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Combeferre had only ever seen Enjolras drunk once.
It was when they were children, young enough for Combeferre to not acquire his glasses yet, and for Enjolras to still have a childish happiness in his eyes. There had been a dinner party in the Enjolras household, and the two boys were sent away soon enough, but not before Combeferre had snatched a bottle half-filled with wine from the kitchen.
They shut themselves in Enjolras’ room and took turns drinking from the bottle, laughing at the way the other’s face scrunched up from the bitterness. Combeferre remembered those bright blue eyes crinkling with every loud laugh, and the wine-stained lips that couldn’t stop curling up into a giggle.
Eventually, Combeferre grew sleepy, the alcohol finally burrowing deep into his body. Over the years these effects would never change; every time Combeferre drank, he would be in bed asleep faster than any one of their friends.
Enjolras however, on that warm summer evening in his room, exhibited a different side-effect. While Combeferre was sluggishly blinking his eyes, he attempted to pass the bottle to Enjolras, only for it to slip through their clumsy fingers and smash across the floor.
Combeferre had cursed, standing to grab a bedsheet to gather the glass shards, when Enjolras’ eerie stillness stopped him in his tracks.
“Sébastien?” He murmured. “Sébastien, are you hurt?”
Enjolras, still sitting amongst the sharp and sticky mess, lifted his head and stared at Combeferre, his blue eyes wet and rimmed red.
“I…I—” Enjolras choked, his face crumpling. “I’m sorry!”
And he burst into tears.
The following hour was a blur for Combeferre, whose drunken state of mind certainly did not help him comprehend the sight of his closest friend sobbing so violently. They had eventually cleaned the room, but not without Enjolras’ maid coming in to discover the mess. She had scolded the two of them, but was quickly unnerved at how Enjolras continued to cry and cry, even with Combeferre’s arms wrapped around him tightly, and soon went to fetch their parents.
Thankfully, the adults seemed far too amused at the usually-stoic Enjolras crying to properly punish them. Enjolras’ father had even patted his small blonde head affectionately.
“It was high time the boys tried some wine, anyways,” he laughed. “It is better to build their immunity from young.”
“I shall never drink wine again,” Enjolras had sniffled in response, still clutching onto Combeferre. “It is horrid. I don’t want to try it ever again.”
They had laughed at that, Enjolras’ pitiful proclamation softening even the hearts of Combeferre’s parents, who allowed their son to sleep in Enjolras’ room for the night so as to comfort the younger boy.
Combeferre remembered that particular night distinctly. Washed and sobered up, the boys had laid together on the same bed, both still guilty for having implicated the other, and so clasped each other’s hands in the dark.
“Henri?” Enjolras had whispered, his eyes still bright under the moonlight from the window, staring sadly at his friend.
“Yes, Sébastien?”
“Are you angry with me?”
“No! Never!”
“Good,” Enjolras hiccoughed, still looking on the verge of tears. “I don’t think I can bear it if you were angry with me.”
“I have no reason to be,” Combeferre had replied. “It was I who took the bottle and had us drink it. I should be sorry instead; I shouldn’t have let it happen.”
“I agreed to drinking it. It was not your fault at all.” Enjolras wiped at his eyes roughly and pressed closer against Combeferre. “It is just…you do not think I’m silly? For crying?”
“Not at all; Papa said alcohol does strange things to the mind.”
“But I was of sound mind.”
“That is true. It simply…heightened your senses then. Made you laugh when you felt happy, and cry when you were upset. Why would I fault you for feeling all of that?”
Enjolras hummed at the explanation, considering it, before smiling.
“You make sense as always. Thank you Henri; you’re a true friend.”
Combeferre had blushed at the words and did not reply, merely throwing his arm over Enjolras and pulling him closer. Soon, Enjolras drifted to sleep, his head of tousled curls burying under Combeferre’s chin, and Combeferre himself savoured the warmth of that small body against his as he too fell asleep.
True to Enjolras’ words to his father, he had not drunk a drop of alcohol since. He partook in no vices at all, even once he arrived at Paris to find Combeferre and begin his studies. Instead, his attentions were all directed to his dear mistress Patria, his own desires overshadowed by the needs of the people.
Combeferre did not mind. Truly, he did not. He was proud, even, to have watched Enjolras grow into the charming young man that he was today. Combeferre took pride at having guided Enjolras through Paris and introducing him to connections that he himself had found and established, and was further pleased to see Enjolras taking to his own friends like a duck to water (or rather, like a house on fire), growing close to Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and many of the other men that now made up Les Amis de l’ABC.
But his darkest thoughts, surfacing now and then in the depths of the night, always returned to that warm summer evening in the Enjolras household. Combeferre, on those nights, would sink into those memories, of the warmth of the alcohol that had inhabited his body, the rare look of indulgence on Enjolras’ young face, and that impulsive, heady desire he had felt that summer evening, of wanting to kiss those wine-stained lips that couldn’t stop curling up into a giggle.
Combeferre knew Enjolras would never indulge in such things anymore. That summer evening was long gone, along with the boyish happiness that Enjolras used to embody, and so Combeferre had made his peace with it and took it all in stride. He was content to simply be Enjolras’ friend and guide now, and expected nothing like that evening to ever happen again.
Which was why Combeferre was so taken aback when, on one chilly autumn night, he opened the door of their flat to Enjolras stumbling in drunk.
“Enjolras!” He exclaimed, quickly helping his friend onto their sofa. “Are you alright? What happened?”
“I am fine,” Enjolras replied instantly, his hand coming up to pat Combeferre’s grip on his shoulder. “I simply had too much to drink.”
“Drink?” Combeferre echoed. “Why were you drinking? You swore off alcohol years ago; were you drugged?”
“No.”
Combeferre waited for a further explanation but none came. He observed Enjolras longer; he did seem well, though his face and neck were flushed red, and his eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. Combeferre deliberately did not look at his lips.
“Why were you drinking then?”
“I…” Enjolras began, before frowning to regather his thoughts. “I had a talk with Grantaire. He was drinking, and so I followed suit.”
“With Grantaire?” Combeferre frowned instantly. “He forced you to drink?”
“No. He invited me to do so, and I chose to.”
Combeferre’s frown deepened. Grantaire’s infatuation with Enjolras was an open secret between all the men of Les Amis de l’ABC, save for the very two that were involved. Still, for the same reasons Combeferre had accepted that Enjolras’ affections were never to be captured, he never imagined that Grantaire would be able to capture Enjolras’ mind, and gripping him tight enough to sway him from ideals that he had held onto for years of his life.
Perhaps this shock was simply due to the nature of Grantaire; one would hardly expect him of all people to convince Enjolras of anything. Or perhaps it was not shock, but rather that dark knot of jealousy that quickly formed in Combeferre’s stomach, that was protective over the rare sight of Enjolras drunk, as though it was a gift that belonged to Combeferre, and Combeferre only.
“What did you talk about?” Combeferre asked, keeping his voice free from the bitterness he felt.
“I had an issue, and I needed to consult it with…with Grantaire. He offered his wine to me and said that…and said that it has helped him with such issues before. I was unconvinced at first, but you know I have not much experience in this, and so I cannot…I could not have said for certain that wine would not help if I did not try it first myself. So I drank.”
Enjolras was clearly feeling the entirety of the wine's side effects now, his words slower than usual and his eyes sliding shut some time during his speech. Combeferre was grateful for that; he was certain his own face was pulled into a horribly dark expression.
“What was this issue about?”
“It is nothing.”
“What, have you actually solved it with alcohol?”
“No.”
“Then what was this issue?”
“It is nothing.”
Combeferre folded his arms, frustration finally breaking through.
“It is most certainly something if it pushed you to drink, of all things. You have refused alcohol all these years now, and one talk with Grantaire finally convinced you to try it again? I doubt he has that great of an influence over you.”
“It has nothing to do with Grantaire.”
“Only Grantaire would have suggested wine to you; anyone else would have given a better solution. I would certainly have been happy to help—”
“You cannot help me with this,” Enjolras cut in sharply.
Combeferre blinked, before narrowing his eyes at Enjolras, who had opened his own eyes to glare up at him.
“I see,” Combeferre replied coldly, the rejection of his offer turning him cruel. “I am sorry I’m not as learned as Grantaire in these affairs, then, whatever they are. Forgive me for my presumption that I can help.”
And with that, Combeferre turned to leave (though only to fetch a cup of water, for Combeferre cannot help but fuss about Enjolras, even when brimming with jealous anger), only to feel a tug upon his wrist.
“No, no, Combeferre—”
Combeferre looked back with a toss of his head, but his haughtiness immediately dissipated at the sight of those blue eyes, brighter now as they quickly filled with tears. It did not take long for Enjolras – just like that summer evening, all those years ago, – to hiccough, squeeze his eyes shut, and begin to cry.
Combeferre was back in front of Enjolras almost instantly, gently pulling him into a hug. It was not unlike Enjolras to cry these past few years; he had certainly cried at his own mother’s funeral, and at the funeral for Combeferre’s father just a year later. Enjolras had even shed tears for Combeferre a mere few weeks ago, when a patient of his had succumbed to her injuries and Combeferre had collapsed in Enjolras’ arms the moment he returned to their flat.
None of those instances were like this, however, not in the way that Enjolras was sobbing so heavily that he could hardly breathe, heaving shuddering breaths between his tears every so often. Combeferre was worried, but not entirely confused: this was the same side-effect he had exhibited as a child, weeping against Combeferre’s arm as they tried to clean the room together.
He rubbed Enjolras’ back as he murmured some quiet nonsense; he was still standing, which meant that Enjolras on the sofa had his wet face pressed against Combeferre’s shirt, his own arms wrapped tightly around his waist. Slowly, to make the angle better for them both, Combeferre lowered himself to the ground and kneeled in front of Enjolras.
Enjolras leaned back momentarily as he did so, gasping through his tears:
“I’m sorry Combeferre, I did not mean– it is not your–”
“I understand,” Combeferre replied. “I am not angry.”
“I am drunk,” Enjolras sobbed, and said nothing more. That was the extent of his explanation.
Despite the situation, Combeferre could not help but smile fondly. He understood now why their parents had laughed; now that he was older, and without a broken bottle and spilled wine to worry about, he could properly see how Enjolras’ face scrunched up childishly as he cried, his usual marble complexion now simply skin that turned red and blotchy. The heart-rending look in his watery eyes made him look younger, and compelled Combeferre to lift his hand and wipe the tears that continued to gather.
“Hush, Enjolras, do not cry. Let us wash up and you can go to bed.”
“No,” Enjolras said. “Stay here, please.”
“I am not leaving you.”
“You were, earlier.”
“Only to get water,” Combeferre laughed, amused. Another side-effect: the Enjolras of the past would not let Combeferre out of his sight either.
“I should not have drunk,” Enjolras muttered, his tears finally stopping, though his eyes were still sad. “I thought it would have stopped it, stopped this– pain that I feel, but it did not. It distracted me, but only for a moment, and now everything…everything has returned. And I cannot bear it.”
“Enjolras…” Combeferre was truly worried now. He has heard nothing of this pain, having barely seen Enjolras at all these few weeks, their schedules often clashing. Guilt gripped him; how could he have missed this affliction that has tormented his friend to the point of drink? “I know you said I cannot help but I am willing to listen, at the very least. Tell me what has happened; let me bear this with you.”
Enjolras shook his head, his hands shaking as he reached up and gently pulled Combeferre’s hand from his face. Combeferre’s heart ached just a little at the way Enjolras squeezed his fingers, brushing his pulse point with a trembling thumb.
“I cannot.” Enjolras sounded nearly afraid, his voice unlike anything Combeferre had heard. “You will be angry with me.”
“I will not.”
“You have been angry with me before, for less,” Enjolras argued.
“Alright,” Combeferre sighed. “Perhaps I may be angry, but have we not resolved all disagreements we have had together? I have never been angry at you for more than a few days; this will not be any different.”
“No. You will be angry at me for life, and you will have every right to be so.”
“Nothing you say will ever make me hate you so much. I promise.”
“How are you so certain?”
Combeferre smiled wryly.
“You underestimate my love for you, Enjolras.”
And with his free hand, Combeferre touched Enjolras’ cheek again, wiping away the stains his tears left behind. It felt dishonourable to take advantage of his misery to touch him, but as Combeferre watched the way Enjolras leaned into the warmth of his palm, he could not bring himself to regret it.
“Now, will you tell me what is wrong?”
At Combeferre’s words, Enjolras glanced up with an indescribable tenderness in his gaze.
Before Combeferre could ask once more, he was rocked back onto his heels, pushed back by the press of Enjolras’ wine-stained lips upon his.
It was almost surprising how easy it was to kiss him in return; as though Combeferre was made for this purpose, made for Enjolras and Enjolras only. Or perhaps it simply drew from Combeferre’s perennial desire, half-hidden in the depths of his mind, which coaxed him to wrap an arm around Enjolras, pressing him deeper into the kiss.
Eventually Combeferre drew back, and saw Enjolras’ red face and glazed-over eyes. His giddy happiness slowly faded; he had forgotten that Enjolras was drunk.
“You’re drunk,” Combeferre said as such, but he could not stop himself from sounding overly fond.
“I am,” Enjolras agreed. “But I am still of sound mind.”
“Enjolras…”
“Do you remember, when we were children and we had our first drink of wine? I told you then I was of sound mind, and you agreed.”
“I had told you that alcohol simply heightened your senses,” Combeferre murmured, reaching up to touch Enjolras’ cheek again, still not quite understanding their circumstances. “Made you laugh when you felt happy, and cry when you were sad—”
“—And had me kiss you now, when I felt that you love me just as much as I love you as well.”
Combeferre felt himself blushing, and blushing even harder once Enjolras began laughing at the sight. His wine-happy laughter still sounded the same, after all these years.
“Do you truly?” Combeferre could not help but ask, his own voice sounding nearly afraid now. “Do you honestly love me, as much as I love you?”
“Of course.”
“Is that what you have been worrying about?”
“Yes,” Enjolras said, his head now drooping low, his forehead pressed against Combeferre’s soft shoulder. “I was afraid you would be angry. Are you angry with me?”
“No; never.”
“I am glad,” Enjolras hiccoughed, his arms wrapping around Combeferre in a loose hug. Combeferre heard a quiet sniffle, and felt the wetness of tears upon his sleeve once more. “I am so…oh, Combeferre. I was certain you would hate me for this. I am happy that you love me instead.”
If it were possible for the heart of a human being to swell up with love, Combeferre’s would have done so in an instant, hearing the words he had always longed to say, and had never dared dreamt to hear.
“I adore you, Enjolras,” Combeferre whispered in return, still shy at confessing his affections aloud. “And I will adore you even more…if you will go to bed now.”
Despite his abundance of joy all this while, Combeferre did not fail to notice the way Enjolras had been sagging lower in his seat, and the slow blinking that he had exhibited for minutes now. And though every inch of his skin yearned to press up against Enjolras, Combeferre knew Enjolras needed rest.
The quiet hum of agreement Enjolras soon made affirmed Combeferre’s thinking; Enjolras was never so compliant if he were not exhausted.
“Do not leave yet,” Enjolras mumbled. “Help me wash?”
“Of course. I do not think you could stand by yourself if you tried.”
Even with Combeferre’s help it was still a difficult task; eventually, Combeferre wrangled Enjolras into a nightshirt, and coaxed him to drink two cups of water before Enjolras stubbornly refused a third.
“I want to sleep now,” he announced. “Please lie here with me, Combeferre.”
“Are you sure?”
Enjolras, having already thrown himself prone upon his bed, released an unintelligible mumble. Combeferre waited for a clarification, only to realise that he had already fallen asleep, snoring into his pillows.
Laughing quietly, Combeferre drew the covers from under his body and tucked it around him. And, knowing he might never have the opportunity again, he pressed a kiss to Enjolras’ warm cheek.
He did not lie with him that night. Combeferre, though thoroughly heartened by the kiss, worried what the following day may bring. Sentiments felt on a chilly autumn night could very well be something different in the light of day, and so Combeferre bit his lip, tasted the remnants of the wine Enjolras left on his mouth, and went to his own bed instead.
Combeferre awoke the next morning to the familiar sound of pencil on paper. He glanced outside his door and saw the usual sight: Enjolras writing on the desk, two cups of coffee already poured out for them both. Combeferre hesitated; surely it had all been a dream.
“Good morning, Enjolras.”
Enjolras looked up, and Combeferre saw at once his tired eyes, swollen still from his tears the night before. Still, he was smiling gently.
“Good morning Combeferre,” he greeted. “You were not in the room last night.”
“No I wasn’t. You needed the full bed for rest.”
A loud sigh, and Enjolras shook his head.
“And I shall need more rest for the rest of the day, I think. How do men deal with such headaches? I cannot believe Grantaire convinced me to drink; you must make sure I never touch a drop of alcohol ever again.”
Combeferre laughed, giddy now with the confirmation that his memories were real, and approached the desk.
“I’m not sure, Enjolras. It was only from the wine that you were able to do what you had done, after all.”
Colour rose to Enjolras’ face and Combeferre, spurred on by confidence, touched one of those blushing cheeks. He watched as Enjolras leaned into the warmth of his palm.
“Are you angry with me?” Enjolras asked quietly.
Combeferre smiled. “No; never.”
“Good. For I meant all that I’d said and done.”
“So did I. Though I must say, your words were hardly decipherable through your tears for me to understand what you said.”
“You are teasing me,” Enjolras huffed.
“Consider it a punishment for your drinking.” And Combeferre leaned in, kissing Enjolras and finding only coffee now on his tongue. Enjolras showed a rare bout of indulgence and kissed him back lazily, a hand finding itself on Combeferre’s waist before he finally pulled away with a smile.
“What, and is this my reward?”
“That, and a proposal. Kisses, in exchange for wine?”
Enjolras laughed, and the autumn morning felt a touch warmer.
“Very well; I shall be quite happy with that.”