#c2 fic

Courfeyrac pouts.  "Yeah, but that doesn't mean none of them will be chocolate."

Combeferre rolls his eyes and holds out his hand for the present.  (Courfeyrac isn't allowed to unwrap any more, because, in Grantaire's words, "he gets way too excited and wrapping paper flies everywhere.  It's like a puppy with a new toy, only a grown man, and not as cute.")  Once the present is sufficiently weighing down his arm, Combeferre begins to unwrap methodically: ripping the wrapping paper exactly along the seams, sliding off the ribbon, and placing everything in a paper bag next to the side of the table.

Courfeyrac looms over his shoulder, eagerly peeking at ... A book.

Or, to be precise, a thick, dark brown leather book with gold leaf pages.

"We made you a scrapbook!" Joly exclaims, bouncing up and down in his seat a little.

Bossuet nods and says, "Well, they made you a scrapbook out of the pictures I gathered.  I'm not supposed to get near scissors."

"There are pictures from your entire lives in there," Musichetta adds.  "Since you met in kindergarten, up until today.  The last ones were put in just a few minutes ago.  Don't ask how I managed that."

Courfeyrac grabs the book and begins flipping through -- page after page of him and Combeferre at school, him and Combeferre in the playground, him and Combeferre at each other's houses ... And then, later, him and Combeferre in college, him and Combeferre finally getting their shit together, him and Combeferre in their apartment together ...

"This is amazing," he whispers, eyes wide.  "There are so many pictures!  How did you fill up the entire thing?"

Joly shrugs.  "You guys have been friends for what, twenty years now?  That's a lot of time.  And Courfeyrac's mom took tons of pictures."

Combeferre glances at Courfeyrac.  "Twenty years exactly, actually," he says quietly.  "This is the twentieth anniversary of when we first met."

"What?!"  Courfeyrac literally squeals.  Twelve-year-old girl meeting her favorite boyband squeals.  It's painful to hear.

Combeferre stares at the screen for a moment, her mind strangely blank.  And then, it buzzes again, for longer this time.

[from: Courfeyrac] i didnt actually mean goodbye, don’t go, respond or something

[from: Courfeyrac] tell me where u think we should send this, because i have several ideas but i want to hear ur input first - like are we thinking add this to the short story collection?  or find some lit mag that wants it?  or just post it on ur webpage and let ur fans have a field day?  all ideas are good

Another moment passes.  Combeferre slowly takes a sip of tea, drums her knuckles on her desk precisely twelve times, and, finally, types slowly.

[to: Courfeyrac] You usually have many more comments than ‘do not change a single thing.’  Is there really not even one comma you want me to remove?

Combeferre barely even has time to read one sentence in her book before the reply comes.

[from: Courfeyrac] ur writing isn’t usually this brilliant.  i mean i could go over it more carefully if u rly want but

Combeferre sighs, puts her bookmark (a slip of paper ripped out of her purse-sized writing notebook) in her book, and folds her hands behind her head.  She closes her eyes and carefully analyzes what could be different about this short story — it was written fairly quickly, for her, and there is nothing particularly original or exciting about the characters or storyline.  It’s merely a small expansion into the world of her fantasy series.  Why is Courfeyrac so enthralled by it?

After a minute or so, Combeferre believes she has a hypothesis.

[to: Courfeyrac] You know, you don’t have to be extra nice to me or my writing just because we got together recently.  We should keep our professional relationship out of our personal relationship, and vice versa — didn’t we agree to that?

When the response comes, Combeferre is surprised to find she’s been holding her breath.

[from: Courfeyrac] yeah, & u broke it pretty quickly, ferre

[from: Courfeyrac] u wrote a short story putting US into the series.  of course im gonna love it

Okay.  Not the answer Combeferre was expecting.  Not even remotely.  She stares at her phone, fingers frozen.

[from: Courfeyrac] ferre?

[from: Courfeyrac] love?

[from: Courfeyrac] darling?

[from: Courfeyrac] babe?

[from: Courfeyrac] baby babe bae

[from: Courfeyrac] please respond im starting to get worried

Combeferre opens up her laptop and re-reads the short story again.  It’s the story of the library in the capital city of her magical realm — the story of a smart, well-educated librarian who thought she knew everything and the feisty, wild-eyed dragon rider who barges into that library, blows the dust off those books, and teaches that librarian that she does not, in fact, know much at all.

… Oh.

[from: Courfeyrac] u didnt even realize that u were writing about us, did u?

[from: Courfeyrac] for someone so smart, u can be so incredibly dumb

Seriously, one moment, everything is sunny and warm and perfect, and the next, rain is pounding straight into his very bones.  The sky is dim and dark like something out of a horror movie, and the wind now threatens to pick him up and carry him off if he isn’t careful.

In command as always, Enjolras starts barking orders to all of their friends in earshot: “Grab everything you can carry whether it’s yours or not and run to the car as fast as you can!”

Joly, Bossuet, Eponine, and Grantaire, who had been swimming when the storm hit, immediately rush onto the beach and grab their towels.  Bahorel abandons his sandcastle with a forlorn glance, then stands and goes to bundle up the huge beach umbrella.  For his part, Combeferre jams all of the loose items he can reach into his bag, then hoists it into his arms along with two beach chairs and a couple of towels.

Before taking off, he looks around to make sure that Courfeyrac is okay.  He finds him to his left, helping Cosette pack the remnants of their picnic lunch into the cooler.

“Hey, Cosette!” Combeferre shouts.

She looks up and gives him a confident grin.

“Take care of him, would you?  I’ve only got one boyfriend, and I don’t want him to be carried away by a hurricane.”

Cosette laughs and gives Combeferre a quick salute before returning to packing up food.

With his boyfriend left in competent hands, Courfeyrac feels much safer about starting to sprint to the car.  He’s in decent shape and he’s never been a bad runner, but this harsh rain is something else.  Ever step is an effort, the wind seems to have a specific agenda of knocking as much out os his hands as possible, and the humidity is fogging up his glasses so much, he can barely see.

After what seems like an age, however, Combeferre finally makes it to the car (Joly’s mom’s van, the only car that can hold their whole group), and drops his load in the trunk and his butt in the driver’s seat.  Courfeyrac and Cosette arrive a minute later, hoisting the cooler between them.  (Combeferre has to make a calculated effort not to look at Courfeyrac for too long, because his hair is wet and his T-shirt is sticking to his chest and that is Very Distracting.)

Everyone has piled in and Combeferre is just about to start the car when a thought hits him like a shark falling out of the sky.

“Fuck,” he curses.

Combeferre rarely curses – aloud, anyway – so the car immediately goes silent.

“What is it?” Courfeyrac asks.

“I forgot my book at the beach,” Combeferre explains. “It’s no big deal, it’s just – it was from the school library, the fines will be huge, and I was almost done with it …”

Courfeyrac holds up his hands.  “Say no more.”

“What?”

Courfeyrac pushes open the passenger door (he’s called shotgun for eternity whenever Combeferre is driving and the others are hard-pressed to argue) and sprints off into the storm before anyone can say another word.

Combeferre is rarely speechless, but he can safely say that this is one of those times.

Ten minutes pass – ten minutes split between wondering about his boyfriend and fending off lewd comments from his friends.  (“Man, I wish I had a boyfriend like that.”  “What are you doing for him in the bedroom that makes him that eager to please, Ferre?”)

And then, just before Grantaire can make a particularly rude gesture, Courfeyrac appears in the distance, carrying the book over his head like a trophy.

Even though it’s still pouring rain outside, everyone cranks open the windows to cheer him on: “C’mon, Courf you got this!”  “Run, Courf, run!”  “PIERRE LOUIS COURFEYRAC WE HAVE ONE MORE COOKIE AND IF YOU DON’T GET HERE IN TEN SECONDS I WILL EAT IT I SWEAR TO GOD.”

He grits his teeth, puts on one last burst of speed, and makes it to the van in record time.  Combeferre holds the door open for him as he slides into the passenger seat, book still held aloft.

Courfeyrac presents the book to his boyfriend with a flourish.  It’s soaked through and the cover is hanging by a thread, but at this point, Combeferre doesn’t particularly care.

He grabs Courfeyrac by the practically obsolete collar and drags him in, then proceeds to kiss him senseless.

“So, am I getting lucky tonight?” Courfeyrac asks when they pull apart, grinning.

Combeferre shoves him back to his side of the car.  “Not now you aren’t.”

(But he is.  Of course he is.  Courfeyrac gets lucky every night, and it’s painfully obvious.)

“Hi, Ferre,” she says, as gaily as though this is just another night at the Musain.

Combeferre crosses the last couple of meters to get to her and grabs both of her hands in his.  The plain, gold band on her finger knocks against his, the metal cold and uncomforting.  “Courfeyrac, what are you doing here?” he hisses.  “This is no place for you!”

“I know.”  She smiles.  “Still, I had to tell Marius I delivered his letter.  And I wanted to be with you.”

Her smile is as beautiful as the first time Combeferre saw it, and all he wants is to bundle her up in blankets and keep her safe and warm and far, far away from here – but he is, he is so glad to see her, see her okay –

“You are okay, aren’t you?” he asks her, suddenly desperate.  He looks at her carefully, up and down, from the boots on her feet to the top of her head and back again, and – oh, no.

His hand goes slowly, trembling, to the dark spot on her jacket.

“Oh, that?  That’s nothing.”  Courfeyrac laughs, but her laugh is breathless and her brow is drawn.

Combeferre carefully peels away her coat to find a circle of bright red, the color of their flag.

“I’m sorry, Combeferre,” Courfeyrac whispers.  And she falls – collapses into his arms.  She is so heavy.  Too heavy.

He sits at the bottom of the barricade, not caring who can see.  It’s as though the world has slowly slowed and narrowed, to only him and this beautiful, wonderful, stupid girl flickering out before his very eyes.

“You can’t,” he says, voice half-whisper half-sob.  “It’s too son.  We were going to get married, Courfeyrac –”

She reaches up and cups his cheek, her hand cold and clammy.  “We can still get married,” she whispers.  “Don’t say that we can’t, Combeferre, please.”

“I got the certificate last week,” Bahorel says, from a few steps away.

Combeferre looks up and realizes that, somehow, without his noticing, all of their friends have gathered in a half-circle around them.

“I have the rings,” Enjolras says, reaching into his coat pocket.

“We can all provide witness,” Joly adds.  Bossuet, standing next to him, nods and grabs Joly’s hand.  Joly, in turn, grabs Jehan’s hand, and in a few seconds, all of their friends are linked together.  When he imagined his wedding, Combeferre had always pictured a small church, and endless flowers, and Courfeyrac in a lovely, white dress (Enjolras had said that fancy weddings were a tool of the patriarchy, but Courfeyrac had told him she wanted to look pretty, had insisted) – but this, sitting on a barricade with all of his friends around him –

Even in the face of losing the one person he can’t live without, Combeferre is surrounded by love.  He couldn’t ask for a better wedding.

Courfeyrac must feel the same way, because she smiles and gives Bahorel a nod.  He pulls out a crumpled slip of paper out of his pocket, unfolds it, and begins to read.

“Do you, Jacques Combeferre, take Amia Courfeyrac to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do you part?”

Combeferre tightens his hold on Courfeyrac’s hand.  He looks into her green eyes and wishes he could drown there, curl up into a ball in her chest and stay there forever.  “I do.”

“And do you, Amia Courfeyrac, take Jacque Combeferre to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do you part?”

Courfeyrac smiles, and it is the most beautiful thing Combeferre has ever seen.  “I do.”

On his cheek, Combeferre begins to feel the first drops of rain.

“I now pronounce you man and wife,” Bahorel says.  “You may now kiss the bride.”

Combeferre closes his eyes and gives his new wife the lightest of kisses, softer than the rain now falling on her skin.  Her lips are sweet, and he could swear he can smell flowers in her hair.

She is very still.

He pulls away and opens his eyes.  Her eyes will never open again.  And the rain continues – the whole sky is weeping for his beautiful girl.  His beautiful, wonderful, too good for this world girl.

Combeferre was a husband – and then not a husband – so quickly.  He doesn’t want to be a widower.  Not for long.

Combeferre pauses the video and gives him a Look.  (Bossuet once described Combeferre’s Look as, “It’s like your dad just found out you completely trashed his nice, new car and he doesn’t usually get mad but this car was his baby and you are literally so dead.”  The Look can terrify mere mortals to the point of no return.  Courfeyrac is, at this point, mostly immune, but it still gives him chills.)

“Is this a good idea?” Combeferre asks.

“It’s a great idea,” Courfeyrac replies.  “It’s, like, the Monty Python and the Search for the Holy Grail of ideas.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“C’mon, Ferre, when have I ever let you down?” Courfeyrac wheedles.

Before Combeferre can answer that, he adds, “Just hear me out, please?”

Combeferre sighs.  “Okay, fine.  But no promises.”

“Alright!”  Courfeyrac fist-pumps triumphantly.  “The idea is ...”  He pauses, for suspense.  “We should fake-date.”

The room is silent for a long moment as Combeferre’s eyebrow goes from slightly incredulous to seriously concerned.  “Why?” he finally says.

“Because, um, it would be funny?” Courfeyrac offers.  “I mean, our friends would be so surprised!  Imagine the look on Enjolras’ face.  And Joly would go nuts, oh man.  Do you think Jehan would write us poetry?  ‘Cause I totally think he would –”

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre says, effectively cutting off the tirade.  “Have you thought this through at all?  Like, what would we say when they ask us how we got together?  How would we keep up the appearance of a relationship without them suspecting?  What would we do to end the charade?”

Courfeyrac’s face calls, like a puppy whose favorite toy has just been taken away.  “I don’t know, I just figured, you’re smart, you could work out all that stuff ... But if you don’t want to do it, then, I guess ...”

“It’s not that – well.”  Combeferre looks down at Courfeyrac’s bed, traces the pattern of blue and gold on the blanket.  “What’s the point of fake-dating when you can ... When you can date for real?”

Courfeyrac is pretty sure his lungs just stopped working for a second.

“I – I mean,” Combeferre continues, disheartened by the lack of response, “if you just thought that it would be a good joke and you didn’t mean anything by it, I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to – I just really like you, like, I normally don’t get romantic feelings for people but you’re the exception and I’d hate to pretend to date you without really meaning any of it, even if it’s just for our friends and –”

Courfeyrac can’t hold himself back any longer – he leans in and kisses Combeferre, square on the lips.

Combeferre is still for a moment, surprised, but then he smiles against Courfeyrac’s mouth and parts his lips to let Courfeyrac in – tastes peppermint and cafeteria coffee and the cookies they ate together earlier.

When they pull apart, both of them are grinning.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that flustered before,” Courfeyrac says, laughing a little.

Combeferre goes red.  It’s adorable.  “So is that a –”

“I’ve got a really good idea, now,” Courfeyrac tells him.  “How about we date?  For real?”

“Yes, you idiot,” Combeferre answers almost immediately.  And he grabs Courfeyrac by the collar and brings him in closer to kiss him again.

At least, now that they’re out of the car (in the middle of an empty field, no less) he can breathe properly.

“Don’t you have any idea?” Courfeyrac replies.  He turns to Combeferre, grinning widely – he knows it’s so much harder for Combeferre to be mad at him when he smiles like that, it’s not fair.

“Not really, no.”  Combeferre looks around, taking in his surroundings: a sea of grass stretching out to the horizon, only broken occasionally by colorful spots of wildflowers and distant shapes vaguely resembling trees.  The sun hangs serenely overhead, spilling its golden warmth down through the clear, blue sky onto the countryside below.  Behind him, the road leads off to destinations unknown, no cars in sight for miles.  Somewhere nearby, a bird chirps merrily.

Combeferre has no idea why he’s here, and says as much.

“Really?” Courfeyrac asks.  “I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.”

Combeferre rolls his eyes.  “Even the most brilliant of scientists would have trouble figuring out how your mind works.”

“Thanks,” Courfeyrac says, laughing.  “And we’re here because you need to get out more.  You spend so much time cooped up in the apartment, with your books and all your science-y stuff, that you don’t ever come outside and enjoy the nice weather!  Come on, you have to admit it’s really nice out.”

“It is,” Combeferre agrees.

“See?  What’d I tell you?  So, I told the lab you’re not coming in today, and we’re spending the day here.  You don’t get to back out of this, so don’t even try.”  Courfeyrac points at his boyfriend sternly, emphasizing that he is not to even think about arguing, then runs back to the car and disappears for a moment into the trunk.

Combeferre waits, marveling at this strange, wonderful man whose affections he has somehow managed to secure.  (And his ass.  Courfeyrac has a nice ass, especially in jeans, and when he’s bent over to peer into the trunk – can you really blame Combeferre for enjoying the view?)

Courfeyrac reappears after a moment, honest-to-got picnic basket in hand.  “Breakfast,” he explains, then proceeds to find a spot of soft grass and spread a beach towel over it.  Combeferre heads over to help him.

Soon enough, they practically have a whole buffet spread out on the grass: croissants, fruit, sausages, toast, and a large thermos of coffee.

“There are sandwiches in there for lunch, too,” Courfeyrac says, gesturing to the picnic basket.

Combeferre stares at it for a second.  It hits him, suddenly, that Courfeyrac usually can’t be trusted to plan anything.  That Courfeyrac is usually one of the least responsible of their friends.  That asking Courfeyrac to get food is like asking a lion to babysit a herd of gazelles.

“I can’t believe you did all of this for me,” Combeferre says quietly.

Courfeyrac turns to him, a small smile (the smile Combeferre likes to think is just for him) on his face.  “Of course I did.  I’d do anything for you.”

And, well – Combeferre just has to kiss him, after that.  It’s the only possible course of action, really.

Combeferre has Courfeyrac on his back, pressing kisses along his shoulders and up his neck, when he notices a spot of white maybe twenty feet away.  He stops and sits up, adjusting his glasses to see better.

“Ferre?” Courfeyrac asks.  “What is it?”

It’s – well, it’s mostly white, the fluffy kind of white, like a huge cotton ball, or maybe a marshmallow.  And it has a black head, small, rounded ears, beady eyes staring straight into Combeferre’s –

“A sheep,” he tells his boyfriend.  “There’s a sheep watching us.”

“What?  For real?”  Courfeyrac pushes himself into a sitting position, follows the line of Combeferre’s gaze, then starts to laugh.  “There’s a sheep watching us!” he repeats.  “Isn’t that great, Ferre?  Hey, Mr. Sheep.  Or is it Mrs. Sheep?  Comrade Sheep?  I’m planning to have some hot sex with my amazing boyfriend, here.  Want to join us?”

Combeferre’s eyes go wide.  “What?”

Courfeyrac laughs – giggles turning to chuckles turning to full-on laughter, until he’s quivering like a leaf in the wind, falling back onto the grass.  “I was kidding, Ferre,” he says, with some difficulty.  Then, raising an eyebrow, he adds, “Unless you want to?”

Combeferre hits him.  (It only makes him laugh harder.)

And then, somehow, Courfeyrac is pulling his boyfriend down and kissing him again, kissing him as though they have all the time in the world and he wants to spend all of it doing exactly this – and maybe this isn’t how Combeferre pictured his day going, but he’s completely okay with it.  So, totally okay.  More than okay.

and I swear, there’s a lot of vegetables out there, that crop up for air, and yeah, I never thought that we were two peas in a pod, until you suddenly bloomed, and I knew, that I’ll always love you. (oh, I’ll always love you, too.)

-- Honey and the Bee by Owl City

Combeferre is late to kindergarten.

It’s the second day, so it’s not quite as embarrassing as it could be, but still – Combeferre hates calling attention to himself, and now he will have to march into the classroom ten minutes after first bell, face burning the color of an overripe strawberry.  His mother tries to console him, apologizing over and over for the delay as she runs stop signs and speeds through intersections – all to no avail.

He’s still pouting when he peeks his head around the corner of the open door – all the class can see at first is a pair of wide, blue eyes blinking owlishly from behind round glasses.

“Hello, little man,” Miss Fantine says kindly, waving at him from her seat at the front of the room.  “Would you like to join us?”

Combeferre nods hesitantly, then inches around the door into the classroom.  The other children are coloring, it seems – seventeen heads are bent over white sheets of paper, small, red chairs pushed right up against the short tables.  Combeferre scans the room, head swiveling back and forth as he searches for an empty seat.

Finally, he spots an unoccupied chair near the back of the room, next to a small boy with wild, chocolate-brown curls.  Combeferre makes his way over slowly, careful not to bump into anyone, then pulls his chair out with a quiet squeal and sits down.  He’s not entirely sure what to do – there’s some extra paper in the center of the table, decorated with outlines of suns and beaches and sea creatures, but he doesn’t see any extra crayons.

Someone taps Combeferre on the shoulder.  He turns to see the curly-haired boy smiling at him – and something warm uncurls and settles in the pit of his stomach.

“Do you want to share with me?” the boy says.

Combeferre’s eyes go wide.  He was late, and – and he took a seat without asking, and yet still –

“Really?” he asks.

“’Course,” the other boy replies.  He holds out a handful of crayons in a variety of colors – red, blue, green, pink, orange.  Combeferre takes them – and wonders why a strange feeling runs up his arm when  their hands touch.

“I’m Courfeyrac, by the way,” the boy – Courfeyrac – adds after a moment.

“Combeferre,” Combeferre replies.

Courfeyrac repeats the name, as though trying it out on his tongue, then returns to coloring.  Or – well, not coloring, as Combeferre realizes after a couple of minutes, but drawing his own picture on the back side of the paper.

“What’re – what’re you drawing?” Combeferre asks.

Courfeyrac turns to him, grin wider than before.  “I’m drawing you.”

“Me?”  Combeferre peers over the smaller boy’s shoulder to find a lopsided oval with crooked glasses, a too-large nose, and a small smile, all done in bright yellow.

Nobody has ever done anything like that for Combeferre before.

“Why me?” he wonders aloud.

“Because you’re my new best friend,” Courfeyrac answers – confidently, easily, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Oh.  Okay.”  Combeferre smiles – and he doesn’t feel so bad about being late any more.

twenty years later.

“So, R,” Courfeyrac says, pausing to steal a handful of popcorn from the bowl in the center of the table, “I hear your kid sister just hit the big two-one.”

Grantaire moves the bowl to the left, out of Courfeyrac’s reach (they haven’t even started the movie yet, he can’t eat all of it) before answering.  “Yeah, she did.  I took her drinking and everything – it’s nice that it’s finally legal.”

“Has she showed you her tattoo yet?” Joly pipes up from the floor beneath Courfeyrac’s feet.  All of the others turn in Grantaire’s direction at the notion – it’s been a while since anyone in their group has had soulmate news, so this is exciting.

Unfortunately, Grantaire only shakes his head, saying, “She wouldn’t show it to me.”

“You know what that means,” Bahorel tells him, grinning.  “Either it’s teeth-rottingly sweet or horribly embarrassing.”

“Can’t be worse than her brother’s,” Courfeyrac replies.

Grantaire shrugs, the first couple of words of his long, angry speech of a tattoo peeking up above the line of his T-shirt.  “I don’t know, I kind-of like mine.”

Courfeyrac snorts and falls back against the couch – he ends up resting against Jehan, who immediately pulls a Sharpie out of somewhere or other and begins to doodle on Courfeyrac’s arm.  “I wish I could say the same thing about mine,” he mutters.

He rolls back the sleeve of his shirt to examine his tattoo for the hundred millionth time – “really?” in small, neat script, curled around his wrist.

“I mean,” he says, more loudly than before, “really?  Really what?  Really why?  Really in what kind of a tone of voice? Sarcastic?  Amazed?  Concerned?”

His friends have all heard this rant so many times, they probably have it memorized; they’re no longer sympathetic, not even a little.

“I think ‘really?’ is a pretty common response to you in general, Courf,” Grantaire tells him in a very serious voice.

Joly nods, then pokes Courfeyrac’s outstretched foot and goes, “Really?” in a high-pitched, squeaky voice.

“Really?” Bossuet adds, in an exaggerated English accent.

“Really?” Bahorel chimes in, in a low growl.

“Really?” Eponine contributes, in a whiny, nasally voice.

Soon enough, Courfeyrac is surrounded by a chorus of “really?”s from all directions – even Marius is pressured into joining (by Cosette, the evil witch) and leans over to shout it directly into his ear, which hurts, thank you very much.  And then, recovering from that traumatizing experience, he discovers that Feuilly has stolen Jehan’s Sharpie and scrawled, “really?” on Courfeyrac’s shin, which is honestly too much.

“All right, that’s enough!” he shouts.  He grabs a pillow and starts beating them off one by one – it’s a hard fight, impossible odds, but he is a fighter and he will not be defeated by shrieking “really?” demons – he fought off a dog that was trying to steal Marius’ wallet once so he’s basically invincible – he pushes back first Grantaire, then Bossuet, then –

Crash!

Oh, shit.  That was definitely not a person that Courfeyrac just hit.

“What’s going on in here?” Combeferre asks, coming into the room with the second bowl of popcorn (they usually need at least three.)

“Um, Courf broke a lamp,” Joly replies nervously.

Combeferre raises a single judgmental eyebrow.  “Really?” he says.  (And something about that “really?” – perfectly bland, perfectly callous, perfectly Combeferre – echoes in Courfeyrac’s mind and makes his heart beat double time.)  “The first time I convince Enjolras to host movie night at our place, and you break a lamp?”  He shakes his head.  “Truly astounding.  I should have you kicked out, Courfeyrac.”

Courfeyrac pouts and flails dramatically, careful not to hit any lamps this time.  “But Feeeeerre!” he protests.  “You love me!”

And once more, the eyebrow performs its sacred duty.

“Somehow, I doubt that very much,” Bahorel says, laughing.

“But it’s true!”  Courfeyrac turns to him, hands on hips – the love between him and his two best friends is a fact that should not ever be disputed, ever.  Ever.  “He’s loved me ever since we met in kindergarten.”

“Kindergarten?” Eponine asks.  “He’s put up with you for that long?  I’m impressed.”

“On the second day of school, he came in late and I shared my crayons with him,” Courfeyrac explains.  “So he basically owes me a lifelong debt.”

Combeferre rolls his eyes, deposits the popcorn on the table, and is about to go search for his roommate (last seen working on a paper definitely not as important as movie night) when Joly gasps.

Joly gasps – and all eyes in the room turn to him, as though a spotlight has suddenly been switched on above his head.

“Combeferre,” he says, “Combeferre, your tattoo – isn’t it about sharing?”

And the world stops.

Courfeyrac thinks back, and – he’s in that classroom again, he can see the bright colors and the posters on the walls and a shy boy in glasses who looked so nervous, why is he so nervous, he has nothing to be afraid of, he should be smiling.

He should be smiling, Courfeyrac realizes.  He should always be smiling.

Something clicks into place.  Courfeyrac takes a shuddering breath, and the world starts turning again.

He stands hurriedly – knocking into several of his friends in his haste to get his feet on the ground – then crosses the room to Combeferre, one step at a time.  Combeferre is standing frozen, blue eyes wide behind black-framed glasses.

“Kindergarten,” Courfeyrac says.  “You came in late, you didn’t know where to sit –”

Combeferre nods so quickly, his glasses almost fall off.  “And you let me sit next to you, you gave me your crayons –”

“You looked lost, and I didn’t want you to be lost –”

“Do you want to share with me?”

“Really?”

Combeferre pulls down his shirt to reveal a short string of words trailing across his collarbone, letters in messy block print, almost as though written by a child’s hand.  Courfeyrac has seen it before, of course – he’s seen all of his friends’ tattoos – but it’s something else to realize that it’s for him, that those words are something he said, twenty years ago – now written in ink on Combeferre’s skin, for all the world (or only Courfeyrac) to see.

He reaches out a hand and traces across the words – lightly, delicately, but Combeferre gasps all the same.

“Courfeyrac,” he whispers.  And it sounds different from how anyone’s ever said Courfeyrac’s name before – it sounds awed, amazed, reverent.

“Combeferre,” Courfeyrac replies.  His hand stops, resting on Combeferre’s heart.

“We’re idiots, aren’t we?” Combeferre asks.

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac says.  “Idiots.”

He leans in – closes the distance.  It’s easy, it’s natural, it’s what they’ve been waiting for all their lives.

They break apart, both of them beaming uncontrollably.  Courfeyrac doesn’t think it’s physically possible for him ever to be sad again.

“Do you want us to wait for you to start the movie?” someone calls from the other side of the room, accompanied by hoots and raucous laughter.

Courfeyrac holds his breath.

“No,” Combeferre says.  “Don’t bother.”

He grabs Courfeyrac’s wrist – the really? beneath his fingers suddenly the best tattoo anyone could ever wish for – and leads him out of the room.

a couple of hours later.

“I’m in love with you,” Courfeyrac says, breathless.

Combeferre grins and presses their foreheads together.  “Really?”