Chapter Text
“Please, Madame Hucheloup?”
The social studies teacher gave him a once-over. She’d seen Courfeyrac in passing, hanging out with his friends that were in her Social 20/AP European History class. He had always seemed more considerate than his fellow grade eleven students, with his round, earnest face and shiny doe eyes. Mme. Hucheloup wasn’t sure she liked having those infinitely convincing black eyes turned on her. “I don’t think I’m the right person to coach a curling team,” she said. “Why don’t you ask one of the phys. ed. teachers?”
Courfeyrac thought back to curriculum-mandated P.E. 10 with a wince. Not a single one of his friends had made a good impression on those teachers. “Well, none of us are in phys. ed. 20, so we figured we should ask a teacher we knew better!” Not technically a lie, and Courfeyrac’s warm smile deflected the teacher’s shrewd gaze effortlessly.
Mme. Hucheloup pursed her lips. “Regardless, I know incredibly little about curling.”
“That’s alright,” replied the student. “One of our players has an older brother who curls professionally, so we’ll have plenty of rules and strategy knowledge. All we need is a teacher sponsor so we can play at school.”
“Hm.” The teacher thought of the rest of this prospective curling team. They seemed self-sufficient enough, didn’t they? And of course, Courfeyrac was being a very polite representative of their cause. “Well, we can at least try it out. Shall we say Mondays and Wednesdays after school?”
“Could we do Mondays and Thursdays? Jehan has choir.” Courfeyrac turned on his best charming grin.
Mme. Hucheloup nodded. Courfeyrac smiled at her and strode out of the classroom, where he was met with two of his friends trying to wait nonchalantly.
Enjolras was silent in his greeting. His outfit, as always, was simple and elegant, to compliment his close-cropped coily hair. He was an AP Social student and prominent on the school debate team, so he was a familiar face in the hallway outside of Mme. Hucheloup’s room, nicknamed Corinth for the teacher’s abundant posters detailing the history of ancient Greece. Because he spoke little, whenever his lips parted, everyone around him hung on every word.
Combeferre was a contrast. His black hair fell around his chin stick-straight and he wore a fun graphic tee and patterned pants. He did AP Social and debate alongside Enjolras, but he tried to cultivate a variety of friends, so he never stuck too long in any one hallway except to eat lunch with his main friends. Also unlike Enjolras, he couldn’t hold in his excitement. “What did she say?” he asked, eyes sparkling.
“Gentlemen, are we free after school on Mondays and Thursdays?” Courfeyrac took his place between the two other students as they began to make their way to their lunch spot.
“Haha, yes!” laughed Combeferre with joy. Enjolras simply smiled, exchanging a small high five with Courfeyrac.
Waiting in front of the three boys’ lockers was a collection of other friends, waiting patiently or not so patiently for news of the curling team.
Bahorel was the eldest, already a senior, though with such dangerously low grades there was no guarantee of this being his last year at the school. The others, all in grade eleven, joked about his status as the resident old man, but he laughed freely and readily lent past notes and assignments to his junior classmates, so he was quite welcome.
Joly was usually seen toting his biology textbook, which he frequently consulted for more advice than it was probably designed to give. He always thought he had contracted some illness or another. The sports medicine doorway had slight indents from how many times Joly had dragged his feet through it in search of whatever medical expertise could be found in a school with no nurse. He stuck close to Bossuet, who could make him feel safe and sure more than anyone else.
The aforementioned Bossuet was really named Laigle de Meaux, but nicknames spring up from the strangest places, including the first week of AP Social 20 when a player in the French Revolution reminded Combeferre a little too strongly of his friend. Of course, Bossuet resented this nickname, having quit the French Immersion program at the beginning of grade 10 (to his friends’ despair as he was leaving them behind in their eyes), but it was a joking, light-hearted resentment, for Bossuet was, deep down, gentle, and loved his friends.
Grantaire sat on the floor, tired of waiting, leaning back into Enjolras’ locker, swishing a half-empty Monster can around half-heartedly. It was usually a fifty-fifty shot if he showed up at school, but on days he knew he’d see Enjolras, he somehow pulled through (although it always took at least a hundred and sixty milligrams of caffeine). Grantaire was a wild card, hanging around the group while acting like he’d rather be with anyone else.
Enjolras said nothing, pushing the cynic aside from his locker with his foot. The pair seemed to hold the strongest rivalry. Many of the friends often wondered why Enjolras let Grantaire be part of the group, but he made no move to evict the other boy, and Enjolras was indisputably in charge, so the rest of them were made to deal with it.
The group exploded into boisterous cheering as soon as Courfeyrac and Combeferre, talking over each other, broke the news of Mme. Hucheloup’s support. As the boys laughed, the last of their number ran up, out of breath and red in the face.
Jean Prouvaire called themself Jehan because they thought it sounded better. They were very concerned with rhythm and metre as the school choir’s star tenor and a poet in both English and French. Unfortunately, this care did not extend to their wardrobe, so they always sported gaudy cardigans which clashed with their brightly-coloured jeans. However, they were earnest and charming, cementing their place in Enjolras’ group.
“Late again, Jehan,” said Bossuet with a smug smirk, as he and Jehan had come from the same class. “There’s no way Montparnasse is that distracting.”
Jehan blushed. They had only been dating their new boyfriend since the end of the last school year, and it was novel enough to be great joke territory for the others. “Yeah? Well, Musichetta distracts you plenty!” they sputtered.
“That’s different,” said Bossuet loftily. “To pine over something unattainable is a noble cause. Isn’t that right, Joly?” He slung an arm over his friend’s shoulder yet didn’t wait for a response. “Meanwhile you’re just disgustingly sweet. There’s too much sparkle in your eyes for a guy whodyes his hair black.”
“Don’t listen to him, Prouvaire,” laughed Courfeyrac. “He’s jealous.” Jehan smiled at him gratefully.
The conversation continued throughout the lunch block like this, filled with easy banter and abounding jokes.
After lunch, after struggling to remember their Tuesday reversed schedules, the group split their separate ways. Courfeyrac and Bossuet strode together to English, and Jehan and Bahorel went off to their respective French classes, while the rest walked the long way to Social Studies. Each one of the latter was sure to thank Mme. Hucheloup at the door for supporting the curling team.