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Combeferre doesn’t even yawn when his alarm blares at 5am. By his side, Grantaire and Enjolras don’t stir at all. They’re not exactly fond of Combeferre’s early hospital shifts; none of them are, but they’re used to it by now. Still, after turning off the alarm as quickly as he can while his limbs are tangled with those of his sleeping lovers, Combeferre takes a long moment to breathe in — he always does this before he has to leave. He takes in the familiar scent of them, Enjolras who drinks enough coffee to now perpetually smell like the stuff, with tinges of his expensive conditioner; Grantaire whose sharp paint scent doesn’t fade away nearly as well as the traces on his skin wash off. It never ceases to delight Combeferre to note that, after months turned into years, these smells have now found themselves impossibly tangled, along with the muted tang of the hospital which inevitably follows him and his very own earthy mark of Aleppo soap —it reminds him so much of his own mother that he still cannot bring himself to use anything else.
There, blinking in the dark, half suffocated by Grantaire’ weight on most of his ribcage, with Enjolras’ surprisingly strong grip on his waist, he shifts just so to his left to bury his nose in Grantaire’s wild curls. He grins into R’s hair when he indeed recognises the smell of antiseptic he uses so often throughout the day, meshed with Enjolras’ strong morning brew which will soon enough permeate their flat, as well as a distinct smell of conditioner. If Combeferre weren’t so careful about his lovers’ sleep, he’d snort. He knows of Grantaire’s tendency to pilfer the fancy stuff in their apartment. They pretend to care, every once in a while, especially Enjolras who is particular about his haircare routine, but Combeferre knows Enjolras secretly loves smelling himself on Grantaire — much like Combeferre is enjoying it right now; there is a special sort of satisfaction that comes with smelling yourself on your lover, something animal and instinctual. He makes a mental note to read up about this later.
Leaving the soft nest of Grantaire’s hair, Combeferre turns however much he can to Enjolras, who sleeps on, unbothered, grinding his teeth as he always does. They’ve tried all that can be done to help him relax and let out the pressure on his jaw, to no avail; Enjolras simply is a tense person. Grantaire jokes that world-saving on the daily would make anyone tense up, and that even Atlas must have ground his teeth in his sleep. Enjolras, who is, in spite of himself and his best effort, a little testy, can never remember to protest, not when Combeferre always gives his jaw a peck for his trouble.
Combeferre lifts his left arm, which was wrapped around Grantaire for most of the night. It’s been thankfully left free from where Grantaire had all but dropped and passed out on his side, and it’s a good thing, too, because his right arm is lost to the world. Enjolras asleep, though somehow remaining breathtakingly gorgeous, seems to develop an anatomy much like one of a limpet. It’s a scientific wonder Combeferre never wants to explain away; his lovers are wonders, and even Combeferre believes that the most special things do not need to be understood. One only needs to appreciate them as they are, veiled in mystery.
Slowly, in the darkened room lit only by the street lights filtering between the gaps of their poorly shut blinds, Combeferre reaches out and takes Enjolras’ hand, which is clutching tight on his t-shirt as if he’s scared Combeferre might disappear, or reluctant that he might need to leave their bed so early. Delicately, for dislodging a sleeping Enjolras is always an arduous task, Combeferre pries his t-shirt free, one finger after the other. He takes Enjolras’ hand between his own, curves his large palms around the slender, softer one, and he brings it to his face to leave a soft, lingering kiss to the centre of Enjolras’ hand.
Against his smooth palm, Combeferre cannot refrain a smile. From this close, even without his glasses and in the darkness of the room, he can see colour under Enjolras’ nails from where he’s scraped at Grantaire’s skin in pleasure. Grantaire spends too long handling pigments and varnishes for him to really care about stains, and they, in turn, spend too long embracing Grantaire —if Enjolras is a limpet asleep, Grantaire is one awake— to ever hope to be paint free again. Colours have imprinted themselves onto many of their personal effects, including onto Enjolras’ work laptop and some of Combeferre’s scrubs. They both hope never to own anything monochrome ever again.
Enjolras, Combeferre knows, especially enjoys running his hands over the rough patches of dried paint that Grantaire couldn’t scrub from his back —and how Grantaire managed to get paint on his naked back is quite the mystery to Combeferre as well, but he suspects Grantaire of doing it on purpose. He knows just as well as Combeferre that Enjolras loves it; he loves feeling the quirks that make Grantaire so very Grantaire . That, and Enjolras is a scratcher. The tender, pink lines covering Grantaire’s back from last night are proof enough, should Enjolras ever try to deny it —a lawyer like him, however, knows not to try and disprove a theory when evidence is stacked so high against him.
Combeferre didn’t partake in the act himself; he never does, never feels the need nor the desire to. Still, he loves watching his lovers as they enjoy themselves and each other for a moment. Arousal is one of the many things he’ll confess he doesn’t understand, and one of the few he doesn’t seek to. But he finds beauty in their love and in all the ways it manifests itself, and though he may not fully grasp their interest in the activity itself, he loves watching them as they make love to one another. When they laugh, when they sigh, when they moan and when they smile, he sometimes thinks he sees the point, what makes the act worthwhile in their eyes: he sees their complicity, their rough edges, their teasing, he sees their love. In return, it just so happens they enjoy being watched. It’s all a beautiful circle which one might find misshapen, but it works for them.
Because he can’t push it off any longer, though he dearly wishes he could snuggle back into his lovers’ warmth, shut his eyes and let the sunrise wake them together, Combeferre blinks, snapping himself out of his torpor.
This is, without a doubt, the hardest part of Combeferre’s early shift. He’d like to say this is because he cannot fathom leaving his partners, because how could he, when they are so sweet, so warm, when he loves them so beside him? The reason for Combeferre’s struggle is in fact much simpler and much less romantic: he cannot tear himself away from them. Literally. Grantaire, who is strong and heavy with generous muscles and fat, does not so much cuddle so much as he lays on whoever shares his bed, and Enjolras, slender Enjolras, is unexpectedly strong in his embrace. Combeferre, who usually receives the much coveted middle cuddle spot after Enjolras’ and Grantaire’s love-making —“now it’s Combeferre loving time,'' Enjolras states simply— is stuck .
Luckily, Combeferre has much experience. Rolling Grantaire away, while straining, is fairly easy, and Combeferre has gotten good at not waking him up in the process. It must also be done first, because the real challenge comes with Enjolras. Detaching him requires preparation, speed and agility. His limbs must be unwrapped quickly before he lunges forward again; taking too long means having to start over again, and one limb is hard enough to remove.
Combeferre is glad of his experience. Grantaire rolls to his side on his first try, and he all but peels Enjolras off on his third try; he’s really getting quite good at this. As soon as he is free, Combeferre throws one leg over Enjolras and nearly jumps out of bed. Sure enough, a split second after both of Combeferre’s feet hit the floor, Enjolras lurches forward, slamming into Grantaire and latching onto him in a death grip. His teeth grind on, his breathing even, eyes still firmly shut.
Once again, Combeferre refrains from snorting, but someone does it for him anyway. Grantaire opens a bleary eye and grins lazily at Combeferre who answers in kind, amused.
“Sorry for waking you,” he whispers.
“Y’good. The limpet did,” Grantaire slurs, still half asleep.
“You love it,” Combeferre teases. Grantaire hums noncommittally, though the way he smiles and burrows further into Enjolras speaks of his agreement. “I’ll see you tonight,” Combeferre says, as he bends forward to carefully kneel on the bed. Grantaire lifts his head as well as he can to receive the long, soft kiss he knows Combeferre is about to give him. He hums once more, content, and drops back onto the bed.
“Love you.”
“Love you, too,” Combeferre says after he’s dropped a lingering peck to Enjolras’ temple.
He stands; from the deep, rumbling sound he hears, he knows Grantaire has fallen asleep again, snoring.
Getting ready is a matter of minutes for Combeferre. In the dark, he blindly grabs a shirt that’s definitely his but smells of coffee and their own shared detergent, his paint-stained jeans on the floor, and a pair of underwear which most definitely belong to Grantaire, judging from how loose they are around his hips.
He gives them both one last look as he leaves the room, all tangled, mussed, and so very soft, and he thinks fondly of Grantaire’s paint under Enjolras’ nails, he thinks of Grantaire’s hair which smells like Combeferre and Enjolras combined, and he thinks of all the ways he is changed, too.
He thinks of all the ways he’s theirs.