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This Christmas marked a new milestone for Combeferre: it was the first Christmas he was not going to be spending the holiday with his family.
Instead, he would be spending it with Prouvaire’s, at his family home in Provence, after which the two men would journey to southwestern France to spend time with Combeferre’s family before returning to Paris to ring in the New Year with their friends. After the previous year, when the two lovers spent the entirety of Christmas sending each other increasingly desperate text messages until they were reunited in Paris for the New Year, they’d vowed never to be apart at Christmas again. At first they had planned to spend it alone in their flat in the city, with Midnight Mass at their local parish and a long Christmas Day walk along the Seine, followed by a casual supper under the fairy lights Prouvaire had put up all over the apartment. It was all arranged, and Combeferre had made the call to his parents to tell him he was planning to stay in the city.
“Is it that boy?” his mother had asked quietly.
“It is,” Combeferre had replied, sensing an air of disapproval in her voice.
“You do what you want to do,” was his father’s patient reply when he came on the phone. “Come see us after the holiday. The train tickets will be cheaper anyway.”
When he ended the call, Combeferre exhaled. That was a little easier than he had thought.
But when Prouvaire called his parents to break the news to them that he wouldn’t be coming home for Christmas, the heartbreak was almost palpable; Prouvaire was an only child, and his parents were older, so they had a hard time even imagining a Christmas without him. So not being one to disappoint his parents, he simply asked if he could bring someone with him.
“Is that all right?” he asked Combeferre afterwards, his face crumpled with concern -- not wanting to disappoint him either.
Combeferre wrapped his arms around Prouvaire’s waist and pulled him close. “As long as we’re together -- that’s all that matters,” he murmured into Prouvaire’s curly head, feeling him nod against his chest.
They took the earliest train they could on the 24th of December, boarding before dawn with one very large suitcase for Prouvaire and one very large coffee for Combeferre. As Prouvaire took his seat by the window, Combeferre noticed he was jiggling his leg -- perhaps in excitement, perhaps in anxiety.
Combeferre put his hand on Prouvaire’s knee to steady him. “It will be fine,” he said, leaning over to peck him on the cheek. “I’m told that parents love me,” he joked.
“Probably more than they love me,” Prouvaire said, a ghost of a smile creeping across his face.
“I doubt that,” Combeferre said, looping an arm around him and burying his face in his neck as the train pulled out of the station. “I get the sense the sun rises and sets over you.”
Prouvaire turned and kissed him on the lips. “Which, coincidentally is just how I feel about you.”
Combeferre snorted derisively and pushed him away.
But secretly, the words made him a little bit giddy.
**
The train journey went by quickly -- Combeferre couldn’t resist marveling out loud about the wonders of public transport -- and before they knew it they were arriving at Aix, where they were met by the elder Prouvaire, who embraced his son and shook Combeferre’s hand firmly.
“Have you been in Provence before?” Prouvaire’s father asked as he slid behind the wheel of the car -- a car that probably cost more than Combeferre’s family’s yearly salary.
“No, never,” Combeferre responded as they glided off into traffic. “But it’s beautiful,” he mused as he watched the city unfold through the tinted windows of the luxury car.
As they pulled up in front of the house -- a mansion, really, and a perfectly appointed one at that -- Combeferre’s eyes were like saucers. He has certainly seen wealth before, having visited the homes of his best friends Enjolras and Courfeyrac, but nothing quite like this, with antiques everywhere and a couple of prints Combeferre recognized as original Matisses. And although Prouvaire had often referred to his life of privilege before, he never gave off airs, preferring a modest flat and clothes that he would keep until they were completely worn out.
“This must be Combeferre,” said Prouvaire’s mother, coming out to meet them, embracing her son, and kissing Combeferre on both cheeks. “Jean has talked so much about you I feel as if I know you already.”
Glancing over at Prouvaire, he noticed his boyfriend was blushing furiously. “Thank you for having me,” was all he could say, feeling a tiny bit awkward in her polished presence.
“I’m sure you’ll be helping him with the revellion desserts, will you not?” she asked as she took his arm and escorted him inside. “Jean is quite the baker, as you know, and he always makes them for Christmas Eve.”
“You do all the desserts? Yourself?” Combeferre asked him once they were alone in Prouvaire’s airy bedroom -- the family may have had very conservative tastes in decor, but they were progressive enough to allow the two men to share a room. “You never told me that.”
Prouvaire’s shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “I’ve been doing it since I was little. When I was younger I used to hide in the kitchen when all of my parents’ guests would come over, and our cook took pity on me and showed me how to bake, and it just -- just snowballed from there. Once I moved to Paris and my parents retired they don’t have a cook anymore, and we don’t have these huge Christmas Eve parties like we used to, so -- so I do it all myself.”
“But that’s how many desserts?” Combeferre said in both puzzlement and pride.
“Thirteen,” Prouvaire replied airily, as if this were a task he did every day of his life. “It’s fine. You can help me this year.”
Combeferre shuddered at the thought. “You know I’m hopeless in the kitchen,” he said. “I can’t even boil water without setting the smoke alarms off.”
“I’ll show you,” Prouvaire said, brushing past him to hang up the jacket he was planning to wear for Christmas Eve in his closet. “Besides, baking is like science -- just follow the formula and it will all work out.”
Combeferre arched an eyebrow at him. “Are you sure about that?”
Prouvaire came over to him and threw his arms around his neck. “I have all the confidence in the world in you,” he said, kissing him on the nose. “You are a man of many talents.”
Never able to resist him, Combeferre kissed Prouvaire deeply on the lips. “I have more of them in the bedroom than in the kitchen,” he teased.
“Well, perhaps we should test that theory before we go down to the kitchen,” Prouvaire murmured, letting his hands wander below Combeferre’s waist.
“Prouvaire,” Combeferre hissed in his ear. “Your parents are downstairs.”
“Then you’ll just have to be very quiet, won’t you?” Prouvaire whispered, prodding his boyfriend toward the bed. “Or perhaps I should just keep your mouth occupied?”
Combeferre growled and pushed him onto the bed, crawling on top of him. “Well, if you insist,” he said, nuzzling his boyfriend’s neck and enjoying his barely stifled giggles.
“I’ve never had sex in this house, you know,” Prouvaire said as Combeferre started unbuttoning his shirt..
Combeferre grinned as he let his fingers trace a line down the very center of Prouvaire. “Then I guess there’s a first time for everything.”
**
The desserts, Combeferre learned when they finally emerged from the bedroom, bedraggled and lying about taking a nap, were the same in the Prouvaire household every year: raisins, dried figs, almonds, and hazelnuts; two kinds of candy; four varieties of fruit; and three different kinds of cakes.
“So first we need to go shopping,” Prouvaire said, as he leaned up against the kitchen counter and started scribbling a list on a piece of paper.
Combeferre rolled his eyes -- he hated anything that required him to battle his way through large crowds. “So how many people are you baking for anyway?” he asked, warily eying the long list Prouvaire was compiling.
“Oh, no, it’s just my parents and my grandmother and our neighbors,” Prouvaire answered as he rummaged through the cabinets, searching for ingredients.
“And they eat all this stuff?” Combeferre asked, his eyebrow raised.
“Everyone has to take one bite of everything. It’s a Provencal tradition. Don’t you have traditions in your family?” Prouvaire said, pecking him on the cheek.
With a snort, Combeferre recalled his own family Christmas. “Does opening our presents and then retreating off to different corners of the house to read count as a tradition?”
“That sounds like heaven, actually,” Prouvaire sighed. “But instead -- we bake. And we eat. And we go to church for our twice annual trip. And then we eat even more.”
“I’m exhausted just thinking about it,” Combeferre admitted, now wishing he’d taken a nap on the train. “But who makes the actual dinner?”
“Oh, my mother takes care of that,” Prouvaire said breezily. “I get the desserts ready, and then I disappear upstairs, and she takes over. Or more accurately, a caterer drops something off and she sticks it in the oven. I love my mother, but she’s never been much for cooking.” Prouvaire tore his list off the pad and shoved it in his pocket. “Come on -- we don’t have all day.”
**
The market was packed, as predicted, but Prouvaire knew its layout like the back of his hand, so he deftly threaded his way through the crowds to each vendor he wanted to visit. Combeferre trailed behind him, carrying bags and marveling at how the usually shy Prouvaire was in his element here, selecting his produce carefully and bargaining for the best price, only turning over his Euros when he was completely satisfied with his choices. He bought all sorts of fruits and nuts and a very particular kind of bread, explaining that he usually baked that himself, but that with their later arrival, he didn’t have time for it to rise and be ready on time.
“Damn, can you do all the shopping for us back home?” Combeferre said admiringly.
Prouvaire laughed. “Maybe,” he said coyly. “Depends on what you want to do for me in return.”
As they approached one of the fruit stands, the older woman behind the stall gasped when she saw them coming. “Is that little Jean Prouvaire?”
“It is,” Prouvaire said, his face lighting up as she enveloped him in an embrace.
“I remember you when you were this big,” she said, holding her hand up alongside her waist. “But you grew up into a handsome gentleman,” she said, pinching Prouvaire’s reddening cheeks. “And is this -- is this the boyfriend?” she asked, nodding toward Combeferre.
“I am indeed,” Combeferre said as Prouvaire immersed himself in rooting around in the baskets, examining each orange carefully.
“You take care of this boy,” she whispered conspiratorially. “He’s very special.”
“He really is,” Combeferre agreed, his eyes meeting Prouvaire’s -- who smiled so sweetly at Combeferre he thought his heart would burst open right there in the market.
After Prouvaire checked his list twice to be sure they had everything, they made their way back to the house -- Combeferre carrying most of the bags while Prouvaire took his arm, as giddy and excited as a small child.
**
Back at the house, they unloaded their purchases and Prouvaire put Combeferre to work shelling nuts while he started measuring out ingredients into the stand mixer for one of the cakes. The kitchen, Combeferre noticed, was a caterer’s dream, with multiple ovens and burners and restaurant quality bakeware everywhere.
Prouvaire turned on the radio and tuned it to a station that was playing Christmas music, and soon the room was filled with festive music. He donned an apron and was soon bustling around, sifting flour and cracking eggs with marvelous efficiency, putting two layers of the chocolate cake in the oven before Combeferre was even halfway through the bowl of almonds. He then started in on the buche de noel, deftly pouring the batter into a long pan and putting it into the oven before starting in on the third and final cake.
As Prouvaire started adding ingredients to the mixing bowl, Combeferre looked up from his task and sniffed the suddenly fragrant air. “Is that lemon?” he asked.
“Mmm hmm,” Prouvaire hummed.
“Lemon cake is my favorite,” Combeferre mused. “Do you usually have lemon cake for revellion?”
“Nope,” Prouvaire answered, tapping the last of the lemon zest into the bowl. “I’m making this one just for you.”
Combeferre was touched by Prouvaire’s expression of love through baked goods, and couldn’t help but to grin like a fool as he finished up his nutcracking. “What next?” he asked, as he pushed his chair back from the table, rubbing his sore hands.
“The candy,” Prouvaire said, wiping a stray strand of hair off his forehead as he put the lemon cake in the oven. He had a speck of flour on his freckled nose that was so adorable Combeferre was tempted not to tell him about it. “Let me start the water boiling,” he said, turning on the stove and rooting around in the cabinets for a double boiler. “Here, chop this,” he said, handing Combeferre a block of chocolate.
“How?” Combeferre asked.
“With a knife?” Prouvaire said with uncharacteristic sarcasm, fishing a large sharp implement out of the drawer, which caused Combeferre to jump back reflexively. “Never mind -- I’ll do it. Maybe you can just stir,” he said, taking back the knife and handing him a wooden spoon instead.
Combeferre exhaled in relief -- he wasn’t quite ready for sharp objects yet.
As he worked the double boiler, Prouvaire kept ducking around him, chopping chocolate and tossing various ingredients in, finally pushing Combeferre aside with his candy thermometer in hand. “Grab those cookie sheets over there and cover them with parchment paper,” Prouvaire commanded. “Quick, before this gets too hot.”
“Parchment what?” Combeferre asked, completely confused.
“Bottom drawer over there,” Prouvaire said, nodding toward the corner cupboard. “Rip off some pieces that are large enough to cover the cookie sheets.”
Combeferre did as he was told -- and then watched as Prouvaire expertly dropped each piece onto the paper. “Can I try one?” he eventually blurted, realizing that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, reaching over to lift one off the paper.
“Allow me,” Prouvaire said, swatting back his hand and delicately removing a piece that had mostly cooled. He blew on it -- then popped it into Combeferre’s mouth. “How is it?” he asked.
Combeferre let out a small moan as the smooth taste of the chocolate filled his mouth. “Mmm, yes. Oh God, that’s good,” he said in full realization that he sounded exactly as he had a few hours ago in Prouvaire’s childhood bedroom.
Prouvaire popped another piece in his own mouth, then kissed him, his lips tasting even sweeter than usual. “I’m a man of many talents,” he said, wiping a stray dot of chocolate off Combeferre’s lips.
Laughing, Combeferre kissed him again. “You can say that again.”
**
The Christmas Eve party started at 8:00 with cocktails and small talk, and after a glass of champagne Combeferre was feeling unusually bubbly, telling Prouvaire’s father about his studies, chatting with the couple who lived next door about the theatre scene in Paris, and complimenting Prouvaire’s partially deaf grandmother on her dress. Prouvaire himself was across the room, standing alongside his mother, a shy smile on his face as they greeted their guests. The crowd was small and familiar, so he seemed comfortable, but standing in that room, Combeferre could picture a younger Prouvaire moving awkwardly among party guests, fleeing to the kitchen or his room as soon as he could escape.
It was a feeling that Combeferre himself could have related to as a boy.
When Prouvaire’s mother disappeared into the kitchen, ostensibly to oversee the dinner preparations, he came to stand by Combeferre. “Having fun?” he asked, stroking Combeferre’s back. He looked especially handsome that night, having eschewed his usual shabby clothes for a rich velvet blazer, a button down shirt with a couple of buttons undone, and a pair of narrow trousers that accentuated his slim frame.
“I am, actually,” Combeferre said. “Are you?”
“They all seem to love you,” Prouvaire replied, gesturing at the room with his champagne flute. “Even my grandmother, though I’m not exactly sure she knew who you were.”
Combeferre chuckled. “I told her I liked her dress.”
“And did she tell you about how she got it from Yves St.Laurent himself?” Prouvaire asked. “She wears it every year.”
“Oh yes,” Combeferre said. “I heard all about it. At a very high volume, too.”
They were interrupted by Prouvaire’s mother, summoning them to dinner. “When we’re finished, don’t go far -- I need you to help me set up the dessert table,” Prouvaire said to him as they walked arm-in-arm toward the dining room.
“Yes Monsieur,” Combeferre replied, mock-saluting him and recoiling when his boyfriend punched him lightly on the arm.
After the dinner, which was even more luxurious than Combeferre would have imagined, with lobster and caviar and delicacies beyond his imagining, the rest of the guests adjourned to the parlor for coffee and he followed Prouvaire into the kitchen, where he had donned his apron again. “Here, put this on,” Prouvaire said to him, tossing him a second apron. “You don’t want to mess up your one good suit,” he said, well aware of Combeferre’s proclivity for dribbling on himself.
Together they worked to set up the dessert table -- setting out the candies and the cakes and the special bread and the nuts Combeferre had so assiduously cracked, and lighting the candles. Prouvaire dimmed the room’s lights for dramatic effect -- and then called everyone in to see the sight.
There was applause -- and even a few congratulatory kisses bestowed on both men. “But I did nothing,” Combeferre protested to Prouvaire’s mother as the guests began filling their plates with Prouvaire’s handiwork. “I cannot bake to save my life.”
“You make him happy,” she said in a low voice. “And that’s even more important.”
**
After dessert the family made their way to the local parish for Midnight Mass. Combeferre himself had given up on Catholicism years ago, but he always tried to go to church at Christmas -- there was something just so magical about the service, and the lights, and the music. As they stood side by side in a pew, Combeferre slipped his gloved hand inside Prouvaire’s pocket and squeezed his hand, his heart so full of emotion and love.
After Mass they collapsed into bed, the journey and the desserts having taken their toll on them both. Combeferre pulled Prouvaire close and kissed his forehead. “Merry Christmas, Jean Prouvaire,” he murmured into his curly hair.
Prouvaire snuggled up to him. “Merry Christmas, my love,” he replied sleepily, closing his eyes, looking for all the world like an angel sent down from heaven.
And Combeferre had never been happier in his life.