Author's note: this was written for tumblr user Midshipmankennedy and anyone else who could use an injection of mostly plotless fluff right now.
Disclaimer: Les Miserables is the property of the Estate of Victor Hugo. No profit is being made from this story.
Nighttime in Paris fell quickly, sneaking in like a burglar and stealing the sunshine away before the city could quite process the event. Even those who had lived in the city all their lives were occasionally caught unawares, and those who heralded from the sunnier provinces were forever lamenting the lack of proper twilight to prepare them for oncoming darkness. Combeferre, having grown up in sunnier climates and being especially prone to losing track of time, often found himself far from home when night made its entrance, and he had learned early on which streets to avoid even when they made his trip to his rooms faster. He was not quick with his fists like his friends, nor could he pass as a member of the undereducated poor that thrived in the Paris' least wealthy streets. Better to take longer to return home and make it with purse and dignity intact.
On this particular day night fell even earlier than usual, spurred on by the thick clouds and general unease of the city. Combeferre had lit his first candle at three and now, at nearly seven, it had been joined by several more in order to keep his desk lit enough to read. Sitting in his only other chair, Feuilly too leaned over the desk, peering at a document written in his neat penmanship. They had been examining papers all day, sorting through daunting legal texts in order to better understand the workings of the American democracy and learn which aspects would best translate to their own hoped for republic. It had been Courfeyrac's idea and championed by Enjolras, who jumped eagerly on any indication that his dreams could be made reality. Combeferre and Feuilly, no less idealistic than their friends despite their practical natures, had volunteered to look through the materials, Feuilly tackling the French descriptions and Combeferre tackling the English original documents. They had spent most of their time in companionable silence, absorbed in their work, pausing occasionally to enlist the other's aid in deciphering particularly difficult penmanship and once around five to eat.
Combeferre closed his last book and leaned back, scrubbing a hand over his face. "That's the last of them," he said. "Have you recorded everything from yours?"
Feuilly nodded, also closing his and placing it carefully on a pile with the others. He stacked his papers equally carefully and rose. "Thank you for your help and the use of your rooms," he said, moving to take his coat. "I won't impose on your hospitality any longer."
"Nonsense," Combeferre said. "I was grateful for the help and the company." He picked up a candle and crossed to the window, frowning slightly. "Will you be all right getting home?"
Feuilly nodded. "It isn't far," he said.
Combeferre's frown didn't alleviate. "It's been threatening to rain all day," he said. "Perhaps you should stay here until morning just to be safe."
"Thank you, but no," Feuilly said, buttoning up his coat and jamming a hat over his flyaway curls. "I've dealt with worse than rain."
Even as he spoke thunder crashed outside making both of them start slightly. The skies opened up and let loose a veritable downpour of water, raindrops falling so thickly they formed a single mass. Feuilly grimaced. Combeferre looked out at the rain then back at his friend and shook his head firmly.
"You are not going out in that," he said. "I insist on your staying here."
"I don't want to impose further," Feuilly ventured, though he looked dismayed at the prospect of leaving Combeferre's dry rooms to head into the deluge. "The rain will keep the criminals home anyway."
"I should certainly hope so," Combeferre said. "Anyone with sense is staying in tonight." He looked pointedly at Feuilly, conveying without words how sensible he thought Feuilly to be.
"Are you certain?" Feuilly asked.
"Perfectly certain," Combeferre said. "Besides, Enjolras would have my head if I let you out in that."
Feuilly laughed a little. "I suppose we wouldn't want to upset Enjolras," he said.
"Certainly not," Combeferre said. "I'm afraid I haven't much food but there's bread in the cupboard that's only a day old or so." Feuilly started to protest that he was not hungry but Combeferre cut him off before he could speak. "I am going to eat, and it would be impolite of me to do so alone."
Feuilly did not answer, though he did slowly remove his hat and coat and return them to their place by the door. Combeferre smiled warmly at him and beckoned him further into the room. They moved the two chairs away from the desk and Combeferre laid out bread and wine on the table.
"It's not much," he said, sounding apologetic. "I'm afraid I don't eat in much."
"It's all right," Feuilly assured him. "Thank you."
"The pleasure is all mine," Combeferre said, pouring him a glass of wine. When Feuilly took a sip he discovered that it was very good indeed. He relaxed a little despite himself, reminding himself that Combeferre was a friend and would not suddenly demand some form of compensation for his generosity.
As they ate Combeferre turned the conversation to the documents they had spent the day reading and Feuilly forgot more of his instinctive wariness, carried away by the discussion and the warmth of wine and friendship. He had not had Combeferre's extensive education but he had an instinctive grasp on the human elements of democracy and together they picked apart the main components and motivations of the young democracy. Combeferre was determined that France not repeat either America's mistakes or their own this time around, while Feuilly compared the success of the United States to the plight of the Polish. They stayed at the table long after the bread and wine had been consumed, leaning forward into the candlelight and gesticulating emphatically when necessary, Combeferre with a doctor's steady hands and Feuilly with an artist's grace. The candles on the table and desk burned low.
At last Combeferre glanced at the time and frowned. "You have to work in the morning, do you not?"
Feuilly nodded, having momentarily forgotten.
"We should retire for the night," Combeferre declared. "Much as I am enjoying this conversation I have already kept you up too long."
Feuilly shrugged. "It was not your fault," he said.
"Nevertheless, I propose that we continue this another time," Combeferre said. He rose. "I'm afraid I've only the one bed."
"I can sleep on the floor," Feuilly said immediately. "I don't want to be any trouble."
"Nonsense," Combeferre said. "We will make do." He beckoned for Feuilly to follow him away from the table. Slightly reluctantly, Feuilly did as he was bid.
Combeferre's bedchamber was small but well furnished, with yet more books piled on the night table. His bed dominated the room, seeming larger than it was in the small space. Combeferre set the candle on the night table and opened one of the drawers in the chest against the wall. "We are approximately the same size," he said, pulling out a nightshirt. "And one needn't be the height of fashion while asleep no matter what Courfeyrac might said." He grinned as he turned, inviting Feuilly to share the joke. Feuilly's answering smile was hesitant.
"I don't want to…," he began, but Combeferre shook his head.
"It's no trouble," he said. "And you'll be more comfortable in proper nightclothes." He thrust the nightshirt at Feuilly, who took it gingerly. Combeferre ducked out of the room holding his own, giving Feuilly strict instructions to change and relax. Feuilly did as he was bid, managing the first without difficulty and making very little progress on the second. He liked and trusted Combeferre and ordinarily felt at ease in his presence, but never before had he been required to rely on his friend's generosity like this.
Combeferre returned a few moments later, also clad in nightclothes, and offered Feuilly a reassuring smile. Outside the rain continued to come down in torrents.
Combeferre sat down on his bed and gestured for Feuilly to join him. When they had both settled in Combeferre leaned over and blew out the candle, leaving the room in thick obscurity. "Good night," Combeferre said.
"Good night," Feuilly said, lying stiffly on his back and not feeling able to sleep in the slightest.
Within a few minutes Combeferre had fallen asleep completely, breathing deep and regular. Feuilly shifted slightly, eyes adjusted enough to the darkness that he could just make out Combeferre's form in the bed. Firmly, he closed his own eyes and attempted to will himself to sleep. He needed the rest if he was to perform well at work in the morning.
He had just succeeded in drifting off slightly when he felt something warm brush against him. Combeferre, unaccustomed to sharing a bed, had moved in his sleep and been drawn to Feuilly's body heat. Feuilly stiffened further, wondering if he should scoot away and give Combeferre more space. He was right on the edge of the bed though, and moving any further would cause him to fall out completely. He considered getting up and sleeping on the floor after all, but the bed was warm and comfortable and he knew he would never get to sleep on the hard ground.
Combeferre shifted again, this time reaching out to lay a hand on Feuilly's shoulder. Feuilly froze, then slowly relaxed as Combeferre gave every indication of being truly asleep. Almost despite himself he leaned into the touch, some of the tension draining from his body. He was not often touched, living alone as he did, and he secretly regretted that. He moved slightly closer to his friend.
Feuilly's eyes drifted closed, comforted by Combeferre's closeness almost despite himself. He too fell asleep, expression smoothing out contentedly. In the darkness Combeferre, who could fake slumber well enough to trick even Joly, smiled without opening his eyes and did not move away.