aint nobody fresher than

“Take your boots off,” says Combeferre, distantly, when Courfeyrac opens the door. Combeferre’s back is to the door, hunched over his desk, the sharp line of his shoulders taut with concentration. Enjolras is sitting in Combeferre’s bed, a book in his hands that has never been studied at any university in Paris. His feet are bare and his hair is, like Courfeyrac’s, a little damp. There is a small bruise at his hairline that echoes a gash down Combeferre’s right calf and a thick red line around Courfeyrac’s left wrist. Paris is restless, and more and more of its street corners rise when their leader makes his call. The back of Courfeyrac’s neck is still wet and his clothes soaked through to the bone, but for one brief, glorious second, he sees the ink under Enjolras’s fingernails and the edge of Combeferre’s smile as he turns his head, just a little, and he is the warmest he has ever been. A second, and then it’s gone.

Or, nine incidents from a life lived in threes.