On one particularly icy Parisian night, two students were curled up in their apartment, wrapped in sweaters and warm knit blankets. The older, Combeferre, was carefully examining a book on the proper care of moths, a beloved hobby of his. The other, Enjolras, was writing a letter to some fellow revolutionaries in Lyon. A fire crackled in the background. Occasionally, Combeferre would call out some interesting fact, or Enjolras would ask for help in finding a particular word. Other than that, however, they remained in a comfortable, familiar silence.
As the cold began to grow fiercer, Combeferre arose from his chair to fetch the cider he had been heating in the fire. He offered a glass to Enjolras, a teasing smile on his face.
"Did I miss something, 'Ferre?" Enjolras asked, tilting his head in confusion as he accepted the glass. The cider was toasty warm, a relief in such cold weather.
"Do you remember the first time you tried cider?" Combeferre asked in response. At Enjolras' baffled gaze, he continued, "Well, ..."
"'Ferre, 'Ferre, look how high I can climb!" a young Enjolras cried out in delight as he pulled himself up the tree.
""Enjy, come down! You're not s'pposed to go that high!" Combeferre shouted, watching his friend nervously. He was going awfully high, far higher than Combeferre had ever climbed. Not that Combeferre cared much for climbing at all; he had never had his friend's daring enthusiasm for adventure.
"Don't worry so much. I'm fine!" Enjolras replied confidantly, waving cheerily at his friend. However, he was so distracted by the other boy that he lost his footing. He gave a cry of shock as he slipped, grasping desperately at the branches. Combeferre rushed to catch his friend, both boys toppling onto the ground with a thud.
When 'Ferre got up, he noticed the young blonde wasn't moving, and there was a thin trickle of blood running down his head. Feeling even more nervous than before, Combeferre picked Enjolras up and struggled to carry him back to his house.
Mme. Combeferre was quite calm about the whole situation. She placed Enjolras carefully on the couch before tending to his injuries. "Nothing too severe," she commented. Her son gave a sigh of relief, trusting his mother to save his friend.
Once Enjolras finally woke up again, he was quite confused to say the least. Mme. Combeferre gently explained what had happened before chiding him for being so reckless. After convincing the stubborn boy to promise never to try something like that again, she handed him a glass of apple cider, "to make you feel better, love." He sipped at it cautiously, the pain slowly being replaced by sweetness and warmth.
Enjolras laughed, a sound like music to Combeferre's ears. "I can't believe I forgot about that!" he exclaimed. Well, 'Ferre, do you remember...?" And so the evening was spent repainting pictures of their past, cider in their bodies and warmth in their hearts.
