Done as a trade on Livejournal. I think it's cute.
Disclaimer- Not mine.
Philosophical Phrenology
Combeferre poked the brain in the jar with an undisguised fascination, and turned to his captive audience.
"You see, Jehan, this is the part of the brain that controls lust and desire. If Franz Joseph Gall is correct in his theories, then the brain is made of seperate organs for each mental capability, and one's capacity to feel is dictated by the size of these organs," he said cheerfully, and gestured to the heart in the other jar. "Whereas the heart is comprised of veins, arteries, capillaries. It has no place for such complex functions as emotion and love, ergo romance is not 'a matter of the heart'. Instead, it acts as a pump for the blood. Here's the aorta, for instance..."
"Augustin, I meant it figuratively," Prouvaire all but whimpered.
The poet had turned an exquisite shade of chartreuse that almost complemented his bottle-green cravat, and his red hair was damp with sweat. He was still unclear about how a poem that he was reading to the preoccupied medical student led to an impromptu visit to the university's deserted operation theatre, but in any case he was positively terrified. The situation, in addition to the dose of opium consumed while in Joly's most cordial company, had in effect reduced him to a wreck.
However, the normally perceptive Combeferre seemed blind to Prouvaire's extreme discomfort and state of intoxication, and so continued on his quest to enlighten the younger man.
"The mawkish sensitivities of poets long past are all very well for the verse of their time," he said as delicately as he could. "But in order to survive, literature must adapt to become a reflection of the times and revelations. This includes the discoveries of science. Homer wrote of Odysseus, and our giants shall discourse on the travails of our scientists. Poetry and prose married in a union of knowledge!"
He was unknowingly shaking the jar containing the heart in Prouvaire's face, who was quickly turning white from that curious shade of green. He staggered backwards slightly as formaldehyde accidentally splattered on his waistcoat, and held on tightly to the edge of a dissection table.
"I am quite..." he swallowed back a wave of bile, and managed to choke out, "Quite overwhelmed, Augustin. Thank you. I shall remember to read the medical journal before I embark on any more poems for you..."
"There's a lad," Combeferre said with a wide smile, and placed the heart back on its display shelf, quite satisfied with his success at getting through to the poet. Prouvaire discreetly took out his silken handkerchief and pressed it against his brow. He shut his eyes tightly and willing himself to a sunny place far away from the dark and dingy operation theatre. He was feeling faint.
"Jehan?"
"I'll be quite all right in just a moment," Prouvaire tried to dismiss, but now Combeferre was perceptive (having no brain with which to preoccupy him) and didn't miss the trembling in Prouvaire's voice.
"Oh dear, I'm sorry," said Combeferre, truly repentant. "I should have thought... but I didn't, and the damage is done."
There was silence for a moment, and then Prouvaire caught the sensation of something soft and a little moist on his lips. He shrieked slightly and opened his eyes. It was almost a relief to know that Combeferre, living, breathing, decidedly not dead Combeferre, was kissing him.
"It was really a lovely poem," Combeferre assured. Prouvaire's hands found their way to Combeferre's perpetually unkempt hair and he pulled the other closer to him in the need for someone to comfort him.
"You're shaking," Combeferre said regretfully, and he laid the poet down on the dissection table. He sealed Prouvaire's lips with his own cool ones, and started unbuttoning his waistcoat.
Meanwhile, Prouvaire's fertile imagination started a curious string of thoughts that was probably effected by the opiates. He twisted his fingers through Combeferre's hair, and marveled at how soft it was, like a doll's hair. Supposing Combeferre was a doll...? No, no, impossible. Dolls didn't talk about phrenology in such a familiar tone. Did they?
After much contemplation, Prouvaire dispelled these thoughts from his mind, and opened his eyes quietly. He was pinned against the dissection table, and his head was hanging off the table slightly as Combeferre untied his cravat, fingers ghosting against his bare neck. From this angle, Prouvaire could see the display shelf of organs, and from this angle, a pair of eyeballs were staring right back at him. He stifled a scream and sat up, inadvertantly pushing Combeferre off.
"Jehan?" Combeferre was so concerned, almost mechanically so.
"Maybe... not here," Prouvaire shivered, wide black eyes scrutinizing Combeferre, trying to figure out where the stitches that held together his body were before telling himself once again that Combeferre was a living human. "Your place?"
"A-all right," Combeferre agreed, and held out a hand for Prouvaire. He certainly hoped that it was the macabre setting that was bothering Prouvaire, and not the organs. He had them everywhere in his flats.