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Combeferre’s world hadn’t ended with the apocalypse.
It had ended when he’d lost Courfeyrac.
They had managed to escape the city well enough—Combeferre left work as soon as the riots started so that he could find Courfeyrac. And when he’d found his boyfriend holed up in their apartment, a frying pan held bravely in front of him when Combeferre managed to move the dresser from in front of the door, it was a quick sense of relief that he was okay. And then they’d waited until it was dark to leave, moving quietly through the streets so they could get out of the city. None of the major cities were safe anymore, and Combeferre knew they wouldn’t be for quite a while.
Even outside the city wasn’t entirely safe. There was still the virus to avoid, those who had been affected by it. And the rogue bands of survivors who would strip you of supplies and leave you for dead. But somehow they managed to avoid it all for several months with minimal problems.
But even their good luck couldn’t last forever.
Combeferre had been on watch when it all happened, the second shift of the night so it was nearing morning and he was struggling to stay awake, slumped forward over his knees as he blearily watched the horizon. It was only for a minute, but when he jerked awake he could hear them, sounding closer than he’d been to them since it all broke out.
“Courfeyrac,” he hissed softly as he stood, rushing towards the sleeping man to shake him awake as he started to shove their things into the bags. “We have to go, now.”
Courfeyrac woke quicker, far quicker than he ever once did before this all happened.
Just one more thing that the horror had done to change them.
Combeferre slung his quiver over his back as he grabbed his bow, tugging Courfeyrac to his feet. The curly haired man didn’t bother speaking, there would be time to talk about everything later. At that moment there was nothing more important than getting out of there alive.
“Come on, there’s a hole in the back fence this way,” Courfeyrac said, tugging Combeferre out the back door and along with him. Combeferre followed closely, one arrow held ready as he looked around them carefully as they walked, heading towards the gate. But what Courfeyrac didn’t know was there was another hole—and Combeferre pushed him forward and through the hole to keep him from being grabbed by one of the zombies. He was still in shock whenever he saw them—amazed that something straight from science fiction had come true.
“Go! Get running, I’ll catch up!” Combeferre shouted at him, backing up even as he shot an arrow straight through the zombie as he headed back towards the house. He would take another exit out before looping around to catch up to Courfeyrac.
Except he never managed to.
By the time he broke away from the group that was near the house it was much later, and he followed the path Courfeyrac left carefully. But when he found a bloody scrap of cloth—one that matched Courfeyrac’s jacket, his heart sank.
He searched that area for days to try to find Courfeyrac, refusing to believe that they were dead. But eventually he had to move on, unable to stay there as more zombies showed up each day.
Combeferre stuck to the plan they’d made, heading towards the last evacuation station they’d heard of and hoping that Courfeyrac was doing the same. It took him several weeks to travel to the town it was set up in, carefully approaching the school that it had been set up in. The last one they’d heard of had been overrun and they’d nearly lost their lives trying to escape, and he would treat this one with a lot more caution.
But when the doors opened to reveal a very much human person he lowered his bow, allowing them to usher him inside to check him over for bites or signs of the illness. He sat quietly, only speaking to ask if they had seen anyone that looked like Courfeyrac. When all he received was looks of pity and heads shaking, he could feel that small pit of hope he’d kept alive slowly fading.
“We get more people through here than you’d think,” one lady paused to reassure Combeferre, a gentle hand on his shoulder, “It’s possible he came through and we simply don’t remember. When you get to the stadium, look for him. Promise me you will?”
Combeferre looked up to see a kind smile on her face, nodding after a moment. Of course he would. Because this was Courfeyrac, and there was no way that he could ever give up on the one person he loved the most in the world. Eventually the helicopter arrived, and Combeferre climbed onto it with several other people to be moved to the stadium that they were keeping refugees in. He slept on the helicopter, exhausted after days of constant searching and moving, of never feeling safe.
Combeferre didn’t wake until the helicopter started to land, sitting up straighter as he looked out the window—chest tight with how much he was hoping that Courfeyrac would be inside that stadium. His bag was slung over his shoulder as he climbed out, following the instructions to go through the screening process, one last check to make sure he was free of the virus. Then he was handed a bedroll, some water, and food and told to find a place to set up his stuff and that would be where he was living.
But he couldn’t set his stuff up and sit down, not until he had walked the floor and searched for Courfeyrac. And that was what he started to do, feet scuffing softly on the concrete as he walked, gaze scanning tiredly over the unfamiliar faces as he walked. That ball of dread was reforming in his stomach, the one that was telling him that Courfeyrac was dead, that he hadn’t escaped that day and that Combeferre had abandoned him to his fate.
It felt like hours that Combeferre walked through the stadium, weaving carefully between the people who were sitting on the floor. And then he saw him.
Courfeyrac’s hair was a matted and tangled mass of curls, body hunched over on his bedroll as he sat there with his arms wrapped around his legs. Despite his state of disarray, he was the most beautiful person to Combeferre.
Combeferre opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out, he couldn’t seem to do anything but stare at Courfeyrac in amazement. His arm fell limply at his side, causing his bag to fall from his shoulder and hit the ground with a thud.
Courfeyrac looked up at the sound.
They just stared at each other for a heartbeat before Courfeyrac stood, eyes wide as he walked slowly and carefully towards Combeferre.
“You’re—“ Courfeyrac couldn’t even finish the sentence, reaching up to gently cup Combeferre’s cheek for a moment, hand shaking. And then he surged forward, throwing his arms around Combeferre tightly as a sob escaped him.
Combeferre’s arms came up in return to hold Courfeyrac close, entire frame shaking as he pulled him close against his chest. They ended up sinking to the floor, grips on each other never wavering as they both cried. It seemed like ages had passed before they broke apart, Combeferre pressing breathless and desperate kisses to Courfeyrac’s lips before Courfeyrac pressed their foreheads together, wiping his cheeks with a sniffle as he smiled softly at Combeferre.
“If you ever say we should split up again, I’m going to kill you,” Courfeyrac said with a teary laugh, shoving lightly at Combeferre’s shoulder.
Combeferre could only laugh and kiss him again.