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It’s been six hours, according to Combeferre’s watch. Six hours since they’ve closed the door on a whirlwind of shouts and sirens and the familiar glare of hospital lights. Six hours since the longest he can remember going without sleep not on shift, since the third time in their friendship he’s seen Enjolras cry. Six hours and counting since they returned from what might objectively be the worst experience Combeferre has ever had.
By the time he and Enjolras returned home, neither of them wanted to talk much about anything. He looked at Enjolras once, saw an expression on his face that he was sure he never wanted to see again, and went straight to bed.
And his next coherent thought is that he’s clearly forgotten to turn off his alarm, because it goes of as usual four hours later. His heart starts pounding the moment he opens his eyes, his body still responding to imagined unknowns with spikes of adrenaline. He sits up, shakes his head to clear it of left-over memories, shouts and chaos, and puts on his glasses. A part of him still feels lost in an afterthought of the day before, stranded in the normality of his own room, his daily life vague and unsure around him. But in the absence of anything else, Combeferre decides to stick to routine.
First step: coffee. He opens the door to his bedroom and makes his way down the flat’s short hallway towards the kitchen, pausing at the open door to the living room as a small movement catches his attention.
“Enjolras?” He glances around the door. Enjolras is curled into a corner of the couch, his laptop balanced on his knees. The news is on the tv in front of him with the sound turned all the way down, panning slowly over an all too familiar aftermath. Silent images cast flickers of light across his face in the early morning darkness. He looks exhausted.
Combeferre frowns.
It takes Enjolras a moment to respond, his eyes still locked on a newscaster forming silent words with cheery red lips.
“I didn’t mean to wake you.” Enjolras seems to finally acknowledge him enough to react, tearing his gaze away with a visible effort and choosing instead to stare blankly at his laptop. “I have a paper due next week, thought i’d get a head start.”
Another worry joins the already overflowing heap in the back of Combeferre’s mind. He takes a step closer.
“You didn’t wake me, “ he says. “My alarm went off.”
Enjolras types a word, stares at it for a moment, deletes it again.
“Did you get any sleep?” Combeferre asks. He maneuvers a few books off the couch and sits down, turned towards Enjolras, who shrugs.
“Enjolras.” Combeferre tries to sound stern, but the combination of the early morning and the haze of confusion in the corner of his mind that he’s trying his hardest to ignore makes it come out softer than he intends. “You need to sleep.”
“I couldn’t,” Enjolras says shortly, and when he speaks, his voice is softer too. “And this is important. I’ve been neglecting it, with everything that was-” He cuts himself off abruptly. “I can’t seem to do this either.”
There are a lot of things Combeferre wantsto say, things like how brains can’t function on no sleep, and how Enjolras is clearly putting more than half of his attention into monitoring coverage of the backlash of the night before. Things like the fact that he can barely hold himself together enough to have this conversation and that he understands better than anyone the thoughts that must be going through Enjolras’s head. He says none of them.
Instead, he stands up, turning away.
“I’m going to turn this off,” he says, trying to instill some measure of calm into his voice as he motions towards the tv, trying to formulate a sort of plan in his head as he goes, to sound authoritative enough that Enjolras will snap out of whatever traumatized, exhausted daze he’s in and really listen.
“Wait, stop!” Enjolras half-rises from his awkward, curled position, but he pauses as Combeferre holds up a hand.
“I’m going to make coffee,” he announces, with enough false conviction that he hopes it will become a reality.
“Sure.” Enjolras sags back down into the couch. “I can’t do this, anyway.”
Combeferre pauses, bites down a sigh; he’s not ready for this conversation yet. Enjolras is looking down at his laptop, one hand picking at a loose seam in the couch. “The words just won’t come. I feel like i’m broken.” He takes an uneven breath. “I didn’t do enough. I tried so hard and I let everyone down.” He’s clearly not talking about the essay anymore.
The living room is small and Combeferre crosses it in two strides. He stands in front of Enjolras and slowly reaches out to slide his laptop away from him, closing the screen and replacing it with his own hand, palm up in a wordless offer of comfort. “Come with me.”
After a short moment, Enjolras takes the hand and lets Combeferre pull him upright, swaying slightly as he stands. It’s exhaustion, Combeferre knows for a fact. He made sure that Enjolras wasn’t injured the night before and anyway, he’s fairly certain it’s not something Enjolras would hide from him.
When they get to the kitchen, he takes his time making coffee in a way that he doesn’t usually have time for during rushed mornings or short glimpses of afternoons before a night shift. He lets himself be methodical, putting on water to boil, measuring beans, setting out the french press like any other person would, enjoying a leisurely weekend morning.
Behind him, Enjolras has fallen silent, perched on a stool at the kitchen counter with his chin in one hand and a distant expression on his face. They’ve known each other long enough that they don’t need to talk in order to know what the other is thinking, but there are certain things that Combeferre knows need to be said out loud. And he can’t bring himself to do it yet, not when he has the false stillness of the morning all around him and the smell of coffee filling the kitchen and Enjolras’s steady breathing behind him. He can almost pretend that nothing out of the ordinary has happened.
“Isn’t that a myth?” Enjolras asks suddenly. “Storing your coffee beans in the freezer?” Combeferre closes the freezer door and turns around to face him, resting his elbows on the counter behind him.
“I didn’t think you cared,” he responds, with a small smile. He’s glad Enjolras is talking, having opinions again, even if he still sounds lost and sad in a way that Combeferre wishes he knew how to begin to fix. “I know for a fact that you would inject caffeine directly into your bloodstream if it was an option.”
Enjolras rolls his eyes and the tension in his shoulders drops slighty. “There’s not enough time in the day as it is. Why waste more of it making coffee to stay awake when I could multitask?”
Multitask, like he’d been doing earlier with his essay, Combeferre supposes. He glances down at his watch (six hours, thirty-eight minutes) and then moves over to push down the top of the french press, pouring it out into two mugs, one of which he sets in front of Enjolras. He wraps both of his hands around his own mug, breathing in the subtle nutty aroma, letting it warm him as he studies Enjolras over the top of it.
Enjolras takes a sip of coffee and meets his eyes briefly before looking down into his cup.
“I really do have an essay due,” he says quietly, as usual, knowing exactly what’s on Combeferre’s mind without having to push too hard. “I’ve been putting it off planning all of this.” He gestures vaguely around them with his free hand, as if to indicate in some vague sense of what ‘this’ is.
Combeferre nods. “I know. And you’ll get it done faster if you actually sleep.”
It’s Enjolras’s turn to nod. “I know. It’s just,” they share a look, full of pain and guilt and something like shame. Combeferre takes a sip of coffee as Enjolras continues. “Sometimes I dream about Paris burning. It’s all smoke and flames and I can hear people shouting for help, but I can’t get to them.” Combeferre sets his mug down on the counter, takes a step closer as Enjolras pointedly looks away from him. “I don’t know.” He can hear the quiver in Enjolras’s voice. “I just always thought we could put that fire out before it started.”
He’s close enough now to wrap an arm around Enjolras as he leans sideways off his stool, resting his head against Combeferre’s shoulder. His back hitches once under Combeferre’s hand as he struggles to control his breathing.
“We can still put it out,” Combeferre says, finally, not knowing exactly how true his words are, but knowing he has to believe them, for Enjolras, for himself, for every person and everything they dedicate themselves to helping. “Maybe not today, but there’s still time.”
Enjolras shrugs under his hand, leans more heavily against him.
After a moment, he picks up his coffee again and clinks his mug lightly against Combeferre’s in a sort of cheers. “Thank you for being here.”
They both drink.
To early mornings and friendship and to the pain that comes from having tried and maybe failed, and whatever else it is that Enjolras is drinking to. Combeferre’s arm is still tight around Enjolras’s shoulders and for now, they let the world exist around them: flawed and imperfect, but still breathing.