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Grantaire looked up when someone dumped into the seat across from him. Notably, someone who wasn't Musichetta.
"Lady Fauchelevent," he said, raising his glass to her.
She shook her head and made a disgusted noise. "Cosette, please."
"Very well, Cosette." He nodded. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"You're the only person here likely to teach me how to win a debate with Enjolras," she replied, calm and pleasant as anything.
Grantaire laughed. "I quite like my monopoly on being the only one stupid enough to argue with him when he's put his mind to winning."
"You know as well as I do that that's not true."
"Okay, maybe I do," Grantaire conceded. "But what makes you think I can teach you to win?"
"As I said, you're the only person likely to teach me. So?"
Grantaire sighed. "Musichetta?"
"I'm busy!" she yelled from the counter. "What?"
"Some coffee, please, when you have the time. And for Lady Fauchelevent."
"You need to stop calling me that." Cosette gathered her hair into a ponytail and pulled a notebook and pen out of her back. "I take it this is our first lesson?"
"It is." Grantaire set aside his beer and pushed his hair behind his ears. It fell back in his face immediately. "Can I borrow a hair tie?"
"Is your hair long enough?" Cosette handed him a hair tie without waiting for an answer.
“No,” Grantaire replied, collecting his hair into something that could graciously be called a bun, if one was feeling charitable towards him. “But it’s out of my face, so I can see. So, step one; what are you arguing with Enjolras about?”
Cosette waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, whatever. I just think he could use being knocked down a peg, and I want to be the one who does it.”
Grantaire grinned. “Alright, well, the first thing you need to know is that Enjolras likes facts.”
“Bullshit.” Musichetta had walked up to their table with two mugs of coffee, setting them down. “On the house for Cosette, but you’re paying, R.”
“Of course,” he said obligingly. “Care to assist the lesson?”
“Enjolras doesn’t care about facts,” Musichetta said, hand on her hip. “He cares about what he can prove.”
“What’s the difference?” Cosette and Grantaire asked at the same time, Grantaire irritated, Cosette curious.
Musichetta laughed. “Fact: Grantaire loves his friends. Proof: Absolutely none, oaf that he is.”
“‘Chetta!” Grantaire complained. “Come on, I’m not that bad.”
“When have you ever said the words ‘I love you’ to anyone? Who isn’t a bottle, I might add.”
“Pretty sure putting qualifiers on my love is cheating,” Grantaire said, but he sighed and looked at Cosette. “Anyway, Musichetta here is partly right. Enjolras cares about provable facts.”
Musichetta walked back to the counter, but not before lightly cuffing Grantaire round the back on the head, something that did not seem to faze him in the slightest.
“Is it provable if I can tell by your manner that you do love her?” Cosette asked.
“No. The only thing you can prove through your own subjective observation is your own opinion. Anything else must be irrefutable or from the mouth of the subject.”
“So if I get you to admit you love her, I will have proven it.”
“In theory.” Grantaire smiled. “However, someone other than you would have to hear it.”
“Right.” Cosette stared at him for a few seconds. “So I won’t get you to admit it where Musichetta can hear?”
“No.”
“But just to me?”
Grantaire laughed. “Maybe. When we’re done, if you’ve done well, maybe.”
Cosette grinned at him. “Let’s get started then.”
Three mugs of coffee later, Cosette had two pages of scribbled notes, with a doodle of a lark in one corner, done by Grantaire. According to Musichetta, who had walked by at times and glanced at them, only about a quarter was actual debating advice; the rest was just advice on how to piss off Enjolras specifically.
“I’m gonna text Marius and ask him to pick me up,” Cosette said, taking out her phone. “And then you owe me a confession.” She grinned at him without ceasing her typing.
“I said if you did well,” Grantaire replied. “I’m not entirely convinced.”
“Do you want me to cite back to you all the phrases that can get Enjolras to go on a tangent?”
“Yes, I think I do. Sans notes.” He snatched her book. “Go on.”
“Right.” Cosette took a deep breath and rattled off a list of absolutes and theories that Grantaire had given her, all on in breath. “Good?” she asked.
“You missed acting like there’s a right answer to the trolley problem,” Grantaire replied curtly. Then he smiled. “But yes, good.”
“So you’ll admit it?”
“Just to you.” Grantaire glanced over at Musichetta, engaged with a customer. “I do love my friends.”
“Ha!” Cosette grinned triumphantly. “Proof!”
“Only to you,” Grantaire reminded. “No one else heard it, so it’s my word against yours.”
“Nope!” Cosette showed her phone, open on a voice memos app. “Listen to this!” She pressed play.
Grantaire’s voice came out of the speakers. “Just to you. I do love my friends.” The recording ended.
Grantaire laughed. “You don’t need me to teach you how to win, I see. But now I want to see you argue with Enjolras.”
“We’re having a party at Marius’ on Thursday. You should come. I plan to argue with Enjolras, and I plan to win.”
“I don’t know, Marius and I aren’t that close, wouldn’t it seem weird?”
“You just tell people that your close good friend Cosette invited you.” She smiled. “And if you call me Lady Fauchelevent, I’m kicking you out myself.” Her smile remained as pleasant as ever.
Grantaire laughed. “Very well, Cosette. I shall be there.” He took her phone and coded in his own number. “Text me the address, would you?”
“Of course.” Cosette glanced at her phone as a text ticked in. “Marius is here. I’ll see you Thursday.”
“See you.” Grantaire waved vaguely as she walked off.