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The Chevalier was anything if not famous for jumping at whatever opportunity for celebration was laid in his path; whatever was to be celebrated, whoever the guest of honor might have been, wherever they served liquor and played joyous music, that was where he would be found— that was, of course, until he had diverged towards an empty corner to indulge into a little celebration of his own, usually with a companion.
At this particular celebration, however, the Chevalier was not himself. He had much more pressing issues, problems he would have never had fathomed to struggle with, the choice between treason and death no less, whirling restlessly in his brain. His main source of diversion, the only person that could distract him, be that with sex or childish bickering, was not himself either, not since he had returned from war… Returned physically was more like it, for his soul and mind —at least as he had once known them— were yet to make an appearance.
His only comfort, alas, was alcohol, which he gulped shamelessly, stopping only when his mind was too foggy to produce a thought and his sight too blurry to make out a familiar face. In that state of blissful oblivion, he stumbled his way around the nearly empty palace, a hand clumsily tracing the wallpaper as he walked across every room, for even in his state that was the only guidance he needed to find the only quarters where he would feel safe.
"Ooh," he cried delighted when he discovered a pitcher of wine waiting at the table right outside the bedroom, and just as he was closing one eye in an attempt to aim the liquid into a chalice, the doors he had just closed were slammed open and a figure raced past him— almost through him, as a matter of fact. "Well, by all means, my darling, don't mind me," he spat accusingly, for he knew exactly who it had been, even after having only caught a glimpse of him in the shadows.
Phillippe responded by slumming the doors of the bedroom shut behind him. The Chevalier rolled his eyes.
"You must have me confused with your wife if you think I will be lummox enough to be intimidated by this charade," he warned in a loud voice so as to be heard through the closed doors. "Not that I could blame you, of course, we are both, after all, blonde and beautiful—Goodness me… I do believe there is a pattern to the people upon which you bestow your charms, mamour."
With a heavy sigh, as if he were a tired guard that had just been summoned for duty in the middle of the night, the Chevalier set aside the wine and helped himself to some refreshments in an attempt to sober himself up enough, opening the windows to let in some fresh air for good measure.
"Phillippe—" he demanded. Silence greeted him again and he turned on his heel to face the closed doors. "Phillippe D'Orleans!"
"Fuck off," replied the young man at last.
"Indeed I had every intention to be fucked and off, darling, in that precise order, but I'm afraid your temper had plans of its own," retorted the blond, refusing to cave.
Again his lover responded with silence and being fresh out of taunts to extend, the Chevalier rolled his eyes and opened the doors.
He had been witness to many a tantrum thrown by Phillippe before, but this was different. Before, he behaved like a child, sitting on the edge of his bed, arms crossed tightly over his chest and a pout on his lips, like a spoiled, pampered boy who resented having received a pony rather than a horse for his birthday. Now he saw him struggling to perform a task as simple as unbuckling the strap around his jacket, only to collapse upon failure, as if he had just failed his one true purpose in life. Sobbing like a man who had been holding back tears for too long, the Duke of Orleans fell to his knees, surrendering the task as he seemed to be surrendering his whole self to the will of God.
His companion approached him tentatively. Intimacy was hardly his area of expertise —he knew all about sex, yes, but nothing of intimacy— not to mention it caused him no amusement to see the man he loved a broken heap at his feet, and the last thing he wanted was to seem affected by the sight for that was not what Phillippe needed to see at that moment.
"Now, now, my dear, no need to be so dramatic," he cooed as he sunk a knee on the floor, suddenly by some miracle of the Heavens, or sheer sense of purpose was more like it, sober enough to swiftly undo the buckle that had been causing the other such dismay. "There," added he with a soft smile as he tossed the strap over his shoulder. "Out of sight, out of mind."
Still reluctant to receive affection, Phillippe kept his eyes fixated on the moon through the window, refusing to meet the Chevalier's gaze. When the other young man tried to cup his cheek with his hand, he recoiled, responding by batting the hand away, only to have his wrist firmly caught by his lover, like he was being disciplined.
"For fuck's sake," hissed the blond, having grown officially tired of that erratic, capricious, aggressive attitude. "This might come as a shock to you, Phillippe, but I might just be the one person in this forsaken palace to feel genuine and loving empathy for you, which God knows you cannot afford to dismiss at the moment."
Again tears formed in the man's eyes, which the Chevalier recognized as tears of regret, granting him a moment to compose himself before responding as he saw fitting. Still determined to preserve his dignity despite being in the company of the one person who had perhaps already seen him at his worst, Phillippe took a deep breath and held his chin up high.
"You know, I've always admired your ability to evoke God without spontaneously bursting into flames."
The Chevalier smirked, for that was the first time he had seen the Duke act like himself since his return from the front.
"My dear, I do believe that is the most romantic thing you've ever said to me."
They shared a laugh.
The celebrations had all but ended by the time they both lied in bed naked, with the Chevalier's back to the headboard while Phillippe slept soundly on his lap, an absent-minded hand caressing its way through long, raven curls. At last the effects of alcohol were dissipating, him and his lover had made amends, and all that was left to concern the Chevalier was the most serious subject of them all: the question of committing treason so as to avoid death.
A sharp gasp punctuated his train of thought; the Duke of Orleans sat up abruptly, alarmed, evidently startled awake by traumatic mental residues of the war. As his lover hushed him gently, he brought a hand to his face, panting and on the verge of tears yet again at the mere thought of that being his new normal for the rest of his days: being a broken shell of a man, too traumatized for normal interaction, too tormented to ever achieve a good night's sleep ever again. Instead of recoiling at the attempt of a loving gesture like he had been doing since his return to Versailles, he succumbed immediately, allowing the Chevalier to ease his head back onto his lap.
"I do believe I've gone mad," he confessed in a whisper, wide-eyed and frightened, no longer by the memories but by what they had made of him.
"What a fantastic world we'd live in if everyone were as mad as you, my dear," replied the Chevalier.