"Mon amour." The soft voice in his ear roused Combeferre from his contented half-doze.
"Hm?"
"If I wrote you a poem, would you keep it, or would you be too afraid?"
He thought about it for a minute, looking at the firelit shadows that played across the ceiling. "What would you rather I did?"
"Whatever made you happiest."
"Then I would treasure it."
Jean Prouvaire smiled, that look like sunshine breaking through the cloud of his romantic melancholy; he was flattered as well as touched. "Then I shall have to write one."
"Right now?" Combeferre protested, and reached out an arm to circle his lover's slim waist as Jehan sat up, laughing.
"Ah, you don't really want to see it. I thought so."
"Of course I do, but--"
"I was teasing." He was unbearably handsome in the dying light of the fire, his fair skin flushed with warmth, his eyes shining, his dark hair falling in his face as he bent to kiss Combeferre's cheek. "No, not right now. I'm far too comfortable."
"You can't write when you're comfortable?"
"I can't write in bed, and I have no intention of moving." Jehan lay back again, settling his head against Combeferre's shoulder.
"Good." Combeferre kissed him in turn. "It's poetry enough to hold you."
Which made him blush. "Cher!"
"What?"
"Sweet friend," Jehan said, recovering his composure. "You'll make the muse jealous. And then where will we be?"
Combeferre pulled him closer. "In bed together?"
"Ever the pragmatist! I'll be without inspiration, and I shall be forced to do away with myself. You'll be left to water my grave with repentant tears. And sleep alone."
"Ever the poet." Combeferre grinned. "Your muse will simply have to forgive me."
Jehan reached up and ran gentle fingers through his hair, making him shiver, and smiled again. "Who wouldn't?"
They laughed, they kissed, they clung. They fell asleep there, sprawled beneath the blankets, lost in one another.