Chapter Text
Combeferre's life isn't perfect. It isn't cute, or saccharine, and no one in their right mind would make it into a romantic comedy. If anything, it'd be made into a tongue-in-cheek documentary with undertones of deeper conflict, shown only at independent movie theaters by politically active film students. And really, that's fine with him. He's content in his life; he has a cause to fight for and friends who are more like family to him, and he doesn't need perfect.
That does mean, however, that when Combeferre wakes up in bed next to the man of his dreams, he doesn't watch him sleep with a smile as the morning sun creeps in through the window, casting a warm light on his delicate eyelashes or something poetic and picturesque like that. He wakes up to a loud, shrill alarm beeping and a face full of Courfeyrac's bedhead and almost chokes as a clump of it falls into his mouth.
It doesn't even smell nice, because Courfeyrac hasn't bathed in two days (they’ve all been a bit busy) and still somewhat smells like the fire they accidentally set off under the midtown bridge (don't ask). Still, it is Courfeyrac, and Combeferre will, somewhat pathetically, take what he can get.
Courfeyrac, because Combeferre's life is very much not perfect, is not remotely interested in Combeferre. He's not upset about it, really. He's had these - feelings - for Courfeyrac for a long time now. They're not going away, and neither is Courfeyrac, and Combeferre's just learned to live with it; at this point it's simply just another fact of Combeferre's life. He's got astigmatism in his right eye, he’s allergic to pears, and he loves Courfeyrac. Sure, it'd be nice if Courfeyrac loved him back, but he's not greedy. He's just fine loving him quietly.
As he pushes Courfeyrac's mop of unruly curls away from his face, he smiles at his best friend fondly, watching as Courfeyrac sniffles a little and nuzzles himself into the pillow. His eyes blink open and he stretches, smiling sleepily.
"Morning, sunshine." Combeferre says softly, smirking. “Did you forget you had an eight a.m.?”
Courfeyrac groans slightly, rubbing at his eyes. “That’s a blasphemous lie.”
“You’ve got an eight a.m. that takes attendance.” He says through a yawn, and Courfeyrac groans in resignation.
“Worst decision I've ever made.” Courfeyrac begins to stretch before noticing the duvet cocoon he's constructed in the night and chuckling as he begins to untangle himself. “Sorry, I..." He shrugs, smiling sheepishly. “Totally stole all of your blankets.”
"I don't mind." Combeferre says honestly. "Although, could I ask a favor of you?"
Courfeyrac yawns, scrunching his nose a little, and it's actually very inconsiderate of him to look so adorable when he's just woken up. "Go for it."
"I'll make breakfast if you take a shower."
Courfeyrac makes a face of indignation, pressing his hand to his heart. "Are you trying to imply something, 'ferre?"
"Just that you smell like firewood, weed, cheep whiskey and dust and you've got a piece of tree in your hair."
Rolling his eyes and sitting up with a groan, Courfeyrac shakes his head, shoving his fingers into the mass of curls and flicking dirt and who knows what else onto Combeferre's bed. "It adds to my charm." He says, grinning playfully and Combeferre feels an all too familiar pang in his heart. "Can I borrow some clothes?" He tugs at the collar of his thrifted AC/DC shirt. "I think this stain might be blood from Tuesday."
Combeferre nods, grabbing his favorite hoodie (okay, technically it's Enjolras', but Combeferre's had it for years and Enjolras has never seemed to mind, so) from its perch on his bedpost and pulling it over his head. "Whatever you want, 's long as it's not work clothes."
Courfeyrac nods, yawning again and groaning as he gets to his feet with all the finesse of a ninety-four year old man. He trudges out of the room and into the hallway of Combeferre and Enjolras' apartment, and Combeferre shuffles after him, making his way into the kitchen.
Contrary to expectation, Combeferre is not a morning person. It’s not immediately obvious because, unlike Enjolras, he’s capable of rolling out of bed before nine without threatening anyone who speaks to him with bodily harm, but he’s not like, say, Bahorel, who gets up at six every morning for yogalates. Frankly, mornings can die in a hole, but Combeferre has work to do so he’s awake. More or less. It’s not until he hears a voice from behind him that he realizes he’s been blinking tiredly at the stove for a solid two minutes.
“Hate to break it to you, chief, but even you can’t scare breakfast into making itself.”
Sighing, he turns to look at Gavroche, who’s perched on the counter behind him, grinning impishly. Scowling, Combeferre squints at Gavroche through his glasses. “Sarcasm stunts your growth, you know.”
Gavroche shrugs, kicking casually against the cabinets. “Good thing that wasn’t sarcasm.”
“Yeah, well.” Combeferre yawns, dragging his feet over to the fridge and nudging it open. “Insolence makes your hair fall out. Have you eaten?”
“Nah, you guys are out of cereal again.”
“Write it on the shopping list, will you?” Gavroche hops off the counter to scribble on the notebook they keep on the island/bar that separates the living room and kitchen, and Combeferre eyes the fridge skeptically. Normally he’d make Gavroche pancakes, but they’re out of ingredients and mix. “Will eggs do?”
“Sure.” Gavroche says easily, capping the pen. “Scrambled’s cool.”
Combeferre snorts. “Like you have a choice.”
They've gotten into something of a routine, since Gavroche began spending two to three nights a week at Enjolras and Combeferre's. Eponine and Grantaire's apartment isn't the safest, especially when they're both working, and it's not lke Enjolras and Combeferre don't have the space. Enjolras' parents like to think they can guilt trip their son out of becoming a radical anarchist by paying for him to live in a spacious three-bedroom apartment, and Enjolras kindly allows them to retain that delusion. It's a fairly effective system; it gives his parents peace of mind and Combeferre and Enjolras donate the money they would be spending on rent to local charities and organizations. That Gavroche can stay in the third bedroom when he needs to is really just an added bonus (they offered it to Courfeyrac initially, of course, but he understandably didn't want to leave Marius alone and frantically looking for a studio apartment or a new room-mate).
As Combeferre lights the stove, Gavroche hops back onto the counter beside him and asks, “Hey, ‘ferre, I gotta question.”
Combeferre slices in to the butter, sighing, “I've told you, if you need a forged signature Feuilly is much better-”
“Nah, that’s taken care of.” Gavroche says with simple surety, the way he says most things, because he’s unlike any eleven year old Combeferre’s ever met. “We got this project in school, for Valentine’s Day, and we gotta talk to people in our family about what they think love is. But my parents don’t even notice I don’t live in their house anymore, so I wanted to know if you thought it was a good idea for me to say the Amis are my family and interview you guys instead.”
Combeferre bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling; there’s a reason they all adore Gavroche, and it’s not just because the kid is hilarious. He turns to look at him, using the back of his hand to push his glasses further up on his nose. “I want you to answer me honestly.” Gavroche looks confused, but nods. “Are you asking me because you actually want my opinion or because I’m the least likely to cry on you after you ask.”
A grin cracks through Gavroche's face as he shrugs. “Both?”
“Fair enough.” He says, cracking an egg into the glass on the counter. “And I think it’s a great idea. But if I were you, I’d wait until you have everyone together to tell them you listed them as family, so you get one mildly suffocating group hug instead of nine individual teary ones.”
“Good plan.”
As Gavroche grins at him from the counter, Courfeyrac struts out of the hallway and into the living room, announcing his arrival with, “Alright, home-made breakfast. How can I help?”
Combeferre raises an eyebrow at Gavroche, who’s shaking his head exaggeratedly, eyes wide in mock terror.
“Oh come on, I can make breakfast.” Courfeyrac says, voice growing nearer as Combeferre adds cheese to melt on Gavroche’s eggs, and tries not to think of every time Courfeyrac almost lost limbs by attempting to operate a stove, or accidentally gave them food poisoning.
“Yeah, ‘ferre, I heard Courf once made a whole bowl of cereal without starting a fire.” Gavroche chirps from beside him, and Combeferre snorts back a laugh.
“Watch it, kid.” Courfeyrac says without malice, and Combeferre finally turns to see him, one of Combeferre’s favorite sweaters hanging off his shoulder as he ruffles Gavroche’s hair. “Sarcasm’ll stunt your growth.”
“See?” Gavroche calls triumphantly, a smug grin puling at his lips as he turns to look at Combeferre. “Least Courf knows what sarcasm is.”
“That explains why he’s so hobbit-sized.”
Courfeyrac gasps indignantly. “You wound me, Combeferre. But I’ll let you make it up to me by letting me help with breakfast.”
He pouts then, all wide brown-gold eyes and lip stuck out and his damn freckles, and not even Gavroche furiously shaking his head behind him could make Combeferre capable of denying a pouting Courfeyrac. “I’ve got the eggs ready, if you want to cut an avocado up.” Courfeyrac punches the air triumphantly, turning to stick his tongue out at Gavroche, and Combeferre shakes his head fondly, adding, “But if you accidentally cut off a finger you’re never allowed in this kitchen again.”
He turns, expecting a snarky response from his best friend, and instead gets an armful of Courfeyrac, who shoves himself at Combeferre, wrapping his arms around his waist and saying into Combeferre’s chest, “Smell me. Come on, smell me. How do I smell?”
Combeferre, like the rational being he prides himself to be, tries to smell Courfeyrac’s hair in the least creepy way possible before responding dryly, “Like a summer meadow.”
Courfeyrac pulls away, nodding in satisfaction. “You’re goddamn right I do.”
He moves around to pull an avocado from their fruit bowl, and there’s a moment of silence before Gavroche shakes his head and sighs, “Adults are so weird.”
Next to him, Courfeyrac laughs. “You don't know the half of it, kid.”
Courfeyrac and Gavroche are situated on the island/bar/room divider at the edge of the kitchen, Courfeyrac happily eating half an avocado and some left over take-out from the night before, and Gavroche dumping more salt than is necessarily healthy onto his breakfast, when Gavroche brings up the assignment again. “So, ‘ferre.” He says seriously, and Combeferre resists the urge to tell him not to talk with his mouth full. “What do you think love is?”
Courfeyrac, obviously confused by the question, glances between the two of them as Combeferre frowns. “Don’t you want to wait until you can write down our answers?”
“Eh, my memory’s awesome.” Gavroche says, tapping the side of his head with his fork.
“If you say so.” Combeferre chuckles, then tries to think, his eyes flicking involuntarily to Courfeyrac. He decides he doesn’t want to go near what he feels for Courfeyrac with a ten foot pole, and instead thinks back to the last serious relationship he had. Elliot, whom he met in a biology lab; a lot of their relationship consisted of studying or working quietly alongside each other, happy to sit in silence together. He was the first boyfriend he’d had that didn’t make Combeferre feel like he didn’t have to change anything about himself to make the relationship work. “Love is quiet, and… easy. Safe, maybe.”
Courfeyrac makes a face, rolling his eyes as he scoffs, “Yeah, if you’re eighty.” Turning to Gavroche, he asks, “What’s this about?”
“School project.” Gavroche warbles, around a mouthful of food. “Gotta ask people what they think love is. Valentine’s day thing.”
“Well.” Courfeyrac says, gesturing at Combeferre with his fork. “Ferre-bear, no offense, but love isn’t ‘quiet’. It’s loud, and messy, and completely awesome, and it takes a lot of work. Easy love is boring. Real love is wild and wonderful and awful, like a rollercoaster. Or a marvel movie.”
Combeferre rolls his eyes; he knows Courfeyrac is teasing him, would know it even without the gentle way Courfeyrac is smiling at him, but he also knows that he genuinely believes what he’s saying. It’s just another reason they’d be an incompatible couple (the list is getting pretty long at this point), and Combeferre tries not to let it bother him. Instead of responding to Courfeyrac, he turns back to Gavroche, a thought occurring to him. “You don’t have school on Valentine’s Day.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So this ‘project’ would be due tomorrow. And you’re just starting it now.”
Gavroche doesn’t falter, just shrugs his agreement, and Courfeyrac laughs, loud and open, before raising his hand for a high-five. Gavroche accepts it with a smile, and Courfeyrac says, “That’s the spirit. Procrastination is a life skill.”
Combeferre raises an eyebrow. “Courf, we’re supposed to be good role models here.” He teases, and Courfeyrac rolls his eyes with a smile.
“C’mon, ‘procrastinate as much as possible’ is so not the most dangerous thing Gav will learn from us.”
And, well, he’s got a point. Just last week Jehan taught him to hotwire a car, and Combeferre’s pretty sure Bahorel and Grantaire have been taking him to their kick-boxing gym. “Then what is, exactly?”
“‘Question everything’.” Gavroche answers easily, sliding the last forkful of food into his mouth before sliding off his stool. “Gonna go get dressed now.”
They watch as he walks through the living room and down the hall to the guest room, and when he turns back to Courfeyrac his face is a mixture of pride, shock, and amusement. After a second, he chuckles. “Well, he’s definitely learning to be unnecessarily dramatic. I blame Enjolras.”
Combeferre laughs softly, and the two of them fall into comfortable silence, as Courfeyrac eats and Combeferre pulls out his phone to check the news and weather. As he scrolls, a message pops up from Joly.
[from: Joly] Knock knock
Combeferre grins; he’s about to send back a ‘who’s there’, when there’s an actual knock at the front door, and then the sound of a key turning (they all have keys to one another's apartments, it just makes things easier). Combeferre lifts his head up and sees Joly pushing open the door with a bright smile. “Who’s there?”
“...damn, I didn’t actually have a joke to follow that.” Joly groans as he walks into the living room, Grantaire entering behind him and closing the door. “Great. I feel like a failure already, and it’s not even seven-thirty.”
“Welcome to my life.” Grantaire mutters, then rolls his eyes when Joly whips around, presumably with a hundred different positive affirmations at the ready. “I’m joking, christ, calm down, you can’t just give me an opening like that and expect me not to take advantage of it.”
Joly sighs, and Combeferre takes a moment to take the sight of the two of them in. They're both stunningly awake and put-together for seven a.m.; Joly’s wearing his usual combo of a novelty shirt and obscenely brightly coloured pants, and Grantaire’s adorned in his self-proclaimed ‘vagabond lumberjack chic’, and Combeferre can’t understand why either of them is standing in his living room this early in the morning.
Courfeyrac voices Combeferre's confusion for him with a chipper, “Friends! Countrymen! To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Eponine was fucking exhausted after her double shift yesterday, so I turned off her alarm, left her a note to tell her I was taking Gav to school, and called Joly to borrow his car.” Grantaire explains, and Joly nods with a smile.
“And I don’t have class until noon and like inviting myself to things.” He says, grinning widely, then blinks excitedly. “Oh, and I almost forgot! Do you guys want to come to a rom-com marathon at the campus theatre on V-Day with me and Bossuet? Well, Courf, do you want to come, ‘ferre, you have less of a choice. We will drag you there if it comes to it.” Joly looks to Courfeyrac for confirmation.
“We… actually already have plans.” Courfeyrac says hesitantly, glancing at Combeferre, who tries to school his face into something vaguely apologetic as he looks back at Joly. “The two of us spending Valentine’s Day together this year.”
“Oh.” Joly says, and his face lights up instantly, like all of his dreams have just come true. “Like… a date?”
“No, no.” Courfeyrac waves him away, explaining simply, “A friendship outing.”
Grantaire raises a single eyebrow. “A friendship outing.”
A friendship outing. Unsurprisingly not Combeferre’s idea, because he does have some sense of self-preservation, but he... tends to have trouble denying Courfeyrac anything.
Courfeyrac nods eagerly next to him. “Yeah, since we’re both single for the first Valentine’s Day that we’ve known each other, and I thought, y'know, why spend a day whining about being alone when I can spend it celebrating my best friendship? Enjolras has some project - thingie - that he has to do, or we'd invite him too, and we’re just gonna go to museums and bookstores and stuff.” Well, that's half true. Enjolras will have a project to do, or Combeferre will tell Grantaire exactly what happened to his favorite green hoodie that he hasn't seen in years.
“Oh, cool.” Grantaire says.
Joly looks at Combeferre, eyes silently asking what the hell he’s gotten himself into. Joly knows, of course, because Joly is ridiculously perceptive and one of his closest friends, and the person Combeferre comes to when he needs to sulk about Courfeyrac’s latest infatuation. Combeferre shrugs, and Joly’s eyes shift into something that clearly says ‘we’re talking about this later’. “Yeah, that sounds awesome.” He says after a beat, then shrugs. “Well, it’ll just be me and Boss then. I can think of worse things.”
Combeferre lets himself grin at that; Joly is almost as gone for Bossuet as he is for Courfeyrac. Sometimes they sit and watch How It's Made and feel sorry for themselves together. It's very therapeutic.
“Grantaire, you’re not going with?” Courfeyrac frowns. “What, Love Actually isn’t good enough for you anymore?”
"I mean, it is pretty aggressively fatphobic." Combeferre murmurs.
"Okay, point." Courfeyrac nods. "Bad example, but my question stands."
Chuckling, Grantaire shakes his head, kicking at the floor softly. “Well, I- I’ve got a date, actually.”
That takes Combeferre by surprise. Grantaire’s had a strict no-dating policy for almost two years, since he stopped drinking and started trying to sort out all the things he doesn’t like to talk about. When pressed, he always said that relationships just added that much more unnecessary complication and stress.
“Wow, really?”
“Yeah, y'know, just some guy I met on one of my shifts. Plays the guitar, english major, not an impassioned revolutionary bone in his body.” Grantaire shrugs, his lips pulling up in his usual grin, before he pauses, head tilting slightly. “Speaking of, where is Enjolras?”
Courfeyrac rolls his eyes fondly. “Got caught up in the campaign for a better tomorrow and forgot about an assignment, as per. He’s been at the library since six.”
“Yikes.” Grantaire says, clicking his tongue against his teeth. He glances down the hall toward Enjolras' bedroom anyway, and Combeferre has to give him credit. Enjolras likes to pretend he's not still hopelessly in love with Grantaire, but Grantaire doesn't seem to care enough to try to hide it. Miraculously, Enjolras is the one person on the planet who doesn't seem to notice, and therein lies the beauty of their relationship.
“Demonstrating again that procrastination is not a life skill.” Combeferre says, sending Courfeyrac a significant glance, and Courfeyrac, true to form, just rolls his eyes back at him.
“Is too.” Gavroche calls with ever perfect timing, striding into the living room, backpack slung over his shoulder. He stops as he sees Grantaire and Joly, the latter of whom waves happily at him. “Oh, hey guys. Is Ep sleeping in again today? ”
Grantaire nods. "Not knowingly, but whatever."
"Good. She needs it." Gavroche says as he steps into the maroon and black combat boots Bahorel gave him for last winter's 'Nondenominational Holiday Party'.
Combeferre glances over his shoulder at the oven clock. "Hey, you're gonna be late to school if you don't hurry."
"Oh darn." Gavroche deadpans, and Grantaire laughs.
"C'mon, smart-ass, you've gotta get an education so you can become president and make waking up before nine illegal." He says, gesturing towards the door, and Gavroche gives a put-upon sigh as he walks out of the apartment, waving goodbye to Courfeyrac and Combeferre as he goes. "Later, you two."
Joly waves as well, smiling brightly. Combeferre gives him and Grantaire a mock-salute as the two of them follow Gavroche out the door. It closes behind them with a click and leaves Courfeyrac and Combeferre in silence.
After a beat, Courfeyrac lets out a low whistle. "Grantaire has a date."
Combeferre nods. "Apparently."
"Enjolras is going to lose his shit."
Combeferre can't help but agree; jealousy isn't an emotion Enjolras is overfamiliar with, and he tends not to handle it well. They have the lifetime ban from the cafe on fourth street to prove it.
As Courfeyrac moves to put his plate in the sink, Combeferre's phone pings with a new message.
[from: Joly] R u on crack
He shakes his head in fond exasperation, and slides the message to respond.
[to: Joly] Aren't you driving?
[from: Joly] Rs got it. And I repeat r u on crack
Combeferre sighs, smiling at the phone in spite of himself.
[to: Joly] Not that I'm aware of.
The next messages come through rapidly, Joly texting his thought processes in real time.
[from: Joly] Then are you out of ur corn fed mind
[from: Joly] A friendship outing ferre why
[from: Joly] Why would u do that to urself
[from: Joly] Are u gonna try to seduce him because that's what Bahorel's doing
[from: Joly] Shit thats supposed to be a secret I'm so sorry please don't tell him I told u oh god
The messages keep coming in, no doubt full of Joly alternatively swearing him to secrecy and asking about the friendship outing, but Combeferre is distracted by Courfeyrac passing by him and saying, "I'm gonna get my stuff, thanks for letting me crash and eat your food," before pressing a kiss to the side of Combeferre's head. "I'm so excited about the friendship outing, It'll be exactly what we need to keep our minds off the commercialized romance society tries to force feed us every year."
He beams at Combeferre then, warm and happy and Combeferre's breath catches in his throat. It occurs to him, then, how much Courfeyrac is genuinely looking forward to spending an entire day with Combeferre, celebrating their friendship. Courfeyrac may not be in love with Combeferre, but he does love him unconditionally, and that's what matters. It's enough.
It has to be.