Down Once More (Courf)

[MYLÈNE LACOQUINE]

It was one of those moments when split seconds felt like eons, when no time seemed to pass at all, when you just could not move fast enough. All around them chaos had broken out. The shots into the air already had triggered anxiety and once the word had been spread that an innocent woman had been shot, the crowd had turned into a stampede, a rolling, jostling, pushing mass of people that either wanted to get away or throw themselves into the frenzy. Screams were everywhere, screams of terror and screams of anger, deafening your ears until you heard them all muffled apart from a constant ringing. And right within this chaos and with the impossible task ahead of herself to cross the large quai to enter into the Rue Cochin was Mylène, one hand tightly gripping Courfeyrac’s for fear of losing him to the mob and therefore failing in her attempt to bring them both to safety, the other hand still holding the torch she had stomped out earlier to not give anyone any easy sign to pursue.

Painfully slowly they were making ground, jostled and pushed to and fro. Mylène had long since lost sight of Eponine, Marius and Feuilly and could only hope they could make their way to the entrance as well, before they were trampled, shot or arrested. Ever muscle rigid, Mylène had only one sole thought: onward… onward… don’t look back! Reach the entrance and save both your hides! Her breath was coming in ragged gasps and her visional field had narrowed down to a sharply reduced angle of what was directly in front of her eyes.
Then a burly man crashed into her and in colliding with her side gave her an involuntary but nevertheless sharp kick to her right shin, which caused them both to stumble. Mylène’s ankle gave way and twisted sidewards and she couldn’t suppress a sharp outcry. Hobbling, she forced herself onwards, only subconsciously registering that the man had fallen to the ground and soon was trampled on by at least five people. It was barbaric, but it was the life Mylène was more used to in her innermost core: Fight and run, or someone gets you and then you die. In the moment all hell had broken loose, her survival instincts, only sugarcoated by two years of a relatively secure life, had taken over again.

And then they were finally across, and the crossroad leading into the Rue Cochin suddenly materialized before Mylène’s eyes. “Now come, quick!” she muttered and gave an encouraging tug at Courf’s hand, even though she was not sure if he even could hear her now. There was still hell going on behind them, and a part of her yearned to know what was going on. The larger part, however, wanted to go underground as soon as possible. Gritting her teeth, she forced her right foot to bear more weight so they were walking at a brisk pace, turning into the said Rue Cochin. There, she knew, would be the inconspicious wooden door with iron fittings in the setback house entrance of a similarly inconscpious three stories building. It was one of the quarry worker’s entrances to the underground labyrinths that were scattered over the southern quatiers of France between the Hopital Cochin and the cemetery of Montmartre.

Only when she had reached the door she came to a halt, took a deep breath and turned to look at Courf for the first time ever since she had grabbed his hand. Her face still bore a strained expression and her eyes seemed hard and determined, yet she tried a smile. “Could ye keep cave while I fumble for the key?”

[Deleted]

He had heard Enjolras' murmured words – it unnerved him more to hear Enjolras' intimate warning than to hear his voice raised in an inspired rallying cry – and obeyed. He had barely managed a nod of confirmation, turning away from his friend to call out to the other Amis, before a surge of the crowd separated them. Shots fired. People yelling and jostling.

In the chaos, Courfeyrac, who was normally so aware of everything around himself, found himself the victim of over-stimulation. He felt dizzied, and in casting cursory glances everywhere around the crowd, he ended up being conscious of nothing except for Mylene seizing his hand. He gripped her hand unthinkingly, holding it tightly even as people pushed against their linked arms. He tried to look around for his friends, but he could only see indistinct heads bobbing. He could hardly even recognize the streets in the sea of people.

Thankfully, Mylene had her head on straight. The challenge was keeping their feet. He faltered as Mylene was shoved into him from the other side, supporting her weight, and could only watch in horror as her assailant was shortly thereafter trod upon by the others rushing by. Mylene pulled him onward, bringing him from his daze, jaw slack in horror.

His eyes were cast everywhere as she pulled him along blindly, and he honestly did not think anything of her limp until they were at the door and standing still, where he saw that her weight was distributed unevenly. He met her gaze and was frightened by it; not even the grimace comforted him.

Keep watch. Yes, he could do that. He gave a faint nod, looking about them as his nimble fingers untied his cravat. Then with it, he knelt to bandage Mylene's ankle as she searched her pockets. He thought nothing of it; he had seen other women's ankles before, after all, even if he wasn't supposed to. With fingers nimble and gentle, he wrapped the fabric around the delicate bone to keep it straight. It wasn't much, but Joly had taught him a thing or two, and it would do for now. His fingertips resting against the skin of her calf, he glanced up at her slowly, to make sure that she had found the key and unlocked the door, of course. “'ere,” he directed, getting to his feet and stooping to guide Mylene's arm around his neck. He lifted her to carry her over the threshold, then kicked the door closed behind them swiftly.

It was dark, but in the blackness he could still see the scene on the street in his mind's eye. When his eyes adjusted, he glanced around to make sure that there was no one else there. There was no furniture, only stairs down, so though his arms complained, he did not yet set her down. Of course the touches had only been to take care of her injury, and of course the only reason they were so close together was because if they moved, they might tumble down the stairs. “Mylene–” he started, his voice low and grave as his eyes searched her face once more. “'f it weren't for you, Ah might be dead.”

[MYLÈNE LACOQUINE]

Mylène’s fingers, usually swift and nimble, were actually trembling as she fumbled for the key. It was probably mostly the adrenaline of the desperate chase that now caught up with her, but not all of it. Even to her, who had seen more than a young girl her age should by far, had been shocked to the bone by what had just come to pass. During the moment itself, her upbringing had enabled her to keep her head straight, but while she might be used to violence, she was not hard-bitten and unfeeling. The man that had jostled her came into her mind… one could survive a great deal, but when you were trampled on by a mob, the injuries would be severe at best. He could be rendered unfit for work, whatever he had done. Like with the shot so unwittingly fired, one misstep… and you set things in motion you never could call off or undo again.

Finally her fingers closed about this most prized possession. A few years ago when she had still been nothing but a kid, she had followed one of the workers and stole this key from the chain on his belt. She had known it fit to most of the doors guardig the catacombe entrances, and for her little band of thieves it had been worth more than gold. An entire little war had been fought between two rivaling street gangs for the posession of this one key, but Mylène’s group had prevailed. Even after she came to Les Corbeaux and now as an ‘honest’ working woman, she had kept hold of the key, acting on her one principle: ‘you never know…’

Just as she wanted to remove her hand from her pocket, she heard more than saw Courf scooping down beside her and a moment later she felt his hands around her ankle, apparently tying something around it. The touch came so unexpected she winced and gave a hiss, partly of pain, partly of surprise. He only wanted to help her right…? But there was a certain look in his eyes as he slowly looked up at her, something that wasn’t horror and fright as it had been before. But it could also be nothing but a trick of the light, and it wasn’t important right now. She met his gaze for a moment, but then raised her hand to show him the key, whispering; ‘There… and… thanks…!” Tearing her eyes away, she focussed on the lock and two seconds later, the door swung open, greeting them with a gust of cold slightly damp air that came from below. It brought a gush of memories to Mylène’s mind, but she pushed them away to deal with later.

And then Courf was by her side and before she could protest, he scooped her up and carried her over the threshold kicking the door back in place. That… For a moment, Mylène’s brain simply stopped working. Wasn’t there something wrong in this picture?! There was only one moment in a girl’s life where she was being carried over a threshold and it didn’t entail being nearly arrested or killed in the previous moments. But here she was… and should probably get her wits together soon! What was it with this very day and the moments she and Courf had shared? The dance at the juggler’s corner felt like a lifetime ago now… and yet it had only just been an hour or two. This was getting too complicated for her to grasp… or maybe it was her own mind making things more complicated than they actually were?

When her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, she saw the low gleaming of Courfeyrac’s eyes directed to her, settling on her once again with seriousness, almost gravity as he spoke. She could not even imagine how that scene out there must have made him feel, but she knew him well enough to know that he was shaken, yet knew exactly what he was saying. The thought of having saved his life made her slightly uncomfortable, she hadn’t really been thinking about it, just had known that she would not leave without him. The old Mylène, the pure gamine might have run to save herself. The girl that worked the daily shifts at the ABC café would never dream of it. “You should know me better than to think I would ever allow that to happen, Christian”, she replied, not even noticing she had been using his first name. It just seemed like none of his nicknames served the situation.

“B’sides… given half the chance, you’d do the same for me, right? So…!” she slowly reached up and put a finger on his lips, “not another word of it!”

[Deleted]

Just like the moments that they had had earlier that day during the dance, when they had been each other arms and temporarily frozen by some spell, the almost-imperceptible click of the lock being loosed – Mylene's note of it, and her whispered thanks for the splint – made Courfeyrac focus on the task at hand of getting Mylene inside now that the door was open.

It pushed inwards rather than outwards, which was fortuitous given the fact that he would have to close it with his foot while his arms were engaged holding Mylene, and meant that they could barricade it from inside to prevent someone else opening it. Still, if all that was below were stairs, then they could not bring up furniture. He doubted that they had been followed by any members of the Patron-Minette, in any case.

They could make their way through the catacombs at leisure, or wait for the danger to die down a little. Which was just as well, because it would be an hour or so before the Amis regrouped, and Mylene, now that her adrenaline might have faded, probably wasn't going to be able to move anywhere quickly with her ankle swelling.

He doubted that he could carry her down the stairs in the darkness; it was treacherous enough to get down them alone. No, he would wait here for a moment and see if he could set her down safely on the top stair. So he carried her only over the threshold. There was some horrible irony in it, Courfeyrac supposed. He was not a daydreaming schoolgirl, the sort who might have thought about her wedding since childhood and imagined having a strong, handsome young groom carry her over the threshold into their house. He had had sisters, however, who had done it. He knew that a life of lacy white dresses, luxurious wedding feasts, and expensive homes for the happy couple was not a life that Mylene would have. Not with him, and probably not with anyone. There was no ceremony or theatricality about carrying her through the door – it was done out of necessity, out of gritty reality, not out of any overbalance of joy.

Her serious use of his first name gave him pause, and he blinked as she placed her fingertip on his lips. His lips curled into an uncertain smile, then pursed to press a kiss to her fingertip. Shifting in the discomfort of holding her, he drew his head back from her hand so that he could speak. Her last comment had been meant to be light, he knew, but he could not be.

“Yes, Ah would,” he admitted softly. “But ye didn' 'ave to.” She had no reason to be loyal to him, really. They shared friendship and flirtation. But that sort of thing could vanish in an instant, when it came down to life and death. She had no reason to save him. He would have saved her, if he could have, it was true. The Amis were his lifeblood, but she... she had been right there beside him, impossible to ignore. He knew that she could have taken care of herself, yet he'd chosen to intervene.

Why, he couldn't say.

He leaned against the door, taking a breath. “Ah s'pose we should do somethin',” he murmured at length. “No good to jus' wait 'ere.” The step was cramped, and too close to the door. In the moment, he had failed to remember if they had locked it or not. But mostly he said this to relieve some of the tension which he felt had once again crept between them.

[MYLÈNE LACOQUINE]

This day had just been too much. First the May Day event itself, meeting up with her old friends, being tossed back into a life of present and fun, and then it had turned into a nightmare. Once again the Patron-Minette had destroyed everything, they were certainly high on the list of Next Parisean Bane. And all through this day, she had had to deal with… this. Somehow, dealing with flirtation and closeness was alright and manageable in every-day life situations, but when it became mixed up with threats to one’s wellbeing, the general situation just became to loaded. Any other day, any other moment probably, Mylène would have had a few comments ready and she would have savoured the situation, determined to milk it to the last drop, seeing who would once again be the one to stop the delicate dance. Of course she still somehow… savoured this, but more than everything she was just confused.

She hadn’t been sure how he would react to her impulsive movement, she had surprised herself with it, but when he pressed a kiss to her fingertip, she couldn’t help but smile. It was so…refreshingly like Courf once again it seemed as if some of the horror was finally leaving them both. “Trust you to do something like that…” she murmured. “Give a man a little finger…!” Mylène realized she must be getting too heavy for him, even though she wasn’t exactly a heavy weight with her small size and lithe figure. Maybe she should ask him to let her down, she had to look after her ankle anyway. It didn’t hurt now, only felt a little heated, but she would have to see how it would work once she put weight on it. The young woman had had her fair shares of sprained ankles in her life, given her lifestyle and her affinity for high and narrow places, and she knew that this one would gladly be one of her lighter once. If she grit her teeth and maybe with some additional help, she would be able to walk.

She didn’t have to save him?! Well, yes indeed, but… A slight frown worked itself over her face for a minute as she tried to sift through this. Mylène, called LaCoquine rarely thought about the things she did or did not… she just acted, and either it worked out or she would get into another tight spot.
“Since I rarely do what I have to do or what I should do, I guess that works out”, she teased with a soft smile. “See, if I had obeyed you when you said I should get away, earlier…” Oh no, she really didn’t want to think about the possibility. Maybe Courf would have been lucky and escaped without her help, but maybe… Involuntarily her hand gripped his shoulder tighter, as if to reassure herself that he was real, that her friend really was safe now.

But of course he was right, they could not stay like this. Nodding, she tensed her muscles and raised her upper body, saying: “Alors, you can let me down, I know where the next step is.”
Once she felt the stone under her left foot, she slowly tried to put some weight on her right foot as well, one hand still resting on Courf’s shoulder to stabilize herself, the other taking up the torch she had held all this time, almost forgetting about it. “Now… how about we bring some Enlightenment into the world?” she quipped, jokingly referring to Courf’s great ideals, then raised herself on her tiptoes and reached up into a little recess next to Courf’s head, producing a little casket of friction matches, an invention the quarry workers used to light their own torches and candles. “God te know habits never change.”

[Deleted]

No, the horror of the night was not fully leaving him; he suspected it never would. Though Courfeyrac had already been on his way out of the area, aided by Mylene, when the bullet from a Guard's gun had found purchase in an innocent woman's breast, he had seen enough death and destruction, simply from the brutal act of a man being trampled before their eyes. He hated to admit that the violence had been caused not only by the Guard, but by the very people in the crowd who he wanted to have political power. He could only say that it was poverty that made men vicious and desperate. But having never been in a world where poverty did not exist – even though he had grown up insulated from it himself – he could not say for certain whether that was true.

With the heaviness of this thought, it was somewhat relieving to be there with Mylene, where there was... a different sort of heaviness. It did not distract him from his plans. An hour would pass, and he would be reunited with his Amis, once the dust had settled. Only to kick up some more dust, sometime in the weeks to come. Though he had no bloodlust, he did lust for change, and he could not wait for it to come by their own hands.

Did he lust for Mylene as well? Honorable though he may be, Courfeyrac was flirtatious, and he denied himself little that would not be unwanted. His thoughts were not spent on women, for his relations with women came easily; they were spent rather on revolutionary scheming. With Mylene, things were easy. Easy, yet... tense. How easily the words came, and how difficult to interpret!

His brows quirked slightly, a corner of his mouth lifting. “Do ye trust me?” he asked – needlessly, he knew, but the words spilled from his lips, again, with ease. Her words brought heat to the back of his neck, making him uneasy for a moment, not quite relieved by her teasing. Things were getting too serious, weren't they? “Aye, aye,” he replied with a good-natured shake of her head. She didn't listen to instructions sometimes – like to stay out of danger, for instance – but she did listen to him, it was true, like he had something important to say. Even though she teased him too...

Eyes searching hers in confusion when she gripped his shoulder, he realized that she really was terrified of the possibility of his death. She would have to get over that for this revolution. “Ah know these streets too, ye know,” he murmured with an eyebrow raised. “Doesn' mean Ah'll always choose to leave 'em, when push comes to shove.”

But she hadn't left him, and he wasn't about to leave her, at least, not for this moment. He still had time. He nodded stupidly when she said he could put her down, and eased her down, remaining still for her to steady herself. His crooked smile flashed white in the darkness before she leaned closer, reaching around him for the matches. “'s all Ah've ever wanted,” he agreed, when she joked about bringing enlightenment. “It'd be nice to get out of 'ere.” He didn't feel great about walking around the dark catacombs, he had to admit, and going back out into the streets the way they'd come might be disastrous. Pausing, he added, only half-joking, “Though ye did promise me that evening in Paradise. Ah don't suppose this is quite what ye meant.”

[MYLÈNE LACOQUINE]

“Do ye trust me?” – The question threw her for a short moment, unable to discern what he might want to hear: a joking reply or the truth. The answers didn’t quite so much differ from each other so there was no real pain in deciding the path to take – when it came down to it, Mylène would always retaliate with a joke – but there was still a difference in sincerity, as her jokes always carried an element of truth. Biting her lower lip, she looked up at him as if she wanted to map him out or find an answer there, then she gave a shrug, accompanied by a sassy grin. “Dun ask me why, but aye, in mos’ things I do. Must be sumthin’ in those innocent eyes o’ yers.” Of course, half of the time these eyes were far from innocent, but that was clearly beside the point.

He was right to remind her of the cause. He was even right to remind her of his intentions towards the change they all wished to come, and Mylène knew she would take the hint. As much as she wanted them all to acknowledge and accept her own independence and strength, she would have to appreciate and accept theirs. They would stand and maybe fall, or stand and prevail. But stand they would. “I know”, she replied. “Tha’s because yer a fighter. Not in the sense tha’ ye want te use violence, but ye will not yield for fear nor force. An’ tha’s a good thing. There’s far te little people wi’ a spine aroun’ these days.” She paused for a moment, then added: “An those wi’ a spine rarely have a heart te go wi’ it, either.”

Mylène was surprised to hear him speak about the promise she had given, which she had all but forgotten in the turn of events they had just been through. He was right, though. She had wanted this evening to turn out far different, she had wanted him to enjoy himself, relish in the feeling of youth and change at the same time. But fate had chosen different, violence had come over their heads so much sooner. “Paradise was interrupted”, she agreed with a sigh, but then a smile crept back onto her face. “Bu’ye know… tha’s the beauty o’it. Paradise isn’t bound te a specific time an’ place, it can happen anywhere an’ anytime. Even where ye least expect it. Evening’s not over yet.” In what way she had meant this, she didn’t know herself. All she knew was that she would not yield under the hands of fate either. There was always hope, and every cloud had a silver lining.

Handing him the torch without a word so she had both hands free, she chafed a match against the rough stone wall next to her, blinking against the unexpected brightness of the darting flame. No one had ever told her why, she just knew that if you grated the tip of such a match against a rough surface, a flame would come. And it was handy indeed. Holding it against the torch, she watched the flames licking against the souzed cloth, soon chasing away the shadows around them. The flame fell across Courf’s face, bringing out the sparkle of his eyes and some mysterious shadows beneath them. “Look at ye”, she whispered with a soft chuckle. “Now ye really look like this man ye lads once spoke about. Prometheus, right? The one tha’ brought fire te the humans enslaved by the Gods… together with the power o’ insight an’ awareness.”

[Deleted]

Though sometimes Courfeyrac's eyes gleamed with mischief, or had a resolve that was not at all childlike, he did have a baby face with the round cheeks and unruly curls. Perhaps there was something innocent in his childlike faith in humanity and in his cause. Others would just call him a naïve dreamer to think that he and the Amis could truly accomplish change, but Mylene appreciated this about him rather than maligning him for it. He watched her pull her lower lip through her teeth, and returned her smirk faintly. “Good.”

The way she described him, so sincerely and so seriously, as having a spine and a heart with which to fight for his cause, nearly made him tremble with anticipation. There was nothing so encouraging as having someone remind you that you were capable. Capable of what, they would learn in full soon. He glanced at his feet, made strangely uncomfortable by the praise, as flirtatious and boastful as he usually acted. Perhaps because this was unexpected. He usually joked when uncomfortable, but now, he said only, “No, nothin' is over yet.”

Not their fight for freedom, nor his time with Mylene... whatever that meant. His eyes searched hers in the flickering flame, his expression soft as she admired him by torchlight. Sometimes, she still had the power to take him aback. “Oui, Prometheus,” he murmured. The Romantic figure of human striving – ambition an toil that ended in tragedy. Would he end up the same way? Sometimes he felt that his agony was indefinitely prolonged, that every day when he saw the suffering of others, he felt that something inside of him was being eaten away, and the pain of observing poverty. Prometheus, like Shakespeare's Yorick, was a creator and jester who had ultimately been, as Hamlet observed of Polonius, eaten upon.

His liver was not being destroyed – though Grantaire's was, with how often the other student was inebriated – but sometimes he wondered whether someone would come free them, all of them, from their chains. Many had in their minds compared Enjolras to a god, and he certainly seemed deserving of a Herculean description. “Ah hope ye're not the Eagle come to eat me while Ah'm stuck 'ere,” he teased, though weakly. “Is yer beak as sharp as yer tongue?”

[MYLÈNE LACOQUINE]

An edge of solemnity had entered their convesation once again, something that seemed to happen more and more frequently, and Mylène couldn’t say why. Maybe it was the times rubbing off on them, a sign that the time of games was coming to an end. But while it felt a little new and unsure, it didn’t necessarily feel too bad. Apparently she had even made him uncomfortable with her praise, the way he shuffled his feet and looked down at them. It must have come unexpected indeed, since Mylie wasn’t exactly one to boost the confidence of those around her, she rather saw it as her duty to prick and deflate it whenever needed, since overconfidence always made her fingers itch and provoked a sassy comment.

But that was the problem with Courfeyrac these days, he had somehow managed to decrease the target area of her usual teasings by just being… him. Even now he didn’t retaliate so much anymore, feeding her with new things to throw at him, just agreed to what she said or not saying anything at all because he was uncomfortable with praise. That was new indeed, and it made her feel like the ground she was walking on suddenly had become thinner and was even more slippery to walk on than she had expected with her already injured ankle, and that even in a figurative way.

And yet, the less his mouth spoke, the more his eyes did, and she felt his gaze upon her as well as she studied him in the golden torchlight. There it was again, the same old tension mounting between them, which none of them seemed to know how to relieve. Or maybe one of them did, just did not dare to act on it. They kept changing subjects and places, yet the tension always returned and could not be denied. What had been a game throughout them knowing each other had somehow developed some unspecified strings attached, which were palpable, yet not recognizable. Mylène was not one to turn this into a stare fight, but she also did not aspire to be the first one to look away, such was her competitive spirit and the spark of curiosity that never ceased to burn inside her. Not to mention of course that it was simply nice to look at Courf.

Did he appreciate being compared to Prometheus or did he not? There was a hint of bashfulness there, but also a tint of melancholy in his voice at the sole speaking of the name. What might he be getting at? The gruesome ending of the tale?
“Even in the tale of him, as far as I remember, La Liberté had the last say, oui?” she pointed out softly, then paused at his teasing question. That was… interesting. It could be nothing at all of course, but immediately after Courf had posed it, a comment had popped up in her mind, a comment that made her heart rate pick up its pace at the sheer boldness, but she could literally feel it making its way to her lips until it was impossible to bite back.
“I’m not an eagle, jus’ a tiny sparrowhawk”, she began, referring to one of her nicknames. “But as for me beak… I guess you’ll have te see tha’ for yerself, if ye want te know…!”

[Deleted]

A faint smile touched his lips. “Oui,” he admitted. “Ah suspect she always does, is tha' what ye're tryin' to remind me of?” He was grateful for this reminder – that Mylene knew him well enough to read him, in the same way that he could often read others, and know what he needed to hear. They were at the age when countenances spoke even if lips did not. He did not often let himself be swayed by discouragement – or, at least, if he was, he refused to show it, and would instead joke about it weakly as best as he could. However, after tonight, seeing what the National Guard would do when the violence amounted to nothing more than a few punches being thrown by the Patron-Minette, shooting in to the crowd to kill an innocent and causing other people to be trampled to death... well, it had been easy to feel momentarily exhausted in his efforts, now that the adrenaline rush had subsided and they were safely inside. However, he knew that he would not stay down for long. Not when he met with the Amis...

...and apparently not when he was with Mylene. He knew that she could cheer him up with her teasing, but to hearten him with seriousness? Somehow he appreciated it even more. He meant to press her hand in thanks, but even her teasing about her beak did not left him feeling humorous, but rather struck dumb. He had not known what he intended in teasing her about her “beak,” because he did not plan everything, nor did he feel truly nervous that they would get stuck down here without food and Mylene would become cannibalistic. He had, however, to admit that it was easy to draw attention to Mylene's lips, even as his own made no sound. When had things changed, when their interaction had gone from innocent teasing and dancing to the feel of a silent smolder?

Courfeyrac could feel her dark eyes burning into his. “Is tha' a challenge, sparrowhawk?” he murmured, his voice low as he found himself leaning closer. Yes, and in the moment that it had been issued, he had forgotten whatever his reasons were for not doing this earlier. Somehow, he had always been able to step away from the teasing before, and remind himself that he and Mylene were silly together, that they were flirtatious friends, but that she was, unlike other women, his friend, not just a woman with whom he could spend a night with the understanding that it would be one night only. Mylene would be around for longer, and that was why, if something went awry, this could be dangerous. But for now, he was not thinking of these. He was only thinking of her proximity, how she smelled of smoke and sweat and something sweeter.

Not that he would ever admit needing a distraction from his great cause, but perhaps he did. He could not be like Enjolras; he could not always be skilled at separating and forcing down his passions. When it came to injustice, he fought like a lion; when it came to women, he loved like a tiger.

And this, perhaps Mylene would see for herself as Courfeyrac took up her challenge by closing the distance between them and capturing her lips with his.

[MYLÈNE LACOQUINE]

“Oui, mon ami, exactly that.” Ah, he was finally smiling again! Mylène felt relief at this simple fact, relief that apparently she had said the right thing. Eponine had once told her that while she had a sharp tongue, at least she could make people laugh with what she said, but other than teasing, she had never felt really expert. She was not one to ralley people’s hearts with inflaming words like Enjolras, she could not make others follow her to the end of the world and lay down their lives for her with just a smile and a few words full of warmth and soul. Her skills had been acquired to appease and repel at the same time, to keep a careful distance to everything in life, an invisible suit of armour to defend her from being broken up and sucked dry by whatever fate and malignous people could throw at her. Mylène was amiable and cheerful, but in fact she had learned to keep everything and everyone at arms length.

So… where was this distance now? When exactly had it become bridged and by what? Mylène realized she had completely missed any signs that might have pointed this way, and for a moment she felt raw, vulnerable and exposed – helpless even. She felt like Eve after her first bite from the fruit of knowledge, realizing that she was naked and she wanted to run and hide from prying eyes or hands that could pierce her thin skin now. Only for a moment though. Then she looked again at Courf’s face and his previous question echoed in her mind. “Do ye trust me?” And she realized she did. This was Courf, he was one of the most kindhearted men she had ever met, and above all he was her friend. Whatever her impulsive, challenging comment had set in motion, it would be nothing she could not handle in the long run. She didn’t expect much, she knew him after all. And there was not much time for any worrisome thoughts anyway.

Her heart was still beating frantically and she could feel a sizzling tension taking over her body, listening to his murmured remark. Realizing the comment was nothing if not rhetorical, her lips parted slightly but she did not care to make any sound. Instead, she slowly raised her hand and put it at the nape of his neck to steady both herself and him in the exact moment where his lips made contact with hers. The tension she had felt throughout the night, starting the moment when they had danced together exploded into a myriad of different sensations, numbing her mind and reducing her to a bundle of feelings. It was just as well, Mylène had never been one to overthink things anyway. Being quite an adventurous girl sometimes, she was by no means unkissed, but this was… different. Not only had she never kissed such a close friend before, but in a far corner of her mind she acknowledged to have found one of the reasons for Courfeyrac’s fame as a ladies’ man. He certainly made her want for more!

Apparently she had been right after all. Paradise could meet up with you when and where you least expected it to. As she had to break away quickly for air, she murmured “I guess tha’ means challenge accepted”, smiling against his lips.

[Deleted]

As her hand cupped his neck, her mind seeming to understand his as their lips united, Courfeyrac might have wondered - were he not otherwise engaged - why he had not done this before. It certainly wasn't because of his parent's Pope and the man's teaching on abstinence before marriage; he had done away with that teaching with ease, as had most of his friends. (They were lucky to have not faced the consequences of such folly, but they were of an age when they felt themselves to be invincible - at least until something proved them wrong.) He believed in the cause of Les Amis de l'ABC, he knew that much. He believed people, all people, had a right to luxurious passions.

And so he, the son of nobility, found himself kissing a barmaid, and kissing her thoroughly. Having some other experiences of this nature, he did not ask whether she was enjoying it as he was, because he had a feeling knew the answer. Of course, she could have pulled away, if she had so desired, and she had not done so. As they kissed, his hand found the small of her back, holding her lithe body against his. His other hand, free from the torch he had long ago dropped in the chaos and the pamphlets he had distributed, was now holding her torch, and it was only by Providence that he did not drop it in the heat of the moment. He was not one to do things halfway, and when Mylene broke the kiss, he was rather out of breath. And grinning.

"Did ye think Ah wouldn't?" he retorted. He could feel her exhales, warm and slightly ragged, against his lips. "After ye told me Ah 'ad a spine - an' a heart?" It was true that he accepted most challenges thrown his way, whether it was a dare to kiss a beautiful mademoiselle, or to fight against monarchy. That did not mean he considered this a war and Mylene just a conquest. His heart did not belong to her, it couldn't belong to anyone completely when it belonged to every person on the Parisian streets. But he did care about her; even if she didn't seem the type to be easily confused or hurt, he wished to avoid doing so. ...just not at the cost of never kissing her, apparently.

He rested his forehead against hers briefly, still having to lean down to do so, to catch his breath. As he held her, he tried to support some of her weight, remembering her ankle and the height difference. Then he ghosted his lips across the corner of her mouth, her fine jaw, her neck. "Promise me sumthin'," he murmured against her skin, pausing at the hollow at the base of her throat. "It'll be difficult." He smiled, the words coming between more soft presses of his lips. "Don' fall in love with me after this."

Did he love her? Yes, in the sense that there are as many forms of love as there aare people. He did love her, in his own way. Not that he could say it seriously; not now - because he loved France more, and that was far too serious to admit her to love him when he might die for his other mistress, Patria.

[MYLÈNE LACOQUINE]

Ah this was crazy! It was even complete folly, considering what might still be happening on the other side of that door. They had both nearly escaped injury or death and now were engulfed into the profoundest celebration of life that could be found. But maybe that was indeed what fuelled their passion even more. Mylène certainly felt glad to be alive in this very moment and even though she had not expected this to happen under these circumstances, she was not one to throw away such a gift when it presented itself so… freely and passionately. Mylène had always liked playing with fire and she did not mind getting burned in the process, even though these flames, while they might be consuming, were not threatening her life. Everything seemed to melt into one in this heated moment, past, present and even a possible future until it simply didn’t matter anymore. This was the ultimate now, the moment she had always wished to experience. Even if this kiss should stay singular for the rest of her life, she knew she would always be thankful to Courf for this exceptional gift.

For a gifted man he was. Courfeyrac had a certain reputation amongst his friends and she had overheard many a remark in that certain direction, had even taken part in that kind of teasing, but only now she truly was… appreciating the truth behind the words. And apparently he was enjoying himself as well, by the way he smiled when they broke apart. And it felt good, felt natural that even after they had just shared the most heated kisses, they would continue to banter like they always had. “Well, yer not exactly an’ open book sumtimes”, she pointed out. Not to mention that he had had a habit of stepping back whenever they had started to toe that particular line. But she had liked him for that as well, it showed him to be a man of heart truly. “Bu’ then…at least yer consequent in wha’ ye do.”

Oh yes, consequent indeed! It truly seemed like Courfeyrac would never do things half-heartedly whether for fight or for passion. Mylène found herself soon reduced to even more of a bundle of sensations as he traced his lips across the delicate skin of her neck and throat. It was not easy to think while he was doing this and so her body took over mostly, causing her to press her slender body against his in a fervent desire to be closer to him. Her hand had found its way up into his wonderful dark locks, playing with them as she had long since wanted to. But as distracted as she was, she still registered his words, and they were not at all pleasant in a way, they brought a discordant note to this moment. It was highly unfair as well, he probably knew that in this state he was most likely to be granted any promise he desired. Of course she realized where he was coming from, she knew him well enough for that, had learned to esteem him in some way in the months and months she had been around him.

“Oh shush!” she chided him softly, removing the hand from his neck to place it under his chin guiding his lips again towards hers in a searing kiss. Only when she broke away then, she added: “Ye’d deserve it alright, but ye shed know me better than tha’. I take things as they are, life taught me tha’. Wha’ will be will be, wha’ isn’t, isn’t!” Unless of course it was about such things as justice and and equality, but that went without saying, and she hoped he would understand her. He was right, it might be difficult, since he was a prize every girl in her own sane mind would want to claim. But Mylène wasn’t that girl. And Courfeyrac had other things to do. He wasn’t the type of a Monsieur L’Abbé who would forget his cause at the sight of a blond angel. And darn rightfully so!

[Deleted]

It was moments like this, moments of danger and excitement, which should be taken at full tilt, taken and savored. It was in these moments that Courfeyrac basked in the feelings that washed over him – because things had not yet gotten so precarious that he was required to focus all his energies into simply surviving. But if that day was going to come soon, then he was going to enjoy this while he could.

“Sometimes, lips can communicate withou' speech,” he agreed cheekily. It was true, he had not told her everything, but that was because for a time, he did not know how to feel, and for him, that was unusual; it unnerved him a little. Of his views of monarchy, he was certain. Of his views of the female sex as a whole, he was also certain. His views of Mylene in particular were... complex. It was easy for him to understand his brethren, for they all had the same goal, though they came from different backgrounds. To understand a woman was much more difficult. And what he could not understand, or felt uncomfortable about or afraid of, he joked about, thus obscuring his own true feelings. But once his passion was set? It was followed through, as she pointed out verbally, and as he was more than willing to demonstrate to her.

He had teasing her, in part, about falling in love with him. He knew that he had, at times, been successful in his flirtations. That was not to say that he was always successful; to tell the truth, he had not been certain what would happen with Mylene, because as much as he prided himself on being able to read people, he could not always do so. That was part of the fun of it though, and now that they were in this moment, even if it was just for this moment, he was going to enjoy it alright.

And of course he was enjoying her kiss, which he returned eagerly. He certainly didn't need to be told twice. He also enjoyed being told that he deserved her love... even if she wasn't going to give it. “Oh, Ah know tha' already,” he responded jokingly. (Mostly jokingly.) He did know her, and he knew that for most of the people of Paris, who did not know when they might be struck down by cholera or hunger, the only way to live was day by day. “C'est la vie,” he agreed. “An' what was it you were plannin' on taking tonight?” He quirked an eyebrow in amusement, relishing the feel of her against him. “Besides taking your life into your own hands, that is.” Yes, he knew she was quick and capable, but he still didn't like the idea of putting herself in danger... though some would say that what they were doing now was dangerous as well.

[MYLÈNE LACOQUINE]

Mylène let go a little laugh at Courfeyrac’s comment, her eyes sparkling with the same old mischief even if they now also were gleaming with something more … heated and profound. It was one thing to toss comments without true content back and forth, she realized, but a completely different thing to just having done part of what had been hinted at. It endowed their banter with a whole new level, a level she truly enjoyed. Whether he had wanted to hint at what lips could do without words – and she was all but sure he had – or not, she would not pass up this chance. “It’s a language universal te mankind an’ therefore a testimony o’ equality”, she agreed with a mock solemn and serious voice, but the mischief broke out soon after with the comment she adde, winking at him sassily. “An’ it’s the one mos’ … pleasin’ te learn an’ get proficient in.”

She was a girl of practical thoughts and had had little leisure to bring her mind to heights above the everyday musings, but the evenings spent with the ABC friends and their sometimes quite sophisticated talking had tipped the balance there a bit, and sometimes she found herself lost in idle musings she later laughed about because they were clearly of no significance whatsoever. But some time or another she had already wondered who had first realized that a simple putting lips against lips would bring you joy and had therefore turned it into the epitome of passion and affection between two individuals of opposing sexes. Everyone, from the lowest beggar to the highest king knew the meaning of that secret code and used it. In basic feelings, like passion, love, hatred and sadness, the true Equality of every man and woman showed. Everything else was only façade created by custom and law. This was a simple philosophy she could grasp, because there was practical proof for it to see and discern.

Thinking about the time that would come after they had left the catacombes really was not what Mylène wanted to do right now. Of course life would go on, like it always did, but since you could do little to change that, why bother crossing bridges before you came to it? Right now, they had found a little sanctuary and just because they both knew it wouldn’t and couldn’t last forever did not mean they had to tint their kisses now with the bittersweet taste of caducity, oui? It had been some time, maybe even years since she last had shared more than just one teasing kiss with a willing counterpart, but slowly she started to feel like she was getting back into the flow of things, getting bolder and more adventurous with every time their lips met. And there probabla weren’t many teachers more apt she could think of. Some might call Mylène incorrigible, but she was still most able to learn.

“Wha’ d’ye know already?” she asked him challengingly. “That ye’d be deservin? Bah, careful Monsieur, ye know what boastful behaviour makes me do. I prick it, an’ prick it an’ prick it, ‘til it explodes.” Chuckling darkly, she underlined her warning by poking her finger repeatedly into his chest.
Looking up at him, which was getting difficult because of their proximity (but it was not like she was complaining), she took a moment to think of a good answer, then cocked her head, the same habit that was probably one reason for her to be called a sparrowhawk by some. “Alors, since me plan o’ takin’ ye te paradise got a bit ruffled, I had te improvise. Takin… chances… opportunities… a hint… a fancy…” she smiled. “Now ye take yer pick!”