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Coming here was a mistake. Robespierre can see that now, can read the expression on Danton's face as he gave Robespierre directions: contempt, amusement, a hint of smugness. Poor, naive Robespierre - let's have a bit of fun and shake up those sensibilities of his a little, shall we?
There are times when Robespierre worries that Danton may be getting in the way of progress, letting himself be blinded by personal ambition and pettiness. Camille still speaks of him highly, though.
Camille, who is currently keeping company with whores and drunkards. (Regardless of what Danton may think, Robespierre is not blind to the imperfections of this world; he has no objection to people selling their bodies in order to feed themselves. He dislikes excess in anything, that is all. Dislikes the type of men who come to a place like this and find pleasure in it.)
The level of noise is overwhelming. The air stinks of alcohol, and other substances.
Robespierre forces himself to walk in slowly, with dignity. Fearless. What is there to fear, for a man like him? He has only come here to find Camille, and take him home, if at all possible.
Someone recognizes him; he feels a little embarrassed - should he explain himself? But no, he is merely pointed in the direction of Camille, for which he manages some stammered thanks, which go ignored.
Perhaps, he reflects, he is not alone in his unease. Perhaps that is why Camille has come here: to be ignored for who he is. To surround himself with strangers. It makes Robespierre feel a little sad, a bit like he has failed Camille. What does it say about Robespierre, that Camille would prefer the company of strangers over that of his best friend?
People move aside at his approach, leaving Camille all by himself. Robespierre sits down.
Camille looks at him when he does, eyes bright and distant.
Robespierre's mouth feels dry. He wishes now that he had not come, that he had recognized Danton's expression for what it was.
Camille moves, until their bodies are close enough for Robespierre to imagine he feels Camille's warmth, and then a little more, so that they are touching. Robespierre wants to move, get up and leave - the act of a coward. He feels ashamed of himself.
"Well?" says Camille. "If sitting there like a block of wood is all you're good for, you might as well not be here at all."
"Camille," Robespierre says. Can you recognize me, Camille? Do you care?
"Oh, so you know who I am, do you?" Camille tosses his head back just so. Drunk as he may be, there is still grace in the gesture. The familiarity of it strikes Robespierre almost like a physical blow.
Robespierre thinks, everyone knows who you are, Camille. You're famous. "Yes," he says.
Camille laughs, a brittle and too loud sound. It makes Robespierre want to reach out and protect him from all the things and people in the world who might break him. This world they live in - it's not kind to people like Camille. Camille deserves better.
"A man of few words," says Camille. "A rarity, indeed, in these times. But then, what use is a man who will neither speak nor act? What good will he do his fellow men? In what way will such a man improve the world around him? If he stands by while others practice cruelty and injustice, does that not make him an accomplice to their crimes? If he refuses to speak up for the weak and the downtrodden, should they not hate him as they hate their oppressors?"
Robespierre says nothing. Forgotten, his regrets in coming here. Discarded as unworthy, his earlier thoughts, suspicions. This is Camille. How could Robespierre ever have been so vain as to think Camille requires protecting?
"Kiss me, then," Camille says. "Live a little. We might both be dead tomorrow, hadn't you heard?"
The world shifts again, Robespierre's view clear once more. You say such things, Camille, and people might believe them. They might act on them, and then what? You are too kind to reject them, to explain that they were only words, that you did not mean them. You will get yourself hurt, one of these days.
"You're not going to die, Camille." Not so long as I draw breath and am there to prevent it.
You're like the ideals of the Revolution; you're going to live forever.
"Everyone dies, sooner or later," Camille says. He gets up, barely able to stay upright and stumbles into Robespierre's lap, his hands on Robespierre's shoulders.
Their faces are very close together now. Robespierre smells the cheap wine on Camille's breath and tries not to recoil. It is Camille, he tells himself. He can bear this. Camille deserves kindness, consideration. What is Robespierre's discomfort, compared to Camille's happiness? A small price to pay.
Camille frowns, expression uncertain for a moment. "I know you."
Robespierre barely dares to breathe. He should say something, he thinks. He should have spoken sooner, the moment he sat down. It is too late now. Camille will hate him for this. Camille -
Camille kisses him.
Robespierre feels his entire body go rigid. The urge to push Camille away is weaker than he would have expected, which is a bit of a relief. He lacks the experience to evaluate the kiss beyond the obvious: Camille tastes like wine and seems to be enjoying himself.
"Stop," Robespierre says, when Camille comes up for air. He feels flushed, embarrassed.
"You really can't make up your mind, can you?" Camille scoffs. "If no other virtues are within your capabilities, why not at least aim for consistency?"
Consistency is not a virtue, Camille. Consistency is meekly accepting tyranny, because it is what you have always known. Consistency is allowing injustice to continue. We must do away with consistency first of all, if we would make the world a better, more just place.
You have never been consistent, Camille. Your virtues are far beyond such things as consistency.
"You are not yourself," Robespierre says. He realizes that he wants to kiss Camille again. Or no, not again; what happened just now was entirely Camille's own doing. He realizes that he wants to kiss Camille for the first time.
"Max?" Camille frowns. He makes an aborted movement, as if he wants to back away, put some distance between them. "Am I dreaming? Is this my punishment for not having finished that draft yet? Am I going to wake up behind my desk?"
You should not sleep behind your desk, Camille. Use a bed. Even Robespierre sleeps in a bed. It's better for his health, and he needs to be healthy to do good. It is simple logic, common sense.
"I was looking for you," he says. "I - someone gave me directions."
Camille's frown deepens. "Who?"
"Danton," Robespierre admits.
Camille swears. He seems sober, or nearly so. Robespierre wonders which is the false impression. "He had no right. This isn't - you shouldn't have come here. I know you don't - damn that fat bastard, anyway."
"It's my own fault," says Robespierre. He has no particular interest in preserving Danton and Camille's friendship - if friends they are. In a strange way, when it comes to Camille, he supposes he might view Danton as a rival, of sorts. The competition, inasfar as such a word applies to men of reason, united by a common goal. "Nobody forced me to come here, to find you. Certainly, nobody made me kiss you."
Camille looks as if he has bitten into something sour and rotten. "I did."
You are always so hard on yourself, Camille. You take too much upon your shoulders. Your words have sparked the fire: is that not enough? You have set everything in motion. Be content. People owe you their freedom. You are loved.
"I didn't mind," says Robespierre, relieved that he need not lie. "It was pleasant enough."
If Camille realizes that he is still sitting in Robespierre's lap, nothing in his face shows it. "Pleasant? You really have no passion whatsoever, do you, Max? Are you even human?"
"I have no reason to suspect otherwise."
"Forgive me," Camille says. "That was unkind. I'm - I may be a bit drunk right now. It makes me prone to say harsh things."
It makes you prone to act and speak without thinking, Robespierre thinks. "There's really nothing to forgive. In fact, if you wish to kiss me again, I have no objection."
"Coming from you, that's almost like a declaration of undying love." Camille's expression is pensive, thoughtful. A little wary, perhaps.
Perhaps he is right to be wary. Perhaps - no. Robespierre knows quite well there is no 'almost' about it. He loves Camille - Camille's words, Camille's writings and speeches and ideas. Camille gives voice to what Robespierre can only feel.
"Love is part of human nature. Love for one's country, one's fellow men. For justice, liberty and righteousness. I am human, therefore I must love."
"Lofty ideals, sure. But me?" Camille shakes his head. "I'm a bad bet, Max. Married, too," he adds, as if this has slipped his mind until now. "You should find yourself a woman. You've got plenty panting after you - why not make one of them the envy of the rest? They'll probably tear her apart before your eyes."
"If you're not going to do anything, perhaps you should find a more comfortable place to sit."
Camille doesn't move. "You're going to regret this. Maybe not tomorrow, but one day. I'll disappoint you."
"You won't." You can't. After what you have already done, how could you? "I promise."
Camille shivers. Robespierre wonders if Camille is cold, if he ought to find a blanket. If, perhaps, this is as far as he should let things proceed tonight. Camille needs sleep, rest. Robespierre has meetings to attend tomorrow morning. "How can you always be so sure? So certain? I envy you for that."
You thrive on uncertainty, Camille. You're happiest in a crisis, with no time to fret and worry. You shine brightest in those moment, bringing hope when all hope seems lost. I have seen you.
"Kiss me again," Robespierre says. "Please. Camille."
"That almost sounded like passion. Now I can die content, knowing I have seen everything."
You will never be content, Camille. So long as this world is imperfect, you will never rest.
And then Camille kisses him again, and Robespierre tries to reciprocate, this time, to brace himself and be ready for it, but he feels himself fail, feels all his good intentions give way before the sheer force of it: Camille's clothed body pressed against his own and Camille's mouth, taking away his ability to draw breath.