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Inception: April, 1826
Two young men sit at a table in the back of a rather dingy cafe. They sit next to each other and speak in low tones. The blond man, Julien Enjolras, fidgets with a small book in front of him and occasionally makes notes in it with a pencil. The other, Audric Combeferre, whose hair is darker and who sits with more of a slouch, has a thin, smudged sheet of paper and an earnest tone. "Mon ami," Combeferre says, "it would be for the best."
Enjolras frowns at the page in front of him. "I don't understand why you're so determined on this."
Combeferre frowns at Enjolras for a moment, then makes his expression clear. "There must be complete loyalty in the sort of organization you propose, yes?"
"I propose?" Enjolras glances up sharply. "I don't think it was what I was proposing so much as what we were discussing." Combeferre touches his hand lightly. "I wasn't trying to -- that is, I brought it up because you must -- we must have some way of ascertaining people's loyalty, mustn't we? You can't think of speaking out in public; you can't do that safely, and if you are arrested, what good are your quick wits to anyone?" "Yes, but--" "Do you trust me?" Combeferre asks abruptly. Enjolras blinks. The pencil slips from his fingers; he catches it mechanically. "Audric..." "You do, don't you?" "You know I do." From pale he has gone white. "It isn't that." Combeferre pushes his chair back a few inches. "But you don't trust my judgment?" Enjolras straightens. "Do you expect me to accept this particular proposal without question? In God's name, mon ami, we hardly know this boy, and you..." Combeferre smiles at him. "I propose that we get to know him better." Enjolras stands, his face burning, and catches up his book from the table. "It isn't funny." "No, you're right." Combeferre sighs. "Sit down, would you? This is all a dangerous business, and I'm not trying to make light of it." Enjolras glances down, though he stays standing. "I don't understand you, sometimes." Combeferre shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Julien. Please, sit down." Reluctantly, Enjolras resumes his seat. "Thank you. I have to say, I don't entirely understand your reservations." "I think they are perfectly reasonable reservations." "Clearly you do." Combeferre pushes his chair back a few inches. "Then you don't trust Prouvaire?" Enjolras shrugs. "Not entirely." Combeferre taps his piece of paper. "And yet, you would discuss sedition with him?" "Ideas." Enjolras looks stubborn. "Dangerous ideas," Combeferre says, mildly. "In which he expressed an interest." "But he did not necessarily express commitment to your ideas -- splendid though they are." Combeferre shakes his head slightly. "I would not see you hurt, Julien. Not now. There are lamentably few ways to test the truth of what any man says, save by asking him for, ah, a greater loyalty." Enjolras frowns at his hands. "What you suggest is as likely to frighten him away as anything else." "Then you will know how trustworthy he is." "Yes. And what becomes of you and me, mon cher, if he is not?" Combeferre looks quite falsely incredulous. "It is his word against ours, no? I can't imagine why anyone would spread such slander against us. Certainly, he will have no evidence to prove his allegations." "Audric, damn it, this is serious." "I'm being perfectly serious." Combeferre shrugs and begins ticking off points on his fingers. "He dresses like a madman -- no, like a romantic, which may well be worse in the eyes of a judge. He is a poet, and advertises himself as such -- hardly the most staid profession. He speaks poorly, at least about such low, brutish issues, and would have trouble making his assertions, let alone elaborating on them. And as a poet, albeit a flustered one, he surely overimbibes of absinthe. What court would credit him before us?" Enjolras passes a hand across his face. "I suppose so." "It's safe enough." Combeferre looks at Enjolras, frowning a little. "I wouldn't endanger you." "Do you think I care for that?" Enjolras shrugs. "It just seems such a..." "We won't push him, mon ami. Far from it." "I should think not," severely. Combeferre spreads his hands. "Then what are you worried about?" "What a way to go about it." Enjolras rests his head in his hands for a moment. Combeferre chuckles. "There are worse ways to proceed." "But is this really necessary?" After a moment, Combeferre starts drumming his fingers on the table. "How would you go about ascertaining the timbre of a man's heart, then?" "Don't do that, it's maddening. --I -- I don't know." Combeferre stops. "I don't know, either, but I know -- I know I can be sure of you." Enjolras colors again. "All right," he says after a moment. "I take your point." Combeferre smiles. "Thank you."
* * *
Late the next evening, Enjolras paces the comfortable but somewhat sparse room he shares with Combeferre. It looks still more spartan than it usually does, as the papers and discarded clothing have been cleaned up. "You're certain--?" Combeferre sits on the bed, fidgeting. "As certain as I can be." "For God's sake, Audric--" Combeferre shakes his head. "I didn't ask him, yet. How should I know what he is going to say?" "I meant-- Never mind." Enjolras turns away, staring out the window. "What did you mean?" Combeferre asks, patiently. Enjolras takes a deep breath. "I meant, are you certain we should do this." "It's for the best," Combeferre says, with a slightly forced smile. "If we take the issue to a crisis point -- then we'll know." Enjolras hesitates, then: "If you say so." "Whether we learn something that is to our benefit, or whether it causes a small amount of trouble, depends on Prouvaire." "Yes." Enjolras folds his arms tightly, as though against a draft. "But -- if it was that dangerous, I wouldn't recommend it," softly. "This will be all right." "I--" "What?" Enjolras sits down on the bed and embraces him, mutely. Combeferre kisses his cheek. "It will be all right." "I hope so." "It will." After a moment, Enjolras nods. There is a knock on the door. Combeferre lets Enjolras go and stands, looking back at him worriedly. Enjolras runs a hand through his hair and rises. "Come in." Prouvaire opens the door and hesitates on the threshold. His dark hair is long and thoroughly tousled by the wind, and his eyes seem similarly disordered. His cravat is askew, and clashes with his waistcoat, which is too big for him and does not go well with his jacket. "Good evening, mes amis." Combeferre smiles. "Bonsoir, Jean -- do come in." "Evening," Enjolras murmurs, a trifle distantly. "How are you tonight?" Prouvaire asks, smiling at Enjolras. "Well enough," after a moment's pause. "And you?" "The weather has made for a most interesting sunset," Prouvaire says lightly. "The clouds were swirling, and it would have been ominous, I suppose, except that they were bright orange-pink. It's difficult to be frightened of anything that vivid." "I'm sorry I missed it," Combeferre says, amused. He glances around the room, which is rather small for entertaining, and falls silent. Enjolras looks nonplussed. Sunsets, however splendid, are not something he knows how to converse about. "Well." Prouvaire blinks into the sudden silence. "What did you want to discuss with me?" Combeferre blushes and goes from looking at the ceiling to looking at the floor. "A personal matter." "Audric," Enjolras chides. "If you put it that way, he'll think we hold something against him." Prouvaire looks from Combeferre to Enjolras and chuckles. "I don't think that, Enjolras. Why would I? The two of you are so solemn about whatever this is. Are you always so serious?" Enjolras flushes, for no immediately obvious reason. Combeferre's eyes widen slightly. "No. We're not always -- quite this serious, no. Ah --" he glances at Enjolras, then walks over to Prouvaire and puts a hand on his shoulder. "Jehan, we have a few important questions for you." "Do you?" Prouvaire grins at him. "Such as what?" Combeferre glances at Enjolras again, then gives Prouvaire a long, searching look. "If I recall our conversations correctly, you have a few, ah, dangerous political ideas, no? Are you willing to risk your life for them?" Prouvaire loses his grin and looks momentarily stoic, or as stoic as it is possible to look in a lavender cravat that is coming undone, and a rust colored waistcoat that hangs loosely enough to fit a child inside. "Yes. I suppose I am, if it would accomplish something." Enjolras reaches past Combeferre's shoulder to brush Prouvaire's hair out of his face, lightly. "And you are prepared to pursue them that far? Beyond metaphors in your poetry and idle conversations in cafes?" It might sound pointed, if his tone were not so gentle. "I --" Prouvaire gives Enjolras a level look, though his brow is creased. "Yes. I think so." Combeferre clears his throat. "Are you prepared to swear to that, Jehan?" "I -- I --" Prouvaire swallows. "Yes." Enjolras nods slightly, and looks at Combeferre. Combeferre hesitates for a moment, studying Prouvaire's face, then leans forward and kisses him lightly. Prouvaire pulls away, his eyes wide and terrified. "What are you doing?" Combeferre closes his eyes for a moment. "It's an adaptation of an ancient ritual, mon ami -- Jehan. Akin to a serf kissing the ring of his lord to seal a contract, except that this is égalité, is it not? To seal a promise, to make it binding, one must put a bit more into it than words." "I see -- I think." Prouvaire tentatively returns the kiss. Enjolras, watching this with tense composure, takes in an imperceptible breath. "It's all right, Jehan. You needn't look so anxious." Prouvaire is rather paler than normal. "I -- I wasn't expecting something quite this serious, that's all." Combeferre squeezes Prouvaire's shoulder. "It's all right," in an earnest, comforting tone. Enjolras extends a slender hand. "Trust us." And then, with an unexpected smile, "Or at the very least, trust Combeferre. I do." Prouvaire takes Enjolras' hand and smiles, albeit a bit timorously. "All right." Enjolras nods, and steps forward to kiss him in turn, gentle but intent. Prouvaire shivers and returns the kiss, then steps away from Enjolras, smiling awkwardly. "Is that enough?" Combeferre hesitates a moment, then puts a hand on Prouvaire's shoulder again, gently, and kisses him. This kiss is not as chaste as the first, and is rather longer and more suggestive. "Is that enough?" he asks in return, softly. For a long moment, Prouvaire looks at him, and then at Enjolras. The confusion gradually leaves his expression. He embraces Combeferre, but glances at Enjolras again, while he speaks. "And what promise have you made to me, that you seal it so?" Combeferre blushes. "Unity of purpose, Jehan." "The same that you make to us," Enjolras adds, brushing his fingers across Prouvaire's cheek. "What else?" "Ah." Prouvaire shivers. "I -- I think I understand. Some of it." "Good," Combeferre says, smiling. "Someone should." He kisses Prouvaire again. Prouvaire sighs and leans against Combeferre a little. "Ah, mon ami. Your promises." Enjolras moves to stand behind him, running a hand down his back. "Are you reconsidering?" exchanging a look with Combeferre over Jehan's shoulder. "No," Prouvaire says quickly. "No, I'm not reconsidering." He blinks a few times, trying to clear his eyes, and frowns at Combeferre, who is looking worriedly at Enjolras. "Should I go, now?" Combeferre seems to wake up, and brings his hand up to touch Prouvaire's cheek. "Only if you want to." Delicate fingers part Prouvaire's hair, and a kiss brushes the back of his neck. Enjolras says nothing. Prouvaire gasps. "You -- oh, my. Oh, dear." He closes his eyes. "I can't say, really, that I'd like to leave." "Very well." Enjolras leans in to kiss his cheek. Combeferre lets Prouvaire go, enough that Jehan can turn and touch Enjolras' cheek. Prouvaire's eyes are rather wider and more uncomprehending than usual. "Mes amis," he asks, in a breathless voice, "are you certain that I'm not intruding?" Combeferre chuckles. It sounds only slightly forced. "We invited you, didn't we?" Enjolras colors faintly, and kisses Prouvaire to forestall further protests. Prouvaire sighs and embraces him, returning the kiss. Combeferre catches one of Enjolras' hands and squeezes it lightly, then lets go in order to run his hands down Prouvaire's back. "We ought to find the bed," he suggests, after a few moments. He steps away from Prouvaire, who clings to Enjolras abruptly lest he fall. Enjolras nods, and steadies the poet for a moment before guiding him to the bed.
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