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Combeferre was a man haunted. Perhaps not in the traditional sense with some unseen force opening doors or a Spector appearing on the edge of your vision that flees when turned to, in those instances the haunting involves something being there that shouldn’t be. In a sense, there was that feeling for Combeferre; there should not be this much space in his home.
He stood in his kitchen, now, staring at nothing in particular while a kettle boiled water on the stove. It was dark, and he couldn’t sleep. It was too quiet to sleep.
Before he got up, he laid in his bed, hands straight by his side and head staring directly at the ceiling. A cold sweat was forming on his forehead. He never knew that the world could become this quiet. The structure made no noise of settling as it does every night. There was no wind creeping though the poorly placed window, whistling with its entrance. There was no rain that night despite it pouring all day, and no bugs were singing their nightly tune.
That was fine. Combeferre has slept through nights like that. But those nights were not quiet.
Now, he could not hear the crinkle of paper being feverishly written on, the victim of late night inspiration and passion. He could not hear footsteps light and spry, trying to stay quiet on the too loud floors.
He didn’t hear breathing; he had grown so accustomed to this almost inaudible sound that the lack of its presence created a deafening silence that made the air around him feel thick and heavy, crushing him and taking his warmth.
Cold. With the quiet came cold. Maybe worse than the silence alone was the emptiness. The bed seemed awkward sinking with only his weight and no counter balance on the other side. The two blankets over him were as cold as the air around him. The warmth he had come to associate with home was missing, gone with the man who carried all the warmth and little noises Combeferre had needed.
He sat up with a start and threw his legs out of the bed, breaking his thoughts off. His own ragged breaths did nothing to break the suffocating silence. He stood up quickly and left the bedroom, not daring to look at the empty bed.
He had been trying as of recent to adapt, adapt to his own life again. It had been so long since he was just Combeferre, alone. He shivered and tried not to think about it. He tried to do that recently. It was damn hard.
So now he stood in his kitchen, boiling water and planning to make tea. Like this, he could almost pretend that the reason he had no one to talk to was because his…
because his roommate? (Not enough) his partner? (Too intimate) his everything? (Too subtle)
Enjolras?
His breath caught even thinking of the name, and he quickly bit his lip to catch the sound.
He could imagine…he could imagine the other man was simply in bed before him. Although it was a bit hard, as that happened so rarely. Either both were up, or Combeferre would wait in the bed awake as the other man’s body refused to let him rest. Sometimes on the occasion Combeferre did doze off, he would be woken with a push on his shoulder, and he was asked a grammar question or to check spelling.
Some nights they both laid in bed, bodies and minds finally relenting. In those moments, the two bodies were basically one. Their arms slung around each other, their faces resting on the same pillow, their feet layered over themselves in ways that anyone simply looking at it would feel the need to stretch.
He was broken out of his musings by the shrill screeching of the kettle, screaming that the water had reached a boil. Combeferre immediately turned and stupidly placed his hands directly against the hot metal.
He let out a loud curse and let his hands fly up far from the offending kitchenware. An apology and explanation bloomed and subsequently died on his tongue as he realized that there was no one asking if he was okay or what had happened.
He almost started crying right there, but his body went rigid. He hadn’t broken down at all this month, so he chewed the inside of his cheek and took deep breaths until he didn’t feel the wetness in his eyes anymore.
He knew he had to learn to move on.
He said it the same way and with the same effect as cutting a man’s legs off and telling him to run a marathon.
Eventually he let his body relax, mechanically bringing himself over to the cabinets to fetch the tea. The cabinets now held half the amount of food they used to, though even with two people they usually didn’t eat it before it went bad.
He almost smiled as he thought of a few years ago when he and his best friend realized they hadn’t eaten all day. One of them, at this point it was hard to tell who said what, asked why they even bothered to keep a full pantry when they so often forgot about it. When they opened the cabinet, the very first thing waiting for them was a loaf of bread far past the point of simply moldy.
The funniest part was always the fact neither of them remembered even buying bread.
Actually, it was second to the fact that both of them still cut a slice and tried it. The ensuing days were torturous, but somehow their bodies knew only to vomit when the other person was not.
Combeferre felt a genuine smile start to form on his face as he thought of this, staring at the loaf of bread he actually does remember buying. Of course, the incident became a running joke for the two, and any instance to bring it up was used. Combeferre didn’t even think when he turned around and asked,
“Hey Enjolras, do you remember buying this loaf? Because I-“
His breath hitched in his throat and he froze, staring at the empty table. He hadn’t made a slip up like that in weeks. However cold the room was before, it was now colder. Unimaginably colder. The silence became so loud it made Combeferre's ears ring.
He couldn’t stop his knees from buckling, and he found himself on the floor. For the first time that month, for the millionth time since his death, Combeferre cried for Enjolras.
——-
For once, Enjolras and Combeferre had no plans.
This never happened. Enjolras was an ever-burning flame, going and going and going. He spoke to the poor, he rallied, he wrote essays and pamphlets, he went on walks with his friends, he held meetings.
Combeferre had a list of interests unlike any other man. He had given up all of his free time going to lectures, watching demonstrations, performing at home experiments, attending the theater, reading whole books by the end of the day, joining Enjolras in his activities, or having Enjolras join his.
Today, there was nothing planned. Enjolras’ latest pamphlets were being edited by Jehan and Feuilly. He had no arms dealers to meet with and Bahorel was talking to people with Courfeyrac.
Combeferre had no new books to read. The lecture he was going to go to about the newest geological studies in the Americas had been delayed.
For once, the two sat in their living room. They sat on the couch, Enjolras with a book resting on his legs and Combeferre looking over his notes from one of his classes.
Despite how rare such a situation was, it didn’t feel uncomfortable. The two were so intertwined that it seems impossible for anything to be awkward between them. When one had a thought, it was not long before the other did, too. When one said something, the other was quick to form an argument.
They complimented and corrected each other in a way neither of them knew they needed.
“Combeferre,” Enjolras broke the silence, playing with one of the pages of the book between his hands, “Have you explained this book to me before?”
Combeferre raised an eyebrow, “can I see the cover?”
The blond man closed the book, not even saving his page, and held it up to his companion's face.
Combeferre pushed his glasses up and smiled, “one of my favorites. It’s most likely I’ve talked about it before.”
Enjolras’ pretty face did not reveal much, but he hummed and set the book to the side, “well then I shall find something else to read. As I flipped the pages I felt I'd already read it.”
“Oh? Surely you did not know it so well by only my description.”
“Don’t undercredit yourself. These words are identical to the ones in your mouth, perhaps worse.”
Combeferre’s face warmed and he smiled, humming. Enjolras smiled too, pink lips twisting up. He shifted his position on the couch to be closer to Combeferre to the point his cheek rested against his shoulder.
“What have you been looking over these hours?”
“Just notes for one of my classes,” he said, shifting the papers away to look at Enjolras.
The morning was close to ending, and the sun spilled into the room giving it a soft, warm feeling. Enjolras seemed somewhat dazed today, and Combeferre couldn’t help but see that something was troubling his friend.
“Everything alright?” He asked.
Enjolras turned his head up, smiling at Combeferre. He reached his hand up and placed it against the other man’s jaw. His nimble, soft fingertips ran from near his ear to below his lips.
“I’m happy to have you, I hope you know that.”
Combeferre’s eyebrows furrowed, it wasn’t like Enjolras to be as sappy as this ever. He never hid his love to those close to him, but never expressed it this way. Almost unconsciously, he moved his hand to the blond’s forehead.
“Are you feeling alright?” He asked worriedly to his younger friend, “Is that why you haven’t done anything today?”
Enjolras moved his hand from Combeferre’s face and took the hand away from his own, intertwining the fingers on the way down, “I am doing nothing today for there is nothing to do. I’m content right now, and I want to take a moment to appreciate it.”
Combeferre could tell there was more on his dearest friend's mind, but he didn’t push. He too was enjoying such a simple moment they did not have often. He thought, a little sadly, there would not be much time for simple days like this when the revolution became less of an idea and more of an action.
But every waking hour was used for the revolution or for progress, this moment was just for the two of them.
——-
Combeferre froze as he pushed the paper to the other side of the desk. That was not something he did to get it out of the way. That was how he let his friend make any edits he wanted without having to say a word. It was just known between them instinctively.
He couldn’t get himself to turn his head and see the empty seat next to him. His fingers, still on the paper, slowly dragged it back towards himself.
“I’ll check it,” he said to the empty space. It was hard to cut the habit of talking. Little conversations that used to always flow had been dammed. Now when words dared to slip between teeth they were met with only silence.
Combeferre rubbed his strained eyes before they could cry anymore; a small sob broke from between his lips.
If he knew life would be like this, he wished he died at the barricade. He unconsciously rubbed at the bayonet wound on his chest, deep enough for permanent damage but not to take a life.
He cried for all his friends who fell at the barricade, but his eyes seemed to never dry over the half of himself he lost.
——-
Enjolras and Combeferre walked side by side, deep in a hushed conversation. It was stupid to be having such a radical conversation as they were in the middle of the day, but they couldn’t help themselves.
Enjolras moved his hands in smooth and sharp motions, leading and enhancing his fierce points.
Combeferre pointed and prodded his finger in the air, punctuating and guiding his words.
The two seemed in a world of their own, agreeing and arguing and correcting each other as if it was what they were put on the Earth to do. They didn’t let their voices gain enough volume to be heard by anyone not listening, and to the unassuming eye they seemed simply good college friends talking about classes.
They had been out for at least an hour, but soon Combeferre would have to leave and go watch a debate on the usefulness of medical sanitation. Of course, he was mostly steadfast in his beliefs, but he couldn’t wait to hear how others would try and reason.
He didn’t want to check his watch, for he was deeply enjoying his time with Enjolras. The heat of the debate sprang beautifully in his eyes, expressive and wide. Combeferre would hate to distract him by checking how close to two they were.
So the friends walked and spoke and made exaggerated hand motions. They laughed and they got serious and they stayed in almost perfect step.
By the time it mellowed enough for Combeferre to feel checking his watch would not interrupt, it was a quarter past four.
And Combeferre could not have thought of a better way to spend those hours.
——-
He still hasn’t gotten around to removing his old roommate’s things. He almost got to it today, deciding he could never get rid of it but he can’t keep looking at it.
The clothes were neatly packed in boxes, ready to be placed deep in a closet. The rest…well.
It was hard to tell what counted as his and what didn’t.
The two basically shared everything, and Combeferre found he couldn’t find where his life ends and the others begins.
His life since the barricade felt lopsided. For months great waves of grief would hit him and knock him into a pool of sorrow. For the first week or so he couldn’t even get himself out of bed.
Something so crucial was missing. Someone was missing. His mind, all alone, functioned on a limp. And all the more, losing his other half was losing everything and everything else.
Losing his best friend, his editor, his breakfast companion, his greatest rival, his dearest ally, his sun, his stars, his sea, his sky, his reasoning, his compass, his leader, his partner, and, on the rare occasion but the most cherished, his bedmate.
At the moment he had stopped even trying. He sat on the bed, a book on his lap. He never read it before, but it was no good to read now. Each page was covered in fast, messy annotations and notes. The pages had paper haphazardly placed between them, clearing just adding more to what the man wanted to say.
Combeferre took a dry breath, he didn’t feel like crying but had a dull ache beat against his chest. He felt heavy as his eyes tried to decipher the twisty and splotchy handwriting.
Enjolras denied himself all luxuries, even the ability to read his own notes.
Combeferre felt the name flow easily though his mind, not snagging on any spare emotions. He even found himself smiling thinking of Enjolras.
He traced his fingers on the pages. He noted the sentences that had been smudged, the next line started hastily without thinking about letting the ink dry. The corners of the pages folded to mark them. The cover peeling in the corners from when it was shoved into bags. He thought it was just so Enjolras.
For the first time in seemingly forever, an honest laugh slips out of him.
“God, I miss you,” he said to himself as he places a kiss against the page, letting it be the substitute for soft lips.
——-
Combeferre sat curled on the floor, hands around his stomach and a bucket near his head. Enjolras was not fairing much better, but he at least was sitting up.
“What possessed us to eat that?” Combeferre groaned.
Enjolras, looking sickly and pale and slightly green, muttered in response.
“This is hell,” Combeferre stated as he moved his hand to wipe sweat from his forehead.
“Even if this is hell, I still have you,” Enjolras said, giving a faint smile before quickly grabbing the bucket and somehow managing to expel more from his body.
“At least we are here together,” Combeferre agreed and he smiled and let a small laugh escape his lips, “Note: never eat the bread unless one of us can say when it was bought.”
“If we cannot, feel free to take it to your biology class.”
Enjolras’ head was out of the pail long enough to second the idea and add to it before his body betrayed him once again, and Combeferre grinned.
He almost laughed, but his stomach lurched and he groaned instead. Enjolras’ shaky hand rested against his, and they stayed there the rest of the night.