Archive of Our Own ^beta

Courfeyrac

"You're late."

Courfeyrac winces, shifting his phone to his other ear. The other one hurts from being crushed between his head and the uncomfortable surface of the table at the library. He should know better than to fall asleep there, and yet. "I know, I know," he says, "but I was doing something important."

He can almost hear the smile in Combeferre's voice when he says, "You fell asleep in the library again, didn't you?"

There's definitely a grin on his face now. "How do you know that?" he asks. "You've got a creepy-good intuition, Ferre."

"You always fall asleep at the library when you've stayed up late the night before," Combeferre explains, "and you were up late Skyping with Joly and Bossuet last night. I heard you laughing at one in the morning."

"Shit, did I keep you up?" he asks as he pulls open the door to the coffee shop two blocks down from Enjolras' apartment. It's their favorite; best coffee in town at a reasonable price, and they make the best raspberry stuffed donuts that Combeferre is addicted to, though he won't ever admit to it.

"Surprisingly enough, I've learned to tune out your noise."

"I'm sorry," Courfeyrac says. Combeferre always has early mornings. He'd tried to keep it down last because he knows that. "And I'm sorry for being late. I'll make it up to you. I'm getting coffee right now."

"Are you paying?"

"Wouldn't be making it up to you if I forced you to pay, now would it?"

"Not really, no, but you have nothing to make up for. I can pay for myself," Combeferre insists, because this is what Combeferre does. If the roles were reversed he would have said thanks, don't forget the whipped cream, but of course Combeferre has to put up a fight, even if it's a feeble one at best.

"Nope. My treat. I have to let you go, though," Courfeyrac says, stepping in line behind a tall girl with her hair elaborately braided. "Be there soon. Tell Enjolras not to kill me. I'll get him one of those apple things he likes."

"I'll try to persuade him into sparing you but I'm not making any promises. He keeps eying the clock and then looking at the door."

Enjolras has no time for tardiness. Courfeyrac knows this, and you'd think that would make him more conscious of the time, but here they are. "Be there soon," he says again before hanging up.

The line shuffles forward as the girl in front of him gets her order and takes it to go. The shop is mostly empty, as usual. There's a Starbucks at the other end of the street, not to mention the campus coffee shop only a few streets over, and this place is never as packed as it should be. It deserves a horde of customers, really, but Courfeyrac is sort of glad it isn't ever brimming with people because that'd take away from the quiet, lazy atmosphere that makes him like this place so much.

"The usual?" the pretty girl behind the counter asks, giving him the same bright smile he gets every time he comes in here.

"Yeah, and a medium with three cream, no sugar," he adds. "Oh, one of those apple strudel things, too."

"That'll be six-fifteen," she says, holding out her hand, her smile widening into a knowing grin.

That grin is still in place as Courfeyrac hands over the money, and he can't help but asks, "What? Do I have something on my face?"

"Oh, no, your face is fine," she says quickly as she opens the register.

Courfeyrac has to swallow down the 'Fine? Usually I get breathtaking, or heart-stoppingly gorgeous, but I guess I'll take it,' because he doesn't flirt with people while they're working. It might make them uncomfortable and they might feel forced into going along with it in order to keep the customer happy, which is super screwed up and he doesn't ever want to put anyone in that position.

"I just think it's sweet, is all," she adds before he can respond.

"What's sweet?"

"You're picking up for your boyfriend, right?" she says, she hands him his change. "The tall one with glasses that you're always here with. The coffee is for him, isn't it? That's his order."

Courfeyrac completely understands what she's saying, and yet he still blurts, "What?"

"Is he sick?" she asks. "You're never in here without him."

"No, no, he's – he's fine, but he's not my boyfriend."

"Oh." Her eyes go wide. "Crap," she says. "Sorry, I thought – Oh, god, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have assumed that you were…."

"Gay?" She nods, lips pressed tightly together. "Who said I wasn't?"

"… Are you?"

"Not exclusively," he says as kindly as he can, not wanting her to think she's offended him.

She blinks slowly at him, head tilted to the side, and then breaks out into a smile that's even brighter than the usual one she gives him. "Oh," is all she says before turning around to make his order.

If this were the first time someone implied Combeferre is his boyfriend, Courfeyrac would probably be— well, not shocked, actually. The first time it happened he'd laughed. And the second time. It was somewhere around the sixth time when he started getting confused. Now, he just sighs and accepts it, even if he doesn't really get it. When even his own mother had said, after he told her he was seeing someone, "I'm so happy that you're finally sharing your relationship with Combeferre with me," he realized that there isn't much he can do about it.

Combeferre is not his boyfriend; Combeferre is possibly the only other person on the planet who seems to grasp this.

"I really am sorry," the barista – Mary, her nametag reads, and Courfeyrac curses himself for forgetting because she serves him often enough that he shouldn't and it's quite rude that he has – says as she slides two drinks and a paper bag with the pastry across the counter to him. "I shouldn't make assumptions."

"It's cool," Courfeyrac promises. "Don't worry about it."

"Right," Mary says. Her smile is warm as she ducks her head, tucking a bit of hair behind her ear. "Hopefully this won't keep you from stopping by again."

"You'd have to pay me to stay away," Courfeyrac says sincerely. "You guys have the best coffee."

"The employees aren't too bad, either," she says, "are they?"

Courfeyrac blinks, taken aback, but his rules not to flirt with people who are working are not valid if they flirt with him first. "Not bad at all," he says with a wink, grabbing his drinks.

He isn't even halfway out of the shop before he realizes there's a hastily drawn phone number on the side of the cup.

-o-

"You're late," Enjolras says the moment he walks through the door, echoing Combeferre's earlier words.

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes, having expected this, and tosses the bag in his hand at Enjolras' chest. "Eat your strudel."

"You can't bribe me with food," Enjolras says, nearly letting it fall to the floor. He catches it between two fingers and opens the bag, glaring down at the contents. "You should have been here almost an hour ago."

"But I wasn't," Courfeyrac says, "and I'm sorry for that, genuinely," because he truly is. He doesn't like disappointing his friends, and the quickest way to disappointing Enjolras is to not treat their work as seriously as it should be treated, "but you're wasting even more time badgering me about it so why don't you eat your delicious pastry and let's get to work? Unless you'd rather give it back, that is. That thing smells good."

"No," Enjolras says quickly, clutching the bag to his body. "Just—" He waves a hand towards the many bundles of paper littering the table. "Just get to work. Joly and Feuilly sent those over an hour ago and we've barely made a dent in them."

"And these are…?" Courfeyrac asks, sinking down onto the couch next to Combeferre.

"Documentation of every reported case of on-campus violence in the last thirty years," Enjolras sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in that way he does whenever he's trying to pretend that he's not as overwhelmed as he really is. "The evidence clearly shows that typically male students affiliated with any of the school's sports teams have gotten off easier than those who were attending the school for solely academic purposes. We need to be careful if we want the school to realize that one of the first steps they need to take in order to cut down on on-campus violence is doling out fair punishment for the crimes committed. If we don't collect enough evidence, or if we screw up any of our facts, our arguments will be dismissed."

"This is going to take a long freaking time," Courfeyrac guesses. Not that he actually minds. He won't admit it out loud, because he has a reputation as a fun-loving, laid-back, cool guy, but Courfeyrac likes doing this kind of work. He likes dedicating himself to these things. He likes following Enjolras' lead and knowing that what he's doing might help someone else.

"A very long time," Enjolras agrees. "Especially since everyone else is too busy tonight to help."

"Well," Courfeyrac says tiredly, "it's a good thing I brought coffee, then."

"Any particular reason why there's a phone number on mine?" Combeferre asks when Courfeyrac hands one off to him.

"Because that one's mine," Courfeyrac says sheepishly, switching their cups. "Apparently she decided to make her move as soon as she confirmed that you and I have not, in fact, been dating this entire time. Because everyone in the entire damn world just assumes you're my boyfriend, which is really starting to be an inconvenience on my love life, Combeferre. I probably could have gotten her number a month ago, but no."

Combeferre looks taken aback. "She thought we were together?"

"Again, along with everyone else on the planet," Courfeyrac sighs, sipping at his drink. "I'm buying us t-shirts for your birthday that say 'Not my boyfriend' with an arrow that points to me, and mine will say 'Not his boyfriend, though I'm totally flattered you'd think so because he's hot as hell' and we're going to wear them everywhere."

"I think that's being a tad dramatic," Combeferre says patiently.

"Is it, though?" Courfeyrac kicks his feet up onto Enjolras' coffee table and muses over this. "Is it really?" Combeferre opens his mouth to reply but Courfeyrac continues before he can. "Last week we went to dinner and the server brought out candles for our table and asked us if it was our anniversary. Two weeks ago, when we paid rent, our lovely landlord gushed about how she wished she'd found her perfect other half when she was as young as we are. Three days ago at lunch, my manager let me get my break twenty minutes early because you came in and he said I didn't have to 'keep my boyfriend waiting' so I could leave whenever I wanted."

"Joly and Bossuet are convinced you two are together and keep denying it to screw with the rest of us," Enjolras adds.

"Not to mention," Courfeyrac says, "the fact that Enjolras had to sit us down a year ago and assure us that if we were in a relationship, we didn't have to hide it from him to spare his feelings and that he was totally capable of understanding that our friendship isn't going to fall apart just because two of us are romantically interested in each other now."

"That was uncomfortable and we promised to never talk about it again," Enjolras says flatly.

"And we never will," Courfeyrac promises. "Also, Éponine has our home phone number saved as Courferre in her cell. Courferre. Like we're Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie or something. The other day when I was flirting with this gorgeous guy, Grantaire said 'Woah, what would your boyfriend say if he knew you were hitting on other guys?' and Bahorel sometimes asks me for romantic advice because 'You and Combeferre have been together, what, three years now? You should be an expert.'"

"In fact," Courfeyrac barrels on, now that he's started this, "each of our friends has, on more than one occasion, made jokes about the two of us being in a relationship."

"If you ask them to stop, they will," Enjolras says. "No one wants to make either of you uncomfortable. Usually you brush it off. If they thought it was bothering you, they would stop immediately. I'll ask them to, if you want."

"No, no, it's not that," Courfeyrac says quickly. "It doesn't bother me, I'm just saying. It's something that happens a lot and I'm really not being dramatic here."

"Okay," Combeferre relents. "You're not being dramatic."

"You are being dramatic, actually," Enjolras interjects, "and you were late. We have work to do, remember?"

"Enjolras, please, have a little sympathy here."

"The only thing I'm sympathetic to is the amount of work we have. If you want to complain about this, please do it on your own time. For now, get to work."

Courfeyrac sighs and does as he's told, grabbing a stack of papers from the table, pulling the notebook from his bag, and starts taking notes. He knows he's already pushed his luck today, that doing his fair share of the work is more than his debt for being tardy, and because of that he doesn't put up a fight or utter a single complaint.

Half an hour later and he starts yawning without volition. His attention span isn't up to par with Combeferre and Enjolras'. Intellectually he may be their equal, but he doesn't have the patience to sit down and spend hours poring over something. Courfeyrac is a man of action. He lives for doing, not the preparing, but he knows that, right now, preparing is a necessity. He doesn't particularly like it but he can handle it. No matter what anyone might think, when they first meet them all, Courfeyrac works just as hard and with just as much dedication as Combeferre and Enjolras, most of the time.

He yawns again a few minutes later, stretching, and drops his pen into his lap to flex his hand. His fingers ache, cramped from holding the pen for so long. On the floor in front of him Enjolras is shaking his head and rolling his eyes at something as he scratches down a note into his own book. Combeferre, beside him on the couch, reaches up and adjusts his glasses, letting out a soft sigh.

When Combeferre starts turning his head, wincing, Courfeyrac stretches out his legs and asks, "Neck hurting?"

"A bit," Combeferre admits, looking up from his papers for only a moment. His eyes are tired behind his glasses; tired and pale blue. "Nothing to worry about, though."

"Combeferre," Courfeyrac says heavily, and then he pulls Combeferre's things out of his hands, places them on the table, and says, "Turn around, come on."

Combeferre puts up the weakest of fights, says an insincere, "No, it's fine, really," until he finally gives in and turns around so his back is facing Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac shuffles up behind him, tucking one leg underneath himself, and sets about massaging the kink out of Combeferre's neck.

"That hurts," Combeferre complains when he digs his fingers into the muscles of Combeferre's back. His shoulders are wide and strong under Courfeyrac's hands, hidden beneath a soft sweater that's way too heavy for this time of year because Combeferre never dresses appropriately.

"No pain, no gain," Courfeyrac says, digging in again. He lessens the pressure, gently kneading the area just behind where Combeferre's neck reaches his shoulders. "That better?"

"That's great," Combeferre sighs, tilting his head back. "Keep doing that."

"This?"

"Mhm. That feels amazing."

"You know," Enjolras says from the floor, sounding amused, "this may be one of the reasons people assume the two of you are in a relationship."

Courfeyrac reaches for his pen and throws it at Enjolras' head.

-o-

Combeferre

"That was brutal," Courfeyrac says the moment they step into their apartment, letting his bag fall to the floor with a thump, his shoulders drooping as if now, now that he's home and the only responsibility he has involves his bed, he can let the weight of the day finally bring him down. Even his curls are looking limp and lifeless. "Remind me why I agreed to do that again?"

"Because," Courfeyrac says through a yawn, his own eyes burning from tiredness, his own body feeling the same aches and stiffness from the long day, "you know it's for a good cause, and you've got a thing for doing what's right and stepping up when you know you can help others."

"Ah, yes," Courfeyrac says in that dramatic way he has. "That. That thing. The next time I decide to act on that, remind me that six hours straight of reading sucks. Seriously, some people do that for fun. Why?"

"I think I may be one of them," Combeferre points out as he picks up Courfeyrac's fallen bag and stows it away in their closet next to his own, along with the winter jackets that haven't been touched in months.

"Really?" Courfeyrac gasps, widening his eyes. "And here I thought the hundreds of books littering our apartment were just to make you seem smart. What next? Are you going to tell me that you wear glasses because you actually have vision problems?"

Combeferre shakes his head, his default reaction to everything Courfeyrac. He's too fond and amused to roll his eyes, but he's also too exhausted to enable Courfeyrac's ridiculousness at the moment. All he wants is to climb into bed, finish the last few chapters of the book he'd started a few nights ago, and hopefully get to sleep earlier than he had the night before. If Courfeyrac has it his way he'll coerce Combeferre into sitting with him on the couch, which will turn into watching TV together, which will lead to the two of them staying awake until well past midnight talking about nothing of import and ruining their chances of waking up on time the next morning.

It's happened too many times too count, and Combeferre is too tired tonight to let it happen.

"I'm going to my room," he says as he starts down the hall, already pulling at the hem of his sweater. It's too hot in the apartment to leave it on but it's comfortable and it'd been cold enough to warrant it this morning.

"I'm taking a shower," Courfeyrac says, following him. "You need the bathroom before I jump in?"

"I'm fine."

"No one would ever doubt that, Combeferre."

This time the eye roll happens without his consent. "Go take your shower."

Courfeyrac winks at him, ducking into the bathroom, missing Combeferre's amused snort as he shuts the door. Combeferre shuts the door to his bedroom behind him, too, because Courfeyrac is a notorious shower singer and, though his voice is actually quite pleasant, it's very difficult to read while someone belts Enrique Iglesias' Hero at the top of their lungs.

Combeferre tosses his sweater into the laundry basket on the way to his bed, mentally making a note to put it in the wash tomorrow because it's getting rather full and if he doesn't do it soon he'll run out of things to wear. He's already running out of clothes he likes to wear and is soon going to be left with clothes that he can wear but would prefer not to.

His book is left where he'd put it this morning before class, sitting precariously on the edge of his bedside table. There's a bookmark stuck halfway out of it, some flashy thing with an unnecessary amount of strings and the words 'The greatest adventures begin by turning a page' that Courfeyrac had gotten him for his birthday last year in a set of about fifteen others. Honestly, Combeferre has barely any time for bookmarks. He loses them and forgets to use them, and instead lines his books with ripped pieces of paper or whatever else he has lying around nearest him that'll fit between the pages when he needs something to mark off his spot. The only reason there's a bookmark in his book now is because he'd left it open on the couch two days ago and Courfeyrac had stuck it in there for him.

Halfway through the end of the book the singing coming from the bathroom cuts off, as does the running water. He hears Courfeyrac banging around, always the loud roommate, and the sound of the bathroom door opening and then Courfeyrac's bedroom door slamming shut.

Six pages from the end of the book and there's a groan from the room across the hall. Door banging open again, loud stomps, and Combeferre has already marked his page and shut the book before the knocking starts.

"Come in," he calls, sitting up straighter.

Courfeyrac does instantly, as if his hand had already been on the knob, ready to push the door open and only just waiting for Combeferre to grant him access. "I just got a text," Courfeyrac tells him, crossing the room in three long strides and jumping onto the bed. "Guess what it said."

"You're dripping on my bed."

"Uh, no," Courfeyrac snorts, while he continues to do just that. His hair is still soaked from the shower, feebly attempting to curl at his neck and mostly failing. It looks black like this, though it's usually a warm, rich brown, and the gray t-shirt he's wearing is damp at the shoulders. "It's from Éponine and it says, 'Tell your boyfriend to turn his phone back on' with six exclamation points."

"Oh." Combeferre hastily digs into his pocket, pulling out his phone. "I forgot I'd turned it off when we started working so I wouldn't get distracted."

"Really? You're not even going to comment on the fact that she called you my boyfriend?"

"I have eight missed messages," Combeferre says, flicking through them quickly. Four from Éponine, asking if he's still going to watch Gavroche next week for her. Two from Joly, both of them links to funny comics, and one each from Enjolras— checking to make sure they got home all right— and Feuilly.

"Combeferre."

Sighing, Combeferre lowers his phone. Courfeyrac is too stubborn for his own good. "You're not going to let this go, are you?" he asks, even knowing full well what the answer to that question is as he does.

"It's just…." Courfeyrac waves a hand in agitation. "Doesn't it—?"

"Bother me?" Combeferre supplies. Courfeyrac shrugs. "No, it doesn't. I think there are a lot worse things than a few misguided people believing you're my boyfriend."

"But it's not just misguided people who don't know us," Courfeyrac explains, looking— not exactly put out. If this were something that truly, deeply troubled him, he'd have done something about it a while ago. Annoyed. He looks annoyed. "It's our friends. And it was funny at first, like, ha, ha, Combeferre and Courfeyrac, sitting in a tree. But now it's like, come on, dudes, let it go, you know?"

"Tell them that, then," Combeferre says. "They'll listen. They're respectful enough, most of the time."

"Nah. Too easy."

"Must you make everything difficult?"

Courfeyrac grins, crossing his legs. He rests his chin in his hands, just watching Combeferre intensely as if that's a normal thing to do. Which, considering this is Courfeyrac, it sort of is. Courfeyrac is all intensity, all the time. It's why they work so well together, as friends and as roommates. Combeferre is the calm to Courfeyrac's storm.

"You know what we should do?" Courfeyrac finally asks, apparently coming to the end of his train of thought. "We should fuck with them."

"And how would we do that?"

Courfeyrac grins and Combeferre realizes he's made a mistake. Rule number one: do not encourage Courfeyrac when he has that shit-eating grin on his face. "What if we…" he pauses dramatically, "pretended to date?"

Combeferre blinks at him, waiting. When Courfeyrac continues to do nothing but grin at him, he realizes that's it, that's the entire plan. "I'm confused," Combeferre admits. "How exactly will that fuck with them?"

"They want to keep making jokes about us being together," Courfeyrac explains, looking excited now, "so why don't we give them what they're asking for? And then, a few weeks from now, we'll spectacularly break up. The Godzilla of breakups. Shouting at each other, forcing them to pick sides, refusing to talk to one another for days. It'll freak them all out. They won't know what to do with themselves."

"That…" Combeferre trails off, not knowing what to say. It's not often that he's stunned into silence, and yet, right now, he is.

"I would never suggest anything that would actually hurt any one of them," Courfeyrac says, suddenly looking solemn. "I don't want to actually upset them. I just want to… get back at them, you know? Harmlessly. It'll just be a very elaborate prank, is all."

Combeferre knows he's right. Courfeyrac loves their friends more than anything, aside from his family (equally, maybe, because they're all sort of a family in a way). Courfeyrac would be the first to tease Marius about his love for Cosette, but he's also the first to defend Marius against anyone else. When Bahorel gets into an argument at a bar, Courfeyrac is the first one to get up and stand beside him. Courfeyrac knows there's a fine line between a joke and hurting someone's feelings, and he's careful not to cross it and to apologize when he does. (He has a temper, Courfeyrac, that flares up and fizzles out like the flick of a lighter, but he always apologizes when he lashes out.)

"Okay," Combeferre says slowly, not wanting to agree to anything too quickly. "Hypothetically, if I agreed, what would this entail?"

"Mostly a lot of what we already do, considering everyone already thinks we're together," Courfeyrac says with a shrug. "Bit of kissing, but only if you're okay with it. Hand holding is a must. When we stay in and eat Chinese food and watch Discovery we'll just tell people we're out on a date. Nothing difficult."

"And then we break up?"

"Fake break up," Courfeyrac corrects, "but yeah. Basically. Wait a few weeks, really convince them we're together, and then split. Dramatically. Tears, cursing each other's names, the works."

"And when do we tell them it was all just a lie?"

"Not long after the breakup. Maybe a day. We don't want them to really think we hate each other and we're not friends anymore. Enjolras would probably cry, and he might look pretty while he does it but it kills me when he's sad. "

Combeferre shakes his head, looking down at his lap.

"What?" Courfeyrac asks.

"This is, without a doubt, the most ridiculous thing you've ever proposed we do," Combeferre says. "That is saying something because I recall half of our friends being banned from the mall for six months because you thought it'd be the perfect place to play Hide and Seek."

"That wasn't a 'No, Courfeyrac, we're not going to do this,'" Courfeyrac points out.

"I don't know," Combeferre admits. He knows that if he says no Courfeyrac will drop it, just like that. Courfeyrac is overbearing, certainly, but he backs off as soon as he's told to. "It seems a little… unnecessary, honestly."

"That still wasn't an answer."

"Okay, fine."

"Fine what?"

"Fine, we'll try your ridiculous plan. Happy?"

Courfeyrac looks it, anyway. "You know what I love?" he says as he swings his legs off the bed. "You always act like you're the logical one who makes all the smart decisions, and maybe I am the one with the ridiculous ideas, but you always go along with my stupid plans. What does that say about you, do you think?"

"That I need to get better friends?" Combeferre offers, though they both know that's not true. Courfeyrac has a very good point. Combeferre might not be able to keep up with Courfeyrac all the time, but he'd be completely lost without Courfeyrac in his life.

"As of this moment," Courfeyrac says, moving closer to Combeferre, "I'm not your friend. I'm your fake boyfriend."

"In that case, can my fake boyfriend please go back to his own room so I can finish my book and go to sleep?"

Courfeyrac nods, still smiling. "Sure thing, Ferre," he says, leaning over to wrap his wiry arms tightly around Combeferre's middle. "One more thing," he says when he pulls back. "Is kissing a no-go, or what?"

"Kissing is alright, I guess, if we're actually going to go through with this."

"Great." Courfeyrac leans in and, without any further warning, kisses him. It happens so fast he has barely any time to blink and then Courfeyrac's gone, nothing but the smell of soap and shampoo lingering behind. "Night, Combeferre."

"Goodnight," Combeferre says, sounding dazed as he watches Courfeyrac retreat from the room, gently shutting the door behind him.

Oh, he thinks to himself. What have I agreed to?

-o-

Handholding. Handholding is part of what he has agreed to. They're halfway to the Musain when Courfeyrac moves closer to him and slips his fingers so easily into the spaces between Combeferre's, as if this is something they do every day. And they have held hands, on occasion. Once, when Courfeyrac had been furiously angry at a rally and Combeferre knew that this time words weren't going to be enough to keep him from doing something he'd regret. That time they'd watched Marley and Me and he hadn't known what else to do with Courfeyrac's tears. When they'd taken the ferry last summer with their friends and discovered that Courfeyrac and boats are two things that do not mix.

This is different, though, but Combeferre only takes a moment to look down at their joined hands and wonder what is going on before he remembers.

"Are we actually going through with this?" he asks as Courfeyrac starts swinging their hands together between them, nothing in his expression to indicate that he's even aware of what he's doing.

"Having second thoughts?" Courfeyrac asks, looking wounded. "Not even twenty-four hours into our relationship and we're already having problems."

"I was just clarifying," Combeferre says. "I think we should be on the same page about this before we go in and meet our friends."

"I was thinking about that earlier, actually," Courfeyrac admits. "They're going to ask when this happened and we should probably have something agreed upon before they do, if we want this to be believable."

"Enjolras knows we weren't together last night," Combeferre reminds him. "Unless you've forgotten about the twenty minutes you spent complaining about people thinking we're together."

"See, I worked that into it," Courfeyrac says gleefully, squeezing Combeferre's hand for emphasis. His fingers are surprisingly bigger than Combeferre's, thinker, darker. They're also soft. "We'll tell the others about that, too, and then tell them that I brought it up again when we got home and you blurted out your feelings for me out of frustration—"

"Why am I the one who confessed my feelings first?"

"Don't question the plan, Combeferre," Courfeyrac says, and then he smoothly picks back up were he'd been cut off. "Like I said, you blurted out your feelings for me out of frustration and then I came to the sudden realization that I am, in fact, very much in love with you, and the reason I was so bothered by people thinking we're in a relationship is because of those feelings I've been unconsciously harboring for you for years. We kissed passionately, letting out all of our pent up sexual frustration, and after a night of torrid love-making we decided to commit to a monogamous relationship with one another."

Combeferre raises his eyebrows and lets out a loud snort that morphs into a laugh. He can't help it. "Have you considered writing romance novels for a living?"

"Every euphemism for dick makes me laugh," Courfeyrac says sadly. "I don't think I'm cut out for it."

Smothering another laugh seems impossible; Combeferre doesn't even bother trying. He lets it out, letting it trail off when Courfeyrac gives him a rare, warm smile. Courfeyrac is always smiling, but it's usually playful and mischievous. This is different. This is softer, gentler, his head ducked a bit and short, waving curls falling to frame his face.

"What?" Combeferre asks, confused.

"Nothing," Courfeyrac says easily. He lets their hands fall limp. "So, as my boyfriend, are you required to buy me coffee?"

"No."

"Damn," Courfeyrac curses. "You're the worst boyfriend ever."

"I guess it's unfortunate that you're in love with me."

"Not completely unfortunate," Courfeyrac muses. "You are pretty hot."

Combeferre stopped flushing at those types of compliments from Courfeyrac a long time ago. He gives them out to everyone, in some shape or form. He habitually refers to Enjolras as 'gorgeous' and tells Feuilly he has the most beautiful hands he's ever seen; he'll complement Grantaire's eyes and pretend to be put out over Éponine having nicer hair than him. Combeferre doesn't doubt that he means each one every time he says them, but after a while it's something he's gotten used to. Courfeyrac will flippantly tell him that he's hot and there's really no point in getting flustered over it anymore.

If he did he'd be perpetually flushed in Courfeyrac's company.

"So you're only here for my looks," Combeferre says.

"Sometimes you do my laundry for me, too, and that's really important to me when it comes to a potential lover."

"Lover? Are you sure you're not writing romance novels on the side?"

"Watch yourself," Courfeyrac warns. "I'm still narrowing down your cutesy couple-nickname and you're headed down a one-way street towards Pumpikins."

"You're not calling me that."

"Sugarplum?"

"I don't think so."

"Butternut squash?"

"I never agreed to pet names," Combeferre says sternly. "No."

"Okay," Courfeyrac agrees. "No pet names. That goes both ways."

"I think it's safe to say that I'll never feel inclined to refer to you as a type of squash."

"Never say never, Combeferre."

It isn't until they're at the Musain, Courfeyrac opening the door for the two of them, that Combeferre realizes they've been holding hands the entire time and he hadn't even noticed. It'd felt so natural that he'd gotten used to the feel of Courfeyrac's fingers between his in a matter of minutes.

Enjolras is waiting for them, along with Marius and Cosette, looking tired and irritable as he sips as the largest size coffee available. His bag hangs off the back of the chair and there's a second, empty, coffee cup in front of him. Courfeyrac takes the seat directly beside him, while Combeferre takes the one on Courfeyrac's left, but Courfeyrac immediately leans across the table to talk to Marius and Combeferre leans back and says, "I hope you didn't stay up all night finishing what we didn't get through."

"I didn't," Enjolras says, but the bags under his eyes say differently. "I took a nap between two and four. I technically didn't stay up the entire night."

"Enjolras," Combeferre sighs.

"I'll sleep tonight and be well rested for the meeting tomorrow, don't worry," Enjolras promises. "As soon as we're done here I'm going home, eating something and going to bed. I swear."

Not worrying about his friends is difficult when they all seem hell bent on making bad decisions. "You better," he warns. "You're not at the top of your game when you're tired."

"I kn-know," Enjolras stutters through a yawn. He shakes his head, disrupting the usually orderly style to his hair, his eyes suddenly feverishly wide. "I'm fine."

"Wired on coffee and fine are not synonymous," Courfeyrac interrupts, giving Enjolras a stern look. "Dumbass."

"It had to be done," Enjolras says shortly. "I needed everything ready for our meeting today so I can go over it with the rest of you. If only two of us are allowed to go to the meeting tomorrow with the dean, I want to make sure everyone else is comfortable with the presentation we're going to give."

"Everyone trusts your judgment, Enjolras," Marius tells him. "You know we're going to be happy with whatever you chose to do."

"Yes, well." Enjolras sips at his drink, leaving it at that, and Combeferre doesn't bother scolding him for his choices again because he's already exhausted; he doesn't need a lecture on top of that. Tomorrow, after the meeting, he'll once again go over how important having a good night's sleep is and why Enjolras can't keep doing things like this.

"I'm getting us drinks," Courfeyrac says. "And I'm getting you something to eat," he adds to Enjolras, "because I bet you haven't eaten anything today, have you?"

"I was busy," Enjolras mutters over the rim of his cup.

"I swear you and Combeferre are dead set on working yourselves to an early grave," Courfeyrac grumbles, pushing away from the table. He swoops in quickly, pressing his lips to Combeferre's cheek, and adds, "The usual, babe?"

Combeferre considers reminding Courfeyrac that he said no pet names, but 'babe' is very different from 'sugarplum' and he finds that… he doesn't mind it, all that much. "Yes, thank you," he says, ignoring the heavy weight of Enjolras and Cosette's eyes on them.

If he's expecting anyone to comment he's disappointed. Enjolras is watching him with the tinniest of lines between his eyebrows and his lips pressed into a firm line, but he doesn't say anything. Cosette is smiling faintly, head tilted to the side, curiosity in her big eyes that she doesn't voice out loud. Marius doesn't seem to notice at all but, then again, Courfeyrac kissing someone on the cheek isn't very noteworthy, is it? Marius himself has been victim of many kisses just like that.

The others have arrived by the time Courfeyrac returns, sliding a large coffee in front of Combeferre and a sandwich in front of Enjolras, who accepts it without word but instantly pulls it closer to him and starts eating before wiping his mouth with a napkin and standing up.

They're in the corner, far enough away from the rest of the patrons that they won't be disrupting anyone with their noise. Enjolras keeps his voice level, only raising it when someone attempts to cut him off unnecessarily. Combeferre had been emailed the finished draft of the presentation before they'd set out today and he'd already given Enjolras his input, so he's content to sit and listen while everyone else adds their contributions, only speaking up when someone addresses him directly.

"So that's… the gist," Enjolras yawns, barely bothering to cover his mouth. "Does anyone have anything they'd like to add? Or anything they think shouldn't be included?" He eyes Grantaire warily. "Any arguments."

"I'm not going to argue with you when you're exhausted, Enjolras," Grantaire sighs, as if he can read Enjolras' mind. He mostly can, honestly, because Enjolras wears his emotions on his sleeve. They're clear as day on his face. When he's angry, you can't ignore it. When he's happy, it brightens up everything about him. Right now he looks wary and tired and not willing to put up with anything Grantaire might throw at him. "Takes all the fun out of it when you can't keep up."

"I can keep up with you any day," Enjolras says, blinking rapidly until he no longer looks as tired. "Don't hold back. If you have something to say, spit it out."

Grantaire shakes his head, picking at his donut with chocolate covered fingers. "Nothing to say," he says. "You've covered everything. It's good. They'll have to listen to you."

Enjolras blinks again but, Combeferre thinks, for very different reasons. Sometimes Grantaire is antagonistic for the sake of being so, and backing off so easily is not something he regularly does. "Oh," Enjolras says. "Anyone else?"

"I have a question," Éponine says, but she's looking between Combeferre and Courfeyrac. "Have you two been holding hands this entire time?"

"I hardly see how that's related to…" Enjolras trails off, looking down at where Courfeyrac's hand is tightly curled around Combeferre's on top of the table between them. Combeferre shifts a little, restlessly, as everyone's attention is suddenly turned on the two of them and their linked fingers.

"Can't two dudes hold hands just because they want to without everyone getting up in their business about it?" Bahorel asks. He grabs Feuilly's hand and, at Feuilly's amused look, adds, "For solidarity."

"Thank you," Courfeyrac says, waving a hand at Bahorel. "That's the attitude. If I want to hold hands with my boyfriend, I don't see why anyone has to make a big deal out of it."

"With your what?" Joly looks confused. "I could have sworn you just called Combeferre—"

"My boyfriend," Courfeyrac says, with a kind of ease that makes it sound completely believable. "Significant other. Better half. Whatever you want to call it."

"Combeferre," Bossuet states. "Combeferre is your… boyfriend?"

Courfeyrac sighs affably, releasing Combeferre's hand, and leans in close enough that when he whispers, "I'm going to kiss you in three seconds," Combeferre is the only one who hears. It also gives Combeferre the opportunity to move away or protest, if he wants to, but he stays right where he is and Courfeyrac leans up a bit, always shorter than him, and kisses him. On the mouth, this time, not the cheek.

It is not the chaste kiss from the night before. It isn't a simple peck. Courfeyrac's hand is on his thigh now, bracing his weight as he leans his whole body into Combeferre's. His lips are soft and warm and wet from his drink, mouths fitting together as easily as their hands had. Only that's different. Handholding and kissing are two wholly different things, and maybe it shouldn't be this easy and natural to kiss his best friend.

Combeferre rejects that thought as soon as he has it. Of course it should be easy to kiss Courfeyrac. It's Courfeyrac. The only other person he's as close with as he is with Courfeyrac is Enjolras; there isn't a thing about either of them that the other doesn't know. There's nothing odd about this being so simple; it should be simple.

He blanks out most of the kiss, too caught up in his thoughts, and before he can sort them out Courfeyrac pulls back, his gaze lingering on Combeferre's mouth as if he wants more. "Clear enough for you?" he asks instead of leaning back in, turning back to the others.

Combeferre clears his throat and drops his gaze, as if he's embarrassed. If this were real, if Courfeyrac actually were his boyfriend and had just kissed him like that in front of everyone for the first time, he would probably be a bit embarrassed, right? Or maybe not. Maybe he would grin instead, too blindly happy to stop himself, lean back in and—

"I fucking knew it!" Éponine says loudly, slapping Feuilly's arm for emphasis. "I told you all it would happen."

"Okay, ouch," Feuilly says, rubbing at his arm.

"Combeferre?" Jehan says, eyes wide. "Are you two really together?"

"What, my word isn't good enough?" Courfeyrac asks, tilting his chin with indignation.

"It's really not," Bossuet says.

"You would do something like this for a joke," Joly adds, "but Combeferre wouldn't."

They all look at him, eyebrows raised. Under the table Courfeyrac has taken his hand again and he squeezes tightly. "We're together," Combeferre confirms, the words feeling odd in his mouth. "As of last night."

"As of last night," Enjolras repeats, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"When we left your place," Courfeyrac says, beginning the fabricated story of their joining, "we started talking about everyone thinking we're dating, and I realized— I realized it doesn't actually bother me." He ducks his head a bit, bashful in a way Courfeyrac never actually is. "It doesn't bother me because I like that people think he's with me. I like that people think I get to kiss him and hold his hand and tell him I love him, because I do. He's the first person I see in the morning and the last person I see before I go to bed every night, and it hit me that I want that to last. I don't want that with anybody else. And I couldn't hold it in anymore, so I told him. And now…."

Miraculously, everyone has fallen silent, which is something that does not happen often in their group of friends. No one seems to know what to say to that and Combeferre doesn't either. That is not what they agreed upon. That was not Courfeyrac's ridiculous romance novel-esque story of how they got together. That was more heartfelt than humorous, more sincere than exaggerated, and Combeferre is just as taken aback as the rest of them by it.

"We're so happy for you," Cosette finally says, pressing a hand to her chest. "And for us, too. We wanted someone to take this couples dance class with us but Joly and Bossuet refused."

Courfeyrac grins, turning to Combeferre. "What do you say, honey? Couples dance classes."

"I don't think we're at that stage in our relationship yet," Combeferre says, feigning regret. "Maybe another time."

"I'll hold you to that," Cosette says. Combeferre doesn't doubt that she will but he hopes this charade is over with before then. Courfeyrac loves to dance; Combeferre does not.

"This is actually a thing, though," Bahorel says, still sounding skeptical. "Like, really. Like an actual thing that's actually happening."

"You all acted like we were together for years," Courfeyrac says, eyes narrowing, "and now that we actually are, you're not buying it?"

"It doesn't matter if they do," Combeferre says, those words sealing his fate. If he's going to do this, he's going to do it right. Combeferre is a thorough person; he doesn't do things halfway. "We know that this is real," he says, leaning in so his lips graze Courfeyrac's neck, lowering his voice so it can only just be heard by the others, "and that's all that matters."

That was probably a bit too cheesy and probably not as believable as it should have been, but Courfeyrac picks up where Combeferre fails, turning to give him the most adoring look Combeferre has ever seen before those brown eyes get bigger, his lips get closer, and then they're kissing again and Courfeyrac's hand is curling into the short hairs at the back of Combeferre's neck, gently holding him in place. Courfeyrac's tongue slides along his bottom lip and Combeferre makes a surprised sound, almost pulling back because— tongue was not negotiated. He didn't get a chance to prepare for this, even if he— even if he likes it.

Courfeyrac pulls back almost immediately, though, leaving only the hint of sweetness on Combeferre's lips from his sugar-filled caramel Frappuccino and a lot of confusion behind.

"Okay," Bahorel says, "we believe you."

"Did you have to attempt to stick your tongue down his throat to prove a point?" Éponine asks, nose wrinkled. "I don't think you did."

"That was for my own enjoyment as much as it was yours," Courfeyrac says with a wink.

"This gathering was supposed to be about the meeting tomorrow," Enjolras reminds them all, looking a bit put out and a lot tired. "But if you all would rather push that aside to focus on Combeferre and Courfeyrac's supposed relationship, by all means, continue."

"We went over everything," Feuilly points out. "I don't think there's anything else we can discuss. Everyone's happy with what the three of you put together last night and all that's left is for you and Combeferre to familiarize yourselves with the information you've written down."

"Since you picked him to go with you," Grantaire adds, "there's really nothing else for the rest of us to do, is there?"

"That's not entirely—"

"And I want to know what Combeferre said when Courfeyrac confessed his feelings for him," Jehan interjects , eyes bright. "Was it romantic, or did he just blurt it out?"

"Um." Combeferre looks to Courfeyrac for help, and then Enjolras, hoping Enjolras will put his foot down and tell them all to drop it until another time. But Enjolras sighs and sinks back down into his seat, resigned, and Combeferre knows he's too tired to offer much help. "Both? Romantic but very… out of the blue."

"At first he responded with his usual equanimity, but by the end of my dramatic speech," Courfeyrac says, "he practically threw himself at me. Not even Combeferre can resist my charm and dashing good looks."

"Actually," Combeferre says, lips twitching, "I laughed. I thought he was joking."

Courfeyrac blinks at him in surprise, but, not one to be one-upped, he smirks and says, "You weren't laughing after I kissed you. 'Oh, Courfeyrac,'" Courfeyrac moans in a horrible impression of Combeferre's voice, "'I've wanted you so desperately for years.'"

"Is that what I said?" Combeferre asks, raising an eyebrow. "Are you sure?"

"Positive," Courfeyrac says. He bites down on his bottom lip, plump and red, the heat of his gaze on Combeferre's mouth like a brand. He has that look on his face, a look that Combeferre has seen many times before: when they're out for the night, and he's leaning on the bar and chatting someone up; when that pretty girl on the bus had sat down and introduced herself; when they'd been in the library, studying, and the boy at the next table had made eyes at Courfeyrac the entire time. It's a look that usually gets Courfeyrac whatever he wants, and Combeferre has never before had it turned on him. "Do I need to refresh your memory?"

"You know, I think maybe you shou—"

"I'm going home," Enjolras says loudly. Combeferre actually jumps at the sound of it, remembering, though he has no idea how he'd forgotten for a moment there, that they're not alone and this is not real. "I'll call you later, Combeferre, after I've slept for a bit. Don't turn your phone off. There're still some last minute things I want to go over with you."

"Of course," Combeferre says. "Unless you'd rather I come home with you. I don't mind going over everything while you sleep, and I can stop at home tomorrow morning before the meeting to change and meet you at the university."

"It's fine," Enjolras says with a shake of his head. He rubs at his eyes. "Honestly, I'm not going to be much company for a while and there's nothing you could do from my place that you can't do from your own."

"Are you sure you're okay to get home?"

"I'm tired," Enjolras says, a little sharper than he usually is with Combeferre, "not a child. I'll be fine."

"Okay," Combeferre says, raising his hands defensively. "Just making sure."

"Sorry," Enjolras says. He pulls his bag onto his shoulder. "I really do need to sleep, though. If anyone has anything they'd like to add for tomorrow, message me. Don't call unless you have to. We'll meet afterwards at Joly and Bossuet's to let you all know how the meeting goes."

"Sounds good," Joly says.

"Get some rest, Enjolras," Bossuet says.

"Trust me, I plan to." Enjolras snags the last quarter of Combeferre's coffee as he passes. "See you all tomorrow."

When he's gone, Combeferre sighs and says, "I wish he wouldn't do that. Attempt to shoulder everything as if he can't lean on the rest of us."

"Are you serious," Courfeyrac says flatly.

"That is the most hypocritical thing you've ever said," Éponine adds. "You do the exact same thing."

"You passed out in the shower last year during exams because you'd only slept four hours over three days," Joly reminds him. "Courfeyrac called me crying."

"I was only out for a minute," Combeferre says, crossing his arms over his chest, "and that's not the same thing. That was because of exams and not because I wouldn't let the rest of you help me with something we're all involved in."

"Same outcome," Courfeyrac says, poking his arm, "and it scared the hell out of me. The two of you give me gray hair."

"Are we forgetting the time you and Enjolras got arrested?" Combeferre wonders. "Because I feel like that's more worrying than my lack of sleep during exams."

"We weren't actually charged with anything."

"Tell that to the six years I lost from my life when I got a phone call and the first thing Enjolras said was, 'Combeferre, don't panic, but Courfeyrac and I need you to pick us up at the police station.'"

"You know, that call could have meant anything. Just because we were calling from the police station doesn't mean we were arrested, but that's the conclusion you instantly jumped to. Says a lot about what you think of me and Enjolras."

"But it was because you were arrested."

"Well, yeah, but it might not have been."

Combeferre shakes his head, hating how fond that move is because Enjolras and Courfeyrac together are terrible. Enjolras is a man with big ideas, and Courfeyrac has the kind of daring and passion that usually leads to the two of them in some disaster or another. Usually their intentions are good, no one can deny that, but they both lack boundaries, never realizing they're taking it too far until they've already done it. Combeferre likes to think he keeps them grounded, most of the time. (Sometimes he doesn't bother to try. Sometimes he even encourages them.)

"As adorable as this couple's dispute is," Joly says, "we promised our neighbor we'd walk their dog while they're out of town, and I don't want to keep the little guy waiting. See you all later?"

"I'm coming with you," Éponine says, already gathering her things. "I left my jacket at your place last night and it's got my good lipstick in the pocket."

"We know," Joly admits.

"It fell out of the pocket when we were hanging it up," Bossuet says.

Éponine puts a hand on her hip. "Did you use my lipstick?"

"No," Joly says with wide eyes, but his lips are twitching.

"We would never," Bossuet adds with false innocence.

"I swear to god," Éponine sighs. "That stuff isn't cheap, you know."

"Joly looks good in red," Bossuet says with a shrug. Joly nods solemnly. Éponine snorts.

As they leave, he hears Éponine say, "Next time just ask."

"Well," Courfeyrac says, drawing Combeferre's attention back to the table. He stretches, letting out a loud yawn, his arm resting on Combeferre's shoulder when he's done. "We should probably head out too, Ferre. We have to stop at the store before we go home, and you could use a good night of relaxing before tomorrow too."

"And I really should go over what Enjolras sent me again," Combeferre agrees. "There were a few things I wanted to fix but I didn't want to tell him because I knew he'd pore over it for hours again if I did."

"Of course," Courfeyrac says fondly.

So maybe Combeferre isn't the only one amused but exasperated by his friends.

-o-

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

Combeferre looks up from his laptop and frowns at Courfeyrac's back. "Excuse me?"

Courfeyrac turns around, looking just as confused before he covers the phone Combeferre hadn't noticed he was on and says, "Sorry, not you." He lifts the phone back to his ear. "Don't rub it in, you'll make it worse! No, she's not going to kill you. That couch is ugly as sin anyway, sweetheart. Sorry, but it's true. Blot, man, blot! Rubbing will— You made it worse, didn't you?"

It's a rare time when Courfeyrac doesn't have his phone on him or, more likely, in his hands. He's always texting someone, or calling someone, halfway through some conversation or other with at least one of their friends. Courfeyrac is the kind of person that doesn't handle being alone well; he thrives when he's in large groups of people, and he's the type to text you five minutes after you've left him because he misses you already.

He's also the type to have phone conversations while cooking, which is probably why it smells like something is burning. Combeferre himself can cook just fine, and does, when he gets the chance, but Courfeyrac loves to cook, even if he's… not always good at it. Whatever he makes is usually edible, at least, and it'd probably be delicious too if it didn't always taste slightly charred because he gets distracted by something or other and leaves it in the oven too long, or forgets to stir it, or turns the heat up high and then gets caught up in laughing at something on TV and doesn't remember the food until the smoke alarm goes off.

Right now he's leaning against the counter, one hip cocked to the side, phone pressed between his ear and his shoulder. He's holding a spatula, gesticulating wildly with it, and his hair is starting to frizz from the water boiling on the stove. Whatever he's cooking, he's not actually paying attention to it. Combeferre can smell the bitterness of something sweet charring but he types away on his computer instead of saying anything because Courfeyrac will try to pass the food off as perfectly fine, and if Combeferre mentions that it tastes even slightly bad he'll get that wounded look on his face that he's mastered so perfectly to instill guilt into even the coldest of hearts.

"Marius," Courfeyrac sighs, finally putting the spatula down to pick up the phone, "you've got only one option left. Yes, yes, you're going to have to throw the couch out the window before Cosette gets home. It's either that or flee the country. I'm sorry. I'll miss you dearly."

"Tell him to flip the cushion over," Combeferre says without looking up from his computer.

Courfeyrac goes silent. When Combeferre chances a look up he finds Courfeyrac looking at him with his mouth hanging open. "Why didn't we think of that?" he says, more to himself than Marius. "Flip the cushion over." Silence, as Marius replies. "Right? What would we do without him? We never would have thought of – Hey, I told you not to rub it in, you should have listened. Yeah. I think you should tell her, though. This is Cosette we're talking about. She's not going to be mad. Okay, she might be a little mad, but— You could even blame it on me. Just tell her I came over, you offered me some wine, and that's why there's a stain on the cushion. Then she'll be mad at me instead, and you know no one can stay mad at me. It's the eyes. They— shit, ouch, fuck."

Combeferre looks up, alarmed, when he hears the phone hit the ground. Courfeyrac is jumping around, waving a hand around his stomach area, and whatever's on the stove is now smoking.

"I'm okay, I'm okay!" Courfeyrac assures him before Combeferre can get up. "Spilled a bit of sauce on me, but we're good. Everything's fine."

There's a giant red stain on his shirt, probably to match the one Marius seems to have left on his couch. "Do you want help?" Combeferre offers. "I can cook while you talk to Marius."

"No, it's fine," Courfeyrac says, bending down to grab his phone. "Marius? I'm fine, but I gotta call you back. Yeah, love you too. Bye."

The moment he hangs up Courfeyrac leaves his phone on the counter and strips off his shirt, right there in the kitchen. Combeferre quickly looks back to his computer, but when he looks up again Courfeyrac is trailing his fingers up his stomach, alongside the dark hair there, muttering, "At least it didn't burn. Think I ruined my shirt, though."

"That, um. That's good. That it didn't burn," Combeferre clarifies. Courfeyrac is still touching his stomach, frowning down at it in contemplation.

"Looks a little red, though," Courfeyrac muses, walking over to him. "Does it look red to you?"

Combeferre adjusts his glasses and looks up at Courfeyrac (something that always unsettles him because he's used to looking down at Courfeyrac, not up) and then lowers his gaze to the stomach that's suddenly inches away from him. It does look a bit red, but nothing to worry about. It also looks like Courfeyrac's been going to the gym with Bahorel and Grantaire again, but there's really no reason Combeferre should be noticing that.

"You should be fine," he says, going back to the work on his laptop. "Be more careful next time."

"I was," Courfeyrac says on his way to his bedroom. He leaves the door open, voice carrying easily through the apartment, "but Marius was having a crises and I got a little, tiny bit distracted."

"Did you burn dinner?"

There's no answer to that, immediately, but Courfeyrac returns to the living room wearing what looks like Combeferre's sweater, with a pout and his arms crossed over his chest. "How often would you say I burn dinner?" he asks, tilting his chin.

"I don't know," Combeferre mumbles, "occasionally?"

"Combeferre."

Combeferre sighs and shuts his laptop. "More often than not."

"You notice?" Courfeyrac gapes at him. "I thought you just had a weak palate!"

"Even if that were true," Combeferre says, "most of it is partially black."

"Oh my— I can't believe this," Courfeyrac mutters, stomping towards the kitchen. "All this time, you've just been eating my shit cooking without ever mentioning it!"

"It's not bad," Combeferre says, getting up. "It's usually really good, actually, that's why I don't mention it. After you scrape off the burnt bits, it's kind of…"

"Don't," Courfeyrac warns, picking up the spatula. He points it threateningly at Combeferre's chest. "You should have said something! You're too nice for your own good."

"I didn't want to upset you!"

Courfeyrac makes an annoyed sound and pulls the pot off the stove, tossing it into the sink. "We're ordering food," he says, whacking Combeferre with the spatula, "and you are not going to lie to me about my cooking again."

"I like your cooking!" Combeferre says, tugging the spatula out of Courfeyrac's hand.

"You like burnt food?"

"Maybe I do."

Courfeyrac crosses his arms over his chest again, leaning back against the counter with a stony look on his face. But it cracks quickly, little by little, lips twitching, eyes brightening until he finally lets out a chuckle and says, "Combeferre," and then leans forward and presses a kiss to Combeferre's cheek. "You're a sweetheart, you are, but you don't have to eat my burnt food, okay? I'm ordering pizza. On me. And tomorrow you can cook."

"Or you can cook and I can supervise and stop you from burning it," Combeferre offers.

"I like the way you think," Courfeyrac says, already reaching for his phone. "Cheese and peppers, right?"

"Right," Combeferre says.

Forty minutes later and they're sitting on the couch together, Courfeyrac flicking through the TV channels, fingers stained with grease and plates of pizza in their laps. Courfeyrac tosses a piece of crust onto Combeferre's plate and Combeferre bites into it without hesitation because they've done this enough times that it's sort of routine, at this point.

"So," Courfeyrac says, muting the TV, "we really fooled everyone today, huh?"

"With the pretending to date thing," Combeferre says, clarifying.

"Yeah." Courfeyrac grins at him, like they're sharing an inside joke. "I think even Enjolras bought it. We're damn good, Ferre."

"We did seem to convince them," Combeferre admits. And that is mostly due to Courfeyrac kissing him and looking at him like—

"I've been thinking about that," Courfeyrac says, grabbing another slice from the box. He licks sauce from his fingertips afterwards, slowly and carefully, "and I think we should go on a double date. With Cosette and Marius."

Combeferre frowns down at his pizza, picking off a pepper and popping it into his mouth, absolutely not stalling for time. "Don't you think," he says, but then he shakes his head, trying to find a way to word his thoughts properly. "Don't you think we're going a bit to the extreme with this? Going on a date with Cosette and Marius? That's putting a lot of effort into something that's supposed to be a sort of prank."

"Well, yeah, but that's what sells it," Courfeyrac says. "This whole thing doesn't work if we don't put effort into it."

"Oh," Combeferre says.

"Hey." Courfeyrac puts a hand on his shoulder, thumb rubbing gently against the skin that his collar doesn't cover. "If you don't want to do this, we don't have to. If it's making you uncomfortable, or if you're having second thoughts, I—"

"I'm not," Combeferre says. Why would he? It's not as if any of this is a big deal. He knows the boundaries. It's not as if he's going to… what? Convince himself that any of this of real? It's not like he wants it to be, so there's really no problem there. "I agreed to this, didn't I? If you think we should go on a double date with Cosette and Marius, then I guess we should. I don't know. I don't really date, in case you haven't noticed, pretend or not. I'm not really sure what all is involved in something like this."

"I've got us covered," Courfeyrac promises. "You just enjoy the ride, babe."

"Babe?"

"Baby?" Courfeyrac makes a face. "No. Sweetie? Honey? Hon?"

"Does my name no longer suffice?"

"Ferre," Courfeyrac says. "Happy?" He grabs his phone. "Couple-selfie time."

"Do people actually do that?"

"We actually do that," Courfeyrac says, shifting closer so they're pressed together, side to side. "Ready?"

"Do I have pizza sauce on my face?"

Courfeyrac gives him a onceover, pushing a bit of Combeferre's hair back, and then he rubs his thumb along Combeferre's bottom lip, sucks that thumb into his own mouth, and says, "Not anymore." He lifts the phone. "On three." Combeferre resignedly leans closer. "Two." Courfeyrac's arm is around his shoulder, lips pressed to Combeferre's cheek. "One," he mumbles against Combeferre's face. "There we go. Look, we're adorable as heck."

Courfeyrac shoves the phone in his face, the image of the two of them taking up the entire screen. Courfeyrac's hair covers most of his face, but it's quite clear that he's kissing Combeferre, albeit on the cheek. Combeferre himself is smiling with exasperation, but they do— they do look like a couple, really. If he didn't know better he'd think they were.

"We're definitely something," Combeferre settles for.

"Yes we are," Courfeyrac agrees, distracted by whatever he's typing out on his phone. "Cosette wants to do dinner Friday. You busy?"

"Not anymore."

"I've never been on a double date," Courfeyrac says as he texts. "You know, I don't think I've ever actually been on a date. Like, where you go out. I've been to the movies with people before, and gotten coffee, but never, like, dinner."

He says it all offhandedly, still looking at his phone, but there's something in his eyes that looks almost like excitement, like he's looking forward to this even if it's just a charade.

Combeferre honestly isn't sure what to make of that.

Thankfully, Combeferre's phone rings before he can respond. "It's probably Enjolras," he says, taking it out and, low and behold, Enjolras' name is on the screen. "I should take this in my room. It might be a while."

"Oh, yeah, cool." Courfeyrac looks up for only a moment, lips twisting into something that is not his usual grin. "I'll be here, but I don't promise the rest of the pizza will be for long."

"Just save me a single slice."

"Mm, maybe."

Combeferre sighs. "Jerk," he says on the way to his room.

"I love you, too, Combeferre!"

Combeferre rolls his eyes to himself and answers the phone.

-o-

The thing about Enjolras is that, once you've wound him up, it's very difficult to get him to unwind. He's practically vibrating the moment they step out of the meeting, and he's still jumpy and antsy the entire bus ride to Joly and Bossuet's. He keeps going over everything that happened as if Combeferre hadn't also been there, shaking his head with outrage sometimes, grinning proudly others. More than one other person on the bus is watching him as he leans back, drumming his fingers excitedly on the back of Combeferre's seat, but that isn't surprising.

If it's not Enjolras people are looking at, it's Courfeyrac. Combeferre is very used to his friends getting attention from the public. The two of them are beautiful in their own right, Enjolras with his golden hair and his almost aloof demeanor that keeps you from approaching him but also makes you want to, the air of important that surrounds him and keeps you watching. Courfeyrac, with his warm smiles and the easy way he draws people in as if he has a gravitational pull, and then once he starts talking he has you hooked for life.

The difference, however, is that when it's Courfeyrac, people are all over him; with Enjolras they keep a distance, admire from afar like the girl sitting across from them with her phone out who keeps darting glances at him every few moments.

"— listen to us," Enjolras continues for at least the second time since they've sat down, not that Combeferre minds. He likes hearing what Enjolras has to say, regardless of whether he's heard it before. "We had too much against them. The records don't lie, they've been favoring certain students and that has to stop. And budget wise, they know that we know that they can afford to up campus security to make it a safer environment for everyone. They do a good job keeping people out of the dorms that shouldn't be there, but what about making sure the students actually get to their dorms?"

"Well," Combeferre says, feeling more drained than anything, unlike Enjolras who thrives on these things, "they said they'd review what we gave them. That's all we can ask for."

"No, we can ask that they actually do something," Enjolras corrects. "And I think they will. If they don't, we'll take a more public approach. I'm sure the local paper would love to know that the university has been allowing members of the football team to get away with attacks on other students with barely a slap on the wrist. These aren't just theories any longer; we have solid proof of it."

"How about we give them time to take action first?"

"Of course," Enjolras says.

"And then we give them no choice."

"And then we give them no choice," Enjolras agrees. He cuts Combeferre a look. "You were good in there today."

"I just followed your lead."

"Like you're following Courfeyrac's?"

Combeferre feels his eyebrows furrow together, his lips pursing. "I'm sorry, I don't understand."

Enjolras gives him an unamused look, but instead of explaining he jumps back into conversation about the meeting and Combeferre forgets about it by the time they've reached their stop.

Everyone is waiting for them when they get there, all of them lounging about the surprisingly large apartment. It's almost twice the size of the one Combeferre shares with Courfeyrac. The ceilings are higher, the windows take up almost the entire wall. There's a reason they meet up here more than anywhere else and that's because it's large enough to fit most of them comfortably. All of the furniture is second hand, and the coffee table is missing an entire leg and is propped up by a collection of books that makes Combeferre sigh every time he looks at it, so he tends to avoid doing so, but it's nice. It's warm. (A bit too warm, honestly, and Combeferre feels sweat break out along his hairline almost the moment he walks in, but sacrifices need to be made, sometimes, and all of their friends really can't fit into his own small, air-conditioned apartment, unfortunately.)

"How did it go?" Feuilly asks before they've even shut the door.

"I think they were very attentive to what we were saying," Enjolras says cautiously, not wanting to give them false hope that they've accomplished something when they're not sure they have yet. "They agreed to look over what we gave them, listened to what we had to say, and told us that they'd need a bit of time to review everything, but. We're hopeful."

"What exactly did they say when you…?"

Combeferre doesn't hear most of Marius' question because Courfeyrac pushes himself up off the couch and saunters over to him, throwing his arms around Combeferre's shoulders. "Missed you," he says before leaning into a kiss.

(This is something they would do, isn't it? If he and Courfeyrac were truly together, would they greet each other like this, all over one another, 'I miss you' and kissing and adoring looks? Maybe. Combeferre isn't the expert here, and he's letting Courfeyrac take the reins.)

It still throws Combeferre off, even though he knows he should have been expecting it, but he catches on quickly, arms going around Courfeyrac's waist, tilting his head down to make things easier. Courfeyrac doesn't let him pull away immediately, instead holds on tightly and parts his lips, inviting Combeferre to do the same with the gentle, soft press of his mouth.

Something hits Combeferre in the side before he can. "Can you two stop that?" Bahorel complains. "No one wants to see that."

"Speak for yourself," Éponine says. Cosette giggles.

Enjolras loudly clears his throat and gives Combeferre and Courfeyrac a pointed look. Courfeyrac grins and grabs Combeferre's hand, dragging him over to the sofa, and then pushes Combeferre down into the seat he had previously occupied and sits himself in Combeferre's lap, as if he's small enough for that to be comfortable, which he's not. Courfeyrac is smaller than Combeferre, yes, but he's still not small. His shoulders are wide and he's heavier than he looks, and Combeferre has to turn his head to avoid coughing up Courfeyrac's hair.

And it's still… not terrible, once he wraps his arms around Courfeyrac's waist and adjusts himself a bit. It's not really worth the way everyone eyes them but he doesn't kick Courfeyrac off him anyway.

"I found this book today," Courfeyrac whispers in his ear, too quietly for anyone else to hear, "about the wing patterns on moths and butterflies. It's back at the apartment. You're going to love it."

"Really?" Combeferre can't help but grin. "Is it—?"

"No foreplay on my couch," Joly says loudly.

Combeferre looks up, wondering what he's talking about, and realizes, face heating up, that Joly's referring to them. To Combeferre and Courfeyrac. "We weren't—"

"We're the only ones allowed to do that," Bossuet adds.

"And we're all really happy for the two of you," Joly continues.

"But don't be gross on our furniture," Bossuet finishes.

"Come on, guys," Cosette says. "They're adorable. Stop teasing them."

"Thank you, Cosette," Courfeyrac says. "We are adorable and we should be free to be adorable wherever we want."

"Is shoving our relationship in everyone's faces part of the prank?" Combeferre whispers, lips grazing the shell of Courfeyrac's ear.

Combeferre swears he feels Courfeyrac shiver in his arms, but then Courfeyrac laughs loudly, playfully smacking a kiss to Combeferre's cheek as he says, so everyone can hear and most likely wonder what they're talking about, "Yes, yes it is."

"You probably should have mentioned that," Combeferre points out, no longer whispering.

"I am now," Courfeyrac says amiably.

"Anyway," Enjolras says sharply, "as I was saying before I was interrupted, aga—"

"Before you were what?" Grantaire asks innocently, smiling up at Enjolras from his seat on the floor.

"Before I was—"

"What?"

"Before I was inter—"

"Before you were interrupted?"

"Cut me off one more time and I swear I'll—"

"What?"

Enjolras makes a frustrated sound and Combeferre says, "Stop that. Before he hurts you."

Grantaire mimes zipping his lips and Enjolras picks up again, starting the tale of the meeting for the rest of them. Combeferre tries not to doze off, he does, but he's had a long day and he was there, none of this information new to him, and he can't help the way he leans his head back and closes his eyes, comforted by the warmth of the body on top of him.

Until that body starts shifting, just a bit. It's the slightest movement at first and he barely notices it, doesn't bother to open his eyes. But then Courfeyrac moves again, as if he's trying to get comfortable, and Combeferre realizes, dread settling in his stomach like a brick, that Courfeyrac is sitting in his lap. The more he shifts, the more friction there is. The more friction there is, the less tired Combeferre feels.

"Courfeyrac," Combeferre says, cracking open his eyes.

Courfeyrac looks up from his phone, smiling widely, and Combeferre realizes the shifting is caused by his suppressed laughter. Looking over, he notices that Éponine, too, has her phone out, a grin on her face, lips painted red with lipstick.

"Sorry," Courfeyrac says, lowering his phone. "Didn't mean to wake you. Should I get up?"

Combeferre tightens his arms without even thinking. Yes, he should say. Yes, before I gets an erection and things get awkward. "No," he says instead, settling back into the couch, eyes falling closed. "It's fine."

Courfeyrac stops moving, for a while, and Combeferre lets the chatter of the room lull him into a near-sleep. Enjolras' steadily rising voice, powerful and comfortingly familiar; Cosette's softer, lighter tones reminding him of when his mother used to read to him before bed; Joly and Bossuet's laugher, a lullaby in its own right; Bahorel's loud, booming bark of a laugh when Grantaire mutters something under his breath, and Feuilly telling him to shut up; Jehan, beside them on the couch, occasionally cutting in, talking in that slow, calming way he does, as if he has all the time in the world; Marius' awkward, hesitant interjections, like he's still not sure if he's accepted here even though he is, he most certainly is.

Courfeyrac isn't the only one most comfortable when he's with all of their friends; Combeferre finds solace in it, too, even if he has his days where he can't get himself out of the apartment for some reason or another, where he needs a break from it all. Combeferre is introverted by nature but that doesn't mean he loves this, being with them all, any less.

When Combeferre wakes up (he hadn't meant to fall asleep, honestly, he'd just sort of drifted out of consciousness for a moment) Courfeyrac is gone, sitting beside him on the couch between him and Jehan instead, an arm thrown over Jehan's shoulders as they lean together to read something on Courfeyrac's phone. Courfeyrac's other hand, however, is curled tightly in Combeferre's, arm stretched out at an awkward angle to keep it there.

Admittedly, Courfeyrac has nice hands. They're the same rich tan tone as the rest of him, and, while Combeferre is larger in almost every other aspect, Courfeyrac's hands are bigger. Wider. He has big feet, too, but his fingers are boney and thick, a callous along his thumb roughening his otherwise soft skin. That thumb is absently brushing over Combeferre's fingers and Combeferre has a moment to think, oh, this is actually nice, isn't it? before Courfeyrac looks over at him.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty," he says softly.

Combeferre yawns, extracting his hand and reaching up to fix his glasses. "How long was I out for?"

"Not long," Jehan says. "Almost everyone's left but you've only been asleep about an hour."

Combeferre blinks. "An hour? Why didn't someone wake me?"

"You looked comfortable," Courfeyrac says with a shrug, "and Enjolras told us not to bother you."

Combeferre wants to be annoyed, and succeeds, partially, but it's hard to stay that way when Courfeyrac gives him his signature pout. Damn those brown eyes, Combeferre thinks. Courfeyrac knows exactly what he's doing with them and he never gives up an opportunity to use them to get him what he wants. To get out of trouble, to make someone smile, to get extra whipped cream on his drinks for free.

There should be a limit to how charming a person can be, but Courfeyrac apparently does not abide by those rules.

"Thanks," Combeferre says, rubbing a hand down his face. He feels horrible, the way he always does after a nap, his brain not functioning the way it should, his vision a bit blurred and his mouth cottony. He yawns, stretches, feels his shirt and sweater rise up and hurriedly tugs them back down. When he looks back over Courfeyrac's gaze has fallen well below his eyes, but it jerks back up when he realizes Combeferre's looking at him.

"Wanna head home?" he offers, extracting his arm from around Jehan's shoulders.

"Enjolras already leave?" Courfeyrac nods. "If you want to, then. You can stay; you don't have to come with me."

"Yeah, I know," Courfeyrac says, "but I want to." He kisses Jehan's cheek, just as easily as he does Combeferre's, but maybe he lingers for less time, pulls back quicker. "See you later, beautiful."

Combeferre insists on saying goodbye to Joly and Bossuet before they go, too, and by the time they make it outside his brain is awake enough that he thinks to take initiative and grabs Courfeyrac's hand before he remembers that there's no reason to. On the way to the Musain yesterday they'd done it because they were going to walk in and see their friends. Now, heading home, there's absolutely no one to put on this show for and Combeferre feels flushed with embarrassment as he tries to jerk his hand back.

"Sorry," he starts, but Courfeyrac squeezes his hand and cuts him off, refusing to let Combeferre pull away.

"For what? This is good," he says, swinging their hands the way he had the day before. "We should get used to it so we don't forget. This is like acting; we have to get really in character if we want to sell this."

Combeferre glances down at their hands, then at the woman on the street who smiles at them when they pass, and thinks, right, of course, despite the way something in his gut wants to argue with that. Not that he wants to let go of Courfeyrac's hand. He doesn't want to at all, which is probably the source of the problem, if he thinks about it.

He doesn't think about it. Combeferre has always found himself to be very good at compartmentalizing his thoughts. It's what keeps him from getting distracted while studying, the way Courfeyrac always does; it's what causes people to repeat themselves several times when he's reading before he realizes he's being spoken too. It is very easy to push that thought to the back of his mind, for now, though he knows that eventually it's going to resurface and gnaw at him until he acknowledges it. At the moment he refuses to and instead lets himself enjoy the cool air on his skin, such a contrast from Joly and Bossuet's apartment, and the surprisingly cloud-free sky.

Neither of them let go of the other until they reach their building, and then they only do so because someone has to unlock the door.

-o-

Combeferre's classes always run late on Friday, and he's not at all surprised to find Courfeyrac's bag already thrown on the couch, one of his many pairs of shoes (the only person Combeferre's ever met with more shoes than Courfeyrac is Bahorel, but he's in a ballpark of his own) kicked off at random by the door.

The heavy smell of cologne is surprising, however, as is the music. Those two things alone may not draw much attention, but paired together they can only mean one thing.

"—you look at me; O is for the only one I see," plays loudly from Courfeyrac's room, Courfeyrac's voice drifting out with it because he can't ever seem to listen to music without singing along, "V is very, very, extraordinary; E is—" Combeferre shuts the front door and the music cuts off. "Combeferre?"

"No, sorry. Just a murderer, taking advantage of the unlocked door," Combeferre calls, taking his things out of his bag so he can hang it up.

Courfeyrac comes out of his room dressed in nothing but a pair of black socks and dress pants. His hair is brushed almost straight and damp, slicked back off his face as if he's considering gelling it up tonight. He gives Combeferre a returning once over, eyebrows raised (they always look so much thicker with his hair back) and an amused twist to his lips.

"Date tonight?" Combeferre asks as he hangs up his bag. The words have a weird tone to them, but only because, well. The fake dating was Courfeyrac's idea, and it seems a little counterproductive if he's going to be seeing other people while they do it, doesn't it? Or maybe Combeferre's taking this a bit too far and Courfeyrac going out on a date while they're pretending to be dating is a completely reasonable thing to do.

Courfeyrac's expression turns confused. "Uh, yeah," he says slowly, crossing his arms over his chest. "It's Friday."

Right. "Anyone I know?" he asks, careful not to brush against Courfeyrac on his way to his room.

"Are you serious?" Courfeyrac demands, sounding irritated.

Combeferre winces, fingers wrapped around his doorknob. Clearly he has crossed some sort of fake-boyfriend line without even realizing. "Sorry," he says, "I shouldn't have asked."

"Oh my god," Courfeyrac groans. "We're supposed to meet Marius and Cosette at six. You have an hour to get ready."

And— oh.

Oh.

"You're the worst boyfriend ever," Courfeyrac says to his back as Combeferre ducks into his room, cheeks burning because he feels foolish and foolish is not something Combeferre likes feeling. "Our first date, I put in effort to get us reservations, and you forget. You know what, I think we need couple's counseling. I know a guy. I'll give him a call."

"I'm sorry," Combeferre sighs as he shrugs out of his sweater. "I honestly didn't mean to forget."

"Just for that," Courfeyrac says, "you're paying for dinner. And I'm getting steak."

Stupidly, Combeferre smiles to himself, safe in the knowledge that Courfeyrac can't see it. Courfeyrac is too busy going back to his own room, returning to a routine that Combeferre has watched him go through many times. Courfeyrac's relationships are short and passionate, last days where Combeferre is warned not to come home yet or Courfeyrac stumbles home in the morning to shower before class, only to fizzle out before it can get serious. From what he's gathered it's usually mutual, but there have been nights where Combeferre's been helpless to do anything but rub Courfeyrac's back as he goes from crying to throwing whatever's nearest him to sobbing again.

It's almost nice, knowing that this time, at least, Courfeyrac's pre-date routine won't end with Courfeyrac slamming the door later on in the night, either behind himself and whatever attractive person he's brought home, or in a fit of frustration and disappointment.

What's not nice is that Combeferre flounders when he realizes he needs to get ready, too.

Neither sexual nor romantic relationships are things he purposefully seeks out or feels he needs to have in order to be happy. A romantic relationship doesn't seem to fit into the tight schedule of his life, and while sex is something he has interest in, with the right persons, he's always found that sexual attraction is something that, personally, isn't formed until after he has romantic interest in a person. And he doesn't have the time, really, to focus on another person the way they'd deserve in a relationship, not with school and whatever activism they're participating at the moment, not when his free time is all spent either with his friends or finally allowing himself a night to relax on the couch with Courfeyrac and a good book.

It wouldn't be fair to another person to try to get involved with them so Combeferre hasn't bothered in a very long time, and because of that he is at a complete loss for what to do in this regard. Dating? Combeferre doesn't do dating, but Courfeyrac said something about reservations, right? So Combeferre needs to wear something formal, most likely. Combeferre can handle formal.

Hopefully.

-o-

There isn't a Hollywood 'Wow, you look… amazing' moment when Combeferre and Courfeyrac meet each other in the hallway to go on their date because this isn't a movie and they're honestly just friends. Combeferre doesn't feel his heart drop into his stomach at the sight of Courfeyrac in that tight fitting black vest thrown over a button-up shirt that fits him perfectly; Courfeyrac's breath doesn't catch in his throat as he gives Combeferre a onceover. When Combeferre asks, "Ready to go?" it isn't tight and thready. Courfeyrac doesn't swallow before answering, slowing lifting his eyes back to Combeferre's face.

All of that would be weird and uncalled for, right? Unless they're taking Courfeyrac's advice, putting their all into this, keeping up the show even when they're alone so they get more comfortable with it. If that's the case, Combeferre is completely justified in the way he leans forward, lifting a hand to cup Courfeyrac's jaw and draw him in.

"Better hurry up so we're not late," Courfeyrac says before Combeferre can touch him, jerking back with a grin that's tighter around the corners than it should be.

The cab ride isn't uncomfortable. Combeferre and Courfeyrac have never been uncomfortable with each other. It is quieter than usual, though, and Combeferre feels his jaw clenching when Courfeyrac spends the entire ride on his phone.

"Cosette and Marius are going to be late," Courfeyrac tells him when they get out of the cab.

"How late, exactly?" Combeferre asks, because the answer to that question could be anywhere from ten minutes to an entire hour.

Courfeyrac shrugs. "No idea," he admits, a tad uneasily.

The restaurant is nicer than Combeferre had been expecting. The lights inside are dimmed, and the usual pollution of noise that comes from this many people being in one room is drowned out by something low and soft playing from what seems to be hidden speakers in each corner of the room. Their reserved table is close to the windows, a string of lights lining them that should be tacky but somehow seem to fit with the dark walls and the mahogany tables, making the area feel warm instead of stuffy.

"Not bad, right?" Courfeyrac says as they sit down. He sounds almost nervous, and Combeferre can't help but raise an eyebrow; Courfeyrac doesn't do nervous. "I just don't want Cosette to get here and be disappointed," he hastily explains. "She's pretty excited to come here."

"And yet she's late," Combeferre points out.

"I think that's Marius' fault, actually, but…" he trails off to smile politely at the woman standing just beside their table.

The server introduces herself as Melanie and offers them their menus while explaining tonight's special. Courfeyrac waves off the menus, explaining that they're waiting for two other people, but orders them both a glass of wine before Combeferre can even open his mouth.

"I'll be right back with that, sir," Melanie says before hurrying off.

Combeferre leans back in his seat. "Ordering for me now?"

"It's just wine," Courfeyrac points out, but he scratches his nail at an imperfection in the table. "Was that okay? I can call her back and tell her—"

"It's fine," Combeferre assures him. "You know what I like just as well as I do."

"Yeah." Courfeyrac grins. "I do."

Courfeyrac has his phone out, once again, until the server returns. Combeferre sips at his wine, looking around the room, and realizes that they're surrounded by couples. In fact, he thinks that there might not be a single pair of family member or friends in this place. Everyone is leaning across the table, holding hands or sharing food. He fidgets in his seat, not understanding the sympathetic look the woman at the table nearest them shoots his way until he looks back to find Courfeyrac still on his phone.

Oh. She must think his date is ignoring him. That is technically the case, even if it's not in the way she thinks.

When Combeferre's glass is nearly empty (and he's been sipping slowly) and Cosette and Marius still haven't arrived, he reaches across the table and tugs Courfeyrac's phone from his hands.

"Hey," Courfeyrac says, eyes narrowing, "I was—"

"Texting Cosette isn't going to get her here any sooner," Combeferre points out. "They'll get here when they get here."

Courfeyrac looks lost without his phone. He wraps his fingers around his glass, sloshing the liquid inside, looking down at it as if it holds the answers to the universe. Combeferre turns off the phone and sticks it in his pocket to help Courfeyrac resist temptation.

"I am surprisingly terrible at this," Courfeyrac sighs finally, looking as if he's been holding that in for quite a while.

"At what?"

Courfeyrac waves a hand. "Dates."

"You go on plenty of dates," Combeferre reminds him.

"Not like this. I get coffee with people; I go to movies so we don't have to talk; I go out to get drinks so I'm drunk enough to make boring conversations. I don't go out to fancy dinners."

"This isn't an actual date, though."

"Feels like it."

It does, honestly. A bad one at that. They're overthinking it, Combeferre thinks, which is something he does when it comes to most things but is something Courfeyrac doesn't do. "Did you go to class today?" he asks, trying to find something to talk about, something familiar, easy.

It does the trick. "I got kicked out, actually," Courfeyrac says, grinning sheepishly.

Combeferre shakes his head, chuckling. "For what, this time?"

"Well, there was this discussion about poverty, right, and some jackass actually had the audacity to say that every single person in this country has equal opportunities and that poor people are poor because of their own choices, and the government should stop wasting money on helping them and put it towards things that'll benefit those not under the poverty line. I totally get where Bahorel's coming from now. I almost punched the guy right in the face before my professor asked me to take a moment in the hallway to calm down."

"Asshole," Combeferre says, nose wrinkling.

"Right? Sometimes I forget that not everyone's, you know, like our friends," Courfeyrac admits. "Sometimes I forget that there are still assholes out there like that that honestly don't give a single shit about helping other people." His lips curl, eyes flashing with anger. "I don't get it. I really don't get how someone could see another person that needs help and not want to give it to them."

"I don't, either," Combeferre says.

Courfeyrac nods, like he knows this. The anger in his eyes slips away so quickly it's easy to forget it was ever there. "I also got hit on."

"Really." Combeferre finds he'd almost rather watch Courfeyrac fiddle with his phone than talk about this, for some reason.

"Cute guy on the bus," Courfeyrac explains. "Had to let the poor lad down. I told him I was already seeing someone."

"You don't have to do that," Combeferre tells him. "You shouldn't let— whatever this is get in the way of you meeting someone."

Courfeyrac shrugs and takes a sip of his drink, stalling. Combeferre knows him too well not to notice that's what he's doing. "I don't really mind?" he says after a while. "I kind of like having the excuse."

Something that feels suspiciously like relief has Combeferre smiling widely. "Is that what I am?" he teases. "An excuse?"

Courfeyrac lets out a snort, kicking out at Combeferre's ankle under the table. "You know you're the greatest thing that's ever happened to me," he says.

Combeferre straightens up in his seat. "I didn't, actually."

"I just meant that, like." Courfeyrac finishes the rest of his wine in one swallow. "You're my best friend," he says afterwards. "That's what I meant."

"Don't let Enjolras or Marius hear you saying that. They'll think you're picking favorites."

"That's different."

"How?"

Courfeyrac eyes the lights hanging above Combeferre. His eyes reflect them, looking almost black apart from the pinpricks of light. "If Enjolras asked me to lay down my life for him," Courfeyrac says, still looking at the lights, "I would do it. And Marius— Marius is as close to a brother as I'll ever get, you know? I taught him how to tie a damn tie. But I lived with Marius, for a while, and I haven't lived with Enjolras but I have a pretty good idea of what that'd be like, and you're probably the only person I think I want around twenty-four seven."

"Because I'm the only one who can tolerate you for that long?" Combeferre tries to joke.

"Yeah, maybe," Courfeyrac laughs, "but— no, it's more that." He finally tears his eyes away from the lights, a soft smile tugging at his lips. "It's different."

Combeferre isn't the type of person that's easily rendered speechless, but he searches and searches for something to say, something that doesn't brush off what Courfeyrac's just said, something that lets Courfeyrac know that he understands exactly what Courfeyrac is trying to convey and he feels the same way.

He can't think of anything.

"I need to go to the washroom," Courfeyrac blurts before he can figure something out.

Combeferre watches him go feeling oddly frustrated, like there's a word on the tip of his tongue and he knows what it means but he just can't remember what it is.

-o-

Courfeyrac

Courfeyrac takes a long, hard look at himself in the mirror of the small, ridiculously nice bathroom. His eyes are bright, like he's sick, and his bottom lip is red from worrying it between his teeth. His hair does this thing when he's stressed out where it feels the need to fucking frizz, as if that'll help the situation. It's doing that right now. He'd spent twenty minutes on it before they'd left, and now it's gone and screwed itself up.

"Damn it," he says to his reflection, because sometimes it helps, in these situations, to say things out loud.

It helps a bit, so he forces a stern look on his face, similar to the one Combeferre gets when he's telling them not to do something or the one Enjolras gets when he's telling people to do something. "You're in love with him," he tells himself, because it's, like, healthy or whatever to get the words out there, to admit to them. "It's your own fault. Your life is a cliché, and you're in love with him."

It doesn't really help at all.

Damn it.

-o-

Combeferre

"I got menus while you were gone," Combeferre tells Courfeyrac when he returns from the bathroom. He'd been in there a while, not that Combeferre had been keeping track, and his hair is frizzing the way it does when it's too hot or he's worked up about something. Combeferre wants to comment on it but he thinks Courfeyrac probably doesn't want him to. Why else would he have excused himself to the bathroom for eleven minutes?

"Cosette and Marius can't really blame us for eating before they get here, right?" Courfeyrac says as he takes his seat. "They're, like, half an hour late. At least."

"That's what I thought," Combeferre explains. "I figured we could order our first course while we wait."

"Brilliant," Courfeyrac says, opening his menu.

Combeferre already knows exactly what he wants, but he gives Courfeyrac a few minutes before he says, "I'll get the mushroom strudel if you get the baked cheese."

Courfeyrac looks up at him, the tension in his shoulders falling away. "It's freaky when you read my mind. I've told you that, right?"

"Do we have a deal or not?"

Courfeyrac shuts his menu.

Forty minutes— and more wine— later, and Combeferre's trying to stifle a laugh as Courfeyrac picks at the last of their food, leaning across the table to steal what's left on the plate closest to Combeferre. "People can't actually enjoy eating snails," Courfeyrac says, which is why Combeferre's laughing (or the wine, that may be contributing). "It has to be for the shock value, right? Like, if someone offers you fries or snails, the only reason you say snails is because you want to be a jackass."

"Some people do like snails," Combeferre says, voice lilting with laughter. "Just because you don't, doesn't mean other people can't."

"Some people still like American Idol," Courfeyrac points out. "I'm not saying they're wrong, but I'm definitely judging them for it."

"You DVR every episode of the Voice."

"That's different."

"How so?"

"Adam Levine."

"I think it's in bad taste to talk about other men you find attractive while on a first date."

"You're right." Courfeyrac snaps his fingers and downs the rest of the wine in his glass, pushing their plates away so he can grabs Combeferre's hand in both of his, holding them in the middle of the table. "So what do you see yourself doing in ten years?"

"You already know."

"Nope. This is our first date. I'm getting to know you."

Combeferre makes a disbelieving noise, but he plays along, for now. "Alright," he says. "I see myself as a doctor, working in a hospital. I like what I do but I'm also constantly frustrated with the state of our healthcare and how inaccessible it is to the masses, and I probably drink a lot more coffee than I do now. I work late hours. Or I've done the inevitable and gone into law to represent all my friends in court because none of you seem to listen when I say that you can't do that, it's illegal— which is surprising, given just how many of you actually are taking law. And I might have a best seller, if I'm being optimistic."

"Aim high," Courfeyrac says, nodding in appreciation. "I think I'll be living in California, married to an emotionally distant but financially dependable millionaire who's always off on business trips so I bang the pool boy. In my spare time I'll dip into acting a bit, landing guest roles on soap operas that should have been cancelled ten years ago, and when that gets boring I'll write a cook book."

Combeferre can't help it this time, he laughs so hard he has to clutch a hand over his mouth to keep from making a scene. "On what? How to burn everything?"

Courfeyrac's grip on his hand tightens. "I thought you loved my cooking."

"I thought we were pretending not to know each other."

"Oh, right." He leans back, letting his foot slide up Combeferre's ankle under the table, while his thumb softly brushes over Combeferre's pulse point on top of the table. "In all honesty, I don't know exactly what I'll be doing in ten years, but I bet that I'll be the one making you all that coffee you're going to be drinking."

"Maybe you'll own a coffee shop."

"No, I meant at home."

"You think we'll be living together ten years from now?" Combeferre asks, forgetting the game for a moment. "Really?"

"You plan on leaving me, Ferre?" Courfeyrac pulls his hand back to place it over his heart, mock-terrified. "But I won't remember to fold my laundry without you there telling me that it'll wrinkle if I don't."

"I'm sure you'll want me gone eventually."

Courfeyrac makes a face at that and says, turning to look out over the restaurant, "I have a feeling Cosette and Marius aren't coming."

Combeferre pulls out Courfeyrac's phone, waiting patiently as it turns on. There are thirteen missed messages, according to the alert that pops up, so he slides it across the table to Courfeyrac.

"Just as I suspected," Courfeyrac says, holding it back out to Combeferre.

Marius has the flu : ( we're not coming : (((((( enjoy yourselves! Sorry : ( xxxooo

"That is a lot of sad-faces," Combeferre says.

"It is," Courfeyrac agrees, rubbing a hand down his face. "I should pick up some soup and bring it over. And lend them my Spiderman DVD because it's Marius' favorite and I doubt he'll be out of bed at all for the next two days."

"I'll get the bill, then," Combeferre says, catching the eye of their server across the room.

"Wait." Courfeyrac's hand covers his again. "I'll pay."

"I thought you wanted me to pay since I forgot about the date in the first place."

"I changed my mind."

"I can pay, I honestly don't—"

"I want to pay," Courfeyrac says firmly. "I'm going to pay. I'm paying."

"Okay," Combeferre says, as he carefully pulls his hand back. Maybe Courfeyrac thinks it's a good idea to get used to the intimacy necessary for this 'prank' they're playing, but Combeferre thinks that instead they should probably learn where the line is because he feels like he's been crossing it over and over and eventually they're not going to be able to come back from this if they're not careful. "You can pay."

Courfeyrac smiles, almost smug, but it's not as sincere as it should be. Marius, Combeferre thinks. Courfeyrac worries about Marius more than anyone, aside from Cosette and maybe Éponine. If he's sick, of course Courfeyrac is going to be caught up in worrying about him.

"I'm sure Marius will be fine," Combeferre says gently when they get outside. He wants to take Courfeyrac's hand again, he does, but he knows better than to actually do it.

"What?" Courfeyrac looks up, distracted. "That's— I know that. I'm not worried."

"Then…" Combeferre trials off, at a loss. "If something's wrong, you know you can—"

"I know," Courfeyrac says quickly, flashing a brilliantly beautiful smile that, if Combeferre didn't know him better, would definitely distract him into letting this go. But Combeferre does know him better, and he isn't going to won over by a smile that doesn't even reach his eyes. "Oh my god, Ferre, I'm fine, okay? If something's wrong, you know you're the first person I go to."

If there's one thing that gets to Combeferre, it's knowing something's wrong with one of his friends and not being able to do something to help. It makes him feel hopeless and useless and he hates it, but he isn't going to push Courfeyrac right now. If he doesn't want to talk, he'll get angry at anyone that tries to force him into it. Combeferre knows this well enough. He also knows that Courfeyrac isn't lying, and if something is wrong, when he's ready to talk about it it'll be Combeferre who he goes to. Even if he isn't ready to do it right this moment.

"Alright," he says, trying to sound placating. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize," Courfeyrac groans. "You're too nice. Can't you just yell at me?"

"I hate yelling at you."

"Yeah, because you're scary as balls when you're angry," Courfeyrac chuckles. "Remember that kid you made cry?"

"He was an adult," Combeferre says defensively, "and he should have kept his ignorance to himself if he didn't want someone to step in. And you're changing the subject."

"Trying," Courfeyrac corrects. "I'm trying to change the subject, but you calling me out on it makes it kind of hard."

"By all means," Combeferre says, waving a hand, "change the subject."

"Nah," Courfeyrac says, taking that hand in his. "I'd rather just walk with you, if that's alright."

"I'm not stopping you."

"But you will," Courfeyrac says determinedly. "If I cross any lines here, tell me. Stop me."

"You haven't crossed any yet," Combeferre promises. He probably should have, but he hasn't. "You were the perfect gentleman. I would definitely agree to a second date."

"Oh, really?"

"Somewhere better, though," Combeferre considers, tilting his head to let the cool air wash over him. Dusk is his favorite time of day, usually. Sunrises are wonderful, yes, but there's something relaxing about dusk, the end of the day, knowing that there's nothing left to do but go home. "A museum, so I can show off, maybe."

"Or paintball, so I can get you sweaty," Courfeyrac says.

"Is that a goal you have?"

"If it was, babe," Courfeyrac says, all mock-flirtatious, eyelashes fluttering, "I wouldn't have to wait until the second date to achieve it."

"You sound pretty confident."

"I am. I'm an awesome date."

"You were a good date," Combeferre says with a grin. "Not awesome. You didn't even buy me dessert. Seven out of ten."

Courfeyrac gapes at him. "Shit," he says.

"You're going to have to up your game," Combeferre tells him, "if you want a third. I'm not easily won over."

"Don't doubt my abilities to woo, Combeferre," Courfeyrac warns.

"Doubting a little already," Combeferre taunts.

"It's a good thing we didn't get dessert," Courfeyrac says darkly, "because you are going to eat those words. I'm the king of woo. The woo master."

"I look forward to seeing you try."

"Is that a challenge?" Combeferre shrugs. "Oh, it's on. Just you wait."

Combeferre feels pleasantly worn out and content when they get home, but Courfeyrac stops him from shutting the door. "I'm just grabbing my DVD and then heading out," he explains when Combeferre gives him a questioning look.

"If you're picking up food for Marius," Combeferre says, "you should stop at the coffee shop on the way and pick Cosette up a few of those cookies she likes. She's going to be stuck taking care of him; I'm sure she'll appreciate it."

Courfeyrac blinks, a smile slowly pulling at his lips. "That's a brilliant idea," he says, tugging one of the DVDs from the shelf that holds their small collection. "I'll be back in an hour, okay? Don't wait up if you're tired."

"It's eight," Combeferre says flatly.

"And you run on the same schedule as someone in an old folk's home," Courfeyrac teases. "Like I said, don't wait up. I've got my keys."

"Tell him to drink lots of water and avoid coffee," Combeferre advises as Courfeyrac heads back out the door.

"Will do!" Courfeyrac says as he shuts the door. "Don't have too much fun without me!"

Combeferre scoffs to himself as he neatly lines up his shoes on the mat. Chances are he isn't going to have any fun without Courfeyrac, but he doesn't mind that. Combeferre doesn't want fun; he wants to lie in bed and start one of the many books he couldn't help but pick up last week at a garage sale and possibly call Enjolras or Joly.

That's exactly what he does. He changes out of the pants he wore to the restaurant, switching them for a comfortable, gray pair of sweats, picks one of the books at random, and calls Joly as he sinks down onto his bed.

"How was your date?" is the first thing Joly says to him.

"It was fine," Combeferre says. "It was— nice." Even if Cosette and Marius never showed up. Maybe because they never showed up, but that's not a thought he wants to reflect on. "I don't remember telling you I was going on a date, though."

"You— It's Combeferre," Joly says, probably to Bossuet. "You didn't," Joly says to him. "Bahorel mentioned it."

"I didn't tell Bahorel either."

"No, but Courfeyrac did. Well, he called Bahorel for advice on what to wear, actually, and Bahorel put the pieces together, but. Yeah."

Combeferre finds himself grinning up at the ceiling. "Courfeyrac asked for fashion advice?" He cared that much about how he looked for the date? Why does that make Combeferre ridiculously happy?

"Yeah, he— Bossuet," Joly cries. "I'm trying to—"

When Joly dissolves into giggles that sound almost pained, Combeferre asks, "Is this a bad time?"

"No, no, it's—stop tickling me," Joly shouts. "You know I hate being—"

"I'll call you back," Combeferre says.

"No, that's—" There's a loud screech, followed by a thump, and the line goes dead. Combeferre chuckles to himself as he places his phone on the bedside table, grabs his book and settles in. Joly will call him back when he's free. It's not as if Combeferre had been calling for any reason at all, anyway, aside from maybe wanting someone to talk to about the date that wasn't actually a date, technically, but felt like one anyway.

That thought is too confusing to try to work out, so he opens the book and doesn't bother.

-o-

It's close to eleven when he hears the front door open, and Combeferre is— he flips through his book— twenty-two pages away from going to bed when Courfeyrac knocks on his door. "Don't come out of the room for, like, ten minutes," he calls through it before Combeferre can answer.

After living with Courfeyrac for as long as he has, Combeferre knows to instantly be suspicious when he hears things like that. "What did you break?"

"Nothing," Courfeyrac assures him. "Just stay in the room!"

Curiosity is Combeferre's downfall, but he suffers it anyway to make Courfeyrac happy. He waits, trying to pick up where he'd left off on his book while Courfeyrac makes enough noise in the living room that Combeferre's suspicions get worse, but the book can't hold his attention any longer. Just when he's about to give up, already climbing out of bed, Courfeyrac calls him out.

Surprisingly, nothing is broken. Somehow that doesn't comfort him as much as it should.

"What… is this?" Combeferre asks, stunned.

All of the lights in the living room have been turned off, the curtains thrown open wide. The room is bathed in the soft glow of the moon and the pair of tall candles burning on their coffee table. Courfeyrac sits on the couch, one arm thrown over the back of it, vest discarded and more shirt buttons undone than strictly appropriate.

There's a slice of chocolate cake on a plate sitting on their table. Combeferre is absolutely bewildered.

"I told you that you'd eat your words," Courfeyrac says, looking ridiculously pleased with himself.

"Wait." He can't be serious. This is too far, even for Courfeyrac. "Is this— is this your attempt to woo me?"

Courfeyrac bites his bottom lip and lowers his gaze. His eyelashes have always been long, but in the low-light they cast shadows on his cheekbones, leaving his eyes looking black as he slowly, so slowly, lets his gaze drift down Combeferre's body before flicking back up quickly. "Is it working?" he asks, his voice huskier than normal.

Arousal, sudden and startling, swoops in Combeferre's stomach, the feeling surprisingly similar to the taking a sharp drop on a rollercoaster: it knocks the breath out of him and leaves him feeling disoriented and a little terrified.

Combeferre stomps it down and crosses his arms over his chest. He's not that easy.

"Ferre," Courfeyrac sighs. The heavy, falsely heated look does not work. Combeferre won't be fooled into thinking it's real or falling for it. But that pout? Damn it, that pout works. Every time. "Sit."

Combeferre, screw it all to hell, sits. "This is truly ridiculous, even for you," he feels obligated to point out.

"The fact that you think there's a limit to my ridiculousness means I need to step it up," Courfeyrac says, leaning forward. There's an entire couch cushion separating them.

Correction: there was an entire couch cushion separating them. Now there's half a cushion.

"Where did you even get the cake at this time of night?" Combeferre asks. Questions feel safer than— than whatever this is. "And the candle holders. I know those aren't ours."

"Cosette," Courfeyrac confesses. "I asked her for them."

"You— you actually put effort into planning this," Combeferre realizes. It wasn't just a spur of the moment, typical Courfeyrac thing that can easily be brushed away as something he didn't think about before he did it.

"Of course I did," Courfeyrac says, looking affronted. "I take my wooing very seriously."

"But this isn't serious," Combeferre says. "You don't— you don't actually—"

"Cake," Courfeyrac interrupts, grabbing the plate from the table. "We're going to eat the cake. It's romantic."

"Surprisingly enough, cake isn't high on my list of things I find romantic."

"What if I said I'm going to feed it to you?"

"What if I said I'm perfectly capable of feeding myself?"

"You're being difficult," Courfeyrac complains.

"Maybe you're just not as good at wooing as you thought."

"Eat the cake," Courfeyrac grumbles, forking up a bite. He holds it up to Combeferre's mouth and, only because it looks really good, Combeferre sighs and parts his lips. "How's it taste?"

"Unhealthy."

"Don't be rude."

"It's good," Combeferre admits. Decadent. He doesn't eat cake often, honestly, and right now he's not sure why because it is good. Very good.

"Yeah?" Courfeyrac hands him the fork. "Do me."

"That's a little forward for our first date."

Courfeyrac snorts a laugh and pinches Combeferre's thigh. "Stop that," he says. "I meant feed me, jerk. You're purposefully being difficult now and you know it."

Combeferre can't fight the pleased smile on his face, but he does as he's told, forking up a bite of cake and holding it out for Courfeyrac, no matter how stupid he feels. If this is a game Courfeyrac wants to play, fine.

Feeding another person, it turns out, is very awkward. Combeferre has to be careful not to scrape Courfeyrac's teeth with the fork, not to mention it's just weird and nowhere near the realm of romantic, and when he accidentally smears chocolate icing on the corner of Courfeyrac's mouth, he can't hold back the laugh that's been brewing inside him since the moment he stepped out of his room.

"I'm sorry," Combeferre laughs, not even trying to stifle it because Courfeyrac's pouting at him like Combeferre's singlehandedly spoiling his plans and it's too amusing to stop.

"Sure you are," Courfeyrac says, wiping at his face. He misses most of the icing. "Is it gone?"

"No," Combeferre chuckles, reaching out. He drags his thumb along the side of Courfeyrac's mouth, wiping away the last of the chocolate.

When he tries to pull his hand back, Courfeyrac wraps his fingers around Combeferre's wrist, holding it steady. "Shouldn't waste it," Courfeyrac explains, meeting Combeferre's eyes as he leans in and wraps his lips around Combeferre's thumb.

There is more tongue involved than probably necessary. Logically, Combeferre should pull away. There's a difference between knowing what to do and actually doing it, though, and he finds himself staying exactly where he is, still as he can, until Courfeyrac's teeth drag up his thumb and he makes an involuntary, embarrassing sound.

"Crossing the line?" Courfeyrac asks, Combeferre's wrist still held in his hand.

"No," Combeferre says boldly.

The word is out before he's thought it through. He'd probably regret it, under normal circumstances, admitting that he likes Courfeyrac touching him and doesn't want it to stop, but Courfeyrac's face lights up with a pleased smile and he can't find it in himself to do so. Maybe after, when he's not looking at Courfeyrac bathed in candlelight, when the taste of chocolate isn't on his tongue and Courfeyrac's hand isn't caressing his knee, but not right now.

"You know," Courfeyrac says, eying Combeferre's mouth, "you actually have a bit of…."

"Oh," Combeferre says. He has to resist the urge to lick his lips. "Could you—?"

Courfeyrac nods, leaning in, but instead of using his thumb the way Combeferre had he overlaps Combeferre's lips with his own, tongue darting out against the corner of Combeferre's mouth.

"Think I got it," Courfeyrac mumbles against his lips.

"Are you sure?"

"No," Courfeyrac says before kissing him again.

Combeferre wasn't entirely honest when he said this isn't crossing the line. It isn't crossing the line between comfortable and uncomfortable, between something Combeferre wants and something he doesn't, but he's fairly certain this is definitely crossing the line between a friendly game and something a lot more than that.

Friendship, he thinks. That's the line they're crossing.

"Definitely got it this time," Courfeyrac says, drawing back with a shaky breath.

Combeferre sighs, grabs the plate, sticks it on the table and pulls Courfeyrac back in by the front of his shirt.

Courfeyrac lets him, grinning until Combeferre kisses it away, but then he surges forward, pushing Combeferre up against the arm of the couch, groaning as his fingers find their way into Combeferre's hair. All it takes is a short, gentle tug and Combeferre parts his lips like he's been ordered to, his hands leaving creases behind in Courfeyrac's shirt as he lets them fall to his hips.

Courfeyrac kisses him slowly, languidly, as if this is the only thing he plans on doing for the rest of his life. The taste of chocolate overwhelms everything in the best possible way, and Combeferre finds himself kissing back, wanting more, fingers digging into Courfeyrac's hips as he tries to get closer, suddenly desperate to keep this going because he knows that as soon as it stops his brain will catch up with him and they'll both realize why this is such a bad idea.

That's probably why the frustrated sound slips from his lips the moment Courfeyrac pulls back, his own lips wet and shiny in the flickering candlelight.

"Not stopping," Courfeyrac promises, resting his forehead on Combeferre's shoulder. He sounds breathless. That should not be as satisfying as it is. "Just… pausing."

"Do you think," Combeferre starts, forcing himself not to think about the temptation that is Courfeyrac's mouth, "that maybe we should—"

"Bedroom?" Courfeyrac suggests.

And no, that isn't what Combeferre was going to say. He was going to say stop, while they can still salvage their friendship. While they can still brush this off, make up excuses. But— Courfeyrac's idea seems like a much better one, in this moment, while Combeferre's heart is still thudding in his chest and he can still feel the phantom press of Courfeyrac's lips against his own, and the longer he thinks about it the less stopping this seems like an actually realistic idea.

"Yeah," Combeferre says, frowning to himself because that voice, rough and low, does not sound like his own. He clears his throat, tries again, this time with more conviction: "Yes."

He feels Courfeyrac smile against his neck just before he pulls back, that same ridiculous, over exaggerated look of lust on his face that he'd given Combeferre before this all began. "My room or yours?"

"Mine," Combeferre almost says, but then he takes a moment to consider that tomorrow he'd wake up with the smell of Courfeyrac covering his sheets and he thinks that once he gets Courfeyrac in his bed he's not going to be able to look at it without wanting this again. He can't fool himself into thinking this is going to be something that happens more than once, so it'll be easier to deal with the fallout if they just— don't. "Yours."

"Wonderful choice," Courfeyrac says, losing what little bit of cool he has as he tries to drag Combeferre down the hall.

"The fact that you're willing to leave two candles unattended is why you're not supposed to have fire in the apartment," Combeferre says, leaning down to blow them out.

Courfeyrac groans at him, his hand pressing against the center of Combeferre's back, drifting lower by the second. "I'm a bit distracted by other things," he points out. "Like how much I really want to tear that awful shirt off you."

"What?" Combeferre straightens up, frowning at Courfeyrac. His face is mostly shadowed, only a sliver illuminated by the moonlight, but he's grinning. "What's wrong with my shirt?"

Courfeyrac's hands find his waist, gripping tightly. "You're still wearing it," he says.

"Oh." Combeferre can understand that. Courfeyrac's shirt is unbuttoned just enough to hint at what's underneath but not enough for Combeferre's liking. "You're still wearing yours."

"That is a problem," Courfeyrac says. Combeferre reaches for him but he jumps back, nothing but a shadow in the darkened room. "What are you going to do about it, Ferre?"

Combeferre raises his eyebrows, trying to follow Courfeyrac down the darkened hallway. Courfeyrac walks backwards, somehow managing to undo his shirt as he goes, and if it were anyone else, if it were Combeferre himself, he knows they'd bump into something, trip, make a fool of themselves, but of course Courfeyrac manages the entire thing perfectly. This probably isn't even the first time he's done this.

Pointedly, Combeferre does not think about that. Combeferre spent enough of high school comparing himself to others and getting frustrated and hurt when he couldn't match up, and he refuses to do that with anyone Courfeyrac has ever had in his bed. It doesn't matter. Obviously, at least for the time being, Courfeyrac wants him; that's all that counts.

Courfeyrac's shirt is gone by the time they reach the bedroom, and he flicks on the light while pressing a hand to Combeferre's chest, keeping him from entering.

"No shirts allowed," Courfeyrac says with a smile that's trying and failing to be a smirk. "New rule. It's just been implemented."

Combeferre swallows, nods, and reaches for the buttons on his shirt. He fumbles, having a harder time than he should, getting only two done before Courfeyrac gently touches his wrist and stops him.

"Hey," he says softly, "you know you don't have to, right? If you want to just… lie in bed with me, that's cool, too. Or even if you don't. You can call this off whenever, go back to your own room. Don't feel like you can't, okay?"

Startled, Combeferre lets out a laugh. Of course Courfeyrac is mistaking his shaking hands for nerves or indecision. Of course he's trying to call this off before Combeferre does something he doesn't want to do. And Combeferre appreciates that, he truly does, but the shaking in his hands has absolutely nothing to do with not wanting this to go further. Quite the opposite, actually. Courfeyrac's standing there, chest heaving with heavy breaths, eyes dark and watching Combeferre like he's the only thing in the entire world that matters right now, and the problem is so far from not wanting this that Combeferre has to laugh.

Saying that out loud isn't something Combeferre thinks he can manage, not without his cheeks flushing and stuttering his words, so instead he breaks Courfeyrac's rule, steps into the room to kiss him and laughs when Courfeyrac doesn't even attempt to stop him this time.

"So much for your rule," he says around a grin.

Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow, his expression akin to the one he gets when Bahorel dares him to do something he probably shouldn't, and that's how Combeferre's shirt loses exactly three buttons. "We'll sew them back on," Courfeyrac says when Combeferre tries to glare him, distractedly pushing the shirt off Combeferre's shoulders.

"You don't know how to sew," Combeferre reminds him as his shirt falls to the ground.

"So I'll learn," Courfeyrac says. He reaches up, carefully tugging Combeferre's glasses off his face. "For safe keeping," he adds, placing them on the bedside table, and then he shuts off the light and the glasses become redundant anyway.

It's a bit disorienting, being in Courfeyrac's room in the dark. Combeferre doesn't have it memorized the same way he does his own room or the rest of the apartment. He's not sure where to step, if he's going to bump into something, but Courfeyrac gropes his arm until he finds Combeferre's hand, and then he's being tugged forward, only the slight warning of his legs hitting something solid before he's pulled down onto the bed and, subsequently, Courfeyrac himself.

"Tell me how brilliant this idea was," Courfeyrac says, his fingers dragging whisper-light up and down Combeferre's spine.

"The no shirts idea?"

"The bed idea," Courfeyrac corrects. "The shirtless idea was also brilliant, though."

Combeferre isn't going to argue that, not with Courfeyrac's chest pressed against his. Courfeyrac's skin is soft and warm and he can feel every time Courfeyrac breathes in, breathes out, every shift he makes. He props himself up, not wanting to crush Courfeyrac under his weight, just as Courfeyrac's lips find his neck. They trail up, so slowly, over his jaw until he meets Combeferre's parted lips. The hand not moving up Combeferre's back tangles in his hair, pulls him closer, and Combeferre can't for the life of him figure out why they haven't been doing this forever. Courfeyrac's mouth is addicting, the way his tongue curls against Combeferre's dizzying.

The hand on his back glides along the waistband of his pants, barely slipping under. Combeferre groans, tries to swallow it and fails, and Courfeyrac shakes beneath him, chuckling as if Combeferre's response is amusing to him and not embarrassing— which it actually is.

It's not just dating that Combeferre doesn't do. He doesn't do this, touch another person, feel another person underneath him. It's been a very, very long time since he's been in bed with someone else like this, and it's a bit overwhelming how much he wants Courfeyrac, something he hasn't even really allowed himself to admit until now, not even in his own mind.

There's really no denying it, though, especially not when Courfeyrac's hand moves between them instead of on his back. The sweatpants he's wearing leave little to the imagination, and when Courfeyrac's hand brushes against him he has to bite down on a gasp that slips out anyway.

"Combeferre," Courfeyrac whines. It's different from his usual whine, the one he uses when Combeferre tells him no, they don't need three boxes of chicken nuggets or no, they're not going to DVR every episode How I Met Your Mother because Courfeyrac never gets around to watching what he DVRs and he takes up all the slots anyway. This is— this is worlds different, bordering on needy, and Combeferre almost can't handle it. "Just— tell me what you want. I need to know what you want because, fuck, I really don't want to come in my pants but if you keep making noises like that I'm not going to be able to help myself and I'd actually like to get out of the pants, but only if you want to, too, so it'd be really helpful if you would let me know what you want."

Combeferre groans at that, letting his head fall forward into the crook of Courfeyrac's neck so he can breathe because he's pretty sure there's a lack of oxygen getting to his brain right now. Either that, or it's just Courfeyrac making him dizzy and lightheaded. "I'm happy," he says when he can, finding it difficult to articulate what it is that he wants because the list is so vast and overwhelming that it's hard to pick just one, "to take whatever you want to give."

This time it's Courfeyrac who groans, and Combeferre has no warning before he's being pushed away, falling onto his back with a grunt. He lies there for a moment, completely convinced that he's overstepped and Courfeyrac is going to ask him to leave, when Courfeyrac moves down the bed and blunt teeth dig into his hip.

"I'm going to blow your mind," Courfeyrac informs him, sounding completely serious. "And your dick."

Combeferre snorts out a laugh. "I can't believe you actually just said tha—"

His words cut off with a gasp as Courfeyrac bites him again, this time a bit harder, while he pulls down the side of Combeferre's sweatpants until his hip and the top of his thigh are bared. "As long as you want me to, that is," Courfeyrac adds.

It dawns on him then, what Courfeyrac is offering, and it takes him a moment to gather himself before he can manage to get out, "I'm… not opposed to that idea," as steadily as he possibly can.

He feels Courfeyrac's sigh more than he hears it. "I'm going to add what you just said to my list of things that shouldn't turn me on but do," he says before tugging down the other side of Combeferre's pants.

Combeferre tries to apologize, gets the word, "I'm," out before Courfeyrac wraps a hand around him. His sweatpants are pulled down to rest awkwardly and tight against his thighs, but he hardly notices because Courfeyrac, never one to hesitate or take things slow, already has his mouth around Combeferre's cock, wet and warm as his tongue licks teasingly at the head.

"But," Combeferre mumbles, hands curling in Courfeyrac's comforter. He can't help but remember the last person who did this, how sloppy and hurried it been like they were just waiting for him to finish. This isn't like that. This is slow and teasing, like Courfeyrac's only goal is to make him writhe (one he is, so far, succeeding at), but that's not— that's just about Combeferre and that's not what he wants. "What about you? I want you to—"

"Trust me," Courfeyrac says thickly, his hand working lazily up Combeferre's length, wet-slick from his mouth, "I like doing this."

"Oh," Combeferre says. Well. In that case, who is Combeferre to stop him?

Courfeyrac goes right back to it and, really, Combeferre should have probably anticipated Courfeyrac being amazing at this, but it's not as if he gives much thought as to whether or not his best friend is good at giving head. But he is. When Combeferre's hand finds his hair, hesitatingly tangling in his curls, trying to hold back a moan, Courfeyrac pulls off him just enough to let out a teasing laugh before he swallows Combeferre back down, as far as he can, tantalizingly dragging his tongue along the underside on the way back up.

There's a moment where Courfeyrac's mouth goes slack around him, a long moan vibrating out against Combeferre's cock, where Combeferre almost loses it barely any time into this. But then Courfeyrac pulls off for a moment, panting heavily against Combeferre's thigh, and Combeferre gets a moment to collect himself. Only a moment, though, because Courfeyrac seems intent on ruining him and he certainly doesn't give Combeferre enough time to actually put himself back together.

Combeferre is aware of his halting, panting breaths, but it's more the way that he mumbles, "Courf, I— Oh, god," that's more embarrassing. His cheeks are burning and he's biting the inside of his cheek to stay quiet, but every time Courfeyrac's speeds up, bobbing his head up and down quickly, or does that thing with his tongue, Combeferre forgets to be quiet all over again and only remembers when he realizes that those sounds are coming from him and, wow, that is embarrassing.

He wishes he could see, imagines Courfeyrac's lips stretched around him, hair mused from Combeferre's hands, eyes shining that way they do whenever he's done something to make Combeferre blush, but he resigns himself to letting his hand fall to Courfeyrac's jaw, thumb edging along the spread of his mouth.

It doesn't last. Of course it doesn't last. Combeferre doesn't even want to know how long it's been since Courfeyrac first got his mouth on him because he knows it's been a very short time between then and the moment Combeferre says, "Courfeyrac," warning and desperately.

Courfeyrac doesn't stop; Combeferre wonders if he ever really expected him to.

Combeferre is still feeling the aftershocks of his orgasm, breathing still uneven, mind foggy, as Courfeyrac climbs back up the bed and flops down against the pillows beside him. Combeferre wastes no time pulling him into a kiss, ignoring the taste of himself mingling with the remnants of chocolate on Courfeyrac's tongue.

Courfeyrac's pants are already undone when Combeferre reaches down to try and reciprocate, and the moment he wraps a hand around Courfeyrac's half-hard cock he hisses in a breath. "Sensitive," he says, pushing Combeferre's hand away.

Combeferre sucks in his own breath, wondering if it's really possible to be turned on again when he's still shaky from his previous orgasm because— "Did you…?"

"I told you I like doing it," Courfeyrac whispers, sounding, now that Combeferre pays attention, tired and content. The room goes silent for a while, both of them breathing shallowly, Courfeyrac's head resting on his chest without prompting. Finally, when Combeferre thinks Courfeyrac's fallen asleep and he's close to doing so himself, Courfeyrac asks, in an almost timid, solemn voice, "Ferre?"

"Mm?"

"I need…" Courfeyrac pushes himself up, taking a steadying breath. "I know you're tired, but I need to get this out before we fall asleep. This is important, okay?"

Combeferre doesn't trust himself to breathe, to move, but he somehow manages to say, "Okay."

"I need you to say, 'Courfeyrac is the king of woo,' for me. Just once."

Through the rush of disappointment (and what is he disappointed about, anyway? What did he really expect Courfeyrac to say there?) Combeferre groans and pushes Courfeyrac away from him.

-o-

The first thing Combeferre notices when he wakes up is the smell of smoke. The second is that he's not in his own bed. The third is that he's in Courfeyrac's. Alone. Somehow the very likely possibility of Courfeyrac burning down their apartment is less alarming than the rest.

Combeferre rolls onto his back, looking up at Courfeyrac's ceiling. His bed is comfortable, but almost too comfortable. Too soft, too many pillows, the comforter too thick and heavy. Combeferre pulls it up to his chin and decides he never wants to get out of it, even though he knows that he has to. He should. Right now, before Courfeyrac returns and he has to face what happened last night.

A morbid part of Combeferre almost wishes they'd had more than a handful of glasses of wine at dinner last night so at least they'd have an excuse to fall back on for what they've done. But they don't, and he knows that they both made that choice last night, and whatever happens now can't be blamed on anything but the two of them.

Combeferre can only hope, scrunching up Courfeyrac's blanket in his hands, that he won't lose Courfeyrac for this. Nothing in the world would be worth that, especially not a single night spent together in bed. Even if Combeferre enjoyed it. More than enjoyed it. Even if he'd like more than almost anything to do it again. Even if, right now, all he wishes is that he'd woken up with Courfeyrac still beside him.

"Ferre?" Courfeyrac calls from somewhere else in the apartment. "Breakfast is done, if you ever decide to get out of bed."

Combeferre sighs and rubs at his eyes. He needs a moment to collect himself, but only a moment. Once it's passed he forces himself out of the bed, forces a smile onto his face, and says, "I thought you weren't going to subject me to your burnt food again."

Courfeyrac makes an indignant sound, and when Combeferre reaches the living room he finds Courfeyrac at the stove, adding toast to two plates of eggs. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," he says without turning around, "and you're going to pretend that there isn't a burnt pile of eggs in the garbage and that the entire apartment isn't smoky. Deal?"

"I guess I can agree to that," Combeferre says, "since you did make breakfast."

"You better," Courfeyrac says, giving Combeferre a wink over his shoulder. His hair is still rumpled from sleep. Combeferre wishes this were different, that he could go up behind Courfeyrac, wrap his arms around Courfeyrac's waist and kiss his neck, but he can't.

Courfeyrac doesn't give Combeferre a chance to help. He brings the plates out to the living room, folding his legs up underneath him on the couch the way he always does, and sticks on whatever Saturday morning show he can find that they can both agree on without much complaining.

It's not as awkward as it should be, but that's the problem, in Combeferre's mind. It should be awkward. There should be some sort of tension, lingering uncomfortableness in light of what they've done. It should change something at least, but Courfeyrac is acting… as if nothing's happened. It's worse than if he'd looked at Combeferre like he isn't sure where they stand anymore, the way Combeferre himself feels. It's worse than if they'd tried to force conversation and move on. Last night did happen, but no one would ever be able to guess with the way Courfeyrac is acting.

But maybe sex just isn't as big a deal for Courfeyrac as it is for Combeferre. Maybe it doesn't have the same meaning to him. Combeferre can accept that, in no way holds it against him, but that doesn't mean— that doesn't mean he wishes that it had. That he wishes he wasn't the only one sitting here panicking because he has no idea what he's feeling or whether or not he can move on from this as if it never happened the way Courfeyrac seems to be doing. (He's making a lot of wishes this morning, Combeferre notes, but not once has he wishes that they didn't do it.)

Not that sex is the be-all and end-all of relationships. Relationships without sex can be just as strong and loving, and sex does not necessarily have to be involved or make a monumental difference when it is. In this particular situation, however, he thinks it does make a slight difference. There's a difference between kissing your best friend because you're pretending to date, and that best friend going down on you in the comfort of your own apartment without anyone around to put on a show for.

All of this is just a little difficult for Combeferre to deal with at the moment, so he sets about doing the dishes to take his mind off of it. It's easier to handle things when he's being productive.

"Movie night tonight," Courfeyrac says while he works. "Jehan just texted me."

"Joly and Bossuet's?" Courfeyrac nods. "We need to all pitch in and get them an air-conditioner if we're going to be spending all our time together as a group there over the summer."

"So high maintenance," Courfeyrac teases.

"I'm not the one hogging our sink and shower with his hair care products," Combeferre reminds him.

"Rude," Courfeyrac scolds. "Not all of us can be effortlessly hot, Combeferre."

Combeferre gives Courfeyrac a skeptical look. "You look perfectly fine right now."

"Only fine?"

He walked right into that one, didn't he? "More than fine," he sighs, because there's no point denying it. "You know how you look."

"And how is that?"

Right now, he looks sleep-rumpled, hair mused, a wrinkled t-shirt and old pair of sweats thrown on— and, really, the entire look makes Combeferre want to drag him back to bed, if he's being honest. That isn't something he deems appropriate to share out loud, though, so he turns up the water so they won't be able to talk any longer.

Forty-five minutes later and Courfeyrac comes out of his room, dressed and ready for the day. "Going to check on Marius," he explains. "Cosette messaged me this morning to say he's already feeling better, but."

"Tell him I said I'm glad he's better, and hopefully we'll see the two of them tonight," Combeferre says as he leaves.

"Sure thing, Ferre," Courfeyrac says over his shoulder.

When he's gone, Combeferre sinks down onto the couch and sighs to himself. The apartment always feels empty without Courfeyrac. He can't imagine living in an apartment by himself, without Courfeyrac's things littered about. Without Courfeyrac's noise. Without Courfeyrac's companionship. He can't imagine waking up every morning to an empty apartment, can't imagine never having to bang on the bathroom door to get Courfeyrac out so he has time to shower before class. Even thinking about it makes him lonely.

All he wants right now is to be able to text Enjolras or Joly about what happened last night, ask them for advice on what to do from here. But that option isn't one that's available to him, and for the first time he finds himself regretting agreeing to this entire stupid thing with Courfeyrac. It's turned everything upside down. Up until now, Combeferre had been perfectly content to ignore the feelings that, if he's being honest, he's had for Courfeyrac for quite some time. They've always been there, under the surface, but now that he's acknowledged them he can't go back to pretending they're not there.

No, he thinks fiercely. He can go back to that. He can. If he can just figure out where the friendship feelings end and the romantic ones begin, he can cut them off and go back to the way things have been for years.

Only it's too hard to tell. They're both interwoven so seamlessly that maybe there isn't any distinction at all, at this point. It's not as if Courfeyrac stopped being his best friend the moment Combeferre fell in love with him; instead he became Combeferre's best friend who he is also, unfortunately, in love with.

This would all be so much easier if he could talk to someone about it, but ironically enough the only person he'd probably ever actually go to for romantic advice is the one he needs advice about.

-o-

"Where's your boyfriend?" Éponine teases later that day when he arrives at Joly and Bossuet's apartment. She answers the door for him, the way they all do when they're at Joly and Bossuet's. Combeferre knows for a fact that Jehan and Grantaire both hang out here without either of them even being in the apartment sometimes because it feels like a second home to all of them, what with the amount of time they spend here.

The instinctual 'He's not my boyfriend' is almost out of Combeferre's mouth before he can stop himself. He's spent too long saying that to people who ask, when he bothers to reply at all, that it comes naturally to him before he remembers. "He's coming late," Combeferre says, stepping inside the apartment. "He's visiting Marius."

Éponine loses the teasing smile, trying to smooth her expression out into something relatively blank and failing. "How's he doing?" she asks casually, shutting the door with a bump of her hip.

"Better than yesterday," Combeferre says, giving her a regretful smile. "Courfeyrac hasn't told me much more than that, but I don't think he and Cosette are coming tonight."

"Oh," Éponine says. Then, louder, "Combeferre's here!"

"You realize this apartment has an open floor plan, right?" Bahorel says from the armchair. "Like, we're all literally right here. We can see him."

"Jehan and Feuilly can't," Éponine points out. "They're in the room playing video games."

"Hello, Combeferre!" Jehan calls from the room. "Where's Courfeyrac?"

"We're dating, not attached at the hip," Combeferre says, uncharacteristically sharp. It makes him feel terrible immediately, and he tries to sound more joking than annoyed when he adds, "It's not as if I suddenly know where he is twenty-four seven just because we're in a relationship."

"It's not just because you're in a relationship," Joly assures him. "We assumed you knew where he was twenty-four seven even when you weren't together."

"Of course," Combeferre sighs. He isn't surprised.

"Are you alright?" Enjolras asks when he sits on the couch in the only free spot available, right next to Enjolras himself.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Combeferre wonders, confused.

"You look… tired," Enjolras says. He sounds concerned. "Did you sleep well last night?"

"He had a date with Courfeyrac last night," Bahorel says.

Grantaire, on the floor in front of them, snickers. "I bet he's tired."

Enjolras looks bewildered. "You went out that late?"

"Oh my god," Éponine groans. "They probably had sex, Enjolras. Christ."

Enjolras' expression flickers from surprise, disgust, embarrassment, until it finally calms over into the same blank mask Éponine had tried to put on, only Enjolras manages with it a cool air of indifference. "Oh," he says calmly. "I hope you're being safe."

"I really don't want to talk to you about—"

Courfeyrac burst dramatically through the door, not even bothering to knock first, a bright grin on his face and his hair messed from the wind. "I'm know that you were all dreadfully worried over my absence," he says loudly, "but worry not, I'm— Why are you all smirking?"

"We were discussing your sex life," Bahorel says. "Unfortunately."

Combeferre fully expects Courfeyrac to react with the usual laughter and smarmy grin he has whenever they bring up anything like this, but instead he gives Combeferre a confused, almost hurt look. "You were?"

"No, we weren't," Combeferre says forcefully. "I swear."

"Right." Courfeyrac gives the room a dazzling grin. "Am I in time for the movie?"

"You know we wouldn't start without you," Joly says. "Or Marius and Cosette, if they plan on coming."

"Marius is unfortunately bedridden for the foreseeable future, and by that I mean Cosette won't let him leave the bed." He ruffles Joly's hair as he passes. "Now someone – Enjolras – needs to get off the couch – Enjolras – so I can sit next to my boyfriend," Courfeyrac says. "Enjolras."

"You heard the man," Grantaire says. "Combeferre, you better move so he can sit next to his boyfriend, Enjolras."

"Courfeyrac," Enjolras says solemnly, "I think you've misunderstood our relationship with one another. I hate to break your heart, but—"

"You know," Courfeyrac says, squeezing between Combeferre and Enjolras instead, even though there really isn't any room and he winds up sitting half on each of them, "the people who say you're not funny? They're not wrong."

"Who says I'm not funny?"

"I do."

Enjolras rolls his eyes, good-naturedly shoving at Courfeyrac's shoulder as he stands up and sinks down on the floor in front of them instead. Courfeyrac falls over into the seat he's vacated, but he's still sitting close enough to Combeferre that their thighs are touching.

"How was your day, gorgeous?" he asks, taking Combeferre's hand and lifting it to his lips.

So they're still doing this, Combeferre realizes. Not that he thought they wouldn't, but— it's harder to handle today. It's very different to try and pretend to be Courfeyrac's boyfriend when his feelings are no longer locked up in a vault inside him, when he'd fallen asleep with Courfeyrac's head pillowed on his bare chest, when those lips pressing against the palm of his hand have also—

Combeferre doesn't want to do this anymore. Combeferre can't do this anymore. He'd rather not do it at all than do it and know it's fake. Maybe another person would jump at the chance to wrap their arms around the person they love, kiss them freely even if they know it doesn't mean the same to the other person, but Combeferre is not one of them. The feigned look of adoration and desire in Courfeyrac's eyes makes him sick to his stomach.

"It was fine," Combeferre says tightly.

Courfeyrac frowns at him. Just as Combeferre can tell when Courfeyrac's not being honest with him, it's hard to get a lie past Courfeyrac, too. "Are you—?" Before he can finish, Courfeyrac jumps and Combeferre hears the hum of his cellphone vibrating in his pocket. "Hold that thought," Courfeyrac says, pulling it out and looking down at the screen. His entire face lights up and that can only mean one thing: "Mom?"

It takes about two seconds for his face to fall again. Combeferre can't hear exactly what Courfeyrac's mother says, but he hears a distinctly upset tone in whatever Courfeyrac's mother is saying and Courfeyrac is grimacing. "Okay, okay, one second." He covers the mouth of the phone, no doubt realizing everyone is staring at him. "I'll be right back. You can start the movie without me."

Combeferre watches him go, amused, because it always makes him laugh when Courfeyrac gets yelled at by his mother. He has six siblings and his mother learned a long time ago just how to scold to really make it sink in. All it takes is her using a certain tone and Courfeyrac instantly looks like a dog that got caught chewing its owner's favourite shoes.

While Courfeyrac's in the bathroom, still talking to his mom, Jehan and Feuilly come out of the bedroom, Feuilly looking irritated and defeated, Jehan looking pleased but not smug. Jehan is notoriously terrible at almost all video games, but he's also somehow the reigning Mario Kart champion and Feuilly should really know better than to play him when it comes to that particular game.

Joly puts in the movie and Courfeyrac returns just in time for the previews. Courfeyrac's normally sheepish smile after being scolded is replaced with a deep frown that doesn't look right on his face. It makes Combeferre worry.

"Everything alright?" he asks when Courfeyrac sits down.

"Yeah," Courfeyrac says, grinning forcefully. "Don't worry about it."

"I worry about you," Combeferre says, resting his hand on Courfeyrac's thigh without thinking about it. "Always."

"I love you," Courfeyrac says, smile softening into something more genuine, "but I'm fine. Promise."

"Courfeyrac," Combeferre says lowly.

"I swear, Ferre, I'm—"

"If you two talk through the movie," Éponine warns.

"I'll hold you down while she kills you," Bahorel finishes.

Courfeyrac sticks out his tongue childishly, and Combeferre laughs at the three of them. He doesn't forget the weird look in Courfeyrac's eyes, though, and vows to bring it up again when they leave tonight, or when they're back at home and there isn't an audience. Until then, he settles back in his seat and wraps his arm around Courfeyrac when Courfeyrac leans into him, resting with his back half pressed against Combeferre's chest.

For the first time, Combeferre feels as though he's the one pulling the weight of this charade they're playing, despite the fact that he doesn't even want to do it anymore. Courfeyrac is tense in his arms at first, and Combeferre notices Joly and Bossuet giving them concerned looks halfway through the movie. He smiles at them, kisses Courfeyrac's neck later on, and Courfeyrac does nothing but shift in his arms a bit. Courfeyrac isn't all over him at all, the way he had been before, and Combeferre thinks that it has to do with whatever his mother said on the phone. He must be upset about something.

"Are your sisters alright?" Combeferre hedges a while later, whispering the words so he doesn't interrupt the movie for everyone else.

Courfeyrac's sisters are the world to him. He's the only boy out of six children, the second oldest, and Combeferre knows that he's incredibly protective over all of them. Last year Donia had a bad accident while riding her bike with her friends, and Combeferre and Enjolras had taken the three hour ride with him to visit her in the hospital. Courfeyrac had been distraught, completely inconsolable until he'd seen that she was alright with his own eyes. If something is even mildly wrong with any single one of them, it'd be more than enough to put him in a terrible mood.

"They're fine," Courfeyrac says without turning around to look at him. "I told you, nothing to worry about. We'll talk about it when we get home."

So there is something to talk about. Knowing that makes Combeferre restless and worried. He barely pays any attention to the movie, more focused on the almost distant way Courfeyrac is with him now, cursing himself for wishing for this earlier, this change between them. Now that he has it, he realizes it was better when Courfeyrac was acting like nothing had changed.

Combeferre is both relieved and filled with dread when the second movie ends and everyone starts yawning and making plans to go home. He feels robotic as he goes through the motions of hugging everyone goodbye, promising Joly and Enjolras he'll text them in the morning. Éponine corners them before they leave, pulling Courfeyrac aside, no doubt to grill him about Marius' health.

"Are you two okay?" Bossuet asks. He and Joly have done the same to Combeferre, dragged him into the kitchen under the pretense of getting him a drink before he leaves.

"Why wouldn't we be?" he asks distractedly, caught up in watching Courfeyrac laugh with Éponine, looking more happy than he had earlier in Combeferre's arms.

"You know, relationships do have problems," Joly says gently. "Even the best ones."

"We're not having relationship problems," Combeferre assures them. We'd have to actually be in a relationship in order for that to happen, he thinks sadly. And— oh, what he wouldn't give to have relationship problems with Courfeyrac. To argue with him over insignificant things, to get texts from their friends asking if he's okay because of course Courfeyrac would tell them all what's going on. He wants to try and sleep on the couch because he's angry, only for Courfeyrac to sigh and apologize and plead with him to come to bed; he wants Courfeyrac to get irritated with him because he's forgotten an important date, too focused on school work to remember, and have to do something extravagant to make it up to him.

He wants to go home and not have to pretend that any of that is a real possibility when he knows it truly isn't.

"Good," Bossuet says. "But if you ever do, you know you can talk to us. We're happy to help."

"Thank you," Combeferre says awkwardly. "I'll keep that in mind."

"See that you do," Bossuet says.

"We can also offer sexual advice, too," Joly whispers. "Just, you know, in case you ever need it."

"We're love gurus," Bossuet says proudly.

"I… appreciate the offer," Combeferre says, "but— we're okay. Honestly."

"Honeymoon stage," Joly says with a knowing wink. "We get it. We'll back off."

"It's not that," Combeferre says, "it's just—"

"Ferrebear?" Courfeyrac calls from the door. "We headin' out?"

"Excuse me," Combeferre says, grateful for the out Courfeyrac's offering. He pats Joly on the shoulder, accepts Bossuet's one-armed hug. "Thank you for having us, and… thank you for—" He waves a hand, hoping it explains everything he can't say out loud. He's extremely grateful for them and their offers, even if they're not necessary.

"No problem, Combeferre," Joly says easily.

"That's what we're here for," Bossuet adds.

"Do I even want to know what that was about?" Courfeyrac asks ten minutes later, when they're finally outside of the consistently stiflingly hot apartment.

"They think we're having relationship problems," Combeferre says, barely able to resist making air quotes with his fingers.

The lack of laughter that gets alarms Combeferre. "Oh," is Courfeyrac's only response.

"Are we?" Combeferre asks. "Having problems?"

"Of course not," Courfeyrac says instantly. "Never, Combeferre."

"Then—?"

"The problem is more my mother than our fake relationship," Courfeyrac says to him with a heavy sigh. "I forgot I have my sisters on Instagram. They showed her the picture we took the other day."

"And that's… a problem," Combeferre guesses, even though he can't see why.

"I can lie to our friends," Courfeyrac says, "when it's something like this, when it's not something that's going to hurt anyone, but I can't lie to my mom. She's my mom, you know? And she'd kick my ass if she ever found out."

Combeferre makes a relieved sound, grinning even though he knows he shouldn't be. He was just— worried, for a moment there, that maybe last night had changed things for Courfeyrac, too, and now their friendship was going to dissolve into the uncomfortable stiffness that's been surrounding them since Courfeyrac showed up today.

"So what are we going to do?" Combeferre asks.

"I think we should break up."

Combeferre winces. Those words hurt more than they have any right to, given the circumstances. "Oh," he says, mimicking Courfeyrac's inflections from earlier.

"This way I won't be lying to her," Courfeyrac explains. "Technically, anyway. If I tell her we broke up, I don't have to specify that we were never really in a relationship in the first place. I can't tell her we are dating, though, because I don't want to lie to her, and I also can't tell her that we're fake dating because she'll drive down here and lecture the both of us until we cry."

"Your mother is a terrifying woman," Combeferre says solemnly, "for someone barely five foot."

"Hey," Courfeyrac says mildly. "Don't underestimate us shorties."

"You're not actually that short," Courfeyrac points out.

"Yeah, but you're freakishly tall, Ferre," Courfeyrac teases. "I'm short compared to you."

Combeferre smiles. That is true. Including his hair, Courfeyrac comes up to about Combeferre's chin on a good day. "I'm not freakishly tall," he says, even if he's pleased.

"I have to get on my tiptoes to kiss you."

"Is that a problem?"

"Not anymore," Courfeyrac says, dropping his gaze. "Since we're breaking up and all."

"Right," Combeferre says.

They lapse into silence after that, both of them too caught up in their own thoughts to talk. Combeferre is so distracted that he doesn't even realize they're home until Courfeyrac pulls open the door to their building, his eyebrows drawn together like they're planning on staying this way permanently. Combeferre wants to stop him, pull him in and press kisses to the lines between his brows until they go away. He doesn't.

"So." Combeferre clears his throat when they get inside. "So what do we do now?"

Courfeyrac's back is to him all the way to his bedroom. "We wait a bit," he calls through the open door, "so it'll look like we spent time going over this when we got home. I'll let you know when I initiate part two of the plan."

"Are we going for dramatics?" Combeferre asks. He's almost proud of how casual and calm he sounds.

"Look who you're talking to," Courfeyrac laughs. "Of course it's going to be dramatic. On my end, anyway. I'm going to practice my tears in the mirror right now, but don't worry, I'm not going to make you look bad in front of our friends. We'll tell them it was a mutual decision. That we jumped into things too early and realized that they weren't working out. Decided to call it off before things could get more serious and someone could get hurt."

Too late for that, Combeferre thinks. "Oh. Good," he says. "That's— Good plan."

"And I've got it all covered," Courfeyrac promises.

"Good," Combeferre says, feeling like a broken record. "I'm just going to… read."

Just before he closes his bedroom door behind him, he hears Courfeyrac's laughing, fond, "Nerd."

Combeferre leans against his closed door, a hand pressed to his face. What is wrong with him? Why is he upset about this? It's completely irrational to be upset about being fake broken up with by his fake boyfriend. He should be happy about this. Things will be much easier when they're not pretending to be together. Maybe he'll even be able to put last night and the rest of this behind him and go back to normal.

The ache in his chest says otherwise, but Combeferre determinedly ignores it. What options does he have, exactly? There's not a thing he can do here to fix this in a way that'll make that ache go away, so it's best to just… not dwell on it.

It'll go away eventually.

Probably.

-o-

"Alright," Courfeyrac says an hour later. It's getting late, the sky outside Combeferre's window dark, clouds blocking out the stars and the moon. "It's done. I've officially put the break-up in motion."

"What did you do?" Combeferre asks, sitting up with curiosity.

"I texted Marius," Courfeyrac says, tossing his phone from one hand to the other.

Combeferre snorts. "That's it?"

"Oh, my sweet, naive Combeferre," Courfeyrac coos. "Just wait."

"Wait for what, ex—?"

Combeferre hasn't even finished the question when his phone beeps with a new text. Before he can grab it, he gets another. And then another. And then another. When he finally manages to unlock it, he has nine new messages.

ARE YOU OKAY? from Joly.

So sorry for u how terrible you poor things from Éponine.

We have ice cream and wine? from Bossuet.

I'm so sorry. Keep your chin up. Maybe things will work out. : ( from Cosette.

The text from Enjolras says, longer than the rest: come over if you need to. Before you make plans to, I have also extended this invitation to Courfeyrac as I am close with both of you and refuse to take sides, just so you're aware.

"You only told Marius?" Combeferre asks, scrolling slowly through the rest of them.

"Yep," Courfeyrac says. "You see, our friends are completely incapable of keeping secrets. I told Marius, who inevitably told Cosette. Cosette, no doubt, told Éponine immediately, who probably went on to tell Grantaire and Bahorel, and Grantaire probably told Joly and Bossuet while Bahorel has probably told Feuilly, and someone must have told Enjolras but I'm not sure who."

"Wow," Combeferre says, a little stunned.

"Right?" Courfeyrac laughs. "I— oh, crap, Cosette's calling me; better start the water works." He answers the call, grinning at Combeferre even as he sobs, "I don't know, it just— I— I don't know what to do, Cosette! I thought we were in love, but—" He cuts off with an anguished sound, maybe a bit too dramatic, but Combeferre's been through enough of Courfeyrac's breakups to know it won't be questioned at all.

Courfeyrac stays in his doorway, clutching a hand to his chest and screwing up his face as he pretends to cry. Every once in a while he'll throw Combeferre a grin, as if to say, 'I'm so good at this, aren't I?' and Combeferre can't take it.

"I'm going to Enjolras'," he says, getting off the bed.

Courfeyrac covers the phone. "That's a good idea," he whispers. "Feel free to curse my name if you want. Don't worry about Enjolras sending me any angry texts about you being upset or calling me names. It's cool."

For someone usually so perceptive when it comes to the feelings of his friends, it's really quite surprising that Courfeyrac doesn't realize— It doesn't even matter. Combeferre doesn't want him realize, when it comes down to it.

As he leaves, Courfeyrac grabs his hand to stop him. "Text me if you're not coming home," he says in a hushed tone, Cosette still on the phone with him. "Promise?"

"I will."

Courfeyrac leans in and, for one stunned moment of longing, Combeferre thinks Courfeyrac is going to kiss him. But then Courfeyrac jerks back, frowning, and turns away. Combeferre leaves.

It's cold outside, the late evening chill seeping through Combeferre's sweater. The walk to Enjolras' apartment is not a short one, but he doesn't mind. It's good to clear his head, take the time to put everything in perspective. About halfway there he realizes how irrational he's being. There's nothing to be upset about, absolutely nothing. He shouldn't have left. That was a moment of weakness and he should have stopped himself from blowing things out of proportion.

If only knowing what's rational and doing what's rational was the same thing. Combeferre knows very well that his actions and feelings right now are not reasonable or smart, and yet that doesn't seem to make much of a difference. He doesn't want to turn back and go home, and he doesn't. But he probably should.

By the time he reaches Enjolras' building, he's annoyed with himself. He knocks sharply on Enjolras' door, wincing at the loud crack of his knuckles against the wood, feeling the anger at himself rise quickly. Combeferre is not an angry person. It takes a lot to work him up, but today has done it.

Until the moment Enjolras opens the door. It just… seeps out of him, all at once, and he's left feeling hopeless and broken and weak.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "It's late and you're probably— you're probably on your way to bed, and I'm— I'm being a burden, aren't I? I should go. I'm going to—"

Enjolras sighs and grabs the front of his shirt, hauling him into the apartment. "Sit," he orders, pushing Combeferre gently towards the couch. "Coffee or tea?"

"Tea," Combeferre says automatically. It's too late for coffee.

Enjolras grunts in response on the way to the kitchen. Combeferre folds his hands in his lap, focusing on breathing calmly. He feels like a mess and he hates it, but by the time Enjolras sits next to him on the couch he feels more calm than he had when the door had opened.

"I'm going to guess that pretending to date Courfeyrac isn't going well," Enjolras says as he hand Combeferre a steaming mug.

Combeferre blinks at him. "Excuse me?"

"You really think I didn't know?" Enjolras raises his eyebrows. "I might not live with the two of you but I still know you both as well as you know each other. I'm not stupid. I can put the pieces together. Courfeyrac left my apartment that night annoyed at everyone assuming you're dating, and the next day you're together? I knew something was up. It didn't take long to figure out what."

"Oh, god," Combeferre groans. "So you know how much of an idiot I am."

"You're not an idiot," Enjolras says. "Just… prone to making bad decisions where Courfeyrac is concerned."

"No, you don't understand," Combeferre says. "I think I'm in love with him, Enjolras."

Enjolras doesn't look at all surprised. "I know. I think anyone who has ever spent more than a minute alone with the two of you knows that."

"I didn't. At least, I hadn't admitted it to myself. But then he was touching me and holding my hand and kissing me, and last night we—" Combeferre cuts himself off, taking a deep breath. "It was easier to ignore when he wasn't acting like he feels the same way, but now that I've acknowledged it I can't ignore it anymore."

"Ignoring it clearly isn't doing you much good anyway," Enjolras points out.

"And what's the alternative?"

"Telling him?"

"That would ruin everything."

"Really? You'd fail out of school if you told Courfeyrac you have feelings for him?"

"No, but—"

"Our friends will unreasonably decide not to like you anymore if you tell him?"

"Well, obviously not, but—"

"The world around you will crumble if you tell him?"

"Considering the current state of the world and the direction it continues to go in, that's not a completely unrealistic possibility. Though I think deteriorate would be a better word to use than crumble."

Enjolras gives him a look that clearly says he's not amused. "It wouldn't ruin anything, Combeferre."

"It would ruin our friendship."

"Only if you allowed it to. Courfeyrac wouldn't."

"You can't know that for sure."

"You can't know for sure that he doesn't feel the same way," Enjolras counters. "He's taken every given opportunity these last few days to be all over you, from what I've seen. If that was only to keep up the charade, he's certainly been enthusiastically devoting himself to the role of your boyfriend."

"That would be a fair argument, if we were discussing anyone but Courfeyrac," Combeferre points out, "and I appreciate what you're trying to do, Enjolras, I truly do, but I didn't come for advice on how to fix this."

"Then why did you come?"

"To get away," Combeferre admits. "Being broken up with by your fake boyfriend hurts more than one would think. I couldn't stay there while he pretended to be as distraught over it as I actually feel, so I came here instead."

"You can stay, you know," Enjolras offers. "I might be terrible at giving romantic advice, but you're always welcome here if you need somewhere to stay."

"No," Combeferre says. He wants to, but he can't. "I can't allow this to change us. I'm not going to. The sooner I learn to deal with this and get things back to normal, the better. I can't hide out here forever and avoid him. I don't want to avoid him. I need him too much to do that."

"If that's what you want," Enjolras says. "I'm always here if you need me, though. I'm not so great at the heart-to-heart thing, but I have a lot of caffeine and a pretty comfortable couch."

Combeferre smiles at him. "I appreciate that more than I could tell you."

Enjolras tries to smile back but he winds up yawning instead. "I don't mean to be rude," he starts, but Combeferre cuts him off before he can finish.

"I better go. It's already late enough."

"I'll call you in the morning," Enjolras says, walking him to the door. "I would at least consider talking to him about this if I were you. It's Courfeyrac. If he doesn't feel the same way, he's still your best friend. You're one of his favourite people in the world. He isn't going allow something like this to split you apart, and it might help you get closure if you do."

"I'll think about it," Combeferre says, but he knows that his mind isn't going to be changed. Enjolras and Courfeyrac may be the most stubborn people Combeferre has ever met, but he can be just as set in his ways, when he wants to be. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Enjolras says through another yawn.

As he walks, Combeferre buries his hands in his pockets and realizes he'd left his phone at home. He can only imagine the amount of texts he'll have from his friends when he finally checks it, and decides to just turn it off when he gets in the door and deal with it tomorrow. He's had enough today, he thinks. They'll understand, hopefully.

Courfeyrac is asleep on the couch when he quietly pushes open the door. He's sprawled out (he always takes up so much room), mouth hanging open, one arm thrown over the arm of the couch and the other dangling off, phone in hand. He's snoring, but softly, and his loose t-shirt is riding up over his stomach, sweatpants pulled low down one hip.

"Ferre," he mumbles when Combeferre shuts the door.

"No, just a murderer," Combeferre says, like he always does.

"Jerk," Courfeyrac says, sitting up slowly. He rubs at his eyes, trying to blink the dazed, tired look away, but he mostly fails. "You left your phone. Was worried. Texted Enjolras sixteen times."

"I'm fine," Combeferre tells him. "You didn't have to wait on the couch."

"Did, though," Courfeyrac yawns out, trying to push himself up off the couch. Combeferre hurries forward, stopping him from falling, and Courfeyrac clings to him. "Bed?"

"Bed," Combeferre agrees, helping him down the hall. When they get to Courfeyrac's bedroom, Combeferre tries to let him go; Courfeyrac clings even tighter.

"Bed," he says again, pouty and petulant in his half-asleep state.

"You're going to have to let me go," Combeferre says gently.

Courfeyrac does, partially, but he keeps his hand fisted in the arm of Combeferre's shirt, stopping Combeferre from walking away. The hallway is dimly lit, the bathroom light left on being the only source of illumination, but it's enough to see the confused look on Courfeyrac's face. "You don't… want to come with me?"

Combeferre has to close his eyes and count to ten silently. Courfeyrac asking him to share a bed isn't an unusual thing; it's happened enough times since they've lived together that Combeferre can't, even for a moment, convince himself it's anything more than a friendly invitation. But because of that, he has to say no. It would be wrong of him to take advantage of Courfeyrac and that's what he'll be doing is he says yes.

"Your bed isn't exactly comfortable for two, is it?" Combeferre says, carefully prying Courfeyrac's hand off him. "Go to bed; it's late."

"Yeah," Courfeyrac says slowly, stepping backward. "You're right. That was – wow, that was a really stupid suggestion. I must be half-asleep still. Sorry."

"It's not—"

"Night, Combeferre."

Courfeyrac's door closes firmly between them. Combeferre bites the inside of his cheek hard, staring at it, and tells himself that he did the right thing even if it feels like he didn't. And then he turns abruptly, heading to his own room, and he's exhausted enough, emotionally, that when he finally climbs into bed he's out almost instantly.

-o-

"Ferre?" The words are followed by a loud, pounding knock on his door, and Combeferre only has a moment to be completely shocked that Courfeyrac is up before him for the second day in a row (truly unprecedented) when Courfeyrac tries again. "Combeferre?"

"No," Combeferre says. He thinks he says. He means to say, but he's not quite sure if the words ever get out. He cracks open his eyes, looks at the alarm clock and the 8:01 there, and says, definitely out loud this time, "No."

"I'm coming in," Courfeyrac warns.

"No," Combeferre says again, rolling over to crush his face into his pillow. He'd gotten home too late last night, woke up about two hours after falling asleep because of a terrible dream where he was stuck in a crowd and he couldn't get out, and Courfeyrac had been just ahead of him the entire time, no matter how quickly Combeferre moved, only his laugh trailing behind him to ever let Combeferre know he'd gotten close, and he's tired. He's tired. Combeferre is tired, okay? He doesn't want to face the world today. He wants to stay in bed and not move and maybe, if he feels up to it, read, but that's about the extent of what he's willing to do today.

"You have ten seconds," Courfeyrac tells him. "If you're naked or masturbating, I don't care. I'm coming in."

Combeferre snorts into the pillow, but then his mind drifts off, imagining the look on Courfeyrac's face if he were doing both of those things. Maybe he'd offer to help. Slowly make his way over to Combeferre's bed, eyelids getting heavier with every step, bottom lip caught between his teeth until he finally gets close enough to wrap a hand around Combeferre's wrist and pull it back, saying, "Let me," and—

The door opens and Combeferre is grateful that he's stomach-down on the bed because the erection he has digging into the mattress cannot, unfortunately, be chalked up to typical morning wood, and he imagines that the actual look on Courfeyrac's face would be startled and embarrassed and he doesn't want to deal with that level of awkwardness today.

"You seriously need to get up," Courfeyrac says, pulling back the blankets. "Enjolras just texted me; everyone's going to be here in, like, fifteen minutes."

Combeferre frowns into his pillow. "What?"

"They're going to hold a relationship intervention, Ferre!" Courfeyrac says, sounding on the verge of hysterics. "Apparently they're coming to, like, ambush us or something, I don't know. Enjolras didn't go into details, but he was pretty clear on everyone coming over in fifteen minutes."

Combeferre pushes himself up onto his elbows, looking over his shoulder at Courfeyrac. He should, he thinks, be able to tell if Courfeyrac is playing with him; he takes pride in being one of the only people who is capable of seeing through Courfeyrac's games. Judging by the truly panicked look in his eyes, Combeferre deduces that Courfeyrac is telling the truth.

"No," he says again, letting his arms fall out from under him. "Don't answer the door."

"I wish I could," Courfeyrac says as the bed dips, and then a hand soothingly rubs at Combeferre's back through his t-shirt, gentle, slow drags of fingers down his spine and then back up again, "but Cosette and Marius have our spare key in case we ever lose ours, remember? They'll just let themselves in and then they'll be even worse about it because we tried to ignore them." His hand slips up higher, curling into the shortest of Combeferre's hairs. "Come on, Sleeping Beauty. I made coffee."

Courfeyrac's fingers get tangled in his hair, pulling sharply when Combeferre rolls over. "Are we going to tell them the truth?"

"After," Courfeyrac says. "I'm sort of curious to see what they're going to try here."

"This is going to be terrible," Combeferre points out.

"Also hilarious."

Combeferre sighs. "Coffee?"

"I'll make it, you get out of bed," Courfeyrac says, patting his thigh once before he pushes himself up. "And Ferre?"

"Mm?"

"You look good with bedhead. Always thought so, you know?"

With that weird, unnecessary declaration, Courfeyrac leaves, the door left wide open so Combeferre can't even groan to himself without Courfeyrac hearing him.

Ten minutes later, Combeferre is dressed, halfway through his coffee and sitting on the couch with Courfeyrac, staring at the door. "Maybe we shouldn't be sitting together," Courfeyrac suggests. "I mean, they think we broke up and from what I told Cosette, I made it out to be pretty bad."

"How bad?"

"Pretty bad. How bad did you make it out to Enjolras?"

"I didn't. He knew it was fake."

Courfeyrac blinks at him, slowly, and then whacks him on the arm with the remote. "Why didn't you tell me that?"

Combeferre honestly hadn't thought to. "I—" A knock at the door cuts him off, and they both look at each other, Combeferre in question and Courfeyrac in surprise. "Should I get that or would you like to?"

"I got it," Courfeyrac says, steeling himself before he gets up.

The moment he opens the door Courfeyrac is knocked off balance by Cosette, who throws herself into his arms and hugs him tightly. "Are you doing better?" she asks in a low whisper as the rest of their friends pile in behind her. "I didn't want to let you go last night, but it was late and I—" She blinks, looking at Combeferre over Courfeyrac's shoulder. "Oh. Good morning, Combeferre."

"Who warned them we were coming?" Éponine asks, looking suspiciously at each of their friends in turn. "They totally knew we were coming."

"I wasn't going to allow the rest of you to ambush the two of them so early in the morning without warning," Enjolras says, pushing past her with a tray of coffees balanced precariously in one hand. "And I still think that this is none of our business and we shouldn't get involved. They should be allowed to work this out on their own."

"And the rest of us overruled your decision to let them work it out on their own because if the two of them fall apart, the rest of us fall apart. Domino effect. It'd be tragic, and I don't trust male idiocy not to ruin things without a proper intervention by yours truly."

Enjolras stares at her, unblinking, before turning to Combeferre and saying, "This is why I didn't intervene, in case you're wondering."

"Good," Courfeyrac says, drawing back from Cosette to shut the door. Jehan takes the seat next to Combeferre as he talks, Joly and Bossuet sinking down onto the floor, and everyone else awkwardly trying to find their place in the too-small apartment. "This may actually be a good idea. I can't— I'm having a hard time even being in the same room as him right now," Courfeyrac sniffles, "so maybe you'll all… be able to help."

Way to lay it on thick, Combeferre thinks, but Cosette and Marius both rub at Courfeyrac's shoulders sympathetically, and every single one of them gives Combeferre a look like he's just kicked a puppy. A homeless puppy. A homeless, sick puppy.

It's the eyes. Damn Courfeyrac and those eyes.

"We already fixed the problem," Combeferre says, taking the proffered coffee from Enjolras because, no matter how good Courfeyrac's is (and it is good, because the one thing he manages to do flawlessly is coffee) it just doesn't compare to store bought. "The solution was to break up."

"Okaaay," Joly says slowly. "Well, maybe—"

"That's giving up," Éponine says, "not solving the problem."

"Why don't you two list the reasons you like each other, first?" Feuilly suggests. "Why you got together. To remember, since you've clearly forgotten."

"Why you love each other," Bahorel adds, smirking.

"Why are you smirking at that?" Courfeyrac demands. Éponine slaps Bahorel's arm and Combeferre frowns.

"That's a good idea," she says. "Do that."

"Wait, what?" Courfeyrac asks eloquently.

"That's really not," Combeferre starts, but Cosette cuts him off.

"That's a wonderful idea. Remember when the two of you were hopelessly in love with each other so you can remember why working through this is worth it, instead of quitting without fighting for each other," she agrees, pushing Courfeyrac towards the couch. "Why don't we start with when you developed feelings for each other?"

Oh, Combeferre thinks, panic rising. This is not good. "Um," he says, looking to Courfeyrac for help.

Courfeyrac, for his part, sits in the seat next to Jehan, lounging back casually. "When it happened or when we realized? Because those are two different things."

"When it happened," Cosette says. She sits on the floor, legs crossed, and drags Marius down with her. Combeferre suddenly feels as though he's in a very crowded therapy session.

"Easy," Courfeyrac says, throwing an arm over the back of the couch. "The moment I met him."

"Let's go from there," Cosette says. "What do you mean by that?"

"He was arguing with some kid about abortion laws," Courfeyrac says, looking at the thread on the couch he's tugging out, getting longer with every jerk of his fingers, "and he just shut the guy down, you know, with logic and facts. It was beautiful. It was hot. I knew instantly that he was someone I needed to know."

Combeferre digs his fingers into his thighs. This is just a joke, a game, an act, and it's not as if Courfeyrac actually has any feelings for him, let alone has harbored those feelings since they met, but—

"And what about you, Combeferre?" Cosette prompts. "When do you think you initially developed feelings for Courfeyrac that were more than friendly?"

Combeferre shrugs. He really doesn't want to do this. "I don't know," he says, deciding to go with the truth. "It just… happened over time. I— I mean, really, it's impossible to spend as much time with him as I do and not find yourself at least a little in love with him."

Courfeyrac smiles through a frown. "Really?"

"Don't act like you don't know everyone loves you," Combeferre scoffs.

"Same goes for you," Courfeyrac argues. "As soon as you start talking about things you like, you light up. It's— entrancing. You're so busy being interested in the world that you don't seem to realize most of the world is just as interested in you."

"You always sigh at me when I go on for too long," Combeferre reminds him.

Courfeyrac looks suddenly horrified. "Not in a bad way," he says, reaching across Jehan to grab Combeferre's hand. "You don't actually think that's a bad sigh, right? Because it's not, I swear to— It's not a please-stop-talking sigh, it's a you're-so-hot-when-you-get-excited-I-seriously-can't-even-handle-it-half-the-time sigh, I swear. I thought you knew that. I need you to know that."

"I never thought it was a bad sigh, I just thought you were… exasperated. I know I can go on for a long time, when I'm caught up in something, but—"

"No," Courfeyrac says forcefully. "That's one of my favourite things about you. When you care about something, it means the world to you and you can hear it in your voice and see it in your eyes and— fuck, Combeferre, I thought you knew I loved it when you get like that."

Well, now he does. And he's not sure what to do with that.

"This is good," Cosette says, urging them on. "You're connecting again already."

"Maybe you should talk about what the other person does that turns you on," Bahorel suggests with a wink.

"What?" Combeferre gapes at him. "We're not going to—"

"When he takes off his glasses," Courfeyrac says instantly, "and carefully folds them, or when he's reading and they fall down his nose a bit and he pushes them back up."

"Courfeyrac has a glasses kink," he hears Joly whisper to Bossuet. "Is anyone surprised?"

Yes. Combeferre happens to be, thank you. "Really?" he blurts. "Do you actually—?"

"Well, yeah," Courfeyrac says with a shrug, but he lowers his gaze, almost embarrassed. "I mean, it's— It's kind of hot, or whatever."

Combeferre can't tell if they're playing a role right now or if this is real, but he says, "When he runs his hands through his hair."

Courfeyrac tilts his head to the side, a grin slowly growing on his face. "Really?" he says, doing just that. He tugs a hand through his hair, pulling even when the curls try to stop him. "That does it for you?"

"That voice," Combeferre adds. "That one, when he— when it gets lower."

"When you first wake up," Courfeyrac says, "and you're really tired, and all you do is grunt one-word responses to everything I say."

"When you just get out of the shower, and you're still wet, I—" Combeferre cuts himself off before he can finish that thought out loud in front of their friends.

"The way you lick your fingers sometimes before you turn a page does more for me than it probably should."

"Last year on Halloween, when you wore eyeliner, it. It was a good look."

"Oh? You liked that?" Courfeyrac smirks. "What about those leather pants you wore, huh? I nearly cried. I didn't even drink that night because I knew there'd be no way I'd be able to keep my hands off your ass if I wasn't in full control of myself."

"Wait, that's why you avoided me that night?"

Courfeyrac looks sheepish. "Those pants were tight, Ferre, and your thighs. Carm still teases me about the breakdown I had that night when I called her."

Combeferre frowns because that's— that doesn't sound like something he's just making up for the sake of it, and— "I love how much you love your sisters."

"I love that you eat my shitty cooking and never complain," Courfeyrac counters.

"I love it when you sing in the shower."

"I love when you fall asleep reading and I have to take off your glasses and shut off your light."

Combeferre barely notices Jehan slipping out of the seat between him and Courfeyrac because he's too busy saying, "I love how you look in my clothes."

"Getting possessive on me, Ferrebear?"

"I hate when you call me that."

"You love when I call you that."

"I shouldn't," Combeferre says, "but I kind of do."

Courfeyrac grins at him, blindly sweet, but it turns bitter and sad too quickly. "I hate how afraid I am that my feelings for you are going to ruin this because you're one of the most important people in my life and I don't know what I'd ever do without you."

"Courfeyrac," Combeferre says quietly. It's not fair that he's doing it like this, when Combeferre can't tell what he means and what he's only saying because he thinks that's what he should be saying.

"I mean it," Courfeyrac says sincerely, or— he seems sincere, but Combeferre doesn't know which way is left right now, let alone whether or not he actually means this. "Don't hate me, okay, because I swear I didn't realize how I felt until after we started this whole thing and I wasn't, like, trying to take advantage of you or anything, I swear I would never. And that's why I decided to call things off because it wouldn't have been honorable to kiss you under false pretenses, pretending it didn't mean something when it did. It did mean something. All of it. It wasn't supposed to, but I don't think you can really help these things. Or I can't, at least."

It's a miracle Combeferre even hears those words, given the way his heart is pounding so loudly, blood rushing, a thundering in his ears blocking out all else. "Courfeyrac," he says again, because it's the only thing he can manage.

Courfeyrac winces, lowering his head until his hair shadows his eyes. "I—"

"Okay, this was not part of the plan, right?" Bahorel asks, reminding them that they're not alone. That everything that just happened had an audience. That he actually said those things in front of their friends. Oh, god.

"This was not part of the plan," Éponine confirms. "I just wanted to make them uncomfortable enough that they'd slip up and admit that they were fucking with us this whole time. This— this shit was not supposed to happen."

Combeferre tears his eyes away from Courfeyrac, eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"

"You— you what?" Courfeyrac demands.

"Come on," Éponine groans. "Do you really think we'd actually try to interfere with your relationship if we didn't know it was fake? That's overstepping, like, every boundary ever. Even if you two were actually together and broke up, we'd try to help but not by ambushing you and forcing you to talk about your feelings."

"You all know?"

"Enjolras figured it out first," Cosette admits.

"You told them?" Combeferre asks, surprised by how betrayed that sounds.

"No, I didn't," Enjolras swears.

"I, uh, might have?" Grantaire admits. "Sorry, but I know what pining looks like and it was written all over Courfeyrac's face every time you weren't looking at him. It was pretty obvious that whatever you two were, together was not it."

"You're kidding me," Courfeyrac says flatly. "You've know this entire time that we were faking it, and when we pretend to break up you all decide to come harass us at nine in the morning to get back at us for it?"

"Well, when you put it like that…" Jehan mutters, looking more repentant than the rest of them.

"Out," Courfeyrac says, standing up. "All of you. Get out." He sucks in a breath and adds, grudgingly, "Please."

"We didn't—" Éponine starts, but Courfeyrac closes his eyes and raises his hand and she closes her mouth with a clack.

Combeferre weighs their options: Allow everyone to explain, have them all sort this mess out or possibly have Courfeyrac actually get mad, or get them all to leave, let Courfeyrac calm down (and himself, too) and deal with this at a later time when emotions aren't running so high.

"I think it may be best if you left," Combeferre says for Courfeyrac's benefit as much as his own, putting a hand on Courfeyrac's shoulder, just in case he decides to get angry anyway.

"Even you, Enjolras," Courfeyrac adds.

"Okay," Enjolras says, ducking his head respectively. "We'll talk this out later, if you decide you'd like to."

"I will," Courfeyrac says, "just— not right now."

"Fair enough."

Before they leave, Marius pulls Courfeyrac aside and whispers something to him. Courfeyrac nods, giving him a soft grin, but the moment Bahorel and Éponine look at him it steels over into cool anger. They leave quickly after that.

"I don't think it's completely fair to be upset with them after what we did," Combeferre says when the door is finally closed and he and Courfeyrac are alone. "It wasn't the most honest or kind thing to do, but it was only fair considering we weren't honest with them either."

Courfeyrac leans against the closed door, head tipped back, throat exposed in a way that makes Combeferre want a lot of things that aren't likely appropriate, at the moment. But he's— he's smiling? "I'm not mad," he says, opening his eyes as he lowers his chin. "I just wanted them all gone and I figured I could use betrayal to guilt them all into getting out of here quickly."

"You're not mad?" Combeferre is well and truly lost.

"Grateful, actually," Courfeyrac says, pushing away from the door with a chuckle.

"Oh," Combeferre says. He stands up abruptly, looking around. "We should clean up." His and Courfeyrac's coffee mugs are still on the table, along with a handful of disposable brought in by their friends. Combeferre grabs as many as he can, brings them to the kitchen, but Courfeyrac blocks his way before he can grab the rest.

"Ferre," he says.

"If we don't clean up now we'll keep putting it off and it'll never get done," Combeferre says, trying to shoulder past him. Courfeyrac doesn't let him.

"The cups can wait." He grips Combeferre's chin lightly, carefully tilting his head down. "Look at me, come on."

So Combeferre does. Courfeyrac is staring up at him with wide, hopeful eyes, the edge of a smile on his lips. It makes Combeferre feel even more unbalanced than he already does. "What?" he asks. "What do you want me to say?"

"Why do you seem like you're willing to act like none of that just happened?" Courfeyrac asks, letting his hand drop to his side. The hopeful smile is all but gone, lips tugged down into a frown instead.

"You mean the way you were, after we..." Combeferre trails off, regretting bringing that up no matter how vaguely.

"After we hooked up," Courfeyrac says bluntly.

Combeferre sighs and moves past him, gathering the last of the cups. "Exactly," he says as he moves, balancing them in his hands. "It didn't seem to change anything for you, so I don't see why this should. I'm not even sure how much of that was real or not, either, and I think it's best for our friendship if we just forget that it happened."

"Combeferre."

Combeferre avoids looking at him on his way back to the kitchen with the second round of cups.

"All of it," Courfeyrac says to his back. "I meant every single word that I said. And I meant it every time I kissed you since we got home from that date. I tried to act normal after what happened because I didn't know where you stood and I didn't want to freak you out by coming on too strong. I know I can be overbearing, and I don't want to— I don't want to screw this up.

"But even if that wasn't the case, I don't want what happened to change things. I don't want us to have to be careful around each other or awkward. I want— You're my best friend and I'm in love with you, and I still want everything we have now. I still want you to be my best friend. I just want you to be my best friend that I have crazy-awesome sex with and refer to as my boyfriend when someone asks."

Combeferre crushes one of the cups in his hand, the lid popping off. He takes a deep breath, and another, until his breathing no longer hitches every time. "Isn't that what got us into this mess in the first place, people referring to me as your boyfriend?"

"That was before I realized how much I like it," Courfeyrac says, coming up behind him. He carefully takes each of the cups from Combeferre's hands. "That was before I realized how much I want it to be true."

"And you do," Combeferre clarifies, still not turning around yet. "Want me to be your… boyfriend." Usually he's much more perceptive than this, but he feels completely out of his element and he's having a hard time sorting through his thoughts when his emotions are taking over everything.

"I don't know how else to spell it out for you without actually saying the words 'Please be my boyfriend, Combeferre'," Courfeyrac sighs, "and I don't want to do that because I still don't know how you actually feel yet and I don't want to freak you out."

Combeferre turns around, if only to gape down at Courfeyrac. "You—?"

Courfeyrac shakes his head firmly. "Not saying it until you give me something. Let me down gently or— or tell me you feel the same way."

"Let you down?" Combeferre has to snort, it's too ridiculous. "Have you ever been rejected in your entire life?"

Courfeyrac actually has to think on it. "Once," he says, "but in my defense we were six and she thought I had cooties."

"Probably wise of her," Combeferre says solemnly. "Maybe I should stay away, too." Courfeyrac chuckles, dropping his gaze, and Combeferre, emboldened, steps towards him, putting a hand on Courfeyrac's hip. "But I doubt I'll ever be able to. Stay away from you, that is. You're too important to me."

"As your friend?"

"Yes," Combeferre says, and Courfeyrac tries to jerk back but Combeferre hurries on, adds, "and more than that."

"How much more?"

Combeferre shrugs. "I might like it when people think you're my boyfriend, too."

"Yeah?"

"I also… I like the idea of this all staying the same, but still being able to—" He kisses Courfeyrac quickly, before his nerves can catch up with him. "To do that."

"Didn't catch that," Courfeyrac says, curling his hand in Combeferre's shirt. "I'm going to need you to repeat it."

So Combeferre does, grinning as he leans down to fit their mouths together until Courfeyrac backs him up against the counter, thigh between Combeferre's legs, teeth tugging at Combeferre's bottom lip.

"I'm still a little… iffy on the details," Courfeyrac says, breathless, eyes on Combeferre's mouth.

"I guess I should explain better," Combeferre says, hands sliding into Courfeyrac's hair.

"I need a really," Courfeyrac says, lips on Combeferre's neck, "thorough explanation."

Combeferre takes advantage of Courfeyrac's distraction (he seems to be intent on leaving a mark and Combeferre doesn't mind because he— well, he wants one to remember this by, even if it's only going to fade away) by turning them around so Courfeyrac's pressed against the counter and Combeferre's pressed against him. What he hadn't anticipated, when he'd decided to do it, is the low, needy sound that Courfeyrac makes the moment his back hits the counter, the way his nails scratch at Combeferre's back through his t-shirt.

After that, it's really only inevitable that Combeferre lift him up onto the counter. He has a moment— only a moment— to think we prepare food on this counter before Courfeyrac's legs wrap around his waist and it honestly does not matter in the slightest.

Not until Combeferre's teeth dig lightly into Courfeyrac's collarbone and he knocks over their toaster.

"Are we really going to have sex in the kitchen?" he asks, looking down at the toaster on their floor, cord lying black against the ground in a forlorn way.

"It's a goal of mine," Courfeyrac admits, and— of course it is.

"Our toaster is on the floor," Combeferre says out of necessity. It feels slightly important. Not as important as Courfeyrac's heels digging into the small of his back, but. Still.

"Think you could carry me to the bedroom?"

Combeferre raises his eyebrows and rises to the challenge. He grips Courfeyrac's thighs tightly, pulling him closer to the edge, and Courfeyrac wraps tighter around him as he slips off the counter. He's heavy, heavier than Combeferre had been expecting in his lust-filled fog, but he manages, hands moving to Courfeyrac's ass, denim pulled tight under his fingers.

"This is also a goal of mine," Courfeyrac informs him, and Combeferre laughs so hard he nearly drops Courfeyrac and only manages to keep a hold on him by pressing Courfeyrac up against the hallway wall for a moment. "So is this."

It's a miracle the make it to the bedroom in one piece, it truly is. Combeferre is losing his grip, and Courfeyrac is saying, "I think this is one of those things that's more safe and sexy in movies than in reality," and he only just manages to get to his bed before he drops Courfeyrac onto it. A little harder than expected.

"Sorry," he says, leaning down to pepper Courfeyrac's cheeks and lips and forehead with kisses.

"Only thing you should be apologizing for," Courfeyrac says, tilting his head up so Combeferre can kiss his neck, too, "is still wearing that shirt. And the rest of your clothes."

"My room doesn't actually have a clothing ban," Combeferre informs him, but he pulls back, tugging his shirt off easily.

"It should," Courfeyrac says, looking up at him, but his eyes are nowhere near Combeferre's face. His hands are moving over Combeferre's chest, thumb brushing the nipple, other hand digging into his hip. "The entire apartment should be a clothes-free zone."

"Fill out the official paperwork and I'll consider that."

Courfeyrac laughs and tugs Combeferre down on top of him.

He's not entirely sure how they manage to get their clothes off without anyone getting off the bed or falling off the bed, but it involves a lot of rolling around and, at one point, Courfeyrac's elbow digging into his stomach and his glasses nearly getting broken.

"Sorry," Courfeyrac says, kissing the spot where his elbow had previously been digging in. Combeferre only gets a moment to appreciate the way he looks there, hair tickling Combeferre's stomach, lips red and swollen from kissing, eyes dark and the contrast of his golden-toned skin against Combeferre's, before he moves back up, pulling Combeferre's earlobe between his teeth. "Please tell me you have condoms and lube."

"I—" Crap. "I have lube?"

Courfeyrac tisks, leaning back. "Combeferre," he scolds, hands on Combeferre's thighs. They move up slowly, wide hands flat against his skin, until they reach his hips, completely forgoing even brushing where Combeferre actually wants them. Needs them. "Safe sex is important."

"Sorry," Combeferre says. Does sex usually involve this much apologizing?

"I'll be right back," Courfeyrac says, slipping off the bed. "Don't move."

Combeferre appreciates the way Courfeyrac's leg muscles work, the curve of his back dipping down to what is, quite frankly, an amazing ass, as he walks away. And then he fixes his pillows, sits back against them awkwardly, feeling exposed being completely naked with the door open and not minding one bit.

Courfeyrac's shirt is hanging off the bottom of the bed; his own pants are on the bedside table. Courfeyrac's boxers are on his desk, and he doesn't remember doing that on purpose but he does remembering throwing them away in agitation and a desperate need to get them off of Courfeyrac's body, so he's not very surprised.

His bed has never looked so messy in the bright of day. The curtains are cracked open, filtering in pale light. It's cloudy outside, will likely rain tonight, but the softer glow of light feels more fitting anyway.

"You moved," Courfeyrac admonishes when he returns.

Combeferre snorts. "Just get over here."

Courfeyrac grins, doing as he's told and taking it one step farther, straddling Combeferre's waist as soon as he climbs onto the bed, leaning down for a kiss as his hips do this thing where he grinds down against Combeferre with the perfect amount of friction that forces a gasp out of Combeferre.

He isn't sure if he reaches for the lube or if Courfeyrac presses it into his hand, but then he has slick fingers and Courfeyrac is flat against his chest, head tucked into the crook of his neck. The angle isn't perfect, it'd probably be easier if they moved, so Combeferre grabs Courfeyrac's hip with his freehand, turning them over with more ease then he'd expected. Courfeyrac blinks up at him, half-propped up by the pillows, eyes wide and mouth open, legs spreads and toes curling against the comforter.

"Your bed is… so much bigger than mine," Courfeyrac says as Combeferre teases slick fingers over his length as he squeezes Courfeyrac's thigh with his freehand. He wonders if he should be offended that Courfeyrac is still fully capable of speaking and not rendered silent by lust and pleasure, but then, he figures, this is Courfeyrac and it'd be more surprising if he were quiet.

"Jealous?" he asks, letting his hand drift lower, past Courfeyrac's cock until he's circling a fingertip over his entrance, not quite pushing in yet.

"No, but you said that— fuck." Courfeyrac tenses as Combeferre pushes the first finger in, but then he takes a shuddering breath, lets it out, relaxes. His voice is shakier when he says, "You said that my bed isn't… it isn't, um. It's not comfortable for… two people."

"Did I?" Combeferre is trying to focus on the conversation, he is, but the way Courfeyrac's stomach muscles clench, the way his thigh jump under Combeferre's hand every time he moves his finger, is distracting.

"You did," Courfeyrac breathes. "And I— another one, Ferre, please, come on." Combeferre bites his lip, watching as he pushes a second finger in along with the first. Courfeyrac is tight around him, his mouth going slack when Combeferre spreads his fingers a bit. "I just meant that… that. Fuck. That two— two people can, uh. We can. We can both fit. Here. In your— in your bed."

"What?" Combeferre frowns, stilling, until Courfeyrac makes an impatient noises and tries to grind down on his fingers.

"To-together," he says, and then Combeferre quirks his fingers just right, brushing against his prostate, and Courfeyrac tries to bite down on a moan and mostly fails.

Combeferre can't help but kiss every inch of skin he can get his lips on, while Courfeyrac's vocabulary seems to be restricted to 'Please' and 'Ferre' and 'Come on'. He considers staying like this, getting Courfeyrac off with his fingers inside him and a hand on his cock, but Courfeyrac looks down at him, seems to read his intentions in his eyes, and fists a hand in Combeferre's hair.

"I am two seconds away from actually saying 'get in me' so you better—"

"Get in you?"

Courfeyrac laughs shakily, but the fingers in Combeferre's hair tighten and he tries to narrow his eyes in a way that might be stern, coming from anyone else and if the situation were different, but comes off more pleading than anything. Combeferre kisses the inside of his thigh once more, trying not to grin at the mark he'd left there at some point, vaguely mouth shaped and already fading, and then carefully slips his fingers out and moves up the bed.

The moments after Combeferre finally slides into him, head fallen forward, braced on his hands with Courfeyrac's legs wrapped around him, are spent in near silence, aside from their collective, heavy breaths. Courfeyrac's eyes are closed, one arm bent awkwardly to reach up and grip the hand Courfeyrac has near his head; the other is fisted in Combeferre's hair again, a bit too tight and slightly painful, but Combeferre doesn't say anything, recites in his mind the way breathing works because his body seems to have forgotten.

When Courfeyrac's heel digs into him, and he can thinks past how warm and tight Courfeyrac is around him, he looks down and finds Courfeyrac's eyes wide open again, lips tilted in a half-smile. His hair is sweaty and matted to his forehead. "Would it be cheesy if I said you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen?" he asks.

Courfeyrac's laughter is breathy and unstable. "Yes," he says, "but please, feed my ego. God knows I need it."

Combeferre lets himself fall onto his elbows, trying to fit their mouths together, but the move makes him slide in deeper, has Courfeyrac's legs tightening around him, and he's not sure who moans first but he gives up kissing in order to pull back, moving in slow, careful thrusts as he watches Courfeyrac's face, checking to make sure he's not causing Courfeyrac pain.

But Courfeyrac groans at him, digs his nails into Combeferre's back, says, "Make love to me next time, okay? Right now I just need you to fuck me," and, well. Combeferre is not in the habit of denying Courfeyrac anything, so.

He's not entirely sure when it starts raining, but eventually the sound of rain hitting the window, falling down in torrents outside, the wind howling along with it, echoes in the background like music to accompany the sounds their bodies make, the groans Combeferre can't help but breathe out, the louder, unashamed moans that fall from Courfeyrac's forever parted lips. The room around them is damp from the storm, cool, but everywhere they're pressed together is such a sharp contrast, burning heat that leaves them slick, sticking together.

Courfeyrac comes first, but only because Combeferre slows down and holds himself off as he brings their hands, twined together at some point during all of this, down to Courfeyrac's cock. There isn't much he can do after that, with Courfeyrac crying out and clenching down on him and urging Combeferre on with hard presses of his heels, but let himself go, too, barely able to hold himself up enough to keep from crushing Courfeyrac underneath him.

Courfeyrac's hand rubs at his back the entire time.

"You realize we're going to hear nothing but 'I told you so' from our friends for the next week, right?" Courfeyrac sighs afterwards as he traces random patters on Combeferre's wrist with the hand that isn't held tightly in his own. "Like, they all acted like we were together, and now that we are they're going to be so smug."

Combeferre shrugs. "Seems like a small price to pay in order to have this," he says.

"We're going to be so gross, aren't we?" Courfeyrac says delightedly. "We were bad enough when we were fake dating; we're going to be that unbearable couple that makes everyone jealous because we're so perfect together, aren't we?"

"I think that would be Joly and Bossuet."

"No," Courfeyrac says determinedly. "We're going to be so much worse. Wear matching clothes—"

"I've seen your wardrobe. I'm not wearing matching clothes with you."

"Rude," Courfeyrac says, flicking his wrist. "But we'll have to tone it down around Enjolras. I don't want him getting a complex. Maybe we'll wear matching clothes with him, too."

"You can keep suggesting it but we're not going to wear matching clothes."

Courfeyrac grumbles something into Combeferre's chest that he doesn't hear, but then he adds, "Does this mean I have to call my mom and admit that we're actually together?"

"If you want to," Combeferre says, trying not to sound too pleased.

"She'll start planning our wedding right away, though," he warns.

"Tell her I'd prefer something in autumn."

"See? We're so gross."

"Quite literally, I'm afraid," Combeferre says. He'd done his best to clean them up afterward, but they're still sweaty, still sticking together, and it's not even noon yet. As much as he wants to stay in bed with Courfeyrac all day, they're going to have to eat, at some point.

"Shower," Courfeyrac says, nodding. "And we need to call the others later, let them know we're not actually mad at them for being invasive liars. Except Marius. I told him before he left that I'm not actually upset, so I'm sure he's told Cosette the same."

"We should probably eat something, too," Combeferre says as he sits up.

"In the mood for charred eggs and bread so toasted you can't tell if you're supposed to eat it or use it as a doorstop?"

"Or we could go out," Combeferre suggests.

"As a date?"

"I suppose so."

Courfeyrac's smiling contentedly as he stands, stretching lazily and unashamed in his nakedness. "So will this be our first official date?" he asks as he starts the hunt for his clothes. "Or does the other night count as our first date?"

Combeferre frowns. "Was our first kiss today in the kitchen, or the night you proposed we begin that entire ridiculous idea of yours? Or the other night, after the cake?"

"Shit." Courfeyrac looks genuinely distraught. "What are we going to tell our children when they ask us how we got together?"

Combeferre snorts and throws Courfeyrac's t-shirt at him. They're a little gross.

-o-

Courfeyrac

"Did you see this?" Courfeyrac says excitedly, nearly throwing the newspaper at Enjolras in his haste.

Enjolras blinks balefully up at him over the rim of his coffee cup and then down to the newspaper in his lap. He frowns, putting the coffee down, and unfolds it, eyes quickly scanning the page. "They're banned from playing on any university funded teams for the entire year?" he asks, as if Courfeyrac has better information than the university newspaper itself.

"They're making an example of them," Courfeyrac says, almost giddy. "No tolerance for violence against students by other students. Apparently the guys' parents are trying to, like, force the school to reconsider, but they're pretty adamant about it. They listened. They listened to what we said. Well, what you and Combeferre said, but—"

"The rest of you did just as much as we did," Enjolras says, carefully folding the paper back up, a grin on his face. "I'm calling a meeting with the rest of the group. I assume the others haven't seen this?"

"You were the closest on my way, so I stopped here first," Courfeyrac explains. "But could you possibly schedule the meeting for an hour from now?"

Enjolras looks up from his phone, warring emotions on his face. Courfeyrac is transparent, he's self-aware enough to know this, and it's probably obvious to Enjolras that Courfeyrac is only asking because he and Combeferre have Thursday afternoon coffee every week and, since it's a Thursday, he really should be there already.

Since he and Combeferre started dating, Enjolras has been either acting like nothing has changed or the most overbearingly supportive best friend ever. There is no middle ground. There's also no warning before he switches from one to the other, and Courfeyrac never knows if Enjolras is going to roll his eyes at something like this or force a smile onto his face and push Courfeyrac out the door to make up for that time they all bombarded him and Combeferre that one morning.

Today it seems to be a mixture of the two. "Go," he says, waving Courfeyrac off, "but when it comes to more important meetings, I'm not going to be as happy to make allowances."

"You can come, you know," Courfeyrac tells him. Because where Enjolras has been ridiculously supportive, Courfeyrac has been trying his absolute best to make sure Enjolras feels just as included as he used to. Combeferre may be his boyfriend now, but that doesn't suddenly erase any and all previous relationships they had. Enjolras is no less important to either of them, and they make no less time for him, only now Courfeyrac is a bit more aware of doing it because he never wants to make Enjolras, or any of their friends, feel like them being in a relationship changes anything else.

"No thank you," Enjolras says, lifting his cup pointedly. "I already have coffee, and I'd prefer not to add cheese to it."

"We're not that cheesy," Courfeyrac argues. Enjolras simply raises his eyebrows. "Okay, we are so that cheesy. See you in an hour?"

"Don't be late!" Enjolras calls after him. "Again!" Courfeyrac winks over his shoulder, but he's jogging out the door because he sort of already is.

It's quarter past four when he finally makes it to the coffee shop, and Combeferre is already inside, waiting at one of the tables with a book in one hand and his phone on the table in front of him. Courfeyrac grins as he opens the door, holding it open for the woman coming out, and Combeferre looks up at the sound of the bell above the door chiming.

"You're late," he says.

"I know, I'm sorry," Courfeyrac says, pressing a kiss to Combeferre's forehead as he pulls back the chair beside him. "Did you already order?"

"I thought I'd wait for you," Combeferre answers, putting a sugar packet between the pages of his book to mark his spot. Courfeyrac has bought him so many bookmarks that there's really no excuse for this, but he just sighs and shakes his head and Combeferre doesn't even seem to notice.

"I'll get it, then," he says, leaving the chair. "Since I am late, after all."

"Can you also get one of the—?"

"Yes."

"With the—?"

"Yes," Courfeyrac says before he can finish. They're so married.

Combeferre is reading again by the time Courfeyrac gets to the counter and put in their order. "Can I also get one of those chocolate glazed donuts, the one with the raspberry filling?"

The barista behind the counter rings up his order, and as he's handing over the money she says, looking over his shoulder with a teasing smile, "He's been here for almost half an hour, you know. It's not nice to leave your friends waiting."

Courfeyrac grins at her and, because now that it's true, now that he can actually say it, he can't but tell her, "Oh, he's not just my friend. He's my boyfriend." He grins back at the table where Combeferre is once again immersed in his book.

"I think that's actually worse."

Courfeyrac's grin falls away. "Maybe two of those donuts, actually."