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Combeferre knows that he is better at being in love with places than with people.
He knows, because Courfeyrac told him so.
(“Oh,” Courfeyrac had said. He had pretty, pretty eyes, and he had looked up at Combeferre as though he were responding to a question. “You’re in love with Paris.”
And Combeferre, who had been there all but a day, had nodded and said, “Yes.”)
That was a few years ago, when Combeferre arrived in the city as a student: nervous and determined not to show it. Of course, one of the first people he met was Courfeyrac, who knows exactly what everyone is feeling at all times.
So he saw right away how achingly beautiful Combeferre thought Paris was—full of light, full of people, full of magic. Every corner of it fascinating, and all of it like a dream after the small, bitter town that Combeferre grew up in. He had been one of the only kids in his school with a skin tone darker than what one could achieve from sunbathing by the Mediterranean all summer. He was also a handspun taller than all his classmates by the age of seven, and the only boy who preferred curling up with a book to anything else.
At home, Combeferre stuck out in far too many ways. In Paris, there is only one way that matters: he can’t do magic.
(“I hate the phrase ‘doing magic,’” Grantaire had said once, lazily, with a raised eyebrow and a mess of tangled hair. “You’re using magic. It’s there whether or not you try to touch it.”
“I can’t touch it either way,” Combeferre had returned mildly. But he filed the opinion away anyway.)
So he can’t use magic. He feels it, but it eludes his grasp always. He has nothing like the fine-tuned awareness of Grantaire, who navigates with his eyes closed; he has nothing like the constant flowing conversation of emotions that Courfeyrac runs internally.
But he can feel it. It’s like sunlight on the back of his head, when his front is shrouded in shadow. The heat of a fire he can’t see. Music, though there are no musicians to be found. Combeferre always has his palms held open, but no one ever reaches out to take his hands.
When he wakes up in the morning, he can hear Courfeyrac singing and the quiet sound of Enjolras’s brand-new laughter. Combeferre blinks slowly and stares at the fragmented triangles of sunlight on the white walls of his room.
Oh, he thinks. Oh, no.
There’s a familiar heavy sadness in his chest that lets him now, gentle and easy, that this is not going to be a good day.
He fumbles for his phone to check the time and breathes a sigh of relief. He isn’t late, he’s fine, he doesn’t have to get up just yet. The phone is relegated to the side table once more and Combeferre curls in on himself, just a little. He won’t have much longer to relax. He lives with Courfeyrac, after all.
The library will be full of sunlight today. Combeferre blinks lazily and reminds himself how beautiful the top floor will be, with light pouring down through the glass roof onto the dark wooden bookshelves. The atrium will be full, after a long and relaxed weekend, and everyone will be returning their books or frantically seeking new ones. It’s going to be a beautiful day. Combeferre can’t convince himself that he’s excited.
“Combeferre!”
The door to his room flies open and then Courfeyrac is there with a smile. His hair is a mess, and he’s eating cereal out of a red bowl with white polka dots. He’s lovely.
Combeferre pushes himself up into a sitting position and wraps his arms around his knees. “Good morning,” he says blearily.
“Enjolras was just here,” Courfeyrac informs him. “I think I might invite him to start sleeping here instead of at Grantaire’s, since we actually have a couch?” Combeferre just shrugs. Courfeyrac comes to sit cross-legged on the end of the bed and continues eating his cereal. “What time do you have work today?”
“I start at noon,” Combeferre says quietly. He feels weary and a little sad, which isn’t so unusual for him, but he doesn’t like starting the day this way. Courfeyrac can clearly tell, because his expression (complimented by his purple eyes) is a shade too understanding. “I have to get up soon.”
“I’ll make you breakfast,” Courfeyrac offers kindly, and then he gets up and pads back into the kitchen in his bright yellow socks.
Combeferre makes the executive decision to get out of bed. And to put on a shirt. And pants and socks and all of it, because there’s nothing to be gained from being lazy, today or any day. Within a few minutes he’s ready to go into the kitchen and properly face the morning.
The sunlight is streaming into this room too, from the window over the sink. Courfeyrac is standing at the counter buttering toast. He’s still in his morning finery: a loose white t-shirt, no pants over his ridiculously patterned boxers, and those equally ridiculous socks. Combeferre tugs at the sleeves of his sweater. Courfeyrac turns around.
“I made tea.” Courfeyrac points, and a green mug full of tea lifts itself off the table and floats over to Combeferre. He takes the handle easily and takes a sip.
“Thank you.”
Courfeyrac waves the words way. “Sit. Eat. You’re going to be even more upset if you go to work without anything in your stomach.”
Combeferre loves this kitchen. He loves the green mugs and the red bowls and the sunlight that comes through the window, because Combeferre has always been best at loving places. But oh god, he loves Courfeyrac too. He loves Paris, and the apartment, and this ridiculous boy with milk on his chin.
He sits down at the table. A plate full of toast and haphazardly cut fruit drifts across the kitchen and lands in front of him. It tugs a smile from Combeferre’s mouth as he starts to eat.
After a moment, Courfeyrac sits across from him. He finishes his cereal with an expression of great contentment, and the kitchen is silent except for the quiet noises as they each pursue their breakfast.
“Why was Enjolras here this morning?” Combeferre asks. He nibbles the edge of his toast. Courfeyrac had spread honey on it, which is an obvious attempt to make Combeferre eat the whole thing. He can’t resist anything sweet.
Courfeyrac smiles. “I think he mostly wanted a reason to take a walk, actually. His head was absolutely spinning.”
“His curse is broken, though,” Combeferre says. “I thought his head would have calmed some.” He keeps steadily eating his toast.
“Not now that he can’t talk to all sorts of new people without worrying about how they’ll react.” Courfeyrac takes another bite of cereal. “I think he’s worried about what to do next,” he admits.
Combeferre can tell that Courfeyrac is trying hard to stay out of his head, a courtesy that nonetheless makes him feel tired. He ought to leave for work. That would be the smart thing to do, and Combeferre has always been told that he is exceptionally smart. He takes one last bite and stands up.
“I’ll eat your fruit, if you have to go,” Courfeyrac says. He smiles at Combeferre.
“We should do something tonight,” Combeferre says. Then he clears his throat. “With Enjolras. Take him to a movie, or the theater.”
“That would be nice!”
Combeferre walks out the door a few moments later, and feels a petite tear in the corner of his heart. He wonders, always, how things would be different if Courfeyrac loved him too. They could wake up in the sun-drenched morning together, and make breakfast together, and Combeferre wouldn’t feel like his sternum is cracking and breaking as he leaves the apartment to go to work. He thinks things would be different, but he’s never going to ask.
Courfeyrac can feel emotions, and Combeferre loves him.
The fact that Courfeyrac has never brought it up is answer enough.
*
Almost everyone that works in the library has a cache of books that they shouldn’t have—books about dark magic, books with forgotten techniques of necromancy considered too gruesome for polite society, books about experiments with deadly results. Combeferre doesn’t even has his own office, but he does have a shelf where he keeps rune books of dubious reputation.
(He also has a few books—only a few—about the type of emotional push-and-pull magic that Courfeyrac lives with. There isn’t much about it to be found. Courfeyrac, Combeferre has found, is a very special case.)
Combeferre, in the quiet moments between shelving and loading books, tries to look around for runes that could have something to do with Enjolras’s curse. Enjolras isn’t spouting gold coins anymore, of course, but Combeferre could never resist a mystery, and he doesn’t want to put the whole thing out of his head just yet.
He also spends a few extra moments among the curse books in the stacks, whenever he finds himself among the correct bookshelves.
(There are too many pauses in his work. Too many moments when he finds himself staring absently at the books, not doing anything. Too many instances where he sits down to get a look at the lower shelves and then just stays sitting, a little too weary to get back to his feet. He’s more prone to distraction these days, and more likely to flip through the books in his hands to see what they’re about. He’s a good employee. He is often commended for his work. There is a part of him that can’t help but wonder what his bosses would do if they saw how often he lingers in the stacks, idly reading, when he’s supposed to be hauling books back to the office.)
But he doesn’t find anything. The library is full of light, like he thought it would be, and the air is warm and the patrons are polite and Combeferre’s boss gives him a clap on the shoulder when he finds a book that’s been missing, but none it helps lift the fledgling sadness that perches in his chest like a bird. He can still hear it singing at the end of his shift. He longs for the sound of Courfeyrac’s voice instead.
Combeferre is selfish. He should stay away from Courfeyrac when his mind moves so slowly and sadly. It isn’t fair for both of them to be taken down by ridiculous melancholy.
*
He almost doesn’t go home that night. But he does. He loves Courfeyrac and he’s selfish with it.
And it does lift his mood, to see the easy way Courfeyrac pulls together dinner with Enjolras in the kitchen and shows off all the cooking magic he knows.
(“What are you doing now?”
“Making the spoon stir the sauce, Enjolras. Do you want to try the spell?”
“Oh, well—?”
“That’s it, that’s—wait, wait!”
“Oh, hell.”
“Well. I’ve never seen it do that before.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it, Enj, every good chef should get tomato sauce on the ceiling at least once.”)
They go to a movie afterwards, like Combeferre had suggested, and it’s something light and happy that makes all of them laugh and enjoy themselves. Combeferre feels better. He feels balanced with Enjolras and Courfeyrac next to him, in a way that feels important. He wonders if the best magic really does happen in threes.
He and Enjolras don’t do much magic, though Combeferre knows that Enjolras will, soon. He isn’t jealous, but it’s nice. For now, it’s nice.
*
Combeferre has one arm slung over Courfeyrac’s shoulder for the entire walk home. He isn’t sure how that happened, but he likes it. Enjolras ambles on his other side with his hands in his pockets and his eyes bright and interested, like always. He peppers them with questions every step of the way home, about the movie, about magical film, about the spells put on the theater. The conversation spirals out from there.
“So it’s illegal,” Courfeyrac is saying, “but yeah, you can modify your entire appearance if you want to. Actors in movies usually only do subtle stuff but there are people like, on the run from the government who will completely change their faces.”
“You change your eye color all the time,” Enjolras notes.
Courfeyrac laughs. “That’s purely cosmetic,” he says. “It’s like hair dye—it fades. To permanently change them would take a lot more power. But a lot of people dabble in the easy stuff, you know, like keeping your skin clear.”
Combeferre cuts in. “A lot of people use magic purely for the convenience. Not everyone feels the need to experiment as much as, say, Grantaire does.”
Enjolras huffs out a quiet laugh.
He parts from them a few streets later, headed back to Grantaire’s place, though Combeferre knows that Grantaire doesn’t have a sleeping space to spare. He doesn’t ask about it. Instead, he just shakes his head and keeps his arm around Courfeyrac for the whole walk back to the apartment they share.
“I hope Grantaire doesn’t have him sleeping on the floor,” Courfeyrac grouses. “I think Enjolras is too fascinated by him to remember that rest is a thing that humans need.”
Combeferre hums.
“I’ll talk to him about it tomorrow,” Courfeyrac decides as they climb the apartment stairs.
*
The rest of the evening is quiet, but Combeferre finds that he can’t sleep. He goes to the kitchen around midnight and begins slowly making his way through a carton of blackberries. He didn’t eat enough today, but his appetite hasn’t been making an appearance lately. He counts the tiles on the kitchen floor as he leans against the counter and eats.
Courfeyrac pads into the kitchen a minute later, clearly on a quest for a glass of water. “Do you have work tomorrow?”
“Nope.” Combeferre holds out a blackberry and smiles when Courfeyrac accepts it. “I probably won’t sleep in too long, though.”
“God forbid you ever relax,” Courfeyrac teases him gently. His purple eyes are very bright and very fond.
A bolt of affection hit Combeferre directly in the chest. He eats another blackberry.
Courfeyrac’s expression has changed. He looks a little sad, and he rubs the back of his neck as he looks out the window.
Combeferre sets the blackberries down and goes to press one hand to his friend’s shoulder. “You okay?” he asks. He knows better than anyone that Courfeyrac’s moods are ever-changing and often upsetting.
The smile that Courfeyrac gives him is brave. “You feel happy,” he says, ignoring the question. “I’m happy for you.”
Combeferre watches him for a moment. Something about this conversation feels off, somehow. He doesn’t have a grasp of the subtext. “I am happy,” he says slowly.
“I don’t mean…” Courfeyrac starts, and then stops himself. The line of his mouth turns down. “Forgive me,” he says, with a quick glance at Combeferre’s face. “You’ve been a bit low today.”
Combeferre just nods.
“But there’s always such a strain of warmth in it,” Courfeyrac continues determinedly. “Even on your worst days, you have such a lightness in your thoughts.” Then he shakes his head, contrite. “I’m sorry. It isn’t my place to pry into your emotions.”
“We’ve talked about this,” Combeferre says, because they have. “I know you can’t help it. You know I don’t mind.” He takes Courfeyrac’s hand, hoping that some of the fondness that he feels for this boy will make him smile again.
Courfeyrac still looks unhappy. He’s constantly worried about the lack of privacy that close contact with him can entail, and though Combeferre is a private man, he has never felt ashamed of Courfeyrac knowing when he’s sad.
Courfeyrac looks mournfully at their joined hands. “Sometimes I can’t tell your thoughts from mine,” he admits. “Those are the worst moments.”
“The worst?” Combeferre asks. He draws back so they’re no longer touching.
“Only because it gives me false hope,” Courfeyrac says. He’s still looking down at his palms as though determined not to meet Combeferre’s eyes. As Combeferre watches, Courfeyrac slides one of his silver rings onto his fingers, a deliberate show of dampening his power.
Combeferre blinks at him. He feels like he’s been struck upside the head. “What?”
Courfeyrac tips his chin down further. “I’ve made that mistake before,” he says quietly. “I mistook my own emotions for someone else’s.” His voice fails him; he breathes out slowly. “I’m more careful now.”
Combeferre smiles, barely, and feels his breath trip in his chest. “You’ve always known my thoughts. Take pity on the fact that I don’t know yours.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Courfeyrac insists.
Combeferre dares to take a step forward and put his hands on Courfeyrac’s shoulders. “Courfeyrac, the way you feel is the most important thing in the world to me.”
“Pinning down a thunderstorm would be easier than trying to make sense of the way I feel,” Courfeyrac deflects. “I’m just patchwork, Combeferre. Made up of everyone else’s thoughts.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute.”
“Well, it’s true.”
“Tell me what you meant.”
“What I meant about what?”
Combeferre takes a step closer. “Tell me what you meant,” he says again, “about false hope.”
Courfeyrac shuts his eyes and curls his hands in the hem of Combeferre’s shirt. “You feel like you’re in love,” he says carefully.
Combeferre slides his hand up Courfeyrac’s shoulder until he can press his thumb into the notch between Courfeyrac’s collarbones. “You say that like it hurts.”
Courfeyrac finally looks up at him. His eyes are wide. “You feel like you’re in love,” he repeats, “and I can’t tell with who because I love you so much that it makes my head spin.”
Combeferre kisses him.
It hardly takes anything. Their faces are already so close; Combeferre only has to tip Courfeyrac’s chin up and press their mouths together, softly.
Courfeyrac’s grip on his shirt tightens, and he goes up on his toes. Combeferre pulls him closer. He can’t help but smile for one moment, right against Courfeyrac’s mouth, before he drops a kiss on the tip of his nose, his temple, the line of his jaw.
Courfeyrac tucks his face into Combeferre’s neck. “I didn’t know,” he says quietly.
“I’m in love with you,” Combeferre says. Courfeyrac trembles against him. “Who else could it have been? You’re everything to me.”
Courfeyrac starts to laugh. His hands are still balled up against Combeferre’s chest. He has the silver ring clenched in one hand, Combeferre can tell. He must have taken it off; he must not want to dampen a single thing that he’s feeling.
*
The wake up together in the morning. The sunlight turns Courfeyrac’s curls copper and catches wonderfully in his eyes. “All this time,” he says, when he sees that Combeferre is awake, “I thought you were in love with Paris.”
“I am,” Combeferre says. “But I wouldn’t want the whole city in my bed.”
Courfeyrac laughs.
(Combeferre always thought he was best at loving places. His city, his street. His apartment, his room, his bed. But maybe, he thinks, he likes them best when Courfeyrac is there, too.)