#au of the french revolution: what would happen if robespierre fell in love?

[edupunkn00b]

French Kiss: Tale of the Revolution, Ch. 15: The City of Light

Prev - The City of Light - Next - All - [ AO3 ]

WC: 2350 - CW: weapons, angst, arguing

10 July 1789

It was nearly dark by the time they arrived in Paris, but the streets were still hot and humid, the sweet, fresh air of the countryside a memory. Janus didn’t wait for either Logan or Patton to climb down from the driver’s perch and slammed open the carriage door the moment the wheels stopped turning. He carried with him the bag from Remus, his wig tucked safely in its box under his arm.

“Janus, wait—” Patton called after him, but he slipped down the stairs to the back entrance of the church basement.

“Let him go,” Logan muttered. “He has every right to be angry with me. What I said was reprehensible.”

Patton rested an impossibly strong hand on his shoulder and smiled sadly. “What you said was… pretty bad.” He gave his shoulder a little squeeze. “But you were speaking out of worry and… hurt.”

“Of course I’m concerned, but…” Logan shook his head. “What would I have to be hurt about? Janus seems perfectly happy with this arrangement, he’s the favorite of the future King. You should have seen the way he smiled when he… he—” His protest withered under Patton’s knowing smile. “He cannot know,” he pleaded, gripping Patton’s arm with both hands..

Patton pulled Logan into a hug and rubbed his back. “Your secret’s safe with me, Logan.” He shrugged and pulled back enough to grin up at him. “Well… I think Remy figured it out, too, but he’s just a busybody sometimes.” He squeezed his arms around Logan one more time, then leapt down from the perch and offered his hand. “Come on down and get Remy to make you something. I’ll take care of Naif and Petit. ”

“It… it would perhaps be best to give Janus a little more time to cool off before I attempt another apology.”

Nodding, Patton smiled up at him. “Now, go on, I’ll meet you inside.” He gave Logan a little nudge as he led the horses to their borrowed stable at the end of the road.

Logan watched him go, then took a deep breath and retreated into the warm glow of Café de Foy.

~~~

Janus didn’t light the lamp in the tiny room he shared with Logan and the city’s fetid heat had made their pathetic little pellet stove unnecessary. He stubbed his toe on the foot on the bed and swore. Perfect way to end the night. How dare Logan judge him without even hearing what he had to say? How dare he assume this was mere lust? He never even considered, never even asked if there was more.

He stripped out of his clothes in the dark, and hung them in their little shared closet. Not that either of them needed much space. Logan had two shirts and two trousers. One waistcoat, which he was already wearing. Janus had acquired a few additional pieces, mostly from Logan, actually. “You do it better justice,” he’d murmur when one of his wealthier parishioners gifted him something out of guilt.

Slamming the door shut, Janus threw himself onto his bed and pulled the threadbare sheet up to his neck. Despite the worst the humid July night could throw his way, his bed felt cold and entirely too large. Had it really taken only two weeks for him to become accustomed to not sleeping alone?

Evidently.

Hours passed. Starlight shifted and the moon set, darkening the room further. The low, steady click of Logan’s prized clock marked the time, droning on and on as though nothing had happened, as though Logan was simply already asleep and quiet in his own bed. But the room was empty, the only sound to accompany the clock was Janus’ own breathing. After what felt like half the night, Logan quietly shuffled down the stone steps, foot falls echoing in the silence of the night. The door was nearly soundless as it opened and Janus lay still, feigning sleep.

Logan would want to talk. Would want to confess, to gain his absolution the way he’d grant it to his parish. Janus was in no mood to grant him anything.

He listened as Logan prepared for bed in the dark. His heart clenched at the quiet sniffles from the other side of the room. Logan was crying. Why the hell was he crying? Logan lingered near the closet and after several minutes, he murmured, almost to the clothes themselves, “I’m so sorry, Janus.” His voice was barely louder than a breath. Had the city been awake, it surely would’ve drowned out his words and Janus would have never heard what he said next.

“If you love him even half as much as I love you, I understand.”

Janus froze in his bed, afraid to breathe, afraid to reveal he was awake and had heard Logan’s confession. Blood roaring in his ears, he didn’t hear what else Logan said before he gently pressed the wardrobe door shut and climbed quietly into his own bed.

11 July 1789

Sleep was elusive but not impossible and the dawn had just begun to soak the horizon when Janus’ eyes finally slipped shut. By the time they reopened, bright mid-morning sun streamed through the little cracks around their closed shutters. Logan was gone. Janus squinted against the light. He’d left the shutters open, letting in the thin starlight and the chance for a bit of a breeze in the sweltering night. Logan must have shut them when he’d left, perhaps hoping to give him a bit more sleep. The city was busy, voices raised and more foot traffic past their window than usual. Everyone was likely trying to get in a bit of work and errands and visiting before the heat of the afternoon took them all.

Janus rose and dressed quickly. He had no way of knowing when exactly Logan had left, and he hoped to catch him in the café before too much of the morning had passed.

The city buzzed with energy, hushed voices speaking fervently at each corner. What had happened while he was gone? He pushed open the heavy oak door to the café and let his eyes adjust to the dim interior. Logan sat with his back to the door, hunched over the table, a bit of graphite in his hand and a short stack of parchment near his elbow. Engrossed in his work, he barely moved when the door clunked shut, but still his head jerked up when Patton called his name.

“Janus!” he cheered. “Let me get you a coffee!”

He nodded and made his way to Logan’s table. Head bowed, Logan watched him from the corner of his eye. “May I join you?”

Logan looked up and nodded, eyes wet. “Please,” he whispered.

They were both quiet as Patton brought a pot of coffee, letting his chattering about the heat, the new—gently stolen—water pump he and Remy had installed to support the growing afternoon crowds from the Sorbonne. “Those University students do tip well,” he said with a little shrug as he refilled Logan’s cup. “They want to pretend they’re working class but their purses are heavy,” he laughed. Finally, he smiled at each of them and excused himself before returning to the kitchen.

Logan searched for his words in the swirls of steam coming off his mug. Janus waited and slowly sipped at his cup, the smoky taste almost painting a smile across his face. He’d missed Patton’s coffee. The world’s everything at their fingertips in the palace kitchens and they couldn’t compete against the love that little server infused in his brew.

“I am sorry,” Logan finally said, ripping back Janus’ attention. “I was wrong to make assumptions and to…” He shook his head. “I said horrible things and I am sorry, Janus. I hope you can forgive me.”

“Lo,” Janus reached across the table and Logan flinched when he hesitated before taking his hand. “It’s not what you said that hurt,” he frowned, fingers tapping against the side of Logan’s fingers. His knuckles were more pronounced, as were the bones in his wrist. His fingertips were cold, even in the heat of the day. “It hurt,” Janus admitted. “But what was worse was that you didn’t trust me, that you believed that I would betray everything for… for pleasure. ”

Logan hung his head. “I don’t really believe that,” he whispered. “I… I was… was afraid. Afraid for your safety. It’s an incredible risk and…” He set down his cup and gripped Janus’ hand between both of his. “How do you know he won’t have you arrested? Have you…”

“He won’t.” Janus said. “He’s known who I was since the night we met.”

“What?” Logan hissed, leaning forward. “How could you—”

“I didn’t tell him. He had a courtier ask about ‘Sir Henri Juriste.’ Apparently my cover wasn’t as strong as we’d believed. The real Juriste is now at least thirty years my senior.” Janus rolled his eyes and finished his coffee. “But Remus waited for me to feel safe enough with him to admit the truth.”

“He’s a fool,” Logan muttered.

Janus yanked his hand back and glared at his friend. “Excuse me?” 

“I do not—” he sighed and folded his hands in his lap. “I mean he brought a known imposter into his palace. Into his bed.”

“That’s enough,” Janus’ voice was quiet but sharp.

“You could have caused him real harm,” Logan explained, softer. “How do you not see that?”

“I would never hurt him.”

“And if the cause demanded it?” Logan straightened in his seat, glaring back just as hard. “Have you forgotten what you’d gone to Versailles to do?”

“And I’m doing it. Prince Remus listens to my advice—”

Logan scoffed. “Perhaps in his private chambers.”

“It is not like that.” Janus insisted. “I am doing what you would advocate for. I’ve even gotten him to read bits of your treatise—”

“You what?” 

“None with your real name,” Janus crossed his arms over his chest. “It seems the Prince isn’t the only one you take for a fool.” He lowered his arms and leaned closer. “Like it or not, Prince Remus is the eldest son. He will take the throne when the King dies and King Remus will be amenable to our cause and will have the power and the heart to enact real change.”

“What has happened to you?” Logan sat back, eyes narrowed as he stared at his oldest friend like he’d never seen him before. “You were the best of us, you used your talents for the cause.” He slapped his hand on the table, punctuating each sentence. “You never forgot where you came from, never forgot what we were fighting for! And now?” Logan looked at him like something he’d scraped off his boots. “Now you're betraying our brotherhood, betraying our ideals, all in the name of some false love. You’ve known him for weeks , you didn’t tell him your real name until just now. That’s not love.”

“And I suppose you are the great expert on love?” Logan’s face fell and Janus wished he could rip his words back. “Lo, I—”

He only sat up straighter and finished his coffee. Patton was at his side before the empty cup had touched the scratched table top.  Logan waited silently while Patton poured, then shook his head at Janus. “You are blinded by the needs of your heart. And your flesh.”

Janus' hands shook and he stroked his ring. “Are you quite certain it is I who is blinded, Father Gérault?” 

Logan paled and looked away. Before he could respond, the café door slammed open and a half-dozen of the Garde Royale stomped inside. Conversation in the café dissolved, the faint bubble of the oat gruel Patton was preparing roared in the quiet.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Remy called out from the back room, clearly drawn by the sudden lack of ambient noise. “May I get you some coffee?” He raised a steel tankard. “On the house.” When they ignored him, he stepped closer, his full height suddenly obvious. “Or perhaps something stronger? A light ale on a summer’s day?”

Janus’s eyes widened when the palace steward stepped inside, peering through the relative darkness at each patron. His eyes landed on Janus and he pointed at their table.

Remy stepped forward, just barely in their path. “Surely it doesn’t take six guards to have a conversation with one of my patrons.” Janus looked around them. The guards had chosen their position well, blocking both the main entrance and the side door. There was a hatch hidden behind the counter, but there was no way Janus could reach it without being seen.

The steward ignored Remy and approached the table where Logan and Janus sat. “By order of the Dauphin, you are to come with me , Sir Juriste.”

“You have the wrong person,” Logan said in his ‘reasonable’ voice. He rose, shoving his papers to the side then held out his hands in benediction. “This is my friend, he is not a noble.”

“Well, perhaps your friend has been less than honest with you,” the steward remarked and pointed at the gold bracelet hanging from Janus’ wrist. “He wears the Dauphin’s fleur-de-lis. Besides…” The steward managed to sneer and simper at the same time. “I know his face.”

“It’s alright, Lo,” Janus said as he stood. “At least you get to say you were right after all.” His joke fell flat when he met Logan’s eyes. "Be safe," he murmured and gave shoulder a squeeze as he drew close and whispered in his ear. "I'm sorry, too."

The guards had fanned out, standing between Janus and the other patrons. And Patton and Remy. “Very well,” he said to the steward, chin held high. “More guards outside, I presume?”

The steward nodded and moved with staccato steps to the door. One of the guards held it open, and two led the way. The remaining three watched the patrons—and Remy—muskets at the ready. Just before he was swallowed by the glare of the midday sun, Janus nodded to Logan and Patton. And then he was gone.

The guards followed and the café door slammed shut again. Voices erupted in the café and Patton leapt out from behind the counter. “We have to do something!” Logan nodded, about to speak. He was interrupted by a loud voice carrying over the din.

“Oh, now you want to take action?” Colére spat from the corner, feet propped on the table. “Where was this fight when the people were ready to take up arms to defend our right to assemble?" He rose to his feet. "Where was this fight when the people were ready to defend our right to be heard in the Assembly?”

“You wanted to storm the palace with a handful of boys who could scarcely lift a musket.” Logan’s voice was low but the former priest knew how to keep an audience. “That’s not being heard, Lucas, that’s being massacred. They’ve likely taken Janus to the prison at the Bastille.” He gripped Colére’s shoulder. “There are more guns than prisoners there. We will not win this by might alone.” Colére’s eye twitched, but he listened and took his seat.

“We need information,” Logan said, and turned to address the small group that had assembled around him. “And we need a plan.”

#French Kiss: Tale of the Revolution #ts janus #ts remus #ts logan #ts patton #ts roman #ts lucas #Janus Robespierre #Crown Prince Remus Capetian #Prince Roman Capetian #Father Logan Gérault #Patton Cœur #Lucas Colére #dukeceit #demus #French Revolution #AU of the French Revolution: What would happen if Robespierre fell in love? #sanders sides #sanders sides fic #sanders sides fanfic #ts fanfic

[kiatheinsomniac]

Sooooo I know that we don't know each other that much but I had this thought and the first blog to come to my mind was yours, I was in Pinterest reading aus and found one that said you stop aging at 18 if u don't find ur soulmate and I thought about what if ur not from the same decade and that person lived all those years til now, imagine having a romantic dinner with the person and somehow when they were born comes up and damn I knew I was into older people but not that old and afagajhabwjahan

(Y/n) sat down hurriedly as she took her seat, already having missed the very opening of the play. She looked at her date who had new hope in his eyes at her sudden presence.

"I'm so sorry," She whispered to avoid disturbing anyone else in the café théâtre, "There was a delay at the Cité stop."

"It's alright, you're here now." He smiled, "I was worried that you weren't going to show up."

"I could never." She replied with a soft smile as he waved a waiter over.

"The usual and a (favourite coffee), s'il vous plaît, Victor." He spoke in a polite tone, proceeding to describe any other details of (Y/n)'s drink to the man, the employee nodded his head and went off to make them both.

(Y/n) had met Arno here at his café théâtre, she went in most mornings seeing as she worked at the florists just down the street. She was enchanted by the place when she first found it, often leaving the house earlier to enjoy a coffee and a chapter of her book there before her first shift of the day. There were often performers on the stage too and it was her favourite thing when a violinist or pianist was playing on the stage as she immersed herself in the pages of whichever novel she had been reading that month. Quite often, when she went in, Arno was the one working behind the counter. It wasn't uncommon for the two to flirt with each other at all either.

In fact, he didn't realise how much he liked seeing her in the mornings until she was put on an earlier shift at work and no longer had the time to visit his café in the mornings. When her shifts returned to normal, he asked her on a date the very first chance he got, and she readily accepted.

So, that's what brought them here.

"It's sweet to know that you remember my favourite drink." She smiled softly, feeling a slight heat on her cheeks.

"How could I not? You come in almost every morning." He teased, "But, I must admit, I usually take care to make sure I get it right for you." He watched her look down at her lap shyly, her smile tugging at her lips despite her trying to hide it. It was a small gesture but in a world full of so many thoughtless people, it meant a lot to her.

"So, (Y/n), what sorts of things do you like? Other than reading, I know plenty of Mary Shelley and Jane Austen by now." He replied. (Y/n) recalled to where he would often ask her how her book was going and she'd share her thoughts and favourite quotes with him.

"Well. . . I really like history and the arts. I think that there's always so much to learn from the people who came before us." At her choice of words, his face became painted with an amused smile, "And we have so many sources to look to now, to see the error in our past and current ways, to change things for the better. I'm particularly fond of the Renaissance and the French and American revolutions."

"The French revolution?" He raised a brow.

"Absolutely!" She replied with a grin and sparkling eyes, "I can understand why people aren't fond of it - it was bloody, ruthless, some instances were horrifyingly shocking and so many lives were lost. But how many lives would have continued to fall to poverty if that had not happened? I love the politics behind it, how easily Robespierre, the seemingly untouchable man, fell to corruption and, eventually, the guillotine. Also, movements like that are important became it gave many women the chance to show their worth - the women's march on Versailles, Charlotte Corday, Theroigne de Mericourt. . ."

"Ah, yes, I knew her."

"Oh, you've studied her?" (Y/n) replied, thanking the waiter as he placed their coffees down on the table before them. Arno laughed heartily, watching her confusion with amusement, the way she furrowed her brow and tilted her head, looking much more adorable in his eyes than she should.

"No, I met her. I helped her to get some food to the poor and get rid of some Jacobins too." He watched her face fall into shock, hardly able to drink his coffee with the smile on his face.

"How long have you been looking for your soulmate? When were you born?" She raised her brows. In this world, looks could be very deceiving: an eighteen-year-old could be a five-hundred-year-old. (Y/n) had even heard stories of people who kill their soulmates so that they never die.

"I looked for around two centuries, stopped after the first world war, then starting looking again," He hesitated, "recently." In truth, he had given up altogether until he met the (h/c)-haired woman sitting opposite him, "And I was born in 1768."

"Wow. . ." She breathed out, "You've lived through a good portion of history then, huh?"

"You could say that." He shrugged, "I take it that you're actually eighteen?"

"Twenty-six, actually." She replied, taking a sip of her favourite coffee, "So, I'm on a date with a two-hundred and fifty-two year old?" She tutted at him and shook her head teasingly, all in light-heartedness.

"All jokes I've heard before, chérie." He replied.

"Must be a lot of birthday candles." She continued to tease with a childish grin as he rolled his eyes playfully.

"Cut the old jokes and I’ll let you see some of my memorabilia from the revolution, how does that sound?" He cut her a deal. She lifted her hand to mimic zipping her lips and throwing the zip away.

"If it's not a sensitive subject, would you mind telling me if it's been difficult? Trying to find a soulmate, I mean." She spoke in a more serious tone.

"I always thought that my first love was my soulmate. Her name was Élise. My parents. . . weren't really in the picture when I was a boy so I was raised by Élise's father. We grew up together and we fell in love as teenagers. We both thought that we were perfect for each other but. . . neither of us aged after eighteen. It didn't make me love her any less, though. But, one day. . . She died in a fight." She could see that he was still upset by her death, though, the time passed since had clearly made him accept it and learn how to talk of it openly. "I've had a few lovers since then and many went the same way: three serious ones in the 19th century who left when they met their soulmates. One in the 1910s who died in prison-" He saw the look of shock on (Y/n)'s face "- she wasn't a criminal, she was a suffragette; as was I." He paused a moment more, "I gave up after that until recently."

"What made you change your mind?" She propped her chin on her hand, hanging onto each little detail of his stories. Was that the hint of a blush she could see on his cheeks?

"Not to be an old-fashioned romantic. . ." He joked, making (Y/n) smile at him joining in with her old jokes, "But it was you." Her back straightened a bit with surprise.

"Me?" He reached for her hand across the table, watching him nod his head as he idly twisted her fingers around his.

"You give me hope." He smiled simply.

♡♡♡

Quite a few months had passed since then - as had many more dates and Arno asking to ‘court’ her (that earned him both a ‘yes’ and many old jokes) - and (Y/n) was currently laid with Arno in his room, it was early in the morning and they were half-dressed, tangled in the bedsheets with half-drank coffee on the bedside table and a tray of various snacks laid by them: different cheeses, sweetmeats, cut fruits. Arno had his head laid on her stomach and she was propped against the wall, a pillow cushioning her back. One of her hands was running through his hair, his eyes closed as he listened to her voice and lavished in her gentle caresses. Her other hand was holding a copy of Frankenstein: they'd both read it before but shared a love for it.

" 'How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form? His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful! - Great God! ' " She glanced down to her lover, lips pursing as she laid the book down.

"Have you been stressed lately, amour?" She furrowed her brows, making him open his eyes.

"Having to change suppliers for the café has been a bit difficult, yes." He sighed, "What makes you ask?"

"You have a silver hair." She commented. His hand went to his head rapidly as he sat up, finding the culprit hair with shock. His mouth fell agape and (Y/n) was confused for a moment before she realised what this meant for both of them. He turned to face her, watching the smile creep onto her lips as he lunged forward to cup her face, pulling her into a deep kiss and holding her body as close to his as possible, skimming his hands down her spine as hers went up to rest on his shoulders, the two of them having to pull apart from smiling too much. He held her tenderly and rested his forehead against hers, lips brushing featherly over hers when he said:

"You took your time, didn't you?"

#ac #assassin s creed #self insert #assassins creed unity #arno dorian #modern arno dorian #arno dorian imagine #arno dorian x reader #soulmate au #modern au

[margridarnauds]

i know you reblogged the Thing a while ago but aaaa i really love reading your answers so - 002 for lazare, if you wanna?

Thanks! (And seriously, if I’d reblogged it a month ago, I would still be down for answering it; I love talking 1789, especially if it involves my boy.) I feel like I did this some time ago, but also I’ve never stopped screaming about Lazare and I’m not going to stop now. 

Be warned: The following is based off of various and assorted headcanons and theories, ergo the canon compliance is, as always, questionable. Since it isn’t like Lazare gets all that much in canon, bless his heart. 

How I feel about this character: My baby. My son. My murderous son. It’s funny because, when I first watched 1789, it must have been about 3-4 years ago, because I somehow managed to fall into the fandom just before the Takarazuka version dropped (I seem to recall some of the initial questioning over how Marie Antoinette’s role would be dealt with and expanded), I REALLY didn’t like Lazare. I remember seeing all the fanfic on him (in French, which I read via Google Translate on my college’s computer while I was taking a creative writing class over the summer) and being like “This guy? WHY? HE KILLS PEOPLE.” Ah yes. My 17 year old self was so painfully naive. On so many points. Then, about a year and a half ago, I fell back into Hell after a stream of the Takarazuka version and managed to latch onto him. I really resisted for the longest time, but after about a month, I ended up bonding with him, and the rest is history. 

I think that, of all the cast, he has some of the greatest potential, and I really think that Matthieu Carnot in particular did a great job with giving us a variety of interpretations on him. 

All the people I ship romantically with this character: For the most part, I’m pretty monogamous to Peyronan. I do ship Artois/Lazare as a purely one-sided thing, purely so that Artois can do a flip when he finds out about Ronan. Olympe/Lazare and Olympe/Lazare/Ronan is right there; it’s pretty much the only way I can actually stomach Ronan/Olympe as a ship, and at one point I had. Words. Written out on that one, though who knows if I’ll ever complete those Words. I’ve also batted around Louis XVI/Lazare as an alternative to Artois.

My non-romantic OTP for this character: I STRONGLY Brotp Solène/Lazare and Olympe/Lazare, as well as Lt. du Puget/Lazare (with du Puget filling in as the father that Lazare SHOULD have had, had things gone better) and Ramard/Lazare. (Toho/Takarazuka Ramard, with the two of them both having to deal with Artois and Ramard still being new enough to the job that he’s not been totally corrupted yet.) 

Olympe and Lazare, in my own headcanon, parallel each other well, with Lazare’s longstanding crush on Artois and Olympe’s on Antoinette. Both of them are fiercely loyal to their respective members of the royal family, both of them distrust the mob and what it’s capable of, but while Artois exploits Lazare for his own benefit, making him into his personal attack dog (you know, In the one scene they have together in canon), Antoinette...doesn’t MEAN to with Olympe, she doesn’t even know that she HAS a crush on her. Antoinette is pretty oblivious to the world around her, bless her heart, but she means well. But still, we see in canon that Olympe sticks her neck out on the line time after time for her sake, before MA FINALLY lets her go. And even then, I go back and forth as to whether she realizes Olympe has a crush on her (and is trying to spare her the pain + the damage to her reputation) or whether she genuinely believes that Olympe has a lover (and genuinely thinks she’s helping Olympe by letting her be with someone she loves, not realizing that the person she loves is...), given that both are pretty devastating in their own ways. Artois, though, would never let Lazare go. Even if he doesn’t personally have any LIKING for Lazare, he’s not going to let him leave him, because he wants that control and his pride can’t stand the thought that Lazare could (1) Move on from HIM and (2) Move on from him WITH A PEASANT. Like, Ronan’s existence is basically the single biggest middle finger that Lazare could deliver to Artois. 

Solène and Lazare also have a hell of a lot in common, aside from just...the shit-talking Ronan opportunities. Both of them are the more pragmatic, cynical partner in their respective pairings, both of them pretend to feel a lot less than they actually do, and both of them have reputations of being People You Do Not Fuck With but also MELT for their respective love interests. 

My unpopular opinion about this character: This is something I’ve noticed primarily from the French and Russian fandoms (with a LITTLE bit in the Chinese, though I’ve also read fluff in Chinese), but Creepy Crawly Lazare. No. Absolutely no. I once literally started an Angsty Childhood Friends AU fic out of sheer SPITE over Creepy Crawly Lazare. (Not Le Cri, another one that I will unleash when the time is right.) I understand it with the Japanese productions a little bit more, because they tend to deal with a much darker look at him than the French, but I still don’t see Laz...like that. And, for the most part, I tend to favor the interpretations of Laz where he genuinely BELIEVES in the Ancien Régime and has managed to convince himself that he’s doing the right thing. I love the Takarazuka Laz; I love the Toho Laz (I’ve FINALLY warmed up to him. I mean, he replied to my mom on Instagram. How can you not like him if he replies to your mom on Instagram?), but they’re...not MY take on Lazare. I tend to see him as borderline asexual/demisexual as it is.  

Relating to that, any interpretation of Laz where he’s a smooth talker. My boy can play the political game as needed, primarily by keeping his mouth shut, but casually giving out pick up lines...no. The only way I could accept this is if he ran to Ramard for help, desperate, and he jotted down all of his favorite pick-up lines (hint: They’re all awful), only for Lazare to blank the second he saw Ronan. I genuinely have a hard time believing he’s had any kind of relationship pre-canon. Like, RONAN’S probably had more experience kissing than he has, and we’ve all seen how Ronan kisses. 

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon: Obviously, I would love canon, mutually consensual Peyronan. I think that all three productions have hinted at it; I don’t think ANY of the Lazares have really played him as Straight™, especially when it comes to Ronan (THE HUG IN THE FRENCH PRODUCTION), but I would actually like to see it 100% canon. Not that that would EVER happen in a mainstream musical, especially in the Japanese productions (not saying there’s NO progress there, because there have been some stupendously gay things I’ve seen via Zuka and Toho, but most of the time it’s either [1] villains, [2] comic relief, or [3] queerbait, with the lead still ending up with the lead female character) but a girl can dream. 

Shipping aside, I would genuinely love to see Lazare and Ronan develop side by side as an antagonist/hero pairing. I would love to see Lazare grow increasingly desperate and brutal as the musical goes on (IF and only IF we’re going to have him as the villain and not the antagonist), just as Ronan slides deeper and deeper into the Revolution. I would love to see them parallel each other in various and assorted ways, not the least in their devotion to their respective sides, as both of them suffer from the society they were born in, just in differing ways and extents. On one hand, Lazare never starved like Ronan did, but on the other...he was made into a machine for the sake of preserving the Ancien Régime (and...it does seem like there’s a small amount of canon backing to that one, given some of his lines in Nous ne Sommes.) If you’re going to kick off the musical with the Lazare/Ronan rivalry and Ronan swearing vengeance, then you’ve got to make SURE you carry that one through to the end, even if it’s Ronan ultimately realizing that he doesn’t WANT Lazare dead. I just...need that development between the two of them, since it’s such a missed opportunity in the original. I do give Toho some props for showing SOME of that, as far as explaining why Lazare wants Necker out of a job + having Ronan there during Nous ne Sommes, but still...I need more Lazare development, dammit. 

my OTP: Lazare/Ronan. Was there any doubt? 

my cross over ship: Lazare/Chauvelin from The Scarlet Pimpernel is, like...my trash crossover ship. Not the least because Ryuu Masaki played both Ronan and Chauvelin in the Zuka productions. So it’s not TECHNICALLY cheating on Peyronan. 

Also, guilty pleasure ship I’ve been tossing around: Der Tod from Elisabeth/Lazare. I mean, given how often Lazare’s around dead people, I think it could go swimmingly. 

@janetcarter and I also have a longstanding 1789/Terra Nova crossover where the 1789 crew ends up in the colony of Terra Nova and meet some dinosaurs, and in that one Lieutenant Washington and Lazare are a big BROTP, given that they are both staunchly loyal soldiers with ponytails who fall in love with someone on the other side of the conflict and who were massively underwritten in canon. 

a headcanon fact: 99% of what I do with him is extensive headcanoning anyway and there are times I almost feel like I run out of headcanons, but Lazare wasn’t given an extensive education, ESPECIALLY not by aristocratic standards. Robespierre, Desmoulins, and Danton all outpace him there. He never learned Latin or Greek, his only two languages are German and French, because his grandfather went for the Prussian influence with him and he thought that Latin was unnecessary and would lead him to libertinage. His education was strictly kept to what would be immediately useful for his military career. When Lazare is talking about the “high class education” of the revolutionaries in the Takarazuka + Toho versions, he’s not just trying to convince Ronan to join him, he’s also projecting his own deeply buried, unacknowledged envy towards them. It also means that he often finds himself uncomfortable in the intellectually driven salons and court discussions, and his lack of formal court training puts him at a disadvantage, especially since the Comte d’Artois (who isn’t one to TALK there, historically), regularly uses him as the target for his mockery. A solid background at court was necessary to be a good officer and advance, connections were EVERYTHING, and a socially stunted officer was never going to make it as far as someone like, say, Fersen, who could navigate the best of both worlds. 

Also Autistic Lazare is very, very important to me as a concept. Whenever I write him, it’s with the idea that he falls somewhere on the spectrum.

Also, bluntly speaking, I have my. Ideas. For what happens to Lazare post-canon, and most of them don’t end well for him, though I truly don’t believe he makes it to the guillotine. I think Toho!Lazare in particular sings his lines in Pour la Peine with a certain resignation. 

In a happier timeline, as Lazare gets older, he needs reading glasses and grays quicker than Ronan. Ronan relentlessly teases him about being an old man; Lazare retorts that the reason he has so many gray hairs is because of Ronan. 

#long post #lazare de peyrol #1789 les amants de la bastille #one of these days I'm going to compile my various and assorted Laz Headcanons somewhere so I can keep track #vierschanzentournee

[edupunkn00b]

French Kiss: Tale of the Revolution, Ch. 9: Stay

Prev - Stay - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]

16 June 1789

Janus could hardly believe his eyes. He didn’t know what else Remus had said to the head chef, but not only had she allowed him to steal Prince Roman’s tea and replace it with a much simpler meal, but she'd piled the misappropriated tray high with sweets and confections fresh from the ovens. Before they left, Remus scrawled something on a scrap of parchment and secured it under a saucer, winking at the servant preparing to take it up to the younger prince.

“He’ll know it really was me,” he said vaguely and the head chef poorly hid rolling her eyes and returned to her duties, an actual smile peeking out from the corners of her stern mouth.

Bearing the tray proudly in front of him, Remus strode down a new corridor where the doors were placed closer together than in the rest of the palace. The prince seemed to know where he was going, so Janus followed, eyes scanning from side to side as he wondered where they were headed—and whether he’d ever be able to find his way back unassisted.

His concern must have been obvious because Remus moved a little closer as they walked. “My brother and I used to sneak off and explore the palace when we were young. We would run away from whichever tutor or nanny was in charge of us and just start chasing each other down the halls. Well….” the prince grinned, “We hid from everyone except our music tutor, at least.” He shrugged, a fuzzy smile turning up his lips, bright eyes dancing around the corridor between the doors. “We got to know these hallways well.”

“That is reassuring,” Janus said smoothly. “I don’t suppose you would be willing to share where we are headed?”

Remus pressed his lips together in a crooked smile, eyebrows raised. Instead of speaking, he extended his elbow and looked pointedly at it. After Janus hooked his hand over his forearm, Remus nodded and tucked the offered hand close to his side and continued walking. Janus chuckled, shaking his head. “I see you don’t want me to ruin the surprise.” He turned and lightly kissed Remus’ cheek, darkening his rouge. “Carry on, then.”

They walked to the end of the corridor and down a small set of stone stairs until they finally reached a heavy wooden door, a little larger than the others they’d passed. Remus balanced the heavy tray on one hand, then knocked three times and, after a bit of shuffling from inside the room, the door slowly creaked open.

The prince grinned and gave a little bow. An old man leaned on the door, smiling up at Remus with a shake of his head. “To what do I owe this pleasure, Remus?” Janus’ eyes widened at the familiar tone he took with the prince and looked quickly at him for his reaction.

His smile widened and he presented the tray. “Merely delivering a little something for you, Maître.” 

“Maître,” Janus repeated quietly, confusion pinching his face, but he followed Remus when the man gestured toward a small table near the only window in the tiny stone-walled room. The walls were bare, without the tapestries common in other parts of the castle. A small wood stove stood in one corner, a few feet from a narrow bed, neatly made. A small shelf next to the bed was lined with worn-looking books. At the other end of the room, though, was a polished mahogany piano, leaves of sheet music scattered about, a tiny bottle of ink and a worn quill on the top.

“Have you been practicing your scales, Remus?” the old man asked. Maître. It finally clicked. This must be Remus’—and Roman’s—music instructor. In the thin light pouring from the window, Janus could now clearly see the tremor in the old man’s hands, the ink stains on his thumb and forefinger.

“Yes, Maître.” Remus replied with a dutiful nod of his head. Janus had never seen him so quiet… so deferential. 

“Well…” he waved his hand at the piano as he slowly lowered himself into a chair. “Show me, then.” He struggled to lift the cloche from the tray and Janus rushed to his side.

“Allow me, Sir,” he said automatically. 

Remus’ eyes flicked over to his, a small, grateful smile curling up his lips before he bowed his head again at his old music teacher. “I thought you’d never ask, Maître.” 

~~~

Remus played until the sun had dipped below the window sill and the room grew dark enough for candles. “Thank you for having us, Maître.” He bowed his head and Janus quickly followed suit. “Oh,” he gestured to the tray still laden with pastries and fruit. “Chef knows where I was headed with this,” Remus grinned as they left. “You’re likely to get some hungry visitors at the shift change.”

Maître smiled, his eyes wistful. “I would like that.”

Remus took Janus’ hand and laced their fingers together. “I thought you might, Maître. Enjoy your evening.”

“And you, as well, Remus,” Maître murmured, his smile growing as he looked down at their interwoven hands.

The door closed behind them and they began the long walk back toward the music room. Or, at least Janus had expected it to be a long walk. Instead, his eyes widened when, with a wink, Remus pushed on the wall a few feet from the entrance to the kitchen and a narrow section of the wall popped open like a door. The prince raised one finger to his lips then stepped inside and beckoned Janus to follow.

He sealed the door behind them and they were enveloped in darkness. Janus’ hand tightened reflexively in Remus’ and he struggled to steady his breath. Remus squeezed his hand back and slowly raised his hand close to his lips. “You are safe, mon douceur,” He kissed Janus’ hand then placed it on his own waist. “For just one moment. I’ll need both hands to light a candle.”

In the dark, Janus’ grip gradually tightened until he clung to a fistful of Remus’ coat. He felt the velvet shift, then the sharp sound of a flint box and the bright golden light of a candle filled the space. Remus held the candle out and above their heads, illuminating the space but keeping the threat of dripping wax far from them.

Embarrassed by the strength of his grip on Remus’ coat, Janus let out a small laugh. “Do you always carry around a candle and flintbox?”

“Of course I do, mon douceur,” he murmured with a little smile. He tilted up Janus’ chin and pressed a slow kiss against his lips. “It’s very helpful for skulking around secret passages.” He smiled and offered his arm, holding the candle up high in front of them. “Would you join me and find out where this one leads?”

Lips still tingling from their last kiss, Janus chuckled and he rested his hand in the crook of Remus’ elbow. “My intuition tells me you know precisely where this passage leads, Your Royal Highness.”

“Your intuition is wise,” Remus murmured, bending his head to press one more kiss against Janus’ lips. “Will you join me?” he whispered, his eyes impossibly large and sparkling in the candlelight.

Janus’ breath caught in his throat. “Lead the way, my prince.”

They’d walked in silence for a few yards when Remus tucked Janus’ hand closer to his side and murmured near his ear, his tone low and serious. “I haven’t forgotten what you told me. About Paris.” 

Janus looked up at him in surprise. When Remus had bent near, he’d half-expected, perhaps even anticipated a flirty little kiss. He stopped mid-stride and met the prince’s gaze. Remus stared back, eyes glistening in the candlelight. “Good,” Janus said, buying a bit of time to work out what else to say. His throat went dry when he realized he’d forgotten why he was even there, Logan’s warning tearing through his mind.

“The people are depending on you,” Janus said to the prince. And to himself.

Remus nodded slowly. “I know. I have a formal meeting with my father tomorrow. He has to know the truth of what's happening in Paris. I know—“ he began when Janus looked ready to remind him of the king’s tour only a few decades ago. He pulled Janus’ hand close to his own heart as he spoke. “If he knows the situation has only worsened, I am confident I can convince him. He has a heart.”

Janus smiled up at the prince, his optimism and his hope contagious. Perhaps this really was the path, perhaps this was how they would change Paris, change France. One heart at a time, starting with his. He nodded slowly. “If anyone can change his mind, I believe it’s you,” he whispered, warmth spreading through his chest and up to his cheeks at the smile that burst onto Remus’ face.

He brought Janus’ hand to his lips and gently kissed it. “With your faith, mon douceur, I could do anything.” Remus stared into his eyes for a long time before finally returning his hand to its place in the crook of his own elbow and gestured further down the dark stone corridor. “We’re nearly there,” he murmured, and led Janus down a few more feet.

When they stopped walking, he handed him the candle, then pressed a stone on the wall that, to Janus, at least, didn’t appear different from any other. Light spilled out from the long vertical crack that opened before them. Remus pushed it and they slipped through together and into the music room.

“That… that took us five minutes,” he stammered, thinking about the long, winding path they’d taken to get to the kitchen and then to the Maître’s room.

“I know,” Remus grinned, dancing his shoulders back and forth as he blew out the candle “It was fun, too, wasn’t it?”

~~~

Almost an hour later, Remus rang for Alienòr and asked her to send for Janus’ carriage. When she left, he smiled and offered his arm to Janus with a little bow. “May I escort you to your horses, mon douceur?”

Makeup freshened, Janus’ face powder hid his needless blush and he bowed his head. “Are you certain you do not wish I simply roamed the castle? See what other secrets I may find?” he said, lips twitching in a smile.

“No need to roam, mon douceur .” Remus stepped closer, one hand slipping around his waist and drawing him close. Janus had to tilt his chin up to keep the prince’s gaze. “I think you’ve discovered the key to all my secrets.”

“I have?” He could barely manage a whisper, his throat gone dry, lost in Remus’ eyes.

Humming quietly, Remus bent his head down and pressed a featherlight kiss on Janus’ lips. “You have,” he murmured, then stepped back and offered his arm again. “Shall we?” He held open the door, smiling with another of his little shoulder dances when Janus placed a hand on his arm.

They walked slowly toward the grand entrance, the prince uncharacteristically quiet, but he kept his little hopping step and peeked at Janus every few seconds, watching him more than he did the hall ahead of them. Suddenly, Remus turned and glanced down either side of the corridor. He grinned, then cradled the back of Janus' head before pressing him against the wall and kissing him. Janus melted against him before he regained his sensibility and broke away, breathless.

“Someone will see,” Janus whispered, cheeks pink beneath his powder.

“Let them see,” Remus whispered back, but he waited, gaze bouncing between his eyes and his lips as he turned Janus' hand. He stroked his palm and bowed his head to press another small kiss into the center. “Let them see who I love.”

“You…” Janus blinked up at Remus, grateful for the wall at his back keeping him upright. Remus grinned and took advantage of his momentary speechlessness to steal another slow kiss, one hand still cradling the back of his head, while the other slid down to the small of Janus’ back, holding him close. When he broke away, both of them were left breathless and they stared at each other in silence.

Finally Janus regained his voice. “You love me?”

“You needn’t say it back,” Remus quickly murmured, eyes a swirl of softness and heat. He bent down, forehead resting against Janus’ as he brushed his thumb over Janus’ lips. He smiled at the touch of rouge left behind. “I know it is sudden. Even I am tempted to dismiss it as simple infatuation.” He met Janus’ eyes, his face serious. “And there is still a great deal we don’t know about each other.” 

Remus touched his left cheek and Janus wondered how much of his scar showed through his smudged face powder. “But everything I’ve learned about you, mon douceur … Everything…  has only left me craving more.”

He leaned in and kissed Janus again, softer this time, and slower, carefully tasting his lips and his mouth. He pulled back just enough to speak. “Will you give me the honor of getting to know you more? And of sharing with you more of myself?”

“That is an irresistible offer,” Janus whispered against his lips, then smiled. “Not that I’d ever want to try to say no.” He nodded slowly, before lightly kissing the smile spreading across Remus’s face. “Yes, Prince Remus. I would like that very much.”

Remus’ joyous laughter sent sparks through Janus’ heart. “Will you come see me again…  soon? And… and when you do… if you do… Will you stay with me for a few days?”

Janus’ breath stuttered and his shock must have been clear because Remus stepped back and added, “You’ll have your own room, a wardrobe of anything you like, privacy, anything… I am not asking you as a consort.” He met Janus’ eyes, his face serious. “There will be nothing required of you. I…”

A mixture of relief and… disappointment washed over him and Janus decided to interrogate his complicated feelings later. “I will come. I… will need to make some arrangements…”

“Of course, of course! And you needn’t worry about packing up your household for a few days, I…” Remus traced the line from Janus’ temple to his jaw. “I will provide you everything you need, I can send a carriage—”

“Thank you, but no.” Janus smiled, mind racing as he fought competing impulses to run from this game where he’d already gone too deep. And the impulse to run right into the prince’s open arms. “I simply have some business to attend to.”

Remus held his hand, gently stroking his fingers over the back of it. Eyes locked on Janus’, he bowed his head and gently kissed the bare skin on his inner wrist between his glove and his sleeve. “So you will come? Is a week enough time for your preparations?”

“I will be here, Remus,” Janus promised, his lips moving independent of his mind. ”In a week.”

~~~

That morning, when Logan had arrived at the palace stables with his carriage, a small group of ostlers were preparing to leave for de Choisy, the tiny hamlet that served as a market for the staff and long term guests at Versailles. “Could you use another set of hands?” he called to them. “I have little to do once my horses are watered.”

The driver eyed him warily, brow relaxing marginally when he took in Logan’s mended shoes and the worn patches in his breeches. Logan grinned. “I promise, I’m stronger than I look.” He reached to shake the driver’s hand. “My name is Logan.”

“Jérôme,” he nodded and waved him toward the large, open wagon. He smiled when Logan easily scrambled aboard. “We’ll test that promise,” he laughed good naturedly. “We have a lot to load.” 

In the town, Logan worked side-by-side with the ostlers as they loaded the wagon with sacks of flour and millet, and baskets and baskets of apples, wax-covered cheeses and preserved jambon sec. When they were done, the driver clapped him on the back. “You were good to your word, camarade. We finished early, thanks to you.” He gestured toward a pub a few storefronts down. “Come, join us for a small drink before we head back. Their beer’s terrible but it’s cheap.”

At the pub, Logan listened as the patrons gossiped—mostly inconsequentially—about the palace. It wasn’t until their drinks were nearly finished that someone mentioned the carriages arriving for the Estates General.

“They’ve had to open up the Trianon to make room for them all,” the tallest of them, Gérard, murmured. “That’s what the coince little steward claimed, at least.” He swirled the dregs of beer in his tankard and swore. “I think the prissy royals just don’t want to rub elbows with the rest of them.”

“Ha! Serves them right,” Jérôme laughed. “Let the bishops see what it’s like to be the racailles for once.”

Logan leaned forward to be heard but spoke casually into his beer. “You don’t think they’re concerned about security?”

“They should be,” a low voice replied from the next table. The man was older than most in the pub, and wore a bright red cravat around his neck. The rest of his clothes were fashionably muted, shoes polished and he had traces of white powder around his hairline, as though he’d recently removed a court wig. “Thankfully, cooler heads have prevailed so far, but I don’t know how much longer that’s going to last.”

“Would you care to join us, Monsieur—”

“Colére,” he said with a curt bow of his head. “No, I am due to greet more members of the Third Estate arriving today.” He left three shiny silver coins on the table and bowed his head. “Good day to you. And… keep your eyes open. If things go the way I fear, anyone at the palace could be a target. If you don’t take up arms against the King when the mobs arrive… get out.”

During the two mile ride back to Versailles, Logan turned the man’s words over in his head. The red cravat was a clear signal to the rest of the movement, but he spoke like a pacifist and their ranks were shrinking fast. His name was familiar and with a jolt, he remembered the day he’d met Patton, and the table of students from the Sorbonne. Colére. He must be Lucas’ father. Logan looked out toward the sun slowly dipping down to the horizon, suddenly anxious to return to Paris to see what may be fomenting in the café. And the streets.

He looked up when the wagon suddenly jerked to a stop. “Back with us!” Jérôme cheered. “We’ve arrived. Come, many hands make light the work and other mierde”

Logan nodded with a wry smile, hefted a sack onto his shoulders and followed the line of ostlers toward the back entrance to the kitchen.

With the help of a few kitchen staff, it took even less time to unload the wagon at Versailles. Logan had been pleased when Patton had joined the group, literally bouncing with energy as he ran up to the wagon. “Logan!” he called out to him as he picked up a crate. “Logan, can I help?”

“Your help would be much appreciated, Patton. We’re bringing all of this in.” He chuckled when the cheerful young man hefted with two giant sacks of millet on each shoulder. The burly ostlers watched his pace barely slow under the weight. They added more to each of their own loads, red faced and grunting as they lumbered down to the pantries.

When they were done, Logan pulled Patton aside, claiming he needed his assistance with the carriage. “I see you have managed to find a place with the staff.” He spoke quietly and pointed to a loose bolt on one of the carriage steps. “Well done.”

Patton’s cheeks turned pink and he grinned brightly, nodding and using a small tool Logan provided from the driver’s perch. “Thank you, Logan.”

“Are you able to return to Paris with the same driver you came in with? Or should we pick you up?” He met Patton’s eyes when he nearly dropped the spanner and jerked his head up. “We have much to discuss.”

“He’s heading out tomorrow at dawn. I’ll be back in Paris before noon.” He grinned up at Logan and stood. “See you at de Foy?”

Logan gave his shoulder a little squeeze. “Excellent. We’ll see you then.”

A few hours later, a pinch-faced courtier appeared in the stables, lip curled up and stepping carefully along the edges of the path between the horse pens. “Your employer is readying to leave,” he said without greeting, then turned and left without another word. 

Shaking his head, Logan waved to Jérôme, who laughed, “His Lordship awaits?”

He chuckled as he led the horses out of their pen and hitched them to the carriage. “In truth, he is a decent man. I suppose I got lucky.” Logan reached out to shake his hand. “If you’re ever in Paris, come find me at Café de Foy.” And with one more nod, he climbed onto his perch and led the horses down the widening path back to the gate to wait for Janus.

~~~

“Thank you, Logan,” Janus murmured to him as he helped him up into the carriage. He looked over his shoulder, but instead of watching Logan as he spoke, his golden eyes lingered on the palace, scanning the large windows at the center. He suddenly smiled and when Logan followed his gaze, he spotted movement in one tall window, as though someone was waving the curtains back and forth like a flag. He glanced back at the pleased smile gracing Janus’ lips. Or perhaps like a signal.

Logan cleared his throat. “I still have your more comfortable riding clothes, and I fetched some water and…” He gestured toward a tiny wooden crate with various cloths and a solution of herbs a milkmaid told him would remove rouge. Solène had then surprised him with the bottle before he’d left to meet Janus at the gate. “And the box for your wig is still there… ” Logan smiled at Janus before quickly looking away. ”If you wish to change.”

“Is my court makeup not pleasing?” Janus asked lightly as he examined what Logan brought.

His throat went dry. “N—no… I—I mean, it’s perfectly pleasing.” Logan took a deep breath and pressed a smile onto his face just before Janus looked up at him. “I merely intended… They are supplies in case you are more comfortable without it.”

“Lo, I am only teasing.”  Janus reached over the window sash and squeezed Logan’s hand. “This is incredibly thoughtful. Thank you.”

“Of course,” Logan whispered, his eyes drawn to where Janus lightly gripped his hand. “It was my pleasure. Why don’t you relax and I’ll stop once we’re past the last checkpoint and we can ride together.”

“I’d like that, Lo, thank you.” Janus smiled at Logan and relaxed against the seat. His eyes still darted back to the palace and Logan thought he spied a touch of longing in his gaze. He nodded again, and climbed onto the driving perch and led the horses down the road back to Paris.

They made it through the checkpoint without incident. The guards were beginning to recognize him and waved them on without even looking inside the compartment. Once they were out of eye and earshot, Logan stopped the carriage and knocked. 

Janus opened the door, fresh face glowing in the soft, early dusk. He was still lacing up his tunic as he stepped out of the carriage, a broad swath of his chest exposed, revealing the cut of his muscles. Logan averted his gaze, attention seemingly focused on a joint near the wheelhouse. He looked up when Janus let out a low sigh.

“I feel back to myself now. Thank you again, Lo,” he said before settling on the driver’s bench. He looked over his shoulder at Logan. “How are you feeling? Would you like me to drive for a while and you can nap in the passenger compartment?”

“No! No, that is quite alright. It’s lovely evening. It would be pleasant to share the fresh air with a friend.” Janus’ responding smile strengthened his own and by the time he’d joined him on the bench, his wide smile was genuine.

Janus described his visit with the prince, stammering and blushing at some points, leaving Logan with the impression that he was hearing a slightly edited version of their time together. Janus became more effusive when he talked about visiting the kitchen and the switched trays. “Oh, and I nearly forgot. Patton was there. How did—”

“I asked him… to see if he could stay close while you were in the palace.” Logan kept his eyes on the road. “Last night, he charmed his way onto a carriage headed to the Estates General assembly. Promised to help with the horses when they stopped. He’s staying in the servants’ hall overnight and heading back to Paris with them tomorrow morning.” 

Janus was quiet for a while and Logan finally turned to him. “They’re a friend of a friend. I trust they’ll keep him safe. And he knows his way around the palace—”

“Oh, yes… Yes, I could see that. And I know he’s tougher than he looks. And… wilier.” Logan chuckled, Janus’ observation bringing to mind their young friend’s minor theft of a bottle of wine from the palace. “I am confident he’ll be more than fine.” He licked his lips, mouth working without any words coming out.

“Janus, are you all right?” Logan rested his hand on his forearm. He’d never seen the great Janus Robespierre need to search for words.

Nodding quickly, Janus smiled at Logan. “Yes! Yes, I am.” His eyes were bright and a small, tentative smile twitched the corners of his mouth. Finally Janus shook his head and said in an uncharacteristically jumbled rush. “The prince asked me to stay with him… near him, I—I think. It seemed to be up to me, but… I mean… A—at the palace. He asked me to stay with him for a few days. At the palace.”

“Oh,” Logan’s voice faltered and he took a slow breath before he attempted to say more. He slowed the horses and turned to face him. “Do you believe his intentions are to make your relationship… physically intimate?”

A soft pink the same color as the sunset bloomed over Janus’ cheeks, neck, and chest. “Yes,” he whispered. “I do.”

“Did he say or do anything that made you feel this was a command and not a choice?”

“No! No, of course not!” Janus shook his head, a soft smile pulling at his lips. “Remus isn’t like that. Not with me… and as far as I can tell, not with anyone in that palace.”

Logan was quiet for a long while. During the past two visits he’d spent with the workers in the stables, Logan had made a few whispered inquiries along those lines. Everyone he spoke to confirmed that, while he was blasted royal, he’d never been known to be abusive to any of the staff. 

That information brought him some comfort. “I cannot counsel you on what your personal boundaries should be.” Logan swallowed hard, iron bands wrapping around his chest and his heart. “But we cannot deny that spending additional time with the prince, with the future King of France, is a remarkable opportunity. Both to learn more about the workings of the castle and to, perhaps even influence his thinking. Perhaps we truly can find our way out of this morass without further bloodshed.”

Logan took another deep breath, his voice low. “What will you say?”

“I already said yes,” Janus whispered.

“Oh.” Logan’s fingers tightened on the reins and the horses whinnied quietly. He relaxed his fingers and turned to his friend.

“Remus’ company is not… objectionable," Janus began slowly. "He’s charming and funny and…  attractive.” He cleared his throat and avoided Logan’s gaze. The soft bare skin at the curve of his neck and his jaw flushed brightly in the fading light. “Under other circumstances…” his voice trailed away and he didn’t need to finish his sentence. Under other circumstances, Janus sounded as though he would have been pleased to be courted by the man. “I told him I would stay.” 

“That is… most excellent news,” Logan said, eyes on the road. The last sliver of the sun had slipped under the horizon and they were cast in a growing darkness, but the pavers were near iridescent under the starlight. He delayed lighting the lantern, and instead hid his tears in the gloom that hung between them.

#french kiss #crown prince remus captian #prince roman capetian #father logan gérault #patton cœur #virgil gamin #lucas colére #french revolution au #au of the french revolution: what would happen if robespierre fell in love? #dukeceit #demus #ts logan #ts janus #ts patton #ts roman #ts virgil #ts lucas #ts remus #loceit #platonic loceit #one-sided loceit

[edupunkn00b]

French Kiss: Tale of the Revolution, Ch. 7: Music With the Prince

Prev - Music With the Prince - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ] Rated: T - WC: 3150 - CW: kissing, suggestive

11 June 1789

Logan eased the horses to a stop at the curved guest path that led to the main receiving hall of the palace. The rain had finally eased during the last mile of their journey and a soft mist rose up from either side of the road as the late morning sun coaxed the remaining moisture from the ground. 

He tapped the outside of the carriage door and counted silently to three before opening it with a small, practiced flourish. He extended his other hand into the darkened cabin, and Janus gripped it and slowly emerged. 

Logan’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of him, but he managed to keep his facial features stony. Smooth, cool, and emotionless. Janus wore the fitted yellow silk cloak and breeches they had bartered and schemed to gather the pieces for. His wig was newly styled and adorned with feathers and a sparkling comb a parishioner had once given Logan in a misguided attempt to garner an indulgence. His skin glowed in the thin sunlight fighting past the clouds, and Logan couldn't help but stare as Janus descended the three steps down to the ground. After a beat, he nodded once, then turned to face the palace.

“Sir Henri Juriste,” Logan announced in a clear, loud voice. He’d called out for the benefit of the guards posted outside the gate but his strong preacher’s voice carried up to the windows just above them, where anyone in the palace who wished to better track or follow the prince would be sure to hear. Janus watched with some regret as Logan presented the small folded bit of parchment Prince Roman had pressed into his hand at the end of the dance. It had still smelled faintly of the prince’s cologne.

“You are expected,” the steward replied from the top of the steps. “Your horseman shall wait outside.” He spoke loudly in the general direction of the carriage, addressing the horses more than Logan himself. “This way, please,” he murmured with more deference, bowing to Janus and welcoming him inside with a sweeping gesture. 

“It has been a long journey,” Janus remarked, looking significantly toward Logan before returning his attention to the steward, one eyebrow cocked.

The steward frowned but Janus kept his gaze. Finally, he nodded stiffly. “Yes, of course.” He snapped in Logan’s direction but didn't bother to meet his eyes. “Take the horses to the stables for watering. The staff there will find something for you, as well.” He gestured vaguely toward a narrow path to his right, just wide enough for a small carriage.

“Thank you,” Logan murmured. “The horses appreciate it.” He bowed his head to Janus. His expression was just as severe, but his voice softened. “Your carriage will be ready for you, sir, whenever you please.”

Janus smiled and met his eyes with actual warmth. “Thank you.” He lingered for a moment and watched Logan climb back onto the perch then turned and slipped through the wide double doors of the palace.

The steward led Janus through a series of long, echoing halls until they’d reached a large conservatory outfitted with several plush settees and a low, thickly padded chaise lounge. A highly polished piano anchored the room, shining in the light that now poured from wide windows overlooking the gardens to the south and west. A violoncello and a harp sat in one corner and a large cedar cabinet consumed nearly an entire wall.

“Prince Roman has instructed that you wait here for him,” the steward stood by the door, one hand tucked primly behind him, the other presenting the room with a siff gesture. “May I bring you something?”

“No, thank you,” Janus murmured and stepped into the room. The thickly upholstered furniture counterbalanced the echoing acoustics they’d encountered through the rest of the walk from the grand entryway to this room. His eyes fell on the piano where it was circled by a collection of overstuffed chairs at studied angles and was anxious to hear the results of the design. “That will be all,” he added, remembering his role.

“Thank you, Sir,” the steward bowed his head and closed the doors behind him. While he waited, Janus explored the room. The harp was old, diatonic, the wood well-kept and gleaming, but with worn spots where each string had been replaced at one time or another over the years. The violoncello seemed from this century at least and though also we’ll polished, it, too, showed signs of wear along the fingerboard, and there was a bit of rosin residue near the fine tuners.

“I believe I would recall directing you to send a guest to the music room,” a sharp, familiar voice approached the closed doors and Janus spotted darkening shadows peeking underneath the one-inch gap between the marble tile and the door.

“Yes, yes, of course, Sir. I…” The rest of the steward’s words were drowned out by the sharp sound of heels outside the doors. There was a single sharp knock followed by the low creak of both doors swinging open. “May I present His Royal Highness, Prince Roman.” The steward gestured toward Janus and addressed the prince. “Sir Henri Juriste.”

“Your Royal Highness,” Janus replied when Roman only responded by inclining his head. “I appreciate the invitation you extended at your birthday celebration.”

Roman stood very still for a moment, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Why, yes, I am pleased you could come.” He turned toward the steward and flicked his fingers back toward the hallway. “Very good, thank you,” he said in dismissal. “Have Alienòr bring some refreshments. And close the door, please.”

“Yes, Sir,” the steward bowed and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

“I spoke with many guests at the ball…” The Prince openly appraised Janus’ features and clothing, eyes lingering on his lined lips and the drape of his waistcoat and trousers. “I can’t imagine forgetting you, though.” He offered his hand, palm down, and Janus watched his expression as he lifted the prince’s fingers to his lips and kissed his knuckles.

Janus ignored the pang in his chest at Roman’s casual admission that he’d completely forgotten meeting and dancing with him at the party. It was inconsequential—that wasn’t the point of any of this. He was here to learn all he could of the palace, and the prince’s—or, with any luck, his elder brother’s—plans for the State. He still carried some hope that he might even be able to plant the seeds of reason in his mind, perhaps even enough to influence his decisions. While Roman wasn’t destined to be King, he would doubtless be in a position to exert pressure on his brother’s policies.

He slowly raised his eyes, peering up at the prince through his lashes. Prince Roman was wearing a different wig today, and his clothes were, understandably, rather simpler, with fewer layers than at the ball, though the embroidery at the sleeves and cuffs below his knees seemed even more elaborate. His bright red sash remained the same, as were the gleaming jewels adorning his fingers and neck.

The prince’s mannerisms, though, were markedly different than they had been the night of the ball. His eyes, while still bright and lively, were calm and moved smoothly over the room and Janus’ clothes, without any of the rapid bouncing between Janus’ eyes and mouth, all around the space as they had at the dance. His smile was more controlled, and, though the prince’s powerful voice projected and filled the room, he seemed quieter somehow.

Smaller, even.

The prince let his hand linger in Janus’ before slowly pulling back and gesturing toward the piano. He sat down at one end of the padded bench. “Do you play, Sir Juriste?”

“I dabble,” Janus replied, sitting delicately next to the prince. He began a quiet canon, fingers dancing fluidly across the keys. Roman listened for a few bars, then began to pick out a harmony in the lower register, humming along to Janus’ melody.

“You ‘dabble,’” Prince Roman repeated in a light, teasing tone. He slid closer on the bench and moved up an octave, reaching over Janus’ hand from time to time to hit keys in their now overlapping ranges. “You are humble to the point of self-effacement, Sir Juriste.”

Janus smiled to cover his senseless hurt over the prince’s use of his last name. He had become senselessly attached to the way ‘mon Sir Henri’ had flowed off the prince’s tongue at the ball. “I merely know enough to have discovered how little I know.”

Prince Roman’s laughter nearly had the same resonance it had had the night they’d danced. “And not ‘nothing?’” The prince smiled at him, a longing behind his eyes that Janus wasn’t sure how to interpret. “It is reassuring to hear you know more than Socrates.”

It was Janus’ turn to chuckle quietly, reaching over the prince’s hand to hit a lower note. “You are well read in the classics, Sir.”

Humming ruefully, Prince Roman nodded. “Yes, I received the same intense tutelage as my brother, though only one of us shall be King.”

“You seemed relieved by that fact the night we danced,” Janus began carefully.

“Did he— I?”

Before Janus could answer, the doors slammed open and a tall figure burst in, followed closely by a harried courtier. “Sir, please, ah…” He bowed and waved his hand halfheartedly. “Prince Roman, Sir Juriste, may I present His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Remus.” His eyes flicked between the twin princes and their confused guest for less than a second, then wordlessly let himself out, the door’s quiet click the only sound in the otherwise silent room.

A small smile bloomed across Janus’ face when he met Remus’ bright green eyes. They danced around the space, taking in the piano, Prince Roman’s posture and close proximity, Janus’ half rise-half bow at the piano bench. Prince Remus’ face split in a bright grin and closed the distance between them in two quick bounds.

“Mon Sir Henri,” Remus murmured. He kept his eyes locked on Janus’ as he lifted his gloved hand and pressed a slow kiss against the back of it. “I am so pleased you were able to come see me again.”

Roman laughed, “Took you long enough, brother dear.”

Janus looked between the brothers and he snapped his mouth shut when he realized he’d been staring, lips open in a little ‘oh’ shape. Side by side, the differences were obvious. Prince Roman stood with an air of calm and poise, energetic but controlled. His smile was slow but warm and his eyes followed whoever was speaking.

Crown Prince Remus vibrated with energy. His features twitched through a half dozen emotions with each word he spoke. His eyes were bright enough to burn as they tracked everything from the dust motes floating in a sunbeam, to the blue sky breaking through the heavy clouds outside the window, to Janus’ confusion and to Roman’s apparent reluctance to relinquish his seat.

“You traded places,” Janus whispered.

The brothers smiled in unison and Janus stifled a laugh behind his gloved hand. He turned to Prince Roman—the real Prince Roman. “That’s why you didn’t remember me.”

Prince Roman finally stood and smiled at Janus. “As I said, Sir Juriste. I would have remembered dancing with you.” He turned to Prince Remus, one eyebrow raised. “And is it safe to assume you, dear brother, are the one who informed the steward of Sir Juriste’s impending arrival?”

He held out his hands, a laugh threatening behind his wild grin. “I had everything planned, I was meant to already be in here when the steward brought you. My plan would have worked perfectly were it not for a gaggle of ministers who insisted they only needed five minutes of my time.” He bowed his head toward Roman. “That left the steward searching for ‘Prince Roman.’”

“I will need to apologize to him later. I was… less than gracious when he announced I had a guest waiting for me where I had directed him.”

“I’ll gladly take the fall for you,” Remus laughed. “Tell him I was playing a little joke on you.” He waved his hand. “I am certain we can find a way to make it up to him. We always have.” 

Roman laughed at some private joke between the two of them then bowed his head toward Janus. “I shall take my leave,” he murmured, “And give you two some privacy.” He smiled indulgently at Remus then moved toward the door. “Enjoy yourself, dear brother. You’ve found quite a treasure.”

The doors closed with a quiet click behind him.

Prince Remus examined Janus’ features for a long moment after Roman left. Finally, he spoke. “I apologize for my duplicity. I… was not who I purported to be at the dance.” Remus still hadn’t released Janus’ hand and now held it between each of his own, gently stroking the back with his thumbs. “My brother believed he would enjoy the party more if the guests believed he were the crown prince. It seemed an opportune time to revisit an old game we used to play as children. There are many benefits to being an identical twin,” he added with a wink.

“In the end, he did not have the evening he expected and instead…” Remus stepped closer and placed Janus’ hand on his shoulder, looping his own arm around his waist. He leaned in as close as he had when they’d danced. “I was able to meet you,” he whispered. Janus shivered, the prince’s breath ghosting against his cheek and down his neck. “I hope you do not begrudge me a bit of deception for a worthy cause.”

Janus let himself be dipped and looked up into Prince Remus’ eyes. The afternoon’s sun glinted against them until they shone like emeralds. They were soft, with a hint of fire, and perhaps a bit of pain hiding in their depths. The prince looked right back at him, giving Janus his full attention. 

He nearly told him everything. Spilled everything, his real name, their plans… Surely someone with eyes as deep and kind and hiding the sort of hurt Janus knew all too well would understand.

“Of course, Your Royal Highness.” He smiled as Remus drew closer, lips parted and eyes fixed on Janus’ mouth as he spoke. “A bit of harmless fun meant to aid your brother.” Remus straightened, bringing Janus up out of the dip. His hand remained at the small of his back, pressed firmly, keeping him close. Janus’ throat went dry. “I might do the same myself, given the circumstances.”

“I knew there was something about you I liked,” Remus whispered, lips almost brushing Janus’. “May I kiss you?”

“Not if I kiss you first.” Driven reckless by impulse and the imagined heat of Remus’ hand still pressed against the small of his back, Janus slid his hand up from the prince’s shoulder and cradled his nape, pulling him down for a kiss.

Their lips had barely brushed together when a knock at the door restored Janus’ senses and he pulled away. Remus smiled down at him. “A taste before this interlude?” he whispered before turning and projecting toward the door. “You may enter.”

As the door slowly opened, he didn’t let go of Janus or pull away, instead drew him closer.

A palace maid entered, bearing a covered tray from the kitchens. “Oh, my apologies, Prince Remus.” Her brow furrowed, glancing curiously at Janus. “Prince Roman asked that I bring some refreshments for His Royal Majesty and his guest.

“Mistaken identity,” Remus said without further explanation and gestured to a table near the window. “We will take our drinks here, thank you.”

“Of course, Sir.” She busied himself with the tray and then stood behind a tall chair, clearly waiting to seat the prince.

Remus offered Janus his arm and addressed the maid. “I can manage to sit on my own, but thank you, Alienòr. We will ring if we need anything else.” Janus blushed under his face powder, not quite able to meet her eyes as Remus led him to a seat with a solicitousness that nearly stole his words.

“Thank you, Si—” Janus’ face grew warmer when the prince raised an eyebrow, an amused smirk tugging at his lips. “Thank you, Prince Remus.” A flash of the same warmth he’d felt when dancing with the prince washed over him and Janus’ smile grew. “I feel honored.”

“The honor is mine,” Remus replied, his grin matching Janus’ as he lifted the cover to reveal a still-steaming teapot and an assortment of treats. “May I pour for you?” he asked and Janus nodded, stunned at the artistry—and quantity—of the little cakes and bonbons laid out for just the two of them.

As he poured, Remus caught his eyes. “Is something not to your liking?”

Janus’ eyes flew wide open and he struggled to restore his mask of quiet composure. “No, I…” The prince’s gaze was so concerned, so… genuine, he couldn’t help himself. “No, I can’t help but wonder how different Paris would be if everyone there had such bounties.”

“Do they not?” Remus’s head tilted and he waved a hand to correct himself. “I mean, surely this is fancier than the typical tea and we keep the very best pâtissiers in all of France…” His voice trailed off into a weak uncertainty when he met his eyes, a tone Janus had not yet heard from the Crown Prince. He leaned forward, those sharp green eyes piercing through him as though they could find the truth just by looking hard enough.

“What have you seen?” he finally asked. When Janus hesitated, he reached across the small table and gripped his hand. “Please, mon Sir Henri. Tell me what you know.”

And so he told him the story of the shopkeeper who lost this business and his home. He couldn’t pay his taxes or tithes because he refused to gouge his customers, the hungry families who turned to him when their larders were empty and spring crops were still months away.

He told him the story of the café—and its neighbors—that hid a cow in the back courtyard from the tax assessors in order to ensure a steady supply of milk, and how they accepted goods instead of cash from their patrons because by the end of the day, their receipts wouldn’t cover even the cost of the ingredients.

And Janus told him the story of the little boy whose father was conscripted after the Battle of Verdun and never came home. How, after his mother died from malnourishment, he came of age on the streets and one cold night, desperate, he broke into the local parish priest’s home to find something to steal. And something to eat.

And Prince Remus listened.

#french kiss #crown prince remus captian #prince roman capetian #father logan gérault #patton cœur #virgil gamin #lucas colére #french revolution au #au of the french revolution: what would happen if robespierre fell in love? #dukeceit #ts logan #ts janus #ts patton #ts roman #ts virgil #ts lucas #ts remus #loceit #platonic loceit #one-sided loceit

[edupunkn00b]

French Kiss: Tale of the Revolution, Ch. 10: Rue Sans Paroles

Prev - Rue Sans Paroles / Road Without Words - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]

J'suis trop fragile Pour me débrouiller sans toi J'ai dansé dans le noir Abaissé mes paupières Pour ne plus t'apercevoir Ça a eu l'air de te plaire I'm too fragile To get by without you I danced in the dark Lowered my eyelids To no longer notice you It seemed to please you - Danser Dans Le Noir by BARON.E

23 June 1789

“Thank you, Patton. I expect to return well before nightfall,” Logan began, clasping the ordinarily bouncy young man’s shoulder. When Logan and Janus had struggled to get the new wheel attached to their carriage, Patton had run right out from the still-closed café to help. But Logan’s somber tone had been infectious and the talkative little server also grew quiet as they worked.

Janus didn’t hear the rest of their conversation when he went back into de Foy. “Rémy?” He leaned over the edge of the bar, looking for the proprietor, checking to see if he’d slipped down to the root cellar through the little door set into the floorboards. He jumped back when Rémy pushed through the swinging door from the tiny kitchen.

“For the road,” he said, passing over a corked glass bottle and a small but heavy bundle wrapped in a tea towel. “And make sure Logan eats,” Rémy leaned close, voice quiet. They both eyed the door. “He’s not looking well.”

“You noticed too?” Rémy made a face and Janus nodded with a heavy sigh. “Of course you noticed. I will,” Janus promised, nodding once. The recent change in Logan had been marked. Throughout the past week, he’d been quiet… subdued. He was ordinarily very healthy and while his energy didn’t manifest in the same ways as Patton’s near-manic bubbliness, Logan was typically up every morning by dawn and active until midnight, eyes steady and bright, observing, recording, and analyzing everything around him. Janus felt a mix of worry and relief that he hadn't been the only one who’d noticed the change in his friend.

“If he grows more ill, don’t let him ride out when it’s time for me to return.” Janus gripped Rémy’s arm and met his eyes. “With the Estates General meeting, there’s a twice-daily post out to the palace. Just send word and I’ll return another way.”

The door opened and Logan stepped through. “Ready if you are,” he said, smiling weakly at Janus. Rémy patted Janus’ shoulder, nodding. “Safe travels,” he said, waving to both men, then retreated back to the kitchen. “Send Patton in when you go.”

“Rémy prepared a little something for us,” Janus said, holding up the packet and the bottle with a grin as he followed Logan out the door. “It smells good.” He leaned close to Logan and whispered near his ear. “To tell you the truth, I think he’s just happy we won’t distract his server all day,” he joked, winking.

Logan huffed out a tiny chuckle and nodded. “Quite likely,” he said, a taste of his usual dry humor peeking through. “Patton,” he called and pointed back at the café. “Rémy needs you inside.”

He gave a little shrug, “I was wondering how much longer it would be before he pulled me back in to help him start the day.” Patton hurried back toward the café, then spoke to Logan over his shoulder. “And you can count on me, Logan!”

Nodding solemnly, Logan climbed up into the driver’s perch and offered a hand to Janus. He passed him their little bounty from Rémy, then clambered up. Janus jerked his head toward the now-closed door of the café. “Have you assigned him a secret mission?” he asked with a crooked smile.

Instead of laughing, Logan nodded his head. “Of a sort. Something to keep him occupied so he won’t attempt to invent ways to be useful until I return.” He clicked his tongue, urging the horses forward before he added. “Rémy still hasn’t quite forgiven me for the time Patton made me ink in the café’s stock pot.”

Janus chuckled. Patton’s fingertips had been stained for days. The pot had fared far worse. “It’s good ink, at least,” he said, hoping to pull a smile from his friend.

“Yes, it is,” he agreed.

They rode in silence through the quiet streets, the early morning light giving even the dirty puddles in the gutters a soft glow. Without the horses and the hawkers and the people bustling about, Paris was quite beautiful. It was only when she was fully awake that the city's overcrowding and simmering anger overwhelmed the senses.

“How are you feeling this morning, Lo?” Janus finally asked the question that sat behind his teeth since he’d first laid eyes on his friend, waking to find him slowly shaving in a dented tin mirror. He hoped that now that they were underway, with the pressure for Logan to hide his ill health, lest it delay the trip, removed, Logan might be honest if he was getting sick.

“Perfectly fine,” he said, unsmiling. He nodded, lifting his eyes from the road and looking around at the quiet storefronts as they passed through the last business district before the Seine. “It is a lovely morning.” Janus raised an eyebrow and Logan looked away. “Perhaps a bit of a headache. I hope you can forgive me if I am an inadequate conversationalist today.”

“Lo, of course. I am not concerned with your ability to entertain me. Merely with your health and happiness.” Janus squeezed Logan’s knee and the other man’s sharp intake of breath drew his attention. “If you’re in pain, I should drive and you can go lay down in the compartment. Or should I simply leave you in peace?” Janus tried to meet his eyes but they’d reached the ramp up to the bridge and Logan's gaze was straight ahead, concentrating on the path ahead.

“I will be without your company for several days,” he finally said. “I may not be talkative, but I would much rather sit with you and listen than hide from a headache by myself.” Logan finally turned and met Janus’ eyes with a small smile. “Tell me, what are your thoughts of the Jacobins?”

Janus grinned. He couldn’t resist ranting about the new political party capturing all the attention in the streets of Paris and Logan knew it. “I simply do not understand how the Jacobins can possibly think that liberty, equality, and brotherhood somehow can still include slavery! It’s as though there’s no-one at the helm!” He shifted in his seat to better face his friend as he launched into a passionate critique of the party. "Have you seen their latest treatise? It's as thought it was written by the American hypocrites themselves!"

Logan sat back with a tiny smile and alternated between watching the road and his friend rant about the missing moral compass in the increasingly popular group. He kept his smile until the spikes at the gates of Versailles were in view and Janus retreated to the compartment to change.

~~~

“Sir Henri Juriste for His Royal Highness Remus,” Logan announced in a clear voice after he stepped down from the driver’s perch. Janus peered through a small gap in the velvet drapes covering the tiny window in the door. The guards nodded and waved him forward, and Logan opened the carriage door, offering a hand to Janus to help him down. Janus’ hand shook and Logan smiled up at him.

“You can do this, Janus,” he murmured quietly, and gave his hand a little squeeze. “And we’ll see you in just a few days.”

Janus nodded and took a slow breath, then allowed Logan to lead him down out of the passenger compartment. The steward stood a few feet away, waiting for him. “Right this way, Sir,” he said before turning sharply and moving rapidly toward the entrance. Janus flashed Logan one last smile, then turned and followed the steward into the palace.

A little more than an hour into the ride back home, Logan guided his horses as far to one side of the road as the carriage would fit to allow a wagon heading toward Versailles to pass. He waved and nodded to the driver, then nodded again with a little smile at the blonde-haired chatterbox sitting in the back, waving his arms and telling the story of the day his boss confused salt for sugar in his coffee, but refused to acknowledge the mistake.

“And then Rémy drank the whole thing!” Patton’s laughter danced and faded down the road as the distance grew between their vehicles and Logan shook his head, a bittersweet smile lingering on his face as he made the long journey back home to Paris alone.

~~~

Back at the palace, the steward wordlessly strode with precise, fast steps down the winding corridors to the music room. When they reached the tall double doors, he knocked twice, then opened the left. “Sir?” He stood in front of Janus as they entered the room, then stepped to one side with a stiff bow. “Sir Henri Juriste has arrived.”

“Mon Sir Henri,” Remus reached the doorway in two steps and extended his hand, palm up, toward Janus with a low bow. Janus imagined the steward stiffened next to him, but when he looked, his expression was neutral, watching the space between them as though waiting for further instructions.

Remus’ gaze was fixed on Janus, his smile broadening with a little shoulder shimmy when he laid gloved fingers in his. The prince lowered his head to kiss the back of his hand, eyes locked on Janus’. Only after he straightened and led Janus further into the music room did Remus nod to the steward, dismissing him.

Before the door had even closed, Remus pulled Janus close, one arm around his waist, the other crossing his back, one strong hand cradling the back of his head. “You’re here, mon douceur, ” he murmured, looking down at him, gaze dancing between his lips and his eyes.

“Your douceur is here,” Janus whispered, already reaching up to pull Remus down into a kiss. And right now, that was who he was. He wasn’t Sir Henri Juriste, low-level noble who caught the eye of royalty at a ball. He wasn’t Janus Robespierre, revolutionary and schemer dead set on changing France by whatever means necessary.

As their lips met, he was simply Remus’ sweet, his douceur. And that’s all he wanted to be.

#french kiss #crown prince remus captian #prince roman capetian #father logan gérault #patton cœur #virgil gamin #lucas colére #french revolution au #au of the french revolution: what would happen if robespierre fell in love? #dukeceit #demus #ts logan #ts janus #ts patton #ts roman #ts virgil #ts lucas #ts remus #loceit #platonic loceit #one-sided loceit #ts fanfiction #ts fanfic

[edupunkn00b]

French Kiss: Tale of the Revolution, Ch. 5: My Name is Patton

Prev - My Name is Patton - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ] Rated: T - WC: 2319 - CW: none this chapter

14 May 1789 - Three weeks before the dance

Right hand tangled in his hair, a twine-wrapped nub of graphite in his left, Logan sat hunched over a scrap of parchment pulled from a posting for last week’s flop of a play at the Salle à Bière. It was a shame, really, but the text was dense, the narrative non-linear, a complex tale intended as a satire of The Comedy of Errors that, when mixed with the sour ale that had flowed that night, was near-incomprehensible.

The playwright, a well-read baron with more money than sense, had printed up nearly two hundred of the bills, plus an additional thousand programs, blessedly blank on the back of each leaf. Logan had convinced the man he would dispose of them when he drunkenly threatened to torch them all when the audience had left before the third act began.

Logan would be well-stocked with writing paper for some time.

He tapped the end of his pencil against his lower lip, frowning down at the last words he’d written. It felt overly sentimental, and he ached to simply elucidate his argument with additional facts and data to emphasize the parallels and contrasts between their own situation and that of the new American government’s. Purportedly, King Louis had supported their revolt from England on its merits, out of respect for the Enlightened ideals of Liberty and Justice.

Logan wished to argue the King had only supported their revolt because a long, drawn out war was certain to weaken England, and therefore lessen the risk to their own borders. If King George was on the defense across the seas, he would be far less likely to cast his eye to the shores of Belle Île or Calais. It was a far more logical motivation than a sudden principled adherence to the democratic ideals Logan and his compatriots argued for.

One look at Versailles made it clear that King Louis had no interest in the welfare of his people, nor even in the virtues of care or temperance. The hypocrisy grated at him and he was intent on preparing a treatise that might help convince others to not listen to the King’s entreaties to let the Ministers do their work free of pressure from “the masses.”

“You’ve got a little something there, Sir,” a cheerful voice startled Logan from his reverie and he jumped, nearly overturning his empty coffee cup. “Sorry ‘bout that.” A cheerful face floated into his field of vision, bright ruddy cheeks, sky-blue eyes, and a mop of unruly blonde curls. “Here, I’ll top you off,” he whispered in a faux-low voice, winking toward Rémy, the proprietor. He refilled Logan’s cup and tapped his own lip, handing him a damp cloth.

“From your pencil, I think,” he murmured.

Logan straightened, a pained groan escaping his lips as his muscles protested the sudden movement. He rolled his neck, wincing, then accepted the cloth. “Thank you,” he said, dabbing at his lip and scowling down at the cloth at the amount of graphite dust that had collected on his lip and chin. He began to pass the cloth back to the server who waved it off.

“I’ve got plenty,” he said with a grin. “Oh, what are you writing?” Logan turned to him, surprised, but Patton didn’t notice, too busy mopping up a spill before it touched the parchment, books, and pamphlets strewn about the table. Eyes narrowed as he assessed the café’s newest server, Logan held his freshened coffee in both hands, inhaling the strong, near-bitter aroma before taking a careful sip. Humming appreciatively, he took a longer drink.

“It’s fresh,” he remarked.

The server nodded, cheeks pink. “You looked as though you could use it.”

Logan blinked at him, a small ache forming in the back of his eyes. He might need more light soon. “Thank you.” The server grinned back at him, then looked sheepishly toward the page in front of him.

“Top secret plans to overthrow the King? Or…” he giggled his blush growing. “Or maybe a love letter?”

“No! No, of course not. Both are… preposterous.” A faint frown pulled down his lips. He shook his head at the young man. “I am a man of the cloth.”

Bright blue eyes widened and the poor thing slapped a hand over his own mouth, muffling a gasp and shaking his head rapidly. After a moment, he pulled his hand away and crossed himself. “Father! I—I—I—I meant no offense! I—”

Logan reached for the server’s hand, a flash of guilt softening his features. “You meant no harm. I am without a parish at the moment, so the title is unnecessary.” A hint of a smile played on his face. “No offense taken, truly.” He adjusted the young man’s hand in his to more properly shake it.

“Perhaps an introduction is in order? My name is Logan Gérault. And since we are in your employer’s establishment and not mine,” Logan winked and pointed to the heavens, “Please call me Logan.”

The server’s face remained red, but he let out a little laugh at Logan’s joke. “If you insist, Fa— Logan,” he said, stuttering slightly. “My name is Patton… um, Patton Cœur.” He bowed his head, his face spreading into another full grin. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Patton.” He tilted his head at his work. “You had asked what I was writing…” Logan raised an eyebrow, wondering if he was still interested now that he knew he wasn’t working on something more… scintillating. Patton’s eyes widened and he nodded again. Chuckling quietly, Logan held out the page, prepared to summarize his writing.

“Common Sense Musings on the Social Contract?” Patton read the title aloud, eyes flicking over to Logan’s. “Is that a pun on Paine’s and Rousseau's works?”

Logan nearly dropped the parchment, unsure which surprised him more, that the towheaded server in front of him clad in patched boots, a threadbare shirt and badly mended spectacles was not only literate but well-read.

Or that he had inadvertently denigrated his own treatise with a pun.

“I assure you, the pun was unintentional,” he laughed, shaking his head. Janus would never let him forget this one. Logan sighed, looking at the parchment. He was loath to admit it, but perhaps the pun might garner the work a bit of extra attention. It had not escaped his notice that the most scandalous of headlines seemed to attract the largest readerships.

As though he’d read Logan’s mind, Patton shrugged and grinned, revealing an oddly endearing gap where he’d lost a bicuspid. “It might make people more likely to pick it up?” He smiled hopefully, reading over Logan’s shoulder. He started nodding, “People should read this. I heard at the table over there,” he jerked a thumb toward a small round table crowded with students from the Sorbonne. “Some of them think having a King is best for France and we should keep him on, just… you know…”

Logan nodded, pulling out a chair for Patton to sit down. “Tell me more,” he murmured, pencil hovering over the parchment. He waved off Rémy who seemed ready to chastise the server for abandoning his duties.

Patton’s cheeks turned pink but he sat down without hesitation, scootching his chair a little closer to Logan’s. “So the students over there… They were arguing about this. One of them said they don’t want to do what America has done. That we need the stability and the tradition of the royalty. You know,” Patton rolled his eyes and lowered his voice. “‘What would happen to the rest of Europe without the King?’”

The table rattled when Logan slapped his hand down on the worn wood. “We would be left with a far more equitable continent where we can have true equality and—” Logan took a breath when Patton sat back in his chair, eyes wide. “You are merely repeating what the students were saying, weren’t you?” Patton nodded, eyes still cautious. Logan reached out to pat his hand and smiled. “Forgive me, I am…  passionate about this topic.”

“We’ll need that passion because I think voices like that have the attention of the Third Estate.” Patton nudged Logan’s shoulder and pointed to the shortest of the group, clad in a plain tawny suit with a bright red cravat. “But you see that one over there? His name is Lucas Colère. His father is a member of the Third Estate. He says the Estates General is about to be called to Versailles for the development of a new economic plan.”

“Did he really?” Logan murmured as he made a note on the border of his parchment. “That would be a most interesting development. The Estates General has not met for a hundred years. The King might finally recognize the need for actual change.” He eyed the table of students with more interest then leaned closer to the server. “Tell me everything you heard, Patton.”

Grinning brightly and practically vibrating with energy, Patton leaned close to Logan. He whispered the names of the rest of the students gathered around the table, their fathers’ occupations, and what he’d heard about their plans to seize guns from the Invalides.

“They wish to storm the military installation?” Logan interrupted.

Patton nodded rapidly, eyes wide. “Yes. The loud one there, Colère, he says it’s only a fallback plan in case the Estates General is unable to make any progress, but… that’s their plan.”

Stroking the cravat tied around his neck, Logan peered closely at the table. The students were too engrossed in their own conversation to notice the attention they had garnered. “I do hope they can be reasoned with.” He shook his head, frowning. “The Invalides is guarded by trained soldiers.” He met Patton’s eyes. “Barely grown school boys against the King’s military? It would be a bloodbath.”

Logan let out a slow sigh and made a few more notes on his parchment. “You said the one young man, Colère—ah, Lucas?” Patton nodded and smiled. He looked almost surprised that Logan had been listening. “His father is a voting member of the Third Estate.”

“Mm-hm, he and his brothers own the vineyards south of here. They… they do well.” Patton shrugged. “Rémy orders from them from time to time…” He chuckled and whispered in a low voice. “Rémy is fond of my father and sends him bottles. I think that’s why he hired me.”

“Yes, and so… the senior Colère…” Logan prompted gently, smiling despite himself at the young server’s ebullience. “Does he share much with his son?”

“Oh, they disagree on everything. In fact just outside, before Lucas came in, I overheard them shouting at each other…”

Patton talked for over an hour, meandering from topic to topic and Logan would carefully steer him back to the politics. He spoke so much that his voice began to crack and Logan pushed his now cold café au lait across the table toward him.

“Thank you, Father,” Patton sighed, smiling at the taste of the sweet coffee.

“No—” Logan held up both hands. “Please call me Logan. I… I still live by… but… no. As I told you, I no longer have a parish. No title is necessary.”

Patton tilted his head, guileless eyes wide. “I didn't know that was possible. Why?”

“The Bishop removed me from my parish.” Patton’s eyes grew wide. “My parish was in the Saint-Antoine… My flock lived in the shadow of the Nobles’ palaces on the other side of the Bastille. They had nothing to spare… I had cajoled a baroness into a bit of charity and each night, we cooked supper in the church, fed anyone who was hungry. For most of them, that was their only food that day.” Logan shook his head. “I refused to collect tithes. Told the Bishop to take it from the rich in Saint-Germain.”

“But how would people go to confession or… take communion if they didn’t give to the Church?”

“God doesn’t demand our gold, only our devotion. Everyone was welcome in my parish, I would hear anyone’s confession, share the sacrament with everyone… whether they’d paid tithes or not.” Logan fidgeted with the cravat around his neck. “The Bishop declared I’d overstepped my authority. I… disagreed and prepared a letter quoting from the Gospel and said that if The Church was struggling to properly support itself, then we should expect more from those who are contributing out of their abundance and not accept our poor widows’ two mites.”

He smiled when Patton offered him back his coffee and he took a small sip, then pressed the cup back into the little server’s hands. “My letter was not well-received. The Bishop gave me a choice. Stop my campaign, stop preaching publicly, and they would allow me to stay in my rooms in the basement of the basilica or…” Logan clenched his jaw, then took a slow breath. “If I continued… I would be hanged for blasphemy.” 

Patton reached across the table and patted Logan’s hand. “I’m sorry that happened. It’s so wrong,” he murmured, then smiled. “But I’m terrifically glad you’re here.” 

Logan briefly covered Patton’s hand with his own, then let out a low sigh. “You have my friend Janus to thank for that. He convinced me to stay my hand,” he scowled, “ Apologize , and avoid attracting the Church’s attention.” He looked up at the sound of snapping fingers behind the bar, a small smile finally tugging up one corner of his lips.

“Patton! You’re here to work, copine, not drink!” Rémy called from the bar. “The water truck is here, take the empty barrels and get our order.”

“Ah, Putain —” Patton slapped his hand over his mouth again, eyes wide at Logan. “Language, sorry!” He stammered his apology as he rushed to heft two giant wooden barrels up on his shoulders. He called back as he hurried through the door. “I’ll be back with more coffee for you soon.”

#French Kiss #crown prince remus captian #prince roman capetian #father logan gérault #patton cœur #virgil gamin #lucas colére #french revolution au #au of the french revolution: what would happen if robespierre fell in love? #dukeceit #ts logan #ts janus #ts patton #ts roman #ts virgil #ts lucas #ts remus #loceit #platonic loceit #one-sided loceit

[edupunkn00b]

French Kiss: Tale of the Revolution, Ch. 8: The Palace of Versailles

Prev - The Palace of Versailles - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]

Ooh, I like the way you make me feel like I could be The number one game in town And all those pretty words you say to me, they pick me up Whenever I'm feeling down ... But I know you're just a White Witch putting that spell on me (La-la-la lies) Look deep into my eyes (La-la-la lies) Say there's no one else above me I'm the King of Fools, 'cause, baby, you're the queen of white lies - The Queen of White Lies, The Orion Experience ---

11 June 1789

The weak afternoon sun dipped closer to the horizon and the shadows in the music room lengthened as Remus listened to his Sir Henri’s stories of what life was really like in Paris. He moved only to refill his guest’s teacup, and even then he barely took his eyes off him, nailed to his chair as he learned the truth of life beyond the extravagance and… frankly, debauchery of the halls of Versailles.

When the teapot was emptied, Prince Remus passed him his own untouched cup, and continued to listen.

When he’d finished, Remus sat back, quiet with his own thoughts shouting in his mind. “We can change this,” he said at last. “Once he learns of this, the King… my father—”

“He already knows.” The clear golden eyes across the table looked almost pitying. “Ten years ago, the King toured Paris. He saw for himself what his policies, what his ministers’ policies were enabling.” He shook his head. “The King refused to act.”

“Perhaps I can reason with him. Perhaps—” The prince’s voice fell away at his stony face. 

He finished the last of his tea and folded his gloved hands in his lap. “ Perhaps he won’t always be the King.” He leaned forward and met Prince Remus’ eyes. There was warmth behind their sharp focus and his voice had turned soft. Remus reached for his hand without thinking. “There are… rumors in Paris that the King is ill. Are they true?”

Remus nodded once.

“Then perhaps when you are King…”

“I can make things right,” Prince Remus quietly finished.

The last ray of sun dipped below the window sill, plunging the room in an eerie twilight. “You have far to travel,” Remus said, looking toward the window. “You should stay. There’s plenty of room and it’s safer than traveling at night.” He lifted his guest’s hand and brushed the faintest kiss against the back of it. “Please, mon Sir Henri, stay the night here.”

“I…” For a moment, he looked as though he might say yes, meeting Remus’ eyes with a soft, molten heat. The prince leaned over the tiny table separating them and grasped his gloved hand with both of his, hope hammering in his chest. But ultimately, he shook his head. “My horseman… H—he is waiting for me.”

Remus lifted his hand and kissed his knuckles again. Even in the darkened room, the blush across his cheeks shone sweetly through his face powder. He wanted to reach out and pull him close and to say to hell with the horseman… or to just bring the horseman to live here, too. Bring his entire household, whatever he needed to do to keep this glorious man right here in his palace. Right here in his arms. “When can you return, mon Sir Henri?”

“Next week,” he promised, smiling when Remus erupted in a joyous laugh and kissed his hand again.

For once, the prince fell asleep easily that night, that beautiful whispered response still dancing through his mind.

16 June 1789

The early morning skies were bright and clear when they next traveled to Versailles, the road dry and free of treacherous puddles, the horses steady. And yet, Logan again was quieter than usual, giving only short answers to Janus’ most provocative questions.

“Logan,” Janus began carefully. “You are unusually quiet today. And you can’t say it’s the road. Are you unwell?” He gestured at the path ahead of them. “We’re still several miles out from the palace. Why don’t you allow me to guide the horses and you can rest in the compartment?” He held out his hand to take the reins. “I’ll wake you in plenty of time to trade places.”

“No,” Logan said before letting out a slow breath and turning to smile at Janus. “No, I am quite all right. But thank you, Janus.” His smile was soft but didn’t reach his eyes. “It is a very kind offer, but unnecessary.”

They rode in silence for several more minutes and Janus snuck glances from the corner of his eye, seeking any clue for what was bothering his friend. More than once, Logan caught him looking. Finally, he sighed and smiled again. This time, Janus spotted that little crinkle in the corner of his eyes, his smile just a bit broader. “Why don’t you tell me more about our future King?”

~~~

Logan listened intently to Janus’ recollections of some of the smaller moments he’d shared with Prince Remus. With the frequent trips to Versailles, he was becoming accustomed to the path and was able to give his dear friend a larger share of his attention as he spoke.

Janus’ eyes glowed as he spoke about the prince and described in detail everything they did together, replaying the moment he recognized the differences between the princes, their layered inside jokes that he was still theorizing. He described their discussions… and their brief kiss. A mix of warmth and melancholy spread through Logan’s chest at the bubbly happiness in Janus’ voice and he nodded slowly.

“It sounds as though he has grown quite fond of you,” Logan murmured just loudly enough to be heard over the rattle of the carriage and the horses’ hooves against the pavers. He met Janus’ eyes. They danced with joy at Logan’s assessment, or merely it was just the memory of the time he’d spent with the prince. “And you of him,” he added carefully.

“Logan, you don’t think I’ve forgotten why I’m—”

“No.” He gathered the reins in one hand and placed the other over Janus’. “No, of course not. I am not suggesting that at all.” Logan gave his hand a little squeeze and smiled gently. “I merely do not wish to see you hurt. You are too important to me to sit by silently and let that happen. He doesn’t know who you really are, correct?”

Janus shook his head, the pain in his eyes stabbing through Logan’s own heart and making him regret his next necessary question. “Has he shown any sign he might suspect the truth?”

He seemed to consider the possibility but in the end, shook his head. “Rem—the prince has listened, genuinely listened to the struggles of the people of Paris. He’s openly discussed his father’s health… I…” Janus swallowed hard and for a moment Logan thought he might be sick. “I have his complete trust.”

“Good,” Logan said without reservation. Janus turned to him with sharp eyes. “You will need his trust to stay safe. If the prince were to discover who you really are, that you had lied and were pretending to be some noble…” Logan’s voice shook. “Janus, you would be executed.”

“I know, Lo,” Janus said quietly and looked off into the trees as they passed a thicket of flowering hawthornes. Logan recalled seeing similar trees through the gates at Versailles. “I know.”

~~~

This time, when the steward escorted Janus to the music room, Remus was already there, and, as they approached, opened both doors with a flourish. Still, his voice was quiet as he gently accepted Janus’ gloved hand and kissed the back of it. “You’re here,” he whispered, cradling his hand with both of his own, almost as though he didn’t quite believe Janus really had returned.

“I promised I would be,” Janus replied, glancing quickly at the waiting steward, grateful his extra face powder likely masked his blush.

Remus dismissed the steward without taking his eyes off of Janus, then ushered him inside. “I interrupted your music the last time you were here, mon Sir Henri.” He looked at the piano, then offered his arm with a hopeful smile. “Would you be willing to show me what you were playing?”

“I would be delighted to.” Janus hadn’t been certain what to expect today. At his last visit, Remus had shocked him by asking him to stay the night. He’d emphasized how much space was available in the palace, so there hadn’t been an explicit invitation to stay overnight with him . However… Janus couldn’t ignore the brush of heat behind every glance, behind even the chastest of touches between them that day.

Nor could he truthfully deny that a small part of him would welcome such an invitation from the prince.

Janus smiled and murmured a quiet thank you when Remus carefully drew out the plush bench and seated him at the piano. The prince’s hand brushed his knee and again he felt a flush crawl up his face. Had he meant to do that? Or was it an accident? His hands trembled against the keys for only a moment before he began to play. He needed a distraction, a way to short circuit these thoughts.

He smiled and took a deep breath, beginning a fast piece by Bach. As he began to play, Remus settled on the bench next to him. The movement of his arms ensured a respectful distance. A few bars in, however, Janus realized he’d thoughtlessly selected a piece for four hands and Remus soon joined in, the twin princes’ musical training evident from their ready accompaniment.

“You play beautifully,” the prince murmured. “Although I think you do everything beautifully.” He winked and crossed their hands over the keys, suddenly playing Janus’ left-hand notes with his own right.

Janus glared for a moment, but couldn’t keep the smile from his face and leaned closer so he could pick up both melodies. “A little rude, don’t you think?” There was no venom behind his words, his smile twitching as he fought to concentrate on the notes and not on the prince’s gentle cologne. He wore far less than most in the court. Even the steward’s perfumed air still lingered in the room, long after he’d gone.

But the prince? Both princes, actually, Janus had observed. Each of the Capetian princes smelled more of spices and… trees. Yew and spruce and hawthorne, like from the topiaries that decorated the gardens outside. He’d thought the royals would abhor the scent, conflating it with the groundskeepers and their manual labor. It was… pleasant.

He missed a note and refocused his attention, finally ending the piece with a riotous—and, somewhat improvised—crescendo. His hands stilled on the keys, a little breathless, arms still crossed with Remus’. The prince turned in his seat, knees sliding over to press gently against Janus’. Remus took Janus’ hand in each of his and pressed a soft kiss against each fingertip, then threaded their fingers together and laid their shared grip softly in his lap.

With his other hand, he reached up and traced a line over the powder-free skin at the edge of Janus’ wig from his temple to just below the top of his collar. “That’s one of my favorite parts of you. Where I can touch the real you underneath all this," Remus whispered, leaning close to his ear. His breath was warm and smelled faintly of coffee and chocolate.

Janus swallowed, his throat gone dry. “Really,” he managed in a calm voice. “I thought it was my fearless wit that caught the attention of our future King.”

Remus chuckled quietly near his ear, sending shivers down his spine. “Oh, it was, mon Sir Henri.” He was now so close that his lips brushed against the shell of Janus’ ear when he spoke. “Your fearlessness, your mind, that sharp tongue…” He traced circles against the side of Janus’ neck and pulled back until they were face to face. The prince’s cheek grazed against his as he moved. “I wonder, mon Sir Henri, does your kiss cut like your words?”

Janus stared up into Remus’ eyes, held motionless by his gaze, the need behind his eyes hot enough to burn. Remus moved closer, their lips a breath apart. In that heat, Janus found the last of his bravado. “Oh, I can promise it does…” He smiled. “But only when I want it to,” he whispered, eyes falling shut as their lips met in a hungry kiss.

He wasted no time parting his lips and brushing his tongue over the prince’s bottom lip. He shivered when Remus immediately granted him entry and with a quiet moan, Janus was lost to their kiss.

~~~

The echoing tones of the tall wooden clock down the hall rang out twice, soon followed by the sound of voices. Remus broke away and laughed quietly, pressing a single finger over Janus’ kiss-swollen lips. “Shh… It’s the Ministers.”

Janus bit back a nervous chuckle before he could compose himself. “Do you always bring your private guests to the wing where the Ministers of State are due to meet?” His eyes were drawn to the door. If they could hear so clearly from within the music room… what had bled through to the room where they were meeting?

And more importantly, did they always meet there?

A flash of sadness moved across the prince’s eyes faster than Janus could react. Nearly as soon as it appeared, it was gone, replaced by a wide grin. “Only the prettiest ones,” he whispered with a wink. He reached into a pocket hidden in the seam of his velvet jacket and produced two golden compacts. “I regret I have marred you rouge, mon douceur.”

“Oh… your sweet?” Janus kept talking in the hopes he could distract Remus’ attention from the flush he felt warming his now thinly-powered cheeks. “Is that my new name, Your Royal Highness?” By the softness in the prince’s smile and his matching blush, Janus knew he’d failed to hide how flustered the nickname had left him.

Remus leaned close and pressed a soft, lingering kiss against his lips, gently tasting his mouth. He pulled back and smiled, licking his own lips and humming with pleasure. “It seemed to fit.” His face grew serious at Janus’ continued silence. “If you do not wish—”

Janus flung his arms around the prince’s neck and drew him back in for another kiss. When he finally broke away to breathe, he sat primly in his seat and folded his hands in his lap with a crooked smile. “You were saying my rouge needed repair?”

Remus laughed, certainly loud enough to be heard in the hall and Janus couldn’t hold back a small chuckle he hid behind a gloved hand. “I would be honored to assist you, mon douceur.” He took out a handkerchief and raised it to remove his existing face powder and Janus moved back.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said quickly, turning his face to the left, wondering just how much of his scarring was already showing.

The prince lifted his chin and nodded, warm, knowing eyes meeting his. “Of course. Here,” He opened the powder and patted it onto Janus’ face. ‘You’re right,” he murmured after a few moments, his smile broadening. “This is going on quite well.” He applied a bit more, then turned the compact around, revealing a tiny polished glass mirror inside.

Janus’ jaw dropped and he looked into his reflection, equal parts checking the coverage and admiring the perfect little mirror. “And now the rouge, which… if I may make the observation, a large amount has transferred to your face.’

“Imagine walking through the palace like this,” Remus grinned, shifting as though he intended to get up and take a walkabout around Versailles with Janus’ rouge smeared across his lips and jaw.

“Remus!” he cried, reaching for him with both hands. “Allow me to fix your makeup first!”

“Mon douceur.” The prince stilled, looking down at Janus with wonder in his eyes. “You do know my name.” He slowly sat down, Janus’ hands still gripped in his own. “Will you say it again?”

Janus licked his lips, mouth working for a moment as he fought the impulse to call him Prince Remus, or His Royal Majesty. Or even his teasing ‘Future King.’ He met the prince’s gaze, the warmth inside drawing out the word and urging him to close the distance between them. “Remus,” he murmured, their lips nearly touching.

“Without the piano, you still make music, mon douceur,” he whispered before pulling him into one more kiss.

~~~

“I did…” Remus broke away and then interrupted his own words by drawing Janus in for one more kiss. “I did have something more planned for us today.”

Janus leaned back, eyebrow raised. “Really?” He reached for the powder compact Remus had left on the lid to the piano and began to touch up the prince’s makeup. “And what was that?”

Remus closed his eyes as Janus worked. He smiled at the question and shrugged. “I suppose you will need to come with me to find out.” He opened his eyes and winked, then picked up the rouge compact and started to dab at Janus’ cheeks and lips. “Do you trust me, mon douceur?”

He paused mid-tap, lips slightly parted where Remus was blending the bright red creme to make a smooth line. “Perhaps I do,” he murmured before kissing his fingertips.

“Excellent!” Remus cried and stood up, dabbing a bit of the leftover rouge on his lips and cheeks and secreting away the compacts in some invisible pocket in his jacket. He swung open the door and bowed deeply, one arm extended toward Janus. “Shall we?”

A tentative smile curled up Janus’ lips as he took Remus’ hand. “We shall.”

Hand in hand, they explored the halls of Versailles for at least a half an hour. Janus tried to count doors and turns as they wandered, but was soon hopelessly lost. Remus seemed to know exactly where they were headed, striding purposefully down the halls. The faint scent of spices and yeast and woodsmoke grew the more they walked. The corridors began to narrow, and the ceiling was noticeably lower, as well. Where the floors had once been carpeted, now were only bare stone, and instead of enameled scones, the halls were dimly lit with unadorned torches. With each step, they drew closer to multiple overlapping voices, the only sound besides their footsteps in the otherwise quiet corridor. 

Bustling sounds grew louder, revealing the clanking of metal on metal, voices, and the slap of leather soles against stone. They turned a corner and through an archway was a busy kitchen. Two—well-fed—cats lay napping in a corner, and Janus caught a peek just as a servant closed a large, double-doored pantry packed with brightly colored jars and tins, hanging onions and garlic, and what looked like a cured ham covered in waxed paper. Giant pots simmered over fires along one long side, and along the far wall, lit by three windows, stood two people chopping vegetables. The bright sunlight turned one of the kitchen worker’s blond curls into a soft, golden halo.

Remus’ boots clacked against the stone floor and two pairs of eyes looked up from where they'd focused on kneading dough. “Your Royal Highness!” a surprised voice rang out and all other voices and clatter in the kitchen abruptly stopped, the entire room silent save for the crackling fires and the bubbling of what smelled like a stew in the pot nearest them.

A short woman made her way from the back of the room where she'd been overseeing the pair of vegetable choppers. The one with the angelic blond curls turned briefly and met Janus’ eyes with a tiny smile. What was Patton doing here?

The workers in the crowded kitchen parted before the head chef as she bustled over to the interlopers. “Your Royal Highness! We were not expecting you.” Her eyes scanned her staff, nodding when a few surreptitiously straightened aprons or wiped away smudges and spills from their shoes. 

“We’re not here to disturb you, Mamie,” Remus murmured with a crooked grin.

Janus stared. Mamie?

“Please do not worry yourself over our presence,” Remus continued before he bent down and spoke quietly near her ear, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet as he did so. The head chef narrowed her eyes but Janus also spotted the hint of a fond smile on her lips. “Tell me…” He gestured with his chin toward a bright silver tray where a pile of fruit, a plate of cakes, and a teapot sat. A bright grin split his face.

“Is that my brother’s tray?”

#french kiss #crown prince remus captian #prince roman capetian #father logan gérault #patton cœur #virgil gamin #lucas colére #french revolution au #au of the french revolution: what would happen if robespierre fell in love? #dukeceit #demus #ts logan #ts janus #ts patton #ts roman #ts virgil #ts lucas #ts remus #loceit #platonic loceit #one-sided loceit

[edupunkn00b]

French Kiss: Tale of the Revolution, Ch. 6: On the Road to Versailles

Prev - On the Road to Versailles - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ] Rated: T - WC: 1409 - CW: none for this chapter

11 June 1789

Rain poured down on the carriage as the large wooden wheels clunked over the muddy road. Janus and Logan were mostly silent as they rode side by side in the driver’s perch, huddled under a semi-waterproof oilskin cloth. Once they were in sight of the tallest towers of the palace, well before the palace gates, Janus would duck into the concealed passenger compartment to change and put on his wig and makeup.

The front wheel hit a particularly sharp gap between the pavers, rocking the carriage. One hand still tightly gripped on the reins, Logan’s other hand snapped out and held Janus back before he pitched forward against the low protective railing.

“Thank you, Logan,” Janus turned and smiled once he’d caught his breath. In the moment before Logan had pushed back on his chest and kept safely in his seat, he’d clearly envisioned flipping over the little railing and falling between the carriage and the horses. At best, he’d end up a muddied mess. At worst… He swallowed and patted Logan’s knee. “Thank you.”

His voice was creaky and it was only then that Janus realized just how silent they’d been. Periodic lulls in their conversations—and scheming—weren’t completely out of the ordinary, however he struggled to remember the last time Logan had spoken. Had they still been within the city’s boundaries by then? That was over two hours ago. “Logan?” He patted his knee again. “Is something troubling you?”

“Of course not,” he replied without looking at Janus.

Janus frowned, peering closely at his friend. Their meager lantern cast long, shifting shadows over his face, but a flash of lightning clearly—if briefly—illuminated his features. Logan’s mouth was drawn into a tight line and his brow furrowed like it would when he wrestled with a thorny problem.

He steadfastly refused to look in Janus’ direction, even after several moments of the former’s open stare.

“Logan Gérault! If someone had told me they had ridden with you for two hours and you hadn’t spoken a word, I would have advised them to verify that you were, in fact, still breathing.” 

Logan finally faced Janus, briefly meeting his eyes before returning his gaze to the road ahead of them. “I am merely devoting my attention to driving to ensure our safe arrival at the palace. This stretch of the road is in disrepair and the storm has only made it more treacherous.” He cleared his throat and glanced at Janus again before tightening his grip on the reins. “Once we are past the second Seine crossing, the road improves. I… I shall return to my typically loquacious self then.”

Still frowning, Janus nodded and tugged at the wool blanket draped over their knees, then dipped a far corner of the oilcloth covering their heads to drain the water that had collected. “It was a good idea to treat the blanket with lanolin before we left.” He smiled and slid a little closer on the bench. The rocking of the carriage had caused them to drift apart and he missed the warmth. 

Logan nodded, his smile small but warm.

About an hour later, just after the River Seine crossing where the road leading from the mansions of Meudon met the road to Versaille, conditions improved. The stone pavers were more tightly placed, and far more evenly cut than those in the road that ran through Paris. The stark contrast made the neglect of the roads used by commoners and the bourgeoisie all the more evident and Logan swore as he relaxed both his grip on the reins and his posture. Without large gaps and ruts to dodge along the path ahead, he could safely allow the horses more control for the rest of their journey.

Janus turned, eyebrow raised and an expectant smile spreading on his face. Logan sighed. “If the King truly wished to express his sincere devotion to the ideals of equality, liberty, and brotherhood, he would sell one of his wigs and repair the Rue du Paris. The substandard treatment of the road the nobles of the court will never see is just one of the dozens of signals he’s sending to the people.”

“Tell me more, Lo,” Janus murmured when Logan finally took a breath. He scooted a little closer, letting their shoulders brush against each other.

“I do not wish to monopolize the conversation, however the Pont Neuf is another example. Perhaps if the King had collected taxes from his wealthy court sycophants, he would have sufficient funds to replace it. With the ever-growing number of goods carts traveling over it toward the market, it is only a matter of time before the weight exceeds the bridge’s load capacity.” Logan clucked his tongue when one of the horses seemed to take too much of an interest in a row of wild bayberry bushes lining the road. “And with the increased population, the city’s already deficient water system is in serious need of improvements. Shopkeepers in the south should not have to purchase water from the north simply to ensure they do not sicken their patrons with cholera.”

Janus nodded. “Perhaps the Prince can be persuaded,” he began slowly but raised his hands when Logan turned suddenly, the wide eyes of his shock visible even in the dim light. “Now, now… hear me out,’ he began. “Patton was right. I get the distinct impression from the Prince that he is not being provided the same information as the King…” He tilted his head and frowned in thought, recalling the way the Crown Prince had been surrounded by advisors and court officials all evening, even at a dance, while the younger brother had been free to whittle away the hours with him.

“If we were to share with Prince Roman what is truly going on, share with him the state of this road, the deprivation in the streets of Paris…” Janus rested his hand on Logan’s forearm and the other stared down at the contact, appearing to actually consider his words. “He seems a reasonable man. I believe the prince can be persuaded.” He gave Logan’s arm a little squeeze. “Can you imagine the impact we can have with the ear of the prince? We can effect change from the inside without the violent upheaval some of our more immoderate voices are calling for.”

“Hm.” Logan fell quiet again.

“I know that ‘hm.’” Janus let the carriage jostle him against Logan and he winked. “What aren’t you saying, old friend?”

“I am merely surprised to hear you describe, and I shall quote you, one of those ‘inbred royals’ as a ‘reasonable man.’” Logan spared a glance toward Janus, somehow watching both the road and his friend. “A little charm and grace? Is that all it took to soften the heart and mold the mind of Monsieur Janus Robespierre?”

“My opinion of Prince Roman has absolutely nothing to do with charm or grace.” He crossed his arms and frowned. “You should have heard the way he talked about the uprising in Pondichérry.” Janus suddenly chuckled, a soft smile playing at the corners of his lips. “He actually sounded an awful lot like your treatises. He reminded me of you.”

“Really?” Logan’s voice was soft, the sharp, rebuking tone from just moments before gone.

“Really.”

Logan grew quiet again and as Janus watched him from the corner of his eye, more than once, he caught him beginning to speak before he would close his mouth and face the road again. After several more minutes of heavy silence between them, the iron spikes on the gates of Versailles came into view, far off at the horizon. “You should prepare,” Logan finally spoke, his voice cracking from disuse. “Just…” He turned to face Janus briefly, searching his eyes. “Just be certain you are seeing the prince clearly.”

“Do you…” Janus hesitated to ask, but the truth was still the truth. Unspoken or not. Not hearing Logan say it aloud wouldn’t protect them from it. “Do you not trust me?” 

“Of course I trust you, Janus.” Logan grasped the reins with one hand and covered Janus’ with his warm, steady grip. “With my life.”

Janus grinned and pressed his other hand over Logan’s, sandwiching it between his own. “And I with you, Lo.”

Despite the smile, Janus thought Logan’s eyes looked sad, but it must have only been a trick of the light. He squeezed Janus’ hand. “It won’t ever come to that, old friend.”

#french kiss #crown prince remus captian #prince roman capetian #father logan gérault #patton cœur #virgil gamin #lucas colére #french revolution au #au of the french revolution: what would happen if robespierre fell in love? #dukeceit #ts logan #ts janus #ts patton #ts roman #ts virgil #ts lucas #ts remus #loceit #platonic loceit #one-sided loceit

[edupunkn00b]

French Kiss: Tale of the Revolution, Ch. 19: Save Him

Colorized version of Fighting at the Hotel de Ville, 28th July 1830 by Jean Victor Schnetz. (embedded image description)

Prev - Save Him - Last - Masterpost - [ AO3 ] Rated T - WC: 3476 - CW: major character death

spoilers for the previous chapter below the cut

Patton wanted to shake Logan awake, convince him to lift his head, open his eyes again, just say something. Maybe all he needed was a moment of rest or some water or…. Or Patton could curl around Logan and simply stay there holding him. Let the fighting go on around them, this pointless battle where no-one was right and both were wrong, both had killed, both had hurt.

But he had a promise to keep. "You knew I'd need a mission, didn't you?" he whispered, voice cracking.

He laid Logan down with his hands folded over his waistcoat, Patton knelt next to him for as long as he dared. He ignored Remus’ pacing, ignored the distant rattle of boots running down the halls. Ignored the even more distant pops and bangs of gunfire. His hands were covered in Logan’s blood, so he cleaned them the best he could with his apron, then pulled it off and draped it over Logan’s face and torso.

Bending over him, he pressed a kiss against his forehead through the heavy cotton cloth. Then Patton pushed up to his feet, and dried his face with his sleeves. he nodded at Remus, “Let’s go find your brother.”

They moved quickly through the wide parts of the tunnels, almost sprinting down the dark stone corridors. When the tunnels narrowed, though, with thinner walls running parallel to primary halls around the palace, they slowed, quieting their footsteps. Neither spoke. Likely neither had the strength for it. Patton certainly didn’t.

As they drew nearer to the exit, footsteps—footsteps that didn’t belong to either of them—echoed against the stone walls. Patton tugged at Remus’ sleeve and looked for a place to hide. Perhaps they could double back and find a room they hadn't already tried? But Remus stood still, listening. Patton’s heart beat hard enough he was certain whoever was coming would hear it even if they had managed to keep their steps silent.

Remus held up one hand, stilling Patton, then whispered, “Roman?”

“Oh, thank God,” Roman’s voice sighed in the darkness and the footsteps hurried closer until the younger prince emerged from the shadows and flung himself into his brother’s arms. “You’re alive!” He looked more closely at each of them and his voice warbled. “But where’s Janus and—and your friend?” he asked Patton. All at once he seemed to notice Logan's blood on his clothes and pulled him closer, feeling for a wound. "Mon héros, you're hurt!"

Patton shook his head, blinking against the sudden rush of tears. Now was not the time. Remus gripped his brother's shoulder, and Patton wasn't sure how much was to give comfort and how much was to take it. “Janus is… negotiating with the rebels.”

“Jacobins,” Patton muttered. “Violent ones.”

“We must leave the palace.” Remus squared his shoulders and smoothed down his sash with one hand. The lantern he held with the other shook and swayed, but his gaze was steady. “And then we’ll find Janus once the guards take back control.”

Prince Roman caught Patton's eyes. They both understood how hopeless that would be. The palace guards were outnumbered, out-gunned. Out-passioned. The people were fighting for their lives. The guards were fighting for their salaries.

Remus had to know it, too. But like Patton's promise to Logan, sometimes you needed the lie to keep going.

“The exit closest to the stables is blocked.” Roman pointed at another juncture in the tunnels.

“Can you get us to the kitchens?” Patton asked them both.

Roman nodded, but Remus frowned. “Of course, but—” 

“There’s a door at the far end of the larder,” Patton shrugged and followed where he pointed. “It will take us to the stables.”

Their journey took even longer than before, with frequent pauses at each sound. If they could hear the boot falls in the carpeted corridors, the guards or rebels on the other side of the wall would surely hear theirs echoing off the stone floor.

They waited, pressed flat against the door as they listened for a break in the noise outside the tunnels. After an eternity, Roman nodded and pushed open the door.

Right into a musket barrel.

“Your Highness!” the guard nearly dropped his musket in his haste to move it away from the prince. “My deepest apologies, Prince Roman. We’d had word there were insurrectionists in the walls.” Remus slipped through the doorway.

“Mon Dieu! You’re safe, Your Majesty! When the steward returned to the guest rooms and you were gone, we feared the rebels had—” The guard cleared his throat and bowed his head smartly. He looked up just in time to see Patton slipping through. “You’ve arrested one of them!”

Patton squinted against the glare of the brighter lights lining the main hallways. “No,” Roman’s voice insisted. “No, he’s not a rebel. He’s… he’s from the kitchens.”

“All the more reason to arrest him now,” the guard nodded and stepped closer to Patton. Roman moved between them.

“You will do no such thing. Stand down!” he snapped. A slamming door, followed by jeering laughter and shouts somewhere in the palace echoed down the hall. He pointed toward the ominous sounds. “There are real rebels out there you should be arresting. Patton is on our side!” 

The guard shook his head, his voice laced with pity. "He has you fooled." No, not pity. Condescension. “Everyone loyal to France and her King already left the palace. I put the last of those who couldn’t fight on a wagon to de Choisy myself. The servants who didn’t flee or pick up His Majesty's arms have joined the rebels. If he’s here, he’s one of them.” He grabbed Patton’s shoulder and shoved him against the wall. “Stay there.” Footsteps echoed toward them, faster, chaotic. Rebels. “Your Highness, Your Majesty, I’ll personally take him down to the dungeons.”

Even as Patton winced under the guard's grip, a palpable jolt of hope rattled through Remus, his face twitching into a smile. “The dungeons? That’s where the rebels are being taken?”

“They’ll get a fair trial, just as any other citizen.” Apparently the guard misattributed Remus’ smile and he pushed Patton harder against the wall. “Unless, of course, we’re out of room in the dungeons,” he half-whispered to him. “Then we’ll give you a shorter death than most.”

Cheek smashed against a tapestry, Patton didn’t quite see what happened next. There was a blur of movement and Roman roared, wordless, and angry, and maybe a little fearful. The guard shifted, then released him. Patton turned around and pulled out his dagger.

“Don’t touch my brother!” Remus shouted. Roman’s lip was split and there was blood on the guard’s knuckles as he grappled with the younger prince. Remus pulled him off of Roman, swinging wildly. A blow caught the guard across his face and he hit the wall with a wet thwack and slumped to the carpet.

“I—I—” Remus stuttered and dropped to the floor, hands hovering over the young guard. Finally, he rolled him over onto his back. Glassy dead eyes stared back at him, his temple smashed. Blood pooled on the carpet beneath him. “No, I—I didn’t mean…” The walls shook with the force of another door banging open, and the shouts were growing louder. Closer.

"Remus, we have to leave!" Roman pulled at his arm and Patton helped haul him to his feet. "They're coming!" he hissed. The crackle pop of fire and the stench of smoke filling the air jarred Remus free from his daze and he nodded silently.

All semblance of stealth abandoned, they ran toward the kitchens. The shouting was near enough now they could understand the rebel’s taunts and promises of what they would do when they found anyone hiding. “We need to slow them down,” Roman cried.

They turned a corner and flickering light spilled from the other end of the corridor. Torches. Another group of rebels was just ahead. “Wait, stop,” he yanked Remus and Patton into an alcove. “We need a plan, we won’t simply outrun them.” Bracketed by rebels, voices and stomping feet growing louder every moment, Roman dragged his hands through his hair, eyes wild. Remus' hand rested on the hilt of his sword as he peered around the corner, watching the shifting shadows at either end of the hallway.

Suddenly Roman looked at Patton and his panicked face stilled. “How much can you carry?”

The determination in Roman’s eyes froze Patton’s blood, then his eyes widened. He looked Remus up and down, then nodded at the younger brother, jaw set.

“Mon héros petit,” he whispered, then cocked his arm back and punched Remus in the face.

There was a sickening crack and he fell against Patton, unconscious. Patton hefted him up and over his shoulder. “Merde!” Roman swore, holding his fist. “I broke something. Wait!” A little awkwardly, Roman tugged off Remus’ green velvet coat and sash and stripped off his own. He buttoned Remus’ coat to his chin, concealing his own red waistcoat beneath it.

“One last time, eh, brother?” he muttered, Remus' sword in his hand and a mix of fear and resignation in his eyes.

Something snapped in Patton's chest. “Roman, no, what are you—” Patton shook his head and tried to pull Roman with them. Royalty or not, he was a good man. Enough good men had died today, for whatever the cause.

“Mon héros doux.” He gently pried Patton’s fingers off the green coat he now wore. “When all of this is over, France will need her true King.” Roman cupped Patton’s cheek and smiled down at him. “Keep him safe, cher,” he whispered quickly. “Keep him away from the palace until the mobs are gone. Then when it’s safe, return.”

“But what if they just—” ‘Kill you’ lodged itself in Patton’s throat, choking off the rest of his words.

“The King will live,” Roman answered what he couldn’t ask and—gently—shoved them both around a corner. “Longue vie au roi,” he murmured after them. “Longue vie a France!”

With one last look, Patton ran from the growing sound of the mob as fast as he could with Remus flopping against his back. The new King groaned just as they’d made it to the kitchen. “Wha—where?” Remus mumbled, shifting weakly against his shoulder. He sounded dazed and Patton hurried to the larder to get them out before Remus came to completely.

“Shh, Your Majesty, they’ll hear you.” Remus fell lax again in his grip. Good. Patton couldn’t imagine Remus willingly leaving Roman behind. The voices in the hall grew louder until they fell away at a shrill whistle.

“What do we have here?” A loud, commanding voice rang out over the mob. Colére. Dozens of voices laughed in response. Patton remained frozen, halfway down the larder stairs as he strained to listen. “Your Royal Majesty,” he cooed and the crowd cackled.

“Oh, and look at this…” The crowd laughed again. “A bit of red for the revolution, Your Majesty? Thought you could pretend to be one of us?”

Colére’s boots echoed against the walls, growing louder, then fading as he paced. Leisurely, mockingly slow, like he no longer feared the King. With dozens of armed rebels at his side, he didn't need to. “You know, Your Majesty… I have had my fill of traitors today. Isn’t that right, Lord Robespierre?” Patton’s muscles jerked, stopped from charging them all by the weight of the future king slung over his shoulder. What could he do against dozens of rebels? “The guillotine’s too quick for them. Take them both to the dungeons. They’ll hang in the morning!”

Tears filling his eyes, Patton pushed through the door. Remus heavy on his shoulder, and the dark woods in front of him, he fled east, toward Paris, and away from the setting sun.

~~~

The sky had darkened as they’d scuttled like rats through the palace’s hidden tunnels. Patton led them deep into the woods, as far northeast as he could manage.  “Just a little further, Your Majesty,” he urged. “When we’re clear of the palace, we can try the roads and use the horses."

If Patton had still believed in miracles, he would’ve prayed at his first glimpse of Naif nibbling the ferns a few dozen feet on their trek the woods. Petit wasn’t far, and she whinnied at the sight of him. Their ties had been cut, the ends frayed and sawed through with something dull, and Patton was grateful he hadn’t had the time to remove their saddles. They followed Patton until he could set Remus down and hold their leads.

Remus was on his own feet now but stopped repeatedly, staring back at the palace and wincing at every distant crash and cheer. After a while, the noise faded away, swallowed up by little creatures rustling in the leaves and the distant babble of a stream.

“Did he say why?” he finally asked, stumbling after Patton and the horses. His hands twitched, dancing up to his throbbing nose. Each time he forced them away before he undid Patton’s efforts to reset the fracture.

Patton watched the ground as they walked. It was easier than looking at Remus’ deadened eyes. “He said France needs her King.”

“Roman could be King,” he muttered. “It doesn’t have to be me.”

“He seemed to think it did. And if you go back now, then the mob will just have the both of you.” He slowed when they reached a tiny break in the trees. “We should stop here for the night.” He pointed ahead, “There’s water, and we’re far enough from the palace that we won’t attract much attention.” Patton led the horses to a patch of clover then gathered some rocks for a fire ring. Once he’d arranged them in a small circle, he knelt next to Remus.

“Give me your waistcoat,” Patton muttered. “Tights, too. You’re too conspicuous like this. You’ll be recognized.” He started to rub dirt into Remus’ pants and sleeves. Even ripped and snagged from their hike, his clothes were too fine for an everyday Parisian. Remus had ditched his shoes somewhere in the tunnels. But that was a problem for later.

“What are you doing?” His protest was weak, and he made no real move to stop Patton’s work. 

“We have to disguise you, Your Majesty.” Patton's hands moving up to fight with Remus’ waistcoat. “Or they’ll drag you to the gallows, too.” 

“Maybe they should.”

“Don’t you dare!” Patton hissed, voice thick with unshed tears as he attacked the ornate buttons. He stabbed a finger at his chest. “Don’t you dare let them have died for nothing! Logan gave his life for you! Janus and your brother are going to be executed for trying to save your life! You get to live so you… damn well better make it worth something. Don’t you dare just throw it away.” The fire built from loss and fear and grief fizzled away and Patton’s hands shook as he stripped off Remus’ waistcoat. “Y-Your Majesty.”

“It’s simply ‘Remus,’ now,” he muttered and let himself be maneuvered out of his finery, like when the dressers insisted on helping him with his formal court garb. Wordlessly, Patton tore out the lining and pulled off as much of the frills as he could and used it as kindling for a small fire. Once the flames were high enough not to be smothered, he pushed the rest of waistcoat and tights into the fire.

They sat in silence and watched it burn, the edges curling in on themselves in a bath of smoke until yellow and red flames licked the fine silk and linen and consumed it. Patton gradually added twigs and dried leaves, camouflaging the ashes until it looked like any other cooking fire.

“You’re rather strong for a kitchen scullery,” Remus said after a while.

“I’m not a kitchen scullery,” he said. “I’m a member of the Jacobins, the Society of Friends.” As their fire grew, so did the fires in Versailles. Orange flames glinted between the trees, a warm, almost inviting glow. It could have been a sunset. “Well, I had been, at least.” He leaned back against a tree and continued smeared more dirt on Remus’ breeches and down his legs, improving the camouflage. “It had been my job to look out for Janus on his mission. Help him escape if you discovered his secret and—”

“And ordered him to be executed?” Remus shook his head and examined the dirt under his nails. “I never would.”

“Janus knew that,” Patton said. “Knows that.” He worked in silence a little longer, then rubbed away the excess, leaving the future King’s skin dingy and the finery of his clothes concealed. “Even Logan saw it in the end.” Patton’s voice broke, his words falling away in a whisper and he concentrated on his work.

After a few minutes, he jerked his chin toward the trees. The glow was growing brighter and sharper. “People are coming,” he whispered. “Follow my lead and don’t speak unless you have to.”

Patton smeared mud over his own face, then dragged a bit through his hair. Scrubbing at his cheeks and forehead, he cleared most of it away and settled close to Remus. At the last moment, he remembered and tugged his red scarf out from under his shirt.

The voices grew quiet, too quiet to clearly understand, something about a fire. A voice broke out, loud and confident. “Ah, it’s just an old man and his kid.” The voice laughed. “We’ve probably terrified our poor brothers.” They drew closer, the small fire illuminating their faces. Patton had seen a few of them around the city, but none were regulars at de Foy. “Don’t worry, amies.” he called to them. “What are you two doing out? It’s cold for July, in the woods, at least.”

“It was hotter in Paris,” Patton agreed with a little shrug. “We thought I might find work in de Choisy. It’s been a long journey and my father’s unwell," he lied, rubbing Remus’ shoulder. “I thought a bit of rest might help and then we’ll continue on in the morning.”

“You haven’t been to the palace?” The one with the brightest torch laughed.

“What business would we have at the damned King’s palace?” Patton muttered, arm looping around Remus’ when he flinched at his tone. “Besides, we saw robbers on the road and heard screams, so we hid.“ He hung his head and didn’t need to hide his shame. “I was afraid they’d hurt my father.” 

“Oh, dear frere, no…” He crouched down and tugged at Patton’s red scarf. “Not robbers! It’s the revolution come to Versailles! Here, ami, take these." A pair of sturdy leather boots, polished like the ones worn by the palace guard, hung from his shoulder by their straps. "These look to be your size," he passed them to Remus, looking down at his bare, dirty feet.

"And here…" He fished something out of a pocket and held out his hand to Patton. In his hand was a thin gold band, dotted with citrines glittering in the firelight. "There's plenty more where this came from. Their jewelry won't save them from the gallows, oui?" The men around him guffawed.

He held the ring Janus had been wearing the last they saw him. “I pulled that off some noble claiming he was one of us. Our dear Dauphin seemed to recognize him, though.” He laughed and nudged Patton’s hand, nodding. “Go on, it’s yours now. He won’t be needing it.”

Patton’s hand shook as he cradled Janus’ ring in his palm. I’m so sorry, Logan. 

“Where are they taking them?” Remus asked, his voice rough as he stared at the bit of gold. Patton’s eyes widened, afraid his accent would betray him, but the rebels only saw dirt and torn clothes. They didn't suspect the future King sat in the midst. “I wouldn’t mind seeing the damned royals’ heads roll before I die.”

The man drew close and clapped Remus’ shoulder. His breath stank of wine and meat. “We’re taking them to Paris in the morning. Let them enjoy a night in the Palace’s dungeons.” Raucous laughter erupted from the band of lackeys behind him. The man with the torch hadn’t been the only one to sample the Palace’s wines.

“Fiston,” Remus muttered to Patton, his movements sluggish but his eyes clear behind his dirt-smudged face. “Son, I’d like to see that. Do you think we can make it to Paris by…”

“Ten o’clock,” the rebel said.

“Ten?” Remus’ jaw was set, his intentions clear. Either Patton went with him or he’d go alone.

“If you rest tonight, Papa…” Patton poked at the fire with a long stick, sending sparks up into the breeze. “We’ll rise with the dawn,” he nodded. “We can make it.” We can save them.

#French Kiss: Tale of the Revolution #ts patton #ts remus #ts logan #ts roman #ts janus #ts lucas #dukeceit #demus #one-sided logicality #Crown Prince Remus Capetian #Prince Roman Capetian #Patton Cœur #Father Logan Gérault #Janus Robesbierre #au of the french revolution: what would happen if robespierre fell in love #major character death