A/N: For frustratedstudent. As a belated birthday present

As to the title: Sommerkind is german for "summer child"

Feuilly and Kataczyna: Sommerkind

"You look so different…", he whispered, partly in awe, partly in astonishment, after a long span of silence. And she did. The blonde hair was wrought into a simple braid instead of an intricate bun, making her seem both younger and off-character. The dress was bereft of frills and laces, straight lines and simple cut, blue to match her eyes, but modest in its appearance.

Grisette Katya was a curious, glorious sight.

"I do?" She smiled, her eyes narrowing as she turned towards him, an expression of mirth, of liberty. That, at least, was her own, something, that could not be disguised or hidden, breaking through the make-believe like a sun through the clouds.

Not that there were any, to be honest.

The summer day was hot, almost stifling, but the heat was bearable here among the willows, next to the river that was flowing at a lazy pace, reflecting the light and promising fickle sparks like diamonds on its surface. A soft wind coming down from the Alps coaxed the leaves around them into motion, and the patches of shadow and light on her hair played a story as if drawn from a laterna magica, a story only known between the two of them and never to be told.

She was sitting against the trunk of a willow, legs stretched out before her, posture more careless than he had ever seen on her. Almost, she seemed like a child or a woman of lower stature, and it came naturally as everything seemed to come to her.

Katya seemed to do everything with ease, confidence and laughter. Revolution, diplomacy, love, it all came to her as naturally as breathing, and she danced through life and never saw darkness.

Feuilly basked in the light that she gave off by pure reflection.

Nothing in his life had ever been as easy as loving her.

"Yes", he answered softly to the long-gone question, his voice slightly hoarse, but neither of them minded. "You do."

Of course, her dress was a disguise, of sorts.

They had spent the morning in the village of Au, a suburb to Munich, a proletarian place to be, under the veil of secrecy, speaking to points of contact that had been provided to them by Joseph Sicar, giving advice, spreading the word and forming cautious links.

Right under the nose of Monsieur de Talleyrand, Feuilly and Kataczyna were leading their very own brand of diplomacy that had nothing to do with nobility or the king who had refused to see them for two days straight.

'Go south following the river. It's a beautiful area' Maximilian Floßner had advised them, when they had left the assembly, and Feuilly had taken the suggestion, Katya trailing along. And this was how they had arrived here, at a grove, an hour south of the Bavarian capital, next to the river and undisturbed by anyone else.

A basket of treats that he had procured at a farmer's house along the way was standing in the shade of the tree, and Katya, ever practical, had taken the bottles of beer and placed them into the floods for cooling while they waited and sat and talked.

"Curious", Katya answered, bowing over to let her hand trail through the cool water of the Isar. "I don't really feel different."

Feuilly watched her for a moment, unchecked, since she had turned her back to him to watch the river. And finally decided to ask.

"Why not?"

She could have given an easy answer, or even a snappy one, but Kataczyna knew him too well for this and gave the matter some thought. A splashing sound overlapped with the gurgling of the river as Katya let her hand run through it, swirling and confusing the water while she was sorting her own thoughts.

"Because I truly think it doesn't matter", she answered finally. "Not really. Not at the core. I am who I am no change of clothing would alter that."

The astonishing thing of these words were not the conviction or the ferocity that might have accompanied them. No. Katya found a wholly different tone for this statement, one that was not only speaking of conviction, but also of an astonishing calm. Had she informed him that summer was the hottest season, of course, the color of her voice probably would not have been any different.

This travel had been marvelous and frightening in equal measures. They had never been together for such an continuous amount of time, and with each passing day, they seemed to be more in harmony, guessing each other's thoughts, playing each other's plan seemingly effortlessly. Their trip was going as well as expected, better even, and he truly, honestly could not imagine what he would do once they got back to Paris and their separate lives.

He continued to prod because he could, having her all to himself on this undisturbed afternoon.

"And who are you?"

She smiled and half turned around, placing her head against the trunk of the willow she was sitting against, looking up into the branches that separated her from the sun.

"I am Kataczyna", she answered with a smile. "Polish by birth. European by choice." Her head turned around to him and she separated herself from the trunk, rolling onto her stomach. The motion brought her up right next to him, her side touching his thigh, and the eyes that looked up to him were earnest and crystal blue. "Yours by love."

Feuilly lifted a hand to her face, his fingers trailing along the soft, round lines, the dimples, the clear eyes. When his palm came close to her mouth, one of her hands sneaked up to hold it in place, allowing her to bestow a kiss into it, and a second one to his fingers, his thumb, his wrist.

It was a substantial effort to keep breathing naturally, and Feuilly felt his eyes closing at the gesture. Carefully, his fingers moved across her cheek.

"Mine…", he whispered, fingers tingling, heart racing, time stopping as she worried the soft skin between his thumb and his fingers.

And then, suddenly, she interrupted what she was doing. His eyes snapped open, but before he could find his footing again, she had rolled around another time, her head now finding a resting place in his lap, a blond braid lazily spread out over his legs.

Helpless, he ran his hand along it in a caress and lost himself in sky blue eyes.

"Yes", she answered softly, letting herself get caught by him, fingers in her hair, the other hand finding a resting place on her stomach. "Surely you know that."

He nodded mutely. Her hand snaked up to play with the buttons of his waistcoat, her gaze drawn to what she was doing, as if fascinated by the simple design.

"Yes", he whispered, not fully trusting his voice. She was close, so close, her warmth and touch everywhere. Speaking in itself seemed to have become insignificant, a mere afterthought.

"I'm not going away, you know?" she continued, and there was a tone in her voice he had never heard before. She sounded almost unsure, her words rough and somewhat less controlled than her usual, clear tones.

She sounded vulnerable, he thought with a flash of intuition.

"Whatever anyone says", she continued, "whatever happens. I'm not going away."

She let her hand run down the line of his buttons and he bit his lips to avoid a shiver to run though him. And yet there was the image of ballrooms, where she seemed so much at ease while he was awkward, the image of her mother, stern and noble, the image of her in laces and silks amidst his meager belongings.

And yet, this was a different world. A world they had changed together. Feuilly, being who he was, had place the cause above him, the dream above reality. But now?

Now everything had changed. He had changed, Katya had changed, but, with some exhilaration, he realized, that they had changed together. And they had forged a world that made it worthwile to believe.

"Marry me then", he answered before he lost his nerve, and that finally shook her out of her controlled position, her fingers dropping, her blue gaze finding his again. "Marry me despite everything. Marry me despite what your mother would say. Despite what Talleyrand would say, despite what would be talked about us back in France." He took a deep breath while she was raising herself slowly, turning half around until her face was level with hers, barely a hairs breadth away.

And while her sweet breath was running over his face she answered: "No."

The word had barely begun to register when she continued.

"I will marry you for you. For your courage", she whispered, placing a kiss onto his forehead, his brow, his nose. "For your strength and determination and cleverness. For loving me and for standing strong. For being Maurice, my Maurice. That is what I would marry you for."

Forgotten the sun, forgotten the dancing leaves, the summer heat and the river. He looked into the blue of her eyes, almost unable to believe, certainly unable to respond. She was everywhere, running through his veins, living in his breath, sharing his spirit, and carrying all the wonders of the world.

He felt a shiver run down his neck and realized it was her fingers, lying there, bringing his forehead to hers carefully. He followed, trustingly, as he had always trusted her, from the first evening when they had shared wine over the deception manufactured by Courfeyrac to this moment, that felt like closure and a door opening all the same

"I will not marry you to satisfy or spite someone else", she emphasized, and it was almost calming that he heard her voice shaking, audible proof of how much she was feeling and sharing this moment. "I'll do it because it's right. Because I'll regret it forever if I don't do it. Because I love you."

She made it sound simple, so simple. But then, maybe it was.

He closed his eyes and lost himself for a moment, in her smell, in the feel of her braid within his fingers, in the warmth of the sun and the moment out of time. The promise given was dancing like a spell through the air.

They did not even need a kiss to seal it. This bargain had been sealed a long, long time ago.

"It's probably befitting…", he continued, after a moment had passed and some of his senses had returned to remind him of society and conventions, "that I didn't even think of bringing a ring."

Her laughter rang out clear and sharp, her head still against his, but now she turned to watch him again, a first brief kiss whispering on his lips.

"It's probably befitting", she answered, "that I don't care."

The twinkle in her eyes called forth humor in him as well, and finally he laughed, laughed because he could, laughed because the situation was absurd, and funny, and so very, very them.

"Katyuschka", he answered, shaking his head before he let himself fall back, taking her with him as her lips found his and in between kisses he continued his words. "You are a wonder. A miracle. My love."

And lying between branches and sunbeams, light dancing and shadows playing, the water running down towards the Danube, they sealed the bargain between them, forged the promise never to be broken and dreamt of a future belonging to them.