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Courfeyrac has never been so glad to see Enjolras, who’s loitering by the wall of Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta’s dining room, watching the havoc that is Bossuet’s birthday party with a small smile on hir face. Courf is really, really glad to see Enjolras, because he has a Serious Problem, and usually he’d go to Combeferre with his problems, but that does not seem like a good idea at the moment. Given the nature of his problem. The nature of his problem being a very naked Combeferre, surrounded by the spray of the shower, apparently completely unperturbed to find Courfeyrac frozen in the doorway and staring at him.
“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says desperately, and he actually tugs on his friend’s sleeve, because he’s evidently been reduced to that level of needy.
“Hmm?”
Enjolras, who hadn’t even wanted to go out (“It’s not like I don’t see these people almost every day of my life, Courf”) is ignoring him in his hour of need. Ze’s ignoring him because ze’s too busy staring at the table, where Grantaire (shirtless) is emptying an entire tub of glitter over himself and shouting “EAT THE STRAIGHTS!” to raucous applause.
“Enjolras,” demands Courfeyrac again, slightly louder. “Earth to Enjolras. If you could possibly stop thinking about Grantaire’s glittery arse for a second?”
That gets through. Enjolras swivels around, and ze’s blushing, which ordinarily Courf would count as an achievement. But this is anything but an ordinary situation, and so Courf has no time for Enjolras’ adorable blushes of sexual frustration and denial.
“I’m not thinking about Grantaire’s arse,” Enjolras says, predictably. “What’s the situation?”
“Combeferre is in the shower.”
“I know that?” says Enjolras. “According to Bossuet, there was an incident earlier, when they were trying to make cake with Grantaire, and then someone had the idea to try to make alcoholic cake, and then ‘Ferre was covered in wine, because cooking with Bossuet.”
“'Cooking with Bossuet' sounds like a hit TV show,” says Musichetta, sliding up behind Enjolras and grinning. “Something like a cross between wilderness survival and a war drama.”
“So anyway, Bossuet decided ‘Ferre could use the shower,” Enjolras continues.
“ – because, and I quote, ‘If you don’t stop smelling like alcohol then R will eat you,’” Musichetta finishes.
Enjolras frowns at that. “That’s not fair.”
“R said it, honey,” 'Chetta tells hir, and boops hir on the nose. “Anyway, what’s Courf’s situation?”
“Combeferre’s in the shower, apparently,” reports Enjolras, because 'Chetta is one of the few people that Enjolras deeply fears and respects, and this means that ze goes out of hir way to be ‘helpful’ to her.
Musichetta starts laughing. “How did you find that out?” she asks, and she clearly already knows the answer. Courf buries his head in his hands and tells her anyway.
“I walked in on him.”
Enjolras makes an ‘oh’ sound, and pats Courf on the shoulder, which Courf appreciates.
“There were soap bubbles in his hair,” he tells them both, despairingly.
“Did he see you?” Enjolras asks.
Courfeyrac tries to speak, but his throat makes a sort of choked sound instead. He’s pretty sure he’s bright red. It's probably karma for having made Enjolras blush earlier, and however warranted it is, he's not enjoying it.
“Eventually,” he manages to say, and Musichetta nearly pisses herself.
“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says, exasperated. “Please tell me you didn’t just creepily stand in the doorway watching Combeferre in the shower.”
There’s not a whole lot that Courf can say to that. Because that’s exactly what he had done.
“It’s not my fault,” he says, because it’s worth a try. “Why doesn’t your bathroom have a lock on the door, 'Chetta, why?”
“Joly took it off. In case anyone faints in the shower.”
“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not,” says Enjolras, to one or the other of them, or maybe both, it’s not entirely clear. Ze might be talking to Grantaire, who is still on the table, reciting what sounds like part of the Iliad from memory and making wanking motions whenever Achilles is speaking.
“I’m serious!” Courf pleads. “Seriously, Enj, what do I do now?”
“Well, you should probably apologise for your creepy violation of his privacy,” Enjolras says.
Courf lets out a groan, flopping sideways to rest his head on Chetta’s shoulder. Enjolras is a lovely person, but ze takes requests for advice far too literally. Courf does not want actual advice at the minute. What Courf wants at the minute is a hug and a really really obscene amount of alcohol. Or maybe hot chocolate. Or brandy, brandy is probably what you’re supposed to give people who are in shock, who knows why.
Combeferre would know why you’re supposed to give people brandy for shock, because Combeferre knows things like that. Combeferre, whose hair had been soaking wet, who’d had soap bubbles sliding in iridescent clusters down his shoulder blades, who has a tattoo of a long sentence twining under his ribs, and Courfeyrac wants to lick the water droplets clustered in the hollow of his throat, and bite deep bruises along his hips, and kiss his thighs so gently and sweetly that 'Ferre begs for more and looks down at him desperately with wide dark eyes, the same eyes that had flashed open to see Courfeyrac frozen in the doorway with his mouth literally hanging open, how embarrassing –
“Poor honey,” says 'Chetta sympathetically, and Courf opens his eyes with a miserable sound.
“He wasn’t even angry,” he says plaintively. “He just stood there and smiled. Like I’d walked in on him, I don’t know, studying or something. Like, how can he not know how he looks? And he just ignored it and smiled at me, and I ran.”
Enjolras looks up at that, thoughtfully. “Honestly? It sounds like you don’t even have a problem.”
“I can never look at him again,” Courf says theatrically, and it’s only semi-overacting. “He’s so perfect, and now every time I look at him I won’t be able to think about anything but biting his fucking tattoo, it was bad enough when it was left to the imagination. But I can’t be without him either! I can’t avoid him, that would be worse, because then I wouldn’t get to hear him talk or see the way his face does that thing when he gets excited or pretend to hate his puns or watch him try to push up his glasses even when he’s not wearing them –”
“Oh, hello, Combeferre!” interrupts Musichetta’s voice merrily, and Courfeyrac straightens up so fast that his neck clicks. Combeferre is standing next to Enjolras, wearing a paisley shirt that he thinks is Joly’s, and a pair of jeans that are almost certainly Joly’s as well, given how obscenely tight they are on Combeferre. His hair is sticking up in post-shower fluffiness, and he looks completely at ease.
“Hello, 'Chetta, Enjolras,” he says. “I’m here for Courf, actually.”
Courf makes a sort of squeaking noise at that, and takes a moment to reflect on his life, because he could have been a cool captain of a deep space pirate ship or something, and instead here he is, spending his life desperately and hopelessly pining for his beautiful best friend, and there's probably some sort of cosmic injustice there.
“Uh,” he says, because he figures he should say something. “Sorry about earlier?”
“Come on,” says ‘Ferre, extending his hand towards Combeferre in that way he has of making requests that aren’t really requests. “I made you some hot chocolate, it’s in the kitchen.”
Courf’s mouth is shriveling up, but he takes Combeferre’s hand anyway, because Combeferre is super caring but he’s also a bit of an ~abstract thinker~, meaning that if he’s thought about the practicalities of making hot chocolate (and how did he even know that Courf had wanted hot chocolate, is he literally magical?) it’s a fairly momentous occasion. Combeferre’s hand is cool around his, and Courf twines his fingers through ‘Ferre’s longer ones without even thinking about it, because hand holding is something they’ve done pretty much all their lives, and it’s absolutely fine, and there’s no way that Combeferre will be able to hear the way Courf’s pulse is skyrocketing.
Enjolras winks at him, which he hadn’t even known was a thing that Enjolras could do, and Courf ignores it in favor of letting Combeferre lead him through the mass of people and into the kitchen, closing the door behind them.
There’s actually a mug of hot chocolate on the counter, sending spirals of steam threading through the air, and Combeferre hands it to Courf, smiling when their hands brush. It even smells like actual hot chocolate, which is good, because the last time Combeferre had tried making hot chocolate had been during flu season last year, and for some reason Combeferre had decided it would be a good idea to dissolve cough sweets in it in an attempt to ease everyone’s sore throats. ("Combeferre, what the fuck, having a cold is bad but it’s not bad enough that I crave the sweet release of death, why did you think this was a good idea?")
“Thank you so much, and are you a literal mind-reader,” Courf says, purely for the joy of seeing Combeferre’s face as he tries not to look too excited about the idea of being able to read minds. Sure enough, his eyes light up and the corners of his mouth do the little scrunchy thing that they do when he’s interested in something. For someone who looks like a model (a very nerdy model, for a nerd magazine), Combeferre is dangerously adorable.
“You were talking about how warm drinks calmed you down after surprises the other day,” Combeferre says simply. “And you did look quite surprised just now, so I thought maybe you’d want some.”
“When was the other day?” Courf asks, bemused, because he honestly can’t remember talking about beverages with Combeferre, and he’s pretty sure he remembers all the times he’s been around Combeferre recently.
“Some time during exam season last year,” Combeferre says, and gives a small shrug. Courf tries so so hard to resist the urge to bury his face in his hands and make screaming noises, because that’s quite possibly the most adorable thing that anyone has ever said to him.
“That was eight months ago, 'Ferre! Okay, I changed my mind, your superpower isn’t mind-reading, it’s seriously scary memory powers.”
“That would be cool,” 'Ferre says, and pushes his glasses up. The movement makes Joly’s too-small shirt ride up a little, and there’s a pause in the conversation, which is not at all caused by the fact that Courf can’t take his eyes off of the soft stretch of dark skin at Combeferre’s waist.
“Drink your hot chocolate?” suggests Combeferre, and Courf’s eyes snap up to meet his laughing gaze. “You’ve got the shock face on again.”
“Um, yeah,” manages Courf. “About that – I meant to apologise, for the whole creepy-violation-of-your-privacy thing.” He’s pretty sure he’s blushing.
“I didn’t mind,” says Combeferre.
“I mean, the door not being locked was not my fault at all, but I wasn’t really expecting you to be in there, and then you were, and I should have left or something rather than standing there creepily and inappropriately staring, and I just –”
“Courf,” says Ferre, low and warm. “I didn’t mind. I don’t mind at all. Okay?”
Combeferre is very close, thinks Courfeyrac. Very close, so close that Courf can smell the faint citrus of shampoo. He’s just leaning against the kitchen counter, right next to Courf, and Courf wants to touch him so badly.
“In fact,” 'Ferre says – lightly, matter-of-factly – “I liked it a lot.”
“Oh my god,” says Courfeyrac, because what is going on, he prides himself on being a good friend and he’s almost entirely sure that telling someone that you like it when they watch you shower is not standard friend discursion. “'Ferre, please, please let me know you mean what I think you mean, because otherwise I am going to need so much hot chocolate to console me.”
Combeferre pushes himself away from the counter, turning to face Courfeyrac. He looks as serene as ever, but there’s a sort of taut look in his eyes as they glance down over Courf’s face that bespeaks nervousness. 'Ferre’s eyelashes are so long and beautiful, and Courf can see every single one, and his heart does a little flip because he’s reasonably sure that Combeferre is looking at his lips.
“You know how I’m demi?” says Combeferre, conversationally. “And how I get crushes all the time and then I have no idea whether they’re friend-crushes or romantic-crushes or both or neither and so I just sort of ignore them and mostly they go away?”
“Yeah?” Courf is pretty familiar with Combeferre’s pattern of miscellaneous attraction, because Combeferre has always been happy to tell things to Courfeyrac. Courf loves that, he loves that so much, that Combeferre, who’s usually quite reticent about private things, has always seemed happy to trust Courf with anything and everything. In all the time he’s known Combeferre, he’s never once known him to be in a relationship with anyone. He’ll hear someone’s name a few times, usually in mildly innocent contexts, sometimes coupled with complaints (“I think I just want to be friends? But then ey’ll say something about the history of the compass and I’ll get all these fluttery feelings but I honestly don’t know whether I’m romantically interested in em or whether I just actually care that much about the history of the compass; why is it all so complicated, Courf?”). And then usually it’ll resolve as nothing more than a passing platonic interest, and ‘Ferre’s all Courfeyrac’s again.
“Well,” says Combeferre, and he takes a deep breath, and Courf can see his chest rise and fall. “First things first, I love you a lot, you know?”
And no matter how terrified Courf is of what’s coming next, that will never fail to make him smile, because he does know that Combeferre loves him, because Combeferre is possibly the most sincere person Courf has ever met and he believes in letting all his friends know just how much they mean to him. So he nods, and leans over to set his mug of hot chocolate down on the counter with hands that are only trembling a very tiny amount.
“I love you as my best friend,” continues Combeferre, “you know that. But I’ve also – been interested in you for a while. You know, little fluttery crush-y feelings. I apologise for not telling you about it, but I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, and I figured that it was probably just me caring about you as a friend, you know? And I didn’t want things to be awkward if I brought it up and then it went away.”
“But you brought it up now?” says Courf. He’s trying his best to sound as sensible as Combeferre does, but he can’t exactly help the hitch in his voice at the end of his question.
“It didn’t go away,” Ferre says simply. “And I don’t think it’s going to. So I’ve been romantically attracted to you for a while now. And I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m fairly certain –” and his voice drops, and suddenly it’s very low, and it tugs at something in Courfeyrac, and he steps closer almost involuntarily – “I’m fairly sure that I’m extremely sexually attracted to you as well.”
“Only fairly?” Courf manages, through the thundering of his heart and the smile that’s tugging inadvertently at the corners of his mouth.
“Well, I’m a scientist,” Combeferre says. “I might have to test my hypothesis.”
There’s a question in that sentence, Courf realises, because Combeferre is the world’s biggest nerd and can’t even ask to kiss him like anyone else would. So he closes his eyes for a second and hopes that he’s getting this right (although, he reflects, given that neither of them can stop smiling, it’s really hard to see how anything about this could be wrong), and then he closes the tiny distance between them.
He has to stand on tiptoe to kiss Combeferre, and it’s ridiculous how happy that makes him. His hands slide to cradle Combeferre’s face, and Combeferre’s arms close around his waist, and then they’re kissing, his mouth pressing against Combeferre’s lips, and it’s soft and nervous and ecstatic and perfect. Combeferre makes a little humming noise against him, and his lips part against Courf’s, and Courf doesn’t even think, just runs his tongue lightly over Ferre’s bottom lip before tracing into his mouth, and then Combeferre’s hand is running through his curls, pinning him close to Combeferre, who is holding him close and kissing him like his life depends on it.
When they break apart, Courfeyrac is breathing shakily, and he can’t stop smiling. “Wow,” he says happily, and he’s fairly sure that he looks entirely ridiculous but he can’t bring himself to care. Then again, going by the way that Combeferre is looking at him, with eyes blown wide and dark and delighted, maybe he’s not that ridiculous. Or at least, he’s Combeferre’s type of ridiculous.
“Wow,” agrees Combeferre, tracing his thumb lightly over Courf’s cheekbone, until Courf shivers.
“So, is your hypothesis confirmed?” he asks.
“I think so,” Combeferre tells him. “But I really really want to keep on testing it, fuck,” and he drops his head down to kiss bruisingly against Courf’s collarbone, and Courf forgets how to breathe momentarily. Combeferre is warm against him, and Courfeyrac backs up against the counter, letting out a rush of breath and tilting his head to allow Combeferre better access.
There’s a tinkling crash from behind him, and suddenly there’s a lukewarm dampness flooding against the small of his back. Combeferre breaks apart from him, and he spins around to look at the counter, which is covered with shards of mug and hot chocolate.
“Oops,” he says, in lieu of anything better to say. A smile tugs at Combeferre’s mouth, and then they’re both laughing. “Um, I should probably clean that up.”
They manage to scoop most of the pottery into the bin, mopping up the remnants of the hot chocolate. Courf watches it go with sadness.
“Best hot chocolate I’ve ever had,” he says mournfully.
“How’s your t-shirt?” Combeferre asks.
“Gross,” admits Courf. The entirety of his back is kind of damp and sticky, and there are occasional drips of hot chocolate falling from the hem of his t-shirt to the floor. Then he pauses. “Actually, I think I might need a shower.”
“Mind if I join you?” Combeferre asks, and Courf’s face breaks into a delighted smile.
“Oh, I insist on it.”