"You frighten me, Grantaire," he tells me, watching from the doorway. No one remains in my sight but him, backlit from the hallway, shadow blending into the darkness of my apartment. I say nothing, and he turns to whisper hurriedly to Combeferre.
I raise my head as best I can and listen to them squabble only the way people who have known each other since infancy can. With only their tones, hushed sounds rising and falling, I know what they are saying. 'We cannot leave him here.' With a wave of my hand, I scoff. "What's all this? Don't be ridiculous! Dear Jehan will be home and you won't have to worry about me."
I can feel his disdain, as mighty as the rest of him, as he tosses that hair from his face. That beautiful yellow; bless TRYP1, that allele which endlessly fascinates our Combeferre, our Joly, our me. Bless Melanesia, bless his parents for immigrating. His skin is dark, his hair is light, and despite all of D'Urville's speculating on the ugliness of the race, Enjolras is beautiful. He is enchanting. Of all of the countries in the world, France is lucky that he was born here.
"We will never hear the end of it from Gavroche if we do that," Combeferre says in his calm voice. He sounds as buttercups look, mellow and warm and creamy. His knowing eyes gaze out at me as he steps around Enjolras, dark behind his black frames, under those thick locs that he can never keep tied up as he would like. "It was hard enough to get him to leave as it was."
Another wave of my hand. "Then don't tell him. As far as he is concerned, you both sat with me and sang lullabies until Jehan returned, and they made us all veggie dogs and nothing is amiss." He would never believe it, my little apprentice, he is much too smart, and even if I did not know that, the looks these two give me would let me know. "Fine," I say in a great show of acquiescence - or as great as I can manage, laying on my couch and nearly pinned down by not only Jehan's massive cat Oscar but my own boxer, who is perched on my feet as if to tell me 'youre not going anywhere.' Hoisted by my own Cheese Curd. "Omit the lullabies, then. but leave the veggie dogs."
They share a look, the one that infuriates Courfeyrac, and I fear I will have to fight for the right to wallow alone. but they go, leaving me covered in animals and lit by a marathon of How It's Made. There is a milk jug full of water next to me, complete with bendy straw, that Combeferre insists I finish. I intend to - the guide says that the next episode covers canned onions and I am eager to see how they go from ground to can, but before one bulb is plucked or one long, swirling sip is taken, I am long. Gone to a hard day and heavy eyelids.