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Chapter Text

Maximilien Robespierre wasn't sure but certainty had its place within the hierarchy of the needs of the nation and the young Republic struggling to break out of its yoke. From the war on the front lines going terribly and to the civil unrest and war in the Vendee; was the Revolution ever truly out of danger? Didn't they cast off the villains of monarchy in the form of Louis Capet and soon his wretched and loathed ex- queen of France? Who was to say that he didn't do all things possible but personal relationships should be forfeit in the terms of the nation and the continuing war ...on all fronts, right? He wasn't the dictator that the rest of the world saw him as or even wielded extreme power, not when other eleven other obstinate men worked despite their personal biases against one another. 

Some friend and some foe. Who was to say someone's allies wouldn't be someone's enemies another day? 

No one was truly in power nor rested in the laurels of personal strength but the tripeidation kept those thoughts at the forefront of Robespierre's mind, swarming and when the latest arrest happened...he was sure that nothing could get in between him and the personal affections which plagued his heart. He was still human after all. Human despite the attacks from the outside of France, from those that were enemies yet, he couldn't always remain diligent in his dealings with the world when all of France, all of the Revolution was slowly losing against the flicker of thr wind; embers dying with the many arrests and deaths under Madame Guillotine. Was it necessary? Was it possible to keep believing in the virtue of the ordinary folks? In the just and right cause? Robespierre pondered this at the latest dispatch from his younger brother, Augustin though, Robespierre the elder was far away in seething contempt and a tingle of sorrow overwhelming him. 

"What does it say from him?"

Saint-Just asked impatiently for the millionth time but Robespierre didn't have time to mind for the angel of death, so nicknamed promptly for his absolute loyalty to the cause of Revolution and the impresses to go beyond. They were more than colleagues. They were undeniable lovers though, Robespierre wasn't the man to show that affection in a sexual or romantic manner, that their relationship was plenty enough of them working side by side in the cause of Republican love. The love which shared the sides of Saint-Just which Robespierre thought never possible, so why was he hesitating? 

With the latest death of Hebert and the Hebertists, there would be cause for celebration, but, not when the Revolution would surrender to death, or worse succumb to a military man. Any possibilities were just as likely for Robespierre but what he couldn't count on was the coalition of his heart giving out when it came to old childhood friends and fancy acquaintances. 

His heart couldn't take the criticism of the government which he was in part of, but it came unlikely from a sourced voice: Camille Desmoulins. A childhood friend, but who had that growing up? Who had the unlikely trappings of friendships within a Revolution? 

Not when it wasn't the voice he expected it from. Not from Camille. Not poor Camille. Not when another hand guided it most sinisterly. Georges Danton. 

"If you aren't going to take heed from the warnings, let yourself understand that this is quite serious, Maxime."

A tender voice. 

A tenderness which Saint-Just employed if and when things were harder for Robespierre, and these were these times, for the Le Vieux Cordelier was now on it's latest number and it would spell the death of Camille and all those supporting him, but could Robespierre help cosign the death warrant? Would he be able to shake off the friendship that was clearly more back in the day? Could he truly accept that destiny was fighting against the very strings it was winding around them both? Could he do this? Could he help sanction this anguish flourishing inside of him? 

A touch. 

A single one, full of regret but hope nevertheless, coming from Saint-Just. Younger, he may be but his love, his generosity kept Robespierre sane yet, he couldn't help the wrenching gut of sorrow making him sick but held it in for the sake of appearances-- he'd truly regret it later when all alone in his bedroom in the Duplay residence. He just knew it. Sickness would strike at him. 

Could he condemn but save Camille? Clemency? Possible? They'd die. Danton would win yet, no matter what they did, the Revolution was in trouble. 

Saint-Just leaned in. 

A soft brush of lips in the vacant Committee room, and Robespierre fell into it-- comfort and warm, and inviting. 

Inviting like all things. 

Inviting yet, once their silence was broken by the clattering of steps, they disconnected and business returned to usual---as more steps turned into other Committee members, and the papers before them. 

Georges Danton's arrest warrant. 

Camille Desmoulins was included in the list of people indicted and Robespierre knew that with agony seething into the pores of his bones, that he was in a predictable dilemma. 

Would Maximilien Robespierre be willing to kill his sentiments? No, he'd hang off the question for another day and try his hardest to ease the anguish gripping him and he'd visit Camille one last time. Would he be willing to set aside these things? These personal feelings? He'd go against Saint-Just and the worst off-- the Revolution. Could Robespierre go against his conscience? His feelings winning in the end? Could he if he tried?  

So, later that night after the departure from Saint-Just and the committee, Robespierre went to the Cordelier district, alone. Some sense had to be put through Camille's brain, at least sparing him from the horrors of the Guillotine, the death of a traitor and away from this life. Away from Maximilien Robespierre.

Could he have Camille, too? If only a distance away? Was that selfish? Was that selfish indeed?

A moment of gravity seized Robespierre. A moment of agony grasped him, with him wheezing slightly before the Desmoulins' residence. 

He'd do what he could to save Camille Desmoulins, if allowed. What of Saint-Just, though? What of the relationship there? Could Robespierre be responsible if it fell apart? No, the Revolution had to survive. It had to outlive both of them, all of them regardless. All of them. He had to have Saint-Just to keep him grounded. To keep loving him even in a Revolution. 

A moment.

A breath.

Robespierre's breath.

The breath of the Revolution.  The only way forward was through death yet how much more of it? Robespierre had to know. He had to achieve that number or answer to that seemingly difficult question, the question of a lifetime. What was more important in the world? To the Revolution? 

He entered though expected the worse. He was expecting it and got it through the busily scribbling Camille, and his reluctance or refusal to acknowledge Robespierre. Why throw out all their past for the sake of obstinacy? A principle? Didn't Robespierre mean anything to Camille? Didn't they mean something after their long nights at Louis Le Grand? The many years of correspondences afterwards? Didn't it matter? Didn't it matter anymore? Why would it be anything different for Robespierre and Camille? 

"Camille."

Second tries.

His name escaping so easily though painfully. 

Why would it matter if this too crumbled? If the moments of love once shared meant nothing? Attempting again.

Hovering before Camille, reeking of desperation, reeking of desiring affection yet, denied at all turns for everything was a mistake if loss overtook him. Robespierre would save this damnable man before him, before him even if it meant appeasing something else. 

"Camille. Listen to me. Denounce Danton--"

"I will not."

"Camille." Short of pleading. Short of being on his knees once again, except physically breaking him. Tears wouldn't come. They hadn't been the mode of emotion in which Robespierre recalled employing but, to be abandoned here, to be forgotten to be left alone in this world. In this Revolution. In a moment of frenzied actions, Robespierre seized those shoulders of his once friend and lover. A moment of despair waved over. A moment of pure frenzy with Robespierre pushing himself over Camille and shoving his mouth hard down, however sloppily. Just to endure the taste of knowing that Camille wouldn't leave Robespierre's memory if parted by death. If it came to that. 

A shove back after the fact and the separation between them. 

Camille gasped.

"You shouldn't have come." Came the first response. 

A warning. A threat but Robespierre had no choice but to, to ensure the survival of those lingering sentiments which burned ever so faintly in his heart, which threatened to extinguish forever. 

If only Camille didn't slap the hand that tried to spare him from his fate. A fate worse than death. A separation most dire and agonizing. 

"You were wrong, Maxime. We were wrong about the Revolution."

Robespierre didn't argue.

"If you came as a way to save me, don't. I can save myself."

Could he now? Was Robespierre wasting his time attempting to reason with dug out cowardice and stubbornness? Could the refusal have anything to do with Danton? Was he still influencing Camille even now? Even without his presence? 

A sigh.

"Camille, please."

"So now, the mighty Maxime is begging with me."

A laugh but it was hollow inside, more than Robespierre picked up on yet, in truth he was losing Camille so effortlessly and he refused this, Maximilien Robespierre refused this. Camille was laughing at such reprieve. Camille would find out. 

"Camille."

Whiny now.

Why was it aching inside now? Why was Camille rejecting the salvation in which Robespierre extended towards him? The words were now dust. Still, he refused to let Camille slip away. Robespierre refused. Refused to even if they parted on uncertain terms and tomorrow at the Committee, the warrant would be signed and agreed with. Camille Desmoulins had to die, but at the cost of Robespierre's heart. His love. His endearing sentiments. Was it possible still to try anyhow? Could he fend off the committee even more? He'd try. He'd try. 

He'd save Camille even if it cost Robespierre, even if he knew that the Revolution was bigger than any of them, truly, yet, here was the dilemma and the impossibility of it all. Some things had to die in order for rebirth. Some things like love wasn't necessary and like that, Robespierre was back in his room, gasping at the inevitable loss, upcoming. The inevitable loss of friendship and a past love. At least, Saint-Just was here. At least, Robespierre would remained loved by someone. By anyone that knew him too well. 

The love from another. But, he would succeed in all his endeavors somehow. A plan had to be formulated. A plan united in his mind and so he jotted it down, easily. Tomorrow...it would be fine with his speech. Tomorrow...

Chapter Text

Why had Camille denounced Robespierre so easily when clemency was shown? When the olive branch was extended so readily yet hastily slapped it away? Camille, unsure of the implications knew that he had another chance to ensure survival and it was his turn to beg for forgiveness though would he be received by Robespierre? Would it even matter? Though, Camille pondered through this dilemma as the household slept and he wandered back out into the streets but not before pausing at Lucile's door--- what she didn't know. What she didn't have to know and he left it at that, for his only folly was his own. And he would navigate against it until salvation was tightly secured. The salvation away from the Guillotine and death, itself. Suffice to say, he was going to the Duplay residence at this late of night to again save his life, though it wasn't a completely original idea ...would that olive branch still be in place for him to snatch? 

Darkness prevailed upon the streets of Paris and especially the Jacobin club which still brimmed with life in the low flicker candle light --- though its glow still warmed the cold streets and him, Camille ended up at where he ought to be. Would Maxime even be awake? Wouldn't Camille be able to persuade anything else other than passion and sanctify his life? He passed by the club's door which still brimmed with activity even for this late hour. The toils of the Revolution had no need for sleep. And rounded upon the Duplay's door so easily. 

A moment, pausing before a knock, though hesitation on his part to knock more. One should suffice, he thought, and soon, Maxime was out-- surprising Camille to a degree which sooner or later had to be commented on.

"Camille. You came." Fragility in Maxime's voice. Straining perhaps, as if he had cried but Camille knew better than to presume someone's or even Maxime's emotional state even if guessed right. 

"Maxime, in my haste, I seemed to have presumed too much on why you came first. I stand before you to ..accept what you've offered. If it remains there."

A soft sigh.

Tension still not relieved.

Camille hadn't said much on that forceful kiss back there but was that necessary? Maxime's sentiments were quite clear---love was propelling his old lover forward.

"It is. Do as I ask and no harm will come to you. This I promise."

"Will the Committee not pursue me? Only Georges?"

"Yes. He can't be spared, unfortunately."

Lips quivering in the lowest light of the candle being held by Maxime, though he quietly snuffed it out by between his forefinger and thumb. Easily.

"Then, I will. But --"

"Danton will be the sacrificial lamb, the Committee fears his calls for clemency. Terror is still necessary for the sake of the Republic and the revolution."

Camille gave a slow nod in between that darkness, however thick it was, as he wanted to grasp it and Maxime, too, all the same. And reciprocate that kiss. Maybe more? Camille certainly knew the way. 

"To save it? Is there no other way? I suppose, I ask too much of one man, even as--"

"Don't mistake me for having power, Camille. This I do not have. This I do not strive to possess. I only have some influence but--a single man isn't worth the revolution but to me, you are." Maxime was softer in his tone than Camille had ever heard but it didn't strike him as odd, just a boy hood memory of their days in Louis Le Grand. Their school years. Their years of longing and solace within each other. The only happier memories that Camille possessed. 

Leaning in, a kiss followed then a frisk and grab of Maxime's hair underneath his wig to pull him closer. No hesitation on any part, and Maxime followed in tandem. 

A kiss which had Camille commanding the surprised Maxime, a kiss which melted more into the darkness with the melding of their bodies. Until they returned to his room, still fiddling with their heightened emotions. Their bodies doing all the communicating. Their bodies expressing what words failed to do. What should have been done ...

Morning came too soon, sunlight snuck in, as Camille found himself snuggled against the pillow in a familiar but unfamiliar position, alone. Alone. He didn't have to guess the implications of their "reconcilation" nor what transpired though, he was certain about his life spared and his sentiments being returned fully by a man whom he loved so earnestly since his childhood days. 

A man called Maximilien Robespierre.

What did the future hold now? Camille Desmoulins would find out in a few hours after he heard the news--

Georges Danton had been arrested in the night and had been taken before The Revolutionary Tribunal. 

Chapter Text

Textured it was.

The way Camille was; lanky even though his hair was long and unruly like his spirit which Robespierre felt like he couldn't be--not when sensibilities meant the world nor what he had at stake for his family and the responsibilities of such. Why couldn't he think of Camille other than his friend-- at least at that junction of time. The words written was of his friend and someone Robespierre esteemed, a long time ago with the beginning of the Revolution; Georges Danton. The man who was manipulating Camille. The man responsible for the schism. The man whom wounded Robespierre's own mind by his arrogance and whom had to be made an example of, plus the East India affair too - scandal that was and linking that up with Danton and Camille. 

The night, young then old passed steadily and Robespierre longed for someone from the past to remind him of some far off fairytale but this was the reality of corruption and undemocratic behavior and adulthood which Robespierre burdened his shoulders with. The gravitas of memories. And of which all he held dear now fruitless and fading from his mind, all stemming from the aggravation of Camille's newspaper Le Vieux Cordelier. The latest issue was Danton's doing as it always seemed to be and Camille was simply a victim but visiting him, attempting to save him ...was foolhardy business which Robespierre had no way forward into. 

He did so anyways but arrived at the destination of home in the Duplay's residence. His room. Their kindness. So when, Camille came knocking surprising Robespierre from his dreamless stupor, he took that invitation and especially the ones where their veins met as their naked bodies crossed each other, especially when they did as lovers did in private. He couldn't think of Camille being faithfully married nor the child at home, but Robespierre had his heart spinning for Camille. Not Saint-Just. Even then, they didn't cross the physical realm, only sanctioning their love or devotion to the cause by words and brief affections described in actions.

As Robespierre ceased to be himself in Camille's naked embrace and as their bodies caved into one another, making love as only lovers could-- the gratitude of this act alone sealed Camille to safety and brevity. 

Careful not to awaken the ethereal journalist, who slumbered on and clutched the pillows upon sheets still sprawled across his thin and scrawny body. His vulnerability still flashing across Robespierre's memory the night before; he lingered on before dressing and putting on his wig and leaving straight for the Committee.

Still, it pained him to leave Camille alone. Still it ached Robespierre to detach himself despite being tangled upon inside and around the grooves of his lover; he had to nevertheless gain traction upon his heels and leave. Duty still abounded him. Duty still spoke through him. Still, his mind wasn't on task and he hoped that Camille would still be there yet, he couldn't count on that because he had a home already. Had a wife. Had a son. Had a family and what could the great Maximilien Robespierre offer Camille Desmoulins that he didn't already have? Anything of merit?

Then he heard the ruckus of The Revolutionary Tribunal and the hauling in of Georges Danton and action had to be taken. He was rallying up the crowd of sans-culottes and the public prosecutor wasn't well in the fact that he'd be overwhelmed and underfunded by the circus of a court. 

"Make it a crime for them to defend themselves!"

Barere. 

Robespierre's myopic gaze went down momentarily though Saint-Just continued to be steadfast. No, it wasn't him but Saint-Just though the question came forward.

"Why wasn't citizen Desmoulins not arrested to?"

"Because he reaffirms his commitment to the Committee and the Republic."

Robespierre retorted suddenly. 

Saint-Just's eyes shot back at Robespierre with a very disgusted expression. Why? Why continuing protecting him? That's what lovers did. Robespierre would counter with that but this was too new and too fast to exactly express that out loud in front of anyone let alone himself. Let alone in his own mind. How could that be? 

"I need a moment." A hand up. It was too unexpected.

Then as he briskly waltzed out, Saint-Just came flustering out before him-- answers had to be given but Robespierre couldn't for the first time in a long time. He couldn't help it. How could he? How could he face his friend and ally?

"What's --?"

"Not now. Camille has already plan to testify that Danton coerced him into writing that latest edition of Le Vieux Cordelier."

"That can't be enough."

"Has to be."

Another hand up, outside the Committee of Public Safety meeting room, Robespierre was sure of a few things and those would not befall Camille so easily or himself, in the matter; but what Robespierre didn't take into account was Danton being so unruly about his life. His life.

At least in the harmony of the moment, recalling the blissful twilight of love and tenderness, Robespierre could go on and face the world. 

"Let's put that into motion. It's not good enough."

"Robespierre---"

"I'm sure of it. Camille will testify and will do as the Committee commands." 

Robespierre was sure of that. 

Chapter Text

"I demand to be heard!"

Georges Jacques Danton. Once mighty titan of the revolution, and now, reduced to a risible mistake of a man whom on trial however in shambles it was, made a mockery of him and what he once stood for.  What did Danton stand for and why wasn't Camille out here defending a friend, an ally? Or had the worst happened? Betrayal? Defection. Camille Desmoulins had done it and here in the crowd, lost in thoughts, knowing that he'd retract his words in the paper the following morning-- if he continued down this pathway. If he stomached it but drawing on the night's pleasantries, he knew that it was a steal, a keep of an arrangement. The Revolutionary Tribunal in all its pageantry in colors of blue, red and white-- feathers and tricorne hats, wasn't just a machine for the wheels to turn in but rather, a well financed monster meant to outdo Saturn and eat all the gods on mount olympus. That's how stories, fictitious or not all well-- according to the Greeks but alas, he didn't, or rather Camille didn't suffer the worst in all this. 

He certainly suffered a fair amount observing the sway of Sans-culottes brandishing their weapons, all being from their pitch forks and worst off, their voices. Their voices, in frenzied unison was just that-- noisy and pretentious. They weren't here to save Danton. They were hear to pit giants and Camille had a front seat to this death match of which his soul was pitched forward towards. 

"It is I, Georges Danton!" 

Up rapturous applause and agreements along, but, Camille wasn't completely sure of these things in this moment, or of himself but he certainly couldn't disagree with the pit of his stomach rumbling with the thunderous roars of the mighty Danton. Couldn't he give up the ghost? This man deserved life, though, was it responsible to give that much to him? That Camille couldn't see beyond the blinding tears striking at his freckled cheeks. The cheeks of giving up the ghost.

The cheeks of varied friendship.

The cheeks of love which Camille found reassuring as the commotion inside wasn't even at a finish nor was resolved properly, until the wagging finger of the public prosecutor Fouquier-Tinville, and the tribunal itself. 

"I am the revolution. Isn't it why the Committee's  afraid of me?"

Echoed rhetoric question which bounces back easily, though it's shredding a part Camille and the lasting vanity that he has keep accomplished. Was it enough to sully more of himself than now than to fully allow despair to wreck havoc upon him? Despair? That's what was wanton upon his brow though, he couldn't be sure of anything more with the rising voices and of Danton's voice louder still.

"I demand witnesses! I demand these things!"

Why was it the end? Why was it so obvious to them and to Camille that Danton was waging a unsuccessful battle against the forces of prompt and circumstances and how Camille was spared by love, by embraces. 

Goddamn it.

Damn it all to hell in which it all resided but he was far from giving up any ghost, giving it all up for a last charade which Danton foolishly paraded about in. How could he continue to be so foolhardy in the worst ways? Couldn't he give up too?

The slumber of the Sans-culottes weren't there as their number spilled out into the streets and there was a real urgency of Camille rushing out of the courtroom, a farse of a trial, a moment of goodness spreading into his cheeks. The same which held back, until he secured Maxime's location clasping onto him in a difficult manner, barely breathing. Barely uttering a word, still caught in his stuttering mouth. 

A kiss a simple one which spared Camille's sentiments all the same. The moments of tears, now streaming all the same. The moments of knowing that he had to endure some comfort, a comfort for him though not spying Saint-Just ahead or near, Camille kissed back, sweetly at first. Serenely then seriously. He had to have more of Maximilien Robespierre, more than Camille realized. 

More than possible but the turns were missed. It really didn't matter anyhow, but he cared-- cared for simply being there but he had to awaken in order to feel anything, in order to cry, he had to be hurt and who else better than sweet Maxime would? Wake them both up, wake them fully, for they had to hurt in order to gain, for Camille didn't remember. No, he didn't. 

He'd forgotten how to cry suddenly. 

Forgotten but another kiss, another embrace, when they cared--it was simply easy, and simply nostalgic of days in youth long spent.

Maxime spoke nothing. His rhetoric lost, long ago, not when it mattered. Georges Danton was going to be dead by tomorrow, if the revolutionary tribunal sped it along. Was Camille missing his chance to be a part of history, of destiny of which his heart couldn't take?

Was he meant to die, too? Why had Maxime spared him? What of these things after today? Clasping so tightly, Camille didn't have those answers to questions that today brought, only in the closure of Maxime. 

"I love you."

Camille wasn't unaware of these measures but having Maxime say it directly reassured Camille, to the point he mouthed it back, to the point, he felt like he'd lose it, if he hadn't forgotten how to cry. No victory for Danton today or ever. He'd be guillotined. 

He'd be the sordid history of France. Garbage. Reeking compost. 

No, Camille didn't remember.

He didn't remember when night and day teetered and he collapsed to the darkness swelling inside his chest. He'd forgotten how to cry, so he had to be hurt to remember it all. Maximilien Robespierre struggled to clasp onto Camille Desmoulins, still uneasy, too. 

But in order to live, they all had to hurt somewhere down the line. Already, the light returned and the embrace was broken 

No, Camille didn't remember. What if they were seen? What if the revolution could be saved this way? Through love? Love only? Was it possible? Was it impossible to believe in fairytales at this age? Over thirty and wishing for the impossibilities of youth. 

Camille Desmoulins was spared. 

Camille Desmoulins returned to the tribunal as the struggle to maintain the crowd was churning and his cousin was losing until the nail came and hammered on. The decree from the Committee silencing the accused and Danton.

"Georges..." A whispered retreat of words parting slightly from Camille's chapped lips. The words of the accused were hushed up as the sentence came down: death. How else would it be? How else could he stomach such a sentence? How much could he not remember when he was idly saved by love. Love. 

Rushing through the throng of people, he managed to get a better gaze at Danton, better wisp of his friend and once close ally. Would he notice Camille now? Would he accept it? No, but what choice did a life play? In an instant, their eyes met, tangled even in the dim courtroom. 

What was the gaze for?

What was Danton attempting to say as his last words? At least towards Camille? Anything at all? Would he betray Maxime, too? Cautiously, they broke eye contact, and Camille lingered in that nothingness. 

No, he couldn't remember. He couldn't if anything more.

Chapter Text

Having saved the revolution, Maximilien Robespierre was more than assured that he could have his cake and eat it too with his childhood friend Camille Desmoulins, here at the edge withstanding so much friction and ferociously vitol from all sides that victory was here, crowned in all its delights. But with the burning of the third and ultimately all of The Vieux Cordelier, under the revolutionary government of the Committee of Public Safety. All was assured. But how sincere was all of Camille's convictions? Would he still clash with Saint-Just? Would he be okay in the wake of such an decisive infidelity? Did Robespierre's thudding heart belong to anyone but the revolution or was the losing of his virginal flowers merely that? Love? What of Lucile? What of Camille's family? 

A collapsed Lucile, a sobbing state of mess, but it was of tears that made sense: relief and gladness that her husband wasn't dead or didn't break his vows but who would tell her that? That Camille was already gone from her embrace? He still, played the dutiful husband, though, his reinstated notion into both Jacobin's and Corderlier's club was always at Robespierre's insistence. Who would suspect? Who would know the melting hearts swirled in this incorruptible head?

Camille eased her gushing tears.

He eased her devotion through tenderness which Robespierre found himself envious over and when they were alone again, in his study, he'd have to take Camille and remind him that he belonged to Robespierre, alone. That was the condition of Camille's life—a servitude in love, of devotion which he could never escape.

"There, there Lolotte. I know Georges is in trouble but at least, I'm not going with him."

Another dry sob.

"It's no better, Camille. It's no better. After all he's done for you to abandon him—"

"He strayed me far."

"Camille ...you don't really believe that? I read what you wrote but why would you go against all what your heart is set on?"

"—Because he simply strayed too far from the sun."

Robespierre interjected. 

Like Icarus.

What else could be done except for that lame confirmation but with their departure, Camille stuck by Robespierre; both apprehensive about the future and the next enemies on their list, at least the ones that wished to do them harm, so they struck the best way forward with them back in his room, modest as possible and empty in the Duplay residence. Camille settled himself on an empty chair by the desk, still studiously and meticulously tidied up. 

What did the papers say?

"Our next course of action—"

"So soon, Maxime?" Came Camille's reply, surprised that they were on the ground running towards the goal but, the revolution and ultimately the Republic had to be saved, secured but how to reaffirm that? How to be assured of anything? "Does it ever end?" 

"I'm afraid not."

Tenseness shook them both, even if Robespierre would go to the means, the end of such means to achieve it, at least Camille would be there, that mattered. That mattered always.

Danton would be gone to the place de la revolution, anytime now and Robespierre would shutter the blinds to this and the horrors after all when the national razor would come down. They had all a part to play and how gruesome it came to this. How gruesome it would be to tangle more into love and the humanity of their naked bodies against each other? At least, Camille reciprocated. At least underneath the shadows of death, they could make love and be loved in these times. In the shadows, they could have love.

Even with Danton getting his head chopped off. 

Chapter Text

The war was far from over, the civil war was just on the verge of success so with the government ahead, Camille sought himself with his quill and began the 8th edition of his paper: Le Vieux Cordelier, in preparations for the coup brewing in both committees and Convention, which overtaken by thugs and counter revolutionaries not sought to answer for their deeds as representatives on missions. Opportunists attempted to save their own lives and wreck retributions against Robespierre and his friends...at least from how Camille was observing it from, and being one of those friends, he ought to have mind to save his life once more. His tireless hours, countless weeks transforming into months and finally wove into the summer of 1794. The crucial months, the depth defying months which had Camille rushing forward his quill into the printing press and creating memorable quotes, sensations and lastly propaganda. Propaganda to wreck the lives of those and watch the very foundations of the so called thermidorians revealed themselves. 

"I have the means-"

"You are the despot-!"

Voices of deputies calling out in unison though not enough infrequent to cause a stir, enough for Camille to brandish his papers forward calling the accused. "FOUCHE! Carrier! Not Robespierre-" as if the speech of Robespierre before didn't cause a big enough ruckus, with the whispering of dictator and the mention of "Danton's blood chokes you!"  though it was out of Camille's own power to face these accusations, Saint-Just in his characteristic quietness, delivered his speech though it was a call for unity rather than division. Which ultimately transformed the whole mood of the Convention and many if not all of the deputies within it returned to their seats, allowing Saint-Just announce the end of the terror and a political unity, Camille could see at the crossroads that this event today, 9th Thermidor was more than just another day but one in which people were meant to die by and die loudly on. No more executions would be in Paris nor the Representatives on Mission would continue as the Vendeean CIvil War was finally extinguished and Camille sat besides Robespierre.

Had they averted a crisis? A doubly terrible one that would have seized not only Robespierre but his allies to the guillotine? Surely, it was okay now, surely, they had all avoided turmoil and peril at the greatest silver of their lives and for what? More chances to bear the unrelenting summer? The arrest of Fouche, and several others surely raised no more eyebrows other than measures and other members that were denounced. This would be the last purging of the Convention and Camille Desmoulins survived it again, though not too sure of how but the love of Maximilien Robespierre was to be counted towards this miracle along with Camille's willingness to push aside his own principles. The dawn of the new age was already upon the day of 10th Thermidor, and the age of accusations and arrests were over. 

The Reign of Terror done.

Was it simply so? With the storming Convention, now at all edge and Hanriot, announcing with the crowd the heads of those accused. Accused were rushed out and the lasting executions were played out the next morning but could Camille tell if a crisis was truly gone? Diverted for its own good? The end of the moments were simply that. 

Camille couldn't count on his memories and thoughts for nothing but he chose to do the right and cowardly thing and live without principles.