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1
The first thing out of his mother’s mouth when she sees him is not we’ve missed you or come inside or even hello, it’s, “Oh, you brought him!” She beams.
“I said I would,” Combeferre says, nudging Enjolras forward. “Enj, this is my mother.”
Enjolras steps forward a little stiffly. He sticks his hand out as though waiting for her to shake it, but instead, she envelops him in a hug. “You must be Enjolras,” she says brightly when she finally lets go. “I’ve heard so much about you, you know. I was so glad when I heard we would finally get to meet you.”
Enjolras smiles awkwardly. “Thank you,” he offers. “It’s a pleasure to meet you too.”
Combeferre has to stifle a laugh. For all his prowess at public speaking, for how sure of his words he is in front of a crowd, Enjolras never seems to know what to do with himself when it comes to more personal, more intimate interactions.
Fortunately for him, his mother beckons them inside at that moment.
“Let’s get you out of the cold,” she says, stepping aside. “Come in, come in.”
An almost-sweltering blanket of warmth sweeps over him the moment he steps inside, carrying with it the familiar smell of old books and his father’s cooking. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Enjolras visibly relax, his tension bleeding out of his shoulder and his smile seemingly coming easier.
Combeferre takes his hand and tugs him towards the stairs. “Come with me,” he says, “I’ll show you around. If you don’t mind?” That last question is half directed at Enjolras, half directed at his mother.
Fortunately, both of them answer. Enjolras nods almost fervently, and his mother just waves them off with a gentle smile.
“Come on then,” Combeferre says. “We’ll start upstairs.”
Enjolras grins. “I’ve always wanted to see what your room looked like.”
“I had a moth collection,” Combeferre admits. He remembers it well— seventeen-year-old him had been so, so proud of it— though he hasn’t looked at it for the several long years since he moved out. “If Maman hasn’t thrown it out, I can show you.”
Enjolras laughs. “I’m interested.”
Luckily for both of them, Combeferre finds the old board sitting in the corner of his room, lying on the floor beneath where it used to hang. It’s a little worse for wear and blanketed in dust, but otherwise almost exactly like how he remembers it.
“You should start another one,” Enjolras muses, his hands ghosting over the glass. “We could hang it up in the hallway.”
Combeferre rolls his eyes. “Enj, this took me years to make.”
“I mean, we have time,” Enjolras says with an easy shrug, as though it’s no big deal. “And I’d help you, obviously. That’d cut the time down, wouldn’t it?”
Combeferre blinks. “You would?”
“If you’re willing to teach me,” Enjolras says. “It sounds fun enough.”
He can feel a smile split across his face.
There isn’t much to see in the rest of his room. There’s a few science posters still stuck on the walls, a rock collection tucked away in one of his drawer— albeit much smaller and less impressive than his moth board— and a bookshelf he practically emptied that he moved out.
“Still more interesting than mine,” Enjolras says with a wry smile when Combeferre points this out.
“We live together,” Combeferre says as they head back downstairs. “I’ve seen your room back home, and I’d consider it messy, not boring.”
Enjolras wrinkles his nose. “I’ve changed since then,” he says, and with a pointed glance back towards Combeferre’s room, adds, “You haven’t, though. Not much.”
“Haven’t I?”
Enjolras opens his mouth, only to be cut off by Combeferre’s father beckoning them into the kitchen. “Dinner’s almost ready,” he says, his voice warm and friendly. And then his eyes land on Enjolras. “Ah, you must be Jean’s friend. Enjolras, was it?”
“That’s me,” Enjolras says politely. “Pleased to meet you.”
He beckons. “Come, take a seat,” he says. “You must be hungry. The journey from Paris can’t have been short.”
Enjolras shrugs, his mouth twitching a small smile. “It was only a few hours.” The movement is deeply familiar to Combeferre, who has long since learned that this means Enjolras is trying to avoid admitting the fact that someone else is right.
Combeferre rolls his eyes. “You’re just saying that because you weren’t the one driving,” he says, following Enjolras into the kitchen.
“I offered,” Enjolras protests, which is true. Combeferre just doesn’t trust him behind the wheel.
From his place at the stove, his father chuckles. That shuts them both up long enough to sit down at the table. Combeferre takes the bench that’s serving as their fourth chair, and gestures for Enjolras to sit to his right.
A few minutes later, his parents join them at the table, setting out a variety of dishes— some that Combeferre remembers from his childhood, others more catered towards what he’s told them of Enjolras’ tastes— and proceeds to engage Enjolras in a terrifyingly fast-paced conversation that sounds more like an interrogation.
Enjolras, who Combeferre is near certain has in an interrogation several times, takes this in stride. Combeferre stays relatively quiet for most of the dinner, just watching Enjolras and his parents trade questions and answers. Enjolras goes off on a rant several times, but his parents’ eyes only seem to brighten with further interest when he does.
At some point, when his father goes to refill a glass of water and his mother goes to the bathroom, Combeferre nudges Enjolras and murmurs, “I think they like you.”
“Good,” Enjolras whispers back, sounding a little breathless. His eyes are shining. “I’m glad.”
Combeferre’s parents return then, engaging them both in a slightly less intense conversation. Combeferre catches them up on the going-ons of his own life, and Enjolras chips in from time to time, especially when it comes to the ABC.
Eventually, his mother shooes them away so they can start cleaning up— “No, dear, no need,” she had said to Enjolras when he tried to help. “You’re a guest. We’ll take care of it fine”— and the two of them find themselves migrating to the living room, where Combeferre takes a spot on the sofa and Enjolras splays out on the soft carpet instead.
They pick some science fiction movie from his parents’ collection to watch, if only because Combeferre likes complaining about inaccuracies and Enjolras likes to listen.
“I like your parents too,” Enjolras says suddenly, right as the movie starts loading, “for what it’s worth.”
Combeferre can’t help but beam. “That’s good,” he says. “It’s worth a lot to me.”
The movie finally starts, then, and they lapse into momentary quiet. It lasts only a few minutes, though, as Combeferre has found something to comment on barely five minutes in. Enjolras laughs.
God, he’s missed the movie nights they shared back in university. It’s been such a long time since he and Enjolras got to watch a movie together.
Unfortunately, barely twenty minutes in, his mother pokes her head into the living room and points at him. “Jean,” she says, “come and help me for a minute?”
Combeferre gets up reluctantly, untangling his fingers from where they’ve settled in Enjolras’ hair. “You can keep watching if you’d like,” he says. “I probably won’t be long, and we can just rewind it.”
Enjolras pauses the movie despite that. He moves to get up too, but he gets cut off.
“No, not you,” Combeferre’s mother says cheerfully. “Sit back down.”
Enjolras sits down, his mouth hanging open ever so slightly. It’s almost adorable.
She points at Combeferre again. “You, come to the kitchen.” She disappears, and still laughing at the bewilderment painted across Enjolras’ face, Combeferre follows.
To his surprise, nothing is waiting for him in the kitchen. If anything, it’s even more spotless than it had been before they ate dinner. Instead, all that’s there is his father, leaning against the wall, and his mother, shutting the kitchen door behind him.
“So,” she says, her eyes sparkling, “this Enjolras boy. I like him. He’s good for you.”
Combeferre blinks, a little bemused. “I think maybe you should tell him that?”
“I will,” his mother promises, then envelops him in a suffocatingly tight hug. “Oh, Jean, were you never going to tell us you got a boyfriend?”
Combeferre chokes. “What?”
His mother pulls away, her eyes wide. “Enjolras,” she says.
Behind them, his father lets out a deep laugh. His mother spins around to stare at him, which thank God— Combeferre doesn’t think he has the strength to look his mother in the eye and explain his love life.
“Maman,” he says slowly. “Me and Enjolras aren’t together.”
His mother is silent for a few long seconds. “Huh,” she says at last. “Have you ever considered changing that?”
Combeferre chokes again.
2
“There you are!” Courfeyrac says brightly, almost shouting to be heard over the music that’s currently blasting in his and Marius’ apartment. “I was wondering if you two were going to show up.”
Combeferre raises his eyebrows. “Where’s Marius?” he asks. “Isn’t this supposed to be his party?”
“He’s gone to the bathroom,” Cosette says, materialising out of thin air at their side. “I heard this was supposed to be a party for our anniversary, or something of that sort, but I think Courf will just take any excuse to throw a party.” She snorts. “It certainly wasn’t Marius’ idea.”
At Combeferre’s side, Enjolras makes a quiet noise of semi-approval. “I should think Pontmercy has a little more to do with his time,” he murmurs.
Combeferre nudges him gently. “Loosen up a bit,” he says. “We’re here anyway, you might as well have some fun.”
Enjolras heaves a long-suffering sigh, but at least Combeferre is able to coax him into sitting with him on the sofa, watching the chaos that comes with an Amis party unfold.
Enjolras seems comfortable enough, at least, with his head pillowed on Combeferre’s shoulder and the rest of his body splayed across Marius’ stupidly soft sofa. In order to achieve this position, the present they had gotten— well, Combeferre had gotten— for Marius and Cosette had been pushed out of the way and had ended up on the ground beside Combeferre’s feet.
His phone has found its way into his hand as well, and Combeferre finds himself half watching Enjolras read through the news and make quiet noises of irritation as he does.
“You don’t have to be constantly up-to-date on current affairs all the time, you know,” he says. “It’s okay to relax. Enjoy the party.”
“Didn’t Courf have a party two weeks ago?” Enjolras murmurs distractedly.
Combeferre tries to shrug one-shouldered without shifting Enjolras. He’s not sure if he succeeded, but Enjolras doesn’t complain. “Probably,” he says. “It’s been a while since all of us showed up, though, and I suppose anniversary party is good enough incentive.”
Enjolras snorts. “If you say so. I still think there are better ways we could be spending our time.”
He’s probably not wrong, but they’re here, so Combeferre isn’t going to linger on that.
At this point, Marius emerges from the hallway, and almost immediately, his eyes land on Combeferre and Enjolras. He waves.
“Sit up,” Combeferre says, nudging Enjolras into a proper sitting position. “You might as well be upright while we give Marius his gift, at least.”
“Can’t you do it?” Enjolras complains, finally looking up from his phone, on which Combeferre is pretty sure he’s started typing up the outline of another speech.
In the end though, he does sit up, if only to fix Marius with a piercing glare. “Hello,” he says, perfectly calm and even despite that. “I hope this wasn’t your idea.”
Marius flushes. “No,” he says. “It was all Courfeyrac.” His mouth twists into an awkward smile. “I didn’t know you came to parties.”
Enjolras shrugs. “I don’t.” He looks back down at his phone after that.
Combeferre nudges him gently, if only to somehow telepathically scold him for trying to scare Marius away. “We’re here now, though,” he says. “Oh, and we got you a gift. Seeing as it’s your anniversary and everything.”
Marius blinks. “Oh,” he says, sounding a little lost for words. “Um.Thank you? I appreciate it, but you really didn’t have to. This whole thing is really just because Courfeyrac wanted to, anyway.”
Combeferre smiles serenely. “I know,” he says. He picks the poorly-wrapped gift— he had insisted Enjolras do something and to make matters worse, they had had only Christmas wrapping paper left— up from the floor and offers it to Marius. “Take it anyway. Like I said, consider it an anniversary gift.”
Marius does take it, but it does seem like he only does it because he’s not quite sure how else to respond. “Thank you,” he says. And then, a moment later, “Shit, I’ve never gotten you guys anything for yours, have I?”
Combeferre blinks. Has he missed something? “My what?”
“Your anniversary,” Marius says distractedly, searching through his pockets as he does. “You and Enjolras.”
…what?
For once, Combeferre finds himself lost for words.
Enjolras, however, despite only half paying attention to the conversation, has no such qualms. “Ask Ferre,” he says, his eyes still fixed on his phone and his fingers still tapping away. “I’m no good for dates.”
Combeferre hits him lightly, which at least gets him to look up. “We don’t have an anniversary,” he reminds him.
Enjolras blinks. “Right,” he murmurs, then goes back to not paying attention to the conversation.
Marius stops just as he pulls out his phone. The apartment is dim, but Combeferre thinks he can make out a dark flush on his cheeks. “Wait, what?”
Combeferre glances back up at him. “Oh, we’re not together,” he says mildly. His thoughts wander back to that night at his parents’. “Did we not tell you that?”
If it were possible, Marius blushes even harder. “Ah,” he says. “Sorry. I thought…” He trails off, his hand waving vaguely at them. “Sorry.”
“Honest mistake,” Combeferre says. “It does save you money though, I suppose.”
Marius cracks a bewildered smile. “Yes,” he agrees. “I guess.”
He leaves them be after that, but Combeferre doesn’t miss how his eyes wander back to their spot on the sofa the rest of the night, nor the furrow in his brow when Enjolras finally drags Combeferre home.
3
Over the years, it has become very clear that both of them have a not-so-small addiction to coffee. This manifests itself as a constantly refilled pot of coffee in the kitchen, at least a dozen stained mugs lying around at any given time, and a countless number of trips to the nearby coffee shop every week.
Speaking of, that’s where Combeferre and Enjolras have found themselves right this moment. They standing in a queue that’s almost painfully long and slow today. Enjolras is in his natural state of glaring down at his phone, like he has been for the past five minutes, and his arm is even looped around Combeferre’s so he can maintain that state when they walk.
“Are you getting the usual?” Combeferre asks idly. He knows Enjolras’ order as well as his own by now, after so many times coming here together— this might be the one place they frequent as much as the Musain.
“What else would I get?” Enjolras says, looking up at last. “I’m here for the caffeine.”
“And for the sugar?” he says, because Enjolras has a notorious sweet tooth.
Enjolras only shrugs. “Maybe.”
The line crawls forward ever so slightly.
“Maybe you should try expanding your horizons,” Combeferre teases. “It can’t hurt to try something new.” He can’t really talk, considering he sticks to the same two or three orders every time they come here, but that’s marginally better than the same thing day after day, right?
Enjolras rolls his eyes. “I’m fine, thanks. Maybe you should try expanding your horizons.”
“I’d suggest swapping drinks,” Combeferre says, “but I’d think the amount of sugar in yours would kill me. That really can’t be healthy for you.”
“You drink black coffee,” Enjolras says. “My drink is palatable, at least. I wouldn’t drink yours if you paid me.” He wrinkles his nose. “I don’t know how you stand it.”
Combeferre only shrugs. “I could say the same for you. I suppose we’ll have to agree to—”
“Sorry, can I help you?”
He blinks. Somehow, without him noticing, they’ve reached the front of the queue, and are now face-to-face with a tired-looking woman with raised eyebrows behind the counter.
“Sorry,” he says, untangling his arm from Enjolras’. “I’ll order.” He pushes Enjolras gently towards the tables. “Find us a seat?” he says. “I’ll pay.”
Enjolras looks at him with something like suspicion, but eventually shrugs and leaves.
“Sorry,” Combeferre repeats, turning back to the woman. “Could I have a large black coffee?”
“Iced?”
“No, thank you.”
The woman nods mechanically. “And for your boyfriend?”
Combeferre has to stifle both a sigh and laugh. This is becoming a far too common occurrence, he thinks, common enough that it only surprises him a little.
The woman picks up on his silence, and glances back up at him with her eyes wide and her face red. “Sorry, sorry,” she says. “I’m so tired, I wasn’t thinking straight. I didn’t mean to assume. Sorry.”
Combeferre smiles as good-naturedly as he can— he can hardly fault a stranger for the same mistake both Marius and his own parents have made. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “An iced mocha, please?”
She nods. She takes his payment without meeting his eyes, and a few minutes later, when he goes to collect his coffee, she mouths, “Sorry again.”
He only smiles and gives her an easy shrug.
“She thought we were dating, you know?” he tells Enjolras when he sits down beside him. “Like Marius.”
Enjolras raises his eyebrows. “Did she, now?” he says. “Huh. I wouldn’t have thought anyone other than Marius would think that.” He seems to turn it over in his head for a second more, before snapping out of his thoughts and launching into a rant about the newest update on a law on prison reform.
Combeferre, of course, listens, and points things out when he can. It’s Enjolras; with that intense, captivating passion, Combeferre would find himself listening whether he wanted to or not.
4
Even Combeferre doesn’t know why he let Courfeyrac drag them out into a bar. It’s a thoroughly unpleasant place, filled with chatter and the occasional roars, the floors sticky with who-knows-what, and sweaty skin pressed against him at any given moment.
He can see why Enjolras disdains such places.
Oh, right. Enjolras. Combeferre should probably get back to him
“Poor girl,” Bossuet is musing when he snaps back into reality. “I bet Enjolras doesn’t even notice.”
Combeferre blinks. “What?”
“That lovely lady with Enj,” Courfeyrac says, nodding in their vague direction. “She’s trying to hit on him, I think.” He sighs. “A shame, really. I don’t think he’s even picked up on it.”
When Combeferre turns to look, he has to agree. There’s a woman with long, dark hair leaning on the counter beside Enjolras, her eyes shining with interest even in the dim light. Enjolras seems entirely unaffected, his answers curt and awkward.
“Should I go save him?” he wonders.
Courfeyrac raises his eyebrows, and he shares a long look with Bossuet. Something unsaid that Combeferre cannot hope to understand passes between them.
They don’t tell Combeferre. “Yeah,” Courfeyrac says instead. “For her sake, if not his.”
So, of course, Combeferre does.
Enjolras lights up the moment he spots Combeferre. “Ferre!” he says brightly, waving him over. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”
He’s drunk, Combeferre realises with no small amount of surprise or amusement. Maybe only a little tipsy at best, but someone has most definitely convinced Enjolras to take a drink. Combeferre can only guess how.
“It’s been fifteen minutes at most,” he points out, reaching his side.
Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Still.”
“You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?” Combeferre says with raised eyebrows. He tries to look meaningfully at the woman, but Enjolras doesn’t seem to notice.
“It’s not bad,” Enjolras says. “I would rather if we could go home, though.” He wrinkles his nose. “God knows why Courfeyrac drags us to these places.”
“Enjolras.”
This time, Enjolras seems to remember the woman exists. “Shit, I’m sorry,” he says, spinning around, but she’s already stepping away.
“If you’re taken, just say so next time,” she says, and then she’s gone, disappearing into the crowd.
There’s a long silence.
“We’re not dating,” Enjolras says at last, as if he needs to check.
“No,” Combeferre says. “I don’t know where people keep getting that idea from.”
“Three times is a pattern,” Enjolras muses, and Combeferre doesn’t have the heart to tell him it’s the fourth, actually.
With how many times this has been happening, he really needs to re-evaluate if they are dating. After all, like Enjolras says, he can’t exactly write this off as coincidence anymore.
5
The newcomer— Combeferre’s pretty sure his name was Grantaire— lingers around Courfeyrac even after the meeting has technically ended. Or maybe Courfeyrac is holding him hostage with an endless stream of conversation, Combeferre can’t be sure.
At the head of the table, Enjolras is hunched over some papers with Feuilly. He looks distracted enough, and the blazingly bright passion ABC meetings bring out of him hasn’t quite dimmed yet, so Combeferre finds himself joining Courfeyrac.
“Hey, Grantaire,” he says politely. “Did you enjoy the meeting?”
“Well enough,” Grantaire says, his gaze wandering past Combeferre to fix on Enjolras. Combeferre can’t quite tell if he’s lying: he had spent the whole thing arguing with Enjolras heatedly— enough so that Combeferre had to stop Enjolras going off on an impassioned rant after ending the meeting— but he had seemed happy enough doing it. “I see why Joly and Bossuet like these things.”
Ah, right. In the midst of their arguments, Combeferre had half forgotten the self-proclaimed cynic hadn’t come just to take down their arguments.
Grantaire squints at him. “Combeferre, right?”
He nods. “Pleased to meet you,” he says. He glances over his shoulder, where he sees Enjolras watching them back, his conversation with Feuilly evidently finished. “I hope to see you again next week, then. Don’t let Enjolras scare you off.”
“I won’t,” Grantaire agrees. He taps Courfeyrac on the shoulder and leans over to whisper something, and Combeferre takes that as his cue to leave.
“Want to get dinner?” he asks Enjolras. “There’s this new place not far from here that Cosette recommended.”
Enjolras shrugs easily. “Sure,” he says, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Why not.” He disappears for a second to say something more to Feuilly, but returns to Combeferre’s side a moment later, nodding towards the door.
They pass Courfeyrac and Grantaire— now joined by Bahorel too— as they leave. It’s only for a brief moment, but it’s certainly long enough for Combeferre to catch a bit of what Grantaire is saying.
“So, Combeferre and Apollo there,” he hears, “they together?”
Courfeyrac brightens. “Technically, no,” he starts, “but—”
Combeferre doesn’t catch the rest of it, but he does see Bahorel winking at him and has to fight the urge to roll his eyes.
Let them say what they like, he decides, hurrying to catch up to Enjolras, who is, as always, oblivious.
Grantaire would’ve come to his own assumptions anyway, and really, as long as Enjolras doesn’t mind, Combeferre doesn’t particularly care either.
+1
That night, not twenty minutes after they’ve settled into a comfortable quiet of just sitting in each other’s presence as they do their own thing, Enjolras breaks the silence.
“You know,” he says, and he sounds more hesitant than Combeferre has ever heard him, “everyone always asks if we’re dating.”
So he had heard Grantaire.
Combeferre puts down his phone. “Yeah, I know,” he says. “I don’t really mind it, though.” He pauses. “Unless it bothers you?”
“No,” Enjolras says quickly, almost cutting him off. “I don’t mind. The opposite, really.”
Combeferre… what?
And then, out of nowhere, Enjolras blurts out, “Would you like to try it?”
He thinks his ears must not be working. “Sorry.”
“Dating,” Enjolras says, just as awkward as before. “You’re— you’reyou, and— maybe we could see where they’re all coming from?”
Combeferre sits there, lost for words, and they lapse into a long, long silence.
Enjolras just asked him if he’d like to try dating, Combeferre thinks, a little dazed. Enjolras has just asked him out, he’s pretty sure. Enjolras, who means more to Combeferre than anyone else in the world.
Enjolras.
Combeferre finds he quite likes the idea.
But before he can say anything, Enjolras breaks eye contact, staring at the floor instead. “Sorry,” he mumbles, evidently having taken the silence for rejection. “Forget— forget I asked. If you want to be friends—”
“Let’s try it,” Combeferre blurts out.
Enjolras stops in his tracks. “What?”
“Let’s try it,” Combeferre says again, trying to hide the way his voice trembles. “If you’re certain?”
“Yes,” Enjolras says, breathless. “Absolutely.” He leans in close, his hands ghosting over the line of Combeferre’s jaw, his lips so close to Combeferre’s own that Combeferre can feel every gentle breath on his skin. Enjolras looks up at him with deep, shining eyes. “May I?”
Combeferre finds he can say nothing but, “Please.”
And Enjolras kisses him, warm and soft and like nothing Combeferre’s ever expected and like everything he’s ever wanted.
(The next week, they will show up to the ABC meeting just a little late, their hands clasped in each other’s, and Combeferre will press a gentle kiss into Enjolras’ hair, and the room will erupt into cheers.)