Work Text:
Every afternoon, at 3:00 on the dot, Combeferre would walk out of his office and go to the museum cafeteria to buy himself a coffee.
He had always been a morning person, so by mid-afternoon he often felt a bit churlish -- hence the caffeine habit. The daily journey to the cafeteria, which was located on the other side of the museum, also gave him an opportunity to walk through his galleries to see if anything was amiss -- if a light bulb was out, or a label was crooked, or if the cases needed dusting.
Combeferre was a meticulous man, which made him the perfect curator. He had been at the museum for seven years now -- starting as an intern and working his way from curatorial assistant up to a curatorship -- and his work had been universally praised by his peers and his bosses alike. He had even been named to a list of the city’s 10 most eligible bachelors, which earned him a great deal of teasing from his best friend Courfeyrac, and more than few unsolicited emails from both men and women, wondering if he would be interested in coffee or drinks or god knows what else.
Combeferre blushed and laughed -- then deleted each email without replying.
He was single, but he wasn’t so sure he was particularly eligible -- his obsessions and his temper always seemed to be too much for other men to handle. In the years since his coming out, he had never had a relationship that had lasted more than a few months. Far too often, after he had forgotten a date because he was too wrapped up in examining a painting, or after an impassioned fight over something fairly minor, they would slink away, not returning his messages or texts.
At present his job and his dissertation were taking up most of his time, and what free time he had was generally spent with Courfeyrac, an attorney who worked in the financial district, who thought he should have been the one named to the list of the city’s most eligible bachelors instead. They would go out to a local bar, and sit at a table near the windows and watch the scene unfold, laughing and drinking. Sometimes Courfeyrac would indulge himself, leaving Combeferre to walk back to his apartment by himself, where he would collapse into bed and read until 3:00 in the morning. Courfeyrac had offered to introduce him to various men he knew, but Combeferre had refused -- he was skeptical that he would find the love of his life on a blind date, either.
Maybe, he thought, he was destined to be alone.
But he wasn’t especially happy about it.
**
At some point in early December, Combeferre began to notice that every afternoon, the same artist was sitting in front of the Poussin in the Old Masters gallery, furiously sketching an arcadian scene of Achilles on Skyros. It was not an especially unusual sight -- visitors were often found camped out in front of works of art, copying the paintings on view. But the artist did not match the art -- he was completely bedraggled, with messy dark curls and a scruffy beard and a shirt that was almost see-through in spots. He was the kind of artist Combeferre would expect to see inhabiting the Contemporary galleries, so to see him here, among the academic paintings Combeferre himself loathed, seemed incongruous. But every day he was there, perched on a gallery stool, drawing vigorously in his sketchbook.
And every day Combeferre would walk by, wonder who he was -- and continue on to the cafeteria.
In the second week of the artist’s residence, his curiosity got the better of him and he finally stopped.
“You seem quite obsessed with the Poussin,” he remarked.
The artist grunted. “I hate Poussin,” he said, not looking up from his sketchbook.
“Oh,” Combeferre said, regretting that he had even asked, and turning on his heel to walk away.
The next day, when he walked by him he could not resist stopping again. “If you hate Poussin so much, why are you sketching him?” he asked without thinking.
The artist looked up this time, revealing wide blue eyes. “Anatomy practice. I’m teaching introductory drawing over at Mass Art in the spring and I need to know what the fuck I’m doing,” he said.
Combeferre was momentarily distracted by his eyes. “I see,” he finally uttered.
The artist shrugged. “Plus Achilles looks like my boyfriend,” he explained.
Combeferre was simultaneously elated at the revelation of the young man’s sexual orientation -- and disappointed at the mention of a boyfriend. “That’s as good a reason to draw this as anything,” he said, choosing his words carefully.
The young man glanced at the badge that dangled from a clip at the waistband of Combeferre’s pants. “You work here?”
Combeferre nodded. “I’m a curator. My name’s Combeferre,” he said, holding out his hand.
Putting his pencil behind his ear, the young man reached out and shook Combeferre’s hand. His hand was strong, yet bore the callouses of a man who had spent a great deal of time holding a paintbrush. “Grantaire. So then are you the person I should complain about the labels to?”
Combeferre raised an eyebrow. “Is there a problem with my labels?”
“I think there’s a mistake on the one for the Velazquez,” he said, motioning with his head to indicate the portraits on the adjacent wall.
Repressing the urge to argue, Combeferre gritted his teeth. “I doubt that,” he muttered.
Grantaire shrugged. “You say he’s the greatest artist of his time -- and I beg to differ.”
At this Combeferre relaxed and chuckled. “And who would you choose?” he asked.
“Caravaggio,” Grantaire said. “No question. Great artist, great man. I see him as a role model, really.”
Combeferre’s laugh filled the cavernous gallery. “A man who racked up gambling debt, got into lots of fights, and probably killed someone? Quite a role model you’ve got there.”
“I like to live dangerously -- what can I say?” Grantaire answered with a wry grin.
Who is this man? Combeferre asked himself. “Do you want to grab a cup of coffee?” he blurted without thinking. “I was just on my way to the cafeteria to get some, and maybe -- maybe you’d be interested in telling me some other things I’m wrong about?” He was not typically this bold with men -- but Grantaire intrigued him.
“The daily coffee run?” Grantaire asked knowingly. “Sure, if you’re paying for it,” he said, picking up his pad and his gallery stool. “And I’m an expert at telling people what they’re wrong about.”
**
They brought their coffees to a table overlooking the snow-covered courtyard -- Combeferre took his with lots of cream, but no sugar, while Grantaire poured about six packets of sugar into his dark roast. “Black like my soul,” he joked as Combeferre looked on in amazement. As they drank their coffee, he asked lots of questions about Combeferre’s work -- about his research, and the show he had curated, and the intricacies of dealing with donors and patrons.
“Were you ever an artist yourself?” Grantaire asked, sipping his coffee and peering at Combeferre.
Combeferre shook his head vehemently. “Oh God, no. I had to take a studio class as an undergrad in order to finish my major and I hated every minute of it.” He recoiled at the memory. “I only sketch if I have to. I always tell Courfeyrac I failed early stick figure.”
“Is Courfeyrac your boyfriend?” Grantaire asked, trying to sound casual -- and failing miserably.
Combeferre took a sip of his drink and laughed. “No, no. Courfeyrac’s my best friend. I’m not dating anyone,” he said with a gulp.
“That’s too bad -- I mean, you are one of Boston’s most eligible bachelors, after all,” Grantaire teased.
Combeferre’s eyes grew wide. “How did you know that?”
Grantaire grinned like the cat who ate the canary. “I kept noticing you going through the gallery every day, and I asked the guard who you were, and then I Googled you.” He looked Combeferre up and down. “Nice picture they took,” he commented.
Combeferre turned beet red -- then recovered and tried to change the subject. “And what about you? Who is the beautiful Achilles you keep drawing every day, and why aren’t you drawing him from life, instead of sitting in front of that horrible Poussin?” He knew he was prying -- but he had a feeling Grantaire wouldn’t necessarily care.
At the question Grantaire grew serious. “He’s not here. He moved to D.C. in September -- I guess you could say we’re on a break,” he said. “He’s active in politics, and he decided he needed to be somewhere he thought he could make a difference,” he said.
“And you didn’t go with him,” Combeferre said, his face reflecting the artist’s suddenly somber mood.
“DC isn’t exactly a place for an artist,” he said. “Plus he never asked me.”
“I see,” Combeferre mused.
Just then an announcement came over the loudspeaker, announcing that the museum was closing for the day. “I guess that’s my cue,” Grantaire said, rising from his chair. “But thanks for the coffee.” he said.
Combeferre stood up as well. “Let me walk you out,” he offered
As they walked through the darkened galleries, moving toward the exit, Grantaire finally broke the awkward silence. “Look, would you like to have dinner sometime?” he asked. “I know my situation is a bit weird, what with me in a relationship -- but sometimes it gets too quiet and I can use the company, you know?”
Combeferre nodded. “Yeah,” he said, knowing that he would be heading back to his own quiet studio apartment after the workday was over, that he would be turning on the television as soon as he got in in order to quiet the voices in his own head. “Next week maybe? Say Saturday?”
“Sounds good,” Grantaire said, hoisting his bag over his shoulder as he pushed the door open to walk out into the already-darkened city. “I’ll text you.”
As Combeferre headed back to his office to check his e-mails and go catch the train home, Combeferre smiled at his luck, at how he went out for coffee and came back with a date.
Even if it was a date with a guy with a boyfriend.
**
In the end it was Grantaire who made the plans for their evening together -- dinner at a restaurant in Cambridge, a tiny place on a side street not far from Harvard Square, followed by a movie. That night, Combeferre spent an embarrassing amount of time getting ready, at least by his standards, texting pictures of himself in various outfits to Courfeyrac for his approval.
For his part, Courfeyrac had been thrilled when he found out about Combeferre’s date, waving his hand dismissively when Combeferre denied that it even was a date. “But he has a boyfriend in DC,” Combeferre pointed out.
“Why should that matter?” Courfeyrac asked.
“Because unlike you, I have some standards?” Combeferre replied ignoring his best friend’s eyeroll. “And -- and I get the sense he has some pretty strong feelings for that guy.”
Courfeyrac shrugged. “The guy’s also hundreds of miles away. And if he felt that strongly, why would he go out with you in the first place?”
“He’s lonely?” Combeferre posited.
“Or maybe he’s realizing it’s hopeless and he’s looking for someone new?” Courfeyrac said, flashing him a reassuring smile. “Have faith, my friend. I have a good feeling about this one.”
Combeferre kept repeating that phrase over and over again in his mind as he left his own apartment in Jamaica Plain, dressed in his carefully chosen outfit of a button-down shirt, vest, and jeans, and walked over to the T station near his apartment, pulling the collar of his coat up over his ears to keep the chill out. When he arrived at the restaurant, Grantaire was leaning up against the front window, one leg bent, smoking a cigarette as he scrolled through his phone.
“Oh, hey,” he said as Combeferre approached, tossing his cigarette on the ground and grinding it under the heel of his shoe.
“Hey,” Combeferre said, feeling suddenly awkward, unsure if he should hug him or shake his hand. Grantaire looked even more devilishly attractive to him than he had at the museum -- he wore a t-shirt under a jacket that made his eyes look even more blue, and his curls were even more deliciously unruly. As he followed him into the restaurant and over to the table in the corner that had been reserved for them, he also noticed that he was wearing a sinfully tight pair of jeans that created a very pleasing rear view.
Stop, Combeferre told himself as they took their seats opposite each other. This cannot happen. This isn’t going to happen.
“You look nervous,” Grantaire said, reading Combeferre’s mind. “Relax. Have a drink or several,” he said, picking up the wine list. “That’s what I always do,” he said, withdrawing his hand and opening up the wine list. “Do you like red or white?”
“White,” Combeferre said quickly, knowing that in the state he was in right now he was bound to spill red wine on his shirt.
But his nerves started to diminish as the conversation -- and the wine -- started flowing freely. Grantaire, he discovered during the first course, was a bit of a Renaissance man: he knew every restaurant in town, was well-versed in the music scene, and had friends at some of the local theatre companies who got him free tickets to plays -- which made Combeferre’s eyes widen in jealousy. Both men had spent time abroad -- Combeferre in France, Grantaire in Italy -- so they compared notes on their experiences.
By the time dessert rolled around -- and Grantaire insisted they order dessert, patting his belly as he proclaimed that he always had room for cake -- a pleasant buzz was coursing through Combeferre, both from the wine and the company.
“So -- what about your family?” Combeferre asked as he sipped his espresso.
Grantaire’s face suddenly grew dark. “Well-- well, we don’t talk much. They live in New York..” he said, his voice trailing off, indicating problems he clearly didn’t want to enumerate. “Let’s just say I don’t think they envisioned having an artist as a son. Or a gay one.”
Combeferre drew back, not wanting to probe any further. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s fine,” Grantaire said with a wave of his hand. “I’m used to it. I’m not the easiest person to love -- that much is clear. Enjolras would tell you that.”
“So what’s really the deal with him, anyway?” Combeferre asked -- he didn’t know if it was the wine or something else, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Sorry, I don’t mean to pry, but -- if you were my boyfriend…” he started, then caught himself. “I mean, I just don’t understand how it all works. You have a boyfriend, but you’re out with me?”
Grantaire leaned back in his chair. “I don’t know. I met him when I was living here -- he was doing some sort of community organizing work here in Cambridge, and he knew some friends of mine, and I thought he was cute, so I started hanging out at the same bar they went to for meetings. God, he is gorgeous -- not just physically, but when he gets all excited about a project -- it’s something else. And I kept hanging around, hoping he’d notice me.” Grantaire got a faraway look in his eyes as recalling the memory. “And eventually -- he did.”
“But now he’s gone,” Combeferre said, trying to bury his own jealousy, of Enjolras and their relationship.
“He moved there in September -- he’d gotten this great fellowship, one that was going to lead to all these great jobs. And it was fine for a while -- we texted all the time, Skyped once in a while, and I went down there over Columbus Day weekend.”
“But --”
“But then the election happened, and we knew he’d be busy, but I guess it was even worse than he thought. I would text him, and I’d get a really short text back. And then I’d reply, and -- nothing. So I just -- I just stopped trying.”
“So when’s the last time you heard from him?” Combeferre asked. He knew he shouldn’t be asking so many questions, but he couldn’t help himself.
“Before Thanksgiving,” Grantaire said. “November 19, to be exact. He was going home for the holiday, out to California, for a few days, but as far as I know he’s back in DC now. I have no idea.” He shrugged and poured himself the rest of their second bottle of wine. “Not that I’d blame him for giving up on me -- who wants to date an underemployed artist with a dysfunctional family and an booze problem?”
I would if that artist were you, Combeferre thought, but buried that thought as soon as it emerged. “It’s his loss,” he said out loud.
Grantaire looked at him for a long moment, then downed the rest of his wine. “Thank you,” he said quietly, reaching over and patting Combeferre’s hand.
There were so many things Combeferre wanted to say in that moment -- but instead he said nothing.
**
They had lingered over dinner longer than they had planned, and it was too late for them to make the movie, so Combeferre suggested a walk. As they strolled down Brattle Street past the colonial mansions all decorated for Christmas, Grantaire lit up another cigarette, offering one to Combeferre, who shook his head.
“I haven’t touched those since grad school,” Combeferre answered.
“And where was that again?” Grantaire asked, blowing a plume of smoke into the frosty air.
“Here,” Combeferre said matter-of-factly. “Harvard,” he added, in case it wasn’t clear. He felt almost embarrassed saying it, wondering what it conveyed about his background and his life of privilege.
Grantaire whistled appreciatively. “You must be wicked smart,” he said in a perfect parody of a South Boston accent.
“I guess so,” Combeferre said with a snort. “It probably didn’t hurt that my father went here, and his father went here.”
“But you did the work, right?” Grantaire asked. “Seriously, I’m impressed.”
Feeling his face reddening at the praise, Combeferre focused his attention on the pavement. “Harvard is just like anywhere else, you know. We all put our pants on the same way.”
Grantaire chortled. “But do you take them off the same way?” he teased, his lips turning up into a sly smile as he put out his cigarette.
Combeferre got even redder, and his eyes were burning a hole in the sidewalk. “Maybe,” he managed to say. He had always been horrible at flirting. “I wouldn’t know. I didn’t take anyone else’s pants off but my own while I was here.”
By this time they had reached the gates of Harvard Yard, and Combeferre paused; now that he lived across the river in Boston, he almost never came over here anymore, and he was assailed by memories of being 18 and a nervous freshman, with glasses that were too big for his face and an unfortunate haircut, uninterested in girls and uncomfortable around boys.
“So no boyfriends when you were here? No fucking anyone under the statue of John Harvard?” Grantaire asked, raising his eyebrows.
Combeferre shook his head. “I didn’t even have a lot of friends, other than my friend Courfeyrac. I never even kissed anyone when I was here, much less...much less anything else,” he admitted.
“That’s a shame,” Grantaire said, as he planted himself in front of Combeferre and reached out to take hold of the collar of Combeferre’s coat in his left hand. “Because you’re definitely someone who should be kissed,” he murmured, as he leaned up and kissed him. He smelled like soap and tasted like wine and cigarettes and chocolate, and Combeferre felt like he could kiss him forever.
Until he remembered their situation.
“We shouldn’t do this,” Combeferre whispered, pulling away. “Your boyfriend…”
“Who I haven’t heard from since November 19,” Grantaire said flatly. “Unless you’re not interested in me either,” he said, suddenly retreating, as if he expected Combeferre to reject him.
Combeferre pondered the question for a moment, looking at the man in front of him and thinking of dozens of reasons why he should walk away.
And then he forgot them all as he put his arms around his waist and kissed him again.
**
Grantaire’s apartment was just a short T ride away, near Central Square, and they couldn’t keep their hands off of each other the whole way there -- Grantaire nuzzled Combeferre’s neck as they waited for the train to rumble into the station, and Combeferre stroked his back as they clung to the same pole, ignoring the noisy undergrads crowded around them. Together they stumbled off at the next station and Combeferre let Grantaire lead him the four blocks to his second-floor apartment, jiggling his leg anxiously as Grantaire fumbled with his keys in the lock.
Once inside, Combeferre had barely had time to take off his coat before Grantaire stripped off his own jacket and descended upon him, wrapping his arms around his neck and kissing his nose and his cheeks and his eyelids. Combeferre locked his fingers in Grantaire’s unruly curls -- something he had dreamed of doing since he’d first seen him -- and kissed him solidly on the lips, letting his tongue slip into the warmth of Grantaire’s mouth.
God, it had been far too long since I’ve done this, he thought.
“Bedroom?” Grantaire gasped when they broke apart, and Combeferre could only nod.
They fumbled their way down the hallway -- Grantaire hadn’t bothered putting on the lights -- and into the tiny bedroom, which was so miniscule there wasn’t room for much more than a bed. Grantaire pushed Combeferre backwards onto the mattress, and Combeferre could hear Grantaire depositing his phone and his keys on the bedside table before he crawled on top of him and started unbuttoning first Combeferre’s vest, and then his shirt, opening them to reveal Combeferre’s pale chest. As Combeferre watched, Grantaire traced his fingers lightly along Combeferre’s skin, letting his hand wander below Combeferre’s waist to cup him through his jeans. Combeferre was grasping at Grantaire’s t-shirt, trying to tug it over his head, wanting to touch every inch of him -- breathless with desire.
Until Grantaire’s phone buzzed with an incoming text.
And then another one.
And then three more.
“Jeez, someone really wants to get a hold of you,” Combeferre joked, as Grantaire glanced over his shoulder at the table where his phone lay.
“They can wait,” Grantaire insisted, continuing to kiss Combeferre’s neck -- but his nonchalance was not entirely convincing.
“Check it,” Combeferre insisted, suddenly feeling as if the wind had been knocked out of him.
With a shrug, Grantaire lifted himself off the bed and picked up his phone -- and in the light of the the screen, Combeferre could see his expression change.
And Combeferre knew without even asking that it was Enjolras.
As Grantaire read the texts, Combeferre rose from the bed and began quietly buttoning himself back up.
“You don’t have to leave,” Grantaire said, shoving the phone in his pocket and moving back toward Combeferre, putting his arms around his waist.
“Actually -- I do,” Combeferre said coldly, pushing him away.
“I’m sorry, Combeferre,” Grantaire said, his expression contrite, but his eyes so obviously wide with joy at finally hearing from his boyfriend. “It’s just...it’s…”
“I understand,” Combeferre interrupted him. “Look, if things change, you know where to find me, okay?” he said, fumbling around in the dark to find his coat and wrapping himself up in it.
Grantaire said nothing -- and Combeferre sensed he was just waiting for him to leave so he could respond to his boyfriend’s messages.
Once he reached the street, he stopped and started gasping for air, wondering why he bothered at all, why the good ones seemed to be taken, why he wasn’t the kind of man someone could fall in love with.
And he walked back to the train station, alone again, willing himself not to cry.
As he got off the train in Jamaica Plain, his own phone buzzed with an incoming text -- it was Courfeyrac, of course, probably from a bar or from someone else’s warm bed. “How did it go?” he asked. “Is he the man you always wanted?”
Combeferre paused for a moment, feeling a lump in his throat, then typed his reply. “Terrible,” he wrote. “And yes.”
**
Almost two weeks into the New Year, on a snowy day when the museum was practically deserted, Combeferre walked out of his office in pursuit of his afternoon coffee. The holidays had been relatively quiet, save for a trip to see his family in Connecticut for Christmas and a New Year’s Eve spent getting drunk with Courfeyrac at his apartment in Back Bay. Since then he had thrown himself into his research, signed himself up for a drawing class, and had even agreed to be set up on a blind date with a doctor of Courfeyrac’s acquaintance.
But that afternoon, as he walked into the Old Masters gallery, he noticed a solitary figure sketching in front of the Velazquez.
It was Grantaire.
Combeferre’s heart was in his throat as he approached him -- he had pretty much given up on ever seeing or hearing from him again, but here he was, pencil poised over his pad as he peered at the painting above him.
“So you’re not working on the Poussin anymore?” Combeferre asked as he approached.
Grantaire glanced quickly over his shoulder at the other painting, then looked Combeferre directly in the eye. “Achilles looks way too much like my ex-boyfriend,” he said, his eyes never leaving Combeferre’s face.
“I see,” Combeferre said, trying not to let his curiosity -- or his excitement -- show.
Rising to his feet, Grantaire moved closer to Combeferre and took his hand. “Besides,” he said, “A very brilliant man once told me Velazquez was the greatest artist of his generation.”
“Sounds like a keeper, I’d say,” Combeferre said, the corners of his mouth turning up into a smile. “Would you like to join me for a coffee?”
Grantaire grinned back at him. “Only if you’ll let me buy you dinner later so we can continue our -- conversation,” he said with a showy wink.
“I’d like that,” Combeferre replied, feeling as if his heart would burst with happiness.
Maybe, he thought, as they walked hand in hand toward the cafeteria, he wasn’t destined to be alone.
And he was overjoyed at the thought.