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Courfeyrac is going to die and he is not going to do it in a remotely brave fashion.
Technically, he wouldn’t even be above begging, but getting close enough to Enjolras for the blonde to hear him would probably be a guaranteed way to have certain parts of his anatomy cut off. And he is ever so fond of those parts of his anatomy. The world is ever so fond of those parts of his anatomy. He does it for the world, he really does.
Which is why he is running away from Enjolras as fast as he can and thinking about hiding in the first place he can find that Enjolras wouldn’t think to look (it’s not like he’s a coward, he isn’t, but he is French and therefore cannot be blamed for subscribing to the theory that the very best form of attack is running away and hiding under your bed - not that he would hide under his actual bed, as Enjolras would certainly think to look there).
Still, he’d like to believe there is at least some strength in knowing your weaknesses and running away from them squealing like a little girl.
Which is why when he finds himself face to face with a bookshop he breathes the loudest sigh of relief the world has ever heard and stumbles in, turning the door sign so that it displays ‘closed’ to the outside world and closing the door behind him. He leans against the door and waits for the hammering in his chest to quiet down and for his breath to go back to normal.
He can’t even remember the last time he was inside a bookshop. It’s not like he doesn’t read, he does, but he just happens to value convenience and practicality in most things, and for him that meant getting a Kindle. And at least Enjolras has now gotten over most of his ‘ebooks are a tool of the bourgeois to destroy independent bookstores’ phase (he still generally disapproves of the concept but ever since Grantaire pointed out that ebooks were also saving the trees and his head practically exploded he’s mostly kept quiet on the subject). Courfeyrac likes convenience, practicality and trees so it’s really a win-win situation for him.
He’s just slid down the wall to settle down on the floor - holy fuck, he really needs to start exercising more - when an amused voice interrupts his epic fight for breath. ”Is this a robbery? I should warn you, we have no money, but we do have some Tolstoy.
“I - no, I - please - “Courfeyrac manages to gasp out from his position on the floor.
“Oh dear,” the man says, not unkindly. “Should I get you a glass of water?”
“Please.” Courfeyrac coughs without looking up.
The man turns to fetch Courfeyrac’s glass of water but before leaving the room he doesn’t resist saying ‘If you’re going to die, can you... er, not do it in front of the book?”
“What?” Courfeyrac gasps out.
“Think of the books, my dear,” the man says, leaving the room at last and his voice trailing behind him. “Think of the books.”
When Courfeyrac finally regains his ability to breath without his lungs declaring World War III on each other, he takes a look around the room at last. It is a small and overcrowded space, with haphazard floor-to-ceiling books piles and shelves after shelves filled with books covering every inch of the wall and all around him there is the delicious smell of old books and freshly brewed coffee. Courfeyrac likes it instantly.
“Here,” the voice from before says and Courfeyrac, who had just gotten to his feet, jumps about two feet into the air.
“You’re like half cat or something, man, I didn’t even hear you come - “ Whatever Courfeyrac had been about to say is lost in his throat, as he takes his first look at the guy the kind voice belonged to.
Holy fuck, Courfeyrac thinks. He has long brown hair in dire need of a haircut, bright blue eyes hidden behind black thick-rimmed glasses, pale plump lips and there is just a hint of stubble on his jawline. He is also wearing, of all things, a red and grey plaid sweater vest along with a freaking bowtie. He may just be the hottest hipster Courfeyrac has ever met, and Courfeyrac definitely knows his hipsters. Holy fuck, he thinks again, for good measure.
He accepts the glass of water with a lot more hand touching than is strictly necessary and drinks it slowly, mentally preparing his plan of attack here because there is just no way he’s leaving without the guy’s phone number.
“Hello,” he says with a grin. “I’m Courfeyrac.”
“Combeferre,” the guy - Combeferre - says, to the unasked question. “Are we playing hide and seek or did you simply get book withdrawals?”
“Neither, I’m afraid,” Courfeyrac says and considers what to tell Combeferre very carefully. It’s not usually in his nature to lie (mostly because he just can’t keep track of things) so he settles for the truth. And, besides, when he inevitably shows up dead in a ditch somewhere, he will he glad he has someone to testify in court as to Enjolras’ motivation for the murder was, because God knows he can’t expect Grantaire to do it.
“I just have these friends, Enjolras and Grantaire, and they’re just one of those obnoxiously disgusting couples. You really wouldn’t think of it, when you look at Enjolras because he’s all untouchable statue of all that’s good and bright with the world but man the moment they got together it was all like completely overbearing amounts of public display of affection, you know?”
“Not at all,” Combeferre replies.
“You would if you knew them,” Courfeyrac says confidently. “Although I suppose it was to be expected, he never does anything halfway and relationships shouldn’t be any different, right?”
“Again, not at all. But why are you running away from this Enjolras?”
“An interesting question. I suppose it all changed when the Fire Nation attacked.” At Combeferre’s raised eyebrow, he adds. “And by ‘fire nation’ I mean me and Grantaire and by ‘attacked’ I mean ‘slept together’”.
There is a very pregnant pause and Courfeyrac can guess just how hard Combeferre is trying to keep the judgement out of his voice when he asks, “You slept with your friend’s boyfriend?”
“No! Well yes, but - no.” Courfeyrac runs a hand through his already very messy curls and sighs. “I did. Once. We were young and stupid and drunk and it was just a one time thing. But it was before they even met each other. Hell, I introduced them. So it’s not as if Enjolras has anything to complain about.”
“And how long have they been together now?” Combeferre asks calmly.
“About an year, I think.”
“I see,” Combeferre says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And in that year, it never occurred to either of you to mention this to to Enjolras?”
“Of course it did! Enjolras has always known! Kind of hard for him not to, when the first time he met Grantaire he was in my kitchen wearing nothing but his underwear.”
Combeferre raises an eyebrow at this. “Then what is the problem?”
“There may have been a - that is to say there was a - er. Thing. There was a thing.” Courfeyrac says defensively, throwing his hands into the air in frustration. “You know?”
“I really have no idea what you’re - “
“A sextape! Alright, there was a sextape!” Later, Courfeyrac will try to very hard to believe that that sentence did not come out of his mouth in the form of a shriek.
“There is a sextape of you having sex with your friend’s boyfriend?”
“Yes.” Courfeyrac nods resolutely. “It was supposed to be a joke. We were drunk! We decided not to delete it afterwards because what if one of us got slightly famous and then needed to Kim Kardashianate his way to the top? You know? This is what friends are for.”
“Yes, that makes perfect sense,” Combeferre replies, looking for all the world as if he thinks Courfeyrac should be committed to a mental hospital.
“Anyway. He called me and asked me to delete it right after they got together because, you know, it’d be weird to have it lying around.” At least Combeferre looks as if that made sense.
“What was the problem, then?” He asks.
“I may have - er. I may have forgotten and never deleted it? And Enjolras asked to borrow my camera this weekend and he sort of ended up seeing it. And now he’s going to kill me. I mean, the look on his face alone when he first saw the video...” Courfeyrac shudders.
“Perhaps you could ask your friend Grantaire for help?” Combeferre asks kindly.
Courfeyrac considers this. “Well... Grantaire getting involved will surely stop Enjolras from killing me. Because then Grantaire will kill me first, that is.” He sighs dramatically and then adds, “My life is over.”
“Do you think they’ll be fine? Your friends?”
“You mean with each other?” Courfeyrac snorts. “One will end up tied to things and spankings may be involved and both parts involved will assuredly have a lot of fun. Hell, they’ll probably fix their shit while ripping out my guts. They’ll roast marshmallows over my dead rotting body.”
“Well, you know what they say, a couple that roast marshmallows over a dead body together stays together.” Combeferre chuckles.
“Well, at least someone is finding some humour in my eventual demise.”
Combeferre leans back against the nearest bookshelf with laughter in his eyes. “You’re a bit overdramatic, aren’t you? You can just apologize.”
Courfeyrac shakes his head. “You’ll regret saying that when you have to go to the police station as the last person to ever speak to the deceased.”
Combeferre toasts him with an invisible glass and with a shrug of his (admittedly, lovely) shoulders says, “So it goes.”
Courfeyrac grins despite the fact that he is going to be a dead man soon. “Slaughterhouse-five reference? Neat.”
Combeferre’s eyes widen in surprise. “You’ve read Vonnegut? I didn’t have you down as a guy who reads Vonnegut.”
“Oi,” Courfeyrac snorts, trying his best to fake offense, “I’m more than a pretty face, you know? Besides, Vonnegut is the man.”
Combeferre grins and goddamit he is pretty, “Not exactly how I’d put it, but I can’t disagree with the meaning behind it.” He chuckles to himself and bites his lower lip, “Pretty and with good taste in books. Pity you’re going to die.”
“Will you weep for me after I’m gone?” Courfeyrac asks dramatically.
“No,” Combeferre says with a chuckle, “But I will inform the police of your friends’ motives for killing you.”
“Good man. Farewell, farewell, my friend! I smile and bid you goodbye,” Courfeyrac says sadly, wiping an imaginary tear on Combeferre’s cheek, “No, shed no tears! For I need them not,” and here he traces a finger across Combeferre’s lips, “All I need is your smile.”
“Dude, you are dramatic,” Combeferre says, rolling his eyes and biting his lower lip to stop himself from smiling.
Courfeyrac looks around the bookshop one last time. “I’ll miss the winter. A world of fragile things...” he proclaims, taking a deep breath, “Look for me in the white forest, hiding - ”
“Oh God,” Combeferre groans, “please stop.”
“Has no one ever told you you shouldn’t interrupt a dying man’s last words?” Courfeyrac may pout a little, but he is very fond of his dramatics.
“No,” Combeferre says, pushing him gently towards the door. “Come on, time to face your destiny.”
“But I don’t want to.” Courfeyrac whines.
Combeferre snorts at him and Courfeyrac walks towards the door but before he has time to open, Combeferre speaks again, with a teasing smile on his lips. “Just in case your friend doesn’t kill you, I work tuesdays and thursdays’ afternoons. Thought you should know.”
It isn’t a phone number and it certainly isn’t a date, but Courfeyrac has worked with much less. Assuming Enjolras doesn’t kill him (and that’s a pretty big assumption at this point) he will most definitely be coming back.