Work Text:
“Do you think we’ll ever have kids?” Courfeyrac asks out of the blue one day, when they’re perched on a bench in Sloane Square and watching the rainfall from their position under Combeferre’s huge, patterned umbrella.
His boyfriend just looks at him, his eyes soft and curious.
“It’s just –I can really see myself as a dad, you know? Picking them up from school and spoiling them rotten and embarrassing them in front of their friends. Things like that, I just –I really want that.”
He smiles sheepishly and kicks at a puddle near his feet, barely noticing the way the water soaks through his canvas shoes.
“You’re nineteen.” Combeferre says finally, and when Courfeyrac looks at him, there’s a bemused smile on his face. “Shouldn’t you wait a few years?”
“I didn’t mean now.” Courfeyrac laughs playfully, elbowing Combeferre softly in the side. “I’ve got a good twenty years of West End theatre in me yet, and I plan to use it.”
He looks at Combeferre with a broad smile that turns to a confused scowl after a moment.
“Wait. You mean you want to?”
“Have children with you?” Combeferre turns to look at him, sliding a hand up under his scarf to run his fingers over the heated pink-red stone around his neck. “I’ve thought about it. More than you might think, actually.”
Courfeyrac grins at this, dark eyes shining brightly. He pulls Combeferre to his feet, the medical student holding his umbrella high above both of their heads and laughing as his boyfriend leads him skipping through the puddles towards the underground station.
“Do you think Enj and Grantaire will have kids?” Courfeyrac muses once they’ve bustled onto a train that’ll take them towards the café where their friends are waiting.
“Please. Between them they couldn’t even keep a cactus alive.” Combeferre rolls his eyes.
“They can’t be that bad.”
“When we were ten, Enjolras’s parents got him a pet goldfish. They thought it’d help him come out of his shell, I guess. It died within the week because he forgot to feed it. And Grantaire’s no better, you know that.”
“A baby’s a bit different to a goldfish.” Courfeyrac laughs again, sliding his arm around Combeferre’s waist and resting his head against his shoulder. “Surely he’d remember a child.”
“This is Enjolras. He’d forget to feed himself if Musichetta didn’t force him to eat.” Combeferre rolls his eyes and ushers Courfeyrac off the train.
“What about Bahorel and Feuilly?” Courfeyrac slides their hands together once they reach ground level and are crossing the street toward Leicester Square.
“They might. But right now, I think they have enough to deal with considering they’ve all but adopted all of us.”
Courfeyrac laughs warmly and squeezes his hand, tugging him along the side street towards the Musain.
“I suppose they have. Something tells me Bahorel really wants kids, though. Just something about the way he is with other peoples.”
“I know Feuilly does.” Combeferre replies. “Want kids, I mean. He’s told me as much. I think he’s just worried about not being able to provide for them and things like that. He hasn’t always had it easy and I think he wants to be sure his children would never want for anything before he seriously considers anything.”
“His husband’s a prosecutor, for crying out loud.” Courfeyrac shakes his head affectionately. “Any children they have will be spoiled rotten and you know it as well as I do.”
Combeferre hums thoughtfully and pushes open the door to the Musain.
That’s the last they talk about the subject for several years, because everything quickly becomes a downward spiral of graduations and work placements and auditions and Joly’s gap year helping a refugee centre in Tanzania and Jehan leaving to look for his soulmate and Éponine’s younger brother landing himself in juvenile detention.
It’s been a very, very long day for Combeferre when he finally drops down into a booth at the Musain. His back aches from poring over ultrasounds and talking to children all day and attempting to plan Enjolras’s surprise twenty-second birthday party for next week, and Courfeyrac comes over to him with a sad expression in his eyes.
“I didn’t get it.” The smaller man says with a small, self-deprecating smile. “They want me to audition again –for ensemble or swing, though."
He sits down next to his boyfriend with a sigh and slides down to rest his head in the taller man’s lap. Combeferre absently runs his fingers through the other man’s dark, wild curls.
“I’m sorry.” He replies quietly, after a long few moments of silence. “I’m sure you were brilliant.”
“You’ve been saying that for a year now.”
“Because you are.” Combeferre smiles softly and ducks his head to drop a butterfly kiss on his forehead. It strains his back, but he doesn’t care.
Bahorel and Feuilly enter at that moment, hands intertwined and discussing something hurriedly. Bahorel makes a comment, and Feuilly rolls his eyes, detaches his hand and pokes him in the side before moving to get them both drinks.
“Is everyone here?” Bahorel asks after a moment, pushing his hair back from his eyes and playing absently with the sleeve of his suit. He’s clearly come straight from work, and he seems inordinately nervous about something.
“Joly’s on his way, and Jehan's still in Sweden but other than that, yeah.” Éponine comments from her position sitting on the bar itself, Musichetta having given up pushing her off an hour ago.
“I can call Jehan if you-” Courfeyrac starts, and on cue, his phone starts vibrating in his hand, “…want. Speak of the devil.”
He frowns at his phone for a second before answering the call and pressing it to his ear, slouching back across Combeferre’s knee.
“Hey, Jehan.”
“I found him, oh god, Courf, I found him.”
Courfeyrac bolts up into a sitting position, and everyone stares at him. Combeferre slides a protective hand around his waist.
“And?” He replies eagerly.
“He’s perfect, he’s so, so perfect, you have no idea.” He sounds like he’s crying, breathless, happy tears and Courfeyrac finds himself smiling. “He’s a teacher and he’s from Finland and he’s beautiful and he was looking for me, Courf, he was actually looking and I just- I’m in love already and it’s so ridiculous and I can’t even articulate how I feel about him, it’s just so-”
“Congratulations.” Courfeyrac grins wide and turns to smile at Combeferre. “I hope you know we’ll all want to meet him.”
“I know, I know, I just- I just can’t believe I’ve found him and he’s everything I wanted and-”
“I know.” Courfeyrac replies softly, because he does and he remembers his first kiss with Combeferre and a blush rises up his cheeks. “Now go, and be with him. But please remember to come home. Bring him with you, too.”
“I will, I promise. I’m just –wow. I can’t believe he’s real and-”
“I know, sweetheart, I know. Now you go and love him, yeah?”
“I will. I’ll be home soon. Love you, Courf.”
“Love you too.”
There’s a moment of silence when Courfeyrac hangs up.
“What the hell was that about?” Grantaire asks bluntly after a moment, sitting forward in his seat to stare at Courfeyrac.
“Jehan found his soulmate. He’s a Finnish teacher, and apparently he’s perfect.” He smiles, and watches as everyone gapes and smiles and Musichetta even presses her hand over her mouth. “He’s going to bring him to meet us. He seems really happy.”
“Well, that kind of shits on our news.” Bahorel laughs, taking a nervous sip of the beer in his hand. Feuilly rolls his eyes and slides an arm around his husband’s waist, tucking his hand into the pocket of his suit jacket.
“I’m sure it doesn’t.” Enjolras looks up from the papers in front of him and reaches behind his head to tug his hair out of the tiny ponytail he’d pulled it back into.
“Do you want to tell them anyway?” Bahorel mutters to Feuilly, leaning into him a little. Feuilly rolls his eyes again and smiles gently, looking up to find everyone else in the room is staring at the both of them.
“…We’re adopting.” Feuilly says hesitantly after a moment, and Combeferre suddenly jumps up out of his seat to embrace both of them. Feuilly laughs and rests his head against the taller man’s shoulder.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Combeferre grumbles into Feuilly’s hair, and the older man pulls away a little and smiles sheepishly.
“I wanted to, but I didn’t want to jinx it before anything was finalized.” He admits, and Combeferre shakes his head affectionately.
“Come on, spill, I want details. Then I’m buying you two drinks to celebrate the fact that you won’t have a solid night’s sleep for the next four years.” Bossuet gets up from his seat and moves over to clap a hand on Bahorel’s shoulder.
“He’s a baby boy, about six months old, and he’s called Isaac.” Bahorel replies, a small smile on his face. “He’s got eyes just like Feuilly’s.”
The other man rolls his eyes.
“Got stupid hair like you, though.” Feuilly smiles tenderly, squeezing Bahorel’s hip.
It’s at this point that Joly decides to make his appearance, all sunkissed freckles and sun-bleached hair from months in the heat of eastern Africa, and eyes the group rallying around his friends with an air of soft confusion.
“Did I miss something?”
Jehan arrives back in London with his soulmate a month and a half later, and comes to the Musain almost immediately with a six foot tall Finn in tow.
He walks in to find Grantaire blowing raspberries on a baby’s stomach, and Enjolras watching him fondly from a corner where he thinks he’s hidden behind a folder of documentation on political controversies.
“I go away for a few months and people have babies? What is this?” Jehan laughs, pulling his boyfriend into the building behind him. “So where is everyone? And who might this little one belong to?”
“That would be me.” Feuilly appears from the kitchens then, and scoops the baby up into his arms. Jehan smiles instantly, because the man is a natural. “And Bahorel, obviously. Isaac, this is your uncle Jehan.”
Jehan grins and crouches to eye level with the child. Isaac stares at him with big, sparkling brown eyes and reaches out to twist his tiny fingers into a lock of Jehan’s hair that has come loose from his ponytail.
“He’s precious.” Jehan coos, pulling himself away from the baby to grab his boyfriend’s hand again.
“And to answer your question, everyone’s here somewhere, except for Courfeyrac. He finally got a callback for that show he’s been dying to be in.” Combeferre replies from the corner of the room beside Enjolras, with something of a proud smile on his face. Jehan smiles back.
“Well, now is as good a time as any, I suppose.” Jehan grins lopsidedly. “Everyone, this is Kalevi.”
The man behind him freezes as eight pairs of eyes simultaneously zero in on him. He shifts on his feet and plays absently with his shaggy blonde hair, bright blue eyes focusing on the floorboards beneath him.
“Go on, introduce yourself.” Jehan prods him in the side and smiles at him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “They don’t bite.”
“That’s what you think.” Bahorel barks from beside Feuilly, where he’s watching his husband cradle their son.
Kalevi stiffens again.
“Er, hi.” He says meekly, after a minute of deathly silence. “I’m Kalevi Saarinen, but I guess you knew that, I’m twenty six, I’m from Helsinki and I teach at a comprehensive school in the city. I’m normally not this nervous since I teach maths to teenagers but Jehan told me how much it would mean to him if you all approved of me and I really, really don’t want to mess this up.”
He cringes at his own words and looks at his feet again. He doesn’t notice that Combeferre and Enjolras have got to their feet and are standing in front of him until he spots their shoes.
“Don’t worry. We approve.” Enjolras says firmly after a moment of looking the other man up and down.
“Although it’s not our approval you should be looking for. Wait until Courfeyrac gets here.” Combeferre smiles and claps a hand on his shoulder in such a way that Kalevi’s blood runs suddenly cold.
“Who’s Courfeyrac?” He asks Jehan quietly when the other two men have retreated to fuss over Isaac.
“My best friend. But don’t worry, he’s a sweetheart.”
Courfeyrac takes this opportunity to come bounding in, slamming the doors open with a megawatt grin on his face.
“I got the part!”
Combeferre moves over to him quickly and kisses him hard, sliding his arms around his waist and pulling away to rest their foreheads together.
“I knew you would, I told you that you would, I’m so proud of you.” Combeferre’s smile is radiant and he kisses Courfeyrac again, a few times in quick succession. Courfeyrac blushes scarlet and kisses him back, hard, only pulling away when he notices the blonde man standing beside Jehan.
“And who the hell are you?” He turns to Kalevi with a raised eyebrow, slipping his hand protectively into the back pocket of Combeferre’s jeans. Combeferre eyes his boyfriend warily, but he can tell that Courfeyrac already knows who he is and is just trying to terrify him.
“I’m Kalevi.” The Finn stammers a little, hesitant as he holds out a hand for Courfeyrac to shake. “You must be Courfeyrac.”
“So my reputation precedes me.” Courfeyrac grins cheekily, shaking the other man’s hand firmly before tugging him close to hiss in his ear. “Now, I’m only going to say this once, but if you even breathe incorrectly around him, I will rip your pretty little head off your shoulders. Okay?”
Kalevi swallows dryly and Courfeyrac releases his hand with a cheery smirk.
“Okay.”
“Good.” Courfeyrac’s grin is catlike. “I’m sure we’ll get along great.”
They’re thirty when they finally become a proper family.
They’ve been married for four years, Combeferre finally having proposed on a beach in Cannes after they’d been to Paris to visit his parents and Courfeyrac saying yes before he’d even finished the question. The service had been small but lavish, and even quietly publicized thanks to Courfeyrac’s burgeoning stage career, but Combeferre wouldn’t have changed a thing about it even as he watched Courfeyrac’s tearful parents walk him down the aisle. Éponine had cried into the shoulder of her soulmate, an Australian named Christian who had dropped everything to come and find her three years earlier, and Musichetta had helped dab at her eyes with a handkerchief.
They’re at Joly’s wedding when it happens -he’d met his soulmate, David, a soft-spoken Welsh author with a stutter and vivid eyes, a few years ago thanks to Combeferre nudging him towards a book signing- and they’re just watching their friends.
Joly and David are waltzing together, holding the other close and moving in a way that is gently practiced and Combeferre doesn’t think he’s ever seen Joly this happy before. A heavily pregnant Musichetta is swaying gently with her hockey player fiancé Mathieu, his hands resting softly on her swollen belly in a way that’s almost reverent. Bossuet is dancing at the far side of the room with a Greek girl he’d met at the support group he attended for those with lost partners, and Courfeyrac smiles when he sees the blush on his friend’s cheeks. Jehan and Kalevi, who had flown over from Helsinki for the occasion because they still split themselves between their homes in Finland and England even after eight years, are lurking near the bar somewhere and exchanging affectionate kisses. Across the table from them, subtle and understated as ever in their co-ordinated suits, are Enjolras and Grantaire, who have spent three years trying to set a date for their own wedding after Grantaire had lost his temper one day and shouted ‘marry me’ in the middle of a crowded Tube train. They’re discussing something quietly, heads bowed together, and Enjolras smiles before he reaches over and straightens the red tie around his fiancé’s neck. Grantaire studies his face for a moment before he leans over and rearranges the knot in the thin, green tie around the other man’s neck with a furious blush covering his face.
Bahorel and Feuilly have Isaac with them, and even though he’s nearly nine and probably had to be forced into the tiny, adorable suit he’s wearing, he’s clinging to their legs and whining ‘Papa, Daddy isn’t listening to me, I want a piggy back ride’ and pouting.
Courfeyrac notices Combeferre’s line of sight and squeezes his hand.
“Do you want that?”
“What?”
“You’ve been watching Bahorel and Feuilly for ten minutes.” Courfeyrac smiles fondly, bringing their hands to his lips to press a kiss to his husband’s knuckles. Combeferre blushes, ducking his head to hide his face.
“I’ve been thinking about it.” Combeferre says quietly. “Properly, this time, too. Not like when we were teenagers. I was going to look into adoption agencies and surrogates and everything. Because now –now we could do it, we could have children because I’ve got a steady job at the children’s hospital and you, Mr. Three Olivier Awards, you’ve got a brilliant career and we could, we really could-”
“No, we will.” Courfeyrac interrupts him with a smile. “I just wanted to be sure you wanted to.”
“Courf, of course I want to.” Combeferre’s laugh is almost wet as he turns to his husband. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” Courfeyrac leans in and kisses him breathless. “I love you so, so much.”
Everything happens very quickly after that.
They find a surrogate easily, a beautiful red-haired woman with a personality that reminds them a little of Bossuet who they warm to immediately, and before they realize, they’re in the maternity ward, sitting outside her room and waiting.
It’s the longest three hours of Courfeyrac’s life.
When the midwife appears and ushers them inside, there’s two tiny, tiny little babies wrapped in pale blue terrycloth with shocks of dark curls falling around their faces and Combeferre’s crying a little and Courfeyrac is squeezing his arm hard.
He’s still crying when he has a bundle in his arms and Courfeyrac is beside him, huddled close with their other son pressed to his chest.
“They’re beautiful, Courf, they’re perfect and I already love them both so much.” Combeferre laughs wetly, his voice hoarse and he drops a kiss to his son’s forehead.
“Swap?” Courfeyrac turns to him with damp eyes. “Ciarán, do you want to meet your other daddy?”
Ciarán blinks his huge, green-grey eyes open and stares at them both, and for a moment Combeferre thinks his child might burst into sobs. Instead, he looks at Combeferre for a moment, almost like he’s sizing him up, and then makes a happy noise in his throat. Combeferre laughs, and gently passes Lucien to Courfeyrac, quickly cradling his other son to his chest. Lucien opens his eyes and blinks indignantly at the movement, but settles again when Courfeyrac starts making quiet noises at him.
“Hey, sweetheart.” Combeferre says quietly when Ciarán makes a disgruntled noise at him. “Your daddy and me, we love you and Lucien so much. And your aunts and uncles, they’ll love you too.”
“Can we come in yet?” Grantaire’s voice hisses from behind the door. Courfeyrac and Combeferre both laugh, and Grantaire takes this as a cue to push the door open and let all of their friends spill into the room.
And later, when Combeferre’s watching Grantaire carefully coaching Enjolras in how he should hold Lucien properly, Courfeyrac slides their hands together and kisses his cheek with a smile.
Combeferre knows then that everything will work out just fine.