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Combeferre shook his head slowly as he gazed over at the ruckus Marius, Courfeyrac, Grantaire and Bossuet were making over the latest harebrained scheme to try to track down Marius’s mystery girl. “Some days I do wonder if Marius is wasting his time,” he mused aloud.
To his left, Enjolras snorted without looking up from his work. “I wonder that every single day.”
Combeferre gave him an affectionate if slightly exasperated look. “Yes, but I imagine we wonder it for different reasons.”
“Oh?” Enjolras said vaguely.
“You wonder it because you find the pursuit of love to be a wasted one in general,” Combeferre said amiably, and Enjolras offered no defense or contradiction. “I wonder it because given Marius’s circumstances and how little he knows of this woman, they may make a poor match unless Marius is willing to compromise his beliefs.”
For the first time, Enjolras did look up, his brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
Combeferre shrugged. “I mean, if she is poor and he still intends on marrying her, he would likely need to rely again on his grandfather’s money. And I wonder if he has considered that.”
“I do not see the correlation between the two,” Enjolras said, frowning. “Certainly Marius manages well enough now without his grandfather’s money. Why would that need change?”
“Because—”
Combeferre broke off as Grantaire broke away from the scrum to plop down at their table, grinning. “Do I interrupt?” he asked, not waiting for them to answer. “If so, I shan’t apologize. This looks like far too serious a discussion for such a fine evening as this.”
Combeferre just shook his head. “Enjolras and I were just discussing the role money might play in forging a marriage.”
“Combeferre was discussing that,” Enjolras muttered, looking again at the papers in front of him. “I was endeavoring not to.”
Grantaire’s gaze lingered on Enjolras for perhaps a moment too long before he took a sip of wine and reclined in his seat. “Certainly money is as much a consideration as any other,” he said, and both Combeferre and Enjolras looked at him, surprised. He met their surprised looks with an arched eyebrow. “After all, is not, at the end of the day, marriage an economic arrangement?”
Combeferre again shook his head, slower this time. “I thought you might take the more romantic approach,” he admitted.
Grantaire just shrugged unconcernedly. “I am far more a pragmatist than a lower-case ‘r’ romantic.”
Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “Then do you believe Marius should give up on his pursuit of this woman?”
“Of course not,” Grantaire said cheerfully. “Because, as one might suspect given my own name, I am very much a capital-R Romantic.”
With that, he stood to saunter back to the rest of the group, and Enjolras watched him go, something unreadable in his expression. Then he shook his head, his expression souring. “Once again Grantaire refuses to take any stance that might betray something resembling belief.”
“In his words, certainly,” Combeferre said contemplatively, still looking at Grantaire. “But his own behavior reveals otherwise.
“What do you mean?”
Enjolras’s words were far more curious than accusatory, but still Combeferre flinched, looking away from Grantaire. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “I should not have said that.”
Enjolras gave him a look. “Well now you must tell me,” he said, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips.
A smile that Combeferre did not return as he glanced sideways at the raucous group still within earshot. “Now is perhaps not the time—”
Without warning, the group, evidently content in their plan, departed, clambering down the steps, their voices fading. Enjolras turned to glance at Combeferre, amusement and triumph clear in his expression. “And now that we are alone?”
Combeferre sighed, already feeling a headache starting in his temples. Then again, this was perhaps a conversation that had been delayed for far too long. Still, he took a moment to carefully choose his words before responding. “Grantaire might speak of pragmatism and the economic nature of romantic entanglements, but his own choices reveal otherwise.”
Enjolras scowled. “You are speaking as obliquely as Grantaire is wont to. Speak your meaning plainly if you are to speak at all.”
“Are you aware at all of what he has sacrificed for you?” Combeferre asked, sharper than he perhaps intended.
Enjolras looked almost offended by the question. “Sacrificed?” he scoffed. “What does Grantaire know of sacrifice? When has Grantaire ever—”
“For you, Enjolras,” Combeferre interrupted impatiently. “Not for the Cause.”
A spot of color rose in Enjolras’s cheeks. “I don’t—”
Combeferre sighed again, regretting how harsh his tone had been. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t,” he said, pausing again as he decided how to actually get into the meat of this conversation. “You are rich.”
He knew at once that this was the wrong tack. If Enjolras had seemed offended before, now he looked almost ready to demand satisfaction for his honor. “I do not see what that—”
“You are rich,” Combeferre continued, talking over him. “Grantaire is not.” Enjolras fell silent but his mutinous expression spoke volumes on its own. “Oh, he receives an allowance of some kind from his father, enough for him to scrape a living in between what art he is able to sell, but it is a meager existence.”
“He would have more if he did not waste it in a bottle,” Enjolras muttered.
Combeferre gave him a look. “He would have more if he married well.”
Something unreadable flickered across Enjolras’s expression, so quickly that Combeferre might have imagined it. “Marriage…Grantaire would not want a marriage like that.”
“Perhaps not,” Combeferre allowed quietly. “But Marius is not alone in the position where a good match might make all of the difference for him. And while Grantaire’s face may not cause women to swoon, his charm more than makes up for it. When he wishes it to, at least.”
Enjolras’s expression hardened. “What does this have to do with me?” he asked, abruptly enough to be rude were he speaking to anyone but Combeferre.
“Why do you think he does not marry?” Combeferre pressed. “Or at least seriously court a young woman?”
A muscle worked in Enjolras’s cheek. “I do not know.”
“Enjolras.”
“Grantaire has many reasons for the things he does,” Enjolras snapped. “I doubt highly that any beyond a few have a remote relation to myself.”
“Are you truly that naïve?” Combeferre asked quietly. Enjolras flushed and looked away, and Combeferre nodded, though there was no triumph as he said tiredly, “I thought as much.”
Enjolras swallowed. “I know that you and others of our friends believe that Grantaire harbors feelings for me—”
“He loves you.”
Enjolras flinched and took a deep breath before continuing doggedly, “Even if that were the case, I fail to see his own choice to prioritize those alleged feelings over a potential marriage for economic benefit as a sacrifice.”
Combeferre’s brow furrowed and he leaned forward in his seat. “It is not just the comfort that money might bring that Grantaire has sacrificed. Or do you imagine that when we inevitably take our fight to the streets that Grantaire will instead take to the safety of his own bed?”
Enjolras met his gaze evenly. “No more than I imagine any of you would.”
Combeferre shook his head. “But in our case, we have pledged our lives, and yes, our deaths, to the Cause for which we have all sworn to fight.”
“That is not—”
Again Combeferre spoke over him. “Grantaire has pledged – and will end up sacrificing – his entire future for you.”
Enjolras’s eyes flashed. “And I did not request nor demand such a sacrifice!” he burst.
“But you let him make it all the same,” Combeferre said quietly, and Enjolras collapsed against the back of his seat, all the fight leaving him in an instant. “Are letting him, still.”
Enjolras stared at a spot over Combeferre’s shoulder for a long moment, his expression closed. Finally, he looked back at Combeferre as he asked softly, “What would you have me do?”
Combeferre jerked a shrug. “Free him.”
“How?”
“Turn him down,” Combeferre said forcefully. “Set him free. Tell him, in no uncertain terms, that you will never want him in the way he wants you.”
Something darkened in Enjolras’s eyes. “Do you think I have not tried?”
“No,” Combeferre said honestly. “Not in the way you should.”
Again Enjolras looked away, and when he again met Combeferre’s eyes, his expression could only be described as pure anguish. “And if I cannot?” he whispered.
Something clenched in Combeferre’s chest, and he almost could not force his answer out. “If you did not love him, you would find a way.” He hesitated before adding, “If you do love him, you must find a way.”
For one long moment, Enjolras just stared at him. Then, abruptly, he barked a dry, humorless laugh, scrubbing a tired hand across his face before asking, “How did a discussion of Marius Pontmercy’s flights of fancy come to this conclusion?”
Combeferre half-smiled. “Marius does have a knack for moving the plot along, I suppose.”
“I suppose,” Enjolras said, somewhat grudgingly. He picked up his pen as if to return to his papers, but hesitated. “I know what you are asking me to do,” he said finally, his voice low, urgent. “I know, too, that in the end, it may very well be the gentler option.”
Combeferre nodded slowly. “I sense there is a ‘but’ forthcoming."
Something tightened around Enjolras’s eyes. “But I have never lied to Grantaire before. And I know not if I can bring myself to.”
Combeferre swallowed as his chest once again clenched painfully. “Is false hope not a lie in and of itself?”
“Only if it is truly false,” Enjolras countered quietly. “And despite being on occasion called Apollo, I do not have the gift of foresight to know what fortune may yet befall us both.”
There were a great many things Combeferre wished to say to that, arguments to make and arguments to counter, but Combeferre knew the moment had passed. So instead, he stood. “Well, I have said my piece. Whatever choice you make from here is your burden to live with.”
Enjolras looked up at him. “As always, I value your honesty. I only wish that I deserved it more.”
Combeferre’s expression softened and he reached out to grip Enjolras’s shoulder. “Get some rest, my friend. I will see you tomorrow.”
Enjolras reached up to rest his hand on top of Combeferre’s for just a moment, and then Combeferre left him to his work, and his thoughts. He was not overly surprised to run into Grantaire returning to the Musain just as he was about to leave. “Back so soon from Marius’s merriment?” he asked, setting his hat on his head.
Grantaire shrugged. “Merriment turned far too quickly to melancholy, alas. And as I still have wine to drink, I figured I would take advantage of the Musain’s candles instead of wasting my own.”
Combeferre just shook his head. “Have a good night, Grantaire.”
He brushed past him but paused just outside the doorway, staring up at the window as he listened to the sound of Grantaire’s steps up the stairs, to the sound of the door closing after him, to the low rumble of voices greeting each other.
He wished more than he could ever express that Enjolras would find it in himself to send Grantaire away.
Even if he knew in his heart that he never would.