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When Combeferre was still very small, he was given a necklace. It held a strange shaped, grey-white stone on a thin, intricate silver chain. He hadn’t known what it was at the time, being six months old, only that it felt nice to hold in both of his tiny hands, and the dull, barely-there warmth it emitted was just enough to lull him into a relaxed, dreamless sleep.
He later found out, when he was three and inquisitive, halfway up his father’s biggest bookcase with his feet on his oldest sister’s shoulders, what the necklaces were for. He’d already noticed that everyone seemed to have one –all of his siblings, his tutors and babysitters and the plumber that fixed their blocked sink last Tuesday, and his parents too, though their stones glowed a fierce, bright red. His mother had rescued him from Aurélie’s shoulders, and after they’d both been given a stern talking to, she’d straightened his sweater vest and sat him down on her knee, asking what on earth he’d been looking for. He’d explained, as best as a pouting three year old could, that he wanted to know what all the necklaces were for.
And she’d explained, gentle and caring as always, that they were to help people find their soulmates. The closer they were, the warmer the necklace would feel, and when they were finally united, the stones would turn a brilliant, beautiful red. She’d taken him by the hand and let him hold her own necklace, which burnt pleasantly against his palm. Combeferre remembers staring at her in wonderment, and his mother pressing two fingers against the stone on his necklace and smiling, telling him he’d find them soon enough.
(He is, however, still only three, so he’s not sure if he believes her, or if he’s even going to want to meet a person who’s supposed to be perfect for him in every way. He might not live up to their expectations. He might not even want to.)
Combeferre meets Enjolras when they’re six years old and are seated next to each other in a few classes in school. Combeferre hides his necklace inside his shirt, even though many of the other children freely display them over their clothes. It doesn’t burn any hotter than it had over five years ago, so he supposes he’s no closer to seeing this person he’s supposed to love. Enjolras wears his necklace wrapped around his wrist with the sleeve of his sweater pulled over it, and ignores it as much as he can. Combeferre knows Enjolras’s stone burns far hotter than his, and he figures the other boy is scared of what will happen if it gets any hotter.
(He asks, one day, when they’ve both just turned seven, if that’s why he hides it. Enjolras snorts at him, and says that he hides it because he dislikes the message the whole ridiculous concept of ‘soulmates’ holds. Even Combeferre can tell he’s lying.)
When they’re both fifteen, they meet Grantaire. Combeferre has seen him around school before –a wiry boy with wild, dark curls and vibrant blue eyes- but had never spoken to him before now. He’s walking absently down the humanities corridor with Enjolras after a particularly tedious hour of gym class, when Grantaire accidentally knocks the blonde’s shoulder. Enjolras turns to glower at him, but he hasn’t even opened his mouth when Grantaire recoils like he’s been burned and slams a hand over the middle of his chest. Enjolras frowns at him, and Combeferre realizes then that Enjolras isn’t wearing his necklace –it’s tucked somewhere near the bottom of his bag, under at least three history textbooks and a novel. Grantaire curls his fingers around what Combeferre assumes is the stone on his own necklace, and looks every inch like he’s fallen in love with him there and then. Which, Combeferre supposes, he probably has.
“Sorry –I’ll just-” Grantaire splutters, turning on his heel and almost running in the opposite direction. He doesn’t realize he’s dropped his sketchbook, and Enjolras picks it up and frowns at it. It’s a simple, ring-bound black thing, with a stylised capital R painted on the front in peeling green acrylic. He stuffs it into his bag and forgets about it until later.
By the time Enjolras remembers to tie his necklace around his wrist, Grantaire must be far away enough that the temperature has returned to its usual level. He stares at it for a moment, almost like he was expecting something, and shakes his head to himself. Combeferre cocks his head at him and Enjolras shoves Grantaire’s sketchbook into his hands and demands he give it back in his stead.
The next time Combeferre sees Grantaire, he’s not wearing his necklace. He’d wandered into the art classrooms to give him his sketchbook, and finds him eyeing a huge canvas, with a paintbrush in his hand and spatters of blue and pink in his hair.
“You dropped this the other day.” Combeferre holds out his sketchbook, and Grantaire wheels around to face him. He looks almost disappointed, and his shoulders sag as he surveys Combeferre carefully.
“Just... Put it over there, please.” He sighs and turns, resuming his glaring at the canvas. Combeferre frowns at the back of his head, but puts the book down on the nearest table anyway.
“If you were expecting Enjolras,” Combeferre regards him, and Grantaire turns to raise one eyebrow at him, “and judging from the look on your face, you were, then I should tell you he’s currently in a meeting with M. Mabeuf. He’d have come if he could.”
It’s a lie, but Grantaire doesn’t need to know that.
“Of course he would.” Grantaire scoffs, and idly mixes the paint on the palette in front of him. “He’s not interested, is he?”
“In his defence, he wasn’t wearing his necklace at the time, and he’s not much of a people person. He couldn’t have known.”
“But you did.” Grantaire replies, dropping his brush onto the palette and frowning. “How? You can’t have found them already too.”
“I haven’t, but one of my sisters has. I saw her reaction when she saw him for the first time. You looked exactly the same when you saw Enjolras.”
“Oh.” Grantaire says dumbly, looking at his feet. “I just –I knew they must be close, but I didn’t think they were that close. Do you know where-”
“No.” Combeferre cuts him off, already knowing what he’s about to ask. He takes hold of the stone around his neck and makes a quiet, complacent noise. “I don’t think they’re even in France.”
Grantaire steps towards him then and pries his fingers away from his necklace to feel the heat for himself.
“You’re right. I’d say they’re in Europe, though, at least.” Grantaire looks up at him with a shrug of his shoulders. “If that makes you feel any better.”
“I’m not sure it does.” Combeferre frowns at the floor. “But thanks anyway. I think.”
“I try.” Grantaire smirks wryly. “And hey, think of it this way –at least you get to choose when you go looking for them. If you go looking at all.”
He sighs heavily, and pulls himself up to sit on one of the high desks. He kicks his legs absently and drags his sketchbook onto his knee and begins flicking through it.
“If I knew you better, I’d say you weren’t happy about this.” Combeferre turns to look at him.
“No, I’m- I’m not unhappy, really. I just wish I had some say in when I found him. It’s not like I could just run away when I noticed it getting hotter and hotter, is it? I’m not even fifteen yet! And it’s not even like I could run anywhere, that’d just make it hurt more, because it stings knowing he’s so close and I can’t just be with him but it feels worse to be further away. And it’s not even like he knows who I am! And even if he did he sure as hell wouldn’t love me, even if he was practically contractually obligated to! No one even looks twice at me, let alone someone like-”
Combeferre leans over and grabs his shoulders. Grantaire stares at him through his curls with wet eyes. He falls silent, and they watch each other for a few long moments.
“He’s young too, you know.” Combeferre says quietly into the silence. “When he finds out, he’ll be just as scared as you are, trust me."
(They never find out if this is true, because Grantaire makes it his life’s mission to stay as far away from Enjolras as he possibly can, even at the cost of hurting himself. Combeferre stays in touch with him, though, and gradually finds himself becoming something like his best friend. He finds he doesn’t mind too much, really.)
When they’re seventeen, Grantaire gets legally emancipated after months of trying. Combeferre had helped as best as he could, patching up black eyes and making sure he got to the emergency room for stitches and bandages and shining a torch in his eyes when he’d passed out on the metro. Ultimately, Grantaire had roped in a lawyer friend who lived in England and he’d won. He was leaving for London with this lawyer friend of his just before Christmas. Combeferre had said his goodbyes on the last day of classes before Christmas, and had made him promise to keep in touch.
Combeferre is sitting in his room with Enjolras late on a bitterly cold Sunday evening, discussing the state of the European economy, when the blonde boy all but lurches out of his seat.
“Are you alright?” Combeferre asks, leaning forward to look closely at him. Enjolras swallows sharply, his hand moving quickly to his other wrist to finger absently at the stone that hangs there.
“I’m fine, it’s just-” Enjolras stops and curls his hand tight around the stone, “it’s nothing.”
Combeferre stares at him incredulously.
Enjolras’s hand tightens around the stone in his grip, and he closes his eyes.
“It’s obviously something. I’ve never seen you act like this before.” Combeferre looks away from him and back to the newspaper in his lap. He figures Grantaire must be on the move by now, probably at the airport or even already on his flight.
“It’s just getting colder, that’s all.” Enjolras releases the stone and instead occupies himself by grabbing a book from the floor and leafing through it angrily. “I’d gotten used to it being hot.”
“You aren’t concerned?” Combeferre says, peering at Enjolras over the top of his newspaper.
There’s a long silence, and Enjolras fixates himself with the paragraph he’s pretending to read.
“No.” He says after a few minutes, tucking a few errant blonde curls behind his ear. “I’ll find them on my own terms. When I’m ready to.”
He nods assuredly, more to convince himself than Combeferre, who raises his eyebrows and leans down to squeeze Enjolras’s shoulder in reassurance.
“I’m sure you will.”
(Grantaire spends the whole of his flight with his eyes squeezed shut and cradling his necklace in both of his hands, breathing rapidly as he feels the heat fade more and more with every inch he moves.)
When it comes to leaving for university, Enjolras decides that he wants to study abroad. Ultimately, he chooses Goldsmiths, and somehow, he gets in. Combeferre playfully jokes that it’s because the interviewers could clearly tell he wasn’t about to take ‘sorry, your application was unsuccessful at this time’ as an answer, but Enjolras insists it’s because they knew he’d be an asset to their school. However much of an asset he may be, e still does a stupid victory dance when his acceptance letter arrives, and he practically breaks Combeferre’s front door down at midnight trying to tell him. Combeferre doesn’t answer, so Enjolras throws rocks at his window until a particularly large one actually breaks the glass and his best friend swears loudly through the hole until he runs away.
Combeferre applies to a few medical schools, mostly in London -a few in Paris to be safe, though- but ultimately settles on King’s College. He shows his father his acceptance letter and he hugs him for the first time in ten years and tells him he’s proud. His mother frames it and hangs it above the desk in his father’s study, he later discovers.
The week before they move, Combeferre suddenly remembers to text Grantaire. The other boy had texted him the other week to ask how everything was going, and Combeferre had forgotten to reply, busy with acquiring a study visa as he was.
[To: Grantaire] Sorry, I was arranging my study permits! You still live in London, don’t you? I’ll be starting at KCL in September. Enj is at Goldsmiths.
[To: Grantaire] I know you didn’t ask, but I thought you’d appreciate the warning.
[To: Combeferre] ooh, fancy. that’s awesome though. yeah i do, ill meet you guys at the airport if you want me to. i dont mind helping you get your bearings here too, its a pretty big change from paris haha.
[To: Grantaire] You don’t need to do that. If you’re not ready to be near him then don’t force yourself to.
[To: Combeferre] i wont. i think im ready, anyway. its been horrible being this far apart and even if he doesnt want me then id rather he be near me
[To: Grantaire] He noticed you were gone. He’s been acting strange these past few months. I don’t think it’s coincidence that he picked London, you know.
[To: Combeferre] it is though. of all the people i know i didnt think youd be the one believe in shit like that. you had any joy with yours yet?
[To: Grantaire] No, unsurprisingly. I’m hoping it changes when I get to the UK.
[To: Combeferre] i bet it will
Combeferre texts Grantaire their flight details on the morning they leave, along with a photograph of Enjolras asleep on the stack of boxes they’d finally finished packing for shipment the night before. He receives a simple ill be there, which is almost immediately followed by oh shit when did he get that pretty. When he laughs, Enjolras all but glares at him.
(If they both spend the entire flight with the stones of their necklaces in their hands, then no one needs to know.
“Is yours...” Enjolras starts when they’re somewhere over the Channel, his eyes turning to Combeferre with concern.
“Getting warmer? Yeah.” Combeferre replies quietly, numbly, as he stares at the emergency evacuation poster that’s pasted on the back of the chair in front of him. “Yours too?”
“Yeah.”)
When they finally escape the baggage carousel, they spot a particularly obvious trio holding a sign between them that simply reads Grantaire’s friends. Combeferre vaguely recognizes one of them as the lawyer who helped Grantaire with his case –he’s huge, taller even than Combeferre himself, and built, with toned muscles and heavily tattooed arms. His skin is tan and his hair black and impossibly messy. He’s grinning already, and the necklace around his neck glows red. The stone around the neck of his companion also glows red, and Combeferre notes the protective hand in the back pocket of his thoroughly dishevelled jeans. The second guy has curly, reddish brown hair, chaotic to such a degree that it rivals even Grantaire’s, and his pale face is awash with freckles and the occasional paint smear. Grantaire stands beside him, and he looks worlds away from the boy Combeferre had to bundle bleeding and half-comatose onto a cramped train in rush hour traffic.
Enjolras is staring at him and when Combeferre turns to look at his face, he looks like he’s been hit by a truck. He drops the backpack in his hand, and Grantaire drops the corner of the banner he’s holding (much to the protestations of his two comrades).
“It’s you.” Enjolras says quietly, but all four of them hear him.
“Me.” Grantaire replies, his voice low. “You came?”
He sounds almost reverential as he finally meets Enjolras’s eyes. The blonde says nothing, but moves towards the brunette and rests their foreheads together. They look intently at each other for a moment.
“Can I... Is it okay if I...” Enjolras begins, trailing off as Grantaire smiles softly.
“Yes.” Grantaire’s smile widens, and in the end he leans in first and captures Enjolras’s lips in a kiss. The taller of Grantaire’s roommates whoops obnoxiously until his partner smacks him heavily in the chest and nods towards Combeferre.
“I don’t think they’ll be putting each other down for a while.” The redhead says with a shrug, letting go of his section of the banner and throwing it at the other guy. He steps towards Combeferre and holds out his hand. “Feuilly. I hear you’re at KCL?”
“Combeferre. Yes, I’ll be studying medicine.” Combeferre shakes his hand.
“Oh, really? A friend of mine is starting his tropical medicine studies there too; I’ll have to introduce you to him. This is Bahorel.”
He nods at the man behind him, who is fumbling with the sheet of fabric in his hand, and resolves to scrunch it into a ball and shovel it into Grantaire’s bag.
“You must be the ‘Ferre that he always talks about.” Bahorel says, moving towards him and wrapping an arm around him in a heavy hug. “Bahorel, at your service.”
“So, you two are...?” Combeferre gestures between the two of them after a few moments, not knowing how to phrase his question. Bahorel just laughs at him and slams a massive hand on his shoulder.
“Yep.” Bahorel slides an arm around Feuilly’s shoulders. “For a few years now. When I turned twenty, I left Barcelona in search of this idiot. I found him in a shipping yard in Gdansk and whisked him away to lovely little London.”
“He leaves out the part where I was living in Italy originally and hitchhiked across six countries to try and get away from him. I didn’t think I was ready. I was about to throw the damn thing into the sea when he found me.” Feuilly laughs.
“Six countries? You never told me that.” Bahorel says curiously, knocking their hipbones together. Feuilly swears at him.
“I took the scenic route.”
Bahorel rolls his eyes affectionately and looks over his shoulder at Enjolras and Grantaire, who are still intertwined and keep pressing slow, tentative kisses on each other’s lips.
“Wow, they’re still going. Were we ever like that?”
“No.” Feuilly snorts. “When I first saw you, you shouted that you loved me -in Spanish, no less- and I slapped you with tourist map of Bratislava. Then I punched you. Twice. In the face. And you still didn’t get the hint.”
“Oh yeah. I remember that.” Bahorel chuckles and slides a hand into the back pocket of Feuilly’s jeans. “Drinks, then? I’m sure they can make their own way home. Do you two have the keys for your place yet?”
“Yes, they sent us them.” Combeferre digs in his backpack for a moment and produces his keys. “Our furniture and non-essential stuff won’t be here for a day or two, though. Looks like we’re sleeping on the floor for a few days.”
“Do you know what station you’re nearest?” Bahorel says, grabbing a paper underground map as they pass and letting Feuilly bundle Combeferre down the stairs and towards the turnstiles. “And you’d probably be better off getting an Oyster card sooner rather than later. Tell me you exchanged your currency before you left. This backwards country doesn’t use the Euro.”
He cackles, and Feuilly rolls his eyes.
“Yes, because that’s worked out so badly for them. Now shut up and let the poor boy think. And give me fifteen quid, you bastard, you owe me for last night’s beers.” Feuilly waits with his hand out until Bahorel grumbles and presses two notes into his palm. He leaves to join a painfully long queue at the ticket office. Combeferre isn’t really paying attention, instead unfolding the paper map and studying the details carefully.
“I think it’s on the District line.” Combeferre says after a moment, squinting at the map. “But shouldn’t we wait for Enjolras and Grantaire?”
“I get the impression Enjolras is a smart kid.” Bahorel folds his arms across his chest. “And besides, he’s with R. He’ll be fine.”
Feuilly reappears, looking more fed-up than he had five minutes previously and flings a small plastic card wallet at Combeferre, who fumbles to catch it.
“Enjoy. Hit it on the yellow pad every time you enter and leave a station, top it up at the cash machine things when you need to and you should be golden. Now let’s get a move on, I need a drink.”
(When Enjolras and Grantaire finally separate a good fifteen minutes later, they find themselves standing alone underneath the Baggage Claim signpost with no clue as to where the other three have gone.
“We need to talk about this. Before we go any further with anything.” Enjolras says, looking around for the rest of them.
“Yeah, I know. But on to more pressing matters –where the fuck are my flatmates, and what have they done with Combeferre?” Grantaire smiles softly, digging in the pocket of his coat for his phone. He has a few messages waiting for him.
[From: Feuilly] we’re taking combeferre to wherever it is they’re moving in to, then we’re going to the pub. if you ever put him down then feel free to join us.
[From: Feuilly] and congratulations, obviously.
[From: Bahorel] GET SOME!
[From: Combeferre] Do you believe me now? I’m happy for you. You deserve it.)
When they make it to their pub of choice –some dive just off Leicester Square, and Combeferre is already a little uncomfortable- Bahorel loudly introduces him to the whole room, proclaiming he’s ‘fresh meat’, or something to that effect. Feuilly hits him.
“Joly, come here.” Feuilly beckons someone over from the bar. A diminutive boy, no older than Combeferre, with a shock of mussed brown hair, turns and smiles at them both, approaching them quickly. “This is Combeferre. He’ll be studying medicine at KCL.”
“Ah! Grantaire’s told me about you.” Joly smiles wide, and holds out his hand. “Joly, obviously. Tropical medicine and disease are something of a specialty of mine.”
Combeferre shakes his hand, or at least tries to, because Joly yanks him close and grabs his elbow with his free hand.
“Is that a rash?”
“What?” Combeferre looks down at his arm. Part of his forearm is still a little red from where Enjolras’s itchy sweater had been rubbing against him for the entirety of the flight. “No, it’s-”
“A rash like that could be indicative of Dengue fever.” Joly panics, leaning in a little to inspect Combeferre’s arm.
“It’s from my friend’s sweater.” Combeferre laughs, and Feuilly beside him splutters a little into his drink and helps to prise Joly’s hands away.
“Oh. Er, sorry. I just get a little... antsy about stuff like that.”
“And you’re training to be a doctor?”
“Yeah, I know.” Joly laughs good-naturedly, gesturing towards the bar. “Drinks? Where is Grantaire, anyway?”
Right on cue, Grantaire comes bursting in through the doorway with Enjolras on his arm.
“Gentlemen! And Musichetta, I suppose,” at this, the red-haired girl with long, loose curls who is hovering behind the bar makes an obscene hand gesture, “I’d like you to meet Enjolras! ‘Cept for you, ‘Ferre, you already know who he is, obviously, but look at him!”
Enjolras blushes, and his sweater sleeve rides up and the stone on his necklace slides down to rest against the heel of his palm. Combeferre notes that it’s started to glow a very soft, pale pink, and will likely only get darker the closer they get.
“Aw, Grantaire’s in love!” A loud voice yells from just behind Joly, and Combeferre turns to watch as the bald twenty-something it came from trips over several bar stools and his own feet.
“Bossuet,” Bahorel groans, moving to help him up, “we told you to stand still!”
“Oh my god,” Joly says, finally catching sight of the pinkish glow on Grantaire’s chest, “you are in love! Wait until Jehan finds out!”
He’s on his feet and all but running at Grantaire, hugging him tightly with his thin arms.
“Well, he’s on his way with Courf right now, so I guess he’ll find out soon enough.” Grantaire smiles, and Joly all but squeaks at him excitedly.
“Who are Jehan and Courf?” Combeferre asks no-one in particular, trying to remember if Grantaire has ever mentioned them before.
“Fucking sickening is what they are.” Bahorel laughs loudly, slapping a hand on Combeferre’s back. “They’re some of Grantaire’s friends. They’re nice enough. Courfeyrac’s got a mouth on him though; he doesn’t really know when to shut up, so Jehan keeps him in check. They’re good for each other.”
From their description, Combeferre assumes they’re soulmates, and he sips at whatever beverage Bahorel had dumped in front of him.
He doesn’t realize that the stone on his necklace is burning until it’s too late.
Ten minutes later, the door slams open, and naturally, Combeferre turns to see who has arrived this time.
And he sees possibly the most attractive human being he has ever laid his eyes on. Rich chocolate brown curls fall around his face, and the lightest dusting of freckles pepper across his button nose and his smiling cheeks. He’s wearing a loud plaid shirt and scuffed jeans, a combination that Combeferre had never particularly liked until he’d seen it on Courfeyrac, the green of the plaid highlighting his eyes and the fabric hugging his arms beautifully and that’s how Combeferre knows he’s in too deep without even having said a word to him.
That, and the stone on his necklace is burning white-hot against his sternum, throbbing in time with the quickening beats of his heart.
But then a pretty, petite teenager with waves of light auburn hair and bright eyes appears behind him, slides their hands together and links their fingers, pausing to press a soft kiss on his lips.
That must be Jehan, Combeferre thinks, sadly but not bitterly, as he tries to calm his heart and ignore the searing sensation nestled somewhere deep in his ribcage.
For a brief moment, it works, and he can compose himself. Until he looks back at Courfeyrac –a rookie mistake, in hindsight- who is deepening his kiss with Jehan and pressing insistently at his lips and Combeferre can’t take it anymore, his heart pumping iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou into his veins with every breath and he can’t want you he won’t want you he doesn’t want you with every exhale and all he knows is he has to get out of here, needs to be away already because he can’t take this because he’s too close and not close enough all at once and he’s forgotten how to breathe and oh god is it meant to feel like he’s dying but-
He’s outside.
He’s sitting precariously on the wall that surrounds the park in the centre of the square, but he’s outside nonetheless. He’s all but hyperventilating, and he knits his fingers into his hair and tries to regulate his breathing.
It doesn’t work, even after ten minutes of sitting there and counting to five and back again, so he climbs onto his unsteady feet and goes for a walk.
(“Who was that?” Courfeyrac asks in loud confusion as a tall but arguably handsome man bustles past him hurriedly. Enjolras stares out of the door as it slams shut.
“Combeferre. He was fine a minute ago, I wonder what...” Enjolras replies, and Grantaire elbows him in the side. They exchange a pointed look and Grantaire pulls out his phone.
[To: Combeferre]
what just happened?????
did you just do what i think you did
did you fall in love with courfeyrac
are you okay????
answer your phone ferre this is important enj is practically shitting his pants with worry here
where are you???
“He isn’t answering.” Enjolras says, with his phone now pressed to his ear and the dial tone ringing there. “He isn’t answering. He won’t know where he’s going, what if he gets hurt?”
Grantaire presses a kiss to the top of his head.
“We’ll go look for him.” Feuilly says, pulling on his jacket and dragging Bahorel to his feet. “Keep calling him.”)
Love, apparently, makes even smart people like Combeferre act a little irrationally.
He arrives back at his and Enjolras’s flat eventually, after narrowly avoiding an altercation with a group of bewildered Japanese schoolchildren and their equally confused teacher at Tottenham Court Road, and there’s a girl waiting for him.
“You must be Combeferre.” She says from her perch on the wall outside the front door. “I heard you pulled a fast one from the Musain.”
“Something like that.” He shrugs, still wary of her as she looks him up and down. “Who are you?”
“Éponine. I’m one of Grantaire’s best friends. Just behind you in rank order, I guess. He asked me to wait it out here for you while he and the rest of the boys looked for you around there. I think you really scared them.” She looks at him almost complacently and taps her fingers in a quiet rhythm against the concrete she’s sitting on. “I assume you had a reason?”
“I suppose.” He moves to sit beside her. She follows him with her eyes as she moves, and in another life Combeferre would probably have been blushing and fumbling over his words, but not now he knows Courfeyrac exists. “I don’t think it’s a very good reason, though.”
“Try me. I’m friends with Grantaire; I’ve heard every shitty excuse in the book.”
“Um, okay.” Combeferre hesitates, and Éponine looks at him with big, fierce hazel eyes. “I think I fell in love. But he’s got a boyfriend and it’ll never work so there’s no point.”
“Courf or Jehan?” She replies, without missing a beat. She picks up a lock of her hair loosely between two fingers and twirls it absently as she studies his face.
“What?”
“Is it Courf or Jehan? It won’t be Bahorel, Feuilly or Grantaire, they’re all permanently paired now, and the only other people who Grantaire is friends with that have partners that aren’t their ‘soulmates’ -or whatever bullshit title they’re giving it now- are Courfeyrac and Jehan. So which of them is it?”
“You’re... very perceptive.” Combeferre mutters numbly after a few minutes of silence. She grins, catlike.
“At least someone noticed.” She leans back on her hands and her smile softens. “You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to. I just might be able to help.”
“Courfeyrac.”
She winces.
“Ah. That could be a bit of a problem.” She clicks her tongue and looks him dead in the eye, a few strands of her dark hair falling into her face. “He hasn’t worn his necklace since he started his... whatever-they’re-calling-it with Jehan. Jehan wears his because he’s a total romantic, but Courf thinks it’s disrespectful to wear his own. Like Jehan isn’t good enough or something. So he won’t have noticed, if that helps.”
Combeferre stares blankly at her. She stares back for a moment, then laughs airily.
“Or maybe not. I can try and talk to him, if that’d help? I wouldn’t be too obvious, you know, just try and get him to wear the damn thing and then shove him in a room with you or something. And I could ask Joly to talk to Jehan, he wouldn’t mind.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know, but I want to help.” Éponine looks at him, and their eyes meet for a long few moments. “I know how it feels. I get the impression you’re not the type of person who lets himself get worked up about things like this, or even gives his own problems the time of day. Am I right?”
“Close enough.” Combeferre sighs. “Or so I’m told, anyway.”
“I know how that is.” Éponine smiles knowingly, knocking their shoulders together. Combeferre decides that he likes her already. “I try to be the same, but I’m not very good at it.”
“It’s not something to aspire to, really.” He laughs, but it’s a dry, sharp noise that even he struggles to recognize. She looks at him for what feels like an age, her honey-hazel boring into his own, and eventually she slides her hand over to squeeze his knee.
Which is about when Enjolras and Grantaire appear from the underground station across the street, and Enjolras all but runs at him, knots his fingers in his shirt front and swears at him.
“Do you have any idea how worried I was? You could’ve been killed!”
“I know, I’m sorry, I just-”
“You’re sorry? We’ve been in this city for five hours at best! And it’s nothing like Paris! Anything could’ve happened to you!” Enjolras barks at him, and Combeferre can’t do anything except stare at him.
“Let him go, Enj.” Grantaire says softly, resting his hands on Enjolras’s shoulders and rubbing gently. Enjolras relaxes, and his hands in Combeferre’s shirt loosen. “Are you okay?”
Combeferre nods weakly, and Éponine slaps his knee playfully.
“I know it feels really awful, and I won’t lie and tell you it’ll get any easier, but you’re a better person than me and I somehow managed to cope -admittedly you were there the whole time- but if you ever need me, you know where I am.” Grantaire continues lowly, and one of his hands finds Combeferre’s shoulder and squeezes reassuringly.
“I know. Thanks, Grantaire.” Combeferre smiles half-heartedly and rests his hand on top of Grantaire’s, patting lightly. Grantaire smiles lopsidedly at him.
“’Ponine, shouldn’t you be heading to work? It’s nearly six.” Grantaire says after a moment of silence, and of everyone exchanging quick looks.
“Is it? Shit.” She leaps to her feet and straightens her clothes. She turns to leave, but hesitates and looks back to Combeferre. “Get my number from R, yeah? Text me if you need me.”
She presses a quick kiss to the side of his head and disappears, waving quickly at them as she descends into the underground station.
“So you two seem to have hit it off.” Grantaire laughs as he watches Éponine leave, and Combeferre turns to frown at him before he climbs to his feet to unlock the door.
(When Éponine arrives home from her shift at the Musain that night, she finds Jehan leaning out of the doorway opposite her own.
“Ep!” He smiles at her, playing with the messy braid between his fingers. “You like red wine, right? Courf bought too much by accident and neither of us are huge fans of it, and it seems silly not to drink it...”
“Sure.” She shrugs, and Jehan grins a megawatt smile and pulls her inside.
Four hours later, sometime near five in the morning, Éponine wakes up on their sofa with Courfeyrac snoring loudly in her ear and Jehan curled up like a cat at her side. For a brief moment, she doesn’t envy Combeferre having to wake up next to him when they do get together.
She smiles to herself, because she knows they will, and extricates herself from the two of them. She passes their bedroom on her way out, door open as always, and hesitates before carefully stepping inside. She’s been in here plenty of times before, usually passed out drunk, and never with an actual purpose.
She’s known Courfeyrac for four years now, and stops for a second as she reaches for the necklace that’s hanging out of the drawer that she -unfortunately- knows is full of his underwear. She stops and frowns at her reflection in the mirror above the dresser, and considers what she’s doing for a moment.
Then she remembers Combeferre, who, admittedly, she met only hours ago, but she remembers the defeated look in his glassy eyes and how his shoulders had sagged and he looked so fed up and dejected and she realizes that she wanted to help him because she felt like that once, when she was sixteen and there was a boy she loved so much who would only ever see her as a friend and her hands ball into fists.
No one should ever feel like I did, she thinks to herself as she picks up Courfeyrac’s necklace carefully and tucks it into one of the pockets in his backpack, especially not people like Combeferre.)
Their first few weeks at university are interesting, to say the least.
Combeferre forms a fast friendship with Joly, and they and a few of the other students on their courses meet regularly to study. Enjolras and Grantaire have also managed to befriend a few of the students on their politics and art courses respectively, and unfortunately for Combeferre, this means Courfeyrac is around a lot more than he’s necessarily comfortable with.
On one evening, towards the end of September, Combeferre and Joly find themselves in the Musain, poring over piles of skeletal studies and labelled views of the brain. Musichetta keeps plying them with beer and trying to distract them, but all that leads to is Feuilly noticing she isn’t busy and wrangling her for help planning Bahorel’s twenty-fifth birthday party.
They’ve been at it for three hours when Enjolras appears, ranting about something to do with Berlusconi and the state of the Italian government, with Courfeyrac in tow, and Grantaire following lazily after them with his sketchbook hugged to his chest. Combeferre stops for a moment, pen hovering above a detailed drawing of the bones of the hand, and watches Courfeyrac. He has, in three weeks, learnt to ignore the dull yearning in his chest every time they’re in the same room, but that still doesn’t stop him from admiring him from afar –or at least, that’s how he justifies it in his head.
At the moment, he’s talking animatedly with Enjolras, hands flying everywhere and curls bouncing around his cheeks. From where Combeferre is sitting, his eyes are practically sparkling.
“Shit, shouldn’t we be writing this down?” He says after a moment, staring up at Enjolras with wide eyes. Combeferre still hasn’t returned to his labelling, and Joly has in turn abandoned his own in order to watch him. “Let me get a pen.”
Courfeyrac drags his backpack up onto his knee and starts rummaging in it. He pulls back with a yelp after about a minute, flapping his hand around and then cradling it and wincing.
“Christ, ow!”
“What’s wrong?” Enjolras asks, frowning at him. He already has his own notebook and a vast array of pens surrounding him, and is in the process of tying his hair back into a tiny ponytail.
“I just burnt myself on something. Hold on.” He’s all but pouting now, and he digs his hand back inside. Enjolras looks up to find Combeferre staring at him with panicked eyes, and he stares back as Courfeyrac produces his necklace, dangling it by the chain and raising his eyebrows at it.
The shape, naturally, is the perfect inverse of Combeferre’s, down to the little indents and the uneven curve down one side, and he swallows. His hand comes up to cover the stone around his neck self-consciously, and he watches as Courfeyrac pokes at the stone he’s holding aloft.
“I don’t remember it being that hot when I took it off...” He muses, resting it in his hand. He discovers the burn is actually oddly nice now that he’s over the initial shock of it, and it builds something of a warm feeling inside his chest. “They must be a lot closer than they were last year.”
Feuilly and Musichetta both stifle laughs from the bar, and Grantaire mutters something to the both of them that has them cracking up and muffling their mouths with their hands. Combeferre glowers at the three of them, but Feuilly smiles at him in such a way that he can tell he knows he doesn’t mean it.
“Let me compare it to yours.” Courfeyrac whines, making grabby hands across the table at Enjolras’s necklace around his wrist. The blonde shoots him a withering look, but Courfeyrac persists, whimpering at him until Enjolras sighs like he’s exhausted and unclips the clasp, untwisting the chain and setting it into his other hand. Courfeyrac frowns at the table for a moment, and closes his hands around each of the stones. He looks up at Enjolras a few moments later, and gestures for him to hold out his hands.
“Do they feel like they’re the same temperature to you?” He says with an air of genuine curiosity and interest that Combeferre wasn’t really ready for. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Enjolras holds out his hands, and Courfeyrac gently sets one stone in each. Combeferre takes this opportunity as a hint to start throwing his stuff back into his bag and make a hasty exit.
He’s making his excuses to Joly -not that he really needs to, because Joly is far more perceptive than people tend to give him credit for- when Grantaire calls him over to the bar to talk to him.
“What is it?” He asks hurriedly, and Grantaire grabs him by the shoulders, and Musichetta leans over the bar to make sure that his necklace is clearly on display, before ruffling his hair a little and turning him back to look at Enjolras and Courfeyrac.
“Yes, close enough. You mean you haven’t met them yet?” Enjolras finally replies to Courfeyrac, after a few minutes of evaluation.
“Well, no, I haven’t been looking really, and it must’ve fallen into my bag, but why is it so hot?” Courfeyrac rests his chin on his palm and pouts thoughtfully. “Because, I mean, Grantaire’s in the same room as you and yours is that hot, so that must mean that...”
He trails off and scowls. Enjolras gestures for him to carry on.
“That must mean they’re in this room somewhere, right?”
“I really should be going.” Combeferre announces suddenly, straightening his backpack and all but bolting towards the door of the Musain at high speed.
“But it’s... It’s not any of you, is it? I’d know, and some of you aren’t even available.”
Grantaire rolls his eyes and groans.
“Courf,” Feuilly says, with an air of affectionate derision, “I love you, you know that, but you’re a total idiot sometimes. Who’s the one new person in your life that doesn’t have a partner that, oh, I don’t know, might possibly be the person you’re looking for?”
Combeferre stops in the doorway.
The room falls into a deathly silence, and Combeferre’s mouth goes dry. He swallows, looks over his shoulder for a brief moment before he leaves and the door swings closed behind him.
There’s a beat of total and utter silence in the entire cafe, until Éponine comes roaring out of the kitchen with her hair scraped back and a towel in her hand.
“Combeferre, you idiot! He means Combeferre!”
Everyone stops and stares at Courfeyrac. Éponine rolls her eyes and disappears back into the kitchen. Courfeyrac looks blankly at Enjolras, and the blonde offers him a weak smile. Courfeyrac closes his eyes and presses his hands over them, exhaling heavily.
Éponine reappears from the kitchen then, pulling her hair out of the ponytail she’d tied it in and pulling the apron from around her waist.
“Is no one going after him?”
Courfeyrac looks up at her through his fingers.
“What?”
“Combeferre left. I’m going to make sure he’s okay, is anyone coming with me?” Éponine clarifies, looking at Enjolras pointedly.
To everyone’s surprise, Grantaire gets to his feet.
“I’m coming. I owe him this much.”
He holds Éponine’s gaze for a long few minutes, and she nods, moving to link their arms together and heading outside.
“How long has he known?” Courfeyrac asks after a few minutes pass. Enjolras looks up from his notes and pushes an errant curl away from his eyes.
“Since he met you. That’s why he ran before you were properly introduced to each other. He already knew about Jehan and I just think he wasn’t ready to deal with that.” Enjolras explains quickly, his eyes locked with Courfeyrac’s. The brunette frowns, and forces himself to think back to the day he’d met both of them. He remembers Combeferre, in a pale blue shirt and a cardigan, with big, thick-framed square glasses and messy hair and scared eyes, almost running past him to get away.
He remembers finally being introduced to him, and how the medical student had seemed shy and nervous, constantly rubbing at his chest and looking away, even as he explained how he knew Enjolras and Grantaire, and he’d seemed inordinately pleased when Joly dragged him away because he thought he’d contracted an Ebola virus disease and wanted a second opinion.
He realizes now that Combeferre seems to make a conscious effort to be as far away from him as possible, and he frowns. Enjolras surveys him from across the table, and sets his pen down.
“He’s scared. He told Grantaire as much. He wasn’t ready to meet you when he did, and he doesn’t want to get in the way of your relationship with Jehan.”
“Why don’t you talk to him?” Joly suggests, getting to his feet and collecting his sheets from the table. “Jehan, I mean. He’s a romantic at heart; surely he’ll be able to help. If not, you could try Marius. Although, I’m not sure what help he’ll be.”
He laughs and tugs his bag onto his shoulder.
“You’d have to get him to stop mooning over Cosette for five minutes to actually listen to you.” Musichetta sniggers from behind the bar, wiping a few beer stains from the counter.
“Look, just don’t say anything to Combeferre until you know how you feel, okay?” Joly says, having moved to lean against the table and look at Courfeyrac properly. He rearranges his mousy brown hair and smiles lopsidedly. “I want to see you all happy.”
Courfeyrac nods numbly, and Joly’s smile grows to a grin.
“Now, I've got to go, I’m supposed to be meeting Bossuet at Hyde Park Corner and knowing him, he’ll have gotten himself mugged by now!” Joly practically giggles and excuses himself.
“He’s right.” Feuilly says from where he’s leaning against the bar, absently sipping at a bottle of beer that everyone already knows will end up on Bahorel’s extensive tab. “None of you deserve to be unhappy.”
(That night, Courfeyrac comes home to find Jehan cocooned in numerous blankets on their bed, his hair falling loose around his face, with a tub of ice cream in one hand and an E. E. Cummings anthology in the other.
“Hey,” he sits down beside him and kisses the side of his head, “can I talk to you?”
“Sure.” Jehan smiles and moves the blankets aside so Courfeyrac can settle beside him, before he wraps him up in the blankets too. “What’s wrong?”
Courfeyrac hesitates for a moment, licks at his lips nervously and trails his fingers down to feel the heat of the stone burning in his pocket. It’s not as hot as it was earlier, but it’s still ever-present and pressing a weight down onto his chest. He pulls it from his pocket and takes hold of one of Jehan’s hands, setting the poetry anthology down on the bed before setting the necklace down into his open palm. Jehan says nothing for a moment, turning the stone over in his hand a few times.
He hands it back to Courfeyrac and smiles, straightening the pansies he has laced in his hair above his ear and closing the book that he’d dropped on the bed.
“It’s really warm, Courf.” He says, and his smile is practically angelic. “I’m happy for you.”
“I’ve met him,” Courfeyrac elaborates, running his fingers through his hair and playing absently with his curls, “he’s Enjolras’s friend –you know, the one that moved from France with him?”
“You mean Combeferre?” Jehan looks at him with wide green-grey eyes. “Oh, he’s lovely. He let me write poems about his eyes on his arm while he revised with Joly once. Then I put my headband on him –look.”
Jehan digs out his phone and flicks through his photographs until he finds the right one. It’s Combeferre, sitting in the Musain, with a pen in his hand and Jehan’s delicate script trailing up his left arm and a headband covered in pale pink fabric roses resting across the top of his head and pushing his bangs back. He’s looking at the camera over his glasses, his eyes sharp but not unfriendly, and a tiny smile is pulling at the corners of his mouth. Courfeyrac’s mouth goes dry and the heat from the stone flickers in his hand.
“...You’re okay with this?” Courfeyrac says dumbly. Jehan smiles again, and picks up his ice cream, offering the brunette a spoonful. He takes it graciously.
“Honestly?” Jehan lets Courfeyrac take the spoon, and pulls his hair over one shoulder. “Yes. I know that we’re happy as we are, but think of how happy you’d be with him. Think of how happy you’d make him. You’re meant to be.”
Jehan smiles, but it’s genuine and unguarded and Courfeyrac has trouble masking his surprise.
“But what about you?”
“Me? Oh, I suspect I’ll be okay.” Jehan’s smile becomes a wry, happy smirk. He takes hold of Courfeyrac’s hand and leans his head against his shoulder. “Before I was your boyfriend, Courf, I was your best friend. I’m still your best friend now, so I want what’s best for you. I never expected ‘us’ to go anywhere, and neither did you, and we were so young that it seemed silly, and it still does really –for us as a couple, at least. I don’t love you any less, but the time is right for you and Combeferre. You deserve to be as happy as you can be –both of you.”
“You’re sure?” Courfeyrac stammers out, and Jehan smiles wide again and nods. He pulls a flower out of his hair and tucks it into Courfeyrac’s.
“Yes. I’m happy to help you find your true romance, you should’ve known that.” Jehan laughs, the sound airy and cheerful. Courfeyrac smiles back, and slides his arms around Jehan’s shoulders and hugs him tight. Jehan giggles into his chest and hug him back, and Courfeyrac presses an affectionate kiss to the top of his head.
“Do you want to watch Love Actually with me?” Jehan asks after a moment, and Courfeyrac releases him.
“It’s September.” Courfeyrac replies, his eyebrows knitting together. “That’s a Christmas film.”
“But it’s so sweet.” Jehan pouts. “And yours and Combeferre unrealized love story has me in the mood for a cute romantic comedy.”
“Ugh, fine.” Courfeyrac chuckles after a moment of silence. “But I’m finishing your ice cream.”)
Everything comes to a head at Bahorel’s twenty-fifth birthday party.
Everyone had helped to deck out the Musain in streamers and balloons -except for Bossuet, who had been all but tied to a chair by Joly and ordered not to move an inch until he was told he could- and currently, everyone is waiting for the birthday boy himself to arrive. Feuilly had gone to pick him up from his law office about twenty minutes ago, leaving Musichetta and Éponine with just enough time to ice the cake they’d loving crafted together and for Jehan to painstakingly add twenty five individual candles. Grantaire is putting the banner he and Feuilly had painted several days ago up behind the bar, where it loudly proclaims happy birthday you old bastard and Enjolras shakes his head disapprovingly from his position beside Combeferre at the bar.
Courfeyrac is hovering with Marius and his girlfriend, Cosette, who have already managed to provoke Enjolras and befriend Grantaire respectively. He’s wearing his necklace -Jehan had insisted he do so, and had even gone so far as to fasten the clasp behind his neck and ensure it was over his shirt and clearly visible- and is awaiting an appropriate moment to approach Combeferre and ask him out.
Combeferre, who has settled himself on a barstool beside Joly and Bossuet -who has since been freed from his imprisonment in one of the booths- keeps chancing a glance at Courfeyrac, but keeps looking away quickly to focus on the beer in his hand.
He notices Courfeyrac moving towards him out of the corner of his eye, and is about to make himself scarce and go talk to Enjolras, when Jehan appears from behind the bar and throws himself into the seat beside him. He has a worryingly bright orange concoction in his hand, complete with cocktail umbrella, and he keeps sipping at it thoughtfully.
“Have you spoken to Courfeyrac recently?” He asks after a moment, playing with the end of his braid. Today, he’s braided delicate daisies into it.
“No,” Combeferre replies with a brief shake of his head, looking away from Jehan to Courfeyrac, who has retreated and is pawing at Marius’s arm, “why? Was I supposed to?”
“No, he just told me he wanted to talk to you about something.” Jehan muses, taking another sip of his drink.
Combeferre eyes him warily and looks him up and down a few times. He’s well aware of the fact that Courfeyrac and Jehan broke up -seemingly amicably- about a week and a half ago, but neither of them seem too bothered by it. Courfeyrac still has his flair for dramatics, as evidenced by the fact that he’s hanging from Marius’s neck and practically wailing in his ear, and Jehan hasn’t spent three weeks writing sad poetry in long dead languages like he normally would –or so Éponine had told him was the norm when Jehan was sad.
Combeferre is about to ask what it might be, when Feuilly comes barging through the door, dragging Bahorel behind him. The other man has a scarf wrapped around his head and covering his eyes, and a large badge with birthday boy printed on it in bright yellow writing.
“Stay still, you impatient fuck.” Feuilly laughs as he pushes Bahorel down the stairs and stands on his tiptoes to untie the scarf. “Happy birthday!”
Everyone joins in and cheers, and for a moment Bahorel looks genuinely touched, before he turns to Feuilly and grabs him in a headlock.
“You sentimental little shit!”
Feuilly grumbles and wriggles his way out from under Bahorel’s massive, tattooed arm, but not before he sneaks in a few punches to his side.
“You love my sentimentality, don’t lie.” Feuilly laughs, landing another punch to Bahorel’s arm. Bahorel cackles and wraps him in a hug.
“Mm, I suppose you’re right.” Bahorel admits with an offhand shrug. He leans in and kisses Feuilly hard, and the smaller man makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat and kisses back fiercely. This lasts for five minutes or longer until Grantaire coughs loudly from the bar and they break apart with happy laughs.
“Your sisters couldn’t fly over, and they said they’re sorry,” Grantaire says as he picks up a laptop from behind the bar and sets it down, “but they still wanted to see you, so this is the best we could do.”
He turns it around, and Bahorel’s two younger sisters are on screen, grinning and waving and shouting things in Spanish. He makes an unusually delighted sound and runs to pick up the laptop, talking loudly back at them. Feuilly smiles fondly at him from beside the door.
A few hours later, after presents had been exchanged -Combeferre had banded together with Joly, Bossuet and Enjolras to buy the man a new three piece suit and tie for his prosecution trials- and Feuilly has taken up residence sprawled across Bahorel’s lap, Courfeyrac finally shuffles towards Combeferre and leans against the bar beside him. His mouth is barely open when Bahorel is getting to his feet and clearing his throat.
“Right, you’re all here, and I really want to say something, so I think now’s a pretty good time.” He laughs and runs a hand through his hair like he’s nervous. “I’m shit with words, you all know that, I’m not poetic like Jehan or smart like Joly, but I just-”
He stops himself and turns to Feuilly, pulling him to his feet and looking him straight in the eyes.
“I just love you a lot, okay? And I know I don’t say it often and to begin with you wouldn’t even believe me, but you put up with all of my shit and you bandage me up after I get hurt when I'm kickboxing and bring me beer when I lose a case and I just- I’d really like it if you’d put up with me for the rest of our lives.”
Jehan squeaks, and Joly slaps him on the arm and covers his mouth with his handkerchief.
“Are you asking what I think you’re asking?” Feuilly says dumbly, staring up at Bahorel with flushed pink cheeks. “Are you...?”
“Yes?” Bahorel says, uncharacteristically nervous. “But only if you want to –you know I’d never make you do anything you’re not comfortable with.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Yes. If you’re asking what I think you’re asking, then yes.”
Bahorel stares at him, and a smile spreads quickly across his face, and Feuilly smirks lopsidedly. They lean in to kiss and Jehan all but squeals excitedly.
“Oh my god! Combeferre, go get some champagne!” He says, forcing a twenty pound note from the register into his hand and pushing him towards the door. He goes without argument, because a passionate Jehan is something of a sight to behold and he doesn’t wish to enrage him.
Courfeyrac watches him go and looks to Jehan desperately. The redhead rolls his eyes and gestures hurriedly with his hands that he should follow him. Courfeyrac, mercifully, takes the hint and goes careering after him.
He finds Combeferre halfway down the street heading towards the underground station.
“Hey! Hey, wait for me!”
Combeferre stops and turns to look at him, and his eyes narrow a little. His heart pounds in his chest.
“What is it, Courfeyrac?”
The smaller boy jogs to a stop beside him and smiles lopsidedly, like he’s nervous about something.
“I just... wanted to talk to you.” He says, pointedly looking everywhere but his face.
“So Jehan told me.” Combeferre starts to walk again, digging his hands into the pocket of his cardigan. “About anything in particular or just... because?”
“Actually, I...” Courfeyrac fumbles over his words, struggling to keep up with Combeferre as the other hurries along the street. “It’s something specific.”
“Go on, then.” Combeferre presses, pulling his hands from his pockets to fiddle with his glasses. He doesn’t notice Courfeyrac slide a hand up his chest to grasp at the stone on his necklace, close his fingers around it and squeeze. He unclips the chain, settles it in his hand and runs to stand in front of Combeferre, dangling the necklace in front of him.
“Does this look familiar to you?”
Combeferre stops dead in his tracks and his face pales.
“Does it? Because I...” Courfeyrac trails off and stares at him hopelessly. “Because I think I really like you and I’m not used to this, so I don’t really know what to do or what to say but I just know that I want you but if you’re not –if you don’t want that with me then I get it, and I’m sorry about this but-”
“Courfeyrac.” Combeferre interrupts, and he sounds worryingly stern. Courfeyrac looks up at him with big, hopeful eyes, and finds the other teen smiling lopsidedly at him. He reaches behind his neck to unfasten the clasp on his own necklace and holds it aloft with shaking hands. “I know.”
“You do? Because that –that makes me a little less anxious because I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to after everything with me and Jehan and-”
“Courf.” Combeferre laughs now, and Courfeyrac thinks he could get used to hearing that, and hearing his name trip from Combeferre’s tongue in a lilting French accent. “Shut up.”
He pouts childishly.
“Make me!”
Combeferre laughs again, all dry and breathy, and leans in to kiss him. Courfeyrac lets him, pushing himself up a little on his feet to kiss him back. Combeferre exhales nervously and kisses him back with a little more ferocity, sliding his hands around Courfeyrac’s waist and enveloping him in a tight hug. Courfeyrac makes a pleased noise, but pulls away.
“Be my boyfriend?” He says at the same time as Combeferre, and they both laugh and blush pink.
“Yes.” They say in unison again, and Combeferre leans in to knock their noses together.
“Christ, we’re cliché.” Courfeyrac smirks, and Combeferre laughs playfully into his hair.
“Enjolras will never let us hear the end of this.” Combeferre continues after a moment, and Courfeyrac nods in agreement.
They stand there, on the corner of the road beside Leicester Square underground station, wrapped up in each other and pressing intermittent soft butterfly kisses to each other’s lips, for longer than they perhaps realize, because the moon is suddenly high in the sky when Courfeyrac notices, and he pulls away from a kiss to giggle at the sky.
“Shit, weren’t we meant to get champagne a few hours ago?” He laughs and kisses Combeferre again. The taller teen looks at him almost reverently, like he can’t believe his luck, and lets Courfeyrac drag him along into the off-licence.
When they return to the Musain half an hour later (Combeferre was once again distracted by Courfeyrac’s adorable smile and bright, interested eyes) they find Jehan has, seemingly, already found three bottles of champagne somewhere, and they appear to have drunk much of it already.
“Well, I guess this bottle’s ours then!” Courfeyrac laughs good-naturedly, pulling Combeferre along by the hand and pushing him into a booth before sitting on his lap.
(“Why did you send them to buy champagne?” Grantaire asks Jehan as he stands behind the bar with him. “We’ve got another four bottles back here.”
Jehan shushes him.
“Because they’d never have had the courage to say anything surrounded by all of us. Especially not after Bahorel’s speech!” Jehan swoons. The happy couple in question are curled up in a booth together, sharing a bottle of champagne and gentle kisses.
“I guess.” Grantaire shrugs and picks up one of the open bottles and starts filling glasses again.
He passes Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who are entwined in each other and kissing quietly, pulling away occasionally to smile and mutter quiet sentences that only they can hear. One of these makes Combeferre blush pink and bat at Courfeyrac’s chest. The smaller teen laughs and tries to press a kiss to his cheek, but Combeferre turns his head and kisses him properly.
Grantaire turns his head and smiles.)