White Christmas
or, A Sweet, Short, Sappy, Non-slashy Christmas Fic That Cilla Wrote When She was Bored on Christmas

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            “Wow…” The boy’s warm breath caressed the dingy windowpane, leaving a cloud of moisture behind.  His bright eyes stared through that windowpane, into the unusually hushed street beyond it.  He gave a soft sigh of childlike wonder and pleasure.  His musical voice never rose above a whisper as he spoke, as though he was intimidated by the awesome silence of the tableau he observed through his window. “Com’ferre…Combeferre, come here and see.”
             A moment or two, and a pair of gray eyes joined the large blue ones staring out the window.  The older boy’s voice was even softer than his companion’s as he murmured, “A white Christmas, mmm?”
             “It’s so beautiful…”
             The older boy’s dark hair curled loosely around his face, and he continued the task he had been interrupted from—that is, combing those thick, dark locks of hair into some semblance of order.  Meanwhile, his eyes followed his friend’s gaze, sweeping lightly over the almost-empty street. “It’s quite peaceful, n’est pas?”
             The young boy’s golden hair slid gently into his eyes as he nodded, and he brushed it back again without the annoyance that usually accompanied this gesture.  His pretty face was rapt, the pink lips just slightly parted, the deep blue eyes wide, their golden lashes quivering. “It reminds me of home.”
             His older friend smiled, his expression radiating a soft, almost saintly light. “Are you homesick, mon petit?”
             “A little,” the blond child admitted in a whisper, his white hands tightening a bit on the windowsill. “This will be my first Christmas away from home…I miss my mother.” The golden head bowed slightly, and the boy felt a comforting hand on his shoulder.
             “Have courage, Marcelin,” his friend’s gentle tenor voice insisted. “Each new Christmastide marks another opportunity to make a new memory, rather than sucking the old ones dry of all their charm.” He gave the boy’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze, and asked in a hopeful tone, “Come with me for a walk?”
             Never tearing his eyes from the pure white street, the blond child nodded. “It’s almost dusk,” he commented quietly.  His friend handed him a coat, the color of black coffee, laced with the familiar smell of home and youth.  The boy slipped on this coat without further words, and moments later, both boys were down in that heavenly silence of the street.  They walked side-by-side, hands stuffed in their pockets, noses and cheeks pink with the cold, seeming to drown in their dark, oversized coats.  It seemed they were the only creatures moving in the city; the only people alive in this lonely, white world.  Not even the carriages that ordinarily sped down the narrow streets with reckless abandon were awake this fine Christmas Eve.  Smoke rose lazily from some chimneys and was sadly absent from others.  The only sounds were the crunch of two pairs of boots in the snow of the sidewalk and the plaintive moaning of a half-frozen beggar on the corner of the street.  As the sound of the approaching boots reached the ears of that wretched creature, he raised his grizzled face, reaching out one hideously bony hand to latch onto the younger boy’s coat hem.  The golden-haired child glanced at the gray specter in ill-concealed fear, but his companion reached into his coat pocket without hesitation and, lightly prying the old man’s hand from little Marcelin’s coat, he placed a couple of coins in that ancient palm, closing the skinny fingers gently around them.
            “Joyeux Noël, bonhomme.” The dark-haired young man smiled beautifully, touching the old man’s shoulder just slightly.  The wrinkled creature just stared after him as the two boys began walking again, and croaked out, “God bless you, my boy!”
            After a moment or two, the younger boy turned to look at his pensive friend. “Why did you do that?” he wondered aloud.
            Combeferre stared straight ahead, not answering at first.  Finally, he replied simply, “It’s Christmastime, petit.”
            “But those were your last sous…!”
            “I know.” The older boy smiled at his young comrade. “All the better.   Ten sous and one kind act closer to a better world.”
            Marcelin Enjolras fell silent, turning this over in his mind.  They followed the sidewalk to the Luxembourg, where they left the neat, box-like street to become lost on the snow-covered path that wound snake-like among the trees.  The fountains were still, the water in their basins frozen solid, and the dying rays of the sun filtered between slender tree trunks.  The pale beauty of it all was ethereal, and the golden child wandered through it with the natural grace of an angel floating over clouds.  Muted bells of a faraway church sang once…twice…six times in all.  A light dusting of snowflakes coated Combeferre’s long dark eyelashes and hair, and his companion’s eyes lit up at the sight that the sun’s last rays made bouncing off the snowflakes floating idly in the sky.  Before the older boy could say anything, Marcelin took his hand, beginning to run down the path.  The younger boy stuck out his tongue playfully, catching snowflakes on them, as Combeferre panted, trying to keep up with his friend’s jubilant vivacity.  The simple ecstasy surging through the blond youth’s veins shone exuberantly from his pale face as he danced, skipped, frolicked all over the path, dragging his older friend along with him.  Gone were all somber pretenses of dignity or pride, and all that remained was the spark of innocent youthfulness that still burned merrily inside these two boys.  Gasping with laughter and breathlessness, Combeferre collapsed against a tree bordering the path, leaving young Enjolras to crumple onto a nearby bench, out of breath, his face flushed with delight and exertion.  Panting, the dark-haired boy adjusted his glasses from where they had slid to the very tip of his nose, and fanned himself with the fringed end of his scarf.  The fair-haired child grinned, sitting up on his bench as Etienne gasped out a few words to him.
            “My goodness, Enjolras!  I haven’t done anything like that since I was a child back in Marseilles!”
            Marcelin laughed, his sweet voice bouncing off the trees that surrounded them. “That’s because you spend so much time with your books, mon ami.  You really should get out more, you know.”
            “I can’t wait until you’re a bit older and you have more difficult classes to study for.” The older boy sighed with a small smile, undoing the ribbon tying back his long hair, which had loosened during that little episode.  He re-gathered the thick hair, tying the ribbon tightly back around it. “Then we’ll see who spends more time with their books.”
            “Maybe you’re right, ‘Tienne.” The boy licked his dry lips. “Maybe I should start fresh here in Paris.”
            His friend nodded, straightening up, brushing off his coat, and extending a hand to the golden-haired boy. “Write your own story, mon petit, but never forget where and what you have come from.  Your past provides a basis upon which you can write the saga of your life.  Never forget that.”
            Enjolras accepted the offered hand gladly, using it to get to his feet. “Suppose I don’t have a saga of a life?  Suppose my life is nothing but a whisper of the wind in the great history of mankind?”
            “Have no fear.” A ghost of a smile traced Combeferre’s serious lips. “You have the mark of greatness upon you, and the makings thereof.  It is up to you to put your own destiny to good use.”
            The silence of the falling snow blanketed the two friends as they set off down the path again at a normal walking speed.  Not another word passed between them as they strolled back towards civilization.  The snow had begun to slow, and a few brave souls ventured out of doors in the darkness to do their last minute Christmas shopping or just to gaze at the vast white tarp that had been thrown over the city.  No one paid any attention to two solemn boys passing through the streets side-by-side.  Enjolras was lost in his thoughts when his companion extended a hand to stop him.  When he turned to see why, he noted that they were standing outside of a familiarly hideous building, a faded message reading “CARPE HO RAS” posted prominently on its exterior.  Combeferre heaved open the heavy wooden door, gesturing graciously to the younger boy.
            “After you.”
            Enjolras smiled and dove headfirst into the raucous, spirited warmth, accompanied by the clinking of dishes, hearty singing of old carols, and the faint smell of ginger and cheap red wine.  He made the mistake of pausing in the doorway to take it all in, and Fricassee, her arms laden with dirty dishes, swept by him, kissing him soundly on the lips as she went.  Mortified, the boy stared after her, until Combeferre tapped his shoulder and pointed to the top of the doorframe, where Marcelin observed a small sprig of greenery that could be none other than mistletoe.  Laughing, his older friend guided him through the noisy, smoke-filled room, to the rickety stairs ascending to the second floor.  Each step groaned beneath eager boots as the two clambered up them towards the waiting arms of their beloved second floor dining room.  The noise of a billiards table in use reached them, along with cheerful voices, before they even pushed open the swinging door.
            “Aha!” Upon their arrival, a cry issued from the corner of the room, where a raven-haired youth was seated comfortably on the edge of a billiards table.  His hair was splendidly highlighted, despite the rather dim lighting, and the constant movement that his head seemed to be in helped that hair shine. “So you could make it after all, mes amis!”
            “Bonjour, Courfeyrac.  They finally got a billiards table for this room, I see,” Combeferre commented offhandedly.
            “Mais oui, and if somebody doesn’t get off of it directly, somebody’s going to get a billiards ball up their—“
            “Lesgle!” Etienne shot him a look, gesturing at Enjolras with his head.
            Lesgle burst into hearty laughter, burying his face in the shoulder of his billiards opponent, Joly. “Merry Christmas, Combeferre!”
            “I second that,” came a hoarse voice from the darkest corner of the room.  From the depths of this shadow, a pair of penetrating eyes burned the gray ones that belonged to Combeferre.  Those dark eyes then turned to the younger boy beside him, and that gravelly voice expressed a vague surprise. “Well, hello.  What have we here?”
            The golden-haired youth looked a bit hesitant, so Combeferre smiled softly, taking over the introductions. “This is Marcelin Enjolras, the fellow who splits my rent.  He enrolled in the University a few months ago.  Enjolras, I don’t believe you’ve met François Grantaire…?”
            Marcelin smiled nervously. “Uh…hi.”
            The youth at the corner table gazed intensely at him through strings of dirty hair. “…Hi.”
            Combeferre cleared his throat quietly, and took gentle hold of Enjolras’s elbow, leading him off to the side.  His voice came out low and soft: “It’s all right, petit.  He won’t hurt you.” The dark-haired boy reached into the deep pocket of his overcoat, pulling a small wrapped object out and pushing it into his young friend’s hand. “Joyeux Noël, Marcelin.”
            Enjolras glanced up at his friend’s eyes. “But…I can’t accept this.  I didn’t get you anything.”
            “Having you here with us tonight is enough,” the older boy murmured, favoring the blond child with a beautiful smile.
            Carefully, Marcelin tore the humble wrapping paper, dyed a staid green color, obviously the best Combeferre could get a hold of.  Nestled in this wrinkled paper was a tiny book, its shiny cover embellished with lettering proclaiming it to be Great Speeches of the French Revolutionary Period.  Enjolras smiled innocently up at Combeferre.
            “It’s beautiful.”
            His friend ducked his head in blushing pleasure. “It’s for you to practice your speaking.  I know how that period interests you, so…”
            “No one’s ever really given me a gift before…I mean, besides my family…” Not really knowing what else to do, the golden-haired boy pulled his friend into an embrace, wrapping his arms around Combeferre’s waist.  The older youth laughed softly, returning the hug gently.  Enjolras' words were muffled from within Combeferre’s overcoat. “Thank you, mon ami.”
            “Merry Christmas, mon petit.”
            “Joyeux Noël.”
            “—And to all a good night, yeah, yeah.  Now will you two get over here and play with us?” Lesgle leaned nonchalantly on the billiards table, grinning. “’Ferre, you can be on Joly’s team.  I get the kid.”
            Combeferre shook his head with a smile, leading his younger friend over to the others. “Do you know how to play?”
            “A bit,” Marcelin replied, examining the arrangement of balls on the table’s surface.  As he deliberated, an energetic Courfeyrac handed him and Combeferre each a glass with some strong-smelling red liquid in it.
            “A toast!” the black-haired youth exclaimed as Enjolras sniffed suspiciously at this stuff in his glass. “To a joyous Christmas, a happy new year, and many more after this!”
            “To Christmas!” the entire company replied in unison.  And, as is often done in Paris, they drank on it.
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