Archive of Our Own

Combeferre rolls out of bed precisely eight seconds after his alarm begins beeping. He shuffles down the hall and raps his knuckles four times against Courfeyrac’s door.

“Up and at ‘em, sunshine. It’s a big day!”

“Aren’t they all.” Courfeyrac’s door swings open, and there he is, one eye still pressed shut, a scowl crumpling his chin, running his hands through the rat’s nest that is his hair. The white undershirt he’s wearing with his flannel pajama bottoms is too tight across the shoulders. He shuffles down the hall to the kitchen, murmuring “coffee…”

Ferre smiles fondly and follows him.

“So in order to beat the rush hour traffic, I’ll be at your office at three. And I really don’t want to have to chase you around a court house again, so please be ready?”

Courfeyrac lowers his forehead to the kitchen table and groans. “Ferrrre…”

“Mmm?”

“Have I had my coffee yet?”

“No. It’s brewing. I haven’t had mine either.”

“Am I going to retain any of this information?”

“No.”

“Then why are you still talking?”

“Fair point.”

Combeferre places two mugs on the counter beside the hissing coffee machine. Seriously, the polio vaccine is great and all, but auto-start coffee machines with built-in timers are the pinnacle of human invention.

Silence reigns for a moment, both of them staring at the steady drip of coffee into the glass pot.

“Are you all packed?” Combeferre asks.

“Yes, Mom. Everything except the toiletries I need this morning. Unless, of course, you want to spend four hours in a small car with a very ripe me.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

Combeferre pulls open the refrigerator door and inspects the veggie drawer with a thoughtful frown.

Courfeyrac stretches out across the kitchen table. “Thought so.”

“Look, Courf, why don’t you go take your shower and by the time you’re done styling your hair, I’ll have breakfast ready. I’ll make omelettes or something.”

Courf rolls up to a standing position, letting out a truly impressive yawn. “See, Ferre, this is why, even when you inevitably find someone who loves you the way you deserve to be loved, you can never leave me.”

“I’m going to use you as a case study for dependency with the undergrads. Now go cleanse yourself, or I will use your limited edition lemongrass shower gel to wash my car.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Courfeyrac squeaks, scurrying down the hall and disappearing into the bathroom.

“Wouldn’t you like to know!” Combeferre calls after him, carefully placing four eggs on the counter.

They think they’ve been best friends since second grade, but they aren’t actually sure. There are photos in dusty albums somewhere of them before they met, but neither of them can actually remember a time they didn’t know each other.

Enjolras met them and they formed the Triumvirate in middle school. Joly, Bossuet, and Feuilly came along in high school, and were joined by Jehan, Musichetta, and Grantaire in college. Then Courfeyrac met Bahorel and Marius in law school, and along with Marius came Eponine and Cosette.

Over the years, from college to graduate school to careers, they’ve made all of their own decisions about where to go and what to do, but without even consulting each other, their lives have always run parallel. If one of them moved, the other would find a perfectly valid reason to move, too.

When Marius left the nest to move in with Cosette, and Enjolras and Grantaire moved in together, it seemed only natural that Combeferre and Courfeyrac become roommates again.

They’re each mature and financially stable enough to live on their own, but any time it comes up, they have a list of reasons why they prefer living together. It’s working just fine. They like living together, they like having that time built into their day to spend with their best friend. Why try to fix something that isn’t broken, just to fulfill society’s bullshit expectations of “self-sufficient adult?”

This weekend will be another milestone for the close-knit, at times dangerously codependent group. It’s a milestone that makes everyone take stock of their lives, and whether they like it or not, compare the progression of their relationships (or lack thereof) to those of their friends. It’s unintentional, but that’s kind of what happens when your best friend gets married.

It’s taken them a long time to get here, Combeferre reflects as he whisks the eggs and chops up the onions and peppers and tomatoes.

Grantaire had spent most of college gazing longingly at Enjolras over the top of a beer glass. And Enjolras had spent most of college glaring back. It was on a trip to a conference, late in junior year, that their mutual feelings for each other came to a head. Enjolras came back from that trip slightly dazed, with stars in his beautiful, clear, passionate eyes. And the self-satisfied smirk had barely left Grantaire’s face in the years since.

And now they're finally getting married.

“It’s about fucking time” had been the collective reaction from their friends when the engagement announcement was made. They responded by rolling their eyes and insisting that society’s expectations for the progression of romantic and/or sexual relationships meant fuck-all to them, and they would do things (or not do things) on their own fucking schedule, thank you very much.

The wedding would take place at Enjolras’ parents’ summer home in Maine. Because what’s the point of being a New England WASP with a summer home on an island in Maine if you don’t host your socialist activist son’s gay wedding there?

They’ll be driving up there this afternoon and evening, but there’s still the day to get through.

It’ll be an easy day, by Combeferre’s standards. He’s teaching one class in the morning, then he has office hours, and then he can leave.

Courfeyrac comes bounding back into the kitchen as Combeferre is transferring the omelettes to plates. He’s much brighter now, and mostly dressed. The top few buttons of his shirt aren’t fastened and he’s not wearing his tie or jacket yet.

“Have you taken your meds?” Combeferre asks as he adds a piece of whole wheat toast to each plate.

“That was one time, Ferre,” Courfeyrac sighs, opening the cabinet by the fridge.

“One very important time.”

“And I still managed to win the appeal.”

“Because of the strength of your pre-written briefs, not your oral argument.”

“There’s so much innuendo in that sentence I’m not even going to respond,” Courf mutters, tossing back his Adderall and swallowing it with a gulp of orange juice.

Combeferre rolls his eyes and slides a plate towards Courfeyrac. “Eat.”

“Yes, Mom,” Courfeyrac replies, making a show of tucking his napkin into his collar.

“Keep your problematic gender-based parenting stereotypes away from me.”

“Sorry, Doctor.” Courfeyrac’s response is muffled by a mouthful of omelette.

“Not a doctor,” Combeferre replies automatically.

“You will be.”

“In a few more years.”

“So I’m getting used to it, pre-emptively.”

“I don’t go around calling you juris doctor.”

“I think I’d prefer ‘Courfeyrac, Esquire,’ actually.”

“What would Enjolras say?”

“That I earned it. Calling someone by a title from birth is one thing. An accreditation they earn is something else entirely.”

“And you know he has all kinds of issues with the systematic classism and ableism in American higher education, so he’d probably object to that too.”

“Once he’s done rebuilding American democracy.”

“And once you’re done helping him.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Not at all.”

They finish up breakfast, and Courf does the dishes while Combeferre showers and gets dressed. They won’t be back until very late on Sunday, so they want to get everything neat and squared away before they leave.

Once the kitchen is cleaned up, and they stick the final few items into their suitcases, they load Combeferre’s car and pile in.

“Three o’clock,” Combeferre reminds Courfeyrac as he drops him off in front of his office building.

Courf rolls his eyes. “Thanks, pushy parent of irrelevant gender.”

“Wow, I actually like that one. Now get out of my car and go restore American democracy.”

Courfeyrac salutes with a grin, turns on his heel, and marches into the building.

With a fond smile and a shake of his head, Combeferre pulls into the stream of traffic and heads for campus.

The undergrads in his class are a pretty motivated group—you don’t take advanced psych courses over the summer if you don’t want to be there—and they always have questions about the assigned reading, and their two hour class always flies by in a blur of interesting discussion.

When it’s over, he wishes them a good weekend, and climbs three flights of stairs up to his cubicle. As he eats his sandwich, he goes over the outlines and annotated bibliographies for their final papers that they handed in today.

A few students stop by to talk about their papers or the reading, or just chat, but over all, it’s pretty quiet. He packs up what he needs to take with him, turns off his computer, and heads for the parking garage at 2:15. As he makes his way to his car, he texts Courf that he’s on his way. He gets a smiley face emoji wearing a party hat as a response, and chuckles.

The drive back to Courf’s office isn’t that long in terms of mileage, but it’s right through downtown, so traffic is always horrendous. He parks a block away and walks the rest of the way—into the building, up to the fourth floor, down the hall to the office.

He greets the office staff—he may not work here, but many of his friends do, and he knows the employees here as well as he knows his own department at the university.

“Hi Bonnie,” he says to the shy intern currently babysitting the office’s legendarily cranky photocopier. “Great work on last month’s newsletter. Very informative, without being too dry. Well done.”

She blushes a deep scarlet and ducks her head down a little. “Thanks,” she replies quietly, biting back a smile.

“And Marcus,” he turns to address the newest hire, who stops typing when he realizes he’s being spoken to. “I heard you were pretty much single-handedly responsible for getting Senator Randall on board with the expanded version of the bill. He’s a stubborn jackass, so that’s quite an accomplishment. Great job.”

“Thanks, man,” Marcus responds with a bright smile, and returns to typing with a new enthusiasm.

Combeferre looks around the office. It’s quieter than usual, as Enjolras, the director of the organization, has already departed for the weekend, and Marius is still at a conference out of town—he’ll get back in just enough time to turn around and, with Cosette and their three-year-old twins, head up to Enjolras’ family’s compound for the wedding.

“Has anyone seen Courfeyrac?” He asks no one in particular.

Bonnie and Marcus glance at each other.

“He had a, um, a thing—“ Bonnie begins.

“I’m coming! I’m coming! I’m—“ Courfeyrac comes careening around a corner into the office, tie flapping over his shoulder. He slides to a stop in front of Combeferre and leans on him, exaggerating his panting as he catches his breath.

“Sorry, I had a last minute thing with the… You know what, let’s just go. I’ll explain in the car.”

“Okay. Have you got everything?”

Courfeyrac raises his briefcase to show Combeferre. “Yup. All set. Let’s go.”

“Okay. I’m parked down the street a bit.”

“That’s fine.” He waves to Bonnie and Marcus. “We’ll see you two on Saturday, right?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Marcus replies as Bonnie nods.

“Great. Take good care of this place in the mean time, okay?”

“Yup!”

“Alright. I’ll see you soon.”

Once they’re down on the street, Courfeyrac bursts into a flurry of explanation. “I got a call that the Attorney General and the Secretary of the Commonwealth wanted to meet with me about how to implement the bill. They’re going to meet with other members of the coalition, and with the municipal governments and town clerks and everything, but they came to me first. And they had really good questions, and they actually listened, and it was them, not their staffs—no disrespect to their staffs, obviously. But I had a meeting with the Attorney General and the Secretary today!” Courfeyrac takes off skipping down the street as he sing-songs his last sentence.

“Did you get a lollipop and a sticker afterwards?” Combeferre calls after him.

Courfeyrac turns and glares. “Please. As if politics are that childish.”

“Of course.”

“But we did take a photo together and they’re going to send over a signed print of it for me to hang in my office.”

“There it is.”

“Come on, Ferre. Most of the world operates on a quid pro quo basis. Not everyone can afford to be as principled as you.”

“Which is why I’m not in politics.”

“Ah, yes,” Courfeyrac places a hand over his heart as he leans against Combeferre’s car. “The great Combeferre, who is too morally and ethically pure for us mere mortals.”

Combeferre rolls his eyes as he unlocks the car. “Will you get in, please?”

There’s an on ramp for the highway not too far from Courf’s office, and they make good time out of the city.

Tomorrow, this highway will be at a standstill, packed with people making their way up the coast for the weekend. But for now, traffic is moving steadily, and they’re right on time.

“Courf, why don’t you try to get some rest? We’ve got a long few days ahead, and as valuable as your navigational guidance is, I’ve driven this route dozens of times and I think I can handle this solo.”

Courfeyrac scoffs. “You know I can never sleep on road trips, especially this route. There’s just so much to look at. The scenery is so beautiful.”

“Hey, were you checking out the guy driving that Toyota?”

He turns to face Combeferre and waggles his eyebrows. “What did I just say about the scenery?”

Combeferre snorts, and changes lanes so they’re behind the guy in the Toyota and can’t see his face.

“Hey! Ferre!” Courfeyrac whines. “That’s very un-Ferre of you.”

“Very original.”

Courfeyrac frowns dramatically and plugs his iPhone adaptor into the car’s sound system. “It’s road trip playlist time, because you remove every other possible source of joy from my life.”

“Be my guest. Oh wait! You’re in my car! You are my guest!”

“If it wouldn’t endanger my life to punch you in the arm right now, I totally would.”

“Very responsible decision.”

“I specialize in those.”

Courfeyrac’s road trip playlist consists almost entirely of upbeat pop songs featuring ukulele and word play, a genre that Combeferre has not dedicated much thought to in the past. Forty-five minutes in, he’s realizing that there’s a lot more material in this category than he would have guessed, and naturally Courfeyrac loves all of it.

“…the way you move ain’t Combe-fair, you know!” Courfeyrac warbles at him with a wink, and returns to bounce-dancing in his seat.

There’s a lighthearted laugh coming out of Combeferre that he doesn’t remember giving permission to his body to produce. He grips the steering wheel more firmly, resisting the sudden urge he has to pull over and stop the car and repeatedly bang his head against the car’s horn. The tightening in his chest is unfamiliar and fairly unpleasant and he wants it to stop. Now.

He glances over at Courf, who is animatedly singing without a care in the world. Courf chooses this exact moment to turn to face him, a wide grin on his handsome face. The sensation in Combeferre’s chest grows more intense.

This is inconvenient.

He sighs, and glances in the rear view mirror, trying to focus on the road rather than on his ridiculous crush on his best friend, who, by the way, is sitting two feet away and having a one-man dance party to every song Jason Mraz has ever released.

This is ridiculous and it needs to stop.

Three hours of rocky coastline later, Combeferre parks at the marina, and as he has been for every trip they’ve ever made, Mack is there with the boat.

Mack is the family’s groundskeeper. He’s a grizzled man of few words, who bears a strong resemblance to the stereotypical illustration on the Gorton’s Fishermen box.

With a grunted acknowledgement of their presence, he begins transferring luggage from the trunk of the car to the boat to bring them the final half-mile to the island.

Because, yes, Enjolras’ family owns an entire fucking island.

It’s a small island, only a few acres, but still. It’s an island.

The eastern side is lined with pine trees, to provide some protection from the storms that blow in off the open water from time to time. Then a well-maintained lawn slopes up to the house.

Their house is a painfully gorgeous ten-bedroom affair, larger than most bed-and breakfasts, its gray paint deliberately chosen to look gracefully weathered. The navy blue and white trim is smart and neat, and the porch that wraps almost all the way around the house is homey and inviting, dotted with deck chairs, with a hammock at one end.

The lawn slopes down again, ending against the rocky shore, from which extends a wooden pier.

Mack maneuvers the boat up to the dock, and climbs out to moor it. Combeferre hops up after him, with an easy agility honed on countless previous trips.

Courfeyrac lifts the luggage out of the boat piece by piece, and hands it to Combeferre and Mack, who line it up on the pier. Once it’s all out, Combeferre offers his arm to Courfeyrac, and pulls him up.

They’ve been coming here since they were teenagers. The island smells like memories—skinned knees, melted ice cream, jumping off the pier at four in the morning, reading and debating philosophers and Supreme Court cases. Visits to the island have become shorter and less frequent over the years, as law school, Ph.D programs, internships, and non-profit work took precedence over recreation.

They all hate what the place stands for—generations of inherited, elitist privilege made tangible in millions of dollars worth of exclusive real estate—but they love it all the same.

Enjolras’ mother Marie-Christine waves to them from the porch as they haul themselves and their luggage up onto the dock.

She looks just like him. She’s willowy and tastefully tanned, her immaculate hair more intentionally blonde than her son’s often messy curls. She’s wearing a white dress, pearls, and a pink cardigan draped carefully around her shoulders.

As they get closer, they see the glass of white wine held delicately by French manicured fingers.

She greets them with kisses to each of their cheeks, and informs them that they’ll be sleeping in their old rooms, and they should get settled in and then come down for a drink because dinner will be ready in an hour.

Enjolras comes bounding out of the house, energetic as always, but uncharacteristically unworried. He greets them with a wide grin and tight hugs, and helps them carry their luggage inside.

“Let me give you a tour of the set-up so far!” He calls over his shoulder as he hauls their suitcases up the front staircase.

He shows them where a temporary dance floor is going on the lawn, and where the tent will cover it, and the strings of lights being hung through the trees and criss-crossing over the grass.

“One bar will go there—“ he indicates an area a few feet from the edge of the dance floor, “—and another will go on the porch, along with some tables, and we’ll have the tables for dinner around the dance floor, but the ceremony will be on the lawn on the other side of the house, come on guys!” He’s already halfway around the house, and waving his arms, encouraging them to catch up.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac catch each other’s eyes and smile. There’s no one who can match mid-plan Enjolras for enthusiasm.

“Where’s Grantaire?” Combeferre asks as Enjolras points out where the chairs will go, and the flower-covered arch at the front of the ceremony space.

“He’s staying at a B&B on the mainland with his family. He really wants to emphasize the whole ‘two separate people coming together’ part of this whole thing by staying as far away from me as physically possible until we become legally joined.”

“Do I detect self-deprecation? Who are you and what have you done with Enjolras?” Courfeyrac asks, throwing an arm around Enjolras’ shoulders and pulling him back towards the house.

Enjolras rolls his eyes.

They eat dinner together, with Enjolras’ parents. It feels like high school again.

Even moreso when they race each other up the stairs to Enjolras’ room after dinner and bellyflop onto his massive bed.

They stay up late, lazily wandering from one conversation topic to another. They watch the stars come out, and Combeferre tells them all about the constellations, and the myths for which they are named.

Combeferre doesn’t remember going back to his room, but that’s where he wakes up.

They have their final suit fittings in the morning, on the mainland, and Combeferre spends the early afternoon working on his toast. Their friends arrive throughout the day, and he isn’t able to get as much work done as he would like, but he doesn’t mind.

When the time comes for the wedding rehearsal and dinner, they gather on the lawn, near where the ceremony will take place.

Enjolras and Grantaire are quietly discussing something with their families, while everyone else mills about, hugging and catching up.

Every member of their tight-knot group of friends—plus Grantaire’s sister Renee—has an official role in the ceremony.

Marius and Cosette’s twins Paloma and Columba will be the flower children—“they’re three, Grantaire, they have at best a rudimentary understanding of the concept of gender, and I refuse to impose upon them something they do not fully understand and therefore cannot consent to.”

The ceremony will be officiated by Richard Mather, a Justice on the state Supreme Court and who is, of course, a friend of Enjolras’ father. He runs the rehearsal efficiently, and the whole thing is done in about forty-five minutes.

The assembled company then descend on the barbecue like they haven’t eaten for a week. It’s a midsummer feast—fresh sweet corn on the cob, steak, hamburgers and hot dogs, juicy tomatoes that had been on the vine mere hours ago and still warm from the sun, and gallon after gallon of lemonade and local craft beer.

It feels like the best kind of family picnic, with everyone teasing and laughing and stealing bites from each other’s plates and sips from each other’s glasses. There’s a folk band playing rollicking fiddle tunes, jigs and reels and square dances, and Jehan produces an accordion from nowhere and joins them.

Combeferre sits on the grass under a tree, full and happy and watching his friends attempt to dance, with varying levels of skill. Courfeyrac comes and sits beside him, and hands him another beer. This would be Combeferre’s fourth of the evening and he’s knows it’s a bad idea, but since when has he ever been able to deny Courfeyrac anything?

He takes it with a nod, and swallows a long swig.

Courfeyrac smiles, his foot tapping along with the music, and sighs a happy sigh.

“I love our friends so much.”

“Me too.”

Dessert is set out, and it’s like none of them have ever tasted ice cream before. Three huge ten-gallon tubs disappear in minutes, and the vast array of toppings—sauces, fresh fruit, nuts, whipped cream, a dozen different kinds of candy—are piled on in some truly creative combinations.

Joly visibly gags when he sees Bossuet’s completed masterpiece, which features chocolate ice cream, caramel sauce, chopped walnuts, Skittles, and blueberries. Bossuet shrugs, takes a bite, smiles happily, and throws a strawberry at Joly, which he manages to catch in his mouth.

The departure of Grantaire and his family back to their bed and breakfast on the mainland signals the end of this night’s festivities an hour or so later.

Enjolras sees everyone off from the pier, and then slowly walks back up to the house, hands in his jeans pockets.

At Courfeyrac’s insistence, he and Combeferre are waiting for him on the porch.

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says, jumping out and linking arms with his friend, “Combeferre and I are kidnapping you and making sure that, on your last night of freedom, you know what you’re getting into.”

“I want you to know I had nothing to do with this,” Combeferre adds drily as Enjolras looks at him with some combination of curiosity and panic in his eyes.

“It’s movie night!” Courfeyrac squeals, producing a shopping bag filled with pouches of microwave popcorn and bags of candy.

“Oh dear lord.”

“You’re an atheist.”

“That’s how desperate I am.”

“Oh come on,” Courf pouts, pulling Enjolras into the house and towards the media room at the back of the house that has more equipment in it than your average multiplex. “It’ll be fun. Just three best friends sitting around, providing critical analysis of mass media and popular culture and occasionally throwing gummy worms at each other to emphasize our points. Just like old times.”

“As long as you promise you won’t set off the fire alarms by burning Twilight again.”

“That was one time!”

“It was one time with Twilight. There was also the time you took Nicholas Sparks’ name a little too literally.”

“I strenuously object to the use of cancer and domestic violence as melodramatic plot devices to further the romantic connection between conventionally attractive, cisgender, heterosexual, usually fiscally secure white people!” Courfeyrac folds his arms across his chest and huffs.

“And there was the great Objectivist Conflagration of 2007.”

“Yeah, did you get every Ayn Rand book or were there a few missing?” Combeferre chimes in.

“Stop it! You’re making me want to burn stuff!” Courfeyrac dramatically drops onto a sofa.

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says gently, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I was going to save this information for later, but I think you deserve to know. There will be sparklers at the wedding. Just for you. And the children who need a safe way to rebel against their uptight parents. But mostly you.”

“True friendship is letting your best friend light shit on fire at your wedding,” Courfeyrac says with a mock sniffle, wiping a nonexistent tear from his eye. “Thank you, Enjolras.”

“It was Grantaire’s idea.”

“Your fiancé is perfect.”

“He kind of is.”

“No, don’t you dare get all schmoopy on me. As your co-best man—nay, as the man who is unquestionably the best—I hereby decree that—“

“For the last time, Courf,” Enjolras cuts in with a good-natured attempt to appear exasperated, “—we have attendants, without regard for gender and certainly without hierarchy.”

“Will you please shut up, eat some fucking popcorn, and let me torture you with terrible wedding movies churned out ad nauseum by the studio-industrial complex?”

“Is there any way to get out of this?”

“Short of murdering me? Not a chance.”

Enjolras sighs. “Fine. But only because I’m expecting a hell of a toast from you at the reception.”

Courfeyrac snorts. “Please. Have you met me?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Courf smacks Enjolras on the arm with the DVD case of My Big Fat Greek Wedding. “Okay. Because I’m feeling nice, you can choose where we start.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes and rifles through the stack of DVDs. “Father of the Bride, My Best Friend’s Wedding, Wedding Crashers, The Wedding Planner, Meet the Parents, I Love You Man, Bridesmaids, Four Weddings and a Funeral, Moulin Rouge? What the hell is Moulin Rouge doing in there?"

“I just really like Moulin Rouge. I don’t think I need to defend, explain, or justify that.”

“He does have a point, Enj,” Combeferre says, opening a bag of Sour Patch Kids and pouring half of them into his mouth. “Moulin Rouge is an excellent movie.”

“You’re only saying that because you have a ridiculous crush on Ewan McGregor.”

“Like that’s a bad thing?”

“Point.”

“Don’t leave me in suspense like this!” Courfeyrac wails. “It’s cruel! Are we watching Moulin Rouge or not?”

“Yes,” Enjolras and Combeferre reply in unison.

Courfeyrac squeals in glee and hops up to insert the DVD. He jumps back onto the sofa and snuggles between his two best friends, clicking a few buttons on the remote control to start the movie.

The three friends have a well-established routine of snack-sharing during movies. They swap bags of candy periodically, replacing empty bags with new ones, occasionally reaching over each other to help themselves to something they get a craving for.

“The Unconscious Argentinean reminds me of Grantaire in college,” Courfeyrac offers a few minutes in. “Falling asleep at inopportune moments, and waking up to butt into conversations with reflections on Bohemian ideals before passing out in the middle of a sentence.”

Enjolras snorts, and then sighs happily.

“Not to mention roping his best friends into performing intricate tangos to diffuse palpable sexual tension,” Courfeyrac adds, and is rewarded with a Twizzler to the nose.

They’re all weepy, sniffling, tipsy messes by the end, and even Courfeyrac concedes that going to bed is probably the best decision.

It’s incredibly comfortable, all snuggled up together, yet somehow they manage to rouse themselves (with a fair amount of groaning and pouting from all, but especially Courfeyrac), and shuffle upstairs to their rooms.

Combeferre wakes early on the wedding day, rolls out of bed, and wanders down to the pier.

It’s quiet, and a thin layer of mist makes the seascape blurry and dreamlike. In the early morning stillness, there’s no sign of the chaos that he knows will occur in the coming hours.

Even in the middle of summer, there’s a chill in the air this early in the day, and the breeze coming in off the open ocean raises cold, hard, goosebumps on his bare skin. The cold air filling his lungs wakes him up by knocking him slightly off balance.

The water is even colder, and when he dives in, his mind goes blank and his limbs are stiff and it takes a few seconds before he kicks back up to the surface and sucks in a few desperate breaths.

He eats breakfast on the porch—granola, fruit, juice. It’s early, and still quiet, and he knows he’ll enjoy the ceremony and the reception later, and they’ll be a meaningful celebration of Enjolras and Grantaire’s relationship and the friendship they all share, but he relishes this peace now.

Within an hour, as he tries to get ahead on his reading for next week’s class, the final preparations kick into high gear.

Boats arrive from the mainland with buckets and boxes filled with flower arrangements, a small army of smartly-attired waiters show up and begin setting the tables in the tent with the precision of a well-oiled machine. The house’s professional-grade kitchen is invaded by half a dozen portly men in grease-covered aprons and tall hats, all barking orders at each other.

There’s hustle and bustle all around him. This place is so familiar, but there are all these people he’s never seen before and doesn’t even have a chance to get to know, and for them, this is their job. Every week, they get dressed up and go to a different country club or incredibly expensive house, and carry out the behind-the-scenes work that makes the best day of someone else’s life possible.

He tries to savor his last few sips of orange juice as the wedding is assembled around him.

“Where are my fucking carrots?”

“We need glasses on table 5 and cutlery on table 7!”

“Freddie, did you learn to fold napkins in a barn? What the fuck is that?”

Almost before he knows it, it’s time to go inside and start getting dressed. All of the bedrooms and bathrooms in the house have been taken over.

Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta, Bahorel, and Eponine are all getting ready with Grantaire and will arrive closer to the start of the wedding. But Feuilly, Jehan, Marius, Cosette, and the twins all arrive in the early afternoon, with garment bags, hair products, shoe polishing kits, and colorful children’s toys trailing after them.

Jehan immediately takes over a guest room on the top floor, and prepares a luxurious bubble bath for zirself, singing arias from various Puccini operas all the while.

Feuilly is much more laidback, and settles into a chair with a book, feet propped up on a windowsill, a glass of lemonade within easy reach.

Marius and Cosette are waiting until the last minute to coax their twins into their outfits, so that the likelihood of them getting themselves covered in dirt, food, snot, and crayon marks is minimized.

Combeferre makes the rounds to greet everyone, and then shuts himself in his room. He knows on some level that he should go out and join his friends, that this event is about celebrating the community that is coming together to support Enjolras and Grantaire in the vows they’re about to make. But Combeferre also just wants to be alone right now, and he knows his friends will understand.

His suit is laid out on his bed. It only takes him a few minutes to get dressed, and once that’s finished, he really isn’t sure what else to do to fill the time before the ceremony starts.

He sits at the edge of his bed, staring at his hands folded in his lap. He has two sheets of paper, with his toast neatly written out, folded in his jacket pocket.

The clock by the bed says there’s still half an hour to go, before he has to be anywhere else. He lies down. His room is quiet, but from upstairs come the echoes of laughter and music and at least two hair dryers.

There’s a knock at his door, and Courfeyrac’s head pokes in. His eyes are wide and frantic.

“Ferre? Could you come to Enjolras’ room, like, now? Immediately? He’s having a slight crisis, potentially of the mental health variety.”

Combeferre sits up so fast he’s slightly dizzy. “What’s wrong?” He rubs his head.

“He’s fucking delusional, that’s what’s wrong!”

“How so?”

“Extreme, way out of proportion cold feet. I’ve never seen anything like this from him.”

“Out of my way, Courf.” He stands up and strides toward the hallway.

“It would be my pleasure to get out of your way and let you handle this.” Courfeyrac steps out of his way and holds his arm out like a butler.

“What’s wrong?” Combeferre asks as he enters Enjolras’ room to find him pacing back and forth like a caged lion.

“What the fuck am I doing?”

“Right now? Right now you’re wearing down your expensive carpet.”

“Thanks.”

Combeferre sighs. “Enjolras, what’s going on? Let me in on the thought process a bit?”

“How the hell can I get married? Why on earth did I think this was a good idea?”

“Is this about the specifics of this marriage, the one you’re about to begin with Grantaire, or the institution as a whole?”

“Both? I guess?”

Courfeyrac sits on the desk in the corner, eyebrows creased in concern, eyes flitting back and forth between his two best friends.

Combeferre leans back a little and crosses his arms across his chest.

“Why would it be a bad idea to marry Grantaire?”

“We’re so different. We fight all the time—how on earth is this going to work?”

“Well, you two fight fair, and you’ve learned to pick your battles. Handling disagreements in a mature, open way is a sign of a very healthy relationship.”

“Ferre, can you indulge my neuroses for once instead of getting all therapist on me?”

“Okay, fine. Rant away.”

“We fight all the time. We have almost nothing in common.”

Combeferre sits frozen for a moment, chewing the inside of his cheek, and then he sighs. “I’m sorry, I can’t take off my therapist hat, so we’re going to do word association. I’ll say a word, and you say the first thing that pops into your head, no matter how stupid you think it is. Even if the word makes you think of… Cheez-Its. Say Cheez-Its if that’s what you’re feeling, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Here we go. Wedding.”

“Today. Now. Anxious. Family.” Enjolras runs a hand over his hair.

Combeferre nods. “That’s understandable. Next word: marriage.”

“Forever. Commitment. Future. Terrifying.”

“Okay, good. Grantaire.”

Enjolras stops pacing and brightens before the second syllable of the other groom’s name is out of Combeferre’s mouth. He bites his lip. “Happy. Safe. Stomach butterflies, still.”

“There you go. You know, on a gut-instinct level and an intellectual level that this is what you both want to do.”

“But how do I know we won’t get sick of each other in ten or fifteen years?”

“You don’t.”

“Combeferre!” Courfeyrac squeals, jumping up. “Is that really the most helpful thing to say right now?”

He shrugs. “It’s the truth.”

“Combeferre.”

“Listen, Enjolras, no one can guarantee anything. You and Grantaire put yourselves, each other, and, to be honest, everyone else through hell when you were being too stubborn and stupid to acknowledge how much you love each other. And look at how strong a couple you are now. You’re aware of each other’s needs, you are, quite frankly, much better at communicating than any of us thought you’d be, and you are stupidly, disgustingly in love with each other. I don’t know if it’ll last forever, but I do know that if there are any two people who are completely right for each other, it’s you two.”

Enjolras grips Combeferre’s arms, tears making their way out of his eyes, and pulls him into a bone-crushingly tight hug.

“Thank you, ‘Ferre. Thank you so much. I really mean it.”

“You’re very welcome. I meant it too. Now if you want to be on time for your wedding, we should really get going.”

Enjolras nods, and turns and inspects himself in the mirror. “Do I look okay? Is my tie straight?” He fiddles with the knot.

“It’s straighter than you’ll ever be.” Courfeyrac snorts.

Enjolras glares at him, but Combeferre unsuccessfully tries to fight back a giggle, and offers Courf a high five, which he readily reciprocates.

“You have to admit that you left the door wide open for that one,” Courfeyrac says.

“I have no comment,” Enjolras mutters, inspecting himself in the mirror. He runs a hand over his hair and turns to his friends. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

They go downstairs together, and meet up with Enjolras’ parents in one of the three living rooms. Albert and Marie-Christine hug their son, and Marie-Christine wipes tears from her eyes. The photographer has them pose together, and then Combeferre and Courfeyrac give Enjolras a hug and a final “good luck,” and go out to meet up with the rest of the wedding party.

It’s like herding cats.

They’re a joyful horde of friends, too busy hugging each other, exclaiming over each other’s beauty, and tearfully remarking on the poignancy of the occasion to organize themselves to begin the ceremony.

True to form, Enjolras and Grantaire said “fuck it” to heteronormative wedding traditions. There’s no distinction by gender within the wedding party, and they all had free rein over their attire. Cosette, Musichetta, Eponine, and Renee decided to coordinate in similar dresses in various shades of blue; Feuilly, Joly, Bossuet, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac all chose suits. Jehan chose a variation on a kilt, which inspired Bahorel to say that he wanted one too. So Jehan delightedly directed him to a tailor.

They process in not in couples but as a group, and form a semi-circle at the front, around where Enjolras and Grantaire will stand.

The grooms had flipped a coin to see who would enter the ceremony first. It was “won,” so to speak, by Grantaire, who walks up the aisle arm-in-arm with his mother.

Grantaire is clearly happy, and winks at his sister as he takes his place, but there’s something slightly uneasy in him. He shifts his weight back and forth from leg to leg, bites his lip, shakes his hair back from his face.

He goes stock-still, though, when Enjolras appears at the other end of the aisle, his arms linked with his parents’.

They gaze at each other—Enjolras isn’t even looking where he’s going, he’s just looking at Grantaire, and with every step he takes closer to his soon-to-be husband, his smile grows.

When they reach the end of the aisle, he embraces each of his parents and then with a deep breath, takes his place facing Grantaire.

“Good evening, please be seated.” Justice Mather softly clears his throat and opens his binder. “Let us begin.

“Friends and family, your presence is welcome on this glorious evening. We have come to celebrate the Wedding of Enjolras and Grantaire.

“Since time immemorial, people have performed ceremonies to mark a transition, a change of status. Today we gather for that happiest of ceremonies – the change of status from single individuals to a married couple.”

Grantaire, his head slightly bowed, sneaks a peek Enjolras from under full, dark lashes. Both of their faces bear slight traces of smiles.

“It is one of life’s richest surprises when the fateful meeting of two individuals leads them to proceed together along a common path. It is indeed one of life’s finest experiences when a chance relationship grows into a permanent bond of
love.

“This meeting and this love are what bring us together today. The uniting of these two individuals to establish a new family is an important and memorable event. It brings together two separate families and backgrounds and creates a union that is a sign of hope in the midst of a troubled society.

“In their love for each other, which they publicly express in this ceremony, Enjolras and Grantaire demonstrate not only their joy in the present but their commitment to share the future together. This is a time of celebration for all of you who know and love them.

“Enjolras and Grantaire, before you are joined together in marriage in my presence and in the presence of these, your family, friends and community, I am bound to remind you publicly of the solemn, the serious, and the permanent nature of the relationship into which you are now about to enter.

“Enjolras and Grantaire, do you come here freely, and without reservation, to enter a marriage as companions living together as one, enjoying equality? Do you promise to love, respect, assist and look after each other for the rest of your lives? Are you prepared to live in harmony, and jointly strive for the welfare of your family, and for a just and equal society?"

With a quick glance at each other, they answer in unison, “We do.”

Justice Mather nods ever so slightly, and takes a deep breath to continue.

“Grantaire, please take Enjolras’ hand while I recite these vows.

“Will you, Grantaire, take Enjolras, to be no other than himself? Loving what you know of him, trusting what you do not yet know, will you respect his integrity and have faith in his abiding love for you, through all your years, and in all that life may bring you?”

“I will.” Grantaire’s voice is soft, tender, and slightly raspy. He swallows after saying the words, and Enjolras smiles at him.

“Enjolras, please take Grantaire's hand while I recite these vows.

“Will you Enjolras, take Grantaire, to be no other than himself? Loving what you know of him, trusting what you do not yet know, will you respect his integrity and have faith in his abiding love for you, through all your years, and in all that life may bring you?”

“I will.” Enjolras’ response is strong, confident, with no hint of the hesitation he was feeling so recently.

Combeferre once heard it said that the most meaningful days are the ones that are scripted, where everyone knows exactly what will happen, and when, and what will be done by whom.

And standing there, watching his best friend marry, he knows it’s true.

It’s about realizing your own significance, seeing how your life is connected to other lives, being acknowledged as an important part of a community, making promises to support each other, whether as spouses, family members, or friends.

Justice Mather is asking each of them for the rings now. He holds both golden circles in the palm of one hand.

“Traditionally, the passage to the status of married couple is marked by the exchange of rings. These rings are a symbol of the unbroken circle of love. Love freely given has no beginning and no end, no giver and no receiver for each is the giver and each is the receiver.

“Grantaire, please repeat these vows phrase by phrase after me.”

Grantaire takes the ring meant for Enjolras and begins to slide it onto the hand that Enjolras offers.

“With this ring I take you, Enjolras, as my spouse.”

“With this ring I take you, Enjolras, as my spouse.”

“I offer all that I am in return,”

“I offer all that I am in return,”

“…and pledge to remember,”

“…and pledge to remember,”

“…over every day of our lives together,”

“…over every day of our lives together,”

“…why we were united here today.”

“…why we were united here today.”

Grantaire pushes the ring over the final knuckle, positioning it at the base of Enjolras’ finger. Enjolras squeezes Grantaire’s hand, and reaches for the remaining ring in Justice Mather’s hand.

“Enjolras, please repeat these vows phrase by phrase after me.”

“With this ring I take you, Grantaire, as my spouse.”

“With this ring I take you, Grantaire, as my spouse.”

“I offer all that I am in return,”

“I offer all that I am in return,”

“…and pledge to remember,”

“…and pledge to remember,”

“…over every day of our lives together,”

“…over every day of our lives together,”

“…why we were united here today.”

“…why we were united here today.”

Enjolras slides the ring onto Grantaire’s finger, and doesn’t let go of his hand.

If Combeferre didn’t know any better, he’d think that Enjolras and Grantaire looked nervous as they finish their vows. Grantaire, especially, has his head slightly lowered and glances between Enjolras’ face and the new rings on both of their hands.

Justice Mather takes a deep breath and continues.

“And now, Enjolras and Grantaire have declared before all of us that they will live together in marriage. They have made promises to each other. They have symbolized it by joining hands, taking vows, and exchanging rings. By the authority vested in me by the State of Maine, I pronounce that you are now and forever, legally married.

“You may—“ Justice Mather cuts himself off early as Enjolras and Grantaire preempt his invitation, surging towards each other. Enjolras gently holds Grantaire’s face in his hands as he kisses him, and Grantaire’s fingers grip the sturdy fabric of Enjolras’ jacket.

A soft cooing noise comes from Courfeyrac, and he reaches for Combeferre’s hand. “Aw, look at them,” he whispers. “It’s so beautiful and I kind of want to throw up. In a good way.”

Combeferre takes the energy he wants to use to sink into the ground, and uses it to squeeze Courfeyrac’s hand instead. “I know exactly what you mean,” he whispers back.

Enjolras and Grantaire break apart breathless and grinning, too happy to be sheepish, and there are some appreciative laughs and a smattering of applause from the crowd.

“Therefore,” Justice Mather continues, “on your behalf and on the behalf of the community, I introduce the newly-weds Enjolras & Grantaire!”

The applause breaks out in earnest now, punctuated by whoops and cheers. Enjolras and Grantaire—who haven’t let go of each other—charge down the aisle hand-in-hand, followed by their ragtag group of friends.

There’s happy chaos for about fifteen minutes after the ceremony concludes. Most of the guests, as soon as they make it through the receiving line and hug and congratulate the couple and their families, bolt for one of the bars. They then mill around the yard, snacking on the hors d'oeuvres being passed around, and they remark on the décor and how very elegant and tasteful (expensive) everything is.

The photographer grabs the newlyweds and their families and attendants, and arranges them in various configurations for portraits.

Combeferre escapes to the bar as soon as he can, and his parents find him as he takes his first sip of his drink.

“Oh, honey, that was such a beautiful ceremony,” his mother says, pulling him into a tight hug. “So beautiful.”

“Yeah, it really was,” he wriggles free of her and turns to his father. “Hi there, Pop.”

He receives a nod and a pat on the back as acknowledgment.

“You know, sweetie, Mrs Rodgers was ahead of me at the bar, and we got to talking, and she asked me if you and Courfeyrac were engaged yet. Can you imagine that! You and Courf engaged!”

He chokes on the edge of his glass, and manages a rueful chuckle. “Oh, yeah. That’s quite a laugh.”

“She seemed so sure, too. I don’t know where she got that idea. I told her you two are practically brothers.”

“Yup. Just like brothers.” He glances around the crowd—family friends talking to distant cousins talking to college classmates and coworkers. Courfeyrac is deep in discussion with a law school classmate of his and Enj’s, one hand holding a drink, the other resting on their arm, his head tossed back in laughter.

The staff begin to circulate, informing them that dinner is a few minutes away, and the crowds begin to head for their tables.

Combeferre is seated with several friends and a few college classmates. Dinner is filled with pleasant reminiscences of years past, and updates on events in the interim—jobs, post-graduate degrees, relationships, children—punctuated with opinions on current events and exclamations of how beautiful everything is and how delicious dinner tastes.

Enjolras’ father gives the first toast after dinner. He’s not the most gregarious person in the world, so the open emotion he displays in his address is a pleasant surprise, and based on the tears in Enjolras’ eyes and how hard he hugs his father afterwards, it clearly means a great deal.

Renee goes next, and offers a hilarious, heartfelt tribute to her brother and her new brother-in-law that has Grantaire shaking his head with a smile, and Enjolras falling out of his seat with laughter.

Courfeyrac is the next to stand. He recounts their college years together—long nights of brainstorming disguised as socializing with friends, long days spent in the classroom and the library and the dining hall, on the streets, in City Hall and the State House, getting to know their issues and their people.

He paints a vivid picture of the self-righteous idealist and the affable skeptic who antagonized him at every turn.

Every word out of his mouth is poignant and hilarious, and Combeferre laughs, while wondering how on earth the few meager paragraphs he has written on the paper folded in his jacket can possibly compare to this.

Courfeyrac finishes his toast with one final joke and sits down, a bright grin on his face.

“You’re up,” he says to Combeferre. “Did I warm them up enough for you?”

Combeferre swallows. His mouth is dry. “Oh yeah.”

He pulls the paper from his pocket, unfolds it and smoothes it out, picks up his glass with his other hand, and stands.

He’s addressed a good many crowds in his day, but usually to deliver a lecture on a subject he has studied extensively. Personal speaking isn’t really his thing, but here he is, with two hundred and fifty people staring at him, expecting something hilarious.

He clears his throat and begins.

“I’ve been lucky enough to have known both of these people for a long time, and to have been able to watch them fall in love. Now, for those of you who don’t know, I’m a Ph.D candidate in psychology, and over the course of my academic and the beginning of my clinical career, I’ve seen a lot of unhealthy relationships.” He pauses, and ad libs a line. “This is a really optimistic way to start off a wedding toast, isn’t it?”

Courfeyrac snickers, and Combeferre grins and continues.

“If you had asked me when I was twenty and a smart-ass undergrad who thought I knew everything, I would have said that there was no way that Enjolras and Grantaire would ever be able to have a healthy, stable, mutually fulfilling relationship. Their personalities were just too different, they were both too stubborn and proud to change anything about themselves to meet each other’s needs. Well, let me tell you that I have never been more happy to be proven wrong.”

Courfeyrac is grinning now, eyes flickering back and forth between the newlyweds and Combeferre.

His heart is pounding, and it’s a good thing he has his toast written out, or he’d never be able to get through it.

“These two have already exemplified what it means to grow together, to inspire the best in each other. And my wish for them on their wedding day is that they continue to grow together, to know and respect each other’s imperfections but to always believe in each other. We’ve already seen how that belief can be the manifestation of incredibly strong love, and may they continue to believe in each other, inspire each other, and love each other for many, many happy years to come.”

He lifts his glass to them, and takes a sip. The newlyweds mimic the gesture, and Combeferre sits down. He shakily exhales, and Courfeyrac leans over and whispers in his ear.

“Well done.”

Courf’s breath is hot against his skin, and Combeferre has to close his eyes for a moment.

“Thanks.”

With dinner and the toasts concluded, the DJ starts his set, and there is a mass migration to the dance floor.

Combeferre lags behind everyone else, looking for an excuse not to join in. Jehan and Courfeyrac are chatting by the bar as the bartender mixes their drinks. Perfect.

He casually wanders in their general direction and eases himself into the conversation, which seems to stop the instant he’s within earshot. Or maybe he’s paranoid and overthinking this.

Drink in hand, Jehan excuses zirself to do something charming and whimsical Combeferre doesn’t quite catch.

“Having fun?” Combeferre asks.

“Everyone is having fun. How could I not be having fun?” Courfeyrac replies.

“Combeferre! Courfeyrac! Look at you two, all grown up and handsome!”

They look up to see tiny Mrs Siegel before them. She’s as old as God, and almost as powerful in the insular, elitist world Enjolras’ family inhabits.

"You two are next! I'm surprised you let those two beat you to the altar! How much longer will you keep us old folks waiting?"

"Oh, Mrs Siegel..." He sputters for a moment. Courfeyrac is chuckling, and trying to hide it. "That's... That's not what our relationship is like. We're best friends, but we're not together like that. Nope. If you're waiting for us to get married, you're going to have to wait an awful long time. Forever, in fact."

Mrs Siegel places one hand over her heart and the other on Ferre's arm. "I'm so sorry, dear. I thought..."

"No, no, it's quite all right. No harm done."

He chuckles. It's forced and tight. With a final apologetic smile, Mrs Siegel is hurrying away.

Courf exhales, a strong whoosh. "Right. How many versions of that conversation will we have tonight? It's going to kill my game tonight when people constantly think we’re shacked up in a love nest and well on our way to matrimony.”

“I’m not doing anything to stop you from flirting up a storm with everyone here, Courf.”

“I know. It’s just—why does everyone always think we’re together?”

“Possibly because you’ve been joined at the hip since you were eight and you interact like an old married couple?”

There’s an arm around each of them, and they turn to see Grantaire’s sister.

“Hi there, boys,” she says, taking a sip of her drink. “Stop moping and get out on the dance floor.”

“Ah, Renee, my love,” Courfeyrac exclaims, bowing to her and kissing her hand. “I thought you’d never ask.”

She throws her head back, dark curls cascading down past her shoulders, a throaty laugh eerily similar to her brother’s echoing out of her, and leads him away.

It takes all of maybe fifteen seconds for them to take command of the center of the dance floor. They move as if they’ve been choreographed—spontaneously coordinated, playing off each other.

Combeferre chugs half his drink in one gulp.

“Got time for a spin with your brother from another mother?” Enjolras asks, having snuck up behind him.

Combeferre nearly jumps out of his skin. “As long as you never call yourself that ever again.”

“Deal,” Enjolras laughs, pulling Combeferre onto the dance floor. “Full disclosure, though: I am shamelessly using you to get a few minutes away from Great Aunt Gertrude asking me when we’re having kids.”

“Oh, that’s started already? Welcome to equality, Enjolras. You can get married, and your pushy relatives will butt into your marriage.”

“Yeah, just what I always wanted. Thank you for the free relationship counseling session that was your toast, though. That was very enlightening.”

“You’re very welcome. Have you gotten over whatever was going on earlier?”

Enjolras looks over Combeferre’s shoulder, to where Grantaire is dancing with Eponine. “Yes, I have. Wholeheartedly. I have no idea what was going on, because I’ve wanted this for so long.”

“It’s still a big decision, and a big change, and those are anxiety-inducing, even for the most confident people. You’re human, Enj.”

“So are you, Ferre. And it’s okay to need things from other people sometimes, and not just give all the time.”

“What’s this about?”

“Oh, nothing,” Enjolras sighs, in a way that indicates it’s anything but. “I should really go make the rounds. Great Aunt Gertrude is headed towards harassing my cousin Bryce, so I’m safe for a while. Thanks.”

“What are friends for?” Combeferre grins.

“Exactly.”

Combeferre retreats to his table, where Feuilly and Bahorel are deep in conversation. They pause to greet him, and then continue.

He watches the dance floor for a while. Out of the corner of his eye, he can tell that someone is approaching, but he doesn’t turn to see who it is.

“Come on, Ferre.” Courf says quietly, offering his hand. “Don’t you know it’s tradition for the two best men to dance together at a wedding?”

There’s a sizable part of Combeferre that wants to curl up on one of the frighteningly expensive sofas inside and cry, but he lets out a rueful chuckle and takes Courfeyrac’s hand. “Right.”

A new song is starting, and oh no. It’s that song Courfeyrac loves to sing at the top of his lungs in the shower, about not giving up on someone you love, about giving them space when they need it, but loving them through it all the same. And it’s contemplative and mellow, but thrumming with urgency, and it hurts.

Courfeyrac seems completely unbothered, quietly singing along, his hands gentle but firm on Combeferre’s body, moving with a quiet, unhurried confidence.

It’s taking all of Combeferre’s remaining energy to remain upright, to support his own weight, to prevent himself from wrapping his best friend’s arms around him in a way that would change that friendship forever.

The song quietly comes to an end, and there are a few seconds of silence before another begins. Combeferre is standing still, but he feels like he’s still spinning. Courfeyrac is so close, and he’s so Courfeyrac.

Combeferre takes a step back, and Courfeyrac’s hands slip off of him. He’s suddenly very cold. He blinks a few times, scanning the crowd, unable to make himself look at Courfeyrac, standing right in front of him. He swallows.

“I’m, ah… I’m going to go get a drink.”

He turns and walks away before Courf has a chance to respond. Exhaling shakily, he only stops moving when he bumps into the bar.

“I need…” He begins. “A glass of whatever you have left that’s strongest. Please.”

“Single and pining at your best friend’s wedding?” The bartender asks, sliding over a glass half filled with amber liquid.

“You probably see this all the time. And it’s pathetic, right?” Combeferre says, taking a gulp.

“Yeah, but you have it bad, man. You have it bad.”

“Thanks,” he responds. As if he didn’t know that before.

As if he didn’t know that this thing he feels for Courfeyrac, whatever it is, wherever it came from, has the potential to ruin a friendship that has been integral to his identity for two decades.

He’s happy for Enjolras and Grantaire. Really, he is. It’s been a beautiful day, a meaningful celebration of their relationship and the promises they’re making to each other. But there are just so many people, and they’re asking him so many questions. And even when the questions aren’t asked out loud, he knows they’re still there. And he’s tired of it.

He’s just tired, in general.

It’s getting late, thankfully, and before too long he can seek refuge in his room and rest up before he has to interact with everyone again tomorrow.

Enjolras and Grantaire make their departure just after midnight, climbing into a small boat to sail to the mainland for the night. Their guests gather around the pier to see them off, and just as Enjolras had promised, sparklers are distributed and lit.

The party continues for another hour, but Combeferre slips away.

He slowly climbs the stairs to his room, pulling his tie free of his collar. A groan of grateful exhaustion escapes from him as he falls face-first onto his bed. He shifts slightly, moving his arms up to be nearer his head, and he sighs.

He rolls over, folding his arms behind his head.

He stares at the ceiling, blinking.

There is still music playing on the dance floor, and he can tell from the laughter that the dance floor is still occupied. Most likely by Courf, he thinks.

Every sign of exhaustion is present in him, and he craves sleep, but there’s something stopping him from reaching it.

He glances at the clock on the bedside table. The DJ will be packing up and leaving soon.

Combeferre rolls up onto his feet and stumbles to the bathroom. He rubs his eyes, finger-combs his hair, drinks a glass of water.

He drops his jacket on a chair in his room, rolls up his sleeves, and shuffles down the stairs, and outside.

He wanders the grounds, walking in circles. He helps a few drunken guests into boats that will ferry them back to their hotels on the mainland. He shakes the DJ’s hand and thanks him as he departs.

It’s quiet now. Still. The most prominent noise is the ocean lapping against the rocky shore, the comforting chirp of crickets, the occasional ghostly echo of an owl’s hoot.

He thinks he’s been walking for about an hour when he spots someone sitting at the end of the pier. He can’t make out any identifying details, but something clenching in his gut tells him he knows exactly who it is.

The pier creaks slightly as Combeferre walks along it.

“Courf?”

Even in this inky dark, his white shirt glows in the moonlight. His feet are hanging off the pier, trousers rolled up to his knees, his toes dragging in the waves. He takes a long sip from a glass and stares out at the surf.

He turns his head slightly. “Hey, Ferre.”

“May I join you?”

“Sure.”

Combeferre drops down beside his friend, and lowers his feet towards the water.

They sit in silence for a few moments, the water lapping at their ankles. Courfeyrac takes another sip.

“Everything’s changing,” he says quietly.

“Not everything,” Combeferre responds.

“They’re married, Ferre. To each other. None of us thought they’d ever get married, and especially not to each other. And I don’t just mean because it’s only been legal for a few years. I mean because this is Enjolras and Grantaire. Who are now married. To each other.”

Combeferre is hardly surprised that Courf is this coherent, even with the amount of alcohol he’s ingested in the last twelve hours. He’s always been an insightful, eloquent drunk. That was an important part of how he and Grantaire became friends in college.

“They’re still the same people, Courf. Yeah, getting married is a big deal, but it doesn’t change who they are.”

“But getting married is such a grown-up thing to do. And it just seemed so natural for them. Like, here’s this person that you want to see every day for the rest of your life, the only person you will kiss and have sex with for the rest of your life, the person you want to raise potential children with, the person you trust to see you at your worst, to know your deepest insecurities and anxieties… And it just kind of happened for them, without them having to go looking for it. I’ve dated so many people. Kissed so many frogs looking for my prince or princess, or non-binary Royal Highness, and they’re all still frogs. Very nice frogs. But I don’t want a frog.”

Combeferre sighs, and places a comforting arm around Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “You know, Courf, it took years for Enj and R to see each other as princes and not frogs. And Enjolras would push us off this pier if he heard us comparing them to royalty.”

Courfeyrac snorts, and leans in to the warmth radiating from Combeferre. “That’s true. But I’m impatient and whiny and I want my person now, dammit.”

“Someday, Courf, and someday soon, because honestly who could resist you—“

“—I know!”

“—you will find someone who will love you the way you want—the way you’re meant—to be loved. And you will do the same for them. And neither of you will be bored, ever, for the rest of your lives, because it’s impossible to be bored when you’re around.”

Courf sighs. “Thanks, Ferre. You’re gonna be a damn good therapist. And someday you’ll find your person, and you’ll be wonderfully boring together and drink lots of tea and wear each other’s Nerdy Professor Sweaters, and have date nights watching PBS documentaries, and somehow manage to be unpretentious about it.”

Combeferre closes his eyes and tries to concentrate on slowing his racing heart. Breathe slowly and steadily, in and out.

Courfeyrac’s prediction of Combeferre’s future long-term relationship sounds perfect, but there’s one major flaw. Combeferre now knows who he wants to share that life with, and it’s someone who has just spent several minutes bemoaning the fact that he can’t imagine having a life-long relationship with anyone he knows already.

It’s Courfeyrac, Combeferre finally clarifies for himself. He wants that life, that future, that relationship with Courfeyrac. And to be sitting here, comforting his very inebriated best friend in his drunken loneliness is just fundamentally unfair.

“Let’s go inside, Courf. I’m losing sensation in my toes.”

Courfeyrac nods, and clambers to his feet.

“I’m so happy for them, I really am,” Courfeyrac says, sliding an arm around Combeferre as they stumble back to the house together, “but I’m also jealous as hell.”

Combeferre can only nod.

Courfeyrac is leaning on him pretty heavily as they make their way up the stairs to their rooms. Courf stumbles toward his bed, and unceremoniously tugs off his trousers and unbuttons his shirt and lets it fall off his frame.

Combeferre presses his eyes shut and leans against the doorframe. His breath is caught in his throat. Come on you fool, you’ve seen Courf in boxers before.

Courfeyrac’s arms snake out and pull a pillow close to him, and he nestles into it.

“I know exactly what you mean,” Combeferre chokes out.

“Mm’bout what?” Courf mutters into his pillow.

“About being jealous as hell, even when you’re really happy for them.”

He stands there, frozen in the doorway, as Courfeyrac’s back rises and falls slowly and steadily. How is it possible he’s asleep already? How can he rest so easily right now, of all times? How can he just drop like that?

When he starts to realize he’s acting more like a voyeur than a best friend, he turns and shuffles down the hall to his room. He gets ready for bed, and climbs in between the covers.

But he can’t fall asleep. He stares into the dark, trying various positions to get comfortable, trying to ease the gnawing emptiness in his stomach that is somewhat reminiscent of hunger.

He doesn’t know exactly how or when he falls asleep, but when he opens his eyes, there’s sunlight streaming in through the window, and the clock tells him that they have to get going if they want to beat traffic.

Courfeyrac is eating and reading on the porch when Combeferre comes downstairs. He nods when Combeferre asks him if he’s ready to go.

They hug Enjolras’ parents goodbye, and thank them profusely for their hospitality and for hosting such a beautiful wedding. Albert and Marie-Christine laugh, and thank them, and wish them safe travels.

Mack sails them back to the mainland.

“Goodbye, Mack! Thank you! See you next time!”

“Hmph,” Mack grunts with a wave as he starts the boat’s engine up again.

They load their luggage into Combeferre’s car and climb in.

“Are you going to put on your road trip playlist?”

“Nah.” Courf settles down in his seat, adjusts his headrest, and sleeps for the whole ride home.

Combeferre gently shakes him awake once they’re parked by their building, and they silently unload the car.

Courfeyrac disappears into his room, and is uncharacteristically gone by the time Combeferre wakes up the next morning.

When he comes home that evening, Courfeyrac’s room is empty and dark, and the kitchen is clean. Courf is unusually late in coming home, and hasn’t texted or called to say where he is. Combeferre sends him a text, offering to order pizza.

His phone buzzes with the response a few minutes later.

Thanks. I’m all set. At a work thing. Don’t wait up. :)

Around midnight, as he’s staring at a particularly frustrating part of his dissertation proposal he can’t get quite right, he hears the door open and close, followed by Courf’s footsteps—slower and heavier than usual—and Courfeyrac’s bedroom door opening and closing.

He sighs, closes his laptop, and climbs into bed.

The pattern repeats on Tuesday and Wednesday. Courfeyrac avoids the apartment, leaving early in the morning at returning late at night.

On Wednesday afternoon, Combeferre has had enough of worrying. He texts Courf in between tutoring sessions.

Is everything alright? You’ve been out a lot lately.

He taps his pen against his notebook while he waits for a response.

Fine. Busy. With Enjolras out of the office, there’s a lot of slack to pick up. Let’s get everyone together this weekend, hmm?

Combeferre groans and drops his face into his hands. He doesn’t want to get everyone together this weekend. They’re all wonderful people and he loves them very much, but everyone was together last weekend, and he wants some one-on-one time with his best friend.

He comes home on Thursday evening to find Courf sitting on the sofa, watching American Experience on PBS and forking noodles from a takeout carton into his mouth, his eyes not leaving the TV screen.

“Courf?”

“Mmm-hmm?”

“How are you?”

“Fine. How was your day?”

“Long. Tiring. You?”

“Fine.” Courf puts down his noodles and pulls a throw pillow onto his lap.

Combeferre sighs. "Courf, I'm not going to force you to talk because that's manipulative and unhealthy and also knowing you it just wouldn't work. I just want you to know that I'm sorry about whatever's bothering you, and I would like to help you work through it, if that's possible and would be helpful. But saying that there's nothing wrong when you are clearly upset isn't a healthy emotional response. Nor are you fooling anyone. You're my friend—my best friend—and what I've seen from you in the last few days leads me to believe that something has made you deeply unhappy. You don't have to spare me from it, if you're worried it would hurt me or make me care about you less."

Courfeyrac nods, and picks at the pillow in his lap.

“Sorry for the speech. Do you want me to leave you alone?”

“No,” he sighs, motioning to the empty spot beside him on the couch. “Stay.”

“Okay.” Combeferre sits down.

“Thanks.”

“Sure. Is there something you want to talk about?”

Courfeyrac nods slightly, and takes a few slow breaths. “Why are you so fucking perfect?” he bursts out.

Combeferre recoils. Where did this sudden vehemence of Courf’s come from? Did he push him too hard, too soon?

“I—what?”

Hugging the pillow to his chest, Courfeyrac sighs. “I’m starting to get really annoyed—not genuinely annoyed. I mean, I kind of wish I was actually angry, but I can’t be, because you don’t deserve that because you’ve done nothing wrong.”

The air is leaking out of Combeferre. He’s a slowly deflating balloon, gradually collapsing against the arm of the couch.

Courfeyrac takes a breath and keeps going. “You’re so fucking nice. If I didn’t know you so well, I would think it was a façade and there was something vicious, or at least someone capable of occasionally—maybe once in his life—being mean, but no. You’ve never said a harsh word to anyone in your life. And it’s so frustrating because you’re so wonderful and so kind and so interesting, but you just see yourself as plain and ordinary and you seem so genuinely baffled by the fact that everyone is in love with you, and I’ve always been protective of you. I guess I was afraid that you’d be too trusting of someone and they’d break your heart. But then this weekend happened, and I realized that that protectiveness was actually jealousy, and I don’t want to see you with anyone else because that would break my heart, because I am so incredibly stupidly in love with you, but I don’t deserve you because I’m a petty, jealous, selfish flirt and you’re too good for me.”

Combeferre sits in stunned silence, going over Courfeyrac’s words in his head.

Courfeyrac sits still for a moment, before a tortured groan rises from him, and he covers his face with the pillow.

“Shit. No, I did not just say any of that. I take it all back.”

He jumps to his feet, running down the hall to his room, slamming the door behind him.

“That entire conversation was a hallucination! Nothing happened! Nothing is real! Life and human existence are an illusion!”

Combeferre slowly rises to his feet. His legs are shaky as he follows in Courf’s wake. He knocks twice at his bedroom door. “Courf?” He asks, tentative. “Is it alright if I come in?”

“If I said no, I’d be lying.”

He wants to smile at that, but his facial muscles can’t make it happen. The door creaks as he pushes it open.

Courf is curled up on his bed, still holding the pillow to his chest. His eyes are red.

“Courf, are you crying?” Combeferre asks softly, taking a few steps closer to him.

“If I said no, I’d be lying,” Courf repeats with an attempt to cover up a sniffle.

“May I come and sit next to you?”

His face is buried in the pillow, but there’s a motion that vaguely resembles a nod.

Combeferre makes his way across the room, and gingerly sits beside Courfeyrac.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“Please don’t feel guilty,” Courf responds, face still against the pillow. “I knew this was hopeless. I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable.”

“No, I’m sorry I haven’t said anything until now. I’m sorry I made you think your feelings were hopeless and could never be requited.”

His lungs feel like they’re going to burst, and he has to stop. He reaches out, slowly, cautiously, and places a gentle hand on Courf’s shoulder. The response he gets is a shudder that feels involuntary, and a noise that sounds like a sob. Courfeyrac is in pain, and the knowledge of that causes pain for Combeferre.

“Courfeyrac, please look at me,” he whispers, “please.”

He waits for a few seconds, and the dark curls rise from the pillow Courf is still clutching. A few more seconds pass as Courfeyrac’s brown eyes slowly lock on to Ferre’s from beneath tear-reddened lids.

“Courf… oh, Courf…” Ferre breathes, and pulls him into a tight, desperate hug.

Courfeyrac offers no resistance, allowing himself to be held, and after a few moments, when it becomes clear that Ferre intends for this embrace to linger for a while, he tentatively wraps his arms around his torso.

They cling to each other, motionless, wordless. Combeferre’s breath has become slow and steady, and Courfeyrac’s inhalations and exhalations gradually come to match.

Combeferre releases first, pulling away just a little, keeping his hands resting on Courf’s shoulders. Courf’s fingers grasp at the soft material of Ferre’s shirt, his eyes cast down.

“Don’t give me false hope, Ferre.” He says softly. “That’s cruel. Don’t be someone you aren’t to try to make me feel better.”

Combeferre moves toward him again, gently positioning his head next to Courf’s, their foreheads barely brushing each other.

“That’s not what I’m doing,” he breathes. “I am who I am. I don’t know how to be anyone else. And I wouldn’t want to be anyone else, because that would mean being someone other than the person you love. And given how completely in love with you I am, it would break my heart for you to love someone other than me. Because I can be jealous and selfish too.”

Courfeyrac wraps his arms around Combeferre again, burying his face in his shoulder, a new gasping sob wracking his body. “Pinch me,” he whispers into Combeferre’s shirt.

“What?”

“Pinch me,” he repeats. “There’s no way this is real. I need you to pinch me to wake me up.”

A fond chuckle escapes from Combeferre before he can stop it, and he gently takes Courfeyrac’s face in his hands and brings their foreheads together again.

“How about I kiss you instead?” he asks softly.

Courfeyrac nods, sniffing, and leaning in to Combeferre’s touch. “I guess that works.”

Combeferre moves towards him, and gently places his lips against Courf’s. He inhales sharply at the contact, slight and soft as it is, because this… this is everything. Close to twenty years of friendship, with this always as an unacknowledged possibility. And finally, finally after all this time, they’ve seen enough of the world to know that they want to see the rest of it together. And nothing else will ever match the rightness that comes over them when they hold each other.

He can taste the moment Courfeyrac begins to smile. It causes a pleasant, if somewhat terrifying thud in his chest, and he holds Courf tighter.

“We’re so ridiculous,” Courfeyrac says when he catches his breath.

Combeferre nods. “Yeah, we sure are,” he replies with a breathy laugh. “And I kind of love that about us.”

“How… how long?”

“How long have I been in love with you, or how long have I known?”

“Both.”

He sighs. “To be honest, I’m not sure I remember a time I wasn’t in love with you. It’s kind of always been there. I may not have recognized it, I may not have been ready to do anything about it, but I’m pretty sure I’ve been in love with you for my entire life.”

“Would it be too much too soon if I asked you to marry me?” Courf’s smile is wide and joking, but his eyes are earnest.

“One step at a time, love,” Combeferre says softly, his long fingers tangled in the strands of Courfeyrac’s hair.

Courf nuzzles against Ferre’s neck. “Mmm, I like that.”

“You like what?”

“I like you calling me ‘love.’ That’s an A-plus pet name, and on the first try, too. Good job.”

“Well, it’s the first word that comes to mind when I think of you, and I like to keep things simple.”

“And now I have the pressure of coming up with an equally perfect one for you.”

“I really don’t mind—you can just call me by, you know, my name. ‘Hey you’ works in a pinch, too.”

“Oh but sweet pea, I need something to call you in public that will make everyone coo at how adorable we are. But it’s not going to be sweet pea.”

“Really, Courf, it’s okay.”

“Ferre-Bear. Care Bear! Ferre the Care Bear. Ferre-est of them all. Light of my life. Honey Bunches of Oats. Pumpkin spice latte.”

Combeferre is chuckling, a deep rumble from his chest. He looks down at Courf, who is gazing back at him with complete adoration in his sparkling brown eyes.

He’s overwhelmed. He feels so many things, and he feels them so strongly. There are not words or actions sufficient to convey to Courfeyrac how important he is.

“You’re so wonderful,” he whispers reverently, and presses a soft kiss to the corner of Courf’s ever-widening smile.

“You too,” he replies after a moment.

They don’t talk much after that. They exist together, in each other’s company. There’s an ease to their contact, a familiarity born of decades sharing space. They shift as they need to, and eventually fall into a deep, restful sleep.

The first few days are filled with the novelty of discovery—where previously they would have shared hugs, pats on the back, now they share kisses. Sometimes short little reminder kisses, sometimes long and deep and slow.

Combeferre is somewhat shocked by how seamless the transition is.

They’ve always been open and casually affectionate with each other, and this new relationship feels like an entirely natural progression of that.

They go on their first proper date on Saturday, and sweetly kiss each other goodnight outside their apartment.

When they get into their apartment, the kisses quickly turn heated, and Combeferre pins Courfeyrac against the wall.

Combeferre backs away for a moment to shed his jacket and drop his keys and wallet in the basket by the door. When he turns to face him, Courfeyrac’s hands are already extended, waiting impatiently to grab fistfuls of his shirt and pull Combeferre to him again.

“I always knew you’d be needy,” Combeferre murmurs, his teeth gently gripping Courf’s earlobe.

Courfeyrac lets out a high-pitched whimper, his head rolling back. “And… I always… knew…” Courf’s attempts at speech are punctuated by gasps as Combeferre moves over and around him, “…you’d be…completely att-attentive and s-selfless…dammit…Ferrrre…oh, fuck.”

Combeferre pulls back again, and meets Courf’s widened eyes, holding his gaze. “That’s the plan,” he says, his voice raspy.

“You can’t just say shit like that, Ferre,” Courfeyrac whines.

“And why not?” Combeferre works at the buttons on Courfeyrac’s shirt.

“Because I’m going to get overwhelmed and short-circuit and shut down like an overloaded power grid.”

One side of Combeferre’s mouth curves up. “You sure know how I like my dirty talk.”

Courfeyrac surges forward, pushing Combeferre down the hallway toward the bedroom—either bedroom, he really doesn’t care.

Where Courfeyrac is a quick-moving inferno, rushing wherever it can, burning hot and bright and beautiful, Combeferre is embers and coals, his steady warmth and light the result of patience and restraint.

They wake happy, in a lazy pile of limbs and bedhead and tangled sheets.

It’s Sunday, and they can stay in bed all day if they want to, except that oh shit today is the day that Enjolras and Grantaire return from their honeymoon and everyone is scheduled to have dinner together at the Musain tonight.

Courfeyrac groans, dropping his head against Combeferre’s chest. “Ugh. Do we have to? Can we tell them we’re sick? I love them, I really do, but I also love you, in a very, very different way, and I want to spend today exploring some more possibilities of what that means.”

Combeferre laughs in spite of himself, and plants a sweet kiss on Courfeyrac. “We have all day.”

“Very true,” Courfeyrac says, kissing his way down Combeferre’s body. “And I know that you’re a big believer in efficient time management.”

They only get out of bed when their hunger for something other than each other becomes impossible to ignore.

The rest of their friends are assembled around their usual cluster of tables when Combeferre and Courfeyrac arrive outside the bar. Through the window, they can see Enjolras and Grantaire sitting side-by-side, no doubt regaling the group with honeymoon stories, relaxed smiles on their faces, practically glowing at each other.

“There’s still time,” Courfeyrac says to Combeferre as they pause on the sidewalk. “I hear Fiji is nice this time of year.”

“Fiji is always nice.”

“No but seriously, should I be worried that we’re dreading telling our friends that we’re together?”

“No. It’s not them knowing about our relationship that makes us nervous. It’s their initial reaction. The novelty will wear off and they’ll get bored—I mean the novelty will wear off for them, not for us, so stop looking at me like I just kicked a puppy or something.”

“Only if you kiss me.”

“Oh, fine.” Combeferre leans in and gently pecks the tip of Courf’s nose, and then turns to pull open the bar door.

“Hey! That doesn’t count!” Courfeyrac protests, stomping after him.

“I guess I’ll just have to make it up to you later,” Combeferre calls over his shoulder as he approaches their friends.

“I guess I can live with that.”

“Hi guys!” Enjolras greets them.

Combeferre gives his friend an affectionate pat on the back as he passes, and plops down on a bench. Courfeyrac, having stopped to give Grantaire a hug, drops down next to him, and they press together, Courf’s head on Ferre’s shoulder, Ferre’s hand on Courf’s knee.

As they get settled, the group tosses out greetings and waves and offers of drinks, and then there is a collective double take.

“Wait, something’s different.”

“Is that a hickey?”

“Courf, is that Ferre’s shirt?”

“What is going on here?”

“Is there something you’d like to share?”

“Please explain.”

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes, his head shifting against Combeferre’s shoulder. “You get three guesses, and the first two don’t count.”

There’s silence for a few moments as the other members of the group look at each other, collectively slightly slack-jawed. Almost in unison, they turn to face the new couple, and break out in good-natured accusatory teasing.

“Oh lord, finally.”

“Who finally jumped who, here?”

“Were you inspired by how long it took these goons here to get together and decided to see if you could beat their record for clueless pining?”

“Love Potion Number 9 was starting to look like a tempting possibility; thank god that’s not necessary, you dweebs.”

Courfeyrac shushes them with a few waves of his hand. “Yes, it’s true. We are together. And disgustingly happy.” He gives Combeferre a gentle peck on the temple, which causes their friends to coo. Combeferre is pretty sure he hears a shutter snap, too, and the sheepish look on Jehan’s face leads him to believe he’s right.

“I never thought I’d live long enough to see this,” Grantaire chuckles, lifting his glass towards them before taking a swig.

“What does that mean?” Courf scoffs.

Enjolras laughs, and explains. “We all knew it would be a romantic comedy trope that would get you two together eventually. ‘Best friend’s wedding causes awakening of feelings’ was always a strong contender, but this one—“ he elbows Grantaire “—in his endless optimism, put money on ‘oh no we have joint custody of our dead best friend’s baby and the will stipulates that we have to live together to raise them.’”

“We’ve lived together for years!”

“And all that did was further entrench the ‘we are platonic best friends and we can never ever be anything else’ dynamic.”

“Well look who thinks he’s an expert on communication in intimate interpersonal relationships.”

“I love it when you talk therapist,” Courfeyrac says in a tone one step short of a growl.

Combeferre winks at him. “You should see me in front of a class sometime.”

Bahorel throws a hand over Jehan’s eyes. “Gentlemen, please! Not in front of the children!”

Jehan bats Bahorel’s hand away and kisses him on the cheek.

“So how does it feel to fall in love with your life-long best friend?” Cosette asks, pulling Marius’ arm closer around her.

“Oh, rather than by momentarily locking eyes across the quad while angels sing and that animated ray of light breaks through the clouds, like when Rafiki holds up baby Simba in ‘Circle of Life’?” Courfeyrac retorts.

Marius and Cosette smile at each other and blush.

Courf glances down at Combeferre’s hand, comfortably resting on his knee, and laces their fingers together.

“It feels like the most natural thing in the world. It feels like home.”