Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Enjolras knew it was Jehan. Without even having to ask or investigate he knew it was Jehan, of course it was Jehan, who else was it going to be? They'd told the poet, over and over, that it really would be in his best interest to stop fiddling with the spells, regardless of whether it was white magic or black magic or fucking fairy magic. Still, Jehan doesn't often listen to authority, and he especially wasn't interested in ceasing his exploration of the subject after he'd found it to be so helpful. He had, after all, re-grown his hair overnight after he managed to get drunk and spectacularly butcher it, and he was especially thrilled with the little spell that let him pick flowers to put in his hair and they'd continue to thrive. It hasn't really been too much of an issue, up till now.

He assumes last night is responsible, as it so often is for all of their spectacular fuckups. The fabled 'last night'; that wretched past participle that so often is accompanied by copious amounts of alcohol on all parts, loss of memory and the general making an idiot of oneself. The Corinthe is the culprit, but Courfeyrac is probably the most responsible, with Bahorel and Joly coming in at a joint close second. It was them who'd decided that yes, finishing that joke of a university assignment definitely was an excuse to go out and get smashed, and yes, all of them would be drinking, no excuses. Even Enjolras had been persuaded, and whilst he hadn't remained completely sober (because he does know how to have fun) his memories of the previous night still remain blessedly intact.

He remembers Combeferre doing his absolute damnedest to beat Bahorel in what began as a simple arm wrestling match but quickly escalated to a full out war; Combeferre's intense glare at their interlocked hands steadily increasing as if it might help him win. He definitely remembers Jehan insisting, absolutely insisting, on bundling Montparnasse into his particularly hideous thick knit yellow sweater. Montparnasse went to sulk like a child in a dark corner where nobody could see him. He remembers being generous enough to offer Grantaire a bed for the night so he doesn't have to stumble home alone, and he distinctly remembers helping him out of his paint stained clothes and into a worn old shirt of Enjolras' so that he had something to sleep in.

Except that now Grantaire is gone and in his place is a tiny child, his little black curls poking out from where he's bundled up inside Enjolras' shirt.

Damnit Jehan.

Enjolras panics, in that quiet organised kind of way in which he panics when the problem doesn't need dealing with imperatively, and considers calling Combeferre so they can quietly panic together, but then tiny little Grantaire begins to wake up and suddenly his panic is a lot less controlled. Grantaire sits up and rubs at his eyes blearily, with a little yawn that's just downright adorable (despite the situation) as he looks up at Enjolras and blinks in confusion. His little face scrunches up and oh god he's going to cry.

He gives a confused little sob, one shoulder of Enjolras' huge t-shirt slipping off, and tears start to drip down his pudgy face. Enjolras freezes for a moment, then acts on instinct and rushes forward to clumsily scoop him into his arms. He is not, by any stretch of the imagination, a child-friendly person. Hugging small children is not something he tends to do, especially not when they're crying, but whilst Grantaire continues to let out distinctly confused and alarmed sobs he at least doesn’t sound like he's going to full on start wailing, which is an achievement. He decides he should definitely do the sensible thing and call Combeferre.

Combeferre is, of course, spectacularly hungover, and thus Enjolras has to ring three times before he actually picks up. What he's greeted with is a definitely not at all amused, "The fuck do you want?"

Enjolras hesitates - because it’s not often Combeferre swears, which means he’s probably been up all night and Enjolras just woke him up - before saying "I have a problem."

Combeferre groans.

"Of course you do, it's the only reason you ever call me. Wait, is somebody crying? Is that a child crying? What have you done?" he demands bluntly.

Enjolras scoffs, and bounces Grantaire in his arms to try and quiet him. Grantaire has one hand buried painfully in Enjolras' hair, mumbling "pretty" to himself, but he at least isn't pulling. "I didn't do anything, Jehan did. The child is Grantaire."

He can actually hear Combeferre sitting bolt upright in alarm, the sheets rustling in a way that sounds suspiciously like his quilt falling to the floor. "I'll be there soon," he chokes, and then hangs up.

Enjolras sighs and drops the phone on the bed, patting Grantaire awkwardly on the back and shushing him until he eventually stops crying. Understandably, he still looks generally upset and confused, and reaches up to put a chubby hand quite violently in the middle of Enjolras' face.

"Who're you?" he demands, like that will answer things.

"Who am I?" Enjolras asks, mildly affronted that he isn't remembered. "I'm Enjolras."

"Jo'ras," he repeats to himself with a determined look on his face, like he really needs to remember it. "Down."

Enjolras stands up and sets him down on the floor, watching him go running off and admittedly feeling sort of relieved to not be holding him anymore. He's still wearing Enjolras' massive oversized shirt, and really it's a wonder he hasn't tripped over it yet - it's certainly long enough. He realises belatedly he should probably follow to make sure he doesn't hurt himself.

He follows him into the kitchen, where Grantaire stands and looks longingly at the fridge, fiddling with the edge of the shirt.

"Hungry." He looks expectantly at Enjolras.

"You want breakfast?"

"Yes."

"Say please." Enjolras folds his arms and raises and eyebrow.

"Pease." He looks up at him longingly.

Christ if that isn't adorable, even to stone-hearted terrible-with-kids Enjolras. It's pretty hard to say no to a child when they're being so cute, so he scoops him up and sets him in one of the chairs around his pathetically small dining table. He doesn't actually know what Grantaire likes, but he figures you can't go wrong with toast, so he puts a couple of slices in the toaster and pours him a glass of orange juice. It's not something he tends to drink often, but Joly had started to get worried about his lack of vitamin c and had insisted he start amending that. Grantaire stands up in the chair and guzzles the juice down, to the point where Enjolras has to tell him to slow down so he doesn't choke or spill it down himself.

Combeferre arrives when he's alternating between buttering the toast and pouring himself a cup of coffee, and he has a very chipper Jehan and a very disgruntled Montparnasse in tow. Montparnasse is no longer wearing the yellow monstrosity, but the jumper he's wearing is clearly Jehan's; some pink flowery thing with leather elbow patches.

"Good morning!" Jehan chirps, drifting through to the living room with an armful of books. "Could I trouble you for a cup of tea? I need to concentrate."

Enjolras thinks about denying him, because he’s now stuck with a small child that he has no idea how to deal with and technically this is all Jehan's fault, but it is literally impossible to deny someone so lovely anything they want.

Combeferre is hovering in the doorway looking slightly horrified, but his mothering instincts clearly suddenly kick in and go into overdrive because he strides across the kitchen to help Grantaire get the toast into his mouth without getting it all over himself. "What on earth happened?" he asks as Enjolras hunts for where he's hidden Jehan's special tea at the back of the cupboard.

"The hell if I know," Enjolras mutters, producing the tea from behind a half eaten out of date packet of biscuits. "Ask Jehan."

Grantaire makes an impatient noise and tugs on Combeferre's sleeve. "Sorry, sorry." He gives Grantaire more toast and ruffles his hair. "Don't you have any clothes for him? He can't very well wear your shirt forever."

"If I had clothes don't you think he'd be wearing them?" Enjolras points out irritably as he heaps sugar into Jehan's tea.

Combeferre shrugs and scowls as Grantaire gets restless, setting him down so he can go running off. Enjolras rolls his eyes and follows him, handing Jehan his tea. He's curled up in the armchair with Montparnasse perched precariously on the arm.

"Thank you Enjolras. Ah, hello darling!" Jehan coos as Grantaire runs up to him, dragging himself up into his lap using the fluffy ball of orange that's supposed to be a sweater as a handhold, looking confused by his presence as if he expected to find something else.

"Try the Grimoire," Montparnasse suggests, handing Jehan a book to swap for the one in his hands.

"Yes Jehan, do you think you could explain?" Combeferre asks calmly, pushing his glasses up and raising an eyebrow.

"I can attempt." He sips his tea. "I was drunk, you see. I don't remember at all what I did." He begins to blush and tucks his hair nervously behind his ear. His flowers are in full bloom today, a pink cascade down his back in his unbraided hair.

Combeferre nods understandably. "Is it not something you've come across before?"

"Not at all." Jehan shakes his head. "I didn't even know such a spell existed. It might take me a while to find how to undo this," he says sheepishly.

Grantaire's obviously bored, and slides off Jehan's lap. He comes over to Enjolras with a teary face and holds his arms out, looking up at him like he's been gone for years and he missed him terribly. Enjolras picks him up without really thinking and gets him settled in his lap, trying to smooth his hair out. "What are we supposed to do in the mean time?" He wonders aloud.

"Well, I think warning everyone else might be wise," Combeferre points out. "And buying him some clothes. I'll call everyone."

Enjolras groans, because he really does not want everyone crammed into his flat, and Grantaire imitates him loudly with a giggle.

"Here, hand me Grantaire and you go call people. It is your flat after all, technically you should be the one doing the inviting," Combeferre reasons, and holds his arms open for Grantaire. Enjolras stands up to hand him over, and that's the precise moment Grantaire begins to scream. Both Jehan and Montparnasse jump, Jehan's tea almost spilling all over his book. Combeferre is holding Grantaire by the legs, but he's clinging onto Enjolras shirt and refusing to let go, wailing loudly. Enjolras looks about to panic, but Combeferre merely shushes Grantaire and hands him back, rubbing a hand over his back soothingly.

"Okay, original plan, I'll call everyone." He shakes his head fondly, like he isn’t all surprised, and wanders off with his phone in hand, scrolling through his contacts intently.

"Jo'ras," Grantaire whines into his hair, and Enjolras sighs.

 

After Combeferre is finished calling everyone - and has asked Joly to pick up some clothes, because Joly is the most responsible - they try to coax Grantaire away from Enjolras twice, since he still needs to eat and get dressed and such, but Grantaire screams each time.

Jehan and Montparnasse remain in a tangled heap in the armchair, muttering quietly together as they flick through the various books Jehan had brought over with him. Given the general unimpressed looks on their faces, Enjolras guesses it must be slow going on their end.

He himself had made himself useful by finding out some paper and the widest range of coloured pens he could (which was not many, and was mostly highlighters) and has Grantaire sitting in his lap while he draws. As far as children's drawings go, it's pretty good. Grantaire turns around to show him the paper with a proud beam on his face.

"Jo'ras!" he exclaims, pointing to a tall figure with blonde hair. "Cobferre, Jan, and Mon!" He grins, handing it to Enjolras and turning around to draw something else.

"That's great," Enjolras says into his ear, making Grantaire giggle - he obviously isn't listening to him, but clearly his breath is tickling his ear.

There's a thunderous knock that can only come from one person. "I’ll get that, shall I?" Combeferre offers, although it’s clear Enjolras would like to not be responsible for the child for a moment.

Grantaire seems oblivious to what's going on around him, too engrossed in drawing flowers, but it certainly gets his attention when Bahorel walks in and screams. Grantaire drops his pen and makes a noise like a wounded animal - obviously startled - then begins to cry loudly and turns to scramble into Enjolras' lap as if his life depends on it. Bahorel manages to look suitably sheepish and rubs his neck, as Feuilly appears behind him looking somewhere between annoyed and horrified. He turns to Jehan and raises an eyebrow.

"What did you do?"

Jehan is engrossed in his book and waves him off without looking up.

Bahorel has crouched next to where Grantaire is still screaming and is trying to apologise, pulling stupid faces in the hope of making him laugh. He meets Enjolras’ eye and gives him a distressed look, and they both shrug. Thankfully that's the moment Joly bursts through the door with an armful of bags, Bossuet and Musichetta trailing behind.

"I have clothes!" Joly announces proudly, which is quite frankly a blessing, because the shirt keeps riding up, especially with Grantaire squirming around in Enjolras lap. He hands a bag to Combeferre, who looks at Grantaire dubiously. He bends down to try and pick him up anyway, and unsurprisingly Grantaire resists.

"Noooo Jo'ras!" he yells, grabbing a fistful of Enjolras' shirt and clinging on.

Enjolras rolls his eyes and sighs in frustration. "Grantaire," he says firmly, pulling him away from where he's hiccuping into his shoulder so he can look at him properly. "Combeferre's gonna take you to go get dressed okay? I'll be right here, Combeferre will look after you."

Grantaire scowls petulantly, and makes a point of crying as loudly as he can as Combeferre picks him up and carries him off into Enjolras' bedroom, the bag swinging from his arm.

Enjolras groans and puts his head in his hands. "Jehan you are in so much trouble."

Jehan ignores him.

Courfeyrac barrels through the door, pulling Marius by his jacket sleeve who is clinging to Cosette's hand as if she can save him. "Where is he?!" he demands excitedly. "I want to see him. Is he cute? Is he the most adorable thing you've ever seen? I bet he is." He falls onto the sofa and bounces in place, a wide grin on his face.

"He's getting dressed," Joly supplies helpfully, at the same moment Jehan stabs a finger at the book in triumph.

"I found it!" he announces, looking terribly smug. "I can fix this. Amber, salt, marigold, hazel, cloudberries, lingonberries, mugwort, blood, willow, and just a little hair," he lists.

Enjolras hasn’t actually heard of most of those, but when he hears the word ‘blood’ he wonders with slight worry whose they might be talking about. Logically he assumes they mean Grantaire’s, and finds himself feeling oddly protective over the idea of him getting hurt. He shakes that feeling off, and realises Jehan is still talking.

"Quite a lot to collect,” he’s saying. “And of course the cloudberries and lingonberries could be a problem," he muses aloud thoughtfully.

Montparnasse nods in disinterested agreement.

Marius looks a little worried. "Why? What's the problem? Is he going to be stuck like that forever?"

Cosette rolls her eyes fondly and pats his hand reassuringly.

Jehan finally looks up from the book and smiles. "Oh, it's not a huge problem, it's just that we can't get cloudberries and lingonberries locally." He shrugs and snaps the book closed.

“How not local is not locally?” Cosette asks sensibly, with a mildly suspicious look on her face.

“Oh, you know, like, Sweden,” Jehan says casually. “But me and ‘Parnasse did want to get away for a while, and I’ve never been to Scandinavia.”

He turns to Montparnasse for support, but he looks like he couldn’t care less, and shrugs.

There's a sudden great load of giggling from the bedroom, and the door is opened by Combeferre, who steps neatly aside to let Grantaire come barreling out. He is, for some bizarre reason, wearing a frog outfit, and looks absolutely overjoyed.

"Imma froggy!" he yells happily, running straight over to Enjolras and climbing into his lap. "Ribbit."

"Don't eat any flies, okay?" Enjolras says with a sort of half grin.

Both Courfeyrac and Marius are sitting on the sofa with their mouths hanging open, except Marius looks horrified and Courfeyrac positively delighted.

"He is the most adorable thing I've ever seen!" he cries, clasping his hands together excitedly. "I want one. Jehan you're a genius, get me one."

"Don't get him one," Combeferre cuts in immediately. "Don't even think about it."

Jehan chuckles at Courfeyrac's crestfallen face, and the way Combeferre tries to placate him with kisses. Grantaire is still bouncing around going ribbit in Enjolras' lap and is laughing at the faces Bahorel is still pulling at him. Most everyone else is still sitting with their mouths open and an expression on their face somewhere between shock and sheer delight. It's been a funny sort of day, really.

 

Eventually Enjolras manages to usher everyone out of his apartment, after they've all insisted on giving Grantaire cuddles and Jehan has promised to get right on fixing it as soon as they come back from Sweden, till eventually he's only left with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac is sitting on the sofa blowing raspberries on Grantaire's stomach, who is kicking and squealing and generally making a racket.

"What am I gonna do?" Enjolras asks, finally dressed and drinking coffee like his life depends on it.

"Take care of him," Combeferre says like its the most obvious thing in the world. "You have the room, and its not as if he'll be a bother."

Enjolras sighs, and looks over at Grantaire. "Courf doesn't that hurt?"

Grantaire is stood up on Courfeyrac's lap and is tugging quite violently on his hair, whilst Courfeyrac looks completely unfazed. "Nah, I'm used to it."

Combeferre turns an alarming shade of red.

"But why does he have to stay with me?" Enjolras insists. It's not that he doesn't like Grantaire, it's just that looking after a child isn't something he's ever had a remote desire to do.

Courfeyrac raises and eyebrow and looks at Grantaire. "Hey little froggy, do you want to come live with me and Combeferre?"

Grantaire screams, "No!" so violently Courfeyrac almost drops him. "Wan stay with Jo'ras!" Granraire insists, making climbing out of Courfeyrac's lap look incredibly difficult and running over to fling himself at Enjolras.

"It appears you have your answer," Combeferre chuckles. "Come, we'll leave you to it. See you tomorrow Enjolras."

He gives Enjolras their customary goodbye kiss to the cheek, giving Grantaire one as well, and has to step back to make room for Courfeyrac's massive hug.

"Bye, bye tadpole!" he calls as he heads out the door, waving to Grantaire, who does not wave back.

Enjolras has no idea what to do with him. He means it in the nicest possible way, but he doesn't know how to look after a child. He's never even been anywhere near children for an extended period of time, and the fact that he can't unsee the cynical drunk artist he's so used to seeing probably isn't helping matters. He doesn't even have anything for children, past the clothes Joly brought by. He has no toys for him to play with, and there probably aren't any cartoons on TV - not that he condones just dumping a child in front of the TV instead of raising them.

"What am I going to do with you?" he asks aloud to the mostly empty apartment.

Grantaire answers, "Ribbit."

Chapter Text

As it turns out, he doesn't really have to do anything much with Grantaire. He seems pretty worn out after being faced with their entire group of friends all at once, and begins yawning frequently and loudly around lunchtime, so Enjolras puts him down for a nap and thus gives himself time to properly panic.

He can’t look after a child. He doesn’t know how. He’d be a terrible parent. He can barely look after himself. What do children eat? How long do they need to sleep? How often will he need bathing? What if he gets hurt? What if he gets hurt and it’s Enjolras' fault. What if Jehan can’t fix it?

Christ, what if Jehan can’t fix it?

Enjolras is not at all prepared to be a father, least of all to one of his friends. He quietly panics over this until Grantaire wakes up, grumpy, and begins crying in a very loud and distressed manner that startles Enjolras so much he almost topples out of his chair. It takes a whole half hour to get him to calm down, and even then he clings to Enjolras so fiercely it’s like he’s afraid Enjolras is going to disappear if he doesn’t.

Enjolras is so unprepared for this.

 

Thankfully, Grantaire eventually quietens down, and sleeps well enough that evening, curled up back in Enjolras’ oversized shirt, sucking his thumb while he sleeps.

Except he screams again when he wakes up, and begins a whole new routine of burying himself in Enjolras’ hair and crying for an extended period of time. He works himself up from disgruntled sobbing to full on screaming, which persists until Enjolras gives up trying to figure out what the problem is and just sits cuddling him in the middle of the floor, at which point he begins to wind down into little piteous sniffles.

Enjolras is tempted to ring Combeferre in a panic because he feels like he broke Grantaire, because it still isn’t obvious what’s wrong, but there doesn’t appear to be a problem any more. Grantaire seems quite happy enough to allow Enjolras to carry him around while he does things, clutching locks of Enjolras' hair in his pudgy little fists. He's generally a lot more bashful than his older self, it seems, and certainly a lot sweeter, but to be fair it’s impossible to not think that of someone when they're dressed as a frog and chirping ribbit into your ear.

It's surprisingly easy for Enjolras to do things with Grantaire balanced on his hip, purely because he's so cooperative - he does in fact weigh a great deal, as small children do. Either way, he manages to do the dishes and dust absentmindedly with Grantaire humming into his hair, and whilst getting his washing into the machine proves a little difficult he manages all the same.

Now he's finished university, and those of their friends still studying have gone back, there's not a whole lot for him to do. Hardly anybody's free anymore, he doesn't have any essays to write, no revision to do; he's almost at a loss. No, scratch that. He is completely at a loss.

The natural thing to do would be to look for a job, but if he's perfectly honest, he simply doesn't want to. It's been bugging him, for a while now, about how little he wants to go sell himself to some corporate giant that gives nary a fuck about its employees or customers, but there's really no point in having a degree if he isn't going to use it. It's an issue, he supposes. (Not to mention his savings aren't going to last forever, and he has rent to pay.) Still, trying to find a company he’s happy to work for really narrows his options, but there’s always the option of working for someone he knows, or maybe even working for himself.

That’s not such a bad idea.

Grantaire tugs on his hair harshly, and Enjolras realises he's been standing in the doorway staring into the space. He sets Grantaire down in the middle of the living room, ignoring his babbling protests, and puts a CD into his barely used stereo. It catches Grantaire's attention and he quietens, an intrigued little smile spreading on his face.

"Be right back," Enjolras reassures him, hoping having some music on might amuse him more than clinging to Enjolras all day while he aimlessly does nothing. If he wants to be honest it makes a nice change having his apartment filled with something more than silence. Since he doesn't have to concentrate on Uni work anymore there's no reason for him to have things so quiet, he supposes.

He leaves Grantaire in the living room while he wanders off into his bedroom, collecting up his laptop, hunting out the charger, and finding anything else he might need for research. If he's going to consider setting up his own business - and Christ, is he actually considering this? - then he needs to know what he's getting himself into. He returns to the living room with a determined look on his face, then pauses, and smiles.

Grantaire is dancing, if you could call it that, jumping around and giggling to himself. Enjolras knows Grantaire does ballet, among various other forms of dance and many others that he'd abandoned in the past, but apparently the interest started early. If he's honest with himself, it's relieving to see Grantaire so shamelessly happy.

The boy’s in the middle of a spin on his toes when he spots Enjolras and squeaks loudly, his face quickly turning red as he runs over to the couch, diving upon it and burying his face in the cushions in embarrassment. It's positively charming. Enjolras takes a seat on the couch next to him to plug his laptop in, Grantaire peeking out from between his fingers to watch him with interest.

“You can keep dancing if you like,” Enjolras reassures him, then looks back to his laptop as it’s clear Grantaire doesn’t want to be watched. The antivirus is playing up again, and he scowls petulantly as he re-installs it.

Grantaire has slid off the couch, and is swaying a little on the spot, but is obviously much too shy to actually dance now he has an audience. Enjolras eventually gets his laptop to behave, and looks up just as Grantaire is becoming a little less timid, a smile that could almost be called confident spreading across his face.

“You dance,” he says, half demand, half question, and holds his hands out impatiently.

“Who me? No, I can’t dance at all,” Enjolras admits. “But Combeferre can. I’m sure if you ask him very nicely he might teach you.”

Grantaire appears to mull this over for a second, then nods decisively and climbs back up onto the couch, taking a seat right next to Enjolras.

Enjolras is fully intent on going online to look into important business things, but it appears Grantaire has other ideas.

"What's that?" he asks, stabbing his finger at an icon on the screen.

"That's Internet Explorer. We don't like that," he says gravely, and Grantaire nods seriously in agreement.

"And that?"

"That's Skype." He's expecting to have to explain more, but it seems it doesn't hold Grantaire's interest.

"This one."

"That's MS Paint," he replies, and uh oh, there was the magic word, and Grantaire perks right up.

"Want!" he announces grandly, poking at the screen and grabbing at Enjolras arm. "Wanna paint."

Enjolras rolls his eyes and opens the program, chuckling a little to himself as Grantaire tries to draw on the screen with his finger, looking confused when nothing happens. Enjolras pulls him into his lap and hands him the little USB mouse, carefully showing him how to work it and guiding his hands once he gets the hang of it. Grantaire doesn't fidget at all, just sits perfectly still and well behaved as he concentrates on drawing, his little tongue poking out of his mouth as he tries really hard to make his lines as straight as he can.

Eventually he lets go of the mouse, turns to Enjolras with a gleeful little smile and points at his drawing. There’s a little red blob with a mess of yellow ribbons on top, and next to that a brown triangle with pink and red squiggles.

“You gets cake because you’re nice,” Grantaire says by way of explanation. “Cake is nice so nice people get cake,” he adds, but he’s mumbling to himself by this point. “Cake is nice, I like cake.”

An idea worms it’s way into Enjolras’ mind, and he ruffles Grantaire’s hair lightly to get him to smile. "How about we bake a cake then?"

Grantaire's whole face lights up as he nods enthusiastically, climbing carefully down from the couch and waiting till Enjolras has put his laptop down and stood up before grabbing his hand and dragging him impatiently to the kitchen.

The baking is the combined fault of Jehan and Combeferre, and their continuing efforts to find a way for Enjolras to de-stress. The baking is sort of working so far, since he enjoys the actual process of baking, but hates the mess. Thus he usually bakes with either one of them so they can graciously take care of the mess for him.

Except baking with children is always messy, even though Grantaire is very well behaved.

Enjolras has a variety of recipes littering his kitchen, most of which are either written in Jehan’s spidery handwriting or come printed out from the internet, but all are stained with the evidence of his efforts over the years. He rifles through his recipe cards and finds a honey madeleines recipe which takes his fancy, then takes out one of the emergency Betty Crocker kits from the back of his cupboard for Grantaire.

It’s impossibly endearing, the way Grantaire sticks his tongue out in deep concentration as he empties the packet into the bowl, then very very carefully cracks eggs with Enjolras’ assistance. Enjolras has to measure out the water and oil, but he gets Grantaire to double check it and insists he couldn’t have done it without his help, to which Grantaire beams proudly. He mixes it as neatly as he can, and only manages to splat a little of it all over the kitchen (along with the egg he dropped), which Enjolras considers a victory. He whips up his madeleines while the cake is in the oven and Grantaire bounces around the kitchen, and it’s just as they’re taking the cake out of the oven that the doorbell rings.

Grantaire immediately scrambles up into Enjolras’ arms, clutching at his hair so fiercely it almost hurts. Enjolras rubs his back comfortingly as he shuffles to the door, his pyjama bottoms slipping down and getting caught under his feet, and he opens it wide enough for him and just enough for Grantaire to peek out shyly.

Outside Jehan is looking annoyingly chipper for it being the morning. He’s in hot pink denim jeans and barefeet, his purple painted toes wiggling against the chill, and is wearing a stylish - and expensive looking - jumper that is clearly Montparnasse’s.

“Jan!” Grantaire shouts accusingly. “Where are shoes?”

Jehan smiles serenely in the way that suggests he hasn’t slept and is running purely on good vibes. “I decided not to wear them, tadpole. I’ve been to the park and I like to feel the grass between my toes.”

Enjolras shakes his head and moves aside to let him in. “It’s too cold for that, you’ll make yourself ill and then Joly will make you into shoes.”

“Yes,” Grantaire adds seriously. “Shoes. To wear.” He points at Jehan’s feet to emphasise his point.

Jehan kicks the door shut behind him and follows Enjolras into the kitchen, ruffling Grantaire’s hair as he goes. “Alright if I make myself a cup of tea? Oh, you have cake too! Can I be incredibly cheeky and ask for a slice?”

Enjolras shifts Grantaire in his arms. “It’s not my cake, you’ll have to ask the baker.”

Grantaire straightens up proudly and beams so hard he practically begins to glow, obviously taking his baking duties very seriously.

“So what do you say tadpole? How about I trade you for a slice?” As he says this he opens his bag and pulls out a pack of fat marker pens and a set of finger paints.

Grantaire’s eyes light up and he looks at them like they’re the best thing he’s ever seen, then nods furiously.

“It needs icing first, but it has to cool before we can do that,” Enjolras points out sensibly.

Jehan nods thoughtfully. “And there’s no sense having tea and cake without the cake, is there?” He casts his eye over Grantaire, who is tearing apart the packaging of the markers with determination. “Well, how about I take him out for a little while? See if we can’t burn some of that energy off. I was sad to leave the park anyway, it’s such a nice day, given the time of year.”

Enjolras looks over at Grantaire, who does look like he could do with a little tiring out. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea. Don’t let him eat worms or whatever it is kids do in parks,” he says seriously.

Grantaire is very pleased about the prospect of going to the park. He seems less excited when it transpires Enjolras’ isn’t going with them, so Enjolras has to make up some story about how he has to stay and guard the cake until Grantaire agrees, nodding along seriously. He squirms a little as Enjolras buttons him into a soft green pea coat - it appears Joly has quite the sense of style when it comes to shopping for children - and insists that no, it doesn’t matter that Jehan isn’t wearing shoes, if Grantaire is going out he has to wear them.

As he watches them go romping off down the path, Jehan just as enthusiastic as Grantaire, he feels an odd mix of both relieved and anxious.

 

They return an hour later, after Enjolras has cleaned up the kitchen and has seated himself firmly at the table, flicking idly through the jobs section of the newspaper as he nibbles delicately at the cooling madeleines. Jehan carries a sniffling Grantaire through the door who has grazed knees, and both of them are wearing lopsided daisy chains on their heads. Jehan looks thoroughly guilty.

“He tripped,” he says immediately, as Grantaire begins squirming and reaching for Enjolras, practically throwing himself into his arms and burying his face into his shoulder, whining a little. “I should’ve kept a better eye on him. I’m really sorry.”

“You can hardly stop a child from falling over,” Enjolras says reasonably, smoothing Grantaire’s hair down. “It’s normal, it’s not like it’s your fault. Besides, I’m sure Grantaire was very brave,” he adds, and Grantaire makes a snuffly little noise in return.

“Oh yes,” Jehan continues loudly, “He was the bravest little frog I’ve ever seen, and I bet he’s now going to be very brave and do a very good job at icing a cake, right?”

Grantaire perks up a little at the mention of cake, and lets Enjolras set him down on one of the chairs, handing over a tub of icing and watching as he focuses very intently, his sniffles gradually stopping. He makes a mess of the cake, the icing uneven, but he very intently puts a smiley face on the top in Smarties and looks inordinately pleased with himself.

Jehan finally gets his cup of tea, and takes absolute relish in munching his way through two slices of cake, which absolutely delights Grantaire.

“I might be having a slight crisis,” Enjolras admits, as Jehan reaches for his third slice.

“Well, yes, I’d say so,” he says, subtly nodding towards Grantaire, who has icing all over his face.

Enjolras shakes his head. “Not that. Although I’m still mad at you. I mean a more pressing responsible-adult kind of crisis.”

“You can afford rent right?” Jehan says immediately. “You aren’t being evicted?”

“No, but I need a job. And I don’t know what to do about it,” he says honestly. “None of them interest me, I want something more...proactive.”

Grantaire looks up for a second. “Superhero,” he says seriously.

Jehan chuckles softly. “That’s not a real career, tadpole. And besides, Enjolras doesn’t have a superpower.”

Grantaire looks downright taken aback by this, thinks on it for a second, and then says firmly, “Fireman. Jo’ras is a hero.”

Enjolras shakes his head with a smile. “Sorry to disappoint, tadpole, but I’m not.”

“It’s not a bad thought though!” Jehan adds brightly. “You might not be up to being a firefighter, and I daren’t ask your opinion of the police, but what about a paramedic?”

Enjolras wrinkles his face up. “I’m not sure I quite have the temperament for that kind of job.”

“No, I suppose you’re right,” Jehan agrees thoughtfully, then catches sight of his watch and leaps to his feet. “Oh Christ, I’m almost late for my date!” he wolfs down the last of his cake then gives them both a crumby kiss to the cheek. “Good luck with the job thing! Bye bye tadpole!”

He waves over his shoulder as he darts out the door, and Grantaire stands on the chair to give him a cheery wave in return, then turns to survey Enjolras with a very serious look.

“Yes,” he says eventually, in a grave voice. “Hero.”

 

Getting Grantaire to bed that evening proves a little more difficult than it had been the previous night, because he starts demanding a story. Enjolras hasn’t prepared for this. He has the art stuff Jehan brought over, but he doesn’t have any childrens books in the flat at all. He tries to recall stories from his childhood that he might be able to recite to him, but the ones he can think of he only remembers half the story, and for all he’s good at making speeches, he’s really not so great at reading aloud and telling stories.

Still, he is good at making speeches.

He knows it’s a dumb idea from the second he tries to get Grantaire settled in bed, and is fully expecting him to kick up a fuss at once, but five minutes into Enjolras’ impassioned little rant about the French Revolution, Grantaire looks absolutely rapt.

He doesn’t quite mean to go for as long as he does, but Grantaire tugs furiously on his sleeve everytime he stops, drinking in everything Enjolras is saying until his eyelids start to droop and his head lolls against the pillow, and he eventually falls asleep clasping Enjolras’ hand, a little smile on his face.

Enjolras is beginning to think that maybe this might not be so bad.

Chapter Text

Enjolras considers it a small victory when Grantaire does not wake up screaming the next morning. Instead Grantaire wakes up blearily, still curled up against Enjolras’ side and clutching at his hand like a lifeline, lets out a tiny little yawn, then wiggles off the bed to worm his way back into the frog outfit as Enjolras tries to execute his morning bathroom routine as quickly as he can. He inevitably has to help him get dressed, because he has it on sideways but is trying to zip it up regardless, then ferries him downstairs for toast, helping Grantaire feed himself with one hand and drinking coffee with the other.

He’s finally starting to get the hang of this.

Except maybe not, because when he goes to the cupboards to find out something for his own breakfast, he discovers he’s nearly run out of food without even noticing. He doesn’t actually have anything for Grantaire to eat except toast and the remnants of yesterdays cake. He has no pyjamas for him except the oversized t-shirt, no toys save the marker pens. In fact, he doesn’t even know what toddlers need. Grantaire is totally relying on him and Enjolras has no idea how to take care of a child.

He isn’t getting the hang of this. He’s still the awkward guy with no idea how to look after kids, or even how to be around them.

He considers calling Combeferre, because Combeferre is calm and smart and will definitely know how to deal with this, but something about his comment on the phone isn’t sitting right with Enjolras. “It's the only reason you ever call me.” He’s right, of course. Every time Enjolras has some sort of problem, Combeferre is always the first person on the other end of the phone. Enjolras is going to deal with this himself.

He’s not sure he wants to go shopping with Grantaire, if he’s honest. Although he’s been well behaved so far, it seems to be some unwritten rule that children have to make a scene in supermarkets, and he’s not sure he wants to risk it. Then he might have to tell Grantaire to behave himself, and that’s a little weird, because Grantaire’s his friend.

At least, he thinks they’re friends.

He’s so busy puzzling this over he almost misses the thunderous knock on the door, but Grantaire is giving him a very expectant look.

“Jan?” he asks hopefully. He’s probably hoping for more pens.

Enjolras shakes his head. That knock is definitely Bahorel’s. He goes to answer it with Grantaire balanced on his hip - because he may be useless with children but he does at least know not to leave them unsupervised in a kitchen - and is pleasantly surprised to find Feuilly on the doorstep beside Bahorel.

“Morning froggy!” Bahorel exclaims cheerfully, but clearly Grantaire hasn’t forgiven him for the unearthly scream he subjected him to, because he resolutely turns his head away and crosses his little arms in defiance.

Bahorel shrugs, unperturbed, and pushes his way past both Feuilly and Enjolras to get into the flat. At least he takes his shoes off.

Feuilly sighs in an apologetic way. “We didn’t mean to intrude,” he says as he waits until he is actually invited in, shutting the door behind him and folding his threadbare coat neatly over his arm. “Only I have the day off and the guy with no manners absolutely insisted on coming over to see Grantaire before we go out to lunch. Actually, while I remember, have you seen the posters?”

He probably knows that Enjolras hasn’t been out since being made responsible of Grantaire, so he pulls out a crumpled bit of paper from his pocket. It proclaims, in brightly coloured letters so obnoxious even Jehan would think twice, that there’s a fair in town for the weekend starting tonight. From his place in Enjolras’ arms, Grantaire lets out a curiously delighted noise and takes the poster for himself so he can peer at it more, then waves it in Enjolras’ face.

“Jo’ras! Look look!”

Enjolras has to lean back to not get hit in the face by the offending piece of paper. “You want to go?”

Grantaire says immediately, “pease.”

Behind him, Bahorel makes a noise that sounds like the sheer cuteness wounded him, and even Feuilly’s work-weathered face has softened. “We can all go,” he suggests, picking up Bahorel’s discarded leather jacket and hanging it up beside his own. “It’ll be nice to spend some time together as a group again. I do miss hanging out between classes.”

Enjolras is quickly learning he can’t say no to Grantaire when he gets such a hopeful look on his face, so even though he could think of much better ways to spend his evening, he agrees. “Could I ask a favour though? I need to go shopping and I could do with a babysitter. Just for an hour?”

Surprisingly, Feuilly agrees immediately, although Grantaire is predictably less keen. He stays clinging to Enjolras for as long as he possibly can, even while Enjolras struggles into his coat, then reluctantly allows himself to be handed off to Feuilly.

Although, because Feuilly is a firm believer in solving conflict as peacefully - and as quickly - as possible, he then hands him over to Bahorel while he goes to make himself a cup of coffee. When he comes back Bahorel is doing impressions of Montparnasse, which seems to mostly consist of pulling grumpy faces and going ‘whatever, I don’t care’, but it has Grantaire in hysterical giggles.

“Made up then, have you?” Feuilly asks as he sips at his coffee and tries not to burn his lips.

Bahorel scoops Grantaire into his lap as if to make a point. “We have. And we’re going to play snap, aren’t we kid?”

Grantaire nods excitedly, then pats the floor quite violently next to him, a clear indication for Feuilly to come and join them. Of course, with a toddler and Bahorel in the room, the game predictably gets taken very seriously. Grantaire furrows his little face up as he surveys the cards, taking a while to look over all the pictures while Feuilly finishes his coffee, then insists on shuffling them himself, although he drops them several times. Generally speaking, Bahorel is a terrible loser and is horrendously competitive, but Feuilly nudges him in the ribs - hard - to remind him to let Grantaire win once in a while.

“So hey,” Bahorel says suddenly, a thoughtful look on his face. “I was thinking…”

“That’s new.” Feuilly remarks dryly, but with a little smirk.

Bahorel ignores him. “Move in with me?” he says, cutting right to the chase.

Feuilly very nearly drops his cards. “That’s…sudden.”

Bahorel shrugs, as if he disagrees. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I mean, you stay over so often, it’s just not the same when I wake up without you.”

It’s a sweet statement, but it’s somewhat ruined as Grantaire announces, “Sap!” and gleefully gathers up the cards.

Bahorel ruffles his hair, looking down to hide his smile, but Feuilly’s already seen it and mutters under his breath, “Sap is pretty appropriate.”

If Bahorel has heard him, he doesn’t react. “I know it’s a big upheaval and everything, but most of your stuff’s over at mine anyway, and it seems a waste for you to be paying rent on an apartment you’re hardly ever in. Snap.”

Feuilly has to concede it’s a good point. He barely ever sees his own apartment these days.

“Besides,” Bahorel continues. “Your apartments pretty damn shi-” He casts a guilty look at Grantaire. “Awful. It’s pretty awful. It’s a wonder the roof hasn’t fallen in yet.”

Feuilly raises an eyebrow at that. “So, you’re asking me to move in with you out of pity?”

The smile drops from Bahorel’s face. “I didn’t word that right, I’m just saying, it’s a really terrible apartment and you-”

“Can’t afford anything better,” Feuilly cuts in sharply. “And maybe I can’t, but at least it’s mine!”

“I was saying, you don’t deserve that!” Bahorel finishes in exasperation, but Feuilly completely misunderstands this, anger flaring up on his face.

“I don’t deserve to own my own place? So I should give up and move in with you where you take in strays that you can’t look after every ten minutes and never clean up and stumble in drunk and bloody all the time? Because that’s still better than my apartment and you’ve taken pity on me? Right, very well. Snap,” he hisses angrily, then puts down his cards and gets up in a very dignified manner.

“I want you to move in with me because I -”

Feuilly slams the kitchen door shut.

“ - love you,” he finishes lamely, looking down at the pile of cards despondently.

Grantaire throws his cards down and climbs into Bahorel’s lap, patting his arm and saying in a grave voice, “There there.”

 

When Enjolras returns, laden down with shopping, Feuilly is sulking in the kitchen, already on his fourth cup of Enjolras’ fancy fair trade coffee. He’s thankful he remembered to pick some more up while he was out. Feuilly doesn’t notice him until he puts the bags down heavily on the table, and starts as if he’d been asleep, an owlish look on his face.

“Everything alright?” Enjolras asks as he digs through the bags looking for things that need to go in the freezer.

“Acceptable. Bahorel asked me to move in with him.”

One of the bags slumps sideways off the table and Enjolras has to dive to catch the contents. “That’s great!”

“He asked me to move in with him out of pity,” Feuilly corrects bitterly.

“That’s not so great,” Enjolras agrees, and finds him a tub of ice cream out of one of the bags. He is not entirely insensitive. “Are you two okay?”

Feuilly shrugs. “I’m pretty mad. We aren’t going to lunch, I can promise you that much.” He sighs despondently and drains his mug. “I think I ought to go. You don’t want me hanging around ruining the mood.”

“You don’t have to -” Enjolras begins, but Feuilly’s already out of his seat and heading for the door.

“Tell Grantaire I said goodbye, won’t you? I might be along tonight, but not for long. Work in the morning.” The man shrugs himself into his coat with a blank look, then opens the front door just as Courfeyrac is raising his hand to knock.

Courfeyrac stands there for a minute with his hand hovering comically in the air, then shuffles out of his way. They exchange greetings, then Enjolras realises he’s still holding the ice cream and it’s starting to melt, so he goes to put it in the freezer while they talk.

“Well, he’s pissed,” is Courfeyrac’s greeting a few minutes later, tugging Combeferre into the kitchen behind him. He looks pleasantly surprised to find Enjolras functioning without him.

Enjolras lets out a noncommittal noise of agreement, takes a few things out of the bags, then gestures for them to follow him into the living room. Bahorel is kneeling on the floor with a forced smile on his face, holding his hands out for Grantaire, who is punching them with a look of utter concentration on his face.

“That’s it,” Bahorel says encouragingly, even though it’s clear Grantaire’s doing it all wrong. “Harder, like you mean it.”

Grantaire does at least hit him harder, but he seems to forget how to punch in the process, and it’s more of a slap.

“Good job.” Bahorel says proudly, as Grantaire finally notices Enjolras is home and runs over to cling to his legs. “Is Feuilly…?” Bahorel gestures inarticulately, a hopeful look on his face.

“Furious,” Combeferre says, with a completely unimpressed look. “And gone.”

Bahorel lets out a groan and collapses back on the floor, putting his hands over his face. “I was trying to tell him I love him,” he says pathetically, and Combeferre’s face softens.

“Was that, Jo’ras?” Grantaire demands loudly, looking curiously up at Enjolras and the bundle in his arms.

Enjolras sits unceremoniously on the floor and lets his bundle spill out onto the floor. He proudly holds up supplies of thick coloured card, glitter and stickers, watching Grantaire’s entire face light up. He then shows him the dinosaur pyjamas he’s picked out especially to replace his t-shirt, which Grantaire looks totally thrilled by.

“You’ve done good,” Courfeyrac says, as if he’s surprised by this, then adds, “I want dinosaur pyjamas.”

“No,” Combeferre says bluntly, shaking his head when Courfeyrac opens his mouth to argue. “I’m not having sex with someone who wears dinosaur pyjamas.”

“Well obviously I’ll take them off,” he says in a sultry voice.

Enjolras looks like this is the absolute least thing he wants to be listening to, and looks to Grantaire to cover his ears, only he’s already wandered over to where Bahorel is still lying piteously on the floor. He has Bahorel’s phone in his hand and is stabbing buttons randomly.

“Who that?”

Everyone in the room collectively freezes. Somehow, he’s opened a picture of his older self, and is staring at it in curiosity.

“That’s...our friend,” Courfeyrac explains lamely. “He’s an artist.”

Grantaire’s face lights up and he clings onto the phone as if it’s precious. “A real live artist! Look, look Jo’ras, he has drawin’s on his arms an’ everything! An’ he has dark hair like I do!” He looks positively thrilled about this and holds a lock of his hair out for them all to see. “Jo’ras, Jo’ras can I pease meet him pretty pretty pease?”

Enjolras looks like a deer caught in headlights. “Sorry, he’s on holiday right now.”

Grantaire lets out a sad sigh, and reluctantly gives Bahorel his phone back.

“Come on,” Enjolras says to distract him, scooping him up. “I got some milkshake powder for you.”

This does the trick quite nicely. He sits at the table very well behaved while Enjolras finds the milkshake powder in the bags and mixes it up, then makes grabby hands as it’s passed to him, guzzling it down with absolute glee.

“Do you want one Courfeyrac? To make up for the lack of dinosaur pyjamas?” Enjolras asks with a teasing smile, waving the box around with it’s bunny mascot emblazoned on the side.

Courfeyrac straightens up with his best mature face on. “No thankyou. That’s strawberry, and I would be betraying chocolate if I accepted that. My heart belongs to chocolate milkshake, and chocolate alone.”

“Oh, how I’d like to say he’s lying,” Combeferre laments.

This is punctuated by an alarming smash. Grantaire’s milkshake glass is lying shattered on the floor, and he has a totally shocked look on his face, like he can’t believe he just did that. Enjolras starts towards him to make sure he’s okay - because there’s glass everywhere - but Grantaire throws himself out of his seat and runs off without making a sound.

They blink at each other in confusion for a moment, then Enjolras takes off after him. It takes a little while to find him, even though Enjolras’ apartment isn’t the biggest in the world, but eventually they find him hiding under the bed with his hands over his eyes, curled up in a little ball. It takes a good few minutes of soft coaxing on Enjolras’ part before he finally crawls out, sitting on his knees and sniffling piteously.

“It’s okay,” Combeferre says soothingly, taking a seat next to him and brushing his hair back from his face with one hand and wiping away the tears with the other. “It was only a glass, we aren’t mad.”

“My father uses a belt when he’s mad,” Grantaire blurts out, still looking apprehensive.

A hush falls over the room, and Enjolras goes very still, a look of barely constrained fury on his face. Combeferre looks like he could quite happily strangle someone in a very calm and collected manner. Courfeyrac just looks plain horrified.

Grantaire obviously takes this the wrong way, because his face scrunches up again and he starts edging back towards the sanctuary of the bed, his little fists pulled up inside the sleeves of the frog outfit as if he’s trying to hide himself away as much as possible. He lets out a tiny little whimper, almost inaudible, and that seems to spur them all into action.

Enjolras surges forward and gathers Grantaire in his arms, kissing him all over the top of his head, then hands him off to Combeferre and stands up abruptly.

“I need to go calm down,” he announces.

Courfeyrac stands up to agree, his car keys in hand. “Yeah, me too. You know, I think Grantaire’s old neighbourhood might be a nice place to go let off some steam, don’t you think so Enjolras?”

“I do. I think it’s a great place to relieve some tension,” he replies, stone-faced.

They give a couple more kisses to a confused and sniffly Grantaire, and leave the flat to the sound of Combeferre’s gentle voice in the air;

“Nothing’s gonna harm you,

not while I’m around…”

 

Courfeyrac and Enjolras return, looking immensely pleased with themselves, just as Grantaire is waking up from a nap, screaming something fierce, and is quickly handed off to Enjolras until he is all bleary eyes and sleepy cuddles. They get a reproachful look from Combeferre, but on the whole he looks rather proud.

The excitement is palpable in the air as it gets closer to evening, because Courfeyrac is essentially an overgrown child who can’t resist the lure of bright lights and stomach-upsetting rides, and Grantaire has no idea what to expect, because all he knows is that the poster was very pretty.

They know Grantaire’s probably going to eat loads while they’re out - because Courfeyrac will stuff his face and is a terrible example - but they still give him something to eat before they leave so he has actual food in his belly, then bundle him up in a thick coat over the frog outfit to ward off the evening air.

There’s quite the chill, but it obviously isn’t unbearable because Courfeyrac is in only a tshirt and isn’t making a fuss. Grantaire squirms in Enjolras arms the whole time, pointing out places he’d been with Jehan the day before, and the park they went to, and they saw a dog here and it barked but it was okay because Grantaire wasn’t scared at all.

Along the way they meet up with Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta and Bahorel - the latter of whom Grantaire is very pleased to see, and he asks him loudly if Phooey is still mad at him. Bahorel looks at his shoes.

Suddenly things seem a little awkward.

Chapter Text

Enjolras hopes that things might get less awkward the more the evening goes on, but everyone always did say he was terrible at reading situations, and he’s just proving them right. Bahorel has stuffed his hands into his pockets and pulled his hood up, looking resolutely at his feet as he trudges along behind them, and that feels completely wrong because he and Courfeyrac ought to be running ahead and getting all excited and telling everyone to hurry up. It’s just how things are.

At first he reasons that things might be alright, because Grantaire is talking ten to the dozen to Musichetta, who he hasn’t met before, and Combeferre is chatting quite animatedly to Courfeyrac, but by the time the lights of the fair are visible in the distance an awkward silence has fallen over them all, and even Grantaire is pressing his face into Enjolras’ hair without a sound.  

Things only get worse when they arrive at the balloon festooned gates to meet the others. Feuilly is stood smoking furiously, bundled up in his coat, and neither he nor Bahorel will make eye contact.

Courfeyrac looks between them both, then sighs loudly in a way which suggests he is not putting up with them, grabs Bahorel by the arm and drags him in unceremoniously, already pointing out all the rides he wants to go on.

Grantaire has perked up by this point, and is tugging excitedly on Enjolras’ hair.

“Look!” He points at a little teacup ride with wide eyes. “Like Jan’s,” he announces this proudly to show that he’s been paying attention.

Jehan sees his opportunity and sweeps in with a moping Feuilly. “I bet Feuilly will take you on if you ask him super nicely.”

Feuilly pointedly lights up another cigarette, but he does at least ruffle Grantaire’s hair in apology.

“Sorry kid, right now that’s about as likely as Montparnasse taking you on.”

Montparnasse nods to reinforce this point, but then Jehan turns a cool glare on him and he squirms for a moment before saying primly, “Don’t be ridiculous, of course I’ll take him on. Come on champ.” He takes Grantaire out of Enjolras’ arms before he has time to protest and drags Jehan along with him for good measure.

“I am never letting him live that down,” Bossuet announces gleefully. “Look at him, thinks he’s some big hard criminal with his knife and his designer clothes but he’s riding the teacups with his little flowery boyfriend. Priceless.” He sounds dangerously like he might start cooing over them at any minute.

“Who’d’ve thought he’d be good with kids,” Joly agrees from behind his scarf.

It dawns on Enjolras that his arms feel kind of empty without the reassuring weight of Grantaire nestled in them and the pudgy little fists tugging at his hair, and after Bossuet’s comment about the knife he feels a little less safe leaving Grantaire alone with Montparnasse.

Beside him, Combeferre lets out a long suffering sigh. “Come on, let’s go get a hotdog or something, you look like you might explode.”

He gives Enjolras absolutely no choice in this, and determinedly steers him away.

 

When Montparnasse returns with Grantaire a half hour later, he has a pink elephant balloon tied around his wrist and looks completely unashamed of it.

“His name is Herbert,” he announces as he sets Grantaire down next to Enjolras; he in turn has a green dinosaur balloon and is stuffing cotton candy in his mouth like his life depends on it. He’s wearing a little glowstick necklace and has bracelets all up his arms.

Grantaire stands up in his seat and pushes the sticky mass into Enjolras face. “Look! Is good.” He gives him a sticky, pink grin and shovels more into his mouth happily enough.

Montparnasse, meanwhile, has quite the guilty look on his face as he passes a bag over to Enjolras. He peeks inside to find an impressive amount of candy.

“He’s very persuasive,” Montparnasse says in defense. “And I promised him he could get his face painted, but he says he wants you to get it done too.”

Enjolras groans, which is the perfect opportunity for Grantaire to shove a handful of cotton candy into his open mouth. It squeaks on his teeth and is much too sweet, but Grantaire looks terribly pleased with himself so he lets him get away with it.

Joly appears beside them with pink cheeks and a bright smile, and swoops in with wet wipes to clean off Grantaire’s face. “Courfeyrac and Bahorel went on the waltzers eight times in a row,” he informs them. “They only stopped because Courfeyrac threw up. It was disgusting.” He pulls a face and hands a wet wipe to Enjolras to wipe the stickiness from his face.

Grantaire stands on Joly’s lap to give himself more height and waves wildly over his shoulder, and before anyone can blink he’s been scooped up by Musichetta who carries him off with barely a word. This time, Enjolras follows.

“You people have got to stop stealing my kid,” he grumbles, weaving between young couples and kids with balloons who seem incapable of looking where they’re going.

Musichetta shakes her head, curls bouncing wildly. “You have to learn to share. And he’s not your kid, he’s Grantaire. Here tadpole, look at this.”

She’s stopped at one of those claw machines, and points at one of the prizes inside it. Grantaire full on squeals, and leans forward to press his nose up against the glass in excitement.

“You know, I am extremely lucky at these things,” she says conspiratorially and winks, then hands Grantaire back to Enjolras with determination in her eyes.

It only takes her three tries and a few minutes, but to Grantaire they’re clearly the most tense few minutes of his entire life. He leans precariously forward the entire time, so far that Enjolras struggles to keep hold of him, then throws his arms in the air so wildly he nearly hits Enjolras in the face as he unleashes his joyous cry to the world. Enjolras sets him down so Musichetta can hand over the stuffed frog, and he stamps his little feet in excitement as he crushes it to his chest.

“His name,” he shouts up to them both, “is Fog!”

 

Enjolras really kind of hopes that Montparnasse forgets his promise about the face painting, but it seems he really is a man of his word, and soon he has Grantaire on his lap while a woman with a butterfly on her face is very carefully painting him up to look like a frog. Grantaire is sitting very, very still, obviously trying his hardest so it doesn’t get ruined. Enjolras tries really hard to not be noticed in the hopes he might get out of it, but the second Grantaire is finished he makes sure Enjolras gets a kitty on his face.

He is pretty certain he’s never going to live this down.

At Grantaire’s insistence, any of their friends who drift close enough get roped into being prettied up, which Courfeyrac and Jehan take to with entirely too much relish. Not that anybody is at all surprised by Jehan walking around with glittery flowers on his face (in fact it’s a wonder he doesn’t do it more often), but Courfeyrac looks absolutely gleeful about the stegosaurus on his cheek.

“You aren’t wearing this all the time,” Combeferre informs him sternly, although it’s very, very hard to take him seriously when he has a large moth painted across his face.

Courfeyrac pouts very determinedly at him and folds his arms. “I can if I get it tattooed.”

“Jo’ras,” Grantaire butts in, right into his ear, “I' like artman.” He points at his face and looks completely smug.

“Yeah,” Enjolras agrees. “You sure are.”

 

Grantaire gets sick.

They assume he must have picked something up at the fair. He ends up all sniffly and stuffed up, wandering around looking piteous with a blanket in one hand and Fog in the other. Enjolras has no idea how to look after a sick child, in fact he’s not even good at looking after himself when he’s sick, so after plying Grantaire with medicine he doesn’t want to take and trying to bribe him to stay in bed and rest he eventually gives in and calls Joly.

Joly panics a little bit at first on the phone, rattling off potential symptoms as if he’s crossing them off a checklist in his mind, but then says quite calmly that it sounds like just a cold or something and it’ll probably be good for his immune system. Enjolras isn’t quite sure whether he believes him, but carabin Joly is already known as super doctor around the hospital, so he doesn’t argue. Instead he asks him to bring round some toys or something to entertain Grantaire - since past craft supplies Enjolras still doesn’t have any proper toys - then leaves him yelling to Bossuet that he’s been called away on a sick child emergency. Just before he hangs up, there is a very alarming crash.

Enjolras sighs after putting the phone down, then rounds on Grantaire who is hovering behind him, clutching at the blanket and chewing on one end. He puts his hands on his hips and tries to appear stern.

“I called Doctor Joly, so you’d better get in bed and behave.”

“No.”

Worryingly, Enjolras can’t seem to think of a counter-argument for that, and stands there uselessly with his mouth open for a second whilst being stared down by a toddler and a frog.

“He’s a doctor, so you have to do what he says,” he says lamely. He isn’t used to arguing with children.

“No.”

“If you don’t, he’ll make you take more nasty medicine.”

Grantaire full on whines, flopping forward face first - luckily landing on the blanket - and continues to make immensely displeased noises into the carpet. Enjolras sees his opportunity and he takes it, diving in and scooping him off the floor. Grantaire kicks and screams, flailing his arms around and hitting Enjolras in the face with Fog, the whole time making it immensely difficult for Enjolras to get him back to the bedroom without dropping him. Enjolras puts him very firmly in bed and pulls the covers up around him, making a point of tucking Fog in too. Grantaire crosses his arms and sulks, but grudgingly allows it, although he pouts fiercely until Enjolras gives in and brings him some chocolate pudding.

Enjolras watches Grantaire spoon feeding pudding to Fog for a minute, just to make sure he’s behaving, then has to leave him while he goes to answer the door. Joly is standing outside looking halfway between cheerful and mildly panicked, his cheeks pink with the cold and wearing an awful sweater that could rival one of Prouvaire’s.

“I have lego,” he announces triumphantly, holding a bag aloft. “It’s very hard to get out of an attic with one hand. I nearly dropped it on Bossuet.”

From somewhere behind him, a voice says; “Then he’d be marooned in a sea of lego, and that’s beyond unlucky. You’re a cruel man, Jolllly.”

Joly steps aside and reveals Combeferre and Courfeyrac behind him, Courfeyrac’s hair sticking out from under a hat with ear flaps that he looks excessively pleased about.

“Since Combeferre won’t let me have my own, I’ve adopted Grantaire.” He holds his arms out and makes grabby hands. “Gimme.”

“You can’t just adopt Grantaire,” Enjolras protests, “he’s mine.”

Combeferre raises an eyebrow as he edges his way into the flat, toeing his shoes off at the door and cleaning up the carnage Courfeyrac leaves behind; coat and scarf and hat abandoned wherever he throws them.

Courfeyrac almost plows over Joly and Enjolras both in his rush to see Grantaire again; whilst he’s at least done as he was told and stayed in bed, he’s also got hold of a couple of marker pens.

He seems to have favoured the green pen, and has got it not only all over his arms and face but also on Enjolras’ quilt. He doesn’t look the least bit guilty, but instead looks pretty pleased with himself, dropping the marker - with the lid still off - on the sheets.

“I got no paper,” he informs them, grabbing for the red marker, then starts reaching for Enjolras. As soon as he gets close enough, Grantaire makes a dive for him, grabbing hold of his vest and tugging the top of it aside. The marker tickles on Enjolras’ shoulder as Grantaire draws very intently, his tongue poking out in concentration until he sits back and proudly announces; “mine.”

The noise that comes out of Courfeyrac’s mouth suggests the sheer cuteness has caused him to forget how to function, and in that moment Enjolras begins to hope Courfeyrac never has kids, because he will become insufferable.

Enjolras twists around to look over his shoulder at the reflection in the mirror on his wall; on his shoulder is a large, very shaky, red ‘R’ that is lopsided and uneven.

“Mon show me,” Grantaire says distractedly, picking up markers and eyeing them critically until he finds a colour he likes. “He has Jan’s name on him so’s everyone knows he’s Jan’s. An’ now everyone knows Jo’ras is mine.”

“Can’t fault his logic,” Courfeyrac says cheerfully, poking Enjolras in the shoulder. “Aw, that’s so cute, now everyone knows he loves you! Hey, Combeferre -”

“No, Courfeyrac,” Combeferre says in a long-suffering tone of voice, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Very no. Definitely no.”

Courfeyrac pouts. “I don’t think you love me,” he announces dramatically, “you don’t love me at all. I want the kind of love Enjolras and Grantaire have!”

Combeferre sighs, picks up a blue marker, yanks up Courfeyrac’s shirt and very deliberately writes his name across his hip. “Happy now?”

“Moderately,” Courfeyrac huffs, but he grins all the same.

Enjolras, meanwhile, has fallen into an awkward, contemplative silence, his fingers brushing over his shoulder as he bites his lip thoughtfully. Combeferre looks over to where Grantaire is very deliberately drawing a moustache on his own face and puts his hands on his hips, tutting fondly.

“Someone has to give you a bath, young man.”

Grantaire considers this, then says very deliberately, “No.”

“Yes. Courfeyrac’s going to give you a bath and no arguments.”

Courfeyrac straightens up from where he’s inspecting his hip, a distinctly alarmed look on his face. “What, no. I’m not doing it.”

Combeferre raises an eyebrow. “And why not?”

“Because it’s Grantaire,” he says as if this should be obvious. “I can’t like, see him naked! Why don’t you do it?”

Combeferre falters for a minute, gesturing inarticulately with his hands. “Because...I...am not qualified?” he hazards, then sighs. “It’s Grantaire and I can’t see him naked, okay? Enjolras, you must have, you do it.”

Enjolras blinks and looks up, not having been paying attention. “What?”

From behind them all, forgotten in the doorway, Joly lets out a long suffering sigh and elbows his way past them all, shaking his head like they should know better.

“I’ll do it, go play with the lego or something,” he says with an eye-roll as he balances Grantaire on his hip and carries him out of the room. That last thing he hears before he shuts the bathroom door is;

“Courfeyrac, no.”

 

Joly admittedly doesn’t have a whole lot of experience in looking after children. In fact, his extended family - although large - is quite lacking in young children, so he’s never been called on to babysit. It only now just occurs to him that if he’s going to become a pediatrician he probably ought to at least gain a little experience in taking care of children. In fact, it really ought to have occurred to him earlier.

Grantaire, on the whole, does not look impressed by the idea of a bath. He rests his chin on the edge of the bath while he waits for it to fill up, a distinct little scowl on his face as he watches a lone rubber duck floating in circles.

“Don’t you like baths?” Joly asks with a conspiratorial smile, turning the water off and dunking his elbow in to check the temperature.

Grantaire shakes his head sulkily, folding his arms in the way he’d often seen Enjolras do.

“But I thought frogs liked getting wet?”

He perks up a little at this, his interest clearly piqued. Joly sees his chance and he takes it, pulling Grantaire into his lap so he can start wrestling him out of his clothes.

“Frogs like swimming in ponds to cool themselves down and get clean. I don’t have a pond, but I’ve got a bath, and it may not have any lilypads for you to hop on but it’ll have to do, won’t it?”

Before Grantaire can protest - and he clearly wants to - Joly picks him up and sets him down again in the water, ignoring the totally affronted look on Grantaire’s face.

“There. That isn’t so bad, is it?”

Grantaire looks like he wants to argue purely for arguments sake, but instead reaches for the rubber duck while trying his hardest to keep the pout on his face, wiggling his toes thoughtfully as he pulls it under the water then giggles when he lets go and it bobs back up to the surface.

“What’s his name?” Joly inquires seriously as he pours water over Grantaire’s hair and reaches for the shampoo.

Grantaire considers this question as Joly shampoos his hair, an intense thoughtful look on his face as he studies the duck, holding it under the water as if that might provide the answer to his dilemma.

“Nigel,” he says eventually, nodding once to confirm his choice and scrunching his face up as water runs down his face.

Joly has to hide his chuckle behind his hand. “Nigel. That’s a very good name for a duck.”

“Yes.”

Joly assumed that since Grantaire had gotten in the bath without much fuss, he wouldn’t object to actually being clean, but when he tries to wash the pen from his arms Grantaire yanks his arm back and hits Joly’s arm with Nigel, the fierce little scowl back on his face.

“No. I pretty.”

“You’re pretty anyway.”

“No,” Grantaire says uncertainly.

“Yes. Come on, I’ll wash it off and then you can go draw it on paper instead so you can keep it forever.”

“I give it to Jo’ras.”

“That’s a very nice idea,” Joly says with a smile, relieved to find the pen washes off without too much scrubbing. Grantaire is obviously still displeased about the fact, because he takes a half-hearted kick at Joly, too busy holding Nigel under water again to take another swing at him. Joly catches his foot and grins, tickling it just a little; Grantaire looks confused for a second, then shrieks with laughter, trying to pull his foot back.

“Are you ticklish?”

Grantaire lets out a laugh and shakes his head. “No,” he giggles.

“Are you sure?”

He begins tickling him again, Grantaire laughing hysterically as he tries to get away, covering the bathroom in water and accidentally throwing Nigel across the room where he hits the opposite wall with a dejected squeak and lies abandoned on the floor.

“Look at these little piggies, all nice and clean,” Joly announces, poking at Grantaire’s wiggling toes with a little grin.

Grantaire giggles even harder, his face somewhere between intensely amused and a little confused. “Piggies?”

“Oh yes,” Joly says very seriously. “Look, this little piggy’s going to market,” he says as he wiggles Grantaire’s big toe.

Grantaire knows where this is going, and has stuffed his hands over his mouth to try and stifle the laughter.

“This little piggy stayed home. That must be Enjolras,” he teases with a completely straight face. “This little piggy had roast beef, but this little piggy had none.”

A laugh forces its way past Grantaire’s hands as he begins to giggle harder, his other leg kicking about uselessly.

“And this little piggy,” Joly begins dramatically, pinching Grantaire’s little toe between his fingers and giving him a broad grin.

 

Outside, Enjolras is wedged into the armchair on one side of Combeferre, Courfeyrac on the other, both of them curled against Combeferre with his arms around them both. Enjolras is still in a thoughtful mood, his mind drifting over too many things, but he starts back to himself at the sound of hysterical shrieking from the bathroom, almost jumping out of his seat. Combeferre’s grip tightens a little on his shoulder.

“Do I need to be worried?” Enjolras demands, twisting his head to look up at him.

Combeferre shakes his head as Courfeyrac says very eloquently, “Nah.”

 

Joly eventually emerges with Grantaire wrapped in a towel - Nigel clutched in his hands - and a sheepish look on his face about the sheer amount of water on the bathroom floor. He does apologise for it, but Enjolras is distracted and restless, playing idly with his phone.

Combeferre sighs in Enjolras’ general direction, then takes Grantaire from Joly and narrowly avoids getting Nigel’s beak in his eye.

“He gets like this when things are playing on his mind,” he says in a long-suffering voice, nodding to Enjolras. “He’ll snap out of it soon enough.”

“I’m sure he just needs a good nights sleep. He is eating enough, isn’t he?” Joly shakes his head. “Never mind, I’d better go clean up the bathroom. Grantaire sure knows how to make a mess.”

Enjolras stands up and stretches, dislodging Courfeyrac who was leaning against him in the absence of Combeferre, blinking sleepily in alarm. “I’m going for a walk, get some air,” he mutters, reaching for his coat.

“Good idea, it might help you feel better,” Combeferre says wisely, shifting Grantaire in his arms as he yawns loudly. “Come on tadpole, I’ll read you the Princess and the Frog.”

The last thing Enjolras sees as he heads out the front door is the look of absolute joy on Grantaire’s tired face.

 

 

Chapter Text

“What is that?” Combeferre demands, folding his arms in an unimpressed manner.

Enjolras has finally come shuffling out of his bedroom after a lie in, his hair sticking up in the back and dressed only in a pair of pyjama bottoms, a bleary look on his face. Combeferre had let himself in with the spare key after unsuccessful attempts to text Enjolras, crept into his room and lifted an already wide awake Grantaire from a sleepy Enjolras’ arms, leaving him to catch up on a little sleep.

Now, Enjolras has finally joined the land of the living, meaning Combeferre can see the suspiciously familiar looking bandage clinging to Enjolras' shoulder.

Enjolras gives a very deliberate shrug and heads over to grab a cup of coffee.

“Wha’s that?” Grantaire mimics seriously, making eating cereal look like extremely difficult work - there’s more scattered across the table than there is making it to his mouth.

“Enjolras has a boo boo,” Courfeyrac says mischievously, a look of absolute glee on his face. “But you can’t touch it, okay?”

“I kiss it better,” Grantaire says determinedly, making grabby hands towards Enjolras. Enjolras obliges, making sure not to spill his coffee as he slurps at it, letting Grantaire place a sloppy kiss on his shoulder.

“All better,” Enjolras says around a yawn, stretching idly.

Combeferre rolls his eyes and gives Enjolras a stern look. “I think we need to have a talk.”

“Oh god. Can’t it wait till I’ve woken up?”

Combeferre’s response is to take Enjolras by the arm and lead him towards the living room, pushing him towards the sofa as he closes the door behind him, then sighs.

“Just to clarify, that tattoo is what I think it is?”

Enjolras nods and downs the rest of his coffee. “I’ve been thinking about a tattoo for a while, but I wanted something important.”

Combeferre raises an eyebrow skeptically, then gives him a gesture to continue.

“It is important,” Enjolras insists, sensing Combeferre’s doubt. “I think knowing Grantaire like this made me realise that behind his prickly nature his heart really is in the right place, and it’s important to remember that, for him if not for me. He’s a sweet kid, and he’s kind, and maybe he needs reminding of that sometimes.” He shrugged, playing with the mug. “He’s a friend. What else is more important than that?”

Combeferre studies him for a moment, then gives him an appraising look and pats Enjolras’ shoulder. “Courfeyrac is going to want one.”

Enjolras thinks it best not to mention he wants one for everyone.

 

Breakfast takes longer than expected because Courfeyrac initiates a spoon fight with Grantaire, and that results in more cereal being flicked all over the kitchen. Enjolras sits amidst the chaos sipping his way through a second cup of coffee, by this point used to anarchy reigning in his apartment. It’s usually not even Grantaire’s fault - Courfeyrac is entirely the most influential factor on whether or not Enjolras gets any peace.

As if to prove this point, it seems Courfeyrac is just getting started. He hoists a giggling Grantaire out of his seat then holds him upside down by his feet, pretending to mop the floor with his hair. Grantaire screams the whole time, the laughter distorting his face in a way that looks ridiculous upside down, and as soon as Courfeyrac puts him down he wraps himself around his legs and holds on tight, being dragged around the kitchen as Courfeyrac tries to escape.

“This is not going to end well,” Combeferre cautions, opening this mornings newspaper with a resigned look, like he knows disaster is swiftly approaching but is completely powerless to stop it.

Enjolras is less perturbed. “They’ll be fine. Courfeyrac knows what he’s doing, and he’s…”

Combeferre lowers the paper just enough to glance at Enjolras over the top of it, one eyebrow raised behind his glasses. “Were you about to say responsible?”

“Definitely not.”

“I didn’t think so.” Combeferre glances over to where Courfeyrac is stamping around the living room in a very poor impersonation of a dinosaur, then shakes his head in resignation.

Grantaire, on the other hand, is having a whale of a time. Dinosaurs are something he loves almost as much as frogs, and whilst his impression is only slightly more accurate than Courfeyrac’s (meaning there’s less stomping around with gay abandon for the sake of it and more actual dinosaur like behaviour), Courfeyrac does have him beat in the Pterodactyl screech department.

“Hey, Combeferre,” he calls, kicking over a stack of books in true Godzilla fashion and ignoring the alarmed look on Enjolras’ face. “Why can’t you hear a Pterodactyl go to the bathroom?”

“I am leaving you if you finish that joke.”

Courfeyrac makes a show of looking offended. “Woah, watch out everyone, Combeferre’s sense of humour has been hit by a meteor and is now extinct!” He mimes being a meteor and crashes onto the couch, cushions flying everywhere.

Grantaire throws his arms in the air and yells, “Bang!”

There’s an odd moment where all Enjolras and Combeferre can see are Courfeyrac’s legs kicking about uselessly, before he rolls sideways off the couch and disappears. Enjolras does not miss the fact that Combeferre is still shooting disapproving looks at his shoulder. He sighs loudly.

“Would you just say it?”

“You are naive and stupid,” Combeferre says bluntly, so bluntly Enjolras is almost surprised. He expected more tact. “I understand your reasoning, but you never think your actions through. How do you think Grantaire is going to react when we get him back? He’s not going to be happy, Enjolras, and I’m not sure you even understand why.”

Enjolras thinks about this for a moment, his fingers drumming an idle pattern on the coffee cup they’re still wrapped around. “He’ll be embarrassed,” he says eventually. “Because he might not want to be reminded of this, and because he thinks he isn’t good enough. He didn’t want to draw a tattoo for Jehan because he was worried it’d look bad.”

Combeferre gives him a carefully blank look for a moment, then gives him a single nod. “That’s a start. What made you even think of doing this?”

“Just something Courf said,” he answers vaguely, turning his attention back to the living room.

Courfeyrac and Grantaire have built themselves a makeshift city in the middle of the living room out of books and couch cushions, and Grantaire is stomping his way through it making a lot of noise while Courfeyrac pretends to be helicopters and police cars.

“The citizens of the city are terrified, aren’t they Combeferre.” He gives Combeferre a very meaningful look. “They’re fleeing through the city but there is no escape!”

Combeferre sighs and puts his paper down, but he’s smiling all the same as he makes a show of being scared of Grantaire, cowering and going, “Please don’t eat me!”

“You not tasty,” Grantaire says with a giggle, and flat out jumps on him instead, landing heavily on his stomach.

Combeferre lets out a completely undignified noise and collapses dramatically with a cry of, “You got me, I’m dead.”

Grantaire finds it funny it first, turning to Courfeyrac with a proud look as if to show how very fierce and terrifying he is, to have felled someone so large - to him - as Combeferre, but when Combeferre continues to play dead things start to go downhill.

There’s a sort of pause where his face scrunches up, and then he unleashes a heart-wrenching sob and begins to cry. “I kill Cobferre!”

Enjolras runs into the living room so fast it’s a wonder he doesn’t trip and break his neck, and scoops Grantaire up just as Combeferre is shooting up off the floor.

“It’s okay, I was only pretending. See, I’m fine.”

Grantaire wiggles a little out of Enjolras' grasp so he can lean over and cling to Combeferre, crying into his shirt very determinedly. “I sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. I scared you and that was very naughty of me, wasn’t it?”

Grantaire nods, and lets Combeferre hoist him out of Enjolras’ arms to take him to get a milkshake to feel better, but only after a little coaxing. Once he’s out of earshot, Enjolras whirls on Courfeyrac and frowns deeply, folding his arms.

“Tidy up this mess, you troublemaker.”

“Only if you show me your tattoo.”

Enjolras leaves the room with an exaggerated eye roll.

 

Combeferre manages to get Grantaire calmed down pretty quickly with a clever combination of milkshake and tickling, but keeping him calm proves to be a bigger challenge, because Courfzilla is still on the rampage - it takes him a grand total of eight minutes to get Grantaire back into over-excited giggles as they continue kicking Enjolras’ poor books around the living room, their city now nothing but ruins. Grantaire ends up lying on his back in the middle of it, laughing hysterically as Courfeyrac tickles him to the point where he’s laughing so much he can barely breathe. Then Courfeyrac stands up abruptly and rubs his hands together.

“Don’t we have lunch reservations?”

Combeferre blinks in surprise and looks at his watch. “Oh, yes. If we leave now we won’t be late.” He stands quickly and buttons himself into his coat as Courfeyrac wrestles with his trainers, ignoring Enjolras’ unimpressed comment about how maybe he should have gotten velcro instead of laces. Combeferre dishes out the kisses to Grantaire, gives Enjolras one last stern look, then ushers Courfeyrac out of the door before he can cause any more destruction.

Left in the kitchen, Enjolras stands around uselessly for a second, stunned in the wake of the whirlwind that has just torn through his flat. It feels suspiciously like Courfeyrac has just spent a lot of time winding Grantaire up only to leave when he gets too hyperactive. He looks to the mess that has exploded through his living room, the milkshake spilled on the kitchen table, and exhales a long-suffering sigh that Combeferre would be proud of. He can’t face cleaning it up yet; he needs a good few years to calm down first.

Grantaire still seems preoccupied with kicking around the remains of his city, so Enjolras takes his chance to sneak off and fetch his laptop from where he left it abandoned on his bedroom floor. He doesn’t notice it’s gone suspiciously quiet until he’s going back into the kitchen, which is when Grantaire launches his daring attack and leaps out from behind the doorway, unleashing a loud roar and baring his teeth. Enjolras makes a show of being scared and hiding behind his laptop (and doesn’t even feel childish about it) until Grantaire grins delightedly and runs off again to make himself a den out of the couch cushions.

Enjolras finds a spot of table not covered in drying milkshake to set up his laptop and begins his epic quest for some sort of job. He’s less keen on the idea of starting up some sort of business; too much work and risk involved, and he’s not entirely sure he’d have the responsibility to do it alone.

He hears an insistent growling and looks up to make sure Grantaire is behaving - he’s poking his head out of the den with the fiercest look he can muster, which for a small boy in a frog onesie is not very fierce at all.

“Behave yourself,” Enjolras calls.

“This my cave,” Grantaire answers seriously, then retreats further into it.

“It’s a lovely cave,” Enjolras answers absently, googling local paramedic vacancies. He’s still not sure he has the right temperament for that kind of job, being nowhere near patient enough, but it’s worth a look anyway. He’s almost certain that he doesn’t have the balls to be a firefighter, and the police force is out of the question. Not that he has anything against the police themselves - it can be a dangerous job and he has a lot of respect for the people who do it - he just takes issue with the corrupt and unfair justice system they happen to serve. Besides, he’s known to the police, and they’d probably laugh at his application.

“Jo’ras, I dinosaur!” Grantaire yells insistently, tugging on Enjolras arm. “Look! You no look!”

Enjolras loses his train of thought so turns to watch Grantaire stomp around the kitchen with a tolerant smile. “Yes, you’re a very good dinosaur, now why don’t you go clean up the living room while I work a little?”

He could always consider teaching, he supposes. He probably doesn’t have the patience for that either, but it’s worth a shot. Maybe university level where the students are more mature and less likely to make him want to tear his hair out.

Grantaire interrupts his focus again by climbing into Enjolras’ lap, standing all over him and blocking his view of the computer as he unleashes a roar directly into Enjolras’ ear that is loud enough to make him wince.

“Now, look, get down.” He picks Grantaire up with a stern look and sets him down on the floor. “You’re being very silly and you need to calm down,” he snaps, already irritated.

Grantaire looks up at him for a minute with wide eyes, then flees the kitchen. Enjolras returns to his laptop and stares blankly at the search results before slamming it shut, resting his head on its closed lid for a moment, and then the guilt starts to trickle in.

Snapping at Grantaire is nothing new (and neither is the guilt it brings) but he just snapped at a child, a child who only wanted his attention. This is why he could never be a teacher. He immediately gets up to go apologise.

Except he can’t find him.

 

Enjolras 12:47

I need help.

“Who the fuck is texting you?” Bossuet’s voice is muffled against Joly’s collarbone where he’s peppering it with kisses, Joly’s shirt unbuttoned and tugged down to expose his ribs.

Joly’s cheeks are flushed pink and he squints disapprovingly at his phone, unable - and unwilling - to fetch his reading glasses so he can see.

“Nobody,” he says breathlessly, frantically tapping out a reply.

Joly 12:48

Bsy cant help not sorry

 

Enjolras 12:50

I lost my child.

Bahorel 12:50

Im busy fuck off

Bahorel knows he should feel a little bit guilty - and losing Grantaire is probably the sort of thing he should be rushing to help with - but knowing Enjolras he’s probably exaggerating, and it’s not like he doesn’t have anybody else to call. Besides, this is important, and Feuilly is already giving him a cool stare, one eyebrow raised at the phone.

“I do apologise, am I keeping you from something more important?”

Bahorel tosses his phone onto the table without glancing at it again. Feuilly’s buzzes in his pocket, and he makes a point of very casually bringing it out and taking his time reading the message. He looks to Bahorel’s phone as if figuring out he got the same message, then shrugs and puts his phone down.

“This better be good.”

Bahorel fumbles. He isn’t good with words, and this is important. He needs to get this right.

“I fucked up.” Probably not the best way to start. “I didn’t ask you to move in with me because I think there’s something wrong with you having your own place or out of pity. I asked you because yeah, your apartment’s really crappy, but you deserve better than that. You deserve somewhere nice, and maybe my apartment isn’t nice, I know it’s a mess and you hate that, but at least it doesn’t have damp and the shower has hot water. I want you to move in because I love you damnit.” The last part comes out a little angrily, but it’s heartfelt, and that’s the best he can manage. He’s not good with words.

Even so, Feuilly’s face softens. “You’re an idiot, and you’re going to be making this up to me. But you’re my idiot, and I love you too.”

As far as their relationship goes, it’s pretty sappy by their standards, but it’s nice. Bahorel isn’t used to nice, but he could definitely get used to it. Their phones buzz simultaneously, and they roll their eyes in unison, then began to laugh, the tension gone.

Enjolras 12:59

I found my child no thanks to you halfwits.

 

“What I did was very bad, and I am very, very sorry.” Enjolras has found Grantaire curled up in the very small space between Enjolras’ wardrobe and the wall, trying to make himself as unobtrusive as possible.

Grantaire sniffles a little, then asks in a piteous voice, “Was I bad?”

Enjolras shakes his head furiously. “Not at all. You’re never bad. You were being a bit too loud, but that’s okay because you were just playing, and you’re allowed to do that. What I did was very mean, wasn’t it?”

Grantaire nods, and wipes his nose on the back of his hand.

“Do you hate me?”

Grantaire’s eyes go very wide, like he can’t imagine ever hating Enjolras, and he shimmies out of his hiding place to crawl into Enjolras opens arms. “No. You my favourite.”

“You’re my favourite too,” Enjolras says softly. “If I yell again you get to yell too, okay?”

“Okay. You mad?”

“I’m not mad, you just scared me when I couldn’t find you. No more running off, okay?”

Grantaire gives him a very thoughtful look for a moment, then worms out of his arms and goes trotting off, looking over his shoulder every few steps to make sure Enjolras can still see him. He flops down in the middle of the carnage in the living room, hunts out his pens and some sheets of paper amongst the mess and sits quietly drawing, the picture of perfect behaviour.

Enjolras tidies up the chaos around Grantaire while trying his hardest not to disturb him, and it’s just as he’s finished and has collapsed onto the sofa that Grantaire holds up his picture with a triumphant shout and runs over to Enjolras.

“I drawed you special picture to say sorry for scaring you.” He ducks his head shyly and thrusts the picture at Enjolras.

It’s a picture of Enjolras wearing a cape, one arm extended in front of him as he soars through the sky, with some of the gold star stickers Enjolras bought him stuck around the edge to make it extra special.

“It’s wonderful Grantaire. I’m going to put it on the wall so everyone can see it.”

Grantaire’s face lights up with a smile at exactly the same time as his cheeks turned bright red and he buries his face against Enjolras’ leg to hide it, his blush so intense Enjolras can feel the heat of it radiating through his trousers.

He is beginning to understand the appeal of having children.

 

“No.”

Enjolras groans and puts his head in his hands, stooped down so he’s level with a very unimpressed Grantaire who has folded his arms in an attempt to look as serious as possible.

“Grantaire, it’s dirty. I need to wash it. It’ll only be an hour or so and then you can have it back.”

Grantaire shakes his head very determinedly. Getting him out of the frog outfit has never been this difficult in the past - Joly managed to get him out of it so he could have a bath, but now he’s flat out refusing to take it off.

“Grantaire, please -”

“Ribbit!” he shouts, stamping his little feet to show how much he will not be moved on this point.

Enjolras has no idea how to discipline children. He knows that parents usually threaten to take away a favourite toy if the child doesn’t behave, or not let them have dessert, or something like that, but Enjolras can’t quite bring himself to be that mean to Grantaire. He doesn’t want to shout either, not after how upset it made Grantaire earlier. Appealing to Grantaire’s better nature isn’t working. Quite frankly, he’s running out of options.

He gives up and takes what’s probably going to be the easiest path - he simply sets Grantaire in his lap and wrestles him out of the damn thing. Grantaire kicks and screams the whole time, slipping into full on tantrum mode as he does his best to fight his way out of Enjolras’ grip, But Enjolras manages to get the thing off him and throw it in the washing machine before Grantaire can stop him.

Grantaire descends into the full on crying children do when they’re not quite as upset as they’re making themselves out to be, stamps his feet a bit more, then folds his arm and stomps off to the living room, sitting with his back pointedly to Enjolras as he hunches over his colouring book.

Enjolras does not understand the appeal of having children.

 

The frog onesie is drying nicely and Enjolras is settled with a cup of coffee and a book when someone raps on the door. As he gets up wearily to answer it - he’d just gotten comfortable - it dawns on him that nobody visited him quite this much before he became responsible for Grantaire. He can’t quite find it in him to be annoyed about that.

As he cracks the door open, he finds Bossuet on the doorstep looking both sheepish and very pleased with himself at the same time. If the marks on his neck are anything to go by, he’s clearly had a good afternoon.

“Joly sent me,” he says cheerfully by way of greeting. “He felt guilty about the text but he’s got doctor-y things to be doing, so he sent me to check up on the tadpole.”

“He’s in a sulk,” Enjolras says bluntly, inviting him in with a graceful sweep of his arm. “I had to wash the frog outfit and he’s not happy about it.”

Bossuet shuffles inside and wipes his shoes on the mat. “Aw, bless.”

Enjolras sighs tiredly. “You only say that because you didn’t have to deal with the tantrum.”

“I refuse to believe that anything that cute is capable of throwing a tantrum. Where is he?” Bossuet is poking his head into the living room, so he should be able to see him. Enjolras follows suit, scanning the room, then furrows his face in an odd mix of thoughtfulness and sheer terror.

“Tell me I did not lose the same child twice in one day.”

Bossuet laughs and claps him on the shoulder. “Sorry mate, looks like that’s what you did. He can’t have gone far right?”

“I told him not to do that again,” Enjolras mutters, heading towards his bedroom. “Make yourself comfortable, I shouldn’t be long.” Hopefully. His flat was only so big, after all, but if he couldn’t find Grantaire in the flat, that meant he was somewhere out of it, and that is a whole world of trouble Enjolras doesn’t want.

He checks in the places he’s found Grantaire hiding before - under the bed, down the side of the wardrobe - then branches out to any places a toddler could feasibly fit which, as it turns out, is simultaneously more places than he expected and considerably less places than he expected all at once. His flat isn’t huge, of course, and there are only so many places a kid could run off to.

He’s just starting to reach the point of rationalised panic when Bossuet calls from the kitchen, “Found him!”

For the second time in the same day, Enjolras nearly breaks his neck running to Grantaire in a hurry.

Bossuet is standing by the kitchen table with a funny grin on his face, like he’s really concerned but can’t help but find the situation a little funny regardless. Grantaire is, remarkably, huddled on top of the fridge, pressing his face into fog as he cries quietly.

“Grantaire, how did you get up there?” Enjolras asks incredulously, reaching up to take one of Grantaire’s hands.

“Wanted cookie,” he mumbles, face still squashed into fog. “Can’t get down.”

“You scared of heights kid?” Bossuets asks.

Grantaire looks up and nods miserably.

“But heights aren’t scary! Look how tall I am, and I’m not scared at all!”

Grantaire considers this, like he can see the logic in the statement but isn’t quite inclined to believe it, then sniffles some more as Bossuet gently lifts him down - Enjolras isn’t quite tall enough, and in his defence, it’s a tall fridge - then hands him off to Enjolras, reaching up to grab the cookie jar and hands one to Grantaire, sneaking one of his own with hardly a guilty look.

“Why didn’t you call me?” Enjolras asks, tucking a stray curl behind Grantaire’s ear as he nibbles at the cookie forlornly.

“I didn’t want you to be mad,” he says quietly, gnawing away.

Bossuet gives Enjolras the look which he’s come to decipher as ‘I can’t handle how adorable this child is’. He seems to be getting that look a lot, so he just accepts it with a shrug and tucks Grantaire’s head under his chin. Grantaire is still sniffling, but he doesn’t seem particularly upset anymore; Enjolras, on the other hand, is getting a little concerned about the fact that Grantaire associates Enjolras with being angry. He ought to fix that.

He’s just about to offer Bossuet a drink - and try to ply Grantaire into cheering up with milkshake and chocolate pudding - but is interrupted by Grantaire’s monster yawn. He supposes it has been a tiring day for him, hiding and getting stuck and destroying fake cities.

“I’ll let you get him off,” Bossuet says knowingly, still with that moony look on his face that seems to be automatic around Grantaire. He really is a charming child, and not sarcastic in the least.

Enjolras nods, patting the top of Grantaire’s head as he yawns again, squirming about in Enjolras arms. “Come on tadpole, I’ll read to you about Rosa Parks. You’ll like her. Say goodnight.”

Grantaire looks up sleepily and gives a tiny little wave. “Night Boosway.”

Bossuet all but squeaks his goodnight in return, and Enjolras must admit, he really does see the appeal of having children.

 

Chapter Text

“Babe, do I really have to do this?”

Montparnasse is trying not to huff, really, he is, but he isn’t exactly the biggest fan of Halloween. Normally, his involvement goes as far as turning up at a costume party covered in blood - real or otherwise is up to your discretion - and drinking himself stupid. Trick-or-treating in a proper costume is really not his idea of a good night out.

Jehan growls around the pins in his mouth. “Yes. Shut up and keep still.”

He’s in something of a testy mood; Montparnasse definitely sees an opium pipe in Jehan’s near future. He wants to point out that this was Jehan’s idea, not his, but he feels like that might be a stupidly bad idea.

“What exactly am I supposed to be?” he asks instead. All he knows so far is that his costume is going to involve a lot of white chiffon.

“I don’t know, Montparnasse,” Jehan snaps, glaring up at him and jabbing a little too close to his hip with a pin. “I’m making this up as I go along. Maybe something Greek, maybe some sort of spirit. I haven’t decided yet. Either way, you’ll look pretty, isn’t that all you care about?”

Montparnasse feels like protesting this, because he knows his integrity is being both questioned and insulted, but in this particular incident that is all he cares about. Either way, he’s mildly insulted, so he keeps his mouth shut and does his best to look indignant.

“The things I do for you,” he mutters eventually, with not even a hint of bitterness and more than a little fondness.

“You aren’t doing this for me,” Jehan says curtly. “You’re doing this for Grantaire.”

That properly shuts him up.

 

Enjolras is trying not to think about Halloween. He’s never had any excuse to partake in any festivities, although someone usually finds a way of coaxing him into getting drunk. That certainly won’t be happening this year, not with a child around, but then Courfeyrac pointed out a little too eagerly that young children meant trick-or-treating, and that meant wearing a costume. Courfeyrac tried to sweeten the deal by promising to get everyone in a costume, including the less than willing of their friends, but that didn’t put Enjolras in any higher spirits.

Grantaire, on the other hand, was thrilled.

Everyone had assumed that Grantaire would take the opportunity to have an excuse to wear the frog outfit, but the frog outfit seems to have become everyday wear for Grantaire, and he knows enough about Halloween to know that his costume must be special. He also knew enough to know that if he gave Enjolras his best puppy dog eyes and ask him to dress up as a superhero, Enjolras would inevitably give in.

Enjolras gave in. He is going to be wearing a cape and tights, and he will never live it down, and it will be worth it.

He is lamenting the final goodbye of his dignity, may it rest in peace, when Grantaire trots into the kitchen with one of Enjolras’ huge history books clutched in both hands, makes climbing up onto a chair look extremely difficult, then slams the book down on the table and flips through the pages with purpose.

“I wear this,” he announces eventually. “For trick a’ tree.”

He’s jabbing one of his fingers at a picture of Robespierre, obviously having remembered him from Enjolras’ poor excuses for bedtime stories, and is looking very pleased with himself.

To say Enjolras is surprised would be an understatement. It’s really not the sort of costume you’d expect a small child to demand, but the look on Grantaire’s face implies he definitely will not be swayed on this and he’s wearing this costume come hell or highwater. Not that Enjolras is trying to persuade him otherwise. He’s just as thrilled as Grantaire is with the whole idea.

With Grantaire’s excitement mounting, Enjolras has to call Jehan and break the news that his workload as official costume-maker has increased.

Jehan is less than thrilled.

 

Enjolras has to hand it to Jehan; in under a week, he’s managed to make costumes for anyone that asked, provided sewing assistance to everyone else, and completely avoided falling behind on his university work. It’s such an impressive feat that Enjolras has to wonder if he’s employed a little magic to help himself through it, maybe some sort of Disney-style enchanting of sewing machines or needles to do most of the work for him. He doesn’t ask.

Jehan shows up unceremoniously at Enjolras’ flat on Halloween in mid afternoon, when Enjolras is whipping up a batch of brownies partly to keep Grantaire occupied and partly to dispel his stress over his still fruitless job search. Montparnasse traipses in behind him, looking thoroughly sullen and chastised. Enjolras gets the impression he’s had to be cajoled into this and is showing as much resistance as possible.

“Perfect timing,” Jehan announces cheerily; he swipes the bowl of brownie mix from Enjolras before he can put it in the sink to wash and runs his finger around the rim, sticking it in his mouth. “You finish up your baking while I get Montparnasse ready.”

“What’s Montparnasse going as?” Enjolras inquires politely.

“I don’t know,” Montparnasse snaps in return, his sulky look growing by the second.

“It’s just something I threw together,” Jehan says placidly, acting as if Montparnasse hasn’t spoken. “Sort of a frost spirit with Greek influences. Because Montparnasse is such a cold person, you see?” he says brightly. They’ve clearly had some sort of disagreement, but it’s hard to call Montparnasse cold when he’s hoisted Grantaire onto his lap and is asking him in complete sincerity if Grantaire has any special pictures for him. Grantaire promises to draw him one. “Mines something of a darker spirit,” Jehan continues. “Inspired a little by Hannibal, amongst other things. I just threw it together but I think it works well enough.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “And to think, you’re wearing such interesting things and I’m stuck in a cape and tights.”

“Jumpsuit and mask,” Jehan corrects sternly. “I did put some effort in you know. ‘Parnasse, go get dressed,” he adds curtly.

Montparnasse manages to look both like a kicked puppy and an outraged criminal boss at the same time as he goes slinking out of the room, and Grantaire goes trotting after him with a worried look.

“Are you two okay?” Enjolras asks when they’re out of earshot.

Jehan nods absently, pulling pots of makeup out of his bag. “He’s being a pissy little bitch about something but won’t tell me what. It’s annoying, but he’ll either get over it or spill the beans eventually. He does it sometimes.”

“With all due respect, Jehan, I don’t think you snapping at him will help,” Enjolras says cautiously.

Jehan gives him a pointed smile and tosses him a bag with his costume in. “Not that you have many relationships to base this advice on.”

Enjolras scowls his way over to check on the brownies.

 

Both Enjolras and Montparnasse, suitably bundled into their costumes, are pointedly not speaking to Jehan. Enjolras knows it’s silly to take the comment to heart, especially when it’s so accurate, but it was a little scathing. Judging by the thoroughly guilty look on Jehan’s face, he knows it too.

“Forgive me,” he mumbles as he makes minor adjustments to Enjolras’ costume. It’s something more out of some sci-fi dystopian novel then a superhero; all dramatically tight red and black jumpsuit that wouldn’t look out of place on a motorbike and a moulded mask that practically screams justice. “I spoke harshly.”

“It was a good point,” Enjolras concedes. It’s not the first time Jehan has proven that while he may be timid in nature, he is not a pushover. Every rose has thorns, after all.

Jehan shakes his head, but doesn’t argue further. Instead, he turns to Montparnasse, kisses his cheek, then pulls out a makeup brush threateningly. Montparnasse is wearing some sort of white chiffon outfit that vaguely resembles a toga, though it’s a little too long and floaty to really be called that. With his deathly pallor and admittedly handsome face - he has cheekbones that would put Maleficent to shame - it gives him a sort of ethereal look. Even so, he doesn’t look happy about it.

“This is the sort of thing you’d look better in,” he grumbles to Jehan, arms folded in grudging submission.

“If it’s any consolation, your legs look fantastic,” Enjolras says diplomatically.

Montparnasse tries not to be mollified, but he’s terrible at keeping the smirk off his face. He knows he looks good, the bastard. Enjolras excuses himself to go check on Grantaire’s progress - he insisted on getting dressed himself - and the last thing he sees as he leaves the room is Jehan showing his appreciation for Montparnasse’s good looks in the form of a too-enthusiastic kiss. Enjolras grimaces.

He nudges the door to his bedroom open with his toe and pokes his head inside. Grantaire has mostly succeeded in getting himself dressed; his shirt is buttoned up wrong and he clearly has no clue how to wear the waistcoat, but even so he looks terribly pleased with himself.

He looks up as Enjolras walks in, hoists his flag in the air proudly and shouts, “‘Levlution!”

Enjolras beams down at him, then bends down to help him re-button his shirt - but not before discovering that bending in the jumpsuit is not exactly easy. Grantaire bounces in place the whole time, making it very difficult for Enjolras to button up the heavy, ornate buttons on the waistcoat, but he eventually manages and barely has time to stand up before Grantaire’s gone tearing back out of the room. If he carries on at this rate all night, Enjolras won’t be able to keep up.

In the time it’s taken to wrestle Grantaire into his clothes properly, Jehan has somehow managed the impossible tasks of putting makeup on Montparnasse - mostly silver, with dramatic black eyeliner that looks like it could cut someone and tiny little stick on gems that are probably the reason Montparnasse looks so distinctly displeased - doing his own makeup to perfection - all black, a bold stripe across his eyes from ear to ear like something out of a My Chemical Romance video - and getting himself dressed. He’s head to toe black, right from his high heeled mary janes and skinny jeans to the shirt and thin, neat tie. Enjolras is nothing short of amazed that the antlers and their accompanying collection of small (hopefully fake) skulls, dead flowers and miscellaneous silver antique trinkets is staying on his head.

“Well,” is the only response he can manage.

Jehan looks nothing short of proud, and also a little bit smug. Leaving Enjolras speechless is not an easy thing. “We’re expected,” he announces grandly, leaning over to make a last few adjustments to Montparnasse’s hair. “Everyone’s waiting for us. Besides, the earlier we leave, the more candy we can get.”

“More like the earlier we leave the sooner this’ll be over,” Montparnasse mutters to Enjolras as Jehan herds them unceremoniously out of the door.

“Are you two okay?” Enjolras asks quietly in return. He knows he’s asked the question of Jehan already, but he’d rather have the full story.

Montparnasse shrugs, watching as Jehan scoops up Grantaire despite the risk of the flag getting tangled in his antlers as it’s waved around frantically.

“He keeps picking fights about stupid things, and it’s starting to piss me off. It’s almost like he’s looking for excuses to be mad at me. I’m not sure he even wants me around any more.”

Enjolras hums thoughtfully - Jehan was right, he really doesn’t have much experience to go on - and gives the only advice that he can possibly think would be helpful; “I think you two need to talk this out.”

Montparnasse makes a noise which suggests that’s a conversation he isn’t looking forward to.

 

“I tried to stop him,” is the first thing Feuilly says, looking more than a little apologetic.

It takes Enjolras a minute to figure out what he means, and only when Bahorel emerges from a bush dressed as a fairy princess. There’s a moment of silence.

“Why were you in a bush?” Jehan finally asks, unsurprisingly unphased by the costume.

Bahorel shrugs nonchalantly. “Needed the loo.”

“Wonderful,” Montparnasse says dryly, taking a sharp step sideways away from the bush as if it might leap up and get him. He grudgingly accepts a kiss in greeting from Feuilly, who is dressed as some sort of chimney sweep newsboy with dirt smudged on his face, and Montparnasse immediately checks to make sure it hasn’t transferred to his cheek. He’s shivering quite violently, because unsurprisingly to no-one chiffon isn’t exactly suited to keeping out the October chill. “You’ll note how Jehan is wearing something nice and warm,” he says dryly.

Enjolras sighs. “Why don’t you two go find a nice bush to make out in and sort all this out?” That seems to be what they usually do, after all.

“Just not that bush,” Bahorel adds helpfully.

Montparnasse looks like he might be considering this advice, but the moment is ruined when Grantaire trots over and whacks him in the knee with his plastic pumpkin, cheerily shouting, “Trick a’ tree!”

Montparnasse very pointedly does not swear, but it looks like it takes him a great deal of effort. Instead he mutters, “Where’s your doctor friend when I need him?”

“You don’t need a doctor,” Joly announces from behind them. “Honestly Montparnasse, you can deal with severe injuries but not being hit by a pumpkin?”

“Yeah, man up,” Bossuet adds cheerily.

Enjolras isn’t quite sure what to expect in terms of costume, given how secretive the pair have been, but what he definitely isn’t expecting is to turn around and nearly have Joly’s beak take his eye out. Apparently nobody told him dressing as a plague doctor isn’t really the sort of costume you’d wear around children. Enjolras is expecting to have to try and console Grantaire - because really, what child wouldn’t be frightened by that - but instead he merely looks up at Joly with wide, curious eyes, then holds out his arms in a clear demand to be picked up.

Beside Enjolras, Bossuet lets out a huge yawn, then leans on Enjolras’ shoulder. He’s sporting some impressive face paint, sort of tribal in design thought Enjolras can’t place its exact origins, with a cumbersome looking pair of wings strapped to his back.

“Icarus?” Enjolras guesses.

“An eagle. Not one of my best ideas.” He shrugs with a lazy smile. “You look like you should be on motorbike.”

Enjolras huffs and folds his arms. This is why he generally avoids Halloween.

“Jo’ras is superhero,” Grantaire announces imperiously from Joly’s shoulder.

“Superheros can ride motorbikes!” Bossuet argues.

Grantaire looks like he’s about to protest this very seriously and loudly, but his attention is drawn by the arrival of Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and he immediately begins make grabby hands in Courfeyrac’s direction; whether this is because he wants Courfeyrac or because Courfeyrac is predictably dressed as a dinosaur, Enjolras doesn’t know.

Combeferre sidles up on Enjolras’ other side, looking thoroughly exhausted. Clearly he was up half the night again, and Enjolras gives him a look which states he clearly disapproves but isn’t going to comment. “Who are you supposed to be?” he asks instead.

Combeferre doesn’t look much different; he’s bundled into his favourite blue sweatervest, only it’s coupled with a particularly hideous tartan bowtie and a blonde curled wig. “I’m Aziraphale, from Good Omens. You know, that book I told you to read months ago? No? Of course you haven’t. I tried to get Courf to be an accompanying character, but, well…” He gestures at the dinosaur with a long suffering look.

Enjolras is about to comment, but is cut off by something that feels suspiciously like taking a plastic pumpkin to the knee.

“Come on Jo’ras, I have to go make levlution!” He waves the pumpkin around to make his point, then turns and trots off on his own, clearly expecting everyone to just follow him. Enjolras sighs.

 

It’s unclear as to what is more worrying; the fact that Courfeyrac is somehow managing to charm candy out of people despite being way too old for this, or the fact that Grantaire has a limitless supply of energy. He’s wearing Enjolras out, and after all this Enjolras is the one that’s got to get him home and wrestle him into bed. It’s not something he’s looking forward to.

The fact that he’s wolfing down the candy almost as fast as he can get it is probably the culprit, although Enjolras is doing his best to try and make him slow down; it’s not like Grantaire is particularly well known for doing what Enjolras’ asks.

“Grantaire, if you don’t slow down you’ll make yourself sick,” he warns, trying his hardest to reason with him.

Grantaire’s response is to try and stuff the entirety of a jelly snake into his mouth all at once. “Wan’ go to the park.”

Enjolras gives him his best stern look, the kind that could wither away politicians into a small smouldering pile of ash within a few seconds. Grantaire calmly meets his gaze, then turns his now perfected puppy eyes on Courfeyrac. Damnit. He’s being undermined by a dinosaur.

“If we go to the park, you save the rest of the candy,” Enjolras says before Courfeyrac can start making wild promises, “and you go straight to bed when we get home. Agreed?”

“‘greed.”

Grantaire very sensibly hands his pumpkin to Combeferre for safekeeping - which thankfully means he can’t hit anyone else with it - and while he and Courfeyrac bid goodnight to everyone else (who are clearly heading off to drink, because apparently not getting drunk at halloween parties is too much to ask) Grantaire trots off beside Enjolras.

Of course, Grantaire only has little legs and Enjolras has quite long strides, so he has to run a little to keep up; occasionally he trips, stumbling along beside him and clutching at Enjolras’ leg to steady himself, until Enjolras gives in and picks him up with a sigh. Grantaire’s hands bury themselves in his hair as usual, and he begins chattering loudly about ‘levlution’.

Enjolras almost feels bad for unleashing him on the few children milling about on the park, waving his flag around furiously. The key word being almost. Mostly he’s just glad to have some time to himself after hours of trying to keep up, and collapses gratefully onto a bench, an exhausted Combeferre following suit. Courfeyrac is completely incapable of sitting due to his tail, so hovers awkwardly next to him instead, cheerily munching his way through the contents of his own bag of candy.

“Why are children so exhausting?” Enjolras groans, leaning sideways in his seat so he can rest his head on Combeferre’s shoulder.

“Magic,” Combeferre answers somberly. “If you fall asleep on me I’m not carrying you home. I did enough of that in university.”

“Rude,” Courfeyrac says cheerfully.

Enjolras yawns loudly, lazily watching Grantaire building a barricade in the sand pit. He only hopes he’s going to be able to get him home soon, otherwise the threat of him falling asleep is very real. He almost jumps in his seat as a similarly exhausted woman drops onto the bench next to him - he hadn’t seen her coming at all - and turns to him with a bright grin.

“Your kid is really cute,” she says sincerely, tucking a packet of wet wipes into her bag.

“Thanks,” Combeferre and Enjolras say in unison.

Courfeyrac blinks in surprise, looks between the pair of them in a mildly offended manner, then screws up his empty candy bag and stomps off to put it in the bin in the most dignified way a dinosaur can manage.

 

Despite having such a late night, Grantaire wakes up bright and early as usual, which means exhausted or not, Enjolras is up bright and early too; it’s probably the reason he’s still yawning frequently when he opens the door to Courfeyrac, a wooden spoon still clutched in his hand from making Grantaire’s dinner.

“He’s in the kitchen,” Enjolras say immediately, stepping aside to let him in.

“Actually, I came to see you, but I never say no to frog snuggles.” He drops into one of the chairs at the kitchen table and ruffles Grantaire’s hair as Enjolras returns to making spaghetti. “I’m having a slight relationship dispute.”

Enjolras groans. “Oh god, not you too.” All his eloquence was clearly left in bed with all of his energy.

“Relationships aren’t all sunshine lollipops and rainbows, you know. Besides, it was just a small dispute.”

“Uh oh,” Grantaire says somberly, then is distracted by the plate of spaghetti set in front of him and digs in messily, getting sauce all over his face. Courfeyrac takes the fork from him and takes over.

Enjolras drops into the chair opposite Courfeyrac and begins idly twirling spaghetti around his fork in a way that implies he probably isn’t going to eat much. “What was this dispute about?”

“Nothing important.”

“Courfeyrac, you did not come all the way over here to tell me about ‘nothing important’,” Enjolras says bluntly. He wants to add something about not dropping spaghetti all over his table, but it’s already been ruined by milkshakes and marker pens, so there isn’t really much point.

Courfeyrac sighs. “It’s not that big of a deal, it’s just that woman in the park last night, she thought Grantaire was yours and Combeferre’s and he just went along with it. I mean, I’m his boyfriend, not you.”

Enjolras nods like this is obvious. “Yes, we know this.”

“And I just made an offhand comment about it and he got all defensive and told me I was being ridiculous and then we had a minor dispute and he told me I was jealous and possessive.”

Enjolras considers this. “I’m not getting involved in this, but that does sound unfair,” he concedes. He really doesn’t want to be involved in his best friends’ relationship, certainly not in their arguments. He isn’t going to take sides. “I’m really not the one you should be coming to for advice,” he says around another yawn, “maybe you should ring someone else or - Grantaire no!”

Unnoticed, Grantaire has slipped from the table and fetched his markers, and has systematically drawn over every part of his skin he can reach. Enjolras sighs and abandons his dinner (not that he’d eaten a single bite of it), taking the pens from Grantaire and setting him back in his chair at the table.

“Eat your dinner and then we’re going to wash that off,” he says sternly.

“No.” Grantaire has clearly learnt that Enjolras is completely incapable of arguing with this. “I’ like artman.”

“Grantaire.”

“No. I wan’ be like artman!” he insists, his face tearing up.

Courfeyrac puts it down to the stress, or the fact that he’s gotten probably five hours sleep over two days, but Enjolras begins to cry too. Not quite in the dramatic fashion Grantaire is capable of, but those are definitely tears running down his face.

“I just want you to be like artman too,” he says quietly.

Grantaire looks between Courfeyrac and Enjolras looking mildly horrified. “Jo’ras is crying,” he says, sounding confused, then clearly decides this is a terrible thing and begins to cry even louder.

Courfeyrac groans and puts his head in his hands.

 

 

Chapter Text

Hi guys!

I'm going to have to give you guys a huge apology for how long it's taken me to get to this fic, I've had a lot of uni work (which isn't letting up) and I've fallen pretty deep into the Pacific Rim fandom with no sign of me surfacing any time soon, but rest assured, I've not given up on this fic!

I sat down to do some work on it last week, re-read what I'd written so far to get back into the swing of things, and I wasn't that thrilled with what I'd written; I feel like some of the characterisation is off, the grammar is awkward, and there's a lot of stuff that could be worded a lot better, so before I start writing anything new I'm going to go back over what I've done, do some editing and tidy things up so it's hopefully going to read a lot better.

I'm sorry again for how long it's taken! Hopefully when I start posting new stuff it's going to make up for it, thank you all for sticking with this!

(And a quick edit because I forgot to thank everyone for all the lovely comments I've received! Sorry for not replying to you all individually but they were all very much appreciated!)