Some Wine and Say What's Going On ( Courfeyrac )

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They had planned on meeting at the café at six, and Combeferre showed up a good ten minutes before the agreed upon time so that he could think in solitude. He had asked Courfeyrac there to discuss the subject of their letters back and forth to each other—which was an ailment that he thought he had. He had since writing his last letter realized—or admitted, perhaps he had known it all along—that it was not an ailment, and that he was in love. It seemed silly, his being in love. He was the guide, the one who always kept a clear head, the one who paid little if any mind to pretty girls passing him on the street. Yet this gamine whom he had offered to help with her reading skills had stolen his heart.

He fought it—he was still fighting it and losing—but there was no use. This strange, foreign—scary even—feeling had ensnared him against his will until it consumed him completely. She entered his thoughts every few minutes without fail—when he was studying, when they were planning. What really annoyed him was when he was in the middle of a meeting and he daydreamed—him daydreaming—and only came back to earth when someone called his name, and he actually had to work to search his nearly-perfect memory to figure out what said person had just told him.

He wanted to be angry at her for doing this to him but he could not—how could she possibly know? He had not known it himself until he noticed how distorted his thinking had become. That was what bothered him about the whole ordeal of being in love—it was very difficult for him to carry on rationally as he had before he had fallen under her spell. He wished that there were some way out of this, that his mind at least could go back to the way it was before they had started their lessons. He did not regret teaching her—no not at all. In all honesty, he enjoyed it immensely. He looked forward to it every day because with each lesson he would have the chance to admire her clever chocolate eyes, to watch intently as they concentrated on particularly difficult passage he was teaching her. He would admire her rare but glowing dimpled smile, at least until he felt his cheeks warming and he looked away so that she wouldn’t notice him staring.

That was another thing—he had never felt so nervous as he did around her. He had never been the most confident person to walk the earth, but what self-confidence he had fell to pieces whenever he was in her presence. He became a stammering mess with a single look or smile—it was pathetic. He was angry at himself for reacting that way every time she was around him, but it seemed so natural now that he didn’t know how else to react. She was beautiful—there, he had thought it. It was the truth and there was no way around it. She was beautiful and sharp-witted and incredibly brave in the hardship he wasn’t naïve enough not to know she faced, and everything he wanted in a woman but everything he couldn’t have because in a matter of days he could be lying dead on some street in Paris because of his ideas.

He ordered tea for himself as he waited for Courfeyrac and took a ginger sip. Of all the times he could have fallen in love, he had to choose now.

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In spite of his ability to tease his friend about women – why, he had been doing the very same thing for a number of years now both with Enjolras and with any other Ami who had not yet found himself an innamorata – Courfeyrac knew that these were serious times. Lamarque was dead. He had gone to the general's house and spoken with the doctor to confirm the sobering news. That enough was cause for wine. Add to it the fact that their hopes for the street parade had gone awry (well, at least in one sense: they had handed out the pamphlets and inflamed the crowd, alright, but at the cost of an innocent life!), and Courfeyrac could use some cheering up.

This was the time in which there was no question in his mind: the barricades would rise, and soon. Lamarque's funeral was fast approaching, and after their discussion with the other Amis, everything was in place. Still, at a time when they could not question their purpose, they had to question what they would leave behind if they should fall in the battle to come. For the majority of the Amis, that was their mistresses, the only people they were connected to in this world anymore aside from each other. Some of them were orphans; others were orphans by choice, having been disinherited by their parents for their radical notions. In either case, when a man had some possibility of impending death, he would cling to whatever was closest.

It was no wonder, then, that even Combferre had fallen under the spell of a jade. That it was Eponine, of all people, Courfeyrac found somewhat curious, yet unsurprising. The two had been spending more time together lately than would make it possible for at least one of their feelings to remain neutral. But Combferre should have known better. It was obvious to Courfeyrac, even though he did not spend much time with Eponine, that she was already in love with Marius. But Marius had not noticed, he did not think, and it was unlikely that M. le docteur had either.

Not like he could tell Blaise. The poor chap was already fragile enough.

He put on his cheeriest face and swung into the cafe. "Bonsoir, mon ami," he greeted, easing into a chair and leaning back heavily. "Well, tell me then of yer ailment, and we'll see if a remedy can be prescribed."

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Combeferre looked up and nodded in greeting to Courfeyrac when he sat down. “Bonsoir, mon ami.” he replied with a tired smile. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.” He had done a lot of thinking since he had written the letter asking him to meet him there, and had come to a conclusion—he was afraid of how to word it because he did not want to outright admit that Courfeyrac had been correct the entire time. He didn’t want to add to his already inflated ego any further. “My ailment is…that I cannot stop thinking about the mademoiselle in question, no matter how hard I struggle. She has entered my heart and bewitched me body and soul.”

He ran a hand through his flaxen hair and continued, “I didn’t wish for this to happen, I didn’t even consider it a possibility when I started tutoring her. I just wanted to help—because it was the right thing, because it would prove a point that education is the key to liberating the people. But also, I just wanted to help her. Of course she’s very quick-witted and knew that was what I wanted to do, and she insisted on cleaning my flat as repayment, and I insisted that she dine with me and have anything she wished from my cabinets, so that she would have proper nourishment. As time went on I began to see her—to truly see her—as the treasure she is. She deserves much better than the hand life has dealt her.”

He paused to take a sip of his tea and studied the tea cup silently for a few moments before adding, “I don’t want to save her, Christian. I just…I want her to know that she doesn’t have to go through life alone—that I would be right there with her if she asked me to be…but I can’t, not now.” He snapped out of his reverie, his distant, introspective eyes becoming calm and businesslike as usual. “I’m not worried about becoming distracted from our goal, because nothing could keep me from standing and fighting with you. I believe in our cause with all my heart, just as I love her with all my heart—but I do not shirk from my responsibilities as you know. I could not make promises of a lifetime of love and companionship that I know I cannot keep. In a few days I may be dead—the truth would only be a burden, and one I am most unwilling to saddle her with.”

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“Of course. Ah didn't have anythin' important to do.” He was teasing; that wasn't quite true. He had a lot of important things to do to prepare for the coming days, namely Lamarque's funeral and what would follow. However, while perhaps he would not announce it seriously, he would give his friend priority. He could hardly expect Combferre, who was unaccustomed to such distractions, to know how to deal with them while trying to simultaneously plan for the barricade. No, the only way to alleviate the problem was to confront it directly. Courfeyrac knew that he could trust Combferre to focus when the need arose, but this was as good a time as any to get cold feet and feel intensely.

Very intensely, apparently. Had the man just quoted Pride and Prejudice? That novel was not yet two decades old and its author had been initially unnamed on its title page; it was already somewhat popular, but to have Combferre quote it... This was serious. Courfeyrac adopted an expression of sympathy. “Well,” he began, steepling his hands and tapping the fingertips together. “It seems that both you an' this mademoiselle have been educated.” The teasing was light, but he was serious about helping his friend. He watched Combferre for a moment in concern, listening quietly and allowing the man to gather his thoughts. Some things, he knew Combferre just had to talk through. He would speak when Blaise was finished.

“Non – that is not your job,” he agreed with an understanding nod when Blaise said that he didn't want to save Eponine; she could do that rather well on her own after taking care of herself for some years, as Courfeyrac imagined she would have to with the Thenardiers as her parents. He was startled, but oddly proud, when Combferre owned up to being in love, but he took it calmly enough and merely nodded. “So then... what is it tha' you wish t' do, exactly?” he asked, trying to draw more of Combferre's feelings out. Courfeyrac could empathize, truly he could. He had waited a while, a long while for him, to do anything with Mylene besides flirt. He knew what the danger was of their goal. “Do you wish to die a knight 'ose love was untold and unconsummated because you let 'er be free? Or do you want to go up to 'er and kiss 'er and give 'er somethin' to remember you by if we go?”

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Combeferre realized that his dilemma must seem—or rather, it was—trivial in the face of everything else going on around them, namely the revolution that they both were planning. However the only reason this was a dilemma was because of the revolution. If Lemarque’s funeral were not in a few days, he would have just told Eponine and been done with it, or put it off until he felt ready to tell her. But now he did not know what the right course of action was. He was not deluded into thinking that he would survive this, he knew the odds were not in his favor—in any of their favor, to be honest. Could he really take this burden to the grave himself, because that’s ultimately what it was—a burden, so long as she didn’t know.

He glanced at Courfeyrac in question and clapped his hand to his forehead when he realized what he had done. He would be lying if he denied that he had been perusing Austen. He had read the book some time ago because he was bored on a trip home and his mother had recommended it to him. He had forgotten to give it back and she told him to keep it, but he had never opened it until ironically after he started tutoring Eponine. “It’s true though, that’s exactly how I feel about her—and I keep telling myself, no, I can’t do this now, I cannot feel this now, right before we put our plan into practice.” He looked at his teacup and then at Courfeyrac glumly. “I can’t fall out of love, and the trouble is, I don’t even think I want to do that.”

Combeferre was still contemplating his answer to Courfeyrac’s first question when he went on, and a blush spread across his cheeks at what he suggested. He shook his head vehemently. “No, no, I don’t want to make her my…my mistress.” He said the word quietly even though they were really the only ones in the café. “I merely would tell her how I felt about her and—if by chance she did love me as well—I would promise to marry her if I did return.” He thought for a few moments and then added, “After a suitably lengthy courtship of course. But that’s only if I survive this.” he stated, waving a hand.

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“Ah know, Ah know – you were in the middle before ye knew it had begun,” Courf said solemnly, struggling to keep a straight face. He only managed to do so because that was sort of the way that he felt as well. He knew that he did care about Mylene, but to put a label on it... that was not something that he could do, for the same reason that he had questioned doing anything at all with her. He cared about her more than the average woman of the streets. He had his own code of honor, even if it wasn't the same as others', and he had no desire to hurt or abandon anyone. Combferre seemed to know this well of himself. “But you do,” he pointed out, when Combferre continued to say he could not be in love, and then he admitted that he was, and that he could not get out of it. “Ah'm confused,” Courfeyrac deadpanned, though to see Blaise so perturbed was quite understandable. “An' so are you, it seems.”

Combferre was in love; it should be simple, but it wasn't. It wasn't even easy for Courfeyrac, which he would never admit. For the most part, he didn't let women get close enough for him to hurt them if he didn't return their feelings. The only feelings involved were physical, with most of them, but he did care about them simply as people. That, he knew, could not be the case with Combferre, and it was because of this that Courfeyrac burst out laughing when Combferre nearly whispered what he thought his friend was insinuating. “Mon Dieu, man! Ah knew you wouldn't do that. Where is your mind?” He shook his head and took a sip of his wine, only to choke on it when Combferre suggested marriage.

Recovering himself, he managed, “Excusez-moi, but is it not so that only a few days ago, ye couldn't even admit to loving the girl?” he asked, one eyebrow raised. “An' now you're thinkin' about spending the rest of yer life with her?” He leaned across the table seriously. It was insensible that they were building a barricade and preparing to die, but to think of living and committing one's life that way so... so casually in speech! Now that was absolute madness! “Blaise, Blaise. Can't we cross that bridge when we come to it?” He patted his friend's hand. “What you're tellin' me is, if you die, then you don't want 'er to know you loved 'er. An' yet... you don't want to die without tellin' 'er, is that it?” Again, sometimes Combferre just needed to have someone encourage him to talk these things out. If it were up to Christian, he'd get the boy a jade to give him a good time before they marched off to die, but that wasn't truly satisfying, not to Combferre and perhaps not entirely to Courfeyrac either, if he were to think seriously about it.

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“Exactly! I couldn’t stop it—I wanted to, but I couldn’t…” Combeferre muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I tried to—I thought I could, but I couldn’t.” He had never wanted to fall in love. It was never a priority, it was never a part of the stringent planning he used to organize his life. He wanted to become a professor of philosophy, and he realized that he needed to do something else to put him through school. So he had decided on also studying medicine so that he could become a doctor. This was the first time his plan conflicted with other people. His father namely was against his idea, insisting that he study law. His mother had coaxed him out of possibly disinheriting him, but their relationship was still shaken. Neither of his parents liked the fact that he had no plans whatsoever to marry, and his mother always tried to set him up with the most insincere, uninteresting bourgeois girls they could find in France—and England, since his mother had friends and family there. The endless balls and social gatherings of his youth had turned him against the idea of love and marriage almost completely until he met Eponine.

“I just don’t know what to do!” Combeferre exclaimed in despair. It felt wrong not to tell her how he felt, and yet it felt wrong telling her how he felt. There seemed to be no single right answer to the dilemma with which he was faced. He knew of course that their lessons would have to end when the revolution started. He just could not dedicate himself to teaching her then, and it would be far too dangerous. He didn’t know when he would be able to leave the barricade, or if he even would. So naturally either way he would have to say goodbye to her. When he did, he could either stay silent or tell her that he loved her.

His blush grew a deeper red when Courfeyrac insisted that that wasn’t even what he was suggesting. “Oh, um…” He rubbed the back of his neck and studied the wood grains of the table. He only looked up when he heard Courfeyrac choking on his drink. He raised his eyebrows in challenge to his reaction, but then grew embarrassed. He did sound ridiculous. “You know I’ve lost my ability to think rationally because of my feelings for this girl—which is exactly why I wanted to avoid this. I can’t think straight anymore, Courfeyrac!” He exhaled and crossed his arms. “You’re right of course. But I wouldn’t even be considering telling her anything if I weren’t serious.” Combeferre said gravely. He nodded at his friend’s assessment of the situation. “Yes, that is right.”

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If Courfeyrac had been slightly less benevolent, he might have used this opportunity to tell his friend I told you so when it came to Combferre's belief that he could carefully plan his life – or avoid women entirely. It seemed that now, of all of them, only Enjolras had managed to do so. Most of the Amis had given into it gladly, yet Combferre resisted. “You think it's wrong?” Courf prodded gently. “To be in love at all?” He wanted to see if it was the general distraction, or Eponine in particular, which caused the distress. There was no way to put delicately that Eponine was worthy of distress. “B'cause Ah know you. An' Ah know nothin' is gonna get in the way of yer support.” He gave Blaise's arm an affirming squeeze, attempting to meet his gaze amid his uncomfortable squirming. “Or in yer ability to think straight, whatever you say. It's yer feelin's that aren't straight, tha's all.”

As for getting them straight, he had one question, one which would probe at Combferre to see whether or not he knew where Eponine's feelings were. “What do you 'ave to offer 'er?” he asked bluntly. “'ow will you support 'er?” It was not a question which had been too much on his own mind, because he did not think that Mylene would expect him to ask such a question. But when all of this was over, would they go back to being poor students? They could not remain that way forever. Eventually, they would have to get jobs or crawl back to their aristocratic parents like prodigal sons. But they had not wasted their lives on drunkenness and prostitutes (or at least Combferre hadn't); how could they admit that this cause, which they believed dying for, was some kind of mistake? That was what the de Courfeyracs would likely expect their son to do. And he could not. They were benevolent parents who would not let their son starve, but he would not let himself be starved of the fruit of the tree of knowledge, either. He preferred life the way it was now.

“You think she'll be sad, if... if you die?” It was still difficult to speak of the possibility of their death. They knew it was a possibility, but to actually stare it in the face; that would be much different when the time came. Courfeyrac would fear death if he ever had to get close enough to it to realize what it was. It was neither wealthy bodies entombed in gold coffins or bloated bodies of cholera victims on the street, not entirely – it was all feeling and thought gone, at least as far as he could understand them in this temporal world. He believed in God and Heaven, but he did not know what they would be like.

The prospect of death could frighten a man into madness or into love. Perhaps they were the same thing.

Combferre couldn't know all of Eponine's feelings, Courfeyrac supposed; he hadn't even known her that long, mon Dieu! But it was worth testing to see what it was he wanted to give her, why he thought she might want to be with him... if at all.

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Combeferre shook his head at his best friend’s question. “No, mon ami, I do not think that it is wrong. I don’t condemn anyone for being in love. Love—both platonic and romantic—is an admirable thing, but I have never been interested in romantic love. I always viewed it as—for me personally—a waste of time. You might ask what changed, and the only answer I can give you is my seeing Eponine. Of course I had seen her at meetings or in passing but I never knew her or, ashamedly cared to know her. It had never crossed my mind to even speak with her until she left alone that night at the café—I just wanted to see that she would get home safely. And on the way, we talked about books, and I offered to tutor her.” he recounted. Was this a normal thing for people to fall in love in such a short period of time? He thought of Marius and Cosette and then shuddered. He was not that far gone.

But here he was talking of courtship and marriage when there was a larger task at hand—winning the revolution? He was no better than he was—he was a man in love and all he could think about at this moment was the object of his affections. Dear God, why have you done this to me? His attention was recaptured when Courfeyrac spoke again. His words replayed themselves in his mind—nothing would get in the way of his support for their cause, not even his love for Eponine. And according to Courfeyrac, his thinking was just fine. Then what was the problem? Did he just not know what to do with these feelings? Well obviously. He had never had such feelings for anyone before.

He glanced over at him when he asked what he could offer Eponine. “A stable home, a steady income, food, safety—and I do hope I would make her happy. I would do everything in my power to make her happy. Of course, she would have my unconditional love.” he replied seamlessly and truthfully. “As for provision, I do not expect my parents—especially Father—to react very well to my having participated in a government uprising, which I have planned for in the event we do survive. I am going to practice medicine, as I planned. A friend of my professor works at a hospital and he offered to take me under his wing, give me some ‘practical experience’ as he put it. I would work as his apprentice for a couple of years—I’d be paid enough to have a comfortable living, nothing spectacular—and then I would be a full-fledged physician. Add that to what I’ll be making from tutoring, and I should say she would be well cared for. If worse comes to worse, I’ll go to England and practice there. I have family in London and Oxford who aren’t as politically fanatic as my father. And if by some chance Mother convinces him not to disinherit me, we do have money. I have no title but I come from a respected family. I should think that I can offer her much. Being a doctor's wife can't be that bad, can it? If she accepts, that is.”

He hesitated at Courfeyrac’s question. “Of course she’d be sad—she’d be sad for all of us. She’s a good person, I’m sure she’d balk at any unnecessary loss of life. If…if I didn’t tell her I think she would be sad to have lost a teacher and hopefully a friend.” he stated evenly. “I don’t know how she feels about me to be honest, but I doubt it’s as strongly as I feel for her.”

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Good. They were getting somewhere. Courfeyrac nodded calmly in response to Combferre's words that he did not disapprove of love in general. It was fair, yet... he sighed as Combferre mused upon seeing Eponine and falling in love against his expectations. Oh, he had it bad. Fortunately, he had thus far functioned better than Marius; he was still coming to their meetings on time, at least. “Ah know 'ow it is,” he smirked conspiratorially. Tutoring in itself might not seem like the place for romance to blossom, but leaning together over a book and talking about important ideas and seeing the light of passion in someone's eyes when they spoke about what they believed in... What could be better? Aside from kissing. But for Combferre, anyway, what could be better?

Well. Actually acting on their desires – no, no, not for women, but for freedom! - would be better. Thankfully, Combferre still seemed to remember that. He was ever-practical. That was why he was so hesitant about all of this, why he was fighting his feelings. But Courfeyrac didn't think it was very healthy to repress them. Who knew what it would do to him? He was not accustomed to seeing Combferre disturbed. Even when Combferre got agitated, he was only resolute. He was trustworthy, even predictable, as Courf saw it. The poor boy was not used to feeling about women, maybe because he was the balance to the extreme feelings of Enjolras and Courfeyrac.

This was why Courfeyrac gave a long-suffering sigh, like that of a parent, when Combferre listed all the things he could offer Eponine. “Good. Very good,” he began impatiently. “And yer love, don't forget that.” He raised an eyebrow in amusement at the fact that this was last. Of course Combferre had already come up with a grand plan for his life, assuming that they continued to live for a while. He had to wonder if this had all been inspired by Eponine, or if it was in place before. Most likely the latter. He had not talked to Combferre about everything, but he had about much, and he knew that most of his planning skills had gone towards preparing for a revolution. And now to be preparing for domesticity! It was horrible.

“That'll do,” he insisted, after listening to what had probably been the most boring umpteen sentences issued from Combferre's mouth in one sitting – other than the flowers, though that was beside the point. “But that isn't all Ah meant.” He scratched his head. “Of course being a doctor's wife isn't bad, but you can't jus' make value judgments dependin' on what's on paper.” He looked at his friend, considering his words carefully. “Sometimes, things just don't feel the way you'd expect 'em to. Tha' doesn't mean there's anythin' wrong with you. Ah jus'... Ah jus' want you to remember who you are.” He tapped his friend's chest with a fond smile. “Wha's in here, tha's what makes you. Not how some jade feels about you. Know that, no matter what you decide. An' Ah'll still love you.” He grinned and squeezed Blaise's shoulder affectionately.

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He shook his head at Courfeyrac’s smirk and sighed. “It sounds horribly cliché but every time I look into her eyes or see her smiling at me it’s as if time itself has stopped. Everything used to be about my plans, plans of the future, becoming a professor, studying and working—because I thought that that was all I wanted in life. Love was never in the plan, she was never in the plan. But I’m willing—no I want to change the plan so that she’s in it…b-because the plan doesn’t matter anymore. She’s what I want most in life, not prestige, not success…just her.” he explained sincerely.

If anything he was doing could possibly make his parents happy—or at least, his mother—it was this. His father would object to his falling in love with a gamine on top of refusing to practice law, but his mother would simply be glad that he had actually found a girl. However he wasn’t writing anything until he knew for certain what was going to happen—which would of course be after the battle, if he even survived. He really needed to stop thinking like that, he knew it would do them no good to think of things negatively, but he was just trying to be practical.

“But of course!” Combeferre replied immediately. “I thought I already mentioned that—of course I’d offer her my love…my undying affection and devotion. How does that sound? I planning it out in my head as we speak.” Frankly the prospect of the inevitable conversation with Eponine scared him. He was having trouble being open about his feelings now with his friend—he could only imagine how difficult it would be when he spoke with the mademoiselle in question. He could not let his courage desert him now. There were only a few short days until Lemarque’s funeral, it was now or never.

“What do you mean?” he asked quizzically after Courfeyrac’s comment about his misunderstanding him. “Well no, of course not—it all depends on her feeling the same way. And if she doesn’t, I’ll be fine.” he stated, emphasizing the word. Was that true? He had never had his heart broken because he had never dared or wished to give it to anyone. But why would she refuse me? It wasn’t that he was vain, because he wasn’t, but he at least thought he was doing everything right. He doubted that her feelings were as strong as his, and that was something he could live with, but surely she must feel something? He rubbed his temples. This wasn’t about getting an answer as to whether she cared about him, it was about informing her that he cared about her. He looked down and then back up at Courfeyrac as he poked him in the chest and smiled at his words. “Thank you. You’re…you’re the greatest friend anyone could ask for—and thank you for putting up with my lovesick ramblings!” He clapped him on the shoulder and chuckled at the absurdity of his last words. The world was upside down, that was for sure—but he was not ashamed of how he felt. “If my wooing is successful, you’re more than welcome to be my best man.” he said half-jokingly. He didn’t know whether or not they would make it out of the conflict alive, let alone whether Eponine would accept an offer of marriage, but if by some fortune both things did occur, he could think of no worthier person to ask.

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Yes, he had already mentioned it; Courfeyrac was just repeating it, somewhat mockingly, and to point out that this was the most important of the things that Combferre had said, even though it was last. Perhaps it was an afterthought, though Combferre was the sort who planned things with such thoroughness that that had been at the forefront of his thoughts and he had been building up to it. Of course he was already planning what to say to Eponine. “Nothin' more romantic than a plan,” he muttered, passing his hand over his face in some exhaustion as he tried to stifle the groan that was rising. Making a plan would be the only way that Combferre could share his feelings. Maybe it would be better if there were no plan, then. Not for Eponine's sake, but for Combferre's.

That was why he had to tread lightly, now that he had suggested some of his misgivings. One of his eyebrows quirked as Combferre emphasized that he would be “fine” no matter what Eponine felt, but Courfeyrac composed himself once more. “Well, Ah know ye'll be fine. Ah just want you to be good.” He shrugged one shoulder non-committally, as if he said that he had no reason why Eponine wouldn't like Combferre. And he didn't, really. He hadn't gone straight up to Eponine and asked her bluntly whether she were in love with Marius. There was nothing wrong with Combferre, of course. Just as there was nothing inherently wrong with Courfeyrac – and if she hadn't fallen in love with him, then she had to be in love with someone else, prior to Combferre's realization that the gentler sex existed.

It pained him a little to see how cheered Combferre suddenly was. He could only hope that the next time they met, he would not be deflated. He returned the smile, albeit somewhat weakly. “Ah know, Ah know,” he replied teasingly when Combferre praised him for being a wonderful friend and listener. He swallowed hard when Blaise mentioned being best man, but then he nodded. “Don' offer unless you're certain, b'cause Ah'll do it.” His warm dark eyes looked fondly upon the flaxen-haired student as Courfeyrac clapped his hand over Combferre's where it rested on his shoulder. “But whatever she says, like Ah said, you'll have me forever.” He grinned and pulled away, reaching for another sip of wine. “Now then – get off yer ass, there's work to do!”

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“That’s the thing, I don’t…I don’t know how to be romantic, Christian! If it was spontaneous I just wouldn’t know what to say and would end up looking a feckless klutz, or even more so than she must think me to be from our lessons.” Combeferre protested when he heard his friend’s sarcastic comment. He had never been well-spoken but he was always, without fail, tongue-tied in her presence—except when he was actually teaching. But in idle conversation, he knew not how to conduct himself without appearing the infatuated fool he was. He must write down how he felt, there was no way around it. Then he would practice to perfection, and then, and only then, would he impart this information to her.

“I’ll be good once we win the revolution—I still have that if I can’t have her, and my career. Don’t worry.” Truth be told he did not want to think about the possibility of being rejected. It would hurt him, regardless of what he was telling Courfeyrac at the present. It would hurt him because he had never experienced heartache before, he had never been that vulnerable, that at the mercy of a single person. That’s what scared him the most—her reaction to his declaration. Would she laugh? He could bear almost anything but that. He was as serious as he was about his studies—more serious, actually—as he was about this.

He may have said that his studies and his career would fill the void that he would be left with if he was rejected, but that was not necessarily true. In fact the appearance—or rather, him finally noticing the appearance—of Eponine in his life had made him realize that love was not necessarily a triviality. Maybe it was because she was so vastly different from any woman he had met in the past. She was intelligent, strong-willed, very opinionated, courageous, and by far, as he had told Mylene, the most amazing person he had ever had the privilege—for he considered it a privilege—of knowing. He felt that she deserved to be happy, and he very much hoped that she would allow him to make her happy.

He chuckled at Courfeyrac’s cockiness and then nodded at his next comment. “You’re the only one I would ask. I’d settle for no one else as my best man, Christian—if we do marry, that all depends.” On her answer, on my survival… But he did not want to think of such things now, now he needed to consider how he would tell her. He smiled when Courfeyrac laid his hand over his and then nodded. “Thank you—and you’ll have me as well.” He laughed at his last words—to think, Courfeyrac of all people telling him to get to work—and stood, leaving a tip on the table for the barmaid. “Until tomorrow, mon ami.” He donned his hat and waved, rushing out of the café and humming to himself on the way home.