Letters

Combeferre watched his friends from a corner of the Musain’s back room. The air had that distinct euphoria of a summer’s evening, with the chatter and the soft glow of oil lamps. He was particularly content this evening, sipping alternately at hot tea and ice water. Simply being here, basking in the presence of his friends, listening to their amateur philosophies, feeling as if they all were on the brink of something exciting, left him with peculiar contentment.

From across the room, Joly cracked a joke, and there was laughter. Combeferre laughed along with them, and brotherly affection swelled in his chest. He had the sudden thought that he would do anything, give anything for the men here in this room. He loved them as he loved existence, and he would follow them to any end. 

In the midst of the friendly chaos, the door opened, and in came two men. One was Feuilly, tired-looking, but as always, radiating warmth. Many shouted greetings to him, and he smiled and waved at all. The other, Combeferre thought, looked familiar, and made his heart skip. He wanted to look away. He wanted to stare. And so, he did a bit of both: staring, only to turn away and sip his tea when the other noticed. 

Feuilly was quickly dragged away by Enjolras, who first stopped to shake hands with the newcomer. Combeferre could imagine the conversation. Charmed, citoyen. I’ve a matter to discuss with Feuilly, if you don’t mind. You’re welcome to come along - your input would be appreciated. No? Well, please, stay. You are welcome here. If you wish, I can introduce you to my friends in a moment. But Feuilly and I really have an urgent matter to discuss, and you must excuse us. 

The two left, and the man surveyed the room. His face wore gentle curiosity, but even from a distance, Combeferre could see he was tense. The man caught his eye again, and his curiosity deepened while his apprehension relaxed. They stared too long for a move to not be made. 

Luckily, Combeferre did not have to make it. The man approached him. 

“Combeferre?” The man spoke as if testing out the name. His voice, silvery and melodious, finally brought to Combeferre the man’s identity. 

“Prouvaire!” 

“A small world.” 

“Indeed.” He grinned, and in spite of his nerves, gestured to the chair opposite him. “Please, sit. You seem terribly lost.” 

Prouvaire pulled out the chair in such a way that it didn't scrape the floor, and sat in it with the same hesitation. Combeferre thought that, in this gentle light, he was like gossamer. 

“Oh, I am so lost. Feuilly and I, we were talking the other day - we were walking, and found a beautiful stretch of field that I hadn’t seen before - and we started talking about politics, and first I was a little afraid, because, well, is there a discussion more dangerous? But can I say it here?”

“Say what here?” 

“Nothing upsets me more than the greed of those who control France.” 

“My friend, did Feuilly not tell you our name?” 

“No.” 

“All of us here, we are Les Amis de l'ABC .” 

“The abaissé ?” 

Combeferre raised an eyebrow. “Come now. A society for the abased - highly illegal. A society for the ABC, on the other hand, or for letters - philosophy, history, language, literature, well…” He trailed off and sipped his tea. "That's just student initiative."

Prouvaire regarded him with an amused expression. Combeferre winked, and in the dim light noticed Prouvaire’s ears turn pink. A blush crept up on his own face - he discreetly felt the warmth of his skin by way of scratching his brow, and then, taking note of his own nervousness, felt his face grow hotter. He tried to think of something to say that would allow them not to dwell on the moment, but the more he tried, the fewer topics he could think of, and he had embarrassed Prouvaire, and he hadn’t meant to embarrass Prouvaire - 

“I am so sorry,” he said with a shaky laugh. “It’s only - you are a charming person, and -”

“No! No, there is no reason to be sorry - I think you are as well, and - I just - well - I mean - are you - ?” 

“Am I ... ?” 

Combeferre's eyes grew wide in realization of what Prouvaire had asked. So they were the same - so there was a chance? Relief and nerves - could they both be felt at once? Should they not cancel out, create a net zero? In the silence that followed, Prouvaire blushed further. Misinterpreting the nature of the quiet.

He amended, "I forget my manners. Forgive me."

"There's no need -  "

"What I mean is," Prouvaire interrupted, holding out a hand as if to physically block Combeferre's words. "this conversation. It should wait at least a few more meetings."

Combeferre saw on his face a sort of resigned sadness, like this hesitation went against his very being. He understood, though.There was something to revealing one’s hand this soon. Not that he hadn’t before, with others. And from that moment, that these are my intentions , the correspondence became forced. This is the end goal and now we must drag ourselves there simply because we said we would. 

He’d watched men and women fall in love as if falling onto a pillow: softly and gently and by the pull of something as natural and familiar as gravity. The love he’d known - it had been like tying a rock to his ankle and leaping into the ocean. And, just once, he wanted to let love unfold as it would. If it would. 

Prouvaire, who had been watching an uproar unfold at another table, asked, “Are all these people your friends?” 

Combeferre followed Prouvaire’s gaze, where the table was full of faces he knew, albeit names he didn’t. “We all strive toward the same goal, if that is what you mean.” 

Prouvaire laughed. “No. I mean, are all these ones you go to the opera with? Are all these the ones you tell jokes to? To whom can you tell your midnight ideas?” 

“Well, not everyone here. But all of them are here. For starters, you know Feuilly.”

“Yes.” 

“How do you know him, again?” 

“He frequents the library.” 

Combeferre smiled. “Ah. That’s right.”

“Who else?”

He instinctively sought out Enjolras, who was still talking with Feuilly. “Enjolras. He said hello to you already. And Courfeyrac, who has not. If my life force was held in an object, I would entrust it to them.” 

“You’ve known each other a long time?” 

“Well -” Combeferre considered, “Since we introduced by Bossuet and Joly. Some years ago, but not many. Bossuet studies law with Enjolras and Courfeyrac, and Joly studies medicine with me, and both of them are friends.” 

“You study medicine?” 

“Yes.” 

Prouvaire considered him for a moment, then smiled and said, “That suits you.” 

Combeferre smiled too. “Does it, now?” 

Prouvaire nodded. His smile was radiant, and Combeferre drank in the happiness like he drank in the sun on his evening walks. Nervous - joyous - he was in a strange state of having both in his heart, and altogether the feeling was pleasant.

“Do you?” he asked. “Study?” 

“Yes. Letters.” 

“Ah - so you like the name of our society. Of letters.” 

Giggling, Prouvaire answered, “Very much.”

Combeferre smiled and sipped his tea again. “That suits you too, you know. You seem the type to study letters.” 

Prouvaire raised his eyebrows. “Meaning what, monsieur?” 

"Your fashion, for one." Combeferre paused here and raised an eyebrow. "And two, when we met, you were reading d'Aubigné.”

"Fashion and d'Aubigné - this is what makes a student of letters?"

Combeferre's barely suppressed smile burst forth with a chuckle. 

"This is as if I said, Combeferre, it suits you to study medicine because - hm - " Prouvaire considered him for a moment before his eyes fell upon a leaf of paper marked with hasty notes. He squinted at it, and then adopted a countenance even Combeferre could recognize only as himself. "I can hardly read your writing, for one."

He’d heard that one so many times. “And two?"

"And two…" Again Prouvaire considered, and again he blushed. "Your hands. They were steady. When you caught me. Like surgeon's hands."

Combeferre studied his hands, holding the tea mug, and waited for his heart to settle. Here, they had just agreed to put off that conversation, meanwhile they continued a conversation that they both understood as flirtatious, continued to show interest in a roundabout way. They both knew; neither wanted to state clearly their sentiments. 

Was this too soon? For sentiments? The thought had surfaced in Combeferre’s head more than once this evening, and in the silence - that moment of silence that stretched on and on - he mulled over this question. He’d never been one for rashness, but just this once, he thought: who was he to align his feelings to a benchmark?  What happened would happen, and it would happen when it wanted. Neither of them protested, except to maintain some outward semblance of propriety - rather, both of them fed the conversation, and so he didn’t regret to continue like this. 

When Combeferre could speak, he said, “Well, I wouldn’t have wanted you to fall.” 

They regarded each other for a moment, chin in palm. Prouvaire's eyes, Combeferre noticed, were a shade of hazel that was fiery like amber whiskey and infinite like the atmosphere at sunset, and the freckles on his nose were dust motes dancing in morning light. He was entirely poetic. 

When Prouvaire turned away, his gaze landed on a table, where a man sat with his head resting on one arm like a pillow, turned away so all they could see was messy dark hair. Beside him was a wine bottle, and he ran clumsy fingertips across its surface. Across from him, a man who wore worry on his face. 

“Who is that?” 

Combeferre, who followed his eyes, answered: “That is Grantaire, who is usually drunk. He and I talk philosophy often. I believe he studied letters once too - otherwise, he has a special interest in the classics.” Combeferre paused a moment, eyes brightening. “If you both agree, there shall be enough people to start a book club.”

“The literary branch of the Friends of the ABC.” 

“Exactly, my friend.”

They watched as Grantaire moved to take a swig from the bottle of wine, and as the man sitting across from him moved to take it from his grasp. 

“And that is Bahorel. He watches out for Grantaire, and studies law. He loves one, and abhors the other - and considering our society here, it’s simple to figure which is which.” Combeferre’s chest ached as he watched the two of them. He loved his friends, really, and loathed to see them unhappy, and wished he could take that unhappiness from them. Instead of relaying these thoughts to Prouvaire, he said, “They box together.” 

Prouvaire wore a melancholy smile when he said, “Introduce me to Grantaire, sometime, please.” 

At that moment, Combeferre noted a flash of gold in the corner of his eye, and turned to see Enjolras approaching. They waved at each other. 

Combeferre stood and grasped Enjolras' forearm in greeting. "My friend! How was your chat?" 

"Enlightening."

"As always."

Enjolras cast a glance between him and Prouvaire. Raised an eyebrow. "You've had a chat of your own, I see." 

"Only telling our new friend here who our friends are."

Enjolras hummed and gave a knowing smile. 

"And yet you didn't introduce him to anyone? Or even order him a drink? Are you certain you weren't more interested in our new friend's conversation than in his comfort here?"

Upon Enjolras' teasing criticisms, a feeling of foolishness hit Combeferre like a wave. Didn't even think to order him a drink, that's how enraptured he had been . He glanced sideways at Prouvaire, who watched with thinly-masked amusement, and felt his heart race again. He turned back to Enjolras, and raised his eyebrows. Enjolras returned the look, and after a moment, motioned with his eyes to Prouvaire as if to say, Well, return to him. When they once again landed on Combeferre, he heard, I'm asking about this later . 

When Combeferre did return to Prouvaire, he held out his hand. "Shall I introduce Monseiur Prouvaire to my friends?" He faltered and added, "There will be a better time to introduce you to Grantaire, but in the meantime…" 

Prouvaire took his hand and stood, and his palm was unexpectedly, though not unpleasantly, calloused. Warm where Combeferre's fingers were cool. Their hands touched for a moment longer than they should have. But only a moment. 

"I would like that, I think. But… Combeferre, call me Jehan."

"Jehan?"

Jehan nodded. 

"I'm Alexandre."