Chapter Text
Combeferre wasn’t even certain he had a roommate, sometimes. Mostly because Enjolras washed his own dishes. He was the only roommate Combeferre had ever had who did so. Though to be fair, he was also the only best friend he had ever been roommates with, unless a brief two-week stay with Courfeyrac counted. He’d moved out as quickly as possible once it became clear that Marius and Courfeyrac were a package deal.
Now Combeferre returned home to a clean, warm apartment everyday at 8 pm, Enjolras usually lurking in the solitude of his own room or off on important business. He always left a note, though, on their small coffee table. Oftentimes it was a fragment of a thought for an upcoming speech, or a brief warning, “Courfeyrac is coming by to borrow a book, Marius may be in tow.”
There didn’t appear to be any note today, though. Combeferre squinted at the coffee table, then crouched down and checked underneath it. Nothing. Perhaps Enjolras hadn’t gotten home yet. He went to his room to quickly change and shower, the warm water calming his racing mind. His eyelids were already drooping despite the not-so-late hour. This was the third day in a row he’d been vomited on during his shift at the hospital.
He was starting to understand why some of his colleagues had changed careers.
“Nope, not going down that train of thought,” he said to himself, rubbing shampoo into his hair and tilting his head up, looking at the cream-painted ceiling above, “it’s hard, but I’m helping people. I’m saving people’s lives. I am important.” He continued his private self-affirmations for a few minutes, taking a deep breath after. Courfeyrac had suggested that he do them every evening, when things were particularly rough. And they actually helped. A lot.
The bathroom door creaked open and Combeferre froze. Okay. Either Enjolras was home or he was about to become a victim in one of those horror movies Jehan liked so much. He squinted at the curtains. He didn’t currently have his glasses on, but he could make out the vaguest shape of Enjolras’s familiar figure. He let out a sigh of relief, listening to his friend look through the cabinet above the toilet, “hey, Enjolras. What are you looking for?”
“Tylenol,” came the quiet reply, Enjolras closing the cabinet and turning his body toward the shower. Combeferre poked his head out from behind the blue curtain, grabbing his glasses from the shelf beside the shower and looking at his friend. He didn’t open the curtain altogether like he would have if it were Courfeyrac, as Enjolras was much more modest when it came to his friend’s states of undress. Though to be fair, most people were far more modest than Courfeyrac.
“It’s not in here, I moved all of the medicine in the cabinet to the kitchen last Friday, remember?” He said. Enjolras rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand,
“Right,” he spun on his heel and left the room. Combeferre finished up with his shower in peace and immediately changed into pajamas, ignoring the fact it was only 8:30. He planned to be asleep by 9. He settled down on the couch and took out his laptop, scanning through the notes Enjolras had recently sent him for an important meeting with a worker’s group they had scheduled in a month. He furrowed his brow as he scrolled through the document, looking up about halfway through. Enjolras was sitting on the floor, a few books and an innumerable amount of paper in front of him. Combeferre checked the date the document had been made. Enjolras had written all of it that day.
“Enjolras, are you alright?”
“What?” Enjolras looked over.
“Are you alright? The document you sent me earlier today is… not the quality I was expecting. Your writing keeps wandering off, sometimes in the middle of a sentence. It’s not easily decipherable.”
“Oh,” Enjolras pushed himself up and walked over, sitting beside Combeferre on the couch. After scanning through the document for a minute or so, he finally said, “I barely remember writing this.”
“Well. Did you and Grantaire fight?” That was the only occurrence that usually made Enjolras this out of sorts. Enjolras shook his head,
“No. He’s actually been less agitating than usual, lately. He helped Jehan with poster designs yesterday.”
“He just wants to see you smile,” Combeferre teasingly poked Enjolras’s side. Enjolras smiled at him in response. “There it is.” Grantaire’s love for Enjolras was known by every Ami. Except for Enjolras and Grantaire. Combeferre had faith that they’d figure it out someday.
“I’ll do the notes over again in an hour,” Enjolras started to stand, Combeferre reaching out and wrapping his hand around his wrist,
“Or you can just tell me what’s going through your head right now. I’m sitting right here, aren’t I? I can write as you speak and transcribe for Courfeyrac and Feuilly.”
“You’re about to go to bed,” Enjolras said, eying the moth pajamas he was wearing that Courfeyrac had bought him as a joke three years prior.
“It will save me from more work tomorrow evening if we go through this now.” Enjolras nodded and pulled his knees to his chest, beginning to speak. Combeferre hurriedly typed everything he said after deleting the half-coherent notes from before.
Enjolras’s voice was even more tired and strained than usual, and Combeferre could see shadows under his friend’s bloodshot eyes. Enjolras stopped speaking after ten or so minutes and leaned his head back, letting out a breath. Combeferre put his laptop aside, “Enjolras?”
“Yes?”
“You looked pained.”
“Just muscle aches,” Enjolras opened his eyes and yawned, wrapping his arms around himself. Nobody else was ever witness to these private moments but Combeferre. Neither of them were particularly sensitive, or even emotional people. But when they were alone emotions were freely shared, examined, and analysed. Combeferre reached out, brushing his friend’s curls back from his face and resting the back of his hand on his forehead,
“No fever. You could still be coming down with something, though. The whole group has been sick so much over the past few months, I wouldn’t be surprised. Go sleep. I think I have the basis of what you wanted to cover already, I just need to turn it into directions for Courfeyrac. We are sending him out for introductions, correct?”
“Yes, with Bahorel.”
“Okay, that should work well. I’m sure Bahorel has an old friend somewhere among the other group, and Courfeyrac has his charm. Go sleep,” Combeferre patted his friend’s leg.
“You ought to sleep as well.”
“I will, this will only take another half hour.” Enjolras nodded slightly and blinked as he was pulled into a random hug. Combeferre rested his chin against his friend’s head and waited as he pressed into his touch, rubbing his back and separating from him after a minute, “you looked like you could use it.” Enjolras laid a hand on his shoulder in response, then turned and walked off to his room. Combeferre spent the next twenty minutes finalizing the notes and turning parts of them into clear directions, converting it into a file and sending it to Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and now Bahorel, as he was now included into the beginning of the hopeful interaction.
He yawned and stood up, closing his laptop. He made sure the apartment was cleaned to his satisfaction and went to his bedroom to finally sleep, stopping at Enjolras’s bedroom door first and cracking it open. He could see Enjolras on his small, old bed that he, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac had spent an entire day trying to figure out how to put together six months prior. He was curled up on top of his red blanket, his chest slowly rising and falling.
Combeferre frowned and closed the door, then went to his room.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right.
He regretted staying up an extra hour come morning, of course, but he, like any good doctor, ignored his feelings and rolled out of bed and onto the floor. He took a few minutes to wake up completely, hitting his alarm so that it wouldn’t disturb Enjolras, who was usually already awake and preparing for his day. He woke up before the sun.
Combeferre grabbed his phone from his nightstand and glanced at it while brushing his teeth, having missed a few unintelligible texts from Courfeyrac, who likely had been on one of his typical late night adventures. Probably with Marius.
Combeferre had strong feelings about Marius’s existence.
But everything had worked out fine, right? He, Enjolras, and Courfeyrac were still best friends. Marius just… was there now. He and Courfeyrac were really close. Almost like brothers. Or maybe more… Combeferre’s grip on his toothbrush tightened and he spit into the running water in the sink, clearing the thought from his mind and combing his hair.
He had the day completely planned out. He had to work, yes, but he got off earlier than usual. He was going to go to Jehan’s after and continue building the complex sundial they had begun to make. Then he was going to go back home, complete the update of the Les Amis website, and read a book.
With his plan in mind he walked out of the bathroom. He made himself tea and sat down, looking through a book critiquing every economic system imaginable that Feuilly had left open at the table the last time he had been over. Enjolras still hadn’t come out of his room. He finished his tea and washed out his mug, checking the time. If Enjolras didn’t get up now he was going to be late to work. He frowned. The only time Enjolras slept in past the sun was when he was very, very ill, or when a protest had gone wrong the day before. Perhaps he had just woken up early and left before Combeferre had even emerged. That happened occasionally.
He went up to Enjolras’s door and gently knocked three times. He got no response. He slowly opened the door. Enjolras was nowhere in sight. But his phone was still sitting on his dresser, along with his bag. Huh. He pushed the door open wider, going to the dresser and lifting up the phone.
That was when he heard a rustling noise from the bed. He turned around, seeing something squirming from inside one of Enjolras’s red sweaters that was spread out on the bed. He took a few hesitant steps forward. If Bahorel and Prouvaire had let one more wild animal loose in their apartment…
The squirming lump froze at the sound of his footsteps and curled further into itself, Combeferre tentatively poking it after mentally calculating how much a future rabies shot would affect his current financial state. Instead of fur, like he had expected, his finger was met with a very... human shape. He blinked, poking it again. That was very clearly someone’s tiny noise. He slowly moved the top of the sweater down.
Very familiar wide cerulean eyes gazed solemnly up at him, blonde curls framing the face of a beautiful child who appeared barely more than an infant, perhaps 1 to 3 years of age.
“Oh god -” he grabbed his own phone from his pocket and called out of work. Something told him this situation would take most of the day to deal with. He shot a quick text to Courfeyrac, telling him it was an emergency, then another to Joly. They were always the quickest (and least destructive) to respond to emergencies.
He paced around the room, considering the logical explanations for whoever that child was. Maybe it was Enjolras’s cousin, or sibling. Yes, Enjolras had claimed to be the only child in his family, but perhaps that had changed? Or Enjolras had found them somewhere and left them on the bed while he went to get help?
None of those answers made any sense. Not that the other two options he had in mind did either. He continued pacing, the child’s eyes following him as he moved. They were intelligent and deep, and god, so, so familiar.
Combeferre let out a sigh of relief when the front door opened, and Courfeyrac’s voice came through, “Ferre? Where are you?”
“In here,” Combeferre called, opening the bedroom door. Courfeyrac rushed over, still in his pajamas,
“What’s happening?! Are you okay? Is Enjolras okay?” Courfeyrac put his hands on Combeferre’s shoulders.
“I’m fine. However, we have a bit of a situation,” Combeferre motioned to the bed. Courfeyrac’s eyes widened,
“Oh my god, where the hell did that kid come from?” Combeferre explained what had happened so far that morning, Courfeyrac listening intently. Joly came into the room halfway through,
“Combeferre, what - oh.” Combeferre repeated himself for his second friend, the three men staring at the child once everyone had been filled in on the situation. The child stared back. They hadn’t made a single sound since Combeferre had discovered them, despite seeming to be at an age where children were capable of holding conversation.
“It’s Enjolras,” Courfeyrac said.
“We don’t have any proof of that,” Combeferre and Joly said at the same time, Combeferre readjusting his glasses.
“They look just like him. Look into their eyes and tell me you don’t see him.”
“Out of all the thoughts running through my head right now, that one is the least scientifically sound,” Joly said.
“But it also makes the most sense, doesn’t it? What’re the other options, Enjolras left a random child in his room? Um, no.”
“He’s also a virgin,” Combeferre added, “so the child being his is, well, not possible.”
“Enjolras is a virgin - seriously?” Joly lifted his brow, Courfeyrac letting out a small laugh and Combeferre regretting he’d said anything at all.
“Plus, look, Enjolras’s stuff is still in here. Including all of his clothes. Where the hell could he have gone without clothes?” Courfeyrac motioned to Enjolras’s closet, then back to the child, “wait, hang on, I found an old baby picture of Enjolras once and I saved it to blackmail him with later…” he took out his phone and scrolled through it, Joly poking the child’s cheek with a pencil. The child firmly gripped the pencil and pulled it away, Joly taking it back. “-Yeah, it’s Enjolras,” Courfeyrac lifted up his phone, showing a picture that perfectly matched the appearance of the child on the bed, right up to the little scar under an eye.
“That leaves even more questions,” Joly groaned, calling himself out of work like Combeferre had previously done, Combeferre sitting on the edge of the bed,
“Strange things have been happening lately. We have a lot of enemies now. Powerful enemies, who will do anything they can to stop us as long as their precious public image is preserved.”
“God, I hope we’re wrong about this. I’ve never seen anything like this,” Joly sat beside Combeferre and reached over, lifting the child, Enjolras, out from inside the sweater, “let’s take a look at the little guy - oh.”
“What?” Courfeyrac asked and looked over, he and Combeferre exchanging a look. Combeferre swallowed.
“Okay. This is not a male child,” Joly stared at Enjolras, who squirmed slightly, as Joly’s cold hands were touching his bare skin.
“He’s a boy. He’s just…” Combeferre looked at his now-tiny friend, “he was just born like that. I don’t think he wanted you to find out this way. He’s not shy about it, it just never really comes up. It doesn’t need to.” The only reason Combeferre and Courfeyrac knew Enjolras was transgender was because they had showered together, once, after a particularly bloody protest (it had been the most unsexy shower of Combeferre’s life, actually, simply because of the presence of Enjolras, who was as close as a brother to him).
“Okay then,” Joly nodded, setting the child down on the bed, “hi, buddy, can you tell me your name?” His voice became higher, and Combeferre remembered how good his friend was with children.
“Enjolras,” the toddler said, his voice quiet and squeaky, his eyes trained on Joly’s face with a sort of unsettling hyperfocus that Combeferre had come to find comfort in over his years as Enjolras’s friend.
“Awesome. How old are you, Enjolras?”
“Three.”
“Thank you,” Joly gave his shoulder a gentle pat and looked over the rest of his body, Combeferre watching intently. “He’s quite small for a three-year-old, but other than that he’s fine physically… oh, god, what are we going to do?” Joly started his own nervous pacing, handing the toddler to Combeferre.
Combeferre shifted him around until he felt like he was in a secure position, the lower half of his body held to Combeferre’s chest with an arm, the hand on his opposite arm slipping into Enjolras’s curls. Enjolras let out a small breath and laid his head down on his shoulder, his hands gripping onto the fabric of Combeferre’s shirt. He was staring quite intently at the posters on the wall.
Combeferre felt a sudden rush of warmth course through his body, his fingers gently stroking through Enjolras’s hair. They didn’t usually stay in each other’s touch for longer than a minute, when everything was normal. This touch wasn’t unwelcome.
“He’s so fucking cute,” Courfeyrac said, reaching out and pinching the side of Enjolras’s cheek. Enjolras lifted up a hand and calmly pushed Courfeyrac’s hand away, giving him a simultaneously amused and scolding look, one that Courfeyrac had gotten quite used to over the years. “Awww, he’s definitely our Enjolras, he’s already doing that disapproving thing with his eyes.”
“What now?” Joly asked, “he needs clothes. And probably something to eat or drink. And we need to, well, figure out what happened to him.”
“Call the other Amis,” Courfeyrac came in again, flopping down on the bed, “we’re best in these situations when we’re figuring things out together.” He was right. They all knew it. What had started as a bunch of kids in a political activism club four years ago had quickly turned into a group of close friends, then family.
“I’ll send a text in the group chat and call everyone, minus Feuilly, he can’t miss any work,” Joly left the room with his phone, Combeferre starting to pace again, Enjolras still in his arms. He ran his fingers through his friend’s curls,
“You always keep coming up with new, creative ways to worry me, don’t you?”
Enjolras smiled and snuggled back into Combeferre’s shirt.