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Searching (Enjolras): April, 1829
I did not leave Aimery's until well past noon. I had woken toward dawn, as one will in a strange bed, and found him peacefully asleep with his arm around my waist, for all the world as though it belonged there. I spared a moment for guilt, and then went promptly back to sleep. When I woke again, the sun was pouring through the window and Aimery was stretched on his side, gazing at me.
It should have been Audric beside me. It had never been anyone else, except those few nights -- and even then, Audric had been with me, had gone to sleep with me and our newly-pledged friend. Waking without him was terribly strange; and, more terribly still, not unpleasant. Aimery smiled at me as I opened my eyes. Despite myself, I smiled back. "Morning."
"Good morning, mon frère. How did you sleep?"
"Quite well, thank you."
"Good." He touched my hair gently. The gesture was so like Audric's that I sat up abruptly, before I could lose my composure.
"I... thank you, Aimery. For-- everything."
"Don't mention it." He sprawled naked amid the blankets, entirely at ease. "Are you going already?"
I could feel myself beginning to blush. "It's late."
"Can't be ten yet."
"Audric--"
"Ah," he said mildly, "well, yes, Audric."
"I should get home," I said, but even to my own ears it lacked conviction. Audric would be wondering where I was, perhaps even worrying, but the thought of confronting him flooded me with weariness. It seemed as though we had been having the same set of arguments for months, and getting nowhere.
Aimery's voice was soft. "Another hour or so won't make much difference, will it?" I looked back at him. He was watching me with bright, intent eyes, half-smiling. He reached out a hand to me. "Stay a while, Julien."
It was damnably tempting. I hesitated, and Aimery took my hand in his. "Sweet friend," he said. "Please?"
I capitulated. "An hour then."
It was an hour well spent, by his lights; even, I suppose, by Audric's. Somewhere in the midst of it, before I was quite overcome, I found myself thinking as I had thought the night before, This is what it is, this is what they feel, this is what I have missed. Something so close, so joyous-- Then it passed, and was lost in a rush of mere sensation.
After, I lay in his arms for a little, while my heart slowed and he ran his fingers through my hair as though he were stroking a favorite cat. I did not want to abandon that comfort; but I had stayed far too long already. When I could move again, I disentangled myself gently and sat up. "I need to be going."
"Not without breakfast, you're not."
"Aimery--"
"You need it, brother. It's past the hour, and you've been exerting yourself--"
"Aimery!"
"And now I've offended you." He grinned at me, unrepentant. "A thousand pardons. Let me make it up to you. Your shirt's by the foot of the bed, I think."
So that was another hour. We sat by the window and talked of nothing in particular, nothing too personal or too pressing. He took leave of me with a chaste embrace, as though he knew that any further intimacy would be too much. I left in an almost cheerful frame of mind.
When I got home, Audric was at his desk, his head bent over his books. Evidently he was not too absorbed, for he stood as soon as I entered. "Good afternoon."
"Good afternoon," I said, and shut the door behind me.
"Did you have a good night?" he said coolly. I shrugged, and went to sort out my own papers, unwilling to confront him, but he persisted. "Where did you go?"
"To Aimery's. I thought it best not to disturb you."
"Ah," he said in a rather different tone, and: "I'm sorry."
I shrugged again -- I think as much to vex him as anything. As long as he was angry with me, there was no good reason to feel guilty. "What for?"
"I -- everything. For doing that to you, however many times I've done it." His tone grew acidic. "At least I told you where I was."
"Perhaps," I said sharply, "I should have come home and asked your permission first."
Audric hesitated a little. "I-- I wouldn't have told you not to. But I was worried about you." Behind his irritation, he sounded hurt. I did not trust myself to look at him.
"I can look after myself, Audric."
"As well as I can. As well as anyone, but something could have happened. How was I to know where you were?"
It was logic, of a sort. It shook me, in my brittle state, as did the frustration in his tone. I could not quite keep the tremor out of my voice. "I have to go." I picked up my book and turned, only to see him standing there with arms outstretched, silently offering an embrace.
I was in no mood to be won over; and yet something in me longed for the comfort of that embrace, and I found myself in his arms without quite knowing how I got there. He buried his face in my shoulder. "God, chéri, I'm sorry."
"It's all right." I could think of nothing else to say. Though I was holding him as tightly as if we had forgiven each other, I felt curiously detached, indifferent, as though he were a stranger. He must have sensed that, for he asked, "Are you all right?"
"I hate fighting with you," I said, which was true enough.
He stroked my hair tentatively. "That isn't what I meant. I mean -- why did you...?"
"Because I hate fighting with you. I--" I did not know how to say what I meant: that we quarrelled more and more lately; that he had abandoned me in the café and Aimery had offered me consolation, sympathy, understanding; that he, who had left me alone so often in favor of Aimery's company, should surely comprehend the attraction. "Do I need a reason?"
Audric let me go, reddening. "No -- of course you don't. I just thought you found the very concept distasteful. I can't imagine what would have given me that impression."
Perhaps he did not mean it spitefully, but the words stung. I turned away again. "I have to go."
"I don't understand. Please --"
"I don't want to discuss it. I'm going to be late, Audric--"
"That isn't fair," he protested. "I didn't -- I've never surprised you quite like this."
Which was also true, so far as it went, and I had to acknowledge it, even as I swung the door open. "All right, I'm sorry. I'll see you later."
"Oh? You're not going to disappear on me again?"
I slammed the door shut again, suddenly out of patience. "Perhaps you'd rather I did."
"I didn't say that," he said, softly, maddeningly softly. Next it would be, Calm down, Julien.
"You were upset with me, and he asked -- damn it all. You left me there. I assumed that meant you knew I could fend for myself."
"I hardly expected you to --" Audric faltered, blushing, and concluded sheepishly, "to do what I would have done in the same circumstances."
"Yes," I said dryly. At least he could admit that much.
More gently, he said, "Can you blame me for being concerned?"
"I suppose not." At some level, I knew I should reach out to him, make some attempt at peacemaking, but I could not find it in me to try, then, or even to care very much. More than anything, I felt vastly tired. "I am going to be late."
Audric sighed. "I'm sorry. I'll see you later."
All through that day I avoided thinking about him, or about Aimery. The weariness that had lifted in Aimery's company had settled on me again, with remorse added to its weight. I had done nothing more than Audric routinely did; still, I was ashamed of myself, for giving way to what had been little more than lust and self-pity.
Yet that moment of pure delight--
Such thoughts were treacherous. I put them from me as best I could, and concentrated on the day's affairs. When I returned home it was quite late, and Audric had gone to bed. I undressed in silence, in the dark, and got under the covers beside him.
He was not asleep. He was looking at me in the faint light from the window, frowning a little, though he said nothing. I could find no accusation in his face, only worry; and the last of my vexation seeped away.
This was my beloved, my dearest friend, my brother-- always far more patient with me than I was with him, far more forgiving than I had deserved. I could not speak. I reached out to him, embraced him, felt the comforting contour of his shoulder against my cheek, the familiar texture of his skin. He sighed, and ran his fingers through my hair. "Mon coeur," he said.
Only that, but my heart eased finally, hearing it. "Chéri," I murmured, and remembered nothing more.
* * * * *
That was the last time for a long while that I slept soundly. The quarrels were fewer, but my restlessness, if anything, grew stronger. I began leaving the café early, only so that I could take the long way home and walk off some of the tension that simmered in me. On nights that Audric spent at home, I kept him awake with fidgeting; when he tried to ask what ailed me, I forestalled him with kisses. Lovemaking solved nothing, but it left me tired enough to sleep. Certainly it was no longer a pleasure so much as an escape.
It was not surprising, then, that Audric began to spend more of his nights elsewhere. He was as graceful about it as ever, speaking to me the morning before, kissing me tenderly before he departed with Aimery. Nevertheless I felt his absence.
Toward the end of April he developed a cough, not terribly serious, but sufficient to keep him at home in bed for most of the day. I tended him as best I could, and tried to keep my impatience in check. I wanted things I could not define, and chafed at burdens I could not name, but there was no need to trouble Audric with my fancies.
I made Prouvaire my proposal out of sheer impulse. Audric was well enough to come to Musain that evening, but still felt poorly enough to leave early and put his cold to bed. I might have asked Aimery instead, whom I trusted more fully, but he had gone home too -- bored by the conversation, I think, though he made excuses with his customary grace. And that left me alone with Prouvaire.
The youngest of us, our petit frère, he still had a childishness that was vexing at times. His theatrical airs, his fits of petulance, his chatter, all grated on my nerves. And yet he was my brother no less than Aimery was. Watching him, listening to him rattle on about Aeschylus, I saw him suddenly in a flash of memory: sixteen years old, innocent and bewildered in our bedroom, talking of sunsets.
He broke off. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bore you."
"No, it's all right. I'm just-- tired, I suppose." More tired than he could guess; tired of the company of my own thoughts, that went round in circles. "Jehan--"
I never called him Jehan. I startled myself, and perhaps startled him too, for he blinked at me. "Yes?"
"Do you have plans for tonight?"
The quick color sprang to his cheeks. "No, I've no plans."
"Ah." I thought about it for a moment. "I would ask you to come home with me, but I don't want to disturb Audric."
Jehan giggled; there was no other word for it. "You are quite welcome to accompany me, if you want to."
He lived by himself, that year, in a garret not terribly far from the cafe, amid books and portfolios and forgotten love-tokens and a rather weedy-looking pot of lavender. He let me in, apologizing for the clutter in the lighthearted way of a boy whose apologies have always been accepted.
But when the door shut, I found myself inexplicably embarrassed. I should not have been; this was nothing we had not done before, and he was no one I needed to fear.
He laid a soft hand on my shoulder. "If you'd rather go..."
"I didn't say that." The room was close, smelling of lavender and of something else, warmer, less definable. I embraced him, and heard him chuckle. "I don't want to impose on you--"
"Julien, don't be silly. You're welcome to stay." His fingers caressed the back of my neck, with subtlety I did not expect from him; I caught my breath. "I love you," he said softly.
As they all said. As none of them had a right to say, except for Audric. I buried my face in his shoulder. "I don't understand. Help me understand."
Jehan stroked my hair. We were back to the beginning; except that this time, I was the innocent. He kissed me, called me sweet brother, drew me toward the bed and rid me of my clothes with distressing dexterity. I had been half expecting the same awkward boy who had kissed me years before. This was another Jehan entirely, one who knew his own desires to a nicety and had a very fair idea of mine, and who, once he understood my hesitation, smiled and undertook to teach me what he had learned. His hands were warm and smooth; his body weighed light in my arms.
Almost, almost I understood.
But it slipped away, and I was left with nothing but the smell of sweat and Jehan's hazy, complacent smile.
* * * * *
It was no use. There was nothing for me in their arms: no comfort, no absolution, no real intimacy. What I had been seeking was not to be found; perhaps it did not exist.
Nevertheless I went back, more than once, like a child following the rainbow, like a man without faith casting prayers at the sky; and they did not turn me away. I stayed a second night with Aimery, and a third; and on the third night, as I lay spent against his shoulder, the tears came to my eyes.
He must have felt it, though I had not made a sound. His fingers touched my cheek, light as breath. "Julien. Brother. What is it?"
"I don't know," I whispered. Aimery pulled me close, and held me while I struggled for self-control. When I could speak again, I said, "I don't understand."
"What don't you understand?"
"You and Audric." He tensed in my arms. "You and Daniel -- Jean and Christophe -- It means something to you. Beyond what I always thought it did. The way you look at one another-- I don't understand that. I want to, but I can't."
"It's only love," he said gently.
"I don't love you," I said. The words fell starkly into silence. "I-- I am not one of you, not really."
"Of course you are." Aimery sat up a little, as though I had said something genuinely shocking. "Of course you are, brother."
"No."
He kissed me then, before I could prevent him, and said over again the words of the vow he had spoken years before; and I answered him in kind, sick at heart, knowing how much the empty phrases meant to him. After that he seemed reassured, and I could not bring myself to discomfit him again. I slept badly that night, and left before he woke the next morning.
Audric had been sleeping, too, but he stirred when I opened the door, and greeted me in a hazy voice. I went and sat down on the bed beside him, and he took me in his arms. "What's wrong?"
My conscience tore at me. What had I done to deserve his welcome, much less his concern?
"I'm sorry," I said. "I've been a fool."
Lightly, as if it did not much matter, he said, "Why, what have you done?"
"Oh-- I've been looking for castles in the air, thinking that if I could only find them I would be home."
He kissed my cheek. "I love you."
"And I love you." I buried my face in his shoulder, unable to look at him. "It's taken me this long to remember that."
"But you remembered," he said softly, and I felt his hand against my hair. There was love in that touch, and no censure in his voice. For a moment, for the first time in too many months, it seemed that we were one; and I knew that I would not go back to Aimery again.
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