CHAPTER VI

             “Prouvaire, where are we going?” Courfeyrac ignored his migraine and focused instead on his friend’s back as the poet led the way through the crowded city sidewalks.
             “The half-price ticket booth at Broadway and 47th,” was the soft-spoken reply.
             “But that means we gotta take the subway, Keats!”
             “So?” Keats stopped and waited for his older friend.  Having not partaken in the previous night’s alcohol, he was perfectly free from headaches of any sort, and he ended up being the one who had to lead his usually-energetic roommate. “What’s wrong with the subway?”
             “Argh…it’s noisy.” Courfeyrac was watching his feet rather than where he was going.  Moments later, he was sprawled out on the sidewalk with a grunt of dismay.  Prouvaire stopped where he was, aware that Courfeyrac was no longer right behind him.  Radley struggled back up to his feet and extended a hand to the young man he’d collided with, who was staring up at him from where he lay, flat on his back on the ground.
             “Sorry, kid.” He hauled the boy to his feet with an apologetic look.
             “’S okay,” the guy muttered, brushing off his clothes.  He seemed considerably younger than Courfeyrac, perhaps even too young to be in college. “And my name’s Marius, not ‘kid’.”
             “Marius?  Sounds like a girl’s name t’me.” Courfeyrac grinned affably.
             The boy blinked. “Uh…it’s my grandfather’s name.”
             “Well, whatever, Marie Sue.  You look a little young for college; how old are you?”
             “Seventeen,” Marius answered defensively. “I’m a senior in high school.”
             “Oh yeah?  Huh.” Courfeyrac grabbed the boy’s elbow, steering him towards Prouvaire. “This is my friend, Jonathan Prouvaire.  Everyone calls him Keats.  And I’m Courfeyrac.”
             “Just Courfeyrac?”
             “Just Marius?” Courfeyrac grinned.
             The guy twitched slightly. “Marius Pontmercy, if y’please.”
             “Just plain ol’ Courfeyrac, if y’please,” Radley answered cheerfully. “Hey, kid, you wanna go downtown with us?  Maybe I can make up for banging into you.”
             “Uh…okay.” Marius arched one eyebrow. “You guys’re college kids, right?”
             “Yep, that’s us,” Courfeyrac nodded, his headache suddenly forgotten. “So, Marianne, you got a girlfriend?”
             “Uh…actually, there is this girl—“
             “Great, great!” Courfeyrac chattered on heedlessly. “You guys can come with us tonight.  We’re going to Broadway.”
             “Well, she’s—“
             “Call ‘er up, and tell her to meetcha at the Les Miz theatre, seven forty-five sharp.”
             “But I—“
             “Yeah, yeah, cool.”
             Keats rolled his eyes. “Courfeyrac, why didn’t they make you with an ‘off’ switch?  Let the boy talk, for goodness’ sake.”
             Marius took a deep breath. “Thanks.  What I’m trying to say is, she doesn’t know I like her.  We’re not, like, going out or anything.  I can’t just out of the blue ask her to come see a play tonight!”
             “Why not?  I just asked you to come see a play tonight, totally out of the blue!”
             “It’s different with women, Courfeyrac,” Prouvaire said softly. “Women are delicate, women are gentle, women—“
             “Oh Jesus…” Courfeyrac rolled his eyes skyward. “Now look what you got him started on.” And, turning to his friend: “Keats, save the love poetry for a better time/place, or I will have to beat you senseless.”
             “You say that every time, but you never do beat me,” Prouvaire muttered, pouting to himself.
             “Try me, Jonny.  Only try me.”
             The three young men crossed the street, headed for the 110th Street subway entrance.

*****************************
             “Where is that kid?” Courfeyrac checked his wristwatch for perhaps the tenth time in five minutes.  He was pacing the sidewalk in front of the Les Misérables theatre on West 45th Street in the theatre district, while Prouvaire leaned calmly against the wall of the theatre, covering one of the framed Les Miz posters with his body.
             “Relax, he’ll be here.”
             A moment later, the poet’s prophecy was realized, as Marius Pontmercy came rushing down the street, with a young girl in tow.
             “Hi, guys.  Sorry I’m late.”
             “Is this your chick?” Courfeyrac grinned at the girl, who raised an eyebrow at him.
             “Oh, no.  This isn’t the one I was telling you about.  This is my friend, Eponnyne.”
             “Whoa!  Doesn’t anybody name their children anything normal nowadays?” Courfeyrac laughed aloud. “What happened to popular names like ‘Lauren’ and ‘Michael’?”
             “My mother had something of a flair for the fanciful when it came to names,” the girl answered with a dry smile. “My sister’s name is Azelienne.”
             Courfeyrac shook his head. “Huh.  So, you guys wanna go inside, or stand around here all night?  Personally, I’m freezin’ my ass off out here, so I vouch for going inside.  The show starts in—“ he consulted his wristwatch yet again—“five minutes.”
             “Let’s go, then,” Prouvaire said, pulling open one of the theatre’s front doors.  He held it open for Eponnyne, who flashed him a quick smile, and Courfeyrac dragged Marius after him into the theatre.  The four barely made it into their seats when the overture began its heavy march out of the orchestra pit.
             “Show time.” Courfeyrac rubbed his hands together in anticipation.  The one thing you could never say about Courfeyrac was that he didn’t like Les Misérables; it had always been one of his favorite shows.  Bahorel often teased him about this unusual fixation, but he stood steadfastly by “his” Les Miz.
             As the words “Toulon 1815” were projected onto the curtain, Marius whispered to Courfeyrac, “Have you ever seen this show before?”
             “Have I seen it before?!” Courfeyrac repeated incredulously. “I’ve seen it so many times, the cast members know me by name!  Actually, I’ve dated Cosette before.”
             Marius gave him a strange look, and turned his attention back to the stage.
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             Ian climbed the dormitory stairs tiredly, the heat around him oppressive.  He had a pretty good idea of why it was so unbearably hot, too.  He pulled open the door to the room, knowing that Enjolras was already there, and probably had been for a couple of hours.  Sure enough, his younger roommate was sitting on the floor beside the bunk bed, stripped to the waist.
             “The heater broke again, huh?” Combeferre said impassively, hanging his coat by the door.
             “Yep.  Well, I wouldn’t say ‘broke’, so much as ‘malfunctioned’.” Enjolras glanced at his friend while chewing thoughtfully on his fingernails.
             “Cut that out,” Combeferre admonished, sitting beside Marc, and pulling the boy’s fingers out of his mouth. “Don’t bite your fingernails.”
             “Yeah, yeah,” Enjolras mumbled.
             “God, it’s hotter than Hades in here.” Ian sighed. “There always seems to be something wrong with this building.” He chanced a quick look at the handsome youth next to him. “Must you strip at the slightest provocation?”
             Enjolras smiled slightly. “I haven’t exactly ‘stripped’, ‘Ferre.  I suppose it’s a crime now to be shirtless in my own room?”
             “When it stimulates your roommate, it should be a crime,” Combeferre replied simply.
             “Ay, what, does this stimulate you?” Enjolras’s smile widened to a grin, before he grew serious suddenly.  Combeferre followed suit, his gentle smile melting into solemnity.
             “A little,” the philosopher answered softly. “But then, I’m just a foolish homosexual anyway.”
            “Here…don’t be afraid.” Enjolras took Ian’s hand, placing the soft palm on his bare chest. “Don’t be afraid to touch me.”
             “Stop it.” Combeferre reluctantly pulled his hand away. “Stop it, Enjolras.  You’re teasing me.”
             “No, no I’m not,” the younger boy murmured. “If you wanted me, I’d be yours in an instant, you know that.”
             “You lie.” Combeferre scrambled up onto his bunk, lying flat on his stomach in an attempt to hide his obvious arousal.
             “No!  I wouldn’t lie to you!” Marc sat on the edge of the bed. “Don’t tell me you don’t feel anything for me.  Please, tell me anything you like, give me any excuse that comes to mind, but don’t say that.  I know that you have a thing for the truth, but to hear that now would kill me, I know it…”
             “Don’t worry,” his dark-haired friend responded miserably. “I do want you.  No, no, it’s beyond that, I believe…I love you.”
             Enjolras’s blue eyes slid closed with a flutter of the sienna eyelashes. “You can’t mean that.  This wasn’t supposed to happen…I thought we were friends…”
             “So did I, Marc.  So did I.” Ian flipped onto his side so that he was facing away from his friend and towards the wall, and curled himself into a fetal position. “But you yourself begged me to spare you the pain of hearing that I don’t have any feelings whatsoever for you.  And that is what I’m doing…the fact of the matter is, I’ve been infatuated with you for months, but I think that has deepened over time into something more.  So, I guess the question remains with you: do you have a crush on me, or is there more to it than that?  Or were you just looking for some friendly sex?”
             “No!” Enjolras protested indignantly. “Sex wasn’t even on the agenda, Ian, I swear it!  That has nothing to do with anything.”
             “Then why are you sitting shirtless on my bed, encouraging me to touch you?” Combeferre closed his eyes. “If that isn’t a pick-up line, I don’t know what is.”
             “Fine.  I’ll back off.” Marc stood, climbing nimbly up to the top bunk.
             Combeferre felt relieved at this retreat, yet strangely disappointed. “Enjolras…can we just forget about this?”
             “Yeah, sure.  Whatever you say, ‘Ferre.” Enjolras seemed wounded, lying back on his pillow and staring blankly at the ceiling.
             The hurt tone of voice wasn’t lost on the young philosopher, whose heart plunged down to his feet at the sound. “Enjolras…”
             “What?” The blond youth’s tone gave the implication of ‘How else do you want to hurt me?’
             “I’m sorry.” Ian was saddened by his friend’s disappointment. “I really am.  I love you, but I can’t make love to you.  Do you understand?”
             “No!  Frankly, I don’t.  But I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do, Ian.”
             Unexpectedly, Combeferre pulled himself up onto the top bunk with Enjolras. “Marc.  Don’t.”
             “Don’t what?” The younger boy’s desires rapidly took control of him, and he reached out to touch Combeferre’s cheek.
             Ian remained perfectly still, refusing to panic at the dizzying sense of longing that shot from his stomach straight to his brain at the contact between Enjolras’s skin and his.  His eyes were large, and he thanked every god he could think of that his glasses were tinted just dark enough to hide his fear.  He didn’t refuse, he couldn’t; it was impossible now for him to withdraw.  In a moment, he was transformed from an uncertain skeptic into a willing participant, or at least a not-unwilling participant.  The dark-haired young man felt as though he was in a dream as he reached out and took hold of Marc’s wrists, placing the boy’s hands on Combeferre’s shoulders.  Enjolras took the initiative, sliding his hands gently down his friend’s sides, to the hem of his T-shirt.  He managed, with Combeferre’s help, to slip this shirt up and over Ian’s head.  Combeferre just stared at him, his broad, bare chest heaving slightly in apprehension.  Gently, Enjolras eased the glasses off of the older boy’s face, revealing the beautiful gray eyes.
             The blond young man gazed into these luminous eyes. “You really do love me, don’t you?”
             Combeferre could only nod, frightened and fervent at the same time. “If you intend to kiss me, then just do so.”
             “I’d like to do more than kiss you, if you’ll let me.” Enjolras seemed a bit afraid himself.
             “You don’t have to play a part for me, Enjolras.  You’re a virgin, aren’t you?” Ian said softly, pushing the boy gently back onto the bed.
             “Yeah.” The blond youth was embarrassed.
             “Don’t be ashamed, Marc.” Combeferre soothed his friend. “I’ll be gentle with you, I promise.”
             “Don’t patronize me,” Enjolras replied, blushing. “Don’t treat me like a virgin, please.”
             “I won’t…”
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