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It is a dark, snowy evening, and Combeferre is regretting his return to Paris.
The choice had been his to make: he could have marked the passing of 1831 with his family on their estate in the south, but there is work to be done here, amid his books and his papers in his tiny set of rooms. So he beat a hasty retreat back to Paris as soon as he could after Christmas, where he could immerse himself in the cause — in his reading, his writing, his thinking, his planning.
Yet as he stands at his window this night, the last night of the year, gazing at the rooftops of Paris, he has never felt so alone. His life in the city is normally filled with activity, with rounds at the hospital and gatherings of Les Amis, with the passion of Enjolras and the easy companionship of Courfeyrac and the poetry of Prouvaire. But it is quiet — almost too quiet — allowing the trepidations to creep into his endlessly spinning brain. So he locates his coat and his hat, intending to head off into the cold in search of a noisy hum that will keep the doubts at bay.
When he reaches the street, out of habit Combeferre turns to walk to the Musain, although he knows full well that he will not find his usual companions: they have scattered to the four winds, bidding each other adieu with hearty greetings for the new year. Yet he is craving the familiar, hoping it will inspire him somehow to return to his writing desk and continue the work; even if the dramatis personae are different, the stage and the scenery are the same.
But unbeknownst to him, the script is about to change.
**
As he walks in to the Musain, before he can even call for a drink, he goes immediately to the hearth to warm himself — the temperatures are plummeting by the hour, and he can barely feel his feet. He wipes off his glasses with a handkerchief and peers around the room, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness. When his vision starts to come back to him, he catches sight of a familiar figure in the corner, sitting alone with a tankard and a pipe.
It is Joly.
Combeferre is taken aback at the sight of him — he recalls that Joly had been planning to remain at his home in the south for a fortnight to celebrate the new year with his family. But instead he is here, looking unusually pensive until he glances up and sees Combeferre moving toward him — and his expression brightens.
“I did not expect to see you back in the city until next week,” Combeferre says to him. “Are you ill?” he asks, his brow suddenly furrowing in concern, well aware of Joly’s omnipresent concern for his own health.
"No, I am the very picture of health — for a change,” Joly says with a self-deprecating half-smile. "I just felt an odd compulsion to be back in Paris,” he explains. “It is as if something was drawing me here, like a siren’s song.”
“Your grisette?” Combeferre asks, recalling a long-distant conversation he had overheard between Joly and their friends.
Joly shakes his head. “She has been through with me for a very long time. I am no match for Lesgles’ charm and good looks.”
“I daresay it is her loss,” Combeferre replies earnestly.
“As always, Combeferre, you are too kind,” Joly says, looking up at Combeferre, who towers above his seated friend. “But if you wish to continue this line of flattery, buy us some wine and pull up a chair, will you?” he says, indicating the chair opposite him.
Combeferre beams at the invitation, happy to have found such a pleasant distraction on the last evening of the year.
**
Joly sets the pace for their drinking that evening — he is usually found in the quadrant of the room with Bossuet and Grantaire and their high tolerances for alcohol, so he can consume quite a bit of liquor without much consequence. On the other hand, Combeferre tends to be a moderate in such matters, preferring to enjoy the rush of ideas to the burn of alcohol, so it does not take long for him to feel pleasantly drunk. His tongue loosens and he finds himself rambling on, but not about politics or history or science, but of his personal life — or his lack of one.
"How long has it been?" Joly asks him — from anyone else it would be an impertinent question, but they have been friends and colleagues for so long, it does not offend.
Combeferre hesitates, gazing at the ceiling, trying to recall the last time he had indulged in the pleasures of the flesh.
And then he remembers — and remembers it well.
"Not since you," he confesses, then looks away.
Joly opens his mouth as if to say something — and closes it just as quickly, looking Combeferre up and down. “That was a very long time ago,” he finally points out. “Three years ago we lived in a very different world.”
"That is true," Combeferre admits. "We were younger men, that much is certain."
"But you have had no other lovers since then?" Joly asks, raising his eyebrows. “I find that difficult to believe. Not with Courfeyrac, or Prouvaire, or some other?”
"My work has been my only mistress, and a demanding one at that," Combeferre explains. "I do not feel I have time for such things." He stops for a moment, realizing it sounds like an implausible excuse: after all, so many of their friends manage to find the time to seek companionship, and to say that would be a direct challenge to Joly’s dedication to their cause — a dedication that has not wavered in the years Combeferre has known him..
“Revolution is a time-consuming task,” Joly remarks, lighting his pipe and inhaling its sweet smoke.
"And besides —" Combeferre pauses for moment, not knowing if he should say what he is thinking — until the wine clouds his judgement and he finally manages to give voice to something he has longed to say for years. “I do not think anyone could ever compare with you."
Joly slowly exhales, a plume of smoke curling around his face as he stares dumbfoundedly at Combeferre. Combeferre desperately wants to fill the silence left by his confession, but he is at a rare loss for words. He wishes he were Courfeyrac, who would know exactly what to say in this situation — or even Enjolras, who would be wise enough not to say such a thing in the first place.
But then Joly finally speaks.
“Your truth is mine as well,” he says quietly.
And Combeferre feels a warmth spreading to his face, a warmth that emerges from the depths of his very soul.
**
It is Joly’s rooms they retreat to — he lives closer to the Musain, and for once he is not sharing his space with another. As they slip and slide their way through the snow-covered streets, occasionally grabbing each other’s arms for balance, Combeferre feels as if he is a first-year medical student again, when the two men would dash off after their lectures together and hole up in Combeferre’s rooms near the hospital, studying anatomy on both paper and in the flesh.
So much has changed - and yet so much is the same.
“Let me build a fire,” Joly says as they come inside, but Combeferre has never been a patient man; he comes upon him and kisses him, the yearning that just hours ago he could not have identified suddenly overwhelming him.
“Be quick about it,” Combeferre urges when they break apart from the kiss, his eyelids heavy from both drink and desire.
Joly chuckles as he crouches by the hearth. “I do not think you will be saying that later,” he teases, and Combeferre realizes how much he has missed him, missed his good humored nature and his quick wit. He does not even know why they drifted apart after that heady first year of school, but he wishes it had never happened — that they had spent the past three years together both morning and night, talking and laughing and simply existing as two halves of one whole.
Combeferre regrets all he has lost — but silently makes a resolution not to make the same mistake twice.
Soon the fire is roaring, and Joly is in his arms again, discarding Combeferre’s cap, removing his coat, stroking his short blond hair, cupping his stubbled face in one graceful hand. Combeferre is so tempted to devour him on the spot, wants to strip him of everything and drag him to the hard floor right here in front of the hearth, but his brain staggers into focus. They have, he realizes, all night — all week, really, as his calendar is clear until the feast of the Three Kings.
So he takes his time, exploring Joly’s body with his hands and his mouth, pushing Joly’s coat off his shoulders and feeling him shiver in the chill of the room. He runs his palms up Joly’s wiry arms to warm him, then slowly unties his cravat and unfastens his waistcoat.
“Maybe we would be warmer in the bedclothes,” Joly murmurs against Combeferre’s temple, still shivering in just his shirt and trousers — and Combeferre is powerless to argue, following his lover to the tiny bed in the corner and fumbling with his own cravat, unable to undo the knot in his muddled state.
“I cannot—” he says helplessly, throwing up his hands.
“Allow me,” Joly turns and says, beckoning him to come closer. When did he become the confident one? Combeferre wonders, but he moves to stand in front of Joly and lets him divest him of all of his clothing. He stands before him, completely bared both body and soul, well aware of his shortcomings in both departments.
But then Joly falls to his knees, and all of it is forgotten.
**
As they lay together afterwards, the bells from the nearby parish begin to toll the hour, and they both listen, silently counting. “It is 1832,” Joly whispers after the twelfth one, as Combeferre leans his head on his broad shoulder, an arm draped over his chest. “I wonder what it will bring,” he muses, kissing Combeferre lightly on the forehead.
Combeferre cannot, will not predict what will happen; for once, the man with his eye on the future is blind. “More of this, I hope,” is all he can manage to say, knowing as soon as the words are out of his mouth that he sounds like a hopeless romantic.
And perhaps, after all, he is.