To Pretend (Enjolras/Combeferre, 978 words)
Happy @logic-and-philosophy week 2024
On an autumn evening, Combeferre dreams of a homecoming.
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The leaves were turning in the Jardin du Luxembourg, the vibrant greens of summer shimmering into golds and auburns. The oppressive thick heat of July and August had lessened now in mid-September, blown away by a cooler, crisper breeze and chased by orange-streaked evening skies. Combeferre, who hailed from the Alps, had always felt he was more suited to the cooler climes of autumn, would enjoy in his boyhood the colours and smells of the changing of the seasons; the tang of woodsmoke, the crunch of freshly fallen leaves underfoot, the rush of cold air from the mountaintops. Paris did quite pale in comparison, it had unique sights and smells for sure, but they were certainly not as quaint or picturesque.
Still, sat in a quiet corner of the Luxembourg, hidden by a canopy of yellows, reds, browns, and greens, one might pretend. The soft autumnal sunlight filtered through the trees, though as it hit Enjolras’ hair, Combeferre could only think of spring.
“...and will you?” he was drawn from reverie at Enjolras’ question, sat beside him on this secluded little bench. His cheeks and nose had the charming beginnings of chillkissed blush on them.
“Will I what?” Combeferre asked a little sheepishly, “Forgive me, my mind wandered.”
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