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The first time Combeferre acknowledges he may have feelings for Jehan Prouvaire, it is entirely uneventful. In fact, he would barely have had time for the realization had he not taken a power nap to digest Chapter 7 of Organic Chemistry in Medicine: 12e .
“Hello,” says Jehan, who is darning a sock on the end of the couch. Specifically, Combeferre’s sock. That he is still wearing.
Combeferre could ask why, and he just knows there would be some fantastical and yet simple answer. “Thank you,” he manages, rubbing his eyes, and Jehan smiles at him and continues darning. There’s something heavy and warm in his chest, and it’s not the medical tome splayed open there.
Oh , he thinks, watching Jehan tilt their head to what has to be an awkward angle. No, I don’t have time to deal with that . Or, more honestly: now isn’t a good idea for either of us. Jehan’s a little young. Ferre is too busy to eat, half the time. Far too busy to even buy socks. No one wants to date the nerdy medical student with holes in his socks that never exits the library. Especially when you are a former child star, and said nerdy guy is just your roommate’s friend.
“All done,” Jehan proclaims softly. They sit back and tuck their needle into a little handmade pouch, spritzed with a scent, decorated in a curling symbol that despite appearances is likely not a P for Provaire but probably a Greek letter. “Good luck on your finals.” They tap on Combeferre’s foot in a pattern that probably holds some significance to them.
“Thank you,” Combeferre says again, a little dazed still, and Jehan floats back to their room. He props his medical book up on his chest, and promises himself, I will process this after finals.
When Combeferre exits his fifth and final four-hour long exam, he forgets.
When he remembers again, circumstances are deceivingly far from normal.
“Surely,” says the 19 th -century revolutionary time traveler that is picking at Ferre’s fuzzy blanket, “surely it would be rude, to be more forward? When he has already given me a room of my own, and fed me, and been so generous?”
“I don’t think so,” Ferre says, but—but is abruptly reminded that his own dating history is spotty at best. Even if Grantaire’s equally in love with Enjolras—and he very likely is—who is Combeferre to lay out a path forward? “I’ll admit I don’t have much experience.” There. It’s important to be upfront with Enjolras, who is still learning.
“I have also asked Jehan,” says Enjolras. “And Courfeyrac. They are like minded. I—I will be bolder, then.”
“I’m there if you need me,” Ferre reminds him, and Enjolras smiles, because he’s Combeferre’s best friend.
“If you are also gay,” Enjolras says, and the word is still unwieldy in his mouth like many modern words are. “I know you have no suitors, which I find hard to believe, but Combeferre, surely there is someone who has captured your attention in the past? I could—“ Combeferre can see the struggle. “If you tell me of them, I could know who you prefer and… make an introduction?” He tries. Enj is absurdly sweet.
“I know almost everyone you know,” Combeferre reminds him, smiling, and leans in to hug him.
“If I see a man like your Leonardo di Caprio wandering about,” Enjolras says seriously into his shoulder, “I will inform you.”
“Thanks, Enj,” Ferre says, and then because he can’t resist, “do you want to watch Titanic again?”
“Yes, please.”
And, well, the thing is—the thing is. Combeferre thinks back on his past crushes, his infatuations, those moments where his eyes caught on a curl or a smile. He looks back on them fondly, a little wistfully, and before he can process he thinks of a sock and a sleepy afternoon and a person who still occasionally meanders into his life, lovely and odd and thoughtfully quiet. There have been other moments, besides the darning. Little peculiarities, like there always are with Jehan. Moments that make his heart beat faster.
I still like Jehan, he realizes. This time, he’s well-rested after a sleepover with his best friend, and his job is challenging but not quite as all-consuming, settled into his residency. He tries to tell himself, it isn’t a good time , but he can’t. It isn’t true.
Oh, Combeferre thinks, oh, no.
Attractive, vibrant Jehan, who has helped Courf pick out Ferre’s wardrobe, who helps host almost every party? Who he knew when they were living on their own for the first time, stealing his medical supplies to sew up fruit for fun? Who used to star in movies, and is an influencer even now, and never spends a moment without being true to themselves in a way that’s quirky and thrilling? Who drinks sugary-sweet cocktails even out on the dancefloor, effortlessly balanced—
Combeferre is old. You are twenty-seven, he knows Enjolras would say—old. And rigidly dull. When Jehan was on a movie screen, Combeferre was being knocked over by bullies and having his backpack thrown on the ground, spilling open, all the precious books tumbling. Now he works 18-hour shifts at the hospital. He spends his free time reading about moths and watching Titanic with his best friend.
Jehan wouldn’t feel the same, he tells himself, and he can. That part must be true.
Luckily, the next time he sees Jehan it is at a house party, and Jehan has spent half an hour on the sidewalk getting stoned with Baz and Feuilly. Maybe that can help him hide.
Combeferre has interacted with Jehan for years with no problem, that should hardly change now. Everything is—
“Combeferre,” says Jehan lightly. Their eyes are dark. Combeferre’s brain helpfully reminds him that dilated pupils are signs of both attraction and marijuana use. “Not drinking tonight?”
“Not too much,” Combeferre agrees. “I have work in the morning.” Just reminding them that he’s boring. Boring, boring.
“Too bad,” says Jehan. “You know I like when you get drunk and share your grave robbing escapades with me.”
“That was one time!” Combeferre bursts. “Though—did you see the recent article on da Vinci and, separately but oddly, Charlie Chaplan…?”
“ Yes ,” says Jehan. “Yes, you know I’m more partial to Mary Shelley consummating marriage on her parents’ gravestones, but grave robbing is always worth reading about when I come across it. Do you think—“
It is so easy, when talking to Jehan, to forget. Forget himself, forget the way things are, forget that he’s meant to be hiding and processing his re-emerged crush until he has it characterized and contained.
No , he tells himself, no , but Jehan is smiling and gesturing and saying something about rove beetles, and somehow his heart flutters in his chest, exposed, with a yes .
Naturally, it doesn’t stay a secret.
“Combeferre,” says Enjolras, when he swings open the door, “Combeferre, Grantaire says you have offered to do Jehan’s taxes.”
“Well,” says Combeferre, for he has. “Yes.”
Something in Enjolras’ face slides, goes sly. “You did not tell me.”
“It’s taxes,” Combeferre protests. “Very boring.”
“Well, you did not offer to do my taxes.”
“You don’t have a job,” Combeferre reminds him, “and the government doesn’t really know you exist.”
“Or the taxes of Grantaire, or Bahorel, or Feuilly, or Courfeyrac,” Enjolras continues, relentless. “So the point stands.”
Instead of saying it’s a commentary on what my taxes are being used for, Combeferre puts his face in his hands, mutters, “Enj,” and his best friend just smiles.
“I may not know much of the modern age, or romance,” says Enjolras, “but I do recognize when my dear friend is courting.”
“Come inside,” Combeferre groans. So Enjolras does.
“May I ask how long you have admired Jehan?” Combeferre’s not sure this is such a good idea, but this is his best friend, and god knows they’ve talked about Enjolras’ relationship, so—
“Probably a few years?”
“Combeferre!”
After that, Enjolras makes an effort to bring them in the same room. Perhaps it’s his newfound romantic hopes, or more likely planning is Enjolras’ default, so Combeferre is hardly surprised when he wakes up to a phone call that is simply:
“Combeferre.”
His glasses aren’t on. He’s sprawled out in bed and his gaze is swimming from a rough shift and his feet hurt. “Hi, Enj. What do you need?”
“Combeferre, you must come to Jehan’s. There—they told us they adopted a cat.”
“Mm hmm,” says Combeferre, rubbing his eyes.
“She has no hair ,” Enjolras says. “Jehan will not take her to the… veterinarian, and though you specialize in human anatomy I thought perhaps you could look. Jehan is attached. I think they are denying the truth.”
Combeferre rolls over and laughs into his pillow, because while Enjolras doesn’t always enjoy having his lack of modern knowledge treated as humor, sometimes he just has to.
“There are hairless breeds,” Combeferre assures him, but still finds himself saying, “I’ll be over. Give me a few minutes to get on some clothes.”
“ Really ,” says Enjolras, still dubious, but then he’s coy. “Perhaps you should not put on too many clothes. Maybe Jehan would appreciate such a sight.”
“Enj!” Enjolras is still startled by strangers flirting or kissing in public, so he’s allowed to be a little surprised by the boldness. “Are they there?”
“They are in the bathroom,” Enjolras assures him. “I will see you soon.”
By the time Combeferre puts on an outfit Jehan themself had picked out for him along with Courfeyrac and makes the journey, he imagines Jehan will have been able to be more convincing. Still, when Jehan swings open the door to greet him, he’s not expecting a pliant, sleepy, and yes, hairless cat tucked beneath Jehan’s arm. It yawns. The bulky sweater it’s wearing is garish but looks extremely comfortable.
“Hello, welcome to my humble home. Say hello to my greatest love.”
Well. In his rush and his half-asleep state, Ferre might have forgotten to prepare his heart.
“Hello,” Combeferre says, too serious. A glowing smile is directed at him anyway. The cat, for its part, requests Jehan support its feet more, kicking lazy little leg extensions. With a kiss to its naked head, Jehan acquiesces.
“You see,” says Jehan, “she’s fine. Would you like to come inside?”
Ferre would like to go to sleep. Ferre would like to go to sleep in Jehan’s bed, with Jehan. “Yes, please.” Unfortunately, it appears that Enjolras requires counsel.
“If you hold her, I’ll get tea,” Jehan says, trailing him to the couch, where Enjolras is sitting ramrod straight and continually yanking on their near-psychic friend connection. A cat is deposited into his lap, and Jehan spends a moment arraying her properly, meaning belly up. Their knuckles brush Combeferre’s knee at least three times. Combeferre elects to look around the apartment, which is consistent and familiar in that it never looks the same twice. Jehan loves decorating, and rearranging their selection of houseplants, which have now been relegated to hangers from the ceiling, even the miniature cacti.
“Is that on the cat’s behalf?” Combeferre asks, nodding at a hanging pot of anthurium, and Jehan pauses in their scratching beneath a fluffy chin.
“Mm? Yes, partially so she doesn’t eat them. I thought you’d notice. Also, though, I had a dream where I saw floating gardens. All kinds of philodendron and orchids and pothos and snakeplant, so I—“ Jehan could continue in this vein for hours, and Combeferre would eagerly listen, but Enjolras looks impatient and eventually the conversation will loop to Combeferre’s houseplant that Jehan gifted him, which is very dead. They must be stopped. Though there’s no good way to stop Jehan from— Combeferre yawns. “Oh.” Jehan cuts themselves off, softly. “I’ll get that tea.”
They are hardly through the doorway when Enjolras turns, eyes wide, and says: “is she dying?” Right. This is a mission.
“No,” Combeferre chuckles. “No, Enjolras, she’s fine. I promise. Remember how the dogs have changed since your time?”
“They’ve changed so much,” Enjolras agrees. “Though surely none of them hairless? Hmm.” He’s frowning still. Combeferre resolves to google hairless animals later. Then: “how are you, Combeferre?”
“Tired,” Combeferre admits, and leans over to nestle against his shoulder. The cat starts purring, which seems to relax Enjolras; he can feel it in his shoulders. “Jehan won’t mind us napping.”
“Well,” says Enjolras. “I must go.”
Combeferre groans. “I just arrived.”
“It is tragic,” Enjolras agrees, and—Combeferre doesn’t torture him like this about his crush. This kind of cunning isn’t fair. “But Grantaire wished to cook me supper, and I do not intend to keep him waiting. He becomes nervous about the ingredients… drying out.” More like becomes nervous that Enjolras isn’t going to come home, or that he secretly resents his time with Jehan ending.
“Text him,” Combeferre suggests, even though he knows that’s futile.
“Oh dear,” says Enjolras, “I cannot,” and doesn’t even bother coming up with an excuse as to why. “Goodbye, Combeferre.”
“Bye, Enj. See you tomorrow.”
Enjolras gives Jehan his farewell, and then Jehan’s settling onto the arm of the couch, quirky and calming and so, so lovely.
“Seeing as we don’t need to bring my healthy cat to a veterinarian,” Jehan says, “it seems we have time to do something else.” Combeferre’s brain helpfully supplies many suggestions, ranging from please tell me all your opinions on Percy Shelley to can I sleep off my shift on your shoulder . “Were you serious about my taxes?”
“Oh,” says Combeferre, even though his eyes are stinging and he’d like nothing more than to lay down for a little while, “there’s really no other way to be, about taxes.”
Combeferre likes math. Math is soothing. Taxes are just math and checking boxes. How bad can they be?
Jehan is a former child actor, and an Instagram influencer, and sometimes takes on odd jobs just for fun and is paid inconsistent, inexplicable sums of money.
It is very bad.
“Are you blackmailing someone? What is this series of installments?”
“Perhaps. Is it blackmail if I don’t know I’m doing it?”
Combeferre’s eyes are no longer stinging—he’s laughing. “What on earth are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” Jehan says, quietly honest, but they lean in, cheek in one hand. It can’t be real, but it feels like their eyes have been on him the entire time, even when Combeferre was just saving PDFs of transactions and helplessly adjusting a growing Excel file on Jehan’s laptop. “Do you need a calculator?”
“I have my own in my bag,” Combeferre admits, and Jehan smiles. Which—perhaps Combeferre’s not tired at all.
Things are relatively normal, for a few months.
Perhaps Combeferre could’ve ignored his feelings for another year or six, if not for one house party. They’re celebrating Enj’s anniversary of arriving in the future without calling it that, because he and Grantaire suspect it would make him uncomfortable. (Marius has not been informed of the theme.) A group of them have been decorating Courf’s apartment and relaxing while they wait for their guest of honor’s boyfriend ( finally, finally they’d made it as a couple ) to deliver him. Between Combeferre’s day off tomorrow, the joint being passed around, his friends bickering and giggling, and Musichetta’s deceptively alcoholic lemonade… he knows it’ll be a memorable night.
Possibly one of his favorite parts of these evenings is settling off in one of the corners with Jehan when both of them need a breath. That’ll happen later, he’s sure. That he’s sure it will happen makes his stomach flip, and the sweet-sour lemonade go down too quick. Jehan may not love him as more than a friend, but they do love him as a friend.
Maybe even more, lately. He has Enj to thank for that. Enj, who’s arriving hand in hand with a Grantaire that’s smiling in a way Combeferre couldn’t have ever predicted for him, even a year ago.
“Combeferre,” Enjolras greets, lighting up and holding out an arm for a quick embrace. “I have been informed we are to play several drinking games. It is time. We are going to,” his expression is brave, “get shit on our faces—“
“That has to be on purpose,” Grantaire groans, sweeping him over to Combeferre’s side with a hand around his waist that pinches to tickle him in punishment, just a little. Yeah, they’re already a little rosy-warm from wine at dinner.
“Drink with me,” says Enjolras to Combeferre.
“Is that a good idea?” Combeferre smiles.
“Drink with me,” he repeats. Which is where the real trouble begins.
An indeterminate amount of time later, he is in a corner, and Jehan is there, and they’re speaking about 19 th century fabrics, or patterns, fashion and economics and mountain ranges Italian silk. They are lovely. Combeferre’s only contribution is on livestock and chemical processing, or the introduction of mechanization, and still Jehan smiles at him and listens indulgently, and leans their head closer, and blooms out looser and looser, and—
“Don’t fall,” Combeferre’s laughing, even if he’s a little concerned. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to catch you, right now.”
“Sorry,” says Jehan. “I should probably get some water. I’ll ask Courf.”
Then they’re gone, which Combeferre didn’t want at all. He doesn’t follow. When he next spots them, it’s been an hour, and they’re standing straighter, leaning against a wall with Baz and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth in thanks for a glass.
Jehan is always affectionate. It’s endearing and perpetually, terribly confusing for Marius, which are both positives. Still, Combeferre tracks it. Even when the kisses are going to Feuilly, and Cosette, and yes, Marius—
It seems odd, to position himself nearby, but he does it anyway. And inevitably, he is clapped on the shoulder, and Courfeyrac is saying, “get them some water?” and Jehan’s smiling sweetly at him.
“Come to the kitchen,” Combeferre says, instead of going, and Jehan follows easily. It’s empty but for empty glasses, Feuilly’s terrible beer bottles stacking up in the recycling bin. Everything muted, slightly.
Jehan perches in a chair. They tuck a strand behind their ear, and look not out the window but back at the crush of the party, and Combeferre knows they are somewhere far away. Probably composing, or thinking about a book, or—Combeferre doesn’t know. He wishes he knew. He wishes he knew what to ask, to be allowed to know. He wishes many things.
They look up at him when Combeferre leans down to pass the cool glass, their hands brushing. “Here.” One sip.
“Thank you,” says Jehan, eyes luminous and dark, and leans forward just far enough to press their lips to his.
Which—Jehan has kissed others. Jehan kissed Courfeyrac not ten minutes ago, and more of their friends in the hours before that. Maintaining objectivity is impossible for Combeferre right now, though, because surely Jehan didn’t tip in quite this delicately, for them. Kiss quite so warmly, with lips newly wet, and sigh a little near the end. Or—linger, tipsy-flush deepening. Linger and give a flicker of a smile before sitting back.
“You’re welcome,” Combeferre says, wrecked. “Not a problem. Please finish the glass.”
“Okay,” Jehan says, and does.
It had to have been the same as the others, because it was done to Combeferre. Jehan doesn’t—Jehan can’t— even if Jehan could. Jehan is drunk. People can kiss others while drunk, and it can mean nothing (or everything). Either way, to take advantage? Combeferre can’t, won’t, could never.
Combeferre might be a little drunk, too. He tries to walk normally from the kitchen, to settle on the couch. Standing while sorting himself internally, cataloguing and formulating, just seems like too much.
“Hey man,” says Grantaire, who also happens to be on the couch. “You good?”
“Yeah,” says Combeferre. He feels like he just laid down after a 20 hour shift, with a bowl of soup and a library book, the night before a day off.
“Need some water?”
Combeferre’s cheeks burn. “No,” he demurs. His eyes wander to the kitchen entrance without his permission. And—Jehan’s standing there. Stroking their own long hair over one shoulder with two hands, softly open and vulnerable in the low light of the room. It’s a party. It’s not romantic. They are staring directly at him.
That shouldn’t be romantic either, but his stomach swoops and his pulse races, and Combeferre is fucked .
“Baz must’ve had some strong stuff,” Grantaire mutters, amused, and it takes a second for Combeferre to realize this is a comment on the staring.
“Probably,” Combeferre agrees. The problem he did not consider, when escaping here, is that this couch contains Grantaire. And without a doubt, no matter where Enjolras is right now, he will eventually come find his boyfriend. And when Enjolras finds his boyfriend, he will look over and see straight into Combeferre’s soul, which is—a mess, at the moment.
Combeferre hasn’t even decided what to do . Is it okay, to even make a decision based off one drunken peck? To try and confess? Combeferre and Jehan have all the same friends, what if it ruins group gatherings?
If he makes Jehan uncomfortable—
He stands, a little unsteady, and moves from the couch.
“Ferre!” Courf says, catching him in the hall, swinging an arm about his shoulders. “Ferre, Ferre, I need your wisdom—“
“Yes,” Combeferre replies, “but only if you give me a notebook and pen.”
Courfeyrac pouts at him— are you doing homework at this glorious gathering? — but promises to deliver anyway. Luckily, whatever wild hypothetical business Courf and Marius and Bossuet are inventing just needs a few factoids about sterile wipes and beetles, which Combeferre could give lectures on when drunk on a handle, and not just a soft press of lips and wine.
“Wow, really?” says Marius for the third time during this talk, and Combeferre just nods. Just past Courfeyrac’s arm, which is now slung atop Marius’ shoulder, leaning close, there’s—
“Combeferre,” Courfeyrac pulls him back. “Oh, wow, I don’t think I’ve seen you drunk in a while.”
“Probably not,” Combeferre admits, but he’s still looking past them both. To Jehan, who’s now floated to stand at the end of the hallway instead, hands folded in front of them, twisting long fingers together. Running a thumb down the line on their palm—heart or head, Combeferre doesn’t know. Jehan is the one invested in palm reading, Jehan’s— still staring. They’re so endearing. “Can I have that notebook?”
“Sure,” Courfeyrac says, and leads him off to his bedroom, tosses easily through his desk things until he finds a spiral bound. “Blue or black ink?”
“Either,” says Combeferre.
“You can do your important work in here,” Courfeyrac winks, “if you want.”
“What if you need to go to sleep,” Combeferre frowns, thinking—it’s late. He’ll need to revise. Right now he just wants to get his thoughts down, and then he’ll organize them—
“Eh, I’ll sleep with Marius,” Courf tosses a thumb over his shoulder. It’s so casual as to be painful. “ Don’t lecture me right now, Ferre, thanks.”
“I wasn’t going to,” Combeferre says honestly. Courfeyrac already knows his opinion on that matter.
“Love you, drink some water!” Courfeyrac hollers, and almost shuts the door all the way.
Combeferre picks up the pen, and feeling buzzy and both too high and too low, writes.
Combeferre wakes up in the morning with a headache, and a notebook full of scribbles that he cannot parse, but which Enjolras has somehow left edits on. He sees one comment, in that neat slanted hand, they respect and rely on you, Combeferre, as we all do , and decides: breakfast. Breakfast first.
While there are plenty of their friends in the apartment, still asleep or begrudgingly awake or pretending to be asleep, yes, Combeferre is a doctor and can recognize that, the too-shallow rise and fall of Bahorel’s chest beneath Feuilly’s ear—
“Mmf,” greets Grantaire. He is doing something at the stove despite being half asleep and having Enj’s face nestled between his shoulderblades. “Eggs in five. Pancakes if Courf wakes up in time to show me where Cosette hid the flour.”
“Thank you,” Combeferre says, gratefully. At the sound of his voice Enjolras stirs; removes one arm from Grantaire’s waist and reaches out a hand behind him that Combeferre takes, squeezing gently. “Good morning. Have you seen Jehan?”
“Several of them went out to dance when we began to tire,” Enjolras yawns. “They are indomitable. I believe Jehan went home after.” Grantaire grunts an agreement. Combeferre has ignored many urges in his life, and he can ignore the one telling him to pull out his phone and call, immediately. To let his feelings dribble out through all his cracks or burst forward like a breaking dam.
One kiss, he reminds himself. He clears his throat. “I’ll find the flour.”
They don’t talk about it. He supposes they don’t because—clearly, there’s nothing to talk about. And certainly they would’ve talked about it, had there been, because they’ve been talking more and more frequently. Once, he’s found himself tapping with Jehan’s old-fashioned knocker before he’s even texted , or called, and Jehan, in their typical fashion, is unsurprised. Just beckons him in, and proceeds to flick on a documentary about blood flukes, and curl up against the couch arm with a crocheting project that turns out to be a pair of shorts with sea urchins on them.
Combeferre is so fucked . But at least he’s privately fucked, until Courfeyrac and Jehan devote themselves to an Instagram story project requiring daily uploads, and Courfeyrac catches him in Jehan’s kitchen for the third day in a row.
Courfeyrac is smart. They’ve known each other for long enough that he’s willing to be visibly puzzled about this, instead of glossing it over in the interest of being sociable.
“Everything okay with your apartment?”
“Yes,” says Combeferre, and flees. He ends up in what is probably Jehan’s craft room at the moment, if Jehan would even designate rooms instead of slowly spiraling through them for their artistry, depending on the season and their mood and probably some interpretation of feng shui.
He calls Enjolras’ phone. Then he calls Grantaire’s phone, and is transferred.
“I do not enjoy this F. Fitzgerald,” Enjolras greets. “But I suppose, if your Leonardo is in the moving, we shall watch it.”
“What?” says Combeferre, distractedly. Enjolras sighs.
“I do not think Jehan would mind you talking to them,” he says, gentle and too-reasonable. Simple for Enjolras to say; Grantaire was probably in love from the first time he spotted him, across cobblestones in the dark street. Jehan’s seen Combeferre during his boards , Step 3 and oh, god, Step 1, when he was nearly sleepless, stressed enough to be losing his hair, and scrounging food from concerned friends. “At the very least, I know from my more… intimate discussions with them and Feuilly that you two are compatible in certain—“
They’ve already had this conversation. That’s a whole other kind of sleeplessness, thinking that over. Now, Combeferre blurts, “please ask Grantaire if we can have a dinner party this weekend.”
He isn’t a coward. And he isn’t avoiding it, anymore. The feelings are there, and he’ll have to face them, and he’ll do it with the precision and careful execution by which he does everything.
“You’re leaving?” Jehan says, blinking at him when his hand’s on the door. “There’s soap for you on the front table.”
“So soon?” Courfeyrac adds, not unkindly, smirking, “see you tomorrow, then?”
“You will,” Combeferre admits, and buttons up his coat as fast as he can.
It’s homemade, all lavender and rosehip and pine, carved in the shape of a heart. An actual heart, valves and a hint of chambers on the surface. Usually, Combeferre showers quickly and collapses into bed after his shift, but the next day he takes the time for a bath, and reads in the tub, knees curled up, like he hasn’t since undergrad.
Well, he thinks, sprawled warm and cozy and clean in bed. Even if this is all there is, Combeferre is more than happy.
Jehan spends the entire dinner party in the chair next to him. They do not touch. Feuilly and Bahorel are holding hands under the table and kicking each other at the same time. Combeferre doesn’t dare try either half of that.
Still, he walks Jehan home, and they sit outside Jehan’s apartment on a low wall, smoking slow, blowing rings and ghost inhales that tremble and dissipate when Jehan laughs.
It’s good.
It’s slow . Unbearably and sweetly, in the way honey or a long night-hike or a drive home after a successful surgery at dawn is, all stretched thin and swollen and happier for it. Combeferre will not stay in the habit of spending his life just breathing, just watching.
Someday, he’s going to walk through the door, and say the words.
“Years,” Grantaire repeats, incredulous. They are drinking wine and watching some movie that’s supposedly essential to Enjolras’ modern education. Enjolras had made an offhand comment about his…situation, and Combeferre had responded. “You, about Jehan— years ?”
“Leave us be,” Enjolras huffs. “Gran taire .” Apologetically, to Combeferre, “I thought he knew, once you two began to spend more time together recently. You suit well.”
“But you’re,” Grantaire gestures to the whole of him.
“I know,” says Combeferre.
“And they’re ,” Grantaire says helplessly.
“I know,” Combeferre agrees, pained.
“None of us are going to be able to scare you,” Grantaire finishes, a little glum and completely nonsensical. “And we knew that, we just thought—ah, shit.”
“Why are you scaring him? Who is we,” Enjolras frowns, and then, because Combeferre is his best friend, plays dirty: “dear?”
“Nope nope nope,” Grantaire blurts, and makes his exit.
“Hmm,” Enjolras says, and settles into the couch, and Combeferre takes the opportunity to text Jehan again. He has a Snapchat. He has an Instagram. Neither of these would be incriminating, except he is now much more active on them. They have a Words With Friends streak, and Combeferre intends to win; there are only so many times Jehan can sneak in strange English words, jentacular or NUDIUSTERTIAN. Agastopia, he texts Jehan triumphantly, which had been the winner of the last round, then KAKORRHAPHIOPHOBIA, which has his phone ringing.
“I’m with Enj and R tonight,” he apologizes, though he’s not sure what for.
“Feuilly and Baz and Joly, myself,” Jehan says in return, then: “I miss you.” They’d seen him this morning. They’ll see him tomorrow, and Saturday night, but suddenly that’s just not enough .
“Miss you too,” Combeferre says, promises: “I’ll see you soon.”
Soon , he thinks, which is more a promise to himself. Soon.
The next morning, he gets up, and almost runs. Tugs at the pull cord that is now Jehan’s doorbell, is breathless and lost even though he knows exactly where he is and what he’s about to say.
Jehan is in ribboned slippers and some godawful hair contraption. There’s a book tucked under their arm, and a mug of coffee, dark and rich just the way Combeferre takes it.
“I like you,” Combeferre confesses.
Jehan’s eyes go round, and their throat works. “Ferre.”
“I know I’m not exciting,” Combeferre presses on. “And I’m older, and a workaholic, and our interests and our schedules and our habits are frighteningly separate but—I care about you. I want to treat you well. I enjoy talking to you and listening to your poetry and I hope—I—“
He feels his cheeks heat, and he stops.
“It sounds,” says Jehan, “as though you really like me.”
“Yes,” admits Combeferre in a rush. Relief and terror run through him at once.
Jehan is quiet for a long moment, and then says: “oh.”
“It’s okay,” Combeferre is quick to say. “I won’t make it awkward, and only Enjolras and R know, so really—“
“Baz and Feuilly and R know.”
Flinching, Combeferre says, “ how ?” That Enjolras confessed his secret doesn’t even cross his mind. It has to be something else. A—a look that went too long. Something about the taxes, or something he said during a rare moment when he was wasted—Combeferre has always tried to be so careful in life, he—
“Because I told them,” says Jehan, simply. “That I liked you.”
Combeferre looks at them. “I’m boring,” he says faintly. “I—I like working and reading and trivia and old philosophy books and—and taxes .”
“I don’t call that boring,” says Jehan. “I call that ‘reliable.’ Compassionate. Cute . I—”
They’re blushing, too. They’re blushing, tucking their chin down, a little shy and unsure and painfully invested in the conversation, in them as a subject to be discussed and mused over. Similar to Combeferre in all the ways that matter.
“Oh,” Combeferre releases quietly. “So we both.”
“Come inside?” says Jehan, and there’s the slightest waver to it. Without it, still Combeferre would’ve gone, but now he steps inside and opens his arms. Jehan sinks into them. “We’re so different , Ferre.”
“I know,” he says, “we’ll figure it out,” and then, too soon, unstoppable, unplanned: “I love you.” Which is a mistake, until it isn’t.
“I love you too.”
Maybe not too soon after all.
It’ll be work. There will be discomfort, and the chance that he’ll lose Jehan sooner than he was able to take their hand. Still—they’ll be worth it. Together, like this, they already are.
Besides the topic of conversation, there isn’t much different about the visit, or the next few that follow. They go slow.
“Can I ask,” Jehan says, chin on Combeferre’s shoulder, “how long you’ve thought about me in that way?”
“You won’t remember,” Combeferre still smiles at it, though. While the length of his feelings (and their subsequent smothering at the hands of his devotion to education) is mildly embarrassing, among all the creative things Jehan’s done, surely they don’t remember a sunlit afternoon among a million. “I was having a horrible week. I fell asleep on a couch, and when I woke up you were darning a hole in my clothes. It was—“ still is “—so kind , and oddly gentle, a creative solution to a problem I didn’t recognize I had.” He shifts, pillows his cheek on Jehan’s hair. “How long has it been on your mind?”
He is expecting weeks , months if he is lucky or given Jehan’s empathy.
“Well,” Jehan says, and presses a kiss to the curve of his shoulder, to a spot previously untouched by anyone below his ear, “I don’t darn just any sleeping student’s sock.”
The next time Combeferre wakes up, Jehan is there. Asleep, but they wake long enough to press a sleepy kiss to his lips and return to dreaming. That’s everything Combeferre’s always wanted, and more.
“I’m happy for you,” Enjolras tells him, at their next get together. “And I shall shovel Jehan, just as Bahorel and Feuilly and R will shovel you.”
“That seems a bit unbalanced,” Combeferre says, but he doesn’t mind.
“You are,” Enjolras wrinkles his nose, “intimidating. Supposedly. Intimidatingly intelligent.”
“I’ve practically carried them home from nights out and given them financial advice,” Combeferre translates. “The issue is that they don’t feel intimidating.”
“Grantaire is lovely,” Enjolras agrees, “sweet,” and hardly pauses or blushes, after. Just smiles. Combeferre wonders when he’ll reach that level of comfort with his own relationship, his own ever-growing feelings. “You are happy?”
“Very,” Combeferre says. Across the room, Jehan is trying to give Marius a cutting of their jade plant. He catches their eye, and they press their lips together, and don’t look away. They are careful, and slow, but building something unexpectedly unbreakable. “Very happy.”
“Your Leonardo di Caprio will not be, when he finds out,” Enjolras says, confiding, “but he will simply have to cope.”