kissed him with all the ardour he possessed. He felt hot, dizzy, disoriented as much from the kiss as from the idea that had just struck him—a feeling that only intensified as he felt Combeferre respond, slipping his tongue into Enjolras' mouth and wrapping his arms around him again. His head began to spin. The more he wanted the kiss to feel wrong as it deepened, the more he found it satisfied some buried impulse deep within him.
At last he pulled away, gasping for breath. Combeferre was watching him with a gentle, knowing look on his face, one which suggested that the same tempest had at some point passed through his own mind. Enjolras gazed back, still gripping Combeferre's shoulders tightly, at a loss for once about what to do. He had never thought he knew desire; the mere fact that he had identified it and its odd direction didn't mean he knew now what to do with it. He paused, wondering what sordid conclusion this affair might lead to.
Combeferre seemed to sense his indecision. “Shall we carry this further, then?” he murmured.
“I hardly even know what 'further' entails.”
“When has that ever stopped you?” said Combeferre with a smile. “Lucky for you that in this, unlike the future, you have someone who knows where he's going.” As he spoke, his hands slipped up under Enjolras' shirt, stroking the bare skin of his back.
Combeferre and Courfeyrac are plotting, written July 2008. Was written as the first chapter of a novella-length AU whose plot I refuse to disclose because I still entertain some vain hope of writing it. Although I had fun with the banter, this scene's only actual purpose was to send Courfeyrac through the rue de Babylone so he could get into a fistfight with Théodule and drop his oh-so-valuable papers. Yeah, um, the reason I still want to write this AU is because its plot is made of cracky awesome.
One cold winter day as the bells of St-Sulpice struck three, two figures could be seen huddled in the deep archway of the Hôpital Necker, talking in low voices while they took shelter from the bitter wind. "It's monstrous," said the taller of the two, waving his cigar energetically to prove his point. "Preposterous, unethical, intolerable ill-use, little better than slave labour. The future of France, as you never cease to remind me, lies in education―and behold! what do I see before me but the flower of French education, a Polytechnician, a future doctor if not a future schoolmaster, a man of science and philosophy, worn and haggard and sneaking himself a meal of bread and cheese after eight hours of being worked like a carthorse, counting the minutes until he has to go back and work six hours more. And on Christmas Eve, pardieu! For all their talk of piety, haven't those old relics the decency not to work you to the bone on this of all days?"
"Much as I would wish it, the cholera does not observe an armistice at Christmas," said the other man mildly.
"My dear man, you're becoming indistinguishable from the cadavers you dissect. Let somebody else deal with the cholera tonight and come to the Odéon with me: I believe they're still playing Dumas' Charles VII."
"Impossible, even for the sake of Dumas. I'm expected back in a few minutes. And since the time for this meeting is so short, perhaps we should return to its original purpose."
At this, both men lowered their voices even further; the first speaker cast a covert glance over his shoulder, on the pretext of blowing out his cigar smoke away from his friend's face.
"You have the papers?" he said.
"Yes, a day earlier than they're needed. But all the same, don't lose any time in getting them to Marteau."
"Where does he live?"
"He said you could leave them at No. 42, rue Vanneau."
"That's not far from here. I'm meeting Laigle in half an hour at the Café Lemblin; I'll deliver the papers when I go, and it won't even take me out of my way."
Enjolras/Combeferre, written circa May 2007. Was intended as the smutty follow-up to a mostly-dialogue fic in which they argue about the role of women, but that one was never finished either and I'm trying to rewrite it right now. This would've stood pretty well on its own though.
They had fallen into bed together in all innocence, subsiding almost immediately into sleep, but when Enjolras awoke it was to the unfamiliar sensation of being held in Combeferre's arms. It was not yet dawn; Combeferre was still asleep, and seemed to have embraced him while still in the thrall of some unknown dream. It was the strangeness of being pressed so close to another body that had awakened him. Once roused to consciousness, Enjolras could not fall back to sleep in so unfamiliar a situation, and so he simply lay there, eyes open and sightless in the dark.
There was a certain sweetness in a friend's embrace, more real and meaningful than the vaguely imagined caresses of a lover. He was reluctant to pull away, but the urge to go back to sleep was stronger. He extricated himself slowly and carefully from Combeferre's arms, and it was only when they were again lying side by side that he realized Combeferre's eyes were open and he was watching him silently.
“Did I wake you up?”
“When you moved away,” said Combeferre. “I hadn't even realised I was holding you until then. I apologise.”
“There's nothing to apologise for.”
“I should have thought you would object to being embraced, after all you said last night.”
“It didn't seem like so useless a thing just now. Not with—someone I already respect.”
Enjolras said no more, refusing to follow that thought to its logical conclusion, but Combeferre smiled at him in the dark. “I see.” He looked at Enjolras thoughtfully for a few moments, then leaned in and kissed him on the mouth.
Enjolras froze, feeling himself on the brink of an abyss. Something stirred within him at the touch of his friend's lips, and the thought—a thought his temperament had never been amourous enough to supply on its own—struck him like a lightning bolt. To kiss, touch, embrace a man as he might a woman—he had skirted the idea all through their conversation the previous night, refusing to examine it or give it voice. Now it could not be denied, and the connection, once made, was irrefutable. He shuddered.
Combeferre was just beginning to pull away, shamefacedly muttering an apology, when Enjolras seized him by the shoulders and kissed him with all the ardour he possessed. He felt hot, dizzy, disoriented as much from the kiss as from the idea that had just struck him—a feeling that only intensified as he felt Combeferre respond, slipping his tongue into Enjolras' mouth and wrapping his arms around him again. His head began to spin. The more he wanted the kiss to feel wrong as it deepened, the more he found it satisfied some buried impulse deep within him.
At last he pulled away, gasping for breath. Combeferre was watching him with a gentle, knowing look on his face, one which suggested that the same tempest had at some point passed through his own mind. Enjolras gazed back, still gripping Combeferre's shoulders tightly, at a loss for once about what to do. He had never thought he knew desire; the mere fact that he had identified it and its odd direction didn't mean he knew now what to do with it. He paused, wondering what sordid conclusion this affair might lead to.
Combeferre seemed to sense his indecision. “Shall we carry this further, then?” he murmured.
“I hardly even know what 'further' entails.”
“When has that ever stopped you?” said Combeferre with a smile. “Lucky for you that in this, unlike the future, you have someone who knows where he's going.” As he spoke, his hands slipped up under Enjolras' shirt, stroking the bare skin of his back.
Combeferre and Courfeyrac are plotting, written July 2008. Was written as the first chapter of a novella-length AU whose plot I refuse to disclose because I still entertain some vain hope of writing it. Although I had fun with the banter, this scene's only actual purpose was to send Courfeyrac through the rue de Babylone so he could get into a fistfight with Théodule and drop his oh-so-valuable papers. Yeah, um, the reason I still want to write this AU is because its plot is made of cracky awesome.
One cold winter day as the bells of St-Sulpice struck three, two figures could be seen huddled in the deep archway of the Hôpital Necker, talking in low voices while they took shelter from the bitter wind. "It's monstrous," said the taller of the two, waving his cigar energetically to prove his point. "Preposterous, unethical, intolerable ill-use, little better than slave labour. The future of France, as you never cease to remind me, lies in education―and behold! what do I see before me but the flower of French education, a Polytechnician, a future doctor if not a future schoolmaster, a man of science and philosophy, worn and haggard and sneaking himself a meal of bread and cheese after eight hours of being worked like a carthorse, counting the minutes until he has to go back and work six hours more. And on Christmas Eve, pardieu! For all their talk of piety, haven't those old relics the decency not to work you to the bone on this of all days?"
"Much as I would wish it, the cholera does not observe an armistice at Christmas," said the other man mildly.
"My dear man, you're becoming indistinguishable from the cadavers you dissect. Let somebody else deal with the cholera tonight and come to the Odéon with me: I believe they're still playing Dumas' Charles VII."
"Impossible, even for the sake of Dumas. I'm expected back in a few minutes. And since the time for this meeting is so short, perhaps we should return to its original purpose."
At this, both men lowered their voices even further; the first speaker cast a covert glance over his shoulder, on the pretext of blowing out his cigar smoke away from his friend's face.
"You have the papers?" he said.
"Yes, a day earlier than they're needed. But all the same, don't lose any time in getting them to Marteau."
"Where does he live?"
"He said you could leave them at No. 42, rue Vanneau."
"That's not far from here. I'm meeting Laigle in half an hour at the Café Lemblin; I'll deliver the papers when I go, and it won't even take me out of my way."
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