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It's strange how ink has meant so much to him.
Writing on his hands, arms and chest; something Lafayette wouldn't give up for the whole of Paris. Except now he's here, leaning out over the balcony gazing at the skyline while the ink on his skin fades. The evening is cooler with the breeze, so Lafayette holds himself a little tighter as the city lights begin to shine brighter in the setting sun. The words on his hands are practically invisible now, they begin to fade after a couple days and no matter how hard he tries to remember, their meanings become a little more distant. He remembers how George trailed his pen across both their hands, his shaking ever-so slightly when Washington embraced him one last time before he set sail again. News travels slow when he is so far away, so it could be weeks before Lafayette would know if anything happened to his dear general- if he was injured or worse...
Lafayette curses and rubs his arms, gooseflesh from the chill. He knows he shouldn't think things like that, but god it's hard. It's so hard not to when every plea he makes for more help, more support just anything goes unheard. Images of his friends starved and bitterly frozen spur him to try again, but imagining his General- cold and still- has him lying awake at night. It's dark overhead, but the last few clouds glow almost golden against the indigo horizon. It almost reminds him of being under bedsheets as the light drifts though the creases, wine stains on linen.
The rest of the writing on his arms are completely gone now, time being far too lenient on the marks on his skin anyway. Lafayette used to scribble twirls or French patterns on his hand when bored, but now it seems to relax George a little as the element designs trace onto him. He likes to write endearments in his own language on his wrists, so Washington can tug down the cuffs a little a read them when it pleases him. It's even better when he asks him to translate. George occasionally writes English phrases on his palm, saving Lafayette more than once from becoming a bumbling fool. Lafayette draws him hearts in return.
The sun dips below the rooftops of Paris, and the night seems to envelop everything. Lafayette paces back to his room, considering penning a letter to the General about his progress but instead grabs the pen and sprawls out on the bed. Delivering letters is slow, writing them is quicker.
Laf shuffles up until his back touches the headboard and pulls up the sleeve of his nightshirt. He scrawls:
'George, made some progress but it is slow. Désolé, I did not realise how hard it is to get the people to believe in us. I miss you greatly.'
He smiles and waits for the ink to dry before touching his arm. It shouldn't be long now, his words would appear on Washington and the man wouldn't wait to reply. Lafayette taps the pen against his knuckles impatiently at this, almost insulted by his bare skin. The world outside is now very dark, the light from several candles reflecting the dark warm tones of his skin. Washington could be occupied with something more important (more important than Lafayette) or just couldn't see the message on his arm, and to almost add to his impatience Lafayette brushes his arm against the cool bedsheets and a couple letters smudge. He whines a little at the loss, scribbling on his wrist:
'I will try my best, I promise. Do not forget my dedication while I am gone.'
He may be overthinking this, but Lafayette can't help the rising panic that bubbles in his mind with every silent minute. He is not unused to waiting like this, but knowing Washington is seas away does nothing to still his heartbeat. Instead he curls a little more into himself, preferring the warm empty bed to the cold empty room. He doesn't want to sleep, but Lafayette still blows out the candle and closes his eyes- hoping for anything but a dream.
--
It's strange how it feels to know that your soulmate is writing to you.
If you weren't paying attention, or actively poised for the feeling you wouldn't notice. It tingles, like how champagne looks in a glass flute, like pop-rocks.
When Lafayette yawns and stretches, he only feels the slide of the soft sheets against him, sees only the flush of daylight on the bed. The ink or his arm is still there, as well as the black stain on the sheet too, and Lafayette stands to rescues the discarded pen from folds in his covers to return it to the desk. The small mirror on the table glints in the sunlight, glowing almost rose against his tan skin and the looped black lines on his-
Wait.
Lafayette stumbles back, at himself in the polished glass. Across his arms is the familiar tilt of the Generals neat writing. He wastes no time in picking up the mirror and sitting back onto the bed. The pen strokes are on his arms, news and other events of the camp. On his chest, encouragement and small twirls of the letters into hearts. His neck, Georges distinct signature across his collarbone makes Lafayette shiver a little. A brief glimpse to the words on his thighs make him blush hotly. Finally on his wrist, just underneath his own writing:
'I will do nothing but trust you, I promise. Do not forget your worth while you are gone. J'taime.'
George must have been diligent, for no line is smudged or blurred but beautifully clear on his skin. Lafayette feels a little closer, tracing the loops and dips in Washingtons writing, hoping perhaps George does the same.