pontmercyfriend | Running around like a clown on purpose.

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Running around like a clown on purpose.

Awakening beneath a jumbled pile of sheets, Marius doesn't register that anything is off, at first. He yawns as he blinks awake, staring at the mostly unadorned wall across from his bed. His first thought follows the loud, rumbling noise of his stomach. Suddenly, he doesn't remember if he actually, in fact, had dinner last night at all. He'd spent almost all of yesterday reading; he must have forgotten to eat, his head too much wrapped up in both the clouds and his past week in general.

"Mrow?"

Courfeyrcat mews before pouncing on him, landing clean on the middle of his stomach. Marius winces, surprised by how much heavier his cat seems, before he blinks again and gets a good look at himself.

Most of the sheets he finds himself entangled in are his own pajamas; he is all but drowning in his own shirt, and his tiny legs are tangled in just one side of his pants. He blanches before flailing, much to his cat's dismay, and falls off the side of his bed. He makes his way to the mirror above his dresser, which, he realizes, he can't see unless he stands on the tops of his toes.

"Dieu," he exclaims, clamping his hands over his mouth at the high pitch of his voice. His hair is a brighter shade of red, longer, and even more out of control than usual; his eyes are widened, trying to take in the sight of himself. He looks exactly as he did back in Paris when he was 8. And still, Marius; stomach grumbles. How on God's green earth did he suddenly become younger again?

That's when his pajama pants slide off him completely, and Marius knows his first order of business; as much as he wants to freak out right now, he requires clothes that actually fit; and then he can have a proper cry, or whatever it is young children do these days.

"Right," he tells himself, glancing around. He owns absolutely nothing that will possibly fit him, so he'll have to go out and purchase a new outfit for himself. In the mean time...

He runs over to his bed again, crawling back up and grabbing one of the pillows. He shakes it out of the dark brown case, and takes said case with him to the kitchen; he grabs one of his belts, too, before he goes. By the time he finishes, Marius feels relatively accomplished; he's managed to fashion himself an outfit, not entirely unlike a toga - he's cut holes in the case for sleeves, and wrapped the belt around the middle to keep it up. He lacks shoes, so he'll just have to go barefoot for the time being. Inexplicably, he giggles at thought.

With all that said and done, and a mournful Courfeyrcat glaring at him, Marius grabs some cash from his wallet and makes his way to his door. Forgetting, of course, his apartment keys.

"Damn it!" He shouts, banging his tiny fist against the door after it falls shut. He groans; he'll just have to convince someone he is actually himself, he supposes. Or learn how to pick locks, whichever proves the easier option.

Still, there's nothing that can be done now; Marius needs new clothes so he looks less ridiculous. His stomach interrupts the thought with another growl. Okay, after breakfast.

He makes his way to one of his favorite cafes close to Dimera apartments. The pavement hurts his bare feet, especially with the morning chill, but he finds he doesn't mind; oddly, Marius grins at the sensation. There's something oddly freeing about being this small and having only the ground beneath him. He's tempted to run, the way he's seen gamins weaving in and out on the streets of Paris.

"Hold it, kid."

He approaches the cafe, only to be stopped by a nearby police officer he failed to notice. His shoulders tense and scowls at being called a 'kid.' He is a twenty-three old man, thank you very much. Currently trapped inside the body of an eight year old, but still. The indignity of it all.

"Yes, sir?" He says, trying to stay polite. He doesn't want to cause any trouble if he can help it. "I'm just trying to get something to eat."

"Where are your parents?" The officer asks him, peering down at him over a pair of sunglasses. He looks like a monster, Marius petulantly thinks. But then he realizes: he has to lie. He has to think of some convincing lie, just to get the officer off his back.

He is a terrible liar, even as child.

"Dead," he says, plainly, as if he were answering a simple question such as 'what's your favorite color.'

The officer stares at him, clearly taken aback by the answer. "Alright kid, I'm going to need you to come with me."

Marius glares; he really, really dislikes being called 'kid.'

But then, the policeman is reaching for him. He recoils and ducks, grateful in that moment for his small size as he turns to run as fast as he can.

"Kid, come back here!" The officer huffs, though, unfortunately for Marius, he is not the sort of police uninspired by running. Indeed, as Marius glances back, he finds the other man keeping up with him, nearly overtaking him.

Shit, he thinks, wincing as his feet stumble over debris on the sidewalk. He only barely manages to swerve and avoid a shard of broken glass; bouncing off a nearby brick building as he runs, grinning at the thrill of it. He feels like he could fly, if he just set his mind to it.

This is, of course, the moment when the officer grabs Marius by the arm.

"Alright now, kid, come on. It's alright, we'll take care of you - Jesus Christ!"

Marius doesn't think; he elbows the man where he knows it will hurt the most on instinct. And then he's off running again, making himself move as fast as he can possibly go. His stomach starts to cramp, though, as it reminds him that he still hasn't had breakfast, and suddenly, as he turns into an alley, searching for a place to hide, the dumpster, perhaps, he is actually flying, for a few, brief moments.

"Ow!" He grimaces, glancing down to find his knee cut up and bloody. Damn it all.

"Don't cry, don't cry," he mumbles to himself, chewing on his lip as though that might stop his tears. Grandfather disapproved of him crying.

He manages to right himself, clinging to the wall for support as he keeps his tears in check. He eyes the dumpster, even as the thought repulses him. Better than letting that awful man take him away.

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The clothes were simple, acquired for practicality more than fashion, and perhaps not quite large enough for Marius, but Rat had a feeling they'd be a damn sight more comfortable than a pillowcase.

"Luckily, you don't have any injuries," Rat said. "And that I washed those after I shrank." And had kept them. Just in case.

"It'll suit for now."

Marius leaves fashion and worrying about it to people like Courfeyerac, who, for all of his political fervor, also hinges on the latest styles as though they were nourishment he needed to live. Glancing down at himself in Rat's clothes, which do cling a little tightly, he finds himself content with how comfortable they prove to be.

"They're great," he tells Rat, looking back up at the other man with a grateful smile. "Thank you."

"Much better than a pillowcase," he admits, scratching the back of his head, which feels fuller than usual, his hair thicker and more prone to curling at this age. It's odd the way his fingers catch in it as he runs them through his hair.

"So, how's your day going then?"

"Strangely," Rat said, deliberately understating is opinion of the day. Puttering around, not drawing any particular attention to his actions, Rat shuffled through his cabinets. With Grey gone, he'd defaulted to his old habits, spending little and even less on luxury food items. He had bread, some cheese, eggs. Basic staples.

Well. Marius was French...

Moving a skillet to his stovetop, Rat quickly assembled ham and cheese sandwiches with eggs at the ready to add.

Marius contents himself with watching Rat move about the kitchen, taking in glimpses of what makes up his apartment as he does. Everything seems simple and understated, which seems to fit of what he knows of the other man.

Still, when he begins taking out food, Marius' becomes keenly aware of the fact that he hasn't eaten since last night; his stomach grumbles as the scent of cooking food fills the air.

"That looks so good," he says, trying not to drool as he follows Rat around the kitchen.

The croques-madames were easy enough to cook, little more than a fancy grilled cheese. Needing to busy his hands, to keep from thinking too much about the knot of mixed emotions in his stomach, he fond flour and started to make a bechamel sauce.

Because there were few things, even days as strange as this, that weren't improved by the addition of butter.

"They're called croques-madames."

"Croques-madames?" He asks, head tilting in confusion as he tries to process the information. He's never heard of such a food before, but the look and smell of it convinces him instantly that such food must be delicious.

Then again, after a morning of confusion and running, and having not eaten anything since last afternoon, Marius suspects Rat could cook garbage and he would eat it gladly.

"They look delicious," he says, watching him make the sauce with widened eyes.

"Grilled ham and cheese, fried egg, bechamel sauce," he explained quietly. In a matter of minutes, the sandwiches were set aside, coated in the bechamel sauce.

"Sit wherever you like. Don't give the cat any human food." Even as he said it, he pretended not to notice the way Polyphemus had pounced on the used spoon.

The mischievous part of him that seems to have awoken when he awoke as a child tempts him to sit on the counter; he's never sat on a surface before, thanks to the manners instilled in him at a young age. Ultimately, they hold out now, if only for the fact that Marius has less to climb when sitting on a chair.

"Thank you," he says, turning to Rat with a grateful smile. He doesn't miss the way Polyphemus licks the spoon, nor the way Rat obviously looks away while he does it. His smile widens.

But then he gives into his hunger, and he digs into his food, absolutely stuffing his face the way he's seen gamins do in the streets of Paris.

It was simple food, but warm in a way that sank down in the stomach and made hard days more bearable. "Just be grateful it wasn't MacBeth stew," he said wickedly.

With a firm hand, he shooed Polyphemus from the counter and threw the spoon away in the sink with the est of his growing pile of dishes. When he ran out of cutlery, then he'd do the dishes and no sooner.

Egg, ham, and cheese all slide and slip down Marius' face and hands as he eats, devouring the food as though it might disappear at any moment. It's warm and greasy, the way the best comfort food is. He begins to feel more human, the more he eats of it.

"What's MacBeth stew?" He asks, mouth full of food. Judging from the smirk on Rat's face, he probably doesn't want to know. But he finds himself more prone to curiosity, the longer he remains as a child.

He glances over at the pile of dishes in the sink and grins. If it weren't for his job at Tinturn Abbey, his own sink would look the same way.

"Nothing much at all," Rat teased, even as he slid into the part of an actor, grinning slyly. "Just some eye of newt, toe of frog, wool of bat, and tongue of dog...The essentials."

He wriggles his fingers at Marius as though he really is a child, sitting down for a scary story.

Marius feels like he ought to be revolted; he ought to lose his appetite at the very mention of newt eyes and frog toes. His grandfather would curl his lip and disgust and condemn the very notion. Perhaps that's why, when his eyes widen in curiosity, he stuffs more of the sandwiches into his mouth and leans in closer, like an actual child hanging onto the words of the most fantastic story.

"Tell me more?" He asks, unable to keep from grinning at Rat wriggling his fingers.

"Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting, lizard's leg and owlet's wing, for a charm of powerful trouble, like a hell-broth boil and bubble," Rat continued. The transformation as visible as he became a bent-backed witch, sinister and evil, rhyming along with Shakespeare.

"Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble!"

Done with his food, Marius can turn his attention fully to Rat now. Part of him wants to protest his own childish delight; he decides, for the moment, to hell with that part of him as he cheers and applauds Rat's performance. For a performance it is, that, even the childish influence on his mind can recognize. And he finds himself enjoying every second of it.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he registers that this might actually the most fun he's had as a child since before his mother died.

That in mind, he decides to make a request; a request that would only have been turned down or delegated back in Paris.

"Rat, will you read me a story?"

Rat paused then, caught off guard by such a childish request. Then his own heart hurt a little with the memory of so many nights curled up with Grey. They'd paged through Dante, through Tolkien, all of it. He had been the voice of the story, of every character.

The Christmas storybooks were still hidden on the back of his shelf, some of the last books he'd read with Grey.

But he couldn't deny a child, even when he knew that in his mind, Marius was a grown man and a complication in his life.

"Go pick a book," he said at last.

Marius catches the hurt in Rat's eyes, and he wonders if he'd said the wrong thing. He didn't mean anything by it, but then, he also didn't know the significance of reading books in relation to the other man.

He's about to reply that Rat doesn't have to, when he tells him to choose a book.

Delighted, he offers him a flash of a smile before running off to the shelf. His eyes widen at the scope of it, of how many books Rat has managed to collect while here in Darrow.

"You sure do have a lot," he observes, reading the backs of spines and trying to decide which one he wants. There's such a variety, it seems to him; books of all shapes and sizes. There's one that looks as though it might be about France, but the size of it is intimidating enough that Marius ignores it after a brief glance.

He pauses when he comes to what looks like Rat's collection of Shakespeare, and instantly, he knows which one he wants.

"This one, please," he says, running back to Rat with a copy of Hamlet.

"That's a play," Rat said, thoughtful "It's not quite the same as reading aloud a story." But Marius knew that, Rat had to remind himself. Marius had the memories of a grown man and he needed to stop talking to him like a child but...god.

He sighed a bit and then went to sit on the couch, beckoning Marius to join him while the cat sprawled out on top of his feet. Rat gave Polyphemus a look before nudging him over to make room for Marius.

"Go play with the damn mouse," he said, nudging the cat again.

"No, but Ophelia's your favorite, right?" Marius asks, watching Rat and the swirling expressions on his face. "I'd really like to hear you read her, if you wouldn't mind?" He wants to see how Rat portrays her, wants to see his passion for her in the words she speaks. And he hopes the play, not being a story, might hurt less for the other man.

He can't hide his grin at the half-hearted attempt Rat makes in getting Polyphemus to move. It's entirely endearing to him, how much the other man clearly cares about the creature.

Marius clambers over onto the couch, not hesitating in the least to cling to Rat's side, leaning his chin on the other man's arm.

"She is. Sit here and you can read along," he said. Making no other comment, he wrapped his arm around Marius, tucking him him close.

There would be no easing the pain. He had read to Grey, performed for him. But he was an actress. If he couldn't move past the troubles of his own mind to perform, he was in the wrong business.

"Who's there?" he read. "Nay, answer me: stand, and unfold yourself."

Delighted by both Rat's invitation and the arm draped around his shoulder, Marius scoots in closer, small grin plastered on his face. He snuggles up close to Rat, letting out a contented sigh before bringing his gaze to the book.

Rat is warm, and soft, and he has his arms around Marius the way no one ever held him as a child. He could remain like this for a fair amount of time and be content.

He switches between reading along and catching glimpses of Rat's face, not wanting to miss the way his expressions change with each voice.

He read slowly through the first act, taking his time with the voices and making as many gestures as he could while lying on a couch with a small body curled up against his. He used to read like this to some of the kids in the West District before he'd realized they were getting too attached to him.

"You're so quiet, I'm going to think you fell asleep."

"Isn't it rude to disrupt the performance?" Marius asks in turn, blinking up at the man beside him. He is absolutely enjoying Rat's efforts - the effortless switch between voices, the hand gestures to enhance a particular scene - they all inspire him to sit there and watch in awe. Especially since he knows how important this play is to Rat.

And if he is a tad quiet due to his rather adventurous morning, well. He manages to stifle his urge to yawn, at least.

"I suppose it would be," he agreed, even as he nudged the cat off his feet so he could lift Marius into his arms and carry him to the bedroom. A grown man's brain had quickly found itself undermined by the energy of a childish body and Rat folded Marius into bed before heaving the cat up to sit with him.

Marius just kind of stares as Rat moves to pick him up; the stubborn part of his childish brain wants to protest, wants to insist that he isn't tired at all, thank you very much. But then, surrounded suddenly by a strong pair of arms, Marius' whole face stretches as he yawns, and he finds his head falling to just near Rat's chin.

And when he tucks him into bed, Marius snuggles into bed while still trying to lean on him and the cat both.

"Read to me more? You can't just leave it on such an exciting part!" He pleads, feeling as childish as he looks.

"You're not even going to stay away," Rat said. Thumbing to the first page of Act II, he tucked the blanket more securely around Marius and began to read.

A traitorous part of him told Rat that he'd never read to Grey like this, the other dozing away while he sat at the edge of the bed. Pushing the thought away, he stroked his hand over the cat's head.

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