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The Taste of Home

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“Mmmmmm.” Bahorel closed his eyes as he bit into the calisson. He looked enraptured. Enjolras, sitting across the table, suppressed a smile. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Don’t lie, either–I could feel you laughing, or at least smiling, even if you made no noise.”

“Well,” Enjolras said, “if you don’t wish me to smile, perhaps you shouldn’t eat calissons with the expression of one who’s been transported to heaven.”

“There’s less of a distinction than you might think,” Bahorel said, with an earnest face. Enjolras snorted. “No, I’m serious. Do you ever miss Marseilles?”

The question was unexpected. “Yes.” Paris was incomparable, but… “Sometimes.” At odd moments that caught Enjolras by surprise, when there was nothing else to do.

Bahorel gestured at the package on the table. “When I miss Provence, the best way to be there in spirit is to eat something from it. One nibble of a calisson, and I not only enjoy the glorious taste–I’m transported. I’m no longer in a Parisian café. I’m in a field under a fiery sun, and I’m squabbling with my brothers and sisters, and we’re chasing each other in circles and getting our clothes torn and muddy, and there’s nothing to fear–or to fight, except each other–and all is pure joy.”

Enjolras didn’t trouble to suppress his smile this time. He’d never experienced anything like what Bahorel described, but there was no mistaking Bahorel’s happiness in it, and Bahorel’s happiness was always infectious.

“Here,” said Bahorel, shoving the package at him. “Take a calisson.” Enjolras rarely ate sweets, but he obediently took one this time. “Doesn’t it taste wonderful?”

“It’s good,” Enjolras admitted, and Bahorel bared his teeth in a bright, wide grin.