fic: A Moth Drawn from Memory (1 & 2/10)
Title: A Moth Drawn from Memory (1 & 2/10)
Fandom: Les Miserables (book and film)
Pairing: Combeferre/Grantaire
Other Characters: will involve most all of Les Amis at some point
[1]
You’ve never had difficulty expressing yourself, Grantaire tells Combeferre, late one night when it’s just the two of them and Enjolras left in the café and the candles are burning low. Grantaire taps the wrinkled page beneath Combeferre’s slightly clenched fist, then brushes his fingers over Combeferre’s knuckles. In words or action. What makes this different for you?
I am no artist, Combeferre says sharply, but quietly, too, unwilling to draw the attention of Enjolras, who is bent over his own paper at another table closer to the fire. And this is not expression; it’s recollection. I do not wish to embellish, only to show the truth of what I saw.
And who do you suppose is looking for truth in a moth? Grantaire’s voice is gentle, but there is enough amusement in it to bring a scowl to Combeferre’s face, an expression so unfamiliar to both that Grantaire’s following laughter chases it away. Combeferre pulls his hand out from under Grantaire’s, and Grantaire sighs. You find the strangest things fascinating, Combeferre; would that your influence were stronger on others.
Combeferre follows Grantaire’s thoughts and gaze flickering in the direction of Enjolras, standing now at his table and wincing at the tension in his back. He does not find you strange, Combeferre says softly, and Grantaire shakes his head, lifting his bottle to his lips for a long moment before he speaks again.
He does not find me anything at all. Nor will he; I am the cause ever lost, and there’s truth for you. Grantaire leans forward, conspiratorial as he gets. What we draw from the heart’s memory is truth, Combeferre; involve much else and you have science alone.
Combeferre has no response to that, at least none he finds appropriate to share, and so Grantaire stands, too, rapping his fingers on their shared table now as he nods his farewell. The noise startles Enjolras, but Combeferre’s eyes are solely on Grantaire’s back as he leaves. Surprised by the noise of the door and drawn to the weak light inside the café, a rabble of moths bats wildly at the windows, and under Combeferre’s hand his work of hours still rests.
::
Grantaire does not appear during the next meeting, or the one after. Combeferre makes no outward show of surprise, but he feels it, and something else as well, some emotion he’s seen cross the faces of the others when Grantaire is not with them. The feeling hovers somewhere between disappointed discomfort and resigned relief, no malice in it but no-sadness either. The best word Combeferre can think to describe it is strange, and when it comes to him, he frowns deeply, remembering the sound of Grantaire’s voice as wistful as it ever can be: You find the strangest things fascinating. Perhaps Combeferre finds the most fascinating things strange, instead.
Perhaps it is simply too late in the evening, and his studies have taken all the strength his mind and body have to give tonight.
You are distracted, Courfeyrac says as he sprawls elegantly into the chair opposite Combeferre, his usual cheer slightly muted, but his eyes still dancing when Combeferre’s meet them. Combeferre takes a breath, ready to defend himself, to call himself merely tired, but Courfeyrac tuts gently and shakes his head. We are achieving nothing here, Combeferre. Shall I see you home?
Combeferre looks around the room and finds that Courfeyrac is right; table after table of their friends is quiet, the heads of those friends bowed over them in thought or study of things other than their plans for revolution. Even Enjolras is seated facing the fire, hands on his knees and lost in his own world while his books and papers are abandoned to the table behind him. Still, Combeferre wouldn’t call what is happening nothing as Courfeyrac has named it; if anything, there is a peace in this space that rarely exists, a calm to the air they rarely allow. But there is something missing, more even than the someone neither he nor Courfeyrac will mention now.
When he turns again to face Courfeyrac, they both nod and stand, pleased that the movement doesn’t seem to stir the calm around them. Combeferre’s hand falls to Enjolras’ right shoulder in farewell just before Courfeyrac’s does the same on his left, and Enjolras raises his chin and drags from some depth a smile of genuine warmth rather than the abrupt dismissal Courfeyrac will laughingly tell Combeferre he was expecting.
They walk for some time back in the direction of their rooms, Courfeyrac chattering idly about everything and nothing while Combeferre offers noises of approval when prompted and scoffs when necessary. Courfeyrac makes no pretense of his delight in Combeferre’s company, no matter how rare it is they have each other to themselves, and Combeferre is warmed by the attention somehow, happy to reciprocate it, even, leaning against Courfeyrac and letting at least some of the heaviness in his shoulders recede as they walk.
Only a few moments from their own streets, Combeferre stops them with a strong hand across Courfeyrac’s chest, pushing him back, and then peers into the darkness presented by the next corner, listening for another sound like he’d heard, of harsh breathing and perhaps-perhaps-his own name. He and Courfeyrac are both young and strong, but Combeferre has no wish to fight, be it another man or his own more inscrutable terrors, and he releases a wild near-moan of relief when Grantaire tumbles around the corner, laughing before he stutters out Combeferre’s name again.
Grantaire- Courfeyrac starts, exasperated but relieved, too, but Combeferre shakes his head quickly, pressing his hand again to Courfeyrac’s chest.
I have need of you, Grantaire says, a sweetness to his eyes now that Combeferre can see them caught in the moon’s light, and Combeferre swallows hard.
Are you ill?
More than usual? Courfeyrac says, low and impolite from behind Combeferre, and it takes everything Combeferre has not to shove him away.
I am neither ill nor interested in your opinion of me, Grantaire returns, even less kindly, then steps closer to Combeferre. I have need of you, he says again, and Combeferre pretends not to hear Courfeyrac’s own scoff, pretends not to notice Courfeyrac leaving them to whatever end Grantaire has in mind, before he simply nods.
[2]
Grantaire waits only until Courfeyrac is well away before he straightens at Combeferre’s side, his eyes and expression clear now, if perhaps a bit smug, too. Combeferre stops them at the next turn, pushing at Grantaire’s shoulder to see him better in the moonlight and frowning as if Grantaire’s baited him beyond what Combeferre is prepared to ignore. The reaction is entirely fair, Combeferre decides, especially when Grantaire’s smile in return is sweet and wicked at once, the same smile he throws Enjolras’ way when Enjolras is at his worst and Grantaire his abrasive best.
"You are indeed perfectly well,” Combeferre starts, and Grantaire sighs, loudly and long-suffering as a mother.
“Have we come to some agreement whereby I seek you only when I am in need of a particular skill of yours? Have I given some word I cannot remember?”
“You have given many,” Combeferre says sharply. “But few to me. What do you need from me if not a particular skill, Grantaire? It is late, and I am weary-”
“Perhaps I have found you have need of me.” Combeferre scoffs, but out of habit, nothing else, and with markedly less cruelty than Courfeyrac had only moments before. Grantaire ignores the sound, instead reaching for Combeferre’s sleeve, and Combeferre doesn’t resist the pull of his hand, only huffing with surprise when Grantaire is nearly flush against him, his eyes at the level of Combeferre’s chin before they rise to meet Combeferre’s kindly. “Come with me, Combeferre. My company alone is not reason enough, I know-”
“Grantaire.” It is Combeferre’s turn to sigh, then he smiles, surrendering to something he holds no desire to name, but feels intensely. “Provided you are leading me toward a chair or a bed, I care not about reasons now.”
“You are weary,” Grantaire laughs. “I beg you, stay on your feet long enough to reach my rooms, and we will both have earned what it takes from you.”
::
In the comfort of Grantaire’s rooms-lovelier than Combeferre could have imagined from what he knows of Grantaire, and warmly lit and scented by tobacco and overripe fruit, both of which make Combeferre’s mouth water slightly with greed and envy-Combeferre relaxes instantly, shucking his coat at Grantaire’s invitation and settling into the thick upholstery of his chairs as if he’s in his own, far more Spartan home.
Grantaire waits until Combeferre’s accepted a glass of something sweet and dark and his shoulders have dropped gently before he leans forward in the chair opposite him, his eyes dancing but the rest of his expression calm.
“I have brought you something,” he says, and Combeferre’s eyes lazily follow the path of Grantaire’s hand to the table beside them, watching it hover for a moment over a paper left facedown. Grantaire’s fingers trail over the ragged edge of the paper and then pinch at it, dragging the page to the edge of the table and into his own lap. “You must not judge it as art, Combeferre, perhaps not even as expression, and my recall will never be yours. Still, I believe you will find a fair representation of your-”
He does not finish, startled by Combeferre’s sharp inhale and the mad reach of Combeferre’s hand to take the paper from him. Combeferre’s heart leaps strangely, twisted by surprise and guilt and envy again, and he stares at the page rather than at Grantaire, absorbing every detail of the drawing before him, every turn of Grantaire’s pen that has captured what Combeferre frustratingly could not the week before. The moth is no thing of beauty, not even to Combeferre’s generally admiring eye, but it is true, real enough on paper that Combeferre thinks he could bring it to flight with the right press of his fingers beneath or the coax of warm light from the candle nearby. When he rises a little more in the chair to move closer to that candle, Grantaire’s hand finds his wrist, pressing him back down as Grantaire shakes his head.
“I fear you will find more what I did not achieve under better light,” he says quietly, but still he smiles. “No, do not tell me; I see I’ve done well enough for you, and I would not have you change your mind if I can prevent it.”
“This is more than well done,” Combeferre tells him. “But you have no-”
“Scientific training or gift? I do not deny it.”
“I meant to say interest.” Combeferre looks up finally, his eyes bright from the sting behind them he fights to keep down. “You are gifted past reason.”
Grantaire’s laugh is bitter, but warmth spreads over his face and after a moment he nods, reaching behind him to the table for another paper, this one tucked beneath a book. “At times, yes, I believe that. No, I would like to believe it. Do not think I conjured this from imagination or a grasp of your science, Combeferre; I would not let you. As ever, you have guided the work; I have simply followed your path to its end.” He holds the paper out to Combeferre, and Combeferre recognizes his own incomplete, scattered illustration and other writing on the wrinkled sheet, frowning before he pushes it back.
“But you could not have known-”
“No, of course,” Grantaire says gently. “That path did lead me away from you all for a bit, as logic would surely tell you; you did me or any aspiring artist the favour of explaining where you had found this creature, and I chose to spend some time tracing your steps. I’m afraid your moth is no rarity, my friend; it took little to find a specimen.”
“What luck for you,” Combeferre says absently, his attention returned to Grantaire’s work now. “I have seen only the one. They are not drawn to me, however I am drawn to them.”
“Then content yourself that they are drawn for you.” It takes Combeferre a moment to look up, fond exasperation in the set of his smile, and Grantaire leans forward again, this time to push a thick lock of hair from Combeferre’s eyes. “I fear you found me unacceptably tiresome that night, when my aim was to shake you from your misery. I would trade many words for what I may have said to you, but I have none better to make the exchange fair, so I give you instead what I can.”
“You did this for me,” Combeferre says, his eyes still on Grantaire’s. Grantaire nods patiently, threading his fingers together in his lap, but otherwise does not move from his position so near. Combeferre pushes a hand across tired eyes, taking a deep breath before he speaks again. “This is a great kindness, Grantaire. It would seem such a small thing to someone else, but whatever your words, you have-understood. I do not think that it was misery-”
“Allow me the little expertise I hold,” Grantaire murmurs, leaning ever closer. “I know it to be. I will not lie, Combeferre; it suits you, to a degree. That does not mean I would see you wear it often.”
Combeferre nods, his head bowed once more over the drawing, and the silence between them grows but does not fall heavily. Grantaire allows them both several moments, then moves to his knees before Combeferre, settling his palms carefully on Combeferre’s thighs.
“Finish your glass,” he says quietly, and Combeferre reaches for the drink before his mind can develop an argument against it. Grantaire nods, less in approval than in relief, then takes the emptied glass from Combeferre easily, setting it to rest on the table. He turns back to find Combeferre’s eyes at half-mast, colour high in his cheeks, and the drawing left reverently on the arm of the chair. Grantaire swallows hard and curves his palms once more against Combeferre’s trousers before letting them travel just bare inches higher, new invitation in his touch. Combeferre covers Grantaire’s hands with his own and then pushes forward, a small, choked sound of unfamiliar need falling from his lips before they meet Grantaire’s.
Fandom: Les Miserables (book and film)
Pairing: Combeferre/Grantaire
Other Characters: will involve most all of Les Amis at some point
[1]
You’ve never had difficulty expressing yourself, Grantaire tells Combeferre, late one night when it’s just the two of them and Enjolras left in the café and the candles are burning low. Grantaire taps the wrinkled page beneath Combeferre’s slightly clenched fist, then brushes his fingers over Combeferre’s knuckles. In words or action. What makes this different for you?
I am no artist, Combeferre says sharply, but quietly, too, unwilling to draw the attention of Enjolras, who is bent over his own paper at another table closer to the fire. And this is not expression; it’s recollection. I do not wish to embellish, only to show the truth of what I saw.
And who do you suppose is looking for truth in a moth? Grantaire’s voice is gentle, but there is enough amusement in it to bring a scowl to Combeferre’s face, an expression so unfamiliar to both that Grantaire’s following laughter chases it away. Combeferre pulls his hand out from under Grantaire’s, and Grantaire sighs. You find the strangest things fascinating, Combeferre; would that your influence were stronger on others.
Combeferre follows Grantaire’s thoughts and gaze flickering in the direction of Enjolras, standing now at his table and wincing at the tension in his back. He does not find you strange, Combeferre says softly, and Grantaire shakes his head, lifting his bottle to his lips for a long moment before he speaks again.
He does not find me anything at all. Nor will he; I am the cause ever lost, and there’s truth for you. Grantaire leans forward, conspiratorial as he gets. What we draw from the heart’s memory is truth, Combeferre; involve much else and you have science alone.
Combeferre has no response to that, at least none he finds appropriate to share, and so Grantaire stands, too, rapping his fingers on their shared table now as he nods his farewell. The noise startles Enjolras, but Combeferre’s eyes are solely on Grantaire’s back as he leaves. Surprised by the noise of the door and drawn to the weak light inside the café, a rabble of moths bats wildly at the windows, and under Combeferre’s hand his work of hours still rests.
::
Grantaire does not appear during the next meeting, or the one after. Combeferre makes no outward show of surprise, but he feels it, and something else as well, some emotion he’s seen cross the faces of the others when Grantaire is not with them. The feeling hovers somewhere between disappointed discomfort and resigned relief, no malice in it but no-sadness either. The best word Combeferre can think to describe it is strange, and when it comes to him, he frowns deeply, remembering the sound of Grantaire’s voice as wistful as it ever can be: You find the strangest things fascinating. Perhaps Combeferre finds the most fascinating things strange, instead.
Perhaps it is simply too late in the evening, and his studies have taken all the strength his mind and body have to give tonight.
You are distracted, Courfeyrac says as he sprawls elegantly into the chair opposite Combeferre, his usual cheer slightly muted, but his eyes still dancing when Combeferre’s meet them. Combeferre takes a breath, ready to defend himself, to call himself merely tired, but Courfeyrac tuts gently and shakes his head. We are achieving nothing here, Combeferre. Shall I see you home?
Combeferre looks around the room and finds that Courfeyrac is right; table after table of their friends is quiet, the heads of those friends bowed over them in thought or study of things other than their plans for revolution. Even Enjolras is seated facing the fire, hands on his knees and lost in his own world while his books and papers are abandoned to the table behind him. Still, Combeferre wouldn’t call what is happening nothing as Courfeyrac has named it; if anything, there is a peace in this space that rarely exists, a calm to the air they rarely allow. But there is something missing, more even than the someone neither he nor Courfeyrac will mention now.
When he turns again to face Courfeyrac, they both nod and stand, pleased that the movement doesn’t seem to stir the calm around them. Combeferre’s hand falls to Enjolras’ right shoulder in farewell just before Courfeyrac’s does the same on his left, and Enjolras raises his chin and drags from some depth a smile of genuine warmth rather than the abrupt dismissal Courfeyrac will laughingly tell Combeferre he was expecting.
They walk for some time back in the direction of their rooms, Courfeyrac chattering idly about everything and nothing while Combeferre offers noises of approval when prompted and scoffs when necessary. Courfeyrac makes no pretense of his delight in Combeferre’s company, no matter how rare it is they have each other to themselves, and Combeferre is warmed by the attention somehow, happy to reciprocate it, even, leaning against Courfeyrac and letting at least some of the heaviness in his shoulders recede as they walk.
Only a few moments from their own streets, Combeferre stops them with a strong hand across Courfeyrac’s chest, pushing him back, and then peers into the darkness presented by the next corner, listening for another sound like he’d heard, of harsh breathing and perhaps-perhaps-his own name. He and Courfeyrac are both young and strong, but Combeferre has no wish to fight, be it another man or his own more inscrutable terrors, and he releases a wild near-moan of relief when Grantaire tumbles around the corner, laughing before he stutters out Combeferre’s name again.
Grantaire- Courfeyrac starts, exasperated but relieved, too, but Combeferre shakes his head quickly, pressing his hand again to Courfeyrac’s chest.
I have need of you, Grantaire says, a sweetness to his eyes now that Combeferre can see them caught in the moon’s light, and Combeferre swallows hard.
Are you ill?
More than usual? Courfeyrac says, low and impolite from behind Combeferre, and it takes everything Combeferre has not to shove him away.
I am neither ill nor interested in your opinion of me, Grantaire returns, even less kindly, then steps closer to Combeferre. I have need of you, he says again, and Combeferre pretends not to hear Courfeyrac’s own scoff, pretends not to notice Courfeyrac leaving them to whatever end Grantaire has in mind, before he simply nods.
[2]
Grantaire waits only until Courfeyrac is well away before he straightens at Combeferre’s side, his eyes and expression clear now, if perhaps a bit smug, too. Combeferre stops them at the next turn, pushing at Grantaire’s shoulder to see him better in the moonlight and frowning as if Grantaire’s baited him beyond what Combeferre is prepared to ignore. The reaction is entirely fair, Combeferre decides, especially when Grantaire’s smile in return is sweet and wicked at once, the same smile he throws Enjolras’ way when Enjolras is at his worst and Grantaire his abrasive best.
"You are indeed perfectly well,” Combeferre starts, and Grantaire sighs, loudly and long-suffering as a mother.
“Have we come to some agreement whereby I seek you only when I am in need of a particular skill of yours? Have I given some word I cannot remember?”
“You have given many,” Combeferre says sharply. “But few to me. What do you need from me if not a particular skill, Grantaire? It is late, and I am weary-”
“Perhaps I have found you have need of me.” Combeferre scoffs, but out of habit, nothing else, and with markedly less cruelty than Courfeyrac had only moments before. Grantaire ignores the sound, instead reaching for Combeferre’s sleeve, and Combeferre doesn’t resist the pull of his hand, only huffing with surprise when Grantaire is nearly flush against him, his eyes at the level of Combeferre’s chin before they rise to meet Combeferre’s kindly. “Come with me, Combeferre. My company alone is not reason enough, I know-”
“Grantaire.” It is Combeferre’s turn to sigh, then he smiles, surrendering to something he holds no desire to name, but feels intensely. “Provided you are leading me toward a chair or a bed, I care not about reasons now.”
“You are weary,” Grantaire laughs. “I beg you, stay on your feet long enough to reach my rooms, and we will both have earned what it takes from you.”
::
In the comfort of Grantaire’s rooms-lovelier than Combeferre could have imagined from what he knows of Grantaire, and warmly lit and scented by tobacco and overripe fruit, both of which make Combeferre’s mouth water slightly with greed and envy-Combeferre relaxes instantly, shucking his coat at Grantaire’s invitation and settling into the thick upholstery of his chairs as if he’s in his own, far more Spartan home.
Grantaire waits until Combeferre’s accepted a glass of something sweet and dark and his shoulders have dropped gently before he leans forward in the chair opposite him, his eyes dancing but the rest of his expression calm.
“I have brought you something,” he says, and Combeferre’s eyes lazily follow the path of Grantaire’s hand to the table beside them, watching it hover for a moment over a paper left facedown. Grantaire’s fingers trail over the ragged edge of the paper and then pinch at it, dragging the page to the edge of the table and into his own lap. “You must not judge it as art, Combeferre, perhaps not even as expression, and my recall will never be yours. Still, I believe you will find a fair representation of your-”
He does not finish, startled by Combeferre’s sharp inhale and the mad reach of Combeferre’s hand to take the paper from him. Combeferre’s heart leaps strangely, twisted by surprise and guilt and envy again, and he stares at the page rather than at Grantaire, absorbing every detail of the drawing before him, every turn of Grantaire’s pen that has captured what Combeferre frustratingly could not the week before. The moth is no thing of beauty, not even to Combeferre’s generally admiring eye, but it is true, real enough on paper that Combeferre thinks he could bring it to flight with the right press of his fingers beneath or the coax of warm light from the candle nearby. When he rises a little more in the chair to move closer to that candle, Grantaire’s hand finds his wrist, pressing him back down as Grantaire shakes his head.
“I fear you will find more what I did not achieve under better light,” he says quietly, but still he smiles. “No, do not tell me; I see I’ve done well enough for you, and I would not have you change your mind if I can prevent it.”
“This is more than well done,” Combeferre tells him. “But you have no-”
“Scientific training or gift? I do not deny it.”
“I meant to say interest.” Combeferre looks up finally, his eyes bright from the sting behind them he fights to keep down. “You are gifted past reason.”
Grantaire’s laugh is bitter, but warmth spreads over his face and after a moment he nods, reaching behind him to the table for another paper, this one tucked beneath a book. “At times, yes, I believe that. No, I would like to believe it. Do not think I conjured this from imagination or a grasp of your science, Combeferre; I would not let you. As ever, you have guided the work; I have simply followed your path to its end.” He holds the paper out to Combeferre, and Combeferre recognizes his own incomplete, scattered illustration and other writing on the wrinkled sheet, frowning before he pushes it back.
“But you could not have known-”
“No, of course,” Grantaire says gently. “That path did lead me away from you all for a bit, as logic would surely tell you; you did me or any aspiring artist the favour of explaining where you had found this creature, and I chose to spend some time tracing your steps. I’m afraid your moth is no rarity, my friend; it took little to find a specimen.”
“What luck for you,” Combeferre says absently, his attention returned to Grantaire’s work now. “I have seen only the one. They are not drawn to me, however I am drawn to them.”
“Then content yourself that they are drawn for you.” It takes Combeferre a moment to look up, fond exasperation in the set of his smile, and Grantaire leans forward again, this time to push a thick lock of hair from Combeferre’s eyes. “I fear you found me unacceptably tiresome that night, when my aim was to shake you from your misery. I would trade many words for what I may have said to you, but I have none better to make the exchange fair, so I give you instead what I can.”
“You did this for me,” Combeferre says, his eyes still on Grantaire’s. Grantaire nods patiently, threading his fingers together in his lap, but otherwise does not move from his position so near. Combeferre pushes a hand across tired eyes, taking a deep breath before he speaks again. “This is a great kindness, Grantaire. It would seem such a small thing to someone else, but whatever your words, you have-understood. I do not think that it was misery-”
“Allow me the little expertise I hold,” Grantaire murmurs, leaning ever closer. “I know it to be. I will not lie, Combeferre; it suits you, to a degree. That does not mean I would see you wear it often.”
Combeferre nods, his head bowed once more over the drawing, and the silence between them grows but does not fall heavily. Grantaire allows them both several moments, then moves to his knees before Combeferre, settling his palms carefully on Combeferre’s thighs.
“Finish your glass,” he says quietly, and Combeferre reaches for the drink before his mind can develop an argument against it. Grantaire nods, less in approval than in relief, then takes the emptied glass from Combeferre easily, setting it to rest on the table. He turns back to find Combeferre’s eyes at half-mast, colour high in his cheeks, and the drawing left reverently on the arm of the chair. Grantaire swallows hard and curves his palms once more against Combeferre’s trousers before letting them travel just bare inches higher, new invitation in his touch. Combeferre covers Grantaire’s hands with his own and then pushes forward, a small, choked sound of unfamiliar need falling from his lips before they meet Grantaire’s.