So this is some pretty crappy writing, but this is for glowingpears, who is a really nice person with a deep appreciation of Enjolras and Combeferre feels, and her enthusiasm really encourages me to write more. And then she mentioned that she was feeling under the weather this week, and this needed to be written for her. Because she is awesome.
When he finally got the text, Combeferre was certain he knew how he would find Enjolras at the apartment.
I think I might possibly be ill, the text said, and Combeferre couldn’t help but roll his eyes. For the past few days, he heard Enjolras sniffling at meetings, coughing in his sleep, growing paler by the hour. Most of the time, Combeferre knew that Enjolras was coming down with something before Enjolras even realized it himself.
Combeferre slipped his phone back into his pocket, picking up his tea and nodding goodbye to Courfeyrac. “I have to go. Enjolras ‘might possibly be ill.’”
“That sounds like Enjolras,” Courfeyrac said, and didn’t even protest that Combeferre was cutting their coffee meeting short. He knew, like everyone knew, that Combeferre was the only person who could handle a suffering Enjolras. A sick Enjolras went hand-in-hand with a caring Combeferre. “Have fun.”
Combeferre picked up some cough syrup and chamomile tea before walking back toward the apartment he shared with Enjolras. He smiled to himself, picturing it. Poor Enjolras would be sitting on the couch, cocooned in one of their blankets, his nose pink and his cheeks flushed, wild curls sticking out around his face. They would make tea and watch Monty Python, and Enjolras would put his head in Combeferre’s lap, and that beautiful golden hair would be his, just for a moment, to run his fingers through.
When Enjolras was sick, he never turned to anyone except Combeferre. That’s how it had always been.
And that’s why it was such a surprise to walk into the apartment and see Grantaire sitting on the couch with him.