It had been a long evening. First, talking with the stone-cutters, and then reviewing the correspondence from Lyon. Little wonder Combeferre was so tired. All that, following a hard day caring for the sick. He’d yawned all the way home. And then, after coming into Enjolras’s apartment to sleep because Combeferre’s own had suffered a mishap and it was too late to clean it, he had promptly fallen asleep on the couch next to Enjolras, his head drooping onto Enjolras’s shoulder.
Enjolras, energized by the night’s work, began to read the pamphlets Feuilly had passed onto him. He became absorbed easily. The pamphlets were written in strong, forthright language, and laid out the cause of the silk-workers with admirable clarity.
Combeferre shifted, and his head began to roll off Enjolras’s shoulder. Enjolras absently raised a hand to steady him, and left it there, flipping through the pamphlets with the other. He let his fingers run idly through Combeferre’s hair, not realizing he was doing it until Combeferre half-woke and mumbled something.
“Oh,” said Enjolras. “Forgive me–I didn’t mean to bother you.”
“Yourmmrghgh,” Combeferre responded, with something less than his usual eloquence. “Not.” He turned to rest his other cheek on Enjolras’s shoulder, and fell silent. Enjolras, smiling faintly, turned back to the pamphlets, his hand playing in Combeferre’s hair to the rhythm of Combeferre’s breath.