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At first, Courfeyrac thinks he’s just having a bad day.

He can’t find his right glove and is late to breakfast, where they’ve run out of food. On the way to the kitchens in search of something to eat, he trips on the stairs in front of two pretty maids. He is grazed by an arrow on the training grounds. A tapestry falls on him in the hallway.

When a second tapestry falls on him in the middle of his weekly meeting with Enjolras and Combeferre, this time bringing a nail into the flesh of his cheek, Courfeyrac acknowledges that he’s been unusually unlucky.

“Someone fetch Grantaire,” he says glumly, from beneath the tapestry. “I think I’ve been cursed.”

--

The magician lets himself into the room, whistling a tune that Courfeyrac knows goes with some very dirty words. He’s wearing his official robes for once, but there’s a tear in the hem of the green velvet and something has snagged the embroidery of one star and it’s beginning to unravel. The ensemble is nicely set off by his wild hair and bloodshot eyes. Still, he seems sober enough, so Courfeyrac submits himself to his examination without protest.

“Well,” Grantaire says, after a minute of observation and a firm poke to Courfeyrac’s forehead that Courfeyrac isn’t sure was entirely necessary, “you’re cursed.”

“I knew that already,” Courfeyrac says, rubbing his forehead. “What type of curse is it, though?”

“Do you know how many ill-wish curses there are?”

“A lot?”

“Hundreds.” Grantaire sounds almost gleeful about it. “If you’re sure the curse only began today, I’ll need a full accounting of where you were and who you were with yesterday.”

“It was the spring festival!” Courfeyrac protests. “There was a lot going on.”

Courfeyrac loves the numerous annual celebrations at the castle. They’re a luxury they’ve all earned through years of fighting and hard work. He doesn’t drink during them as much as he used to but he certainly hadn’t been on the alert. He’d been off-duty and unashamedly enjoying himself.

“Well, who did you dance with?” Grantaire asks.

“There was Matelote, Lady Baptistine, I think, perhaps Jehan-”

Enjolras looks exasperated. “Forget the dancing. Did you anger anyone?”

“I think the better question is did you seduce anyone and break their heart?” Grantaire says with a wink.

Courfeyrac slumps down in his chair. It gives an ominous creak. He hadn’t seduced anyone, which he suddenly thinks might be the problem.

“Well?” Enjolras looks severe.

“It might have been Floreal,” Courfeyrac says reluctantly.

“Ah, the lovely Floreal,” Grantaire says, nodding.  

“Who is she?” Enjolras demands. He receives a mild look of censure from everyone in the room.

“She’s a courtier,” Combeferre says gently, “and a witch. She left early this morning.”

“What did you do to make her curse you?” Enjolras says, fixing Courfeyrac with a glare. He thinks it’s a little unfair that Enjolras is on her side even though he couldn’t remember who she was a minute ago.

Grantaire clears his throat, as though being he’s being discreet, but he can’t hide his smirk. “I think we can all guess what Courfeyrac did to offend the lady.”

Courfeyrac is fairly certain they can’t.

“Well?” Enjolras says.

Courfeyrac feels himself blush. He likes Floreal. She had been fun to flirt with, even to kiss. But she had expectations of those kisses and he had been unable to oblige her. She’d been angry, possibly hurt, but he hadn’t thought she’d been so angry that she would curse him.

“I kissed her,” he says.

“And?” Grantaire prompts, eyes dancing.

“And that’s it,” Courfeyrac says, fighting his nerves.

“You can’t be that bad at kissing,” Grantaire says incredulously. “You’ve certainly had the practice.”

Courfeyrac knows his blush is damningly dark by now. He feels slightly faint. “I think she was offended that I wouldn’t sleep with her.”

“Only you,” Enjolras groans.

Courfeyrac chances a glance at Combeferre and finds that Combeferre is looking down at the table, brow furrowed in thought.

“Well, what’d she say?” Grantaire prompts. “She specializes in verbal curses so you probably heard it.”

“I’d had a lot of wine,” Courfeyrac temporizes. He’d had a few glasses at most and he can remember with perfect clarity what she had said. He also remembers what he had said to earn the response.

“This is serious,” Enjolras says, frowning heavily. Courfeyrac can’t tell if the warning is for him or for Grantaire.

“She told me something like ‘you’ll know no peace until you admit your heart’” Which, come to think of it, he should have recognized as a curse in the first place. He’d just thought it had been oddly harsh personal advice.

“That’s an old one!” Grantaire says, face lighting up with recognition and amusement.

“You know it?” Courfeyrac says, relieved but a little nervous. He doesn’t exactly want to go around admitting his heart. He hopes it’s a metaphor for something.

“Yes. It’s usually a joke between lovers. It’s one of those little spells that witches pass around like dirty songs."

“Of course you know it, then,” Enjolras says.

“It doesn’t seem much like a joke. Courfeyrac could have been seriously injured,” Combeferre says, quietly.

Grantaire looks chastised, but only slightly. “This curse isn’t meant to end in serious damage, it’s just meant to cause funny little accidents.”

Enjolras looks unamused. “How do we break it?”

“Oh it’s an old spell and simple enough. All Courfeyrac has to do is tell a lover that he loves them.”

“Excuse me?” Courfeyrac can’t have heard him right. “A lover, as in someone I’ve been to bed with?”

“That’s the usual definition of the word, though I don’t know that I’d phrase it that way.” Grantaire looks puzzled at Courfeyrac’s lack of relief. “The curse is meant to encourage a lover to make a confession of love. Like I said, it’s meant to be somewhat of a joke, given that you don’t even have to mean it. Just say it. It was used to encourage reluctant suitors.”

Courfeyrac feels the beginnings of panic overtake him. “There has to be some other way to break the curse.”

“It seems to me that this is a fairly simple solution,” Enjolras says, brow furrowing. “We don’t have to send anyone to the edges of the kingdom to fetch some rare flower that only blooms twice a year for ten minutes. Or find a virgin to kiss.” He glares at Grantaire.

Grantaire holds his hands up. “It’s not like I make these things up just to cause trouble. And it’s simple this time. You just have to say some words.”

“I can’t,” Courfeyrac blurts out, swallowing hard.

“Now isn’t the time to be chivalrous,” Enjolras says, severely. “We’ll be discreet.”

Courfeyrac looks up at the ceiling, avoiding having to look at anyone. “I can’t,” he repeats.

“Courf,” Combeferre says softly.

Courfeyrac exhales slowly. It doesn’t make him feel any better. “There isn’t anyone to break the curse.”

“What?” Enjolras demands. “Are all your lovers dead?”

This brings Courfeyrac’s head down so fast that he feels something wrench in his neck. “You idiot,” he tells his king. “No. There — uh, I haven’t had any.”

He still doesn’t look at Combeferre but it doesn’t matter. He can almost hear the wheels of his brain beginning to turn.

“Oh,” Grantaire says, drawing the word out. “Well, that changes things.”

“Is there another way?” Courfeyrac asks again, desperately

Grantaire looks apologetic.

Courfeyrac’s chair chooses that moment to collapse beneath him.

--

Combeferre reaches down and helps Courfeyrac up, feeling like the worst person in the world, because although Courfeyrac looks miserable, has a nasty scratch on his cheek and no doubt a bruise from his fall to the floor, Combeferre can’t help but feel happy. Courfeyrac hasn’t had any lovers. Not any.

Courfeyrac seats himself in the next chair over, his arms crossed over his chest. He seems to be studiously avoiding everyone’s gaze, which means that Combeferre has the luxury of looking at him without being afraid that Courfeyrac will catch him at it.

“I don’t understand,” Enjolras says to Grantaire, gesturing at Courfeyrac, “if it’s meant to be a joke between lovers—”

“I think in this case the joke may have been weaponized,” Grantaire says. He doesn’t look amused at all anymore, which is more concerning than Courfeyrac’s fall.

“It’s not like that.” Courfeyrac looks as though he’d rather be anywhere else in the world than in this room discussing his love life. Usually he’s happy to laugh about this lady or that or sigh over the newest courtier’s broad shoulders.

“What is it like, then?” Enjolras demands.

“I told her that I wouldn’t sleep with anyone that I didn’t love,” Courfeyrac says, sounding as though the words are being pulled from him. “I think she must have thought I was lying.”

“Were you?” Enjolras says, looking nonplussed.

“Obviously not,” Courfeyrac says tightly.

Combeferre is glad no one is bothering to look at him. He’s not sure what his expression is giving away.

“She knew your reputation,” Grantaire fills in, “and she thought you were putting her off with a lie.”

“Which I wasn’t,” Courfeyrac protests.

“Thinking you’ve been lied to is not a good reason to curse someone,” Enjolras says, looking fiery.

“No, it isn’t,” Combeferre agrees. “But that’s an issue we can deal with at a separate time.”

Courfeyrac gives Combeferre a grateful look. He likes Floreal, Combeferre is certain. Combeferre’s seen them laughing together plenty of times. That’s all he knows, though. He doesn’t generally let himself get too interested in whoever Courfeyrac has set up as his latest flirt. They come and go and Courfeyrac has never seemed all that affected by them. He has, it seems, been less affected than suspected. If Courfeyrac intends to bed only those he loves, and he’s never been to bed with anyone, well, the conclusion is clear. Courfeyrac must never have been in love.

“Fine. We’ll address the issue later," Enjolras says, still simmering with rage. “For now, solutions.”

“I told you the solution,” Grantaire protests.

“And are there alternatives?”

“None that I know of.” It’s a mistake to imply any sort of possibility. Enjolras jumps at it.

“So there may be some that you don’t know of.”

“Unlikely.”

“But possible?”

Grantaire sighs as though the weight of the world is on his shoulders. “I see it’s to the books for me.”

“Combeferre will escort you,” Enjolras says, his tone casual, but his eyes, when Combeferre meets them, are serious.

“Because I don’t know where my chambers are,” Grantaire says, sarcastically. But he rises and proffers a flamboyant bow.

Combeferre doesn’t want to go, but he knows that Enjolras wants him to get what information he can from Grantaire. He looks at Courfeyrac as he leaves the room but Courfeyrac is staring down at the remains of his first chair, hair hanging in his eyes.  

Combeferre’s initial elation becomes tempered with a thought: Grantaire will have to find another solution or Courfeyrac will have to find himself a lover.

He follows Grantaire out, hoping the magician can proffer some small miracle.

--

“You’re an idiot,” Enjolras says, the second the door closes.

“Thanks,” Courfeyrac says drily. He feels more relaxed with Combeferre gone. He doesn’t have to be so guarded. Enjolras, bless him, is a yeller but generally less perceptive, a trait of Combeferre’s that Courfeyrac finds exceedingly dangerous.

“All this unnecessary secret-keeping and do you realize that you could have kissed me instead of Marius when I had to kiss a virgin?” Enjolras says, pettishly. “I’m still unconvinced that Grantaire didn’t make that up.”

Courfeyrac laughs in astonishment. “Are you saying that you would have rather kissed me?”

Enjolras doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes. I respect Marius but we have a deeper friendship.”

Courfeyrac is warmed by the reminder that their childhood friendship still means something to Enjolras, that he’s still closer to him than the other knights.

“I would have said something but everyone just assumed,” Courfeyrac says. “And Marius was available, so no harm done.”

“Says the man who didn’t have to kiss Marius,” Enjolras says, darkly.

Courfeyrac laughs, relishing the first real amusement he’s had all morning.

Enjolras doesn’t give him a lot of time to enjoy it. “Why? Why go through the trouble of lying to everyone?”

“I never lied,” Courfeyrac protests.

“Strongly misled,” Enjolras corrects impatiently. “You’ve let all sorts of insinuations stand, not to mention made a few yourself.”

Courfeyrac is once more glad that Combeferre is no longer here for this discussion. He feels about two feet tall.

“I just didn’t want my virginity to be a topic of discussion. Surely you can understand that.”

Enjolras’ supposed purity is the subject of many a song. He is entirely and forbiddingly silent on the subject. But his standards for himself do not appear to extend to his friend. “Your imaginary love life was the source of plenty of gossip and you never minded. Tell me, what’s really going on?”

Courfeyrac has been carrying a secret for a long, long time. Much longer than he had anticipated having to do so. He’s an honest person by nature and not adept at lying. The gossip about his feats with this lady or that gentleman have kept more pressing questions at bay. He wants to tell Enjolras, has wanted to tell him for years. Enjolras won’t keep it a secret, maybe, but that just means that Courfeyrac won’t have to tell other people, won’t have to see their expression as they figure it out.

“I have my eye on someone,” Courfeyrac says. It’s certainly an understatement, but Enjolras wouldn’t appreciate flowery words. “I haven’t yet found their favor.”

“You were trying to make them jealous?”

Courfeyrac hadn’t been but it would have been a nice enough side effect if it had happened. It hadn’t.

“I just didn’t want them to catch on,” he says. “I may have allowed the rumors to get out of hand but that’s all. I do genuinely enjoy flirting, you know.”

Enjolras snorts at that and then lapses into a frowning silence. After a minute he says, in a fatalistic way, “It isn’t Sir Marius, is it?”

“You like Marius,” Courfeyrac reminds him, mouth twitching, because Enjolras does, kissing aside.

“And Marius likes women.”

“Yes,” Courfeyrac says. “Well, one woman, at least. I’m not in love with Marius. It’d be foolish to be. He’s the only person in the castle I’d swear isn’t interested in men.”

“I feel this goes without saying,” Enjolras says carefully, “but I am not interested in anything of the kind with you.”

“I’m not in love with you, either,” Courfeyrac says, throwing his hands up. “Though of course, I adore you and will fight for your kingdom until my dying breath.”

“Of course,” Enjolras says, faintly.

“And what do you mean, with me? Is there someone you are interested in?”

“We are talking about you.”

“I’d much rather if we weren’t,” Courfeyrac says, honestly.

Enjolras looks exasperated, which is more or less his default expression since he became king. “You should just tell this person and then ask them to sleep with you.”

Courfeyrac chokes on a nervous laugh. “That would be romantic.”

“You can’t afford romance,” Enjolras says. “Ill-wish curses can be dangerous.”

Under his irritation and bluster, Enjolras is obviously worried, which warms Courfeyrac’s heart, even under the circumstances. “I don’t want to sleep with someone I don’t love,” Courfeyrac says. “I just—I’ll figure something out. Please don’t tell anyone until then.”

To his surprise, Enjolras doesn’t tell him he’s being an idiot again. He only nods. “It’s your choice and I will respect whatever you decide to do. But I would hate for anything to happen to you.”

“I love you,” Courfeyrac tells him, “and also I’m very proud to be your subject right now.”

“We will solve this,” Enjolras says, which is almost as good as an “I love you, too”.

--

Grantaire whistles all the way to his study. He’s clearly doing it to be annoying, probably piqued by Enjolras’ dismissal, but he’ll find Combeferre much harder to irritate than Enjolras, even if he is a terrible whistler.

Combeferre holds the door open for him and Grantaire pauses mid-whistle to thank him.

Grantaire’s study is a mess, as usual. He swears that there’s a method to the madness and refuses to have any of the castle staff so much as dust his bookshelf. There’s always a faint smell to the place, sometimes pleasant, sometimes less so, much like Grantaire himself.

“You’ve escorted me,” Grantaire says, sinking into his overly large chair. He calls it his throne, an attempt to annoy Enjolras that had backfired. Enjolras had, for once, found one of Grantaire’s jokes amusing.

“So I have,” Combeferre agrees affably. “What do you make of all this?”

“Well, for starters I would have sworn up and down that Sir Courfeyrac wasn’t a virgin.”

Combeferre would have sworn, too. In fact, unbeknownst to Enjolras, over the years Combeferre has compiled and carefully tended to a list of those he believed had gone to bed with Courfeyrac. Apparently not one of the five names on the list belongs there. Combeferre is not used to being so badly wrong.

“You must have known,” Grantaire says, slanting a glance at Combeferre. “The three of you have always been as thick as thieves.”

“I didn’t know.”

Grantaire whistles long and low. “Kept this one close to his belt, didn’t he?”

Combeferre doesn’t know what to say to that, which is just as well, considering that Grantaire doesn’t seem to require a response.

“I didn’t think he was such an incurable romantic. He’s as bad as Sir Marius! Pity this didn’t happen to him. We could have called Cosette to court, or failing that, Eponine would have done it, though don’t tell her I said so. Courfeyrac won’t have any trouble finding willing partners, of course, but apparently he’s not willing. He’ll have to do it, anyway. It’s not a bad curse, exactly, but it’s not meant to last more than a few days. Enough bad luck and you can start getting serious consequences.”

Ignoring the clench in his gut, Combeferre gently interrupts to ask the question that he’s fairly certain Enjolras has sent him to ask. “What are the chances that you’ll find another way to break the curse?”

“Slim to none,” Grantaire replies promptly. “It’s an old one and if there were a loophole, someone would have found it by now.”

“But you’ll look?”

“Of course,” Grantaire says, with an equanimity of one who is often confronted with impossible tasks. “But I don’t expect I’ll find anything.”

“There’s only the one way to break the curse, then?”

“I don’t know why all of you insist on believing that I make these things up. Curses are like locks. The way to break them is to find the proper key.”

“But you can pick locks,” Combeferre points out.

“There’s always the risk of doing damage to the door that way,” Grantaire says, pointedly.

“And Courfeyrac is the door,” Combeferre says, stomach sinking at the thought.

“Exactly, my friend,” Grantaire says. He doesn’t look pleased to have made his point but then he smiles. “At least he’s pretty. Shouldn’t have trouble finding someone for the job.”

Combeferre’s gut clenches again. “I’m sure you’re right,” Combeferre agrees politely, and takes his leave.

--

Enjolras had allowed Courfeyrac to slink away with some dignity intact but Courfeyrac knows it’s only a matter of time before solutions start getting thrown around. Enjolras is an action-oriented individual and a worrier. He had scowled ferociously at Courfeyrac’s collection of bumps and bruises and it isn’t like there are going to be fewer in the coming days.

In fact, in the following three days Courfeyrac trips on the stairs four more times, discovers rat in his clothes trunk, becomes ill from a bad bowl of porridge, gets bit by a dog, gets bit by a small child, and loses his favorite tunic to a falling torch, only managing to remove it in time to watch it smolder to a heap of charred fabric on the stone floor. It would probably have been worse but Enjolras has forbidden him from training until the curse is lifted.

He’s not totally useless off the field. There’s all the knights who live away from court to correspond with, inventory to inspect, meetings with senior knights, the small batch of spring recruits to get to know. But Courfeyrac is used to an active lifestyle, usually spending his days training, riding, walking around to inspect the knight’s quarters. Now he’s not even allowed in most of the castle. The kitchens are too dangerous, the training grounds too dangerous, and forget about the stables. Courfeyrac doesn’t mention that he’s been injured most frequently in his own room for fear of being banned from there as well.

To top it all off, Marius is away, consulting with some landholder in the south about some poorly reconciled grain records or whatever it is he does for Enjolras. Courfeyrac is convinced his absence is part of the bad luck.

He knows that the work stewards and advisers do is terribly important to the well-being of the kingdom but he also thinks that if he was forced to do their jobs, he would climb out a window and ride away, never to be seen again.

He’s gazing out the window, tempted to do just that, when there’s a knock at his door.

“Come in,” Courfeyrac calls out, trying to sound welcoming instead of miserable. He brightens when he sees Jehan. The bard is wearing his usual assemblage of bright clothes, looking more like a fool than a musician.

“I thought you might need some cheering up,” Jehan says, perching on the edge of Courfeyrac’s desk. He strums his lute.

Courfeyrac looks at the lute warily. “You’re not going to sing, are you?”

Jehan smiles. “Not unless you want me to.”

Jehan has the voice of a songbird, pure and sweet, and he only uses it to sing of the grimmest misfortunes and the bloodiest of tragedies. He’s Enjolras’ favorite bard, probably because he has never once written a song about the king.

“Tell me about it,” Jehan says.

“I hate this study,” Courfeyrac says. Jehan makes a sympathetic noise, plucking a string. “I didn’t do anything wrong. That time Grantaire cursed me with the inability to laugh because I was teasing him about Enjolras, I deserved it. I probably even deserved it when that witch made all my hair fall out because I knocked over her scarecrow. Floreal, though, all I did to her was not sleep with her.”

“Sometimes when you flirt with someone, they think you want them,” Jehan says. “Sometimes it hurts them to learn that they were not wanted after all.”

Courfeyrac regards him warily. “Are you speaking from personal experience?”

He’s flirted with Jehan plenty, which Jehan had always seemed to accept as his due, though he’s shown no interest in flirting back.

Jehan smiles. “No.”

“Oh,” Courfeyrac says, relieved.

“But you might consider this fair warning that while your unhappiness entitles you to some comforts, it does not exempt you from the responsibility of other people’s feelings.”

“My unhappiness?” He hadn’t thought anyone had noticed.

Jehan nods and strums the lute again, this time playing a few chords. He doesn’t seem to be judging but there’s a hard truth to what he says. Courfeyrac has been using other people to nurse his own wounds and evidently he’s been hurting people by doing it. Badly done of him and, worse, it had never been all that effective.

“I suppose I’ll have to swear off dalliance,” Courfeyrac says, miserably.

Jehan hums. “Not entirely if you want that curse broken.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“It’s not going away on its own,” Jehan says, serenely. “I rarely make love but it’s a pleasant experience if you trust and care for the person.”

Courfeyrac eyes him warily. Jehan looks back with a pleasant expression. It doesn’t look like an invitation but Courfeyrac feels as though one’s been issued all the same.

“There’s still the chance Grantaire will find an alternative,” Courfeyrac says, carefully.

Jehan nods. “I wish him luck in his search and I wish you luck in your wait.”

Courfeyrac sighs. “In the meantime, will you write a ballad about my curse?”

“Only if something tragic happens.”

--

Combeferre is passing by the tailor’s storeroom when he hears a thump and a muffled curse. He pokes his head in and stops in the doorway, staring. After a second he clears his throat.

Courfeyrac jumps and then has to catch himself before he topples over. He’s somehow gotten himself tangled up in several reams of fabric and it looks at though a half-completed dress has gotten pinned to him somehow. He blinks at Combeferre in surprise and then sighs dejectedly.

“Go ahead and laugh,” Courfeyrac says, crossing his arms over his chest, as best as he’s able.

Combeferre supposes that the tableau Courfeyrac presents might seem funny to some, but he doesn’t feel like laughing. He walks over and untangles Courfeyrac as gently as he’s able, though Courfeyrac flinches once or twice as pins poke him and a knot tugs at his hair. Combeferre takes his times unpicking the knot, trying not to think how nice it is to have the opportunity to touch Courfeyrac. It isn’t fair of him to think like that, not when Courfeyrac is such straights.

“Thank you,” Courfeyrac says, quietly, when Combeferre has worked the last tangle free.

“Why are you here in the first place?”

Courfeyrac expels a noisy breath. “I don’t know. I wanted to go somewhere, and I thought it would be safe. All the cloth, you know.”

Combeferre doesn’t like that Courfeyrac has to assess the safety of a place before going there.

“That doesn’t really answer the question.”

Courfeyrac bites his lip, looking ten years old and very guilty.

“I hate my study,” he says, like it’s a confession.

Everyone knows he hates his study. Even as a child, Courfeyrac had hated being indoors. He’d always dragged Combeferre and Enjolras out with him, claiming that if they wanted to be boring and study, they could do so just as well in the branches of a tree. Combeferre doesn’t bring the memory up because he doesn’t want Courfeyrac getting any ideas about climbing trees. “I know,” he says, gently.

“I’m ahead on all my correspondence. The knights are sick of meeting with me. They all want to be out on the training field, not trapped in my office.”

“So you decided to explore.”

“I just needed to get out. I still need to get out.”

“That’s—understandable,” Combeferre says. “Is there something you can do that might be safe?”

“Safe is relative, these days, but I suppose I could spend the day fishing?” Courfeyrac says. There’s a gleam of challenge in his eyes, like he’s daring Combeferre to argue with him.

Combeferre is assailed by visions of Courfeyrac falling into the water and drowning.

“You shouldn’t go alone,” Combeferre says, as calmly as he can.

Courfeyrac looks up. “I don’t suppose—well, I’m sure you’re busy.”

Combeferre is busy, in fact. He has a proposal for a minor tax reform he needs to finish and there are the preparations for the upcoming May Day festival.

“I’ll come,” he tells Courfeyrac, heart beating faster at the smile this earns him. “But I won’t fish."

“You never would,” Courfeyrac says, happily. “Come on, you’ll have to grab the rod for me. I’m not allowed in the storerooms.”

--

It’s just settling into spring and the creek near the castle is too cold for anyone to be comfortable with their feet in it. Courfeyrac shucks his boots and sticks his in anyway, of course. Combeferre keeps his shoes on despite Courfeyrac’s determined wheedling, settling on the bank a good two feet away from Courfeyrac. He feels fifteen again, like Courfeyrac has convinced him to skip lessons. He’d kept two feet between them at fifteen, too.

Courfeyrac is transformed in the outdoors, settling his fishing line, happy as a clam just to sit by the riverbank and chat away with Combeferre.

They talk about business mostly, which is no surprise. Since the war and Enjolras’ ascendancy to the throne, they’ve both devoted themselves to the kingdom in their own way. Courfeyrac tells Combeferre about the new recruits, affection in his voice as he details their strengths and weaknesses. Combeferre tells Courfeyrac about the new laws he’s working on for Enjolras that will weaken the hereditary nobility. They discuss the May Day festival, Courfeyrac with anticipation, and Combeferre with a dread that makes Courfeyrac laugh.

“No wonder I was able to tempt you away if working on the festival was the alternative,” he says. “ I like May Day.”

“You’ve never met a celebration you didn’t like.”

“Not yet,” Courfeyrac agrees. “But I just have to attend them. No one makes me plan them.”

“It’s not my job, either,” Combeferre says. Enjolras’ wife would be the one to handle them but they both know that Enjolras isn’t likely to marry.

“Of course it’s your job.” Courfeyrac’s eyes crinkle at the corners even as he carefully watches a fish approach his line. “Isn’t everything?”

“That isn’t fair,” Combeferre admonishes him. “I’ve been better about delegating.”

Courfeyrac shakes his head, but it looks fond. “So you’re working sixteen hours out of the day instead of twenty?”

Combeferre is saved from having to address that point when the curious fish gets itself hooked and Courfeyrac gives a small whoop of delight, pulling it in.

Courfeyrac examines the fish and then carefully removes the hook from its mouth. He lifts the struggling fish and tosses it gently back into the water. Combeferre suspects this is for his benefit. Courfeyrac knows his aversion to killing and has never once judged him for it even though Combeferre knows that his personal pacifism is a luxury that Courfeyrac fights to protect. It’s an unpayable debt.

“You don’t have to,” Combeferre says, gesturing after the fish, which after a stunned moment absorbing its escape, has swum quickly away.

Courfeyrac shrugs with a half smile and baits his line. After a moment he says, “We should do this more,” and Combeferre knows he isn’t talking about the fishing.

It feels like the most he and Courfeyrac have talked in years, which can’t possibly be true. They meet weekly with Enjolras and those meetings often last all day when they get absorbed in some debate or other. It is certainly the most time they’ve spent together alone, though, Combeferre realizes with a twist to his stomach that is at once both uncomfortable and pleasurable.

“It’s been a long time,” Combeferre agrees. He knows it’s his fault.

It’s hard work helping Enjolras run the kingdom but Enjolras is only half the reason that Combeferre has thrown himself into his work. It’s cowardly but sometimes it’s just too difficult to be around Courfeyrac. He can be blinding when he’s gentle with his trainees, when he’s telling a joke, when he’s dancing at a feast, and when he’s sitting on the edge of a riverbank, his pants rolled up to his knees. Sometimes it’s too hard to pretend he doesn’t want Courfeyrac, so he’s spent less time with Courfeyrac. There’s been consequences to that strategy. He’d had to get used to seeing Courfeyrac’s disappointment when Combeferre was too busy to go for a ride or take a meal. He’d had to become used to seeing Courfeyrac get closer and closer with Marius.

“If I knew that this was all it took to get you away from your ledgers, I would have gotten myself cursed sooner,” Courfeyrac says.

Combeferre hates that there’s an edge of truth to the words but it’s better that they have half a friendship than no friendship at all.

“Don’t joke about the curse,” Combeferre says. Courfeyrac had hooked his thumb once already when first baiting the line and nearly twisted his ankle on the way over from the castle.

“I’m allowed to,” Courfeyrac says, stubbornly. “No else is, but I am.”

“No one else will.”

“They will,” Courfeyrac says, with a heavy sigh, lowering his line into the water. “As soon as I break the curse. They won’t be able to help themselves. It’s my fault. If I hadn’t kept it a secret, they would have already made all the jokes.”

Had it truly been a secret? “Did Marius know?” Combeferre asks, before he can stop himself.

After a tense second, Courfeyrac shakes his head. Combeferre tries not to be satisfied by the answer, particularly because Courfeyrac looks so miserable about it.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone? It’s not as though there’s any shame in it.”

Courfeyrac kicks his feet, sending gentle splashes outward. “I know that. It’s just that people assumed, and I didn’t really want to talk about it.”

Combeferre takes a deep breath before asking, “You must have had opportunities. Are you not interested?”

Courfeyrac laughs, and it’s a bitter sound, which makes Combeferre want to take him in his arms. Courfeyrac should never sound like that.

“Trust me, I’m plenty interested.”

“Then why—”

“I still don’t want to talk about it,” Courfeyrac says, turning a bright, deflecting smile on Combeferre, which doesn’t fool him for a second. “Let’s just enjoy the fishing.”

Combeferre looks at the water dubiously. “I will enjoy your company.”

Courfeyrac’s crack of laughter is genuine.

--

After the fishing expedition, Courfeyrac makes his way to Grantaire’s study in an almost cheerful mood. His boots are wet and he’d only caught two fish, as well as being unable to keep them, but Combeferre had kept his promise and they hadn’t talked of the curse for the rest of the morning even when Courfeyrac’s line had tangled in something and they’d had to cut it free. Instead they’d talked about this and that and it had felt like the closest they’d been in months, maybe years.

Courfeyrac raps his knuckles on Grantaire’s door, intending a merry tune, but losing his rhythm when a splinter gouges into the soft skin between his third and fourth knuckle. He’s sucking at the small wound when Grantaire calls out with permission to enter.  

Grantaire greets him warmly but somewhat absentmindedly. He’s surrounded by a mess of books, feathers, stones, and empty goblets and appears to have been braiding his hair. It might be for a spell, it might not.

“I want to talk about my curse,” Courfeyrac says, removing his fist from his mouth.

“Wise of you,” Grantaire commends him. “It’s not supposed to escalate, but that doesn’t mean it can’t end in a fatal accident. I mean, you work around sharp objects all day.” He has little respect for the art of war.

“Enjolras has already forbidden me from the training ground until the curse is broken.”

“There are sharp things elsewhere in the world,” Grantaire points out. “And things that burn and things that bite. You should break the curse as soon as you can.”

“You still haven’t discovered any other way?” Courfeyrac asks, his heart in his throat.

Grantaire peers at him. “It’s a particular curse. It requires a particular cure.”

“That’s a no?”

“It’s a no.”

Courfeyrac swallows miserably. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry, my friend,” Grantaire says. “Is it really such a bad thing? People have sex every day and many of us enjoy it.”

“I know,” Courfeyrac says. “I just wanted to wait.”

“For what?”

Courfeyrac feels that possibly the worst bad luck to accompany the curse is that he has had to explain this to anyone.

“For my true love, I suppose.”

“Look The One is just a theoretical concept,” Grantaire says, which is rich coming from him of all people. “If you’re waiting for them, you might wait forever and you can’t live like this forever.”

“It’s not—look, I’ve found them already,” Courfeyrac says.

Grantaire looks delighted but then he follows Courfeyrac’s statement to its logical conclusion. “Oh. And they don’t—”

“Obviously not,” Courfeyrac says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m sure I’ll wear them down in the end but these aren’t exactly romantic conditions.”

Grantaire allows for a surprisingly tactful pause as he fusses with his papers. Courfeyrac is fairly certain he’s just nervously reshuffling them. They certainly don’t seem to be in better order when he clears his throat. “Well, until then, you know what the obvious solution is. You’d have your pick of the castle, for what it’s worth.”

“Are you propositioning me?” Courfeyrac jokes with a weak smile.

Grantaire grins crookedly. “We all know I’m not waiting for The One.”

He looks so sad that Courfeyrac wants to cuddle him to death but he feels that it might misconstrued under the circumstances.

“Thank you,” he tells Grantaire.

“But no?” Grantaire says. He looks unoffended but still sad.

Courfeyrac gives into the impulse to reach across the table and hug him. Grantaire smells like smoke, wine, tree sap, and a few other less pleasant things. He bats Courfeyrac away after a moment but he’s smiling again. “You tease,” he says, cheerfully. “Go away and flirt with your true love, why don’t you?”

“Let me know if you find something else,” Courfeyrac says, pausing at the doorway.

“I’ll look,” Grantaire promises. “But don’t hold your breath.”

--

Courfeyrac loves kissing. He loves the soft lips, the hot breath, the hair between his fingers, the hands on his neck or shoulders or back. He doesn’t kiss the knights under his command but just about everyone else is fair game. He’s kissed many people, men and women, but he's only ever kissed one person he was in love with and that is because he's only ever been in love with one person. 

Combeferre had been escorting him back to his room after some celebration. It was one of the first feasts they'd had where they had felt able to truly relax, Enjolras’ rule finally secure after years of in-fighting and political intrigue. Courfeyrac had drunk too much wine and so had Combeferre, rendering his chivalrous gesture of escorting Courfeyrac laughable but no less charming.

They had reached Courfeyrac’s door and Courfeyrac had beseeched Combeferre, suddenly terrified of being alone, "Stay. Have another glass of wine."

Combeferre had laughed, a sound that had never come easily for him. His lips had been dark with wine. " I've had too many already. " 

" All the more reason to stay," Courfeyrac had argued. " You shouldn't be wandering about the castle in such a state." 

Combeferre had come in. They had talked and joked and Courfeyrac had leaned over to kiss Combeferre in the middle of another laugh. He hadn’t meant to, but Combeferre was beautiful when he laughed.

It hadn’t been a chaste kiss. Courfeyrac had poured his entire messy heart into it and for a heart-stopping moment of perfection Combeferre had kissed back.

Then Combeferre had stood up, made his excuses, and left.

The next morning he had acted like it hadn't even happened and, for all Courfeyrac knew, Combeferre didn't even remember it. Only, Combeferre had never once escorted him to his rooms again.

So they had kissed, and it apparently had meant nothing to Combeferre, who had been able to walk away from it as though the earth hadn’t moved beneath their feet.

Courfeyrac knows Combeferre is not a virgin because of that time last spring where Enjolras had gotten himself cursed and the only cure was a virgin’s kiss. Everyone had looked apologetically towards Combeferre. He had cleared his throat and calmly pronounced that someone better find Marius. If it had been anyone else, they would have been subjected to teasing and speculation but because everyone loved and feared Combeferre in equal measure, they left it alone. It had hurt Courfeyrac that he had had to find out with everyone else.

He’d gone over it in his mind, the list of possibilities, and Courfeyrac couldn’t even make a solid guess as to it had been. Combeferre had always held himself a little distant from everyone else, rarely touching, rarely touched. Courfeyrac had always imagined that he would be the one to break down that wall. But someone else had had that privilege. His one comfort is that that someone or, god forbid, someones hadn’t the good sense to keep Combeferre.

As a younger man, Courfeyrac had been sure he would win Combeferre over somehow but he’s loved Combeferre since they were children and he’s losing hope, an unfamiliar dispiriting feeling. He’d hoped that when he’d turned out to be good-looking, Combeferre would notice him. No such luck. So he’d learned to flirt.  Combeferre always laughed at Courfeyrac like he was joking. So Courfeyrac had pursued his knighthood, training hard so that Combeferre would take him seriously. Then Enjolras had claimed the throne and there had been no time for anything other than securing it for him. Sometimes, the only thought that sustained Courfeyrac in those years was the thought of Combeferre and what they could have, after. But now it is after and Courfeyrac hardly ever sees Combeferre, both them busy with the business of the kingdom. It feels like they never even see each other outside of meetings anymore.

Courfeyrac had been content to pine, taking his comfort where he could, and doing his best not to let anyone guess. His friendship with Combeferre might not be what it once was but Courfeyrac would rather die than damage it further. He hadn’t expected to be found out, and in such a way.

He had told Floreal the truth. He can’t imagine sleeping with someone he doesn’t love. But he also can’t imagine asking Combeferre to sleep with him. It would be grossly unfair under the circumstances.

So he’s stuck, and it’s impossible for him to ask Combeferre, the most intelligent person he knows, the person he usually goes to for advice, what he should do about it.

--

Combeferre is thinking about Courfeyrac when he looks up and sees Courfeyrac at the door of his study as though he’s been summoned there by Combeferre’s thoughts.

Courfeyrac smiles, and he looks a little nervous. Combeferre can’t remember the last time he’d sought Combeferre out here.

“Would you mind if I worked here this afternoon?” Courfeyrac asks. “I’m tired of staring at the walls of my study and I thought I’d try staring at new walls. I figured I’m allowed to move around if I have proper supervision.”

Combeferre has worked hard the last couple of years to keep Courfeyrac at arms' length. It shouldn’t be a surprise that the minute he let down the walls a little, Courfeyrac takes it as a sign he’s welcome. He’s always expanded to fill the available space. Combeferre doesn’t have even close to the heart to politely freeze him out like he might ordinarily do. He spends so much time hurting his friend to protect himself and Courfeyrac is being hurt enough lately.

“Come in,” he says, gesturing at the seat across from his. “I am capable enough at supervision, I suppose.”

Courfeyrac smiles at him, quick and bright. He lays out several scrolls of paper.

“They’re inventory reports,” Courfeyrac says, at Combeferre’s questioning glance. “I don’t normally deal with them directly but I’m running out of things to do.”

“I’m happy to hand over the guest list for the May Day festival if you want something else to occupy your time,” Combeferre offers, ruefully, hoping to get Courfeyrac to smile again. 

“Why not,” Courfeyrac says, holding out his hand.

Combeferre blinks at him. “I was joking.”

Courfeyrac doesn’t withdraw his hand but Combeferre gets the hoped for smile. “I know, but I can still do it. I know the court just as well as you.”

“Better, I would say,” Combeferre says, passing over the parchment. “If you’re sure?”

“Anything is better than inventory,” Courfeyrac says, and he seems to mean it.

They work in near silence for the next hour, Courfeyrac occasionally asking Combeferre to confirm the existence of some land dispute or to check if someone had survived the winter, but otherwise steadily scratching away with his quill.

Combeferre, freed from the awful responsibility of the guest list, finishes his review of the report Eponine and Grantaire have compiled regarding the state of magic users in the kingdom. Eponine’s contributions to the report are statistical, to the point, and Grantaire’s influence shows in the sarcastic but insightful views on the attitudes and behaviors of the covens. Combeferre has been meaning to get to it for weeks and hasn’t found the time.

He looks up from the report to see Courfeyrac lost in thought, frowning down at his parchment. Combeferre allows himself a moment to just look at him. Sometimes he forgets exactly what Courfeyrac looks like, he’s so familiar to him. He’s beginning to develop faint lines at the corner of his eyes, his face is leaner than it used to be. Combeferre stares so long that it’s no surprise that Courfeyrac happens to glance up and catch him at it.

“Is there something on my face?” Courfeyrac jokes and then he flinches. Because there is something on his face: a fresh scrape, just starting to scab over.

Before he quite knows what he’s doing, Combeferre reaches out and gently touches Courfeyrac’s cheek right below the wound.

Courfeyrac doesn’t shy away from the touch but there’s nothing to that. He’s a tactile person. “I hope you’ve been going to a medic,” Combeferre tells him.

Courfeyrac doesn’t roll his eyes. He just looks steadily at Combeferre. “Joly, mostly. He has a lot of practice. Bossuet, you know.”

“I suppose he does,” Combeferre says. He reluctantly pulls his hand away. Courfeyrac’s eyes flutter close. He can’t tell if it’s from pain or something else.

“Am I allowed to ask about it?” he says, softly.

“Ask about what?” Courfeyrac asks, his eyes still closed.

“Can I ask what you plan to do?”

“The obvious, I suppose,” Courfeyrac says, a bitter curl to his lip. He opens his eyes. “What else is there to do?”

“Are you waiting for someone special? Because—”

“Who would I be waiting for?” Courfeyrac turns to look out the window instead of at Combeferre, but the line of his shoulders is tight and his head is hanging low.

Combeferre clears his throat, trying to sound casual instead of desperately interested. “There is always the possibility that you’re waiting for Marius to return.”

Courfeyrac laughs but there doesn’t seem to be any joy in it. “Marius has Cosette,” he points out. “Also, he’s one of my knights.”

“Would that stop you if you loved him?”

“Of course I love him,” Courfeyrac says. “He’s my beautiful-faced baby deer.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

Courfeyrac deflates a little. “I know,” he admits.

Oh god, is it possible he really is in love with Marius? He’s rarely seen Courfeyrac look so nervous.

“I don’t know if it would matter,” Courfeyrac says, turning to Combeferre with a small smile. “I hope so but who knows? Fortunately, I don’t have to find out.”

Combeferre focuses on making his sigh of relief as inaudible as possible.

“Do you believe in love?” Courfeyrac asked him and the question is as unexpected and as brutal as a slap to the face would have been. “You and Enjolras never courted, never so much as admitted to preferring this person or that. But he scorns love. You never talk of it.”

It is not something that Combeferre has ever thought possible to talk about. In a world that seems filled with impossible things, magic, prophecy, revolutions, his love for Courfeyrac still seems the most impossible.

“I believe in it,” he says.

“For yourself?” Courfeyrac asks.

“You really are waiting for someone you love, then?” Combeferre says, in wonder. 

“I was,” Courfeyrac says, and he turns back to the window, leaving Combeferre with only his bitter profile to look at. “I don’t know that I have the luxury anymore.”

“You deserve it,” Combeferre tells him. “You deserve it more than anyone I know.”

Courfeyrac swallows and closes his eyes. He looks like he might be fighting tears but when he speaks his voice is clear, “Maybe I don’t. I’ve hurt people.”

Combeferre doesn’t deny this. He’s seen Courfeyrac break his fair share of hearts and, though he doesn’t know and it wouldn’t be fair to blame him for it, he makes Combeferre’s heart ache as well. It doesn’t matter.

“You’ve brought far more joy to the world than pain,” he tells Courfeyrac, honestly.

“The pain matters, though.” Courfeyrac turns to Combeferre, eyes wide, face drawn.

“The joy matters more,” Combeferre says firmly.

“You always know the right thing to say,” Courfeyrac tells him, a strange look on his face. He’s smiling, but it’s a little crooked. Combeferre can’t tell if he’s helped at all.

“The trick is to not say very much,” Combeferre says. In truth he never feels like he says the right thing. He leaves the speeches to Enjolras, the human element of the kingdom to Courfeyrac, and he can keep behind the throne, working with information instead of people.

“I like everything you say.”

Courfeyrac is dangerous because he says things like this with no idea of the effect he’s having. Combeferre swallows past the knot in his throat and makes an attempt at a joke. “Even when I tell you that you shouldn’t be doing something?”

Courfeyrac smiles, a hint of mischief to it. “I like the way you say it, even if I don’t like what you’re saying.”

“Well, thank you,” Combeferre says, flustered by the compliment. “How are you getting along with that list?”

It’s a clumsy deflection but Courfeyrac allows it. He holds out the list and begins to explain his choices, his smile still lingering.

--

Courfeyrac doesn’t have the nerve to bother Combeferre two days in a row. He might try again tomorrow. Combeferre hadn’t seemed displeased to see him and they had talked again, though the subject hadn’t been an easy one.

When he had pictured talking of love with Combeferre, he had never pictured a conversation that would leave him more frustrated than before. Did Combeferre believe in a personal, romantic love or was he speaking of the brotherly, patriotic love that Enjolras believed in?

Courfeyrac is in the middle of banging his head against his desk in frustration when he hears footsteps approaching.

“I apologize if I’m interrupting,” Eponine says, not sounding sorry at all.

Courfeyrac takes stock of his situation. He’s not sure he should let one of his knights see him in such an undignified position but Eponine probably doesn’t cherish any illusions about his dignity and he’s having a difficult week.

He carefully raises his head. “What can I do for you, Sir Eponine?”

She sits down without permission and swings her boots up, straight onto the papers on his desk, a clear sign of displeasure. Courfeyrac should reprimand her but there’s a chance she’s rendered the wretched reports illegible, so he doesn’t have the heart.

“I’m going to murder all of them,” she says, calmly.

“Please don’t. It’ll be over soon.”

“Will it?” she demands. “From what I’ve heard there has been no progress on that front and unless you’re hiding someone under that desk, you’re just settling into the life of a bureaucrat.”

“I don’t exactly enjoy this,” Courfeyrac reminds her, noting with satisfaction that her boots are very muddy indeed. He wonders if the curse counts the mud as bad luck or good.

“You’re not doing anything to fix it, either,” she says, fiercely.

“It would be some doing. I’m possibly the worst person in the world for this to happen to,” Courfeyrac says, glumly.

“Besides Marius,” she says, with no particular inflection, and he feels like an ass.

Courfeyrac often wishes he were closer with Eponine. After all, she’s the dearest friend of his dearest friend, besides being one of the best knights under his command. They don’t argue and if Eponine does anything that would require disciplinary action, she makes sure he never finds out about it. Still, they’ve never had anything he would term a personal conversation.

He looks carefully at her. She looks back.

“Besides Marius,” he agrees. And perhaps it’s the situation making him reckless because he asks, “How do you deal with it? The unrequited love?”

Her eyes narrow, and she pulls her boots off the desk. Courfeyrac has a moment where he wonders if he’s going to die after all, not because of the curse, but because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“If you’re asking,” she says, “you already know.”

“I’m not in love with Marius,” he says, quickly.

She laughs, startling him. He’s honestly unsure if he’s ever seen her laugh before. “I know you’re not.”

“I could be,” Courfeyrac protests.

“You wouldn’t be nearly so happy around him if you were.”

Courfeyrac once again wishes that they were better friends, this time so that he could reach out and hold her. He knows better than to attempt any such thing, however.

“You’re not going to ask me who it is?”

“I would hate for you to be under the illusion that I care,” she says, with a sharp smile. She doesn’t fool him though. Her eyes aren’t nearly as hard as they could be.

“Thank you,” he says. “And I really am working on it, I promise.”

It’s true that he’s begun to have some hope he can win over Combeferre but he needs to acknowledge that it’s too tangled a mess to sort out in such a short period. He’s needed by his knights. He has to let go of his idealistic hopes. He’s never truly doubted that he and Combeferre would find themselves together in the end but, then again, he had never expected having to work on such an accelerated time frame. He has to find another solution. He and Combeferre have time. The curse does not.

“Look,” Eponine says, “if it comes to it, I’ll help out and we won’t have to tell anyone.”

Courfeyrac regards her with considerable astonishment. She is last person he’d ever thought would ask. Well, maybe after Enjolras.

“You don’t like me,” Courfeyrac reminds her.

“I like you more than most people.” That’s about the closest thing to a declaration of friendship he could ever hope to have from her.

“—and you don’t sleep with men.”

Courfeyrac is pretty sure about this. Eponine is popular with the women in town but he’s never heard of her trifling with any local men. Everyone knows about Montparnasse, of course, but he’s the only example that Courfeyrac could point to, Marius being evidently immune to her charms.

Eponine looks embarrassed, which makes Courfeyrac embarrassed, and they sit for a second, just avoiding each other’s eyes.

“Women are easier,” Eponine says, finally. “And I’m not exactly going to get myself pregnant fooling around with a woman.”

At Courfeyrac’s alarmed look, she laughs. “We’d take precautions, obviously.”

Since Courfeyrac has no intention of taking her up on her offer, he doesn’t feel the need to compound his humiliation by asking exactly what she means by precautions.

“You won’t get out of running the knights that easily,” he tells her, with a nervous laugh.

And Eponine, bless her, accepts the change of subject. “I don’t see how I’m the one who has to run this circus.”

“There’s no one else,” Courfeyrac says. He knows Eponine doesn’t want to hear how talented she is or how readily the men follow her orders. She wants him to tell her how she can get out of it.

“Feuilly,” she counters.

Courfeyrac is inclined to agree that the new knight has serious potential, but he is new. “He needs a few more years of experience.”

“When all this is over, I am taking a long trip. It’s that or I’m murdering the lot of them.”

“It’s a lovely time of year to visit the sea.”

--

Dear Sir Courfeyrac,

It is rare that I make such a mistake, so I am not used to writing apologies. You must forgive me if I do not do this one justice.

Because I do owe you an apology. You are so very loved that I thought the curse would be broken in short order. I hoped only to show you the hypocrisy of your ways. I did not realize, much to my shame, that you were being sincere.

Your kisses were lovely. Please let me know if I may be of assistance in breaking the curse.

With regret,

Lady Floreal

--

It’s a dance that decides it for Combeferre.

After dinner, a group of musicians strikes up a tune and some courtiers rise to dance. Combeferre glances at the dancers, oh so casually, expecting to see Courfeyrac among them, whirling with a smile on his face that mirrors his partner’s. But of course Courfeyrac isn’t there. Courfeyrac hasn’t even been permitted in the great hall, the number of people and the various goings-on having been determined to be too much of a hazard to him. Courfeyrac loves to dance and he won’t be able to until the curse is broken.

So the curse has to be broken.

By all rights it should have been broken already. Courfeyrac is enormously popular at court. Grantaire had been correct in supposing that Courfeyrac could probably have his pick of whoever he liked. They hadn’t announced it but people have noticed that the commander of the knights isn’t where he should be and it isn’t like the curse is subtle. Word has gotten around. He has no doubt that Courfeyrac has already been propositioned by a number of people. Obviously, Courfeyrac hasn’t said yes to any of the offers.

You could ask him, a quiet and treacherous part of his brain whispers. There’s no harm in asking. He knows Courfeyrac finds him attractive, or at least attractive enough to kiss after a few glasses of wine.

He thinks about that night every day.

He and Courfeyrac used to be alone all the time, as children and then as young men. They used to talk late into the night, even falling asleep in the same bed once or twice during the worst years of the war. That night, he had had no thought beyond Courfeyrac’s company. He certainly hadn’t expected for Courfeyrac to lean across the table and kiss him with no warning.

A kiss after decades without one. It had felt like a wish granted. It had felt like he’d been wishing for the wrong thing.

The kiss had been warm, off-center, and perfect but it still hadn’t been what he had wanted. He couldn’t be casual or fun like the others that Courfeyrac pursued. He couldn’t bear seeing Courfeyrac move onto his next conquest. So Combeferre had somehow mustered the will to push Courfeyrac gently away, smiling, trying to look like everything was all right. Courfeyrac had looked confused and hurt as though no one had ever pushed away before. Maybe they hadn’t. He had no idea, Combeferre had thought not for the first or last time, how dangerous he was.

That had been two years ago. They had never once talked about it, possibly because Courfeyrac didn’t realize that there was something to talk about. For him it had probably been just another kiss at another celebration.

He used to only half regret walking away but Combeferre regrets it entirely now. The curse would have been easily broken and Combeferre would have gotten to hear Courfeyrac say that he loves him, even if he wouldn’t mean it. It would be an undreamed-of luxury.

He has the opportunity to fix his mistake now. Not for himself but for Courfeyrac. He knows Courfeyrac trusts him. They’ve grown up together and gone to war together. Maybe Courfeyrac could be comfortable doing this together as well.

His thoughts are interrupted by the gentle touch of a hand on his forearm.

“Are you alright?” Enjolras mutters to him, keeping his gaze fixed on the dancers. Combeferre’s not sure what exactly he looks like but what he’s feeling is a mix of desire, shame, and determination. Something of it must be visible, at least to Enjolras.

“I’m fine” Combeferre says, taking a sip of wine. “Just making a plan.”

He would go to Courfeyrac tomorrow and he would ask. There is no reason that Courfeyrac will say yes. He’ll probably say no. Still, Combeferre will ask.

--

Tempted outside by the morning sunlight, Courfeyrac finds three of his knights, sitting at a table in the shade. He isn’t allowed this close to the training grounds, but it’s a beautiful day and he’s still technically the man in charge. His knights won’t report on his truancy.

“Good morning, Sir,” Feuilly says, with his usual impeccable manners, as Courfeyrac approaches.

“Good morning. None of you will offer to bed me, will you?” Courfeyrac says, sitting heavily on the bench beside Bousset.

Across from him, Bahorel snorts. Feuilly looks taken aback. Bousset just smiles sunnily. “Only if you want us to.”

Sir Bousset is one of Courfeyrac’s favorites. He’s enthusiastic, hard-working, and so injury-prone that Courfeyrac had thought at first that he was cursed. Bousset had informed him that this was a common assumption, and he had been tested for all manner of curses and appeared to be completely free of them. Regardless, he has been sympathetic towards Courfeyrac’s plight and has, through means of his charming lover, been providing Courfeyrac with a variety of salves and splints.

“Personally, you’re not my type,” Bahorel says, with an extremely unsubtle look in Feuilly’s direction.

“Nor mine,” Feuilly mutters with an equally unsubtle blush, which causes Bahorel to beam.

They haven’t officially told anyone  but Feuilly now carries a blade he couldn’t have afforded on his own and lately Bahorel has taken to wielding a dagger with a hilt made of unicorn horn. Also, Feuilly’s neck bruises easily.

“I think I’m hurt,” Courfeyrac says mildly.

“You look a little like Joly,” Bossuet says, squinting at him. “I could make it work.”

“Are you saying fair Joly wouldn’t be invited?”

Bossuet looks shocked. “But of course! We do everything together.”

“Your love is very beautiful,” Courfeyrac tells him seriously.

“You should take him up on the offer,” Bahorel advises, “or Eponine will turn this place into an efficient killing machine. She’ll have to start a war, just to give us something to do.”

Eponine has made her displeasure felt throughout the ranks. Everyone has been running a lot of drills.

“What about Lady Floreal?” Feuilly inquires politely. “Have you written to ask her if there’s another way of breaking the curse?”

“I received a nice letter from her,” Courfeyrac says. “She apologizes but there’s nothing she can do about it, besides the obvious, that is.”

Bahorel chuckles at that. Feuilly smacks the back of his head, which sets off some very undignified tussling.

Courfeyrac is so busy watching them that he nearly misses the discus flying towards him. He’s only saved from having his brains knocked out by Bossuet’s yelp of warning. Courfeyrac leans to the side just in time for the discus to smash to the ground right behind him, making a sizeable impact in dirt.

“Sorry,” yells out an apologetic voice that Courfeyrac only half recognizes. They don’t sound too panicked. They probably have no idea how close they came to killing him. His heart, having stopped for a second, roars back to life, beating twice as fast as it needs to.

Three pairs of wide eyes regard him.

“Eponine’ll have his head,” Bahorel says, after a moment.

“He was careless,” Feuilly agrees, arching his head to look at the knight.

“And I was unlucky,” Courfeyrac says miserably. “I should go.”

He walks past Sir Champmathieu, who is red-faced and apologetic at having nearly brained his commander, “I am so sorry. I can’t think how that happened, Sir.”

“It was the curse,” Courfeyrac assures him, over his shoulder, “but try to aim away from people next time.”

He has to do it. He has no other option. He can’t even be in the vicinity of the training grounds without creating a danger for himself or others. What will he do if the knights are called to fight? No one has mentioned it, but the spectre of rebellion constantly hovers over Enjolras’ new throne. The leader of the king’s knights should be prepared to defend the kingdom.  Everyone has been far too kind in giving him this time. He has responsibilities and he can’t afford to sulk any longer.

Courfeyrac treks to his room, glumly considering his prospects. Grantaire is attractive but fixated on one of Courfeyrac’s dearest friends. That means that feelings are unlikely to get involved. That’s the case with Eponine, as well, but he isn’t so sure that Marius would like it if he ever found out. Not to mention those precautions . Jehan hadn’t really offered so much as he had left the possibility open—

And Combeferre is standing right outside of Courfeyrac’s door.

Courfeyrac hopes that his thoughts aren’t visible on his face. He doesn’t want to sleep with Grantaire or Eponine or anyone else. He wants Combeferre and has only ever wanted Combeferre, for as long as he can remember.

“Hello,” Combeferre says. His eyes are serious. “Can we talk?”

He’s wearing a shirt with the ties undone. Courfeyrac isn’t sure if that counts as bad luck or unusually good.

“Of course,” Courfeyrac says. “Shall we go to my study?”

Combeferre clears his throat. “Could we step into your room? This is a private matter and I wouldn’t want to be interrupted.”

Combeferre hasn’t been in Courfeyrac’s quarters since the night they kissed.

“Alright,” Courfeyrac says, hoping his smile looks natural and not deranged.

Combeferre shuts the door behind them and the sound of it closing makes Courfeyrac unaccountably nervous. There’s only one thing that Combeferre could want to talk about. He must have figured it out. Enjolras or Grantaire might have said something, he doubts Eponine would have. Maybe he’s just so obvious that Combeferre noticed with no one having to say anything at all.

“Have a seat,” Courfeyrac says, gesturing towards the table in the corner of the room.

Combeferre sits in the opposite seat from where he sat when Courfeyrac had kissed him. Courfeyrac wonders if Combeferre even remembers the kiss well enough to remember that. He shakes himself and sits across from Combeferre, trying to look attentive and interested instead of terrified.

Combeferre clears his throat, opens his mouth and shuts it again.

“Is everything alright?” Courfeyrac asks, suddenly concerned. Combeferre is acting entirely out of character.

“Yes,” Combeferre says. He takes a deep breath and leans forward. “Before I go on, I want to make sure you know that you can say no and there will be no hard feelings. Above all, I value our friendship.”

“Me too,” Courfeyrac says, uncomprehendingly.

Combeferre is fidgeting, drumming his fingers on the table, rubbing the back of his neck. Courfeyrac can’t remember seeing him in such a state since they were teenagers and Combeferre had acquired his veneer of unshakeable calm.

“I wanted to offer myself, I suppose. To break the curse.”

“What?” Courfeyrac can’t be hearing things correctly. “You’re not really—”

Combeferre’s cheeks are dark and he doesn’t meet Courfeyrac’s eyes as he says, "I find you attractive and we trust each other. Of course I would understand if you would rather not. The circumstances are awkward, to say the least, and I know you'd probably prefer someone beautiful."

"What? " squawks Courfeyrac. 

"I've seen the people you flirt with, Courf," Combeferre says. " They ' re nothing like me but if—" 

"No one's like you," Courfeyrac interrupts, shoving a hand over Combeferre's mouth. It's a tactical error because he can feel Combeferre's lips under his fingers, soft and parted. "And if you mean to suggest that you're not beautiful, then I have some bad news for you: you are.”

Combeferre blinks down at Courfeyrac’s hand and Courfeyrac quickly withdraws it.

“Sorry,” he says. “But you should know that isn’t why I’m saying no.”

“You are saying no, then?” Combeferre says, still looking off-balance.

“It’s too much to ask of our friendship,” Courfeyrac says, because he can share that truth, at least. He wants Combeferre, but not like this. Not halfway.

“Is it?” Combeferre asks. “We’ve been through everything together, why not this?”

“It’s not some dangerous mission for Enjolras,” Courfeyrac protests. “It’s not even like the stupid things we did when we were kids.”

“No. It’s different, I know that,” Combeferre says, slowly. “But here’s the thing, Courf, I love you.”

Courfeyrac’s heart stops in his chest because Combeferre’s eyes are so warm and this is all he’s ever wanted.

“You’re my family,” Combeferre adds and all Courfeyrac’s hope drains away. Of course, Combeferre didn’t mean it like that. Combeferre loves him like he’s family.

He looks away so Combeferre won’t see his face. He can feel Combeferre’s stare, though, can almost see his uncertain face. Without looking and without thinking about it too much, Courfeyrac sticks his hand out, and instantly, Combeferre takes it, his palm warm. His fingers interlock with Courfeyrac’s as though they’ve done this a million times, when in reality Courfeyrac can’t remember the last time they touched.

When Combeferre speaks, it’s insistent.

“I know I’m not exactly what you want, but you deserve to be with someone who loves you.”

He does deserve that. Everyone does.

Courfeyrac swallows and then turns to look at Combeferre. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“Neither do you.” Combeferre’s face is resolved. He can be so stubborn, Courfeyrac thinks with a mixture of hysteria and incredible fondness. “I’m offering freely.”

Courfeyrac takes a deep breath, but it’s only to steady his breath, not his resolve. He’s only human. It’s not an ideal situation, maybe not even a good one, he knows, but it’s the closest he’s going to get to what he wants. Maybe being too romantic had gotten him into this trouble in the first place. Maybe instead of waiting for the right moment to come along, he should have tried to make the right moments happen.

He looks down at their intertwined hands and then back up at Combeferre, who is clearly doing his best to look non-judgmental but really looks endearingly nervous, instead.

“I’m accepting freely, then” Courfeyrac says, with an unsteady smile.

Combeferre gapes. Any other time Courfeyrac would have laughed at the uncharacteristic expression. It’s rare to see Combeferre off his guard. “Really?”

“Really,” Courfeyrac says, his stomach twisted up so tight, he’s sure he must be hunched over. He’s rarely felt less attractive in his life. It doesn’t matter though, he reminds himself, forcing a smile. Combeferre isn’t doing this because he suddenly finds Courfeyrac irresistible. He’s doing this to keep Courfeyrac safe. Which, apparently, Courfeyrac finds irresistible.

“So how—how do we do this?” Combeferre says, surprise still coloring his voice.

“If you don’t know, then we’re both in trouble,” Courfeyrac jokes.

Combeferre gives him a look that’s a mixture of mild exasperation and amusement. It’s so Combeferre that Courfeyrac can’t help but find it attractive.

“I suppose we should kiss?” He doesn’t mean it to sound like a question.

“That’s a good idea,” Combeferre says and clears his throat. He shifts forward, just a fraction and untangles his hand from Courfeyrac’s so he can rest it gently on his cheek. He doesn’t move, waiting, Courfeyrac realizes, for Courfeyrac to make the first move.

Courfeyrac is trembling, or he thinks he is. It’s hard to tell if his internal unsteadiness is matched externally. “I’ve kissed people before,” Courfeyrac assures either Combeferre or himself. “I can do this.”

Combeferre regards him seriously. “I know.”

“I know” is not the same as “I remember.”

Courfeyrac leans across the table and closes the distance between them.

It's gentle, chaste and closed-mouthed, not the kind of kiss that makes any implications. Still, Courfeyrac's pulse feels as though it may hammer through his neck.

They hang there for a moment, their lips barely touching. Then Courfeyrac tentatively parts his lips and deepens the kiss. Combeferre lets him. 

It’s strange to be kissing someone who he’s known all his life, Courfeyrac realizes. He’d had too much wine the last time to properly absorb the experience. Yet it’s strange in a way that makes Courfeyrac's blood race and his hands shake as he runs them through Combeferre's short hair. Combeferre seems to like that, judging by the way he arches into Courfeyrac’s mouth at the touch. It’s a subtle movement, but it causes Courfeyrac’s heart to pound.

“You should come over here,” Combeferre says, his breath warm against Courfeyrac’s cheek. “If you want.”

“Come over—”

Combeferre leans back in his chair, a clear invitation. He looks nervous but there’s also a quality to his eyes that Courfeyrac knows he’s responsible for. Combeferre wants him. He wants this.

“Oh,” Courfeyrac says, and swallows. He gets to his feet, a little surprised to find that his legs will hold him up. Combeferre watches him carefully.

Combeferre’s hands come up to his waist as Courfeyrac settles on his lap. They don’t pull, nothing but a warm, gentle pressure.

“I’m not too heavy?” Courfeyrac says, looping his arms around Combeferre’s neck. Combeferre’s tall enough that Courfeyrac will only have to lean down a little to kiss him.

“No,” Combeferre says, simply. He looks astonished. Courfeyrac is glad he’s not the only one having trouble believing this is really happening. He’s fully hard, which would be embarrassing but he can feel Combeferre growing hard beneath him.

“Kiss me again?” Combeferre says.

It’s an earnest request, not an order, but the husky note to his voice compels Courfeyrac to obey all the same. The kiss is deeper, slow and hungry. This doesn’t feel like the rushed, perfunctory thing that Courfeyrac had half expected. This feels real. It feels more real than any kiss he’s ever had. It’s terrifying.

But his terror keeps getting swallowed up by the feel of Combeferre’s thighs flexing against his, by his smell, by the softness of his hair under Courfeyrac’s fingers.

Combeferre’s hands slide under the collar of Courfeyrac’s shirt, just a light mapping of the shoulders but Courfeyrac feels the immediate need to have Combeferre’s hands everywhere. Not allowing himself to think about it too much, Courfeyrac leans back and quickly pulls his shirt off. Combeferre makes a soft sound but Courfeyrac doesn’t allow him more than a moment to look before diving down to kiss him again. If this is the only time he ever gets to do this, he wants to taste Combeferre as much as possible.

He kisses his way down Combeferre’s neck and then back up to his mouth, thrilled to the bone by the low moan this earns him. Combeferre’s hands map the contour of his ribs, trace his shoulders. One of his hands slides down Courfeyrac’s spine, resting at the waistband of his pants. Courfeyrac has made it this far with one or two people but never further.

“Talk to me,” Combeferre says, breaking the kiss.

And then Courfeyrac nearly says, “I love you.”

He manages to bite his tongue at the last second but it’s a close call. His entire world has narrowed down the feel of Combeferre, to the taste of him. His love made a tangible, physical thing.

“Let’s not talk,” Courfeyrac suggests, hoping to distract Combeferre with a cheeky smile. “Not when there are more interesting things to be doing.”

“Courf,” Combeferre says, sounding amused but worried. Courfeyrac doesn’t allow him time to be much of either, gently biting Combeferre’s lower lip, allowing his hands to explore the soft skin of Combeferre’s sides beneath his shirt, just brushing up against a nipple.

“Ah,” Combeferre says, the pleased astonishment of the sound accompanied by a slight shift of his hips that makes his cock brush against Courfeyrac’s. Courfeyrac squeezes his eyes shut. “God,” he mutters, suddenly overwhelmed. He won’t be able to hide anything when he’s like this. Combeferre will know.

Before he’s quite decided to, he leaps to his feet.

“What?” Combeferre blinks up at him. His hair is mussed, his face his soft and open with surprise. He’s never looked better. “Are you—”

“I’m sorry,” Courfeyrac tells him.

And he runs away.

--

Courfeyrac realizes as he nearly runs down the hallway that it’s the middle of the day and he’s shirtless. There isn’t a person in the castle that doesn’t know his condition by now but he doesn’t want to have to field questions about why he can’t exactly return to his room to fetch a new shirt.

Where can he hide? His study is out of the question. It’s the first place Combeferre will look for him. He knows Combeferre will want to make sure Courfeyrac’s okay. Courfeyrac isn’t okay, and he doesn’t know how to explain himself. He needs time to think of something to say that isn’t the truth.

“Oh sorry, I just realized that it would definitely come out that I was in love with you because I could barely keep from saying it when everyone still had their pants on. Also, in case you haven’t realized, I was about to take advantage of an offer that you made in the spirit of friendship. It would probably have ruined our friendship, but I decided to do it anyway.”  

Right. He definitely needs time to think of a good lie. The truth is clearly unacceptable.

He turns down a hallway and makes his way to a room he’s sure will be empty. Marius is still away and almost never remembers to lock his door. As expected, the door is open and Courfeyrac flings himself inside as though the devils of hell are chasing him. He leans against the door, safe for the moment, happy to be alone.

Only someone’s already in the room.

“Courf? Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” Marius gapes at him from his bed where he’s been unpacking.

“Marius,” Courfeyrac gasps.

It’s the first piece of good luck that Courfeyrac has had in days.

Courfeyrac launches himself at Marius, burying his head in his shoulder. Marius is a little stiff about it, probably because he wasn’t held enough as a child, but he does nothing to dislodge Courfeyrac and, after a moment, he begins to cautiously pet Courfeyrac’s hair.

“What happened?” Marius says. “I heard about the curse.”

“It’s not the stupid curse,” Courfeyrac says, knowing his voice is muffled but unwilling to lift his head. “Well, it is. But it’s worse than that. I’m in love.”

Marius hand stills for only a fraction of a second.

“It’s Combeferre, isn’t it?”

Trust Marius to be the only person in the whole castle to guess.

Courfeyrac just nods.

“Have you talked to him about it?” Oh sweet, sweet Marius. Not everyone could lock eyes with the love of their life across a ballroom and have that be that.

“No,” Courfeyrac says. He can feel Marius struggling not to make the obvious suggestion. He’s a good friend.

Marius’ friendship has been an unexpected addition to Courfeyrac’s life. He had appeared at the castle, a clumsy, fierce young man, ill-suited to fighting but with several other talents that Courfeyrac made sure were recognized. Marius had been wary of Courfeyrac at first, clearly unused to friendliness, but he’d warmed quickly and turned into an excellent and loyal friend. His presence had eased some pain felt by the distance of Enjolras and Combeferre, who seemed to need Courfeyrac as captain of the knights more often than they needed him as their friend.

“Come on,” Marius says, and maneuvers them to sit on the bed. He doesn’t make Courfeyrac lift his head because he’s a wonderful person.

“I could help,” Marius says.

“You angel,” Courfeyrac says, raising his head. “I couldn’t ask such a sacrifice of you.”

“It wouldn’t be a sacrifice,” Marius says, not very convincingly.

“Nonsense. Think of Cosette.” And think of Eponine, who would find it easy to stage a nasty accident for Courfeyrac these days.

“Cosette would understand,” Marius says, looking very much the noble hero.

“There’s no need. Once I get over my scalding humiliation, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Marius says, knowingly.

“I’ll think of something.” It’s getting less convincing every time he says it.

“Okay,” Marius says doubtfully.

“I will think of something,” Courfeyrac repeats, with increased emphasis.

“Okay,” Marius says again. “But you never explained what happened to your shirt.”

--

Combeferre knocks on the door to Courfeyrac’s study, heart in his throat. He doesn’t try to disguise his knock, and he knows Courfeyrac will recognize the pattern as his. He can pretend not to be in there if he wants. He doesn’t have to talk to Combeferre.

There’s a long pause, long enough that Combeferre begins to get nervous, before Courfeyrac calls out, “Come in.”

Courfeyrac is standing behind his desk. He looks a little pale and his smile is shaky.

Combeferre feels his heart fall from his throat to the pit of his stomach. He made Courfeyrac look that way.

“Hi,” Courfeyrac says.

“You left your shirt behind.” That isn’t what he meant to say at all.

Courfeyrac winces. “Along with my dignity,” he says, and there’s a dullness to the words that is so unlike Courfeyrac that Combeferre feels like he’s been run through with a dagger.

“I’m so incredibly sorry,” he manages to choke out.

Courfeyrac’s head, which had been hanging, snaps up. “What for?” he says, brow furrowed.

Had he hit his head? It’s entirely possible, given the circumstances. “Courfeyrac, do you remember—”

“There’s nothing wrong with my memory,” Courfeyrac forestalls him. His blush seems to indicate that this is the truth. “But what would you have to be sorry for? I’m the one that should be apologizing.”

“You? I pressured you and I clearly shouldn’t have because—”

“You didn’t pressure me! I’m the one who panicked and left you there without a word.”

“I deserved worse,” Combeferre assures him, earnestly.

“Combeferre, you idiot,” Courfeyrac says, and he looks almost desperate as he steps forward and enfolds Combeferre in a tight embrace.

He’d spent time discouraging Courfeyrac’s hugs. It hadn’t felt right to take them when Courfeyrac had no idea of his feelings. He’d said nothing, but he’d made himself clear by pulling away quickly or stiffening his shoulders. Combeferre doesn’t do either of those things this time because minutes ago he thought he might never get to touch Courfeyrac again. He wants him. The only thing he wants more is to see him happy.

He pulls away and Courfeyrac lets him, even taking a step back to put space between them.

“I’m sorry,” Courfeyrac says.

“Don’t be,” Combeferre says, quickly. “You did nothing wrong.”

“You didn’t either and yet we both can’t seem to stop apologizing.” Courfeyrac gives him a rueful look and Combeferre has to laugh at that, a quiet chuckle. The sound makes Courfeyrac brighten. He lives off laughter like a plant off sunshine. Another reason that they’re poorly matched, Combeferre reminds himself, even as he can’t help but smile.

"I was, maybe, overly enthusiastic,” Combeferre says, haltingly. He knows he was. It had been heady, getting what he had wanted for so long. Any hope of being a detached participant, of it all being for Courfeyrac’s benefit, had gone out the window the moment Courfeyrac had kissed him. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Ah, no,” Courfeyrac says, the laughter dropping away.

“Courf.”

“Really,” Courfeyrac says, blushing furiously, his hand coming up to rub the back of his head. “It was me. I was too eager.”

Combeferre feels dizzy. “Oh?” he says, knowing he sounds strangled.

Courfeyrac doesn’t seem to notice, too intent on avoiding eye contact. “I guess it had been a while and anyway, I, well, things got out of hand faster than I was prepared for.”

Combeferre is struck with memories of what exactly out of hand had looked like, what it had felt like.

“We could try again,” he offers. This is for Courfeyrac, he reminds himself. He can go slower. He can be more controlled.

Courfeyrac looks panicked at the offer. “That’s kind of you,” he says, swallowing. “But it’s a lot to ask—”

“Christ,” Combeferre says, unable to help himself, “it’s not as though it’s a hardship.”

“Oh, really?” Courfeyrac says, and he goes as crimson as holly. As though no one has ever told him he’s attractive before.

Combeferre smiles, ruefully. “Really.”

To his surprise Courfeyrac smiles back. “You too, you know. I meant it when I said that you’re beautiful.”

Combeferre feels warmed all the way through by that smile. “Then—”

Courfeyrac interrupts him, “It’s just the circumstances—”

“The circumstances are why we’re doing this.” Combeferre immediately wishes he hadn’t said it.

“It’s not worth the risk,” Courfeyrac says, taking a step back from Combeferre. They had been drifting closer together and Combeferre realizes it only as Courfeyrac is once more out of his reach.

“What about the risk to you?” Combeferre says, resisting the urge to tug Courfeyrac back towards him.

“Our friendship is important to me,” Courfeyrac says. “I wouldn’t want to risk it for some curse that any old somebody could break.”

Combeferre’s stomach lurches. He wants to tell Courfeyrac that he shouldn’t settle for just any old somebody but, then again, it’s not like he’s not settling for Combeferre.

“Our friendship is important to me, too. You’re important to me. You know that don’t you?”

Courfeyrac looks heartbreakingly uncertain even as he says, “I do, it’s just that—” He doesn’t get a chance to finish what he was going to say.

They both jump at the knock. Sir Eponine doesn’t wait for a response, striding in, looking like she might commit murder.

“Sorry,” Eponine says, flatly. She doesn’t look sorry. “I can come back later.”

Combeferre looks to Courfeyrac, who seems determined not to meet his eye.

“No, I’ll go,” Combeferre says, slowly. “We’ll continue this conversation later?”

“There’s really no need,” Courfeyrac says, his gaze nervously flicking to meet Combeferre’s and then flicking away again. “I’m not going to change my mind.”

Combeferre wants to ask him why because Courfeyrac, though occasionally capable of great subtlety, is not an accomplished liar. He’s hiding something from Combeferre and Combeferre needs to know what it is. He’ll never forgive himself if he’s wounded Courfeyrac and not known exactly how.

But Eponine is watching, and she doesn’t look patient.

“We’ll talk later,” Combeferre tells Courfeyrac. “I won’t try to change your mind, I promise.”

He can’t help but think that Courfeyrac doesn’t look relieved by that. It’s the worst possible outcome; not only has Combeferre ruined everything but Courfeyrac is still cursed.

--

Combeferre usually enjoys Grantaire’s bi-weekly reports. They’re never models of efficiency, but they’re usually interesting. Enjolras, with his disinterest in magic, doesn’t fully understand the scope of Grantaire’s talents but Combeferre knows enough to appreciate the experiments that Grantaire is constantly working on. He rarely produces anything of use but he’s at least entertaining in his relation of the failures.

But Combeferre doesn’t have the patience for it today. He’s had to strain himself to pay attention to his work all day just to keep his mind from wandering to the moment when the light had gone out of Courfeyrac’s eyes and he had turned away.

Enjolras clearly feels the same impatience because he interrupts Grantaire’s description of whatever he’s doing with feathers from the hunting falcons, which he is claiming is entirely necessary, no matter what the gamekeeper says about it.

“Enough of all this. How is Courfeyrac?”

“Ah, I see your majesty isn’t interested in my experiments at all,” Grantaire says, with a sly smile.

Grantaire would try the patience of a saint and Enjolras is no saint. That he’s a good king means he doesn’t yell at Grantaire or, as some knights are wont to do when Grantaire gets going, throw something in his general direction. He merely tightens his jaw and says, with a regal command. “Quiet.” The tone is more effective than a boot thrown at his head would have been.

“How is he?” Combeferre asks, into the resulting silence.

“Cursed,” Grantaire says, bluntly, dragging his eyes away from Enjolras. “And not getting any less cursed. I offered, and I’m certain I wasn’t the only one. I’m sure he’s had all sorts of beautiful people lining up to jump into his bed.”

Combeferre is inclined to agree. What had he been thinking to offer? What had Courfeyrac been thinking to accept?

“But he’s said no,” Enjolras says, resignedly.

“Every time,” Grantaire confirms, shaking his head. “He’s waiting for the one he loves.”

Combeferre does his best not to show any hurt, and he’s so focused on maintaining a neutral expression he almost doesn’t hear as Grantaire continues. “I’ve been trying to discover who it is, but no one has any idea. I’m certain that the two of you have better knowledge on the subject?”

Combeferre startles. “Courfeyrac’s in love?”

Grantaire looks surprised and swings his gaze to Enjolras, who gives him a restrained shake of the head.

“Perhaps I should not have been so certain,” Grantaire says, slowly.

“He’s in love with a person? Now? Not just some future ideal?”

“So he says. He say he’s found The One, whatever that means.”

Grantaire may be drunk half the time and his head in dreams the other half, but he’s not an idiot. His eyes have deep purple circles beneath them but they are sharp as they regard Combeferre. He’s probably guessed Combeferre’s feelings. Oh well, let him guess. Courfeyrac is in love.

“Leave us,” Enjolras says to Grantaire.

Grantaire opens his mouth, a sly edge to it that promises some smart remark, but whatever look Enjolras sends his way causes him to shut it again. He slides out of the room without further protest, his bow a shade less ironical than usual.

“You didn’t know,” Enjolras says to Combeferre, bluntly, the second the door closes.  

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“And he told Grantaire.” It’s stupid to feel hurt that he didn’t know. He’s the one who has constantly reinforced the distance between him and Courfeyrac.

“I asked, and he probably had to tell Grantaire,” Enjolras says, dismissively. “For magical reasons.”

For a king who was foretold by all the seers in the land and who has the blessing of the witches, Enjolras is astonishingly ignorant about magic. Combeferre is certain magical reasons had nothing to do with it but he supposes it’s kind of Enjolras to say so.

“He swears he isn’t in love with Marius,” Enjolras continues, looking thoughtful. “Or me,” he adds, with a slight expression of distaste.

Even through his confused hurt, Combeferre feels a thread of amusement. He would have liked to have witnessed that conversation. “Did you think he might be?”

Enjolras scowls, clearly embarrassed. “I don’t know. Not really. But I didn’t have any better ideas, so I thought I’d make sure.”

“What would you have done if he had said he was?” Combeferre asked, with morbid curiosity.

“Gone to bed with him, I suppose,” Enjolras says, with no hesitation.

Combeferre’s eyebrows fly up. “Really?”

“It isn’t safe for him to be cursed like this,” Enjolras complains. “Wouldn’t you do the same?”

He’s not fast enough to disguise his flinch. Enjolras’ eyes narrow.

“You already offered,” Enjolras says. It’s not a question.

“I did.” Maybe for once in his life Enjolras will leave it.

He doesn’t. “And he said no?”

“The curse is clearly not broken.”

“You’ve been acting strangely,” Enjolras says, as though only now realizing it. “Did you want him to say yes?” He asks as though it’s a casual question. Even Enjolras must know it’s not.

“He didn’t say no.”

Enjolras narrows his eyes. “Then—”

“Nothing happened,” Combeferre says. Nothing much, anyway. “He changed his mind.”

“But he said yes at first?”

Combeferre puts on his most forbidding face, the one he uses to talk to corrupt knights and inefficient stewards. In response, Enjolras puts on his king face. They stare at each other for a long moment. Enjolras breaks first. He’s never had the patience to win such contests.

“Why did he change his mind?”

“I really don’t want to discuss this with you,” Combeferre says, walking over to the window. He can feel his heartbeat start to pick up.

“I’m not asking just to ask.”

“What for then? For magical reasons?”

Enjolras runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Courfeyrac could get hurt. Truly hurt.”

“I know!”

Enjolras narrows his eyes. “You’re upset.”

“Well observed,” Combeferre snaps and regrets it instantly. “I’m sorry.”

“No need,” Enjolras says, though he looks startled.

They sit in silence for a long moment and Combeferre can only hope that Enjolras is thinking of other things. Combeferre can’t help but run it over in his mind again and again.

Finally, Enjolras speaks. “Do you love him?”

“Obviously,” Combeferre says, looking out at the training grounds. It’s strange and sad not to see Courfeyrac there. “As do you.”

“That’s not what I’m asking."

Combeferre closes his eyes, takes a long breath. “You don’t believe in love.”

“I’d believe you.”

Enjolras is capable of great acts of pettiness. He’s arrogant and imperious. He occasionally forgets that the people around him are human. But sometimes, he is the best man that Combeferre knows.

“I love him,” he says, eyes still shut.

Enjolras doesn’t ask how long or pry for details, possibly because he doesn’t want to know. Instead he says, “You should ask him why he said yes.”

“He changed his mind,” Combeferre says, turning to face Enjolras.

Enjolras looks neither pitying nor embarrassed. Instead he looks thoughtful. “He said yes, first. He didn’t with anyone else.”

--

There’s no way around it. Courfeyrac has to tell Combeferre. Combeferre will probably be angry at Courfeyrac taking advantage of the situation but he has to tell him. Courfeyrac wants some of their old relationship back when they used to talk for hours and had long-running inside jokes. That starts with Courfeyrac telling him the truth. Combeferre might be angry but he’ll forgive Courfeyrac, even if Courfeyrac doesn’t deserve it. That’s just who he is. There will be a rough patch, probably, but at least it will be honest between them. Courfeyrac won’t feel the need to hide part of himself. He can use that energy for something else, like trying to make Combeferre happy, whatever that will mean.

His resolve to confess is strong, which is for the best as it is immediately and sorely tested when he can’t seem to find Combeferre anywhere.

Combeferre isn’t in his study. He isn’t with Enjolras. He isn’t in the library. He isn’t in his own room. Courfeyrac is banned from most of the castle but he asks everyone he passes if they’ve seen Combeferre anywhere and receives nothing but shrugs. It’s not until Courfeyrac returns to his own room that he discovers Combeferre, who is leaning against the wall next to Courfeyrac’s door, reading a book.

“I’ve been looking for you all morning,” Courfeyrac tells him exasperated as Combeferre lowers his book.

“I’ve been waiting for you here,” Combeferre says. He looks almost cheerful. Nervous, too, which is fair, given recent events, but definitely cheerful. Well, Courfeyrac thinks ruefully, it’s nice while he has it.

“Come in,” he tells Combeferre. He’d wanted to have this conversation just about anywhere but the scene of the crime, so to speak. Crimes, he supposes. He doesn’t invite Combeferre to sit and Combeferre doesn’t try to.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” Courfeyrac says, hoping to put off his half of the conversation for as long as possible.

“You first,” Combeferre says, placing his book on the table. “You’ve been looking for me, after all.”

“Trust me,” Courfeyrac says, sinking into his chair. “You should go first.”

Combeferre regards him seriously. “All right. But you might not like what I have to say.”

“I’m listening,” Courfeyrac says.

“I’ve been doing some research.”

“Oh,” Courfeyrac says dully. Maybe he’d found another way to break the curse. Combeferre looks so happy.

“At least four other people offered to help you with the curse,” Combeferre continues.

Courfeyrac stills. “Three, by my count,” he says cautiously. He’s only counting the serious offers, not the throwaway ones made by courtiers he barely knows or giggling servants.

“I was counting Marius,” Combeferre explains.

Courfeyrac smiles, despite everything. “He didn’t mean it.”

Combeferre smiles a little. “Assuming that he did, and that Grantaire did, and Bossuet, and Jehan—and any of the others, because I’m sure there were others—they are all your friends. You trust them. You must find at least one of them attractive. So why me?”

There’s only one answer to that question that makes any sense and Combeferre is too smart not to have figured it out. And he is—smiling?

Courfeyrac feels a cautious hope unfold in his chest.

“Why did you say yes, Courfeyrac?”

“Why did you offer?” Courfeyrac counters.

“I asked first,” Combeferre says, and Courfeyrac sees the same cautious hope on his face. It gives him the courage to tell the truth.

“I’ve been in love with you since we were seven years old,” Courfeyrac tells him. It’s worth it, because Combeferre is smiling at him, honest and wide.

“I’ve got you beat,” Combeferre says. “I’ve loved you since we were five.”

“You’re just saying that!” There’s no way Combeferre could have loved him when they were five. Courfeyrac has it on the best authority that he was extremely annoying at that age, not to mention missing a front tooth from a fall, and sporting ears he hadn’t grown into.

Combeferre’s chuckling softly, a beautiful sound. “I have.”

“Have you?” Courfeyrac asks and there’s an embarrassing quality of breathlessness to his voice.

Combeferre takes both of his hands in his. “I really, really have. I do.”

Courfeyrac feels tears well at the corner of his eyes. He brings their linked hands up to his mouth and presses a kiss to Combeferre’s knuckles.

“I love your hands,” he tells Combeferre, who looks happy and stunned.

Combeferre leans forward. “Courf—”

He’s interrupted by Courfeyrac’s chair, which groans as though it hadn’t supported the weight of both them only days before.

“We should probably work on that curse,” Combeferre says, eyeing the chair with misgiving.

“Yes, we should,” Courfeyrac says, lighting up. It’s a brilliant idea. “Immediately.”

“We have time,” Combeferre says, looking contrite for some reason that Courfeyrac is sure is stupid. He can’t possibly have anything to be sorry for. He loves Courfeyrac, so his one supposed flaw doesn’t even exist.  “I didn’t mean to imply—”

“Combeferre, I have wanted you for a decade, at least. Since I knew what wanting was. I don’t want to wait another minute now that I know I don’t have to hold back. Also I broke two toes just by standing up this morning.”

Combeferre eyes crinkle at the corners. Courfeyrac loves him. “You might have to wait a minute or two.”

“Two at the most,” Courfeyrac declares, mutinously. “I want to kiss you somewhere that isn’t one of these stupid chairs.”

Combeferre laughs again and pulls Courfeyrac to his feet. He kisses him, slow and deep, his hands cradling Courfeyrac’s face. It’s so much better than before because Courfeyrac doesn’t have to pretend anything. He can just enjoy. Combeferre pulls back and smiles. Courfeyrac feels bathed in sunlight. It’s definitely so much better than before.

“That’s one thing off the list,” Combeferre says. He sounds like he’s planning an agenda for a meeting but his hands are warm on Courfeyrac and his eyes are warmer. “What’s next?”

“Everything,” Courfeyrac tells him. “Absolutely everything.”

Combeferre is leaning forward to kiss him when a thought occurs. “Wait!”

Combeferre stills instantly. He looks concerned, maybe a little frightened, like he thinks Courfeyrac might change his mind, which is unacceptable.

“I wanted to say, before it’s for the curse,” Courfeyrac says, “I love you.”

“God Courfeyrac, I love you too.”

--

Everyone is still too terrified of Combeferre to say anything to him but Courfeyrac had been right in expecting the jokes that would come his way once the curse was broken. He finds that he doesn’t mind them nearly as much as he thought he would.