Combeferre's POV

While I should've been studying, I was instead staring at the page my teachers would like me to read instead of just observe, lost in a pit of thoughts about my obnoxious friend Courfeyrac. Studying is boring, anyway, and Courfeyrac happens to be the farthest thing from boring I know, so it's more of a good time to be pondering him than fucking mathematics. I think anyone would agree. And despite barely studying at all after thinking about this charming ball of fluff, I'm extremely tired of it, so when Joly informed me that Courfeyrac has been sick and needs someone to take care of him, brew him some tea, and complete all of the common activities performed for the ill, I was absolutely ecstatic to both relieve myself of intellectual obligations, and visit my best friend, who has been on my mind much more than he was two days ago.

I'm still unsure of how I feel about him, considering he's been nothing more than a friend for years upon years, and I had never doubted that notion until now, but it's a requisite to declare that I lean more towards the side of crushing than to the side of the friend zone, which I should interpret as a sign that I do, in fact, like him, but I'm an analytical person, and I don't want to jump to conclusions, and end up ruining my longest lasting friendship because of it. Besides, I don't even know if Courfeyrac likes me back, so I'm staying silent for now. However, that doesn't mean I can't be joyous about receiving the opportunity to aid him in his time of need.

When I arrive at his apartment, a place not too far from my own — all of our friends live near each other so that the commute to the Corinth, the Musain, and other meeting places is relatively easy — I find the place trashed by used tissues and food wrappers. I refrain from disposing of the tissues, but I ensure that the wrappers end up in the garbage can before I begin my search for my sick friend.

The search isn't nearly as prolonged or difficult as I thought it would be — I had assumed, on my way here, that I would be required to venture into the swamp that Courfeyrac calls a room, but apparently not. He's instead curled up cozily on the couch like a puppy, a blanket settled over his tightly compacted shoulders. If I didn't truly know his age, I would say that he could pass as a small child of about eight years old.

Courfeyrac isn't one to sleep out of the schedule of night, so to see him here renders me a tad confused. I had expected to be talking with him until he doesn't feel so bad about being sick, because he would have a friend with him, but now that I'm witnessing his repose, I realize that is not the case, and for a lack of better things to do, I just stare at him like a creepy old man. Soon, though, I figure that I can.

I push my glasses farther up my nose in an act of anxiety from catching myself watching my best friend sleep (I don't think I can explain that to people without portraying myself as a pervert of some kind), and relocate into the kitchen to prepare Courfeyrac a drink. Though it would be very beneficial for him to drink it, he has expressed to me his acrimony towards tea, thinking it to be for the English bourgeoisie and pretentious art students — I didn't want to debate him about it, as his reasoning for things is so convoluted that none of it makes any sense, even after an explanation — so I root through his cabinets for something else, praying that his roommate, Marius, won't notice if I accidentally steal something of his.

Eventually, I stumble across four packets of hot chocolate. If I remember correctly, this is Courfeyrac's favorite drink. I should've predicted that he would stock his favorite drink in his own goddamn apartment, but here we are. I select two of the four packets so that we can share an intimate moment of hot beverages reminiscent of lovers in the autumn weather, or however social media blogs represent them, and flip the packet to read the instructions.

Contrary to Courfeyrac's opinion, I happen to enjoy tea more than I enjoy hot chocolate, so I find myself drinking the former instead of the latter on most occasions, meaning I only have a vague idea of how hot chocolate is prepared, and I'd rather not somehow poison my best friend, so it's safest to follow the directions. I don't aspire to become a headline that the elderly will regard as the summary of the millennial generation.

While I wait for the hot chocolate to get fucking nuked in the microwave, I notice my foot tapping upon the floor in intervals of exactly the same size. Every time I try to halt this action, it returns a few seconds later. This game consumes my mind completely, and I dive pretty deep into it, so when the microwave timer blares, it's more like a fire alarm right next to my ear than a notification.

I remove the two mugs from the hell contraption, then pouring in the cocoa mix, and stirring rapidly with the same spoon for each. I decide to place the spoon into the mug I'll give to Courfeyrac, because sipping scalding beverages with a utensil is easier than stuffing your mouth with fire, and he, as a sick person, should receive the benefits now that his life has temporarily turned shitty for a couple of days.

Once I make it to the living room, I am reminded of the fact that Courfeyrac is asleep, and can't talk with me or drink his hot chocolate. If I left him alone for a while, his refreshment would have ample time to cool, but what am I supposed to do for the time being? Pine over him? No, he's getting the fuck up, whether he likes it or not, but I will at least be gentle.

Careful to place the mugs of hot cocoa on the adjacent coffee table before trying anything, I nudge my friend awake. The action demands three attempts, but after those three, Courfeyrac's lashes flutter as if a butterfly with a broken wing, and his eyes unearth themselves multiple seconds later.

"'Ferre?" Courfeyrac's voice is a fog of sleepiness, blocked by the buildup of his ailment, and generally confused as to why I'm in his apartment, sitting in front of him with two identical snowman mugs of hot chocolate as a peace offering or something.

"Joly told me to visit you to help you feel better."

Courfeyrac nods, adjusting his position to sit upward next to the arm of the chair. "Joly is such a mom."

That draws a laugh out of me, mostly because of how damn true it is. Joly is always looking out for us, at all times. Now, I'm not shaming him for that, because quite frankly we would be lost without him, but a mom is exactly what he is.

"Join me on the couch, 'Ferre," Courfeyrac orders faintly, having composed himself after his joke faster than I did, and I obey, climbing onto the sofa while allowing adequate space between me and my friend so that I don't catch his disease, but that plan is expeditiously quelled when Courfeyrac snuggles into my side as if a kitten.

I glance down at him, nothing but peaceful in my embrace, and my heart clenches at the knowledge that he feels completely safe with me, so close to me that he does not reject the idea of cuddling, rather initiates it.

"I hope I don't get you sick, because I'm not going to let you go anytime soon, so you'll be breathing in my air for a while," Courfeyrac comments, as if it's the most natural thing in the world, as if he's telling me something entirely unproblematic like "I had a good day today" or "I saw a dog when I was at the park", not telling me that he'd prefer infecting me to releasing me, but now that I look at it in an edited perspective, Courfeyrac is quite the amazing cuddler, so a few days of runny noses and dry throats won't hurt me too badly, and I only nod in agreement with him.

"Thank you for coming over." A smile rejuvenates Courfeyrac's sickly complexion, clears the dark rings circumscribing his eye sockets, wipes away the pallor as though it were only makeup. "I feel better already." Courfeyrac briefly uncurls from his position to snatch the blanket, the one that tumbled off of him when he woke up, from the floor, coating us both in its hospitable fleece. Resting his bush of chocolate locks upon my shoulder, closing his eyes in addition, his position is restored.

"That's what friends are for, right?" In my case, I use friends as a title of neutrality, because even your romantic partners are supposed to be your friends, but it may not be the same to Courfeyrac, and he perhaps thinks that he's just been friend zoned, which was the opposite of what I intended, but if I tried to fix it, I would also be revealing my ambiguous feelings for him, so I let it be, instead slithering my arm around his waist to let him know that his presence in the friend zone is improbable.

"So while I've been suffering, what have you been doing?"

"I've been suffering, too, my guy," I admit, streaming out a sigh of ardor. "Studying really takes an emotional toll on me."

Courfeyrac removes himself from my shoulder to angle his head and scrunch his eyebrows at me. "I don't study, and I still get passing grades."

I reciprocate his gaze while tapping his nose once with my pointer finger, which installs another smile into his façade. "Because you're amazing, Courf, and you probably have a photographic memory or something."

Flames scratch at Courfeyrac's cheeks upon hearing my subtle compliment, but he is aware that the entire comment wasn't about him being amazing, and he probably wouldn't enjoy dwelling on something that injects lava into his face, so he focuses on the second half. "I'm going to randomly show up at your house sometime soon, and I will magically ensure that you pass all of your classes."

Courfeyrac, being as annoying as he is, would most likely distract me more than he would help me, but I appreciate the offer. He could be entertaining, at least. He could spruce up the generally boring activity of studying so that it's a bit interesting at most, and I wouldn't feel so poorly disposed towards it while he's around. Certain people manipulate certain situations. Courfeyrac is one of them.

I roll my eyes. "My hero."

Courfeyrac pinches my waist, and playfully (plus quite seductively) growls, "C'mon, you know you love me."

Yeah, more than he can guess, and maybe I'm glad that he can't guess, because then my latent emotions would be excavated to bring about nothing but trouble. In the time that I've spent here, I've been struck by the epiphany that I would like to pursue a relationship with this insolent man child, but I'm waiting for Courfeyrac to make the first move. Yeah, I am aware that such a tactic is wasting precious time, especially if the other party is playing the same game, and I am aware that Grantaire would scold me endlessly for this, but who I am as a person has thrown a roadblock in my way.

I am Combeferre, the pragmatic one of the group. I am crushing on Courfeyrac, the opposite of pragmatic. That's just who we are in our essences. I doubt my best friend would feel enlightened to be dating someone who is constantly reprimanding him for his typical acts of spontaneity, and I doubt I would be enlightened to be dating someone who constantly needs to be reprimanded, because he could fatally injure himself at any point.

But it's not like there's anything I can do about the way we are, nor anything I can do about my crush on Courfeyrac. You do not own love. You only rent it out, sleep soundly in its quarters, and get thrown out harshly onto its brittle doorstep once the money you should've used on paying for housing needs has been wasted on the frantic decadence of trying to make permanency out of a rental property. My love for Courfeyrac could ruin us both, but maybe I need a little ruin in my life. Maybe lachesism is scarily appealing to a man who has only lived three meters from the edge.

However, since I am so inexperienced with living on the edge, telling Courfeyrac about my emotions is a foul zone. Besides, he's not a very sincere person, and if I dropped such a bomb upon him, he would most likely laugh at me.

So I play my affection off as a joke, for jokes are what Courfeyrac likes. "Wow, your condition is worse than I thought."

Courfeyrac has other plans than to allow me to succeed with deceiving him, so he suits up for his new character: a tease. His breath swarms around my neck as he nips my ear only once, toying with me, and just as close to me he purrs, "You're despicable, Combeferre," with extra emphasis on "despicable".

A bit too much blood rushes where it shouldn't, so I change the subject before things get out of hand. "Your hot chocolate is running cold," I notify my friend, who is immediately extinguished by my flatness.

Courfeyrac isn't one to listen to orders, but he astonishingly seizes his mug of hot cocoa as I asked him to, but he doesn't resist the opportunity to quip, "So is your heart."

It's hard to be angry with someone so cute, but I brewed him some hot chocolate with the expectation that he would redeem my labor. "Just drink it, you idiot."

Courfeyrac pretends to comply, all the way until the mug is resting on his lips, at which point he raises his eyebrows and insufferably asks, "Is it drugged?"

"I think you're going to go bankrupt if you continue in the comedy business." The subtle shade is perfect enough to earn a middle finger for its efforts, which only fuels a cacophony of muted laughter.

"Well, Combeferre, in case you didn't notice, I'm already broke in my soul," Courfeyrac slurs as a result of the residual drops of hot chocolate that remain in his mouth, as he places his mug where it was before so that he doesn't have to port it while curling up into my side again.

"Yeah, maybe you should just go back to sleep."

In the midst of a groan, Courfeyrac drowsily mumbles, "Fuck you," and somehow everything seems golden.

His sarcastic personality is why I love him, after all.

~~~~~

A/N: this gotdam ship is...,,,,too pure

I wanted to make it canon in this chapter but there's a thing called an outline so fuk this shit

~Dakotaire