Chapter Text
It starts, as most life-changing experiences do, with the two of them sitting, bored out of their minds, in their living room.
They’re doing a trial run to see how Combeferre and Courfeyrac film and interact on camera, which apparently means being interviewed in the wee hours of the morn and a camera crew in their apartment as Enjolras watches amusedly from the kitchen. The interview takes place on the living room, on the couch they found beside a dumpster and in front of the wall that’s been decorated with posters left over from various rallies and protests, with Combeferre’s arm slung over the back of the couch and their knees knocking together comfortably. They give their names, explain why they prefer to go by their last instead of first, talk about their jobs and hobbies, pretty standard info, really. It’s very comfortable and they seem to get along well with camera crew that has been assigned to them for the extent of the race: a no-nonsense but altogether entertaining woman named Eponine and her partner Marius, who looks like a breeze could knock him over but carried a couple hundred pounds’ worth of filming equipment into the apartment by himself. The interviewer, Susan, is a different kind of pleasant; the kind that’s only actually nice when the camera’s rolling.
“Alright, now to the good stuff.” She says, flipping the page of questions on her clipboard. “How did the two of you meet?”
Courfeyrac nudges Combeferre in the side, and he grins softly in response. “We’ve actually known each other since first grade.”
“Well, technically,” Courfeyrac says, “We knew each other from first to eighth grade, then from freshman year of college until now, since someone moved away before high school and can’t write a letter to save his life.” He turns back to the camera, explaining, “We kind of fell out of touch for a couple of years, because ‘ferre can’t be bothered to maintain a Facebook or check his email, so we had no idea we were going to the same college until freshman orientation.”
Susan makes a pleased humming noise before she smiles at them and says, “So, would you say fate brought you together?”
“Oh, definitely.” Courfeyrac smiles as he pokes the side of Combeferre’s face, and Combeferre crinkles his nose in response. “Can’t imagine life without this nerd.”
Susan looks to Combeferre to confirm, and he blinks at her through the lenses of his glasses before glancing to Courfeyrac and shrugging. “He’s alright, I suppose.”
Courfeyrac laughs and shoves at his chest affectionately. “Don’t listen to him, he thinks I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to the world.”
“I think I’ll leave that mentality in your capable hands, actually.”
There’s a soft snort of laughter from the kitchen, where Enjolras is turning the page of the morning paper, and Courfeyrac rolls his eyes at both of them. Combeferre hums distractedly, and the hand slung over the back of the couch begins to play idly with Courfeyrac’s hair, tangling the curls at the base of his neck.
“Well, every year we get teams who turn out to be not quite as compatible as they thought they were, which can lead to some tension and ultimately elimination.” Susan continues, with a glance to her clipboard. “Do you think you’re in it for the long run?”
Enjolras chuckles from the kitchen, and Courfeyrac fights the urge to smile; it’s not easy to let a pun like that go unappreciated, but he ignores it, answering slowly, “Jeez, no pressure or anything.” Susan smiles obligingly, and he continues, “Well, I think everyone likes to think they’re gonna be ridiculously awesome and own the competition, and most of them go up in flames half way through the race, so I’m not gonna make any promises. I can say, though, that there’s no one in the world I’d rather do this with. I think we can really go the distance.” This time, Combeferre catches the joke as well, and his lips turn up in a faint smirk.
“I certainly hope so.” Susan says, fingers tapping against the edge of her chair. “Maybe we can even expect rings in your future.” She says this with a tentative air, leaning forwards slightly, obviously invested in their answer.
Courfeyrac blinks at her. “Rings?”
“Oh, no pressure.” She says, quoting Courfeyrac as she leans in conspiratorially and stage-whispers, “But it’s been a while since we’ve had a proposal on the Race, and I can tell you there are some very romantic locations ahead of you.”
Oh.
Oh.
Combeferre’s hand moves slowly out of Courfeyrac’s hair, and a small laugh escapes Courfeyrac’s lips. “Oh, no-“ He shakes his head as it clicks into place. He knows what Susan was trying to do; by bringing up an engagement to a couple that’s obviously been together for a long amount of time, she’d be forcing both of them to consider the possibility of engagement, and possibly have different stances on the matter, providing for a bit of tension in the interview and race. Tension sells. It’s funny, of course, because, “We’re not… together. I mean, best friends, sure.” He grins at Combeferre, who looks incredibly uncomfortable at the direction the conversation has taken. “But we’re not dating.”
“You’re…” Susan breaks off, looking down at her clipboard again, eyes widening slowly as she backtracks, “Oh I am so sorry, these were the questions for the high school sweethearts from Minnesota, I must have picked them up instead of yours-“
Courfeyrac shrugs. “Easy mistake to make.”
A mistake that happens pretty damn often; Courfeyrac probably gets asked if he’s dating Combeferre at least once a week. It’s understandable, really. They’re obviously close, and Courf’s a… tactile person, to say the least. Combeferre’s nice enough to oblige Courfeyrac when he gets cuddly and clingy, which tends to mislead people about the nature of their relationship. In fact, his last girlfriend had a lot of issues with the way he and Combeferre acted around each other. Or maybe she just had issues with Combeferre in general. He’s never been entirely sure.
Susan apologizes at least three times, and then steers the interview back on track, asking them what they’ll do with the million dollars if they win and tries to wriggle a tragic backstory out of Combeferre (who, by the way, grew up just fine raised by a single mom, and even if he didn’t is hardly one to say as much to who knows how many interested viewers), and it’s over soon after that. Courfeyrac is tempted to ask Marius and Eponine to stay for dinner and a cuddle pile on the couch, but decides it’d be rude to ask them and not Susan, even if they’ll most likely never see her again. They show the three of them to the door, and Enjolras waves distractedly from the kitchen, before Combeferre trudges back into the living room and onto the couch, where Courfeyrac joins him by placing his head in his friend’s lap.
“Well I think that went well.”
Combeferre snorts, tilting his head down to look at Courfeyrac, eyebrows raised and strands of hair falling to bump against the frames of his glasses. “She asked us about our nonexistent engagement plans.”
“Eh, it’s no big.” Courfeyrac shrugs, reaching up to poke Combeferre’s nose, and smiling as his face scrunches in response. “Not like we’re not used to it, right?”
Frowning slightly, Combeferre asks, “What do you mean?”
“C'mon. You can’t tell me no one’s ever asked you if we’re dating.” Courfeyrac says simply, then pauses as Combeferre looks no less confused than before. “Wait, seriously? I get it, like, daily. The first thing people want to know before they chat me up is if my six-foot-something boyfriend is gonna go apeshit on them for trying.”
“They… no.” Combeferre says, looking away from Courfeyrac. “Though I can’t say anyone has ever tried to chat me up.”
“They would, but they’re too afraid of your five-foot-seven boyfriend to try.” Courfeyrac says, flexing his nonexistent arm muscles significantly, and Combeferre grins down at him. “Or they might just be afraid of you, seeing as you go around glaring at people all the time.”
“I- I do not-“ Combeferre stammers indignantly, “That’s just my face.”
Courfeyrac laughs, reaching his fingers to trail along the hairs prickling along the edge of Combeferre’s jawline. “I kid. You are very chat-upable, but simultaneously intimidating. Totally rocking the hot librarian look.”
“And it doesn’t bother you?”
“Your hotness?” Courfeyrac snorts. “No offense, but have you seen Enjolras? Nothing could damage my self-esteem more than his irritatingly perfect… everything.”
From the kitchen, Enjolras gives him a quick salute of acknowledgement, and Combeferre chuckles softly. “Understandable, but I was asking if you were bothered by people assuming we’re a couple.”
Courfeyrac smiles as Combeferre’s hands begin to tentatively thread through his hair. “Why would I be?”
Combeferre hums in response, fingers ghosting along Courfeyrac’s ear down to trail lightly against his jaw. “I can’t think of a reason.”
---
Almost an hour later, when Joly and Bossuet are letting themselves into the apartment with Grantaire in tow, Courfeyrac and Combeferre haven’t moved.
Grantaire walks into the foyer, takes one look at the way Combeferre is petting Courfeyrac’s hair, and groans. “Oh god, you’re worse than these two.” He says, nodding to where Bossuet is holding the end of Joly’s scarf and Joly is pirouetting out of it.
“Good morning to you too, grumpy face.” Courfeyrac says, ignoring Joly and Bossuet’s presence because they have come to help them with their daily physical training and Courfeyrac is morally obligated to put that off as much as possible. Grantaire’s eyes roll in his version of a greeting, then slide over the apartment, obviously looking for Enjolras. Almost as if summoned, the blond emerges from the kitchen, wearing the maroon crop-top he blatantly stole from Courfeyrac and a pair of Combeferre’s pajama pants that are far too long for his legs, somehow managing to scowl and look bored at the same time as he eats black olives out of the can. His eyes flick to Grantaire, and as much as he tries to look unimpressed, Courfeyrac knows for a fact that he heard Grantaire’s voice and came rushing out.
Grantaire visibly brightens at Enjolras’ presence, as if all he needs to be happy is a grungy grumpy blond eating canned olives at ten in the morning. “Enjolras,” He says slowly, the side of his mouth pulling up in a grin. “Have I ever told you how much olive you?”
Enjolras blinks at him. “Weak.” He glances to Joly and Bossuet, who are wielding matching yoga mats. “Hey, guys.”
“Morning.” Joly chirps, smiling widely. “Are you joining us for Pilates?”
Enjolras makes a face like he’d rather vote Republican, and shakes his head. “I’m a bit busy, but definitely some other time. “ A blatant lie. The only physical activities Enjolras partakes in are marching in protests and running from the police. “I’ll be in my room if you need anything.”
He turns to walk down the hallway, and Grantaire doesn’t bother giving any excuses, just follows after the blond, calling softly, “Hey enje, wanna disagree about protest strategies s’more?” and laughing as Enjolras just groans in response.
As soon as the oblivious duo disappear, Bossuet clicks his tongue in disapproval. “It’s like the only people who don’t realize that Enjolras and Grantaire are completely gone for each other are Enjolras and Grantaire.”
Joly sighs, long and pointed. "If only they'd just wake up, tell each other how they feel, everything would be so much easier..."
"But they don't think their feelings are reciprocated." Bossuet shakes his head, and Courfeyrac has the distinct feeling he's missing an important part of this conversation. "Which is ridiculous, because anyone with eyes could-"
"You guys." Combeferre interrupts, voice stern and controlled. "Enough. Let Enjolras and Grantaire sort things out their own way."
Bossuet and Joly exchange one of their Looks, and Joly shakes his head in quiet disapproval, before kneeling down and flicking out his yoga mat significantly. "Well, if it's what 'Enjolras and Grantaire' want, then I guess we'll just have to."
And Courfeyrac is sincerely confused by what they are- and aren't- saying, but then Joly is walking over and pulling him to his feet, and he forgets his confusion in favor of complaining about physical exercise and how it should be illegal.