[A few days after Jehan had come back, Courfeyrac would wake up with the answer to his enquiry on how he'd thought of thanking him scrawled across his arm. Yes, quite literally, in the best ink he had. He'd taken care not to injure his skin in any way, but the entirety of his right forearm had been taken up with these couplets while he slept. Jehan had left thereafter to go pay the promised visit to Combeferre; something of which he kindly made note of on a piece of scrap paper, and not Reynaud's right arm; but there he had it.
Even if Courfeyrac could not make heads or tails of it, it got across both Jehan's gratitude and his affection in the way he'd meant for it to. And there was something just eccentric and possibly conjoining enough about the idea of writing freehand on the object of your attention; and not simply for that object; that had tickled him.
Very lucky for him it hadn't actually tickled Courfeyrac. Difficult to explain this to someone if they woke up halfway through.]
For You:
'Fancy presented to merry Bia, A rosy ally, to be twined, Leapt from shadows of misgiving, To where amorous intentions pined; Confiding in a muted tone, It's warmest affections consigned, Begged blot the page above the heart, By Roman de la poire's design.
Bia lined her siblings gaily, Like teeth in rows that form a smile, Which between, a cutlass keeping!, And played a game in random style; A chantons ensemble in the fours-- Zelos lost rhythm; Kratos cried; Nike flew to first position, And let all wrong objections die.'
[It was in Jehan's favor, then, that Courfeyrac slept like the dead more often than not. He would, however, not have minded to wake up in the middle, as strange as it may have been.
When he woke, the first he looked for was the note and once he found it and felt better, only then did he realize his arm was written on. He had to twist his arm a little awkwardly to read it, and once he did read it, he couldn't say that he understood it. He really wasn't one to have a knack for poetry....
But his face flushed all the same, at the idea that Jehan had taken the time to write the poetry on his arm in the first place. There really was something strangely affection about it.]
[When he'd returned, he was easy on the door; only opening it softly and prodding his head in by measures to see if Courfeyrac was awake yet. Not an entirely strange assumption to make, that he might sleep so late into the day-- he did have a tendency towards laziness, though Jehan might never been so unkind as to put it exactly in those terms. He might, in warmest tones, prefer to call him "idle of attitude, not of mind."
Granted, he did harbour the slight and quickening hope that he was awake and had read it by this time. He was bashful of his own writing, but he meant what he'd left on him thoroughly, and so was eager that he should have found it complimentary, if not... comprehensible, really.
Based on Courfeyrac's own poetry, comprehensible would perhaps be asking too much.
So, biting his lip just a touch, he let the upper half of his body enter the room, noticed the man awake, and could not help but a small smile, before letting the rest of himself in.]
[Courfeyrac was lounging in their bed, back against the wall, still reading the poem that Jehan had left on his arm. When he heard the door open, he dropped his arm and smiled up at him, nodding.]
I did, yes. However, my waking hours have been more pleasant as I woke up to such a lovely surprise.
[He couldn't help a small laugh as he shifted in the bed to allow room for Jehan if he chose to join him.]
[Unable to help a soft laugh, at both the chipper look across his face and the charm with which he spoke of the poem, Jehan abandoned his post at the door, shut it securely, and moved to take the offered spot beside him on the bedding, sitting gingerly on its edge, hands clasped over the side.]
It was well enough. I wanted the browse the novels he had mentioned. They are, admittedly, scandalous choices for a doctor.
[Romantic women's fiction. What a delight to discover that vein of interest in his dear friend.]
And... you. You are not upset that I've left a brief scar upon your person?
[Well, if Jehan was going to sit on the edge of the bed, he was going to shift closer.]
Are they? You'll have to tell me more about it later.
[Though at the question, he smiles and shakes his head. He moves closer, wrapping his arms around Jehan from behind and resting his head on his shoulder.]
I am the opposite of upset, cher, it was a pleasant surprise.
[Well... he shouldn't find reason for complaint on that note, ought he? Smiling again, though perhaps more bashfully than before, he tucked his head down. After a moment of debate with himself, he allowed for easing into the hold and leaning back into the other body.]
Then, you are no longer suspended from knowing how I chose to thank you. I am relieved it was equal to your gladness.
[And really, he was; he knew that it was a little bit... well, peculiar... writing on someone, much without their permission.]
That was a creative way of thanking me, perfectly you.
[Tightening his hold on Jehan just a bit, he hummed happily.]
I would not oppose if you chose to do this again sometime, all the better if I'm awake for at least part of those times. You will not, however, be cross if I admit I did not fully understand it, will you?
[A flush at that line, but Jehan did look undeniably pleased. Lifting a hand, he settled it over the arm he had not marked up, and gave it his customary squeeze, tilting his head to bat against the other as his brow furrowed.]
Cross? No. Lawyers understand very little, after all.
[Teased, before a second smile gave it away. More resolutely, he gave his head a small shake.]
Cher, should it be easily understood, I might have simply said it to you out loud. The marvelous thing about poetry is that to each there is an owned meaning. I imparted it with one, but I left it in your care for another. I could explain mine, or you yours, or neither at all; it would not matter. The words belong to you, however you understand them.
Do we? Perhaps it's because we take all words at face value.
[But he still laughs just a little, closing his eyes and batting back at Jehan with his head lightly.]
So, the poetry is open to interpretation, not only to the one reading it, but the one who wrote it. I should not care to lose these words any time soon, might I add. You must promise to replace them with something else when I must eventually rinse them away.
Ooohhh... [Jehan gave a playful cringe at that. There were few people he felt so comfortable with as to be sportive, but after what had happened especially, and its aftermath... this came with an ease he would not give up for anything.] At face value only... the price would be expensive, but the worth cheap. You lawyers use words like fishing-men use hooks; many, and crooked, and with damning purpose.
[He was, again, teasing... for the most part, anyway. Some lawyers were certainly of that make, yes. But Courfeyrac had a silver tongue, and a golden heart to accompany it. Thereby;] But I do not put you with such a make of man. I would say you use words more like a harpist; to a tune that's ever-delightful, often important, and yet floats away with such ease that sometimes one remembers the ditty better than the lyrics.
[That said, he peeked down at what he had written, admittedly a bit thrilled with the idea of his liking it so much as to make it a sort of game, or tradition. What a pretty notion...]
The words will be with you always; as ink sinks in, a little. Down to your very blood, therefore, it is written. [Well, he couldn't help being himself; sometimes his ideas were a little bit beyond the pale.] And the sentiment of them is yours, also, for as long as you'll keep it in your heart. But, if it is your wish, I may repeat it.
[He smiles faintly and joins him on the bed as he catches his breath. He slips a terribly made daisy chain linked crown onto Jehan's head and presses a kiss to his cheek.]
[Though they share a room, this note is carefully left folded atop Courfeyrac's pillow, as Jehan has dismissed himself to the gardens to deal with his feelings on the matter in a solitary manner. But he still wished to let those who he knew cared have the news:]
Cher amour, With Regret,
Notre petit Albert and M. Lupin have both disappeared from this ship.
It is as it was with your Marius.
Yet those who return to a warm home are not lost. We must think it so.
I will be back soon. I am tending to our little patch, in the garden.
[A note, left beside the door to his room, atop a small box. Upon opening the letter, between the folds are pressed, pink roses. It reads as follows:]
Cher Reynaud,
It has taken seeing Feuilly's face, exactly as I last recall it, to remind me that we are not so young as we once were. How many years might have passed here, in this equipoise of time and being? One, or perhaps two...?
You must thank Mademoiselle Seraphim, if anyone at all, for she is much more accomplished than I in wisdom of the kitchen, and without her great help, I cannot have made this small gift to you. (For we saw how I fared with bread! Let us not mention it again.)
Accept it as a token of my affections, in gratefulness that these have not been years spent alone, but in the glow of your great warmth. It is in celebration of a life that has mattered so much, not only to me, but to all whom it has come in contact with. With cheer, sensitivity, and a generous heart the likes of which I have known in no other fellow-creature. (May it also, though poor in substitute, be a reminder of home- what I am sure your sister would have seen done for you.)
Mine carries love within those eyes; All that she looks on is made pleasanter; Upon her path men turn to gaze at her; He whom she greeteth feels his heart to rise, And droops is troubled visage, full of sighs, And of his evil heart is then aware: Hates loves, and pride becomes his worshipper. O women, help to praise her in somewise. Humbleness, and the hope that hopeth well, By speech of hers into the mind are brought, And who beholds is blessed oftenwhiles. The look she hath when she a little smiles Cannot be said, nor holden in the thought; 'Tis such a new and gracious miracle. -Dante
(It is a fitting poem in sentiment, at least, if somewhat off the mark in pronoun.)
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timeasmymeasure
{TEXT} :: Not Even Sorry
Date: 2013-07-20 10:56 pm (UTC)Even if Courfeyrac could not make heads or tails of it, it got across both Jehan's gratitude and his affection in the way he'd meant for it to. And there was something just eccentric and possibly conjoining enough about the idea of writing freehand on the object of your attention; and not simply for that object; that had tickled him.
Very lucky for him it hadn't actually tickled Courfeyrac. Difficult to explain this to someone if they woke up halfway through.]
For You:
'Fancy presented to merry Bia,
A rosy ally, to be twined,
Leapt from shadows of misgiving,
To where amorous intentions pined;
Confiding in a muted tone,
It's warmest affections consigned,
Begged blot the page above the heart,
By Roman de la poire's design.
Bia lined her siblings gaily,
Like teeth in rows that form a smile,
Which between, a cutlass keeping!,
And played a game in random style;
A chantons ensemble in the fours--
Zelos lost rhythm; Kratos cried;
Nike flew to first position,
And let all wrong objections die.'
-J.
no subject
Date: 2013-07-21 12:11 am (UTC)When he woke, the first he looked for was the note and once he found it and felt better, only then did he realize his arm was written on. He had to twist his arm a little awkwardly to read it, and once he did read it, he couldn't say that he understood it. He really wasn't one to have a knack for poetry....
But his face flushed all the same, at the idea that Jehan had taken the time to write the poetry on his arm in the first place. There really was something strangely affection about it.]
[->Action]
Date: 2013-07-23 12:18 am (UTC)Granted, he did harbour the slight and quickening hope that he was awake and had read it by this time. He was bashful of his own writing, but he meant what he'd left on him thoroughly, and so was eager that he should have found it complimentary, if not... comprehensible, really.
Based on Courfeyrac's own poetry, comprehensible would perhaps be asking too much.
So, biting his lip just a touch, he let the upper half of his body enter the room, noticed the man awake, and could not help but a small smile, before letting the rest of himself in.]
You slept agreeably?
no subject
Date: 2013-07-23 12:46 am (UTC)I did, yes. However, my waking hours have been more pleasant as I woke up to such a lovely surprise.
[He couldn't help a small laugh as he shifted in the bed to allow room for Jehan if he chose to join him.]
Did you have a nice visit with Combeferre?
no subject
Date: 2013-07-23 01:30 am (UTC)It was well enough. I wanted the browse the novels he had mentioned. They are, admittedly, scandalous choices for a doctor.
[Romantic women's fiction. What a delight to discover that vein of interest in his dear friend.]
And... you. You are not upset that I've left a brief scar upon your person?
no subject
Date: 2013-07-23 01:53 am (UTC)Are they? You'll have to tell me more about it later.
[Though at the question, he smiles and shakes his head. He moves closer, wrapping his arms around Jehan from behind and resting his head on his shoulder.]
I am the opposite of upset, cher, it was a pleasant surprise.
no subject
Date: 2013-07-23 02:02 am (UTC)Then, you are no longer suspended from knowing how I chose to thank you. I am relieved it was equal to your gladness.
[And really, he was; he knew that it was a little bit... well, peculiar... writing on someone, much without their permission.]
no subject
Date: 2013-07-23 02:20 am (UTC)[Tightening his hold on Jehan just a bit, he hummed happily.]
I would not oppose if you chose to do this again sometime, all the better if I'm awake for at least part of those times. You will not, however, be cross if I admit I did not fully understand it, will you?
no subject
Date: 2013-07-23 02:24 am (UTC)Cross? No. Lawyers understand very little, after all.
[Teased, before a second smile gave it away. More resolutely, he gave his head a small shake.]
Cher, should it be easily understood, I might have simply said it to you out loud. The marvelous thing about poetry is that to each there is an owned meaning. I imparted it with one, but I left it in your care for another. I could explain mine, or you yours, or neither at all; it would not matter. The words belong to you, however you understand them.
no subject
Date: 2013-07-23 02:49 am (UTC)[But he still laughs just a little, closing his eyes and batting back at Jehan with his head lightly.]
So, the poetry is open to interpretation, not only to the one reading it, but the one who wrote it. I should not care to lose these words any time soon, might I add. You must promise to replace them with something else when I must eventually rinse them away.
no subject
Date: 2013-07-23 03:03 am (UTC)[He was, again, teasing... for the most part, anyway. Some lawyers were certainly of that make, yes. But Courfeyrac had a silver tongue, and a golden heart to accompany it. Thereby;] But I do not put you with such a make of man. I would say you use words more like a harpist; to a tune that's ever-delightful, often important, and yet floats away with such ease that sometimes one remembers the ditty better than the lyrics.
[That said, he peeked down at what he had written, admittedly a bit thrilled with the idea of his liking it so much as to make it a sort of game, or tradition. What a pretty notion...]
The words will be with you always; as ink sinks in, a little. Down to your very blood, therefore, it is written. [Well, he couldn't help being himself; sometimes his ideas were a little bit beyond the pale.] And the sentiment of them is yours, also, for as long as you'll keep it in your heart. But, if it is your wish, I may repeat it.
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Date: 2013-09-25 05:21 am (UTC)Will you be back to the room presently? Or not until later?
[Text]
Date: 2013-09-25 05:31 am (UTC)[Text] /SUPER CONVINCING he knows
Date: 2013-09-25 05:33 am (UTC)Will you tell me then, when you plan to be here again?
[Text] ... Yes. the MOST convincing.
Date: 2013-09-25 05:36 am (UTC)[Text]
Date: 2013-09-25 05:38 am (UTC)...Grateful, if you do sprint.
[Text] -> [Action]
Date: 2013-09-25 05:48 am (UTC)[Action]
[He's less than 30 minutes to show, just as promised. Even a little out of breath as he closes the door behind him.]
[Action]
Date: 2013-09-25 05:57 am (UTC)...You did sprint. I'm sorry.
[Action]
Date: 2013-09-25 10:59 am (UTC)I did... but do not worry over it.
[Action]
Date: 2013-09-25 05:44 pm (UTC)[Glancing up as Courfeyrac set the thing on his head, he breathed a soft laugh when he understood what it was, glancing sidelong at him.]
I didn't know you knew how to make these.
[Poorly made or not; still surprising in effect, and still sweet in gesture.]
[Action]
Date: 2013-09-25 05:48 pm (UTC)[A small smile, though he's still a little worried over the short nature of their text conversation... and how distracted he seemed now.]
[Action]
Date: 2013-09-25 05:55 pm (UTC)[He gave a smile, but it came up tight.]
A girl named Nil taught me, here. She was kind to keep her laugher light.
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Date: 2013-12-22 03:14 am (UTC)Cher amour,
With Regret,
Notre petit Albert and M. Lupin have both disappeared from this ship.
It is as it was with your Marius.
Yet those who return to a warm home are not lost. We must think it so.
I will be back soon. I am tending to our little patch, in the garden.
-J.
{A Letter, Handwritten, Left on Courfeyrac's Dresser.}
Date: 2014-05-31 11:48 pm (UTC)You know I am a man of action before words.
I see that you are instructing fencing tomorrow. It is an honourable pursuit.
My swordsmanship is rough, and no doubt yours too finely trained. In the spirit of learning, let us have a friendly match tomorrow.
Perhaps I have been too hasty in judging that the roughest sword cannot be bettered by the fine one, and vice versa...
-Bahorel
no subject
Date: 2014-08-12 10:43 pm (UTC)[A note, left beside the door to his room, atop a small box. Upon opening the letter, between the folds are pressed, pink roses. It reads as follows:]
Cher Reynaud,
It has taken seeing Feuilly's face, exactly as I last recall it, to remind me that we are not so young as we once were. How many years might have passed here, in this equipoise of time and being? One, or perhaps two...?
You must thank Mademoiselle Seraphim, if anyone at all, for she is much more accomplished than I in wisdom of the kitchen, and without her great help, I cannot have made this small gift to you. (For we saw how I fared with bread! Let us not mention it again.)
Accept it as a token of my affections, in gratefulness that these have not been years spent alone, but in the glow of your great warmth. It is in celebration of a life that has mattered so much, not only to me, but to all whom it has come in contact with. With cheer, sensitivity, and a generous heart the likes of which I have known in no other fellow-creature. (May it also, though poor in substitute, be a reminder of home- what I am sure your sister would have seen done for you.)
Mine carries love within those eyes;
All that she looks on is made pleasanter;
Upon her path men turn to gaze at her;
He whom she greeteth feels his heart to rise,
And droops is troubled visage, full of sighs,
And of his evil heart is then aware:
Hates loves, and pride becomes his worshipper.
O women, help to praise her in somewise.
Humbleness, and the hope that hopeth well,
By speech of hers into the mind are brought,
And who beholds is blessed oftenwhiles.
The look she hath when she a little smiles
Cannot be said, nor holden in the thought;
'Tis such a new and gracious miracle.
-Dante
(It is a fitting poem in sentiment, at least, if somewhat off the mark in pronoun.)
Happy Birthday(s). Belatedly.
Affectueuses pensées,
-Jehan
[Inside the box the note sits upon, find one small, rosewater cake.]