UNE VIE / D'ÉCRIRE

Usually this part of Paris wasn't so liable for crime and attempts, at least in Simon's experience. Be it walking here by day or prowling at night, he's yet to have anything terrible happen here. And yet the one time an attack does occur... they went for Felix instead. A quick attack, hardly lasting several moments before Simon shoved his way between Felix and the assailants. He'd run after them to try to find something identifiable about their appearances, but there's little to view on the backs of fleeing men in large clothes.

This was none of it. The city is tense, he knows, he knows, and the name he carries has weight, even though he turned his back on his family long ago. But in times of war, everything is an excuse. Anything is a potential threat. And he’s never been the cautious kind. Always walking with his head clouded by alcohol or opium, never carrying weapons with him. So when he’s attacked by men wearing Painters’ pins, it shouldn’t come as a surprise, but as he lands on the ground with his cheekbone hurting like shit, it really does.

As it rarely ever does, his sarcasm does not escape her notice. That bittersweet note meant to bring a smile to her face, or to have that thoughtful atmosphere dissipate into something lighter; she lets him have that, for it would be a pity to deny him anything, especially when he's in that state. Wine though — it can be arranged with enough discretion and some planning, even if she knows better than to leave a bottle there for him, alone, to decide how to consume it. Whatever comes out of that request, she would be there to join him, while still keeping a watchful eye on their guest.

She's spied Alicia visiting his room, and once she's even seen the youngest exiting the space with a bunch of books in her hands. She's glad he provides good enough company for her sister when the hours drag themselves slower and slower by the day, especially given their shared interest in books and stories. In light of their latest tragic predicament, and of Felix's recent incident, Clea is aware of how important it is for Alicia, that even the simplest glimpse of interest during conversation can prove a needed lifeline. Days are busy, and she knows better than to bother Clea as she works — it's a form of solace, one way or another. And it brings Clea some peace of mind amidst everything that is unfolding.

When he lets her hand go and he visibly relaxes to almost blend among the white sheets, Clea's legs shift again, to untangle, and she rises from the chair she has been occupying. A curt nods follows at her sister's mention — and she's eyeing him as she slowly paces around the bed, towards the window. The curtains are closed, and by sheer force of habit, she makes sure there is no gap exists between the heavy, long draperies. She draws them close together. The sun has already disappeared after all, and the sky is a deep violet — and the doctor visits him in the early morning: the man would need his rest. Still, at the cheeky mention of the servant's attention in his regards, she cannot entirely suppress a faint tremble threatening at the corner of her mouth.

❛ Hmm, I bet they do, ❜ she sighs with some heaviness in her demeanor, as if the notion could possibly bother her. ❛ Maybe I should start worrying less about your recovery and more about the household staff. I bet my mother would hate to know of these practices taking place behind her back, ❜ she turns back towards him, but now stands by the side of the bed. There is enough room to sit, and to be closer to him — but she has to be careful. That should not be the side of the wound, though, and she decides to sit on the edge of the mattress, occupying as little space as possible. And she faces him. ❛ I'd hate for one of the housemaids to fantasize too much, ❜ she jests, smiling. ❛ —and end up resigning in some folly and fruitless pursuit. We need all of them. ❜

The sounds of life slowly returning to animate the manor are a relief, though she keeps her distance from the hustle and bustle of their employees if she can. Work, outings, hours spent in the Council — she does what she can to dedicate the spare time she's got to him, and her family alike. The kinder, though initially dramatic, atmosphere proves a remedy to the impetuosity of war. Whether it's her sister's tapping steps as she hurries to the library or the gossip of enthusiastic maids wishing to change his bandages, it does not change things. No — instead she ought to be thankful the anxious whispering and his sounds of anguish from the night he was brought home are now only a memory.

She hasn't lost him. That is all that counts.

Clea tries to be as light as she can against the mattress, careful in the way she lowers herself so as not to disturb him or possibly aggravate his wound. She adopts measured precision, as if she were painting details onto a finished piece. Her fingers move subtly where his hand rests, seeking contact and granting him some of her warmth. Were he feeling hale enough to stand, she would have embraced him, held him — but this isn't the time. She's content with that minimal contact, and the softness and worry lying beneath it.

Of course, Felix isn’t naive. He knows it’s Clea he should be thanking. She hasn’t told her parents much about their relationship, as far as he’s aware, but he knows her opinion mattered most when it came to the pivotal minutes where a decision had to be taken, and so he’s grateful for her. Though, then again, he always is. She’s helped saving his body, but she’s been saving his spirit for the longest time.

He watches her stand and move around the room, then briefly glances at the books on the table beside him. Alicia has been so enthusiastic about shading the content of her family’s library that he almost thinks he should get injured more often, because he has never seen that kid happier. They talk about books and share stories and prompts, and Felix can’t undo what has been done to her — what his family contributed to do to her — but he can make Alicia smile, and though that’s not enough, it’s still a start. He turns to look at Clea again, only to find that she was already watching him. Lately she keeps her blue gaze on him more often than not. It makes his heart ache with love to know how cared for he is, but he doesn’t say it. Instead, he jokes about the maids, and hopes it’s enough to make her smile as well.

Truth be told, he has noticed the maids laugh at all his jokes and take their time changing his bandages, but it’s nothing new. The attention from the ladies is something Felix is used to, and now it doesn’t exactly matter anymore. Not when the only one he cares about is right there, close enough to touch. Still, he offers Clea a smirk, though he knows perfectly well that she couldn’t be less bothered. “Your mother, huh?” He teases her, smirk widening. “Right, yeah. We don’t want that, not at all.” It’s nice, he thinks, to finally be able to jest with Clea after days and days of barely being able to talk. He’s not used to being quiet, and even though the wound stings at times, it’s becoming much more bearable.

He’s so, so very sorry about the worry he’s sparked inside her heart. After what happened to her brother, Clea doesn’t deserve to feel such concerns. He should be relieving her back from weights, not adding to them. As she sits beside him on the bed, however, Felix feels his body relax in tandem with the mattress dipping under her weight. She reaches out for his hand, and he meets her halfway. It’s not enough, and Lord knows how much he misses her warmth, but it would take some convincing to get her to agree to lie down next to him.

At the mention of Alicia, Felix can’t help but smile. He adores that kid, and to hear that his presence there is of help fills him with happiness. Especially because he knows how much Clea loves her baby sister. Maybe he can’t do much for her from that bed, but at the very least he’s keeping Alicia company and keeping her away from Clea’s moody responses when bothered while working. A win win situation, really. He’s about to make a comment, when Clea speaks of the accident. Felix bites the inside of his cheek and nods. “I’m glad to keep her company,” he says slowly, then swallows. “But perhaps it’s best you keep her as shielded as possible from what happened. I can’t imagine how terribly she must feel about the war, so… yeah, if she asks, I suggest we come up with an excuse.”

As she carefully hauls herself upright again, thanks to his support nonetheless, the girl exhales one overly undignified puff of air through her nose at his words. So much for the veiled compliment she'd given him at that display of sudden strength— ! On more sober occasions, she might have rolled her eyes at the array of nicknames he so stubbornly resorts to; but at the moment, there is nothing but light-hearted amusement blooming across her expression and filling her mind, softened further by those daring sips of absinthe and their now surfacing effects.

❛ Your choice of vocabulary is surely declining, monsieur— ❜ she jokes beneath her breath, evaluating that last title he's bestowed upon her for longer than is necessary. He is not lying — Clea can, more often than not, get whatever she wants. It has been like that for as long as she can remember, with things taking a subtler turn after the birth of her little sister. But now, it is not merely a display of the love he harbors molding his will to her volatile and silly desires, nor is it the obvious way he concedes to her many requests when she happens to ask him the right way. No — it's something much simpler than that.

The instinctive ease born of that moment, with the inebriation fading from his reaction in the blink of an eye the instant she leaned too far back. That carefulness that smells of anise and Felix alike, woven so naturally into the warmth enveloping their clumsy dance in that room.

She does not step away afterward. Her hand remains loosely curled by his shoulder as their disastrous movement carries them back into each other's space in uneven sways. She is not sure he'd make an impressive dancer during a ball, but there, she has had the immense displeasure of being led by far worse dancers than him — and though he is still way too far from perfection, one has to acknowledge talent where talent lies, after all. No matter, his strongest advantages reside elsewhere, and for tonight, she can lead.

❛ Oh, you would not dip ? Unfortunate, but I understand. You'd end up copying me... and bumping your head against something. You're so tall, ❜ she comments that last bit of an observation accompanied by a little, exasperated roll of her eyes; and though a rational, lasting part of rationality protests that one's height cannot be decided or controlled at will, she's too light-headed to pay it any mind. ❛ And you lack technique. ❜ As she lacks the strength to support his whole weight. With some theatrical concentration and slowness, her gaze drifts across his face as she sways gently to the right, so they don't risk hitting the table and their glasses. ❛ I am anything but imprudent, but you're right. I'd despise realizing I was dancing with an illusion born of absinthe. Though a so-called knight would not demand any proof from me— ❜

As he pulls her up and she starts leading them, Felix has a half idea to take back control, but it's short lived. Between them, Clea is the better dancer, and he's more than curious to see what she has in store for him. So he simply adjusts the grip of his arm around her waist and squares his shoulders in an attempt to fix his posture. They move around the room so clumsily that he's sure a part of her is terribly annoyed.

They remain close. Closer than they're supposed to be for their dance. His skin is flushed where she's touching him above his shirt, and Felix follows her every step diligently. Her comment makes him throw his head back and laugh out loud. When he composes himself, he's still smiling widely. "Oh, right. The issue is my height, not the fact that you wouldn't be able to catch me," he shoots back, unable to contain his amusement. Clearing his throat in a mockery of a scolded student, Felix hums as if deep in thought. "I lack technique," he humours her, then pauses, an idea forming in his mind, ready to be blurted out with the liquid encouragement provided by his own glass of absinthe. "Why don't you teach me, then?"

She moves them away from anything they might break in their uncontrolled swaying, and Felix lets out a chuckle at her comment. "Oh, I know you would." The hand on her back moves up and down, dragging slowly on her dress. The soft fabric tickles his skin, and Felix presses his fingers a little harder against her, just to feel familiar dips and curves of her body. Clea speaks again, and Felix gazes back into her eyes, head tilting slightly to the side. "I am pretty sure that's not how most stories go. As a matter of fact, it was quite common for knights to ask for proofs. That they were serving the right king, saving the right princess, slaying the right dragon..." Yet another laugh escapes him. "Go on, Dessendre. Show me it's really you."

Naturally, knowing her as well as he does, Felix is sure it will take more than some knowledge of chivalric romance to convince her, but surprisingly enough — and, probably, thanks to the absinthe — she moves to touch his face, and his mind goes blank. Her fingers move on his jaw, his heart pumps faster in his chest, and he looks down at her the instant she brushes his mouth. Instinct takes over, then, and Felix parts his lips to gently nibble at her thumb, tongue flicking against it jockingly. Her skin tastes faintly of the sugar she grabbed to make his drink. He lets go when she speaks, nodding along. "They usually do not," he agrees in a low voice. "Well, then I think you should."

He's not surprised to see Felix embodying the true mannerisms of a Frenchman—easy to irritate if not close, bordering hostile, if not for his current state of drinks and smokes suffusing the area around him. And of course, feeling threatened for some reason or another. Perhaps it is because of the noble, creative path they both walk, one embodying it and the other far from it. He simply hums, an idle one with a slight musical tone to it, and meets that glare with his own neutral one.

"I suppose you're well on your way to achieving that tonight." Simon eyes the glass briefly. "No, we're not friends currently. You've not done some terrible thing in a stupor. I'm merely finding an excuse to know you better, and without favours or expectations. A simple offer."

Then again, he's not alone. Not anymore, at least. With Simon there, he wouldn't consider the situation improved, but at least he's talking in between drinks, which, according to some of his friends, is a good sign. The offer he poses is unexpected, and Felix must admit, at least to himself, that it doesn't sound too awful. If his other option is to crawl back home in a drunken haze, alone, maybe eating first wouldn't be the worst thing.