Chapter Text
“Who in the name of baby Jesus, the three kings and all the sheep is Euphrasie Fauchelevent?”
Alright. This went alright. No who in the name of fuck. No who the hell. Or who the fuckin’ hell. No who in the name of Merlin, or in the name of the Great Khal of the Dothraki. Then again, Éponine doesn’t know how the most hardcore religious guests are going to take such a blasphemic mention of their Lord and Savior, together with the holy sheep or something of that sort.
The thing is that all they eyes are pointed on Bahorel because he… well, he is supposed to be marrying Cosette and Marius. He appeared in the ceremony with a black eye. And apologized to the guests for having forgotten his notes in the dressing room. Only after he’d proceeded to the vows did it show that he had no bloody idea of who Euphrasie Fauchelevent actually was.
The place is not very crowded. Marius does not have a really big family and his relationship with his grandfather had been absolutely horrible ever since he decided to follow his father’s steps and become a devoted communist. There are a few smelly moustached aunts with huge bottoms pushed into pink suits that remind Éponine of Dolores Umbridge, and they look positively shocked at the disturbing question of the ‘preacher’ –Éponine snorts at the thought when her eyes meet with Bahorel’s mischievous bruised one-, Cosette’s foster father seems reserved and struggling to hold back a smile, but other than that everyone else is roaring with laughter, even Enjolras and Combeferre, and Marius’ grandfather even more. Only Marius has become red as a tomato and Éponine can’t hold her own laughter back, causing the video camera she’s holding in her hand to bounce up and down. This scene will definitely not be very clear in the video afterwards.
Not that she’s showing this video to anyone, of course.
However when Cosette manages to maintain her giggles and whispers to Bahorel that she is Euphrasie Fauchelevent, the wedding ceremony goes on and the tight feeling of suffocation that had settled in Éponine’s chest returns together with a few ugly, burning tears in her eyes that taste salty as they stream down her cheeks and disappear through the corners of her ridiculously painted lips. She has to admit that she had looked good when Grantaire first showed her the result of his makeup genius on the mirror, her thin lips a dark, rich burgundy that contrasted eerily with her black hair, today tamed and pulled on a bun on the top of her head, with millions of bobby pins holding the stubborn, stray locks in place, dark eyeliner around her harsh eyes, pointing them out, and a miraculous mascara toning her almost non-existent eyelashes. But now… now Éponine, ready to choke in her own, pitiful tears, feels like a child who smeared her mother’s colors on her face.
She’s looking at everyone through the camera she’s holding. Courfeyrac, the best man, in the most eye catching pink Gatsby suit she’s ever seen, beaming widely and grimacing behind Marius. His forgetting the rings and being saved on the last minute by his mischievous comrade slash protégé aka her ten year old brother, Gavroche, was the least that had threatened to blow this wedding in the air –if said brother had not decided to start pickpocketing Marius’ family to take revenge for his beloved sister, that is.
Jehan might be all teary and gorgeous in his extravagant lilac bridesmaid dress –which he designed himself, much to everyone’s horror, but surprisingly ended up looking dashing in, as well as Éponine and Musichetta- and feather top hat but no one will ever forget how terrifying and menacing he can actually become when florists send aconites that mean misanthropy in the language of flowers and he just a glare of him is enough for them to immediately replace every single one of them with heliotropes which mean devotion. Marius managed to forget to count Cosette and himself in the number of people actually eating after the ceremony, and if it hadn’t been for Combeferre’s diplomatic dealing with the catering company, the newlyweds would have to deal with the fact that they’d starve or walk around and steal people’s food from their plates. Then Enjolras, looking hotter than ever in his black suit and pissy expression, got furious at the working conditions of the catering company’s employees and decided to hold a petition. As for Feuilly and Bahorel, they were both dangerously late, and for Feuilly to be late would be alright even though Cosette would be immensely hurt, but Bahorel was fuckin’ marrying them.
Apparently Bahorel showed up late and excessively excited, after a brawl, his knuckles bruised and his eye black. After a while, the door opened and a man burst into the room.
Not any regular man, no.
A gingerbread. Fuckin’. Man.
An actual gingerbread man like the badass dude from Shrek, with eyes and mouth of frosting, and a huge brown fluffy stick body.
It turned out that was Feuilly having just finished from one of his million jobs. He had dressed as a gingerbread man to entertain kids –which meant to be poked and groped and tiara-ed and puked upon- to a children’s seasonal party and he had just managed to escape a tea table with twelve toddlers and thirty two plushes and run to the wedding without even managing to change. On a side note, which he whispered to Éponine’s ear, they called him ‘Princess Ginge’, which was a thing that Bahorel should under no account learn because he’d never ever let him forget it.
A gorgeous Musichetta in her silver bridesmaid dress which stretched all over her curves and huge bump, though extremely bloodthirsty and very very pregnant at the same time, spent the whole morning looking for her boys whom she apparently found passed out in Bahorel’s bathtub, wearing her heels and frying pans on their heads, forgotten there after the bachelor party the previous night. Éponine suspected that a huge fight followed, escorted by pregnant makeup sex, as the state of Bossuet’s suit, Musichetta’s hair and the lipstick marks all over Joly’s face obviously suggested.
But now everything’s alright. No really, everything’s fine. It doesn’t matter that the man whom she’s been drooling over for the past couple of years is getting married. To another woman.
To her childhood foster sister.
No, it really is alright. Her heart isn’t breaking at all as she watches the way they stare at each other with sickening adoration.
Everything is fine.
Gavroche is flirting with Marius’ baby cousins who are still five years his senior but apparently they’re falling, Marius isn’t considering elopement through the ventilation system or by flushing himself down the toilet anymore even though he’s looking considerably faint –no one should have trusted Courfeyrac to give him The Talk, but apparently the best man managed to comfort him afterwards, they know that his methods included marshmallows, yoga and Monopoly, but they honestly that’s already more than enough information- and Grantaire is there, behind her, his arm wrapped around her waist, and he looks damn gorgeous even though he doesn’t want to admit it, his wild black hair is shiny and somehow flattened on the back of his head and the suit just makes her want to rip it off and have comfort sex right in the middle of the fuckin’ ceremony, but he found her a while ago, curled on the stairs with those horrible heels kicked off their feet, crying her eyes out, and he held her and comforted her like they always do, and then they spent a while trying to cover each other’s voice –“No you are hotter!” “No you are more fuckin’ beautiful!” “No you!” “No you!” “Look at you!” “No fuckin’ look at you!”-
And somehow they’ve all managed to be here and Cosette and Marius are getting married, and there is an eerie, palpable silence around as they exchange their vows in soft, trembling voices, their eyes fixed into each other’s as if there’s something only they can see, as if their lives depend on their love, who is she trying to shit, of course their lives depend on their love.
Almost everybody’s crying. Courfeyrac always had a thing for dramatics, Jehan and Musichetta are blowing their noses in handkerchiefs, as for Joly, he is trying to pretend he has a cold but they all know how sentimental that precious bastard can get, and Cosette’s father, despite the fact that he’s huge and imposing, looks like a tennis ball has stuck on his throat, and his eyes are glowing with the saddest tears Éponine has ever seen, and everyone is happy and sentimental and they’ve all forgotten the third sleeve with which Cosette’s wedding dress first arrived.
How can they not when Cosette is actually looking like a Princess right out of a fairytale, radiating light to the entire room –well, alongside Enjolras’ ridiculously golden hair. She looks stunning, tender, kind, caring, a faint smile drawn on her pink lips, her cheeks rosy and smooth beneath the veil that’s covering her angelic face, her eyes bright and gentle, her blond hair falling on her back in smooth, perfect waves. Her dressing gown is covered in lace, the sleeves long and hugging her creamy arms, the bodice beautifully embracing her well-proportioned figure, and hundreds of layers of tulle falling from her slim waist. Éponine thinks that Cosette is the most beautiful thing she has ever seen, and she hates the fact that she can’t even hate the girl who’s marrying the love of her life.
She tried hard to hate Cosette when she first heard her name after all those years of not having met with each other, when she remembered the thin, plain child she’d never give her dollies to, when she realized that Marius who’d never managed to leave her mind ever since she met him, started stalking her, Cosette Fauchelevent. She soon found that it was impossible to hate her. Cosette was an angel and Éponine hated herself more and more every day that passed, for thinking of Pontmercy all day long and having wet knickers over him, for smoking entire packets of cigarettes and getting pissed drunk with Grantaire just to forget about him, but in vain. Éponine had loved Marius for too long and in a too self-destructing manner to let him go off her head that easily.
When she learnt that they were getting married she locked herself in her room and drank until Grantaire came to find her puking her guts out, hugging the toilet as if her life depended on it. She then curled on his lap and cried until she fell asleep. She was pathetic and she knew that, but she was expecting this day with horror.
The only problem was that right now her feelings are frustratingly mixed. She keeps watching Marius’ devoted face behind the lens of her camera, masochistically repeating to herself again and again that she’ll never have him. He’s beautiful, no matter Grantaire may tease him. He’s smart and caring and dorky and oblivious as fuck but he’s beautiful, his warm eyes shining with untamed excitement and adorable nervousness and eternal devotion. But Éponine realizes he’s not just beautiful. They’re beautiful, and they’re together. As much as it hurts, Éponine knows that Marius and Cosette are meant to be together and there’s nothing she can do about it.
“I pronounce you husband and wife yadayada, now where’s the food?”
And just then, before they know it, Marius grabs a startled Cosette in his arms, ever the subtle one, and presses his lips on her own, bending his lank body over her own dangerously, and everyone around is cheering, shouting and whistling, and Éponine feels something slowly breaking inside her.
“Well yeah, I guess you may now kiss the bride,” snorts Bahorel with a mischievous grin on his face before Courfeyrac throws his arms around the couple, breaking their embrace and kissing them both straight on the lips, shrieking incoherent nothings after pulling them to a bone-breaking group hug.
Courfeyrac is laughing and Cosette is laughing and even Marius is laughing and they’re all insanely happy.
Éponine’s view through the lens is blurred by tears, stupid tears that she hates because she hates feeling weak but fuck it, she’s not weak, she’s happy for them and she loves them as much as she loves everyone else in this room, which is a fuckin’ lot.
She feels a warm hand with callused fingers slowly wrapping around her own.
“It’s over, princess,” she hears a hoarse, quiet voice between the shouts and the applauses.
Grantaire.
“Don’t call me that, asshole,” she growls silently but can hardly hold back a grin.
She can literally hear him smiling near him and she squeezes his hand.
It’s alright. And if it isn’t, it’s going to be.
She turns off the camera.
*
No one has expected Bossuet to take a harmonica out of the pocket of his suit and suddenly the wedding march from the church organ becomes La Marseillaise and dissolves into the intro of All you need is love. Cosette lets a small shriek of excitement and both she and Marius gape when they see the silent Combeferre sitting on the piano in the corner, in his sharp suit and playing the most marvelous music they’ve ever heard. Jehan has already produced a flute from somewhere and is joining in –there is no doubt this sneaky bastard has organized it all-, as for Bahorel, he finds a pair of wooden drum baguettes in his suit and keeps the rhythm on the wooden lectern in front of him and Grantaire has grabbed his guitar and is strumming merrily. Everyone’s jaws drop when Feuilly in his gingerbread costume stands up in the middle of the crowd and starts singing non-ironically in the most breathtaking of voices.
There’s nothing you can do that can’t be done
There’s nothing you can do that can’t be sung
There’s nothing you can say but you can learn how to play the game
It’s easy!
And they all start cheering excitedly when Musichetta stands up, looking drop dead gorgeous, throwing her brown curls over her shoulder, continuing in the most extraordinary jazz voice.
There’s nothing you can make that can’t be made
No one you can save that can’t be saved
Nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you in time
It’s easy!
And soon the cheers turn to hysteric screams as if The Beatles themselves have appeared, when Courfeyrac jumps on a stand, swaying his hips in a way that should be illegal in his pink suit, and throwing his dark curls off his face sassily, starting to sing in the most horrible, off tune voice while winking and blowing kisses all around.
All you need is love!
All you need is love!
All you need is love, love!
Love is all you need!
When Bahorel joins in, shaking his bulky, imposing figure to the rhythm, stripping off his blazer and throwing it to the direction of the mustached aunts and almost giving them an apoplexy, it’s an obvious sign that the party has officially started.
*
Musichetta catches the bride’s bouquet quite deftly which is considerably admirable, what with a bump that almost reaches her chin getting in the way, and drives Joly to hysterics because she jumped and oh God, what if she harms their babies? Then Cosette tries to feed Marius with a spoonful of cake –everyone who had seen the Congratulations on your hysterectomy and the Sorry I slept with your mother’s cakes is incredibly relieved for the proper, three stored wedding cake to have finally arrived. Apparently Marius finds it very difficult to eat from someone else’s hand and he ends up accidentally biting Cosette’s finger. After most of the guests are served Bossuet stumbles into the cake and Musichetta and Joly end up eating it and serving the remaining ones from his bald head and Despicable Me tie.
Everything goes excellent after that, with no more incidents, and they all seem incredibly relieved to be able to eat, most of the boys are positively starving and even Enjolras focuses on his food, much to Combeferre’s delight, as it is widely known that their chief hardly ever remembers to sleep or eat properly when he’s too caught up with his work.
Everything goes well, that is, until they hear the tingling noise of a fork against a champagne glass. And they all remember that Courfeyrac is the best man.
And that fuck, apparently they aren’t getting to skip the best man’s toast.
Everyone goes silent and holds their breaths. All eyes get fixed on Courfeyrac, who clears his throat with a mocking serious expression and pretends to be wiping a single tear from the corner of his eyes.
“Good evening ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to my best man’s day! I understand how hard it may be to feel overshadowed by my looks but you have all made an admirable effort to look nice today and I can’t feel any less than honoured, even though it actually is Pontsquirrel’s honour over here to have me as a best man!” The first awkwardness and frozen silence dissolves into hearty laughter from the guests and Courfeyrac winks to the direction of Marius’ young cousins who are on the verge of hyperventilation. “Truth is that I’m a little nervous today, because Marius told me that if I do well I get to be the best man to his next wedding too!” the parlour roars with laughter, apart from Marius whose ears flush maroon, and Monsieur Fauchelevent who throws a murderous look to his direction. As for Cosette, she’s bent in two, chuckling hysterically. “Today most certainly is a day of woe for the male population, as a woman as beautiful as Cosette is not single anymore, and well, Pontmarmot is not single as well but that’s not a big loss, I guess!” He raises his voice, trying to overtop the laughter. “I’m kidding, of course!” he winks to Marius’ direction who shoots him a death glare. “Not only is Marius a catch, but I was positively devastated when our meeting didn’t turn out quite as it seemed it would! You see, twelve months ago, Marius knocked my door looking like a lost puppy, but a Golden Retriever puppy, always noble even in his duck pyjamas, and said ‘I’ve come to sleep with you!’” Now Marius looks ready to faint, small and slumpy behind the table, and everybody is literally bouncing up and down their seats. “It turned out that he didn’t really want to sleep with me but don’t worry, Pupmercy, my heart is not broken just yet! I am devoted to the sole cause of ending up in your bed in the middle of you and gorgeous Cosette and I shall not be in peace until I succeed!” Courfeyrac clears his throat and continues. “Marius is a wonderful chap. Who will ever forget the streams of tears he’s poured during all the Disney marathons the two of us have had? Who will ever forget the pizzas he can make and his epical overdressed appearances every now and then? Who can deny his incomparable smartness, as he’s taught himself approximately eleven languages and who can ever forget the endless hours he’s spent voluntarily teaching children, patiently and selflessly, with all the love one can possess?” By now the room has gone silent and gentle smiles have appeared in everybody’s faces. Marius still looks flushed, but no one can deny the air of pride and pleasant surprise on his face. “And who will ever forget,” continues Courfeyrac, a little more mischievously now, “how he was struck to the bone in a moment of breathless delight, when he first spotted our darling Cosette over here, strolling with her father at the Luxembourg gardens, his adorkable croaking and incoherent rambling that went on until he actually talked to her, which was…” Courfeyrac frowns slightly, “six months later. Cosette though is the most beautiful, stunning person he could ever have picked and she… tolerated his cute… somethingness quite admirably.” Cosette ruffles Marius’ hair lovingly. “You both are wonderful, and I will always be on your side. Lust at first sight exists,” he waves his arms dramatically, as if he’s going to say the grandest words of wisdom, “but so does love at first sight.”
Marius is staring at the opposite wall, Courfeyrac has obviously broken him but everyone applauds and Courfeyrac takes several bows.
The music begins and the newlyweds proceed to the dance floor. Cosette dances gracefully, looking like her feet aren’t even touching the floor, the puffy wedding dress swirling around her. Marius is a very good dancer as well, apart from the points where Cosette grimaces and he may or may not have stepped on her feet. After that Marius does a silly dance and Bahorel with Courfeyrac immediately find it a good idea to join and when Joly and Bossuet come somehow it turns to the Harlem Shake.
Cosette is dancing a slow, beautiful song in her father’s arms and Éponine tries to snort when she sees her stepping on his feet and smiling serenely, but a thick lump on her throat when she thinks of her own father and the tenderness she’s never experienced stop her.
“Hey,” she hears a voice behind her shoulder. It is a voice she knows particularly well, a voice which has no other purpose than to make her shudder and fill her stomach with butterflies and all the embarrassing sort of things that didn’t even happen to her when she was a teen.
She can’t believe it. It’s absolutely impossible. She spent two years screaming on the inside for Marius to touch the wool of her jumper accidentally or to breathe on her nape or something equally disturbing that apparently made her heart beat rather irregularly because that’s was what she is and always has been, pathetic and… pathetic.
“Thank you,” he mutters, shifting his weight from one foot to another and Éponine stares at him incredulously. “I’d never met Cosette if it weren’t for you. I owe you my happiness.”
Of course. Of fuckin’ course. What other reason would there be for Marius to be thankful? She introduced him to Cosette!
“Don’t mention it, Marius,” she hears herself croaking, “I’m…um, I’m glad you’re happy.”
And then there’s a hug. It’s the most awkward, head-bumping, shoulder-patting hug they’ve ever exchanged and she hates every second of it, every beat of her heart that pounds in her head and every breath that hitches on her throat. And Marius disappears into the crowd to find Cosette.
*
“Let’s go be psychos together,” Grantaire whispers in Éponine’s ear, sporting a smile he wishes he’d believe in. It’s worth it, because eventually a bitter grin appears on her face and he can’t help but notice how different she looks without her lipring and with all that makeup on. She eventually gives takes his hand and kicks off her heels, and they make their way to the dance floor.
It’s only right when they’re together, just the two of them in the middle of the world. He met her when she was fourteen and he was finishing school. He punched him in the face and they shared a cigarette. Nothing has changed ever since.
Well not really. They may still get wasted and pity themselves, they may still kiss each other in moments of despair, all tongues and clashing teeth, just to feel that someone’s there. They may still have to help each other when they puke their lives out in the toilet. They may still dance like sex, having the whole dance floor stare at them, fingers curling around fabric, waists breaking and hips swaying in a way that should probably be illegal. These things may not have changed but something has changed. They’re parts of a group now, and Grantaire can’t even tell how or why or when. He remembers Jehan dragging him to one of the meetings to hear some dude talking for the same old shit that would never change in modern day societies, he remembers sitting silently on the table in the corner hearing his heart hammering violently in his head, trying to believe for once in his life, trying to believe that the explosion of golden light and red flames that coiled around him was not a figment of his drunken mind.
He was hooked. Not only did he not believe that this was more real than a deceiving dream, but he grew even more distant from believing in anything every day. He’d never considered himself optimistic or faithful. He’d been disappointed very early in his life, but now even the wonderful friends he had acquired couldn’t prevent him from growing darker, more bitter and sarcastic with every passing day.
He can see him through the dancing crowd. He’s standing near the buffet, a glass his lips haven’t even touched in his hand, looking painfully uneasy and talking to Combeferre, probably declaring how much he wishes this party will end soon enough. They are a married fuckin’ couple, those two. Grantaire admires and respects Combeferre very much, but there are times when he can’t help feeling immensely jealous for the precious, unique relationship those two share. He can imagine Combeferre shouting ‘Honey, I’m home’, when he returns from his shifts at the hospital, and then both of them sitting in front of the fireplace, newspapers instead of knitting needles on their lap, fervently discussing politics and philosophy while sipping some steamy tea like the good husbands they are.
Enjolras is looking positively stunning today, even godlier than he usually does. He didn’t need to have his hair plastered on the back of his head, because it might be curly as fuck, but they are excellent, shiny ringlets that surround his pale face and fall gracefully just above his shoulders, unlike his own, wild tendrils. His lips are red like cherries and his posture proud and imposing as always. He looks ridiculously gorgeous in that dark suit and red tie that’s tied around his silver collarbone with a perfect knot –that Combeferre has made, no doubt. Well, everyone is wearing a suit, even Feuilly who is discussing his charity volunteering with Cosette’s father, not wearing his gingerbread man costume anymore –though Bahorel will never let him forget about that- but Grantaire feels crap in the misfitting blazer and dancing doesn’t really help with the stream of sweat on his spine, that makes the rigid shirt stick on his skin, when Enjolras can effortlessly look like he owns the universe, the trousers hugging his hips and falling over his long legs in the way perfect trousers that respect themselves should, and the blazer stretching over his torso just right.
Grantaire is too lost in the sight of him that he doesn’t even see it coming when their eyes meet from afar, in an inexplicable expression the man seems to only be saving for him. He forgets how to breathe and he never wants this moment to end but other dancing couples get between them and block his sight.
Éponine probably feels him stiffening in her arms, because she leans closer and shouts in his ear for her voice to be heard through the music. “I have an idea!”
“What idea?” he asks hoarsely.
He feels her leaning closer and he can smell the cigarettes in her breath even though he’s a smoker himself. “Let’s get totally shitfaced.”
Right now, this seems like the best idea in the whole fuckin’ universe.
*
It wasn’t that Courfeyrac didn’t notice him.
Courfeyrac always noticed him, even when Jehan thought he went unnoticed. He watched him every time he sat on the ledge of a window, his floral cladded knees hanging in the air, his feet bare from the very moment that the city smelt of spring, and in fluffy, mismatching, patterned socks when the weather got colder. He watched the rose tattoo on the back of his hand, with the thorns and leaves wrapping around his wrist as the pen moved furiously over everything he could find: a small notebook, a super market list, a napkin or a receipt from their coffees. He watched him frown in concentration and biting the tip of his pen, his pale, freckled face often blue and stained by ink. He watched the stray, ginger hair that shimmered when the sun met them through the window, escaping his braid, and the tortoise shell reading glasses slipping dangerously off his pointed nose when he took a break to water the flowers in the small, ceramic pots. Courfeyrac watched Jehan being beautiful and completely unaware of the fact, kind and caring and helpful whenever anyone needed him, fierce, even terrifying when fighting for freedom.
Jehan is unearthly today. When –a considerably tipsy- Courfeyrac watches him in the long, satin lavender dress that clings over his slim figure because no one would care less for gender norms and shocked aunties than gentle, melancholic Jehan, and he’s certain that the man possesses magical powers of his own.
“Nice dress,” he hears himself saying and he doesn’t regret a word because he’s granted with the most precious blushing upon the man’s cheeks.
“Thank you,” a shadow of a bitter smile appears on his face. “’Parnasse didn’t really appreciate the idea of it, though. Anyway, he had the flu so he couldn’t come over.”
“’Parnasse doesn’t know what he’s saying!” replies Courfeyrac fiercely, secretly thankful that Jehan’s dick of a boyfriend didn’t escort him to the wedding. “You look absolutely dashing!”
Jehan’s smile grows wider. “I’m certain I can say the same for you, Jay!”
Courfeyrac snorts. “I hardly consider myself to bear any similarities to Gatsby, old sport! He hosted the biggest fuckin’ parties in America and he hardly ever shagged any of the guests, and look where he ended! I thoroughly respect the chap but we have completely different priorities, to say the least.”
“That you have.” Jehan raises an eyebrow before taking a ship of his champagne. “I have a feeling you oversimplify the situation though, don’t you?”
Oh, why did he try to discuss books in first place? Of course he’d fuck it up. Courfeyrac is not Enjolras or Joly. He never fucks it up with people.
Jehan, of course, is not exactly considered to be a normal person, is he?
“So,” a hint of mischief is shining in the man’s smile, for once looking like a conversation about American literature of the 20th century is not exactly what he wants to have at this very moment. “I take it I haven’t had the chance to congratulate you properly for your success as a best man, have I?”
Courfeyrac rolls his eyes before winking at him. “Yeah well, you don’t really need to, me and you both already know that no one could have done a better job!”
“Oh trust me, darling,” chuckles Jehan softly, tilting his head a little on the side, “we both already know that.” And with that, he leans forward and places two kisses on each of Courfeyrac’s cheeks, in a way only Jehan can. “Congratulations, best best man in history!”
It should be far easier for Courfeyrac to hit on Marius’ cousins or start a challenge of grabbing all of his friends’ butts –including both of the newlyweds’- after that, but apparently it isn’t.
Because Jehan smelt of cigarettes and gardenias, and his cheek was so soft against Courfeyrac’s.
And because Jehan has a boyfriend.
*
Enjolras likes Marius. He really does. They might have had their disagreements but Combeferre has been even sterner than himself when it came to those, and Pontmercy is a particularly kind and passionate soul, who only happens to invest said passion in the wrong causes. Enjolras will never forget Marius’ overall contribution to their cause, though, and that’s enough of a reason for him to appreciate the man.
Enjolras likes Cosette too. Don’t get him wrong, he actually did hate her once and quite unfairly, without even knowing here, because her faceless name was the only thing he ever heard coming out from Pontmercy’s drooling mouth, and that approximately 24601 times a day. But then he met her, and it was impossible to dislike a person as kind and caring as Cosette, especially when said person happened to be involved in feministic movements and in helping the homeless with everything she and her father were able of doing.
Enjolras wants to be at their wedding. He really does. He’d never, not in a million years decline their invitation. It’s just that he didn’t really remember a wedding and its aftermath would last for more than two hours, and here he is, four hours after the moment he left his apartment, smothered in a tight, smart costume with a tie that hardly allows him to breathe, feeling pretty much like his father. And all he can think of is the work he has left behind, and the things he could be finishing right now, in the comfort of his sweatpants or in anything, really, on the dim light of his desk instead of those dizzying colorful disco lights.
Combeferre is standing near him, like the two of them always do, and they’re speechlessly staring at the crowd with a glass in hand, with the only difference that Combeferre has actually tasted the drink in it. Enjolras is feeling particularly uneasy between all the people who are partying, but Combeferre seems to rather be enjoying himself. Enjolras has to admit, after all, that the suit with the dark blue tie looks much more natural on his childhood friend than it does on him.
His bespectacled friend turns to look at him with reserved cheerful expression on his face. “You don’t look like you’re enjoying yourself,” he said with a hint of teasing on his voice.
“That’s probably because I am not,” murmured Enjolras, tilting his head a little towards Combeferre in order to be heard, but not taking his eyes away from the crowd. “You know how I feel about weddings.”
“Money that could feed a village of people for a week thrown in a pretentious feast in which white prevails as a color, hypocritically declaring the presence of some absent virginity and the disgusting fact that heterosexual people are ‘legalizing’ their love under a church or a government that still refuses to acknowledge homosexual love as love. Yes, I think I do know how you feel, and I don’t disagree, but Cosette and Marius are two people in love, Enjolras, and wanting to make their lives practically easier and somehow confirm their relationship under the given circumstances isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”
Enjolras snorts but thankfully the music is loud enough for him to not be heard through it. “I just wish I could return home right now, I still haven’t finished the speech about the awareness concerning the S.D.F. in that school that has invited us, and I really wish for us to make a good impression.”
Combeferre smiles softly. “You know we will, we’ve never made anything less than a good impression to people who actually intended to listen to what we have to say before condemning us and our ‘reasonable beliefs’ and that school is known to be particularly wide-minded. Why don’t you try to relax for an hour or two, Enjolras, and enjoy yourself?”
“What do you suggest I should do then?” sighs the blonde.
“Why, dance of course!” Combeferre pats his shoulder and his smiles widens.
“You know I don’t dance,” huffs Enjolras, trying to shove out of his mind his frustrating lack of talent when it comes to dance, though Combeferre doesn’t need to know how bad he really is, “and if my eyes are not currently deceiving me, neither do you!”
“I’m just keeping you some company, my friend,” Combeferre raises his shoulders and Enjolras immediately feels ashamed for keeping his friend in the corner of the room, as if he’s a child in need of babysitting. “I really do believe that dancing would do you good! Look, even Grantaire is enjoying himself! It’s a very nice change to see him merry as that, isn’t it?”
Enjolras snorts as his eyes follow Grantaire on the dance floor. Is there a moment when Grantaire is not merry? He remembers of the constant nuisance that he is, pissed drunk all of the time, singing opera during meetings, starting drinking games with Bossuet and Bahorel for every time that Enjolras says the word ‘people’, being sarcastic all the time and mocking their cause.
Then of course more images come, image of Grantaire and his problems with alcoholism throughout the numerous nights they all tried to prevent him from choking in his own vomit, his miserable rambling about Life and Death, and his spiteful comments towards everything that Enjolras believes in, coming from the man who fails to believe in anything.
Maybe Grantaire is not that merry after all.
His eyes find him dancing with Éponine –no surprises here- and something strange leaps inside him. He translates it to disgust at the way they touch each other and cling on each other’s body, but it isn’t exactly that. Grantaire looks very different in a suit and a green tie than he does in his scruffy old boots and faded flannel shirts that are two sizes too big. His usually untamed curly hair is shiny and pushed back from his face, and even from a distance and with colorful lights flashing all around the room, Enjolras can see his ridiculously blue eyes, cold and calm and inexplicable.
And then their eyes meet and Enjolras feels strange, very strange indeed, like he’s started feeling every time that he looks into those blue eyes lately and he feels he’s going crazy, he knows he is, because then Grantaire, loud, obnoxious, annoying Grantaire, leans closer and Éponine whispers something in his ear and their cheeks touch and Enjolras can’t help but wonder how it’d be to dance with Grantaire and maybe have their cheeks pressed together.
“Give Grantaire a chance,” says Combeferre and somehow it sounds very, very wrong, but Enjolras knows that his friend means another chance to contribute to their group. It’s not that he hasn’t given him various opportunities to participate. He’s assigned him numerous tasks that the dark-haired man always failed to accomplish. “He cares more than he thinks he does.” Only he doesn’t.
And then Grantaire and Éponine disappear into the crowd, holding hands and running like children. Combeferre squeezes his shoulder gently. “I’m going to find Joly and Bossuet. They’re both completely freaked out about becoming fathers, and they’re driving poor Musichetta insane.”
Enjolras nods. “Sure, go on, I’ll join you in a minute.”
It’s only after Combeferre has disappeared and meddled with the people that Enjolras realizes what a bad idea that was.
Grantaire is walking towards him, a teasing smile that doesn’t quite reach his blue eyes, forming on his lips.
*
“She just won’t hear me, Combeferre! I don’t know what I’m doing wrong!” whimpers Joly. “I keep reminding her that eating healthily is the most crucial part in a woman’s pregnancy, and she keeps threatening me that if I don’t get the cat back from Bahorel and Feuilly’s she’ll castrate me! And that would only be unfortunate because I’d really like to have another child… not yet of course. I mean, at some point of my life it would be quite nice…”
Bossuet ruffles Joly’s hair. “Hey baby,” he says softly, “it’s okay. You’re forcing her to eat beans and grains, how do you think she should react?” Combeferre smiles guiltily for a minute when his eyes meet with Bossuet’s, because Joly doesn’t know that the rest of les Amis have been secretly providing Musichetta with pizza and chocolate to save her from this martyrdom. Then Bossuet shrugs his shoulders to Combeferre’s direction. “When I tried to help Joly with his noble quest a bit, and talked to her about all the conservatives in the food she wants to eat, the only word she caught was fat and she hit me with a packet of diapers!”
Combeferre chuckles softly. “She is hormonal, Bossuet, you don’t need to worry about her reactions! Just try to remind her how beautiful she is every day!” And turning to Joly, he continues. “It is really admirable, the effort you’re doing, my friend!” he smiles encouragingly. “A healthy nutrition is indeed crucial for everyone’s wellbeing, don’t you think you’re being a little too stern, though? She’s just entered the ninth month, it will soon be over! Let her relax a bit, she will soon need emotional peace and physical strength much bigger than all of ours put together.”
Joly shudders in horror. “Oh my God, how is she going to give birth to twins? She’s so delicate and…”
“You’re far more delicate than Musichetta, baby. You caught two colds this month.”
“Don’t remind me,” flinches Joly. “I had to wear a surgical mask and move to the couch for two weeks just for Musichetta to be on the safe side!”
“They were just colds, you weren’t dying…”
Combeferre sighs and pats Joly’s shoulder. “You’ll soon become a doctor, you know very well that women can handle birth.”
“There is a record of women who have died…”
“You’re not being radical. Musichetta will be in the best of hands and nothing will happen to her. You’ll soon have your beautiful babies and…”
“And what if we become shit dads? I mean, I’ll probably drop the babies the minute I hold them and overheat their milk and burn their little tongues…”
Joly looks on the verge of tears. “Please stop, Boss! You won’t do any of these!”
“Joly is right, Bossuet. You both will be wonderful dads.” Joly opens his mouth to speak but Combeferre holds up a hand. “And no, your children won’t develop the summer-born syndrome. Neither will they ever face any problems for growing up with two fathers which, if you want my opinion, is positively amazing.”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely!”
Joly exhales deeply. “Thank you, Combeferre! You’re such a life savior!”
“Now, now, no need to exaggerate…”
*
Enjolras tries to fix his eyes on Bahorel who is surrounded by a group of giggling girls, trying to take a heartbroken Feuilly who has recently broken up with his girlfriend to join them. It turns out that this is particularly hard when Grantaire is standing right before him.
“Having fun, aren’t you?” the man smirks and Enjolras already feels annoyed at his tone.
“Immense,” he replies, looking around and refusing to meet his eyes.
“I see,” mutters Grantaire, leaning lazily against the buffet, a glass of champagne –probably the eighth- wrapped between his fingers. They’re standing side by side now, staring at the dance floor and never at each other. “Good thing it’s a snowless December so that you don’t have any fear of getting snowed in this hotel and never” he makes a creepy voice “getting home to finish your noble deeds!”
Enjolras rolls his eyes. “All Decembers will be snowless from now on,” he says blankly. “Global warming.”
“You really are no fun, are you?”
Enjolras really doesn’t know why on Earth he’s standing against a buffet, holding a drink he isn’t drinking, having a conversation with Grantaire of all people. He feels extremely irritated by the man’s presence and he desperately wants to escape, no matter what it takes. “No,” he replies coldly with a hint of sarcasm in his voice, “I’m leaving all the fun to you.”
“That,” smirks Grantaire almost bitterly, “is an unwise idea. If you’ll excuse me…” He takes a dramatic bow, and turns around, disappearing into the crowd. Enjolras stands and stares at his direction, tapping his fingers on the buffet subconsciously in a tensed pace.
*
Combeferre pulls the brake in front of Montparnasse’s building and looks around. “Here you are, Jehan,” he smiles slightly. “See you tomorrow at the meeting.”
“Oh yes, I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” chirps Jehan, getting out of the car. “Thank you for the ride, Ferre!”
“Jehan?” he hears Combeferre’s voice from the driver’s seat while he’s walking to the door, and he stops and turns around.
“Yes, Ferre?”
“You know how much we all wholly admire you for your originality, but this is not a very nice neighbourhood. Just… be careful with that dress, okay?”
Jehan chuckles good-heartedly. “Don’t worry, it’s alright! I know more than well to defend myself!”
Jehan adores his friends, but he just happens to think that sometimes they are not really fond of his boyfriend. It is true that they do not have a lot in common with Montparnasse, but secretly he’d expect their group of people out of everyone else to be more comfortable with a man who is… let’s say, more interesting and less legal in his actions than everybody else. It’s not that anyone in the group has ever been entirely too fixed on law, considering the fact that the three people studying it have the higher record of arrests during protests and rallies. Montparnasse treats him right and he is extraordinary, beautiful and mysterious and different than anything and anyone else in Jehan’s life.
No, it’s true that his friends don’t interfere. Not even Grantaire, Joly and Bossuet give their opinion, the biggest interferers in world’s history. Only Éponine has tried to give him advice about Montparnasse in the past, she said that they were bad for each other, but he loves Éponine and he knows that things have always been hard for her.
While waiting for the elevator to descend, he stares around the hallway of the building with the peeling walls. He heaves a small sigh. Christmas is coming and no one in the building has cared to decorate a bit, but then again who would? The drug dealer on the second floor or the quiet people on the third, who can hardly afford their groceries and he has tried to help them numerous times in the past without offending them.
He should probably bring some of his own ornaments that he’s left to Bahorel's or Grantaire’s, maybe those colorful lights Eponine hates and some mistletoe, it would lighten up the place and it would make it look warmer, a little more like Christmas.
The elevator is here and he enters, humming some song the awful DJ played today.
The door is unlocked and he makes his way in the apartment feeling rather cheerful and slightly tipsy. The heavy scent of smoke fills his nostrils and he makes his way to the bedroom, wondering whether ‘Parnasse has any of his horrible friends over when he should be sleeping his cold off.
He stops in the middle of the corridor. He can hear moans and orgasmic cries. ‘Parnasse is probably watching porn but he doesn’t know whether the female moans meddled with his own, familiar ones make Jehan feel really comfortable.
It’s alright. Of course Jehan does not mind that his boyfriend watches porn in his absence. It’s just that if Montparnasse was too sick to come to the wedding, then how can he be jerking off?
Jehan enters the room. There is a calendar with beautiful photography across the wall, Jehan gave it to Montparnasse. Twenty three days until Christmas.
Montparnasse is not alone. He is not watching porn.
And he most definitely does not have the flu.