#also i wish i could have thought of any other way to set feuilly apart from the others except the cap but there isnt any other way i fear

[hamlet-not-hamnet]

pages from a sketchbook of an unknown artist, found after the june rebellion of 1832 in the backroom of a parisian café

[dannypuro]

Okay but what was the heinous spelling error Enj made 200ish years ago and was it really as bad as he said it was ?

Also I am here to further scream over your fics and flail about how Good they are and how On Point your characterization is and how I am still thinking about them all. All at once. No exceptions

THANk YOU VERY MUCH AND GOOD NIGHT :^D (the nose is there for Grantaire reasons) - boom-goes-the-canon because Tumblr disallows sending asks from side blogs like governments ban personal lives

( Something Telling verse, post-chapter 9 (aka time-zapped Enjolras, modern-era). also THANK YOU!! HELLO!!! I LOVE YOU!!!!!!!!! GOOD JOB ON YOUR MOST RECENT FIC I ADORE. to everyone else... send me prompts/questions/thoughts. i shall respond to them. thank u)

Feuilly and Bahorel come over for brunch on a Sunday in December. Grantaire makes a quiche, sets the table all nice, and everything, and then realizes, ten minutes before they’re supposed to arrive, that they ran out of coffee the day before. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, as he stares down into the empty bag and wishes that for once in his fucking life he could have just a tiny bit of forethought. “Fuck.”

Enjolras hums from where he sits on the kitchen counter, where he’s been steadily working his way through a truly impressive number of clementines. “Something is wrong?” He asks; he passes Grantaire a piece of clementine, as he says it. (God, Grantaire fucking loves him.)

“Yeah,” he says, but his heart’s not really in it, anymore--it’s hard to keep up any semblance of anger past annoyance when Enjolras is doing things like- like feeding him orange segments, and shit like that. “We- I forgot we’re out of coffee. And Baz and Feuilly’ll be here in, like, a second, and the quiche is still in the oven and I don’t-” he doesn’t have time, and he has never been a shitty brunch host but brunch without coffee is a shitty brunch, and-

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says firmly. He hops down off of the counter, takes a second to frame Grantaire’s face in his hands. “Please do not panic over brunch. I shall go and buy some more coffee.”

Like it’s simple. Fuck, it is simple, and Grantaire loves him, and he’s not going to be a shitty brunch host, and-

“God, I love you,” he says. 

Enjolras smiles, leans up for a quick kiss. “I love you, as well. Now, mind your cookery--I shall return before the hour, and all will be well.” 

He leaves, and Grantaire repeats it to himself--All will be well--and as soon as he’s done that, there’s a crack of thunder, and it starts pouring, icy and relentless, outside the kitchen window. And. Well. So much for that mantra, then. But oh, God, it’s raining, and Enjolras never takes an umbrella with him, and if he had any sense he’d just turn back and come back to the apartment, damn the coffee, but Grantaire knows him, and he knows that he doesn’t have any sense, most of the time, so he stares out the window and wills the rain to stop before his boyfriend freezes to death. 

No such luck. By the time Enjolras gets back, coffee in hand, he’s soaked to the bones, and he’s got an equally-as-sopping Feuilly and Bahorel in tow. 

“R!” Bahorel crows. “Found your boy!”

Grantaire sets the quiche down on the table and looks them over. Feuilly’s teeth are chattering. They’re all three of them dripping on his carpet. Enjolras is wearing Grantaire’s hoodie instead of a coat and beaming. 

Right. A change of plans, then.

They eat brunch on the couch, once Grantaire’s thrown all of their clothes into the dryer and they’ve changed into some of Grantaire’s spare sweatpants. Of course, Baz and Feuilly borrow his clothes because they need to; Enjolras borrows his clothes because he’s fundamentally ridiculous. (Grantaire loves him so fucking much.)

“You know,” Grantaire says, over couch quiche, despite the fact that he already knows that Enjolras does, in fact, know, “You could have just changed into your own clothes. If you wanted to. Since you live here, and all.”

Enjolras gives him a very, very pointed look. And you know what? Fair.

They eat brunch. 

“I did have a question about your essays, actually,” Feuilly says, once they’ve finished the quiche and moved on to coffee and coffee alone. He’s tucked under the same quilt as Enjolras--one of Jehan’s, bright and warm. 

Enjolras nods, snuggles back against Grantaire, where Grantaire’s got an arm wrapped around his chest, where he leans up against him in an awkward half-pivot. “Of course,” he says. “Anything you require, easily.”

“Awesome, great,” Feuilly says, with a smile. “What’s lacrity?”

Grantaire can feel Enjolras tense against him, freeze. Which is… not what he was expecting. “You jest,” he manages, eventually, and Grantaire holds him a little tighter, never mind that he doesn’t know why. 

Feuilly frowns. “Um. No? I mean, I looked it up, but I couldn’t find anything.”

Enjolras is breathing a little faster, now; he takes Feuilly’s hands in his own. “Feuilly, my dear fellow,” he says, and his voice shakes. “Tell me you jest.”

Grantaire doesn’t know what the fuck is going on.

Feuilly looks just about as confused as Grantaire feels. He reaches into his bag, pulls out a book--Enjolras’s book, a little thing, six essays bound in public-domain paper. He opens it to his bookmark, hands it over. “Lacrity,” he says, and then he reads, “It is only through lacrity and fortitude that the people of this nation might ever be free; it stands testament to the chance of man, then, that itis lacrity and fortitude both which comprise the foundation of the citizen’s heart. It’s in the fifth one?”

Enjolras stares down at the book. He clears his throat. “Alacrity,” he says, very, very softly.

“Uh, yeah,” Bahorel says, from where he sits with an arm thrown over Feuilly’s shoulders. “A lacrity. But, like, what is it?”

A pained noise rises at the back of his throat that Grantaire can feel, up against his chest. “You misunderstand me,” he manages. “I- This is a nightmare.” His heart is beating just a little too fast for Grantaire’s comfort.

“Enj?” he tries. “Are you-”

“Excuse me,” he blurts out. “I- Excuse me.” He’s on his feet in an instant, making off for the bedroom before anyone can stop him. Grantaire’s side feels pretty fucking cold, without him.

Feuilly looks stricken. “I don’t- Did I say something?” Grantaire’s feeling pretty stricken, himself--he doesn’t know what happened, doesn’t know what could have gone on in Enjolras’s head that would make him talk to Feuilly with anything other than kindness edging on reverence. 

“I’m gonna go see if he’s-” he gestures towards the bedroom. Bahorel and Feuilly nod. He goes.

Enjolras is sitting on the edge of the bed, head in hands.

Oh, Jesus.

“Enj?” he hazards. 

He doesn’t look up. “This is mortifying,” he mumbles into his palms. “I have been personally wronged by every single editor who has ever lain their hands upon my essays.”

Grantaire still doesn’t- doesn’t really know where they’re going, here. He sits down beside him on the bed. “Did-”

“Lacrity,” Enjolras grits out, half frantic, and finally, he turns to face Grantaire. “Lacrity is not a word. It is- It- Alacrity. Which I did not know when I wrote those essays, because I was twenty-two years of age and a fool. And this is something which, despite the fact that he was paid to do so, my editor did not deem necessary to correct!”

Ah.

Um. 

Grantaire doesn’t really know that he’s qualified to offer comfort on 200-year-old publishing woes, but fuck, he’ll try. “I’m sure-”

Enjolras holds a hand up to stop him. He stops. “This was bad enough. I was already aware of this injustice. What I cannot abide is the fact that evidently, in the two hundred years since its unfortunate publication, nobody has taken pity enough to correct it! And now Feuilly thinks that I am a fool! Grantaire, this is humiliating!”

He’s looking pretty genuinely distressed; Grantaire can’t bear to do anything but to pull him into a hug, firm and solid. Enjolras, for all his bristle, folds in against his chest. “Feuilly doesn’t think you’re a fool,” he says, into his curls. “Feuilly thinks you’re awesome.”

He lets out a pained groan. “I shall never recover.”

Yeah, okay. Grantaire holds him a little tighter. Only- “Hey, why don’t you care about me or Baz thinking you’re a fool?” 

Enjolras snorts a laugh against his chest. “I have personally witnessed Bahorel misspell his own profession. I hold little concern that his regard for me will be impacted.”

Honestly? Fair. “But-”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and he pulls back just enough to press his forehead to Grantaire’s. (Grantaire’s heart thrums.) “We live together. We are courting. If you do not already know that I am a fool, I worry that you never will.”

“You’re not-” he says, on impulse, and then he thinks about, like, actually living with Enjolras, fucking wonderful thing, and he grins. “Well. Maybe a little,” he admits.

Enjolras smiles back, still half-shaky. “Perhaps a little,” he says. 

“Feuilly doesn’t think you’re a fool,” Grantaire reminds him, firm. “Feuilly likes you no matter how many typos you made when you were twenty-two.”

He sighs. “Oh, I suppose so.”

Grantaire kisses him, because he can. Enjolras takes a minute to kiss him back, then stands with a sigh. 

“I suppose that I had better explain my pitiable situation to Feuilly, then,” he says, with a hint of a smile. 

“Guess so,” Grantaire says, and he lets Enjolras tug him to his feet and press a kiss to his cheek, before they go.

[lesmisiskillingme]

Safe Now

Pairing: Enjoltaire, jehanparnasse. Warnings: alcohol mention, drug mention, police brutality, blood, swearing, injuries. Modern au Ring. Ring. Ring. Montparnasse groaned, reaching out to the noise to shut that goddamn thing off, he could already feel a headache starting. He looked at what it said on the phone and in white letters was 'Grantaire.' Parnasse decided to answer it for once, and was met with a voice that was not Grantaires, but was Combeferre. Before he could hang up, and somehow Ferre could sense it, Ferre yelled into the speaker, 'Parnasse wait! It's about Grantaire!' That stopped him. 'What about Grantaire?' 'You remember that protest we had scheduled for today at the bank?' Yes. Parnasse remembered. He had said he would go, he promised Jehan he would come. 'Oh fuck, yeah, please tell me I didn't miss it.' God. He had disappointed Jehan again. But he got flashes of the night before, loud music, lots of shots, and some sort of drug being inhaled. His head hurt more. 'Yeah, you did, but listen, Grantaire, Jehan, and a couple others got hurt, you might want to come to the hospital, and quick, they're taking R into surgery soon.' 'Wait wait wait. Hold the fuck up, surgery?' He waited for Combeferre to fill him in on what happened, but all he did was sigh and say, 'Just come to the hospital on Belbury, I'll fill you in when you get here, and you might want to hurry.' 'Ok, be there in fifteen.' The hospital was only five minutes walking distance, so he shot up, and got dressed, in some black jeans, and his leather jacket, and a dark blue vneck. Parnasse walked out of the apartment, and into the cool mid afternoon air, glad he'd put on his leather jacket to keep warm. Taking long strides, and rubbing his arms, he wished he had gotten a scarf, but he ignored the cold, and set his thoughts on getting to the hospital. It must be bad if Grantaire is getting surgery. Hell. How was Grantaire going to pay his medical bill? He was already a struggling artist, and had dropped out of college because he couldn't deal with all the debt piling up. And Jehan. Jehan needed to be ok, he couldn't be hurt, it would be Parnasses fault. His fault he got drunk off his ass the night before, and sleeping through the protest. And he didn't know how bad Jehan was hurt. If Parnasse had just not fucked up, hadn't gotten high last night, he could have been their. He could have been their to stop Jehan from getting hurt. He walked through the entrance, greeted by another rush of cold air, giving no relief from the weather outside, and immediately saw familiar faces, but they were worse for wear. Courfeyrac had a black eye, and had fallen asleep, his head resting on the wall, Combeferre had dried blood on his cheek, where there was a bandage, and dried blood that had seeped through. Eponine looked unscathed for the most part, other than looking dog tired, and she smiled weakly at him. Joly had his knee in a brace, and his eyes looked extremely pink, giving away the fact that he had been crying recently. Boussuet and Feuilly weren't in the room at the moment. Marius was in the corner, asleep, and he too had a black eye, and his wrist was bandaged. And then, there was Enjolras, who looked like a dog, with a terribly wild look in his eyes, his lip was split, and his cheek was bruised, and had a cut over his eyebrow, blood still trickling from it into his eye, but he seemed unaffected. Montparnasse had never seen the fearless leader so, well, fearful. Combeferre was the first to notice he was here, and walked up to him, limping. 'What the fuck happened to you all?' He asked. Nobody had ever gotten hurt like this at one of there protests, sure a few scrapes and bruises, but never this. If the les amis in the room weren't all that banged up, he could only imagine what had happened to Grantaire, and Jehan. 'It all happened so quick, we were protesting, and Enjolras was hyping up the crowd that had gathered around the bank, yelling about the wage gap, and other things. Suddenly, the police were their, and tear gas had been thrown into the crowd, forcing them to disperse, people ran in all different directions, I fell onto the pavement and I was lucky enough to fall onto some glass from a bottle, I got about 67 stitches in my side, and 5 on my cheek here.' He gestured to his cheek, and continued on. 'The others got hurt, I'll let you ask how they got hurt because I don't know, I only really know how Grantaire got hurt. He got the worst of it. Enjolras, he was still attempting to protest through the tear gas, and I guess he got too close to the police for there comfort, because next thing I know a few guns are pointing at him, and he didn't care, fucking E. He knew he was in danger. Before the cops could hurt him though, Grantaire fucking pushes Enjolras out of the way, as a trigger happy bloke pulled the goddamn trigger, and got him in his shoulder. It was absolute mayhem, you should be happy you missed the protest.' And before he could inquire about Jehan,Ferre shook his head, 'No idea what happened to him, neither does anyone else, and none of us are able to see him.' 'Why the hell not?' 'For some fucking reason only relatives can visit.' He sighed. Even more troubled now. He should have been their goddamnit. What if when Jehan had been hurt he'd been all alone? He sat down in an empty chair next to Eponine, who laid her head on his shoulder. 'At least she's ok,' he thought. Ep and him had been friends for years now. He would die if she ever got hurt. Not too long after, a nurse came out, saying that right before the surgery, 3 people could visit Grantaire. (Montparnasse learned that the bullet had shattered in his shoulder on impact, and he would be getting the surgery to have the pieces removed) (he also learned that Marius would be covering the cost of the medical bill, as he still had a savings account for college, but had dropped out a while ago) it was him, Enjolras, and Eponine who had been picked to visit him. Enjolras was in first, already by R's side, holding his hand and kissing his cheek, apologizing profusely, apologizing and apologizing. R just smiled, loopy from the painkillers and cupped E's cheek, slurring out a sentence, 'Apollo, fret not, I may not be a god like you, but I will live on.' E blushed, still holding his hand, and R gave a faint smile, eyes droopy, and his eyes turned to Eponine, who looked pissed, and said to him sternly, 'Grantaire, I swear to god, if you ever get yourself hurt like that again I will make sure to withhold your steady supply of liquor from all of the shops in this city-' her voice broke, and tears slid down her cheeks, as she knelt down to Grantaire in a crushing hug, and whispered '-but I'm glad you're ok.' For some reason, he felt out of place. He wasn't about to break down in tears, but he was glad his friend was ok. So he walked over to R, bent over and placed a small kiss on his forehead, and smiled, 'I'm glad your ok R.' And he walked out, leaving the 2 to talk to R some more before his surgery. He walked over to the front desk asking for the patient Jean Prouvaire. 'I'm sorry sir, but only relatives are able to visit, how are you related to this patient?' Quick, Montparnasse, quick. He suddenly said, 'They're my husband, please. Can I please see them?' No. They weren't married. But Parnasse cared about Jehan, he would even go as far as to say that he loved them. The nurse was already up, and leading him to Jehans room, and when he walked in, Montparnasse nearly collapsed. Jehan had bandages covering almost all of the skin that was exposed, and had bandages wrapped around there head. Jehan looked up, and a bright smile came onto there face. He rushed over, and goddamnit he was crying, and he was kissing jehan, kissing his cheek, his lips, his nose, and letting his tears run freely, unashamed. He held onto Jehan like they would be ripped away at any moment, and he just started babbling, 'Jehan god I'm so sorry, I'm so so sorry, how could you I ever forgive me it's my fault you were hurt, I should have been their with you, I shouldn't have fucked around with drugs last night. It's all my fault, please, please forgive me oh my god, Jehan-' he stopped to sob, and kissed Jehan fiercely, who was chuckling and had tears sliding down their cheeks too, kissing back. 'Please tell me -sob- what the hell happened to you, I swear if someone touched you they will be sorry they were born.' 'Ma beauté, it was nothing, just a slight kerfuffle with the police.' 'Jehan. What did they do to you?' He looked at Jehan, who suddenly got a sad look in there eyes, and sighed, knowing that really, they couldn't hide the truth. 'A couple of the police, they dragged me away from the crowd, beat me up in an alley, I passed out after a while and was found by some passerby.' Montparnasse saw red. He couldn't feel anything either than pure, ferocious, anger. The voice that came out of him, wasn't his, but a completely different persons, 'I swear I will make them pay, they will be sorry that they ever laid a finger on you, I won't ever let anyone hurt you again, because I love you so so much, and I would die if I ever saw you hurt aga-' 'Mon ange, what did you say?' And Jehan had a mischievous look on their face, that, if possible, made Montparnasse love them even more. 'I, I love you, I do, and I would do anything for you. I would go to all the protests, I would quit drinking I would do anything for you, quite literally, and I'm not afraid to hide it.' And Montparnasse was so relieved, he had wanted to tell Jehan that he loved them from the moment they went on their first date, and Jehan had recited a small poem Shakespeare had written to him. 'Mon amour, I have you, and that is all I need, and I love you too, utterly and completely.' Montparnasse engulfed Jehan in a hug, and they stayed like that for a couple for minutes, before Jehan pulled away, kissing Parnasse, and smiled at him blushing. Jehan scooted over, and patted next to them on the bed, signaling for him to lay with him, and he did just that. They laid down, and Parnasse pressed one last kiss against the bandages and red hair on Jehans head, and Jehan had started to doze off, and Parnasse held him while he was asleep. And Parnasse could relax, knowing that Jehan was safe in his arms.

[akumastrife]

“Falling Blind” // Courferre

Rating: T Pairing: Combeferre/Courfeyrac Fandom: Les Mis Word Count: 2.2k [Also on AO3]

Summary: Combeferre doesn't often agree to being set up on blind dates, but when he does they generally go poorly. But being set up with the WRONG blind date is certainly new. For @courfalicious, who’s birthday is today, and is also lovely and sweet as spun sugar and infinitely patient <3333 hope you enjoy boo 

Combeferre should’ve never agreed to this. He feels stupid sitting alone, dressed up (if you could even call it dressed up when it’s only a crisp button up under a new sweater vest. The excuse to buy a new sweater vest is the only part about this whole charade he likes,) and picking at the bread basket nervously. He doesn’t even know why he’s nervous. It’s only been… well, a while, since he’s been on a proper date; let alone a date he’s actually aware he’s on—Bahorel might never let that go. That sort of thing could happen to anyone!

He checks his watch again, folding up his sleeves in the process because nerves always make his clothes feel a bit stuffy. His date is late. Very late. Of course he is. This is what happens when he lets his friends set him up on blind dates and he doesn’t know why he allows it. Knowing his luck, the guy might not even show up. He texts Enjolras as much, frowning when Enjolras has little in the way of encouragement. He’s not even sure why he’d texted Enjolras with this. Feuilly would’ve been a better choice.

He’s just about to when the door to the little restaurant flies open, bringing the late February breeze with it and… a rumpled young man. He has rosy cheeks, his curls askew, and grins two parts frazzled and one part apologetic at the Host. The young man’s coat is undone and his scarf looped incorrectly.

Combeferre is a little charmed. In a detached, uninvested sort of way.

He’s still looking, completely uninterested of course in this whirl-wind of a human being, when the man looks around and locks eyes with him. A mistake, because then he makes his way over to Combeferre’s table with a careful smile and says, “Sorry, but I’m supposed to be meeting someone? I’m Courfeyrac?” as he offers his hand.

Combeferre takes it because he’s not sure what else to do. Courfeyrac looks so hopeful, and the name is ringing a vague bell, so maybe…

“Combeferre,” he replies, offering a polite smile in return and gestures to the other chair. So his blind date isn’t so bad looking; objectively, of course.

There’s a curious look in Courfeyrac’s eye, a tilt to his head that seems befuddled by something, but in the end just says, “I’m late,” cowed and somehow not at all as he finally settles with great fanfare.

“Very,” Combeferre confirms. But his smile turns a little more genuine and doesn’t apologize about the empty break basket. Courfeyrac doesn’t mention it. “So, our meddling friends. What did they promise you with to come?”

“Nothing, actually. Thought it’d be fun.” Courfeyrac grins cheeky, leaning across the table. “I’m offended you were forced here. My company and radiant visage not enough?”

Combeferre leans across to meet him and plucks a dead leaf from his hair, showing it to Courfeyrac, who shows off a set of dimples. “I’m not usually fond of blind dates, you’ll have to forgive me. They never work out.”

Courfeyrac hums and picks up his menu, pretending to give it great consideration before peering over the top. “Usually?”

Combeferre shrugs one shoulder and doesn’t answer. No sense getting ahead of himself. This is far less awkward than he’d expected, much less than any of the ones Jehan’s set him up with before. In fact, Courfeyrac is nothing like Jehan described; much more open and light, taller than anticipated, and his skin has the warmth he sees mainly when visiting Spain. But this… might be fun, if nothing else.

And it is. They order, and then Courfeyrac is leaning close again, fascinated with his tattoos of the solar system up one arm. He pokes and prods certain lines, asking questions and nothing less than fawning, honestly. They sip wine and pick at their dinner, more focused on talking about classes and interests and their friends.

“Bossuet is my matchmaker, so that’s why I was late,” Courfeyrac says around his bite, gesturing wildly with his fork. As if that means anything, and at Combeferre lifting an eyebrow, he elaborates, “He gave me the wrong address and then got your name wrong, too. But that may be error in translation from… Jehan, you said?”

And then later, Combeferre asking, “Wait so… you’re not studying particle physics?”

“God no,” Courfeyrac answers, hand to his chest like the thought has frightened him half to death. “What on earth would give you that idea? I’m in the arts.”

“Oh. It’s just… Jehan said… never mind,” Combeferre says. He’s got a rising suspicion about all this, but is having too nice of a time to think too hard about it. He asks instead what section of the arts Courfeyrac is interested in and what he’s been doing with it thus far.

He was never planning on staying too long, wasn’t planning on getting so caught up in Courfeyrac’s sparkling eyes and the animated way he tells stores and often peppers speech with little, casual touches. But it’s hard not to, Courfeyrac is a whirlwind. He stays for dessert, another glass of wine, long after their plates have been cleared away and Courfeyrac insists on paying to make up for his tardiness. They stay longer than most of the other patrons, until Combeferre notices their waiter giving them looks and gently redirecting Courfeyrac out onto the street.

Offering to walk him home is only polite, and has nothing to do with the way Courfeyrac throws his head back when he laughs and needs someone to fix his scarf periodically. And certainly not at all related to how Courfeyrac is a tactile person, and expectedly lets his hand brush Combeferre’s as they walk. They’ve had such a nice time Combeferre barely second-guesses reaching back, hands chilled with the low temperature but warm between their palms.

It’s easy. Courfeyrac is far too easy to be around, especially when he makes his intentions blindingly clear (Combeferre, with a track record for missing hints and openings, is pathetically relieved for this,) and smiles at Combeferre in that beseeching way he does. They take the long way through the park at Courfeyrac’s behest, and it’s well past dark when they find themselves at Courfeyrac’s doorstep.

They stand together, quiet and companionable for a long moment; Combeferre glancing up at the stars, and Courfeyrac glancing over at him.

“I had fun tonight,” Courfeyrac says, jostling Combeferre’s hand.

“Me too,” he admits. He can’t help returning the smile. Courfeyrac’s gaze flits down to his mouth, fast but unmistakable, and Combeferre inhales a little quick. Oh. “May I?” he asks, lifting his free hand to hover at the edge of Courfeyrac’s jaw, not quite touching. Not yet.

“God I wish you would,” Courfeyrac breathes out in a rush. And then they’re kissing, neither sure which moved first, just that Combeferre is careful, and Courfeyrac is humming and opening everything up faster than Combeferre usually does, but it’s not surprising somehow. It fits Courfeyrac.

Combeferre’s not thinking much at all after that. He pushes his fingers up into Courfeyrac’s curls, not tugging, and letting Courfeyrac coax his lips apart, letting Courfeyrac lead the kiss however he likes. It’s loose and warm, and while he wouldn’t label it sloppy or anything, it does remind him vaguely of the way Courfeyrac, barely put together, seemed carried in by a wild wind.

It’s a good kiss. A good kiss that turns into several, and then several more, until Courfeyrac is grinning into his mouth, warm hands somehow having found their way into Combeferre’s jacket against his ribs. He pulls away, and Combeferre almost doesn’t want to let him, but he does, breathing a touch heavy and caught on the color high on Courfeyrac’s cheeks under a near streetlight.

“Would you like to come up?” Courfeyrac asks. “For a drink or we could,” he swallows, seems to need a moment to catch his breath, glancing down at Combeferre’s mouth again, “could continue talking about that non-profit you mentioned. Or. Or something else.”

They’re very close, neither having let go of the other. Courfeyrac’s voice is barely above a murmur. It does something to Combeferre’s normally logical and wary thought process. “I wouldn’t… want to impose.” He remembers something about a roommate. And he really should go into the lab tomorrow morning if he wants to get a head start on his paper. And they just met, and while he’s far from prudish, maybe they should… wait? But he can’t think of a reason why, in this moment.

“Not an imposition. I would like it. Very much.” Courfeyrac kisses it into his mouth. “Marius is at his girlfriend’s anyway. It’s fine.”

“Oh,” Combeferre says intelligently. Warm seeps down beneath his shirt, and it takes a moment to separate it from Courfeyrac’s hands and realize it’s because he’s pleased—the contentment and excitement tentatively  unfurling low in his chest. “Alright. A drink… sounds nice.”

Courfeyrac grins oddly sharp at him, and pulls at his hands.

They do have a drink. Or, half of one, before Combeferre wants to kiss him again and Courfeyrac is happy to oblige. More than, by the way he turns it quick into something deeper, drawing Combeferre in so easy because it’s all Combeferre wants too. Courfeyrac likes to bite, he finds out, not hard. Teasing nips and scrapes against his mouth and neck alike, and when he shivers into it he finds out that he likes it too.

Not as much as he likes the soft sounds Courfeyrac makes, likes how much Courfeyrac likes his hands.

Courfeyrac is the one to propel them down a hallway, into a bedroom, murmuring, “C’mon, Ferre… can I call you that?”

Combeferre nods; kisses Courfeyrac deeper, lets Courfeyrac turn it dirty and nearly smiles at the way it makes Courfeyrac laugh. He likes that sound too—the bright way he laughs. He nods again, either as added confirmation or unspoken appreciation for the way he laughs or even overwhelming consent for where this is headed, maybe all three, it doesn’t matter. He’s got his hands in Courfeyrac’s curls and against his neck, and Courfeyrac’s own hands are snaking down into his waistband, tugging his shirttails free.

It’s easy, so easy, to follow Courfeyrac’s pushing, to tumble down onto a bed together, Courfeyrac laughing and Combeferre grinning into his skin, hands wandering and their kisses following suit. Easier for Combeferre to roll them over, to pin Courfeyrac down because he goes so willingly, arching into all of it with a breathy sigh and lax limbs and a hungry expression in his eyes that’ve gone glassy and dilated.

“‘Ferre, ‘Ferre,” Courfeyrac whispers, a third attempt cut off stuttering when Combeferre shifts on his knees and grinds down against him. Even with their clothes on it’s good, a dull ache that spreads warmth like sparks.

“Hmm?”

Courfeyrac shakes his head, tugs at his pants again.

It’s all the invitation Combeferre needs.

~*~

When their heart beats start to slow, skin cooling from feverish to pleasantly warm to match the exhaustion in muscles and everywhere else, Courfeyrac shifts under Combeferre’s arm and asks, “So. What did your friends offer to get you to go out with me?”

Combeferre blinks, thrown by the question and struggling to make his sluggish brain catch up. “You know. I don’t quite remember.”

Courfeyrac laughs, pleased as anything, and curls into him more.

~*~

Combeferre wakes before Courfeyrac, who’s starfished across Combeferre and the bed, his curls fanning out across the pillows in the same fashion. Combeferre just smiles in amusement at him, reaching to attempt to tame something into place, but ultimately gets up to see if he can find and properly make some coffee.

He pulls on a pair of Courfeyrac’s sweats as he goes. The roommate is out, but it’d be incredibly presumptuous of him to parade around someone else’s apartment naked. And dangerous.

It’s a good thing he does, because as the coffee pot is just about finished there’s the sound of keys in the door and then it’s swinging open and then an alarmed sort of sputtering from the mouth of the kitchen.

“Who… what’s going on! Who’re you? Are you robbing us?”

“Shirtless, darling? He’s probably with Courf.”

Combeferre turns, eyeing the freckled red-head and is instantly distracted by the girl on his arm. “Cosette. Lovely to see you.”

“Oh! ‘Ferre! Good morning!” She comes across the room for a hug, leaving her boyfriend confused and still looking frightened and like he’s expecting to be held up. He’s a bit like a fawn.

“I take it you’re the roommate,” Combeferre says to him, much less like a question than he intended. There’s no way he’s not. “Marius?”

Marius nods, eyes still wide and bulging. “But who are you?”

“Darling, this is Combeferre,” Cosette says patiently. She looks between them, pinched expression lingering on Marius longer each time.

Combeferre understands all at once what it must be. “I’m… not the one Courfeyrac was intended to be on a blind date with.” Marius dumbly shakes his head. “That clears a few things up, then,” he says, and turns back to the pair of mugs he’d pulled down before being interrupted. “How does he take his coffee?”

“It’s the weekend, so milk, two sugars,” Marius rattles off.

“Thank you.” He doctors the coffee up as instructed, smiles at Cosette, and ambles back down the hall to wake up the wrong date.

Or, the right one. However he wants to look at it.