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Courfeyrac’s touches were shockingly gentle – brief, flickering caresses, as if the other man couldn’t quite decide where to put his hands first, as if he needed to touch every inch of Combeferre to prove the reality of the situation to himself. One hand grazed Combeferre’s shoulder – then fingers traced the line of his jaw, smooth fingertips leaving tiny jolts of electricity (an induced current) in their wake – then a grip at his waist for just a second, palm firm against the curve of his hip.
A touch of a different kind – firm lips against his, hesitant at first. Combeferre realized, after a moment, that he, too, was holding back, and a detached part of his mind wondered why, even as he leaned down to meet Courfeyrac in the kiss. His fingers tangled in Courfeyrac’s curly hair, pulling just a bit too tightly on the auburn strands between his fingers to ground himself.
They made it across the room to the bed by unspoken agreement, then broke apart to remove clothing. Tension buzzed in the air, like charged particles in the atmosphere before they became lightning, harsh and grating and – exciting? Maybe. Perhaps this was how sex – relationships – whatever they were doing was supposed to feel.
Combeferre found himself looking only at his own person – his pale hands as they worked his cravat free, the swell of his stomach after his shirt was laid to rest on the wooden floor. This was ridiculous, he told himself firmly; he wasn’t the only one involved in this undertaking, after all. Certainly not. There was no reason for him not to look at the other man – at his friend.
He steeled himself and then firmly directed his eyes towards Courfeyrac, at those fingers as they worked their way nimbly across his body, undressing himself in a practiced fashion, working far more quickly than Combeferre’s were capable of doing. Of course; Courfeyrac had far more practice at this. And there – the slight pang of … something like anxiety crossed with jealousy, Combeferre realized; that was what was bothering him. That was why the atmosphere in the room was so charged; would he be, after all this, just another specimen in Courfeyrac’s collection? The thought rankled; his jaw clenched.
And then his gaze made their way up to Courfeyrac’s face and he saw the glassy, anxious wonder in his eyes and all such thoughts became suddenly easy to dismiss. Courfeyrac’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed and met Combeferre’s gaze.
There was nothing in Courfeyrac’s expression that said that he was taking this casually.
A rush of self-conscious guilt coursed through him – because Courfeyrac seemed to be thinking of nothing but him, and all along Combeferre himself had been worrying, apparently, about whether his friend’s feelings were genuine. About whether an action seemingly taken in haste – a few quiet words spoken at the back of the Musain, asking Combeferre to come back to his rooms with him, a few intimate gestures on the walk home, alerting Combeferre to exactly what Courfeyrac had planned, a few kisses and a quiet declaration of intent inside the building – was authentic. (But then, it wasn’t as though Courfeyrac would take such an action in haste, was it? Combeferre knew him too well – Combeferre should have given him the benefit of the doubt – and oh, there he went again, overanalyzing it all …)
Combeferre smiled ruefully and then, with a deliberate gesture, took off his glasses and folded them, placing them on the table beside Courfeyrac’s low bed. The glass lenses glinted in the lamplight.
He turned to look at Courfeyrac again, his smile still a little self-conscious. “Well, then … ah, shall we?” With a vague gesture, he indicated the bed.
Courfeyrac laughed, the sound warm and friendly and reminding Combeferre of so many conversations in the back room of the Musain in the past, and stepped forward. Whatever tension had been in the air melted away, replaced by something warm and comfortable, coiling hotly in the pit of Combeferre’s stomach.
Combeferre frowned, after a moment, affronted by Courfeyrac’s seeming humor at his expense, then decided that he knew exactly how to knock that rakish grin off the other’s face. He leaned down, enjoying the few inches he had on Courfeyrac, and initiated his first kiss of the evening. It was messy and probably a bit off-center – their noses bumped into each other at one moment, and Combeferre was pretty sure that wasn’t supposed to happen – but when they broke apart, both of them were smiling. There was still a hint of awe in Courfeyrac’s green eyes, but mostly, he just looked happy.
Courfeyrac leaned upwards to start another kiss almost immediately, his hands taking over the task of completing Combeferre’s disrobing as he did so. A pleasant, surprised, shivery shock, as Courfeyrac’s fingers brushed past his waistline, replaced by simple warm euphoria when he moved back above his belt again to rest his hands against the nape of his neck, pulling him in, skin-to-skin from chest down to waist.
Courfeyrac didn’t seem to be making any move towards the horizontal any time soon – but that was all right, Combeferre decided; he nearly had kissing down, now, and he was pretty sure that he’d even be content to continue like this for the rest of the evening. (Then Courfeyrac curled his tongue in a wholly unexpected fashion, startling a surprised murmur out of Combeferre, and all right, apparently he didn’t really have kissing down at all yet, but he would be quite happy to learn more.)
Hours later, they were lying side-by-side in Courfeyrac’s bed, the blankets tangled somewhere around their naked legs. Combeferre was idly tracing the pattern of the bones of Courfeyrac’s ribcage against his skin; Courfeyrac, half-asleep, was almost purring in response to the attention, like a particularly sated tomcat. The night outside Courfeyrac’s window was still pitch-black; if Combeferre craned his neck just a bit, he could catch sight of the round, white disk of the moon, glowing faintly behind an overhanging cloud. Time had seemed suspended since the evening had begun.
“I can feel you thinking,” Courfeyrac mumbled. He cracked open an eye. “Stop it. We both have lectures in the morning. We can do enough thinking then.”
Combeferre smiled, fondly. “Be honest; you would never have been so interested in – this,” and he swore he wasn’t blushing, at all, right now, “if I didn’t think so much. You like it.”
“Never denied it,” Courfeyrac said, shutting his eye again. “Just don’t think when we’re sleeping. You weren’t thinking earlier.”
Combeferre snorted, but didn’t disagree.
“Sometimes’re good for not thinking. Like now. Go to sleep.”
Combeferre trailed his hands up Courfeyrac’s chest to his clavicle, still marveling at the feeling of warm, living skin and the curves of muscles under his hands. Then he pulled his hands away, shifted just a bit closer, and pulled the blanket over them both.
The morning and sunlight would come in good time, but for now, he decided, obeying Courfeyrac’s advice seemed like the best idea. He closed his eyes, quieted his mind, and went to sleep.