Combeferre is halfway through his third beer when Courfeyrac starts snuggling with him. Again. "It's not about that. I--just didn't want to talk about it. At least, not tonight. I don't--" He cuts himself off, and sighs. "Maybe after we get back from Africa, Courfeyrac."

Maybe they had just enough beer in the fridge after all, and he lets himself lean slightly against his friend before fetching another two beers for himself.

"I'll pass on the tequila, Bahorel." He holds up the beer, as if to say 'this is good enough for me.'

"To answer your question, I thought I was straight until I got most of my memories back. Then ... well, women lost their flavour after that, somehow." He shrugs, figuring he might as well admit it now.

He isn't drunk enough to fall over when Bahorel tries to tip him over.