World: Paris
Scene: Café Musain, date indeterminate. Marcelin here is attempting to counteract his alter ego, Marcelin Trois the Complete Misogynist.
Players: Enjolras = Abby; Darcel = Amy; Mathieu = Shawn; Claude = Ann
The afternoon sun slants in, of a day in August, lighting the quiet interior of the Musain in muted gold. Enjolras sits scribbling intently by the window, looking positively iconic despite a frown of concentration.
Darcel walks, head down and shoes scuffing, into the room, quite spoiling the delicate poetry of the image with his unkempt presence. He realises this, not three steps in, and pauses, head tilted to one side in consideration. "When cafes are temples and mortal statues priests, then you can't do much with reality but spoil the fiction and fiction the reality." Said sotto voce, almost inaudible. "Afternoon, 'Jolras," he adds, aloud, resting his weight against a chair back.
Enjolras starts, his train of thought abruptly derailed, and glances up in irritation. "Grantaire," shortly.
Darcel shrugs, slightly, an awkward gesture since he doesn't shift his weight from the chair back to accomplish it. "As long as we've established identity," he says, dryly.
Mathieu ducks into the Cafe not long after Grantaire, face clouded by a dark frown. He carries, as always, books under one arm, and he nods curtly to the pair before heading for his usual corner table.
Enjolras ignores the R thereafter, as the latter appears disinclined to talk sensibly, and turns back to his writing. He glances up as Mathieu enters, and spares him a guarded nod.
Darcel watches his laconic companions exchange silent greetings in smusement and shifts into a chair. "M'sieur. What is it today, Apollo? Dead languages or unborn governments?"
Mathieu drops into a chair with an astounding lack of grace, flipping open a book. He stops before reading, though, and starts looking around for a drink.
Enjolras nearly answers this, before he remembers that he was going to quit answering to these ridiculous epithets. He sets his jaw, and jots down another line.
Darcel peers perplexedly around the room. Communicative company. "Lycurgus, not Apollo today, Enjolras?" is all he says, mildly, and twists around in his chair. Seeing the cafe's other inhabitant intent on procuring a drink, he follows suit. Couldn't possibly dampen the conversation, after all.
Mathieu does, indeed, procure some wine, and so sits back down to glare at his book.
Enjolras says dourly, "I suppose you would know." He pushes both hands into his hair, as if that might help him concentrate.
Darcel obtains his own drink and peers over it at his two companions. One scowling at a book, the other glaring at his writing. "Wouldn't have asked if I did, Enjolras. I'd hope not, though, if that wasn't an invitation for Fate to jab you with one of her knitting needles to see if that will dye the wool a better colour than its dingy grey. Knowledge may be a rarity, like aged relics, but, like battered cups, it costs a hell of a lot and doesn't hold the wine."
Mathieu shakes his head, still scowling. "What did you just say?"
The pencil breaks. Enjolras stares at it a moment, then sets the two halves down carefully.
Darcel grins, faintly. "Words. Nothing worth repeating. There are a hell of a lot of them floating around, but most of them have been used 'til the last scraps of meaning deserted their lodgings in disgust. Not worth digging through them to see if the meaning left a battered hat behind." He glances curiously in Enjolras' direction at the sound of the writing implement snapping.
Mathieu smirks. "In other words, nothing. Got it."
Enjolras says under his breath, "I don't know what else you expected," and sits back, regarding his papers in annoyance.
Darcel drains his glass and pours another. "That too, M'sieur, if it's worth noting." His eyes flick in Enjolras' direction again, but he makes no further comment. For once.
Mathieu stands, walking over to Enjolras' table, and wordlessly offers him a new, unbroken pencil.
Enjolras glances up in surprise, and after a moment takes it, with a murmur of thanks.
Mathieu nods, heading back to his table. He has more.
Darcel thrums his fingers on the table to break the quiet. He adds whistling to this endeavour, briefly, but desists after a moment and tries again, verbally. "Careful, Enjolras, pencils haven't much use, but there's not much worth breaking them over. Caesar might've scratched with a stylus, but it didn't do him any more good than it did it."
Claude enters from the street in time to hear this last remark about Caesar and styluses, but being used to coming in at the tail end of cryptic conversations, she says nothing. Nodding to Enjolras, she dumps the everpresent stack of books onto the table and greets Grantaire and Mathieu.
Mathieu nods to Claude, scowl still present. He glares at, rather than reads, his book.
Enjolras presses the pencil carefully between both hands. "Good afternoon, Mademoiselle Prouvaire," with rigid, not to say pointed, courtesy.
Darcel glances up, his eyes fixing on the books momentarily like a cornered man faced with twelve vicious swordsmen and an effusive puppy all at the same time. They're everywhere today, it seems. "Alexandria's charred shelves' revenge," he mutters. "Afternoon, mam'selle," greets in deliberate abbreviation of Enjolras' words.
Mathieu, bright enough to have paid attention the other times he's seen Claude, simply says, "Afternoon," pointedly not calling her mam'selle.
"Thank you, monsieur," answering Mathieu first, as he'd been the only one who hadn't addressed her as 'mam'selle.' Glancing at Enjolras in a mildly bored fashion, she lazily flips open a book, lays out a few papers, and makes a show of being there for quite some time.
Enjolras' mouth tightens at the corners. He leans forward, elbows on the table, and inquires politely, "Are you always this pleasant, mademoiselle, or are we just lucky?"
Darcel whistles, lifting his glass again. "Achilles and Penthesilia. Pleasantries and blows, and God thinks no one'll notice the difference if he swaps the names around a bit," he observes softly.
Mathieu looks up, setting his book aside for some paper. Time for notes, it seems.
Claude sets her pencil down delicately and turns to Enjolras. She leans forward a bit, to convey something of great importance. "You're just lucky, Enjolras," she answers quietly, smiling innocently at him before turning back to her work, refusing to give him another thought. Her air is remarkably like a monarch dismissing a peasant.
Mathieu frantically scribbles notes, hoping to get in as much information as he can before the fight begins and he has to duck under a table or something.
Enjolras entirely fails to be dismissed, to the point of standing, crossing to her table, and seating himself uninvited. "Because, frankly, I would hate to see you being unpleasant."
Darcel thrums his fingers on his glass, not altogether certain whether it's a good thing that the irritation is directed somewhere other than at him, for the moment. "The leaking floors of the ocean and Pluto's wet feet. Words being the cause of half of humanity's woes-- and God knows between the garble of debate and the scribble of books" a sour look at the prolific amount of literature about "we've more than enough of both."
Claude stares silently at him for a moment. "You're right. You would hate to see me being unpleasant." This in a civil, polite tone, through gritted teeth. Her own pencil is starting to show signs of stress.
The clear blue gaze never wavers. "What do you have against me, mademoiselle?"
Mathieu glances over at Darcel. "If they start brawling, which one of these tables is sturdiest, so I can use it as a shield?"
Darcel turns a wry glance on Mathieu. "Spartans said 'come back with your shield or on it,' and if they decide to spill blood along with the wine, the latter's more likely. Though tables make bloody awful pillows. Not worth lifting your head from it, if you're only going to end up under it, instead of on it." His eyes drift with instinctive concern towards the confrontation.
"I have nothing against you, Enjolras." Evenly, though the pencil is suffering as her knuckles turn white around it.
"I see." He watches her steadily. "So you simply make a habit of being snide and defensive and haughty, and I should take no offense. Is that it?"
Mathieu shakes his head, smirking wryly. Taking more notes.
Darcel swallows another mouthful of wine. He shifts in his chair, as if considering being suicidal enough to join the conversation, but instead merely taps a hand on the table. "Patricians berating the Eupatridae."
Mathieu, not having Grantaire's wisdom (and there's a contradictory phrase), quietly sighs, and murmurs, "If I might interject before fists begin flying...?"
Claude sets her jaw. "Have I been snide and defensive and haughty? I assure you, I had no intention. My apologies. I have a tendency to imitate those around me." Her frank gaze leaves no question as to whom she's referring.
Enjolras sits back a little, stung. He glances at Mathieu, lifting a hand, and then back to Claude. "What have I done to deserve that, mademoiselle?" Quietly.
Darcel watches the pair over his glass, eyes serious, mouth twitching with mirth, a picture of indecision. "'Begin'? They've been working on beating each other bloody since they started."
Claude glances away for a moment. "You've tolerated me," she answers in the same tone. "Tolerated and largely ignored me." Looks back at him. "But you don't want me here."
Mathieu murmurs, "Seriously. Both of you. Please, listen a moment."
Enjolras blinks. "I never said that..." Then his expression hardens again as he glances at Mathieu. "Monsieur?"
Darcel presses his hands on the table, to stand, move, do something, but sinks back again, silent for the moment, to all appearences intent upon swirling the contents of his glass. He watches from the corners of his eyes.
Mathieu glances at Enjolras. "I think, m'sieu Enjolras, that you need to relax. You are being defensive and angry. And you, Claude - for I know better than to call you 'mam'selle' - are being equally defensive, and seem to be looking for a fight. The two of you can dislike each other all you wish, but what good does this little spat do either of you? Or anyone else, for that matter?"
"Oh, I don't know," Claude replies calmly. "It's been brewing ever since I first set foot in this cafe. There's probably a point at which something ought to be said, and now's as good a time as any."
The eyes go to blue ice in an instant. "Thank you for that advice, monsieur. Perhaps, next time, I'll ask for it." He turns back to Claude, visibly trying for his previous calm. "You were saying?"
Mathieu snorts. "Wise enough to decide the future of a nation, yet not so wise as to listen to freely offered advice, is it? A pity."
Darcel looks rueful. "Hard to think for a whole imbecilic country and yourself." He appears to be addressing his glass.
Claude proceeds to ignore Mathieu as if he hadn't spoken. "You didn't have to say it. It's obvious enough that every time I walk into the room I can feel your disapproving glare on the back of my neck."
Mathieu mutters at his paper, "Martyrs-to-be, the lot of them."
Enjolras stiffens at the comments. To Claude he says steadily, "You're imagining things, mademoiselle, if you'll forgive me for saying so. To be blunt, I have more to occupy me than persecuting you. I don't disapprove of you, I have never disapproved of you, and I'm damned if I know why you think so."
Darcel whistles softly. "'Course, whether you've got Hannibal looming over your shoulder from behind, or Rome frowning sternly at the front, you're always the wronged party. Trust logic and you'll end up impaled on your own sword, and wondering why in hell the other fellow didn't manage to stab you first. But they'll still fight. Keeps things from settling down into recognisable mediocrity." He continues to address his glass.
Mathieu glares at Darcel. "God above, man, do you ever make sense?" Of course it's not rational, but he still feels wronged. "What the hell does that mean?"
Claude watches him steadily. "You may continue telling me you don't disapprove of me. Hell, perhaps I'll believe you someday. But I can see the glances you give me when I enter the room. When I drop titles and address everyone by their last names. When I address you by your last name." She stops herself forcefully and glances away.
Enjolras regards her for a moment in silence. "Perhaps. Perhaps I object to that. Why do you think that is?"
Darcel glances up, distracted from his conversation with the drinking vessel. "I'll be bothered to make sense when the world admits its logic's flawed. And God knows what they'll decide sense is then," he retorts, mildly. "Tear each other to shreds over protocol. Nothing new, anyway."
Claude sits back and folds her arms. "I don't know why you object to that, M'sieur. Please, enlighten me." Coolly.
Enjolras spares an irked glance for Grantaire. "I object, mademoiselle, to being addressed informally by people I don't know well. I object to the breezy assumption that I should be attached to everyone my friends are attached to, or who share my views, or who happen to frequent the same cafes -- in short, mademoiselle, I have no reason to be more than ordinarily civil to you, and you take that as a personal affront. You have not, may I say, gone to great lengths to be likable."
Mathieu shakes his head, chuckling. He scribbles something about things getting worse before they'll get better.
Claude looks at Enjolras for a moment longer, then nods. "I've not been particularly friendly to you, and for that I offer my apologies. And I also apologize for presuming to call you more familiarly than you'd prefer. I'll try to avoid it in the future." Surprisingly, her words are serious, as is the look in her eyes.
Mathieu looks up, a brow raised. Ye gods - someone's being reasonable. Perhaps a glimmer of hope yet lives.
Darcel drinks, shortly and folds his arms across the table, regarding the combatants with serious eyes. All the same, his lips twist into a grin beneath them. "They'll be bringing out peace treaties in a minute, and'll have to find some reliable witnesses. Minerva's grazes and Venus' pockmarks, everything's a formal conflict in this place. Like Napoleon taking English tea with Wellington at Waterloo-- and mind the artillery doesn't splash mud on the toast."
Mathieu stares - gapes, even - at Darcel. Commences writing, hurriedly. 'Grantaire made sense. Third Seal of Apocalypse no doubt broken. Consider confessional.'
Enjolras studies her a moment; then inclines his head gravely. Graciously, even. "Thank you, mademoiselle." A pause, then, "I am sorry if I've offended you. I don't mean to be..." he hesitates, then shrugs expressively "...unfriendly."
Claude smiles slightly. "Thank you, Monsieur." She appears about to extend a hand over the table to him, but looks hesitant. Instead, she nods to him and goes back to her books.
Darcel tilts his head, watching almost like a man observing a play, but by far less detatched. "And not a drop of blood shed," he murmurs. "Divine scriptwriters must be out of red ink. Crisis averted by stationery shortages. Will wonders never cease?" His voice drops lower, slightly tinged with irony.
Mathieu smiles gently, his writing a bit less frenzied now. Whether they asked for his advice or not, they took it. Indeed, a glimmer of hope.
Enjolras hesitates as well, as though he might say more, but in the event seems to decide not to push his luck. He nods politely to Claude, and stands, heading back to his seat -- with, be it noted, no more than a withering look in Grantaire's direction.