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The members of Les Amis were supposed to be painting signs for their upcoming transgender rights march, but after about five signs Jehan was being painted from head to toe in rainbow stripes and glitter, despite Enjolras’ repeated protestations that no, they were not allowed to carry Jehan as a sign. Courfeyrac was balanced precariously on the back of a booth, waving his arms around and imitating Enjolras’ Parisian accent while Bahorel and Grantaire egged him on between strokes of paint across Jehan’s face. Combeferre and Feuilly had stayed on task longer than most, but even they were now trying to land paper airplanes in Jehan’s French braid. There was apparently a contest going on to see who could design the most complex and aerodynamic plane, and it was unclear whether the paper artist or the astrophysicist’s boyfriend had the advantage.
“So who smuggled in the alcohol this time?” Musichetta asked. She and her two boyfriends were seated in the booth directly next to the one that Courfeyrac was using as a soapbox, mainly so that Musichetta could pelt his arse with bits of biscotti and look away innocently any time Courfeyrac looked around for the culprit.
“I think it was Bahorel,” Joly said, hiccuping slightly, then looking guilty.
“Oh, you traitor,” Musichetta sighed, tugging on a lock of his hair.
“Sorry!” he squeaked. “He had raspberry vodka!”
“Chetta,” Bossuet put in, from Musichetta’s other side, “when Courf finally does fall over, he’s going to land directly on top of me, and I will probably die. Besides, that’s perfectly good biscotti you’re throwing at him.”
“It is not,” Musichetta retorted. “Gavroche accidentally burned this batch. I’m just making sure it won’t go to waste. If you die, Joly will save you.”
“He’s intoxicated!”
“Am not!” Joly hiccupped again and immediately covered his mouth. “Just tipsy,” he whispered through his fingers. Bossuet shook his head.
Enjolras had apparently given up entirely on everyone: he had retreated to sit at the counter, tapping out emails on his laptop. Jehan had declared Combeferre the winner of the paper airplane contest, over the allegations that he was a biased judge, and was now having a celebratory kissing session with him on the concrete floor.
“Oh my god, they’re getting paint everywhere,” Musichetta grumbled, scowling at the two of them.
“Hon. Your floor is concrete covered in paint splatters for a reason.”
“But they were very carefully placed, artistic splatters!”
“Didn’t Grantaire do them while he was drunk?” Joly piped up. Musichetta just shot him a glare, then fell back against her seat, arm crossed and pouting.
Grantaire was seating himself unsteadily on a barstool next to Enjolras, hooking his chin over the other man’s shoulder and either murmuring something into his ear or simply licking it, it was hard to tell. Musichetta half-expected an argument to break out-- their relationship was always volatile when Grantaire wasn’t in one of his sober periods-- but Enjolras just put an arm around him to keep him from falling off the stool, letting Grantaire lean against him as he typed. One of Grantaire’s hands crept under the hem of Enjolras’ t-shirt, but only lingered at his hipbone, thumb moving gently up and down. Enjolras smiled faintly and paused in his work to turn to Grantaire and engage him in a long, slow kiss before looking back to the computer. Grantaire remained slumped over Enjolras’ shoulder; another few minutes and Musichetta was fairly certain that he had fallen asleep there.
“I think that means it’s time to start kicking people out,” she said to Bossuet. At her side, Joly was trying very hard not to fall asleep himself. Musichetta poked him in the forehead, smiled, and kissed him, before nudging him out of the booth.
“Love, go upstairs before I have to carry you.”
“Good idea,” Joly agreed with a sheepish smile that was almost immediately broken with a yawn, sliding out of the booth to let Musichetta and Bossuet get out as well. Bossuet clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention.
“Everyone out before all of you pass out and I have to sweep you out with a broom,” he called, to general groans of dissent.
“I call for an official Les Amis sleepover!” Courfeyrac yelled-- he had somehow ended up on the floor with his head in Bahorel’s lap. This statement was met with cheers, except by Musichetta, who groaned.
“Show of hands-- how many people here are even fit to drive?” she asked. No one raised their hand, even though Musichetta was absolutely sure that even though he was covered in paint and glitter, Jehan hadn’t been drinking. Enjolras moved to stick his hand in the air, but Grantaire was apparently more awake than everyone had assumed, and he quickly seized Enjolras’ wrist. Unfortunately, this threw off his already impaired balance, and he toppled off his barstool, accidentally dragging Enjolras down with him. Both of them fell to the floor in a tangled heap, with the barstools crashing down on either side.
Grantaire groaned. Enjolras had the decency to look embarrassed.
“Oh my god, fine,” Musichetta sighed. “If any of you have sex in my cafe I swear you will all have a lifetime ban, is that clear?” She shot a Look at Courfeyrac who held up his hands and yelled defensively “that was one time!”
Musichetta rolled her eyes and stomped upstairs, where there was a linen closet stocked with blankets and pillows expressly for this purpose, although if questioned about it she would insist that they were just extras. Piles of bedding started flying down the stairs, one of them catching Bossuet full in the face, to no one’s surprise. A brief pillow fight broke out between Bahorel and Courfeyrac, but it quickly subsided as Bossuet dropped a blanket over both of them and told them to go the fuck to sleep. Feuilly scooted over to join their pile, dragging one of the booth cushions with him, and they formed a sort of nest, falling asleep in it like a pile of kittens.
“I’m not giving either of you a blanket until you get all that paint off you,” Bossuet told Jehan and Combeferre sternly, who exchanged looks of dismay.
“It’s practically dry, see?” Jehan said, smearing one hand over Bossuet’s face, then immediately covering his mouth in horror.
It wasn’t even a little dry.
Bossuet sighed and just pointed up the stairs, glowering at both of them as they slunk away. They came downstairs ten minutes later to curl up together on one of the booths, Jehan in one of Musichetta’s tie-dyed cotton nightgowns and Combeferre in a pair of Joly’s scrub pants.
Enjolras remained awake for several more hours, absorbed in whatever it was he was working on, although in consideration for Grantaire he moved to sit in a booth. Grantaire promptly fell asleep again in his lap, with one of Enjolras’ hands absently playing with his curls while the other typed. When he woke the next morning, his forehead was on his keyboard, and a slowly lengthening keysmash was writing itself across the screen.
When Eponine came in for the morning shift, arm in arm with Cosette, her oversized leather jacket around Cosette’s shoulders, she wasn’t even surprised to see sleeping bodies strewn across the floor.
“‘Chetta,” she called, seeing the other woman already bustling around the cafe’s kitchen, “you really need to stop hosting orgies while I’m not here.” She walked around poking the sleepers with her foot to wake them, while Cosette slipped behind the counter to start making a large pot of coffee.
“Raspberry vodka,” Musichetta moaned. “Bahorel brought raspberry vodka.”
Eponine kicked Bahorel harder than the others, laughing as she tied her apron on and started opening.