quotes about liberty

ten steps to oblivion

you close your eyes. and then

first.
a red coat blurred in fast movement,
the smell of smoke and rain the air,
a pat on your shoulder that sends you to your knees
a booming laugh that turns into a strangled cry.

impact. and then

second.
long strands of ginger hair flutter into your face,
a voice like honey reciting sweet words in a foreign tongue,
a drop of blood on your fingertips where you touched a thorn,
an unfinished poem in an open notebook.

impact. and then

third.
words, flowing forth and too many to remember,
an excited stroll on dark Parisian days,
comforting mirth and infectious joy,
the broken legs of a fallen chair.

impact. and then

fourth.
warm blankets around your shaking shoulders,
a calming touch to your feverish forehead,
open curtains on open windows,
a fractured cane shatters against the wall.

impact. and then

fifth.
the steady tick of an old wooden clock in the silence,
tranquil breathing to the scratch of charcoal,
calloused hands with nimble fingers offer you a book,
spilled glue, spilled paper, spilled paint.

impact. and then

sixth.
a stride that makes curls bounce with each step,
clothes tainted with too sweet perfume,
a teasing eyebrow followed by hard composure,
a smile forever frozen on the lips.

impact. and then

seventh.
paper rustling over sizzling fire,
a colourful field from a time long ago,
a stern reprimand with a gentle face,
silver-rimmed spectacles crack on the floor.

impact. and then

eighth.
gruff, hoarse laughter in a noisy bar,
mocking bitterness, stumbling steps,
bright eyes that shine in the candlelight,
a cold hand that slips from your grasp.

impact. and then

ninth.
a red flag raised to the sky,
shouts from a raging crowd,
splinters piercing your back
and pain that burns you alive.

light. and then

last.
you open your eyes.

pilferingapples  asked:

IDK what ships you're in the mood to write, but how about Forehead Kiss for Marius and Courfeyrac?

Anonymous asked: If we’re talking Courfius, consider: Marius doting on Courfeyrac after he catches a cold from being outside in the rain for whatever reason            

“You oughdn’d worry, Barius. I’ll be quide fine.”

Courfeyrac ruined the pronouncement by immediately coughing into his handkerchief. His face was blotchy, his eyes were red, and Marius was inclined to worry as much as he pleased. He stayed firmly planted in the doorway.

“What would Combeferre say if I let you go out a damp day like this?” Marius asked. It was a serious question, and one he had no desire to learn the answer to. Mere contemplation of it made one shudder. “Whatever it is, I’m sure I would deserve it.”

“Something aboud freedom, probably,” said Courfeyrac. “Doe man should be another’s jailer, or somesuch. He’d subbort me, beyond doubt.” He made another halfhearted pass at the door handle.

Marius caught him. “If you aren’t well enough to spout pithy quotes about liberty at the drop of a hat, you aren’t well enough to go out,” he said firmly.

“ ’s only a liddle cough,” complained Courfeyrac. “Dothing serious. Really, the adfrontery of some people one calls brother!”

This outburst appeared to exhaust him, and he collapsed sulkily into a chair. He kept his eyes on the door, however, and Marius knew better than to withdraw.

“Would you like me to find you a book? I can read to you, and I’ll warm you some tea.” He took an old coat off the rack and draped it over Courfeyrac, followed by several scarves and at least one hat.

The lump of clothing containing Courfeyrac continued to look affronted.

“Don’t be cross with me,” said Marius, placing a comforting hand on what he guessed was Courfeyrac’s arm. He tried to imitate the tone Courfeyrac used when he was making nice. “I just want to take care of you. That isn’t so much to ask, is it? You took care of me after all, when I came to you in need.”

Marius leaned in and pressed a light kiss against Courfeyrac’s forehead. He felt Courfeyrac settle a little, and quickly snuck a hand in the place of his mouth.

“Aha! A fever! I knew it!”

Courfeyrac groaned. “Fide! I gibe in! Probided you share by imprisonbent, Monsieur,” – this last pronounced with special care – “I subbose I may consent. Bud I’mb going to make you read a romance nobel,” he added, with a clear note of satisfaction. “A cheap one.”

3

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