Combeferre (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
decipheredhieroglyphics) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
lesamisdodw2013-01-09 06:44 pm
decipheredhieroglyphics) wrote in lesamisdodw2013-01-09 06:44 pm
Drinking Party At 'Ferre's
Who: Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Bossuet - the Amis not lost in Africa (Joly, Jehan, you wanna come play too? -- no idea about Marius/Feuilly?)
Where: Combeferre's apartment.
Notes: Amis converge on 'Ferre's apartment for a night of drinking before they get serious about going after Enjolras and Grantaire who are currently, to their best knowledge, marooned somewhere in the middle of nowhere in Africa and very possibly in danger.
Status: ONGOING!
--
Combeferre had a little time before his friends came over, and decided to fill up the fridge a bit. He had been emptying it, part because he didn't want to leave anything perishable for when he was out of the country, and part from a lack of desire to trudge through the grocery store.
He picked up snacks and another six pack at the store, trusting that Bahorel and Courfeyrac at least would bulk up the booze supply, then, on the way back, stopped at the bookstore for some crash courses in Swahili. Maybe it wouldn't help, but it couldn't hurt -- better a chance of the locals speaking that than English or French, anyway.
Combeferre couldn't help worrying. Eight days now, with no word from Enjolras or Grantaire. He was still utterly and completely certain that Enjolras couldn't be dead, and he was less certain that Grantaire was stubbornly stuck to his side -- like, Courfeyrac had said, a barnacle. It was an apt description, anyway. He didn't expect, not really, that he and the others could just fly into Nigeria and take a powerboat down the river and find Enjolras and Grantaire huddled alone in a makeshift hut, ready and waiting to be rescued. No. If he knew Enjolras at all, his friends certainly weren't going to be waiting at the crash site--wherever it might be. He knew they'd have to find the crashed remains of the plane and ascertain a trail before they had any hope of finding Enjolras. And God knows how long that could take. Still, he wasn't despondent and he would hold out hope.
But what he shouldn't be doing, and he knew it, was worry himself to death. So he ruthlessly cleaned out the rest of the things in the living room. He piled the unsorted boxes in Enjolras' bedroom -- he considered it small payment for the worry and fuss his friend had been putting him through -- and tossed out all the old takeout remains from the past week. He figured it was clean enough for his friends, and loaded up the first Rosetta Stone disc while he waited for the others to arrive, or text him for directions.
Where: Combeferre's apartment.
Notes: Amis converge on 'Ferre's apartment for a night of drinking before they get serious about going after Enjolras and Grantaire who are currently, to their best knowledge, marooned somewhere in the middle of nowhere in Africa and very possibly in danger.
Status: ONGOING!
--
Combeferre had a little time before his friends came over, and decided to fill up the fridge a bit. He had been emptying it, part because he didn't want to leave anything perishable for when he was out of the country, and part from a lack of desire to trudge through the grocery store.
He picked up snacks and another six pack at the store, trusting that Bahorel and Courfeyrac at least would bulk up the booze supply, then, on the way back, stopped at the bookstore for some crash courses in Swahili. Maybe it wouldn't help, but it couldn't hurt -- better a chance of the locals speaking that than English or French, anyway.
Combeferre couldn't help worrying. Eight days now, with no word from Enjolras or Grantaire. He was still utterly and completely certain that Enjolras couldn't be dead, and he was less certain that Grantaire was stubbornly stuck to his side -- like, Courfeyrac had said, a barnacle. It was an apt description, anyway. He didn't expect, not really, that he and the others could just fly into Nigeria and take a powerboat down the river and find Enjolras and Grantaire huddled alone in a makeshift hut, ready and waiting to be rescued. No. If he knew Enjolras at all, his friends certainly weren't going to be waiting at the crash site--wherever it might be. He knew they'd have to find the crashed remains of the plane and ascertain a trail before they had any hope of finding Enjolras. And God knows how long that could take. Still, he wasn't despondent and he would hold out hope.
But what he shouldn't be doing, and he knew it, was worry himself to death. So he ruthlessly cleaned out the rest of the things in the living room. He piled the unsorted boxes in Enjolras' bedroom -- he considered it small payment for the worry and fuss his friend had been putting him through -- and tossed out all the old takeout remains from the past week. He figured it was clean enough for his friends, and loaded up the first Rosetta Stone disc while he waited for the others to arrive, or text him for directions.
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He snorts as he sees Courfeyrac and Combeferre cuddled up on the couch. "Should I get the games as well, so you don't have to disturb your little moment?"
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Of course, things never quite go to plan. He pulled out the Star Wars box set and another box of DVDs before flinging the cupboard closed. "Okay, so the board games are MIA. It's possible Enjolras has hidden my Trivial Pursuit out of--revenge," he allowed sheepishly, "but I have no idea where they are."
Combeferre isn't drunk yet, though, and goes foraging in the hall closet to see if he can locate the misplaced games. "We might be stuck with karaoke and video games. And booze."
It was a bad idea to open the hall closet. He must have been cleaning again, and as soon as he opened the door, all his board games fell down on top of him, along with some other things he'd forgotten about. "--mmph!"
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Courfeyrac sifts through the pile of games, curious about what else has fallen out of the closet.
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"Nice work."
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He shoved the board games together into a pile to be sorted--eventually, anyway, and separated out the stuff that wasn't board games.
A box that had fallen open. Oh. Crap. Would they be suspicious if he tried to hide this one ... good god, what was he thinking, Bahorel and Courfeyrac and Bossuet were not Enjolras, they'd definitely not ignore this one. So he tried to discreetly shove it back in the closet before the others poked through his collection, a collection he never bragged about or talked about.
He could've sworn he'd left the porn under his bed. Dammit. Maybe this was the stuff that had gone missing.
"Well, I suppose we have an even bigger collection of games to play than I thought." Maybe if he just ... shoved it back into the closet and distracted them, they wouldn't look in the box. Right?
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Oh, what to do? Anything that makes Combeferre look so delightfully worried has to be good. To look or not to look, that's the question...
If Enjolras wasn't missing, there wouldn't even be a question. Teasing Combeferre is always too much fun to pass up. Will embarrassing him right now actually help with their current situation, though, or will it make things worse?
He can always come back and "find" the box after they play another game, he supposes. Maybe it'll be easier if they've had a bit more to drink.
Combeferre might even deserve it after a game of Trivial Pursuit.
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'Ferre thought he had been subtle, shifting one of the boxes (a nondescript, unlabeled one, no less) carefully back into the shadows of the closet.
Curiosity and his ever-present sense of mischief surged up. What would Combeferre being trying to conceal? The bespectacled member of their group was always so quiet, usually buried in a book, or talking to Enjolras about something serious (and often boring). Certainly not the type Bahorel would imagine having closets full of incriminating secrets.
Or maybe just the sort of person.
One way to find out.
Slipping past his bespectacled friend, he makes a grab for the edge of the box.
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Lunging forward, he tries to get his hands on the box. "Pass it here, Bahorel!"
Worst-case scenario, it'll probably open and everything inside the box will join the rest of the scattered bits and pieces on the floor.
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DVDs, labeled with suggestive titles in a variety of brazen fonts over images with a certain tendency toward the flesh-toned inks, slipped out of the hole and added to the messy pile on the floor.
Bahorel's face splits into a great big grin.
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"Couldn't leave well enough alone, could you?" He mumbles a few more curse words, just because he can. Now would be an excellent time for another beer. Or five.
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(OOC: And unfortunately it's bed-time for this Courfeyrac again. Sometimes being a responsible adult is just no fun. We can have more porn shenanigans tomorrow. *grin*)
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He steps over to Combeferre and gives him a hearty slap on the back. "What's wrong, you're looking a little red there, 'Ferre." He ruffles his flustered friend's hair. "Caught with your pants down, so to speak?" He asks with a chuckle.
(Ditto to 'Fey. Gah, if it wasn't for work tomorrow, I'd probably stay up a long time tonight getting these guys into trouble. :p Continue on the morrow?)
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Combeferre doesn't like women in his porn, and had hoped to not have to discuss his personal preferences with his friends, though apparently he wasn't about to get that option.
"I thought I'd put it all away. I should've known better." He sighs, running a hand through his hair, making his hair stick up all over the place. "I'm definitely not drunk enough for this," and veers off for more beer.
(No problem. :D Hopefully Bossuet comes out of hiding, too.)
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He wonders, briefly, about the content of the videos. The ones he recognizes are all male-oriented; the ones he doesn't have covers and titles that suggest they're likely similar. Good information to file away for the future.
Resting his head on Combeferre's shoulder, he grins. "No need to turn so red. You have good taste in porn. If it'd make you feel better, I can let you see my collection sometime."
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"So you're into the dudes, huh?" He studies the cover. Not bad, he supposes. But then, it was hard to be a porn star if you were ugly. Still, hard to tell from a glance if they were his type, or not.
"I wonder why so many of us turned out gay this time? Or at least, open to the idea." He muses outloud, tossing the film lightly down to join its kin. "I mean, was the potential always there, and it just took the right climate to bring it out?... Or was there something in the water when we were born?" He laughs.
Striding over to the the other two (who were nestled up close again, he notes), he puts on hand on both of their heads and pushes them forward, just enough to throw off their balance. "Guess I'll have to keep an eye on the two of you." He teases.
Walking past them he picks up the bottle of tequila, "You sure you don't want that shot, 'Ferre?"
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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.