![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
He's needed to see Courfeyrac long before this, of course.
Since he first recovered from being magically shrunk to a child, really. And it has been something of an age since it's been just the two of them, old friends chatting away from even the loud space of a quiet bar. Marius knows, of course, this is his fault; he's kept himself locked away, mourning in solitude the way he once did in Paris, only pausing long enough to attend his shifts at work.
There's so much he wishes he could go back and fix, in hindsight. Especially now, when everything has changed, yet again.
He's carefully making his way towards his best friend's rooms, cradling a pot of freshly brewed coffee before him as though he were a child clinging to a stuffed animal. It's one of his favorite blends, purchased from a small cafe just down the road. Something about vanilla, pecans, and cinnamon in the flavor - he can't remember the exact name. All he knows is that it's delicious. And hopefully will help soothe his nerves for whatever comes of this conversation. (He's trying to avoid alcohol, even as much as he might want a glass of wine.)
He walks up the stairs to the ninth floor, chewing nervously on his bottom lip as he focuses on not spilling the drink. He pauses in the hallway before Courfeyrac's door to adjust his collar; he's wearing a shirt similar in style to those he wore in Paris, with the thicker fabric and the higher collars. He's also wearing his old cravat on top of that. Hopefully, the marked skin beneath won't show through.
He expels a lengthy breathe, then finally raises his hand to knock on the door.
"Courfeyrac? Are you home?"
Since he first recovered from being magically shrunk to a child, really. And it has been something of an age since it's been just the two of them, old friends chatting away from even the loud space of a quiet bar. Marius knows, of course, this is his fault; he's kept himself locked away, mourning in solitude the way he once did in Paris, only pausing long enough to attend his shifts at work.
There's so much he wishes he could go back and fix, in hindsight. Especially now, when everything has changed, yet again.
He's carefully making his way towards his best friend's rooms, cradling a pot of freshly brewed coffee before him as though he were a child clinging to a stuffed animal. It's one of his favorite blends, purchased from a small cafe just down the road. Something about vanilla, pecans, and cinnamon in the flavor - he can't remember the exact name. All he knows is that it's delicious. And hopefully will help soothe his nerves for whatever comes of this conversation. (He's trying to avoid alcohol, even as much as he might want a glass of wine.)
He walks up the stairs to the ninth floor, chewing nervously on his bottom lip as he focuses on not spilling the drink. He pauses in the hallway before Courfeyrac's door to adjust his collar; he's wearing a shirt similar in style to those he wore in Paris, with the thicker fabric and the higher collars. He's also wearing his old cravat on top of that. Hopefully, the marked skin beneath won't show through.
He expels a lengthy breathe, then finally raises his hand to knock on the door.
"Courfeyrac? Are you home?"
