Archive of Our Own ^beta

Feuilly lazily opened his eyes Saturday on the first official morning of spring break, rays of light shimmering all around the room as they reflected off his hanging mirror sculpture (which he refused to call a mobile because it’s not like it was designed to dangle over a crib or anything). The differently shaped shards caught the sunlight from all angles, creating a beautiful, almost starry effect against the dark blue walls of the bedroom.

As he blinked a few times to really wake himself up, he stretched his limbs out from the ball he slept in and reached out to the nightstand on his left, fumbling for his glasses. Instead of finding them, it was one of Jehan’s socks with pencils stuffed inside. Feuilly sighed and smiled to himself, sitting up and leaning over the side of the bed. He squinted as he finally located his glasses on the wood floor, half-hidden in the alcove at the bottom of the nightstand, thankfully in one piece.

He kicked off the sheets and slunk down out of bed soundlessly, crouching on the floor as he knocked a bag of Jehan’s shoes to the side in order to grasp his glasses. Once he had them on, he stood up and ran his fingers through his short, curly hair, looking back at the bed. There was a lump of blankets curled up on the other side, with a pair of bare, freckled feet sticking out from the bottom of the covers.

Feuilly smiled fondly as he padded around the end of the bed in his boxers and T-shirt to the other side. He pulled the sheets down from the top just a bit to reveal Jehan’s pale face, sleeping soundly with the slightest of smiles on his lips, his long hair tangled around his fists which were curled under his chin. Feuilly leaned down and kissed his nose, then moved the sheets back up to cover his face.

Feuilly turned around to go to their adjacent bathroom, using his foot to push last night’s discarded clothes on the floor against the dresser, where a pile was already accumulating even though he could have sworn they just did laundry the other day. He maneuvered his way in between Jehan’s two large suitcases that were sitting half-open on the floor, nearly tripping when his foot got caught in one of his boyfriend’s long, knit scarves. He used his hip to scoot the three boxes stacked on top of each other that always seemed to make their way back in front of the bathroom door, no matter how many times Feuilly moved them.

Once in the bathroom, Feuilly put his contacts in, setting his glasses in their case inside the medicine cabinet, and threw some water on his face. When he reached blindly behind him for the towel on the rack, he instead got a handful of what appeared to be some kind of parchment, an actual scroll-like document rolled around the rack with Jehan’s tiny scrawl covering every centimeter of it. As he wiped the water from his face with his T-shirt, he turned around and only then spotted the towel folded up and sticking out of one of Jehan’s sneakers on the counter.

When he went back into the bedroom to put some pants on, Feuilly stopped for a moment to really take in the sight. It kind of looked like a tornado had swept through the room. Boxes of Jehan’s belongings were stacked along almost every inch of the wall that didn’t have furniture against it. There were piles of books and journals, glasses of pens and markers, and vases with droopy flowers on every surface. Between his art projects and supplies and Jehan’s clothes, Feuilly could barely see the floor at all.

Feuilly wasn’t a neat person by any stretch of the imagination, but he knew they had to do something about the state of their space before it spilled out of the room, and Combeferre called “Hoarders” on them. Or Joly planned some kind of organization intervention.

It had just been such a whirlwind since Jehan had moved in right before Christmas. It was a new experience, sharing a space with a significant other, and he and Jehan were still working their separate rhythms into a cohesive schedule. And he’d been so busy between Jehan, his friends, working at the Musain Grille and campus store and temping wherever else he could, and putting the finishing touches on his senior thesis: an in-depth look at the diverse concept of “home” in Western culture. He didn’t know why he had decided to make it even more complicated, choosing to create a presentation with art features and tactile displays instead of the standard research paper. It took weeks to finish each part of the installation.

Cleaning their room was literally last on his to-do list.

He grabbed a pair of jeans from the floor and tugged them on, thankful to find they were his when they fit past his thighs. While he hopped back over to the bed, he stepped on something — which he later determined was one of Jehan’s many hair brushes that he constantly bought because he was always losing them — and fell onto the bed, laying on his stomach horizontally across Jehan’s curled-up body.

Jehan stirred, pushing the covers off his face and upper body as he twisted his torso and raised his head to look sleepily at Feuilly laying on him. His hair was a beautiful mess, sticking up in every direction and swirled around his face, and there were indentation marks on his cheek from the quilted pillow he loved to sleep with. The skin on his bare chest was flushed red from where his fists had been resting.

“You could have just set an alarm or started slamming drawers if you really wanted to get me up,” Jehan said playfully, reaching with one hand to squeeze Feuilly’s knee.

Feuilly grinned and scooted himself forward on his stomach to take some of his weight off Jehan, who turned over and sat up, his legs still pinned underneath Feuilly’s.

“We need to do something about this room,” Feuilly said, propping his chin up with his hand.

Jehan smiled dreamily and sighed. “Do we really? I think it has a fun, whimsical quality to it right now.”

It was exactly how all of their conversations had gone whenever the subject of unpacking came up. Jehan would crawl under blankets and clutch his notebook to his chest; or he’d run outside and hide in the big tree in front of the apartment complex even though their landlord forbade it; or he’d text Courfeyrac and laugh as Feuilly’s phone blew up with 20 single-letter texts spelling out, “Cleaning is overrated!” The last time they’d almost made progress, moving some of the bags and boxes away from the wall opposite of the bed to cover it in a coat of chalkboard paint. But after it had dried, that proved to be the worst distraction of all: giving a huge, erasable canvas to a poet and an artist.

Jehan was just always so difficult to say no to, especially with that charming, crooked smile. Feuilly wanted to mentally block out the mess in the room and curl up in Jehan’s arms and stay in bed all day. It was spring break and they had the whole day off work together ...

But then he caught a glimpse of the windowsill behind the bed, where a few of Jehan’s photos were sitting precariously on top of empty tissue boxes that Feuilly kept for future projects. It was like an accident waiting to happen.

“You plan to stay here permanently, right, Jehan?”

His boyfriend immediately got serious, his face dropping the smile as he gently pushed Feuilly’s legs off, causing Feuilly to turn onto his side. Jehan shifted forward onto his knees, the sheets bunching at his waist, and slid closer, laying his hands on Feuilly’s hip.

“Of course I plan to stay. I thought that was the offer. Was I wrong?”

Feuilly laughed as he bucked his hip up playfully into Jehan’s palm.

“You know better than that. I never want you to leave. You belong here.”

Relief washed over Jehan’s face, the tension dissolving from his features as quickly as it had appeared. He sat cross-legged, one knee up against Feuilly’s stomach and the other against his thigh.

“What I meant was that if you plan to stay here, like we both definitely want, maybe you should actually ... move in.” Feuilly gestured to the general chaos of the room, waving his arm from floor to ceiling. “We can’t keep living like this, with all our stuff everywhere. It’s been like three months, and it looks exactly the same in here as it did the first day.”

Jehan bit his lip, his fingers unconsciously drumming up and down Feuilly’s ribs as he looked around.

“I suppose it could use some organization,” Jehan said, expressing anything but excitement as Feuilly watched him scan the room.

“Come on, Jehan, it won’t be that bad. You’ve got a look on your face like when Enjolras told you that you had to stop wearing neon colors while working because it distracted the customers.”

Poking Feuilly’s side with his index finger, Jehan replied, “But look how beautiful it is outside. We’ve got a week of freedom, and the sun is practically begging us to come out and play.”

Jehan suddenly stood up on the bed, the sheets slipping down his legs, and Feuilly felt his stomach flip-flop at the sight of his boyfriend standing above him in only a pair of polka-dot boxer briefs. Jehan threw his arms out and started singing, “I need to laugh and when the sun is out, I've got something I can laugh about. I feel good in a special way, I'm in love and it's a sunny day.”

Feuilly chuckled and slid forward off the bed while Jehan jumped around, still singing, although he’d lost the lyrics so he was basically just repeating “Good day sunshine” over and over. Feuilly extended his hands out, wiggling his fingers to invite Jehan down. Jehan jumped off the bed with a thud and gave Feuilly a kiss on the forehead, still humming to himself as he bounced in place.

“We’ll make it fun, OK?” Feuilly said, taking Jehan’s hands as he looked around the room, formulating a plan. “We’ll put some music on and open the windows and, before you know it, we’ll be done. Everything in its place.”

Feuilly found himself pulling Jehan in for a tight hug without even thinking, his chin in the crook of Jehan’s neck, suddenly overwhelmed.

“Our place,” Jehan said quietly in his ear.

Feuilly grinned as he nuzzled Jehan’s neck, laying a few small kisses there. The constant uncertainty about where he belonged that had plagued him since he could remember was a thing of the past, he thought with a delayed sense of realization. Piece by piece over the years, through all the terrible group houses and disappointments and loneliness, his life had come together. Everything had led up to this. He was mere weeks away from receiving his college degree, he had the best and most loyal group of friends anyone could ask for, and he had Jehan. He finally knew precisely where he was meant to be.

“Our home,” Feuilly whispered back.

***

Cosette knew Marius was nervous, but his constant rambling that had been going on since they left his apartment more than an hour ago was starting to drive her crazy. She was nearly positive she had developed an eye twitch already.

“And I tried to explain to Bahorel that ‘protecting his street rep’ was not a real legal defense for knocking a guy’s front teeth out and breaking a rib. And even less of a defense for the hundreds of dollars in damages he caused the bar — which thankfully I was able to talk down since the owner was hardly up to the proper codes — and it’s like my words just went in one ear and --”

“Marius,” Cosette finally interrupted with a calm voice, gripping the steering wheel of her boyfriend’s car tight in her hands. “Can you stop talking for like five seconds please?”

She turned her head slightly and watched his face fall and turn red. He looked down at his lap and began running his fingers along the seam of his pants, which he had ironed — twice — in preparation for today.

“I’m sorry, babe, it’s just ... you haven’t stopped to take a breath since we left, and I really didn’t want that to continue all the way to Baltimore,” Cosette made sure her voice was as soothing as possible, needing Marius to know she wasn’t angry. She understood completely why he was on edge.

Marius hadn’t seen his grandparents since before he’d left for college. They’d had a huge fight during the winter of his senior year of high school because he’d been accepted at every college he’d applied to, including a few ivy leagues. (Which was no surprise considering he was basically the perfect student: straight A’s, perfect attendance, a ridiculous amount of extracurriculars and volunteer activities. Cosette had seen those same methods and achievements in his college career, too. He’d never skipped a class, even when his allergies were so bad he could barely breathe.) And his grandparents were thrilled to be able to tell their friends that their grandson would be attending a “prestigious” school while the others’ grandchildren were “stuck” at state schools.

However, Marius didn’t want to go to Harvard or Yale, despite how brilliant their law schools were. He’d only applied to make his grandparents happy, never even expecting to get in. He didn’t want that pressure and, most of all, he hated the idea of his grandparents using his success to make their friends feel bad. It went against everything Marius hoped to fight for and stand for: justice between classes and equality despite financial situations.

When he’d told them his plans to attend a smaller, more liberal arts-based school in New England, the fight had lasted for hours, which turned into days, which turned into a monthslong silent treatment. They signed off on all his forms and sent checks to the school of his choice for tuition and board, all without saying a word. Marius tried to reconcile with them multiple times. They were, after all, his only family since his parents had died when he was young, and he didn’t want to leave without them knowing that he still loved them and always would, even and especially when they fought.

Yet, nothing worked. No amount of pleading or excuses or yelling did anything to change their minds. On the day he was to move out, they left the house early in the morning, before Marius had even woken up, and didn’t return until hours after he’d packed everything into his Prius and driven away.

That was about two-and-a-half years ago. And though they had made up as far as at least emailing semi-regularly, Marius hadn’t been home — not even for holidays — and they hadn’t broached the subject of visiting him, despite the fact that both his grandfather and grandmother were very healthy and had no problems traveling to other places.

After she’d learned all of this, it had taken weeks for Cosette to convince Marius that he needed to make things right with his family. She knew from experience how important family was. They were more than just your blood; they were your support, your strength, the light of your very soul. She missed her mother every day and regularly lamented her lack of siblings or extended family, but having her Papa by her side was the best thing in her life. She wanted that for Marius; he deserved it, and he needed it. It was ultimately her decision to use their spring break to go and face his grandparents.

They had no idea that Marius and Cosette were coming, which was also Cosette’s idea. She didn’t want them to try and talk Marius out of it or have time to plan a quick getaway, and she suspected they definitely would have tried both, given how sneaky they were when Marius first left. The clandestine aspect of their trip was probably adding to Marius’ nerves, Cosette thought with a twinge of guilt.

“I know you’re nervous, but that’s why I’m here,” Cosette said, sparing a glance to look over at Marius. He was chewing his nail and staring out the passenger window, so Cosette couldn’t see his expression, but she could feel the tension running throughout his body like it was her own.

She hoped she hadn’t rushed him into this. She knew she had a tendency to throw herself into things head first, devoting herself to causes with an instant determination. (It’s why her and Enjolras got along so splendidly. They attended their first protest together only a few days after her and Marius got together; she’d come home with a bruise the size of an orange on her hip, and Enjolras had managed to tear a gash in the back of his favorite red hoodie. They’d loved it.) Yet, this was Marius’ battle, not hers, and maybe it was moving too fast for him.

Her mind started racing because the last thing she would ever want is to cause Marius pain; he’d been through enough with his grandparents. And she knew he’d been stressed at school lately, too, with projects and papers stacking up as the semester wound down and things got hectic. Marius had been staying up later and later, consuming more energy drinks and protein bars than a normal person should; she’d gotten texts from Courfeyrac on more than one occasion saying he’d forced Marius to take Nyquil just to make him rest for a few hours. And then she got texts from Joly saying he shouldn't take Nyquil without actually having cold symptoms, and how he was going over there to confiscate the medicine. And then somehow Bahorel got involved in the text chain and said he’d punch Marius and knock him out, if that would help. To which Cosette replied hurriedly that it certainly would not.

Marius had wanted to kick Courfeyrac out of the apartment for the whole week and have Cosette come to stay with him, just watching movies and enjoying each other’s company. He’d wanted a simple, easy-going vacation to de-stress, cook some real food, and relax. And Cosette had changed his mind and was now literally driving him into the most stressful environment possible.

“We’re only an hour from home. I can turn around if you really don’t want to do this,” she said quickly, already picturing the highway map in her head and figuring out which would be the best exits to get them home.

“No,” Marius said quickly, laying his hand on Cosette’s arm. She peeked at him again and saw that determination that she adored about him, his eyes bright and serious. She smiled as she turned back to pay attention to the road. “You’re right. This is something I have to do. It’s dumb that it’s gone on this long. They need to realize that I’m an adult, and I made an adult decision to attend the school I wanted. And not only that, but they need to understand why I did it. It wasn’t just me being rebellious or purposely trying to hurt their feelings. I would think they’d know that, but I’m honestly not sure. I need them to realize that the decision had more to do with what I want to accomplish in my life, the things I want to do, the person I want to be.”

Cosette felt Marius put his hand on her thigh, and she dropped her right hand to clasp it with his, knowing that he needed her support in every little way.

“Besides, even if they are still angry with me, they won’t be able to resist falling in love with you. It’s physically impossible not to. You smile and it’s like the entire room fills with sunshine,” Marius said, his voice slipping into that fond tone that Cosette would never get tired of.

“That’s what I’m here for: distraction in any form,” she joked, squeezing his hand.

Marius sighed, and Cosette could tell he was about to start rambling again.

“I’m excited to see where you grew up. I bet they left your bedroom exactly the same and everything. I hope you cleaned out the porn under your bed before you moved out,” Cosette felt Marius’ hand go slack against her thigh, and she couldn’t help but snicker as she listened to him sputter.

“I-I-I ... but no, I w-wouldn’t because I didn’t d-do things ... and why would y-y-you even --”

Cosette threw her head back against the seat, laughing loudly as she kept her eyes ahead.

“I’m just playing with you, babe. Take some deep breaths. We’ve got another four hours in the car, and we may as well relax as much as we can.”

Marius raised his hand to rest it on her shoulder for a moment before leaning forward and hitting the CD button on the dashboard to rotate through the six-disc changer, which he hardly ever used because he liked to listen to talk radio on the rare occasions when he drove for an extended period of time. They’d been listening to something on NPR since they’d left the apartment. Cosette didn’t even know what CDs he would have in there.

Suddenly “Bad Romance” started blaring out of the speakers, startling Cosette so much that she swerved a little, hitting the rumble strip on the right side before correcting her path. She looked over at Marius quickly, who was blindly punching at buttons to change songs, his face flushed.

“I wasn’t aware you were a Lady Gaga fan,” Cosette said with a smirk.

“I’m not,” Marius replied, his face contorted into a scowl. “I mean, I don’t have anything against her, but it’s not really my --”

He managed to turn the song off and spun the volume knob down just in case, which turned out to be a good thing because “Oops! ... I Did It Again” started playing, and Marius’ face got even more red.

“I’m learning all kinds of things about your musical tastes right now,” Cosette said, enjoying her boyfriend’s embarrassment immensely.

“It’s not mine,” Marius mumbled, fiddling with the controls to switch CDs.

The car funneled through the other five slots, indicating there weren’t any other discs in the player.

“What the --” Marius started.

The car started playing the first song of the CD, “Grenade” by Bruno Mars, which seemed to finally click something in Marius’ head.

“That’s the song Courf was dancing to the first night I met him. I got dragged to some frat party by my terrible freshman roommate, who then left me alone, and there was Courf, doing this crazy, intricate routine on top of a table, like it was planned. But it wasn’t because nothing is ever planned with him,” Marius said almost dreamily, as if lost in a memory. “And that damn Britney Spears song is the thing Eponine blasts to annoy Gavroche and her little sisters out of her room.”

He snapped back to reality quickly though. “I’m going to kill them for messing with my car.”

His face was bordering on the shade of a Red Delicious apple, but he was smiling despite himself. Cosette swore she could actually see the agitation leaving his body; he rolled his shoulders gracefully as he shook his head and leaned back in the seat. He sighed almost happily and started tapping his fingers against Cosette’s thigh as he took her hand again.

“I could kiss them,” Cosette thought. Of course Courfeyrac and Eponine would know exactly what to do to calm Marius down, even without being in the car. In the months since she’d been with Marius and therefore officially a member of his tight-knit group of friends, she’d come to realize just how codependent they all were. Though she’d known all of them as long as they’d worked at the Musain, being fully integrated into their group was overwhelming and a bit scary.

But sometimes she just had to admit it was kind of beautiful how close all of them were and also extremely helpful in situations like these. She’d have to find some baby pictures of Marius when they arrived in Baltimore — hopefully one of those gems that every parent or grandparent had somewhere of their kid naked in the tub — and remember to text them to Courf and Ep as a thank you.

***

It was gorgeous outside for the first day of spring break, bright and sunny without a cloud in the sky. Bossuet carried his large umbrella anyway, knowing full well that if he didn’t, the skies would open up and there’d be a downpour. He also had an extra shirt, a handful of paper towels, and two small rolls of duct tape shoved in his large messenger bag.

He was only walking from the apartment to meet Joly for a late lunch at the Musain — it was less than five blocks — but Bossuet knew better. He’d already needed some of the duct tape when the strap of his bag had snapped in the middle of an intersection he was crossing. He had an iced coffee in his other hand. He’d ordered it with soy, but they’d given him whole milk, of course.

Luckily he knew that’s how Courfeyrac liked his. So as Bossuet entered the restaurant, he set the drink down on the host station in front of his friend, whose face lit up like it was Christmas morning.

“You saved my life!” Courfeyrac proclaimed dramatically, laying his hand over his chest as he blew a kiss to Bossuet with the other.

“It’s just coffee, Courf,” Bossuet said, leaning his arms down onto the podium.

“Life-saving coffee. I’m not cut out for double shifts,” Courfeyrac whined. “I don’t know why I even agreed to this. I blame Marius somehow. I think his gross tendency toward overachieving has finally rubbed off on me after all these years.”

Bossuet chuckled and reached out to muss Courfeyrac’s hair. “We going to have a party while Pontmercy’s out of town?”

Courfeyrac pouted and crossed his arms. “I promised Marius no parties. He thinks without him there, we’ll destroy the place. Even though that only really happened once, and I told him it was actually Grantaire’s fault for bringing that real Absinthe his aunt bought him from France.”

“We don’t have to tell him about it.”

“He made me shake on it,” Courfeyrac looked positively miserable.

Bossuet didn’t know the story behind it, but once Marius had Courfeyrac shake on something, it was basically a binding, legal agreement between them. It had been a thing with them since he’d known them, and probably stemmed from Courf’s complete inability to mind his own business or make responsible decisions. Nobody else could get him to promise something wholeheartedly, not even Enjolras using his “this means business” tone, but one handshake with Marius and it was a done deal.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something to occupy yourself with. You always do.” With a shake of his head, Bossuet patted Courfeyrac’s shoulder sympathetically. “Enjoy the coffee. I’m going back to the kitchen.”

“Tell the good doctor ‘hi’ for me. And sorry I haven’t been back to bug him yet today,” Courfeyrac said, bringing the straw of the iced coffee to his lips.

“I’m sure he’s loved the peace and quiet!” Bossuet said he walked toward the back of the restaurant.

He spotted Enjolras leaning against the bar on the other side of the restaurant, arms crossed and eyes unblinking as he watched the bustle of the cafe. He was probably figuring out ways to improve workflow or doing calculations of ways to cut costs or, more likely, doing his best to ignore the fact that Grantaire was standing behind him. Grantaire was doing an inventory of the alcohol, stacking all the bottles on the counter and scribbling in a notepad next to him. But mostly he was sneaking glances at Enjolras, and Bossuet suspected he was probably doing more sketching than counting. Bossuet waved hello to Eponine as he passed; she grinned at him quickly before turning her attention back to her customers.

Bossuet dropped his bag with a thud in the space the employees used to store their things. (His bag strap snapped again as it fell, ripping the duct tape and spilling his belonging sideways, but he chose to ignore it. He’d pick them up later.) He stepped into the kitchen and saw his boyfriend standing in front of the flat top, flipping a veggie burger while grilling onions and peppers next to it.

Watching Joly cook was one of Bossuet’s favorite activities. (It was tied with watching Musichetta dance.) There was something about the flick of his wrists, the gentle way he coaxed the food, that brought Bossuet such intense joy. Joly seemed so relaxed at the stove; he was in his own world, having a private conversation with flavors and taste buds. Bossuet knew Joly’s head was filled with checklists as he cooked: Did he clean the work station? Did he wash that pan yet? Did he use that knife for the fish or the chicken? Yet, Joly somehow balanced his natural anxiety with the focused attention that cooking required.

Hearing Joly talk about food was another one of Bossuet’s favorite things, as long as he wasn’t inserting what symptoms various food allergies caused as he went along.

Bossuet leaned against the doorway, watching as Joly toasted a sesame bun and put the burger components together, creating a platter with streamline efficiency. He added fries — very deliberately so they didn’t touch the burger even though most people didn’t care if their food mixed like he did — and placed the dish in the window and rang the bell. One of the waiters who wasn’t Eponine (or Feuilly or Jehan since they had the day off) picked it up quickly.

As Joly turned around, he finally spotted Bossuet.

“How long have you been there?” he asked, a grin spreading across his flushed face. He wiped a bit of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, pushing his hair off his forehead, and then instantly walked over to the sink.

“Not long, I promise. I was just enjoying the view,” Bossuet replied. He walked forward to surround Joly from behind, wrapping his arms around Joly’s small waist as he washed his hands. Bossuet knew better than to interrupt the actual washing; he let his fingers delicately tap across Joly’s stomach as he scrubbed.

“Where’s Combeferre?” Bossuet asked, settling his chin on Joly’s shoulder as he watched Joly work the lather with his hands.

“He said he had to come in late because of a meeting or something,” Joly said. “So it’s just me.”

After Joly patted his hands dry, he turned around, a graceful motion within Bossuet’s grip. Joly kissed him tenderly, raking his hands across Bossuet’s back as he pushed Bossuet against the counter opposite of the stove. The kiss went deeper almost immediately, Joly’s tongue sweeping into Bossuet’s mouth with a familiar intimacy.

“I thought you didn’t want to do this in here again,” Bossuet protested as he pulled back from the surprisingly intense kiss. The last time they’d fooled around in the kitchen — which was months ago — Joly had nearly had a panic attack when he’d discovered mayonnaise in his hair and wayward pickles in his pockets afterward. It had taken hours for Bossuet to talk him down. So the Musain kitchen had officially been a no-sex zone from then on.

“I cleaned right before you came in. Lysol and everything. That counter is as clean as our kitchen at home. And you know what we do in our kitchen,” Joly pushed Bossuet against the counter again forcefully, pressing their bodies together.

Bossuet grinned as he wrapped his arms around Joly, his fingers digging into his hips as he gently moved Joly into a rhythm. Bossuet loved the feeling of his tongue in Joly’s mouth, sucking his boyfriend’s tongue in turn. When their bodies pressed together, it was always electric; Bossuet pulled him in closer, gripping Joly’s perfect little ass in his hands.

Joly was making his delightful panting sounds, those shallow breaths that were like music to Bossuet. The hot bursts of air pulsated against Bossuet’s face as he laid a series of kisses down Joly’s neck, sucking a bruise into the pale expanse of his boyfriend’s collar bone. Joly would probably scold him later because he didn’t care much for hickeys. (“Do you know how hard it is to concentrate in my human anatomy class when I can feel the tenderness of my skin from you?”) But how was he supposed to resist when all that skin was just laying out in front of him? If Grantaire or Feuilly could get away with using “it’s a canvas” as an excuse, Bossuet felt like he should, too. Artist or not.

With a nimble move, Joly spread his legs further apart to close the remaining space between him and Bossuet, both of them hard and straining within their pants. Joly made quick work of unbuttoning Bossuet’s jeans and unzipping them, sliding his hand in and reaching below his boxers to tentatively tease down the shaft until Joly gripped his dick with a firm grasp and started to move his hand back and forth. Bossuet gasped, dragging his fingers through Joly’s hair to bring his mouth up to his again. He needed Joly’s lips against his, his tongue in his mouth, his taste mixing with his own.

Bossuet was enjoying Joly’s assertiveness too much, panting into the kiss like he was running a marathon. Joly’s hand was pressed like suction around his dick, pumping with a single-minded purpose. And Bossuet was really afraid he’d lose his mind right there in the kitchen.

“I’m not sure what’s gotten into you today, but please keep it up,” Bossuet whispered into Joly’s ear, taking his earlobe into his mouth and sucking hard. One of the benefits of being with someone as long as he’d been with Joly was that they knew each other’s most sensitive places. Joly’s ears were one of his favorites, tied with his fingertips and that spot behind his left knee.

“It’s spring break,” Joly said, licking a long stripe from Bossuet’s mouth down to bite below his jaw. “Relax, enjoy yourself, take a breather and all that.”

Bossuet felt their bodies moving as one, hips against hips, chests against chests, Joly’s hand still gripping him tightly. Bossuet let his fingers dance from Joly’s hair, creating a trail from his neck down his torso to snake into his pants that looked like they were painted on but were thankfully stretchy. His fingers ghosted over Joly’s hip bones, tiny punctures of pressure making Joly hiccup in gasping pleasure. When he finally took Joly in his hand, he couldn’t help but let out a full groan in unison with Joly, each nerve of Bossuet’s body responding to his boyfriend’s pleasure.

They were both close to the brink, their bodies shaking, the noise of the restaurant loud in the background only increasing their momentum. Joly’s forehead fell to rest against Bossuet’s chest, and Bossuet leaned down, his face buried in Joly’s hair. Bossuet couldn’t believe that one of the waiters hadn’t put in an order and interrupted them yet or that a freak thunderstorm hadn’t caused the electricity to go out or that his unsteady legs hadn’t slipped out from under him and taken both of them down.

“In my kitchen? Again?” a voice suddenly said, so dangerously calm that it could only be one person.

Joly jumped back in shock, his hand flying out of Bossuet’s pants so fast that he nearly pulled them down in the process. Bossuet had to steady his arms back on the counter to keep from falling over.

By thinking about it, Bossuet had actually conjured bad luck. Combeferre stood at the entrance of the kitchen, his eyes narrowed and his face turning red. If it were a cartoon, there would be plumes of smoke spilling out from his ears and an egg frying on his forehead.

Bossuet almost laughed at the image, but he decided it would be best to not joke or tease in this case.

“Sorry ’Ferre, I’m going, I’m going!” Bossuet put his hands up in surrender and slowly side-stepped, his back still against the counter, until he got to the doorway where Combeferre was frozen.

“See you at home, Jolllly,” Bossuet nearly whispered, feeling Combeferre’s glare beating down on him. Joly waved weakly before going to the sink to scrub his hands again, the flush from his face spreading all the way down the back of his neck as he turned around.

For his part, Bossuet grinned sheepishly, mumbling another “sorry” before sliding past Combeferre, grabbing his bag with one arm, speed-walking through the restaurant, and trying to discreetly hold up his unbuttoned jeans with the other hand. The last thing he heard as he exited out onto the street was Courfeyrac trying to start a restaurantwide slow clap, Grantaire hooting with laughter, and Enjolras shushing everyone.

***

Eponine did one more quick turn in the bathroom of the Musain, standing on her tiptoes to get as full a view as possible in the slanted mirrors above the sinks. Her dark purple pants were just tight enough, the fact that they were about 3 inches too long for her legs hidden by her scuffed combat boots. Her gray checkered shirt was worn and comfortable, cinched at the waist with frayed edges. She wore her favorite necklaces: one with some kind of old-fashioned pendant that Gavroche had pick-pocketed for her years ago, along with a handmade, linked set of springs that Grantaire had fitted into a chain.

She nodded in approval and picked up her canvas messenger bag, stuffing her work clothes inside and zipping it as she left the bathroom. When she turned the corner, she saw Grantaire leaning down on the back counter of the bar area, his pencil moving a mile a minute as he sketched, his back to the only two customers nursing their beers at the end of the bar. She skipped over, tossing her bag up on the counter and balancing her chin in her hands as she waited for her best friend to notice her.

Grantaire’s face brightened a minute later as he turned around. “You look hot as hell. Where are you off to tonight?” he asked as he walked toward her, his arms outstretched.

“Checking out a show down at the Black Sheep Club,” Eponine replied, wrinkling her nose as Grantaire tickled her temples with his fingers affectionately.

“Alone?” he asked, concern instantly settling into his features, even though he knew she’d been to much worse places by herself.

“Cosette was supposed to go with me — she’s been talking about going there for ages — but since she bailed to go Baltimore this morning with Marius, I asked Montparnasse to come with.”

Knowing what was coming, Eponine cast her eyes down, fiddling with the strap of her bag and biting her lip. She heard Grantaire sigh and could feel the muscles in his arms tense as he laid his hands on her forearms.

“Have you been seeing him again?” he asked quietly, pushing at Eponine’s bag with his elbow to make her look up.

“Not really,” she replied, cocking her eyebrow at Grantaire’s scowl. “Don’t give me that look. We’ve just been talking and hanging out a little. It’s not like it was last time. Last time I was trying to make Marius jealous, and he just needed a safe place to crash where the cops wouldn’t look for him. Things are different now.”

She wasn’t exactly sure how true that was. Last time her and Montparnasse — a liquor distributor for the Musain who mostly worked for a local crime family and their gang, and sometimes hung around her father’s crew — had been a “thing,” if you could even call it that, was nearly a year ago. Eponine was head over heels for Marius, and she thought making her presence known with someone sexy and dangerous like Montparnasse would draw Marius’ attention. It didn’t work in the slightest, and all it really got her was an addiction to nicotine and a handful of near-arrests.

Now Marius was with Cosette and, though it still twinged a bit when she saw them together (she suspected it always would), she really was thrilled for them. She wanted Marius to be happy, and Cosette made him happy. And damn if Eponine found that she genuinely enjoyed Cosette’s company, too. She had this infectious laugh, great opinions on everything, and a killer singing voice. Eponine wanted to hate her, wanted to find fault in anything and everything. But Cosette was eloquent like Enjolras, self-deprecating like Grantaire, level-headed like Combeferre, playful like Courfeyrac, kind-hearted like Feuilly, optimistic like Jehan, resourceful like Bossuet, smart like Joly, and she could throw nearly as wicked a punch as Bahorel. It was easy to see why Marius was so smitten.

“What, you mean he’s not a criminal anymore?” Grantaire’s sarcasm was in full swing.

“Don’t pretend like you didn’t have your run of dangerous guys before you scored with Enjolras,” she retorted, standing up straight and pulling her bag over one shoulder.

“Yeah, but I’m not the one who wants to be the city’s first female police chief before she’s 30,” Grantaire’s tone was still sharp, but Eponine saw in his eyes that he wasn’t being cruel. Just honest.

She’d long ago stopped trying to reconcile Montparnasse’s criminal activity with her own police ambitions. She’d drive herself crazy if she tried to make sense of what was right and what was wrong, and what she should report and what she couldn’t. It was the same with her family, who she’d been turning a blind eye to for even longer; her parents had been breaking the law since before she was born, and they had no plans of stopping anytime soon. (Her siblings, thankfully, were on a better track for the most part. Gavroche was still a little wild, but Eponine wasn’t worried about him like she used to be.) After college, she knew she’d have to deal with the conflicting path she was on, but for now, as long as no one got hurt, she would continue looking the other way to keep the people she cared about out of jail.

And Eponine knew Grantaire was just concerned for her, like he always was. They’d been best friends, along with Bahorel, since high school and their friendship was the one real, stable comfort she had known in her life. The three of them had pulled each other out of more scrapes than they could count, and they knew each other better than anyone in the whole world. However, sometimes the big brother thing was a little overpowering. Especially when she could start listing off the less-than-ideal choices Grantaire had made over the years, like the drug dealer who nearly turned Grantaire into a prostitute or the super religious choir boy wannabe who dragged Grantaire to a cult house for two whole days before Eponine and Bahorel could rescue him.

“You promised you’d help me have fun after you masterminded the entire situation that got Cosette and Marius together,” Eponine said, putting her hands on her hips. “Well, Montparnasse is fun, and I’m going to have fun tonight. You can’t stop me so you may as well accept it.”

Grantaire threw his hands up in the air in surrender. “OK, OK, just be careful and take care of yourself. Text me if you need anything. Call if he tries anything. Send up a flare if you --”

Leaning forward, Eponine silenced him with a kiss on the cheek. “Relax, R, I’ve got this. Now I have to go or I’m going to be late.”

“I know, I know. But Ep, seriously, be safe, OK?”

Eponine kissed him on the other cheek swiftly and then reached down to grab Grantaire’s glass that she knew was always there. She took a gulp and grinned at him through the sting of whiskey on her tongue.

“Enjoy the show,” he said as he shook his head at her, his dark curls falling across his forehead.

“I plan to.” She pushed away from the bar and started walking before Grantaire could start lecturing her on safe sex or something equally embarrassing. When she approached the host podium, she reached out and poked Courfeyrac in the back.

“Your date is waiting outside,” Courfeyrac said, waggling his eyebrows as Eponine stepped in front of him. “He is allowed in the restaurant, you know.”

Eponine just smiled wickedly at her friend and exited out onto the dark street. Montparnasse was leaning against a light post and taking a long drag from his cigarette, looking every bit the cliché rebel in tight black jeans and a leather jacket, unzipped to reveal a bright red V-neck that clung to his abs in a way that should be illegal. Eponine felt her pulse quicken like it always did, an instant reaction to his cheekbones that could cut glass and those unbelievably full lips that she could feel on her skin even then.

“I thought I was meeting you there,” Eponine shifted her bag against her hip as she reached forward to take the cigarette from Montparnasse’s fingers and bring it to her lips. She watched as he watched her take a quick puff before placing it back in his hand, his smoldering eyes never leaving her mouth.

“And let you walk down these dangerous streets at night by yourself? I don’t think so,” he replied, his voice low and smooth.

“They’re only dangerous because of you and the Wallaces,” she quipped back.

“Regardless, I thought it best to accompany you. Plus it’s more time I get to spend with you. Is that a crime?” he added, taking a last, long drag and stamping his cigarette out on the sidewalk. Eponine wanted to kiss him while the taste was still fresh in his mouth.

For the most part, Montparnasse was still an enigma, even though Eponine had known him since she was 16 and he did his first job with her father’s rag-tag company of thieves. Besides delivering liquor to a few bars and restaurants in the city, he didn’t seem to hold a regular job of any kind, and she didn’t even know where he lived. She’d never met any of his family or other friends outside of his criminal associations, and nobody knew anything about his past before he’d suddenly appeared when he was 18, already a skilled lock-picker and knives enthusiast. He’d consciously let the mystery around him build into almost mythical proportions.

He was nearly always the picture of composure: calm, cool, and collected. He was constantly on guard, looking for an escape route and taking mental notes of buildings’ and people’s weaknesses. He neared on being meticulously well-groomed and clean, sporting designer clothes that fit him like they were tailor-made. He didn’t like to talk much, and Eponine could count on one hand the times she’d seen him laugh, though he was quick with his breathtaking smile.

Despite his “I’m-too-cool-for-you” demeanor, Eponine enjoyed being around him; he’d go anywhere and do anything because there were few things that frightened him. (In fact, the only thing Eponine could name was bees because he was deathly allergic. She still laughed remembering that one time she saw him literally run away from a bee with his arms flailing.) The adventures she’d had with him were some of the best nights of her life, from their spontaneous drive to Atlantic City to breaking into the library at 2 a.m. to read books together in the giant, dark silence.

On a few occasions, however, she had gotten a glimpse of his dangerous side, usually right before a job or if someone was stupid enough to try to start shit with him. There was an eerie electricity around him then, a lack of recognition in his eyes and a deceptively sweet smile. His face would morph into something less beautiful and more manic. Eponine had seen him put three guys in the hospital without breaking a sweat, and she’d heard tales about even worse. He was able to virtually shut off his emotions, which was partially what made him so good at what he did. He’d do whatever it took to finish the job and maintain the reputation he’d spent years cultivating for himself. He’d never raised a hand to her or threatened her in any way — and Eponine knew a few tricks to bring him back to himself — but usually it was a better idea to just make herself scarce.

Before Eponine could kiss him, Montparnasse took the initiative by leaning forward and wrapping his arms around her to pull her close. Those lips found hers quickly and expertly; Eponine reached up to tangle her fingers through his hair while biting at the corner of his mouth like she knew he loved. He pulled at her tighter, sliding one hand into the back pocket of her snug pants, his palm fitting around the curve of her ass. She sighed happily, tugging at the scruff at the back of his neck where his hair had gotten longer than she had seen it for years.

Montparnasse twirled her around without breaking the kiss, pressing her against the light post as he crowded her with his body. His one hand not on her ass was rubbing up and down her side, from her hip to her armpit, his fingers delicate on her back and his palm teasing right next to her breast. His mouth was teasing, too, his tongue sweeping in and out, and causing Eponine’s stomach to drop with each motion. She kept up with him, kiss for kiss, breath for breath, even though it was already to the point where she was considering ditching the show altogether and dragging Montparnasse back to her house or, more likely, into the nearest alley.

He reached up to grab her hands, drawing them both down to wrap around the post, his fingers holding hers in place. She was dizzyingly aware that the street in front of her work, pressed up against a light post where they were bathed in a soft but noticeable glow, was probably not the best place to be doing this. If they were looking, Courfeyrac and any number of customers could see them through the front doors. But fuck if she was going to stop. Staring strangers, barely hushed judgements from passersby, arriving late to the show be damned. The long line of his body was glued to her, surrounding her and drowning her, and she wanted to stay there forever, his lips molded to hers, his angular hips driving gently against hers.

“Get off her, you gangster piece of shit!”

Eponine recognized the voice immediately and wretched her hands free of Montparnasse’s grasp to turn around and try to stop Bahorel, but he was already there, roughly pulling Eponine behind him and punching Montparnasse so hard that he fell to the ground with a distinct thud.

“Bahorel, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Eponine shoved him out of the way and ran to kneel down beside Montparnasse. She lifted his head up gently and put it on her lap. He spit out some blood, the red smearing across his skin. His smile was calm and his eyes hooded as he glared at the sidewalk beneath Bahorel’s feet.

“Shit,” Eponine whispered, feeling Montparnasse’s entire body straining to keep motionless.

“Ep? What’s going on?” Bahorel’s fists were still clenched at his side, but he looked confused, his eyes darting back and forth between Eponine and Montparnasse.

Montparnasse let out an almost growl. It wasn’t a noise that a human should make, and it sent chills down Eponine’s spine. She felt him start to stand up, and she knew she couldn’t let him do that, not with Bahorel still standing there like an idiot. She wished Bahorel had enough sense to run into the safety of the restaurant, but he never backed down from a fight, even if he was hopelessly outmatched like he would be if Montparnasse took out the knife she knew he kept in his back pocket. Of course she’d get in the middle of a potential fight between the two most pig-headed people in the world.

She put one hand on Montparnasse’s shoulder, the other cradling his head, and leaned down to kiss his forehead. There was a temporary shift in his face; for a second, she could see him battling his demons. Because he knew if he hurt Bahorel, Eponine would never speak to him again. She had made it very clear from the moment she’d met him (and she was even more forceful about it once they’d started hooking up) that her family and friends were off-limits, and Montparnasse had obliged, even on those occasions when Grantaire got blindly drunk and said things he shouldn’t or Gavroche had nicked Montparnasse’s cigarettes right out of his hand.

But Eponine also knew he couldn’t back down from a fight, especially not with the group of locals that had gathered across the street to watch the fight and whoever else walking by. She needed Bahorel to get as far away as possible, as quickly as possible.

“Bahorel,” she said very calmly, looking up from Montparnasse to catch her friend’s eyes, “you need to go inside, OK?”

Bahorel shifted his weight, tugging at the cuff of his jacket. Eponine could tell he didn’t want to go — he had already read the situation as needing to protect her, which would be something she’d have to set straight later — but she hoped his stubbornness would subside. And soon.

“Everything’s fine,” she said, keeping her grip on Montparnasse’s shoulder tight. “Just go into the Musain. I’ll be there in a minute.” She paused. “I promise.”

It was the promise that got to him finally. Bahorel rubbed the side of his neck and then nodded curtly, barely containing a sneer as he walked past the pair and disappeared into the restaurant.

Eponine closed her eyes and let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her fingers relaxing against Montparnasse’s arm. She looked down at him, trying to gauge if the night was ruined. His eyes were almost glazed over, still staring at the spot on the sidewalk where Bahorel had been standing.

“Are you --” she started to ask, but Montparnasse got to his feet before she could even get the words out. He leaned against the light post where they’d been making out just minutes ago and spit again, pulling his jacket back into place and running his fingers through his disheveled hair.

“I need to go,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. He looked at her quickly, almost as if he were asking permission, so she nodded. She knew he needed to go hit something, get the pent-up energy out on someone who didn’t matter to them. She knew why he had to leave, but that didn’t do much to quell the disappointment in her stomach.

Montparnasse stuffed his hand in his pocket, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it before he started walking down the street, taking long strides to put as much space between them as possible.

“Thank you,” Eponine called out to him, almost an afterthought. She didn’t know if she was being sarcastic or if she was actually thanking him for not beating Bahorel into a pulp. His pace slowed for just a second, enough for Eponine to know he’d heard her, and then his steps quickened again until he was just a shadow in the distance.

Getting to her feet, Eponine dusted off her pants and then walked a few steps to retrieve her bag that had fallen off her shoulder when Bahorel had grabbed her. She leaned against the light post, taking a few deep breaths as she looked up at the night sky.

“Are you cool?”

Eponine looked toward the restaurant to see Bahorel with his head sticking out of the doors, his obnoxiously handsome face twisted into some combination of concern and pride. Of course he’d be proud about knocking Montparnasse on his ass; he’d been wanting to do it for years after all. But Eponine really wasn’t in the mood to listen to him boast about it all night. She found that she wasn’t in the mood for a concert either.

“You better get the hell back inside,” she replied, pointing at the Musain for the added effect. “I don’t want to talk to you right now. I’m going home.”

“Hey, hey, I thought he was forcing himself on you. It didn’t look right from where I was standing. I was just protecting you.” Bahorel made a motion to step outside, but she wasn’t having that either.

“Don’t take one more step, or I swear to god. You know I don’t need your protection. You just acted, like usual, instead of stopping and thinking first.”

“At least let me walk you home. Make sure you get there OK,” Bahorel opened the door wider to exit.

“I’m fine!” she yelled, losing the last bit of patience she had. Between him and Grantaire, Eponine had had just about enough of people needing to protect her from the “evils of the world” or whatever they thought they were doing. She was an adult. Hell, she’d been an adult since she was 13 and taking care of three kids because her parents were on the run. She’d been around the most dangerous people in the city since she could walk, and she didn’t need anyone to be her bodyguard.

“Ep, just listen --”

“OK, really, Bahorel, if you don’t go back inside and leave me alone, I’m going to come over there and punch you. And I punch a fuck-ton harder than Montparnasse ever would. I will text you when I get home if that will make you shut the fuck up,” she said the last sentence between gritted teeth.

Bahorel threw his hands in the air, mimicking Grantaire’s surrender gesture from earlier. “Yeah, yeah, that would be great. That’s all I need to know. I just love you, Ep; I kind of need to know you’re good or I won’t sleep tonight.”

Eponine sighed, already feeling the adrenaline from the almost-fight leaving her body. “I love you, too. I just need to go home now.”

She finally turned away and started walking down the street in the direction of her house. But before she’d gotten even a few feet, she felt a hand on her arm and saw the flash of Bahorel’s grin out of the corner of her eye.

“Someone should call the police on you because it has to be illegal to be that hot. Want some company, good-looking?” he asked, eyebrow raised and sporting his best charming smile that Eponine knew made most people swoon. It had worked on her more times than she’d like to admit (not that she was ashamed at all because, really, the sex was amazing and who better to have sex with than one of your best friends). There was just something about Bahorel’s dark skin, impish eyes, and flawless jawline, an indescribable allure that Eponine unfortunately understood completely. But going home with him wouldn’t make her feel any better about Montparnasse leaving, and she knew that. More than that, Bahorel should have known, too.

He had to be fucking kidding with that flirtatious grin and wandering glance. She didn’t care if he really wanted to come home with her or if he just wanted to get a smile out of her. Neither were happening.

Eponine stopped and punched him in the chest so hard that he stumbled backward and almost fell, bracing himself against the Musain’s brick wall and wheezing. She turned on her heels and kept walking, a satisfied smile on her face.

***

“Courfeyrac, are you playing beer pong by yourself?”

The sudden sound of Combeferre’s voice from behind him startled Courfeyrac so much that his ping-pong ball flew sideways, bouncing off the window, rolling onto the kitchen counter, and knocking down the line of empty beer cans like dominoes.

When Courfeyrac turned around, scowling at being distracted, Combeferre was standing in the doorway, spare key in hand, a backpack on one shoulder and his laptop case on the other. His gray T-shirt was rumpled underneath his unzipped hoodie, like he had just picked it up off the floor, which was impossible because Combeferre didn’t dress himself from items of clothing discarded on the ground. His khakis were wrinkled, too, and even his hair was slightly askew, dark brown strands splayed across his forehead instead of brushed back like they usually were.

Courfeyrac couldn’t help staring at his friend’s disheveled appearance, unbelievably turned on.

He blamed the long shift he’d had at the Musain and the three games of beer pong he’d played against himself for the fact that his mind had temporarily wiped away all thoughts except how good Combeferre looked all messy and tousled. Even though the overwhelming attraction was hardly a new occurrence. He chose to ignore that fact for the moment.

“Courf? Are you OK?”

Courfeyrac realized he was standing with his mouth open and probably looked like some sort of hypnotized weirdo. He attempted some visage of casualness, running his fingers through his hair as he sported a grin.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m cool. Just brushing up on my skills because I’m tired of Bahorel beating me, and our landlord may have threatened that if he sees me running around the building naked one more time, he’ll evict us.”

Combeferre nodded somberly, as if that made perfect sense, and closed the door behind him, his bags hitting against his thighs in a somehow thoroughly obscene motion. And now Courfeyrac’s mind was racing with all sorts of scenarios: bodies pressed up against walls, mouths capturing mouths, tongues along jaws, hands in pants. He was starting to regret the uncounted amount of beers he’d had since getting off work.

When Courfeyrac had gotten home, the apartment was too quiet without Marius’ frantic typing and nonstop rambling. Courfeyrac’s best solution was to blast his “I’m Not Ashamed of Liking This Music” playlist (which was currently and ironically playing “God Must Have Spent A Little More Time On You” by *NSync) and set up a beer pong tournament against himself.

“Not that I don’t love you being here, because it’s a given that I always do, but ... why are you here? Did I miss a text or something? Did you have plans with Marius? Because you know he’s not here, right? Are we having a sleepover that no one told me about?”

When Courfeyrac glanced at the digital clock sitting on the TV console table, it said it was a quarter until midnight. It had been less than two hours since they’d seen each other at the Musain, and Combeferre hadn’t mentioned anything about coming over after closing. Although Combeferre was one of his closest friends, he always called or texted before visiting, saying that was the “polite thing to do,” regardless of how many times Courfeyrac said it was unnecessary. Combeferre had actually ruined a surprise party for Marius one time because he insisted on calling Courfeyrac to let him know that the group was in the apartment, and Marius had intercepted the call.

It was just how he was. Combeferre never simply appeared at the apartment, like Jehan would with handfuls of flowers or Grantaire with a 12-pack or Bahorel taking refuge after a bar fight or Eponine needing a place to crash for the night. Hell, even Enjolras would burst in sometimes, ranting about some injustice, whether anyone was there to listen or not. Though sometimes Marius would grouse about the complete lack of privacy (like last week when Joly walked in complaining of a sore throat and interrupting Marius and Cosette in various states of undress on the couch), Courfeyrac loved that his friends felt so comfortable at their home. He wanted them to feel like they could always come to him. He was their entertainment, their shoulder to cry on, their partner in crime, their safe place, whatever they needed.

“Yes, I know Marius isn’t here. That’s actually the main reason for my visit.” Combeferre set his bags down behind the sofa and shrugged out of his hoodie, laying it across the elephant statue that served as a coat rack. “He asked me to come by and feed Georges because he, uh, didn’t think you’d remember.”

Courfeyrac raised his finger and was about to say something in defense of his friend’s lack of belief in him, until he realized that he had completely forgotten about the pet turtle that Marius dotted on like a child.

“That’s what I thought,” Combeferre continued. “And when I got home, Feuilly and Jehan were celebrating finally unpacking all of Jehan’s belongings by having sex very loudly. There was a shouting mention of whipped cream and daisy petals. And after catching Joly and Bossuet in the kitchen today, that’s really the last thing I needed. Plus they deserve some alone time, I guess. So, I just grabbed some things and hoped it would be OK if I slept here tonight. I know I usually call first, and I’m sorry if this is too last minute or --”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Courfeyrac interrupted, unable to contain his grin. “Mi casa es tu casa! This game will be so much better with an actual opponent.”

Courfeyrac set his hands down against the makeshift beer pong table in front of him, which was really just one of Grantaire’s huge discarded canvases set upside-down between two stools. Leaning on the unsteady surface proved to be a dumb decision, however, because it instantly collapsed under any amount of weight, and Courfeyrac fell to the floor in a super embarrassing, slow-motion sprawl.

“Courf!” he heard Combeferre yell as he hit the ground with a muffled thud. He stared up at the ceiling, a dull ache in his ribs and an actual throbbing pain in his head. He could feel some of the spilled beer soaking into the bottom of his pants, and he could already hear Marius’ voice in his head, complaining about the mess.

“Courf, are you OK?” Combeferre was kneeling besides him, his hands hovering over Courfeyrac’s body, seemingly afraid to touch any part of him that might be hurt.

“Wow, that was incredibly graceful of me, wasn’t it?” Courfeyrac tried to sit up but found that his vision was swirling in front of him, walls blending into windows blending into whiteness. The dizziness was disorienting, so he fell back down and grinned at Combeferre with what he hoped was a winning smile.

Combeferre just grimaced, his eyebrows coming together in concern as he leaned down closer. His face came into focus as he drew near, and he looked so fucking cute when he was worried that Courfeyrac could barely stand it.

“Can you move?” Combeferre asked, his hands now lightly trailing across Courfeyrac’s torso, barely a ghost’s touch through the fabric of his thin T-shirt.

Courfeyrac couldn’t move, not only because he was afraid he’d pass out if he got up, but because Combeferre’s tentative green eyes were staring down at him from behind his glasses and Courfeyrac was having a hard time breathing under their scrutiny.

“Do I need to call Joly?” Combeferre asked.

He pulled at the loose collar of Courfeyrac’s T-shirt, exposing his neck and shoulder to search for bleeding or visible injuries. Courfeyrac felt goosebumps popping up on his skin as Combeferre leaned in, his warm breath on Courf’s skin.

Courfeyrac felt like the entirety of the alcohol he’d drank had just entered his system; beyond his blurred vision, his cheeks tingled with the onset of numbness and his body felt flushed from head to toe. He wanted to just keep laying on the floor, mentally willing it to swallow him whole. But Combeferre wasn’t having that.

“OK, come on, you’re good, you need to get up off the floor.” Combeferre snaked one arm underneath Courfeyrac’s back and pushed him upright. The rush of sitting caused a sharp pain in the back of his head, and Courfeyrac’s hearing suddenly went quiet, the music in the background absolutely inaudible. He couldn’t even hear his heart beating. There was just a slight buzz muting everything.

He didn’t know what that meant, but something told him that standing up wouldn’t be the solution. He tried to tell Combeferre, but his mouth wouldn’t form the words. Holding him in place, Combeferre shifted onto the balls of his feet and used his other hand to grip Courfeyrac under his arms and hoist him up.

Courfeyrac almost fell right back down, his body not cooperating with what he was willing it to do. It was like his feet didn’t even belong to him. Thankfully, Combeferre caught him, his strong arms wrapped around Courfeyrac’s waist.

“Here, come here,” Combeferre dragged Courfeyrac the few feet to the couch, which he gratefully fell onto, his limbs stretched out wide to take up nearly half of the sofa.

His head suddenly hurt a lot, more than it should. He looked up at Combeferre standing close in between where Courfeyrac’s legs were spread out. And fuck if he didn’t see stars, tiny balls of light, dancing around Combeferre. The twinkling lights started out rather dull but were growing in brightness every second. Courfeyrac could see that Combeferre was talking; those beautiful lips were moving quickly, worriedly, but Courfeyrac couldn’t hear a word.

Courfeyrac reached forward limply, his hand swatting somewhere around Combeferre’s hip.

“I’m sleepy, ’Ferre, I’m going to take a nap now,” he managed to say through his slightly numb lips.

Combeferre shook his head vigorously and knelt down between Courfeyrac’s legs, his elbows resting on Courfeyrac’s thighs. Normally that position would elicit at least one dirty joke, but Courfeyrac’s eyes were so heavy. It felt like they weighed a ton, and he had to close them. Just for a second. The lights were so bright around Combeferre’s face now that he could barely see anything except white. He just needed to close his eyes for a second ...

When Courfeyrac blinked his eyes open, the first thing he noticed was a slow, rotating motion on the back of his head. The second thing he noticed was Combeferre’s lips on his.

More awake than he’d been in days, months, years, possibly his entire life, he gasped into the kiss, which made Combeferre jolt back suddenly. Courfeyrac was sad for that; he should have stayed quiet to keep Combeferre close. Although the way his friend was blushing was so adorable that Courfeyrac thought it was worth it.

“Oh-oh g-good, you’re awak-ke,” Combeferre stuttered, his glasses slipping down his nose. “You need to s-stay awake, Courf. I texted J-Joly and he said you might have-have a concussion, so you need to stay awake. He’ll be here soon to c-check you out, OK?”

Combeferre’s hand was still behind Courfeyrac’s head, using his knuckles to gently massage his scalp. His other hand was wrapped around Courf’s wrist, presumably to check his pulse, but his grip was tight as if he needed to hold on to it. When he looked over, he could see Combeferre on his knees on the couch, his stomach up against Courfeyrac’s arm and his knees lodged into the side of Courfeyrac’s thigh.

Courfeyrac still felt very dizzy, his head lolling from upright to laying back on the top of the sofa. At least there weren’t stars anymore. But with the warmth from Combeferre’s body spreading from every contact point, he still felt like his body was on the verge of bursting into flames. Especially his lips. His lips that had touched Combeferre’s. He could still feel the faint pressure, the slightest taste of coffee and mango gum from his breath.

“You were blinding me. I had to close my eyes,” Courfeyrac finally said, his throat dry like he hadn’t had a drink in days. He gestured up in the air where he had seen the lights, aware that he probably didn’t make any sense and that his motions were slower than usual. “It was too bright. You were shining.”

“Do you still see stars?” Combeferre asked in a quiet voice, letting go of Courfeyrac’s wrist to use his hand to tilt Courf’s head toward him. His hand stayed underneath Courfeyrac’s jaw, rubbing his thumb back and forth across his skin.

With a slight shake of his head, Courfeyrac felt woozy again but not because of the pain.

“Why were you kissing me?” he asked, narrowing his eyes in an attempt to keep them focused.

To Courfeyrac’s surprise, Combeferre didn’t appear to be embarrassed by the question, even though his face was the color of a tomato just a few minutes earlier.

“I remember you saying after we all watched ‘Sleeping Beauty’ for Jehan’s birthday that being woken up with a kiss was the best way to wake up. And I thought trying that would be better than throwing water on you or something.”

Despite Combeferre’s almost shy smile, Courfeyrac knew he most likely did really think that a kiss would be the safest and most appropriate way to wake him up. And Combeferre was just being level-headed as always.

But that wouldn’t stop Courfeyrac from doing a little flirting of his own.

“I’m really sleepy, ’Ferre. I’m just going to close my eyes again for a few seconds, OK?”

Courfeyrac grinned as Combeferre dropped his hand from Courfeyrac’s face to push up his glasses with a deep sigh.

“I will sit on you to keep you awake if I have to,” he replied as he tapped Courfeyrac’s nose with one finger.

“That would certainly keep at least part of me awake,” Courfeyrac nudged his leg sideways, bumping against Combeferre’s knees, with a sneaky grin. He wondered how long it would take to get Combeferre to blush again.

“You’re incorrigible, you know that?”

The tiniest spots of pink threatened to show on Combeferre’s cheeks again, but before Courfeyrac could take advantage of his friend’s embarrassment, he started feeling dizzy again. The edges of his vision were becoming fuzzy, like he was seeing through a camera lens. It must have showed on his face because Combeferre instantly drew him close, pulling Courfeyrac against his chest and holding their heads together, Combeferre’s forehead against his temple.

“Stay with me, Courf, OK? Just keep talking. I know how much you like the sound of your own voice, so that shouldn’t be a problem,” Combeferre joked, taking Courfeyrac’s legs onto his lap and moving his arms around until they were just a jumble of limbs; Courfeyrac didn’t know if it was the concussion, but he couldn’t tell where he began and Combeferre ended. And it was beautiful.

“I’d rather you just kiss me again,” he joked, his eyes heavy as he struggled to keep them open.

“We’ll talk about it when you’re feeling yourself again,” Combeferre replied, his voice sounding miles away even though Courfeyrac could feel the vibrations as he spoke. “You probably won’t even remember in the morning.”

Courfeyrac chuckled and hoped that wasn’t true. Of all the outrageous things he’d done in his life that he’d like to forget sometimes, the feeling of Combeferre’s lips on his was something he hoped had seared itself into his memory. Even if it was only once. Although maybe Combeferre would rather not remember ...

“I won’t forget. I wouldn’t want to,” Combeferre whispered, whether magically in response to Courfeyrac’s thoughts or if he had spoken out loud, Courfeyrac didn’t know.

“In the morning,” Courfeyrac repeated, nodding slowly as he shifted down to rest his head against Combeferre’s chest, his ear right against his friend’s heart. It was thumping quicker than it probably should, and Courfeyrac felt guilty for making him worry so much. He was supposed to be the one taking care of Combeferre, tossed out on the street to fend for himself thanks to Feuilly and Jehan’s thoughtless sexile.

“That’s right, Courf. Just keep talking, OK? Joly should be here any minute. He said since you weren’t throwing up or anything that you were probably alright, but just hang in there until he can make sure. Keep talking to me.”

Courfeyrac wanted to say something, but the world was spinning and he just wanted to close his eyes and block out everything except the feeling of Combeferre’s fingers in his hair. He leaned nearly all of his weight onto Combeferre, letting his muscles relax, the pain in his side subsiding as his eyes fluttered shut.

“I’ll be your dream, I’ll be your wish, I’ll be your fantasy,” Combeferre started singing softly. He hardly ever sang around other people, even though he had a beautiful voice, by far the best out of any of their friends with the possible exception of Cosette. Courfeyrac and Jehan had begged him to serenade them countless times, and they’d never been able to convince him. “I’ll be your hope, I’ll be your love, be everything that you need.”

“Are you singing Savage Garden to me?” Courfeyrac asked sleepily, grinning to himself as he opened his eyes again. “You sure know how to get to a boy’s heart.”

“It’s playing on your speakers,” Combeferre responded. “Is this your sappy love playlist or something?”

“Is it? I only hear you,” Courfeyrac poked Combeferre’s thigh.

“Sing with me, Courf,” Combeferre was practically pleading, and Courfeyrac knew he couldn’t refuse, despite the fact that he was barely conscious and nearly tone-deaf on a good day.

“I want to stand with you on a mountain, I want to bathe with you in the sea,” Courfeyrac croaked out, hardly able to hear the music playing.

But then Combeferre started singing with him — “I want to lay like this forever until the sky falls down on me” — and Courfeyrac felt his face flush.

“Tomorrow we’re going to have to discuss the fact that you’re basically wooing me right now,” Courfeyrac said while Combeferre continued to sing, his stunning baritone soaking into every inch of Courfeyrac’s skin.

Combeferre tenderly kissed the top of Courfeyrac’s head, and the feelings Courfeyrac had been hiding so carefully nearly poured out of his mouth. How he wanted to kiss Combeferre so hard his glasses flew off, how he wanted to go on dates to the aquarium, how he wanted to see that mole on Combeferre’s ass again that they’d gotten a short view of the last time Bahorel had pants him. The only thing that stopped him was the sound of the front door opening and Joly’s frantic voice: “Let me see him.”

***

At this time last year, Grantaire, Bahorel, and a handful of their friends had “borrowed” a van from the drama department (so what if they hadn’t asked permission until they were already on the road) and taken a spring break road trip to Montreal. Grantaire remembered the drive up and a few scattered stunts in the days spent there — he was pretty sure spray painting buildings, singing on the streets, and something to do with a giant stuffed kangaroo were involved — and waking up in his own bed the morning that classes started again.

In stark contrast, tonight Grantaire found himself sitting on the couch in Enjolras’ apartment, back to back with his boyfriend, passing Enjolras’ laptop between them. The only light in the room besides the computer was the small TV perched across the space, where a rerun of “Iron Chef America” was softly playing because Enjolras concentrated well to the Food Network.

“One of these days I’m going to teach you how to properly use a semicolon,” Grantaire said, as he forcefully pressed the backspace key to delete Enjolras’ series of incorrect punctuation marks.

“You don’t need semicolons when you’re speaking,” Enjolras replied, flipping through a notebook in search of a direct quote from one of his reporter friends after Grantaire informed him that he seriously doubted the source said that America is a “dumping ground for culture.”

“How you can be so smart and focused on every little detail when you plan protests to take on the government and make the world a better place and shit, and yet forget to put periods in between your sentences is beyond me.”

Grantaire loved that despite all of Enjolras’ strengths as a leader and speaker, he couldn’t write a grammatically correct paper for the life of him. Grantaire wasn’t sure how he’d gotten through all of the years of school without learning about proper paragraphs breaks or that triple spacing between words was far from the right format, but it was an adorable flaw. One of the few he had. And it made Grantaire feel important because he was surprisingly good at copy editing.

He’d realized it sometime during ninth grade, when he’d gotten a paper back from his teacher with a note saying, “You need to work on articulating your ideas better and demonstrating the overarching theme of your work. But your grammar is impeccable.” Grantaire had been able to make some extra money throughout high school by editing his classmates’ papers; it felt empowering to take the hard work of other students — many of whom looked down on him for his shabby clothes and long hair, among other things — and fill the pages with red ink. It was like winning a fight but without any real bloodshed.

Between the two of them, they could actually construct the perfect paper — a balance of format and ideas — though Grantaire never cared enough to ask and Enjolras felt like asking for help with an assignment was a form of cheating. However, he made an exception with his senior thesis; with it finally nearly complete, he’d asked Grantaire in a quiet voice to take a look at it while they were walking home from the Musain after their shifts. And Grantaire had felt a burst of pride so strong at being asked that he nearly cried.

Letting out a frustrated groan, Enjolras stood up from the couch suddenly, causing Grantaire to fall onto his back, the laptop heavy on his stomach.

“What’s wrong?” Grantaire asked, scooting himself upright and into the corner of the sofa, pulling his knees up toward his chest to keep the computer screen near eye level.

“I can’t find that damn quote, and now that you’ve got me thinking, I can’t shake that I do have him quoted wrong. And I can’t have a wrong quote in my thesis. One wrong fact and that negates all of the right ones I have in there. God, I hate this stupid paper so much,” Enjolras ran his fingers through his hair, throwing the notebook to the ground in what could be called a bit of a tantrum. But Grantaire would never call it that.

“You’ll find it,” Grantaire said in his best patient voice. “Go find your other notebook. Hugo was one of your first interviews, so it’s probably in your early notes, right?”

Enjolras stood in the center of the room, arms crossed and staring absently, looking both perplexed and annoyed. Grantaire loved having the privilege of the sight. A pair of loose sweatpants was slung around his hips, and his white T-shirt was so worn it was practically see-through in the gleam of the TV. Getting to see Enjolras let most of his guard down — unbuttoned, unpolished, and frustrated — was one of the best perks of sleeping over at his boyfriend’s apartment. That and the sheer cleanliness of it. And the sex obviously, Grantaire thought to himself with a grin.

Nodding quickly as if he’d decided something, Enjolras bent down and picked up the notebook he’d thrown and placed it on the coffee table (Grantaire was wondering how long it would take him to do that). He walked around the side of the couch, kissing the top of Grantaire’s head as he passed. Grantaire watched him disappear into the bedroom, never missing the opportunity to view him from behind.

Figuring Enjolras was going to look for his other notebook, Grantaire put his attention back on the paper, of which he was only three pages into. Biting his bottom lip, he wondered just how long the paper was and scrolled up to the top of Enjolras’ Google Doc to click on the word count. He had to suppress a groan when he read 48 pages; he knew it would be long, but this was definitely not a one-night editing job, especially in his current buzzed state. He was actually a better editor when he was drunk — something about seeing things through different eyes — but being only slightly intoxicated, he was more sleepy than anything and wanted to just curl up in Enjolras’ big, soft bed with too many pillows.

Grantaire sighed and started reading again, finding himself fascinated by Enjolras’ words even when written instead of spoken. Five minutes went by before Grantaire heard a muffled thud, like something being dropped, in the otherwise quiet apartment.

“Enjolras?” he called out tentatively, looking up toward the bedroom. “You OK?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras replied, his voice echoing strangely. Grantaire couldn’t put his finger on why though.

“What was that?” Grantaire asked.

When there wasn’t an answer, Grantaire made sure the paper had saved and then gently closed the laptop and set it down on the couch in front of him. He was preparing to stand when Enjolras came out of the bedroom, carrying a thin, black notebook.

“What’s this?” Enjolras asked, holding it open with his thumb and forefinger, like it was a piece of garbage.

“It’s your notebook?” Grantaire didn’t know why Enjolras’ face was so white; his jaw was slack, and his expression was unreadable, a drastic change from just a few minutes ago.

“It’s not mine,” Enjolras walked a few steps, bringing the book close to his chest, his eyes staring at the open pages.

“Well it’s not mine. I don’t --”

“Since we all knew it was inevitable, I won’t apologize for it. But I’d like you to know that I put enough thought into it to think about all of you,” Enjolras interrupted, his voice quiet and strained like it got when he was trying to hold in his emotions during a speech.

Grantaire recognized the words immediately. His words. Words that were never supposed to see the light of day.

He felt like his chest was imploding. There was a tightness from his stomach to his throat, and it was as if his heart had grown 16 sizes and was on the verge of bursting, his ribs bruising from the inside out.

“Enjolras, don’t --” he tried, knowing it was useless. Enjolras was gripping the notebook with a tightness that could crush a glass bottle into shards.

“To Bahorel, I leave my shot glass collection and that beer stein with the dancing bears that he likes,” Enjolras continued, walking to the edge of the couch, a few feet from where Grantaire was sitting. “To Combeferre, I leave all my books. I know it’s not much and probably isn’t stuff he wants, but there has to be something good on those shelves somewhere.”

Grantaire leaned forward on his knees and attempted to swipe the notebook from Enjolras’ hands, but missed as Enjolras took a quick step to the side, his eyes never leaving the book.

“Please don’t --”

“To Jehan, I leave the leather-bound collection of Poe works that I was saving to give him for his 21st. To Bossuet, I leave my lucky hemp bracelet. It’s really never brought me any luck except I was wearing it the day senior year when I got my college acceptance letter. Hopefully it works better for someone else.”

Enjolras was near the center of the room again, the light of the TV behind him creating a shadow across the front of him. Grantaire wanted to jump up and snatch the notebook and run out of the apartment as fast as his tired legs would carry him. He didn’t even know how the notebook had gotten there; he usually kept it in his apartment under his mattress, like the perpetual teenager he was. He must have brought it with him at some point in time and left it among Enjolras’ belongings. How fucking stupid could he be. He wanted to stop this, but he was frozen, still kneeling on the couch, his arms limp at his sides.

“To Joly, I leave my mom’s cookbook. It should go to someone who could rival her baking skills. To Courfeyrac, I leave my pitiful record collection and broke-ass record player because he’s the only one who can get it to work. To Marius, I leave the bottle of real Absinthe from France that I was saving because he needs to let the fuck loose sometimes.”

Hearing his words — his self-pitying, pathetic words — spoken in Enjolras’ beautiful, melodic voice was like a vice on his insides, squeezing every organ and muscle and joint to the point of excruciating pain. His ugly words didn’t deserve that voice.

“To Feuilly, I leave all my art supplies and the abstract painting of the first protest we all went to as a group. To Gavroche, I leave my favorite sweatshirt with all the paint stains and the torn collar that he keeps stealing. To Eponine, I leave my keyboard and anything else she thinks I wouldn’t want my dad to take or throw away. I always trusted her judgement the most.”

Grantaire knew what was coming, and he would have given anything — or given up anything — to make Enjolras stop reading, to put the notebook down, and forget any of this had ever happened. Grantaire wished it so hard that he worried he might give himself an aneurysm. He closed his eyes and waited.

“And finally, to Enjolras, I leave this notebook. It’s the closest I’ll ever get to being in his arms after all.”

At last, there was silence, only the quiet drone of the TV and the gentle humming of the laptop at Grantaire’s side echoing in the room. Grantaire refused to open his eyes. He didn’t want to see Enjolras; he didn’t want to see the disappointment Grantaire knew would be etched in his face.

“Look at me, Grantaire,” Enjolras said. Grantaire wanted to do anything but that, and he knew Enjolras knew it. “I deserve that much, don’t I?”

Clearly, someone had been taking guilt lessons from Courfeyrac.

Grantaire blinked his eyes open slowly and looked up at his boyfriend. He had never seen Enjolras look so wrecked in all the time they’d known each other, not even when he went without sleep for days or got his ass kicked at a protest. The most shocking part was how young he appeared; Enjolras looked barely 18, hugging the notebook to his chest like maybe he could turn it into dust with his own strength. Grantaire wanted to shoot up from the couch and envelope Enjolras in the most suffocating hug, but he knew Enjolras wouldn’t accept that. Not with the ice that was in his eyes.

“What the hell is this?”

“It was from a long time ago,” Grantaire said wearily.

“It’s from within the past year. Don’t give me that bullshit.” Grantaire flinched. “You wrote a fucking will. You actually sat down and thought about ... about ... I can’t even say it. What were you thinking?”

Grantaire opened and closed his mouth several times, willing his thoughts to form words. What was he supposed to say? That things had gotten so dark, that his drinking had gotten so bad, that he felt so alone at that point in his life that he thought about ending it all? You didn’t say things like that to Enjolras. Not beautiful, idealistic Enjolras who always believed the world could be better, that nothing was worth giving up on, not even him.

“I was sad” were the words that ended up coming out.

“I don’t-I don’t understand, Grantaire. I don’t understand this. You’re-you never take anything seriously. Not school, not the Musain, not even me for the most part --”

“That’s not true, and you know it,” Grantaire interrupted, his body finally coming to life as he sprang to his feet, fists clenched against his thighs. “You and our friends are everything to me. That’s why I wrote that. I was thinking of all of you, the only things that matter.”

“If you take us so seriously, then what in the world would make you think that leaving us would be the answer? That’s never the answer!”

Enjolras took a few steps to stand right in front of Grantaire, his anger and frustration and despair finally visible as Grantaire focused on his face. Seeing the pain he was causing almost made Grantaire physically sick.

“I was fucked up, OK? I had a lot of shit going on, and it was too much for me. Sometimes it’s just too much, and I feel like my head is going to explode. When I wrote that, I was honestly afraid if I didn’t do something drastic to myself, I’d do something worse to someone else.”

Grantaire knew he should explain it better. He wanted to, but besides a few drunken conversations with Eponine and Bahorel, nobody knew the extent of anything he had dealt with. He wanted to sit down and hold Enjolras’ hand and talk until the sun came up. He wanted to tell Enjolras about his father, strict and violent, who had practically disowned Grantaire because he liked boys and alcohol too much but never fully let go because he was too controlling to give up that power. He wanted to tell Enjolras about his saint of an aunt, the bright light in his life and the only reason he was able to attend college, dying from lung cancer last April. He wanted to tell Enjolras about his mother abandoning him when he was barely 5, like she had knowledge of the fuck-up he would grow up to be. He wanted to tell Enjolras about the beatings he’d gotten in high school and the threats he’d received through cowardly anonymous phone calls. He wanted to tell Enjolras about how dangerous it was for him to do his art because it brought up all of the emotions he tried so hard to compartmentalize; yet if he didn’t create his art, it was liable to be just as dangerous to keep everything bottled up.

“But you kept this, Grantaire. That’s what’s really messed up here, do you understand that? I’m sure we’ve all written some things at points in our lives, but you write the desperate words and then you throw them away or you delete them from your computer or you burn them. You don’t leave them in the final pages of a notebook that you keep sketches and doodles in, a notebook you keep. It’s not healthy.”

The words were out before Grantaire could stop them. “Well, I’m not a healthy person, in case you haven’t noticed. In fact, I’m kind of the picture of dysfunctional.”

Grantaire wanted to tell Enjolras that he hadn’t had those dark thoughts in months. Not since he’d written those stupid, miserable words. He wanted to tell Enjolras that with him, he felt optimistic for the first time in his life. He wanted to tell Enjolras that he loved him. Why couldn’t he say anything he wanted to?

“I’m not going to feel sorry for you, if that’s what you’re aiming for,” Enjolras jutted his chin out, clenching his jaw slightly like he always did when he was taking a stand.

“That’s not what I fucking want,” he mumbled, running his fingers through his hair. His buzz had long ago worn off, and he was too sober for this conversation. He wished he had his flask on him.

Enjolras suddenly threw the notebook on the ground and, for a second, Grantaire really thought he was going to get punched. Instead, Enjolras reached out and took Grantaire’s head in his hands tenderly, his fingers practically burning into Grantaire’s scalp.

“Why can’t you see how fucking special you are? Why would you ever want to give up on that?”

The angry compliment snapped something deep within Grantaire. It reminded him of something his aunt had said to him once: “You are exactly how you’re meant to be. Don’t ever forget that or try to change it, but don’t let it consume you either.” Enjolras and his aunt would have gotten along great, and that thought suddenly made Grantaire so mad that he knew he had to get out. Grantaire shook himself out of Enjolras’ grasp, hugging his arms across his chest.

“Not everyone sees the best, sees the potential, sees the goddamn glass as half-full like you do, Enjolras!” Grantaire knew he shouldn’t be yelling. He was the one who had fucked up — he was the one who always fucked up — but he couldn’t lower his voice any more than he could hide that notebook from sight. “Not everyone can take on the fucking world like you! Some of us have just been beaten down by it!”

A rush of emotions blazed across Enjolras’ handsome face, yet he was silent. Grantaire felt his stomach drop to his toes; he couldn’t tell what Enjolras was thinking, but Grantaire wasn’t going to stick around to find out.

He spun around to run for the exit, ignoring Enjolras calling his name. He couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop. He threw the door open and sprinted down the hallway and down the flight of steps, before taking off down the street in search of the nearest open bar.