One Year Ago

It's late when 'Ferre's phone rings, so it takes him a while to pull himself out of the depths of sleep far enough to register what the noise is. He doesn't do it fast enough to reach the phone while it's still ringing and lies back down. If it's an emergency, they'll call again. The phone rings again and Combeferre is up like a flash, the impending thought of who or what it might be overriding his exhaustion (the company Combeferre keeps is prone to trouble, one might say, and 'Ferre would say they were right.) The caller ID says 'Courf' and his heart rate skyrockets.

"Hello? Courf, what is it?"

" 'Ferre." His friend's voice is quiet, laden with emotions Combeferre isn't awake enough to identify, and just possibly slurred. "Can I come over?"

Courfeyrac's voice is definitely slurred. Combeferre puts off thinking about why for later.

"Yes of course! Where are you? I'll come get you."

"No need." A wry chuckle. "I'm outside the front door." So 'Ferre grabs his glasses, stands, and goes to buzz his friend in. As he's hovering by the door, his eye catches on the clock above the stove. It's almost four in the morning – thank God it's a Saturday.

Combeferre can't help his thoughts from ricocheting about his brain. Why is Courf here? What's happened? Because something clearly has, and the thought of Courf being in any amount of pain is just shy of unbearable. The thought of Courf being in pain and specifically seeking Combeferre out for aid pushes the threshold of unbearable to new levels, because apparently this is bearable, but it sucks quite a bit. It really fucking sucks.

There's a sloppy knock at the apartment door, to the rhythm of 'shave and a haircut, two bits.' Combeferre flings it open, and there is Courfeyrac, with bloodshot eyes and mussed hair and a coat that is falling off his shoulder. He stumbles past his friend to collapse onto the couch, head in his hands. Combeferre isn't sure what to do, which is a feeling he despises; all he can hear through the dark is his heart threatening to pump out of his chest.

"Courf?"

No response. Combeferre falters for a moment, but then decides to turn the kettle on for himself and pours a glass of water for his friend. He's just stirring in his sugar when Courfeyrac finally speaks:

"Azelma broke up with me."

The mug almost crashes to the floor, but Combeferre gets a hold of it. If only he could get a hold of his heartbeat as readily (if he thought it was going to jump out of his chest before…)

"What?" in an outraged whisper is all he can manage. There are a few things that seem impossible to Combeferre – Enjolras realizing Grantaire's true feelings for him, Gavroche ever not being a ray of grubby sunshine, Combeferre himself ever not loving Courfeyrac – and Azelma breaking up with Courfeyrac is one of them. They've been together since the end of everyone's' first degrees. It's been five years. Combeferre has seen the pair of them survive almost everything life could throw at two people. So what on Earth could have happened?

He doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything as he hands Courfeyrac the water. Courf downs half the glass and then leans back into the couch, closing his eyes. He's so beautiful, even now - more sloshed than Combeferre has seen since high school - and fuck Combeferre loves him. He really does. It takes everything within him to simply rest his hand on Courfeyrac's shoulder and not ask any questions, but he knows Courfeyrac (better than almost anyone, except Enjolras maybe.) If Courf wants to speak, he will.

It takes him a while, so long 'Ferre thinks he must have fallen asleep, but then he finally does say something. He mumbles it without opening his eyes and Combeferre has to ask him to repeat himself.

"Told her I thought I might be pansexual," Courf moans.

"Oh!" Combeferre takes that like a bullet to the chest. And then he decides he can digest that news later when things aren't falling apart as much as they are right now. And then he is consumed by so much anger he doesn't recognize it within himself. If Azelma thinks she can pass judgement on Courfeyrac just because he's apparently still figuring out his sexuality…

"That's not why she broke up with me, 'Ferre, so you can stop mauling my shoulder." Combeferre didn't even realize he was digging his fingers into Courf's very malleable shoulder.

"Sorry." 'Ferre tries to pull his hand away but Courfeyrac stops him by grabbing him around the wrist. It's not the most comfortable of positions, but Combeferre freezes like a deer in headlights. Then Courf tugs him forward so he ends up sitting beside him on the couch instead of in the armchair (his tea sloshes a bit onto the rug, but Combeferre has never cared less.)

"She broke up with me…" Courfeyrac seems to have trouble getting the words out. He scrunches his eyes shut, classic Courfeyrac speak for 'I've spent so much time crying this out that the tears should be all gone by now but they're not.' Combeferre knows that face all too well. "She broke up with me," Courfeyrac tries again, "because she thinks I've fallen in love with someone else."

He's still got his hand around Combeferre's wrist; Combeferre's been afraid to move his hand in case it makes Courf startle, but Courf moves first in the end. He maneuvers his grip so he is now clutching at 'Ferre's hand.

Calm down, Combeferre. You guys have held hands plenty of times before. It shouldn't be this big of a deal!

It shouldn't be – Courfeyrac is very affectionate and hand-holding goes along with that for him. But it's been so very long since they have, since Combeferre has felt free enough to. And it is so very late (early) and so very dark. And in light of what Courf just said…

"Are you?" Combeferre whispers. "Are you in love with someone else?" He can't breathe, but at least it's dark so Courf can't tell as easily.

Courfeyrac gives 'Ferre's hand an almost-so-tight-it's-painful squeeze, then lets it go violently. "Yes. No. Don't know." He finally looks at Combeferre and the desperation in his eyes cuts through the dark, through all the muscle and bone and sinew in Combeferre's chest and just makes its merry way right on into his heart. "I've only just figured out that I'm attracted to people other than women, I don't know how I feel about other humans right now, let alone if I love anyone other than my… than Azelma!"

Combeferre plucks up the courage to lean his head on Courfeyrac's shoulder in what he hopes is a gesture of comfort. Combeferre is a couple inches taller than his friend, but that height must be all in his legs because his head rests in the hollow between Courfeyrac's neck and shoulder perfectly.

"Well," he says, "I think you'd have some idea of whether you were in love with someone else."

It hit me the moment you won our chess competition in seventh grade. You were so happy to finally have beaten me you sent the game set sprawling onto the floor with your celebratory dance. I couldn't admit to myself until later what feeling exactly hit me but hit me it did. Like a goddamn freight train.

"But that's just it. I never thought what I felt for… this person was romantic." Courfeyrac's head drops into his hands. His words are less slurred now, more full sentences. "I'm not sure what I feel. I'm not sure of anything. But," he raises his head to look to Combeferre (holding onto any lifeline as long as he can), "I think what I…whatever I feel for this person is stronger than what I feel for Azelma." Combeferre's face must convey his incredulity at that. "We've just been exhausting each other of late, 'Ferre. We've got no patience. We've worked through so much before this, I thought we would continue to work through this together. I thought we both wanted to be together. But I…Azelma. Tonight. She said she didn't want to, didn't have it in her to 'work through this' again."

Again? Combeferre thinks, his heart breaking and remoulding itself over and over in a perfect cycle. Again?

"She's exhausted. She's been exhausted for so long it's her default. And frankly, it's mine too. Fuck." Combeferre notes the rebel tears leaking out the sides of his friend's shut eyes. Courfeyrac scrubs them away with the back of his palm – they're rebels and no longer welcome - and finishes off his water. "How could I not have seen how tired we both were?"

Combeferre is wondering how he could have missed that as well. He's wondering when the joy Azelma brought Courf had to be negotiated through life, when it tapered off into exhaustion and effort. He's wondering if he could pinpoint a moment in time where that occurred. He's wondering if anyone else has noticed, if anyone else knows now.

"I don't know, Courf," is all he finally says. But Courfeyrac nods like that, if not satisfies him, at least absolves him of immediate guilt. "And now that you're no longer flat-out drunk," Combeferre continues, "I say you should get some sleep."

Courf doesn't even protest. He shrugs out of his jacket to head to the bathroom. 'Ferre goes to grab blankets and a pillow because he knows how pointless it is to try and persuade Courfeyrac to use his bed. When he comes back, Courfeyrac is already curled up on the couch, curls askew, mouth drooping open like it has so many times before on this very couch (a present from Combeferre's mother when he was accepted into med school.)

'Ferre's head is a churning whirlpool. He grabs the glasses, rinsing them both out at the sink just for something (anything) to do. He knows, knows with the supposed 'common sense voice' his friends have relied on so many times, that he should go to bed. Even if he just stares up at the ceiling with the old water stains from the apartment above. But he also knows he doesn't want to do that.

And sometimes Combeferre gets so fed up of being the reasonable one of the group. There's only so much reason to go around in a group like theirs; dispensing it consistently is wearisome. Sometimes there's a voice that rises above the 'common sense voice,' a voice that shouts instead of always replying in a carefully measured tone.

So 'Ferre doesn't go back to bed. He sits there and watches one of his best friends sleep on his faded couch, under his one scratchy blanket that Courf likes against all odds. He tries to sit there and go back to the feeling of 'desolate pinning' he is so familiar with instead of this new taste in the back of his throat. His 'common sense voice' tells him hope (which tastes like a sour candy, all sticky and sugary) will be the most painful thing yet. But tonight is not going to be a night that common sense wins out.

He sits and he watches Courfeyrac sleep through what remains of the night with that taste crowding his mouth.

When the sunrays begin to peek in underneath Combeferre's pink blinds (a gift from Jehan) they highlight Courf's familiar face. That sight, his pale face and black hair set in the morning sun, flays 'Ferre's heart open like it's going to be roasted over a spit (he's not very sure it won't be, what with hope fluttering around in there now.) Because the hope is still very much present, even as his heart splits open to welcome the sun's rays.

The hope is still there when Courfeyrac opens his beautiful eyes and offers to make chocolate chip waffles for breakfast.