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It was one of those winter nights, Combeferre thought, that gave winter a bad name. Not that Combeferre enjoyed winter in any permutation; he was particularly susceptible to the cold and kept fires blazing even when the weather was mild, wrapped himself up in scarves and hats, much to Joly’s delight. But tonight, the temperature was tiptoeing the border between freezing and not, leaving that evening’s precipitation to fall, not in light tufts of fluffy snow, but in a miserable drizzle of rain and, occasionally, sleet, that snicked against the windowpane in a steady, numbing drone. Enjolras was out in the elements, running this and that errand with Feuilly, but had enough good sense to both deny Combeferre’s half-hearted offers to accompany him, and accept Combeferre’s thorough bundling of him before he departed with a fond smile.
That left Combeferre with an evening to himself, and though he was somewhat grumpy about the weather, he found himself relaxing under the peace of quiet rooms, a warm fire, the soft pillows propped up behind his back, the steaming mug of tea on his nightstand, the quilt bundled at his feat, and a stack of books beside him, reading he’d put off due to increased shifts at Necker and the building unrest in the streets, the energy that lit the fire in Enjolras’s eyes, that spurred them both to pour over pamphlets and speeches until sunrise.
An evening in was sorely needed, and Combeferre plucked the first book from his pile with a contented sigh. It was something light and mindless, something Courfeyrac had lent him with the promise that oh Combeferre, you’ll simply swoon, you will, and though Combeferre was certain no swooning would be involved, he looked forward to silencing his thoughts between the novel’s pages for a few hours. He ran his hand down the book’s spine, admiring the binding, before flipping the cover open and preparing to delve in.
There was a knock at the door.
Combeferre couldn’t contain his irritated huff. He pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and debated. Perhaps it was just the landlady, checking round, or one of the neighbors. If Combeferre ignored their knocking, it was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. However, what if it was someone sympathetic to the cause, needing a safe space to hide? Enjolras always offered their home for such requests. And if one of their friends in trouble? Or even simply in need of good company? Combeferre could not turn one of them away, not on his life. With great effort, he pushed the quilt from his legs and set the book aside, hoisting himself off the bed and padding over to the door while rubbing the chill from his arms.
He opened the door, revealing a soaking wet Courfeyrac shivering on the other side.
“Good evening,” Courfeyrac said, a wide grin plastered on his face that, Combeferre noticed, didn’t quite reach his eyes. He took off his hat, which began dripping on the floor, and seemed to be quelling the urge to shake his hair out like a wet dog. “Some weather we’re having.”
“What on earth,” Combeferre murmured, grabbing Courfeyrac’s damp arm and pulling him into the room. “Are you trying to catch your death?”
“Ah, quite the opposite, my friend!” Courfeyrac’s enthusiasm was dampened by the fact that his teeth were chattering. “I came to breathe some life into these dreary quarters of yours.”
“Get out of that coat,” Combeferre said, already tugging on Courfeyrac’s collar. “You walked all the way here in the freezing rain just for a visit?”
“Well, not exactly.” Courfeyrac seemed content to let Combeferre manhandle him out of his coat. “I walked all the way here in the freezing rain because I walked all the way to the Musian in the freezing rain, and no one was there. Not a soul, Combeferre, it’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I would think not.” Combeferre left him shivering in the hallway while he retrieved a towel. When he returned, Courfeyrac was standing in the same spot, dripping and staring blearily into the fire. “Only a fool would be out on a night like tonight. Come, stand by the fire.”
Courfeyrac nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to reach warmth. “Enjolras and Feuilly are out tonight, and you would not dare call them fools,” he said, rubbing his hands together near the flame and sighing with relief. “Oh, bless the eternal fires in your hearth.”
“See that you’re less quick to complain about my warm rooms next time I see you.” Combeferre unfolded the towel and rubbed it briskly over Courfeyrac’s hair. “And I’d be the fool, trying to talk Enjolras or Feuilly out of anything they’ve set out to do. You, on the other hand,” he gave Courfeyrac’s hair one more brisk rub, and smiled at his friend’s disheveled and dazed expression, “are particularly open to suggestion.”
“I’m as stubborn as they come,” Courfeyrac nearly pouted.
Combeferre tsked and began chafing Courfeyrac’s arms. “Anything you say.”
They stood in silence for a while, until Courfeyrac’s cheeks began to redden, his teeth stopped intermittently chattering, his curls began to dry and frizz. Courfeyrac’s gaze wandered lazily around the room, until he caught sight of Combeferre’s bed, the steaming mug of tea, the pile of books. His faced reddened even further. “You had plans tonight,” he said flatly.
Combeferre spared a glance at the bedside table, then shrugged and redoubled his chafing efforts on Courfeyrac’s hands. “Nothing pressing.”
“Nothing that involved me.”
“By definition, no.”
Courfeyrac smiled tightly and pulled his hands from Combeferre’s. “You must forgive me for my most discourteous intrusion, then. I assure you, I am sufficiently warm, and the Corinthe is not far, and if you’ll give me my hat, I’ll leave you to your peace.”
Courfeyrac held out his hand, and Combeferre grabbed it, began warming it between his fingers again. “Not a chance,” he said. “Plans can be changed.”
A few more moments of silence, and Courfeyrac smiled in earnest. “You have my gratitude.”
Combeferre smiled in return. “Let me get you a nightshirt, and we’ll share the peace.”
After Courfeyrac was changed and dry, Combeferre hurried him over to bed and tucked his quilt over both of their legs. Courfeyrac made a show of snuggling deep into the covers and sighing dramatically as he flopped back against the pillow, squealing in delight as Combeferre offered him his own mug of tea. As Courfeyrac’s attention drifted to the window, Combeferre returned to his book, reading a few lines before nudging Courfeyrac’s shoulder gently with a sly smile, eager for Courfeyrac to see what he was reading. He turned and smiled, but it was small and forced, and when his gaze returned to the rain, Combeferre thought he looked sad, wistful, yearning for something out of reach.
He nudged Courfeyrac’s shoulder again. “Something’s troubling you.”
Courfeyrac shook his head. “Not a thing.”
“It wasn’t a question.”
Courfeyrac blinked at Combeferre, startled, then stared at his hands, twisting the quilt between his fingers. “Just the weather. The dreariness leaves an ache in my soul.”
“Wintertime in Paris,” Combeferre said, and Courfeyrac laughed a little.
“Is it childish of me,” he said without meeting Combeferre’s eye, “to wish for snow on Christmas Eve? A fanciful dream of the young, I suppose.”
“I think not,” Combeferre began, but then stopped and narrowed his eyes. “Christmas Eve?”
“Do you not even know what day it is? My poor friend, I could absolutely weep for you! Do you have not an ounce of holiday spirit in your bones? Yes, dear Combeferre, it is Christmas Eve, the day before Christmas, a day of rejoicing and celebration, and – ”
"That’s why you were you out,” Combeferre said. “You didn’t want to spend the evening alone.”
“As, apparently, you did.”
Combeferre shook his head. “I forgot. That is, I didn’t realize…with all the work we’ve been doing lately…”
“So lucky for you that I’m here, then.”
Combeferre smiled.
“I shall have you write to my sisters and gloat about how you got to spend an enchanting evening in the pleasure of my company. They will be simply incensed at the lost chance to dote on me. I shall have you dote extra on me tonight, just to spite them.”
“Did you not wish to spend Christmas with them this year?”
Courfeyrac’s smile fell from his face, and a pang shot through Combeferre’s chest at being the cause for such a loss. “Yes, well, my sisters did beg me to come home for the holiday, but alas, I am needed here. I will be sending them all extra gifts to make up for it.”
“You know Enjolras wouldn’t have minded. Joly brought Bossuet home for Christmas. Jehan and Bahorel both went south.”
Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows. “Yes, I know. Remember, Combeferre, I am a grown man and do not need Enjolras to approve my itineraries.”
Combeferre blushed. “I didn’t mean to imply – ”
“Of course you didn’t,” Courfeyrac bumped Combeferre’s arm playfully. “Enjolras did, however, ask me to deliver a speech outside the Salle Le Peletier two days from now. I could hardly do that if I was in the Midi, now could I?”
Combeferre nearly suggested that Courfeyrac ask Enjolras to give the address instead, but remembered, just a few days ago at their last meeting, how Courfeyrac’s face had lit up when Enjolras suggested he read their latest anti-monarchist tract outside the opera’s performance of Robert le diable. Early in their friendship, Combeferre mistook Courfeyrac’s enthusiasm as a desire to please Enjolras; however, as they got to know one another better, Combeferre learned that Courfeyrac was an equally talented orator, and basked in the spotlight of a crowd. If Enjolras was a firework, building the anticipation of the masses until the last, brilliant burst of a finale, Courfeyrac was a lighthouse, coaxing people forward before blinding them with radiance. Courfeyrac once said Combeferre spoke like the flame of a candle, quiet and riveting, people drawing closer so they did not miss a moment.
Combeferre clasped Courfeyrac’s hands. “France will not forget what you do for her.”
“And neither will Enjolras, I hope,” Courfeyrac laughed, squeezing Combeferre’s hands in return. “He owes me at least three – no, four! – pastries for this tragic hardship I must endure.”
“Whatever can I do to ease your suffering?” Combeferre shook his head in mock sympathy. “It is such a burden you bear.”
“Banish the miserable rain!” Courfeyrac said with a flourish of his arm. “Bring me snow, Combeferre, I must have snow! I insist that Paris acknowledge this night with a proper offering, this night, the triumphant arrival of Our Redeemer, the sacrifice of Our Blessed Deity, who gave his own son so that I could spend a day gorging myself silly!”
“Heathen.”
“Oh, the very worst kind.”
Combeferre laughed, but still longed to return the sparkle to Courfeyrac’s eyes. “What if we celebrate a bit tonight? Since you cannot travel to the Midi, bring the south here to us.”
Courfeyrac cocked his head, but a smile played at his lips. “How so?”
“Tell me a Christmas tradition of your family, and we shall do our best to enact it here.”
“Combeferre, you brilliant creature!” Courfeyrac, in a burst of joy, kissed Combeferre’s cheek and sprung from the bed. “Where is your wine?”
Combeferre touched his cheek and smiled. “I should’ve known your traditions involved libations. In the cupboard, beside the bread.”
“Come, come, out of bed! By the fire.”
Combeferre shuffled over to the hearth while Courfeyrac poured the wine and brought the glasses to them. “Now, at midnight on Christmas Eve, we share a toast over the fire, where you bestow upon one person in the room your wishes for them for the New Year. We, uh, have only each other, but I have a great many wishes for you, Combeferre, so I don’t mind. I insist you start, though.”
“It is not yet midnight.”
“Well, we can certainly toast more than once, you spoilsport.”
“I, um,” Combeferre fiddled with his cup, and furrowed his eyebrows. “Give me a moment to think.”
“Take your time.”
After a few long moments of silence, in which Courfeyrac watched him with rapt attention, Combeferre cleared his throat. “I wish for the health of your sisters and your family. I wish that you are granted the opportunity to visit them very soon.” Combeferre looked up, as if for approval, and Courfeyrac nodded and smiled. “I wish for your health, as well, at that you are granted the good sense to stay out of the rain during future storms.”
Courfeyrac threw his head back and laughed.
“I wish that your speech in two days goes spectacularly, though I know it will.”
Courfeyrac grinned.
“And I wish, mostly, for your happiness, because I love to see you smile.” Combeferre swallowed. “That last was a bit selfish, wasn’t it?”
“Of course not,” Courfeyrac said, fondly, lifting his glass. “I thank you for your blessings, Combeferre. Now we toast.”
They touched glasses over the fire, and Courfeyrac cleared his throat in a dramatic imitation of Combeferre. They both laughed before Courfeyrac began. “I wish for your happiness as well, my friend, all of it in the world, every bit of it that the Supreme Being may grant to any earthly wanderer. I wish for swarms of new insects for you to dissect, stacks of new books for you to read, boundless advances in science and medicine to aid you in your healings. I so dearly wish that you are never bored, always knowing, always learning, always eager. I wish for the New Republic, and in that New Republic, I wish for you to live a life fuller and more joyous than anyone has ever dared. And, to be selfish myself for a moment, I wish always to be a part of that life, if you will have me.”
Combeferre was surprised to find tears welling in his eyes. He coughed and bowed his head, lifting his glass to meet Courfeyrac’s. “Thank you, Courfeyrac. That was…you are…thank you.”
Courfeyrac gave Combeferre a moment to compose himself, then drained the rest of his wine in a single motion. “There, now. What’s next?”
“More wine?”
“No, no, one of your traditions! Tell me, what does your family do on Christmas Eve?”
Combeferre scratched the back of his neck, blinking the remainder of the moisture from his eyes. “We don’t celebrate much on Christmas Eve. We usually spend a quiet night in, reading. We do light our candles from the fire that evening, and leave them burning throughout the next day.” Combeferre smirked, suddenly, at a memory. “I learned a few of Enjolras’s Christmas Eve traditions, though, when I accompanied him home last year.”
“Yes, do tell!”
“Well, I can tell you a few of them involve ruffles.”
“Oh, heavens.”
“But,” Combeferre said, “one tradition I rather liked was the cutting of their Christmas cake. Each person cuts a piece and gives it to another, and says why they are thankful for that person. We have no cake, but we could…”
“Combine traditions!” Courfeyrac grabbed the candles from Combeferre’s mantle. “Splendid! Should I go first, this time?” Without waiting for an answer, he dipped his candle into the fire and brought the flame to his face, the dancing light reflected in his eyes. “I am thankful for you, Combeferre, for your wisdom and guidance, for your patience and your steadiness. Without you in my life, I would be horribly lost, and though you are too humble to admit this as truth, it is just another thing I am thankful for. I am thankful for your shelter tonight, and your gentle chiding. I am thankful for everything about you. There is too much to say.”
The thought of Courfeyrac, speechless, left a lump in Combeferre’s throat once again. “Light my candle,” he said, shakily, and dipped his own wick towards Courfeyrac’s flame. Courfeyrac tilted his candle, and the fire sprang to life on Combeferre’s.
“I am thankful for you, Courfeyrac,” Combeferre murmured, staring into the fire, feeling it in his bones, and could only think to say one thing. “I am thankful for you, because you are my warmth.”
A moment passed, then two, and suddenly, Courfeyrac’s face was just centimeters from Combeferre’s, and then he was kissing him, quickly, a firm, insistent press of lips before he pulled back, his forehead resting against Combeferre’s. Combeferre could not speak. He was lost in Combeferre’s smile. He found himself becoming dizzy, and closed his eyes.
They stayed like that for a while, the candles illuminating the space between them, until Courfeyrac shivered.
“You’re cold,” Combeferre said, taking Courfeyrac’s candle and placing them both on the mantle. “Back to bed.”
They bundled together under the quilt again, Courfeyrac tucked under Combeferre’s arm, both of them gazing out the window as the rain began to taper off.
“Thank you for sharing your traditions with me,” Courfeyrac murmured, as Combeferre was drifting. “I cannot express how happy you’ve made me.”
“I am sorry you could not visit your family,” Combeferre said sleepily, pulling Courfeyrac closer. “But I am glad I spent this evening with you.”
“You are my family, too. I expect I have more family than any man in Paris. How lucky I am, to have you all.” He sighed contently. “I am sorry, only, that Enjolras could not share this with us.”
“What are traditions for,” Combeferre said, his eyes closing, “if not to be repeated?”
They both fell asleep soon after, smiles on their faces, as the light rain outside turned softly, gently, into snow.