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The only thing that Courfeyrac likes better than playing the piano himself — in that clanky, bang-on-the-keys-in-some-semblance-of-chordal-structure, belt-along-at-the-top-of-his-lungs way his childhood piano teachers detested him for — is when someone with more skill plays and lets him sing along.
Tonight, though, there doesn’t appear to be any pianist volunteers at this dinner gala he’s been roped into coming to as extra credit for one of his theatre classes. Technically, he’s supposed to be making the rounds among the guests and delivering his monologue any time one of them asks him for it, but when he spotted the white baby grand in the corner, there’s no way he could resist.
Combeferre and Jehan are here too (they were the only ones Courfeyrac could bribe into coming with him), but both have disappeared into the crowd somewhere. Knowing them, Combeferre has probably found someone to politely but vigorously argue politics with, and Jehan has probably conjured up some fairies or something out on the balcony. So Courfeyrac plays, and sings, and as he does, he starts to feel that sort of trancendental euphoria that only things like music can create.
A small crowd starts to gather around him to listen. He doesn’t mind. In fact, he’s secretly rather pleased. He wouldn’t be doing a pre-law major and a theatre minor if he didn’t like attention.
It’s only when he looks up into bright eyes and flower-adorned curls that he falters.
Jehan has come back from fairy-wrangling and has joined the crowd around the piano, watching Courfeyrac play. He smiles when Courfeyrac sees him, which effectively stops Courf’s heart and he nearly forgets the words to “Come Fly With Me.”
It was only two days ago that Courfeyrac woke up and realized how deeply in love with this fairy boy he’s been for a long time now. Just two days, but since then, even the mere mention of Jehan will send him reeling into a sort of longing, pining spiral until he’s not sure if he can breathe anymore without his poet.
(Not his.)
(Not yet, anyway.)
Courfeyrac manages to finish off “Come Fly With Me” with a flourish (and, if he may say so, a particularly impressive top note), and Jehan’s grin as he applauds with the rest nearly makes him lose his breath again.
His next move might not be his best idea ever, but there are little whisping curls spilling out of the knot of Jehan’s hair and catching in his eyelashes, and Courfeyrac’s heart leaps and his hands begin to play the notes and then he’s singing and there’s no turning back now that he’s begun.
Wise men say only fools rush in. . .
He tries not to look at Jehan as he sings. Courfeyrac can’t not wear his heart on his sleeve and he really should try to be a little less obvious (he doesn’t want to make Jehan uncomfortable), so he tries not to look.
. . .but I can’t help. . .
. . .falling in love. . .
“With you.” He delivers those words to the keys of the baby grand.
Shall I stay? Would it be a sin?
Courfeyrac tells himself he’s imagining the way Jehan has stepped forward, almost to the piano now.
‘Cause I can’t help falling in love with you.
A delicate hand rests on the lid of the baby grand. Jehan must be looking right at him, all blue eyes and starlight, but Courfeyrac knows he shouldn’t look.
Like a river flows. . .
He glances at Jehan’s hand. That’s all right, that’s acceptable.
. . .surely to the sea. . .
Up his arm to a slender shoulder.
. . .darling, so it goes. . .
Eyes meet. Courfeyrac is desperately in love.
. . .some things are meant to be.
Jehan smiles. Courfeyrac actually gasps.
He sings out the next bit a capella.
So won’t you please just. . .
His fingers roll out a chord. He can’t look away from blue eyes.
. . .take. . .
Another chord.
. . .my. . .
Another chord. Jehan blinks.
. . .hand.
There are stars in the sky of those eyes.
Take my whole life, too.
Jehan lets out a little sigh that Courfeyrac desperately wants to echo. Whistful. Longing.
‘Cause I can’t help. . .
He’s singing only to those eyes, to those parted pink lips.
. . .falling in love — in love with you.
Something darkens over Jehan’s expression and Courfeyrac’s heart all but breaks right there. He tears his gaze away.
I can’t help. . .
When he glances up again, Jehan is turning, disppearing into the crowd in a twirl of gold and flowers.
. . .falling in love. . .
He’s gone and Courfeyrac can’t look away from the gaping space he left.
. . .falling in love. . .
He’s never felts words this profoundly before, never.
. . .I keep falling in love. . .
. . .with. . .
. . .you.
The small crowd around him applauds again as he finishes, but for once he’s not happy for the attention. As he stands from the piano — there’s no way he’s going to be able to play any more tonight — he catches sight of Combeferre. He’s evidently joined the throng sometime during the last song and now is watching Courfeyrac with a look very much like sympathy on his face. Courfeyrac turns and practically flees into the people in the opposite direction, hoping to lose Combeferre in the party.
Combeferre finds Courfeyrac ten minutes later out on the balcony, curled up against the railing, head buried in his own knees. He says nothing and waits for Courfeyrac to lift his head and look up at him with a sort of heart-wrenching desperation.
“I fucked everything up, didn’t I?” he asks so pathetically that Combeferre actually winces for him.
But then he smiles, because this is his dear, dear friend, and Combeferre doesn’t think he’s fucked anything up at all. He says so.
Courfeyrac lets out a little whimper. “I love him,” he says.
Combeferre’s smile grows even fonder. “I know,” he answers.
“I want him,” Courfeyrac continues, his fingers splaying out in the air and then curling into fists like he’s imagining just seizing Jehan and taking him home and keeping him forever.
Combeferre sighs and comes to sit down on the ground next to his friend.
“You just need to be patient,” he says softly. “He’ll come around.”
“Will he?” Courfeyrac asks hopelessly. “I love him, Combeferre. I’ve never felt like this before, not with anyone.”
“I believe he will,” Combeferre replies confidently. “You’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
But Courfeyrac doesn’t look at all convinced, so Combeferre adds, “I don’t think he’s realized yet, Courf. But he will. You two are going to fall deeply in love and make each other deliriously happy and I fully expect to be in your wedding party because I believed in you first.”
Courfeyrac looks like he’s near tears at this, but he’s smiling a little now, too.
“I just love him,” he whispers painfully, “so much.”
Combeferre nods. “I think he loves you, too,” he says. “He’ll figure it out soon. Just be patient.”
Courfeyrac nods sadly. Then he asks, “Can I come sleep on your pull-out bed tonight?” Enjolras, for all his good friend qualities, is terrible at dealing with aching hearts, and Combeferre always has ice cream.
“Of course,” Combeferre answers like it’s obvious, like it’s nothing, even though this means the two of them will probably be up talking about the exact shade of Jehan’s eyes and the graceful way his neck curves when he’s writing poetry on his own arms until at least two in the morning, and Combeferre has an 8am class tomorrow.
“Thanks,” Courfeyrac sighs, and Combeferre pats his knee comfortingly before hauling himself to his feet.
“Try to cheer up,” he says gently. “Your love story will start sooner than you think.”
As Combeferre slips back inside to the party, Courfeyrac things about golden flowers and starry eyes and desperately hopes that Combeferre is right.
He’s forgotten that Combeferre is always right.
And that Jehan plays piano too.