clayforthedevil | the awkwardest slumber party

Bahorel half-kicks the door to his rooms open, and saunters in as well as he can with one arm attached to someone he actually doesn't want to slam into a wall (which is pretty well, really. Bahorel's had a good deal of practice being handcuffed. Some of it his friends even know about!)

With his free hand he waves around the rooms in general invitation, without specifying anything-- everyone whose opinion about this counts already knows where everything is, and that it's theirs to use if they want-- and steps aside to let everyone through.

And to let himself see the spy's reaction at the general dramatic decorating choices of prints and scattered oddities and bones and flowers, some framed directly by the door.

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Javert is not childish enough to have dragged his feet coming upstairs. He is trying to retain as much composure as possible, though he would prefer to pass an evening literally anywhere other than here. But he does not seem to have much option, given there are far more of them than there are of him, the assorted friends of Enjolras were obviously not going to just go away, and there was no chance he was inviting any of them to his own room.

He grits his teeth though, and his face is murderous. He almost goes as far as to start praying the grinning, curly-haired one will try to find the key again, and succeed this time. He refuses to look at Bahorel as he enters the room, but he does glance around to see what sort of squalor they'll be living in.

It is worse than he feared. Everything is red. And artistic, or supposed to be. There are bones, and pieces of rubbish, and prints of...prints of...

He looks away, shock replacing the quiet anger. Is that...?

No.

Except when he glances back, his brain says yes, and he does not know it but his face pales slightly.

Good God, it is worse than he could ever have imagined.

Jehan scoops up Marguerite protectively before the spy can step on her. It's more for Javert's protection than Marguerite's. Jehan feels sure a cat from the temple of Bast can't be harmed by the likes of Javert.

He casts a glance at Javert, sees the pallor, sees what Javert is looking at, and grins in satisfaction.

Enjolras has no idea what in specific he's reacting to. Presumably not the weird abstract painting of some kind of flower, so maybe the general redness and Romanticness of the room?

(Yeah Enjolras is quite genuinely blithely oblivious to all subtext in Georgia O'Keeffe paintings.)

Anyway, he doesn't in the least care what Javert is appalled or scandalized by. He smiles faintly at Bahorel and Prouvaire, instead, and goes to sit on the couch.

He has no desire to sit next to the spy. But the other options are worse: he doesn't want to sprawl on the floor next to the spy either, even if he were a sprawling sort of person, and sitting in a solitary chair is childish pettiness -- pettiness that will only earn equally petty retaliation, besides. So the couch it is.

Yes, but sitting on the sofa means he cannot avoid looking at the picture, and he would rather not.

...and he cannot even object on those grounds, because that would be drawing attention to his discomfort.

He sits down. And pointedly averts his eyes.

Edited Date: 2016-02-15 03:20 am (UTC)

Hey, chastely averting your eyes is a time-honored tactic around these parts!

Being a scandalized policeman disgustedly shocked by the evidence of counterculture artists being counterculture and artists is not, of course. Enjolras, who is ignoring Javert as thoroughly as he easily can, shows no sign of noticing any pointed gestures of anything. Instead he's giving a wryly sympathetic look to Feuilly.

Okay, yes, his situation is infinitely more annoying, but since he's ignoring Javert, he can give Feuilly the same look he'd be giving him anyway for being involuntarily cuffed to Bahorel. (Bahorel doesn't need sympathetic looks about it, except for the symbolic denial of his natural liberty, on account of being Bahorel. At least, not unless it drags on a lot longer than it has so far.)

Feuilly catches the wryly sympathetic look and very genuinely appreciates it--from where he's standing, attached to Bahorel, who is still welcoming the crowd into his room.

(Which is a better choice than the room shared by Enjolras and Combeferre. Something in Feuilly winces away from the thought of Javert seeing that bloodied flag. Yes, it's part of something public; they gave their deaths to France as much as they'd given their lives. But now, after those deaths, surely they have the right to cherish privately their own feelings about it.)

Speaking of Javert--Feuilly looks from Enjolras to him, not entirely without sympathy. And tries to figure out what in particular Javert is trying not to look at. Something over by the door, it has to be...

"Oh! Is that by Georgia O'Keeffe?" Sorry, Javert, this is the voice of pure innocent curiosity and artistic interest. "I don't think I've seen that one in any of the books. Well--I mean--I haven't been looking all that much at the American modernists."

Bahorel matches Jehan's grin at Javert's reaction to their room; they're clearly still living life, or possibly death, the right way.

And then Feuilly recognizes the artist and,very clearly, not the subject.Bahorel very nearly bounces. Very satisfying; a study in perspectives, art causing its own creation in the wild. Oh, abstract art is grand.

" That's right! --I haven't seen it any books yet either; maybe it's not to the publishers' tastes." Though: why make a book about Georgia O'Keeffe if you're going to come down all shy over that? Whatever, critics. "But there's an American here from the time with an eye for the arts, she notices these things. I'll introduce you, if you like. Ah!-- Here, move closer to this table?"

The table in question is small and half hidden by the door, and even more hidden by a little pile of packages and letters. There's also a notepad with a pen tied to it. Bahorel's shout covers the general population of the room. "Sending an order out with the rats, call out now if you want anything!"

The last thing Javert wants is sympathy from Feuilly, so he meets that glance with a glare. His eyes pull back to the painting, and he's glad when Bahorel starts dragging furniture around because it forces him to look away.

He almost says that of course no one would put that in a book, but he's pretending not to listen to their nonsense. He doesn't understand it anyway; he doesn't care about art, or subversion, or counterculture, he just knows what the picture reminds him of.

'Water,' he says - does not call - and even though he's starving, he's not about to ask these people to get him food.

" Oh--have them send up a plate of cut sandwiches or something, will you? Like you had at the party? I think at least half of us are going to be a little limited with food preparation for a while."

Which hasn't stopped Joly and Bossuet from trying to get coffee going. It's a bit like a three-legged race, trying to coordinate everything with a partner. Joly's already laughing. The odds of coffee happening seem pretty good! ..Eventually!

Enjolras was going to ask for coffee, but coffee is clearly happening anyway, so never mind. Okay, it's happening somewhat farcically -- albeit with an expected, endearing, and inspiring display of good nature and fraternity in action -- but still, coffee and cut sandwiches are the end result.

So he's all set!

(Definitely it'll be a night for coffee, though. He doesn't really expect to sleep. At least he has friends and a book.)

Combeferre slides next to Enjolras on the couch, eyeing the Georgia O'Keeffe--and everyone's reactions, or lack thereof, to it--with some amusement.

He considers mentioning that Mme O'Keeffe herself disclaimed any carnal symbolism in her paintings, maintaining she was portraying flowers in the most literal sense and not anything anatomical.

But this, he knows, will just make everything even more awkward. Let Enjolras and Feuilly maintain their innocence, at least.

He stifles a yawn. He still has the mug of chamomile tea, and the melatonin tablet wrapped in a napkin. He'll drink the tea but he has no intention of going to sleep soon, especially since there is coffee. "I've been reading about interplanetary parliaments," he says to Enjolras, without bothering with a preamble.

If the topic annoys the spy, Combeferre will derive no pleasure from it, but neither will he strive to mitigate it.

'Oh, good God.'

Javert is a man who will wait in one spot for hours without moving if he has to, watching a house or suspect, or waiting for criminal activity to start. But that is a choice, and necessary. To face hours listening to these idiots bleat on about politics is really too much.

'It is not enough to wrestle with your own government system, you must speculate on others, ones that have nothing to do with you?'

Systems of other planets, even? It is truly ridiculous.

Oh look! It's an endlessly fascinating topic that involves no chance of giving dangerous information to the spy!

"Have you?" Enjolras asks, with immediate and clearly apparent interest. "What in particular?"

Along with the words comes an equally immediate and apparent shift of focus, from fondness for his friends while ignoring Javert, to immersive interest in an abstract political subject (while, incidentally, being fond of his friends and ignoring Javert.) Who cares about physical awkwardness -- or about a spy bleating annoyance in the background -- when there are interplanetary parliamentary systems to talk about?

" Oh!" Joly isn't exactly distracted from coffee-making--they're measuring water now! He can totally focus on precise measuring while talking, it's part of his career!-- but he's definitely interested in this conversation. "Which universe--and which system?"

"I'm not sure--it might be our own," says Combeferre, barely noticing Javert's interjection. "It's our own system, in any case--and it's very difficult to distinguish from our own universe."

Isn't this exciting? Who could fail to find it so?

"In the future--the far future, the twenty-fourth century--the Earth's moon, Mars, Venus, and moons of Jupiter and Saturn will have colonies. And of course each of these developed specific needs, specific cultures, specific religions, and specific ideologies. They required representation. Hence the interplanetary parliament, with a structure unlike anything that existed in our time. It's fascinating."

"Yes, of course."

Obviously that's about the local culture -- national identity, really -- and the need for representation. The fact that it's fascinating doesn't even need to be stated!

"Is each one a unified nation of sorts? Politically, and culturally? Or will that be a matter of internal negotiation as well?"

He is, of course, pitching this so as to be audible to the entire room, but especially to Feuilly. Feuilly should absolutely be able to hear this conversation and contribute his thoughts to it. They'll all be the richer for anything he has to say on the subject.

Unfortunately, they'll have to listen to Javert's thoughts on the subject first, mainly because it will distract him from his urge to punch himself in the face.

'Why does it matter? You are all wasting your time! You speak of systems that are hundreds of years in the future from even this place, let alone our own time. You will never see them, or engage with them; you will never take their lessons and apply them to France. This is what you consider a use of time, sitting together discussing places you will never see?'

He makes a disgusted sound, not caring that he is severely outnumbered in this room.

'You have all of you, at one time or another, spoken of the inequality you see in the system at home. And yet you spend your deaths learning of things that do not relate to it in the least. Even if you learned something, how would you apply it? No, if there was some good to be done - if you could find a way to do it - you should attempt it with the tools at the disposal of the French, in 1833. Anything else is pointless.'

It is pointless anyway, for them. But at least if they spoke of the French government there would be some relevance in it. He hates irrelevance. So many get caught up in it, and it is endlessly frustrating.

Bahorel, swinging the door back half-closed after talking to a passing rat, snorts. "Yes, we wouldn't want to study anything of the methods of people who've seen our problems and found solutions to surpass them, who've learned to face complications beyond our own experience. Why learn from someone else's expertise? If a man wants to learn how to grow flowers, he's best served to ask advice from a fellow who's never raised so much as mold on a wet rag, not learning from a master gardener. Truly, your reasoning is a wonder to witness."

It's a fun evening already!

Not his idea of fun, which will surprise precisely no one.

'Learning from expertise is one thing. It is something that happens naturally. But you have no way to apply it; to sit and discuss theory serves nothing but your own selfish ends.'

Learning for learning's sake, while other people pick up their tabs. They are dead, and useless, and instead of finding some way to contribute they sit up here, and discuss nonsense that has no relevance to anything but their own intellectual pleasures.

'Get a job. Do something of use.'

"There are considerable internal negotiations, yes," says Combeferre, in response to Enjolras's question. "The other planets don't have a history quite as long as Earth's. But they have a long enough history to develop divisions, and inner conflicts. Each planet has its own systems, and then there is the interplanetary one."

Combeferre has mostly been ignoring Javert, and talking (and yawning, both because he's tired and because Javert's objections are boring as well as wrong) right over him. But he hears this last burst of frustration at Bahorel, and smiles. "If Joly hadn't been so willing to learn from people who live centuries after us, and in other worlds," he says, mildly, "I can think of at least one person who would have died."

Then he goes back to the more interesting subject. He, too, pitches his voice so Feuilly can hear, and Jehan, too, who's cuddling the cat in the corner. "And of course there's a greater diversity of art and language once people spread to the other planets. One of the greatest political battles was fought over which languages would be official, and which would not."

Edited Date: 2016-02-15 11:08 pm (UTC)

Javert's face goes flat in the span of a heartbeat, and his tone borders on threatening when he says,

'Leave him out of it.'

He defies explanation. Javert was talking about normal situations.

'And medicine is different to politics. Your friend is working here; very well. The rest of you are not.'

This does not mean he likes Joly, but at least he has some use.

Enjolras's eyebrows lift slightly. He did glance at Javert a few times as he spoke, but otherwise he's been seeming not to take any notice.

He has no great confidence in anyone's ability to make the spy think, but it's certainly been amply demonstrated that Enjolras's arguments show no signs of getting through to him. Let others try, and either amuse themselves or have better luck. Enjolras is not going to bang his head against that particular brick wall, especially right now when neither of them can walk away.

(It's an interesting reaction, though. In keeping with others, but -- interesting.)

So, to Combeferre, he says, "Tell me more. What was the conclusion of their negotiations?"

Not that there's ever a fixed point, in reading these histories of future worlds: yes, this is the end, here is where it calcified, or and here we stand, today, the future a mystery we will build ourselves with each act and decision. But all the same.

The coffee maker now perking along happily,Joly trails with Bossuet back towards the conversation. Space! And government!

..But he gives Combeferre a mildly reproving look at the veiled mention of Valjean. Joly's own discomfort with hearing his work mentioned so is something he'll try to talk about later; it's only a feeling, right now, nothing he's prepared to argue.

To Javert, he only says. "Combeferre is working in the Infirmary too. We've both been able to learn how to work here, in large part because we learned all we could of theories that were only a hypothesis in our own time. Such things require a great deal of discussion to understand. How is government different? Both are ways to help people live well, if they're to be any good -- any use--at all."

Javert's gaze, levelled at Joly, is quietly furious.

'Confidential?' he says, because they had talked about that, and...damn it all, he should have known better than to think one of these children would keep their mouth shut.

He looks away, not trusting himself to not say more on that. His eyes light on the cursed painting, so he has to look in the other direction.

'That is my point. No matter what any of you come to understand about government now, it will do none of you any good at all. And no one else either.'

...No. Javert can be annoyed all he likes, but he doesn't get to malign Joly's confidentiality, not when Joly's been knotted up over so many of Javert's secrets in particular, unable to ask advice from any of his ownclosest friends in the name of that professional oath. There's the slightest touch of frost in his answer. "What, that I work in the Infirmary? Or that we've had patients that can only be helped with the technology here, and not in our time?" Combeferre said nothing else. And Joly said nothing at all. " And some who arrive very publicly?" And Joly can't do anything about what the whole Bar sees.

...But wait. He knows Javert's not well. Could this be some sort of disordered thinking? That people only know what Javert wants them to know, and anything else requires external interference? Hmm. The edge of offense fades in concerned speculation.

Edited Date: 2016-02-16 12:28 am (UTC)