We might be dead by tomorrow

[libertin]

Who| Courfeyrac & Open!
What| Avoiding the whole death arena thing for as long as possible.
Where| District 11 Suites; perhaps around the tower also.
When| Before the crowning and the reaping.
Warnings/Notes| N/A? This is mainly set in the D11 suites, but feel free to set an open part elsewhere in the tower!

Courfeyrac was becoming next to impossible to live with. When he wasn't lingering around Cinderella's bedroom door, he could generally be found taking up far too much room on the communal sofas. He'd taken to lounging around the common area of the suite, furiously scribbling away in a notebook. One might assume that, as a compatriot of the illustrious mentor/philosopher Enjolras, he was composing some great political manifesto. The fervor with which he wrote might indicate such a work was forthcoming. But if anyone bothered to read what had been scrawled across the pages in an almost illegible hand, they would find that it was not anything of the sort. It was instead a collection of poorly composed love poetry.

Now, he wasn't nearly as disgustingly lovesick as Marius had been around (or apart from) Cosette, but he wasn't as articulate or artistic as his old friend Jehan Prouvaire, so as a result, his poetry was lacking in both cleverness and beauty. To call it lousy would be a compliment. Luckily, he'd written it all in French and expected that, for the most part, his work would be safely ignored by the other residents of the suite. Aside from Max, who else would bother reading his writing anyway?  What he lacked in technical skill he made up for in sheer passion.  There was no mistaking the truth behind the words he'd written, though he could certainly use an editor's touch.

The rest of his time not spent with Cindy or writing about Cindy was spent primping and preening in the bathroom, taking full advantage of the amazing modern invention of hot, clean, running water. His grooming habits were in a word excessive, and now that he had a mistress to impress, he needed to look even more dashing than ever. With his broken nose set and healing nicely, he spent even more time caring for his appearance.  He seemed to spend hours in the bathroom.

The upside to all of this was that he'd found a way to forget about politics and philosophy and the looming threat of a death arena in the future. The downside was that he was distracted, unprepared, and consumed with trying to forget the terrible things he'd done and seen in the museum. Whatever he'd learned, he'd rather forget, if only so he could enjoy the land of the living once again and cling to the beauty of life and love and Cinderella.  In his mind, he could have one or the other, he could not have both.  

And so, for now, he chose to live the life of leisure.  After all, he had a good thing going, why not ride it out?  There would be other chances to think deeply and change the world.  Right?  Right?
 

Comments

[splendid_roman]

Ian was always a little wary of entering the suites for other districts, feeling like he was an intruder. So he poked his head around the entrance to the common area gingerly. Since there was a man in there, writing, Ian didn't feel like he could just waltz in. Although he did step into the room properly he said, "Excuse me, do you know if Cindy's around?"

[libertin]

The Frenchman still sat on the sofa, pondering over his composition with an air of determination about him. He looked up at the visitor lazily, at first seemingly unfazed by the other man's sudden appearance. At least, he was unfazed until the man asked after Cindy.

"She is out," he said, sitting up in his seat, on high alert. "I can take a message for her, Monsieur...?"

Was Courfeyrac jealous? Certainly not! But he'd never met this man. It was natural to be curious about him.

[splendid_roman]

"Ian Chesterton," he filled in. Don't worry, it wasn't important. I'll find her sometime," Ian said airily. It happened to be the truth, but there was something in the way he'd sat up suddenly that made Ian wonder if a message would get to Cindy. "Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt you."

[libertin]

"Monsieur Ian Chesterton," Courfeyrac repeated, writing abandoned for now. "It would be no trouble at all for me to relay a message for her." He raised an eyebrow, then immediately realized he was acting foolishly. He was already making an idiot of himself for all of his suite mates to see, pining after Cindy like some sort of lovesick schoolboy. Acting the part around Monsieur Chesterton was hardly a stretch by now. "I do not expect she will be gone long. You are welcome to wait here."

[splendid_roman]

"Why not." He didn't have anywhere he needed to be, so he might as well wait for a bit, and he sat sprawled on the sofa opposite the Frenchman. "Something important?" he asked, gesturing at the paper the other man had been writing on.

[libertin]

"Not exactly," Courfeyrac replied, keeping his precious manuscript close at hand. "It is... simply an exercise of skill. A dabbling."

He watched Ian closely, sussing the Englishman out, still unsure of the man's business in the suite or with Cindy. He was not suspicious, but he could not shake his curiosity just yet. Ah, the curse of being too catlike for his own good.

"It occurs to me that I have not properly introduced myself. I am Courfeyrac."

[splendid_roman]

Ian smiled. "Nice to meet you." He assumed Courfeyrac was some sort of writer and he wasn't that interested. Not unless it was a textbook or science fiction, which seemed unlikely, but you never know.

"I can't say I'm very good at that sort of thing myself." He nodded at the paper in case his meaning wasn't clear. "I stick to reading, rather than writing."

[designatedfreak]

Max knew Courfeyrac's habits as well as her own, so it was not difficult to find the man. She didn't take any pause as she walked up to the man and placed her hand over his notebook.

"This is not training. After lunch is four hours of training." Her eyes held a light sparkle that only Courfeyrac ever got to see. "Unless you would like to increase your hours. I'm sure the others would commend you for the extra work in getting rid of that excess."

[libertin]

"Excess?" Courfeyrac sat up straight, squawking in protest. He could be accused of many things, but being overweight was not one of them. In a huff, he snatched his papers away from Max, determined to be left in peace. "Do you not see that I am otherwise occupied, mademoiselle? I have more pressing matters to attend to at this time. Your so-called training will wait for another day."

[designatedfreak]

"No, your poorly formatted words can wait. Training or I tell Enjolras that you're spending too much time with your lover and not enough learning to survive." It was only a slightly empty threat; she would probably just give Courfeyrac's love notes to the other man and allow him to come to his own conclusions about how Courfeyrac spent his time. She was, however, quite serious about getting the man to train.

[libertin]

"You are free to say whatever it is you please. That will not change the fact that you are a little liar." He made no effort to move from his comfortable spot on the couch. "I have spent hardly any time with her at all, and not nearly enough time to be called too much. Besides that, I survived just fine in the last arena. I expect I shall do well the next time, too."

[designatedfreak]

"I don't lie." She flips over onto the couch. They're alone and she's free to be herself in a way she never is at any other time. "You were lucky. Skills are more than luck. Can you disable a pressure controlled bomb? How are your skills on long range weapons? What's your limit before you begin to starve?" Max tugs on his notebook, but makes no real effort to pull it away. "These are skills I knew by the time I was five. I bet Sandy could take you down, and she wears a cape."

[libertin]

"And yet luck was on my side and not either of yours." He knew it was cruel to say that to her, and he immediately felt awful for it. His annoyed expression turned serious, and he gave her an earnest look. "I've had enough of fighting and thinking about all the horrible ways I will die, Max. I am in love. That never happens to me. And it is unfair that I should not be allowed to enjoy it."

[formersurgeon]

Joan had noticed him there on the couch, furiously composing some masterpiece. It was hard not to, of course. She had also seen him hanging outside the room of another Tribute, a woman named Cinderella (interesting). Even if Joan was not talented and trained in observation, she would have picked up on the lovelorn vibes.

He was in the common room scribbling in his notebook when she finally decided to actually talk to him.

"Hey," she said, approaching with a smile. "Mind if I join you?"

[libertin]

He'd noticed Joan before, though in all honesty he'd been rather impolite in not having introduced himself before. It was strange how the looming presence of death and lust could change a man's priorities.

"No, please." He paused his composition, moving over on the sofa to give her room to sit. "Please have a seat, madame."

[formersurgeon]

French, courteous. She was aware of Enjolras's background with the French Revolution, so she could guess that this was probably a compatriot. She sat beside him, and tilted her head, looking at the notebook.

"What are you writing?"

[libertin]

"This?" Courfeyrac couldn't help but laugh. He wasn't embarrassed, not exactly, but if he said he was proud of his composition he'd be lying. Unashamed, he offered one of the pages to Joan, under the assumption that the content of his bad poetry would mostly be lost on her. "These are simply a fool's attempts at winning the heart of a beautiful woman."

[formersurgeon]

She took it, and couldn't help but smile a little as she read the verse. Yes, it was bad, but the lovelorn ardour was very apparent, and there was something endearing about that. And really, who hadn't written terrible love poetry at one time or another?

She handed the page back to Courfeyrac. "Does she know?"

[libertin]

"I would be shocked if she did not," he answered, tossing the paper absently aside. "But I am not sure she would approve of any of this. She is unlike any woman I have ever met before. I fear that I am out of my element in my pursuit of her."

That alone was really saying something. Courfeyrac loved women. He loved to pursue women. But Cindy was nothing like the blushing Parisian grisettes of his past. She was older than he was, and while he was certain he had charmed her, he was unsure of his ability to keep her amused. It was a tricky position and he did not know what to do.

[costing]

The timelines at work in Panem are a curious thing, to Sherlock. He's talked to at least half a dozen people, by now, who's worlds differ considerably from his own. That means that their contexts are not so easily deduced, and he has to work a bit harder to figure them out. This does not frustrate him; rather, he relishes the challenge.

So on this particular day, as he walks by the couches in the common room, he looks over Courfeyrac's shoulder and snorts with obvious derision.

"Was that meant to be a couplet, or are you ignoring all conventions of poetry in favor of whatever thought enters your mind?"

[libertin]

Courfeyrac, for his part, had given up on being observant, leaving that matter to Max. She was better at keeping track of things while he was better at being social. Together, they almost made one competent and socially adept human being.

Unfortunately, he wasn't exactly in the best of moods as Sherlock decided to engage. Having found himself frustrated with his progress, he'd been staring at several fragments of prose for nearly five straight minutes. He was so deep in his contemplation that he hadn't even noticed Sherlock's approach.

"I beg your pardon!" He turned his head quickly, snorting a little, obviously caught off guard.

[costing]

"You're welcome to have it," Sherlock says flippantly. In most cases, he doesn't really mean to antagonize people; it just happens naturally. He has to admit that Courfeyrac is making it rather easy, however.

[libertin]

He very much wanted to roll his eyes and dismiss the ridiculous Englishman straightaway, to settle back into his lovelorn stupor, but now he'd found himself provoked and ready to chatter away. He couldn't help it, even when he was being antagonized, he found it necessary to engage.

"Is it customary to read over people's shoulders in England?"

[costing]

"Yes. How else would we ever manage to steal all of France's best ideas?" He tries to think back to what he knows about this man, but it's nothing much. He's part of a group, isn't he, those Frenchmen from a bygone century. Sherlock isn't sure why there are so many of them here, but he finds that fact interesting enough to pursue more knowledge about them.

[libertin]

"You might ask to read it first, before offering your critique." Courfeyrac narrowed his eyes, still deciding whether or not this man meant to be annoying. "And if you must know... it is the latter. And it is in the early stages of revision."