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It’s been going on for as long as any of them care to remember. Perhaps it started in kindergarten, laying side by side by side at the designated nap time and waking up in a puppy pile, Enjolras and Combeferre pressed together and Courfeyrac sprawled out on top of them like some sort of human blanket because none of them have quite gotten away from their safety blankets yet and they need something warm and familiar to help them sleep.
Perhaps it was the nights in high school, where Courfeyrac would fall asleep ‘studying’ at Enjolras’ house and Combeferre would see them through the window of his room in the adjacent house, creep across in the middle of the night, climb the trellis and open the window and drag them both away from the desk and towards the bed, each of them barely making it in time for the bus the next morning.
Perhaps it began the day Combeferre’s grandmother died, the one who baked cookies and listened to your stories and then gave you appropriate Christmas gifts based upon those stories. The one who pinched their cheeks and let them wear their muddy school shoes in the house and always told Combeferre ‘you’re far greater than they give you credit for, child’. Combeferre wasn’t close to his parents, but he was close to his grandmother, and the day she died he curled up in his bed and refused to move for fear he would fall apart and have no way to contain all the pieces. Courfeyrac and Enjolras knew better than to try and talk him out of it, or pull him away; instead they slide beneath the covers and lie beside him, wrapping their arms and tucking their chins and letting him know they were there in the only way they knew how.
Maybe it isn’t important how it started. What is important is that it’s particular to them, to their friendship, and at some point it became a habit none of them were really eager to kick. As unusual as it seemed, for three boys in college studying things like political science and philosophy, Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac were the kind of boys who snuggled.
Combeferre wades into the hazy waters between sleep and wake with a helping hand from the sudden heat emanating from one side of his bed. The covers have pulled slightly in that direction, and through barely opened eyes he can make out a tangled golden mess spread out on the pillow beside him.
“Hnn?” He groans, wiping the sleep from one eye with a curled fist. “Enj?” The man in question gives his own unintelligent response, kicking off his shoes and burrowing under the covers with as little effort as possible. “Wha’?”
“My bed is a desk right now,” Enjolras responds, as if that makes any sense, and pushes his head into the pillow as if he wanted to burrow straight through it. “I’m sleeping here tonight.”
“Mmkay,” ‘Ferre responds, already fading back into fatigue, when a second form crawls in between them, taking up any space left in Combeferre’s bed.
“Courf,” Enjolras groans. Courfeyrac nudges the blonde with his chin, revelling in the warmth around him.
“You made a good racket coming in tonight, Enj,” Courfeyrac supplies, “how could I be expected to do anything less than to follow you and be sure you were alright?”
Combeferre pushes Courf’s head with a limp hand. “Go to bed, Courf.” The curly haired man pouts, turning his head to face ‘Ferre.
“I am in bed.”
“Hnng.”
“Come on, please?” Finally, Combeferre raises his head, meeting Enjolras’ equally fatigued gaze over Courfeyrac’s chest, and rolled his eyes, pushing Courf until he was lying on his side with his back to Enjolras. Enjolras scooted forward, wrapping his arms around Courfeyrac’s waist and pressing his forehead to the younger man’s shoulder, while Combeferre nestled into his chest, one hand entangled in Courf’s sleep shirt and the other hanging limply over his waist, barely brushing Enjolras’ hip.
Courfeyrac breathed a puff of cool air against Combeferre’s hairline. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“G’to sleep.” Courf smiled, shutting his eyes and resting his chin atop Combeferre’s head, fingers dancing across the meeting of Enj and Courf’s fingers until they all fell limply into sleep.
It isn’t something they talk about; it doesn’t need to be discussed. It is what it is. The following morning they all crawl out of bed together, so Courfeyrac can make toast and Combeferre can brew coffee and Enjolras can at least try to sort out the mess of textbooks and flyers covering his bed (which explains why he referred to it as a desk, Combeferre thinks later) and go about their day a little more rested than any of them have been for a while.