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They arrive at the Enjolras estate at late October, well into classes. Combeferre isn't entirely sure what proceeded to allow them a short vacation without ever worrying about being expelled, Enjolras arranging it with school for the both of them.
He knows his friend, and he knows he can be very persuasive.
What matters, really, is that the carriage stops in front of a mansion on the countryside as the leaves are gold like - he's well aware - the owner's bank account. They're greeted by servants instead of his family, and he isn't surprised by that. It's well early in the morning, and they must still be getting dressed.
Combeferre shouldn’t be, but he is amazed at the fact that Enjolras gives the servants as warm a greeting as he would any family member. The smile he dons as he leads inside is not one he sees very often. It’s not that Enjolras doesn’t smile; but for a little while he seems to allow himself to be excited.
The situation is such: Enjolras' aunt fell with sickness, an urgent letter being sent asking him to go home in case anything bad happened. They were very close, it seems, though Combeferre hadn't heard her name once in his life, but again, rarely did he hear Enjolras comment very much about his family. As the leader quickly arranged to go home, he asked Combeferre to come with to keep company, and that there would be a great library to make up for the bother, even though the other reassured him there was no need for this type of compensation.
An hour before they were about to leave another letter came, saying 'sorry for the scare, it was just a minor cold, don't let us interrupt your studies, you work so hard,' which Enjolras ignored, because everything was prepared and - though he never said the words out loud - he missed his family too.
---
“Darling, how we have missed you, and look how you’ve grown! How's your mother? You shouldn’t have come, we didn’t mean any trouble. A proper man, now, only needs to get married, but I suppose studies are more important now, aren’t they? Oh, and is this handsome young man Monsieur Combeferre?”
He hears this at least three times through the first day, or variations thereupon, depending on who’s saying it - his aunt, his uncle, his cousin Anne, even a close servant. And each time he’s greeted warmly, made proper introductions. But inevitably, it all turns back to Enjolras. He doesn’t blame or resent them, really, when he can see how they’ve missed him. And maybe, if he was being honest, he doesn’t mind looking at him for a little longer either.
“But truthfully, my dear, you’re not focusing on all work and no fun, are you?” his aunt asks, at dinner that night. Combeferre knows what’s coming just before she says it. “Almost twenty-two, don’t you think it’s about time to start considering your future?"
“My future? I consider my future every day, Aunt,” Enjolras replies, frowning at her across the table. Combeferre looks down, biting his lower lip at the exchange. Of course Enjolras considers his future - he considers his future to be exactly the same as France’s future, directly tied to it. If France is free and happy, then he is as well; while France crumbles, he despairs. That is considering his future, to him.
“The family’s future, dear,” she clarifies, grinning mischievously. “We need to find you a nice girl to pass down the name. Aren’t there nice girls in Paris? Or are there only-"
“Mama, I’m sure cousin is too focused on his studies to pay attention to girls,” is the interruption, and everyone laughs at the girl’s innocence. She must be fifteen, Combeferre analyses, and she’s blushing. She doesn’t look embarrassed, though.
Enjolras takes a moment before he laughs too, quietly agreeing, but his smile is tight, almost painful for someone who knows him well enough to recognise it.
Combeferre wonders, sometimes.
---
The next day is the first time since they arrived that they’re alone. Enjolras has tasked himself with showing him around the place, and they stop under a copper tree not far from the mansion. Combeferre sits down, unashamedly, and Enjolras rotates around the tree - around him -, watching the world turn.
“You realise they’re right?” Combeferre asks, looking up at a tree, leaves slowly, slowly falling to the ground. His own blue waistcoat stands out in the scenery.
“About what?” the other asks, distracted as he looks around.
“Women. As far as I’m aware of, you’ve never held a mistress."
“I haven’t,” Enjolras agrees, and Combeferre thinks maybe his distractedness is being a little faked now. One can only stare at the horizon and be entertained for so long, and he knows Enjolras to be much more infatuated with the city than he might ever be with the countryside. “I have better things to do than to entertain women, Combeferre, as I’m sure you do too."
“And be entertained,” he completes, and it feels like a very silly discussion to be had. It’s certainly none that he’d ever done with any of his friends, or one he’d ever expected to argue. “Any one would die to be with you, I’m sure you’re aware. Courfeyrac despairs, sometimes, at how they look at you first before settling for him. Grisettes dream of being swept off their feet and given dozens of blond little children to care for."
Enjolras snorts. “Like Annette has done, mooning over you since we’ve arrived?"
It’s a surprising turn of subject, and Combeferre laughs, shaking his head. “She has not.” But he can’t really tell, really, considering how he’d spent most of the previous day watching Enjolras interact with his family, rather than his family interact with him, or being pleasant himself.
“She has. It’s annoying. She’s a child and you’re my friend, not hers."
The possessiveness in his tone brings him to a stop, and Combeferre stares at him for some long moments. “Do you not want a family?” he asks. They’d never talked about it before, though it’d come up several times among their friends when he was away, and way too often when he was alone. It feels like a loaded question even though it shouldn’t be.
“Do you?” Enjolras raises his eyebrows at him, seeming to honestly expect an answer. Combeferre blinks. Whether Enjolras truly expects others to care so little for women and children - or even to see to their unspoken obligations, in the blond’s case, seeing as he was the only male child in this generation - or is testing to see if his best friend shares something with him is unclear. Combeferre doesn’t know which option he’d prefer. He doesn’t reply, though the answer would be a timid yes, maybe.
Enjolras probably realises the conversation is fruitless, and Combeferre thinks he’s seen a flash of disappointment before the blond picks back up and kicks a mount of leaves at him. “Did I not promise you a library?” He extends his hand to help him up. For a second it seems as if Enjolras wants to go on holding his hand; the moment he notices it is the exact moment Enjolras pulls away.
And there’s that.
---
Anne does look at him, he realises at supper, but he finds it sweet rather than annoying. And he also realises that Enjolras watches, and seems less pleased by the minute. Combeferre wouldn’t have noticed one without noticing the other; he could have fooled himself into thinking it was just sleepiness claiming his friend’s humour, but once he sees it, he can’t not pay attention.
It reminds him of men complaining that their women actually had other male friends besides themselves, and he can’t shake that thought off either. It’s all-consuming, all-enabling, and he feels even more validated in his hypothesis, at the same time as Enjolras seems to notice himself. Combeferre can see the moment realisation downs on him.
That is the turning point, it seems.
---
“What are you reading?"
Combeferre looks up to see Anne standing in front of him from where he’s taken refuge in his promised library. Alone and away from Enjolras, he can see their similarities; the same golden hair, the same cheekbones, even the same dimples. But Anne is shorter, his hair is curlier, her eyes are darker and she’s a woman, and looks like it.
“Oh.” he murmurs, looking at the cover to remind himself. “It’s a medical book. For University. You have a great archive here, I’ve been looking for this volume for months.” He smiles at her, and she sits at the opposing chair, gracefully.
“I like romances, but I’ve started reading politics and economics too,” she offers, and he’s not surprised. His smile is fond, instead, and she takes it as an encouragement. Her smile now is a bit more pointed. “It’s one of the only allowances a woman has in this time, don’t you think? Reading. I play the piano-forte too, but it feels like much more work than pleasure sometimes. It’s said it’ll help secure a good marriage too."
“I’m sure it’ll be worth it when you run your own home with a nice man,” he says, wisely.
“My cousin plays the piano-forte too, did you know? He’s very good at it, or was when he was last here."
It feels like an abrupt change of subject, and he stares before managing a reply. “I don’t think he has many opportunities to practice in Paris. We- he works a lot. Studies a lot. I’ve never met someone more severe in his indulgences."
“Yes, I know. Even my older brother, before he passed, came back with stories of games and women, and he never suffered a day in University,” she tells, and leans forward ever so slightly. “But my cousin knows better than to play games, and I don’t think he cares for women very much.” She says it with a sigh, looking at him, and Combeferre glances down at his book instead of replying. She seems to be waiting for something, and he doesn’t give it to her. Anne shrugs, finally. “But what do I know? Do you mind if I sit with you? I’ve been meaning to finish this book as well."
He motions and smiles at her, but it’s less genuine, though she seems very pleased with herself. For all that Enjolras seems to despise his cousin’s apparent fleeting, youthful affections, she’s smarter than she looks. When she watches him now, it’s not with girlish hope, but with interest. He doesn’t find it very sweet anymore.
---
“You are such a city boy, Combeferre, have you never ridden a horse before?"
“I have!” he protests, but Enjolras laughs, and Combeferre doesn’t miss the irony that his first thought is that he looks very prince-like, up in a tall white horse.
He has ridden a horse before, years ago, one that must have half the height of the one that he’s been given. It’s hardly his fault he can’t get up on it; he’s tired, he spends most of his days sitting down and writing, it’s not his fault.
“Goodness,” he hears a snort, and Enjolras climbs down his own horse.
“I don’t need you to help me up, Enjolras,” he says, bitterly, but his friend does so, anyway. The hands on his waist bring him shivers, and they linger on his thigh even after he’s already up. He meets Enjolras’ eyes, and they stare for some long, long moments. Something seems to snap in the latter, and he pulls away to climb his own horse too. “Enjolras-“ he begins, unsure of what to say, but feeling like he needs to say something. Anne comes to mind, and he feels silly for taking the words of a fifteen-year-old so seriously, but it inflated his hope to the point where he needs to say something-
“The river is this way,” the other counter, turning the reins already.
---
“I won’t tell,” Anne says, shrugging and looking down at her cup of tea, later in the week. Combeferre looks up at her, confused, before she goes on. He would avoid her company if it didn't feel so disrespectful; instead, she became a constant over the days, even though their conversations had always been careful since that one. It feels like she’s rehearsed the lines, and she looks a little awkward. Like she’s trying to make amends. And when she goes on, Combeferre understands. “About you and my cousin. I’m not cruel."
He’s silent for a long while. “There’s nothing." Even though there is, there is, if the way they look at each other is any indicator, and Enjolras must know it too, with how he'd avoided the most simple of physical contacts, or jumped away when he noticed it happening.
“Maybe not in act. But I’m not blind either.”
---
"Enjolras."
His friend only glances up at him when Combeferre walks through the door to the library, before going back to his writing. He wrote slowly, which meant he is actually concerned about his penmanship, which meant it couldn't be anything bad. If it was, he'd be writing so angrily his ordinarily impressive handwriting would turn into scratches.
"Are you busy?" he continues, standing in front of the desk, though a few metres away.
"Just writing to Courfeyrac. Asked for news, you know how he is," he explains, slowing down even more but not truly stopping. "What is it?"
Combeferre considers leaving it for later, or never. The awkwardness stretches, and Enjolras dips the nib on the ink, reaches for another piece of paper, the world turning as Combeferre suffers. At least Enjolras turning, pretending nothing is happening, like he has the past days, even though he's been clearly censoring himself.
“What are your feelings towards me?” he asks, finally, fingers curling and uncurling nervously.
“What a question. You’re my best friend,” Enjolras shrugs, though Combeferre sees him hesitate for half a second before replying, not even looking up from his letter.
It is the answer that he had been expecting, but hearing it does not make himself feel better. Enjolras keeps on writing. Combeferre keeps on waiting. He says his name, quietly, and it goes unheard in his friend’s concentration. It would have been easier to say so when they were already talking, when riding or strolling or having tea, but if he waited a second longer he might give up, because his friend certainly doesn’t seem eager to talk about it.
"Enjolras," he calls out again, more assertive this time. Enjolras looks up, eyes bright and a little surprised at the interruption. "I love you."
A beat.
“You are my best friend," Enjolras repeats, but his features have softened. He takes a breath as if to say something more, but nothing follows. Combeferre swallows. It’s not a good reply, and he reads into it.
"You don't object?"
"Should I?"
"Most men would."
"Of all people's, you think it is your love I would object to?" the very notion of it seems to confuse him. Combeferre wants to go on, but there doesn't seem to be a point. The fact that Enjolras hasn't turned him away so far should be enough for him, seeing as they’re simply friends. Enjolras continues before he can convince himself to be content. "It's not that it's unrequited," his voice is soft, a softness Combeferre hasn't heard in months, years. He can barely process it, though his mind flashes tiny touches, soft voices, longing looks, and more importantly it screams victory to have his thesis validated.
"Isn't it?"
"No. No, goodness," Enjolras breathes, a smile escaping him. It fades quickly enough. "I'm glad you've said so. I’ve wondered, these past days… But perhaps it was better left unspoken. We don't... We can't."
Perhaps it was better unspoken indeed, because Combeferre's heart sinks just as quickly as his hope had risen moments before.
"I understand," he says, even though he doesn't. He takes a breath, and neither says anything, and then leaves out the door just as Enjolras stands up.
They don't speak at supper, and he retreats to bed before they can.
---
A knock on his door wakes him up, and he would have been content in ignoring it in favour of sleep had it not been Enjolras' voice calling his name. He opens his eyes, and deliberates before telling him to come in.
For a second, it seems like the other might already have stepped away at the lack of an answer, and he's sitting up to go to the door and call him out again when the door opens and he sneaks in quietly, carefully holding a candle as he shuts it back. Combeferre straightens, and they look at each other, in their night wear, for a long moment.
Finally Enjolras approaches and settles the candle on the bedside table, proceeding to stand there awkwardly, looking at him. Combeferre looks back. Waiting.
"There's no space for tenderness in the revolution, and so in my life," the blond says, quietly, because disturbing the silence in the room feels like treachery.
"I'm aware," he says. It had been silly to expect anything else, really. Stupid. He'd been stupid.
"Are you? I can't have you upset with me, Combeferre. I can't stand it."
Combeferre bows his head, away from his. "It's hardly fair to ask that of me."
"I know. Yet here I am."
They both look back at each other, and Enjolras finally sits down at the edge of the bed, hesitant. It is not such an easy conversation, and sitting down came as an admission that it’s going to be a long one.
“I know I ask too much of you, Combeferre. I’m not ignorant,” he says, biting his lower lip and looking anywhere but at him. “Some day, I might ask you to lay down your life along with me, and I’ll mean it. And now I ask you to forgive me for my shortcomings, and forget that any of this happened. Maybe we shouldn’t have come. I would never have..."
“I would. That’s not how feelings work, Enjolras."
“I’m asking."
“It’s not a wish I can grant you."
“Combeferre."
“Enjolras."
Both of them exhale loudly, annoyed, at the same time.
“I’ve told you how I feel. I feel I’m entitled to the tiniest bit of grief after being told that it’s requited, but impossible."
Enjolras licks his lips. “It wouldn’t work, Combeferre."
"I know that's how you feel. I might disagree, but I accept it."
"What would you have us do instead?" his eyebrows were raised at him, and Combeferre wonders if it is a challenge, if he's daring him to try and convince him. For a second, he wants to refuse to do it, when Enjolras already seems so set on remaining as they were.
"Enjolras, I don't ask for marriage, or children, or a move to... to a place like this-" he looks around, "to raise them. I don't ask you to give up anything for me."
"What do you ask for?"
"You."
"That says nothing, my friend."
How silly to think Enjolras would accept romance without the practicalities of it. "I want you to acknowledge my affections, and return them if you so wish." His voice was sure, and he faced Enjolras' gaze steadily. Others had been scared away by its intensity, even himself sometimes, but they'd never been anything less than equals.
"I return them. Then what?" his friend pushed on, readjusting on the bed and leaning just slightly into him.
"What do you mean, then what?" Combeferre snorted, leaning on the headboard and crossing his arms. "Do you wish me to detail how to express affection? Persuade you that it could be worth it?"
"I want you to help me understand how you can think it's possible," Enjolras says, earnestly, and realisation slowly downs on Combeferre.
"No, you want me to woo you."
Enjolras smirk dips just about into mischievous, but he has the good grace to look embarrassed by it. "Perhaps a little."
The room shifts into silence, and they just look at each other, then away, then steal glances back again.
"Am I allowed to be frightened?" breaks Enjolras' voice, finally, and Combeferre watches him just as he avoids his gaze. He sighs, then moves closer to the leader. Grabbing his hand comes easily, though he hesitates a moment before bringing it up to his lips.
"How very much like you, to be frightened of love but not of war."
"I'm frightened of war as well. Much more, and maybe much more understandably. But it's a necessary mean for a better future. Love is a selfish, selfish waste of time," the other protests.
Combeferre closed his eyes for a moment before looking at him again. "Enjolras," he started, carressing his knuckles lightly. He saw the blond look down briefly to the movement. "Why won't you allow yourself some indulgence for once? No one has to know, nothing has to change. I'll still be here no matter what. But in one scenario you're a little bit happier, and why won't you choose this one? Why won't you allow yourself to be loved?"
They stare at each other, and Combeferre does nothing beyond holding his hand. Even the circles he'd be tracing on his skin stop, and he waits until Enjolras plunges forward into a hug.
He closes his eyes as he buries his face in his shoulder as well. If this was anyone else, he might have wondered if they were crying; Enjolras wasn't. But he was hugging him very tightly, and it was just about the same thing. Combeferre enjoyed it while it lasted.
When the leader started pulling away he let him, but Enjolras didn't go far. Instead, he leaned their foreheads together, one hand around his neck. "I've done nothing to deserve your patience."
"Enjolras," he breathed, minutely shaking his head. "You've done everything."
He tries not to think about the fact that Enjolras clearly doesn't know what he's doing when they kiss at the same time as he, himself, clearly does; if the other worries about the discrepancy, he doesn't show it. It makes Combeferre feel a little responsible, though, even beyond his natural instincts to take the lead, for once, when it came to matters like this.
His hands on the small of Enjolras' back bring them both to lie on the bed, and just the gasp that came out, surely involuntarily, of the blond's mouth as he was handled excited him more than his latest mistress had in her loudest moans.
Combeferre breathes something of the sort into his neck as he reaches under Enjolras' clothes. Not mentioning the woman, of course, but his sounds, his appearance, how he loved him so.
It's to the latter that Enjolras responds most intensely, he found, when he's not being pulled down for a kiss. And Combeferre knows, knows he needs the closeness and reassurance to remember this is him he's giving himself to, remember it's someone who cares deeply for him just as he's cared for.
He loses count of how many times he says he loves him before sleep comes. He does, however, remember Enjolras saying it just once, afterwards, when Combeferre produces a wet handkerchief to clean the both of them up. His eyes are bright in the candlelight as he says it, and it feels like it holds much more than his own repeated mantras.
---
They stay for another three days after that. Every night is the same: Enjolras sneaks in after everyone is asleep; they laugh and giggle and hug and do other things as the night progresses, having sex (can touching each other, pleasing each other with hands and mouths be called sex?) but also talking, holding hands and just touching, mostly touching; Enjolras sneaks out before dawn, back into his bed before anyone knows anything. Then daylight comes, and he doesn’t shy away from those touches anymore.
Combeferre worries, a few times through the days, if the servants are looking at him strange, if they had discovered or suspected and will tell others, but - he quickly figures out - they aren't even looking at him, but at his companion, with moon eyes that betrayed either love or admiration. He laughs at his own paranoia, and that is it. Things have changed between them, but the world turns the same as it always has.
Anne notices something’s changed, too, but she has the good grace of not commenting on it. He’s grateful. At the very least she seems happier, perhaps pleased of some matchmaking abilities, perhaps content that her nosiness didn’t ruin them. In any case, she says goodbye with three kisses and a single whisper of “Good luck,” and he almost wants to kiss her again for it.
Enjolras’ goodbyes take longer, seeing how loved he is, and Combeferre waits patiently for it to end, every promise of writing, every recommendation of a book, every invitation to visit, every reminder of some holiday. They climb into the carriage, and there’s silence for a little while.
“Thank you for coming,” Enjolras whispers, and Combeferre looks at him instead of the window. Enjolras’ smile is tentative. In lieu of a reply, he leans in and kisses his cheek. They spend most of the journey with joined hands, even when looking out at the copper sunrise.
Autumn gives way to winter.