pro_patria_mortuus | (no subject)

Enjolras has, over his months here, gotten more or less accustomed to conversations with Bar. With Combeferre looking on in fascination, however, he's newly reminded of the depth of peculiarity inherent in a discussion in which one half of the dialogue comes in the form of notes in orange crayon (and legible but extremely strange and rather childish handwriting, to 19th century eyes) written on small paper napkins.

Nonetheless, the conversation is reasonably productive. Their request -- primarily Combeferre's request, though Enjolras raised the question with Bar -- was for either more shelving to be installed in their current room, or for a larger room intended for two and with enough storage space for the collection of oddities and equipment Combeferre is likely to keep amassing.

"And no cherubs," Combeferre added. "If you please."

Bar indicated, via orange notes, that shelving would be possible, but that a larger room was equally possible and likely more useful, and that she suggested examining the options to see if they would suit. It's fair enough, Enjolras has to admit. If none of them seem workable -- for example if every large room involves blue and cherubs or Bahorel's rocks-and-red-velvet... thing -- then they can always return to request shelves and any other modifications Combeferre would prefer.

So Combeferre and Enjolras are now making their way through the upstairs hallway comparing room numbers with those inscribed on a ring of keys.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

That's fine, says Enjolras's face without words and without protest, though he hadn't followed to see whatever startled Combeferre so much in the bathroom.

He could live here, as he could live in most of these rooms, but it's all a bit much.

Especially that ceiling made of paving stones.

"Only a few left."

So, on to room 158, which...

which Enjolras does not have any vocabulary to describe.

It's colorful?

Combeferre has the vocabulary! Combeferre has words for most things.

The words that come to mind here are ouch and appalling and oh god why.

The carpet looks like it's made from scraps of odd, irregular geometric shapes, all in aggressive and ugly colors: bright pink, harsh blue, bilious green, red, black. It not only hurts the eye, it dizzies the brain. And then on top of that carpet there's a bed with a cluttered pattern of flowers.

The whole effect is the opposite of peace and quiet. Combeferre can't imagine studying anything at all there.

They move on to Room 122.

Which...does not look terrible. Or especially interesting. It's almost obscenely large--three bedrooms and a sitting room, each bigger than his Parisian apartment--but nothing in the room is wounding. He turns to Enjolras. "What do you think?"

Combeferre doesn't expect a detailed answer. He knows Enjolras too well for that. But he wants to make sure their living quarters are acceptable to Enjolras, even if Enjolras's aesthetic preferences are few and mostly not very strong.

Enjolras is frowning a little, having surveyed the rooms. (All six of them.)

"Any one of these rooms would be fine. But all this, for two of us?"

He knows Combeferre will find more use for the space than he will, but nevertheless. This isn't bachelor lodgings; it's larger than many houses.

"It feels excessive, yes. Let's look at the last one?"

The last one is Room 161.

Combeferre enters, and groans. The room looks like a particularly boring vision of the Christian afterlife. Pale pinks and golds, crystal stars, and--

"Cherubs," says Combeferre.

Really, Bar?

"Cherubs," Enjolras agrees.

Cherubs, and a bed with a headboard that might have been copied from a cathedral. Well.

"Not this one, unless you're fond of it, then?"

Combeferre takes one last disgusted look around. "Very well--Cabin Still? Room 133? The one where we watched the--the television? I liked that one, and I don't think there was any room either of us liked better."

Enjolras steps backwards into the hallway so he can close the door on the cherubs, in deference to Combeferre's outraged sensibilities.

"Yes. It's that or the one with the branches, I think, and you liked the other better."

It was moderately apparent.

"So how do we tell Bar that we want that one? Shall we go back downstairs?"

Idly, Combeferre wonders if Bar will play further jokes on them, or if she's exhausted her mischievous spirit for the nonce.

"I suppose so. We may as well, so we can return the other keys."

And get duplicate keys to 133: one key for each of them, of course, and copies for their friends as well, on general principles.

They return to Bar, and Combeferre places the old keys on the counter.

In their place appears two shiny golden keys, each with the number 89 carved into them.

Well. Combeferre throws a sidelong glance at Enjolras. It appears that number is following them.

He writes a note to leave with Bar, with five duplicate keys for their friends to replace the old ones:

Dear [Courfeyrac/Joly/Bossuet/Bahorel/Feuilly],

This key is for the new rooms Enjolras and I have moved into. The room number is the same, thanks to Bar's inscrutable motives. Naturally, you are welcome to look in on us at any time. The room has with some equipment for scientific experiment and is an excellent place to study. It also has a television.

Regards,

Combeferre

Enjolras returns the glance.

He's bemused, a little. But not at all displeased -- honored, if anything, and perhaps a little grateful -- to be followed by the number 89.

It's that sort of kindness, and the generosity that's beneath all these ridiculous rooms and the bowls of orange pasta, that makes up for any number of cherubs and blue walls.