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“Come on, Enjolras-- sit down! It won’t be that bad.”
Enjolras adopted his all-too-familiar and slightly ironic expression of jaded disbelief. “I don’t think--”
“No,” Bahorel countered, grabbing his sleeve. “You think too much. Come on.”
With Feuilly’s help, he dragged Enjolras -- who physically resisted by digging his heels into the floorboards -- over to the nearest couch, and flopped down. Sandwiched between the two of them, and belted in by Bahorel’s leg, which the larger man had cheerfully draped across him and Feuilly, Enjolras had no chance of escape.
He made a mournful noise of protest in the back of his throat.
Feuilly handed him an unlit cigarette, just in case. Party nights were the one and only exception to Combeferre’s ‘No smoking in the house’ rule, and he took advantage of it as much as possible. Grantaire already had one between his lips, and another tucked behind his ear.
“You can’t opt out when we’re all here, Enjolras,” Bossuet told him from across the room. He had his arms wrapped around Musichetta, who beamed and kissed him sweetly on the cheek. Bossuet grinned.
Chetta, as they lovingly called her, didn’t get to join in on their shenanigans very often -- which, frankly, was criminal, because she enjoyed them more than most of the boys did. (Certainly more than Enjolras, although that wasn’t exactly difficult.) She and Courfeyrac were very like-minded about drinking games -- the more alcohol, the better, because alcohol led to dirty confessions, and dirty confessions were cathartic. Everyone should have them at least once a month, if not more often.
Especially if the alternative meant sitting between Bahorel and Feuilly with an expression that could only be compared to a child who had just had candy snatched out of his hand by a rabid seagull.
“Have some wine,” she said to Enjolras, with a light laugh in her voice that made almost everyone shift subconsciously in her direction.
Grantaire snorted. Enjolras pursed his lips.
“Maybe if Lady Liberty lets him do body shots from her navel,” Grantaire answered, lifting a half-empty bottle to his mouth.
Joly’s mouth dropped open, and Bossuet gasped quietly. Combeferre rubbed his eyes with an impending sense of ‘Oh god, why,’ and Feuilly and Bahorel tried to stifle their snickering. It was entirely possible that they and Grantaire had started drinking a bit ahead of everyone else.
Enjolras stared at Grantaire.
Grantaire grinned. “Sorry, was that blasphemy? Is that not allowed?”
“You’re drunk,” Enjolras answered impassively.
“When am I not?”
“So what are we playing?” Cosette asked. She was perched in Marius’s lap for lack of anywhere else to sit -- but he very much didn’t mind.
With the exception of Grantaire and Enjolras, all eyes turned to Courfeyrac. He adopted the most innocent, surprised expression for all of ten seconds. It only ended with Eponine throwing a couch pillow at his head. “Alriiight,” he drawled, straightening up.
Only Combeferre, Feuilly, and Bahorel noticed Enjolras reach for an open bottle of wine.
Courfeyrac rubbed his hands together and grinned in an absolutely evil way. “Let’s play... Who Would You Do.”
Musichetta’s face lit up. “Fictional, Famous, or Family?” She asked.
“Not family,” Combeferre and Enjolras said simultaneously.
“Family it is,” Courfeyrac answered. Musichetta applauded, and Bossuet laughed, pressing his face into her hair. Combeferre and Enjolras silently toasted with matching, grim expressions.
“Explain the rules,” Joly insisted.
“I’m getting there!” Courfeyrac lobbed the pillow Eponine had chucked at him down at Joly. “Ahem. The rules!”
“It’s called ‘Who Would You Do’,” Grantaire interrupted. “Surely even Enjolras understands how that works.”
Combeferre reached over the arm of the sofa to where Grantaire was sitting on the floor and pulled the bottle out of his hands. Grantaire tried to hold on to it, but Musichetta -- leaning away from Bossuet -- hooked her fingers around the collar of his shirt and pulled him towards her so she could whisper in his ear.
“As I was saying,” Courfeyrac continued indignantly. “The rules are as follows.” He cleared his throat, and in his best impersonating-Enjolras-when-he’s-trying-to-be-serious voice explained: “We go in a circle. I’ll start. The question is ‘Out of everyone in this room, who would you do?’ You have to choose at least one, but no more than two people that you would fuck if you had the chance.”
Enjolras huffed.
“The people you choose are spared. Everyone else has to drink.”
“I’ll need that back,” Grantaire muttered to Combeferre, even though he had toppled over and curled up with his head in Musichetta’s lap. She smiled and reassuringly ran her fingers through his hair.
“Also,” Courfeyrac added. “You can’t choose someone you’re currently involved with.”
Jehan looked up sharply. Marius said: “What?” almost too quickly.
The smugness in Courfeyrac’s expression was so tangible that everyone cringed. “I said,” he repeated. “You have to choose up to two of the thirteen people in this room-- not including yourself!” He glared at Grantaire, and then at Enjolras. If anyone was going to find a loophole in his game, it would be one of them. “--so twelve, really. Up to two of the twelve people in this room that you would fuck if you had the chance. You cannot opt out of the question, or the drinking.”
Grantaire opened his mouth to comment -- spotted the bottle in Enjolras’s hand -- and stared.
Combeferre chimed in: “And remember that it’s just a game. No matter what anyone says -- it’s just in good fun.”
“Yeah, yeah. Obviously all of that. No one get all awkward just because you all want to sleep with me,” Courfeyrac added. “Plus, it’s no fun unless you’re honest, and no one’s going to judge you--”
“Bullshit,” Bahorel called out.
“No one’s going to HOLD IT AGAINST YOU--”
“Bullshit!” Feuilly repeated.
Courfeyrac hissed angrily. Jehan reached out with one hand and tugged him back into the depths of the sofa they were sharing to calm him down.
Bossuet, being the most sober, the most willing, and the most inclined to law as a profession, took over for him. “Alright, look. He’s just saying we should have fun with this, alright? It’ll be great. We’re all friends. We can handle this -- even with Courf’s rules.”
“My improvements,” Courfeyrac muttered.
“Courfeyrac’s improvements,” Bossuet repeated, with a small nod.
Eponine smirked. “Besides. If you make him come up with something new, it’ll just be six times worse.”
Almost everyone laughed, and Courfeyrac -- true to form -- murmured: “Better.”
“In your dreams,” Eponine told him, still smiling. Courfeyrac pouted -- but Eponine blew him a kiss. He giggled and hid his face behind Jehan.
“Alright, Courf--” Combeferre said. “You’re up.”
There was a quiet, but collective intake of breath as Courfeyrac immediately bounced upright.
“Does this feel Most Dangerous Game to anyone else?” Cosette asked. Courfeyrac shushed her.
“I would sleep with...” He began slowly, looking around the room.
“Are you serious?” Bahorel asked. “You picked this fucking game, and you don’t know who’d you’d choose?”
“I have a lot of options!” Courfeyrac protested.
“Eleven, technically,” Bossuet corrected.
Musichetta looked up from Grantaire. “Wait--” But Bossuet whispered ‘Jehan’ into her ear before she could finish asking. Her cat-like smile widened with delight. “Good for you, boys,” she told them with genuine affection.
Jehan hid his satisfied little blush behind his cup. Courfeyrac, however, proudly puffed out his chest.
“Come on, Courf,” Eponine called out.
“Alright, alright! I choose...” A slightly panicked expression flitted across his face before he announced: “Eponine.”
Eponine’s eyes widened slightly. As she smiled and looked down into her lap, Courfeyrac added: “And Enjolras. Preferably at the same time.”
“Bet no one saw that coming,” Bahorel said in a deeply sarcastic deadpan. He and Feuilly tapped their glasses together and drank. Enjolras stared stoically at the opposite wall.
Grantaire reached out to the sofa where Combeferre was sitting and wiggled his fingers. “Drink.” Combeferre sighed silently and passed the bottle back to him where he quietly guzzled down far more than what counted as ‘a sip’.
“Next!” Courfeyrac shouted, and turned to Jehan.
Jehan kept drinking, for lack of a better answer.
Courfeyrac turned to Feuilly, who shrugged. “I don’t know yet.”
“Seriously?” Bahorel asked.
“You go, if you have an answer.”
“Eponine,” Bahorel replied.
Eponine leaned back on the couch she was sharing with Combeferre. She had an unfamiliar, but very happy light in her eyes.
Combeferre raised his drink, but Joly held up his hand. “No, you can’t-- he can’t choose Eponine.”
Courfeyrac nodded in agreement. “You can’t choose anyone you’re in a relationship with.”
“We’re not in a relationship,” Bahorel answered. Eponine giggled into her glass.
“It so counts,” Bossuet told them. “You can’t choose Ponine.”
Feuilly side-eyed Bahorel. “Easy, huh?”
“Shut up,” Bahorel told him, reaching across Enjolras to cuff Feuilly in the head. “And drink, because--” He looked down, across the floor at Musichetta, and smiled wolfishly. She quirked an eyebrow. “ I choose Chetta.”
“Are you sure about that?” She asked coquettishly.
Bossuet chuckled and hugged her. He and Joly had never been the possessive type -- mostly just submissive.
“Why are you offering?” Bahorel asked.
“Get a room!” Feuilly told them, digging in his pocket for his lighter.
“Who’s your second person?” Courfeyrac demanded.
Bahorel shook his head. “Nope. Just her.”
Jehan slid into Courfeyrac’s lap on a whim. “You said we only had to choose one person,” he reminded Courfeyrac gently. Courfeyrac suddenly seemed to forget everything that was happening as he wrapped his arms around Jehan’s waist. “Right, yeah,” he replied, slightly dazed.
Cosette leaned forward as everyone but Musichetta tipped their cups back. “Are we not going in a circle now?”
Marius dropped his hands to her hips. “I don’t think so.”
“Here,” Grantaire mumbled, holding out his empty bottle. “Spin this. And somebody get me a beer.”
Combeferre stared at him, slightly flabbergasted, and mostly floored at the notion that any human being could consume so much liquor in such a short time. “Maybe we should substitute water for you instead.”
“No, beer’s good,” Grantaire answered. Eponine graciously went to fetch one from the kitchen for him.
Musichetta plucked the bottle from his hand and set it on the floor. “Shall I?” She asked lightly. There was a vague murmur of agreement -- Courfeyrac would have been more vocal, but he was still distracted by the charming angel of a man in his lap.
As Musichetta deftly spun the empty bottle, Eponine returned with not one, but three deliciously cold beers -- she passed one to Bahorel, and kept one for herself before she popped the top on the third and placed it in front of Grantaire, who still hadn’t bothered to sit up.
The bottle stopped on Joly.
He blushed. “And I can’t choose Bossuet or Chetta?” He asked, just to be sure.
Musichetta shook her head at him with a playfully sad expression. “Nope. Sorry, my darling.”
“But you get to have her in your bed tonight, so really -- who’s complaining?” Grantaire asked. Bahorel and Bossuet laughed out loud. Feuilly coughed as he accidentally inhaled some of his drink.
Chetta covered Grantaire’s mouth firmly with one hand. “Who would you do, Joly?” She asked, very casually ignoring Grantaire as he all but made out with her palm. It took more than a drunk libertine to even begin to faze her.
Joly scratched his head. “Uhmm... well.” His cheeks -- already red -- darkened. “If I can’t choose you and Bossuet--” (“You can’t,” Courfeyrac mumbled) “...then, I choose Enjolras and Combeferre.”
“Nice,” Bahorel replied -- grinning again as he (and everyone except for Combeferre and Enjolras) drank. Enjolras, whose expression had not changed until that moment, shot him a confused glance. Bahorel threw his arm across Enjolras’s shoulder. “Dude, you’re hot,” he explained. “Deal with it.”
Enjolras went back to staring at the wall, and said nothing.
Eponine elbowed Combeferre. He didn’t look up from his bottle -- but a slightly embarrassed smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
Musichetta motioned to the bottle. “Go on, Joly,” she encouraged. Joly reached forward and gave it a sharp twist.
It spun across the floor bounced off the edge of a rug, and stopped on Cosette. “Finally,” she replied, straightening up.
“Finally?” Marius asked. He, like Courfeyrac, was in a bit of a daze -- but even he wasn’t oblivious to the almost eagre glint in her eyes.
“You minx,” Bahorel said.
Cosette kissed Marius on the cheek to lull him back into an adoring trance. “I would choose Combeferre,” she said with absolutely no shame. Combeferre made a quiet, grateful sound. “And Joly.”
Musichetta and Bossuet both clapped gleefully -- Bossuet with both hands, and Chetta by patting her hand against Bossuet’s knee.
“You have good taste,” Chetta told her. Cosette giggled.
Joly seemed shocked -- but pleasantly so. “Thank you,” he said, looking up at her. She reached down and ruffled his hair.
Marius cleared his throat as he shifted them both a few inches away from Joly, towards Jehan. Cosette leaned back against him with a laugh. He and the others who hadn’t been chosen drank while she whispered reassuringly in his ear.
Jehan slid out of Courfeyrac’s lap and stood up, stretching his arms above his head. Free of his little poet’s magic spell, Courfeyrac’s eyes snapped to Cosette reaching for the bottle on the floor.
“What’s that?” He asked with genuine concern.
Jehan chuckled as he sauntered into the kitchen.
No one bothered explaining as Cosette gave the bottle a spin.
Combeferre didn’t notice when it landed on him. He was preoccupied with the label on his own drink, which was either fascinating beyond belief, or the only thing he felt he could look at. Enjolras would have known it was the latter -- but Enjolras refused to tear his eyes away from a single black smudge on the wall just above the piano. It looked like a thumb print -- possibly charcoal?
But why it was there was anyone’s guess.
Eponine nudged Combeferre again. “Hey.”
He looked up at her, slightly surprised.
She nodded at the bottle on the floor.
“Oh, sorry,” he answered. “Didn’t realise.”
“Does anyone else need a drink?” Jehan called out.
“I do,” Coufeyrac answered.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” Musichetta replied.
Combeferre tapped his fingers against the side of the bottle and adopted a pensive expression.
In the ensuing silence, Enjolras glanced away from the wall. In a sheer miracle of friendship, Combeferre looked up from the floor at the same time.
To anyone else, the sudden shift in their expressions would have seemed meaningless. Enjolras blinked, and Combeferre’s mouth tightened. He put his drink down.
“Well?” Courfeyrac asked, back on the edge of his seat now that Jehan wasn’t keeping him occupied.
“I bet you a beer he says Enjolras,” Grantaire murmured to Musichetta as he played with her hair. She’d moved her hand only after he’d given up trying to demonstrate the flexibility of his tongue.
“He can hear you, you know,” Bossuet told him.
“Please,” Grantaire muttered, finally sitting up right. “It’s Combeferre, he’s not spiteful.”
He wasn’t. But his answer wasn’t Enjolras. He reached down and took Grantaire’s drink from his hands for the second time. “Go get some water,” he instructed.
Grantaire blinked. To him, his bottle seemed to magically disappear.
“Jehan, could you bring water for R?” Enjolras asked.
“I only have two hands.”
“Well, I can’t get up,” Enjolras muttered, staring at Bahorel’s leg.
“And you’re not going to,” Bahorel replied, taking a sip.
“I’ll help you as soon as Combeferre answers the question,” Courfeyrac called into the kitchen.
Jehan chirped back: “Combe, who would you do?”
Combeferre answered: “Eponine.”
Courfeyrac ‘oohed’ and Bossuet ‘aahed’ and Cosette lovingly leaned back against Marius. “See?” She murmured. “You’re perfectly safe.”
“From him, maybe,” Marius replied, side-eyeing Joly.
Grantaire said nothing. Grantaire was transfixed.
Courfeyrac hopped up and wobbled into the kitchen to help Jehan.
Combeferre looked at Eponine.
She beamed at him -- genuinely beamed.
“I’m not drunk enough,” Bahorel said loudly.
“We can fix that,” Courfeyrac told him.
“Bring it on, bright eyes.”
“You’ve had six beers,” Enjolras countered.
“Look who’s talking, Mr. I-Don’t-Drink-But-My-Wine-Bottle-Is-Half-Empty.”
“I’m actually amazed by the amount of alcohol you keep in this house,” Cosette told them.
“You’d be more amazed by how much it costs,” Combeferre answered.
“Hey, we all chip in,” Feuilly answered, lighting his second cigarette.
“But we all don’t drink it,” Enjolras added.
Bahorel reached over, picked up the bottle in his lap, and swirled it around. “Try again.”
Courfeyrac appeared at his shoulder just as Enjolras opened his mouth to protest. “You want drunk,” Courfeyrac told him. “I have brought you drunk.”
“I wanna fight Combeferre for Eponine,” Bahorel explained, taking the cup. Eponine grinned from ear to ear. “Is this gonna get me there?”
“You’re not there already?” Jehan asked, stepping over the bottle on the floor to hand Musichetta her drink. “This is not ‘drunk’,” he added. “This is a Cosmopolitan.”
“Classy,” she answered in that lilting half-laugh that made Feuilly and Bahorel forget that they had only just started to argue about how many drinks it would actually take to get Bahorel in a ‘fighting’ frame of mind.
“Grantaire?” Jehan held a glass of water out for him. Grantaire remained oblivious.
Musichetta leaned over and licked his cheek. Grantaire jumped and ran a hand through his hair, swearing loudly. “Fuck, woman! You know my bedroom is just downstairs--” He took the glass that Jehan moved in front of his face and held it in his lap. “Say the word and we can leave these kids to their game, and go have some fun.”
“Who are you calling a kid?” Bahorel asked.
“Apparently six drinks is plenty,” Enjolras muttered, lifting the wine bottle to his lips.
Courfeyrac stopped and stared.
“Holy shit, Enjolras. Are you actually drinking?”
Enjolras glared over the bottle.
Courfeyrac squealed. “This is my proudest moment.”
“And what exactly did you have to do with it?” Eponine asked, pulling her feet off the floor and curling her legs underneath her.
“Everything,” Courfeyrac answered, flopping back down on the couch. “It’s my game.” He held out his arms and made grabby hands at Jehan. Eponine rolled her eyes.
“Whose turn is it?” Feuilly asked as he offered Enjolras his lighter.
“Mine,” Combeferre answered. He was trying very hard not to care that they were smoking indoors. It was a party night -- they’d all agreed that it was legal.
But cigarette smoke was not easy to get out.
“So spin,” Feuilly instructed.
Joly slid the bottle across the floor to Combeferre’s feet. As Combeferre gave it a spin, Grantaire sprayed the water he’d been given across the floor.
“Fuck me, what is this?”
“Every time,” Enjolras muttered.
“Is this water? Who the fuck gave me water?”
Combeferre handed his drink, and the one Grantaire had been drinking to Eponine. “Put those on the table next to you, please.” Eponine grinned pushed Grantaire’s drink as far away as she could.
Combeferre’s she kept for herself.
The bottle stopped on Musichetta.
Grantaire wiped water from his chin like it was lemon juice.
Musichetta fixed her eyes on Courfeyrac. “I’m very mad at you,” she told him. Courfeyrac blinked repeatedly. “Only two people?” He smiled sheepishly.
“Three would have stressed them out too much.”
Musichetta grinned.
Bahorel’s ‘drunk’ drink sat in his lap, completely forgotten. Feuilly’s third cigarette slowly turned to ash in his hand. They were both watching Musichetta closely.
She pressed a finger to her lips, tapping her mouth as she considered.
Bahorel leaned forward slightly. He didn’t realise he was doing it, and he didn’t notice as Enjolras quickly reached over and rescued his drink before it could spill down the leg of his jeans.
“If I can only have two,” she began, sounding genuinely offended by the limitation. “Then I would like the lovely Cosette.”
Cosette blushed. Marius moved his hands from her hips, to her waist, and back to her hips again. He couldn’t find a middle ground between jealousy and curiosity.
“And the second?” Bossuet prompted.
“‘Taire,” Musichetta replied serenely.
Grantaire turned and stared. He had a cigarette clamped between his lips -- anything to get the taste of water out of his mouth -- but he pointed to the stairs all the same and muttered. “Seriously, stairs right there. This isn’t a joke.”
Musichetta gave him a look that sent a shiver down his spine.
“Is it my turn yet?” Grantaire asked. “Because I know what my answer is.”
“We all know what your answer is,” Bahorel answered. He didn’t mean to sound sour -- but he was a tiny bit devastated that he’d been passed up for Grantaire. Cosette he could understand -- she was gorgeous. Grantaire had just spilled half a cup of water down the front of his shirt.
“Like fuck you do,” Grantaire retorted, lighting his cigarette at last. He took a long drag before asking: “And where the hell is my beer?”
Eponine smiled. Combeferre shrugged innocently. “You must’ve finished it,” he added non-chalantly.
“Then somebody get me another one.”
Courfeyrac rolled his eyes and sprawled out across Jehan’s lap. “If you know who you’d choose, just tell us.”
“Who would you do, ‘Taire?” Musichetta asked.
If Grantaire had been... well, anyone but Grantaire, he might have realised that the cattish look in her dark eyes was anything but seductive -- more like potentially deadly. Then again, to someone like Grantaire, those amounted to nearly the same thing.
“You, beautiful. You, and you.”
Courfeyrac mimed vomiting onto the floor.
“And Cosette,” Grantaire added.
Cosette snorted.
“If you could fuck any two people in this room, you would pick Musichetta and Cosette, R?” Bahorel asked.
“Do you really need to make it sound so hypothetical?”
“Can we call bullshit?” Bahorel asked Courfeyrac.
“Do you even need to?” Courfeyrac replied drily.
“Excuse you,” Grantaire interrupted. “You asked who I would do, and I choose Chetta and Cosette.”
“So, Grantaire should spin the bottle,” Combeferre said, scratching the back of his neck.
“‘Taire,” Musichetta said, with a very distinct purr in her voice.
“Oh, shit,” Joly and Bossuet whispered simultaneously. Bossuet let Musichetta go and backed up, clinging to Joly. He’d have hidden behind him if he thought it would have helped at all.
Courfeyrac pushed himself up slightly. Jehan’s eyes jumped from Chetta to Grantaire and back again -- he was enthralled.
“Yes, my sweet cinnamon pie?” Grantaire asked.
“Are you lying to me?”
Grantaire laughed. “Why would I do that?”
“‘Taire...” Musichetta purred again. She beckoned him closer, and he went obligingly. She put one hand on his leg (Bossuet covered his eyes), and pressed her lips to his ear so she could whisper softly enough to not be overheard. Joly winced.
And as Grantaire listened, the colour very rapidly drained from his face. His eyes widened, but Musichetta wasn’t finished. She dug her fingers into his leg.
Bahorel and Feuilly both dropped their hands to their laps. Enjolras would have rolled his eyes -- but even he was fascinated by the exchange.
Musichetta slowly pulled back. “Now, tell me again, chéri. Were you lying?”
Grantaire nodded fervently. “Yup. Yes. Yes, madame, I was.” The moment Musichetta’s hand left his leg, he shot so far backwards that he was nearly sitting on Combeferre’s feet. He pulled his knees up to his chest. “I’d like some water now,” he added, staring helplessly at the floor.
Courfeyrac’s, Jehan’s, and Cosette’s mouth simultaneously dropped open.
Bahorel shifted. “So, I wanna change my answer.”
“Yeah, me too,” Cosette murmured breathlessly.
Marius tilted his head. “Are you alright?”
Musichetta looked up at Cosette with a sinfully sweet smile and winked. Cosette’s lip quivered and Marius -- poor, naive Marius -- remained oblivious.
“Grantaire, you should spin--” Grantaire reached out immediately and spun the bottle on the floor before Combeferre could finish. No one asked for his real answer. No one needed to.
And if his expression was anything to go by, he’d been traumatised enough.
The bottle spiralled wildly before stopping between Marius’s shoes. He glanced down, still slightly perplexed. “Oh, is it-- hm.”
“Who would you do, Marius?” Combeferre asked, trying to coax a little tension out of the group.
Marius blinked and looked at Cosette. She dragged her eyes away from Musichetta and took a deep breath. “Marius?”
“Well...” He looked around the room and smiled a little nervously. “I don’t have much choice, do I?”
Combeferre noticed the way Eponine’s hand had clenched into a little fist by her side, but said nothing.
“So?” Cosette prompted.
“Musichetta, obviously,” Marius answered.
Courfeyrac stared at him. Half a year seemed to pass before he finally called out: “...AND?”
Marius flinched and leaned away from him -- Courfeyrac was right beside him. There was no need to shout.
Courfeyrac obviously felt differently.
“No one!” Marius replied. “You said-- that we only needed one, and I choose Musichetta.”
Only Enjolras witnessed Combeferre very subtly cover Eponine’s hand with his own.
“Are you fucking serious?” Feuilly asked.
“Did I miss something?” Marius whispered to Cosette.
She reassuringly patted his leg. “Not at all, dear. Go ahead and spin.”
Marius slipped an arm around her waist as he reached down.
The bottle spun once, and stopped on Bossuet. Or, rather -- it stopped on Joly, who had already answered, and therefore defaulted to Bossuet, who was still cringing in his arms.
Joly rubbed his arm reassuringly and asked: “Who would you do?”
Bossuet looked to Musichetta, almost as if he was asking permission to answer. She nodded.
He exhaled slowly. “Ponine, for one,” he replied. “Definitely Ponine.”
Eponine smiled softly.
“And... my second would be Enjolras.” Joly smiled.
Musichetta looked across the room to Enjolras. He was half-buried under Bahorel and Feuilly, but he met her eyes all the same. “My boys like you,” she said with surprising nonchalance.
“Apparently.”
Chetta smiled.
Cosette leaned away from Marius. “Who would you do?” She asked. Everyone looked up.
“Are you drunk?” Bahorel called out.
Cosette rolled her eyes. “For your second -- if you had to pick one of the guys. Who would you do?”
Marius’s mouth fell open slightly. “I- ... I don’t have to-- what?”
Cosette smiled at him sweetly. “Who would you do?” She repeated.
Marius’s ears turned red.
And then Marius’s face turned red.
“I d-don’t know,” he stammered.
“Marius...”
Marius looked helplessly around the circle. “Uhmm... Courfeyrac?”
Courfeyrac cackled.
“So who hasn’t answered yet?” Combeferre asked.
“I haven’t,” Eponine replied quietly.
Feuilly raised his hand. “Enjolras and I haven’t.”
Courfeyrac straightened up. “Neither has Jehan.”
“Does anyone want to volunteer?” Combe asked.
“Cosette,” Feuilly answered immediately. It was obvious from the sharp tone in his voice that he had settled on an answer fairly soon after Grantaire had admitted he was lying. “Cosette, and that is my final answer.”
Everyone drank, and Enjolras -- to his own surprise -- found that he’d reached the bottom of the bottle.
Bahorel whistled. “How you feeling there, kid?”
Enjolras’s expression darkened. It wasn’t an unfair label -- Bahorel was almost six years older than he was. But he found that his wine-soaked brain wasn’t fond of the word 'kid' or loud noises.
His sober brain generally wasn’t either -- but that was beside the point.
“Fine,” he answered. A very annoying voice in his head yearned for another cigarette.
“So,” Bahorel continued, “who would do, Enjolras? If you had the pick of anybody in this room.”
Enjolras stared at him.
“You have to answer.”
“The bottle hasn’t landed on me.”
Grantaire lunged for the bottle and turned it so that the neck was aimed directly at Enjolras. Jehan giggled.
Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I don’t like this game.”
“You don’t like any of my games,” Courfeyrac whined.
“Tough,” Bahorel insisted. “Answer the question.”
Enjolras frowned.
“Oh, and just so you know-- if you choose Pontmercy, I’m going to punch you in the face. We all know that's bullshit.”
A ripple of laughter echoed around the room.
“I’m not going to choose Marius,” Enjolras said with no lack of snark.
Joly leaned over and whispered in Bossuet’s ear. Bossuet shook his head.
It had occurred to absolutely everyone in the room that they had no idea who Enjolras would pick. They all assumed he would only offer one name -- but apart from Combeferre, no one knew whether he would choose from the men or the women. They had no idea if that kind of thing even mattered to Enjolras -- if he would choose based on familiarity, or looks.
They had absolutely no idea what appealed to him, because to their knowledge, it wasn’t something he had ever discussed with any of them.
They weren’t surprised to realise that they all very much wanted to know.
Except for Marius -- Marius had gotten distracted by the warm, strawberry scent of Cosette’s hair.
Cosette, however, leaned forward slightly.
“Who would you do, Enjolras?” Courfeyrac asked.
Enjolras sighed. “Hypothetically? And if they were available... Jehan.”
Jehan dropped his drink into his lap.
“So, are you gay, or...?” Bahorel asked bluntly. He tried to sound like he was just making conversation -- but there was only so much he could do at that point. He had an opportunity, and he took it.
Grantaire stared at the floor.
Enjolras’s eyes narrowed and his lips pursed. If he hadn’t had that wine, he wouldn’t have answered.
But he did, and he therefore disdainfully replied: “Yes,” as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Hypothetically, if you had the chance to sleep with someone you really liked, would you take it?” Courfeyrac asked. Jehan dug his fingers into Courfeyrac’s side.
“That’s not a part of the game,” Enjolras replied.
“Answer the question.”
“No.”
There was a slightly awkward silence until Courfeyrac ventured: “Is that a ‘no’ to answering the question, or to the question itself?”
Enjolras glared. “Does it matter? Why do you all care so much?” He ran his hand through his hair.
“Because we don’t know,” Feuilly supplied quietly. “We know what anyone else would say.”
Combeferre couldn’t see Grantaire’s face, but Jehan could.
Jehan called out to Eponine. “Hey Ponine, who would you do?”
“Courfeyrac. You?”
“Combeferre.”
No one questioned it. As Feuilly had cautiously explained, they all knew what Eponine’s and Jehan’s real answers were.
“And that’s everyone,” Combeferre added. “Good game, Courf.”
Courfeyrac was still watching Enjolras as he stared at the empty wine bottle, turning it over in his hands.
But it was Grantaire that broke the silence that followed. “If had to pick a second person,” he looked up at Enjolras. “Who would you do?”
Combeferre squeezed Eponine’s hand.
Enjolras met Grantaire’s eyes. His expression was unreadable. Grantaire didn’t look away.
And then very suddenly, Enjolras shoved Bahorel’s legs to the floor in a surprising show of force. He stood up, taking the bottle in his hand with him.
Grantaire closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.
“Honestly?” Enjolras called over his shoulder as he walked into the kitchen. Grantaire froze. “No one.”
Everyone but Grantaire winced.