redhead • editor • traveller • expat • rarely seen without coffee and glasses • essentially a mix of combeferre and bahorel, in tall boots • please do not link photosets, etc to twitter, thank you
You know when you were in elementary school, and you and your friends would always do those group stories? One person would start it, and the next would continue it, etc. And there would always be that one kid who didn’t like what happened in the part of the story before his, so he would undo it in his part of the story and continue like it had never happened? Remember how much you hated him?
Moffat is that kid.
chignonesque said: "Tingo" for Feuilly and Montparnasse. (This meme is great, Ginger. I don't know where you find all these. ♥)
tingo (Pascuense) the act of taking objects one desires from the house of a friend by gradually borrowing all of them
Feuilly has known for some time of the room Montparnasse holds for himself, out of reach of the rest of Patron-Minette; Feuilly knows too that it is held by threat more than coin, and more than once he has visited the porter with a bit of his own little money and reassuring words. This night, however, marks the first time he’s entered the terribly small space, under the watch of that porter at first, but then left alone, to wait.
He has not seen or heard from Montparnasse for going on three weeks. It’s not the longest they have gone without speaking or meeting by any means, and while Feuilly can honestly say he is not afraid—he’s certain word would’ve found him somehow if Montparnasse were in real trouble; sometimes he even thinks he too would feel the effect of any harm Montparnasse took—he is concerned. The weather is turning, and many in the city are ill; though Feuilly has no background in medicine, he has learned to look after himself, but is under no illusion that the knowledge he’s conveyed on these matters to Montparnasse has been retained.
Settling into the room, he discovers that if Montparnasse cannot necessarily be trusted to remember what Feuilly has tried to pass on, there is much else of Feuilly’s he has kept. The articles of clothing—few of which Montparnasse would ever wear; he and Feuilly are of different build and shockingly different tastes; certainly they do not agree on what is and is not necessary to a wardrobe—come as more of a surprise than do the books, but there are other, less obvious items that have made their way here from Feuilly’s home, and each ricochets Feuilly between bemusement and resignation, between pleasure and sudden sadness.