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They were fourteen and they were in love.
It was an unspoken courtship, reflected only in stolen kisses and gentle, tentative touches. To name their shame would be to acknowledge it and nothing scared the two young boys more than openly discussing the phenomena: that their lifelong friendship had become prey to adolescent desire. They both privately feared that they would now always look at each other, not with camaraderie, but with physical longing.
And so, in secret, they wept.
That’s not to say that their schoolmates didn’t engage in the same behavior. It was well known that Claude Joly had become the especial pet of an older boy. Puberty had transformed the pudgy, soft-faced boys to only slightly less pudgy men who were now filled with lusts they couldn’t control. Laurent de Courfeyrac, a particularly obnoxious pupil, bragged loudly that on his home estate, he had his pick of the well-bred ladies. For the boys unable to construct similarly elaborate fantasies, there was only one way to release the tension from their transforming bodies, and they took it.
No, if anything, for the first time in their lives, Alexandre Enjolras and Denis Combeferre were following the same passing fashions as their peers. Perhaps they were so frightened because both suspected, in their own way, that this way no passing fashion for them.
The truth was too awful to be spoken.
Combeferre, always eager to expound his newly learnt scientific principles in everyday life, analyzed his desires as if they were a specimen. The result of his observations confused, terrified, and also excited him. The data proved (though his heart always cried out against the notion) that in time, the infatuation would cease, and he and Enjolras would go back to being friends. Regular friends who simply talked and shared everything and loved each other as brothers. The thing to do was to wait the period of lust out, as if it were a fever. The hypothesis, based on his own dissected feelings and the results of similar relationships, watched over time, was sound. Yet somehow no rationalizing made Combeferre less anxious. He found himself doubting his own meticulous research. He found himself second-guessing his every action.
Enjolras, though ready, in a wave of adolescent idealism, to run in front of a cannon for liberty, was not as brave as his friend. He pushed the incidents (as he mentally referred to his clandestine fumbling) out of his mind whenever he could, and when he couldn’t, came up with elaborate excuses to justify them. He was still entirely uncomfortable with the effects puberty had wrought on his body and refused to believe he had sexual longings of any sort, never mind for his closest friend in the world. He was simply affectionate and tactile, he told himself. The moments involving his prick especially were too terrible to contemplate or remember, however much he sought out more contact.
Unlike Combeferre, Enjolras had no idea why he was so unhappy. He attributed it to his occasionally poor health, or the state of the monarchy, or his rigorous studies, or the lingering illness of his mother. He sometimes cried at night and did not know why. He found any reason at all to explain his new lethargic melancholy but did not allow himself to consider that he, in the tradition of fourteen-year-old boys before him, was in love.
They might have continued on indefinitely had Enjolras’ mother not taken a turn for the worse in the January of 1822. Combeferre had just celebrated his fifteenth birthday and everyone was still rather giddy over Christmas when Enjolras was sent home suddenly. He returned three months later, gaunt, pale and dressed in black.
He told the assembled crowd (a student venturing to the outside world was always a spectacle) that his mother had died and he himself had been very sick. He certainly looked it. When no other information was given, the boys turned to Combeferre for the Romantic details. Combeferre huffed that the facts of Enjolras’ grief and health were private and hid his shame that he did not know anything at all.
Enjolras had not written to Combeferre once, a fact he attributed upon his return, to the fever that had taken control of his lungs. Still, no pretty words could erase the tears Combeferre had shed, imagining himself abandoned. It didn’t help that Enjolras turned away from his kisses, his jawline tense and his eyes distant.
Combeferre did not press the matter, afraid that pushing Enjolras would cause him to disappear again. He mentally noted that, logically, this would be the end of his schoolboy infatuation. The lust had reached the conclusion. It was time to forget.
The pain was all too real. It was like a gaping hole in his chest. Combeferre told himself that it would fade in time and soon he’d be in university, around pretty girls.
Still, it was nearly a year until Combeferre stopped finding himself on the verge of tears after pleasuring himself (and thinking of blond young men). Their friendship was still strong, but even the most innocent touch was tempered and cold. Enjolras had taken to loudly proclaiming that Combeferre was like a brother to him. Enjolras was seemingly emotionless and Combeferre felt like his entire body was nothing but hurt.
He was studying for his examinations when a favorite teacher approached him about tutoring a young man less diligent than himself. Combeferre agreed and took it upon himself to teach the still-incorrigible Laurent Courfeyrac Latin. They struggled along awkwardly until they realized they had the same taste in poetry. Combeferre needed an escape from the strictness of his thoughts in other men’s unbridled passion and Courfeyrac simply liked his poetry like he liked everything: wild and free.
It wasn’t long until Courfeyrac, brave to a fault and willing to please, kissed Combeferre squarely on the lips after a particularly brutal test of vocabulary. Combeferre kissed back desperately.
There were some blissful few weeks where Combeferre allowed himself to be entirely enticed by Courfeyrac’s newly muscled physicality. They were lovers in love with the pleasure they gave each other. When Courfeyrac's passion faded, they parted amicably.
So it was that Combeferre found himself reading in the garden, on a grey March day, feeling lonely. It wasn’t a feeling he normally tolerated in himself but Courfeyrac’s influence had stirred something petulant in his mind.
“You look out of sorts.”
Enjolras had long since dispersed with friendly greetings. Without another word he plopped himself down on the cold stone bench with a soft sort of smile.
“I am. It’s dreadful weather,” Combeferre lied. The weather was dreadful and not at all conducive to good humor but it certainly wasn’t the root of Combeferre’s woe. Enjolras, who had known Combeferre since they were both shitting uncontrollably, raised an eyebrow.
“I know you and that de Courfeyrac boy aren’t friends anymore. Joly told me,” Enjolras said gently. Combeferre felt himself color.
“We’re friends still. And he doesn’t like the ‘de’ at all.” The intimate correction worked against him, though and Enjolras’ harsh features softened.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I was simply bored,” Combeferre said, trying to inflect his tone with a haughty disdain; an art his middle sister had perfected. He failed and instead his voice trembled.
“Regardless, now you are bored again,” Enjolras said.
“Yes. As you said, I’m out of sorts.”
There was an icy silence and Combeferre waited for Enjolras to bring up politics or their mutual friends or any one of the dozens of topics they could discuss freely.
“Do you miss him?” It was a bold question and one that startled Combeferre deeply. He felt shaken.
“I suppose so? I mostly miss the affection. Forgive me; this isn’t something you care to hear about. Thank you for your concern, but I’m quite alright.” The words tumbled out of Combeferre, who was still unsure of what exactly was happening. Enjolras placed a cold, pale hand on Combeferre’s and Combeferre felt a shiver run down his spine.
“I care to hear about anything that’s troubling you. I certainly complain enough about my father’s insipid requests and my aunt’s petty thievery,” Enjolras said cheerfully, his hand still on Combeferre’s.
“I didn’t know if you’d be comfortable discussing personal matters,” Combeferre muttered. He felt an urge to run away.
“You know that my Aunt Agathe stole my mother’s pearls. That’s personal if anything is.” Enjolras’ tone was still bright and pleasant so Combeferre tentatively continued.
“It was a passing fancy. Courfeyrac is a wonderful person and I’m glad we’re friends now anyway. He wishes to study law in Paris so I’m sure I shall see more of him. As I said before, I mostly miss his affection but I’m sure, as time passes, that will fade.”
Enjolras watched attentively as if he wanted nothing more than to listen to Combeferre ramble. It was touching, if humiliating.
“Our own brief flirtation faded, didn’t it? I’m sure you will feel the same about Courfeyrac very soon,” Enjolras said seriously, his thumb stroking the inside of Combeferre’s palm. Combeferre paled and, in a burst of Courfeyrac-inspired passion, let himself say the first thing that came to mind.
“I think it was more than a flirtation and if you reciprocated, I’d continue whatever it was again in an instant.”
Enjolras did not look shocked at the sudden declaration, only sad. Combeferre could feel blood rush to his cheeks and knew he must be scarlet.
“I worry I feel the same way,” Enjolras half-whispered and Combeferre recognized the way his blue eyes shifted back and forth. It was the same look Enjolras had had when he recieved the letter informing him of the severity of his mother's illness. It was pure terror.
Still, Combeferre felt something balloon inside his chest.
“We are still schoolboys. Let’s indulge our feelings while we can. I will grow up, I’m sure, and be every bit the respectable scholar I’m turning into but I will only be seventeen once,” Combeferre said, a little desperately, realizing he sounded like Courfeyrac again and that if anything, Enjolras was retreating from him.
“I can’t. I’m so sorry, Combeferre. You are worthy of everything and anything, but I can’t.”
There it was. A wave of disappointment crashed down on Combeferre, who felt dazed like he’d been physically hit.
“We shan’t when we’re older when it’s wrong,” he wheedled. It was so unbecoming and unlike him, and he hated himself for not marching off and saving his pride.
“It’s wrong now. For me. You could never do anything wrong, but I’m afraid my tastes are not as genteel as yours. I struggle with my own perversity and don’t want to bring you down with me,” Enjolras said softly.
“I’m like you, don’t you see? I feel the same as you!” Combeferre cried wildly, pressing Enjolras’ hands to his chest. It was too good to be true, that he wasn’t alone in his fears.
Enjolras pulled his hands away and placed them in his lap.
“I cannot be… like that… with anyone. If I could be, I would pick you, but… it’s terribly complicated. My mother knew and please don’t be angry that I told her. She was dying and I was so scared. She wasn’t mad but she was scared I would… lose myself in this. I’m not suited to being with anyone. I know we speak of this in half-jokes but I’m quite serious when I say I will die for a republic. Maman knew that and I… Denis, I will never love anyone. I can’t. I won’t ask the same of you and I hope you fall in love every single day but I ask that you don’t expect me to.”
It was quite a speech. Combeferre was shocked at the entirety of the verbal explosion, from the confession, to the usage of his Christian name. He didn’t quite know what to say, so said nothing, focusing on Enjolras’ blue eyes, now filling with tears.
“I don’t understand a word of what you’ve said but I’m sorry to see that you're clearly upset. Tell me what to do so you feel better,” Combeferre said finally in an even tone.
Enjolras seemed to crumple at the request and fell against Combeferre, his fragile body wracked by violent sobs. Combeferre felt glad the garden was deserted, the foul weather having driven most of the students inside. He tentatively placed a hand on Enjolras’ back, massaging it as his mother had done for him nearly a decade ago. It seemed to calm his friend somewhat.
“I will be fine soon, I promise. This is my last outburst, I swear,” Enjolras choked. He sounded like he had as a small child, frightened of thunder and whimpering in his governess’s arms. Combeferre remembered it well and wished there was an adult to swoop in and fix things. He was uncomfortable with the realization that he was the adult and he was responsible for fixing this.
“You don’t have to be fine,” Combeferre whispered, mimicking his mother’s soothing hum.
“I’m happy to die and I’m happy to die alone but I get scared now and then, and it’s cowardly, but I do.” Enjolras was now shaking.
“You aren’t going to die alone. I promise you that,” Combeferre said.
Enjolras stopped crying soon after that and they never spoke of the incident again. Combeferre relived it over and over again trying to puzzle out what his friend had meant. It made less sense the more he thought about it.
A few hours later Enjolras had a fever and once again, was sickly and generally weak. And, once again, he pulled through with determination that shocked every doctor that proclaimed this illness his last. Combeferre, for a long time, attributed his friend’s ramblings to the fever.
They had begun to be tactile with each other again. While Enjolras lay semi-awake and sweating heavily, Combeferre held his hand for hours at a time, assuring annoyed nurses that it was fulfilling a promise. Enjolras would not be allowed to die alone. Afterwards they hugged as they always had and even kissed affectionately. It was a palpable relief.
When Combeferre left for Paris with assurances that Enjolras would follow when his health improved to his father’s satisfaction, he found himself surrounded by pretty girls impressed with his fine coats and long words. It was exciting at first, until he realized that while all of his limited conquests were blonde, none of them shone the way he dreamed they would.