The first sound Combeferre hears as he bounds up the stairs to the second floor of the Musain is the clack-clack-bing of a typewriter. He opens the door to find Courfeyrac sitting at a small desk, hands moving swiftly across the keys, fingers punching out words and phrases into a tornado of thought. He hesitates at the threshold and Courfeyrac turns and holds up a finger- "one minute!" He takes that as a cue to make himself comfortable on one of the room's many perches.
Multitasking is an art to Courfeyrac: after she pulls the finished sheet out of the blue plastic machine, she grabs the red pen stuck behind her ear with her left hand and dials the phone with her right. She marks up the page as she bounces ideas back and forth with Bahorel in rapid-fire french, a conversation which Combeferre is privy only to half.
He checks his watch. 3:55 pm. Enjolras should be getting here soon, with the rest soon to follow. He wonders absentmindedly if Marius will show up again, though Combeferre would be surprised; the verbal thrashing enjolras had given him last week after the poor boy had offhandedly mentioned something about the glory of Napoleon's reign would have scared anyone away. Marius was smart though, despite his occasional lapses in judgment. At only twenty-one, he was an extremely promising law student and a whiz with languages to boot. Combeferre thought to himself that it would do the group well to recruit him for their various causes.
Another thing to talk to Courfeyrac about, he thinks. She is a master of organization, of recognizing and utilizing the strengths of others. He pulls a clementine out of his messenger bag- his equivalent of a mary poppins carpet bag and the source of much wonder among the Amis, and is just about to check his watch again when Joly and Bossuet bounce in, laughing boisterously. They are followed by Bahorel, and then Feuilly, and Grantaire comes slouching in a few moments after four.
At five past, Enjolras makes his entrance, looking uncharacteristically scattered. Combeferre scans the room for Jean Prouvaire, wondering if maybe he's slipped past unnoticed. It'd be difficult though- besides Combeferre's almost inhuman powers of observation, Jehan is loud, over six feet tall, and skinny as a string bean, usually dressed in bright colors with a corresponding bowtie. In other words, impossible to miss.
"where's Jehan?" Courfeyrac has turned away from her typewriter and is looking around the room, nose scrunched up in confusion.
"I've- that's what I've come here to tell you-" Enjolras pauses, mouth in a straight line.
By now everyone is quiet, and a pall of nervousness descends like fog over the small room.
"Jehan's great-aunt passed away this afternoon."
The collective sigh of relief is short-lived. Combeferre takes a moment to remember the woman's name- Agnés? Enjolras continues: "he's already on his way there, and I told him that we'd try to make an evening train."
And like that, it's settled. All plans are suspended as the Amis that can (Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Bahorel, who calls Marius, who calls Éponine, who calls Musichetta) go home to pack, and those that can't, whether with work, school, or other duties (Feuilly, Grantaire, Joly, Bossuet, and Cosette), promise to phone that night to talk to Jehan.
The rest of the day follows like quickly-timed polaroid shots, one after the other. Combeferre and Courfeyrac blink, and the train is pulling into the station. The camera clicks, and they're standing in what was Agnés' living room, old photos on the walls and plates of food in the kitchen, talking with jehan in quietly hushed tones. Click. The service takes place outside, and it's a beautiful day. Jehan's eulogy is gorgeous and heartbreaking, not that they expected anything less, and they all wipe away tears, Enjolras included. Click. Dinner is quiet and filling, and for that they are grateful. Click. Éponine and Musichetta sit with Jehan as they go through old photographs, dating back his great-aunt's days in the resistance, and talk of her bravery, smiling quietly at a life well-lived.
When Courfeyrac nudges his arm and nods towards the door, he already knows what she's asking.
Out in the country, the air is quieter and darker. Both Combeferre and Courfeyrac love to stargaze, but it's become something of childhood. Paris is the city of lights, but they don't see the stars.
They walk in the cool night air to the end of street and up a grassy embankment, laying on their backs, fingers tracing the constellations. He turns to her, quietly talking, gears in his brain churning.
"so I've been thinking about the next campaign we should start on, and that Marius kid-"
Courfeyrac closes her eyes and smiles, suppressing laughter, answering in a stage whisper.
"It's a beautiful night, we're lying side by side in the grass in the countryside, and your topic of conversation is…Pontmercy?" She says his name like it's the most ridiculous thing she's ever heard, and they both giggle, almost childishly, which makes them start to laugh harder. Combeferre thinks that Courfeyrac's laugh is beautiful, like wings taking flight, soft and hopeful. When it's all died down they lie in silence for several minutes, Courfeyrac's fingers interlocking with Combeferre's, so slowly he almost doesn't notice it at first.
"Speaking of beautiful things," he says, and can't finish (thank god, because the words he's starting to say sound unbelievably cliché to him); she's already started laughing again. He could listen to her forever.
She begins the stage whisper again. "Are you flirting with me?"
Combeferre, master of words, able to tear apart long-held ideologies with single phrases, who holds a toolbox in one hand and the world in the other, is left silent. It's almost funny really, except for the fact that his heart is pounding.
"N-no."
"Are you sure?" They've both closed their eyes now, and he can hear the smile in her voice.
"Yes."
They've inched closer to each other now, arms scrunched against their sides, the sides of their heads separated by two inches at most. Stars are dancing under Courfeyrac's eyelids, and she takes a deep breath.
"I'm going to count to three," she says, and for once, he can't read her tone. But he knows what to do.
"3,"
Their hands tighten…
2,
Eyes close harder…
1."
Lips meet.
The stars now have another point of light to join them.