Christmas, 1831
Dec. 25th, 2018 11:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
feedeslilasi wanted this to be done by christmas and it’s clearly not but i’m posting it anyway.
feat. flirty ooc enjolras and combeferre’s protestant mom
—-
“I think that if Our Lord consented to be born in a dark and gloomy stable, you might consent to spend a few hours with him tonight.” Madame Combeferre readjusted her earrings and stepped back from the hall mirror to admire the effect. “Not that I think that Christ abides exclusively in Saint-Merri, mind you, only that it is easier to think of sacred things when one is surrounded by organs and incense and such. I for one, would much prefer a service in Temple Sainte-Marie, but I know my children do not share my beliefs, and I must find whatever value I can in the popish rite. Michel, dear, fix your cravat.”
Enjolras, lost in a daydream, nodded and turned to Combeferre expectantly. Combeferre, one arm in his overcoat and one out, sighed and began untying and retying Enjolras’s cravat.
“We are happy to accompany you to Midnight Mass,” said Combeferre. “It is really no inconvenience.”
Unconvinced, his mother continued. “I understand that you work long hours and would much rather be in bed right now, but I do worry about your spiritual development, dear. So much death and cruelty, it can rot your soul before you know it. Your poor father suffered greatly in his work, and without religion as a balm, I shudder to think what would have become of him. Now, that looks much better.” She smiled at Enjolras and smoothed his hair back from his face. “Very good.”
She began calling for Combeferre’s siblings, and it was some time moments later that her youngest son, despite his friend’s desperate glances, burst out with a response.
“Maman, do you really think that Christ would want us to leave the suffering lest by proximity they rot our spiritual development? That is extraordinarily unkind of you.”
Marthe, midway through having her own hair wrangled, made a little gasp. Silvère began talking loudly to his new wife about the possibility of snow later in the week. Madame Combeferre raised an eyebrow and looked down at her gloves, ostensibly to pick at a spot of dust collected on the wrist.
“You know well that that is not what I meant, Denis. Please, restrain yourself from such outbursts in the future. You will make your guest uncomfortable.” She smiled warmly at Enjolras. “It must be trying to deal with his little bouts of temper, is it not?”
“I admire his conviction,” Enjolras said. He gently touched Combeferre on the forearm. “Do not quarrel with your mother on Christmas.”
Combeferre softened. “I’m sorry, Maman.”
His mother sighed and wrapped her arm around Marthe’s waist. There was very little resemblance. “I know it is difficult without your Papa here, but you do not have to bicker with me in his place. Are we all ready? Julie, will you be warm enough?”
---
They were early, of course, and after ten minutes of pretending to read the missal, Enjolras turned to Combeferre.
“Did your parents often argue over religion?”
Combeferre, untangling a jet-bead rosary, chuckled. “Oh absolutely. He thought her a heretic, or claimed to. I do not think there was any genuine antipathy.”
An altarboy nearly tripped as he scurried along the aisle holding a candelabra.
“I wanted to be a priest. As a child.” Enjolras swallowed and picked at his thumbnail. “Forgive me, I don’t know why I just remembered that.”
“Well,” said Combeferre. “We are in a church.”
They lapsed into fitful silence. Somewhere to Combeferre’s right, Marthe sneezed.
“I find,” said Enjolras suddenly, “that the Christmas season brings out a certain nostalgia in me. I do not often dwell on my childhood, but…” He gestured at the stations of the cross, covered in ribbon and holly. “It is all so familiar. This was your childhood church, was it not?”
“No, we attended Saint Nicolas in Maisons-sur-Seine. This is easier for Silvère and Julie, especially in her condition. Maman sometimes attends Temple Sainte-Marie or Saint-Louis-du-Louvre alone, and God only knows where Marthe spends her Sundays.”
Marthe, who was eavesdropping, aimed a kick at Combeferre’s calf. He elbowed her back.
“It’s odd,” said Enjolras, ignoring the chaos to his right, “but I pass by here all the time and have never thought to visit, nevermind attend Mass. It’s odd how something can take up so much of your life and then disappear so suddenly. Ut pulvis pulvis, I suppose.”
Combeferre pressed his hand and lowered his voice to almost a whisper. “You would not be the first young man to move to Paris and forget religion. I do not think your current preoccupations will suffer the same fate.”
“It’s not that, exactly,” said Enjolras firmly. “My faith was born of fear; I hope that you will agree that our political beliefs have a sturdier foundation. No, I was just remarking that… Well, I don’t know exactly. Only that I am very glad that you invited me to spend Christmas with your family.” He smiled shyly and turned back to his missal.
“I am very glad that you accepted my invitation,” Combeferre said. He was about to remark that Christmas made him equally nostalgic, that he was reminded of being thirteen and lying in his dormitory bed with the measles, unable to travel home, and Enjolras arriving with a handful of stolen candies. He wanted to say that that Christmas was the nicest he’d ever had, only the organ had begun to play and they had begun to sing.
---
Somewhere between the third and fourth course, Enjolras began to clutch at Combeferre’s thigh.
Combeferre paused, forkful of goose hovering between his plate and mouth. He glanced at Enjolras’s glass and found it, as always, mostly full. This was not drunkenness, not when Enjolras made polite conversation with Silvère about law school lectures he had not attended. And yet, no other explanation could account for it.
Perhaps sensing his anxiety, Enjolras shifted his hand slightly, rubbing along the inner seam of Combeferre’s trousers. It was a declaration of intent, and all while Enjolras laughed and accepted second helpings.
“Denis, are you quite well?” Enjolras moved his hand onto his own lap and looked at Combeferre with impish delight. “You’re very flushed.”
“Darling? Are you ill?” Madams Combeferre looked so unhappy that immediately Enjolras felt guilty and Combeferre sheepish. They had forgotten, in the general festivities, that she was only recently a widow.
“I am well,” Combeferre said quickly. “Please don’t worry about me.”
“The wine, perhaps,” said Marthe. She immediately winced, leaving Combeferre to wonder who kicked her.
“Perhaps,” said Julie. “It is an excellent vintage. Beaujolais, you said?”
Madame Combeferre allowed herself to be drawn into conversation but kept glancing at her youngest son with barely hidden anxiety. Enjolras poked at his potatoes and whispered something that Combeferre couldn’t hear. He leaned closer.
“When may we retire? I am quite tired and,” Enjolras put his hand back in Combeferre’s lap. “I have a present of my own for you.”
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Date: 2018-12-26 04:39 am (UTC)short and sweet. if you're anything like me you'll keep revisiting it for the next five years and the maybe share it again when it's more to your liking
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Date: 2018-12-26 06:16 am (UTC)(But yay for Enjolras' first name being Michel! That's mine too!)