Chapter Fourteen

The Request

"I promise, tomorrow, I'll wear proper clothes," Clementine said over her shoulder as they climbed the stairs to Jehan's bedroom.

"You don't have to," Jehan said quickly.

Clementine felt a blush creep up her neck from her shoulders to her cheeks. She paused at the top of the stairs and looked down at him, raising an eyebrow in some semblance of bravado intended to cover up her embarrassment.

"And I didn't mean it like that," Jehan hastened to add, catching her look. He stopped on the stairs, hand on the banister. "I just meant – I don't plan on them being here tomorrow – so wear whatever you feel comfortable in."

"Unless you forget again," she pointed out, putting her hand on his bedroom door, which stood slightly ajar, and pushing it open. "Let's compromise; I won't change what I wear and I'll just stay in your bedroom."

She backed up into the doorway, clasping her hands behind her back. Jehan stepped towards her.

"That sounds fair to me," he said.

He was very close, and in the dark, unlit hallway, his face was shadowy, his features obscured. But she could see his eyes, brilliant blue, and even though she couldn't see his mouth she could see the smile through his eyes. Her face grew warmer as her blush intensified the more he advanced.

Clementine cleared her throat and whirled on the spot, pushing the door open even further with her shoulder. His bedroom was dark, and she threw herself onto the bed as he began to light candles.

"As I said," Jehan said, his back to her, "We were having a discussion, and I was distracted. I can't begin to apologise enough – especially for Courfeyrac, he's too forward…"

"I wouldn't call Courfeyrac forward," Clementine said. "You should see how some men behave in the nightclubs where I'm from."

"How do they behave?" Jehan's voice was curious. She watched him loosen and remove his cravat.

She picked up his pillow and placed it on her lap, twisting her fingers into it. "Some of them like to put their hands everywhere," she said slowly.

"Everywhere?" He sat on the corner of the bed, frowning. "Do you mean they touch your body?"

"Yes, generally that's what I mean," she said. "When you're dancing in nightclubs, the dancefloors are very crowded and dancing is different, where I'm from, so it's not unusual to touch people in – shall we say, inappropriate places…But some men, some men can make things very uncomfortable. Back home in England, my friend Chelsey punched a man in the face because he wouldn't stop slapping my bottom."

Jehan's mouth screwed up. "I don't much like the sound of these nightclubs, or the men," he said, sourly.

She laughed. "Neither do I," she said.

"So why do you go there?" he asked.

"I can't let a few rotten apples spoil my fun," she said, shrugging. "It's much easier to just tell them they're doing something wrong and hope they get the message. Besides, not all the men are like that; going back to my original point, a kiss on the hand from your friend Courfeyrac was rather tame in comparison."

"I see what you mean," he said, and then things became very quiet for a few moments.

"I wanted to talk to you about something," Clementine said, quietly. "Please."

"That sounds very serious," Jehan said, trying a smile. "Is everything all right, Clementine?"

"Everything is fine, right now, but – but – I've read your book," she began. "Your notes, and well, I've talked to you – and I can't help but notice you talk a lot about revolution."

Jehan's eyes narrowed a little, and something that resembled confusion passed over his face. "What of it?" he said.

She bit her lip. "I specifically wanted to speak to you about – barricades."

"Barricades? Do you mean the structure of, or the building of, or…?" She could see that Jehan was trying to make a joke about it, and she couldn't help but frown.

"Please, Jehan, don't joke," she said. "I'm being serious."

"I'm sorry," he replied, his face softening. "Go on."

"Will – I mean, I worry that – that your revolution – will turn violent." Clementine spat the words out in a rush, wanting them to leave her mouth. Once they were said out loud, she almost felt relieved.

"Yes," was all Jehan replied. There was no humour in his eyes, not anymore, and his expression was one that was very serious.

"You know it will, don't you?" Clementine whispered.

He glanced away from her. "I think that, when it comes to it, it will be unavoidable. It's not necessarily what I want, but…"

"So don't go," Clementine said, sitting forward. "Don't go – if it goes to the barricades, don't go with them."

"You mean abandon my friends?" Jehan shook his head. "I cannot imagine a worse idea. I couldn't do that. Besides, I –"

Clementine threw the pillow away from her and held her hands out towards him, as if she could implore him to listen if she could touch him. "Jehan, I refuse to see you as a violent person," she said. "You – I've read your poems – you write poems about kittens, Jehan!"

"One poem, and it wasn't – it wasn't a sweet tale – it was tragic," Jehan sighed.

"No, it wasn't, it was an adorable ode to a kitten frolicking in the sun," Clementine retorted sharply.

"It was incomplete," Jehan said. "Is incomplete, I haven't finished it yet."

Clementine's heart dropped. The poem she spoke of had been there since she had bought the book, and not one extra word had ever been added to it. What if Jehan never finished his poem?

"The poem is irrelevant, Jehan." Clementine pressed her palms over her eyes. "My point is, I don't want you to go."

To her horror, she realised she was crying, hot, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. Jehan looked at her with panic in his eyes.

"Don't cry," he said. "Why are you crying?" Jehan clambered over the bed towards her, his hands resting on her shoulders. One hand brushed her hair over her shoulder and then smoothed over her cheek.

"Please, don't go to the barricades," she whispered, leaning in to his touch. "Please, I'm begging you, Jehan, don't go to the barricades."

"I cannot – I cannot promise that," he said, his voice just as quiet as hers. His thumb brushed over the damp tracks over her cheeks.

"You could die," she said. Even to her own ears, her voice was breaking. The idea of him dying – of the visions she had of him being shot, his last words echoing around her head – was abhorrent to her, and she knew, knew with every bone in her body that he couldn't die, shouldn't die.

"If I die, I die for something," he murmured. "It won't be meaningless."

"But I don't want you to die," she wept. "Put yourself in my shoes, Jehan. What if it wasn't you – what if it was me? How would you feel?"

"How would I feel about what?" he frowned.

"If I was putting myself in a life-threatening situation." She was banking on a lot, here, she knew, but it was the only thing she could think of to make him see.

"I – I – I…" He sat back on his haunches. The hand that still rested on her shoulder slid upwards to rest on her neck, his thumb brushing her jaw. His other hand now tangled in her hair, winding the fair strands around his fingers. "I would hate the idea," he said, and she could hear the honesty in his voice, written on his face. "I would do everything in my power to try and keep you away. But – that's different, Clementine. You're – you're –"

"A woman?" she guessed, and anger flared up. "Don't patronise me, Jehan. My gender – your gender – it's all irrelevant. You don't have to die. There are other ways to make your mark on the world. You don't have to die."

His hands dropped from her, and she missed their warmth, the safety of their weight on her body.

"I'm dead by the time you are born," he said, quietly. "What is the difference to you?"

She blinked back more tears that threatened to spill, and said, "The difference is you dying a terrible, violent death someone with a heart as big as yours doesn't deserve."

He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly. She pressed her face into the soft cotton of his shirt, and let herself cry. His cheek rested against her hair, and then he was speaking into her ear. "That is life, though. Being a good person doesn't mean anything – bad things happen to good people every day, and it is because of that I want to fight, Clementine. To try and help, to try and make sure those bad things happen less and less."

"At least try and consider it," she mumbled into his chest. "Please. For me."

He rubbed her back, held her a little tighter. "For you," he said. "I will think about it. For you."

She knew, deep down, that these were just words of appeasement to try and comfort her, stop her from crying, but they were what she wanted to hear, and in that moment, it was enough.