Beaux Jours
Spring
They have shared kisses before now, side by side on the edge of Combeferre's bed, both breathless with their own daring. Neither is at all experienced, but the force of their affection demands some outlet.
Tonight, though, the kiss goes on longer than ever before. "Etienne," Prouvaire begins in a gasp for breath, but his protests die unborn. There is a sweet, dreamy warmth in the air between them, and he is acutely conscious of Combeferre's gentle hand on his back. "Oh my dear friend."
A breeze stirs the shabby curtains. The room is filled with the scent of rain.
Summer
They sit side by side on a parapet overlooking the river, two carefree boys in their shirtsleeves. Combeferre, his hand resting with shameless familiarity on Jean Prouvaire's knee, is explaining in detail why the murky water looks blue under a sunny sky.
Jehan's mind is accustomed to flowery speeches. Nonetheless he understands that this discourse is, in its own way, a declaration of love. He smiles quietly, and leans against Combeferre's shoulder.
"I left the book in my desk," Combeferre says. "I'll show you when we get back."
"Will you?" Jehan looks up, and laughs to see his friend blushing.
Autumn
"Look at this."
Prouvaire offers his specimen, held delicately between two fingers: a splendor of gold and flame. The rich autumn sunlight reflects the color onto his pale cheeks. Combeferre takes it, smiling at him, and recites the Latin name of the tree.
"Shall you keep it?" The album lies open before them in the grass, its pages weighted with pebbles.
"It's a prize." Combeferre tucks it away. "It'll have pride of place."
The last of the summer flowers is pressed in the book, faded scarlet, above a penciled Rosa. Their fingers trace the word, and link for a moment.
Winter
They are halfway home when the storm breaks. Combeferre swears, but Jehan only laughs and steals his hat, and kisses him while he's blinded with the rain streaming into his eyes. "You're mad."
"Don't be silly, it's not even cold. Feel," and Jehan pushes his coat off his shoulders, pulling him into a boarded doorway as thunder crashes overhead.
"I'm going to catch my--"
"Beloved," Jehan breathes. His hands slide under Combeferre's waistcoat, seeking skin. Lightning dances in his eyes. There is no arguing with this lawless mood. Desire is a force of nature, like the wind, like the rain.