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Jehan and Combeferre have a favorite rooftop in Paris. It is painted blue and quite high. Perched above the Latin quarter, they can see down to the street below and sometimes spot a friend’s distinctive cap; but they are more concerned with the constellations above.
They bring a blanket and a basket. Inside is a fine supper of meat and cheese rolls and a bottle of white wine. For dessert, Combeferre has cultivated wild strawberries. They are sweet and sour on Jehan’s tongue, and he eats his portion first, before the bread.
Combeferre laughs, fondly indulgent, watching the berries disappear. “I rejoice that they are to your taste. But now you have no dessert!”
Jehan lets his eyebrow arch. “Did you plan on departing after the main course?”
It is wonderful when he manages to catch Combeferre out; usually Combeferre is all-knowing, saved from being insufferable because he is so kind about it.
Combeferre sees all, except where he is himself concerned. Jehan can still surprise Combeferre with his interest, can bring an impassioned flush to that logical, lofty brow.
“You know I have no such plans,” Combeferre says. “You know that these nights are drawn into my calendar in azure ink.”
“Not purple?”
“If you prefer,” says Combeferre, composed anew, his eyes sparkling, “I will switch the color. I chose blue because you are, to me, fathomless as oceans, and boundless as skies. But I can glimpse you crowned in violets also, with a cape of indigo, wearing the colors of empire as garlands.”
“Ah, my sweet Combeferre,” Jehan says, reaching to touch his shoulder. “There is only room enough for one of us to be a poet. I must be the one to dazzle you with verse, or risk losing your attention. It is you who sits wreathed in light; when we recline here, the Gods rejoice to see you, and bring out all their stars; and the moon blushes full and pink, a coquette. You notice how it is quiet and still, how no insects even stir, as though all of nature knows that one who is its master is on hand, and stops to pay you fealty.”
Combeferre leans across the blanket, over the basket, to kiss Jehan’s mouth: purposeful, pressing, and profoundly sweet. His lips are soft and warm, and his tongue teases. He is full of intent, and also reverent.
Jehan kisses back, his heart full to bursting, and he dislodges Combeferre’s cap when he threads fingers into his sandy hair.
Combeferre doesn’t replace the hat when they break apart. Talking, laughing, they unpack the basket, sharing out the contents. They revisit the scene at the Musain that day, and their friends’ fortunes and follies. They speak of what is old and new in their respective worlds of science and letters, and debate the difference. Conversation has always flowed easily between them, bright and heady as the wine they pass back and forth.
When supper is done, they set aside the basket and lie side by side on the blanket. Combeferre puts out his arm, and Jehan lays his head upon the offered shoulder. Combeferre’s arm curves across Jehan’s chest, rendering the world warm. They curl up with their eyes on the night sky.
The tradition began by blessed accident, some months ago, when they were the last left on a rooftop gathering of their friends. Lost in conversation about the stars, Jehan and Combeferre did not realize they were left alone. Realizing it, the evening took a turn for the sublime when both confessed their interest. The stars alone were witness.
Now they are sure to picnic above the city at least once a month, when the weather is most clear or the most fascinating configurations are overhead. They consult almanacs and guidebooks, hoping to glimpse rare displays.
“It’s your turn,” Jehan reminds. He noses at Combeferre’s neck. Their second tradition is to impress the other with the rarest tales about the constellations. Both have vast libraries, but different sources, and they like to research and tell stories. “I won last time.”
“So you did,” says Combeferre warmly. He pauses, his eyes searching the sky, then points with his free hand. “See, there. Corona. The crown of Ariadne. I always thought her lot was most severe. I remember thinking, as a child, that such a brave heroine deserved a better end. She saved Theseus from the Minotaur out of love, and he abandoned her on an island after their escape. The crown of Theseus is up there too. He gave it to Ariadne, for all the good he did otherwise. Then there is the crown of Dionysus. It is well that he is present in their stars. The God of Wine found Ariadne on her island, and admired her, and took her as his bride. So she was apotheosized, and later, Theseus was thrown from a cliff after much suffering. The Greek system can be cruel, but it seeks balance. The Gods agreed with me about Ariadne.”
Combeferre always speaks about myths matter-of-factly, but with due respect, and Jehan leans into his shoulder and thinks how much he adores him. It is a jewel of a man who is moved by the plight of Ariadne. He turns his head up and presses a kiss to the hinge of Combeferre’s jaw. Then Jehan says, “Excellently observed, but not half so obscure, my dear.”
“I await your telling with baited breath.” Combeferre does sound eager. He likes that Jehan teases him; he is usually surrounded on all sides by serious people. Jehan makes it his mission that they are silly, and buoyant, and distracted from the realities of the world below when they are together. Up on the roof is another world set apart, their own, and they alone compose its rules.
Jehan makes a grandiose gesture, then indicates a certain set of stars. He barely conceals his glee as he launches into it: “Consider Cancer, or Karkinos in the Greek, the crabs. Those stars are also called Aselli, or Oinoi, the asses. One of these was a noble donkey, who served as mount to the ancient God Silenus. The donkey, out of hubris, entered into a contest comparing his member to that of Priapus, who is the God of members. We can only imagine what was in his stubborn head. It is like unto entering a contest with King Midas for wealth and pity. What can you win?”
Combeferre is laughing, his long body vibrating against Jehan’s, as Jehan intended, so Jehan continues. “Tragically, the donkey lost against the well-endowed God, and was slain by him. But Dionysus -- Dionysus again! -- took pity on the proud creature, and placed him amongst the planets.”
“We gaze beneath an ass who challenged Priapus?” Combeferre’s mouth quirks. All of him quivers with mirth.
“Indeed.” Jehan sighs. It seems to him that they float upon the roof, that the night sky is theirs to swim in. Time is lovely and lazy and slow. “I could not invent such a story. The Greeks did it for me.”
“Jehan, you are a wonder,” says Combeferre, his lips to Jehan’s hair. “None of my equations explain you.”
“You need only experiment further,” Jehan encourages, his smile in his voice. “Anyway, it is your turn again.”
“You know of the Egyptian dog-head star, Sirius?” Combeferre’s hand sweeps through stardust.
“Certainly,” says Jehan, picking it out with his eyes.
“Consider the rest of Sirius, Canis Major and its Minor,” says Combeferre, then says into the shell of Jehan’s ear: “One was a magical dog, Laelaps, that was destined never to give up the chase. The other, Canis Minor, was called the Teumessian fox, and he was destined never to be caught. They were set against each other, of course. Zeus resolved this logical fallacy by making the beasts into stars, so that their game could play out into eternity. One is always chasing, and one is being chased.”
Jehan hums. The story is profound, but he delights in fallacies. “Suppose they grew tired, or wanted to be friends?”
Combeferre’s arm tightens around him, even as he shakes with renewed laughter. “Then we shall allow for it.” Overhead the planets are spinning and the stars wink on and off.
Jehan, floating, stares at the sky, searching out another story. Overhead the spread of myths is vast. For a moment the many narratives overwhelm him, and he must close his eyes.
Few were raised to the vault of heaven because they had happy lives. No, the constellations are the Gods’ memorials, still burning brightly after all these years. Patterns of lost loves, of people and Gods and animals slain and sacrificed. Of heroes who died horribly, of maidens made to face sea-monsters.
To look at the stars is to see a conflagration of funeral pyres. Jehan is dizzy with celestial bodies, and he shivers.
Combeferre’s doubled warmth at once, as he turns sideways into Jehan, over him, a man become a blanket. His strong thigh lies across Jehan’s body, his heat radiant. If Jehan keeps Combeferre buoyant, Combeferre grounds him to earth. Shields him from the starry abyss.
“Shall we go down?” murmurs Combeferre. Jehan’s eyes stay closed, but he can hear the worry in Combeferre’s tone. “The night is colder now, and you without a proper coat. I should have seen it earlier, but I was too fond of your yellow vest. If -- if you like -- Enjolras has quit our rooms for the theatre. We could, perhaps --”
Jehan opens his eyes, and spies Combeferre in the act of biting his lip. The smile Jehan gives him is tender. “I should like that more than I can name,” says Jehan, and receives in answer Combeferre’s exhaled breath, as though it had been held. “I am in no immediate danger. I have never been so warm. We can stay to see if there will be falling stars as the almanacs promised.”
Combeferre wraps himself around Jehan all the closer, but he nods, and there’s an eager look in his eyes when he raises them back to the sky. Jehan knows him well. The naturalist in Combeferre is as desperate to observe astronomical phenomena as the lover in him is keen to take Jehan to bed. Lying on the rooftop tightly bound together is a sort of compromise. Their hands are not shy, and tend towards teasing caresses.
“Where did you tell Enjolras you were going?” Jehan asks, curious, as he resumes the scan for a story Combeferre will not have read about. The sky is distant now, with Combeferre so close, and the stars glisten, gem-like and lovely, no longer seeming spread with woe.
They choose to keep their unfolding relations a secret from those closest to them not from shame, but from prudence, and both are men who love secrets. Such an accord as they have found is rare, and they would not have others spoil it, even in observation. Combeferre says that the mere act of observing is enough to change the outcome of an experiment; Jehan, who has loved many from afar, agrees with him; so they deal in subterfuge with their friends and in truths to each other.
“I told Enjolras that I went to draw a star-chart,” replies Combeferre, who prefers not to lie outright when he can avoid it.
“Well,” Jehan demands. “What of it, then?”
“I will tell him I was too distracted by the beauty of creation, and that I did not complete it.”
“You must make an attempt, else he will catch you out. Enjolras is suspicious by nature.”
“Very well.” Mischief curves Combeferre’s lips, and he slides a delicate hand underneath Jehan’s shirt. His tapered finger starts to sketch Orion’s belt from memory, belting Jehan’s hips. He scribes stars into Jehan’s skin.
Jehan lies still and tries not to tremble, tries not to squirm when it tickles.
Then Combeferre’s hand slides up, pauses over Jehan’s heart. He starts to draw another system.
“Which is it?” asks Jehan, breathless.
“It is the pattern of stars above us even now,” answers Combeferre. “They are ours to name. One need not be a God to name stars; many scientists have done so, and I am a scientist. I see in them your brilliant eyes blinking, and the spill of your long hair in their luminous haloes. It is the constellation of Jean Prouvaire.” Combeferre withdraws his hand, and moves it to cup Jehan’s cheek. His thumb brushes Jehan’s lips. “I find my way by it.”
“You win,” whispers Jehan. He kisses the thumb. “The storytelling. This time.”
Combeferre beams satisfaction as he bends to seal their mouths. Jehan’s eyelids flutter, and --
He breaks away with a gasp and seizes Combeferre’s shoulder. “Oh, look!”
Above them a star breaks loose and shoots streaking across the sky. It burns up with violent passion. Another follows after, falling, and a third trails its friends. They are fiery arcs of silver amid the black. All the other stars seem to dim compared to the rebels. Jehan feels his breath catch, and Combeferre holds him, too moved by the sight and setting it to memory it to speak.
“As though they wore flaming veils,” says Jehan, eyes full of reflected light. “Did you make a wish, Combeferre?”
Combeferre replies, “I try not to abide most superstitions, even those that do no harm.” He adjusts his glasses. “I may, however, have indulged this once.”
Jehan curls the fingers of his hand into Combeferre’s collar. He grins. “I put my hopes in the stars.”
“You must not,” says Combeferre. “You are too gentle to be ruled by such Gods as these. Such judges.” His arms are warm, encompassing. “Instead I will tell you my wish, since I wish it to succeed: come into my bed and let me love you until morning.”
“You are not supposed to tell,” says Jean Prouvaire, afloat. “The exception is when the wish is such an admirable one.”
“I am at your service,” says Combeferre.
Jehan feels heat rise to his cheeks and knows that they are pink. He tightens his grip on Combeferre’s shirt and swallows to find words. “Then I will put you to use.”
Packing up the remains of supper and the blanket becomes a race. Combeferre finds their footing as they climb down in the dark, and Jehan is whistling, providing them with a theme. Together they descend the ladder with moonlight in their hair.
Later, Combeferre completes the star-chart from memory, using Jehan’s bare skin for canvas and a purple pastel crayon.
“It will not come off, just wait,” Jehan protests, laughing when it tickles, kicking delightedly about in bed. “I shall be marked forever,” and Combeferre keeps drawing.