Chapter Text
“Do you have any siblings?”
The words came as a bit of a jolt. Combeferre had momentarily left his medical texts in order to busy himself with a stubborn window-latch when, upon hearing this sudden inquiry, the swiftness of his movements came to an abrupt halt. It was an unusually warm day for spring; the sultry air, seemingly undisturbed, continued in its torpid inactivity, and the specks of dust, earthly particles framed in heavenly glory, suspended almost motionlessly and radiant as they caught the gold-colored rays of the afternoon sun, swirled lazily by the window where the young man stood. Combeferre, himself bathed in sunlight and his brow dampened with sweat, turned a bit, interrupting their languid dance a little.
The back room of the Café Musain was deserted that afternoon. Madame Hucheloup was preoccupied with scrubbing the floor of the lounge in the front, where a particularly unruly quarrel the night before had resulted in the shedding of blood and the violent upheaval of cheap wine. The two girls, likewise, minded their business elsewhere, preparing for another night of business, surely, but with little hurry. It had only been a few hours since the Society of the Friends of the ABC had concluded one of their periodic gatherings, this time on the subject of the recruitment of the construction-workers in the northern parts of the city (and the merits and ramifications thereof) as well as the management of their liaisons with the local artisans. All, however, had exited to tend to their own affairs long ago but two: one in meditation and the other in study.
Enjolras waited with some expectancy for a response, leaning in slightly with arms crossed and resting on a table, though his expression betrayed no particular sense of urgency. A strong cup of tea lay to his left, its contents untouched throughout his prolonged state of silent contemplation, which was broken at last only by his unexpected talk of siblings. Enjolras tapped his fingers a little on the table, slowly, rhythmically, producing slight tremors that effected tiny ripples on the surface of the lukewarm tea. Otherwise, total calm.
Combeferre chewed over a bit this curious question. In all the several years he had known his passionate young friend, in all his blaze and glory and profound loneliness—for he had achieved a kind of sublimation that obliged one to be lonely, separated from and elevated above the lives of common men by right of some divine purpose and bound, singularly, by a solemn contract with duty—Enjolras had never, to Combeferre’s knowledge, asked any of his companions about such a thing as family before. The distant heart of the fiery Enjolras, not uncaring but certainly not outwardly warm, had seemed not to hold a place for the words mother, father, sister, and brother.
He had, however, noticed a particular remoteness in Enjolras’ behavior today—even earlier, as Enjolras was talking of recruitment and the other pressing issues at hand, Combeferre had furrowed his brow upon perceiving an absent dullness which clouded his old friend’s vision like frost on a windowpane, as well as a dreamy quality which muffled his speech, as though he were speaking through the thick haze of a summer night’s reverie. Perhaps, Combeferre had thought, he was simply in a sullen mood due to some little event the night before—a quarrel with the landlady or a run-in in the streets—though he knew his friend too well to actually believe so. More likely, he deduced, he had something decidedly uncharacteristic on his mind.
“Why do you ask?” Combeferre asked finally.
“Simple curiosity.” Enjolras’ expression remained unchanged. “Well? Do you?” he urged, careful not to arouse suspicion but already failing in this respect.
Combeferre allowed himself a minute to complete his task before resuming his place on the table across from Enjolras. When he managed to unclasp the latch at last, he budged open the window, a chipped and grimy thing which, judging from its reluctance to move, appeared to have been closed for quite some time. Fresh air rushed instantly into the room, and with it, the distant sounds of the children: the sing-song of schoolchildren released from their studies and the clamor and whistling of barefoot gamins alike—echoes from the narrow streets of the city, the veins which carry the life of Civilization itself. Children of the schoolyard and children of the streets. Children with bright eyes and rosy cheeks and laughter that bubbled from their mouths; little bits of change in their pockets, maybe—or holes.
“Yes,” he answered, his eyebrows raised a bit, involuntarily. “In fact, I do. Two little ones—sisters. Ten and fifteen years old.”
“What are they like?” asked Enjolras. His manner was persistently nonchalant, though Combeferre held a slight suspicion that his air was that of feigned indifference. Enjolras, wary of Combeferre’s perceptiveness, was prepared to defend himself by pleading etiquette; it is a simple formality, after all, in getting to better know a comrade—asking about family, that is—and part of the proper and expected protocol for friendship, is it not? Never mind the several years’ delay, it was only appropriate for him to ask.
Combeferre, however, elected not to ask any such question. “Well,” he began instead, removing his spectacles and closing his book-strained eyes as if in preparation to remember, “the younger of the two is a bit rowdy—always pilfering sweets from the pantry and getting her petticoats messy and dragging her boots through rain puddles. All just to get a stir out of her poor mother!” He could not stop the smile gathering at the corners of his mouth. He chuckled fondly at the memories. “She has the sweetest little face! Dark hair, like her father’s, wild and untamed curls like a storm; wide-set eyes and cheeks dipped in scarlet, even when not in the midst of one of her temper-fits, which is often; curious eyes that wander; a tiny, pouting little mouth that laughs uproariously and knows no timidness nor reservation—“
“Nothing like you,” Enjolras interjected, almost in a tone of jest.
“No,” Combeferre said, looking toward Enjolras and still smiling his honest, good-natured smile. “Rather not like me at all.”
“And the elder?”
“More solemn, I suppose,” he mused. “A reader. Studious. Prudent. Reserved, with a gentle smile and delicate little hands that she waves about when speaking as though in punctuation, forming themselves into shapes, grasping at truths…”
Combeferre gestured earnestly with his hands in imitation. Enjolras looked to him with a slight wrinkle of the brows and a curious parting of the lips.
“Well,” Combeferre continued, perching his chin pensively upon his thumb, “you wouldn’t believe it if you had seen her, but she used to be quite an ornery and fiery little thing, too. I suppose children do tend to find peace or tiredness with the years—one of the two. Though it is my personal belief that all children by heart are wild, and all adults—or so I think—used to be children.”
“Even you?” said Enjolras in a tone that was now most certainly teasing.
“Perhaps,” admitted Combeferre, running his thumb across his chin absently. His transparent face couldn’t hide the large grin that revealed his benevolent dimples and softened his serious yet peaceful countenance.
“You speak of them fondly—your sisters, I mean.”
“Yes. They are dear to me.” Combeferre sighed contentedly. “I visit them often. Whenever I can. I read them stories and take them to the pond and teach them lessons, sometimes.” He procured a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned his glasses thoroughly before replacing them with care on the bridge of his nose. “At night we like to look to the skies. It’s so easy to feel small when you’re under the cold light and watchful eyes of five hundred million little stars—and very big, too. I’ve taught them the names of the constellations. They’re very bright girls. Fast learners.”
Enjolras seemed vaguely impressed. “But enough of my rhapsodizing—what about you?” Combeferre asked. “Have you any brothers or sisters?”
Enjolras cast Combeferre a look that suggested a certain kind of distance before looking away, into the window. It had been said that Enjolras’ penetrating gaze had, from time to time, been known not only to stray, but to transcend—and in certain moments of preoccupation his eyes wandered in a way such that it was impossible to tell whether they were seeing across twenty leagues or twenty years.
Outside, a slight wind caught in its breeze a branch of ivy that had been thrown over the window, swinging it slowly back and forth, giving it a generous lift and then carelessly letting it fall once more. Enjolras watched it, though rather not intently.
“No,” he answered. “No, I don’t.”
“Only child, then.”
“Yes,” he said with a slight frown and cock of the head. “I guess you could say that.” His lower lip pouted a little farther than usual. Was it jealousy that rang in his solemn, prophetic voice? Or simply an inability to relate that had its roots in a want of fraternity?
Combeferre nodded in understanding.
“I’ve always wondered, though, Enjolras went on. “What it means to have a sibling—what it’s like, that is.” His voice, though it managed to come out hardly less clear and smooth and confident and placid than usual, sounded as if they had been weighed out with some deliberation, and as if some effort required his getting them out. “In particular,” he said, “I’ve always wanted a brother. I’ve always felt—”
In that moment, he reached clumsily for his cup of tea, surely no longer even palatable, with hands shuddering. In his flair of drama, however, he had forgotten to look, and with a dull clink the cup came down tumbling onto its side.
“Lonely?” suggested Combeferre after waiting a moment for a reaction that never came.
“As though I am somehow not my full self,” Enjolras concluded, carefully, as though he were testing the words out for the first time. “As if I’m missing something.”
He paused. The tea-cup, happily unbroken, rolled slowly until its delicate handle acted as a kind of stopper, securing it into place. Its contents had spilled, but the tilt of the table had caused the tea to leak out horizontally, away from the two students. The brownish liquid found itself caught on a groove in the wooden table, formed a slow, downward stream, and, when it reached the edge of the table, dripped steadily onto the floor, gathering in a murky puddle on the stained, creaking planks. Enjolras had already forgotten it.
“That is to say, terribly lonely,” he clarified.
He refused to offer any further explanation, though Combeferre didn’t expect one of him. Silence fell, and for a moment, a lazily-moving cloud in the sky shrouded the sun, casting a shadow over Enjolras’ dignified face. The cloud passed in time, allowing sunlight to again flood the room with, it seemed, an even greater intensity than before. Enjolras’ golden locks, highlighted in a brilliant white halo, seemed ready to catch on fire, and yet his composure had the depth and coolness of an ocean. Sorrow swam somewhere below the surface of his eyes. He breathed slowly and deeply, letting the thin, pale skin of his eyelids, glowing warmly and faintly lined with tiny blood vessels (the one physical testament, perhaps, to his humanity), to both give rest to his tired eyes and shield the world from his icy, timeless stare.
Combeferre seized the opportunity to clean the mess as much as he could with his handkerchief, reaching down to mop up the pool on the floor. He remembered, then, that this particular handkerchief was incidentally the work of both his two sisters—a hand-embroidered birthday gift. (It was apparent from the endearingly sloppy stitches where the younger had done her share.) He returned to his seat, resolving to wash out the tea stains vigorously later on, as to avoid making a sacrifice of their handiwork. He closed his textbooks, bent down a bit to meet Enjolras at eye-level. Enjolras said still not a word, though sternness had given way to sadness: a softer beast, but deadlier. Combeferre laid a hand on his arm.
“You have brothers in us,” he assured with a smile.