Dᴏᴍɪɴɪǫᴜᴇ ᴅ̶ᴇ̶ Cᴏᴜʀғᴇʏʀᴀᴄ。 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
libertin) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2014-03-25 01:08 am
libertin) wrote in thecapitol2014-03-25 01:08 am
Entry tags:
We might be dead by tomorrow
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?
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?
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Max pulled on the notebook. "You've already wasted enough time by arguing with me. You grow lazier by the second; lets go."
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He growled at her sharply, "Don't be stupid. It is metaphorical. Now put it down. That is not for your eyes."
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end?