i wish you would write a fic ; where lumiere ISN'T the sexiest sandwich in the palace
um no??? i can’t??????? impossible?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?
Ugh. Plumette can barely feel her head; it’s throbbing, mon dieu, her eyes could fall out right now and she wouldn’t notice. One brown hand flails out toward her bedside clock and misses by a yard. Oh—ohhh—oops, no, that was too much effort. Better keep laying here until the hangover subsides.
Her face is smooshed down into her pillows, breathing in the musty scent of feathers and years-old lavender. Ugh. She turns over, with an effort—no, too much effort, again. Better just lay here looking up at the canopy of the bed without trying anymore super-human activities. Her eyes hurt, and the headache throbs.
What were they drinking last night? The Prince had gotten in some fine new vintage, he had ordered the very best, she knew it was expensive because Paulette down in the village had been complaining about the tax hike. And it never hurt anybody to just sample the wine—but, ugh, I guess it’s hurt someone now.
Where was she. Right: the wine. And the wine would have been just fine, a couple glasses clinked in the kitchen never hurting anybody, but then Chapeau (with that subtle smile of his) had silently poured a little brandy into his glass, to join the wine. Disgusting! A truly disgusting concoction—and one everybody had to try, immediately. And when Mrs. Potts declared she could drink any of them under the table, well—everyone has a competitive side, particularly on the fuller side of three glasses of wine.
Plumette’s arm drifted over her eyes.
Thank the sun his highness didn’t find us. He wouldn’t have been pleased to see his wine going to anyone beyond himself. Though, who knows—she remembered the Prince having a smiling side, once, and maybe he would have enjoyed the drinks they invented carelessly, Cogsworth mixing rum with scotch just to “make it last longer, truly just an economic measure.” Economic—hah. She wondered how the major domo was holding in his headache now.
Hadn’t he—it was hard to remember, through all the wine-colored memories—hadn’t he challenged one of the footmen to a drinking game? To see which one was truly the best? Competitiveness, yes—wait, she had already had that thought. She was repeating thoughts.
Where was she?
Right. The footmen. One of them. Drinking Cogsworth under the table with aplomb (aplomb: good word, good work, said something still drunkenly weaving behind her eyes). The older man had kept good pace at first, but then he got so far he proposed dueling instead, taking out guns and swords from his pockets, and the footman would have totally agreed (with the happiest smile in the world; forgetting that dueling could end in death, and not just be a wildly good time), if she hadn’t pulled him off. And then—wait, she remembered pulling him off the major-domo—what then? What then?
Oh right. They kissed. Because that footman—
She turns over, once more, her arm slapping down on the body beside her. He doesn’t wake. A dribble of something makes its way down Lumiere’s chin. He still wears half a face of makeup—she doesn’t remember putting it on, but it’s clearly her handiwork, little flowers and scrolls drawn on his temples with an unsteady hand. His wig is askew, his hair still drenched with powder underneath, his mouth hanging open in the most idiotic of expressions. His long nose is slightly red.
He is not—thinks Plumette, through the haze of her brain, which can’t quite pick up the words she wants it to—le sandwich au jambon plus séduisant.
Nope. Not at all. A merry idiot, slobbering in his sleep, with flowers on his forehead. Anyone else would throw him out of bed and try to forget the night before.
And yet—and yet—his hand still drapes to her waist; he still smiles in his sleep. God forgive me for loving an idiot, thinks Plumette. She takes her eyebrow pencil from the nightstand and gets to finishing her handiwork. If he’s going to have drawings on his face, he might as well have them symmetrically.