The path was not a secret to anyone, but it held the same mysterious quality. It was worn dirt, but hardly treaded— surely, his father never had such fun— winding around thick oaks and dogwoods. Its length was unknown, to be certain, and only covered the few acres they owned; no matter how lost in the wood one became, one could follow it in either direction, and find home
It made sense then, that here, in the woods behind his father's horse stable, Enjolras made his proposal./p
"He had already gone over the procedure once. It was a ritual he had heard of not long ago— he did not say when, and Combeferre didn't ask— that seemed, to him, fairly easy. They would swipe their fingers with something sharp, let out only a bit of their blood, and press the wounds together so they would mingle. When the blood mixed, rather like grapes being crushed to make wine, they would become the same. As Enjolras said, 'like brothers.' He was holding, between long, pale fingers, a pair of small thread scissors he'd stolen from his mother's sewing kit. Round blue eyes were intent on the face of his friend. At eight years old, he had not yet acquired the smoldering, deadly gaze that would so often win him his way. His eyes were now more a plea than a demand, and his voice followed suit. "It won't hurt. It's just a little blood."
Combeferre was not so easily convinced. "Well yes, but…" The boy pushed thick, black glasses up his nose, giving a heavy sigh.
"You just poke your finger, and it bleeds. It's simple." He made it sound like such a thing was a normal afternoon activity. To demonstrate, he lightly brushed the point of the scissors against the pad of his finger, which was dirty from a day of playing in the yard. His voice was hopeful, entirely too confident in in his strange request.
"You really think this is a good idea?" he qualified, eyeing the sharp edge of the scissors where it dangled. As a matter of fact, he already knew it was not a good idea. Combeferre, now almost nine, had nearly a year of extra knowledge that Enjolras did not. He did not have a brother; simply deciding to call his friend one did not make it the truth. He knew that a few drops of blood didn't make them any more related than they were yesterday. There was heredity, family lineage; one could not simply declare oneself part of another family. With the wealth his father possessed, it was hard to believe that Enjolras had not been taught about such things. But then, maybe he did know, and was simply choosing to ignore.
"Of course. Don't you want to? It'll be like being friends, like now, but… better." He tried to mask the sheepishness of his smile.
"I suppose."
"His eyes flashed again, and a brilliant smile lit the cherub face. In one jerky motion, he handed over the scissors. "You first, then."
Combeferre took the edge of one blade to his index finger. He took a breath, pressed his lips together, and carefully applied enough pressure to dig into the flesh. It stung, but he did not allow himself to make noise. A thin line of crimson began to form on the tip of his finger, and remnants of stained the tip of the metal. How unsanitary. Scowling at the thing, he handed it carefully over to his friend. "Fast."
The sun shone through the trees, through the holes where early leaves had succumbed to the season, and reflected off Enjolras' curls. They were a golden halo around him, illuminated by a pleased, toothy grin. Cautiously, reverently, he pinched the bloodstained blade, and pressed it against the pad of his own forefinger. His brow furrowed in concentration, watching it enter his skin and drag across, before allowing himself to retreat. In silence, they both waited for an identical red mark to form on his flesh. Combeferre's wound was still bleeding. The drops were becoming heavy, and soon began sliding down toward his knuckle. The longer he waited, leaving it to bleed in the open air, the more it stung; he found it difficult not to pinch the injury in the other hand to stop the pain. Combeferre wondered whether this procedure would require much of his blood, or if the tiny bit let out would be enough. He'd heard that when people lost a lot of blood, they got dizzy and sometimes fainted, and that sounded like a terrible end to this afternoon. Thankfully, however, Enjolras seemed satisfied with the proceedings so far.
A moment passed in this quiet, methodical silence. When the single streak of blood was finally pooled in the space between Combeferre's fingers, he felt his hand jerked forward, arm extended in front of his face. Enjolras had his bony wrist trapped in his uninjured hand, grimy fingers gripping tight to a dirt-stained sleeve. He pulled the hand until the palm faced him, digits outstretched. Ceremoniously, he pressed the pad of his own bleeding finger to Combeferre's.
Cut skin was sensitive, and spoke up painfully as they pressed together, and Combeferre gasped. Enjolras turned his finger back and forth, grating it against Combeferre's, as if the motion would make the blood mingle more effectively. Still, he said nothing. His eyes were wide, Combeferre noticed; they stayed focused on their touching fingers, enthralled. The blood ran less freely while flesh obstructed the wound. He pressed his finger forward so it was above Combeferre's, and then vice versa. Combeferre's brow furrowed, intently watching the experiment, searching for the logic in it. There was none. He knew, as he had known since before his consenting to this, that there was none. Still, he could not help feeling a sort of warmth, which radiated in the pit of his stomach as he observed Enjolras' creased forehead, and the way his tongue stuck out in thoughtfulness. The expression was so earnest, so serious about even such an unusual act… He found he was content just to watch the other glow.
After a long moment, he dropped Combeferre's hand, looked up to meet his spectacles, and beamed. The way the dark red smeared over his fingertip reminded "Brothers?"
Combeferre had never had a brother, but perhaps he had one all along. "Of course."