Chapter Text
Courfeyrac’s home office had a wall completely dedicated to relationships. It looked rather like it had come straight out of a conspiracy theorist’s wet dreams, pins and colorful embroidery floss (as yarn had quickly grown far too bulky) organized in a way that was almost incomprehensible. It did, in theory, have a legend, in the corner, but since nobody other than Courfeyrac ever really saw it, it was small.
If someone were to look at the chaotic wall, they’d have found that it was incredibly detailed and lovingly maintained, most likely updated at least daily. Courfeyrac had a color for everything he needed. He had a color for romantic relationships (red for current and pink for past), a color for sexual relationships (blue, current and light blue, past), a color for queerplatonic relationships (orange, past and burnt umber, present), a color for people who should never be allowed in the same room (neon yellow), and a color for unrequited love (light green). He took painstaking care to keep his wall as detailed and up to date as possible. He had written down every anniversary, learned through careful weaseling and observation, and he had even pinned up a list of relevant people that (ex-)serial-monogamist Bahorel had dated.
Courfeyrac himself looks at the wall with no small amount of pride and love. He’s worked hard on it, and it has kept him from making dozens of social faux pas.
Most of the people on the board had at least a handful of connections, and save Feuilly, Enjolras, and Combeferre, Courf had some kind of connection to all of them. In fact, the three of them were the least connected. Enjolras had only two. One was a neon yellow thread, connecting him to a very long list of people Enjolras should not be put near if at all possible, and the other one, not connected to but pointing at him, that had at one point been pale green.
Courfeyrac had started the board in college, with the forming of the ABC in his sophomore year. It had been much smaller then, but that one green thread had been through it all with him. Seven years, five apartments, and an uncountable number of relationships—his as well as other people’s—and Grantaire had been in love with Enjolras the whole time. It was a little depressing, if he was honest.
Feuilly had just three exes, and they were all on good terms, and so may have been the easiest part of the board to manage.
Then there was Combeferre. Combeferre never shared anything. If he’d had a partner, Courfeyrac had never heard a peep about it, and given that they lived together and it would have been hard to hide, he would have speculated that Combeferre was aspec, except when Enjolras had offered him a pick of sticker for ace week (the blond’s reading “demi and proud!”), Combeferre had taken an ally sticker. Far be it from Courfeyrac to say that someone should out themself! It’s just that Combeferre… didn’t. He had a pin with a pan flag on his backpack, and was quick to engage in discussions about it, but he always spoke in hypotheticals, even when it sounded like it was only to disguise someone’s identity. Combeferre was the most frustrating part of his wall.
Most of the reason nobody else ever saw the wall was that most of the time, his work board was in front of it. Courfeyrac, being a political journalist, really did have stories pinned up with red yarn on the regular—something Enjolras and Combeferre found no shortage of enjoyment in teasing him over.
Courfeyrac was sitting at his desk, carefully weaving together a replacement string for Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta in various deep reds and blues. Their fifth anniversary was coming up soon, and he figured that with that level of stability, he might as well up his game.
Combeferre knocked on the doorframe of the open door to get his attention, and Courfeyrac startled so hard he nearly fell off his chair. Combeferre chuckled.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, smiling tiredly. “But it’s nearly three am, Courf, and you have to be functional tomorrow. You need to go to sleep.”
Courfeyrac nodded absently, already back to his project. “Mhm. Yup. Got it.”
Combeferre sighed with an inscrutable look on his face. “Courf, what’s the nearest stopping point?” he asked gently, walking in to stand beside him, and gently resting a hand on his shoulder.
He looked up, almost surprised Combeferre was still there. “Oh,” he said softly, unsure why he was thrown. “Yeah, just a minute, I’ll… Just a minute.”
Ferre smiled at him, and looked around the room, his eyes catching on the wall. He drifted toward it, smiling, amused.
“And what’s this, work?” He teased, then paused, as the old, tattered photo of Enjolras caught his eye. He studied the wall for a moment more. “Oh, Courf. How many hours have you put into this? It’s—”
Courf sat up abruptly. “It’s not what you think! Er. I mean. It is what you think but it’s not creepy! Oh sweet Jesus please kill me and don’t ever tell anyone.”
Combeferre turned towards him, almost smiling. “I was going to say it’s impressive. What do all the colors mean?”
Courfeyrac looked up at him, eyes wide. “You’re not mad? Or creeped out?”
Combeferre frowned at him. “Should I be?”
Couf set down his work and shook his head vehemently. “No! It’s just documentation. So I can keep track. And so I don’t accidentally fuck up. Insult someone. That kind of thing.”
Combeferre nodded. “So, what do the colors mean?”
Courfeyrac stood, stretching and realizing he hadn’t moved in hours by the way his muscles ached. He walked over and gestured to the top left corner. “There’s a key over there. I only keep things up as long as they’re relevant, and since things change quickly…” He shrugged. “There’s only a few really old strings, now. These,” he gently runs his finger over the ones connecting Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta, “are almost five years old. I put it up around all three of them when Joly and Musichetta asked out Bossuet. Marius and Cosette’s are only two years old, because I replaced the originals with this twisted one when they got married.” He nodded towards Grantaire’s faded, once green thread. “That’s the oldest. Been here as long as I’ve had the idea, actually.” He explained the color coding. “I had to replace this one over and over again,” he says gesturing to the light blue string between Montparnasse and Jehan. “Their whole on again off again thing kept fraying it beyond repair. It was annoying.”
He studied his wall, trying to see it through Combeferre’s eyes. “Most of them have been replaced at one point or another.” He looked at the picture of Combeferre on his wall resolutely instead of looking the real Combeferre in the eyes, and muttered. “It's everything I know, at least. There’re certainly gaps in my knowledge.”
Combeferre put a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to look towards him. “Bed?”
Courfeyrac yawned. “Bed.”
When Courfeyrac stumbled, bleary eyed and with a mug of coffee that was far too small for the few hours of sleep he’d gotten, into his office, he didn’t notice anything was amiss. He pulled his work board in front of the wall on autopilot, and sank down in front of his computer, hating all of his life choices. He logged into his computer, stared at a document full of notes (his agenda for the day), and tried desperately to absorb caffeine faster.
Eventually, the words on the page began to resolve themselves into sentences with meaning, and he slowly got to work.
Three and a half hours later, his phone buzzed on his desk, and he frowned for a moment, blinking as his thoughts scattered irreparably, and sighed. He looked at his phone.
Combeferre <3 was written in blocky letters across the screen, and a picture of the two of them at pride (Courfeyrac kissing Combeferre’s cheek as Ferre laughed, courtesy of R) sat in a bubble in the middle. He jolted into action as his phone buzzed again from the incoming call.
“Ferre! Hi! What can I do for you? You okay?”
An amused chuckle. “Everything’s fine. I just called to remind you to go make yourself lunch.”
Courfeyrac blanched. “It’s lunch time already?”
“Mhmm,”
the biochemist’s voice was soft.
“Eleven thirty,”
he supplied, for the question Courfeyrac hadn’t asked.
“Oh. Thank you, Ferre.”
“Any time.” even tinny, over the phone, his voice was filled with kindness and affection for his roommate-slash-best-friend. “Ooh, what would you say if I picked up Indian from that place down the road, the one that you say looks like the inside of a mango?”
Courf grinned. “I’d tell you you’re the best human being on the planet, a lifesaver, and that I’ll love you forever? And… mmm… day after tomorrow I’ll pick up from that Etheopian spot R showed you.”
“Deal.”
Courfeyrac had never had it better. “I’ll see you at dinner time. I might be a little late, I’ve got that—”
“Meeting with your boss after your interview, I know. I’ll see you around seven-thirty.”
Courfeyrac sighed contentedly as he stretched, then stood up and walked to the kitchen. “So, what’s new in science land? Are you changing the world?”
A faint sigh. “Today we’re just doing too much paperwork and introducing the new interns to the lab. I hate giving lab tours—I just want to stand and work in every room I go into. It’s torture.”
Courfeyrac hummed, pulling the lettuce out of the fridge and grabbing the salad spinner from the top shelf. “Stay strong, nerd. Your interns need you. Say—do you think it’s too dated to reference the Teapot Dome scandal? Do people even know what that was, nowadays? I know I’d probably be better off referencing Watergate, but I’m talking about corporations owning politicians, and…”
Courfeyrac babbled for a bit about his article, while Combeferre sat in amused silence. By the time he sat down at the table with his salad, he had figured it out. “Thanks for your help, ‘Ferre, you’re a lifesaver.”
He laughed. “I keep considering getting you an actual cardboard cutout to talk at, but then I wouldn’t get to listen. I’ve got to go back to intern-sitting, now, but good luck on that article. I hope the interview is as useful as you think it’s going to be.”
Courfeyrac made a noise of protest. “If I’m rambling you should stop me! You have better things to do! But good luck with the interns, all the same. See you!” He grinned as he hung up. He had the best best friend in the world.
Courfeyrac finished his lunch, packed up his laptop and various recording and note taking equipment, and changed into his Real People Work Clothes to go meet his informant.
Seven and a bit hours later, Courfeyrac tumbled into the apartment, eagerly tossing his messenger bag and blazer onto the lounge chair and sitting on the arm of the couch to unbutton the cuffs and collar of his button down shirt before collapsing backwards onto the couch, splayed out like the gangly teenager he had once been. He let out a groan, dropping his elbow over his eyes.
“Ferre, I don’t think I’ve drunk anything but coffee in days. My hands are vibrating and the world is spinning. Also my source just gave me a massive tip—it’s so much bigger than we thought, so much worse.”
A moment later, Combeferre was there, pressing a glass of water into his hand and helping him sit up so he could drink it. He chugged it, and rested his forehead on the taller man’s shoulder.
“I cannot believe that I’m about to lose the next three to five days to writing an article that may end up revealing the worst political corruption scandal in the last two or three decades. Enjolras is going to lose his goddamn mind.”
Combeferre rubbed his back soothingly. “You’ll get it done, you always do. Why don’t you talk it over with me over dinner, and see if that clears the buzzing out of your head. We can get Etheopian when you’re done with this. Just… try to eat food and drink something other than coffee.”
True to his expectations, Courfeyrac disappeared into his office after dinner and appeared only sporadically for the next several days. At various points he made it into their kitchen, Combeferre was sure, but he wasn’t quite sure if Courfeyrac slept for more than twenty minutes at a time. Every time Combeferre saw him he had the far away look in his eyes that indicated his brain was still at his computer or his work board, putting together connections and shuffling words and phrases around.
When he reappeared, finally clear eyed and present, he looked rough. His stubble was so heavy it was trying it’s best to veer into beard territory, his clothes were rumpled and could have been a couple days old, and the circles under his eyes looked like someone had painted them on with a one inch brush. His tee shirt actually appeared to be on both backwards and inside out, which was generally a good sign, because it meant that at least he had showered at some point (if for no reason other than that standing in the hot water helped soothe the buzzing under his skin when everything got to be too much).
(Combeferre was actually already aware he had showered—he had come home from the lab late and aching from standing bent over the bench all day and decided to shower—he had found the walls of their shower covered in notes in Courfeyrac’s hand. Grantaire had gotten him the shower markers for exactly this reason; they all knew that if he couldn’t write it down, in a state like that, Courfeyrac would just run across the house dripping and naked to type it up. It had happened one too many times, and Grantaire had been friends with Bossuet for too many years to risk someone slipping.)
Combeferre took all of this in stride, and smiled at Courfeyrac, relieved. “Back with me? Why don’t you sit down, I’ll get you something to eat and drink.”
Courfeyrac, still a little dazed, stumbled over to the couch. “I sent it off to the editor, it’s out of my hands now, but—Ferre this is cover story bullshit. And I’m the one to break it.”
Combeferre smiled at him. “Saving the world, one scandal at a time.” He put a glass in Courfeyrac’s hand, and a plate on the coffee table. “Here. Then go sleep.”
Courfeyrac grinned up at him. “You are absolutely the bestest person on the planet and I owe you so much take out.”
Combeferre patted his back and kissed the side of his head impulsively. “I’ll settle for having my best friend back in the land of the living. I have to go or I’ll be late for work, I’ll see you when you wake up.”
Courfeyrac’s heart stuttered as Combeferre threw on his jacket with a fond smile towards him on his way out the door. Oh, he thought. That’s not new, is it.
He went to update his wall, and that was when he saw it. Combeferre had added a string to his own photo—a light green one pointed straight to Courfeyrac’s photo. He fumbled for his phone.
“Is something wrong, Courf? Do I need to turn around?”
His voice shook faintly. “How long have you been in love with me?”
The other end of the line was quiet for a moment. “Years, I guess. Probably since sophomore year, if not from the moment we met at orientation.”
The pieces began to fall into place. “So you… you haven’t been in any relationships because of me,” he said, processing.
He could hear the hesitation in Combeferre’s voice. “It’s not your fault. Should I not have put it up there?”
Courfeyrac felt his soul leave and re-enter his body. “What! No. No. Sorry I am doing this all wrong but I’m going to blame that on the not-sleeping. Combeferre, I’ve just come to the realization that I’ve been in love with my best friend for some time and I would like to do something about it. After I have slept, would you go out on a date with me?”
Combeferre laughed. “I would be glad to. I’ll see you after work, now go to sleep, Courf.”