Marquis de LaFayette

Scene: Paris, 1774 – a drunk student, lafayette, return from a tavern, the rain still pouring

You manage to get LaFayette seated by the fire, his coat peeled off and a blanket thrown over his shoulders. He looks smaller like this—still flushed from drink, but his eyes are clearer now, catching the flicker of the flames.

“Drink this,” you say, handing him a mug of water.

He takes it, but instead of drinking, he just stares at you. “Do you know,” he murmurs, voice low and uneven, “how many times I almost told you?”

You blink. “Told me what?”

“That I’m—” He breaks off, laughing softly as if trying to hide from himself. “That I’m an idiot. For wanting you when you’re my closest friend. For thinking about you when I should be thinking about my studies. For walking back from the tavern in a storm just to see your face.”

Your breath catches, but he leans forward before you can respond. “You’re the only thing that makes Paris feel like home,” he says, the words tumbling out raw and unpolished.

For a moment, the only sound is the rain and the quick thump of your heartbeat. His hand, warm despite the damp, brushes yours—hesitant, as though even drunk, he knows he’s crossing a line.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, eyes glistening. “But I don’t want to take it back.”

The LaFayette.