Here It Was They Lit The Flame (Amis et amis xD)

[MYLÈNE LACOQUINE]

A hushed air of business and expectation lay over the taproom below, while Mylène stood on the first floor, letting her gaze wander over the Musain’s extra room, the empty chairs, the empty tables, the piano in the corner. A few late blooming flowers on the tables here and there, and the low humming of voices from below. All was set. They were ready for the storm. The landlady greeted her with a smile as Mylène came skipping down the stairs, murmuring: ’Not long now, Coquine, hm? Won’t keep us waitin’, them boys’
Mylène returned the smile with a mischievous grin of her own and agreed. “Not long now, Madame.”

There was not a set time exactly, not be the minute, but soon now the first of the students would burst through the door, hungry, but more than anything thirsty. Their singing, their talking and their laughter would fill the Musain with life and turn the sometimes dull evening shift into a most pleasant experience. Mylène had been working here for almost a year now, and she could safely say that she enjoyed those nights the most when that little band of students and other young men gathered. They were cheerful, bold and sure of themselves, while they had sort of a cultivated air about them she had never seen in men of this age before, not in her world. The jugglers she remembered, they were rascals alright, like Pépier or Deux-Faces, and they were bold, but they would not speak of all those things… philosophy, medicine, theology… politics! There seemed not to be a topic they could not get into heated discussions over, and they were so RIGHT in what they said. As far as she could follow them, that was. Most of the things they said were beyond her grasp, but she loved to listen to them anyway.

They were friends, but each of them had his own unique personality. There was the one who loved to be the one with the first and last say, an eloquent impulsive young man they called Enjolras. There was the one always sitting in the corner, his nose in a book, serious and a little shy as she gathered. Combeferre, which she sometimes called Bouquineur, bookworm, to tease him. Jehan was another, a poet, able to forge words in a way that could leave you agape, or Grantaire, the cynical. Then there was a certain Marius, one of the few they called by his first name, for whatever reason. Or they called him Monsieur L’Abbé, the priest, since he seemed so invested in his studies and would blush at the mere sight of a girl. Cute, in a way. The exact opposite was Courfeyrac, a handsome fellow and a hopeless flirt. His friends often teased him for his amourous adventures, and Mylène had found he was a worthy combatant concerning her own cheek and wit. Their banter bordered on flirting often, but that was all there was to it.

All in all, they were good customers and she often stole away to stay a while once she had served them their drinks, until the Madame from below called for her to not neglect her other customers.
Mylène was pulled from her reverie by the sound of laughter and sonorous voices from outside. She could not discern how many they were, but she was certain it was them. The first two or three would come through this door any second. Smiling she shared another look with the landlady and smoothed out a few crinkles in her apron. “Let the games begin…!”

[Deleted]

 
There was nothing Combeferre loved better than an evening of reading after a long day of classes. However, he did enjoy seeing his friends, and tonight they were meeting at the Café Musain for food, conversation, and probably some drunken antics courtesy of Grantaire. In all seriousness he did look forward to every gathering—it had been nearly all he had been thinking about all day, sharing in their philosophical and scholarly discussions, as well as just spending time with the people he considered to be his family. Yes, it was true that Combeferre’s relationship with his parents was comparably better than many in Les Amis, but Les Amis were his true family, even though it was not by blood.

He closed the door to his flat and tipped his hat to his landlady as he left the building, carrying a bag stuffed full of books over his arm. One was Rousseau’s discourse on inequality, another Aristotle’s Politics, Augustine’s The City of God, and the remainder were a few of his medical textbooks—he would look over the medical tomes first, as he always did his required reading before the reading he did for leisure. It was a difficult rule to uphold, because frankly Combeferre enjoyed philosophy and politics far more than he did his medical studies. Medicine was something that he simply thought would be a good thing to study, while philosophy was his passion. If he studied medicine, he would be able to help people—namely the poor, because he was not doing this to earn a fortune catering to bourgeois patients—and expand his knowledge of the human body, which he did find interesting in itself.

In any case, he had blatantly refused to study law, despite his father’s wishes. He had not tried to be selfish by doing so—his reasoning behind this was that he simply would not make a good attorney. He was soft-spoken, bookish, and was not particularly skillful at addressing large groups of people. He did not want to let his father down since every man in his family had been a respected and acclaimed attorney, and he would have been a poor one. Instead, he had resolved to pursue a career in teaching.

Education was something Combeferre believed every man, woman, and child on the earth should be entitled to having. The pursuit of knowledge brought him immense joy, but it was also very practical. If every man, woman, and child of France was given the opportunity to expand their knowledge as he had, then they could learn the skills needed for careers. They could become well-informed, upstanding citizens that could reform the system that had abused them for so long. This was why he was so passionate about teaching—he wanted everyone, regardless of their station, to have the opportunities that he had been blessed with growing up.

This was one of many topics he wanted to bring up at that night’s meeting. He had an idea for bringing this knowledge to the people of France, and that was starting by holding free reading clinics in the city. Obviously he could not do this himself, and would need assistance, but he was sure at least some of his friends would be willing to aid him in this endeavor.

He was not surprised that he was the first to arrive—he believed wholeheartedly in punctuality, better to be early than to be late for anything—and took his seat at his usual table, taking off his flat cap and smoothing down his hair. He then withdrew one of his medical textbooks and a few sheets of parchment paper from his bag and began to take notes on the chapter he had been assigned.

[Deleted]

Courfeyrac and his friends followed on the heels of Combferre, eager as ever for some good sustenance and some good conversation. Class had been long, and the fellowship would be sweet. He never tired of the discourse that he shared with his friends, and the food – the food! He was rather fond of the landlady and the barmaid at the Musain Cafe as well, and he was certain they were fond of the Amis as well. They had made themselves something of a permanent fixture there.

“La belle madame!” he exclaimed, sauntering in and bowing over the woman's hand theatrically to kiss it. “Ah've starved without yer company!” He grinned unashamedly as the woman shook her head at him, but she could not hold back a smile as well, even as he spun away on his heel to pluck a pastry from the counter. Taking a bite from it, he glanced to Mylène, smiling around the mouthful. “Bonjour, Comtesse,” he teased, a pre-emptory response to her anticipated greeting of Comte. She had always teased him about his birthright - the one that he had given up to read and drink and talk with this lot. Well, he had given it up for more reasons than that... but it was easy to think, in their company, that they were worth it all the same.

Seating himself next to Combferre, as was his natural tendency, he finished the pastry in another bite as he leaned over the opened books. He said nothing to Blaise; he did not need to. The young man was studying anyway, and was certain to be something of a bore – a bore who did not wish to be distracted. He would let Combferre do his schoolwork, as he was one of the few who seemed to truly care about his education. (Legle, good old Legle, for instance, had been attempting to be expelled from law school on multiple occasions before Marius gave him the opportunity.) Combferre wanted to give education to everyone, and why not start in the cafe?

“Come, Comtesse!” Courfeyrac called to Mylène, patting his lap with a grin, “an' Ah will tell you of God. Or of politics. M'sieur Combferre's selection this eve is mos' fortuitous.” He was familiar with both Aristotle and Augustine, as his classical education had dictated, and he would gladly have taught the barmaid either, whether or not she chose to make her seat on him. Just not at this moment, in spite of his joking, for the rest of the Amis were filing in, and their meeting was soon to begin.

[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

The time he'd been told for the meeting had probably slightly passed, but Feuilly could do little about that. He wondered if the students were released from their studies at the same time each day, or if it varied as his time in the workshop might—dependent on daylight or the availability of lamp oil, on materials, on how many fans the man who ran the whole affair had seemingly arbitrarily decided they needed. Usually, there was enough work to make three francs. Enough to live, and to live better than some of the poor souls in this city, even if it did still keep him in poverty.

In the bright but unshaped mind of a young Marseille fanmaker who dreamed of being a schoolboy and yet knew that to be impossible, Paris had been more an ideal than an actual place. The memory of what he had thought it must be like almost amused him now; however much time he had been in Paris—and, in a way, it hadn't been nearly as long as it had seemed—the place was still almost foreign. His shoes, the cheapest variety he'd been able to find, were nearly worn out on the same now-familiar paths: down the crooked, creaking stairs of the tall building with its leaking roof, to the shop, to a handful of places where he might buy the necessities of life, or—much more recently—to this place. The Cafe Musain.

Feuilly felt himself seized by a sort of sudden, short-lived anxiety as he came to the door. He was certain he was in the right place; he had been to enough meetings now to know this—but something about it still made him nervous. Taking a breath, he opened the door despite it and walked inside. There was nowhere he would rather go, no—but to be surrounded by the quick, clever tongues of students was a novelty for the young worker and something to which he still was not completely accustomed. They were brilliant, he had no doubt of that; they could debate things Feuilly had never even heard of with an ease that very nearly astonished him. Sometimes, they would give him things to read—and it was in those moments that he felt that they had accepted him as one of their own, that he was more than just an observer drawn like a moth to their flame of knowledge and ideals.

Other times, he felt embarrassed by what he didn't know, and almost prayed they weren't laughing at him when he spoke. He tried hard to speak as they did, a more literary French that he had begun to learn from the printed things he'd taught himself to read with. Mostly he was successful, though the still encountered the odd moment when, emboldened to speak, he found at least one of them looking at him oddly for his use of some slang phrase they hadn't heard and he hadn't realized was slang, or perhaps because he had grossly mispronounced some word he had only ever seen in print. With time, his concerns over these things was fading—they seemed, for the most part, very friendly.

The cheerful din of conversation already filled the room, though so far it seemed to be friendly banter and not the serious discussion that would eventually set in. He enjoyed both, though he remained in most cases more a listener than a speaker. They had many things to teach him, and from him, he was sure, they could learn but little in the way of politics and philosophy. They had read far more already than he could perhaps ever hope to, though he wished most ardently to change that. He chose a seat further down the table, not directly beside the cohort of students however much his curiosity drew him toward them.

He was still far too aware of all the things that set him apart from them to assume he could sit directly next to them uninvited. He knew that Combeferre, the studious one who already had out several sheets of paper, had more than likely brought books. Craning his neck slightly, Feuilly strained to make out the titles of what was on the table and wondered what else might be in the student's bag. The ready availability of books to these young men still had not ceased to fascinate him. He looked back down to his paint-marked hands.

He remained silent, his expression unintentionally serious.

[MYLÈNE LACOQUINE]

Just like she had predicted, as soon as the door opened and the students came in, life seemed to have come with them, filling the room with its undeniable, uplifting presence. The bookworm was the first, hardly greeting and immediately settling down with his books, but that was nothing new. Next was Courfeyrac and he made quite an entrance indeed. He just had a habit of dominating a room for a short moment, when he entered it, whether he even wanted that or not. Mylène watched the Madame huff as her cheeks coloured at this gallant greeting and the plump middle-aged woman wagged her forefinger as she saw what the young man did next. “You just wait, you rascal! I see what you did there, young monsieur!”
Mylène likewise shook her head and laughed at Courfeyrac’s cheek, but gave a small annoyed grunt as he preempted her usual teasing greeting by calling her comtesse. Oh well… she would find something else for the moment, there was no way she would let him have the last say on this!

“Bonsoir, Monsieur l’Etudiant”, she altered the greeting pointedly and gave a sassy wink. “It might be still early in the day for Your Leisureship, but for those of us doing some real work, the day is almost over.” Not that she really knew much about ‘honest’ and ‘real’ work either, only working on a schedule for some months now. In her days as a thief, the night had mostly been her day, depending on what she was after, with the jugglers, their days were even longer, but less restricted to a certain time. They performed whenever and wherever they were welcome, and the rest of their time was either spent with travelling or preparations. Getting in an out of work at a certain time had been something so new to her it still felt peculiar sometimes, somehow ridiculous and unreal.

She watched them vanish upward into the separate room they liked to use to have a bit of privacy in their discussions and talkings, and she made sure to serve the upcoming demands of the customers in the main taproom first, before she got the wordless glance of approval from the landlady to venture up the stairs as well. The mood already seemed excellent, and she was greeted with yet another teasing remark by Courfeyrac. Roi d’Enfer, he was starting to work himself to new heights tonight, and the evening had just begun! She and sitting on his lap?! There was many a floozy Mylène knew that would not hesitate a second to follow his offer, but she was not that kind of girl. She wasn’t offended though either, she even played along to a certain extent, sauntering over until she stood before him, crossing her arms.
“Oh suuure ye will tell me of God and politics, but yer hands will speak a different language altogether”, she remarked, grinning. “God on their lips an’ the devil in their fingers, they say. Everyone ever hearing a fabliau knows after all wha’ they teach ye at the Sorbonne.”

She was referring to the saucy tales of old that had been transported and retold during the centuries ever since the late middle ages. Many spoke of amorous adventures and one of their favourite figures was the cheeky and witty student of Paris, able to tease and flirt his way into many a girl’s or woman’s bed supported by his education. Unlike the shavelings trying the same, the student always got out of his adventures unscathed, while the priests paid dearly for their failure at virtue.
Letting her gaze wander over the gathering she then asked: “So now, wha’ can I bring all of ye? Wine? Pernod?”
Pernod, an aniseed brandy had become height of fashion in the bars and café’s of Paris, ever since its invention by a French distiller now a good twenty years ago. It was so well liked she had learned to automatically include it in her suggestions.

[Deleted]

Combeferre was engrossed in Philosophia Botanica, part of his coursework for that day. After he was done, he would devour that month’s issue of The Lancet which he had sent to him from London. Whenever he read, whether it was philosophy, history, politics, or medicine, he was riveted by the material. He had taken an interest in philosophy and politics first before he even considered taking up medicine. His fascination with medicine dulled in relation to philosophy, but being such a proponent of universal education and transforming oneself into a Renaissance man, he was all too willing to learn medicine as well. On a more practical note, he needed to pay for his education as a teacher, so medicine seemed like a good thing to study.

Medicine was also something he could use to help people. Ever since the first time his father took him to Paris, he had felt not a duty but a calling to aid the downtrodden. He was unsure of what he wanted to do with his life until he reached the university. His father, of course, wanted him to study law. He was not interested mainly because his father cared chiefly about making a profit, not actually helping his clients. The other strong reason for his not wanting to become an attorney was that he thought he was too mild-mannered for it.

He only looked up when Courfeyrac plopped down next to him, chewing a pastry. Combeferre gave him a brief nod before turning the page of his book and scribbling down some more notes. He loved botany as well as zoology—his interests spanned many disciplines, but he had settled on medicine. Thankfully it incorporated his fascination with the flora and fauna of the area—to a certain degree. Studying the anatomy of animals helped scientists learn more about the human body, and botany was very useful in developing medicine with which to treat illness.

He heard his friend mention his name and the subjects of his books—he was flirting with the barmaid, Mylene, no doubt—but paid little attention. His friend’s flirting and often seducing women was more amusing than annoying, except when he tried to set him up with people. He was not given to flings—or anything serious either. His education and his career were his main interests and he simply did not have time or the desire for romantic rendezvous. Was it strange for a man his age? He supposed some of his friends—such as Courfeyrac—and his family thought so. He did not find being dedicated to one’s work to be strange at all.

Feuilly entered the small café next and sat down on his other side. Combeferre did look up this time and adjusted his glasses, smiling. “Good evening, Feuilly, how have you been?” He tilted his head in concern and confusion at the man’s somber countenance. “Are you alright, mon ami?” He glanced up at Mylene when he realized she was addressing all of them. "Yes, just a tea please." He didn't drink for numerous reasons, one of which being it clouded his thinking, and another being someone needed to drag his friends home when they had too much.

[Deleted]

“I crave your indulgence, madame,” Courfeyrac simpered, pulling the payment from his pocket and placing it on the counter with ease. He knew that the landlady would have let him take the food even without paying for it, but it was the right thing to do. It was also the right thing to do to disgruntle Mylene whenever possible, and he was pleased to see that he had succeeded in doing so by beating her to the greeting. It was surprising that she referred to him simply as a student, though it was true – and it was also true that for the most part, he lived a somewhat leisurely life. At least he acted like he did. He applied himself to his studies now and again. He liked to learn; he just didn't like to be tested – and he only applied himself to his studies when he felt like those studies could be applied. Perhaps someday all his learning about philosophy and politics would be of use.... if he could make it so.

For now, however, he was content to eat, drink, and be merry with his fellows, including Mylene and the landlady. They would have their heated discussions of poetry and politics in the upper room of the Cafe Musain, and leave the other customers in peace. He was not content to leave Mylene in peace however. He grinned unabashedly at her response. “Come on, Mylene! Ye always tell me you're wantin' to learn somethin' new, an' Ah'm quite good at teachin' languages, Ah'm told.” For the most part, he was teasing her; he didn't expect anything in return for what he taught her, and he enjoyed teaching people. He had attempted to teach Marius some German and English so he could get a job with one of Courfeyrac's friend translating an encyclopedia. He enjoyed talking about Latin phrases with Enjolras, English political philosophers with Combferre, and, of course, and French political philosophy he could get his hands on.

At Mylene's latter comment, he attempted to look hurt. “Ah'm self-taught, madame,” he proclaimed, whatever that might mean in the context of what she was saying! “Courfeyrac can't be compared to anyone else, Sarbonne or otherwise.” He winked at her, leaning back in his chair and looking up at her with a lazy smile as she came over to stand over him. He wasn't like the student who would take virtue and give nothing back; he cared about people more than he let on. And he supposed Mylene knew it.

Asked what he would like to drink, he stroked his chin for a moment. “Yer company's all Ah need, ma belle,” he sighed, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to it before smirking again. “Pernod, if ye please.” He glanced to his friends on either side of him and gestured for Mylene to come closer, adding, "What else? A smile for Feuilly, an' a kiss for Combferre 'ere. They could use the cheer." When the drink came, he'd hand it to Feuilly; the student looked like he could use a drink, and he probably couldn't afford one, not that Courfeyrac would ever embarrass him by saying so.

[Deleted]

[/b] Enjolras says, finger brushing his long blond hair back into a neat queue and tying it into place with a bit of red ribbon so it doesn't fall into his face while he reads.

Mylene thankfully, is yet to take Courfeyrac too seriously, and she seems eager to serve them, even if his friend is prone to getting sassy with her. He knows her well enough by this point to know she is hardly some wilting flower, Mylene can give as good as she gets so they make no attempt as a group to reign in Courfeyrac.

"A coffee for me, Mademoiselle." He says politely as she takes their orders in a group.

He laughs when Courfeyrac offers to teach her languages though, Enjolras is well used to Courfeyrac's dirty phrases, in several languages. Earlier in their acquaintance it had made him blush terribly, now that he is older, he is able to hold it back to a certain extent.

"And if I may, I warn you against taking any of Christian's knowledge of Latin. I fear a nice young lady would have no use for the sort of words he may teach you." [/ul]

[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

Feuilly blinked when he realized Combeferre was talking to him, his expression brightening some as he pulled him out of his thoughts. “Good evening.” He smiled then slightly, almost amused with himself. “Yes, quite all right. I was trying to make out what you're reading.” He was frequently filled with curiosity with what the other Amis read; there was, he had come to realize, more knowledge written in the world than even he had guessed. “Thank you,” he added in a sincere tone.

Before he could say anything else to Combeferre, his attention was drawn to the girl's question as he noticed that Combeferre's had been. “Ah... some wine, please.” Pernod was well and good, he supposed, but he doubted he could afford it and didn't want to embarrass himself with asking. This was a better sort of cafe than the sort with which he was more familiar. He doubted almost whether he could afford the wine here, either—but he trusted Mylene to catch on that the wine he requested would have to be from the least expensive variety.

That was the disadvantage to defying his born place in life. He could deliver himself through the written word, but the riches it brought him dwelt only in his mind and never made it to his pocket. Combeferre was not even the only one with a book, for Feuilly noticed one in Enjolras' hands as well. The atmosphere made him happy; the cheerful joking was not filled with drunken, growled obscenities, the conversation—even when taken more with grisettes than with politics—was elevated to a level that had amazed him at first. These were men who thought, even if they did not always know—and Feuilly admired them for it, loved them for calling him a friend. He, who was expected to know the realities of life but not to think too much on it!

Courfeyrac's talk of languages drew his attention in that direction. It was impossible to tell how much Courfeyrac said was really true and how much was flirtation; he didn't think the man was lying about his knowledge of languages, but the game in his voice spoke to interests outside the linguistic. Feuilly was quietly amused. There was something infectious in the cheerfulness that Courfeyrac seemed to exude.

He turned his attention back toward Combeferre. “Is it true that the British mostly drink tea?” He had read mention of this somewhere, and knew no one likely to be better able to answer the question.

[JEAN ALEXIS PROUVAIRE]

[style=font-family: times; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: lowercase; color: #989898; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;]703 WORDS FOR les amis No notes at present. AMIS [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #6d6d6d;] [style=padding: 10px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; height: 475px; overflow: auto; color: #1e1e1e;]Jean Prouvaire looked up startled from his papers which had been spread all cross his lap and the bench on which he was sitting. The bells of Notre Dame - not far away - were tolling loudly. How beautiful they were! He had to stop to appreciate them for a long moment. The bells created a beautiful, deep, rich tone. He grinned happily. It was moments like these when Jean thought Paris might be the best place on earth - not counting home in the countryside by the sea.. but other than that place with Mama and Papa, Élise, Victoire, and Simone.. this was lovely. Right here in this spot where he frequently sat to write. Suddenly, however, two more earthly concerns came back to mind. The first presented itself with a loudly growling stomach and the second with a realization that those bells meant he was late! It was tradition for he and a few of his friends to meet at the Musain after a day of classes. There would be food, wine, and tea for all - as well as good conversation. He grinned jubilantly as he thought about their nightly tradition. There was of course Madame to see - who ran the Musain and the little waitress girl Mylène whom he was fond of and once in a while wrote a verse or two for. The Madame was friendly and motherly like to all the boys who missed their own Mamas back at home - Jean included. He quickly packed up his things into his bag, stomach growling once more. He'd been so focused on his writing that he had forgotten to eat any lunch. He looked longingly at one of the vendor's carts - but they were selling sausages. No. He'd been a vegetarian for a number of years, finding it unappealing that an animal need die so he might eat - meat was only for exceptionally rare occasions - though he wasn't opposed to milk, eggs, or the like. He turned from the sausage truck and slung his messenger bag haphazardly across one shoulder, his possessions: books, papers, ink, pens, and the like safely inside - though a bit disorganized. He was hauling his jacket over one shoulder as well. Jean could be a bit of a dandy - even he had to admit that... he loved clothing - but not as much as words he must admit. He walked hurriedly down the street, the minutes turning into distance walked until he saw the Musain looming in front of him. He grinned to himself and entered the building and ascended the stairs at an easy jog - his long legs benefitting him at this, as he ascended to the room where he and his friends preferred meeting when they had their discussions. He couldn't help the happiest smile when he saw part of the group already gathered there - exactly as he might have pictured them in his mind. There was Combe engaged in one of his text books, Courfeyrac flirting with Mylène (as always) - and Enjolras scolding him. even though they all knew that if Mylie had had a serious problem with the flirting, they'd have been out a very long time ago. And last, but certainly not least, kind-hearted Feuilly, staring longingly at Combe's books. Jehan couln't help but feel his heart warmed at the sight of his best friends - only a few were missing now. His face turned into a beaming, rosy glow of happiness as he took a seat next to Feuilly, scooting his table over to join the rest of the group. "Salut, mes amis. Comment vas-tu??" He inquired, slipping with relief into the seat. Now that he was drawn back to the world and out of the clouds of words in his mind, he was relieved to have a seat and refreshment after a long day. "Hello, Mylène." He said, with the gentlest smile. "Bread and cheese, tea, and pernod.. please. And not together on the last." He joked at the end, his eyes twinkling. Aside of the pernod, it was simple fare. He didn't mind. "Enough to share please. I feel like celebrating." He paused. "I completed a poem." [/style]

TABLE BY CALIFORNIA DREAMING @ CAUTION 2.0

[MYLÈNE LACOQUINE]

Mylène shook her head with a merry laugh as Courfeyrac offered to teach her ‚languages’. Oh, he had her good there! She had opened it up for him with that comment, but that was what she loved so much about their banter. Courfeyrac was one of the few people she knew that could pay her back in kind and that sometimes made her even at loss for words, concerning what he threw back at her with teasing and flirting. This right now was no exception, he had put enough reality in his boasting that she could not very well call him a liar, had that even been her intention. No, this deserved something far more subtle a retort.
“If yer so good at ‘em, then please tell me wha’ ‘Courfeyrac’s ego is as big as Notre Dame’ means in German”, she demanded with a sassy wink. Not that she really would be able to discern whether he told her the right thing or just gibberish. It still would be amusing.

Her hint at his overdeveloped self-esteem just got proven right when he claimed to be self-taught at what he did… even though that didn’t exactly make her point moot. Whether the teachings at the Sorbonne had made him so or not, the point still stood that he served the cliché of the Parisean student just fine, but with his own brilliant take on it, so you didn’t even think him a living cliché nine times out of ten. “Tha’ they all say”, was her only comment, before she rolled her eyes slightly when he took her hand and kissed it. The gesture was appreciated of course, but it still was too foreign for her to be truly free of discomfort. Not when it came from a man like Courf that was, of course the jugglers would have done it sometimes in jest, but that just not was the time. It was those moments when she still felt foreign in this new world she had entered.

And it was a testimony of just how different these worlds were when she heard Enjolras’ warning about such words not being suitable for her ears. ‘Young Lady’, she thought with an inward snort. ‘If you only knew, Enjolras… I could make your ears burn with the words I know – and have used.’ But she did not say that, instead just retorted: “And how would ye know these words? Does he use them on ye?” Cheeky, she knew, but it probably was a way to make them both laugh – or uncomfortable.
She laughed again as Courf suggested the additional order of a smile and a kiss for Combeferre, but did not comment directly on it. Instead, she nodded at each order and recapitulated them in her head so she would not forget. “Two pernod, two tea, a coffee, wine, bread an’ cheese for the predators’ feedin’ – comin’ right up, gars!” she promised, then choose her way so that she was walking behind the seats of Feuilly and Combeferre as if by accident. “A smile…” she murmured, giving Feuilly the brightest she could manage, and then quickly bent without a warning and pressed a kiss on the top of Combeferre’s hair, like a mother would do with her child. “An’ the kiss.”

Grinning, she sauntered towards the stairs, passing by Jehan and touching his arm in a fond gesture. “Salut, poète. Ye MUST recite yer newes’ work. Dun lemme miss it!”

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“Oy! Ah need no shame; Ah've honor enough, ye know.” Courfeyrac leaned back in his chair, fingers playing with his friend's ponytail. He was not too hurt by what his friend was implying; they had an understanding: Courfeyrac flirted shamelessly, yes, but knew when to be serious, and until that time came, Enjolras would not fault him for doing so. Their codes of honor were different, but Enjolras would not deny that Courfeyrac had one.

Weaving the golden strands of hair into a braid, he added more cheerfully, “An' ye also know they like me too much to get rid of me, so Ah've nuthin' to fear.” He tossed a grin at Mylene. Enjolras was right, she did not take him too seriously; most people didn't when he flirted. But if ever the time came when he was needed, then everything would be serious.

He was serious about his learning as well, the learning which inspired his ideals. But that didn't mean he couldn't use it for other purposes in the meantime. He smirked at his friend's reminder of Latin lessons. It was nice that he had helped the group have a little fun, for if it weren't for him, he was convinced that they would all be too serious all the time. “It's a good thing then that she's not a nice young lady,” Courfeyrac teased. Of course, he was teasing, as he and Mylene had not gone beyond teasing. “Come, Aurelien; the lady's right. Ah'm certain she would enjoy it more'n you.”

Courfeyrac laughed merrily at Mylene's retort. He was not incapable of laughing at himself; indeed, he laughed at every occasion possible. “They say many things,” he replied with feigned modesty, “but Ah think Enjolras would blush to hear 'em.”

He got to his feet to greet the new arrival, squeezing Feuilly's shoulder with one hand and Jehan's shoulder with the other affectionately. “Ah'm well, Jehan, an' you?” he asked, bouncing with excitement on his toes and rattling his friend's shoulder at the pronouncement. “A poem! Then ye mus' be very well indeed! Let's hear it - per'aps Mylene will fall in love with you!”

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Combeferre smiled in relief at Feuilly’s answer to his question. He was glad to hear that he was doing well—he hated to see any of his friends upset. “Oh—it’s Philosophia Botanica. Botanical Philosophy, that is—it’s written by Linnaeus. I’m reading it for class—it’s actually quite interesting, really.” Combeferre genuinely enjoyed his coursework in medicine. Of course he preferred philosophy, but medicine was riveting. It thrilled him to learn how complex the human body was—and philosophy helped him to understand how complex the human mind how the potential to be.

He enjoyed botany, partially because of its importance in medicine and partially because he simply loved the acquisition of knowledge in any academic subject. He thought about starting something of a miniature greenhouse to appease his fascination with plants. He certainly had the room on the windowsills. Until then, he would spend his time in the Luxembourg Gardens as he often did after class. He loved studying outside.

His blue eyes brightened when Feuilly asked him about the English and tea. He was always glad to share his knowledge with others—this was a subject very near and dear to the young medical student’s heart because of his background. “Why yes, yes they do—my mother’s English, actually.” he stated with a proud grin. “My parents met when my father was reading law at Oxford—we still get imported teas regularly. It first came to the country in the late seventeenth century—from China. They started drinking it and coffeehouses and then it became ubiquitous around the country. It’s actually very good for your health. I love the black teas from China—they’re very palatable, they have a sort of citrusy flavor. Mother still sends me my favorite blend every now and then. Do you like tea?” he inquired.

Combeferre looked up and waved as Jehan entered the café. “Salut, mon ami.” he responded as he sat down next to Feuilly. He enjoyed the poet’s company—although Combeferre found that prose came easier to him, he did not mind having discussions about the meanings behind verse. It was not his absolute favorite form of literature, though—mainly because he was not a romantic. He smiled when the rhymester announced that he had finished a poem. “Congratulations—what is it about?”

His attention was diverted from his friend’s arrive when he felt something soft on his head. When he realized what it was, his mouth fell open in shock and his face flushed as he whirled around. “Wha..” he blinked from behind his glasses, stunned that Mylene had kissed him—even if it was just the top of his head.

[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

Feuilly wondered what sort of philosophy plants might have—he'd figured out the meaning of botanical somewhere along the line, at least—but he was willing to believe Combeferre that it was interesting. Everything had the potential to be interesting, every slip of knowledge had value—though plants had never entered Feuilly's consciousness as much more than simply things that had their uses for both good and ill. He found people and nations more interesting. “It's in... Latin?” He saw plenty of Latin at these meetings, though he'd never learned any of it.

He shrugged at the question of whether he liked tea. “I don't know,” he answered honestly. “Anything from China would be quite the luxury for someone like me.” He smiled gently at him, aware that Combeferre likely intended no slight. Their worlds differed sometimes, and a question about tea might have been able to be answered intelligently by almost any other of the men gathered around the table—but Feuilly knew more about what it looked like than how it tasted, and the information Blaise had just given him he filed away in his mind. “I've never had a citrus either,” he added in a good-natured tone. “Though I'm sure both are very good. Why else bring it halfway around the world?” He was pleased with himself for knowing where China was, so that the name conjured a point on a map and the illustrations in a book, not just the vague implication of exoticism it once had.

Feuilly glanced up at Mylene's smile, amused by Courfeyrac's insistence upon it, his amusement reflected in his own expression. The amusement grew into a quiet laugh at Combeferre's reaction to the young woman's kiss on his head. It was simply happiness, these meetings—every time something would happen to bring a smile to his face and make him laugh, every time he would learn something from their discussions. “She won't sting you with her lips, Combeferre,” he said with amusement. “At least not in a kiss.” He knew as well as anyone that Mylene's words could bite, though the teasing seemed mostly to fly between her and Courfeyrac.

Prouvaire's arrival turned Feuilly's attention away from the discussion of exotic food and drink and from his amusement with his friends' antics. He grasped the edge of the table that Jehan was moving over, helping him pull it closer and line it up with the one at which everyone else already sat. “Glad to hear it,” he responded to his declaration of the new poem. The poet was skilled, at least as far as Feuilly could judge—though he did not always understand the allusions that peppered his poetry. At first this had embarrassed him, but he had grown used to it now and was not ashamed to ask for the story behind some reference to a name he had never heard.

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[/b] He confesses to Mylene, his expression clearly saying he has the most bizarre group of friends.

"Courfeyrac thinks me ignorant and loves to bait me with such words. And I say this in a non-complementary fashion, only fact- that I believe if he got it into his head our Christian Courfeyrac could make the hardest of sea faring men blush like convent girls."


So, alright, Courfeyrac has made him blush. Only a hand full of times though out of countless attempts and really it only happens when Enjolras does not see it coming. Courfeyrac protests that he doesn't have much shame but he has honor enough, and that is true. Aurélien wouldn't think to claim otherwise, his friend could be occasionally thoughtless, but he was warm and kind, never cruel or overly harsh. He has the best intentions, and he wants to see everybody happy, and smiling, as he usually is.

That really is most of the reason that Enjolras lets Courfeyrac tease at him. He knows it is nothing meant as true criticism, it is merely how Courfeyrac like to show his affection. That and through touch, he can feel Christian's clever fingers playing at the loose curl of his hair. He makes no move to stop it or pull away.

These are the men he is closest to, his personal barrier of touch and quite broken with them and he rarely hesitates to touch them when he feels it needed, and they are not shy with their casual touches of physical friendship either. Besides, Courfeyrac, for reasons Enjolras has no desire to know, is unusually good with hair. So when he feels his friend start to braid it, he lets him.

Perhaps, if pressed, Aurélien would confess his hair is a bit of a weak stop with him, and he finds somebody playing with it rather soothing. "I can hardly speak to Mylene's tastes, dear friend." He says to him. "I can only confirm that she needn't like it all that much to enjoy it more than I." He says and his tone is light and airy, something that seems to skip along the tops of words like a stone skipped on the surface of a still lake.

The energy of the cafe tonight seems a living and breathing thing, something that crackles in the air and they all add to it, and it adds to them. Aurélien knows that times with his friends will not always be so light and teasing and carefree, so it is good to have them all in a mood of revelry as much as they can at the moment.

Somewhere in the bustle of things and Courfeyrac's teasing, he misses the entrance of Jean Prouvaire, a touch late but nothing unfashionable. He doesn't notice him until he boasts happily about finishing a poem.

"All the more reason for celebration, tonight is a night of creation. Pray Jehan, share you verses with the lot of us before Courfeyrac decides to recite something less savory." He says and he slides his eyes over and slightly back at Christian a touch of mischief within his own gaze, because he can tease a bit at times.

Mylene as she passes around the room, a bustle all her own confirming all their orders, presses a kiss to Combeferre's head. The sort that female relatives had been found of pressing against his own head of blond curls in his youth. The actions itself is more casual caring, Mylie's way of being warm with them all, than anything humorous, however the expression of Comebferre's face is enough to cause a few chortles.

Enjolras slides one hand from his book across the table, pats at the back of his best friend's hand lightly in show of support. "I am glad I can find comfort that I am not the only one at the table ill suited to accepting the fondness of the fairer sex." He says softly. Though he looks up quickly to Mylene to add.

"No offense intended, Mademoiselle." Truly, there is no offense intended. He is not adept at females, he doesn't think them weak or stupid, just - for the most part- more emotional than most men were. He's not sure what to make of them as creatures for the most part and something about their closeness if they are not very well known to him makes him flustered a bit. [/ul]