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Courfeyrac was dreaming.
He knew it was a dream because everything was in black and white, like a film from the 1920s, and there was a full-scale musical number occurring around him.
He was standing on the sidewalk, gray beneath his feet that blurred into gray grass and black houses and a white sky. He looked down at his hands to find them gray as well, not sickly but almost silver, glimmering in the rays of nonexistent sunlight. His friends surrounded him, all singing and smiling. If he wasn’t aware that it was a dream, he would have been pretty convinced they were all on drugs, their movements too animated, their energy too manic. Bahorel was shrieking with glee as he square-danced with Eponine; Enjolras and Gavroche played hopscotch; Grantaire and Feuilly were spray painting cartoon frogs (in varying shades of gray) in the middle of the road where there were thankfully no cars. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta were making out in the grass, while Marius was braiding Jehan’s hair, who was braiding Cosette’s.
He dreamed in song frequently — and often found himself semi-conscious in the middle of his dreams — so he didn’t think anything was too odd about it.
Then he spotted Combeferre, his dark hair neatly combed, his thick-rimmed glasses low on the bridge of his nose. He was wearing a T-shirt, revealing his brightly colored tattoo sleeves, and Courfeyrac felt his breath halt. The intricate ink drawings, all portraying scenes and words from his favorite books, were the only spots of color in the dream and they practically glowed. Combeferre was standing to the side, leaning against a tree trunk with his arms across his chest, smiling fondly at everyone as he sang along.
Suddenly, his was the only voice Courfeyrac could hear. That deep, perfect baritone wrapped around Courfeyrac’s heart and squeezed until he was on his knees in the gray grass, short of breath.
Then everything else in the dream disappeared: all his friends, the scenery, the noise. Everything was gone and endlessly black except Combeferre standing there, still smiling as if he were in on some secret. And still singing, the music flowing out of his mouth in technicolor visual swirls of music notes and lyrics. They wound their way around his torso and in the air until they reached right in front of Courfeyrac’s nose, where they disintegrated into pastel-colored dust.
With a start, Courfeyrac remembered what had happened before he’d fallen asleep: how Combeferre had surprised him with a visit, how he made a complete wreck of everything and concussed himself, how he’d drifted in and out of a daze while Combeferre held him and sang to him, how Combeferre’s lips had tasted against his own in that strange split-second. Everything flooded back, all the way to the beginning of his intense crush on his friend and the first night they met.
Even though that initial meeting wasn’t exactly the thing of dreams.
*
It wasn’t that Combeferre and Courfeyrac disliked each other when they first met. It was more to do with the fact that Combeferre was in a rare bad mood after being unceremoniously dumped via text. And Courfeyrac was drunk.
*
It was a typical Northeast night in January, the threat of snow imminent as the wind howled and blew everything out of orbit. Courfeyrac and Marius were trekking from the university library back to their apartment, hoping to beat the storm that was brewing. Courfeyrac usually didn’t mind winter. Cold weather clothes were fun — bright scarves and mittens, knit hats, and insulated coats — and snowball fights were educational experiments in strategy and an extremely valuable use of time.
However, when it was this cold and windy, and every single step felt like trying to push through some force field, winter wasn’t very enjoyable. He insisted on a different route than their usual, a shortcut he said (and hoped), but it turned out to not be once they had to factor in the bustle of traffic around them and navigating the piles of slush left over from the last winter blast.
Courfeyrac started to feel the cold seep through his years-old boots, and he knew it wouldn’t be much longer before they gave out. Plus his stomach was rumbling so vigorously that he could feel it in his throat and, though Marius would never say, Courfeyrac knew he had to be hungry, too. They’d been in the library since 2 in the afternoon and, eight hours later, they were still only two-thirds done with their project. Courfeyrac had wanted to pack it in hours ago, but Marius’ obnoxiously strict work ethic wouldn’t let them.
So now it was late, a lot of places were closed or closing, and their options were scarce. As they walked down the boulevard, he began scouting out a place to stop, warm up, and get a bite and maybe a drink. He tried to nuzzle further into his scarf, burying his nose into the worn fabric. It didn’t do much to keep the wind at bay, and neither did the beanie that barely covered his ears. Sometimes it just didn’t pay to look cute as hell.
After a few minutes, he tugged on the sleeve of Marius’ now damp wool coat as they approached a restaurant, its fluorescent lights blinking “Musain Grille” against the darkness.
Though it was relatively close to campus, Courfeyrac had never been there. He’d walked past a few times in his travels and mentally condemned it for the bright orange plastic booths he could see from outside that appeared to have come from the 1970s. He didn’t enjoy the idea of sitting on a surface that had been wiped down with a damp, dirty rag after the last person had sat there.
But tonight, it was cold, they were hungry, and Courfeyrac could see the impressive shelves of liquor behind the bar; he could already imagine the warm sensation of alcohol traveling throughout his bloodstream, melting away any trace of frost.
As they veered into the entrance, Marius bumped into a pretty girl on her way out. Courfeyrac held the door open and rolled his eyes as Marius tripped over his tongue apologizing to her, even accidentally switching to French at one point since he and Courfeyrac had been working on their French assignment for so long. Courfeyrac shivered, his body aching to feel the heat that was teasing from within the restaurant.
Marius ignored him, still babbling practically incoherently as the woman smiled kindly at him. Courfeyrac could admit that Marius’ awkward rambling could be endearing sometimes. It was what had drawn him to Marius the first time they met freshman year at a party where Marius tried to compliment Courfeyrac’s dancing for about five minutes before Courfeyrac kissed him on the cheek and decided to adopt him. But it wasn’t charming at all while a polar vortex was threatening to blow them away.
The woman’s patience was that of a saint, Courfeyrac thought as Marius said something about the cold weather “dulling his spatial sense” and “I’m sorry” for the 18th time. Courfeyrac finally sighed loudly and put his hand on Marius’ shoulder, who barely registered the action. The woman, however, mercifully noticed and she took Marius’ hands in hers for just a moment and then waved and hurried off to wherever she needed to go. She hadn’t said a word the entire time.
Marius, on the other hand, apparently wasn’t going to shut up about her.
“I mean, did you see that smile? It was like trying to stare at the sun. I am still recovering. I’ll never be the same. Do you think I could find her or is it useless?” Marius said as they entered the restaurant. “I won’t give up though. I just won’t. It’s fate, clearly, that we ran into each other. It’s the only logical explanation. So beautiful, so kind ...”
It continued as they were seated at their table (by a very rude hostess who refused to smile), and as they were greeted by their waitress (who was personable enough to make up for the disagreeable hostess), and as they made their choices, and as they waited for their meals, and as their food arrived.
Courfeyrac adored Marius like a brother — they were the closest friend either of them had ever had — and he’d been dying for Marius to meet someone. A person so romantic and caring and generous deserved it. But after a point, Courfeyrac couldn’t stand to hear the word “destiny” one more time, so he tuned his friend out and instead took in the surroundings that he’d honestly been trying to avoid thus far.
The Musain Grille turned out to be a strange combination of types of eateries, like it had split personalities. It was as if a traditional restaurant, an organic cafe, and a sketchy diner had fused together and created this comfortable, healthy, out-of-date establishment with a ridiculously stocked bar and food that was giving Courfeyrac a boner.
He concentrated on each bite of his fantastic black bean burger; it was cooked so perfectly, seasoned so specifically, that he was convinced the chef there must be a genius. It was moist without falling apart, the sharp cheddar cheese melted into the crevices, and even the bun was delicious, fresh and toasted evenly.
Whoever made this burger deserved a medal, he thought as he bit into a superbly crisp garlic dill pickle slice. More than a medal. A parade in their honor, complete with a marching band and confetti and cannons.
Even the fries were amazing. Far from the mundane, over-salted varieties at other restaurants, these were special, dusted with some kind of barbecue and ranch seasonings that were simply out of this world. Courfeyrac wanted to erect a statue to this chef, carved over years of painstaking effort in marble. That’s how good this food was.
He admonished himself for judging it by its terrible color scheme. There was clearly more to the Musain than the tacky orange booths and posters of old folk acts on the walls if it could keep such a talented chef in its kitchen.
Also surprising was the realization that he felt comfortable there. He liked the atmosphere, however strange and mismatched it might be. Instead of top 40 (or folk as the wall decor would have you believe), there was classical music playing quietly in the background, some sort of cello solo that you’d expect in a fancy, fine-dining restaurant. It was odd, yet added to the restaurant’s charm. Most of the tables and booths were spread far enough apart that it was almost a private dining experience. And the lighting was dim but not so dim that you couldn’t see the others at your table. But then there were neon lights around the alcove to the kitchen, a group of rowdy frat brothers from the lacrosse team at the bar playing some sort of flip cup, and an out-of-order sign on the men’s bathroom that simply said, in big capital letters: “You don’t want to come in here. Share the other one. We’re all mature and evolved enough to have a gender-neutral bathroom anyway, right?”
It would be his new spot, Courfeyrac decided.
As he was about to relay this information to Marius (by extension making it Marius’ new spot, too, since they were rarely apart), there was commotion and loud voices from the left, near the entrance of the restaurant. Marius, who was sitting facing the window in case his mysterious beauty walked by again, stopped mid-sentence and looked over, while Courfeyrac got up from his seat slowly to look around the pillar that was blocking his view.
A young man was standing at the hostess podium. Check that, a gorgeous young man with wild blond hair, a light blue dress shirt, and khakis that fit him way too well. Enjolras.
Courfeyrac knew him vaguely. Their paths had crossed more than once at university government meetings, petition signings, and various protests. Plus it was kind of hard to not notice someone as striking as Enjolras, even if he wasn’t always leading some sort of charge that unwittingly put him in the spotlight. Courfeyrac remembered his impassioned speech about equality at the campout on the steps of the state house a few weeks ago that had incited the people so much that it had nearly turned into a brawl with the city police. It was fantastic.
Much like him and Marius, Enjolras was almost always in the company of his two friends: Feuilly, who Courfeyrac knew from the kids mentoring group they were both in, and the quiet, unnaturally handsome one with glasses whose name Courfeyrac had never quite caught. Courfeyrac wondered if they worked at the Musain, too.
Enjolras was usually standing in front of a crowd, hypnotizing the hoards into action about some injustice with just his words and his voice. Now, he was speaking quietly but seriously with the hostess, a girl who couldn’t be more than 17. She appeared to be bored by what he was saying, which Courfeyrac couldn’t imagine. She played with her phone in front of her, not even looking at Enjolras, who Courfeyrac assumed had to be her boss at the restaurant. He kept talking and she kept ignoring him, barely nodding in response to questions that Courfeyrac couldn’t hear.
Without warning, suddenly she slammed her hand down on the podium, causing Enjolras to stand back in surprise; Courfeyrac’s instinct was to take a step forward so he was finally within earshot.
“What do I care where I seat people? It doesn’t matter,” she said, stepping around the podium to stand in front of it, looking at Enjolras who was only maybe 2 inches taller than her.
“It does matter,” he replied calmly, although Courfeyrac saw a flash of anger on his face. “First of all, it’s literally your job to care about seating people. And second, you can’t give all the tables to your friends and ignore the other waiters. It isn’t fair. Everyone deserves an equal chance at tips and an equal share of the work.”
The girl sighed and rolled her eyes. “I really don’t give a shit. Can I just go already?”
Enjolras stood up straighter and folded his arms across his chest. He wasn’t a large man by any means — really, he was more Courfeyrac’s size and thinner — but it was an imposing sight, his stature rigid and his face stone. As Courfeyrac spared a glance around, the entirety of the restaurant seemed just as transfixed by the exchange. Even the other waiters stopped, including Feuilly who Courfeyrac spotted back near the bar, watching with an intense, protective gaze.
“If you leave in the middle of your shift, don’t bother ever coming back,” he said so softly that Courfeyrac had to strain to hear. But despite how quiet he was, there was no lack of ferocity behind the words.
“Whatever. I don’t need this stupid job anyway.” The girl went back around the podium, pulled her coat and purse from underneath, and stomped out of the restaurant in a truly childish fashion. Courfeyrac had to stifle a laugh.
What wasn’t funny, however, was the glare on Enjolras’ face as he scanned the restaurant, sending his waiters scattering and reminding the patrons they had delicious food in front of them. Courfeyrac watched as Enjolras locked eyes with Feuilly for a few seconds before Feuilly ran his fingers through his curly hair thoughtfully, picked up his empty tray, and wandered back toward the kitchen area.
Courfeyrac retreated to his table before Enjolras could set his sights on him. He sat back down and looked across at Marius, who was poking around at what remained of his spaghetti and organic meatballs.
“I can’t believe that girl just up and quit,” Courfeyrac said before taking a long gulp of his beer. (The Musain was also his new favorite place because they didn’t card him when he ordered the beer, and the two before, even though he was still a few months shy of his 21st birthday. The pleasant warmth that had spread throughout his body, making his head just slightly heavy, was a welcome relief.)
“Yeah, that sucks,” Marius replied. “I hope the manager has some backup because he looks kind of overwhelmed.”
Courfeyrac leaned forward to look around the pillar and saw Enjolras staring down at the seating map, biting the corner of his lip, with a seemingly impatient couple in front of him. Then a waitress came up behind him and whispered something, and Enjolras made an apologetic gesture to the couple and followed the waitress back toward a far table.
When he returned to the podium, Enjolras looked nothing less than distressed to see another two groups of people waiting to be seated. He quickly gathered up a pile of menus and had the first couple follow him to an empty table, walking too quickly and not saying a word. He practically threw the menus on the table and nodded off to a waitress, his face unsmiling.
It was absolutely none of his concern, but Courfeyrac felt bad for him. Courfeyrac knew Enjolras was a passionate individual just from his handful of dealings with him. He cared about the campus, its students, the surrounding community, and the nation as a whole. He had a desire to change the entire world for the better, and though he didn’t know Enjolras personally, Courfeyrac respected that sense of justice that seemed to reverberate from his very soul.
The last thing he needed was to juggle the front of house in addition to whatever boss duties he should be attending to just because some irresponsible teenager was an entitled brat and had left him in the lurch.
Plus there was the fact that Enjolras was clearly not meant for face-to-face customer service, Courfeyrac thought as he watched Enjolras direct the other groups to follow the waitresses to their tables by pointing his finger aggressively.
Before he knew it, Courfeyrac was on his feet to walk toward Enjolras, albeit a little unsteady thanks to the beers that had infiltrated his system. He felt Marius try to grab at his hand and stop him, but he ignored it and kept walking. He didn’t know what he was going to say; he just knew he had to do it. He went around the opposite side of the pillar, lightly dragging his fingers across the grooves, and approached from the front of the podium.
Enjolras was bent forward, his fingers buried in his curls, drumming against his scalp. His shoulders were tensed, and there was a distinct “don’t fucking bother me” aura around him. So, of course, Courfeyrac bounded up and leaned against the podium, his nose mere inches from Enjolras’ forehead.
“What the hell?” Enjolras exclaimed, standing up straight and nearly knocking into Courfeyrac’s face.
Courfeyrac could tell Enjolras didn’t recognize him; it stung for a second since Courfeyrac prided himself on being the remarkable sort. But he shook his head, reminding himself that they’d never even had a conversation so why would Enjolras know him. If they had spoken before, Courfeyrac was positive Enjolras would remember him. This would have to be their first, extremely memorable exchange.
“Hi, Enjolras. You look like you could use some help,” Courfeyrac said with a grin.
“Do I know you?” he replied tersely.
Courfeyrac was tempted to launch into some in-depth description of how they had the same causes, how they’d marched alongside each other (figuratively if not physically), how they’d worked toward the same goals on many occasions. Yet, he held his tongue, worried that if he started on that path he’d end up embarrassing himself by falling into some kind of hero worship speech.
Instead, he smiled more broadly and leaned up on his tip toes. “You do not. But my name is Courfeyrac, and I’d like to help.”
Enjolras continued to look at him, his piercing hazel eyes searching for any trace of a reason to say no or throw him out. Courfeyrac knew it was a little insane, offering to help a stranger in the middle of a crowded restaurant, especially when he had zero experience and didn’t even know if he would be able to handle it better than Enjolras was. But still, he stood there.
“Why?” Enjolras asked after a minute. Courfeyrac could see his shoulders relax ever so slightly, the distrust beginning to melt from his stare.
“What do you have to lose?” he replied.
Enjolras hesitated for a second and then shrugged almost helplessly.
“OK then,” he said, slipping out from behind the podium and motioning Courfeyrac in with a wave of his hand. “Have someone find me if you realize you got in over your head and want out though.”
“I’ll be grand,” Courfeyrac replied, bowing slightly before he went behind the podium to take his newly appointed position.
Enjolras rolled his eyes but then must have realized Courfeyrac was actually doing a kind thing without any reason for doing so. “Thank you,” he said quietly, putting a hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder for a second before doing an about-face and speed-walking toward the rear of the Musain.
Then Courfeyrac realized he was alone, a messy, foreign seating map in front of him, and a group of impatient teenagers who had just come in from the cold, looking at him like he had some clue as to what he was doing. He looked over at Marius, who was still sitting at their table, his mouth hanging open. Clearly he wasn’t going to be of any help. Courfeyrac had tackled worse: He’d planned his junior prom in two days, he’d decided on a whim to audition for the college’s production of “Hamlet” and got the lead, he’d filled in as a TA in his microeconomics class without any of the prerequisites. He could totally do this.
“Hey, how’re you doing tonight thanks for coming to the Musain Grille give me just a second to get my bearings and I’ll be happy to get you to a table as soon as possible I appreciate your patience immensely and I can personally assure you that you’re in for a real treat here.”
Courfeyrac spoke in one big sentence as he dragged his finger along the side of the paper attached to the podium, counting the number of waiters and waitresses working that night (four including Feuilly), how many tables they had in each of their sections, and how many were currently occupied.
He could easily tell that Feuilly and Julia, his and Marius’ waitress, were getting the short end of the stick; the other two, who Courfeyrac assumed were the hostess’s friends, had more full tables and had received more customers all night. It was understandable why Enjolras had gotten so upset. Courfeyrac decided to right that wrong.
He looked inside the podium to find the stacks of menus and gathered four of them in his arms.
“Right this way,” he beamed at the group, leading them toward a table in Feuilly’s empty section. He had to pass by Marius, who made his usual “what the fuck are you doing” face. Courfeyrac patted him on the head as he walked; Marius really should be used to this by now, he couldn’t help but think.
“Your server is Feuilly, and he should be with you in just one moment. Enjoy your meal,” Courfeyrac said with another bright smile as he put the menus on the table.
After a quick glance at the entrance to make sure no one else had come in, Courfeyrac walked the long way around the restaurant to approach Feuilly who was leaning forward against the bar, engrossed in a textbook and jotting down notes in its margins.
“You’ve got a table,” Courfeyrac said, tapping the counter next to Feuilly’s hand.
“OK thanks,” Feuilly replied without breaking his concentration. He finished highlighting a sentence and then closed his book, using his pen as a bookmark. It was then that he looked up and realized who was standing there. He blinked with disbelief. “Wait, Courfeyrac? What are you doing here?”
Courfeyrac chuckled. “I’m your host for the evening. I thought you all might need some help after what happened earlier.”
Feuilly stacked his other notebooks on top of the textbook and then slid them back against the bar backsplash, out of the way. “Enjolras approved this?”
Courfeyrac nodded. “He’s very suspicious, that Enjolras. I don’t think he understood why I was offering my assistance.”
“I’ll talk to him and let him know I know you, so at least he’ll know you aren’t messing with us. You aren’t, right?” Courfeyrac shook his head, making sure his face was as sincere as possible. “Even though I don’t understand why you’re helping either.”
“I have a warm and charitable spirit,” Courfeyrac said without a trace of sarcasm.
Grinning that good-natured smile that Courfeyrac had grown to love and respect since his first day at the mentoring group, Feuilly pushed away from the bar. “I know you do. Thanks for helping, Courf. And thanks for the table. It’s been a slow night.”
Feuilly walked quickly to greet the group of teenagers who Courfeyrac desperately hoped would be generous tippers. He watched Feuilly introduce himself and make some sort of joke that made the girls laugh. Courfeyrac smiled to himself and made his way back toward the table where Marius still sat, abandoned.
At least he’d gotten to finish his dinner, Courfeyrac thought jealously. Courfeyrac’s half-finished, deliciously out-of-this-world burger was still sitting on his plate, getting cold.
“Can you box that for me?” Courfeyrac asked as he came up behind Marius, putting his hands on his friend’s shoulders.
“Courf, what do you think you’re doing? Do you work here or something now?”
Marius tilted his head back so he looked up at Courfeyrac, the top of his head resting against Courfeyrac’s stomach, his eyebrows pinched together half in irritation and half in amusement.
“I don’t think so, but maybe?” Courfeyrac shrugged. “They needed help, so I’m helping.” He pulled out his wallet and grabbed a $20, putting it on the table by Marius’ glass. “Seriously though, can you get a box for my food? I don’t want to waste a morsel of that burger.”
“Are you coming home? Do you want me to wait for you? Are you staying until they close?” Marius asked in quick succession.
“Eventually. No. And probably.” Courfeyrac pointed at his burger again for the effect and then returned to the host podium without giving Marius a chance to respond.
The Musain had a natural ebb and flow to the crowds as the night went on. Marius waited around for a little, just to make sure Courfeyrac wasn’t going to change his mind, but left around 11, taking Courfeyrac’s food with him.
Enjolras didn’t come back up front, but Courfeyrac saw him walk around the restaurant a few times, making sure the customers were taken care of, talking with Feuilly, and even clearing away some of the tables. And he was watching Courfeyrac, too, with a kind of curious but satisfied smile, like he was pleased Courfeyrac was still there.
Courfeyrac was pleased, too. He found he liked the Musain even more working there than he had as a patron. With the exception of one older man who was rude to Julia — which Enjolras handled with remarkable restraint — the customers were mostly regulars with a great deal of fondness for the restaurant. Everyone was pleasant and excited to be there, especially as the night wore on and Courfeyrac knew it was one of the only restaurants in the immediate area still open. Courfeyrac fairly divided up each batch of customers, distributing them around the eatery, different groups of different sizes and people (nobody would fault him for favoring Feuilly and Julia just a little since the others had been given an advantage all night). Everything seemed to be moving smoothly: all of the waiters occupied, customers smiling, the food — the delicious, perfect food that seemed to taunt Courfeyrac with its fragrances — coming out in a timely manner.
He couldn’t be positive since he had nothing to compare it with, but he thought he was doing a pretty spectacular job.
As it passed 1:30 a.m., Courfeyrac could tell it was nearing closing time. The two younger waitresses had gone home, Julia was finishing up her last table, and Feuilly had disappeared into the kitchen, likely helping with dishes or prep or something else incredibly productive as he was prone to do. The bartender only had a few customers, downing what was left of their drinks, and Courfeyrac realized mournfully that the strength of his buzz from earlier in the night had diminished, though, thanks to being a bit of a light-weight, he was hardly sober.
At 10 minutes to 2 a.m., the Musain was empty. The remaining guys at the bar had left (Courfeyrac was relieved to witness them getting into a rideshare), and Julia’s final table had departed. After stacking the last of the chairs on the stand-alone tables, she followed soon after, waving as she set out into the chill.
Courfeyrac didn’t know what the closing protocol was, and he was getting antsy, unsure of how long he was supposed to stay, unsure of whether he was allowed to just leave or had to wait for Enjolras to relieve him of his duties. He walked around, straightening stacked chairs and grabbing any stray menus from the booth tables. He knew it was dumb, but he’d hoped there would be a grand celebration for him heroically stepping in to save the restaurant. Or at least some sort of thank you.
But the Musain remained quiet.
Until suddenly, Feuilly emerged from the kitchen, his step unusually heavy and his face clouded over. Though he was often serious, Courfeyrac wasn’t accustomed to the darkness currently shrouding Feuilly’s features. His mouth was a straight line, and his hands were dug deep into the pockets of his work slacks. He went to the front of the restaurant and turned the “open” sign over, flipping off the outside lights at the same time. The movements weren’t angry, just purposeful; although Courfeyrac didn’t know Feuilly particularly well, he knew enough to understand that something had happened. When he turned back toward Courfeyrac, Feuilly attempted a smile, though it paled in comparison to what Courfeyrac knew his genuine grin looked like.
“It’s closing time, and I need a drink. Or six. Care to join? It’s on me.” Feuilly nodded toward the back of the restaurant and extended his arm forward.
“Try and stop me,” Courfeyrac turned and practically bounded toward the bar, just assuming that Feuilly was following.
When he got there, he looked around and didn’t see the bartender anywhere. He stood on the bottom rung of a barstool, leaned over the counter, and searched behind the bar, disappointed to see only empty boxes and crates.
“It seems as if your bartender has left for the evening,” Courfeyrac sat back down on the stool and pouted, folding his hands in front of him.
“That’s OK,” Feuilly replied as he walked around the far end of the bar to go behind it and then came closer to Courfeyrac on the other side, dragging his long fingers along the counter as he moved. “I can handle it.”
“Of course you can,” Courfeyrac lifted his hands up to prop them under his chin. “Is there anything you don’t do?”
“It’s just pouring alcohol, it’s hardly a talent. Plus Frankie is rather inconsistent in his work attendance, so I end up covering over here frequently,” Feuilly smirked as he gathered two clean glasses from under the counter, and then pulled a bottle of amber liquor from against the wall. “I hope you like the cheapest whiskey available.”
Courfeyrac didn’t particularly — he preferred beer to everything, especially the selection of strange craft brews that the Musain had — but he wasn’t one to turn down free drinks. Especially when he wanted to create some internal warmth for the walk back to his and Marius’ apartment.
“Pour away, good sir, and tell me of your troubles. Why are you in need of alcoholic comfort tonight?” Courfeyrac’s curiosity was getting the best of him. What could possibly have happened in such a short span of time to upset Feuilly so much? It must have been something in the restaurant since they’d been there all evening. Was there a disagreement with Enjolras? Did a customer treat him poorly?
“They aren’t my troubles exactly,” Feuilly said, downing his drink in a single gulp and pouring another in seemingly one graceful motion.
“Ah, whose troubles are we drowning in then?” Courfeyrac did his best to keep up, the liquor stinging the back of his throat.
“My friend. Combeferre.”
Courfeyrac could picture him now, Enjolras and Feuilly’s friend whose name he couldn’t remember earlier. Courfeyrac could see his wavy dark hair, his tawny skin, the messenger bag always heavy with books, the vibrant tattoo sleeves that seemed out of place with his calm demeanor and yet also suited him perfectly. Courfeyrac was starting to have trouble breathing.
“The gorgeous one with the glasses?” he finally managed to say, hoping his voice didn’t give away what he was thinking.
“Yeah, do you know him, too?” Feuilly had finished his second drink, and Courfeyrac felt the need to do the same before answering.
“Not personally. I’ve just seen him at meetings and stuff with Enjolras and you. The three musketeers kind of, aren’t you?”
Feuilly smiled into his glass, a real smile, however small it was. “We met during orientation freshman year, and yeah, we’ve kind of been inseparable since. I really lucked out with them. Enjolras is obviously a special individual: driven and outspoken and so dedicated to finding justice for everyone and everything. And Combeferre is like the perfect balance to that: equally driven and dedicated, though more quiet and less aggressive in his manner. But god, you should hear him when he gets started on something. Enjolras is like the sun, burning so bright and fierce that sometimes it’s too much to take. Combeferre is like a fire catching after sparks, warm and comforting, though still incredibly awe-inspiring.”
It was kind of hilarious because Courfeyrac had overheard a conversation once, in which Enjolras talked about Feuilly in a similar, admiring way. He wondered briefly if they were all together, one of those beautiful, polyamorous relationships that Courfeyrac himself would never be able to be a part of simply because he was too selfish and high-maintenance to share.
“We’re not dating, if that’s what you were thinking,” Feuilly interrupted Courfeyrac’s daydream with a pop. “People think that sometimes, but we aren’t. Not that we hadn’t thought about it a few times. But we’re too alike, the three of us. That’s why we’re great friends: like-minded with similar goals. But we all need more balance, more opposition in our romantic lives. Which is probably why we’re all single. In fact, it’s Combeferre’s very recent ex-significant other who’s the cause of me needing to drink heavily.”
Feuilly ran his hand through his short hair, his fingers sliding between in the small curls. Then he picked up his glass and finished his drink again. Courfeyrac had lost count of how many refills it had been. Feuilly, of course, hadn’t though; there were tiny marks scrawled on the cocktail napkin next to him, keeping track of the alcohol so he could no doubt pay the restaurant back. Courfeyrac had to stop himself from awww’ing out loud.
Instead, he asked, “By very recent are we talking, like, tonight? Was our incandescent luminary dumped this evening?”
Courfeyrac enjoyed using the first-person possessive “our.” It somehow made him feel like he had already been accepted when Feuilly didn’t correct him, just poured himself another drink. Courfeyrac slid out his glass for the same.
“He was indeed. How someone, how any of them, could have done such a thing, I can’t imagine,” Feuilly suddenly lowered himself behind the bar, making his head level with the counter and resting it there on his arms. Looking above Courfeyrac’s head, he said, “It makes me so sad to see him get hurt. I thought this one was different. I saw promise in her.”
At the mention of a her, Courfeyrac felt his stomach drop to his toes in disappointment.
“Of course, there was another before that who seemed great enough until he stole Combeferre’s laptop and my bike in the middle of the night. I’m starting to think Combeferre might just have terrible taste when it comes to romance.”
Courfeyrac felt his stomach rise back up with his increased pulse. He. So bisexual. Or pansexual, fluid, however he chose to identify. Courfeyrac could work with that.
“What happened?” Courfeyrac asked, doing his best to keep any trace of anticipation out of his voice. “Keep cool,” he mentally reminded himself.
“Oh, we found him and got our stuff back, no worries. Although he somehow ended up with a black eye by the end of the encounter. I’ll never tell which of the three of us it was.”
Stifling a laugh, Courfeyrac opened his mouth to respond, but Feuilly stood up straight and grinned, interrupting. “It was Enjolras. Enjolras punched him. I don’t condone violence, but it was lovely.”
Glad to see the alcohol was doing its job, Courfeyrac beamed back at Feuilly before he spoke. “No, I meant what happened tonight?”
“She broke up with him via text an hour ago,” Feuilly groaned, his glass magically empty again.
“A cowardly act,” a voice suddenly rang out.
Courfeyrac nearly fell from his stool turning around, his leg slipping on the rung and willing his body to follow. By sheer force of will, he managed to slide off the stool and land on his feet instead of his ass, not that his legs were steady in the slightest. Once he wasn’t sitting, it was as if every drop of alcohol in his system was heightened, his nerves tingling from his toes to his hair.
And then he looked up and realized where the voice had come from: Combeferre was standing only a few feet away, looking every bit as beautiful as the picture in Courfeyrac’s mind. He somehow managed to make jeans and a sweater look sexy, the dark jade color of his shirt matching his eyes that were a spectacularly bright shade of green. Mesmerized and unable to look away, Courfeyrac reached backward, grasping at air until he found the stool, and gently slid himself up into it, grateful to not have to rely on his shaking legs.
The perfection of Combeferre’s handsome face was only minorly shattered by the fact that he was scowling.
Courfeyrac couldn’t blame him. He’d be equally upset if someone broke up with him with an impersonal text. It was literally the easiest and most spineless way to end a relationship. And not only was it impersonal, but also incredibly rude and disrespectful. That wasn’t how you treated someone you care about.
“Exactly!” Combeferre said, and Courfeyrac realized he had spoken out loud without meaning to.
Combeferre approached the bar and sat in the stool next to Courfeyrac’s, leaving not nearly enough room for Courfeyrac to be able to breathe properly. Where had he even come from? It was like Courfeyrac and Feuilly had conjured him by talking about him.
“Everything was fine — better than fine — and then all of a sudden, my phone vibrates and it’s a text from her that just says: ‘I’m sorry it’s over.’ No explanation, no warning, nothing. And now she won’t even reply to me,” Combeferre continued, flipping through the messages on his phone with an aggression that Courfeyrac wasn’t sure the fragile piece of technology could handle.
“At least she said she was sorry,” Feuilly offered, trying to be helpful, but Combeferre just scowled further, his eyes narrowed to slits. Feuilly grimaced and took another drink, and Courfeyrac suspected that was how the past hour had been going.
Courfeyrac didn’t really believe that there was “no warning.” In his experience — not that he’d ever been broken up with via text since that would require being in a real relationship which he was unfamiliar with so far (by his own choosing, not because he was a leper or something) — there was always some kind of warning that things weren’t going well. There’d be more fights than usual or, the opposite, more silence than usual. Little things like forgetting to invite them to something, or shying away from affection, or a decrease in calls or texts. There was always something. It was just that, more than likely, Combeferre didn’t want to see it.
“That’s bullshit!” Combeferre practically yelled, and Courfeyrac almost fell off the stool again in surprise.
Then he realized he had spoken out loud ... again. It was like he’d lost all control of his mouth. And not in a good way.
He felt his face heat up and glanced at Feuilly to make sure he had indeed been spouting his internal monologue aloud. Feuilly raised his eyebrows and tilted his head, as if to say, “Well, what are you going to do about it now?” Courfeyrac wanted to slink down unnoticed and crawl out of the restaurant, move knee to hand until he was safely outside in the winter chill, away from Feuilly’s expectant looks and Combeferre’s angry glares.
He was usually so much smoother than this. It was the whiskey, he decided. It was taking away his cool and leaving him as this awkward mess of a person who didn’t know how to hold a conversation.
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Courfeyrac said, aware that he was talking out loud this time at least. “I don’t know her or you, obviously. I was just saying, you know, generally. People generally know that the end of a relationship is coming and just refuse to see it and then get all riled up and feel betrayed when really the signs were there the whole time. Generally. Most people. But not you, alright, I got it.”
“What the hell does that even mean? Are you high?” Combeferre’s attractive features were twisted into confusion as he looked from Courfeyrac to Feuilly.
“No, I’m drunk,” Courfeyrac replied mournfully, twirling his finger in his empty glass.
He didn’t remember finishing it, and he regretted all of them. The alcohol was dulling his senses, stripping him of his normally quick tongue. If he was sober, he’d be consoling Combeferre and charming the pants off him at the same time. Instead he was just insulting him. And not even in the cute bickering kind of way.
“I expected more out of the person Enjolras was praising so highly earlier as a beacon of efficiency,” Combeferre said dismissively.
Shocked that Enjolras was apparently going around talking about him to people, Courfeyrac instinctively spun around on the bar stool to face Combeferre to ask more questions. But he moved too quickly and felt his thighs sliding off the surface like they had earlier. And he was not about to fall off the damn stool in front of Combeferre again. So he reached out to grab the counter to steady himself and then watched in slow-motion horror as his hand smacked into Feuilly’s freshly filled glass, sending it skidding across the bar and flipping at the ledge to cover Combeferre in a shower of whiskey.
Courfeyrac gasped and put his hand to his mouth as Combeferre sputtered, his eyes squeezed shut like he was trying to will the liquid off his face with the power of his mind. It was like one of those romantic comedy moments where the clumsy girl does something embarrassing and the handsome stranger finds it endearing. Except the opposite, because Courfeyrac was a drunk idiot, not a clumsy girl, and Combeferre was definitely not bewitched by anything right now. Feuilly disappeared below the bar, returning a few seconds later with a clean cloth for Combeferre and paper towels for the bar; he immediately set to cleaning up, while Courfeyrac immediately set to apologizing.
“Fuck, I am so sorry,” he said quietly, taking in the large wet spot on Combeferre’s beautiful green sweater and the splatter on his jeans. “I wasn’t even paying attention. I’m really sorry. Is there anything I can --”
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Combeferre interrupted, removing his glasses to use the cloth and wipe off his face. “It’s just the icing on top of this absolutely perfect day.”
Courfeyrac was a klutz by nature; him and Marius were pretty much walking disasters waiting to happen. Their apartment was literally baby-proofed; they had little flower decals on the windows so they always knew when they were open or closed, Marius’ pet turtle Georges was in a terrarium on a bookcase and fastened on both sides so it couldn’t accidentally be knocked over, and almost every piece of their furniture had rounded corners instead of edges for obvious reasons. Courfeyrac was used to being clumsy; however, this was potentially a new low for him.
Watching Combeferre clean off his face — the stark white of the cloth contrasting against his dark skin, rubbing against the slight stubble along his jaw, catching on his lips — was somehow nearly pornographic and causing Courfeyrac all kinds of problems.
Thankfully he didn’t have to deal with that for long.
“I’m going to the bathroom to wash up. Can we just go home when I come back, Feuilly? I don’t feel like being here anymore.” The slight dig hadn’t escaped Courfeyrac’s notice. Combeferre slipped his glasses back on and all but avoided looking at Courfeyrac.
“Yeah, yeah, of course. I’ll finish cleaning up here and we can go.”
Feuilly grinned at him, probably trying to get Combeferre to at least crack a smile in return, but no such luck. Combeferre simply scowled and nodded, wiping his hands on his jeans as he walked back toward the restroom.
After he was around the corner, Courfeyrac let out the groan he’d been holding inside.
“I’m such a fucking idiot,” he whined, not caring about the spilled whiskey as he put his head down on the bar with a decisive thud. “What is wrong with me?”
“Don’t worry. In the grand scheme of everything he’s dealt with tonight, having alcohol spilled on him was definitely not the worst thing to happen,” Feuilly said. Courfeyrac could see him bundle up the soaked paper towels into a ball and throw them under the counter out of the corner of his eye. “I’m just sorry you’re seeing him like this. He’s not usually this grumpy or combative. In fact, he rarely is. You’re seeing him as very few people have. And if he were in the right mind, he’d apologize for his mood, too.”
The funny part was that, even though he didn’t know Combeferre, Courfeyrac totally believed he would be sorry for his short temper. He believed that Combeferre was usually calm and steady and personable and patient, and this was a tiny moment of atypical behavior for him. He believed it absolutely, and that degree of faith in someone’s character when they were demonstrating the opposite was strange for Courfeyrac.
He liked to think of himself as a people person; he liked meeting new people, he liked talking to people, he liked making and keeping friends. Marius once joked that he wouldn’t be able to get rid of Courfeyrac if he tried, and that was true. Once Courfeyrac decided to be your friend, it was inescapable. He still had friends from elementary school that he talked to regularly, and pen pals that lived all over the country and the world that he’d been corresponding with for years.
Yet, despite having (usually) incredible social skills and being an excellent judge of people, it was rare for him to have such a strong and instant conviction of someone’s inherent goodness. He wondered if he was losing his touch. Or his mind.
“It’s OK. I understand. Really,” Courfeyrac lifted his head from the bar, rubbing his forehead where a bit of moisture from the spill had trickled onto his skin. He stared down at the counter, dragging his finger along the small stream that Feuilly had missed cleaning up. “You don’t need to apologize for him, and he definitely doesn’t have to. I mean, if I got dumped, I’d want to just go home and eat some ice cream and wallow for a few days. He’s got every right to be a grouch.”
“Well, thank you for your approval of my current temperament. Because your opinion, the opinion of a total stranger, means so much to me.”
“Of fucking course,” Courfeyrac said under his breath, for once this evening not surprised at all. He rolled his eyes and then closed them tightly, breathing out through his nose. Of course Combeferre would come back at that moment. Because why not? That’s how his night was going. Repeatedly doomed to embarrass himself in front of this gorgeous man.
Courfeyrac opened his eyes to look at Feuilly, who was trying desperately to not laugh. At least he’d succeeded in cheering up someone, Courfeyrac thought with a sigh. He turned in the stool, facing outward, and was contemplating calling the night a wash and excusing himself to shamefully, drunkenly walk home in the cold alone when Enjolras came around the corner, coat in hand.
“Feuilly, take Combeferre home. He needs a good night’s rest and some time to reflect on his terrible taste in romantic partners and how that affects not only his own life but the lives of everyone around him,” Enjolras said, apparently hearing the whole conversation. “I’ll make sure our host gets home safely.”
The scowl on Combeferre’s face slowly melted into a frown — instantly changing his expression from anger to sadness for the first time that night — and Courfeyrac felt a tug in his chest. He wanted to stand up and hug Combeferre, envelope him so tightly that he couldn’t breathe, like Courfeyrac often had to do with Marius after a disagreement with his grandparents. Like his older sisters had done for him when he was little. Because sometimes being held so strongly was the only thing that could make you feel like you were still in one piece.
However, Courfeyrac had a pretty good idea what would happen if he tried to give Combeferre a hug. So instead he got to his feet, very slowly and deliberately, determined to not let the alcohol win this time. Meanwhile, Feuilly came around the other side of the bar and put his arm around Combeferre’s shoulder, holding his friend tight to his side. Enjolras did the same from the other side, squeezing Combeferre in the center, and Courfeyrac saw the beginning of a smile for the first time. It was heart-stopping.
After a few seconds, Enjolras let go and took a few steps back toward Courfeyrac, waving his friends off.
“Thanks for the help tonight, Courf! You’re a life saver,” Feuilly said as he and Combeferre walked toward the exit. Combeferre was silent, his shoulders sagging.
“My pleasure,” Courfeyrac replied, barely loud enough to be heard. Of course now he would have trouble speaking.
He watched Feuilly and Combeferre grab their coats from the rack by the door and embark out into the winter cold. Then he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and looked over at Enjolras, who had slipped his own coat on.
“Ready to go?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Courfeyrac only nodded, trudging in the same path toward the front of the restaurant, stopping at the host podium to grab his coat from underneath. Enjolras switched off the inside lights and then held the front door open, a blast of cold air hitting Courfeyrac so hard on his way out that he almost flew backward. Winter was extremely overrated, he decided as he put his beanie back on and Enjolras locked the front doors.
They walked in silence down the street, Courfeyrac only slightly ahead, leading the way. He wasn’t sure if Enjolras lived in the same direction or if he was actually walking him home. He wanted to ask, but he was afraid if he opened his mouth, all that would come out would be awkward questions about Combeferre and his dating situation and what his full smile looked like and what his favorite color was and what books he was currently reading. And he had done enough embarrassing talking for the night, so he kept quiet.
They were only a block from his apartment complex when Enjolras stopped them at the intersection, tugging on Courfeyrac’s arm lightly.
“So, how did you like helping out at the Musain tonight?” he asked, chewing at his bottom lip, his cheeks red from the cold despite his coat buttoned up to his chin.
Tilting his head, Courfeyrac replied, “It was fun. I’d never done anything like it, in case you couldn’t tell. But I liked it. I like the restaurant. It’s different, you know? Of course you know, you work there.” He knew he was rambling, and he dug his fingernails into his palms to stop himself.
Enjolras nodded toward the crossing sign that indicated they could walk.
“Yeah, it is different, that’s why I like it. I never thought I’d work in a restaurant, much less run one. I haven’t been manager long; Mr. Valjean, the owner, only promoted me a few weeks ago, so I’m still getting the hang of things. Which I guess is pretty obvious by my hostess walking out on me tonight.”
“What? No way, she was being a brat. That wasn’t your fault,” Courfeyrac said instantly, feeling like he needed to defend Enjolras. Despite his less-than-personable customer service skills, Enjolras truly hadn’t done anything wrong, and it wounded Courfeyrac that he thought he had.
“Well, maybe,” Enjolras conceded. “But I would have been screwed if not for you. Dealing with the customers so directly isn’t my forte. So thank you. Truly. You saved us tonight.”
Courfeyrac smiled. “Thank you for allowing me to help. Like I said, it was fun.”
Then there was silence again until they arrived at Courfeyrac’s building, a tall brick complex surrounded by a rickety iron fence. He came to a stop, Enjolras pausing beside him.
“So this is me --” Courfeyrac started.
“So how would you like a job?” Enjolras asked simultaneously.
Courfeyrac let out a surprised laugh and then kept laughing, bending over and holding onto the nearest post of the fence. Until he looked up at Enjolras’ face and realized he was serious. He really wanted Courfeyrac as his employee. Courfeyrac had never even thought about getting a real job now.
Not that he was precisely well-off, but between help from his family and student loans, he was able to mostly comfortably afford school. Any extra money he needed he got from picking up tutoring sessions at the university’s peer help center and DJing at parties, both of which he enjoyed but didn’t love. A real job though, with a real wage. Working with Enjolras and Feuilly and being surrounded by the Musain’s delicious food and strange, comfortable atmosphere could be a surprisingly good thing. He might even see Marius’ mysterious beauty again and be able to find out her name for his friend. Why was he even hesitating?
“Yes, yes, of course. That would be amazing,” he practically gushed, taking Enjolras’ hand in between both of his to shake it awkwardly.
“Well, good,” Enjolras smiled. “I’ll see you tomorrow then? And don’t let how Combeferre was acting tonight stop you. I know he was in a foul mood, but I promise he’s not usually like that. And he’ll be at least a little better by tomorrow.”
Courfeyrac’s pulse increased at an alarming rate, and he quickly let go of Enjolras’ hand before he noticed. “Oh,” he tried to make his voice appear normal, but even to him it sounded high-pitched and strained. “He works at the Musain, too?”
“Yeah,” Enjolras said, confused. “I thought you knew that. He’s our head chef.”
“Goddammit,” Courfeyrac said, then biting his bottom lip between his teeth to keep from unleashing a string of obscenities.
Combeferre was the Musain’s chef. The chef who created the flavorful masterpieces that he had been smelling all night. The chef who he vowed to erect a statue to. The chef whose talent in the kitchen had hooked him from the moment he took a bite of his burger nearly four hours before. Beautiful Combeferre with his tattoos and glasses and bright eyes. He was the chef, the creator of the Musain’s magical food, and Courfeyrac was breathless.
Then he realized he’d been silent the entire time that his mind had been racing, and Enjolras was looking at him like he wanted to take back the employment offer immediately.
“Sorry, yeah, no, Combeferre isn’t a problem at all, I promise. I’ll be golden,” Courfeyrac said. “Thank you, Enjolras. You should get home though; it looks like the storm is coming.”
The wind was, in fact, moving faster, and Courfeyrac could feel the chill deep in his bones. He knew Enjolras had to be cold, and who knew how far he lived from there, and Courfeyrac probably shouldn’t allow his new boss to freeze to death outside of his apartment.
“Yeah, I should,” Enjolras smiled again and patted Courfeyrac on the shoulder. “10 a.m. tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
“Never,” Courfeyrac replied, placing his hand on his heart.
Enjolras pulled his wool coat tighter around his body and then nodded as he set off down the street. Courfeyrac stood there for a moment, watching Enjolras, and contemplating what he’d just done.
He had a job, a real job in a real restaurant. With brilliant, passionate Enjolras as his boss. Brilliant, loyal Feuilly as his co-worker. And brilliant, gorgeous Combeferre as the chef who concocted such delicious gems that even thinking about them made Courfeyrac salivate. This was the new life Courfeyrac had just stepped into.
Suddenly feeling the dampness slipping into his boots again, Courfeyrac realized he should probably go inside before he caught a cold and couldn’t make it into his first real day of work. He jogged into the lobby and up the stairs to his and Marius’ apartment. Once inside, he was careful to be quiet so he didn’t wake Marius, kicking off his wet boots and discarding his coat in their tiny foyer area and tiptoeing in the dark to the kitchen to get a bottle of water before collapsing into bed.
Once he opened the fridge, he immediately spotted the familiar recyclable cardboard box of his food from the Musain, and he snagged it with a smile. Nudging the fridge shut with his hip, he leaned against the kitchen counter, his eyes adjusting to the darkness, and lifted his cold burger, inhaling the scent.
Taking one bite, Courfeyrac remembered that Combeferre’s handiwork had created this perfection. It was nearly a religious experience tasting it again, even cold. It was as if Courfeyrac could feel every ounce of love and care Combeferre had put into the food, each faint note dancing on his taste buds even hours later.
“Shit,” he said out loud with no one to hear. “I think I fucking love him.”
*
Blinking awake, Courfeyrac suppressed a groan. God, he hated dreams within dreams. Or in this case, memories within dreams. But now he knew he was in his bed; he knew the feeling of his comforter bunched around his waist and the lumpy pillows under his head, the familiar scent of himself buried deep within the fibers. However, the less-than-familiar feeling was Combeferre’s strong and vibrantly colored arms wrapped around him. Courfeyrac could see some of the details of his right tattoo sleeve: a scene from “Othello” and another from some zombie thriller, stanzas from William Blake’s “Songs of Innocence and Experience,” Grantaire’s artful sketch of Frankenstein's monster.
He wanted to snuggle in further, to feel Combeferre’s chest against his back, his chin against his head. Instead, he slowly turned around, trying to move gracefully but utterly failing as his pounding head kept him from lifting it. He ended up sort of flopping sideways, bumping his knee into Combeferre’s thigh with a jolt.
“Hey, you’re awake. How are you feeling?” Combeferre asked before even opening his eyes completely.
“I’m OK,” Courfeyrac croaked out, thinking his voice would be smoother when, in fact, it was like sandpaper to the ears. “What happened?”
“You had a very minor concussion,” Combeferre pulled him a fraction of an inch closer, their knees touching. “Joly told me to watch you, so I figured this was the easiest thing to do.”
Courfeyrac had to stifle a laugh. “The easiest thing was to get in bed with me?”
A noticeable blush spread across Combeferre’s handsome face, and Courfeyrac felt his stomach do flip-flops. This was it. His dream, his memories, had given him a burst of courage. He had been in love with one of his best friends for more than a year, and he didn’t want to keep that secret anymore. Enough was enough.
“You know, the first time I met you, I fell head over heels,” he said quietly, drawing an arm up to lay on top of Combeferre’s bicep.
“Yeah, that’s completely false. You hated me; we argued for like five minutes and I practically stormed out. And you were drunk, if I remember correctly.”
Courfeyrac’s body felt like it was slowly boiling, all of the points where his and Combeferre’s bodies touched bursting with intense longing. He wrapped his fingers around Combeferre’s arm, effectively holding him in place.
“That wasn’t the first time we met though.” Courfeyrac could smell Combeferre: the soap on his body, the vanilla in his hair. It was overwhelming in the best possible way. The intimacy of it was unusual, even for close friends as they were. They’d slept in the same bed before when situations had called for it (like sleepovers in Enjolras’ apartment or late-night study sessions that just turned into giant sleepovers), but this was different. “I’m talking about when I tasted your food for the first time. I knew anyone who could make food sing like that was special.”
Combeferre pinched his eyebrows together, just like he had before Courfeyrac could remember losing consciousness. It was so lovely, so sympathetic, and so caring. So Combeferre. Courfeyrac was quite simply overcome. He scooted forward, pressing their bodies together from forehead to toe, his fingers lingering on Combeferre’s back, lacing across the thin fabric of Combeferre’s rumpled T-shirt.
“God, you’re a sap when you’re concussed,” Combeferre all but whispered, their mouths so close Courfeyrac could feel each syllable against his lips.
Maybe it was the concussion, but he didn’t know what was happening. Combeferre was holding him just as tightly as Courfeyrac was gripping him. It was as if they were perfectly in sync, their minds and bodies as one. “Take the last step,” he mentally ordered himself.
“I think you love it,” Courfeyrac said, only fractions of an inch from Combeferre’s face. Their lips grazed as Courfeyrac spoke, the slightest drag of flesh against flesh making something deep within Courfeyrac twitch in anticipation. His heart was beating out of control, trying to leap from his chest out the window and run down the street. He’d meant to say “I think I love you,” but that’s what came out instead. He willed Combeferre to understand.
“I think maybe I really do.”
Then, Combeferre kissed him.
Tender and passionate, hesitant but bold, Combeferre tasted like the stars. He wrapped his arm around Courfeyrac’s torso, his hand curled upward into his hair, and pulled him closer, any space between them vanishing. Every inch of Courfeyrac was alive and electric. The only thing he could feel was Combeferre — his best friend, his everything — needing him just as much as Courfeyrac needed him.
And it was better than he ever dreamed.