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Waking: April, 1826
Rosy-fingered dawn arrives at the appointed time, but three young men completely miss her arrival and subsequent departure, due to inordinate amounts of exercise the night before. Enjolras wakes first and disentangles himself with a disdainful expression, then performs his morning ablutions. A while later, Prouvaire stirs. He still has an arm around Combeferre, and his hair is most thoroughly tousled. He smiles with some bewilderment at Enjolras. "Good morning, Julien." Enjolras turns to look at him, his expression momentarily blank. "Good morning." Prouvaire stretches. "Come back to bed?" "It's nearly nine o'clock," Enjolras says, not unkindly. "You should be getting up." "Ah. You're probably right." Prouvaire touches Combeferre's cheek lightly. "But it's comfortable, here." Enjolras gives him a level look. "Yes?" Prouvaire blinks at Enjolras. "I don't have that many pressing obligations at this hour, not on a Monday. Are you so eager to be rid of me?" "Perhaps you don't. I'm afraid we do." Enjolras shrugs, expressionless. Prouvaire sits up. "Then I shall get out of your way." Enjolras nods, with perfect courtesy, and hands him his shirt. "Good morning." Prouvaire puts it on. "Shall I see you tonight, then?" "This afternoon? I should think so." Prouvaire nods, then blushes and glances down at Combeferre, who is still asleep. "And tonight?" The blue eyes fix on him, suddenly much less mild. "What about it?" "Shall I -- shall I see you?" "I told you when you will see us." Prouvaire runs his hand through his hair. "I mean -- will it be like tonight?" Enjolras's tone hardens. "Why?" "Because it was lovely." Prouvaire stands up and puts his pants on, in approximately that order. "Because, sweet God, Julien, it was splendid." The color rushes to Enjolras's face. He turns away sharply, looking out the window. "What of it?" Prouvaire crosses the room and puts a hand on his shoulder. "If you ever wanted -- I mean -- you would only have to ask." Enjolras shrugs off the hand. "Very well." And then, turning back to follow up the thought, "Why?" Prouvaire frowns. "Why not?" Enjolras takes him roughly by the shoulders, scowling at him. "What do you think you're here for, Jean?" Prouvaire makes a distressed noise. "I --" Behind Prouvaire, Combeferre sighs, and sits up, then says, "Julien," sharply. Enjolras lets Prouvaire go abruptly, reddening, and steps away. "Good morning." Prouvaire backs away and stumbles a bit. "Good morning." He gets over to the door by the time Combeferre speaks. Combeferre blinks sleepily. "Are you leaving already, then?" Prouvaire looks from him to Enjolras. "Yes, I suppose I am. Goodbye." He opens the door and goes out, clattering down the stairs on his way. Enjolras gives the door a pained look, and turns back toward the window, taking a great many pains over finding his coat. "What on earth did you say to him?" Combeferre rubs his eyes. "Nothing," defensively. "Then what frightened him?" Combeferre gets up and begins to get dressed. "He's a fool." Enjolras pulls his coat on, scowling. "An obtuse, sentimental, chattering fool. He-- I'll be damned if I let you talk me into anything like that again." Combeferre shakes his head slightly. "He's a boy." After a moment, "Surely you knew he's sentimental. That was part of why I suggested all of this." Enjolras crosses to the desk, turning over books and papers with controlled fury. "He didn't understand at all. He asked me--" Combeferre gets up and, after a few moments, finds a relatively clean shirt. "What did he ask?" in a calm, soothing tone. "What do you think?" Combeferre frowns slightly and finds a pair of pants. "I don't know what would bother you this much." "He wanted to know," precise and acid, "if he has a standing invitation. God, Audric!" "Ah," softly, as he buttons his cuffs. "It seems a logical sort of question." Enjolras slams down the book in his hand. "Logical!" "Yes." Combeferre shrugs into his waistcoat. "And you told him no, and that's the end of that question." "If that was the first question he thought to ask, then he must have missed the point entirely." Enjolras is trembling. Combeferre puts a steady hand on his shoulder. "It may be that he understood better than you give him credit for -- and he understood all of the important points, and only missed the one of least importance." Enjolras buries his face in his hands. "This is insane." "Ah," again, gently. Combeferre considers this. "He trusted you enough to ask such a question, didn't he, and he is not afraid -- or was not. Forgive him a little foolishness, mon adoré. He is young." After a moment, the trembling stops. "I meant to talk to him, before he ran off." "We'll see him again." Combeferre strokes Enjolras' hair softly. "Not here!" Enjolras looks up, half imperious, half desperate. "Not like this." "No, no." Combeferre smiles. "Like normal people. Like friends -- or confidantes. In a cafe, perhaps this evening, and we will talk then." Enjolras gazes at him for a minute, hesitating. "It will be all right." "I--" Enjolras glances away. "What would you have said to him?" Combeferre touches his cheek. "That this was only once, only to seal the promise, but that he is always welcome to speak to us." "That was what I tried to say," muted. "Then we were thinking alike." Combeferre smiles at him. Enjolras sighs and embraces him. Combeferre kisses his cheek. "It's all right." A deep breath. "If you say so." "I meant it. He was understandably flustered, but it will sort itself out." Enjolras closes his eyes a moment, and nods. "Within a few days, it will be settled." "I suppose." Combeferre kisses him. "It will be all right." "So you said." Enjolras pulls away. "We should be going." "Yes, we should." Combeferre picks up his jacket and puts it on. "Shall we?" Enjolras touches his arm lightly, and goes out.
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