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Transgression: September, 1831
In the early evening, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and a pleasant-if-coquettish young lady sit in the back room of the Café Musain, chattering and teasing like old friends. They all seem quite comfortable, as though they were in a space that feels like it's theirs rather than a public space. From time to time, the girl will kiss one of them, and they will all laugh. There is no meeting scheduled in the Musain; Enjolras has been ill for quite a while and has only just begun to recuperate, so his friends and cronies are not obligated to discuss Revolution in his absence. However, now that he is feeling some better, Combeferre feels that he can leave for an evening. He walks into the back room, expecting to see his friends, and stops dead in the doorway. "What -- good evening." Courfeyrac glances up, blinks, then grins with a faintly daredevil air. "Good evening, Audric." Feuilly stands up abruptly. "I'm sorry, Audric, I've got to go. I'll -- see you later." He bows slightly to Combeferre, kisses the young lady's hand, and goes out through the door to the main café. The girl blows Feuilly a kiss as he goes, and then turns and smiles at Combeferre, brightly. "Good evening." Combeferre blinks at her. "Good evening -- I -- good Lord, Jehan. What are you doing?" "Humoring me," Courfeyrac breaks in, blithely. "How's the invalid, then?" "What?" Combeferre begins turning red. "Julien is fine -- what is this nonsense? What are you doing?" Prouvaire spreads his hands, framing his torso and highlighting the fact that he's wearing women's clothing. "I'm only sitting in a café, mon ami. Is that so terrible?" "You look like --" Combeferre splutters. Courfeyrac grins. "Doesn't he, though? Oh, sit down, cher. Stop flailing." Combeferre glares at Courfeyrac. "I will not sit down. Go home, Jehan. You -- my God, what possessed you? This is idiocy. What would you do if someone noticed?" Prouvaire shrugs. "You noticed, didn't you? And you won't do anything but get flustered. It's all right, Audric." Courfeyrac taps his fingers on the table. "No one has noticed, except you and Daniel. I doubt anyone will. Ma chère Jeannette is getting quite convincing." He grins. "She may have turned a few heads, on the way over here, but not in a bad way." "That isn't funny, Aimery!" Combeferre throws up his hands. "Jean, go home. Dress sensibly for once in your life, or dress all in purple, but stop this. Jeannette." He nearly spits the name. "You're both mad." Prouvaire stands up in a swish of skirts. "I'm not going home, yet, and I shan't put on pants to make you more comfortable. I'll leave if you'd rather, but -- you never made us promise not to enjoy ourselves." "Audric--" Courfeyrac stands, more quietly, and reaches out to settle soothing hands on Combeferre's shoulders. "Calm down. We're only playing. There's no need to get upset." Combeferre's jaw sets in a more irritable line than usual. "It isn't funny. It's foolish. What would you do if someone caught you?" Courfeyrac takes refuge in flippancy. "Lament, without ceasing, that we failed to heed your wise words. What else?" "Damn it, Aimery." Combeferre backs away. "All right, play your games, and I shan't stop you. You may be as infantile as you like -- but leave. Go somewhere else, be foolish there. Not here." "Oh, by all means we'll stop being indecent in your sainted meeting room." Courfeyrac shoves his chair under the table. "Since Julien's infected you with his qualms as well as his sniffles. We'll go somewhere else, and you can sit here by yourself, secure in your rectitude and good sense." Prouvaire frowns. "Is it that important? Please -- don't do this." "Don't do what?" Combeferre asks, sharply. "You are -- it's not the indecency I object to, Aimé, it's -- how many risks do you think we can take before something goes wrong?" Courfeyrac shrugs. "Is it more risky to sit in a café frequented mainly by our friends, or to go wandering about the streets where we're liable to run into policemen and drunken louts?" "Then act sensibly." Combeferre shakes his head. "If I see either of you doing this stupid thing again, I will be exceedingly upset." Prouvaire says, "But Audric, it's not dangerous, here, and the only person that's gotten upset has been you." Combeferre half-snorts, half-laughs. "And shall I tell Julien about this, then? Do you think he would approve?" "If you feel it necessary," Courfeyrac says dryly. "I'm fairly sure he'd survive the shock, even in his delicate state." "He would survive the shock, and he would be furious with you." Combeferre sighs. "It isn't a game. Not all of it, and it isn't -- appropriate to play games." Prouvaire frowns. "I don't see why not." Abruptly, Courfeyrac loses patience. "For the love of Christ, Audric!" He has been leaning on the table; he straightens. "I promised you love and loyalty and dedication to ideals. I said nothing about being staid and sensible. This has nothing to do with you, and less to do with Julien. Don't be so bloody serious." "Don't be so foolish, and I won't have to be serious to make up for you." Combeferre's shoulders slump a little. "I don't understand why you're doing this." Prouvaire laughs. "We said, Audric. It's just a game." "It isn't funny." Courfeyrac slouches against the table again. "It amused us." He shrugs, looking at Prouvaire. "Perhaps we'd better go, after all." Prouvaire kisses Courfeyrac's cheek. "If we must." "I'm going home," Combeferre says, "and I don't care what you do, but I can't bear to look at you like that, Jehan. It makes me angry and uncomfortable. I'm leaving." He walks toward the door. "Good night, Audric." Courfeyrac's tone is pointed. "Give Julien my regards." Combeferre slams the door behind himself as he leaves. Prouvaire winces. "Why on earth was he so upset?" "I--" Courfeyrac sighs. "I don't entirely know." "I'm sorry." Prouvaire picks at his skirt. "I suppose I am foolish." Courfeyrac reaches out to put an arm around him. "I was the one who proposed it, wasn't I? Don't fret." "Yes," as he accepts the embrace, "but I probably shouldn't have gone along with it." "Hush. It's all right." "I'm sorry," again. "Shhhh." Courfeyrac pulls him close. Lightly: "It's not your fault if Audric can't appreciate your beauty or your sense of humor." "I suppose." Prouvaire rests his head on Courfeyrac's shoulder, and all is picturesque and quiet for a moment. There is a tap on the door from the main café after a few moments. Prouvaire startles and covers his carefully painted mouth with one hand. "What now?" Courfeyrac chuckles, letting him go. "Relax, chéri." And, louder, "Yes?" "It's just me." Feuilly comes in with a plateful of grapes. "I'm sorry about that." "You could have just come in," Prouvaire says, and walks over to greet him with a kiss on the cheek that makes Feuilly blush. Courfeyrac regards them both with eyebrows raised, amused. "No need, mon ami. I'd have fled, too, only I didn't think Jehan could keep up with me, as he is. Come sit." Prouvaire wrinkles his nose at Courfeyrac. "Yes, all right, it's not the easiest thing to walk in these shoes, but it isn't that bad." Feuilly shakes his head and pulls out a chair. "You two. I don't know what to do with you." "Oh, come now," protests Courfeyrac. "We aren't that bad, are we?" Feuilly sits. "You're perplexing." Prouvaire laughs and sits beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Ah, but we mean to be." "Exactly." Courfeyrac kicks out a chair and drops into it. "The look on our friends' faces, just before they start lecturing us. That's the point." Feuilly delicately brushes a lock of Prouvaire's hair away from his face. "Is it, really? I didn't think so." Prouvaire blushes. "Part of the point." Courfeyrac half-smiles. "Mm." "It's all very strange," Feuilly says quietly. Courfeyrac shrugs, a trifle impatiently. "Why?" Feuilly blinks at him. "Because it makes me think differently than I normally do about someone I had thought I knew well." He smiles at Prouvaire. "And not, mon frère, in an uncomplimentary fashion." Prouvaire smiles at him. "Why, thank you. It's good to hear that after Audric's temper." Courfeyrac grins at that. "How sweet." Feuilly shrugs. "It's the truth. I -- I keep thinking it's not you, Jehan, even though I know it is." Prouvaire fidgets with his sleeve. "Really? That's odd." Courfeyrac chuckles. "So do I, every now and then. Isn't that the fun of it?" Feuilly regards Prouvaire for a moment. "Yes, I think it is. I -- I don't understand it." Courfeyrac smiles, and says nothing. Prouvaire shrugs. "It wasn't my idea. I don't really know. Ask Christophe." "I don't think I want to hear what he had in mind," Feuilly says, chuckling. "I mean -- God, but you're beautiful." He shakes his head. "I'm sorry." Prouvaire edges his chair toward Feuilly's and touches his shoulder again, lightly. "It's all right, Daniel." "Christophe," says Courfeyrac cheerfully, "would explain to you in words of one syllable, devoid of finer feeling. I love the man dearly, but his sense of the romantic resides in his trousers. No." He smiles at them, leaning his elbows on the table, and lowers his voice. "She is beautiful. And she's our Jehan, all the more lovely when you realize how well he's deceiving you, all the more charming because real girls don't take so much care about it, all the more desirable for being our dear friend as well as being an absolute vision." And he glances at Feuilly, not without mischief. "Don't you think?" Prouvaire buries his face in his hands, blushing from collar to hairline. "Aimé, for heaven's sake." "I don't know if I'd have said it like that," Feuilly admits. "But -- I suppose. I'm just not used to all of this, even now." He bites his lip. "I'm sorry. I should go, and not interfere in your game." Courfeyrac grins at Prouvaire; then he sobers, reaching out to take Feuilly's hand. "You're not interfering, cher. But if you'd rather go, I... suppose that's understandable." Prouvaire straightens, though his face is still pinker than rouge made it, and kisses Feuilly's cheek. "Don't go. Please." Feuilly looks at the table. "I don't know why I shouldn't." Courfeyrac smooths his hair back, nearly paternal. "Because we enjoy your company?" "Yes, but I don't know what I ought to do." Feuilly shakes his head. "No -- I know what I ought to do, but I don't want to do it." Courfeyrac regards him quizzically. "I should go," Feuilly explains. "I shouldn't stay, I shouldn't waste your time and get in your way." "You're not in the way," Prouvaire says, touching his shoulder. "Please don't go." "I should," Feuilly protests. "This is your game, your dangerous, beautiful eccentricity -- your way of being in love with each other. It has nothing to do with me." Courfeyrac chuckles. "Daniel. Brother. Beloved. You don't intrude in the slightest." He leans over to kiss Feuilly in turn. "Stay. Talk with us." "But you're doing this with each other. For each other." Feuilly shrugs. "You don't need me." Prouvaire shakes his head, his long curls bouncing. "We may very well want you along, Daniel. Whyever wouldn't we?" Feuilly blushes. "I don't know why you would." "Because we love you." Courfeyrac pokes him in the arm. "Now stop that." "Perhaps you do," Feuilly concedes, using the singular. "Daniel, I --" Prouvaire leans over to give him a kiss on the lips, which gives Feuilly a moment's pause before he accepts it and allows himself to enjoy it for a moment. When Prouvaire breaks it off, Feuilly has red smudges of lipstick on his mouth and a rather dazed expression. Feuilly says, "Oh," after a few moments, and, "Um." "I hope, Daniel," says Courfeyrac in a tone that would be stern if he wasn't grinning, "that your intentions are honorable." Prouvaire giggles. Feuilly shakes his head a little and smiles at Courfeyrac. "As much as yours are." "That's all right, then," cheerfully. Prouvaire blinks at them both, feigning confusion. "I'm glad you think so. Whatever your intentions are, gentlemen, they had best be honorable." Feuilly nods ceremoniously to Prouvaire. "I am sure you know just how virtuous Aimery is." Courfeyrac leans back comfortably in his chair. "Never otherwise." Prouvaire stands and brushes his hands down the sides of his skirts. "I'm sure, mon ami. I believe I'd like to go home." Feuilly stands. "Have a good evening, then." Prouvaire frowns slightly. "I cannot go without an escort, Daniel." "But -- Aimery --" Courfeyrac pushes back his chair. "Tsk, mon ami. Are you going to refuse a lady?" "But he's --" Feuilly sighs. "You're both mad." Prouvaire kisses Feuilly's cheek. "Don't tell everything you know." Courfeyrac rests a hand on Feuilly's shoulder briefly. "Granted. Well?" "I don't know. What do you want of me?" Feuilly gives Courfeyrac a look that, for no apparent reason given the setting and the company, is best described as frightened. Courfeyrac touches his cheek. "It's all right, Daniel. Everything's all right. Come with us?" Feuilly frowns. "Whatever for?" He waves a hand. "You've company." "Please do," Prouvaire says, deliberately softly. Feuilly shrugs and turns away. "I don't understand." Courfeyrac sighs, and pushes his chair under the table. "All right. You don't have to do anything." "You don't need me. Why -- why this? Why now?" Prouvaire bites his lip. "I'm going down the street for a little while, so you can talk." He goes to the door to outside. "Be careful," Courfeyrac says quietly. "I shall." Prouvaire leaves. Courfeyrac watches the door shut, then turns back to Feuilly. "What is it, mon ami?" still quiet. "I don't understand why you've invited me." Feuilly looks at the floor. "Because we wanted to. God knows if you want to go home, I won't stop you. Just--" "What?" Courfeyrac hesitates. "Do you want to go home?" After a moment, Feuilly shakes his head. "No," he admits quietly. "No -- I -- but I should want to." "To hell with should." Courfeyrac kisses him lightly. "Come with us, Daniel. Mon amour. Please?" "All right." Feuilly embraces him. "I'm only afraid I'll want to leave at some inconvenient moment." Courfeyrac hugs him. "I'll take that chance." "And will Jehan?" "I should think so." Feuilly squeezes him for a moment, then lets him go. "You play the most confusing games, Aimery." Courfeyrac grins. "It keeps me from getting in a rut. Shall we go and check on our friend?" Feuilly splutters and socks him in the shoulder. "Like hell it does. -- All right, all right." "What? Are you accusing me of being dull?" grinning. "No. I'm accusing you of being lustful." Feuilly grins back. "And if you're going to deny that -- I'll go home." Courfeyrac laughs. "I would never dare." And, crossing to open the door, "After you?" Feuilly grins and goes out.
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