Enjolras slept lightly, his chest rising and falling and turning their bedsheets to a calm sea of blue cotton. His eyes fluttered behind closed lids, scanning the unseen landscape of his dreams. Combeferre could barely call it peaceful; he would flinch and awake at the creak of a floorboard or the rustle of sheets unless he was completely exhausted, and would struggle to fall back asleep. Some nights he would retreat to his computer or books, idling away the morning hours until it was too late to return to bed. Others he would stare at the ceiling as the time ticked away, his face unreadable in the shutter-striped light from the streetlamps. And sometimes, his arms would slip around Combeferre's waist, and he would rest his head on his chest with an apologetic smile.

Yes; peace, with Enjolras, was rare. Combeferre kissed his forehead, his fingers tangled in Enjolras' as he pulled a little closer, nestling against him. He had to enjoy it when he could.