tushanshu_logs | (no subject)

Characters: Combeferre and YOU
Date: 3/31/14
Location: Wandering about the city and sketching things.
Situation: Combeferre misses his bros.
Warnings/Rating: None!

[It had been a rough month or so, to say the least. Firstly, Enjolras was being secretive (again) -- they were likely due a talk about that at some point or another. Secondly -- and more importantly, the other third of their little 'trio' had returned home, to a fate they were all well-acquainted with. So Combeferre turned to what he normally did in times of stress -- working until he was too tired to think. Or, if frowned at enough, distracting himself with other sorts of interesting things.

Today, apparently, the frowning had done its trick, and so Combeferre is out purchasing supplies for his clinic. He may be found wandering the city streets -- and, at various points, he may also be found with a sketchbook, intent on scribbling down a quick sketch of some interesting form of fauna or flora that he has found. He might look like he's about to pass out from lack of sleep, but he is in a relatively good mood. Probably.]

Threaded | Flat

[It has, at that. Enjolras has been spending the time he's used to secret himself away in various ways, none of which entirely matter or are too significant, really. He has been...existing...for lack of a better word himself, and existing has meant a lot of shutting everyone away, including Combeferre.

At the moment, of all things, he's leaving one of the shops himself, carrying a few things, when he spots Combeferre, looking like Hell itself from a distance, then quickens his steps to meet him, the carefully cultivated blank expression on his face giving way to a frown at the sight of him.]

Love? You do not look well at all.

[Eponine is not so much a bro as she is a... bro.

Since the party she'd held for Courfeyrac's disappearance, and the fall-out thereoff, she's kept to herself, only appearing when absolutely necessary. Which was to say, other than her social obligations such as work or undercover work, was not at all.

No, she'd been in her suite, wasting away. She would drink until she ached, vomit the poison out, and begin again. Any weight she had gained was gone, her clothing once more falling off of her small frame when she spots Combeferre at last. Sitting with a book, apparently sketching.

She was out for more wine, but seeing him, she knows that can wait. He cares for her, surely. Perhaps more than the others now. Perhaps he knows what they all think of her, following her outburst at Marius' feet.

She moves to him, but says nothing until she is at his feet. Then, she kneels in front of him, laying her head against his knees.] Will you do me harm, then?

[And though Joly had frowned Combeferre quite out of his sorts on the job itself, insisting that he was well enough to take over on his own, without the help of his gloomy colleague and friend moaning about the room like a very rosy ghost... well, with few patients at the clinic (and much to catch up on, truth be told-- it would seem that medicine had progressed, in his short passage from France to atop a turtle's back!), and much concern on his heart and mind for the state of said-friend, Joly had closed early.

He planned a trip to the other man's abode, after replenishing a few supplies; but that seemed an unneeded detour, as he found Combeferre ready in the shop, replenishing the supplies himself.

A fancy form of rest and recuperation, that!]

A lack of sleep makes the pulse irregular, and a lack of a pulse is blood-curdling to think about, my friend. It also cures a man of his sex drive, which is a remedy I doubt your relationship was in dire need of, and ages the skin, which is a proven fact, if a spotty science.

Didn't I pay you mind to go home?