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Leaves skitter along the pavement and a laugh cracks the thin, icy, air.
It’s autumn; jack-o’-lanterns give flickering candle-grins from doorsteps, the sky shifts and splatters with drops of mauve ink and rose stains, and a crisp wind whips and whirls down the street, catching in strangers’ smiles and stealing their newspapers in a flurry of motion.
Courfeyrac skips along the sidewalk, cheeks blush-pink and breath crystallizing in the breeze, and spins delightedly in a circle, head tossed to the sky and laughter bubbling uncontrollably in his chest. Combeferre trudges along behind him, hands burrowed in his pockets and a smile hiding under his amber scarf (hand-knitted by Courfeyrac, who took lessons from Jehan while crammed into their tiny apartment side-by-side with their skull collection. The scarf has lumps and knots and holes in random places, and Combeferre’s worn it every day since Courf gave it to him, holding out a poorly-wrapped package with shaky, nervous hands).
Courfeyrac’d been itching to get out of classes all day, fidgeting in Shakespearean Analysis and finally nailing his grand jeté in Advanced Dance just to get released early. He’d watched the leaves fall during the howling thunderstorm that morning, twirling with wild abandon, and had felt the cold seeping into his bones and racing through his bloodstream. The minute classes were over for the day he’d sprinted outside, tossing his bag carelessly over his shoulder and leaving his coat half-buttoned to meet Combeferre outside the music department and walk home with him.
Golden leaves flutter gently to the ground, casting stark silhouettes against the gray buildings towering over the two of them. Courfeyrac glances back and sees 'Ferre trailing him with a strange, soft look in his eyes, and Courf pointedly stomps on a crackly leaf near his foot. Combeferre does a miniscule skip-step and hops on a leaf with a tiny crunch , and Courf laughs and claps his hands, the noise muffled by his sunflower-yellow gloves.
Combeferre looks up and gives him a tiny grin, and Courfeyrac’s falling, falling, falling, plunging into a whirlwind of Combeferre’s smiles, late-night cuddles, fingers winding through Courfeyrac’s hair and plucking it into feather-soft braids; the moments when Courfeyrac can’t do anything but watch Combeferre do the most mundane things, cleaning the coffee maker and completely unaware of how Courfeyrac's spinning out of control, whipped along by the racing wind and powerless to stop himself from tumbling down, plummeting head over heels over heart.
Courf skips forward and wraps his hands around ‘Ferre’s bare fingers, tugging them up to his mouth to blow gently on them and flick his eyes up to meet Combeferre’s gaze, and he wonders if Combeferre can see the complete adoration in his eyes. Courfeyrac tilts his head to the side when Combeferre shivers, and Courf decisively yanks his gloves off his hands, sliding the gloves onto Combeferre’s frigid fingers and scrunching his nose when Combeferre tries to argue.
When Combeferre’s shivers lessen a bit, Courfeyrac curls his hands around his fully and leans to the side, pulling him into a spin. Combeferre stumbles at first and then unwinds, dropping his bag to the ground with a gentle thud and whirling with Courfeyrac, his head thrown back and his scarf tickling Courfeyrac’s nose.
Brittle leaves crumple under their boots, scattered shreds drifting into the road, and Courfeyrac careens to a breathless stop, panting. His lungs are shivering, brisk air filling them to the brim and cold cold cold , but his cheeks are warm warm warm, flushed with glee and autumn and Combeferre, and he feels a bit drunk ( drunk on love ).
He gently untangles his fingers from Combeferre’s, imagining Combeferre subconsciously clutches on a tiny bit before releasing him, and brings his hands up to his cheeks, cupping his face and watching Combeferre. Combeferre’s eyes are darting all over Courfeyrac’s face, and ‘Ferre bites his lip and reaches up to tug on his earlobe, jacket rustling with the movement, and Courf’s about to ask Combeferre what’s wrong and try to keep his concern from sneaking into his tone as fierce as he feels it.
He opens his mouth slightly and registers cold and then he’s feeling warm , and he’s wondering why when he realizes.
Combeferre’s stretched up and pressed his lips to Courfeyrac’s.
Courfeyrac’s brain is reeling, and he’s unable to do anything but think about how they must look from the outside - autumn leaves swirling around their entwined silhouettes, Combeferre raised up to meet Courfeyrac, his fists clenched in Courf’s flannel to pull him closer.
And then he stops thinking, because why is he still thinking, Combeferre is kissing him, Combeferre is kissing him.
Courfeyrac sighs, falling into Combeferre, and he curls his arms around the small of Combeferre’s back to splay his fingers across his coat and lift him up toward Courfeyrac a bit more. He keeps one hand there, cradling Combeferre like he’s precious (he is), and slips the other under Combeferre’s scarf. He feels Combeferre shudder as Courfeyrac threads his cold fingers into the short, barely-grown-out hairs at the base of Combeferre’s undercut, and he gasps as Combeferre gives a small bite to his chapped bottom lip.
Combeferre smells like cinnamon and tastes like peppermint and Courfeyrac’s struck by how much he feels like wintertime, cozy and soft and biting all at once. He can imagine snowflakes drifting around them instead of leaves, the wind cutting down the street and shivering through his hair. He can picture gleaming fairy lights playing off of Combeferre’s skin, tracing his form in a shining shadow and twinkling in his glasses as he looks up at Courfeyrac, a smile hidden in the corner of his mouth just for Courfeyrac to find and kiss.
Courfeyrac thinks he might grow to like winter just as much as autumn.