Archive of Our Own ^beta

Enjolras just wants to eat his cereal. It’s almost eleven o’clock at night, and he’s been at work, and then class, and he hasn’t had time to eat yet. He wants to be able to take down the barricade he’s erected out of his bedroom door.

But there’s a bomb about to explode in the living room.

Not literally. But Combeferre and Courfeyrac are having their first fight since Combeferre accidentally kicked a soccer ball into Courfeyrac’s face during seventh grade gym class. And it’s so stupid. Combeferre is judging because Courfeyrac’s sleeping around and Courfeyrac is pissed off because he thinks Combeferre is slut-shaming him. What it actually boils down to is much simpler, yet much less tangible: Combeferre has loved Courfeyrac since that fight during gym class. Courfeyrac couldn’t tell you when he fell in love with Combeferre, but he realized it a few months ago after a night out in the city, drunk on alcohol and the sparkle in Combeferre’s eyes after he gets his top internship. Enjolras just wants to scream that they’re both idiots, and get his goddamn cereal, but he knows he can’t interfere. It’s not his place.

When there’s the slamming of the apartment door and a bedroom door, Enjolras thinks it’s safe to come out.

Shit. He has no idea what to do.

At least he finally has his cocoa puffs.

Courfeyrac returns to the apartment a few hours later, and Enjolras is waiting. Of course Enjolras is going to make sure his best friend gets home safely. When Courfeyrac sees Enjolras at the kitchen table, though, he can’t stop his face from revealing surprise, but it’s gone quickly and in its place is an exasperated sigh.

“What are you doing? You’ve been up since five.” Courfeyrac’s voice isn’t slurred, but it’s hoarse, and hearing that makes Enjolras’s heart ache. He hates to see his best friend like this.

“Waiting for you. Where were you?” Enjolras is concerned, and he shuts his laptop, but doesn’t pull off his reading glasses.

“I just took a walk, E. But Combeferre probably thinks I was fucking the entire town.” That last sentence is bitter.

“He doesn’t think that, Courf. He doesn’t,” Enjolras says. It isn’t the first time he’s had to play mediator in the past few weeks, with the small spats that hinted, that warned what was coming. Enjolras just couldn’t see it. (He thinks that’s what makes him a shitty friend, more than the fact that he’s fed up with his friends and their stupid miscommunication and their stupid feelings.) “Just… please don’t ask me to get involved.”

“I can’t believe you’re defending him—“ Courfeyrac is back to pissed off in less than a second.

“I’m not—“

“He all but called me a slut and you’re not going to do anything? That’s basically taking his side,” Courfeyrac says, unable to keep the hurt from his otherwise sharp words.

“I’m not. You’re my best friends - I can’t take a side, Courfeyrac. I know you’re angry and hurt but please don’t be mad at me for this,” Enjolras says, reaching out for Courfeyrac’s hand. But, for the first time, Courfeyrac pulls away.

“No. You know, I thought we were best friends. But then you had to take his side and I guess that’s not actually the case.” Enjolras’s feels the sting of words across his face, inside his stomach, between his heart and his lungs. This is not what he meant to happen, at all.

“Don’t go. It’s late, Courf. Just sleep here tonight,” Enjolras all but begs.

“No. I’m going to go crash at Feuilly’s.” With that, the door slams for a second time.

It takes all Enjolras has to shuffle to his bed, instead of just crying right then and there at the kitchen table. He just… he just hurts. His lungs are aching with worry for Courfeyrac, for both of them, he’s exhausted because he’s been on morning shifts the entire week, his stomach is swirling and tangling itself over his intestines because he hates that he’s made it worse. So he just downright sobs, letting the tears stream freely down his face and onto his lap, onto his sheets, over his shirt. It’s messy and Enjolras thinks that he deserves it, for making a bigger mess out of this than it already was.

“What the fuck are you doing up?”

Shit. It’s only seven in the morning and Enjolras had to beg for a late shift to begin with and he’s not going to show up tired, dammit. Last night doesn’t matter; he has to be on an A game today.

“I’m not pouring my last Red Bull into the coffee I made,” Enjolras mutters, choosing not to look up and see Combeferre’s disappointed look.

“I didn’t see you after lab last night. ” That does make Enjolras look up, and he can see the red rims lining Combeferre’s eyes.

“I, um, waited up for Courfeyrac,” he admits, and Combeferre immediately goes tense.

“But he’s not here,” is the only thing Combeferre can get out.

Enjolras, because he’s known these two idiots since the second grade, can see the terrifying amount of concern hidden behind Combeferre’s prickly exterior. Enjolras knows Combeferre felt the same way during the fight last night, that Courfeyrac must have missed it, distracted by his own anger. Enjolras knows that Combeferre isn’t angry at Courfeyrac for having multiple sexual partners; he’s concerned about the fact that a lot of it isn’t safe or protected. And he’s also jealous, because he wants to be with Courfeyrac but he doesn’t think Courfeyrac loves him back.

It’s a huge goddamn mess, in short.

“No. He’s at Feuilly’s.” Enjolras answers, to try to ease some of that concern for Combeferre.

“You were talking to him?” There’s a pointedness to his words that sets Enjolras teeth on edge.

He can’t handle Combeferre getting territorial about this, too.

“Yes. Because, like I told him, you’re my best friends. I’m not going to take a side,” Enjolras explains, but Combeferre’s pissed, because he eyes Enjolras’s thermos like there’s nothing he wants more in the world than to dump it down the drain.

“I can’t believe you. You’ve been just as concerned about what he’s doing but you refuse to say anything!” Combeferre is fuming.

“It’s not my place. Look, I care—“ Enjolras tries, because he cannot have them both pissed off at him and each other. He’s taken the shitty situation and made it all about him; he’s made it worse.

“If you really cared, you would have checked on me too, instead of just waiting for Courfeyrac,” Combeferre spits out. Enjolras knows that Combeferre doesn’t mean it, that he’s hurting, but Enjolras can’t help but feel the sting. He doesn’t want to be their punching bag.

“Hey, don’t be like that—“ Enjolras starts.

“Just go to work, Enjolras.”

Enjolras hates that he does.

“Welcome to Dunkin, what can I—oh. Hey, R. What’s up?” It’s been a rough morning. The more Enjolras thinks about last night, the more he realizes that he fucked up. He let them hurt each other, and then he let them direct their anger at him; now it’s all just fucked and he doesn’t know how to fix it. But at least R is there when the rush dulls to nothingness, waiting with a kiss and a book Enjolras has been looking for for weeks.

“Um… I don’t know if you checked your phone, but there was a huge fight last night,” Grantaire says nervously.

“I know, R, it was in my apartment.” Enjolras says. Well, sighs. “Do you know if Courfeyrac went to Feuilly’s last night?”

“Last night? He was at mine. But he said it was only for a night. He’s not ‘letting Combeferre win,’ or something.” Grantaire’s voice is incredulous.

“Okay. Good.” Enjolras is glad that his friend was safe, was warm, last night.

“What happened?” Grantaire’s voice is like coffee on a Sunday morning, comforting, and it’s clear that he’s worried about Enjolras. “It can’t be good because you look wrecked.”

“No, it wasn’t. They said awful things and now they’re both not speaking to me because I didn’t take a side, and I don’t know what to do, and—“ Enjolras just lets his anxiety finally flow out of him.

“Hey, hey. This isn’t your fault,” Grantaire says, his hand briefly brushing over Enjolras’s. “This isn’t your mess to sort out.”

“But it is. They’re my best friends and I want them to be happy!I know they love each other but I don’t know how to fix this, or where to even start. I don’t know what to do.” Enjolras takes a deep breath, leaning over the counter. Instantly, Grantaire plants a kiss on Enjolras’s nose.

“Just take a breath. They’ve probably calmed down by now. It’ll be fine. Now get back to work, Mr. Barista.” Enjolras manages a chuckle. Maybe it isn’t as bad as he thought.

Courfeyrac is at home when Enjolras gets back. Enjolras smells like coffee, notebook paper, and stress, but Courfeyrac doesn’t say a word to Enjolras. Neither does Combeferre.

The next day is a meeting day, and while Combeferre still takes notes and Courfeyrac still chimes in, it’s tense.

By the day after, Combeferre and Courfeyrac hesitantly apologize to Enjolras on their own, but they both say they can’t forgive each other.

“Woah. You don’t look hot, E.” Enjolras looks up from over his laptop, face tense.

“It’s been a rough few weeks,” is all he needs to say. Courfeyrac and Combeferre still won’t talk to each other, and they can’t go more than a few days without blowing up at Enjolras for something that happens in the house—he ate dinner with Courfeyrac instead of Combeferre, he watched Jeopardy with Combeferre instead of Netflix with Courfeyrac, or something completely ridiculous—and Enjolras is tired.

“You need to tell them to stop being assholes,” Bahorel says, sitting down across from his friend. It’s a rare occasion that Bahorel can be seen at the library, but he’ll do it when Enjolras looks this shitty. “If you don’t soon, Grantaire will. He’s worried about you. Frankly, so am I.”

“I’m fine. I’ve told him not to get involved,” Enjolras says. He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to fend off the latest installment in the constant stream of headaches; he’s been up all hours of the night, either making sure Combeferre is sleeping, or Courfeyrac gets home safely (he hasn’t brought anyone back to the apartment but he’s made it obvious where he’s been). Enjolras has been trying to talk them both down, on top of his own schedule. Between classes and work and meetings...he doesn’t know how much more he can take.

“Dude. You look like you need a good night’s sleep, at the very least. you’re one wrong move away from giving yourself a migraine. I know R’s told you that our place is always open if it’s getting to be too much,” Bahorel pushes. “And Joly and Bossuet are at Musichetta’s tonight, so there’s an open bed.”

“I’m fine, Bahorel. I’ve been sleeping. It’s just been tense,” Enjolras says, raking a hand through his hair. He hates how stressed he is about this. He’s been dreading going home recently and playing double agent, just so both his best friends don’t hate him. It’s making his stomach turn in knots whenever he tries to eat, and sleeping is something else entirely.

“So take a night off. Come on, we’ll watch that stupidly fancy Aaron Sorkin show you love and we can make tacos. You need a break,” Bahorel says, and it’s clear that he’s not letting this go.

“The Newsroom is a great show, fuck off.” But the words are said with none of Enjolras’ normal enthusiasm.

“I’m not sure if you’ve figured it out, chief, but I’m under strict orders to bring you to the apartment. So please just stop arguing, or I will physically haul you out of here,” Bahorel says, leaning over the table to let Enjolras know he’s serious.

“I can’t. They both need me right now,” Enjolras tries to explain. Bahorel just snorts.

“If they really needed you then maybe they’d stop treating you like shit,” is all he says, before he starts packing up Enjolras’s stuff.

That’s how Enjolras ends up squished between Bahorel and Grantaire on their sofa, eating tacos and watching Jeopardy.

“We could just start an episode of—“ Grantaire had started.

“I’m not ruining my appetite with that blasted show right now,” Bahorel had retorted, and so Jeopardy was agreed upon as the temporary show, as Grantaire had every single episode downloaded.

“This guy’s going to lose because he’ll wager too much in Final Jeopardy,” Enjolras mumbles, and Bahorel straight-up drops his taco.

“How have you seen this episode? It’s from the ‘80s.” Bahorel isn’t even going to question that Enjolras is right; he knows enough about his friend to know that Enjolras doesn’t fuck around.

“You ever wonder why I have fifty-three fucking years worth of Jeopardy on a flashdrive?” Grantaire deadpans, and Enjolras shrinks further into himself. “Guess who watches Jeopardy when he can’t sleep.”

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” Bahorel says, looking flabbergasted, his eyes stuck on Enjolras.

“It’s a good show,” Enjolras defends. He’s already anxious enough about what’s happening at the apartment, because he knows Courfeyrac and Combeferre won’t check their texts to see where Enjolras is.

“You’re a grandpa,” Bahorel says, before taking a large sip from his beer bottle. “I can’t believe you watch Jeopardy in your free time. Does Combeferre watch with you?”

“Yeah, when he’s not in lab. But he’s the worst to watch with—he can’t keep his mouth shut if he knows the answer,” Enjolras says, smiling a little.

“Of course he can’t. When else can he show off his encyclopedia of a brain?” Grantaire says, frowning a little when Enjolras rubs at his temples. “Please tell me you’re not getting a migraine.”

Enjolras’ migraines aren’t often, at least not in his personal opinion, (although every few months is often, Grantaire tries to argue) but they’re vicious and leave him out of action for days.

“I’m not. I’m just tired. Thank you, R, for doing this. I needed a—” But of course, fate decides to rear its ugly head, and Enjolras’s phone dings before he can finish. In an instant, Enjolras’ body goes completely rigid. He reads the texts silently. “They’ve had another fight and Combeferre is trying to move out. I have to get over there.”

“Enjolras, this isn’t—“ Bahorel tries, but Enjolras is already standing up and grabbing his bag.

“It’s ten o’clock at night, ang. Let them be. Maybe they’ll work things out,” Grantaire reasons, wrapping his boyfriend in a hug that’s too tight to get out of. But Enjolras’s muscles don’t melt, not instantly like normal, not even after a few seconds, like when he’s stressed, or a few minutes when he’s anxious.

“I have to go. They both texted me.” In a flash, Enjolras is out of the door.

“You better hope he has his meds handy. Something tells me he’s not going to hold out much longer, especially if they keep going at it,” Bahorel muses darkly, and Grantaire just grimaces, taking a second to formulate his reply.

“They better get their shit together before I gotta do it for them.”

When Enjolras lets himself into the apartment, he’s met by a wall of sound.

“—SAID THAT I DIDN’T MEAN THAT I WANTED YOU TO… Enjolras!” Courfeyrac yells, stopping in his tracks.

“You’re moving out?” Enjolras’s voice cracks roughly, and Combeferre winces.

“It’s not fair to anyone if I stay. I don’t know if it’s permanent, but until Courfeyrac and I can work things out, I’m not going to subject either of you to more of what’s been going on,” he explains, and Enjolras watches Courfeyrac’s face turn red with rage.

“Then work it out,” Enjolras says. “Don’t move out, ‘Ferre. Especially not this late,” Enjolras tries to reason, but that’s the moment Courfeyrac explodes. And Enjolras’s broken words have, once again, caused his two best friends to yell.

“IF YOU WOULD JUST TALK TO ME INSTEAD OF AVOIDING ME THEN MAYBE YOU WOULDN’T FEEL THE NEED TO DO THIS!” Courfeyrac’s voice is thunder, destroying as easily as it normally puts things back together.

“YOU’RE AVOIDING ME!” Combeferre’s voice sounds ripped from his throat. “YOU KNOW I DIDN’T MEAN WHAT I SAID ABOUT YOUR SEX LIFE LIKE THAT AND NOW YOU WON’T COME HOME AND IF ME LEAVING MEANS YOU STAYING I’LL TAKE THAT ANY DAY!”

“YOU DON’T GET TO MAKE THAT SACRIFICE!”

Enjolras is trying to slip into the kitchen, to let them deal with things on their own. His head is killing him and he can’t focus on this right now.

“DO YOU EVEN SEE WHAT THIS IS DOING TO ENJOLRAS!” At Combeferre’s words, something changes in Courfeyrac’s face. The wall of anger is crumbling, leaving only the hurt splashed across his face.

“Do you even see what leaving would do to him? To me?”

“Enjolras?” Combeferre asks. His voice is full of rusted nails.

“Enjolras?” Courfeyrac makes his name sound like a plea before an execution.

In an instant, Enjolras feels everything that’s been simmering boil over. He is sick of being their middle man, their punching bag, their shoulder to cry on. He loves them and wants them to work this out. He could never hate them, but he’s so fucking pissed that he doesn’t care how fucking broken they both sound. They are going to end this right here, right now, because Enjolras cannot do it for another goddamn second.

“You don’t get to drag me into this fight. I don’t want either of you to leave. You’re my best friends. But I am not doing this any longer.” Enjolras doesn’t realize how dangerous his voice sounds until they both balk.

“I know that it’s been—“

“That’s why I’m—“

“NO!” Enjolras roars, and he waits to make sure they’re both silent before he continues. “You two are going to work this out, right here right now. Because I can’t do it anymore. Combeferre will explain that he’s concerned because you’re not being safe and Courfeyrac is going to explain why he was hurt. You’re going to say ‘I love you’ and apologize and talk and maybe even make out for a bit, okay?!”

“I don’t—“

“YES YOU DO! YOU LOVE EACH OTHER! NOW SUCK IT THE FUCK UP AND DEAL WITH IT!”

Just as quickly as he enters, Enjolras leaves. He only has five hours before he has to be at work again. He could go back to Grantaire’s…

But, no. Enjolras is pissed off and he’s not going to put that on R. He just needs to clear his head.

“Dude, you look like a mess,” Enjolras’ coworker says,an hour into their shift. It’s only five o’clock in the morning but he just watched as Enjolras knocked back two shots of espresso, one chased with four Advil.

“I just didn’t sleep last night. My roommates were fighting,” Enjolras explains, grimacing at the beep of his headset. He doesn’t know how the city store managed to install a drive thru, but they did and it’s fucking hell. “Welcome to Dunkin’, what can I get you?”

The next few hours are the normal blur of donuts, sandwiches, and coffee. He’s been given a few tips but he’s also been screamed at for not having coconut donuts and overall he’s getting the kind of headache that he knows will turn into a migraine. He’s just hoping it holds off until he can get home.

“Welcome to Dunkin’, what can I get for you?” Enjolras says on autopilot, without looking up from the register.

“Enjolras…“ It’s Grantaire.

“Shit, I didn’t realize it was you.” Enjolras gives his boyfriend a smile, but Grantaire’s lips don’t even twitch.

“Everyone’s been flipping shit. Where did you go last night?” Grantaire asks.

“I just walked around. I couldn’t… I couldn’t handle it.” Enjolras’s voice is wrecked.

“Well, whatever you said, it worked.” Grantaire’s voice is warm.

“You mean?” He sounds terrifyingly hopeful.

“Yup. Apparently they talked all night, but I’m pretty sure that’s code for making out. Except now they’re tearing their hair out, because not only has Bahorel convinced them that you’re curled up somewhere dying of a migraine, but you haven’t let anyone know you’re alive.” Grantaire’s stern words cause a blush to form on Enjolras’s cheeks. “But, you know, I don’t know if Bahorel is that far off.”

“I’m fine. My phone’s dead, but after I get off I’ll check in with everyone. My professor cancelled lecture for today,” Enjolras says, but it’s at that moment his coworker reappears.

“I called in Andrea, mate. You look like shit, so when she gets here you can go,” he says firmly, and Enjolras just sighs. When he looks back to Grantaire, he’s firing off texts on his phone.

“Awesome. I just informed C-squared that you’re alive, so you can suffer their wrath instead of mine when they get here to take you home,” he says, before leaning over the counter to give his boyfriend a peck on the cheek.

“I can finish—“ Enjolras starts, because Grantaire knows how much he needs this money, but Grantaire just shushes him.

“Focus on not getting a migraine right now, E.” With that, Grantaire disappears. It takes all of ten minutes before both Combeferre and Courfeyrac rush into the store. Enjolras, who had been in the back taking inventory and trying to stave off the migraine, is dragged out by the sound of their worried voices. Luckily, Andrea had arrived two minutes earlier and wasted no time in kicking Enjolras off of the clock.

“Come on,” Combeferre says, as soon as Enjolras is in front of them.

“Why did R leave?” Enjolras mumbles, because he hates this ‘hand off Enjolras to the next set of babysitters’ thing that’s happening.

“You, my friend, forgot to pick up a very important prescription for the coming hours. He’s gone to get it,” Combeferre explains, watching as Enjolras looks down.

“I’m not getting a migraine.” His defiance is weak at best, but they all let it slip into silence. However, it only lasts for a few seconds before Courfeyrac can’t take it any longer.

“We’re sorry,” Courfeyrac blurts out. All he gets in response is a small chuckle.

“Are you together now?” Enjolras asks. When they both nod slightly, Enjolras pulls them in for a hug.

“We are really sorry,” they both mumble in the embrace, but it ends much too quickly, as Courfeyrac searches for something in Enjolras’s eyes.

“We’re running out of time. It’s going to hit soon,” is Courfeyrac’s official verdict.

“You can’t predict when I’m going to get a migraine, Courf. I’m fine,” Enjolras says, trying not to focus on how the pressure is building behind his eyes.

“Yes, I can. Your eyes get small,” Courfeyrac argues, but Combeferre just wraps an arm around Enjolras and starts the ten minute walk back to their apartment.

“Look, I know that an apology isn’t going to fix how we treated you these past few weeks. We were immature and hurtful and ungrateful and we’re both so sorry, E,” Courfeyrac says once they reach the bridge that’s three minutes from home. The air is cold and the snow is sharp against Enjolras’ cheeks—he can acutely feel everything now, and he knows they have to hurry.

“It’s okay. You’re my best friends and I’m glad you’ve worked it out and you’re happy.” The words are genuine, even though Combeferre still looks incredibly guilty. “So, how long did you—“

It’s at that moment when Enjolras’s head feels like it explodes. His knees crumple, and the light stabs into his eyelids, the snow becomes razors falling upon his skin. Everything is spinning and his head is throbbing and pulsing and pounding and hurting.

The pain increases when he recognizes that Combeferre is speaking, probably to him, but he can’t decipher the words around everything that’s going on. He’s so close to throwing up from the pain but he can’t. There are hands on him, now, easing him back against something that’s hard and cold, and then they’re on his face. That touch is like applying a band-aid to his soul, and the harsh words have diminished to gentle noises, lulling Enjolras away from the shock.

“Can you open your eyes for me, E?” It’s Combeferre, but Enjolras can only shake his head, as little and as slow as he can. He thinks that if he does, he’s going to throw up from the pain.

“E, please,” Courfeyrac pleads, rubbing gentle circles between Enjolras’s left thumb and first finger.

Slowly, Enjolras pries his eyes open a little bit. Everything is doubled… that isn’t normal. Shit what if he’s having a stroke, it hurts enough to be having a stroke, oh my god is he having a stroke?

“Okay, you can close them. Can you walk?” Combeferre says, as Enjolras clamps his eyelids back shut as quickly as he can.

“See double,” Enjolras mumbles, and there’s a quick exhale.

“Okay.” There’s a pause, in which Enjolras can imagine his two best friends are staring at each other, trying to make the decision to take him home, or take him to the ER. “Here’s what’s going to happen: Courfeyrac and I are going to take you home, but we’ll monitor you because if this gets any worse you’ve got to go to the ER.”

Enjolras nods, but as soon as his friends haul him to his feet Enjolras feels his stomach turn. In an instant, he’s doubled over and vomiting everything that he’d eaten, Courfeyrac’s hands are the only thing keeping him from collapsing. It’s creating a new pressure in his skull and Enjolras wishes he could just pass out and not deal with it any longer.

But if he does that, he knows he’ll wake up in a hospital with bright lights and loud beeps and loud doctors and loud patients and he can’t do that. He can’t.

Luckily, Enjolras didn’t have much in his stomach in the first place, so when it’s finally over, Courfeyrac and Combeferre are quick about wiping his mouth and getting him moving again. Enjolras stumbles blindly along, hoping none of his professors see him and think he’s drunk this early in the morning.

“This isn’t going to work,” Courfeyrac gets out, as he stops Enjolras from hitting a pole for the third time in a minute. “We’re still a few minutes from home.”

“Then what do we do? Calling a friend with a car would take longer,” Combeferre shoots back. Right now, Courfeyrac is leaning Enjolras against a brick wall.

“I’ve got this.” There’s a few seconds between the words and when Courfeyrac guides Enjolras’s hands around his own neck. Enjolras instinctively wraps his legs around Courfeyrac’s waist, and then he’s lifted off of the ground. Normally, Enjolras would protest against the piggy-back ride, but if it’ll get him home faster, he’ll allow it just this once.

“All right,” Combeferre says, and they’re moving again. From there, it’s only about three minutes before Enjolras is temporarily deposited on the couch, so that Courfeyrac and Grantaire can help take off his shoes. All of the lights in the apartment are off, so Enjolras tries to open his eyes. When he sees Grantaire’s bright green eyes staring back, full of concern, Enjolras manages a smile before he shuts them again.

“Hi,” he mumbles. In response, Grantaire just helps slip Enjolras’ jacket off. He doesn’t stop there, though—together, he and Courfeyrac manage to strip Enjolras down to his t-shirt and boxers, before finding a pair of flannel pants (Are they Combeferre’s? Courfeyrac’s? Enjolras'? None of them know at this point) to coax him into.

That’s when Combeferre reappears, and Enjolras doesn’t even have to look to know that there’s a needle in his hand.

“I don’t need it.” Enjolras is shaking by now, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to spend the next few days in a haze, out of pain enough not to scream, but nauseous and dizzy enough to be completely out of it. It’s a shitty trade-off, and it’s decision that Enjolras never makes for himself.

“Like hell you do. You’ve thrown up, your vision is fucked, and I’m pretty sure you’re one bright light away from being unresponsive,” Courfeyrac whispers, but it doesn’t even matter, anyway. Combeferre grabs his arm, swabs him, and injects him before Enjolras even realizes what’s going on.

“You pick up a few tricks when you work with children,” is all he offers as explanation. “Come on, let’s get you in bed before you’re completely out of it.”

“Too late for that,” Grantaire says, but he smiles as he pries Enjolras off of the couch. “Up you get.”

“Don’t wanna,” Enjolras mumbles, but he lets Grantaire’s gentle grip on his hands guide his stumbling until he’s plopped down on his bed.

“Go to sleep, it’ll be better when you wake up,” Grantaire says, as he tucks his boyfriend in. His hands flit briefly through Enjolras’s curls; he notices that they’re a little bit sweaty.

“It hurts, R,” Enjolras gasps out, and Grantaire just sighs before moving to exit the pitch-black room.

“I know. Just try to rest,” he says, swallowing his worry as he shuts the door behind him. He wants to stay in there, he really does, but even his breathing would be too much for Enjolras to handle right now.

Plus, if Enjolras is getting a fever, they might have more to worry about than this monster migraine.

“He went down that quickly?” Courfeyrac says, and everyone can see Combeferre’s frown despite him being hunched over the counter, prepping the weird ice packs that Enjolras’ neurologist swears will help.

“Yeah. He felt pretty warm, too—he might be getting a fever,” Grantaire says, and Combeferre groans.

“This is the worst migraine he’s had,” Combeferre says, his knuckles going white against his grip on the counter. “If we hadn’t… if we weren’t…”

“I’m not going to lie and say you didn’t have a part in this. But it’s also just what he’s like. You know that,” Grantaire says, but Combeferre just nervously runs a hand through his hair.

“If I had just gotten my head out of my own ass—“ His voice is made of grit and gravel.

“Well, it’s still there. He was so fucking happy when I told him you two sorted it out, so just be there for him now. He’s let it go already, so you should, too,” Grantaire says, and it seems to snap Combeferre out of it.

“I’m going to go put the ice packs on,” he says, quietly slipping into the hallway. When he sneaks into Enjolras’s room, Enjolras doesn’t acknowledge his presence, but his breathing isn’t even enough for him to be asleep.

“Hey. I’ve got some ice packs,” Combeferre says softly, sitting down next to his friend. Enjolras scrunches his eyes a bit, so Combeferre makes sure to be gentle as he helps turn his friend onto his back. When his hands card the sweaty blond curls back, Combeferre is as gentle as possible, and lightly places the ice pack on Enjolras’ forehead. Enjolras gives a small smile, and his hand reaches out to find Combeferre’s.

“Hey,” he whispers back. There’s a pause, as Combeferre cards through Enjolras’ hair again.

“Is it helping?” Combeferre can’t help the worry that consumes his voice.

“Little bit. Hurts a lot.” It’s got to be terrible if Enjolras admits it. “But no ER.”

“You’re running a bit of a fever. If it gets too high, we’re going to have to take you,” Combeferre says, pulling a thermometer out of his pocket. Enjolras just scrunches his nose. “Actually, I need to know how high it is. Open up.” Shockingly, Enjolras complies, and in a matter of seconds the thermometer beeps.

“Fuck,” Enjolras whispers. The noise caused a sharp stab of pain both in his eyes and in his stomach. “Shit. I’m gonna…” With a quick move from Combeferre, Enjolras is heaving bile into a bucket. It doesn’t last long, but it has Combeferre concerned.

“101. And you’re going to have to drink some water, unless you want to experience dehydration on top of it,” Combeferre says.

“After I sleep.” It’s a promise, and once Combeferre replaces the ice pack on Enjolras’s forehead, it takes only a few minutes of running his hands through Enjolras’ hair before his breathing evens out.

Courfeyrac is just dozing off when he suddenly hears a sharp cry. Enjolras had slept for an hour, drank some water, and had since gone back to sleep. But that means the medicine is wearing off, and it’s still a few hours too early to give him more. And Combeferre and Grantaire had gone to the store and work, respectively.

“Fuck,” he mutters as he makes a brief stop at the freezer before stumbling into Enjolras’ room. There, his friend is drenched in sweat, hands fisted in his sheets, his body cramped into the tiniest ball it can manage. Wordlessly, he smooths back Enjolras’s curls, placing the ice pack onto his forehead. If possible, Enjolras gets smaller.

“Hey, I know it sucks but you’ve got to give it a few more hours,” Courfeyrac whispers. “You also gotta open your mouth for a few seconds.”

“No. No ER,” Enjolras mumbles, his mouth barely opening.

“I promise no ER. Just open your mouth.” Courfeyrac coaxes his friend. Enjolras just shakes his head, turning away from Courfeyrac. “I swear to god if you don’t open your mouth it’s going up the other end.”

Luckily, Courfeyrac is awarded with Enjolras hesitantly opening his mouth. When the thermometer beeps, Enjolras lets out a strangled gasp of pain.

“Lucky for you, it’s still 101.” But Enjolras can’t take the time to relish in this victory, because the pain is so bad he can’t help but let out whatever fucking noises his body wants to.

“Stay.” That’s the only thing Courfeyrac understands.

“I will if you move over,” Courfeyrac says, and Enjolras slowly shifts himself over, smiling when he can feel the bed dip, knowing that Courfeyrac is laying down next to him. They’re not touching, but Courfeyrac just being there, with the calmness he radiates, sends Enjolras quickly back into unconsciousness.

If Enjolras wakes up any time in the subsequent twenty-four hours, he doesn’t remember it. (He does and Combeferre and Courfeyrac and Grantaire can’t get the noises of pain out of their heads.) But the next time he does truly broach the surface of consciousness, the deadly pain has abated into a headache.

So, he stumbles out towards the living room, where his roommates have kept the lights blessedly low. He pauses right where the hallway gives way to the main area, because Combeferre and Courfeyrac are sitting close together on the couch, whispering and smiling and laughing and, yeah, kissing a little. It’s such a tender moment that Enjolras is amazed by how quickly the weeks of sharp words and ferocious glares have given way to this. He doesn’t want to interrupt, but he’s uneasy on his feet from all the doses of the medicine.

He doesn’t want to interrupt this moment, though, so he hides his smile and tries to creep into the kitchen unnoticed. However, Combeferre is smarter than that, and he’d deliberately moved a chair just far enough to the left so that Enjolras would bump into it on his way to the fridge. Immediately, Enjolras freezes, and he can’t help but sigh when both of his friends are immediately on their feet.

“Dammit, Combeferre,” he mutters. Courfeyrac tries to grab his arm and lead him to the couch, but Enjolras shakes him off. He just wants to go chug the bottle of orange juice in the fridge. When Enjolras reaches for it, Combeferre swats his hand away.

“You’re not going to chug it. You can go pour yourself a glass while I make some real food.” It’s the tone of voice Combeferre uses with small children, and Enjolras just shoots him a glare as he slowly shuffles through the actions, sitting down at the small table with a grunt.

“My stomach is still weird. I don’t want food,” Enjolras mumbles after he downs one glass, pouring himself another. Courfeyrac is sitting across from him, watching his friend carefully.

“You haven’t eaten since Thursday,” Courfeyrac responds. “You need to eat something.”

“It’s the medicine, Courf, it’s still making me nauseous,” Enjolras explains, rubbing at his temples. The residual headache is making him cranky.

“It’ll feel better once you put some food in your stomach,” Courfeyrac reassures him, his hand reaching across the table, gently grabbing Enjolras’ free one. “I know you don’t feel well, but you’ve got to do it.”

“I just don’t want to throw up again.” Enjolras’ voice is tired, and Courfeyrac responds by rubbing circles onto Enjolras’s hand with his thumb.

“It’s okay. It’s not going to be anything big… maybe grilled cheese? And fruit?” Combeferre suggests, and Enjolras just shrugs.

“I don’t care.” Enjolras pauses, because he’s looking at his two best friends and he can feel the tension. They’re still figuring out what’s going on between them, they’re stressed because Enjolras’ brain decided to implode, and they’re trying to figure out how to rework their friendship. Enjolras knows he can’t rely on them whenever his head decides to check out, because they’re going to become their own thing and do their own things and that’s okay because they deserve it but it just makes Enjolras feel so… unsteady. Like he’s stuck between two great rocks. “Look, we’re going to have to talk about this eventually.”

“What?” Courfeyrac’s voice is harsh. “What are you talking about?”

“We’ve got to figure this out. I can’t keep… I can’t keep putting myself on you two, because you’re happy and you deserve this and there’s going to be a time where I’ve got to figure this out. I can’t keep using you as crutches.” Enjolras looks his best friends, who he knows better than his own hands. They look hurt, but Enjolras remembers the scene he just walked into. He can’t be a presence in this relationship, not when it’s so new and fragile and beautiful and he can’t ruin it he can’t ruin it they deserve this. They deserve happiness—constant, always, steady happiness.

“We’re not ditching you, E.” Combeferre just sounds tired. “Especially not when you’re having migraines this badly. And me and Courf dating doesn’t mean you’re still not a part of our lives.”

“Where did you even get that from?” Courfeyrac recoils from Enjolras, his face a diluted version of the hurt from that conversation so many nights ago.

“I just, I just want you two to be happy. And I’m making that unsure, unsteady,” Enjolras gets out, as Combeferre abandons slicing cheese and sits down next to Enjolras. “You deserve this so much, and I feel like I’m that little rock that’s going to dislodge something and cause an avalanche.”

In response, all Combeferre does is wrap Enjolras into a hug that pulls him up to his feet with its strength. The weeks of uncertainty are replaced with the years of these hugs—when they were fifteen and Enjolras had run away from home, when they were seventeen and Combeferre had gotten into his dream school, when they were twenty and Enjolras thought Grantaire didn’t love him, when they were three and Combeferre had scraped his knee chasing after a frog in the grass—and it’s like Enjolras’ heart has found its rightful place again, like his ribs have gone from poking out into his lungs to wrapping protectively around the beating, hurting organ.

It’s still bruised, but when they exhale together, it’s as refreshing as breathing out into the winter air over the steam from a cup of coffee. It’s home, warm and comforting.

It’s steady.