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OOM: An Adventure in the Making
Courfeyrac had come to Bossuet and Joly's room many hours ago. Now, it occurs to him that perhaps he should attempt to remember why, because the purpose is bound to be important, or at least will distract from the cherubs glaring down at him with what he's sure is reproach.
'Who are you to judge?' he tells them, a bottle of something clutched to his chest. 'Why, you of all Heaven's being are sure to know what it is not your place; save it, dear children, and allow me to-'
...wait, he has forgotten. Is this absinthe? He squints at the label, and then holds it up in the air.
'Bossuet, what are we drinking?'
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Right on cue, someone pauses and snaps a phone picture of the 1830s gents, barely bothering to hide that he's doing it.
Lesgle thumps Courfeyrac's shoulder again for good measure, and then someone knocks into them with a brusque apology, because they are very definitely taking up space on a busy sidewalk.
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'Oh, for a shoulder of stone in your company, my friend. No matter! This is-'
He stops, as he's shoved again.
'...a thoroughfare of no little traffic, it seems. Shall we walk? The Labyrinth seems as though it will grab us as it wants, so we may as well see where we are. And I think I would not mind seeing the old place with its new clothes on, though I confess,' he looks around, his face blank, 'none of this seems a real Paris.'
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"This isn't where I came in before. Before, it was--well, in point of fact, it was about the site of the Musain. Now a different restaurant, something called Quality Burger. Hannibal Lecter seemed shocked by it, but--" Bossuet shrugs a shoulder. Do they really want to speculate about what would or would not shock Hannibal Lecter?
The street names are marked with little blue placards. Once they're out of the thickest foot-traffic, Laigle draws closer to the corner of a wall to get a better look. The name doesn't mean anything to him, though. He looks over to Courfeyrac and shrugs again.
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'I would not like to think how bad something must be to shock Lecter,' he says, darkly, and peers up at the street sign.
Rue Rambuteau. He returns Bossuet's blank look and pulls a face. 'Either it's entirely new, or just a new name for something old,' he remarks, and looks around again. There is nothing to give a particular clue, not even the ground itself. There are no cobbles any more, the gutters no longer run down the middle of the street, and everything is smooth and shiny.
'Keep going?'
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Here and there brightly-colored awnings jut out over cafés. "It's too bad we don't have any money," he remarks. "And that our drinks were confiscated by the Resistance. Not that I begrudge them! But still, something about an open café makes a man think of meals..."
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...
'...if you were not so dear to me, I should be vexed at you.'
Because food. He hasn't thought about food since they started drinking all those hours ago. But now, at a single mention, hunger punches him in the gut with frankly disgusting force. He clutches his stomach, and pulls a face.
'I begrudge the Resistance.'
He doesn't. He does glare at the cafés a little, and then walk on. But any vexation, real or imagined, melts away less than a minute later.
'Look.'
Rue des Prêcheurs.
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"...Well. Well!" The first time he came here he was at the doorstep of the Musain; now it's the Corinthe's turn. The two spots Hugo chose to bookend his life, or at least the portion of it of interest to a novelist. "Well. Paris has picked itself up and brushed itself off prettily, hasn't it. If we retrace our steps..."
Going back the way they came they reach the unfamiliar Rue Rambuteau--was it once the Chanvrerie??--and quite plainly a sign for the Rue Mondétour. "Welcome to Corinth, Courfeyrac."
Much more conspicuous than the street signs is a blue awning that reads BODY ONE lingerie.
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...well, he has no complaints about that, though he can only imagine Enjolras's face at seeing what the old place has come to.
He walks to a certain spot and stares off down the street, heedless of the people tutting at him as he refuses to yield. After a moment, he turns to look at Bossuet.
'It does look rather different from here.'
Is it maudlin, standing on the spot where you died? Probably. He throws it over almost at once, for that very reason, and comes back to look at the BODY ONE place.
'We should go inside,' he says, decisively. 'To see if it has changed much, yes? It's practically research.'
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In favor of lingerie. One of the windows shows a photograph of a naked woman: from the back, it's true, but it's a lovely view in its own right. "You were ever a diligent student, Courfeyrac." he says. "By all means, let us research."
He links an arm with Courfeyrac's as they enter, and prepares for astonishment.
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It really is. He can't even see her face, but he doesn't need to. In the interests of experimentation, he picks a tiny lace thing off a peg. It has two curved half-spheres, and it is easy to see what its purpose is, even without giant pictures to illustrate.
'Is this what they use instead of corsets, do you suppose? They ave nothing around their midsection?'
It's practically asking to catch cold, but he can't pretend he doesn't see the advantages.
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They're hardly the first young men to come in and gawp at the pictures of underwear models--and take things off the pegs--but they're certainly the first to do so looking like escapees from some period drama. The shop worker who approaches them--Can I help you?--looks more quizzical than disapproving.
"It's for his mistress," says Bossuet, loudly. "Wait, that's not what one says these days. --Girlfriend, it's for his girlfriend."
He's a helper.
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'I have been busy,' he says, shocked - shocked! - to the core at the insinuation that he might have been remiss in his learning in this area. 'Being dead is time consuming.'
The shop worker comes to his attention at this point, because a strange look comes over her face at these words. He replays them in his head. Ah. Yes.
'Well!' he says, brightly, and claps his hands together. 'My girlfriend, indeed. I am not sure white would suit, though. Do you have anything more...what shall we say? Scarlet?' He looks to Bossuet. 'A suitable colour for such a fine girl, would you agree, my friend?'
The assistant just raises her eyebrows. Clearly, they are nowhere near the strangest customers they've had in the place. She gestures around. 'This is what we have. Take your pick. If you have a specific desire in mind, I'm here to help.'
Courfeyrac looks again to Lesgle. 'Nothing is tailored!?' he says, in a stage whisper.
This is a shocking future indeed.
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The shop assistant raises her eyebrows again, more disdaining than shocked, and steps away. She's still watching, though.
But Lesgle is entirely accustomed to being eyed suspiciously by shopgirls. He'll keep on browsing, thanks. Oh, here's something scarlet! He holds up a little triangle of cloth for Courfeyrac's consideration. "Yes? No?"
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Oh. Well, that just seems inadequate. Although...
He turns his head to regard the large picture, where the model is wearing something equally tiny. It only now occurs to him that these modern women are groomed entirely differently to previous women of his acquaintance.
'I hardly know, Bossuet. I almost feel buying something so small would be an insult. Would she not find something larger to be a better use of coin than-'
He happens to catch sight of the price tag...and the name of the collection.
...and he would speak, but he is too busy collapsing on to the nearest rail in laughter.
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But his jokes, while assuredly very clever, can't be enough to provoke quite that reaction from Courfeyrac. He reaches for the item in question, and soon he too is falling onto the rack, legless. From laughter, of course, and certainly not drink and the wearing-off of adrenaline from their earlier adventures. First law offices, then street warfare, and now--the String Hugo, a grey film of cloth that barely stretches across the glass hips of a nearby mannequin.
The lingerie racks are not built to sustain the weight of two healthy young men.
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He's still laughing. He's covered with scraps and frills of lace, and has some sort of garter across his face, and perhaps this is why he is laughing, if it weren't the thought of ladies underwear possibly being named after Victor Hugo.
'After all, the man was a ridiculous old letch. So why not? He would think it an honour, no doubt.'
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He struggles to sit up, pushing underwear off his face, almost weepy with laughter. "Ah--ah--hm, Mademoiselle--"
The shop assistant is saying something about calling the police. If ever there were a time for a deus ex machina, this would be it.