TJ

The rumble of the tumbil jolted him further him awake despite the disassociation of loss, all permeating throughout. Tears wouldn't do. Tears. Regret, however droplets would form, they couldn't or did they refuse out of pride to cascade down? 

Had to be brave.

Had to be brave.

The tumbling of fate had spoken—yet, there had been times before that had Camille in elated times—youth at Louis le Grand. 

The air was crisp in April back then, too. Back before he realized there was a ideological differences between what the terror ought to end, before the revolution, the death—despair, just two children in the Ancient Regime, two children with aspirations for their futures and what their scholarships would open for them at this school.

Memories of simpler times.

..

..

..

..

"Camille! You'll be late!"

The bushy haired Camille Desmoulins, glanced up from his book, always fascinated and fastidious in his studies despite his antics at school, yet, a friendship bloomed with the most introverted student—Maximilien Robespierre.

Always, always on Camille's tail, but it was more than wanted, it was treasured as he saw something special in his slightly older friend, even dubbing him Maxime as a nickname that Camille could command to bring sentiments around in later adulthood but could he have known?

"Just one more moment, please, Maxime."

Crossed arms, stern expression, but a tenderness extended out. A tenderness always reserved for Camille.

"They'll be cross, if you're late again—"

"Like you?"

Came so easily, came so snarky, but Maxime gave a double grunt or sigh, which, Camille casually ignored returning to his book. 

"Camille, I'm only trying to protect you."

"Maxime, I appreciate it."

Always. 

Tossed and nearly falling in the cart, Georges grabbed Camille back up and with his own sternness which Camille couldn't decipher as it felt too personal but maybe it was a sign that he ought to be brave for once in his life. Brave. What was bravery? Absence of fear? Ignorance of fear? No, it was total fear, the collection of which the wind always nipped at. They were nearly there at the guillotine and soon, darkness would befall them. Darkness. 

Tears didn't fall. 

..

..

..

"Camille, I'm serious."

"Maxime, just one more minute please. I promise you. I promise you'll always protect me—it's just too good..."

"You'll find that I can't always do that." Maxime declared as if the future of separation existed but how could it? They had their whole lives ahead of them and always would share this sentimentality. This gentleness. Their brotherhood. 

"Then why else would we be friends for then? We'll always have each other." Camille retorted not looking back up, but still stuck in the book. He truly believed it. 

The clear crisp air of April.

The flowers sprung up even in Paris.

The prettiness even existed in such ugliness. 

A smile.

"Well, when you finish, I'll wait at the end of the hill for you. That I can promise. My word is as good as that."

And it always was that. Maxime was reliable like that even as Camille committed further into his book and nestled back to back with the trunk of the tree , and even if Maxime left, Camille never felt truly alone.

..

..

Where was that now?

Where was Maximilien?

Georges went first.

Camille mounted the scaffold next with eyes to the sky, the same crisp sky that he shared once upon a time with Maximilien, wondering how they lost the time between childhood till now. How did love lose? How was it Camille's fault?

He had to be brave now, for any minute now Maxime would be waiting for him like he always did—Camille had to be brave for this wasn't the end of anything. Wasn't when he'd have Maxime always. 

But where was he now?

Maximilien....

They'd always be those same two kids, always so different yet the common ground of friendship would bound them forever even if death separated them. Even if death sparked the very lingering of despair, agony and melancholy.

For Camille knew that Maximilien would always been waiting for him, always protecting him. Always even as Camille was fitted into the guillotine, the blade resting on top. 

Bravery.

How to be brave, Camille didn't know how and so he wasn't, he was more that terrified at death at loss, but what calmed him at the last moments were the childhood memories. 

Maximilien. 

Somehow or another, he'd be there, right?