Chapter Text
There is something slightly off with Combeferre when he shuts the door quietly behind him. His taut shoulders reek of something darker than stress and the stealth is suspiciously wasted at six in the evening.
Courfeyrac gives Enjolras a worried look and ventures, “Ferre?”
Combeferre turns around. His fists are jammed in his pockets even though they might be more useful keeping his bag on his shoulder or putting the keys on the hook or any number of other things Combeferre usually does the moment he’s in the door. The sunset is shining dangerously into his eyes through the window, and he looks slightly terrifying.
Courfeyrac doesn’t know what’s wrong, but specifics tend not to bother him at times like these. While Enjolras watches, still trying to puzzle out the mood Combeferre is trying so hard to extinguish, Courfeyrac hurries off the couch and approaches him carefully, sure he’s needed but not sure he’s wanted. Combeferre makes no move to stop him, and Courfeyrac eases gently into his personal space. “You alright, doll-face?” He puts a hand to his cheek and when Combeferre doesn’t move he ducks his head to see into Combeferre’s lowered eyes, which are watery and red. “Oh honey,” Courfeyrac breathes, and he wraps his arms around him tightly, murmuring ridiculous nicknames and calming superficialities.
The reaction is immediate. Combeferre’s entire rigid body leans urgently into Courfeyrac’s and he presses his face against his shoulder so hard that if Courfeyrac didn’t know better he’d think Combeferre was trying to push him away. His breaths are hard and fast and suddenly ignite into words.
“Dammit,” he screams, muffled in Courfeyrac’s shoulder, “fucking family, refusing to acknowledge a single—” He falters and the words shatter into loud, coughing sobs. Even Courfeyrac is stunned by the violent display of emotion in Combeferre, their gentle, levelheaded guide. What could possibly reduce Combeferre to a shrieking mess? He rubs Combeferre’s back slowly, holding him tighter, trying not to look like he wants to burst into tears at the thought, let alone sight, of Combeferre so unhappy. He fists a hand in dark hair and cradles Combeferre’s head almost roughly as their whole bodies shake with Combeferre’s sobs.
It goes on for a long time. Combeferre cries loudly for a bit, trying to rage, then gives up on the words that Courfeyrac can’t understand anyway and just pumps the contents of his tear ducts into Courfeyrac’s shirt with alarming stamina. Courfeyrac doesn’t know what to do. Normally he would try and get Combeferre to move, to talk to them, to eat something, but this is beyond any level of distress Courfeyrac has ever dealt with in Combeferre, and he senses an overwhelming need to get all this shit out of his system.
Courfeyrac starts when a firm hand touches the back of his head comfortingly; he’d forgotten Enjolras entirely. He casts an anxious look back at him, and Enjolras comes closer, presses his other hand to Combeferre’s shoulder, exuding strength. It makes Courfeyrac feel better, at least. Combeferre reaches out for Enjolras and pulls him into their huddle and eventually starts to calm down, the sobs growing fewer and further between, but he’s still trembling with anger. Courfeyrac pulls back slightly from Combeferre, craning his neck down as Combeferre looks up. Courfeyrac can tell he takes immense solace in the closeness, the heat and the pressure and the constancy, and he pushes his head between Courfeyrac and Enjolras’s faces so he can feel both of them breathe and sway and pulse.
“Thank you,” he whispers, unable to stir his vocal cords. Courfeyrac’s heart breaks for him.
“Of course, my friend,” Enjolras says softly, his powerful voice a distant echo.