The Tenderest Loves of All
Written for Britt.
It was late afternoon, and early spring. The two young men were sitting on a hillside half shaded by the sun's sinking. One of them held a large book in which he was immersed, and the other was simply flopped on his side. It was he who spoke, quite suddenly.
"Darling, fair 'Ferre, you're just too serious. Look at me: I can tell that Spring has emptied her basket of posies on the earth. You, my dear, are sitting here pretending that the world will end to-morrow and you haven't finished everything. If the world ended to-morrow, I wouldn't have a regret."
"Oh, wouldn't you?" Combeferre glanced over at Courfeyrac. "Why not? What have you accomplished that's made your life complete and summed everything up? You spend your days exchanging witticisms with the sky."
Courfeyrac grinned, and stretched himself out on the grass. He lay on his stomach, arching his back like a cat to the warm sunlight. His sandy-brown hair was unbound and flowing over his shoulders, and he looked the very picture of contentment. "Quite so."
With a wistful look, Combeferre turned to him. Combeferre was a worker; he needed to be busy always, and his mind demanded that he never be idle. Courfeyrac was idle, and from all outward appearances enjoyed every moment of it.
"How on earth do you do it, then? What's your secret? Why wouldn't you have any regrets?"
Courfeyrac rolled over on his back. "You know... it's not a secret. I just love life. Life is my mistress, dear man, and I--"
Combeferre rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't get started with that business. You know I hate the mistress metaphors."
"Well--"
"And the mistress similes. You're horrible, you and your loopholes."
"'Ferre." Courfeyrac sat up, and, placing his hands on Combeferre's shoulders, pushed him flat into the grass with a very soft rush of air. "You're too serious. I hate the thought that my dearest companion, my Patroclus, is turning into Father Time."
Unable to stop himself, Combeferre dissolved in surprised giggles, shaking his head. "Patroclus? You're Achilles? Oh, Martin. Stop that this instant," he added, as Courfeyrac began tickling his neck in revenge.
"I beg your pardon? All right, lovely dreadful man. Let me put it this way. You're as bleak as winter. You're as frosted as autumn. You're as unpleasant and sticky as summer. But, silly boy, you're young as Spring. Spring is a thousand years old, and she looks like a fair maiden, and acts it, too. Don't forsake your youth, God!" Courfeyrac sprang to his feet. "You've precious little of it left, you know! You're seventeen! Thirteen years later, there you are, thirty, you're gone."
"You're wrong. Thirty is the beginning of life."
"You're an ass! Thirty is aged!"
"Just a moment ago, you were saying Spring was a thousand years old and young..."
"Don't quibble with me, man! Stand up!" He dragged Combeferre to his feet. "Look at yourself! What in hell are you doing, dressed in grey? Plum, man! A red vest, or a blue cravat! Buy yourself a bright green waistcoat! You've an entire thirteen years of youth left, and you're wasting it!" Courfeyrac was laughing helplessly, and yet at the same time he seemed almost angry, and so in earnest. He kept poking Combeferre all the while. Suddenly, he silenced and sat down in the grass, staring solemnly up.
"Martin?"
"Silvery sweet one, angel of my dreams, victim of my endearments, sit down here beside me and tell me what you want most in the world right now," he said gently.
Combeferre sat complacently, and tilted his head as if considering. "I want you to leave me be so I can finish my book."
"It's an antique. You're fresh, and new, and beautiful. You just don't match, dear one."
"I don't really mind that. Sometimes mismatched loves are the tenderest of all."
Courfeyrac lay back on the grass, and turned his face to the sky quietly, rolling a leaf between his long fingers. "I like that. May I write that down and remember it, o philosophic 'Ferre? I like that. It sounds like something people should remember."
"What do you mean?" Combeferre glanced over. "I really don't understand you."
Courfeyrac snorted in amusement. "I know that."
Combeferre sighed, and held his book out in front of him. He looked from it to Courfeyrac for a few moments, then impulsively put it down on the grass. "I adore you. I suppose you know that too."
"Of course."
Combeferre crawled closer on his hands and knees to Courfeyrac, and poked him. "Then what am I to do?"
"Stop being so melodramatic, lie down, and let me play with your hair. It's the secret to happiness." Courfeyrac smiled lazily, his face as content as it had been previously. He adopted an expression of serenity that made Combeferre envious.
"Do you know, I think you're right." He obeyed, resting his head on his arm.
"Of course I'm right."
This decided, Combeferre had no other choice but to lie beside Courfeyrac till the sunset, and watch it in his arms.
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