Work Text:
When Combeferre first approaches him with the offer, Grantaire is sceptical to say the least.
“You don’t have to take it, obviously, but the offer’s open anyway.” Combeferre says through a mouthful of bagel and coffee as they walk along the Thames waterfront. “The position’s been empty since we started, really, so the work’s dealt with by a ragtag team of whoever happens to have free time. You can imagine the quality of work they produce. Especially when Courfeyrac’s involved.”
“Are you trying to guilt trip me with bad design?” Grantaire laughs, taking a long drink from his own coffee. “Isn’t Courfeyrac the one you-”
“Might be.” Combeferre smirks against the plastic lid of his cup. “You’ll at least think about it though, won’t you? It’s got to be better than working freelance; at least the pay is solid. And yeah, he is. Shut up.”
Grantaire hums thoughtfully, leaning against the wall and staring out at the buildings across the river. They stay in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, while Combeferre eats the last of his lunch and takes a few photographs with a point-and-click camera he’d produced from seemingly nowhere.
“Okay, you’ve convinced me.” Grantaire smiles wryly at Combeferre as the taller man turns to him with a bright smile. “When do you want me?”
“Really? Well, I’m heading back to the office now, I want to get this idea cleared with Enjolras so Feuilly and I can start working on it -you’re more than welcome to come with me.”
“Sure. I’ve not got anything better to do.”
It takes them twenty minutes to get back to their office building just off Green Park, and Combeferre guides him to what looks like a converted warehouse, ushers him into the lift and presses the button for the third floor.
“Just a word of warning, things could be a little crazy at the moment. We’re overhauling the website so everyone’s involved and nothing’s really getting done.”
The lift doors slide open and Grantaire is confronted with an open plan office with about ten people hunched over in front of Macs or video cameras or other paraphernalia.
“Bahorel!” A small, dark haired man cries as he stands up out of his desk chair, resting his hands on the top of his screen and glaring at the man sitting opposite him.
“What?” The other man replies, brushing his hair out of his eyes and looking nonchalantly up at him.
“I asked for those motion graphics two days ago. I still haven’t got them! They’re the last thing I need before I can finalise this layout and-” The man stops in his tirade when he turns and spots Combeferre and Grantaire. “And who’s this?”
“This is Grantaire, he’s our new graphic designer. Be nice. Grantaire, this is Courfeyrac. Web design.”
“Hello,” Courfeyrac smiles, holding out a hand that Grantaire shakes warily, “sorry about that. I can show you to your desk, come on.”
Courfeyrac leads him along, and Grantaire turns desperately to Combeferre only to find him leaning over Bahorel’s shoulder and muttering ‘oh Jesus Christ, you haven’t even started them have you?’
“That idiot is Bahorel, he does interactive design. Joly and Bossuet over there are videographers, that’s Feuilly, he’s fine art, and this is Jehan. They do illustration but they’re also sometimes our marketing leader and your deskmate.”
“Hey,” Jehan smiles, looking up from their notebook at Grantaire, “it’s nice to meet you. Nicer still to have an actual graphic designer around, mind you.”
Grantaire raises a hand apprehensively.
“Marius is our new intern, Cosette and Éponine are advertising, Musichetta is product design, and Enjolras is the art director, copywriter and resident caffeine addict.”
There’s a grunt from behind a computer screen a few feet away from them, and a mass of blonde hair and searing blue eyes pops up to glare at them.
“What now, Courf?”
“Aren’t you going to say hello to our new graphic designer?”
At this, Enjolras perks up immediately and Grantaire gets a good look at his face for the first time.
And as Enjolras tries to explain the values of the group and their history, but Grantaire’s barely listening because oh god is everyone who works in this stupid studio needlessly attractive, especially this guy, how is this even fair.
“Grantaire?” Enjolras asks after a moment, cocking his head slightly. Grantaire returns to himself with wide eyes and a pink flush on his cheeks, looking down at his feet in embarrassment.
“I’ll leave you two to get acquainted, shall I?” Courfeyrac grins, catlike and smug, and slinks back to his desk. Combeferre is waiting for him, and they dive into an animated conversation immediately. The look in Combeferre’s eyes and the soft beginnings of a smile on his face make Grantaire grin to himself, because he knows that look.
“What are you smiling about?” Jehan asks coyly. They’d apparently rolled closer to Grantaire on their office chair when he wasn’t looking, and are now looking up at him with a curious expression on their face. Enjolras has seemingly retreated back to his desk, but keeps peering around his computer screen to take long looks at Grantaire.
“Oh, nothing.” Grantaire replies, sitting down at his desk beside Jehan and booting up the computer. “Just Ferre and Courfeyrac. I guess they haven’t asked each other out yet?”
“You see it too?” Jehan grins, turning to him with excited eyes. “They’ve been like this for months. But how did you know?”
“Aside from Combeferre’s usual tells, we’ve been back in touch for the last year or so. He might have texted me multiple times about how he’s in love with a guy he works with.” Grantaire smiles and scoffs quietly. “Ah, young love.”
“I knew it.” Jehan claps their hands together excitedly. “Now, do you think it would be rude if I locked them in the kitchen together until they asked each other out?”
“Probably.” Grantaire shrugs. “But hey, it’s worth a shot. I’ll help.”
Jehan laughs.
Grantaire settles in easily after that, and two weeks later, Courfeyrac grabs him as he’s leaving for his lunch break.
“Come on, you’re coming with me.” Courfeyrac shepherds him into the lift, pressing the button for the ground floor as he goes.
“What, why?”
“Because initiation into this group isn’t complete without lunch with yours truly.” Courfeyrac barks a laugh, gesturing at himself. “And I don’t want to get stuck in a queue at Pret on my own.”
Grantaire rolls his eyes, but follows him to the Underground station anyway.
“So, how do you know Combeferre?” Courfeyrac asks as they stand in the café, perusing sandwiches. Grantaire raises an eyebrow.
“Yeah, this is an ‘initiation’, my arse.” Grantaire laughs. “I met him at university. Did different courses, obviously, but we were in the same building so we ran into each other a lot. I didn’t meet him properly until I joined the LGBT society, though, and we sort of stuck after that. We fell out of touch for a few years, then I moved back to the city and we got talking again.”
He shrugs, resolving to grab a salad as he passes.
“So he’s…” Courfeyrac asks, gesticulating randomly with a sandwich in his hand.
“He’s…?” Grantaire replies, grabbing what appears to be a box of lettuce and bottle of apple juice. “If you’re about to ask me about his orientation, might I suggest that you ask him about that?”
Courfeyrac deflates a little, shoulders sagging.
“You don’t have to ask him now, or even any time soon, but if you want to know -and especially if you want to ask him out, which I get the impression you do- then I think you should probably avoid all third parties, here.”
Courfeyrac sighs and moves to pay for his lunch.
“I know,” Courfeyrac fiddles with the zipper on his jacket as he waits for his coffee, “but I’m –I’m nervous, you know?”
“Honestly, I didn’t think you were the type to get nervous.”
“I’m not, not usually.” Courfeyrac takes his coffee gratefully from the cashier. “But I’ve been building up to actually asking him out for about half a year now and if he says no, then I’m not sure what I’ll do.”
“I doubt he’ll say no.” Grantaire smiles softly, patting Courfeyrac on the shoulder and leading him outside into the autumn sun. “But you’ll have to ask to find out, won’t you?”
“Tomorrow.” Courfeyrac says resolutely after he’s taken a long sip from his coffee. “I’ll ask him tomorrow after work. See if he wants to get a drink together.”
“Good start.” Grantaire grins into his bottle of juice.
They think nothing of it until they’re in the office the next morning. Combeferre arrives later than usual, but Courfeyrac passes it off as delays on the underground.
“We’re going to Syria.” Combeferre announces, brushing his hair back from his eyes. Feuilly and Joly flank him, surrounded by backpacks and bags of camera equipment. “We leave tonight, and we’ll be back in three weeks, all being well. Tadmur. Civilian area, no signs of recent unrest.”
“What?” Courfeyrac looks up from his screen to stare at the three of them. “You’re joking, right? You can’t seriously tell me you’re going to Syria?”
They stay suspiciously silent.
“Enjolras, why the hell did you clear this?” Courfeyrac wheels around to glare at his boss, eyes wild. “Why did you think this was a good idea?”
“We can’t expose media cover-ups if we don’t have proof of what they’re actually covering up.” Enjolras replies quietly, like he’s afraid of how Courfeyrac will respond.
“Oh, of course, how stupid of me!” Courfeyrac retorts, getting up out of his seat and all but marching over to grab his jacket from the rack on the wall. “I’d forgotten we didn’t know how to use Google in this firm!”
“That’s not how it works here, you know that, Courf.” Bahorel says, uncharacteristically softly. “If we did it like that, we’d be like every other activist group in London, never mind the world.”
“Yeah, how it works here is we send three of our staff to a hugely dangerous country where they could get themselves killed and no one bats an eyelid!” By now he’s tugged his coat on and he’s shouting as he heads towards the lift, jabbing at the button angrily. “Oh, and do call, won’t you? It’s the only way we’ll know you haven’t been fucking blown up!”
And with that, he steps into the lift and disappears out of sight. The studio hangs in stony silence for a few minutes, until Enjolras moves to pick up his own coat and pull it on.
“Please stay safe. And call, when you can. If not for our sake, then for his.” Enjolras mutters quietly as he hugs Combeferre goodbye, before he steps into the lift himself and follows after Courfeyrac.
He hasn’t had chance to go very far by the time Enjolras catches up with him. He’s standing on the side of the road outside Hyde Park Corner station, knotting his fingers angrily in his hair.
“Courf?” Enjolras approaches him slowly, hand outstretched to grip his arm. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.” Courfeyrac replies tersely, pulling his hands away from his head and digging them into his jacket pockets. “I just- what made you all think this was a good idea?”
“I’m sorry, Courf. I know it sounds crazy but when they told me they wanted to do it, I couldn’t say no. It’ll do us so much good, and think of the message we’ll be able to get out, think of how many people we’ll reach. They’re only going to a civilian area, they’ll be safe.”
“Right. Of course.” Courfeyrac lets out a long exhale, looking up at Enjolras through his curls. His eyes are reddened. “I’m sorry. I overreacted. Do you think they’ll still be there if we run back?”
By the time they get back to the office, Combeferre, Feuilly and Joly are gone. Courfeyrac tries to hide his disheartened expression and buries himself back in his work.
They’ve been gone ten, nearly eleven days when the news report happens.
The only communication they’ve had from them so far is one message the day after they left –it came from Feuilly’s spare work phone, and just said ‘got here safe, talk soon’ and it had been enough to satiate everyone for a while.
Everyone except Courfeyrac.
It’s early on a Saturday morning, not quite ten o’clock yet, and Courfeyrac is in the studio on his own. Everyone else is due to be arriving soon, but for now, he’s sitting at his desk and doodling ideas in a sketchpad with the television mumbling away in the background.
The morning news comes on, and the headline makes him freeze and drop his pencil.
Twenty-seven killed in explosion in Tadmur district of Syria, including five British nationals. More details as they arrive.
His blood runs cold and his heart feels like it’s about to beat out of his chest, pounding against his ribcage until he swears he feels the bones crack and break under the force, his breath comes in short and sharp and shallow until his throat feels burnt and raw and all he can hear is his heart rumbling in his ears and the words of the all-too-cheery newsreader as she talks of car bombs and civilian borders and he squeezes his eyes shut and a litany of horrifying and terrifying images flash behind his eyelids and he tugs and tugs and tugs at his hair until he feels a gentle hand on his wrist.
“Hey, hey, Courfeyrac, it’s me. It’s Enjolras.” A voice says quietly, and Courfeyrac stops pulling at his hair but doesn’t look up. A hand smoothes across his back, pressing gently at the tight knots in his shoulder blades. “It’s okay, it’s alright. Breathe with me, okay? Can you do that?”
Courfeyrac returns to himself a few minutes later, and it’s then that he realises he’s crying. He wipes quickly at his eyes, annoyed with himself, but Enjolras reaches out and stops him, leaning over with a tissue and doing it for him.
“Alright?”
Courfeyrac nods briskly, pushing his hair away from his face.
“Yeah, thanks. Just –I got scared, you know? There was a news report about a bomb and I got scared that I’d never-” He pauses to let out a long, shaky breath. “I got scared I’d never see him again, that I’d never get to tell him.”
Grantaire chooses this moment to sidle out of the studio kitchen with a mug of hot chocolate, piled high with whipped cream and tiny marshmallows.
“Here. Thought you’d appreciate it.” He presses a hand against Courfeyrac’s shoulder. Courfeyrac smiles weakly at him.
They fall into a comfortable silence after that, Grantaire perched on the edge of his desk with a sketchbook open on his lap as he doodles aimlessly and Enjolras not so subtly watching him from his own desk.
Jehan arrives not too long after, weighted down by a selection of illustrated children’s books.
“Thanks for the help, guys.” They laugh as they struggle into the studio and drop the books unceremoniously onto their desk. “Where is everyone?”
“Éponine, Marius and Cosette have the day off. They’re visiting Cosette’s father in Cornwall for the weekend.” Courfeyrac replies, having settled a little bit with the help of Grantaire’s hot chocolate.
“Bossuet and Musichetta texted me to say they’ve both caught something, but without Joly they don’t know what it is and don’t want it to spread. I think they miss him.” Enjolras says almost fondly as he reads the message off his phone.
Bahorel arrives just before twelve o’clock, looking haggard and tired as he drops down heavily into his chair.
“You alright?” Grantaire sticks his head up over his screen to look at the other man. “You look like you’ve been hit by a bus, mate.”
“If I’d have been hit by a bus, I’d have bloody hit it back. I’m just not sleeping right and I feel like shit, frankly.” He drops his head to his desk, pillowing his forehead with the scarf he has around his neck. “And it’s stupid and sentimental and everything we’re not but Christ, I miss him.”
“It’s not stupid at all.” Jehan leans over and squeezes his bicep. “Come on, talk to me.”
Courfeyrac listens absently as Bahorel grumbles about Feuilly’s smell and how he misses waking up with ginger hair in his eyes and legs tangled with his.
“He’ll be back before you know it.” Grantaire says quietly, sliding his hand down Courfeyrac’s arm as he finally moves and sits down in his seat. “Then you can finally get that drink.”
Courfeyrac laughs wetly.
They’re due home in three days the next time they hear from them. It’s another tiny text, sent from Feuilly’s phone and obviously in a hurry.
‘Flying back tomorrow, we’re done here. See you all soon’
As such, the studio spends the rest of the day in a state of vegetative laziness, highlighted only by Bossuet and Jehan attempting to put together a shelving unit and succeeding only in dropping a large piece of wood on Enjolras’s foot as he passed by on his way to the water cooler.
They spend the next day in a sort of jittery excitement, and absolutely nothing gets done. Bahorel spends half of the day drumming on his graphics tablet with Jehan’s markers, much to their irritation, and playing with the scarf of Feuilly’s he’s stolen and is currently wearing. Bossuet and Musichetta are singing along to the radio as they reorder the bookshelf for the third time in as many hours, unable to sit still in anticipation of Joly’s return. Courfeyrac distracts himself by playing around with some thumbnails he’s been experimenting with, and by trying to fix an error in the style sheet of the website he’s been building himself. He’s humming along to the radio, tuned to some indie station by Grantaire a few hours ago just to inconvenience Enjolras a little, when he overhears a snippet of a conversation.
“Hey, Grantaire?”
“Mm?"
“How’s the new flyer going?”
“It’s fine, so far,” Grantaire spins around in his chair to look up at Enjolras, “obviously there’s not much I can really do until Ferre gets back and he gives me those photos, but you can check it out if you want?”
“That’d be great, thanks.” Enjolras smiles minutely, and Grantaire moves up so Enjolras can share his chair. Enjolras looks at him, seemingly pleasantly surprised, and sits down next to him. He scrolls through the document Grantaire has open and hums thoughtfully.
“I like it. You’re right, though, it does need those photographs.”
Grantaire doesn’t say anything, instead choosing to study Enjolras’s face carefully, like he isn’t already intimately familiar with the curve of his nose and the dip of his cheekbones. He opens his mouth, like he’s considering saying something, but he’s interrupted by the beep signalling the arrival of the lift.
The doors slide open to reveal Feuilly, Joly and Combeferre, all of whom are various degrees of sunburned, from Feuilly who is looking a whole two shades pinker than usual, to Combeferre who has the barest hint of red across the bridge of his nose.
Bossuet and Musichetta fuss over Joly immediately, the both of them peppering hurried kisses over his pink and newly freckled cheeks, muttering about how they’ve missed him and how they love him and can’t wait to get him home.
Bahorel sidles over to Feuilly a minute or two later, when the redhead has finished helping Combeferre carry all of their bags into the studio itself. He’s playing sheepishly with the tassels on the scarf he’s still wearing, and Feuilly watches him with a small smile until Bahorel looks at him.
“Alright, alright, I missed you, okay?” Bahorel grumbles, holding out an arm and letting Feuilly tuck himself in under his shoulder.
“I missed you too. Loser.” Feuilly grins wolfishly as he pushes himself up on the balls of his feet to press a kiss to Bahorel’s stubbly cheek.
Combeferre is currently embroiled in a discussion with Jehan and Éponine about the scenery of Syria and how deceptively beautiful it is. He pats Jehan on the shoulder and smiles, moving off to hand his camera to Grantaire.
“I haven’t done any post-production yet, obviously, but you can have a look now. Tell me if there’s anything specific you want doing.”
“Thanks.” Grantaire smiles, taking the camera from him and flicking it on. Enjolras leans over his shoulder to inspect the images too.
Combeferre turns to Courfeyrac then, to find the shorter man staring up at him with a raised eyebrow.
“Hey.”
“Hello.” Courfeyrac replies brusquely, tucking his hands into his pockets. “You didn’t call.”
“I know.” Combeferre has a pained expression on his face now, as he starts twisting the cuff of his cardigan sleeve between his fingers. “I’m sorry. There was an embargo on phone communication; we shouldn’t have even sent those two texts, really. I’m sorry for worrying you.”
“It’s fine, I was probably overreacting. You know how I get. It’s just –just the other week, there was an explosion near where you said you were going and Brits died and I got, I got really scared, irrationally scared, actually, because you could’ve been-”
“Christ, Courf, I’m sorry.” Combeferre pulls him into a tight hug, arms locking tight around his waist and pressing them as close together as he physically can.
“It’s okay. You’re alright, nothing happened to you. You’re here.” Courfeyrac moves his hands from his pockets and slides his arms up to loop around Combeferre’s neck, as if to be sure that he’s still a real, tangible thing.
They hug in comfortable quiet for a few minutes, their bodies pressed so tight together that Courfeyrac is worried Combeferre will be able to feel his racing heartbeat.
“I missed you.” Combeferre tells Courfeyrac after a moment, nose buried in his hair. “I mean, I missed everyone, sure, but god, I missed you so much. And I’m sorry that I left with things the way they were.”
He pulls away for a second to study Courfeyrac’s face. The smaller man is looking up at him with a quizzical, almost hopeful expression in his eyes.
“Let me make it up to you?” Courfeyrac interjects, his grip on Combeferre’s waist getting impossibly tighter.
“What?”
“It’s my fault things were the way they were, I got mad and started shouting. So let me make it up to you. Come for dinner with me tonight. We can go to that Italian place on Leicester Square that you like. I’ll pay.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, seriously.” Doubt flashes in Courfeyrac’s eyes and Combeferre feels guilty for even beginning to question his integrity. “Unless you don’t want to.”
“No, I want to.” Combeferre smiles lopsidedly. “It’s a date. Unless that’s not what you meant, in which case it’s definitely not a date but-”
Courfeyrac moves his hand to press a finger to Combeferre’s lips to silence him.
“That’s what I meant. It’s a date.” He grins, moving his hand away from Combeferre’s mouth and leaning up to finally, finally press their lips together.
It’s not fireworks, but it’s warmth and light and like fresh brewed coffee on a cold morning and it feels like home.
Slow applause starts up from the corner of the room, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac reluctantly pull apart to see Jehan with a pleased smile on their face.
“At long last.” They say with a long-suffering sigh. “I didn’t think I’d live to see this day. Congratulations on opening your eyes. Also, Bahorel, Grantaire, you both owe me a tenner. Bossuet, you owe me twenty.”
The three of them grumble and mutter under their breath and dig out their wallets, producing a few notes and pressing them into Jehan’s open palm.
“You bet against us?” Courfeyrac gasps in mock offense. “I’m insulted.”
Combeferre laughs into his hair, and Courfeyrac turns to face him again. There’s a smile pulling at his lips and Courfeyrac stretches up to press an innocent kiss to the tip of his nose.
“Combeferre?” Jehan says expectantly, raising an eyebrow at him.
“What?” Courfeyrac looks between the two of them dubiously.
“I might owe them a fiver. I bet on me asking you out.”
“You traitor.” Courfeyrac laughs brashly, before he steps closer and kisses Combeferre again.