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It’s the morning of December 23, and Combeferre is sitting in a rocking chair watching airplanes take off.
It’s far too early, even for Combeferre, who rises with the dawn, but today he is wide awake, and a tiny bit nervous — as he is going to Charleston to spend Christmas with his boyfriend’s parents.
The previous Christmas he had invited Courfeyrac on a whim to come with him to his home in Newport — the thought of Courfeyrac, then estranged from his family, sitting in their Boston apartment alone made him sad, so he took pity on him and extended the invitation. Truth be told, he would have asked sooner, but he was anxious — he had been harboring a secret crush on Courfeyrac for months, and hadn’t acted on it. But when Courfeyrac had said yes he was pleased — and when their time away had ended with an assignation in his childhood bedroom he was excited beyond belief, and since then they had been almost inseparable.
It is one year later now, and they are seniors in college, planning their futures. Combeferre has an acceptance in hand to medical school in Boston, but Courfeyrac has not yet heard from any law schools in the city. He has been accepted to one in his home state of South Carolina — the same one his father went to — but Combeferre desperately wants them to avoid the situation they were in over the summer, when Courfeyrac was living at home and Combeferre stayed up north, and they could only text each other or chat via Skype. When Courfeyrac finally came back to Boston, Combeferre had practically tackled him by the baggage claim at Logan; all summer he’d felt like he had lost a limb without Courfeyrac beside him.
And he didn’t want to go through that again.
But the summer in South Carolina had one silver lining: it had given Courfeyrac an opportunity to reconcile with his parents, so this Christmas he was going home again — and taking Combeferre with him.
And Combeferre had no idea what to expect.
“They’re starting to board our flight,” Courfeyrac says, interrupting Combeferre’s thoughts to hand him a cup of coffee. He is wearing a t-shirt and jeans with a messenger bag slung across his chest, looking so deliciously sexy Combeferre wishes they were back in their apartment so he could have his way with him.
Instead he sips his coffee and rises from his chair, pulling himself up to his full height. “Here goes nothing,” he says with a wry grin, as they make their way to the gate to board the flight that will take them south.
**
Combeferre has never been to South Carolina — there was a time when he had sworn he would never set foot that state, expressing his loathing for its politics and citing the maxim that it was too small to be a republic but too large to be an insane asylum, but Courfeyrac had insisted it was nowhere near as bad as Combeferre thought. “Charleston has some progressive pockets,” he had insisted when they bought their plane tickets back in September, scowling at Combeferre’s Yankee snobbery — he tended to get a bit defensive about his home region. “There are even gay people there, you know.”
Combeferre had rolled his eyes in disbelief — but secretly he is fascinated to see the place where his boyfriend spent his formative years.
The two men stroll out of the airport to wait for their ride; Combeferre struggles out of his winter coat amid the bright sunshine, while Courfeyrac texts his sisters to come and meet them.
“Nice weather, eh?” he asks, donning his Ray-Bans. “What’s the temperature in Boston right now?” he asks as a shiny white Mini Cooper pulls up to the curb and Courfeyrac’s two sisters pile out, hugging their brother tightly and fawning over Combeferre. They are almost like twins — born 14 months apart, Courfeyrac had told him once — and they both look like female versions of their brother, with dark curls and slight builds and the same flashing brown eyes.
“Your boyfriend’s cute,” the one in the passenger seat says to Courfeyrac as he tosses their bags in the tiny trunk and Combeferre tries to fold his 6’2” frame into the backseat of the tiny car. “Much cuter than the one you dated in high school,” she says as they pull out into traffic. The windows are down, and Combeferre’s blond hair is blowing all over the place — but there is such a pleasant, charming buzz among the Courfeyrac siblings he finds himself not caring in the slightest.
“How is Mr. Pontmercy?” Courfeyrac asks, leaning his head back against the backseat. “Still the most awkward man at USC?”
“I’m told he has a girlfriend now,” the other sister — the one who’s driving — replies. “Some Catholic school girl of rather dubious background. The Gillenormands are a little put out, to say the least.”
“I’m sure they had their eye on some South of Broad chick for him,” Courfeyrac said, ignoring the eyeroll from Combeferre, who had met Marius Pontmercy during a visit to Boston last year, where the two of them had gotten in a fight over who the next Democratic candidate should be — Combeferre was a huge Elizabeth Warren fan, while Marius insisted Hillary Clinton was the best choice, ignoring Combeferre’s denunciations of her as a corporatist. “But at least he’s not gay, right? At least not in their minds. I don’t think bisexuality is much of a concept around here.”
“Charleston society had enough of a problem with you, dear brother,” the first sister retorts. “They’re still talking about the time you came to a ball dressed as a woman.”
“I was trying to make a point about gender identity, dear sister,” he shot back. “One that was clearly lost on them.”
Combeferre can’t help but to laugh at the vision of his boyfriend, resplendent in a ball gown amid the shocked stares of Charleston society.
This is definitely going to be an interesting holiday, he thinks.
**
As they drive into the heart of the city, Combeferre can instantly see why Courfeyrac speaks so highly of his hometown, with its the elegant houses and narrow streets and the old-fashioned lamplights. They pull up in front of the de Courfeyrac family home, with its piazzas and its view of the harbor, and Combeferre is already a little in love — it reminds him of his childhood home in Newport, but far warmer and more colorful, with palmetto trees and fading sunshine instead of cold, gray New England skies.
“Come on,” Courfeyrac says, as the two young women dash off ahead of them. He tugs on Combeferre’s hand, pulling him toward the house. “You look like a lost tourist.”
“I am a lost tourist,” he says but he allows his boyfriend to lead him inside. The house is his father’s — his parents were divorced when Courfeyrac was a teenager, and his mother lived a few miles outside the city at what was once the family’s country house. Their plan is to spend Christmas Eve here in the city with his father, and then drive out to his mother’s house on Christmas Day. Combeferre looks around, feeling a bit like he’d stepped into a scene from a Civil War movie.
“My father probably won’t be home until late,” Courfeyrac tells him, as they head upstairs with their bags. “And the girls will probably be out drinking with their sorority sisters until all hours,” he says, rolling his eyes to indicate his disdain not for their drinking but for their choice of company. “Plus they have their own space up on the top floor. So it’s just us,” he says, grasping the railing and leaning back on the staircase to leer at Combeferre suggestively.
Combeferre looks around the hallway, almost as if he was expecting someone to jump out from behind one of the heavy drapery to scare him. “Is that such a good idea?” he asks.
“We’d better do it now, because we sure as hell aren’t going to be sharing a room,” Courfeyrac says, taking the stairs two at a time. “You’ll need to sneak across the hall to see me.”
“Really?” Combeferre asks, raising an eyebrow. He knew Courfeyrac’s family was conservative, but he didn’t think they’d be so prudish as to insist the two men stay in separate bedrooms.
“Doesn’t that just add to the excitement?” Courferyac teases as they reached the landing. “This is me,” he says, cracking open the door directly across from the top of the stairs. “You’ll be over there,” he says, nodding at the door at on his left. “You get a gorgeous view, though. Unpack your stuff and come on over. Bring supplies,” he tells him with an exaggerated wink before disappearing with his duffel bag over his shoulder.
Combeferre does as he’s told, opening the door on the left to reveal an enormous guest room, complete with a four poster bed and a chest-on-chest that should probably be in a museum and two huge windows overlooking the Battery. He unpacks his bag, changes out of the wintry clothes he wore on the plane and into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and starts to head back toward Courferyac’s room — until he remembers Courfeyrac’s request, and rummages around in his bag for both condoms and lube, still unsure about the wisdom of this idea but as always, powerless to resist him.
He is shoving them into his pocket out in the hallway, cursing the tightness of his freshly washed jeans, when he’s startled by a deep voice. “Hello? Combeferre, is that you?”
Combeferre’s face turns scarlet. “Hello, sir,” he says, extending his trembling hand to Courfeyrac’s father. “It’s good to see you. Thank you for having me.” He had only met his father once, when he was up in Boston on business earlier in the fall and took the two young men to the Oak Bar to drink very expensive Scotch and lecture them on the importance of investing their money at an early age.
“Is my wayward son anywhere to be found?” he asks, loosening his tie, his face betraying a certain exasperation.
“I’m right here,” Courfeyrac replies, wandering out into the hallway in just a pair of boxers. “Merry Christmas to you, too,” he adds, coming over to give his father a perfunctory hug. His relationship with his father had always been strained, particularly once he had come out both as gay and as a liberal.
“I have to go to a business dinner tonight, so you’re on your own for the night,” his father says. “Don’t burn the house down, okay?” he says, an attempt at levity that falls flat.
“Happy to see you too, Dad,” Courfeyrac mutters, his eyes darkening, as his father goes into his own room across the hall and slams the door.
Combeferre looks at him sympathetically. “I guess that means you can show me the city, then,” he says, trying to cheer him up.
The darkness lifts from Courfeyrac’s face almost as quickly as it descended. “And then maybe later,” he says, patting the front pocket of Combeferre’s jeans, “I can show you something else.”
**
That night they walk around downtown, where Courfeyrac gives Combeferre the grand tour, pointing out significant landmarks both in the city’s rich history and in his own personal experiences as a native. Combeferre recalls doing the same thing for Courfeyrac the previous Christmas, but the past he recounts is much more colorful than Combeferre’s: rather than tales of hiding away reading and writing, Courfeyrac talks about loving and fighting and drinking all over town.
He takes Combeferre to his favorite restaurant, a completely unpretentious place that serves traditional Southern food, where over beers and fried food he talks more frankly about his childhood — about how he never entirely felt like he fit in in a society that was rather provincial and overly conformist. “It’s why I went to Boston for school, honestly,” he explains. “I wanted to be my own person.”
Combeferre nods. “I can understand that,” he says, reaching over to grasp his hand under the table. “And I’m really glad you did.”
Courfeyrac smiles brightly. “I’m glad you came down with me this year,” he said. “It’s much more fun with you around. I don’t keep in touch with very many friends from high school, so I’d probably be camped out in my father’s study drinking his gin and watching Christmas specials.”
Combeferre squeezes his hand tightly. “We’ll just have to do it every year,” he says, sending up a silent prayer to someone, anyone, that they won’t be living apart in a year.
When they return to the house, there are lights on up on the third floor, meaning his sisters are both home — maybe for the rest of the evening, or maybe as prelude to their next social gathering — and his father’s Audi is parked in the driveway. But when the two men reach the landing on their floor, Combeferre is about to say his good nights when Courfeyrac takes his boyfriend by the hand and leads him into his bedroom. He kicks the door shut, wraps his arms around Combeferre’s waist and kisses him so hard he leaves Combeferre completely breathless.
“God, I’ve wanted to do that for hours,” Courfeyrac finally gasps when they come up for air. “Set your phone for 5:30 am,” Courfeyrac tells him, peeling Combeferre’s shirt off.
“Why?” Combeferre asks, practically panting with want.
“So you can sneak back to your room before everyone gets up,” Courfeyrac explains, unbuckling Combeferre’s belt and unzipping his jeans. “Because I don’t plan to let you sleep alone. Or sleep at all, for that matter,” he murmurs as he reaches into Combeferre’s pocket for the condoms and lube.
And Combeferre pushes him toward the bed, anxious to start the festivities as soon as possible.
**
On Christmas Eve morning, Combeferre wakes up alone in his own bed, not entirely sure where he is, but from the angle of the sun coming in his windows, he can tell it is probably close to noon. His head is pounding, and he is sore from the previous night’s adventures with Courfeyrac, which makes him want to bury back under the covers and stay there until it’s nighttime. But his stomach is also growling, so he throws on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and wanders downstairs to the kitchen.
He finds Courfeyrac standing at the center island, drinking coffee and paging through the newspaper. “So what are we doing today?” Combeferre asks, stepping up behind him and putting his arms around his waist, kissing him on the neck.
“I had a text from Marius — he suggested lunch, if you’re interested.” Combeferre rolled his eyes and sighed, resigning himself to a lunch of awkward silences and general political ignorance. “And then we need to rest up for the annual de Courfeyrac Christmas Eve extravaganza. My sister told me this morning I have to dress up as Santa this year,” he says.
Combeferre can’t help but to laugh at the thought. “Seriously?” he asks, helping himself to some coffee from the French press on the counter.
“Surprisingly my father always used to do it, but he’s passing the suit on to me this year,” Courfeyrac said. “You wanna sit on my lap, little boy?” he teases, smacking Combeferre on the rear.
“Maybe later,” Combeferre says, pushing him away so he can take another sip of his coffee. “What time are we meeting Pontmercy?” he asks, taking his phone out of his pocket to check the time.
“One,” Courfeyrac says. “What time is it now?”
“Almost noon,” Combeferre replies, slipping his phone back in his pocket. “I should go shower then,” he adds, guzzling down as much coffee as he can, then setting his mug down in the sink.
Courfeyrac smirks and puts his cup down too. “Let me join you,” he offers.
**
Lunch with Marius takes place at Magnolia’s, which is a popular place for lunch on Christmas Eve. It’s not as horrible as Combeferre had expected, even though his head is still pounding and the noisy crowd does nothing to help. Marius is still completely wrong about everything political, but he seems slightly less neurotic somehow, a change that Combeferre attributes to his new girlfriend, Cosette, a perceptive young woman with dark hair and a sweet disposition. Marius is mostly estranged from his family at the moment, a situation Courfeyrac can relate to, having spent most of the last year not speaking to his own family, so the two old friends compare notes while Combeferre makes small talk with Cosette about a wide range of topics.
“So how long have you and Courfeyrac been together?” she asks him as he drinks his coffee — his third cup of the day already.
“It’s been a year. A year tomorrow, actually,” he responds, recalling the date.
“So you think you’ll get married someday?” she asks, her guileless face searching his for an answer.
Combeferre glances over at Courfeyrac, who is talking animatedly to Marius about something. “If he’ll have me. If we can figure something out after graduation, that is. I’m afraid I’ll lose him to this place — he seems so happy here,” he confesses. There is something about this woman that makes him want to confide in her.
She smiles sweetly at him. “I think you will figure something out. If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be, right? That’s how I feel about Marius.”
“You’re right,” Combeferre admits — almost believing it himself.
**
The Christmas Eve party is a huge, very formal affair, with rich food and a jazz quartet and lots of very wealthy people in fancy clothes. Combeferre is wearing his one good suit — plain black and suitable for all occasions — although Courfeyrac insists on lending him a kelly green tie so he looks more festive than funereal. Courfeyrac is resplendent in his own black suit, although clearly a more expensive one than Combeferre’s, with a red silk tie and a matching pocket square.
“We look like twins,” Combeferre jokes as they stand in front of the mirror together, although to himself he marvels at how good and how natural they look together: one tall and one short, one light and one dark. He briefly fantasizes about what they would look like on their wedding day, then banishes the thought as soon as it appears — they’re only 21, and they have so many other things to accomplish before they settle down.
But if he is honest with himself, he knows it’s exactly what he wants someday.
They go downstairs to the party, and Courfeyrac is swarmed by guests who fawn over him, asking him about school and his post-graduate plans and reminiscing about his childhood here in the city. Combeferre finds himself in a corner, next to the bar, where he is content just to watch his boyfriend work the room, dazzling everyone with his charm and his humor. A few times he points over at Combeferre, and he can read the words “my boyfriend” on his lips, and Combeferre swells with pride.
Eventually he is joined in the corner by Courfeyrac’s father, who appears beside him with two glasses of whiskey, one of which he hands to Combeferre.
“My boy is something else, isn’t he?” his father says to him as they stand together awkwardly.
“He is indeed,” Combeferre says, taking a drink and feeling it burn as it goes down his throat. He had never been much of a fan of hard liquor.
“I have to say I’ve never seen him so happy,” the elder Courfeyrac observes, as the sound of his son’s laughter wafts toward them. “I’ve always worried about him, up there in Boston, but you’re clearly good for him.”
Combeferre nods. “I try,” he says carefully. He wishes Courfeyrac were standing here to hear his father talking like this, with such love for his oldest child.
“You succeed,” is the curt reply — and with a hard slap on the back, he is gone.
**
Courfeyrac disappears after a time and emerges in the Santa costume, and it is as if it was a role he was born to play — he thumps his fake belly and bellows out holiday greetings and hands out candy canes to all of the children. He eventually takes up residence in an easy chair next to the fireplace and listens to various guests’ Christmas wishes, including an attractive young woman who perches on his lap seductively and insists she’s been very naughty — later, Combeferre discovers she is a friend of one of his sisters, who put her up to it.
“So do I get any presents from you?” she teases him, running her finger down his furry chest.
Courfeyrac chortles. “Honey, you have the wrong kind of chimney,” is his reply, and the partygoers laugh uproariously.
Eventually Combeferre is prodded to come forward, and he awkwardly takes his seat on Courfeyac’s lap, concerned that he’ll crush him and unused to being on top of him, at least in public, but he has a few drinks in him and his inhibitions have been lowered. “So what do you want for Christmas, little boy?” Courfeyrac asks him with a wink.
Combeferre tries to think of a witty retort that will suit the mood of the party — and is at a complete loss. Instead he blurts, “I want you to stay in Boston with me next year,” a response that is met by low murmurs from some of the fiercely proud Southerners in attendance who cannot entirely understand why one of their own would ever want to leave.
Unfazed, Courfeyrac pats him on the knee. “Santa will see what he can do,” is his reply.
**
When the party ends in the wee hours of the morning, the family is alone — one sister is passed out on the couch in front of the tree, while the other one sits opposite her, texting away to someone and nibbling on Christmas cookies. Their father has disappeared into his study, so Combeferre tries to play the dutiful houseguest and starts picking up wine glasses.
“Leave it,” Courfeyrac says with a huge yawn. “Someone will take care of it tomorrow.”
Combeferre doesn’t argue and retreats upstairs, unable to resist the siren call of that soft four-poster bed in his room. Courfeyrac stays behind to roust his sister and help her up to her own bedroom, promising Combeferre he’ll be in to see him shortly.
Once in his room, Combeferre strips off his jacket and tie, and takes off his shoes, crawling into bed in his shirt and pants, knowing that he won’t need the suit at the more casual affair at Courfeyrac’s mother’s house tomorrow, and far too tired to even bother finding his pajamas. He falls asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow, a dreamless, all-consuming sleep — if Courfeyrac ever comes in to join him, he is completely unaware of it.
When he finally awakens, the weak early morning light is coming in the windows, and he feels a hand on his brow — it is Courfeyrac, sitting on the bed in a t-shirt and pajama pants. “Merry Christmas,” he says softly, stroking Combeferre’s forehead.
A weak smile crosses Combeferre’s face. “Merry Christmas,” he replies, struggling to sit up.
Courfeyrac hands him a flat box, beautifully wrapped in silver and gold. “I wanted to give you this before everyone gets up,” he says, sounding uncharacteristically solemn.
Puzzled and still half-asleep, Combeferre carefully removes the perfect wrapping paper and opens the box to reveal a single sheet of creamy paper folded in thirds. “What is this?” he asks, looking up at Courfeyrac, completely confused.
“Read it,” Courfeyrac commands, a mysterious look in his eyes.
Combeferre takes the paper out of the box and unfolds it, recognizing the Harvard letterhead instantly. “Dear Mr. Courfeyrac,” he reads out loud. “We are pleased to offer you a place in the law school class of 2018…” he trails off, looking up from the letter to stare at his boyfriend, dumbfounded. “Do you mean…”
“Yeah,” Courfeyrac said, a huge grin splitting his face open. “I was thinking we could get a place in Cambridge, maybe near the busline so you can get over to the med school pretty easily…”
Combeferre interrupts him by kissing him all over his face, so overcome with joy he can’t contain himself. “Wait, did you say yes?” he says, pulling back to look at him.
“How could I not?” Courfeyrac says, his brown eyes sparkling. “It’s Harvard, after all. And…and it’s you,” he says, pushing Combeferre back against the pillows and climbing on top of him. “And I love you, and I never want to be apart from you again.”
They make love slowly that Christmas morning, savoring each other’s touch, and take a long, lazy shower, finally emerging to open presents with the rest of the family before they all bundle into the car to go to his mother’s house.
“I do think this is the best Christmas I’ve ever had,” Combeferre whispers to him as they sit together in the backseat of the car, holding hands. He has already been fantasizing about their post-college life together — about the apartment they’ll rent in Cambridge, the late night dinners they’ll share, the new, larger bed they’ll need to buy so they don’t have to squeeze into one of their tiny twin beds anymore.
“So far,” Courfeyrac reminds him, reaching over to kiss his cheek. “I do plan to spend a lot more of them with you, you know.”
And Combeferre leans his head against Courfeyrac’s shoulder, joyous beyond belief that his one Christmas wish had actually come true.