Chapter Text
If anything could be said of Combeferre, it was that he did not wallow. Wallowing wasn’t even in his vocabulary, thank you very much. That verb was reserved for people who didn’t realize the inevitable endings of jobs and relationships and other such things. In his opinion, the world would be a much better place if people would realize that pretty much everything is finite. Everything.
Considering that he definitely wasn’t wallowing and he wasn’t missing any important social engagements that night, it was somewhat surprising to see Jehan through the peephole of his front door. He was standing beneath a flickering florescent light, shifting his weight from his left foot to his right and cradling a wrinkled paper bag between his elbow and his side.
Combeferre propped open the door, letting a sliver of light from the hallway filter into the entryway. The way he was angled, half of his body was illuminated and half was still submerged in the darkness of the rest of the flat. He leaned his head against the wood of the door and blinked quickly to clear his vision.
“Are you going for a Harvey Dent look tonight, or what?” Jehan asked, eying the play of the light in the doorway. “Because that’s just creepy.”
"Nice to see you, too." Combeferre moved aside, as if that had been the magic phrase to permit his best friend entry. He knew very well what would be in that bag and he knew he hadn’t asked for it. He reached off to his left, his fingers brushing against the ridges in the drywall in search of the light switch.
Jehan was undeterred by the darkness and kept on course as the room was flooded with light. He would have been able to find the kitchen counters if he was spun around and blindfolded. By the time he reached the kitchen, he had already kicked his shoes off.
Combeferre watched Jehan pull out a bottle of wine and a quart of strawberry ice cream from the paper bag.
“That’s really nice and all, but I’m not wallowing,” Combeferre insisted. He folded his arms tightly over his chest.
“Really?” Jehan cocked an eyebrow. He paused momentarily in his search for spoons and a dish towel to wrap around the gradually thawing ice cream. “So, you consider sitting by yourself in a completely dark apartment to be normal behavior?”
Combeferre fumbled for an answer. “Normal, if I were some kind of a vampire?”
“That would explain your rather strange hours,” Jehan granted. He slammed shut a drawer with his hip. “In any case, you don’t need to be wallowing to enjoy a little wine and ice cream on a Friday night.”
Observing the doubtful look on Combeferre’s face, Jehan slid over to him, his socks slipping against the lightly colored hardwood floor. He latched onto the sleeve of Combeferre’s shirt to steady himself.
He passed over one of the large spoons and attempted to correlate Combeferre’s level of distress with his appearance. The dark circles under the eyes weren’t too prominent and his glasses were only slightly lopsided, but, even on a good day, that was normal for Combeferre. It didn’t look awful, but appearances could be deceiving.
“You’re right. As usual,” Combeferre conceded. His toes sunk into the carpet as he followed Jehan to the living room, which comfortably housed a flat-screen television and a maroon couch.
Combeferre’s gaze was drawn to the road outside the ceiling-to-floor windows, where a lone car drove slowly down the street. He watched its red roof as it was illuminated by one streetlamp. It disappeared momentarily into the darkness and then reappeared in the radius of the next streetlamp. He kept his gaze fixed on the street outside, knowing that if he were to look at Jehan, he was going to dissolve into tears.
“Better pass the wine,” Combeferre said with a sigh, extending his hand toward Jehan.
“That’s the spirit!” Jehan said with a half-smile. Jehan shifted so that Combeferre could grab the blanket nestled underneath his thigh. They rearranged themselves on the couch until they were suitably comfortable.
Combeferre draped the blanket over his shoulders and, looking at him, Jehan had a split second vision of a younger Combeferre with square-rimmed glasses too big for his round face, running around in some backyard with a cape knotted around his throat.
Jehan passed over the uncorked bottle. Glasses to contain the wine would be unnecessary tonight. Combeferre glanced down momentarily to examine the label.
“Moscato d’Asti?” He read slowly. “We haven’t had this one before, have we?”
“I googled the best wines to go with break-ups,” Jehan said with a shrug. “Apparently, the internet says that if you’ve been left for someone else, the best thing to cheer you up is something sweet. Hence, the sparkling white wine.” He paused to pry open the ice cream. “I think this part is self-explanatory, though.”
With the wine in Combeferre’s left hand, the blanket tucked around his shoulders and crappy reality television flickering in the background, Jehan took one look at the two of them huddled together on the couch and shook his head slowly.
“Combeferre?”
"Hm?"
"I regret to inform you that you are full-out wallowing.”
“Wha?” Combeferre managed, his mouth wrapped halfway around the spoon, savoring his first scoop of ice cream. He glanced at their arrangement and shrugged. “Huh. I suppose I am.”
“The first step is admitting it,” Jehan said, reaching over to give him a consoling pat on the back. “It’s all downhill from here.”
Combeferre swallowed his ice cream. Unprompted, he began to rant, “So what if Jean-Claude wanted someone who could make more of a commitment? I’m a doctor, for god’s sake,” he said, as if that explained everything. Jehan didn’t miss the rehearsed quality of the statement.
“Working already?” Jehan grabbed the neck of the wine bottle, pulling it up from where it had been propped up between their adjoining thighs. He swished it around, trying to gauge how big of a sip Combeferre had taken. Jehan took a swig and savored the sensation of the sweet wine traveling down his throat.
Combeferre continued on, undeterred, “It’s not the wine, I just need to say it out loud. You know how when you keep things in for a really long time, they just end up coming out, whether you want them to or not? That’s what’s going on here.”
“Right. Well, best to get it out, then.”
Combeferre tried to say something else, but the noise got stuck somewhere in his throat. He shoved another spoonful of ice cream in his mouth, holding it there as it melted on his tongue. He focused on its coldness to distract himself from the prickling sensation near the corners of his eyes. That spoonful was followed by another, which was followed by two more swishes of wine to wash it all down.
It was going to be a long night.
The next day, Combeferre found that he didn’t remember much of what had happened the night before. He did, however, notice that the weight on his shoulders felt noticeably lighter.
Judging by the slant of the light filtering in through the windows, they had already slept away most of the morning.
Thank goodness for afternoon shifts, Combeferre thought. Jehan was tipped over on the opposite end of the couch, using the armrest as a makeshift pillow. Combeferre made sure to tuck a blanket over his shoulders. Jehan stirred under the blanket but did not open his eyes.
Combeferre headed over to the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee. The pot was about half-full when he remembered that was expecting a package in the post yesterday.
He slipped on his shoes and straightened out yesterday’s clothes, hoping that they looked half-way presentable. He hummed under his breath and ran his fingers through his hair, hoping that he wouldn’t run into anyone while he was down there. He left the coffee pot on the counter to cool while he was gone.
Down in the mail room, he sifted through the letters, looking for any indication that the postal service might have left behind a package. Junk, junk, bill, more junk, advert.
Mixed in the usual junk mail was a flyer for a summer blow out party at the local pub. He was absorbed in scrutinizing the flyer and wondering how he possibly managed to get on that mailing list.
The next thing he knew, he was staring up at the ceiling with a strange weight pressing on his body. He didn't remember falling over, but he must have. To be more precise, he had ended up cushioning someone’s fall and that someone was still on top of him. The stranger’s legs were on both sides of his torso and his hands had come to a rest on the carpet over his shoulders.
The man had hazel eyes, widened in shock, and his hair was matted to his forehead with sweat. Combeferre focused his eyes on the ceiling, half-expecting another gorgeous man to fall from the sky.
It took another minute before the two were on their feet again.
“Sorry about that,” the man said, while combing his hand through his hair.
“It’s alright.” Combeferre stooped down to gather together his mail. To his credit, the other man knelt down to help gather the stray letters. One of them had even succeeded in making it to a spot near the front door. “No harm done.”
He couldn’t help but notice that their fingers brushed as the mail changed hands. It looked like Combeferre was cashing in all his good karma for the past year today.
“I’m Courfeyrac,” he said with an extended hand. He was still smiling and his cheeks were still flushed pink. It was only then that Combeferre registered the work-out clothes. The loose fitting tank top did a spectacular job in showing off his upper arms. The whole outfit looked like it was designed to show off as much as Courfeyrac’s olive-shaded skin as possible, and it was making Combeferre’s head spin. His pulse throbbed in his throat.
Cute Jogger. That’s what he’d be called from now on.
He jolted out of his reverie and hoped in the back of his mind that Cute Jogger hadn’t noticed him openly staring. He had a feeling that Courfeyrac wouldn’t have minded much if he would have been caught. He was wearing that particular outfit for a reason.
Combeferre straightened his glasses and led the way to the stairway. He racked his brain for ways to engage Cute Jogger in some kind of a conversation. He ended up saying the first thing that came to mind.
“So, you must be the new tenant in number five?”
Courfeyrac puffed his chest out, obviously proud of his purchase. “Yeah, I moved in this morning.”
Combeferre figured that the best way to make a good impression was to strike a humorous chord.
“This morning?” Combeferre said with a touch of exaggeration. “Making quick work of trying to take out the neighbors, I see.” He leaned a little closer to Courfeyrac just to gauge his reaction. He didn’t even flinch as Combeferre closed the distance. “Mme. Durand in flat 3 has the biggest living room, but if you’re looking for an extra bathroom then you’ve got to take down M. Lefebvre in number 8.”
Courfeyrac didn’t have to know that those were the only two people he knew in the whole building. He was a doctor, for God’s sake. They reached the first landing and continued on to the next.
To his credit, Courfeyrac’s short little legs kept up with Combeferre’s rather quick pace. He often had to remind himself to slow down for his shorter friends.
They exchanged a little more small talk about Combeferre’s apartment. Combeferre was surprised to find himself talking about his massive library, a piece of information that he didn’t normally divulge until the second date at least. He had been told in the past that the mention of his immense library came off as intimidating to some people.
But this man didn’t seem daunted. His eyes brightened as Combeferre mentioned his books and Combeferre had half a mind to invite him inside. Although the way things were going, there wouldn’t be any reading going on.
He was fresh out of a long-term relationship and supposed to be heartbroken. What was this?
“Well, this is me,” Combeferre said. He fumbled around in his pockets for his keys before remembering that he left it open when he went downstairs.
“Let me know if I can help with anything. Hopefully I’ll bump into you again sometime.” And for the first time in at least a week, Combeferre smiled.
The door clicked shut behind him. He leaned back against it, his hand still clutching the doorknob. Hopefully I’ll bump into you again sometime, he mocked himself. Was that supposed to be funny?
For some reason, he couldn’t the image of Courfeyrac on top of him out of his mind. He tried not to remember the sensation of their bodies pressed together. It wasn’t really helping his heart rate.
Jehan poked his head over the back of the couch. A strand of hair was still stuck to the side of his face.
“So, where were we?” he wondered, his voice still groggy with sleep. He lifted the back of his hand to stifle a yawn. “Jean-Claude is the biggest douchebag to ever walk this planet?”
Combeferre blinked once. “Who?”
Jehan sat up straighter and rubbed his eyes with his fists. He seemed to grow more confused when he realized he was actually awake.
“Did I miss something?”