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The first time Courfeyrac kissed him, Combeferre felt as if he’d been punctured.
He’d known Courfeyrac for a few months at that point, and had gotten almost entirely used to Courfeyrac’s physical means of expressing affection. In fact, Combeferre was not just used to them, but rather fond of them. The move to Paris had been a struggle for Combeferre. He’d been raised in a warm household, affection passed easily between his parents and siblings and himself, though he never realized how much he relied on those hugs and touches until he left the Midi. In Paris, the students were serious and reserved, the people melancholy and distant, and Combeferre felt every bit of the chill. He’d prepared, then, to get lost in his studies, to lock himself away and sink into the law or medicine or whichever path he chose (and Combeferre had such a hard time choosing; he was interested in everything, he wanted to know everything). Paris was a place of opportunity, and Combeferre wouldn’t dream of running back home now. Still, he hadn’t expected the city to be so cold.
But Courfeyrac had whirled recklessly into his life, destroying the stern order and supposedly rigid boundaries Combeferre had started to construct. Courfeyrac, with his bright smile and his fond wit, an eternal arm around his shoulder, a hand at his back, an elbow tucked against his, the press of cheeks, a tap, a nudge. Combeferre had allowed himself to unthaw. Courfeyrac was the spark he’d been searching for, a reminder of the warmth of home combined with the passions of Paris: the sharp intelligence, the desire for knowledge (though Courfeyrac’s quest for knowledge lent itself more to the human experience than the academic), and the drive to act, to be good, to do good.
He treasured Courfeyrac’s friendship more than anything he’d gained in Paris thus far, more than his lectures or his books or his newfound learnings and philosophies. In fact, with Courfeyrac at his side, Combeferre found himself diving headlong into his pursuits with renewed interest and vigor. Courfeyrac was a flame, the match at the end of his fuse.
When Courfeyrac kissed him, then, Combeferre felt the sturdy pillars of support he’d been leaning on start to crumble.
Courfeyrac was remarkably perceptive, knowing when Combeferre was downhearted or frustrated, and tried furiously, much to Combeferre’s amusement, to take care of Combeferre. Combeferre was certain in his abilities to take care of himself; still, it was nice to have someone so concerned about his wellbeing, so intent on his happiness. At any indication of sulking from Combeferre, Courfeyrac would pull him outside for a walk, to the café for a warm meal, to the bed for a nap, depending upon the pinch in Combeferre’s forehead, the thinness of his cheeks, the dark circles under his eyes. In this instance, Combeferre had been particularly agitated, shivery with annoyance at some assignment or bull-headed professor or some display of injustice, Combeferre could no longer remember and Courfeyrac had not paused to ask. He’d presumably taken in Combeferre’s slumped posture and fidgety tapping on his desk, the iron grip with which he held his pen, the slight snarl that curled his lips, and gripped Combeferre’s elbow, pulled him from his chair, cupped his cheeks gently, and pressed his lips to Combeferre’s own.
The kiss was chaste, a closed, firm press of lips, and yet, Combeferre’s heart began to deflate. It wasn’t as if he’d never been kissed before – he’d taken a mistress back home – but Combeferre had actively avoided pursuing romance in Paris, partly due to his studies, but partly because he desired, more than a lover, a close friend. His mistress at home had been a fine woman, lovely, intelligent, well-spoken and charming, of whom he had been very fond, but their parents had introduced them for the sole purpose of their coupling. The match hadn’t been forced upon Combeferre – far from it; his parents, being open-minded people who loved nothing more than a good debate, had sat down with Combeferre and discussed the prospect, and Combeferre had come to agree it might be in his best interest – but still, they’d not had time to become friends, and parted, considerately and amicably.
What Combeferre wanted, then, was a friend. He wanted a like-mind, a companion, someone to share with and be with and count on, without the trappings and expectations of a romance. And, for a few glorious months, Courfeyrac had been just that, moreso than he’d ever anticipated.
He should not have anticipated so much.
Combeferre jerked back from the kiss with, admittedly, more force than he’d intended. He must’ve been sporting a rather dangerous-looking scowl, because Courfeyrac leaned away, his face crumpling.
“I…” Courfeyrac shook his head. “My apologies. I don’t know…” He fumbled with his hat, his usual ease and charm dissolving in the tension between them.
“You don’t?” Combeferre noted his voice was a bit more scathing than intended, but, frankly, he was hurt. Courfeyrac winced. “Just an impulse, then?”
“No,” Courfeyrac narrowed his eyes. “Well, yes, I mean, in a way. You looked so glum, Combeferre, I simply had to do something about it.”
“And this was the course of action you found most fitting?” Combeferre clasped his hands in front of him, to keep them from shaking. “You thought that would make me feel better?”
Courfeyrac frowned, his shoulders sagging. “I’m sorry,” he said, replacing his hat on top of his head. “I never meant to cause you any discomfort, my dear friend. If you’ll excuse me.”
“Why did you presume a kiss would make me feel better?” Combeferre asked as Courfeyrac started moving toward the door.
“It’s no matter,” Courfeyrac said, slipping back into his coat, “think nothing of it.”
“No, wait,” Combeferre reached out to grab Courfeyrac’s arm, and Courfeyrac flinched. Combeferre felt as if someone was siphoning cold water into his chest. “I want to know.” I need to know, Combeferre thought. He needed to know what impulse of Courfeyrac’s drove their easy camaraderie into this thicket of tension.
“I’ve already disappointed you so,” Courfeyrac’s voice was distraught, nearly a wail, “please, just let me remove myself, lest my idiocy maim you further.”
“Temper your dramatics.” Combeferre was surprised to find himself suddenly attempting to soothe Courfeyrac. “Nothing was ever harmed by a calm and rational discussion of intended meaning, especially when both parties feel injured.”
Impossibly, at the word injured, Courfeyrac’s face fell further. But he nodded and let Combeferre lead him to the desk, where he sat, hat in his hands, fingers twitching on the brim.
“You kissed me,” Combeferre said.
Courfeyrac nodded.
Combeferre sighed. “I was inviting an explanation.”
“Ah, but you didn’t ask a question.” The corner of Courfeyrac’s lips twitched.
“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre said, his tone warning, and Courfeyrac straightened, clearing his throat.
“Right, yes, I did.”
Combeferre realized he was going to need to prompt Courfeyrac if he expected answers. “And you said you did so because I looked glum.”
“Yes,” Courfeyrac said. “It always pains me to see you disheartened, and you’ve been looking rather more so as of late. I have not been able to cure your ailments with fresh air and a glass of wine for some time, now, and I’ve become positively fanatical about finding you a new distraction.”
“Why?”
“To bring back your smile, of course.”
Combeferre blinked. He’d felt the weight of additional stresses lately, of lectures and examinations, of the approaching Paris winter, but he hadn’t realized he’d been so transparent, so outwardly nettled. “You thought a kiss would calm me?”
“I thought it might bring you joy.” Courfeyrac leaned forward, engaged now, resting his forearms and palms on the table. “I’ve always found such joy in kissing, and I wanted to see if sharing one with you might…” he pushed his hands forward, as if insinuating that a kiss might forcefully transfer the joy from Courfeyrac’s body to Combeferre’s own.
“The same sort of joy you share with your mistresses,” Combeferre said evenly.
Courfeyrac blinked. “Yes?”
“I apologize,” Combeferre said, feeling a lump build in his throat as he pushed his chair back, “but I’m afraid I’m not currently interested in pursuing that sort of joy, as it were.”
“Wait.” Courfeyrac was the one reaching for Combeferre, this time, to stop him before he could stand. “What did you think my intentions were?”
“Just that.”
“Just what?”
“Intent.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I do not wish,” Combeferre said, attempting to keep his voice steady, “to be kissed like one of your mistresses.”
A moment of silence passed between them. Then, Courfeyrac squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his head into his hands. “Oh, I am such a fool.”
Combeferre swallowed. “I apologize, if my actions ever lead to you believe that I was interested in pursuing that sort of relationship with – ”
“Oh, please stop before I expire of humiliation,” Courfeyrac moaned. “You weren’t leading me on, Combeferre. I am such a daft, impulsive, unthinking – ”
“Courfeyrac, this isn’t helping matters.”
Courfeyrac lifted his head. “You see a kiss as an act of intent.”
“As I’ve said.”
“Of expectation.”
“Yes.”
“I give my mistresses such kisses often,” Courfeyrac said. “Kisses of passion and promise. But I also kiss them when they look morose, or when they are cheerful, or when I simply must show my affection for them in some extraordinary way. There are so many types of kisses, Combeferre, and you know of but one.”
Combeferre bristled. “I understand kisses of affection, Courfeyrac. I was not wanting for them as a child.”
“Yes, but familial affection is not the same as that for a very dear friend.”
“You kissed me because I am your friend?”
“My closest friend,” Courfeyrac said. “My dearest friend. A friend for whom I would try near anything to wipe the aches from your mind and soul.”
Combeferre felt a wave of warmth expand outward from his chest. The heat pooled in his cheeks, undoubtedly causing him to blush. “I’m sorry,” Combeferre said, bowing his head. “I’ve been horribly narrow-minded.”
“And I’ve been unthinkably rash.”
Combeferre smiled and lifted his eyes to see Courfeyrac grinning at him. “I cannot explain my relief, mon ami. I thought this was…thought you were….and it pained me to think that…”
If possible, Courfeyrac’s grin widened. “Are you still averse, then, to my rather forward means of expressing affection?” His face grew serious. “If it does not bring you joy, Combeferre, then I want nothing to do with the matter. We will move along with nothing but a brief misunderstanding behind us.”
“I,” Combeferre tilted his head, “rather can’t say. I admit to being discouraged in the moment, but only because of my surprise and ignorance of your meaning.”
“Well,” Courfeyrac said, “we can’t have that,” and, cupping the back of Combeferre’s head, leaned forward to kiss him again.
The kiss was brief again, and Combeferre was surprised to find he enjoyed it more than anticipated, the warmth of Courfeyrac’s lips, the brush of their noses, the soft press of Courfeyrac’s fingers on his scalp. The intimacy, the closeness between them, without the pressures of romantic entanglement. Combeferre felt the tension melt from his shoulders.
“Aha!” Courfeyrac pulled back with a fierce smile. “Did I not tell you what joy a kiss from me would bring?”
“You are sure of yourself,” Combeferre said, taking the pen he’d been writing with earlier and sliding his paper back toward him.
“Yes, but was I not correct? Do you not feel infinitely better?”
Combeferre smiled. “Thank you, Courfeyrac.”
Courfeyrac’s gaze softened. “As always, you are most welcome, and as always, it has been my greatest pleasure.”
They kissed often, then, but not regularly. They saved kisses for such occasions as when Combeferre’s studies took their greatest toll, or when Courfeyrac’s smile was strained and forced instead of warm and easy. Combeferre took delight in the affectionate gestures Courfeyrac displayed in each kiss: a brush of the temple, a stroke of the arm, a rub of the back or a press of the scalp. Courfeyrac seemed to delight in just being so near to another human being. Sometimes they kissed quickly, Courfeyrac bursting into Combeferre’s personal space for a quick peck before Combeferre continued reading. Sometimes, they kissed tentatively, Combeferre reaching slowly for Courfeyrac in quiet moments for gentle reassurance. Sometimes, they kissed for long stretches, sleepily, stretched out on Combeferre’s bed before drifting off into a late afternoon nap. And with each kiss, Combeferre learned more of delight, more of fondness and touch and calm and ease. Nothing pressed or expected. Nothing heavy or tense. No intent, other than shared warmth and mutual affection and joy, joy, joy.