Work Text:
As the shots rang through the night, Combeferre dropped his cane, its white flag still attached, and let his gun clatter to the cobblestones. His knees were trembling so much he could not stand any longer: as he fell to his knees, his heart was racing and his vision was unfocused.
Combeferre has read his political treatises, refined his philosophy and assembled his arsenal, grown from a naive young medical student to a sophisticated thinker and strategist -- but nothing he has done in the past few years to prepare for this moment has prepared him for this.
In the three decades Combeferre has inhabited this earth he has loved only one man -- and now he knows that man is gone forever.
**
From the moment Prouvaire first walked into the Musain on a late winter day several years ago, in his tattered clothing, with his fingers stained with ink, averting his eyes from the group of young men who were gathered there, Combeferre was intrigued by him: there was something about him that seemed like a kindred spirit, particularly to a man whose hair was always a mess and whose cravat was never quite straight. Prouvaire entered the dim room that evening in the company of Courfeyrac, the eternal collector of strays, who was engaging him in an animated conversation, likely about the present political situation. Even from across the room, as the evening progressed and the alcohol flowed freely Combeferre noticed the young man's blue eyes grow bright, possibly from inebriation but more likely from a passion for whatever subject Courfeyrac was holding forth on. Eventually Combeferre could not help but to approach their table, unnoticed at first until Prouvaire looked up and caught his eye.
“You must be Monsieur Combeferre,” the young man asked, rising to his feet and bowing his head in greeting, a remarkably formal gesture.
Combeferre nodded. “I am,” he replied, realizing even as they escaped his mouth that the words sounded chilly, so he tried to insert more warmth into his next sentence. "It’s a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur--"
“Prouvaire. Jean Prouvaire,” the young man replied, bowing his blond head again. “And the pleasure is mine,” Prouvaire said, lifting his head up to meet Combeferre's eyes. “Monsieur Courfeyrac has been speaking rather highly of you and your opinions on the state of our world.”
“Has he now,” Combeferre replied, with a wry glance at his friend, who held his hands up innocently. “I am surprised, as he typically spends his time speaking rather highly of his own.”
Courfeyrac smirked and downed the rest of his drink. “I thought the two of you would have a lot to speak about, that is all,” he said, his dark eyes staring directly into Combeferre's, his message crystal clear. “I am an innocent man,” he added, although they both know the opposite is true. For the past few years, Courfeyrac has been encouraging Combeferre to abandon his celibacy and take a lover -- he had not had one since those heady early days of medical school, when his heart had been broken by another -- and Courfeyrac’s hints were far from subtle.
Combeferre shook his head ever so slightly -- he was not ready, he would never be ready, he was telling himself -- but in spite of himself, his interest in this new recruit was piqued. "May I buy you another drink?" he inquired of Prouvaire.
"Oh yes!" Prouvaire exclaimed, his smile broadening even further.
And from that moment Combeferre knew he was lost.
**
As winter turned into spring, they embarked on an ongoing conversation, a conversation that blossomed just about everywhere -- as they dined together or during strolls through the city or in those moments as they sat together in a theatre waiting for a performance to start. So often they would talk far into the night, after most of their friends had retired for the evening, and even after they finally adjourned to their own rooms, Combeferre found himself continuing their discussions in his mind, making mental lists of points he had wanted to make. On so many things they agreed -- on the importance of education, on their mutual love of the arts and literature and the promise they offered of elevating society -- and on others they disagreed, each man arguing his point with great passion, sometimes managing to change the other's mind, but more often simply agreeing to disagree.
It did not take long for Combeferre to discover there was a darkness in Prouvaire that lurked underneath his essential sweetness, a darkness that manifested itself in an obsession with death and dying and the afterlife, whatever that may hold for them. On occasion Combeferre would stop by his rooms and find him lying in his bed, all of the curtains drawn and the covers pulled up over his head. Combeferre would persuade Prouvaire's landlady to give him admittance, where he would sit on the edge of Prouvaire's bed and gently stroke his forehead, calmly assuring him that it was safe to emerge into the world of the living. His instinct was to heal Prouvaire, but he suffered from a malady even the most modern of medicine could not heal: the disease of melancholy.
Combeferre, ever the healer, was not above trying -- even as he knew it was probably a futile effort -- out of a great fondness, or even love, for his friend.
There were so many things Combeferre adored about Prouvaire: in Prouvaire Combeferre saw so many reflections of himself, but a better self, a kinder self. Where Combeferre displayed sarcasm Prouvaire displayed an essential sweetness: where Combeferre was disdainful, Prouvaire was understanding. There were times when Combeferre wished he were as good as Prouvaire was, that he did not lose his patience with others so quickly, that he could forgive as easily.
"You are very good for Prouvaire," Enjolras remarked one evening in late May, as they sat at the Musain together with Courfeyrac, just the three friends remaining after the rest had scattered to the four winds. "And he for you."
Combeferre stared at him for a long time -- Enjolras, although he loved his lieutenants like brothers, was not known for his sensitivity to his friends' variable emotions. "I do find that conversing with young Prouvaire does wonders for my soul," he finally said, trying to give voice to the feelings that he had been subconsciously burying.
"Perhaps you should let him do wonders for your body as well," Courfeyrac teased.
Ignoring his friend, Combeferre looked over at Enjolras, seeking to make his confession, even as he knew that it was a confession his friend may not completely understand, but would provide absolution for regardless. "The thought has crossed my mind more than once," he muttered.
"Then you should make it happen," Enjolras advised, his voice quiet yet firm. "After all, is it not a greater world we are seeking?"
"Indeed," Combeferre repeated.
And as they went back to their drinks and their plans for the future, Combeferre's normally focused mind kept returning to thoughts of the young poet -- and how he could one day find the words to confess to Prouvaire as well.
**
That summer Prouvaire was planning a trip back to the south to visit his family: he was an only child, and his parents were older, so he felt an obligation to go back and visit them periodically. Combeferre mentally prepared himself for a whole month apart from his friend -- until Prouavire proposed that he accompany him.
"Your studies will be here when you return," Prouvaire pleaded. "It will be good for you to rest -- you have been burning your candle at both ends."
Combeferre hesitated for just a moment -- then nodded his head vigorously, knowing Prouvaire was right on both counts.
The estate that belonged to Prouvaire's family was expansive, and remarkably peaceful after the din of the city -- Combeferre found it difficult to sleep the first few nights, as it was simply too quiet, but once he adjusted to the country air and the rich food, he found himself sleeping as if he were dead. It had been a long time since Combeferre had so much time to himself, and he found it unusually healthful: his mind felt clearer, and his body felt stronger than it had since his arrival in Paris.
He and Prouvaire spent most of their days outside, walking and talking, and after dinner with Prouvaire’s parents, they would retreat to the parlor with the elder Prouvaire for even further conversation on a wide variety of topics. Once or twice they did some shooting, which filled Combeferre with a sense that he was accomplishing something while his comrades in arms held down the fort in Paris. Letters arrived from Paris every so often, from Enjolras and Courfeyrac, but life there seemed like an abstraction now: all Combeferre had to think about was what they were having for lunch and whether it was going to rain.
Well, that, and how he was falling more and more in love with Prouvaire more every day.
Many times he was tempted to tell him, but was not sure how to broach the subject: should he get on his knees and make an extravagant gesture, or simply drop it into a conversation? He knew Prouvaire was not involved with anyone else -- he did not think Prouvaire had ever taken a lover, at least not as long as he had known him -- but he was not sure if he thought of Combeferre as anything other than a close friend.
During the last week of their sojourn, Prouvaire's parents had departed to visit distant relatives, and on an unseasonably warm day Prouvaire proposed that they take a picnic instead of their normal formal dinner, which required jackets and cravats: Combeferre agreed quickly, not wanting to spend the waning days of their holiday in the stuffy dining room. The house staff packed up a simple meal -- Combeferre still was not entirely comfortable with the idea of having servants, as he had not grown up in such a household, but he gratefully accepted the basket they handed him before setting off outside.
They did not walk far -- just to the banks of the pond that was just visible from the house, where they spread a blanket. Prouvaire unpacked the food, Combeferre opened the wine, and they stretched out to dine. Combeferre loosened his cravat, and Prouvaire removed his jacket: the heat was still intense, even as sunset approached.
"We will probably see storms tonight," observed Prouvaire as he lay on his back after they finished eating, gazing up at the sky.
"Will we," Combeferre said, reclining on his side, his voice husky and his head spinning from having consumed too much wine.
"There's nothing I love more than a good thunderstorm," Prouvaire said dreamily, still staring up at the clouds.
"Nothing at all?" Combeferre mused, raising an eyebrow at him.
Prouvaire laughed. "You are so literal, my dear Combeferre. Of course I love other things more than the weather. My family. My writing. Our work." He paused for a moment. "Our friends."
"All of our friends?" Combeferre asked, rolling over on his side to face him, conscious of how close their bodies were in that moment.
Prouvaire blushed under his gaze. "Perhaps some more than others," he replied..
"There are some friends I feel differently about than others," Combeferre said slowly, reaching over and stroking Prouvaire's cheek with the back of his hand. "Let me show you," he murmured -- and then leaned in for a kiss.
A kiss that was returned with equal ardor.
Later that night, as the storms outside began in earnest, they lay together in Prouvaire’s bed, idly talking in the aftermath of the storms inside that had just abated. Combeferre lay on his back, studying the ceiling, as Prouvaire curled beside him. "Are you afraid of what is to come someday?" Combeferre asked, using the cover of darkness to disguise his own fears about their future.
"No," came Prouvaire's reply. "I have always known I was not destined to live a long life," he said, his voice small but steady.
Combeferre was silent, knowing the same was always true for him -- but he could not help but to reflect on a future that would never happen: a future where they would grow older together, living out their days on the Prouvaire family estate that his lover would someday inherit. "I have always known it too," he confessed quietly. "But that does not mean I am entirely at peace with it," he added carefully.
Prouvaire leaned up and kissed him reassuringly. "Combeferre, as long as you live, you will never be at peace."
And as they came together yet again that night, Combeferre knew that in so many ways those words rang true.
**
Those words came back to Combeferre as he sat alone in the shadow of the barricade, recalling how well Prouvaire knew him, even in the earliest days of their love affair -- a love affair that had only intensified during the years they were together, through the political turmoil and the infighting and the constant dangers they faced.
Dangers Combeferre would now have to face alone.
“Combeferre,” comes a voice from the shadows: it is Courfeyrac, he knows without even looking up. “We need you.”
Combeferre rises to his feet then and stiffens his spine -- knowing this is exactly what his beloved Prouvaire would have wanted.