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In the quiet hours of midmorning, Combeferre awoke to the early spring breeze drifting in through Enjolras’ window, to gentle light pooling on his pillow. The room was crisp and cool. The fire in the stove had been reduced to embers sometime during the night, though Combeferre and Enjolras had piled enough blankets over themselves before sleeping that the chill did not touch them.
Combeferre was in a state of languorous contentment, so comfortable he hardly knew where his body ended and the bedclothes began. He had become too accustomed to waking overly-tired, instantly tense in anticipation of the day and deeply regretting staying up so late the night before — but not today. Today nothing weighed on him; there was only a stretch of blessed free time, his to use as he wished. He and Enjolras might go to the Jardin des Plantes to examine the renters’ plots, or take a turn around the menagerie, or admire the new, vivid green leaves in the Tuileries. They might simply sleep for a little while longer, for sleep was always lacking, and the bed was so very comfortable.
He was still idly turning over these options in his mind when he felt Enjolras roll over behind him. He smiled into his pillow. Enjolras was awake, then. He would not have moved otherwise, for Enjolras always slept like the dead, dropping off immediately and unable to be roused until morning came. Combeferre’s smile grew a little wider as Enjolras settled in close to him, pressed up against his back with an arm draped over him.
He had been about to bid Enjolras a good morning, to ask if he wanted to do anything in particular, but the words died on his lips, for the question was answered already, with the telltale brush of Enjolras’ arousal against the back of his thigh.
Combeferre held his breath, wondering whether it was the simple vestiges of sleep or if Enjolras wanted something more. He was answered in the form of his own name, breathed as a question against his shoulder, making his heartbeat quicken.
It was so very rare that Enjolras thought to initiate this, especially during the day. Whether from mere lack of wanting or focus on higher things, Enjolras seemed only to remember the pleasures of what they could be doing together at night, often too late, when they were both too tired to carry it through. It was usually up to Combeferre to seek it out otherwise, though he could not have said he minded that sort of charge upon him.
But now Enjolras’ hand was splayed across Combeferre’s stomach, as urgent as he could be on such a sleepy morning, and he pressed a kiss to Combeferre’s neck, a punctuation to his question.
Even at so simple a touch, Combeferre felt himself growing hard. They had been so busy — how long had it been since they had last done this? Was it the afternoon weeks before, when Enjolras had come to the flat tense and disappointed after some failure, and Combeferre had put his reading aside and reached out a hand to him, had unbuttoned Enjolras’ trousers as he stood tall before him and given him pleasure with a practiced tongue? Or was it the evening when Combeferre, after hours of tossing and turning in his desperation to be touched, had sought out Enjolras, up late at the writing desk and busy with some correspondence, and Enjolras had taken pity and brought him off with a quick and clever hand before returning to work?
Combeferre could not remember — he could not think straight anymore. Both memory and anticipation made the tension curl in the pit of his stomach, and he pressed himself back against Enjolras in an answer of what he now wanted.
Enjolras’ mouth came back, open and hot against his neck again, then at the bare spot on his shoulder where his nightshirt had slipped down. With smooth movements, his hand left Combeferre’s stomach and went behind to the hem of his nightshirt, pulling it up just enough, fingertips tracing over his thighs, leaving goosebumps in their wake on the sensitive skin as they coaxed Combeferre’s legs apart just enough.
Combeferre arched back into this touch, this mere teasing making a groan well up in his throat, and he did not need to say anything at all to know that he was perfectly understood. Still with his eyes closed, he felt Enjolras lean up on one elbow to reach over him. He heard the drawer in the nightstand open as Enjolras searched through it with one hand, and after a moment he settled again behind Combeferre, and his fingers came back slick with oil.
Combeferre stifled a gasp into his pillow as Enjolras’ fingers breached him, first one and then another, moving slowly, making warmth bloom within him as Enjolras lay slow kisses over his shoulder to make Combeferre relax against him. The laziness of the morning reflected itself again in Enjolras’ unhurried preparations, and though Combeferre’s pleasure mounted with every moment, with every movement, with every sweet curl of Enjolras’ fingers, he reveled in that slow pace.
Though the angle of Enjolras’ hand was not quite right, his ministrations were having a greater effect than Combeferre could ever have anticipated. and soon he found himself taking deep, slow, steadying breaths, almost on the verge of spending himself much too soon. He was enveloped in heat. His cock, fully hard now, twitched beneath his nightshirt, brushing against the soft fabric, and he had half a mind to reach down and stroke himself to completion. Instead he curled his fingers into his pillow, canting his hips back into Enjolras’ touch.
That, it seemed, was enough for Enjolras to take as a plea to continue forward. A moment later his fingers had left Combeferre, who shivered in emptiness and need. The bed dipped as Enjolras shifted again -- first to kiss his temple, a reassurance that what he so desperately wanted would come, and then to reach over him again for the nightstand. He did not need to turn his head to look; he could see it in his minds eye: Enjolras carefully taking the oil in his hand, reaching down to lift his own nightshirt. Combeferre swallowed. How dearly he would have loved to do this for him, to prepare him in turn -- to move at just as slow and torturous a pace as Enjolras had -- but instead he did not move from his position, and bit his lip as he heard the quiet gasp Enjolras was unable to contain as he stroked over his own prick.
The pause was but a few moments, for Enjolras was as quick as he was thorough in this, and soon enough he was lying again behind Combeferre and pressing into him slowly with his cock. This time Combeferre did not try to stifle his moan, every nerve in his body alight.
There was all manner of things they might do together, late at night or in the early morning, but Combeferre liked this best — being so close to Enjolras, feeling every shudder of his breath, the press of their bodies as they moved, no space left between them — how perfectly they fit together. Even now he could remember the first time they had done this, as though it had been only yesterday. Enjolras, still a novice, willing to indulge Combeferre even in the midst of his own skepticism. Combeferre remembered gazing up at him in a daze, making far too much noise, and smiling at Enjolras’ expression of astonished wonder at Combeferre’s pleasure. It did not matter how many times Combeferre thought back to that first time, or any of their others. It always made him buoyantly, foolishly happy.
But though Combeferre’s thoughts might have momentarily wandered, it did not take much to bring him back to the present. Enjolras was inside him completely now, still holding him close, and he stilled for a moment, as much to let Combeferre adjust as to give himself a moment of calm. Already, Combeferre could hear the shudder of need in Enjolras’ steadying breaths. How long had he been like this, waiting in anticipation for Combeferre to wake? Combeferre was on the verge of asking, of letting him know that he might have woken him sooner, but then Enjolras began to move, and the last of Combeferre’s coherency was driven from his mind.
Where the angle of Enjolras’ fingers had not been sufficient, the angle now was perfect, the tip of Enjolras’ cock sliding over that spot inside Combeferre that made the air catch in his throat and shivers race down his spine. He pushed back again, wanting desperately to be closer, though it was impossible that he could be so. Despite the movement, despite his own urgency, Enjolras did not quicken his pace.
It was wonderful -- and unbearable. Combeferre writhed and arched against Enjolras, not knowing whether he was seeking a yet better angle or whether the one he had was too much. Enjolras held him in place with a hand that was both firm and gentle, so no matter how Combeferre moved, each thrust hit its mark, driving them both to new heights.
And hardly realizing what he was doing, Combeferre reached a hand back to grasp at Enjolras’ hip to urge him on — just a little bit harder. Somewhere between moans, between the confused flashes of coherency that arced through Combeferre’s mind, he heard himself ask, or else beg — and Enjolras obliged him. The hand which had been splayed on Combeferre’s stomach slid down to lift the front of his nightshirt, fingertips brushing lightly over the length of Combeferre’s cock before curling around it.
Combeferre threw his head back, losing himself completely for a moment as Enjolras stroked over him, still keeping his pace of slow, deep thrusts. It took a moment to compose himself, but he was soon able to match Enjolras' rhythm, breath becoming more ragged at the dual pleasure of rocking forward into Enjolras' hand, and then backward onto his cock.
It was astounding, really, how well Enjolras could read him in all things. Even when he asked, or gave instruction, Combeferre felt deep in his heart that Enjolras already knew what he needed; the words were just a formality. This proved so now when, on the very edge of climax, Combeferre opened his mouth, but Enjolras responded before he could get the words out, shifting his hips slightly, adjusting the press of his fingers.
Combeferre was overcome. His fingers curled into the bedsheets and he cried out as the wave of pleasure broke over him. It went on and on -- behind him, Enjolras did not stop, too close to his own finish to do more than slow his pace slightly for Combeferre's sake. He tucked his face into the crook of Combeferre's neck, at first to stifle a moan, and then to whisper something that made warmth pool in Combeferre's chest all over again.
Enjolras’ affections were more often spoken in a touch on the arm, or in a warm smile, like a beam of sunlight through a gap in the clouds. For Combeferre alone, it showed itself more intimately: In the particular way Enjolras slipped an arm through his while they were out walking, in the absentminded brush of his fingers through Combeferre’s hair while they were reading side-by-side in the evening, in his quiet kisses in the dark. It was not his wont to speak words of love aloud, but he did so now into Combeferre’s shoulder, between his trembling breaths.
All Combeferre could do then was grasp Enjolras' hand as he came, his whole body pressed against Combeferre's as he gasped and shuddered in release, and then relaxed.
They lay together like that for a moment longer, Enjolras still inside of him, nosing sleepily into Combeferre's hair. As reluctant as he was to pull away, Combeferre made that sacrifice only to save them both from oversensitivity. He rolled over, and was rewarded with a warm kiss as he laced his fingers through Enjolras' tousled hair.
There were many things they might do together, but perhaps the best one for today was to do this for a little while longer.