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The first time Courfeyrac sees him, it's the first day of a new university year. He's been here before, having somehow managed to scrape his way through first year, and sits himself on the pavement after his second year inductions as he tunes his ukulele.
He learnt the hard way that university is expensive, especially as a drama student in central London, and hey, if he can busk his way out of his overdraft then it can't hurt. He lays out a hat in front of him (he thinks it was Jehan's last year, pilfered during the Shakespeare season from a production of Cymbeline) and rearranges his microphone. He starts with Ed Sheeran, in part because of his own giant soft spot for the singer and in part because everyone likes Ed Sheeran.
He's halfway through Kiss Me when he spots him.
The ‘him’ in question is a criminally attractive man leaving the life sciences building, coffee in his hand as he holds the door for his friend behind him. He's got floppy waves of hair and what looks to be an undercut in the later stages of growing out. His friend with him is limping, their expression twisted in pain as they lean heavily on their cane. Courfeyrac frowns, immediately concerned, but continues singing anyway.
By the time they're passing him, Courfeyrac has finished his song and steps out to talk to them.
"Is everything alright?" he asks, gentle features pinched into a frown. They both look up at him, surprised.
"Yes, thank you," the attractive one with the coffee says, using his free hand to push up his shirt sleeves and Courfeyrac almost swoons because oh lord, he has tattoos. Courfeyrac catches a quick glimpse of what looks to be an octopus and some fractal shapes.
"Are you sure? Is there no one I could call for you?" Courfeyrac presses, his fingers twitching around the neck of his ukulele.
"Honestly, it's fine," the other person speaks up now, shaking their head. "I'm just having a bad muscle day, is all. Thank you for offering, though. Most people here wouldn't be so nice."
Courfeyrac just smiles at them both.
"Don't worry about it. But hey, I'm usually around here so if you ever get stuck and need someone-" he shrugs, burying his free hand in his hair awkwardly. "Feel free to come and grab me?"
"Thank you. That's very kind," the attractive one smiles brightly, and Courfeyrac blushes to his ears, dark skin flushing impossibly darker.
He waves them off loosely, and returns to his microphone, launching himself into a slow cover of Pompeii.
He smiles for the rest of the day.
He doesn't see either of them for a few days after that. Courfeyrac finds himself busy under a mountain of scripts and monologues he needs to learn, and struggles to find the time to set up near the medical college. He finally gives in one day after a four hour long rehearsal, when he's so exhausted that he can't stomach the thought of hiding in the scene shop for another minute.
So he drags himself across campus and settles in for the afternoon, ukulele and hat with him. He goes through a few cute show tunes first, leftovers from his musical theatre module, before he heads towards chart songs that people will recognise as classes start to let out.
He doesn't recognise the attractive man in front of him until he's finished a particularly exuberant rendition of Dance With Me Tonight, when he opens his eyes and he's standing in front of him.
"You're the guy from the other day, right? You offered to help my friend when he was hurt."
"Er, yeah. That's me." Courfeyrac smiles sheepishly, pointedly not studying the man's sharp features and the stubble peppering his jawline.
"I never properly thanked you. Joly would struggle to say as much himself because he's quite shy, but it meant a lot. When I told his partners they were insistent I come back and thank you for them." He blushes a little, a small smile flickering across his lips. "So, er, here. I don't know how you take your coffee, so I got you a hot chocolate. I hope that's okay."
"Thank you." Courfeyrac beams, wrapping his hands around the cardboard cup gratefully, warming his hands. "You didn't have to."
"I know, I just felt like I should. Thank you, again. I'm Combeferre, by the way."
"Courfeyrac." He grins, cheeks darkening with blush as he takes a quick sip of his drink.
"Good to know." Combeferre smiles back before taking a quick glance at his watch. "I should run, I've got a lecture in five minutes."
"Ah, good luck with that. See you around." Courfeyrac raises a single hand to wave him off.
"Yeah, see you soon." Combeferre smiles as he jogs off in the direction of the life sciences building.
It's not until after Combeferre has disappeared into the rotating door that Courfeyrac notices the name written on the side of the cup.
Cute busker.
He blushes furiously, downs the rest of his hot chocolate and picks up his ukulele again.
It doesn't take long for Courfeyrac to start timing his excursions to the life sciences building around Combeferre's lectures and labs. In his defence, his timetable is easy enough to work out, especially when he bribes Feuilly for a copy of theirs.
Every time Combeferre catches sight of him on his way into or out of class, Courfeyrac finds himself on the receiving end of a wave or a smile or a few pounds being thrown into his hat, or on the most excellent occasions, a hot cup of coffee. (It hadn't taken long until Combeferre caved and asked for Courfeyrac's coffee order, especially as it got towards the end of November and started getting bitterly cold, even during the day.)
Courfeyrac breaks out a ridiculous headband with a sprig of mistletoe on it on December 1st -Jehan had made it for him last year as his present for their inter-flat Secret Santa- and when Combeferre comes hurrying past, clearly late to his lecture, he pauses for a second just to laugh.
"It's a good look on you," he smiles, handing Courfeyrac his usual cup of peppermint mocha. "You should wear it more often."
"Don't let Jehan hear you say that. Xe'll take it upon xemself to weave more live plants into my wardrobe, and I can't live with that," Courfeyrac laughs, curling his fingers around the cup in his hands. "Aren't you late?"
"Shit," Combeferre says, glancing quickly at his watch. He chugs a last quick mouthful of his coffee, leans around Courfeyrac to throw the empty cup into the nearby bin and pulls back to survey the other man. He looks carefully at the mistletoe hanging awkwardly from Courfeyrac's curls, ducks down to press the quickest of butterfly kisses to the other man's cheek before scurrying off to his class.
Courfeyrac can only gape stupidly after him, confused but with a blush warming his cheeks nonetheless.
He doesn’t see Combeferre when the other man leaves his lectures, and Courfeyrac worries that perhaps he’s avoiding him. He skulks home almost dejectedly, and spends his entire tube journey across the city idly picking at the tassels on his scarf. He gets home to find Jehan sprawled on the living room floor, the house cat, Queen Mab, curled up on the small of xyr back, ensconced in a pile of poetry anthologies and notes on classical literature.
“Busy day?” Courfeyrac asks, locking the door behind him and carefully stepping over the papers to scratch behind the cat’s ears. Jehan hums thoughtfully, twisting a dreadlock around xyr finger as xe taps a pen against the sheet of paper in front of xem.
“A little,” xe hums. “Yours?”
“Not really,” Courfeyrac says, settling down on the floor and scooping Mab into his lap. She mrowls indignantly at him but quickly relaxes when he goes back to petting her. “Is Marius in, do you know?”
“No, he went out with Cosette a few hours ago. Grantaire has Enjolras over, and I’m not sure Marius has recovered from that time they drunkenly argued over nineteenth century politics. I’ve tried telling him that Enjolras doesn’t remember, but you know what Marius is like.” Jehan hums, rolling over onto xyr back, xyr huge pink sweater twisting up around xem. “Why?”
“I wanted to call a house meeting, is all,” Courfeyrac replies, as Mab rolls over in his lap and pushes her head against his hand. “I’m having a minor scale romantic crisis.”
“And you’re planning on asking an aromantic, one half of the most dysfunctional couple in all of London, and Marius for help?” Jehan laughs, xyr eyes crinkling closed. “Good luck with that.”
After four hours, when Marius has returned with Cosette in tow and Grantaire has emerged from their room with Enjolras, together they’ve formed a plan. Courfeyrac is not entirely convinced it’ll work, but even Grantaire seems sold, for once in their life, so he’s forced to go with it.
Which is how he ends up outside the life sciences building when he knows Combeferre is due to be around for a lecture, wearing a hideous Christmas sweater (Jehan’s, made from four different kinds of mohair and wool) and his ridiculous mistletoe headband again. He bounces from foot to foot as he waits impatiently, swinging his ukulele aimlessly. He spots Joly first, without his cane today, and with a girl on his arm, and assumes Combeferre isn’t far behind him. So he starts singing, a soft rendition of Let It Snow, and Joly makes a beeline for him almost immediately.
“Hiya,” Joly says cheerily, when Courfeyrac’s finished singing. “I had a feeling you’d be around here. Chetta, this is Courfeyrac.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she hums, leaning over to pat him on the shoulder. Courfeyrac struggles to hide his noise of surprise in a laugh, but she only smiles widely at him.
“If you’re waiting for Combeferre,” Joly pauses to look him up and down, “which I figure you are, he’s not here today. He had an exam.”
“Oh, okay.” Courfeyrac visibly deflates, and Joly laughs gently at him. “Will he be back tomorrow?”
“He should be.” Joly says with a nod, shifting absently to hold Musichetta’s hand. “And just so you know, his favourite Christmas song is Sleigh Ride.”
“Right. Thanks.” Courfeyrac grins.
He’s waiting by the time Combeferre gets there the next day, in the same ludicrous outfit from the day before. He bursts into song almost immediately on seeing him, and as Combeferre approaches, he starts laughing.
“Excellent jumper,” he says, handing Courfeyrac his usual cup of coffee. “I love the texture.”
“Thanks,” Courfeyrac beams. “My housemate will appreciate it, I’m sure.”
“I wasn’t sure I’d see you again, with it being so close to the end of term.” Combeferre shuffles awkwardly on his feet. “I didn’t know if you’d be going home for Christmas.”
“No, my family still live in Ireland and I can’t afford the travel, so I’m staying here,” Courfeyrac shrugs. “So are my housemates, though. We’re going for Chinese food instead of Christmas dinner.”
“Oh, okay. I’m staying here too, so I might see you around?” Combeferre says, suddenly finding his shoes very interesting.
“Count on it,” Courfeyrac grins warmly. Combeferre smiles at him, looks between Courfeyrac’s face and the mistletoe in his hair before he steps back.
“I need to get to my lecture,” Combeferre explains, running a hand over the shaggy remains of his undercut.
“Right,” Courfeyrac says with a small, lopsided smile. “You’d better run.”
He pushes himself up on his tiptoes to kiss Combeferre’s cheek.
“For the other day,” he explains, when Combeferre’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline.
“Right. Right, okay.” Combeferre smiles broadly, a blush darkening his cheeks as he finally turns to run to his lecture. Courfeyrac watches him go, grinning stupidly to himself.
He meets Grantaire in the library later that afternoon for coffee and a delve through the design department, since Enjolras is busy with eir final exams.
“So let me get this straight,” Grantaire sighs, one hand around a cup of coffee as they flick between a stack of type catalogues. “He kissed you, you kissed him, you both know the other is interested and you’re both here for Christmas. And yet you’re telling me you didn’t make plans.”
“He had to leave for a lecture,” Courfeyrac defends himself limply from where he’s sprawled on the floor, digging through volumes of illustration magazines. “There wasn’t time.”
Grantaire rolls their eyes, barely even sparing Courfeyrac a glance as they step over him to get to the advertising section.
“And you don’t have his number, nor do you have him on Facebook, Tumblr or even Twitter, and you’re bemoaning that you might not see him until after Christmas. Seriously. Seek him out, before I drop this book on your head.”
Courfeyrac grumbles a disgruntled, assenting noise but makes no effort to move.
In the end, it’s Joly that comes and finds him. He has his boyfriend with him this time, swinging their joined hands as he approaches Courfeyrac, who is mid-way through a beautiful rendition of Santa Baby.
“I feel obligated to give you this.” He thrusts a ripped piece of paper into Courfeyrac’s hands. “Combeferre’s window is the one facing the street. You’ll know what I mean when you get there. Good luck.” He smiles, waves a mittened hand in Courfeyrac’s direction and disappears off towards the underground station before Courfeyrac even has chance to say hello.
He frowns at the paper in his hands, face paling when he realises it’s an address. He goes home and panics to Marius immediately, even though the other man is desperately trying to write his final German essay.
“So do something about it?” Marius says absently, tuning out from Courfeyrac’s wailing. “Joly obviously gave you it for a reason. Go serenade him or pick him up for dinner. It’s romantic."
Courfeyrac bolts upright at that, realisation dawning across his face.
“Oh, oh no,” Marius groans, choosing now to look up at his housemate’s maniacal expression. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”
Naturally, Courfeyrac utterly ignores Marius’s advice, and when Christmas Eve comes around, he is completely prepared. Jehan sees him out of the house with a good luck and a kiss on the cheek, and Courfeyrac makes the journey across London in his cutest blazer with his ukulele sitting in his lap.
He walks the rest of the way to Combeferre’s house, a tiny quaint thing that he shares with Joly and a few of their other course mates, all of whom have gone home for the holidays. There’s a light on in one of the upstairs rooms, he can see it from the road, so he steps forward and knocks heavily on the door.
He takes a few steps back, breathes out slowly to calm himself down, rearranges the mistletoe on his head before the door opens and Combeferre is standing there, looking more than a little confused.
“Hear me out,” Courfeyrac says, when Combeferre opens his mouth to speak. The other man raises an eyebrow, but nods in assent anyway. Courfeyrac steps back, clears his throat and starts to play. He knows it’s embarrassing and overdone, but he loves All I Want For Christmas Is You and has ever since he was small.
It takes Combeferre a moment to realise what he’s playing, but when he does, he starts smiling almost immediately. Courfeyrac blushes heavily, but soldiers on anyway and only fumbles once before he finishes the song. He falls silent and looks over at Combeferre, who’s smiling softly.
“That was adorable,” Combeferre says fondly, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Mariah has nothing on you.”
Courfeyrac laughs softly, his breath clouding in front of him. He doesn’t say anything, fiddling with his ukulele and running a free hand through his hair. Combeferre watches him, studies the way the cold is flushing golden cheeks darker and how he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet impatiently.
“So?” Courfeyrac asks after a moment, the gentle shake in his voice highlighting just quite how nervous he must be. “What do you say?”
Combeferre steps forward and kisses him soft and slow by way of an answer, and Courfeyrac makes a muffled noise of assent before he slides his free hand up and around the taller man’s hip, pulling him closer. Combeferre makes a pleased sound and he deepens the kiss, his fingers finding Courfeyrac’s curls and tangling in them.
When they break apart a few moments later with bright grins and flushed cheeks, it’s not just because of the cold.