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Courfeyrac is, for once, alone in his dorm.
Okay, not ‘his’ dorm, exclusively. He shares it with Combeferre and Enjolras, as has been the plan since they all found each other in early high school, and all officially became platonic soulmates.
There was a ceremony and everything. Courfeyrac had made sure of it. He still has the soulmate contract, a document which had started as a joke made on a school computer, but had still been signed by all three of them.
It’s laminated, and carefully stowed in his desk.
But, he digresses.
It’s the middle of their first year of college. Midterms have passed, and the lull that comes after a couple of (terrible, awful, very bad) cram weeks has settled over campus, and blessedly, all of the students there as well.
Well, all but one.
Courfeyrac has barely seen Enjolras in the week and a half since midterms. Quite the feat, since they share a dorm. Neither he, nor Combeferre have seen him except during a few shared classes, and occasionally at night, when he sneaks in far past midnight, and quietly climbs into his bed.
It’s not out of the ordinary for Enjolras to be out and about. Far from it; Enjolras has a complete, and innate inability to do nothing. He’s allergic, Courferyac thinks.
Combeferre says that’s not possible, but Courfeyrac isn’t convinced.
Normally when he’s busy, though, Courfeyrac and Combeferre are included in whatever he’s working on. The three of them are essentially a package deal. If one of them is doing something, the other two are likely only a step behind. When one of them experiences something new, the other two are the first to hear about it.
They don’t usually have a need for secrets.
Which only makes the fact that Enjolras has been staying out and not saying a word about it after even weirder.
Combeferre thinks they should leave it be. Let Enjolras come to them, if, and when he wants to explain, and so far, Courfeyrac has been doing an admirable job of respecting that.
Still, he won’t pretend that he isn’t relieved when today, finally, Enjolras comes back to the dorm before the sun has fully gone down.
Courfeyrac is sitting at his desk when the door opens. He’s already in sleep shorts and a tee shirt, just finishing up some homework for the class he’s come from (a public speaking class, which, if he plays his cards right, will be the easiest ‘A’ of his life).
He turns, and immediately perks up when he sees that familiar shock of blonde curls and well-worn red jacket coming through.
“Hey ‘Jo!” he says, grinning despite himself, “No plans tonight?”
Enjolras toes off his shoes, lining them up carefully beside Courfeyrac’s, and then crosses the room, and perches himself on the edge of his bed, facing towards where Courf is sitting.
“No,” he says, “Nothing specific.”
It’s then that Courfeyrac finally realizes how…defeated his friend looks.
It’s subtle, but upon closer inspection, the signs are all there, clear as day.
Enjolras’ eyebrows are drawn together, and his gaze is unfocused, looking at nothing but the carpet in front of him. His shoulders are slumped, but tense, the look of someone resigned to their fate, but still bracing for it.
“Is something wrong?” he asks, his own brow furrowing, “You seem, um…” he pauses, trying to think of the right word. After a beat, he settles on, “...Down?”
Enjolras’ eyes flick up to him, guilty, probably half-expecting but not wanting to be called out. He smoothes the expression away a moment later, though, and hums, softly.
“...I suppose I am, a bit,” he says. And it’s something, but he doesn’t elaborate.
Courfeyrac eyes his friend, chewing his lip.
Combeferre had said that they should leave him alone, and not press him, and Courfeyrac has been doing a very, very admirable job of respecting that. But…it can’t hurt to ask just once, right?
If he’s turned down, he can always back off. Easy.
“Does it maybe have something to do with the fact that you’ve been staying out all night, recently?” Courfeyrac asks.
At that, Enjolras starts. His hands, which had been resting on his thighs come together, fingers twisting into knots. Odd. Enjolras doesn’t get nervous often.
“I didn’t think you’d noticed,” he admits, after a beat, “I hope I haven’t been worrying you and Combeferre.”
“We’re adults now,” Courfeyrac says, smiling at his friend. He rests his chin on the butt of his palm, elbow on his knee, and leans forward, “We know you can handle yourself. But, I will say, the secrecy is new. And pretty unnecessary.”
Enjolras presses his lips together, looking away for a moment.
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Courfeyrac clarifies, quick as he can, “but I gotta say, I’m curious,” he smiles, “and I’ve had time to come up with tons of theories as to where you’ve been going.”
At that, Enjolras does ease, slightly. Some of the tension leaves his posture, and his mouth twitches, in the very smallest impression of a smile.
“Oh?” he prompts. His knotted fingers are starting to relax as well, now just resting laced together in his lap. Progress.
“Yep!” Courf says. He lifts his free hand into the air with a flourish, and puts fingers down as he begins to list options.
“An underground ultra-exclusive hair-care club, a secret ‘book club’ where you discuss your Robespierre-centric self-insert fanfiction, you’ve been transformed into a vampire and night is when you feed—”
“How would I have gotten back to the dorm in the daylight if I were a vampire?” Enjolras asks, raising an eyebrow. He’s smiling in earnest now, though, which makes Courf grin back, pride, and relief swelling in his chest.
“Strategic parasol!” he answers, waggling his eyebrows, “As if you don’t know that already, vampire.”
Enjolras huffs a laugh.
For a moment, it seems like that’s going to be it. Like they’re going to drop it, and have to come back later, when Enjolras is ready. But, after a moment Enjolras’ expression shifts.
It’s a sight to behold. Quiet mirth slips away, and is replaced by that same dour, thoughtful expression as before. Then, slowly, it turns into something more resolute.
Courfeyrac leans forward, knowing that something is coming, but he finds he’s still unprepared for the sentence that comes out of Enjolras’ mouth.
“I think something is wrong with me.”
Courfeyrac drops the hand from under his chin, and sits up, suddenly at full attention.
“...You think something is ‘wrong with you’?” Courfeyrac repeats. Enjolras nods. He shifts on the bed, clearly uncomfortable.
“I’ve been…experimenting,” he says, “and that’s the conclusion I’ve come to.”
And yeah. That’s a little concerning.
“Experimenting how?” Courfeyrac asks, “And with what, exactly?”
“Sex,” Enjolras says, “I’ve been doing…‘hookups’. Some one-night stands, specifically.”
That...is not something Courfeyrac would have ever guessed. Hell, he’d guessed at vampirism before he’d thought of Enjolras ever being interested in casual sex. He doesn’t think he does a good job of hiding his surprise, either. The way Enjolras’ whole, beautiful face goes stiff with defensiveness in the space of a breath all but confirms it.
“With who?” Courfeyrac can’t help but ask. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Enjolras to be safe, more that it seems unlikely Enjolras would want to just…pick people up in a bar. And even if he did, Courfeyrac doubts that that’s the best way to get a good amateur sexual experience.
“They’re classmates, mostly,” Enjolras replies, still sounding slightly defensive, “A few have expressed interest before. I just took them up on it.”
The use of ‘mostly’ still worries Courfeyrac, but he decides not to press it. Not right now. They can have a fully-fledged conversation on where to best pick up safe sexual partners another time, if Enjolras wants.
“Is there a reason you suddenly took interest in sampling the buffet, as it were?” he asks, schooling his expression into something neutral, as best he can, “It doesn’t really seem like your thing.”
Enjolras shifts, uncomfortable.
“You said something recently about ‘flings’ being a rite of passage into adulthood,” he says, “So…though I haven’t really had an inclination towards them, I thought it was important to try.”
Courfeyrac winces a little, internally. It’s not the first time Enjolras has taken something he’d said too literally. He’s learned over the many years that they’ve been friends, to always try and be careful with his words.
Once, in high school, he’d jokingly said ‘Oh my god, I hate you,’, after losing for the third round of a word game in a row to him.
Rather than laughing like Courf had expected, Enjolras’ face had fallen, his expression going all stricken and confused in the space of a breath.
Courfeyrac had been quick to correct himself, to clarify that he didn’t literally hate him, but he’s pretty sure Enjolras had let him win the next two rounds, regardless.
In this case, the off-hand comment that had sparked Enjolras’ sexcapade hadn’t even been directed at Enjolras himself. It had been a rebuttal to Combeferre jokingly asking him exactly how many people Courfeyrac has gotten with in the past year.
In retrospect, he probably should have taken a bit more care with his phrasing.
“So…you’ve been doing some flings, but your attempts have been…bad?” Courfeyrac presses, eyebrows knitting together.
Enjolras’ expression sours, slightly.
So, yes, then.
“I thought at first that it was just a learning curve, and it would get better over time,” Enjolras says, “But it…hasn’t. And it doesn’t seem to have anything to do with what partner I pick, so the only common denominator left is…”
He trails off, that bitter pinch between his eyebrows only growing deeper.
“You,” Courfeyrac finishes for him.
“Yes,” Enjolras confirms, softly, “Me.”
Silence hangs between them for a moment.
“What exactly goes wrong?” Courf asks, after a beat, deciding to try his luck. If it’s just a matter of technique, he’s more than capable of giving some pointers. Enjolras doesn’t seem like the type to have gone in unprepared, but hey, stranger things have happened.
“Nothing goes wrong,” Enjolras says, giving a frustrated huff. His demeanor sobers a second later, eyes going downcast, “I just…I don’t know how to turn my brain off, and enjoy it.”
Courfeyrac is about to interject, to point out that that’s not actually even in the ballpark of what you’re supposed to do, but Enjolras is still talking.
“I can…‘get off’ on my own,” he says, hands coming up to do quotations in the air beside him, “I have things that in theory I find ‘sexy’. But the moment it becomes real, the moment I’m there, and another person is there, and I’m supposed to act aroused, I just…”
He trails off then, focused on his socks more than anything. That same defeat Courf had seen earlier in the evening is back, making Enjolras’ shoulders slump. He continues, resigned.
“Logically, I know that it feels good. But it’s—the whole time it’s happening, I’m thinking, ‘I look ridiculous. I feel ridiculous’. And I don’t want to think that way, I just can’t—” Enjolras stops, his throat works. Frustration works its way into his expression, turning the corners of his mouth down, and making his voice go bitter and tight as he continues, stoked to a ramble, “No matter how hard I try, I cannot relax. So I just end up stressed, and sweaty, and worried that it’s terrible for my partner. That I’m doing a terrible job, because I’m not having fun like I’m supposed to. And knowing that I’m supposed to be having fun only makes it worse—”
“Whoa, whoa, okay—Enjolras, stop,” Courfeyrac interrupts, holding out a hand between them for emphasis. Enjolras, to his credit, does, looking almost relieved at the interruption.
“Okay, so,” Courf continues, crossing his legs, and leaning forward. There’s a lot to unpack from all of that, so he just starts where it feels natural, “first of all, you’re not supposed to do or feel anything about sex. That’s not how it works.”
“But,” Enjolras says, indignant, “You said—”
“Forget what I said,” Courfeyrac interrupts, waving a hand between them, “I didn’t intend for it to come across that sex is an actual, literal, mandatory rite of passage, Enjolras. I’m sorry I made you feel the need to push yourself in this respect.”
He’s glad he’s gotten a chance to clarify that much, at least, though guilt still sits, stubborn in his stomach. It’s bad enough that society as a whole puts so much pressure on having sexual relationships. The idea that he’d contributed to that, by accident or not, makes him feel a little sick.
Enjolras hadn’t seemed swayed much by society’s broader emphasis on sexual relationships in general, so Courfeyrac really hadn’t thought much about being so flippant about it, before. He’d assumed that Enjolras was comfortable being the sexless wonder.
Something clicks, then, in Courfeyrac’s mind.
“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac continues, “have you ever considered that you might just be asexual?”
“I—” Enjolras starts, only to stop himself a second later. His hands have come to rest on either side of his thighs. His fingers dig into sheets, and stay there, “...Not really.”
‘Not really’ is not the same as ‘no’. Especially not coming from Enjolras, whose speech at times might actually cause blunt force trauma for how little he minces his words.
“Let me rephrase,” Courfeyrac says, pushing a little more now, “I really, really think you should really consider that you might be asexual.”
Enjolras’ jaw goes tight. There’s something in his posture, something taut, and brittle, and its echoed in his tone when, after a few moments of silence, he speaks again.
“Is there something specific that makes you say that?”
‘Yes, literally every single thing you’ve said in the past five minutes,’ Courfeyrac wants to say, but he resists, instead steepling his fingers, and then pointing them at Enjolras.
“Is there something specific that makes you think I’m wrong?”
Enjolras’ silence is just about all the answer as he needs. Still, the amount of pushback he’s getting at the suggestion is not only concerning, it’s confusing.
As far as he knew, Enjolras had been comfortable with his own lack of a sex life. Even in high school, he’d rejected anyone who’d propositioned him with an efficiency and frankness which had left many an ego bruised.
Why now, suddenly, he’s not okay with himself not wanting to engage with people sexually, is unfathomable to Courfeyrac.
“...You look upset,” Courfeyrac says, concerned.
Enjolras doesn’t respond, not at first. He seems to be gathering his thoughts, so Courfeyrac lets him, sitting as patiently as he can until his friend is ready.
“I still want—” Enjolras says, finally, then stops himself, and swallows again, hard. He looks away, suddenly blinking a lot. When he speaks again, his voice is more unsteady than it was before.
“I still want…intimacy.”
He says it like a confession. A guilty admission, spoken more to the floor than to Courfeyrac.
“When you say intimacy,” Courfeyrac says, “what do you mean?”
It feels important to clarify. But also, Enjolras doesn’t open up about his own wants very often. Generally, he’s too focused on what needs doing to even consider personal desires.
“I like being close to people, physically,” Enjolras answers, speaking every word like it’s both painful and loathsome, “Nobody—nobody touches me, if it’s not in a sexual context, and I—”
“And you…want someone to?” Courfeyrac asks, unable to hide his own surprise.
It’s not something he’s ever considered, that Enjolras wants physical affection. He’s not a very touchy person. Or…he didn’t seem to be, when they’d met in high school.
Granted, almost no one was back then. No one who grew up socialized male, anyway. It had been something Courfeyrac himself had had to try to curb when he’d gotten to middle school, and every male friend he had suddenly became allergic to hugs.
Courfeyrac supposes he’d assumed when Enjolras had been so resistant to intimacy even the context of relationships, that that probably extended to his friendships as well.
Enjolras pauses, and then nods, just once. His hands are in tight fists on his thighs.
“What if I’m just…” he says, face twisted with something akin to grief, “‘Locked out’ of being close to people, if I don’t want sex?”
Enjolras’ eyes are misty now, eyebrows pinched with mingled frustration, and something more pained. He sniffs, as subtle as he can, and Courfeyrac watches him lift an arm, and swipe a furious hand across his cheekbone, getting rid of the evidence.
This isn’t a side of Enjolras that many people get to see. People get the impression, sometimes, that he’s invulnerable. But Enjolras is a human. A human with wants, and needs, and a heart so big it’s staggering.
Courfeyrac’s own chest aches to know that his friend has been hurting—possibly since high school, or before—for a reason that is very, very fixable.
“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says, carefully, “if platonic physical affection is what you need, all you have to do is ask.”
Enjolras’ face is carefully blank. There’s a flicker of something like hope that most people wouldn’t be able to catch, not without years of dedicated training in his many enjolras-isms, but it’s replaced with something more guarded a moment later, Enjolras’ hands going stiff in his lap.
“I don’t want you to feel pressured into this because I’ve been venting to you—” Enjolras starts.
“Oh nooo,” Courfeyrac interrupts, speaking dryly, the back of his hand coming up to rest on his brow in a mockery of a fainting gesture, “my best friend that I love very much wants to cuddle with me, how will I ever bear it?”
“But you’ve…never tried to do that before,” Enjolras retorts, eyebrows furrowed.
“I never thought you wanted to before,” Courfeyrac corrects.
Enjolras may be stubborn as all hell, but he’s not immune to persuasion. And, thankfully, he seems close to being convinced now. Pink has raised on the tips of his ears, and he looks more unsure than unwilling.
He just needs a little push.
Courfeyrac stands from his desk chair, taking just a moment to stretch, and then goes around to the other side of Enjolras’ bed, and flops down.
“Don’t be stupid,” Courfeyrac says, patting the spot beside himself with a grin, “Come on. Get comfy.”
Enjolras has never been one for hesitation. Convinced by action, he smiles, grateful, and does as he’s told, lying back against flat pillows.
It takes a little adjusting to get comfortable. Courfeyrac flings an arm around his friend’s middle, and tugs him close. Enjolras has to scoot down a bit to find a more comfortable position, ending up with his head resting against Courf’s collar, hands hovering awkwardly on his sides for a moment, before finally coming up to wrap around Courf’s back, and stay there.
“Courf?” Enjolras murmurs, a few moments after they’re settled. Courfeyrac hums his reply, and Enjolras shifts, speaking into his shirt, “Thank you.”
Courf smiles, letting one of his hands find a rhythm, rubbing gentle circles on Enjolras’ back.
“Any time, ‘Jo.”
~~
Fifteen minutes later, their room’s lock clicks, and Combeferre steps through, coming from an evening class. Enjolras, who had seemed on the edge of sleep until milliseconds ago, blinks to alertness at the sound.
He starts to pull away, either figuring it’s a natural end to their cuddle session, or unsure if Combeferre is going to question it. But Courfeyrac is having none of it.
He probably manhandles Enjolras a little, giving him a squeeze, and making sure he doesn’t wriggle away. Courfeyrac isn’t embarrassed. Far from it. They’ve known each other for so long, frankly, a cuddle session like this is long overdue.
“‘Ferre, get over here, we’re having a sleepover!” Courf calls, only breaking his hold on Enjolras to lift one hand, and wave Combeferre over.
Combeferre toes off his shoes and sets his bag down by his own bed, then just looks at them for a moment, curious.
He looks like he’s about to ask why it is, exactly, that he and Enjolras are curled up in bed together. A fair thing to question, considering Enjolras’ seeming lack of interest in physical touch.
The last thing Enjolras needs right now is an interrogation. So, Courfeyrac makes very intentional eye-contact with Combeferre, and gives the tiniest shake of his head. A silent request not to pry. Not right now.
They can talk about it later.
Thankfully, Combeferre seems to understand.
He nods, just as small a movement as Courf’s head shake had been.
“We always sleep in the same room,” Combeferre says, instead. “Every night is technically a sleepover.”
Courfeyrac smiles.
“True, but tonight we’re sleeping all together,” he says, matter-of-factly. He drops his hand back down around Enjolras’ waist, and taps the remaining sliver of bed behind Enjolras’ back with his fingertips, “Come on, we don’t have all day.”
Combeferre still doesn’t move for a couple more seconds. When he peeks up, Courfeyrac can see him eyeing the remaining space on the mattress, dubious, his arms crossed.
“...I don’t think that’s physically possible on these beds,” Combeferre says. He doesn’t sound disinclined to the idea, necessarily, just disbelieving of its efficacy. And it’s fair; their dorm beds are small. They’re small even when it’s just one person on them.
That won’t stop them if Courfeyrac can help it, though.
“You’re the one that told me otters sleep holding hands so they don’t drift away in the ocean,” Courf says, “Obviously, we’re going to cuddle up so no one falls off. Now get over here.”
And thankfully, after a couple more quiet seconds, Combeferre acquiesces.
He stops just to take off his jacket, and then carefully slides into the bed behind Enjolras, and lays down.
‘Ferre was right, it is a bit awkward. They have to scooch around, and cling to each other. Courfeyrac loops a leg over both of Enjolras’. Enjolras’ face is pressed into his neck. Combeferre has his chin hooked over Enjolras’ shoulder, and one arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him close.
Is it kind of uncomfortable? Yes. Are Enjolras and Combeferre still in their street clothes? Yes.
Is it probably going to end in one of them falling off the bed in the middle of the night? Absolutely.
But it’s worth it.
Because, a few seconds after they’ve all gotten settled, Courfeyrac feels Enjolras breathe a sigh, soft, and relieved. The hands on Courfeyrac’s back twitch to life, and Enjolras’ long fingers bury themselves into the fabric of his shirt, and stay there.
And yeah, Courf thinks, this is all he needed. Honestly, he can’t believe they’ve never done this before.
It’s nice. It’s really, really nice.
Courfeyrac smiles into curls, and closes his eyes, content.