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“Come with me tomorrow,” Combeferre says to Courfeyrac impulsively, poking his head into his roommate’s bedroom just three days before Christmas.
At first Courfeyrac resists, not wanting to impose on him -- after all, he is the one who had opted not to fly home for the holiday, a decision he had made after a tumultuous Thanksgiving break marked by fights over politics and Courfeyrac’s choice of major, not to mention their barely veiled disdain for his sexuality.
But it isn’t looking as if it will be a very merry Christmas here in Boston, either, as both of his roommates are traveling -- Enjolras has already departed on the Acela for New York City, completely ignoring all of his family responsibilities in order to be with his new boyfriend, Grantaire, while Combeferre is preparing to drive down to his family’s home in Newport to celebrate with his parents and his sister, leaving Courfeyrac in a cold apartment with only his laptop and a stash of liquor for company.
And Courfeyrac is not the type who enjoys such bleak company.
So he nods in enthusiastic acceptance, noticing how the corners of Combeferre’s mouth turn up just slightly in a smile.
Courfeyrac then goes to work to prepare for the trip, packing a suitcase and braving the crowds at the stores on Newbury to find appropriate gifts for Combeferre’s family -- some good wine for his father, the catalogue from the new exhibition at the museum for his mother, a pair of silver earrings for his sister. He almost forgets he hasn’t even bought anything for Combeferre, and stops by the bookstore to find him his usual gift of a new book; he’s uninspired, though, and instead wanders over to Neiman Marcus, where he spends far too much money on a striped cashmere scarf with hints of blue that will highlight his friend’s eyes.
It’s Christmas, after all, he tells himself as he signs his name and heads back to the apartment.
And he finds himself more excited about the holidays than he has in years.
**
There is very little traffic on Christmas Eve, but Combeferre insists on an early start, so by 7:00 am they are on the road. Courfeyrac insists on making a stop at Dunkin Donuts so he can buy an extra large coffee and a chocolate chip muffin, which he munches on as Combeferre drives steadily through the bleak December landscape. He is still nursing his coffee as they cross into Rhode Island and Combeferre deftly navigates his way tthrough the winding streets toward home.
It’s a historic house, right on Narragansett Bay -- not a Gilded Age monstrosity, as Courfeyrac half-expected, given the fact that Combeferre’s father is a successful attorney, but from an earlier era, from the days when Newport was a colonial port, with clapboard and palladian windows and two fireplaces. They are greeted first by the family dog, who leaps onto Combeferre, panting and running in circles and finally presenting his toy to Combeferre. Combeferre’s eyes light up as brightly as the Christmas tree itself, and they start to roughhouse around the living room.
Although he’s never been to their home, Courfeyrac has met Combeferre’s parents before, at parents weekends and the like up in Boston; his father is as gruff and his mother as gracious as he remembered. His sister has been home from her freshman year of college for a week now, and escapes as soon as she can manage to be with her friends; his brother isn’t even coming home, choosing to spend the holiday at home with his wife and two children.
Eventually the two friends make their way upstairs to Combeferre’s tiny childhood bedroom, where they will be sleeping in the two twin beds that are tucked under the eaves -- his brother’s old room has been turned into a study, and Combeferre’s mother insists that the couch is far too uncomfortable. There is a globe in the corner, and a periodic table pinned to the wall, and stacks of books everywhere -- not vastly different from the room he occupies now.
“This is where you spent your awkward teenage years?” Courfeyrac asks with a grin, bouncing on the bed and watching Combeferre unpack, trying to picture him as a teenager. He noticed his high school picture hanging in the hallway, showing a skinny kid with glasses that were too large for his face and a cowlick standing up in the back of his head. “No wonder you never got any dates,” he teases, as Combeferre flips him the finger.
But he is enjoying this little glimpse into Combeferre’s past life -- in Boston he’s so tight-lipped and focused, but here Courfeyrac can envision a young Combeferre, so curious about the world around him, yet hiding in his room seeking a quiet place to read and reflect and dream of escape.
And he appreciates him all the more.
**
After lunch Combeferre takes him on a walking tour of the city, showing him the Little League field where he learned to play baseball, the yacht club where he once took a sailing lesson and ended up getting so seasick he never went out again, the burger and ice cream place where he had his first job. The air is chilled, but they keep walking for hours, eventually ending up on Bellevue Avenue, where those Gilded Age mansions loom behind brick walls.
And the old Combeferre, the one Courfeyrac knows from their life in Boston, returns in the form of a rant on inherited wealth and the absence of an income tax and speculation as to whether they were living in a new Gilded Age.
“They are gorgeous,” Courfeyrac admits.
“They may as well be covered in blood,” Combeferre says, his voice as icy cold as the air around them.
His demeanor softens as they turn onto the Cliff Walk, and the ocean comes into sight; and Combeferre begins to reminisce again, this time about his senior year in high school, when he had brief aspirations to be a writer and would spend his afternoons walking along the cliffs, writing poetry that he admitted was completely insipid.
“You must have been in love,” Courfeyrac jokes.
Combeferre grows serious, his eyes distant -- he is recalling something, Courfeyrac can see -- and then he snaps back to reality. “I thought I was,” he said, his face closing in such a way that Courfeyrac knows better than to probe further.
Since Courfeyrac has known Combeferre, since first semester of their freshman year, he has never known him to be in love -- for all intents and purposes he was married to his studies, to his causes, even to his friends. While Courfeyrac worked his way through his collection of attractive young men -- the shy poet Prouvaire, the eternally awkward Pontmercy -- Combeferre’s unattached status was a constant.
“Do you want to be?” Courfeyrac asks carefully, glancing sidewise at him.
“I wouldn’t mind,” Combeferre admits, then puts his head down and keep walking.
As the sun gets lower in the horizon, they turn toward home, passing the outdoor skating rink, still open for another hour, when the bored teenager selling tickets will turn off the lights and go home to his own Christmas Eve. The two friends pause for a while, watching as kids and families make their way around the ice with varied degrees of success.
“Do you want to try it?” Combeferre asks.
Shaking his dark curls, Courfeyrac demurs. “I’m a Southerner. We don’t do ice.”
“Come on,” Combeferre prods. “I remember you saying you’d try anything once.”
Courferyac chuckles at the memory. “I think I meant that in regard to sex,” he points out, but he allows himself to be pushed toward to skate rental counter. Courfeyrac puts on the boots and tries to stand up, teetering on the narrow blades.
“I’ll hold your hand,” Combeferre offers, steering him toward the ice.
True to his word, he acts as Courfeyrac’s guide, showing him how to keep his balance and picking him up when he falls, which happens so many times Courfeyrac is convinced he will never sit down again. He clings to Combeferre, who is a good five inches taller than him, allowing him to take the lead as they make their way around the rink.
As the rink clears out, a few snowflakes begin to fall -- and Courfeyrac finally manages to do a turn around the rink by himself. He throws up his arms in triumph and looks back at Combeferre, who is laughing and clapping, his blue eyes are shining with pride.
It’s not often that Courfeyrac has spent time with Combeferre when it’s just the two of them -- during the semester Courfeyrac usually spends his free time out and about with his various lovers, or back in their apartment with both Combeferre and Enjolras, who are practically inseparable -- or at least who had been until Enjolras started dating Grantaire.
But as he wobbles on his skates in the gloaming, he finds himself wishing they were the ones who were inseparable.
It’s a thought he can’t seem to shake -- on the walk home, during every course of Christmas Eve dinner, even as they stand next to each other at Midnight Mass, his own rich baritone blending with Combeferre’s reedy tenor as they sing of holy nights and angels and shepherds.
That night, despite the long walk and the three glasses of wine he consumed at dinner, Courfeyrac finds himself wide awake -- a rare occurence, given that he normally sleeps the sleep of the dead. But he cannot help but to listen to all of the creaky sounds of an old and unfamiliar house, recalling how Combeferre once described the house as haunted.
But in the other bed, Combeferre is blissfully unaware of ghosts -- or anything else for that matter -- as he lies on his back with his eyes closed and his mouth open, snoring ever so lightly.
If he were with any other man, Courfeyrac would have risen from his bed and slipped into Combeferre’s, sliding under the covers and using his hands to explore his body, to awaken him in various ways, to cover his mouth with his own to keep him from crying out.
But this is Combeferre, after all, and they are friends, and that is all they should be.
So he turns over, burying his face in his pillow and his burgeoning feelings in his heart, and wills himself into slumber.
**
Christmas morning starts late with Combeferre’s family; at his own home, Courfeyrac would have already been up for hours opening gifts with his large and raucous family, but this is far more civilized -- they eat pancakes and drink coffee and get dressed before they exchange gifts. His presents go over well with the various family members, even the surly sister, and he is surprised to get gifts from them in return: an elegant hat, and a couple of books he is fairly sure Combeferre told them he would be interested in.
When it comes time for Courfeyrac and Combeferre to exchange presents, Combeferre hands his over first -- a flat box wrapped haphazardly. Courfeyrac tears it open and cracks open the box -- only to see a scarf not unlike the one he had purchased for Combeferre, but with nutty brown stripes that suit Courfeyrac’s coloring.
“Did you pick this out yourself?” Courfeyrac teases as he deftly ties the scarf on and fetches his own gift for Combeferre out from under the tree.
Combeferre lets out an affronted sniff. “Yes. And I even wrapped it myself,” he protested.
“That much was obvious,” Courfeyrac says under his breath, earning himself a light punch on the shoulder. “At least I paid for gift wrapping,” he says. He thrusts his box at Combeferre, who opens it with great care -- and chuckles when he sees the identical scarf in blue. “But otherwise great minds think alike, am I right?”
“I suppose,” Combeferre says as he wraps the scarf around his neck inexpertly, tossing the fringed ends over his shoulders.
“Allow me,” Courfeyrac offers, and before Combeferre can refuse, Courfeyrac is undoing the scarf and looping it around Combeferre’s neck and smoothing it into place. “Better?” he asks, his eyes lingering on Combeferre’s, noticing how much the fabric really highlights the blueness of the irises. Combeferre opens his mouth as if he is about to speak, but he stops and simply stares at Courfeyrac as if he has never seen him before in his life.
“God, would you two just get a room?” says the sister, interrupting the reverie -- and receiving a glare from her brother in return.
But Courfeyrac feels as if his face is on fire, feeling suddenly exposed; it is as if the whole family knows something about him and his feelings that he isn’t entirely sure about himself.
Somehow Combeferre must be able to sense his discomfort -- or maybe it’s just a coincidence -- and he breaks the awkward silence to ask if he wants to go out with him to take the dog down to the beach.
And Courfeyrac, unused to feeling so flustered, quickly agrees.
**
The beach is deserted and cold, but that does not deter the dog -- he bounds out of the car and off onto the sand, kicking it up with his paws and panting while he waits for his master to join him. Combeferre finds a stick and starts throwing it, instigating a game of fetch that they’ve clearly played before, back when they were both much younger. Courfeyrac shoves his hands in his pockets and trails along behind Combeferre, wishing he had brought his gloves with him, but he’s happy to be out of the overheated house, enjoying the feeling of the cool air on his face.
And he is unexpectedly giddy at having a moment alone with Combeferre.
At an outcropping of rocks, they stop walking and sit for a while -- and Courfeyrac finally decides to ask him the question he’s been dying to ask since yesterday. “Hey, Combeferre -- have you ever wondered what it would be like if you and I -- if you and I were a couple?”
Combeferre snorts and looks away. “Don’t you think it would be horrible? We’d fight all the time.”
Courfeyrac shrugged. “Maybe not. Maybe we’d be good together, you know?” He looks away, off to the vastness of the ocean. “And maybe I’d be interested in trying it,” he says, half to himself, unused to the feeling of powerlessness in matters of the heart. He feels Combeferre’s gloved hand on his back, and turns his face toward his, expecting a stern but quiet let down.
Instead Combeferre leans in and kisses him. “Maybe I would be too,” he murmurs softly.
And they kiss again, wrapping their arms around each other, oblivious to the winds and the dog and of any passersby that may be watching them..
And eventually they pull apart and make their way back to the car. It takes all of Courfeyrac’s willpower not to tug Combeferre into the backseat and have his way with him right there and then, because when you want to be with someone, you want to be with them right now.
But it’s Christmas, and there are other things to celebrate.
So Courfeyrac simply takes his hand -- and feels his heartbeat quicken when Combeferre squeezes it tightly.
**
For the rest of Christmas Day, Courfeyrac finds himself willing the day to go by quickly, occasionally touching his lips where Combeferre kissed him and trying to make eye contact with him as infrequently as he can manage, knowing where it could lead to. Thankfully there are distractions afoot -- Combeferre’s aunt and uncle and grandmother have appeared, and they cluck over Courfeyrac, who sips his wine and turns on the charm and fervently hopes they will tire quickly and go home. His wish is granted, but not without his cheeks getting pinched and an admonition from Combeferre’s grandmother to be good.
“Oh, I will,” he says, with a showy wink.
“This one’s a keeper,” Combeferre’s grandmother says to her grandson, even though she is completely oblivious to the nature of their relationship -- whatever it may be. “Don’t screw it up.”
Combeferre meets Courfeyrac’s eyes, and tries not to laugh.
After everyone goes home and the house has been tidied up, the family scatters to the four winds -- and Combeferre and Courfeyrac say their good nights and beat a hasty retreat to the bedroom. The door is barely closed when Courfeyrac barrels into Combeferre’s arms and starts kissing him again, running his hands up under Combeferre’s sweater and feeling him shiver.
“We can’t do this now,” Combeferre whispers as Courfeyrac tugs his sweater over his head. “My parents are right down the hall. And -- I don’t have anything with me.” His hair is full of static and sticking out in every direction, and his lips are reddened.
“Well, there are other things we can do that don’t involve latex,” Courfeyrac murmurs, as he unbuttons Combeferre’s shirt and pushes it off his shoulders. “Or would you rather wait until we get home tomorrow?” he teases, stroking Combeferre’s length through his trousers, fairly confident of the answer.
Combeferre shakes his head, clearly knowing that for the two of them to spend the night sleeping in the same room without giving in to their desires would be impossible.
So Courfeyrac gratefully falls to his knees.
Afterwards they lie together, squeezed into Combeferre’s bed, bestowing light, lazy kisses on each other. Courfeyrac leans his head onto Combeferre’s shoulder, practically purring as Combeferre idly strokes his curls.
“Why didn’t we do this sooner?” Combeferre muses, his voice husky.
“We didn’t know,” is the only answer Courfeyrac can come up with before he falls asleep in Combeferre’s arms, tonight undisturbed by ghosts.
**
The next morning, Combeferre insists on an early start yet again -- there is a snowstorm barreling its way up the East Coast, promising almost two feet of snow, and he wants to get home before it starts in earnest. They manage to get home just in time; as Combeferre parks the car, large snowflakes start to descend from the sky, blanketing everything in white.
“So it looks like we’ll be snowed in for a while,” Combeferre remarks to Courfeyrac as he flops on the couch beside him, his unpacking done and the long-range forecasts checked.
Courfeyrac laughs and pulls him toward him for a languorous kiss. “Thankfully it looks like we have everything we need right here.”