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"…and for women, responsibility over the domestic sphere, virtuous motherhood, the great task of rearing the next generation and instructing them in principles and in love for their country."
Combeferre gazed pensively at his desk. As always when debating with Enjolras, he needed time to gather his thoughts and structure them to withstand the onslaught of Enjolras’ inexorable logic. “I don’t deny it’s a venerable role,” he said slowly, “but must that be the only way to organize the family? You would not doom a citizen to be a slave, a master, or a king by accident of birth. Why would you doom men and women to the roles you’ve set out for them by a different accident of birth? Is it not an unjust restriction upon those whose aptitudes and… predilections lie elsewhere?”
At the word ‘predilections,’ Enjolras caught his eye, startled. Combeferre held his gaze. With neither of them willing to turn away, the look went on far longer than was comfortable, until finally Enjolras lowered his eyes and said harshly, “You advocate total liberty of love. But there must be structure. If you could see the anarchy your liberty would unleash, you would not be able to approve of all the forms it would take.”
With the gentleness of a man ready to pull away at any second, Combeferre laid a hand on Enjolras’ cheek and tilted his chin up. There was something wild and barely suppressed in his friend’s eyes. “Wouldn’t I?” he said, and leaned in to kiss Enjolras.
Enjolras sprang back like a spooked animal before their lips could touch. “Don’t mock me,” he spat.
"I wasn’t." Combeferre held his hands up, trying to pacify his friend. "Enjolras, I swear to you, I was in earnest."
Enjolras eyed him warily. “You tried to kiss me.”
Combeferre felt shame wash over him in a burning wave. “I thought you wanted it too—”
"Wanted what? What do you want, Combeferre?"
"To—love you. As more than simply a friend."
"As what, then? Did you think, because you’d guessed at my predilections, that I’d let you make me your mistress?”
"It’s not like that!" cried Combeferre, his face twisting in frustration. "I mean, yes, I’ve desired you, but… never without respect. A partnership of equals. Just like we’ve always been. I swear."
Enjolras listened to Combeferre stammer and grasp for words until he gave up and stopped talking. “I apologize,” Enjolras said finally. “That was an assumption unworthy of you, my friend. But I don’t want to be your wife any more than I want to be your mistress.”
Combeferre looked up at Enjolras, open-mouthed—and then he really looked at him, because he had never seen Enjolras like this before. Tightly coiled, almost vibrating with it, his eyes dark and fixed unswervingly on Combeferre, body half turned away but leaning towards him, he looked equally likely to hit Combeferre, to bolt from the room, or to grab him and kiss him breathless. Half mistrustful stray cat, half hungry lion. Equally feral in either case, and Combeferre realized with a shiver that he didn’t have it in him to be the one to tame him. He recoiled before the prospect of teaching Enjolras the love of lovers, the love that takes and possesses. Enjolras, magnificent and untouched, was not his to have or to hold. He would make a dangerous lover for the man who dared try.
The realization hit him at the same time as a different thought—a strand of their argument, the offended pride in Enjolras’ posture—slotted together in his mind. “Why my wife?” he said with a wry half-smile. “I could just as easily have been asking you to be my husband.”
"I wouldn’t do that to you," said Enjolras fiercely. "Any more than I’d let you do that to me."
Combeferre stood up. Enjolras sprang backward a step, but didn’t take his eyes off Combeferre for an instant as he crossed the room and retrieved his coat and bookbag. “I understand,” said Combeferre in as mild a voice as he could manage. “I won’t bring it up again. I hope we can continue on as friends after this. But, Enjolras, just one question…”
"Yes?"
"If this venerable role of wife you’ve sketched out is such an insult to you, why would you assign it to half your fellow-creatures? Is that not the argument of tyrants?"
Enjolras opened his mouth, then closed it, pensive, at a loss for words for the first time that evening. Without waiting for him to think up a response, Combeferre jammed his hat on his head and departed.