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Dear Future

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“Hi,” says the curly-haired guy with bright green eyes and an even brighter grin as Combeferre opens the door.

He blinks once, twice and stares for a second. Maybe two seconds because a) it’s 10 am on a Sunday morning and he hasn’t exactly been expecting company, b) the guy’s wearing an incredibly distracting colourfully patterned bowtie and c) he’s even more distractingly cute.

He is also holding a big box in his hands that looks like he has just fished it out of the trash. Or a burrow.

“Uhm…good morning?”

Cute guy beams at him. “Oh yes, a very good morning it is. Are you Jean Combeferre?”

Even though he still has no clue what is going on Combeferre can’t keep himself from smiling slightly at the use of his first name. It’s been quite a while someone called him like that.

“Yes, that’s me. I usually just go by Combeferre though.”

If the guy thinks that’s odd he doesn’t show it.

“I’m Courfeyrac.” He continues grinning broadly and Combeferre wonders if he’s might be dreaming for a moment. Then he remembers that he’s very much not sleeping and they’re still standing in the hallway and he’s actually supposed to be a polite human being.


“Well, it’s nice to meet you Courfeyrac, how can I help you?” he says and that sounds appropriate. And hopefully more dignified than he looks like because he’s a pre med and Sunday is the only day he allows himself to sleep in. Hence he is still in his pyjamas. Which may or may not consist of a plaid pants and a shirt with a giant face of Nicola Tesla on it.


The encounter turns from slightly odd to incredibly weird when the guy – Courfeyrac – raises the box in his hands. “This belongs to you.”

Combeferre looks down at the box, up into bright green eyes, back down, back up.

He frowns. “That’s not mine.”

Courfeyrac chuckles and who on earth actually chuckles? It’s a warm and light sound and it makes Combeferre’s skin tingle slightly. He blames it on the fact that he has only had two cups of coffee this morning, he’s absolutely not able to completely function in a state like that.


He watches Courfeyrac opening the lid of the box as he picks out a small laminated piece of paper and reads, “Dear future humans and, or extraterrestrial beings, greetings from the 21st century. Hopefully you haven’t all departed this planet and only come back for tourist tours centuries after it was destroyed because someone threw too many nuclear bombs. I also hope that moths still exist and racism doesn’t. And you should totally watch Doctor Who. It’s probably incredibly funny for you. Yours sincerely, Jean Combeferre.”


As soon as Courfeyrac starts reading the memories come rushing back.

“Oh my god,” Combeferre gasps and reaches for the box. “Where did you find this?”

He knows exactly where he must have found it because Combeferre totally remembers digging a whole into the ground in his aunt’s backyard.

About ten years ago.


“My sister moved into that house and I helped her in the garden yesterday and there it was, right where she wants to have a pond because she really loves frogs and I mean, it’s yours. I didn’t want to throw it away in case you, I don’t know, want to bury it somewhere else?”

He shrugs with a smile and Combeferre finds himself grinning like an idiot.  

“This is incredible,” he says and looks up to see the other guy grinning back and before he can help it he continues “Do you might want to come in? I feel like the least I can do is offer you a coffee or something as a thank-you.”

Courfeyrac just smirks.

Is it weird to ask a complete stranger in for coffee?

“I promise I’m not a serial killer,” Combeferre adds and well, that sounded less weird in his head. Articulated it actually sounds even weirder but Courfeyrac nods, still smiling and follows him into the flat.

“I’m pretty sure,” he starts sounding incredibly amused, “whoever puts a Star Trek Comic and pictures of their lizard into a time capsule can’t possibly be a serial killer.”

Combeferre tries to stifle a laugh. “Hey, I really loved Nikola.”


Courfeyrac pointedly looks at his t-shirt.


He feels a blush creeping up his cheeks and adjusts his glasses. “I swear to god I have changed since I was twelve,” he deadpans and the laugh that follows totally makes it worth the embarrassment. “Also, you totally looked into my time capsule. How can I be sure you’re not some extraterrestrial life form?”

“You can’t,” Courfeyrac grins, “but you would probably like me more if I was.”

And for a split-second Combeferre has an objection at the tip of his tongue.

Five minutes later they’re sitting in the kitchen and he almost spills half of his third coffee because he’s laughing so hard.

Courfeyrac’s green eyes shine and his black curls dance on his forehead when he giggles.

“But seriously,” he asks gasping for air, “who marks every single part of the Lord of the Rings where Aragorn is mentioned?”

“He’s an important character!” Combeferre tries to justify his twelve-year old self while keeping a straight face but he knows that he fails miserably.

Courfeyrac bursts into laughter again and he can’t help but join in because it’s the most infectious and adorable mixture of hic-ups and laughing he’s ever heard.


A slightly disgruntled, still half-asleep Enjolras, most likely woken up by the noises, appears in the kitchen door. His first glance goes to the coffee machine before he seems to realize that Combeferre isn’t alone.


He frowns. “Courf?”


Courfeyrac waves at him and smiles. “Morning Enjolras.”
“What are you…” he trails off then starts again, “Did something go wrong with the project?”

“Oh no, everything’s fine. I’m here to see Combeferre,” Courfeyrac explains happily pointing at Combeferre and it looks like Enjolras needs a few seconds to realize what he’s saying. He blinks, then just shrugs and scuffles to the coffee machine before he leaves the kitchen again with a steaming mug in his hand and a mumbled, “I’m going back to bed.”


“Wow, he’s a just a morning sunshine, isn’t he?” Courfeyrac notes and Combeferre curiously asks, “How do you two know each other?” He doesn’t know if he should feel disappointed because he’s never heard of or met Courfeyrac before.

“Oh, we have some history classes together. I’m doing a teaching degree. English and History.”

Combeferre smiles because he can absolutely imagine that.

“What about you?”

“Uhm, I’m a pre-med.”

The grin that spreads over Courfeyrac’s face already feels wonderfully familiar. It’s like he’s wearing his heart on his sleeve for everyone to see and Combeferre is pretty sure that he’s already half in love.  

His tone is teasing as he says, “Oh, so are you one of those incredibly smart and busy people who studies all the time?”

“Not all the time,” Combeferre replies, “Sunday’s usually study-free.”

Courfeyrac face visibly falls. “Oh my god, I am so sorry, I totally hijacked your free day, that’s –”


“I don’t mind,” Combeferre interrupts him softly.


And when Courfeyrac looks absolutely relieved and smiles at him happily, Combeferre knows that he really doesn’t mind at all.