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Enmity: May, 1830
On a mild May evening, Joly arrives early at the cafe. He pauses in the doorway when he recognizes the only other person present, and seems on the verge of leaving again; then he grits his teeth, and shuts the door behind him. Prouvaire looks up from the book he's reading, then back at it as though he does not recognize Joly. Joly slides into a seat on the other side of the room, with a stifled sigh, and runs his fingers through his hair. Prouvaire yawns prodigiously. "Good evening," Joly says neutrally. Prouvaire glances at him and nods formally. "Joly." Joly looks out the window, thereafter. After several minutes of silence, Prouvaire asks, "How is Bossuet?" His tone is not exactly neutral, but not precisely provocative either. A wary look. "I would think you would know that better than I do." "You saw him just last night -- or was it this morning?" "Don't you pay attention?" Joly shoots back, unwisely. Prouvaire glares at him. "It wasn't this morning, or you'd be in a better mood than this. What's the matter, is he ill? Has he caught -- what is it, today? Influenza? The black plague? The English disease?" Joly's ears go red in the beginning of an unlovely flush. "If he has, we know who to blame." "Of course. I'm sure you're the only one I know who'd contract such a thing." Prouvaire looks back at his book to hide the fact that he is also red in the face. Joly clenches a hand to keep it from shaking. "I'm sure you'd know. Pity your manners aren't as pretty as your face." "My manners? I was asking after Bossuet, and you would only tell me that I ought to know." Prouvaire gives him a black look. "I hardly think I am at fault." "Of course not. Innocent Jehan." "I've done nothing to you." Prouvaire slams his book shut. "Of course not. Only taken against me from the minute you laid eyes on me, only sniped at me like a jealous chambermaid, only hung on Theo's arm all the time as though I was going to kidnap him." Joly is stammering slightly. "Nothing. I've done nothing to you, by God." Prouvaire stands with an ostentatiously loud scraping of chair legs on the floor. "Damn you, your very presence here reminds me of how lonely you've made me, and you accuse me of disliking you? Of course I dislike you, you fool, you and your idiot of a mistress. You've never done anything admirable in my presence, only tortured me -- and you say I'm jealous -- are you mad or merely stupid?" "You leave her out of this!" Joly stays in his seat; he is trembling visibly now. "You think yourself so ill done by-- you with your lovers and your doting friends--" "I might say the same for you, if I had seduced your mistress." Prouvaire bites his lip. "But I have not, and I have done nothing to injure you. And still you hate me!" "I don't hate you," Joly says with cold deliberation. "I despise you and I'm sick of your put-upon airs." It takes Prouvaire a moment to respond. When he does, he speaks more loudly than normal, and his voice is shrill. "You bastard. I've done nothing to you. Go to hell, Joly, and take him with you for all I care." Shortly before Prouvaire's last sentence, the door opens quietly, and Combeferre comes in. He stops in the doorway, and his eyes widen at the outburst. He says sharply, "Jehan. Chrétien," in the tones of a teacher whose pupils need chiding, and then, somewhat more gently, "What's wrong?" "What's wrong." Joly can hardly speak. "What the hell is ever wrong, except that your precious petit frère finds my existence inconvenient." He pushes to his feet. "Chrétien," Combeferre says, half-chiding, half-impatient, "what are you talking about?" Prouvaire chooses this moment to sniff loudly, which, if anyone was paying attention to him, would underline the fact that there are tears in his eyes. "You're the one who hates me, damn you, and I don't know why. I didn't do anything, anything at all." "I'm going home," Joly says brittlely, "since I'm not welcome here. I'm sure Prouvaire will be glad to tell you what I've done and why. He seems to know better than I do." With that, he turns toward the door. "Of course you're welcome," Combeferre says incredulously. "Wait a moment. Talk to me." "What is there to say?" Joly's voice breaks mid-word, and he scowls at the wall. "You're welcome here," Combeferre says in a deliberately even voice. "Mon frère, don't go home angry. Talk to me." "You don't know everything, Audric," Prouvaire says furiously, and storms out the door into the main part of the cafe. Combeferre blinks after him, shakes his head, then gives Joly a somewhat more hopeful smile. "What's wrong?" Joly covers his face with his hands for a moment. "I should go," hoarsely. "Let you talk to him." "If he wanted to talk to me, he wouldn't have left." Combeferre walks over and touches Joly's shoulder lightly. "You can leave, if you want to, but I'd rather hear what's going on from both of you than only from Jehan." "If you don't know--" Joly begins, and breaks off, swallowing. "I just-- he hates me, that's all. Always has. I-- I--" Suddenly furious, "I came here by chance, Bossuet made friends with me, because Bossuet isn't a jealous brat, and the n-next thing I know Prouvaire is looking daggers at me. As if he doesn't know damn well I'm not going to steal his lover away. As if he's ever had to listen to 'no, I can't stay, in fact I can't come to see you for the next week because it bothers Chrétien'! God!" Combeferre blinks. "Ah." He bites his lip and considers the matter. "I am sorry, brother -- Jehan can be difficult when he sets his mind to it. Do you think I could help?" "I don't know." Joly looks at the floor. "I'm sorry. I didn't want this." "Of course you didn't," in that soothing, trusting tone that Combeferre uses on occasion. "It'll be all right, Chrétien." A pause, then, "I could talk to him if you wanted me to." Joly winces slightly. "If you think it'll do any good. I mean--" he clenches his hands as though to keep words from escaping him. "I've tried. He-- I always lose my temper." This last quietly, dejected. Combeferre pats his shoulder again. "I can understand that. I'll talk to him, then -- and I expect I'll have an easier time keeping a cool head than you, but only because I'm not in the middle of this problem." "All right," subdued; and then, after a moment's pause, he hugs Combeferre awkwardly, not quite looking at him. Combeferre thumps him on the back fraternally. "Don't worry too much, mon ami." Joly grins a bit. "I never worry too much. Just enough." Combeferre smiles back at him. "Good." And, more seriously, "If you ever need to talk, brother, just ask me." Joly meets his eyes finally, and nods. "Thank you." "You're welcome."
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