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Combeferre never thought he would end up in a place like this.
He had never lived in a small town before: he grew up in a suburb just outside of Boston, so he with easy access by public transportation to arts and culture and all the benefits of urban life, and when it was time for him to choose a college -- and later, a medical school -- he ended up staying in his home city.
But as his studies of medicine progressed, so too did his ambitions -- and rather than being a top-flight surgeon or a highly regarded researcher, he found himself focusing more on primary care, wanting to work directly with patients on a day to day basis. So when Joly, his best friend from medical school, came to him with a proposition to move with him to a small town in Vermont to take over its clinic, Combeferre jumped at the chance. The town was both picturesque and progressive, and would be a great career opportunity for the two young doctors.
Their first year was a whirlwind of hiring staff and working with patients -- and adapting to life in their new hometown. Joly took to it like a duck to water -- he had grown up in a small town in the Midwest, so he was used to its limitations -- but Combeferre found himself struggling. He certainly enjoyed the quiet time, when he could lie on the couch in his living room in front of a roaring fire with a thick book, but there was a certain loneliness to the whole endeavor that didn’t always sit just right with Combeferre.
He felt the solitude even more keenly in his third year, when Joly started dating an attorney up in Burlington named Bossuet, and started spending more of his off days with his new boyfriend. Without Joly to keep him company, more often than not Combeferre found himself sitting alone at the local diner with a cup of coffee, gazing out the window at the families and couples strolling along the Main Street -- some of them now familiar to him as his patients and neighbors -- and wishing he had someone to spend his life with, too.
But Combeferre despaired that he would ever find that person in this tiny corner of the world.
**
Most of Combeferre and Joly’s patients were residents of the town -- children who needed vaccinations, seniors with sciatica, people with high blood pressure and persistent colds and the like -- but in the winter months they discovered that they would see an influx of patients from the ski resort a few miles outside of town. They came in for all of the reasons a skier would -- cuts and bruises and an occasional broken bone or case of frostbite. Combeferre generally hated dealing with these people -- they were mostly incredibly demanding New Yorkers who were reflexively skeptical of a small town doctor, even one with a Harvard diploma on the wall. Whenever possible, he would try to persuade Joly to take those appointments, as he was born with a patience that Combeferre had always envied.
But on a sunny yet frigid Friday in mid-January, Joly had taken the day off to go away with Bossuet, so Combeferre’s list of patients included an unfamiliar name with an out of state area code on his cell phone.
“So what did this one do?” Combeferre sighed, as he took the clipboard from one of the clinic’s nurses and began studying his chart.
“Busted knee,” the nurse said, indicating the x-rays. “Looks like he’s done this a couple of times before.”
“Idiots,” Combeferre muttered, shaking his head as he left his office and walked down the hall to one of the clinic’s two examining rooms. Despite the fact that he was a native New Englander, he had never quite understood the appeal of skiing.
As he pushed open the door, he discovered a rakishly handsome man with dark curls sitting nonchalantly in one of the chairs, wearing a hospital gown that just barely covered his well-muscled thighs. “Hey there,” he said, looking up from his magazine at Combeferre with broad smile. “How’s it going?”
Combeferre swallowed hard, momentarily lost in his twinkling brown eyes. “So shall we take a look at that knee?” he asked, clearing his throat. “Mr...de Courfeyrac?” He peered at the intake form, where he couldn’t help but to glance at his marital status -- single -- then tried desperately to banish that thought from the back of his mind.
“Just Courfeyrac,” the dark-haired man corrected him as he moved toward the examining table, clearly favoring his good leg. “De Courfeyrac was my father’s name, and we don't exactly speak anymore," he said, hoisting himself up on the table, grimacing.
Combeferre took a seat on a stool and rolled himself into position in front of his new patient, unsure as to whether the grimace was due to the knee pain or the estranged father. “So it looks like you’ve done this before,” Combeferre observed, pushing the hospital gown up just far enough to reveal Courfeyrac’s knee. He traced his finger over the two long scars from previous surgeries. “Have you perhaps thought about giving up skiing for good?” he suggested mildly.
Vigorously Courfeyrac shook his head. “No way, man. Never,” he said. “It’s my calling.”
“Your calling is to strap two boards to your feet and slide down a mountain?” Combeferre asked, raising an eyebrow at him.
“I work as a ski instructor up on the mountain. Just moved here from Colorado, actually,” Courfeyrac explained as Combeferre continued to probe his knee. “Do you ski?”
Combeferre shook his head. “I have no idea even how to begin,” he said, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “Plus I’m not into doing things that could kill me.”
“Oh come on, Doc,” Courfeyrac teased as Combeferre rose to his feet. “Live a little. Let me give you a lesson sometime,” he offered. “There’s nothing like the first run of the day to make you feel amazing. It’s better than sex, I tell you.”
The thought of this charming man having sex now crossed Combeferre’s mind -- and his face reddened at the thought. “It looks like it’s just a mild sprain,” he said, tugging the hospital gown down to cover Courfeyrac’s well muscled thigh and trying not to sound flustered. “Stay off it for at least a week, put some ice on it, and you’ll be fine. Keep your instructing to the cute girls hanging around the lodge, okay?”
Courfeyrac grinned as he hopped off the table, wincing slightly as he landed on his bad leg. “Sounds like a plan -- if I were into girls, that is,” he said.
Combeferre’s eyes grew wide. “I’m sorry, I of all people shouldn’t have assumed --”
“It’s fine,” Courfeyrac said, waving his hand. “But if you want to make it up to me, come take a lesson. After I’ve healed, of course,” he added quickly, when Combeferre looked at him sternly over his glasses. “I think you’d enjoy yourself.”
“I’ll think about it,” Combeferre said, trying to keep his composure as he opened the door to the examining room.
But once the door closed behind him and he was safely in the hallway, he could not stop himself from grinning like an idiot.
**
The next Friday, after the clinic closed for the day, Joly and Combeferre headed over to their favorite bar of the three bars in town -- a pseudo-Colonial tavern with lots of craft brews that they visit frequently. Combeferre was desperate to tell his best friend about the patient he had met a week ago, but Joly had tales of his own to tell about his doomed trip to Montreal with Bossuet, complete with a forgotten passport and a case of food poisoning.
As Combeferre took a swig of his beer, out of the corner of his eye he noticed two men in ski jackets entering the bar -- one of whom was Courfeyrac.
“Joly,” Combeferre hissed, grabbing his best friend’s hand. “Do you see that guy over there?”
“Over where?” Joly asked, swiveling his head around, making no attempt to be subtle.
“The one at the bar in the LL Bean jacket,” Combeferre said, afraid to look up at them, studying his beer bottle.
“The one with the curls or the one with the beard?” Joly asked.
“The curls,” Combeferre replied. “I treated him last week while you were gone, and he -- he asked me to go skiing with him.”
“Smooth,” Joly chuckled. “So when are you going?”
Combeferre shook his head. “We didn’t set a date or anything. He just offered--”
Joly glanced over his shoulder, then started to laugh. “Well, you can set a date now, because he’s coming this way.”
Combeferre’s heart plummeted to his stomach. “Oh God,” was all he could manage to say. “I suck at this.”
“Hey, Dr. Combeferre,” the young ski instructor said, flashing his gorgeous smile.
“Mr. Courfeyrac,” Combeferre nodded. “How’s the knee?”
“Good as new -- my buddy Bahorel’s been covering for me this week,” he said, nodding to indicate his bearded friend who was still over at the bar. “But I should be back on the slopes this weekend. You should come out tomorrow -- Bahorel says the slopes have been amazing.”
“Oh I don’t know,” Combeferre demurred. “I think I have some appointments in the morning.”
“I can cover for you,” Joly interrupted, earning himself a glare from Combeferre.
“Sweet,” Courfeyrac replied, the grin getting even wider. “It’s a date. Shall we say 9:00?”
“What are you doing?” Combeferre hissed at Joly as soon as Courfeyrac was out of earshot.
Joly shrugged. “You’ve been saying you’re lonely. And maybe this guy can help you be less lonely.”
“Yes, but I’ve never skied before in my life. I’m going to look like a complete idiot,” Combeferre sighed.
Joly reached over and patted his hand. “You’ll be fine. Just have them take you to the clinic if you break your legs, okay?” he said with a chuckle.
Combeferre smacked him on the arm -- but secretly he was thrilled he was going to see that dark-eyed man again.
If he didn’t kill himself in the process.
**
The next morning dawned cold and bright, and a light dusting of snow had descended on the town overnight, giving the entire town a picturesque quality that Combeferre loved. He brushed off his car and headed to the ski resort, where he went directly to the rental counter.
“I have a lesson with Mr. Courfeyrac?” he asked hesitantly.
The girl behind the counter chuckled. “You’re the doctor, right? He’s been hanging around here all week babbling about you.”
Combeferre’s brow furrowed. “He has?”
“How could I not?” came a familiar voice. “It’s not often you get a cute doctor examining your body parts,” he teased. He was wearing a blue parka and ski pants, with a jaunty ski cap perched on his luscious curls.
“I’m off duty now,” Combeferre pointed out.
“Ooh, even better. I can think of a few other body parts you can look at later,” Courfeyrac purred. “Come on, let’s get you set up.”
Combeferre turned as red as his jacket and stared at the floor, not daring to meet Courfeyrac’s eyes. He stood still like an obedient child as Courfeyrac fitted him with all the equipment he needed -- boots, skis, poles -- then followed him outside. “Go easy on me,” he said anxiously as he struggled to fasten his skis.
“I won’t ask you to do anything you don’t want to do,” Courfeyrac assured him, before launching into the lesson. He showed him some basic techniques, then let him do some short runs on the bunny hill. Courfeyrac was a remarkably patient teacher -- always answering Combeferre’s many questions, and providing him with constant affirmations and an easy smile.
The morning went by so quickly that Combeferre was surprised when Courfeyrac announced it was time for lunch. They went into the lodge, where Courfeyrac managed to find them a spot by the fire, where between bites of his sandwich, they talked a blue streak: Combeferre shared stories of medical school and amusing tales of setting up house in Vermont, while Courfeyrac talked about his childhood out in Boulder, his fraught relationship with his family, and even about some of his former relationships.
“Are you dating anyone now?” Combeferre asked, trying to sound casual.
Courfeyrac shook his head. “Nope. You?”
Combeferre chewed thoughtfully. “Not since...God, not since undergrad,” he said, shuddering at how long it had been since he’d had a boyfriend.
“Good,” Courfeyrac said, his smile growing even wider. “Ready to try an actual run?”
“Are you sure about that?” Combeferre asked skeptically, but he finished up his lunch and followed Courfeyrac outside.
They made their way back outside, where Courfeyrac helped Combeferre get onto the ski lift -- and helped him off at the top of the hill. When they arrived, Combeferre gazed all around him, taking in the view of the Green Mountains, finally starting to realize the appeal of the sport, and pushing his worries about injury to the back of his mind.
“Follow me,” Courfeyrac said, disturbing Combeferre’s reverie. “You can do this,” he added, sensing Combeferre’s anxiety. He set off down the hill slowly, and Combeferre followed him, all of the lessons from Courfeyrac finally coming together as he glided down the hill, his body and his skis moving in one fluid motion.
Maybe, he thought, he could be a skier after all.
And then someone -- a boy of about 11 or 12 -- skied into his path, and the last thing Combeferre remembered before he blacked out was a tangle of skis and poles and limbs.
**
An hour later, he was sitting on the examining table in his own clinic, as Courfeyrac paced around the room. “I’m so sorry, Combeferre, I never should have pushed you into going skiing,” he said, his face contrite.
“It’s fine,” Combeferre said groggily. “I was having a good time, actually,” he said, feeling embarrassed to be in this situation.
Before Courfeyrac could answer, Joly came into the room, trying to suppress a smirk. “So I take it the ski lesson didn’t go so well?”
“It went fine until some brat cut me off on the mountain,” Combeferre grumbled.
“I think you’ll live,” Joly said. “Nothing’s broken, thank God. But I’m cancelling your appointments for the next few days.” He turned to face Courfeyrac. “And you should probably drive him home and make sure he goes right to bed,” he said with a lascivious wink.
As Courfeyrac helped Combeferre into the car, Combeferre gazed up at him. “You don’t have to come take care of me, you know. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
Courfeyrac surprised him by kissing him lightly on the lips. “But perhaps,” he murmured. “I have a few more things to teach you.”