"Is He Robust?" "He's Very Pale!" "At Least We Know He's Male..."

[psalm_onethirtyone]

Firstly:

Doctor Unheimlich has diagnosed me with Soujinitis
Cause:	cursed amulet
Symptoms:	peeling skin, extremely impaired vision, foot swelling, depression
Cure:	take four Prozac tablets a day until it goes away
Enter your name, for your own diagnosis:

*is easily amused* Stolen from tatteredsparrow.

And secondly, to-day's fic is brought to you by the requests of mhari, ladybretagne, fannore, erinpuff, eponinenkind, and venefica32.

Starring Combeferre and a hot Enjolras. No, we mean literally hot. No, as in--

Synonyms

Enjolras looked over sideways at Combeferre, who was sitting at his desk and working on an essay for his botany class. Considering his lover's need to get things done, Enjolras had no doubt he was at least three-fourths done with the essay already, and he eyed his own hardly-begun paper for law school.

He picked up the other paper, which was the first draft of his latest article. Recently he'd found, to his pleasure, a revolutionary newspaper that needed writers, and it was his first week submitting articles.

Enjolras glanced again at Combeferre, and came over, standing behind him and looking over his shoulder. Involuntarily, he raised his eyebrows. Combeferre was sketching him, of all things, going over his hair and trying to make it curve the right way. Enjolras pulled on one of his curls almost self-consciously, and coughed.

"Combeferre?"

Combeferre started, and quickly crumpled the paper. "Michel?" he asked pleasantly, tearing it up.

"'Terrible'. It's not strong enough. What ought I use?"

"In what context?"

"Such and such a thing is terrible, such conduct is terrible, so forth." Enjolras went back and sat on the bed, picking up his article again.

"I should say 'deplorable'."

"Thank you," said Enjolras shortly, and scratched out 'terrible'. He finished the sentence, and unbuttoned his waistcoat, then fanned himself lightly with his article, thereby drying the ink and trying to cool himself at the same time, he realised, slightly amused. "It is a damnably hot May. Since when has May been this hot?"

"Since Paris' blood began boiling," Combeferre said absently, resuming work on his essay.

Enjolras rolled his eyes and went to the window. "It makes me restless. I don't like it." He pushed his curls back from his face and frowned. "Are you hot?"

"To tell you the truth, not very; only pleasantly warm. Purchase clothing of a lighter material and open the window, mon cher."

With a sigh, Enjolras began the difficult task of opening the window, remarking at intervals about dead flies and rusted hinges. Combeferre wrote quietly, suppressing smiles.

At last Enjolras stepped back, wiping his hand over his forehead. "There. The window is opened. Now I'm going to finish my article and my paper." By this time, he'd unbuttoned his shirt as well, and he had dust and dead flies in his hair (and now Combeferre knew where that remark had come from) from wrestling with the window, and he sat down on the bed wearily to continue his work. He got up again in a moment. "No, it's still too hot. June will be dreadful; I can just imagine. Combeferre," he added sharply, "what am I going to do about this damned heat?"

Combeferre looked over his spectacles at Enjolras. "Run naked through a public fountain? If you really must, take off your clothes, but there's little else you can do."

"As ever, the philosopher is correct," said Enjolras irritably, and pulled off his shirt.

"Really, who knew? One is presented with Michel Enjolras: the revolutionary-minded student; upright, sober, dignified, and civil; and he cannot stand to be too hot." Smiling a little, Combeferre shook his head. "And unluckier still, it's a chronic trouble of his that he's always hot, even in winter, when he refuses to light a fire and sometimes forces the windows open."

"If that's my only fault, one would think you'd overlook it." Enjolras picked up his pen and went back to writing, supporting his papers on an old, fraying textbook. He allowed himself a little smile of satisfaction. Without his shirt, he felt much cooler, and he'd managed to figure out how he wanted to write the rest of the article. His print was careful, dark, and slanted a bit, and it appeared in quick lines as his pen sped across the paper.

Combeferre sat beside him on the bed. "You should likely talk to Joly about it."

"I've no intention of that. 'Restore'?"

"'Reconstruct'."

"'Comprehend'?"

"Heaven's sake, Michel. Sometimes you're very frustrating to be in love with," Combeferre said softly.

"'Comprehend'."

"'Grasp'," said Combeferre, giving up.

Enjolras turned to look at him. "Thank you, Phillipe." His eyes had darkened a little, somberly. "Invaluable."

"'Priceless'."

"I meant that you were invaluable."

Combeferre raised his eyebrows ruefully. "Thank you. That's the best compliment I've gotten all month."

"For God's sake, Combeferre. It's not as though I don't give you half my time."

"You make it sound as though it's a chore to have a lover."

Calmly, Enjolras put his hands on Combeferre's arms and faced him squarely. "You're being difficult about this. I need to get my work done as well as loving you, and a day is only so long. This article needs to be finished by to-morrow."

Combeferre shook his head again, and kissed Enjolras, wrapping his arms about him. "You must use endearments, Michel. You must be somewhat affectionate, or I'll go mad. I don't feel as though you love me, you know."

At once Enjolras kissed him back. "Don't you? Your loss, then."

"Won't you make an effort?"

"Take off your spectacles," Enjolras ordered. "I can't kiss you properly. What sort of endearments should I use?"

"You could call me Phillipe more often," said Combeferre, removing his spectacles. "You could call me 'mon cher', as I call you, or 'cher coeur', or 'amour'."

"They all sound like things Prouvaire would say. If I must pick one, 'cher'. Cher is good."

"I love you," Combeferre said helplessly, as Enjolras kissed his eyelids.

"Of course."

~~~

Enjolras awoke in the middle of the night at the sudden memory of his article. He wrapped the afghan around his waist to clothe himself, and found his papers where they'd been pushed on the floor. With his things set up on Combeferre's desk, he lit a candle and began to write.

"'Inconceivable'," he murmured.

When there was no answer, he looked over at the bed. Combeferre was sleeping quietly on his side, with the blankets pulled up and one of his hands curled in them.

Enjolras sighed. "Je suis desolé, Phillipe. I love you, too."

He wondered if he ought to purchase flowers in the morning, and yet somehow, the idea was quite unappealing. He decided not to, but at the same time, decided not to buy a thesaurus, either.

Comments

[ladybretagne.livejournal.com]

*giggle* Glad you like it. *g*