Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The douchebag who Grantaire calls a landlord has just evicted all of the poorer tenants in the building late last week, and currently, Grantaire badly needs a place to stay.

The news buzzes all over the Musain this afternoon, and contrary to popular belief, Enjolras is neither oblivious (not most of the time, anyway) nor heartless. He manages to get the scoop from Jehan, who prattles on obligingly even as Combeferre gives Enjolras yet another of his inscrutable Looks.

So the situation is this: Marius’ grandfather, his only surviving relative who gives Marius every temporal desire he could ask for — if Marius isn’t so good-natured he’d be spoiled rotten — is prepared to hand the newly engaged couple the key to a brand new future house of their own, right beside his, and about a ten-minute walk away from Valjean’s own residence.

That means that Cosette is about to move out from the apartment she shares with Eponine — at any rate, she’s hardly around anyway, with all the time she spends with Marius, her father, and Monsieur Gillenormand.

Eponine would have room, except that she just won custody of Gavroche and Azelma away from their parents, and both youngsters really need — and deserve — their own rooms.

Courfeyrac and Jehan have a spare room, but they use it as storage; and anyway, Grantaire has established that they’re his last resort because of all the sex — and loud sex, at that — that happens 24/7 in that apartment.

Bahorel and Feuilly have their hands full being roommates, especially with their girlfriends Odette and Sabine moving in as well. The two girls have come to meetings at the Musain, and Enjolras has to admit that he does like them. They’re no Musichetta or Eponine or Cosette, but that’s to be expected, and they’re always pretty attentive when he speaks, which is all he’s concerned with.

The apartment that Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet share is just big enough for the three of them, and too small to accommodate another roommate.

Which leaves Enjolras and Combeferre in the apartment that his parents have gifted him. Correction: that his mother gifted him, because his father is convinced that Enjolras will never amount to anything except being a trust fund kid.

He only takes the money he lives on from his mother because she begs him to.

“The apartment has three rooms,” Combeferre muses as Jehan finally stops for breath. “Mine, yours, and one that you use for your office.”

Now that Enjolras thinks about it, it’s kind of silly that he has an office. He keeps all the books and paperwork that he needs in his room, anyway, because he can’t bear to have any of it out of his sight. The only things in the office that he can truly claim as his are some books and a few storage boxes of his clothes. Combeferre stores a couple of boxes in there as well, but nothing too big that they can’t stuff in the hallway closets or their own rooms.

Jehan’s eyes grow big as he realizes what they’re discussing. He looks hopefully from Enjolras to Combeferre and back again with that puppy-dog expression that Enjolras can never refuse, but helpfully waits for them to figure things out.

It doesn’t matter, though. Combeferre has silently given his consent with his innocuous comment, and Jehan is the one living soul in the world apart from Combeferre who Enjolras cannot say no to. Besides, despite Grantaire’s faults, he is still a friend and a part of Les Amis, and the group consists of the only people Enjolras cares about more than his own life.

“He can move in tomorrow morning.”

Jehan jumps up and gives Combeferre a hug before throwing his arms around Enjolras and squeezing the living daylights out of him. “Yay! He’s been so worried. You’re both angels! I’ll go tell him now!”

He practically flies out of the cafe — surprisingly without a pair of wings sprouting from the poet’s back — leaving Enjolras blinking at the space where Jehan was standing and Combeferre chuckling wryly beside him.

“You agreed to that more quickly than I expected,” he remarks, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Enjolras shrugs by way of explanation.

“I know,” Combeferre says. He claps one hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “He’s one of us. I’m just glad you didn’t take long to remember that, despite how much he irritates you.”

Enjolras shrugs again. For some reason, he finds fault with that statement, but he doesn’t quite know or understand why.

Chapter Text

“No way,” Grantaire says, unable to hide the disbelief in his voice.

He is sitting on the barstool in Eponine’s apartment nursing an Irish coffee as he listens to Jehan waxing lyrical on Enjolras and Combeferre actually agreeing to let him move in. Into their apartment. Where Enjolras lives.

“It’s true!” Jehan looks frazzled that Grantaire doesn’t seem to believe him. “Combeferre just texted me to tell me that they’re clearing the office for you. Here, he sent me a picture.” He thrusts the phone into Grantaire’s face, and Grantaire takes it, grudgingly looking down at the screen. His stomach plummets.

The picture is of Enjolras kneeling on the floor in front of a black leather storage ottoman. A few boxes rest on the bare mattress of the Murphy bed, already pulled down from its niche in the wall. Combeferre must have been saying something remotely hilarious, because Enjolras is actually laughing with a rueful expression on his face. The grin brings light to his bright blue eyes, and in the red V-neck and those ridiculously tight jeans, he is looking too attractive for Grantaire to be sober.

Well, he’s halfway to being pleasantly drunk, so there’s that.

“Forward me that picture, will you?” he asks Jehan, hating himself, but at the same time unable to say otherwise and let the moment pass him by. It’s just that he hardly ever sees Enjolras laugh, and certainly Combeferre is one of the very privileged few who does on a regular basis.

“Already done,” Jehan says smugly, but with an understanding twinkle in his eye. “Now,” he says, taking the phone back from Grantaire — who is somewhat loathe to let it go — “what time tomorrow morning works for you?”

“How about nine? I would hate for Apollo to scream at us for being late, since he gets up every day at six like he’s a fucking rooster.”

* * * * * * * * * *

Enjolras would find fault with the fact that apparently Grantaire has no concept of time as a precious commodity, but for the knowledge that Jehan, Courfeyrac, and Bahorel went over to help him move this morning. Correction: this afternoon. It’s two o’clock when Enjolras finally hears the pounding on the front door.

Trust the latter two Amis to muck things up.

“The fucking car wouldn’t start,” Bahorel barks, carrying four cardboard cartons stacked on top of each other like they’re dominoes. “Also, Courfeyrac started throwing packing peanuts around and it took forever to clean up.”

“Jehan was making origami!” Courfeyrac protests, looking wounded. “I can’t be blamed for everything.”

“Just most things,” Bahorel quips, and Courfeyrac throws a wad of newspaper at his nose.

That does it. Bahorel carefully puts Grantaire’s boxes down before diving for Courf — right as Grantaire steps in with two file baskets of canvases. He lets out a yell — “watch my stuff, there’s art in there” — as Enjolras moves out of the way to protect the cup of coffee in his hand, and Combeferre watches from the kitchen island, shaking his head.

“You do know that Enjolras will kill you if you break anything,” he calmly interjects.

“The motion has been seconded,” Enjolras agrees.

Grantaire laughs, and the sound, less mocking and more humorous, draws Enjolras’ eyes to him. Grantaire has his black curls tucked under a dark green beanie, and the gray T-shirt brings out the blue of his eyes.

Enjolras glances around at Grantaire’s belongings that already litter the room. The contents of boxes are labeled in black Sharpie, and there are more file baskets in here than he has ever seen in a single sitting. He resists the urge to pick up the closest canvas and examine it. He is fond of his privacy, and despite his own curiosity, he wants to respect Grantaire’s right to it as well.

“Break it up,” he finally mutters, when Courfeyrac takes a swing at Bahorel that nearly connects with the glass coffee table top. He doesn’t care about the table — viciously, he hopes that it will break one day so he can buy a new one, because his father picked out that one — but he does care about Courfeyrac’s hands and Bahorel’s face, which is currently pressed into the carpet.

Not for long, though. Bahorel’s legs scissor up, trapping Courfeyrac, and they continue to roll around on the carpet, albeit avoiding the coffee table with admirable skill.

“All right, kids,” Combeferre states firmly, and Bahorel’s fist freezes comically — and deliberately, Enjolras is sure — within an inch of Courfeyrac’s face. “Let’s get the rest of R’s stuff in before you break all of it, along with Enjolras’ patience.”

“No kidding,” Grantaire smirks. “I don’t want to get kicked out before I’ve even moved in.”

Enjolras would snap back a retort but Combeferre has just shoved a box in his arms that feels like it weighs two tons, so he doubles over with an profanity instead and manages to carry the box towards Grantaire’s new room. Grantaire follows with the two file baskets he’s already carrying, staring around with curious eyes.

There’s a reason why all of Les Amis commandeers Enjolras’ apartment for their gatherings 99.99 percent of the time. The main living area is impressive, with its vaulted ceilings and hardwood floors and ample space for all sorts of shenanigans, but hardly anybody has dared to trespass on the holy ground of the three bedrooms. Enjolras’ door is closed — naturally, he’s not going to keep it open while the likes of Courfeyrac is still present — while Combeferre’s middle room has a little wooden name plaque hanging from a nail driven into the door at eye level. The last white door gapes open into Grantaire’s new room, and Enjolras sets the box down with a little huff of his breath.

“Wow, Apollo,” Grantaire says in admiration. “This is a lot more than I expected. Thank you.”

Enjolras squashes down the sudden feeling of warmth starting in the pit of his stomach. “Don’t thank me yet. I couldn’t get all of my books out of the room. Is that okay?”

“My books are lonely,” Grantaire leers, waggling his eyebrows. “I’m sure they’ll be fine snuggling with yours.”

Enjolras feels heat coming to his cheeks. Part of him actually thinks that that might be a physical innuendo hiding some sort of additional meaning, as Grantaire is wont to say — he has spent too much time around Courfeyrac and Bahorel — but he can’t see it. Instead, he says, “Good,” and retreats out of the room, Grantaire on his heels.

Combeferre and Bahorel join them to move the rest of Grantaire’s stuff into his room, while Courfeyrac and Jehan help to carry the remaining bags from the car. By the time everything has been cleared, Enjolras is already sitting at the kitchen island typing out another work email, Grantaire is slumped on the couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table, Combeferre is clicking away lackadaisically at his laptop, Courfeyrac and Jehan are snuggling on the loveseat, and Bahorel is talking on the phone. He hangs up with a look that is worthy of the Cheshire cat.

“So who did you invite over?” Enjolras asks with a note of resignation.

“Everyone, duh,” Bahorel says. “I ordered pizza.”

Chapter Text

Four beers and as many pizza slices later, Grantaire is still on the sofa at two in the morning, while the last few stragglers are exiting stage left. Enjolras, naturally, is the first to vanish behind his closing door despite Courfeyrac’s protests, followed shortly by Combeferre (they both have 8 o’clock classes). Then Marius with Cosette, with Feuilly and Bahorel taking their leave. Courfeyrac waves goodbye at the door as Jehan winds his scarf around his throat, while Musichetta and Joly hold up a drunk Bossuet between them and stagger out the door. Only Eponine and Grantaire are left.

“Feeling a little bit surreal, R?”

Grantaire sniggers. “You have no idea.”

“I mean, who knew you’d be living with Enjolras, after all.” Eponine takes another sip of her second beer and grins. “You’re going to have to give me the dirt on him.”

“Such as…?”

“Are you a freaking Philistine, or are you just being dense on purpose? You know what I’m talking about. Boxers or briefs, for example, or any dirty little secrets or extra dirt we can get on him.”

Grantaire tips back his beer bottle and sends the last few drops down his throat. The thought of seeing Enjolras in his underwear is starting to make his pants feel too tight, and he can feel himself blushing even around the grin on his face.

Eponine bites the bottom of her lip and smirks. “Okay, there, Don Juan, don’t get out of hand. Seems like a cruel irony, if you ask me.”

“What’s that?” Grantaire asks, feigning disinterest.

“Well, the object of your unrequited affection is going to be around you practically 24/7, and either you two are going to come to blows one day with all the fighting you’ll do, or you’ll be forced to see him take someone else to his bed.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Eponine shrugs. “Or someone better will come along.”

“Look, not everybody gets your fucking fairytale storybook ending, all right? And I think Enjolras is a lot more dense than Combeferre. Not to mention he knows he deserves better than me.”

“It’s too late for a pity party, R,” Eponine yawns. “You have class tomorrow at noon, but I’ve got them starting at ten. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” She rises and plants a sloppy kiss on his forehead before reaching for her purse.

“Do you really think he’ll take anybody to his bed?” Grantaire’s voice is quiet, and he feels like an anvil has crashed down on his chest.

Eponine turns from the door, her dark eyes soft despite her harsher words earlier. “I actually don’t.”

She smiles at him before blowing him a kiss. “Night, R. Don’t think too much about it, okay? Just enjoy the moment day by day. After all, not all of us gets to have a godling for a roommate.”

* * * * * * * * * *

It’s eleven in the morning when Grantaire finally pokes his head out from his room and pads out in nothing but basketball shorts.

Enjolras flicks his eyes up to his newest roommate before returning his eyes back to Rousseau’s Contrat Social. The movement takes more effort than he thinks it should. Grantaire has a six-pack — which makes sense, given that he does kickboxing and dancing and who knows what else — and even from where he sits at the kitchen island, Enjolras can see the faint trail of dark hair running down from navel to below the waistband of his shorts. He stares down at the words of his book and wonders why they’re not making any sense.

“The coffeemaker’s that way,” he says absently, gesturing with his own cup. “I just went grocery shopping two days ago, so help yourself to whatever’s lying around.”

“I thought you had an 8 o’clock,” Grantaire replies, crossing over to where the coffee machine awaits. He sticks a porcelain mug under the spout, and the rich scent of Enjolras’ favorite Kona blend fills the air.

“I do. Eight to ten-thirty, and then eleven-thirty to three.”

Grantaire shudders dramatically. “Good heavens. That sounds awful.”

Enjolras cocks an eyebrow. “Not all of us can have time to lounge, you know. Maybe if you had more things scheduled, you wouldn’t have the excuse to drink yourself into a stupor that you have to sleep off the next day.” As with nearly everything he says to Grantaire, he immediately regrets the words, but they hang in the air regardless, and he doesn’t know how to take them back.

Grantaire, to his everlasting credit, doesn’t seem to take all that much offense. One corner of his lips curls, but the light in his eyes doesn’t go completely out. “It’s like you know me, Apollo.”

Enjolras flushes. “That was uncalled for. I’m sorry.” He puts down his empty cup and grabs for his satchel. Maybe it would best if he just leaves without making things worse with his unbridled tongue. “I’ll see you later.”

“Enjolras.”

Against his better judgment, Enjolras turns. Grantaire is still standing in front of the coffee machine, a cup of steaming java cupped in both hands. Those blue eyes that always seem to be examining Enjolras for cracks that he can chip away at are now pensive, with a hint of forgiving. After a second or two, Grantaire smiles lazily, an impish glint sneaking into his gaze.

“Have a good day. Also, get that stick out of your ass sometime soon and just relax. It does wonders for your soul.”

Enjolras slams the door on his way out.

Chapter Text

“Who the hell drank up all of the coffee?”

Combeferre is sitting on the couch as Enjolras clatters around in the kitchen. He shakes his head and keeps marking up his textbook with his yellow highlighter. “Don’t look at me. I’m not addicted as you clearly are.”

“I’m not addicted,” Enjolras snaps crankily. “I just need it for this ten-page essay that’s due in two weeks.”

“It’s due two Fridays away, Enjolras. It’s Tuesday today.”

“In an hour it will be Wednesday.”

“My point is that you don’t need coffee to start the first draft of an essay that’s due forever later. Also, you can’t really invite all our friends over and live with a brand-new roommate without expecting that your precious coffee will remain untouched.”

“Grantaire drank it all up?”

“Him, as well as Courf, Jehan, and Bahorel, when they came over to move his stuff yesterday. Musichetta had a cup or two, and so did Marius.”

Enjolras mutters something under his breath — Combeferre is sure he heard the words “damn it” in there somewhere — and tips more of his beloved coffee beans into the electric grinder.

“Sorry,” Grantaire says meekly from where he’s standing in the hallway bisecting the kitchen and living room with a brush in one hand and a palette in the other. “I needed to paint, and I forgot to make more.”

Enjolras’ mouth opens as if he’s about to launch into a tirade, when he shuts it, much to Combeferre’s amusement and Grantaire’s visible surprise, and shakes his head with a loud sigh. “Never mind.”

“You sure?” Grantaire offers, sounding unconvinced.

“It’s fine,” Enjolras says abruptly. “I’ll just get started on this. I’ll come out when the coffee’s ready.”

“Have you eaten dinner?” Combeferre calls from the couch.

The sound of Enjolras’ door banging shut is his only response.

Grantaire sighs and runs a paint-spattered hand through his curly hair. “Wow. It’s not even been 24 hours and already he’s mad at me.”

“Don’t be silly,” Combeferre says serenely, turning a page. “He’s not mad at you.”

“How would you know?” Grantaire questions, obviously without thinking, because his face reddens at the recollection that Combeferre would know, after all, considering he’s Enjolras’ oldest friend. For his part, Combeferre laughs and looks up at Grantaire.

“You know, I’m really glad you’re here. And so is he.”

“Right,” Grantaire scoffs, turning away, but not before Combeferre sees the wild flame of hope that springs up in his blue eyes.

“I’m serious,” Combeferre insists.

“He hates me, Combeferre.”

“If he really hated you,” Combeferre points out patiently, “he wouldn’t have offered to have you stay with us, and he certainly wouldn’t have gone out and bought the extra furniture to complete your bedroom set.”

Grantaire’s expression is priceless, and Combeferre half wishes he had a camera handy. “Wait, what?”

“When we first started rooming together, he’d already converted that room of yours into an office,” Combeferre explains. “The only thing that suggested it was a bedroom was the built-in queen-size, and that was it. He went out and got the wardrobe and things after Jehan left the apartment.”

“But… all the furniture matches. The desk, the bookcase, everything.”

“Of course.” Combeferre pauses over a sentence and delicately draws a perfectly straight yellow line before glancing back up at Grantaire. “It’s all from Pottery Barn. His mother has an account there.”

If Grantaire’s mouth opens any wider, Combeferre is positive it would be bigger than that of Bruce’s jaws from Finding Nemo.

“Speaking of which,” Combeferre goes on, completely deadpan, the imp in him wanting to be mischievous and push Grantaire’s buttons just a little more, “Enjolras also mentioned that you don’t have to worry about rent.”

“I’m not going to take charity —” Grantaire bristles, but Combeferre cuts him off.

“R. Enjolras owns the apartment. I don’t pay rent, just utilities, and there’s no way he’s going to expect or want you to do more than that.”

Grantaire shakes his head, looking poleaxed.

“R? You okay?”

“I need a drink.”

“Good luck with that. Enjolras doesn’t have any liquor lying around.”

“I didn’t think so.” Grantaire walks back into his room and reemerges with a small bottle of Svedka vodka, which he proceeds to uncork and drink straight as he flops down on the sofa opposite Combeferre.

“I’m surprised you’re not at the Musain this late.”

Grantaire peers over at Combeferre. “Don’t tell Enjolras this, but I’m trying to cut back.”

“Why can’t I tell him? He’ll be really pleased, you know.”

“It’ll raise his expectations.” Grantaire flings out a hand, indicating their surroundings. “Look at me, Combeferre. I’m barely scraping by on life. I just got kicked out of my damned apartment, I’m a fucking alcoholic, and I am probably Enjolras’ least favorite person. In stark contrast, our Apollo’s practically made of money, he’s well on the golden road to success in every endeavor, and he’s… well, just look at him. He’s just… he’s just perfect. And I’m nothing. I don’t succeed in anything; I'm going to fail in this, too, and it’s only going to disappoint him and make him hate me more. Make me hate me more.”

“You’re not nothing,” Combeferre says sharply. He hates it when Grantaire talks like this about himself. Catching himself, he reins in his temper and says, more gently, “You’ll be surprised what lies beneath the surface, R. You’re deciding to cut back on your own. You’re a brilliant artist — even Feuilly concedes that your art professors give you so much leeway because of your genius. You got evicted because your landlord’s an asshole, and you’re certainly not Enjolras’ least favorite person. His father holds that prize, and you’re nowhere even close to it.”

Grantaire’s eyes darken, but he says nothing else. There is a fleeting glimpse of what appears to be hope in his face, but Combeferre doesn’t pursue the subject further because Grantaire remains silent.

“Just think about it, okay? Don’t belittle yourself, because we care about you, and even on his bad days Enjolras wouldn’t want you doing that to yourself.”

Grantaire quietly keeps drinking as Combeferre returns to his textbook. And, well, if Combeferre notices that Grantaire is still sitting on the sofa and rolling the empty vodka bottle between his fingers two hours later, he doesn’t say anything else about it.

Enjolras never does come out of his room for his coffee.

Chapter Text

Grantaire jabs at the buttons on the door — Enjolras’ apartment is fancy enough that there isn’t the need for an actual key but a passcode instead that privileged individuals type into the numbered keypad over the lock — and somehow manages to hit all six in the right combination and sequence. The door buzzes open, admitting him into the pitch-black foyer, and he stumbles around for a bit before hitting his right knee on the edge of the table in the hallway. He hears the mail basket slide across the tabletop, but thankfully, it doesn’t fall off, although his knee hurts something awful.

Then he walks into the living room and promptly bangs the exact same knee in the exact same spot on the bronze sculpture just inside the doorway.

“Damnit!”

“You ‘kay?”

Enjolras’ befuddled question cuts through the fog in his head, and Grantaire jumps about a foot in the air.

“WHAT THE HELL, APOLLO?”

His yell emerges as a startled squeak rather than an actual yell, which is good considering that Combeferre is most likely already asleep, and would be pissed as anything if he wakes up to Grantaire when he has all those early classes. Earlier than even Enjolras, although Grantaire still can’t believe it sometimes.

He flicks on the light to reveal a sleepy-looking Enjolras sprawled out on the couch in an ungainly manner that still looks attractive, damn him. His reading glasses are balanced precariously on the bridge of his ridiculously straight nose, and a law textbook roughly the size of two extensively written biology encyclopedias lays open on his lap, page bookmarked by a Bic.

“Wha’ time is it?”

Enjolras stretches for the coffee table where his phone is lying just out of reach. If he leans out any further, he’s going to pitch off the couch and smack the floor, hard. Taking pity on him, Grantaire hits the screen of his own iPhone to check the time.

“Three-thirty in the morning, Apollo.”

“Gotta get up ‘nyway,” Enjolras mumbles.

“Why is that?”

Enjolras squints against the light. “Have to do revisions on a debate due for class tomorrow.” Although his diction becomes a little more precise, his eyelids remain at half-mast, and the dark shadows smudged beneath his eyes tell Grantaire how tired he is lots more than Enjolras is letting on.

“Can you do it after your classes today?”

Enjolras frowns. The expression somehow makes him look like a cross puppy. A really good-looking puppy, but cross regardless. “Um. No, I can’t.”

“That’s the perfectionist talking. I want to speak to the realist. Can you prepare your debate at a reasonable hour after classes today?”

Enjolras slumps back on the couch and scratches his head. The light that filters down from the overheads is giving his blond curls a sort of unearthly halo. “If I move things around, I suppose I could. It’ll be a tight fit, though.”

“Good. Then do it.”

“Why?”

Grantaire grabs a handful of the afghan lying over the back of the couch and tugs it down over Enjolras’ legs. “You’re going back to sleep.”

“You’re drunk. And no, I can’t.”

Grantaire tries not to let the words sting. “So what if I’m drunk?”

“I don’t have time like you to waste!”

Grantaire straightens. “Clearly.” The word comes out cold, and Enjolras’ eyes finally widen from being mere slits.

“Look,” he says, sounding apologetic, and yet still exasperated, “I can’t. I have things to do, and I don’t have enough time to get them all done. I wish I had all the time in the world like you do, but I don’t. I just don’t.”

“It’ll do you good to relax once in a while, you know. Or are you so afraid of coming down from your pedestal and turning from marble into actual flesh?” Grantaire keeps his tone biting. “Why do you keep yourself so busy all the time? Is it because you’re afraid to interact with the rest of us and form real human connections? Or would you rather just keep away from the rabble you claim to defend?”

Enjolras looks at him and doesn’t say anything else. His eyes are stormy, but behind those blue orbs there is a battle raging within that Grantaire cannot fathom or penetrate. He fully expects Enjolras to tear into him, like always, but nothing happens. A thread of pity shoots through his chest when he sees Enjolras worry his bottom lip as if he’s uncertain as to what to say next. This hesitation is new to Grantaire; Enjolras is never disarmed of his words or his wit. They are the swords he wields in every situation, and seeing him without them is almost unsettling.

“Just go to sleep, Enjolras,” he says at last. “You’ll manage to get it all done.”

This time, Enjolras doesn’t fight him. He closes his eyes and curls his hands around the afghan as Grantaire plucks the glasses from his nose and places the book on the coffee table. He switches off the light and tiptoes out of the room, wondering what the hell just happened.

Chapter Text

Their days settle into a pattern that is starting to feel like home to Grantaire.

Living with Enjolras can be hard, at times. When they fight, as they inevitably do, Enjolras ducks into his room and doesn’t come out unless he has class or meetings at the Musain. They still quarrel about loads of things, like Grantaire’s drinking and messiness or Enjolras’ callousness and inability to relax. Sometimes they bicker about silly little issues like Game of Thrones (Enjolras hates it) or Grantaire’s forgetting to lock the door sometimes, or Enjolras’ tendency to work himself to death, or who drank the last of the milk.

But those fights lessen in number and intensity. Their big arguments seem to mainly take place at the Musain, and the ones at home never last more than several hours. Enjolras has a curious ability to forget that they had fought the day or night before, and, well, Grantaire can never stay mad at Enjolras for long. Enjolras seems to be making a concentrated effort to hold himself back in their fights, but the reason is lost on Grantaire — not that he’s complaining.

The pros probably outweigh the cons of living with Enjolras. Okay, so there’s no probably about it.

For starters, Enjolras is a lot more generous than Grantaire gives him credit for. When his landlord sends an additional bill to Grantaire for ‘miscellaneous expenses’ totaling several hundred bucks, Enjolras not only lends him the money, but he shows up at Grantaire’s landlord’s office and yells at the man for a good long hour and a half before the sycophant agrees to reimburse Grantaire his security deposit (he’d refused to do just that earlier) and waive the expenses.

Enjolras doesn’t care that all of Les Amis gets into his cleaning supplies, or the organic and gourmet stuff he buys from Whole Foods — with advance warning, however, so he can buy and prepare more. If anyone is in dire need of clothes or supplies, he loans them what they need and doesn’t impose a deadline or return policy. He lets Courfeyrac and Bahorel throw wild parties and ESPN group viewings in his apartment, although he does nearly throttle Bahorel for almost putting a hole through his flat-screen TV. He’s fine with Grantaire painting in the living room if he puts down newspapers to protect the floor and carpet, and doesn’t even comment on the smell of oil paint when he comes home from class. If Grantaire leaves his stuff strewn around, Enjolras unquestioningly tidies it all up. All thirteen members of the group know the code to his apartment and come and go as they please. The only thing he forbids everyone but Combeferre and Grantaire from doing is sex in his apartment.

Which would be nice if Grantaire actually had someone to screw — and not just a one-night stand.

To his relief, Enjolras never brings anyone back, male or female, for the night. It’s bad enough that Grantaire pines after Enjolras — he doesn’t want to have the cold hard truth rubbed in his face, either.

Then there’s Enjolras’ habit of wearing clothes — he doesn’t like them. Most of the time, he lounges around in his boxers and a T-shirt — or on some days, just the boxers, or a towel. He goes barefoot everywhere; when he does wear shirts the top few buttons are always undone, revealing more of his sculpted front and neck than Grantaire would deem safe. He favors comfortable stuff, but most of his wardrobe is composed of high-quality branded clothing that isn’t just comfortable but also well-fitting.

So well-fitting, in fact, that Grantaire can see the contours of his ass when he’s wearing his jeans, or the planes of his back when his shirt shifts, just so.

It’s so distracting that it’s almost unfair.

Enjolras has lots of habits that Grantaire sees and tucks into his mind for future reference. He gets a secret thrill from knowing Enjolras as well as Combeferre does, by being able to observe Enjolras every day and see the man for who he is, rather than just an unattainable ideal that he’s always held Enjolras up to be. Some things haven’t changed. He still regards Enjolras as being too perfect for this world, but at the same time, the man has so many quirks and so much personality that it’s undeniable Enjolras is still pretty human, too.

For example, Enjolras likes ice cream. A lot. He will fight to the death to protect his Extreme Moose Tracks cartons — yes, that is in the plural form rather than the singular. He and Dr. Lamarque, the most renowned law professor at the university, share a father-son relationship ever since Enjolras became his research assistant when he entered the program as a freshman three years ago. He’s pretty gallant when it comes to his treatment of women, opening doors and pulling out chairs for them. He reads encyclopedias and thesauruses for fun — now it makes sense to Grantaire why his Apollo has a Renaissance man’s mental storehouse of knowledge on every fucking subject under the sun. His musical taste is all over the place, ranging from classical and instrumental to alt rock and indie hip-hop. He doesn’t give a shit about his appearance at all other than picking out his clothing for the next day, which means he doesn’t have to primp for a single minute and can still waltz out the door looking like an Abercrombie & Fitch model.

Grantaire finds out that Enjolras also cannot resist fighting for a hopeless cause. Especially if that cause looks like a baby animal.

It is pouring so hard when Grantaire gets out of his last art lecture that he is relieved Combeferre tucked an umbrella into his backpack last night. He picks his way through the waterlogged streets as he embarks on the five-minute walk from campus back to the apartment, and he is on the doorstep of Enjolras’ apartment building when he hears a mewling sound so faint that he thinks he imagines it.

He pushes open the door of the building when he hears the mewing sound again.

Shaking his umbrella free of drops, he folds it up and pokes his head around the half-open door to see a tiny, dirty ball of orange and black fur huddled miserably in the corner behind the door. The rain is mercilessly pelting the little furball, which doesn’t move, but continues to emit that pitiful mewing, now nearly inaudible.

“Hey, kitty. Come here, little guy. Or girl.” He picks up the kitten and tucks it into the front of his hoodie, where it shuffles into his T-shirt and continues to cry. “It’s okay. I guess — maybe I can persuade Enjolras to at least keep you around until the shelter opens tomorrow. Or something. He’s not that heartless to throw you back out into the rain. I think.”

He manages to fumble his way into the apartment cuddling the kitten with one hand and the umbrella in the other. When he finally shuts the door behind him, wiping his dripping feet on the mat, he looks up and meets a pair of bright blue eyes.

Enjolras has spread his notes and books out on the floor, and looks to be in the middle of an intense studying session. His eyes are drawn from Grantaire’s face to the ball of fur nestled in the crook of his arm.

“What is that?”

Grantaire puts the umbrella away and kicks off his shoes. “I found it out in the rain. Do you have a towel or something I can borrow to wipe it off?”

Enjolras points to the hallway closet with his pen. “You know where to look.”

“Well —” Grantaire actually means something with less than a 400-thread count. “Something less fancy, maybe?”

Enjolras’ eyebrows shoot upward. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Oh-kay. Nothing at all.” Grantaire obediently retreats to grab one of the fluffy white towels from the closet, and unzips his hoodie to release the kitten. He wipes it down, and the kitten pushes against his towel-wrapped hand before it starts mewing again.

“Boy or girl?” he wonders aloud.

“Most likely a girl,” Enjolras states with an air of confidence. “The brindled coat coloring of a tortoiseshell cat is found almost exclusively in female cats, and results from an interaction between both genetic and developmental factors.”

He is about to keep going on when Grantaire holds up a hand. “Got it, thanks. I don’t need the Mendelian lecture when it comes to cats.” He flips the kitten over and nods. “You’re right again, Apollo.”

“She’s way too young to be away from her mother,” Enjolras says severely. “I think she’s maybe six weeks old.” He watches as Grantaire runs a hand over the kitten’s back, and her tiny tail feathers along his palm.

“No collar on her neck; no posters outside. She must have been abandoned,” Grantaire coos. “Poor little baby.” He rubs the towel over the kitten’s wet fur and chuckles when she bats at the cloth with miniature claws.

“I’m assuming you want to keep her.”

Grantaire smirks. “I’m not so deluded as to think it’ll happen, Apollo. Your apartment is way too nice to keep a kitten around, and you aren’t really the animal type. At least let her stay until tomorrow, though, when I can bring her to the shelter.”

“I think we should check to see if her owner wants her back, first.”

“If they did, they wouldn’t leave a six-week-old kitten out in the rain.” Grantaire’s voice clips for a second before it returns to its adoring tone. “Well, it’s seven in the evening. What do you want to do with her?”

The kitten untangles herself from the towel and stares unblinkingly at Enjolras with big gray eyes. Grantaire may have blinked and missed the moment, but for a second there he almost thinks that Enjolras smiles.

He's smiling. At the fucking cat.

Grantaire has never wanted to be an animal more than at this very moment.

“I’ll print out a couple of flyers and put them up. If a couple of days pass and we don’t hear anything, we’ll talk again.”

“So she gets to stay here for the time being?” Grantaire sounds far too delighted, and Enjolras squashes his sigh at the look on Grantaire’s face.

“Yeah. Mind you, you’re cleaning up her messes if she makes them. And please try to keep her off the curtains or the couches.”

Chapter Text

Five days later, Enjolras finally caves.

That same night that the kitten comes into their lives, Grantaire drags him out to the closest PetCo, where they buy food and water bowls, a shallow kitty litter tray, kitty milk replacement formula, canned kitten food, and a variety of cat toys that Enjolras sighs at.

Over the next five days, while Enjolras is rushing off to turn in papers and grade assignments for the class he TAs, he comes and goes regularly from the apartment. Every time he enters or leaves, Grantaire is in a different position with the kitten — holding her against him while she purrs up a storm, petting her while she devours her food, dangling one of Jehan’s ribbons in front of her as she stalks the end of it with narrowed eyes, napping on the couch with her curled up in a ball on his chest.

He can’t help but notice that Grantaire’s eyes are softer when he looks at the kitten, that his usually loud voice is quieter and gentler when speaking to her, and that smiles are more easily persuaded from him by her antics.

For some stupid reason, he can’t help but feel jealous. Over a cat that fits easily in Grantaire’s hands. It is so irrational that he doesn’t know what to do about it, and so he shoves the feeling into the very back of his mind and tries his best to ignore it, just like he does with the things he can’t handle.

“Has nobody claimed her?” Grantaire asks on the night of the fifth day.

Enjolras is sitting at the kitchen island marking up a stack of essays with a red pen while Combeferre puts together a simple dinner of pasta and salad for four — Eponine is coming over in twenty minutes — and Grantaire is aiming a green laser pointer at the carpet while the kitten jumps around trying to catch the dot of light.

“No,” Enjolras says, without looking up. “I guess nobody wants the little hairball.”

“Hey, now,” Grantaire chides, sounding affronted. “Don’t call her that. She has feelings, you know.”

“She has feelings now?” Enjolras shoots back dryly. “She doesn’t even have a name.”

“Hmm.” Grantaire clicks off the pointer, and the kitten stops and looks back and forth, a comically confused expression on her face, if cats can have expressions. “You’re right. Well, let’s christen her now and have done with it, then.”

“We’re naming her?” Enjolras asks absently. “I thought we’re dropping her off at the shelter now that we know nobody really wants her.”

The silence that follows his pronouncement is palpable. Enjolras lifts his head to see Combeferre aiming an arched eyebrow his way. Grantaire’s face has visibly fallen, but when Enjolras stares at him, he forces a smile that looks out of place on his face. That’s saying something, because whenever Enjolras thinks of Grantaire, he always associates him with the image of a smile beneath black curls and impish blue eyes.

“Right. I forgot.”

Enjolras looks back at Combeferre, who hits his forehead with his palm and drags his hand down the side of his face before he returns to the dinner preparation, shaking his head as he does so. At the same time, Grantaire gathers up the kitten and starts back to his room.

“Where are you going?” Enjolras calls, taken aback.

“I’m not hungry,” Grantaire flings back over his shoulder, and he sounds awful all of a sudden. “Sorry, ‘Ferre.”

His door bangs shut, and Enjolras returns to his grading — until Combeferre clears his throat. Enjolras glances up at him.

“What?”

“Do you even realize what just happened?” Combeferre asks calmly, stirring the pasta sauce as it simmers.

“Uh. No.”

Combeferre blows out his breath and shakes his head. “You know, Enjolras, if I didn’t love you so much, I’d have given up on you long ago.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras says, feeling stupid. “What’s going on?”

“You just told Grantaire you were taking the kitten to the shelter.”

“Yeah, we are.”

“No, you are. There’s a difference, Enjolras.”

Enjolras frowns at the essay in front of him until it clicks. “Oh. Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“But… I thought he knew we weren’t going to keep it.”

“Her,” Combeferre corrects. “And of course you mentioned it, but this is Grantaire we’re talking about. Our boy loves his strays, and he certainly has grown fond of her. Don’t tell me you don’t see it.”

Oh, he does. And it’s an irrational jealousy that he’ll never admit to anyone, not even Combeferre.

“And you’ve already grown used to having a cat around,” Combeferre continues. “I saw you petting her when she woke you up from your nap yesterday instead of yelling at her like you would have done any of us. Remember that one stray you brought back home in grade school?”

“It’s a baby animal. Of course I’m not going to yell at her. And, ‘Ferre, that was twelve years ago. I was nine.”

“The problem that you have to face,” Combeferre goes on blithely, completely ignoring Enjolras, “is a trade-off. Either we keep her and everybody’s happy while you’re only slightly inconvenienced, or you give her away and Grantaire silently holds it against you.”

Enjolras is already running through both options in his head. Stepping on cat toys, relegating the litter box to the hallway, where it smells — thank goodness the thing has already been litter-trained — and having that little fluffball underfoot or on top of him every time he sits down on the couch. Along with a hundred other complications that comes with a pet cat. She’s going to need shots, and to be spayed, because he will not have a multitude of kittens that he has to care for along with their mother, which is practically a kitten herself. The furniture’s going to get so clawed up, despite the fact that Grantaire has been trying unsuccessfully to train her to use the kitty scratching post they bought.

He thinks of the light that faded in Grantaire’s eyes at Enjolras’ words, and the tenderness with which he’s been caring for the kitten all these five days like she is already his.

“She’s already scratched up the legs of that coffee table,” Combeferre remarks offhandedly. “I thought you might like to know.”

The coffee table belongs to his father. It’s a beautiful thing, with mahogany legs and a mahogany base that is carved all around with the family insignia — really, it’s a big fucking joke how his father tries to make himself more important than he really is — and the glass tabletop that, no matter how many times Bossuet has dropped things on it or Bahorel’s hit it, has refused to break. Enjolras sees it as a constant reminder of his father’s incorrigible personality and iron will, and Combeferre’s words finalize his decision. He scoots back his stool and heads down the hallway toward Grantaire’s room.

Grantaire answers it after Enjolras knocks twice. The kitten is perched on his shoulder like a pirate’s parrot, and his smile when he sees Enjolras at the door doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Come down to grace my mortal domain with your presence, Apollo?”

Enjolras bites his tongue to keep from delivering a sarcastic response. He reminds himself that he is the one who caused Grantaire’s bad mood, so he has no right to exacerbate the situation.

“I have two conditions if you keep her.”

Clearly, his words are not what Grantaire expects. His mouth falls open, but Enjolras hurriedly goes on before he can interrupt.

“One: we’re not calling her anything from Game of Thrones. I refuse. Two: train her to scratch the legs of the coffee table, and she can stay.”

Grantaire lets out a whoop as he lunges forward and throws his arms around Enjolras. Caught off guard, Enjolras’ eyes pop as Grantaire squeezes him practically to mush. The other young man’s body is hard with muscle, and warmer than Enjolras thinks possible. When Grantaire releases him, he takes a deep breath, fighting the sudden headiness he feels at the lack of contact.

For his part, Grantaire is absolutely giddy, laughing as he bounces past Enjolras into the living room, where he dances around with the kitten for a good five minutes straight.

Enjolras follows him and returns to the kitchen, where he tries to resume his grading. After reading the same page over three times, however, he gives up and instead watches Grantaire as he thrusts the kitten towards a leg of the coffee table, talking animatedly to her and laughing every time she swipes at the mahogany.

They name the kitten Stormageddon, or Stormie for short, because Grantaire insists it’s a badass unisex name.

Chapter Text

“Who the hell invited you into this conversation? You need to fire Marie. I told your housekeeper I wanted to talk to Mum, not you, damn it.”

Grantaire is sitting at the kitchen island idly sketching the view of the living room when he hears Enjolras’ voice, rising despite his obvious efforts to keep it down.

“You? Why the hell would I want to talk to you?”

For a moment there, Grantaire almost imagines that Enjolras is addressing him, but thankfully he knows better. Enjolras is obviously talking to his father instead of his mother like he wants, and from the sounds of it, the conversation is off to a pretty piss-poor start — especially since Enjolras is starting to swear. He hardly ever uses profanity, except at that one memorable time when Courfeyrac drove the car off the road when they were headed to a rally, or other isolated incidents like that one.

There is a pause before Enjolras speaks again, his voice threaded with brittle cold. “Maybe you need to act like a father before I treat you like one. Not that I have any sorts of high hopes in that regard.” He scoffs. “Ooh, I tremble with fear before the great Sebastien Enjolras. Or rather, I would if I actually gave a fuck about you —”

Grantaire is starting to think that Enjolras doesn’t know he’s present and able to hear everything. Combeferre has an 8 o’clock class, and it is a fact of life that ordinarily Grantaire would sleep until eleven or noon before he has to leave for his own art classes. Last night, however, he didn’t drink as much as he normally would, and as of right now he is more fresh-faced than he would like, and eavesdropping more shamelessly than he should.

When Enjolras speaks again, his voice is shaky for the first few syllables, but it passes so quickly that Grantaire almost thinks maybe he imagined it.

“Good to know. Pass the phone to my mother, please. I want to talk to her.” The last word is delivered through gritted teeth.

Grantaire shifts on the stool and tenses when Enjolras’ voice explodes out again.

“I’ll have you know that Dr. Lamarque is a respectable, intelligent man who acts like a better father than you’ll ever be. And all of my friends — no, you listen, Dad — are the best family I’ll ever have. I don’t even know you managed to keep Mum this long, rather than driving her away, because you’ve managed to do that with every single one of your family.”

Enjolras’ voice shakes again, and this time, the tremor doesn’t leave. “Don’t you talk about Alain to me. Fuck you. Fuck you! I’m not going to take this from the likes of you.”

The next sound Grantaire hears is the sound of Enjolras’ phone smashing down against a hard surface, and he winces. It will be a miracle if the phone screen is still intact, with the way Enjolras treats his belongings. Then again, after going up against the likes of Sebastien, it’s no wonder that Enjolras is in quite the temper. His father’s exploits form one of those bogeyman tales that Combeferre occasionally lets slip, especially after yet another raging fight between father and son.

Enjolras walks out of his room in a T-shirt and boxer shorts, nostrils flaring, blue eyes alive with a roiling passion that Grantaire is relieved isn’t currently directed at him. Those sinful lips that Grantaire usually stares at are pressed into a thin line, and his cheeks are flushed. When he sees Grantaire sitting at the island, however, the color actually leaves his face.

“Um,” Grantaire tentatively ventures.

Enjolras walks back into his room and shuts the door. Grantaire doesn’t know if he should feel worse or not that Enjolras didn’t slam the door.

* * * * * * * * * *

If there was a body part Eponine had to auction off for the most amount of money, Combeferre thinks it would have to be her lips.

They’re kissing on the couch, Combeferre’s hand sliding up under Eponine’s blouse as she moans at the contact of his hand against her abdomen, and her fingers are twining in his hair, and this date is getting off to a smoking start, when a crash comes from Gavroche’s room.

“Damnit.” Eponine releases him, and Combeferre slumps back against the couch, because hot damn, his girlfriend will be the death of him. “Sorry, ‘Ferre. I’ll be right back — I want to make sure Gav didn’t break anything important. Before I throttle him for interrupting, that is.”

Combeferre chuckles. “Just hurry back, okay?”

Eponine pouts at him and blows him a kiss before padding away, and Combeferre’s phone vibrates in his pocket.

Well, at least he isn’t too busy at the current moment. He glances at the screen and is surprised to see that Grantaire is calling him. Slightly concerned — is Enjolras in trouble? Is R okay? — he answers without a moment’s hesitation.

“R?”

“Hey, ‘Ferre. Sorry to interrupt, but I have a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“So I overheard Enjolras arguing with his dad over the phone.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. And he knows that I heard him. He walked out and saw me. I’m guessing he thought I was gone or asleep or something.”

Combeferre glances at the clock. It’s one in the afternoon. “What time was this?”

“Nine-fifteen. I hung around until I had to go to class, but he never left his room.”

“He skipped his classes?”

“Unless they were canceled? Yeah.”

“What did they talk about?”

Grantaire relays what he remembers of the conversation — which is quite a bit, and Combeferre is impressed. By now Eponine has returned, but she busies herself cleaning up the remainder of lunch and stacking the dishwasher while she waits for Combeferre. For the millionth time, Combeferre mentally thanks whatever God is out there listening for her.

“Damnit.”

“Is that bad?”

Oh, he could write a book about it. “Yeah, it is,” he says instead. “Look, just treat Enjolras normally. He doesn’t want pity. Right now he’s having… some trouble with his parents, and he doesn’t want to dwell on any of it. Just act normally, okay?”

“Is there anything I need to know?” Grantaire’s voice is quiet. “Or anything I can do for him?”

“The best thing you can do is not to push him, R. There are a lot of things in his past that he wants to keep buried, and until he unearths them himself, we can’t push him or he’ll withdraw.”

“On a scale of one to ten, how much of a douchebag is his dad?”

“Eleven,” Combeferre replies. “Maybe it’ll be better if I gave you a visual. You know how much he hates Game of Thrones, right?”

“Yeah, that one’s always eluded me, I’ll be honest.”

“He didn’t always,” Combeferre answers, “until Joffrey Baratheon showed up on screen.”

“What do you mean?”

“Obviously, Enjolras’ father has never killed anyone — that we know of, anyway — but Joffrey reminds Enjolras a lot of his father. E's never watched Game of Thrones beyond the first season, but I must say, Ramsay Snow also is a good fit for Sebastien Enjolras, if you can imagine that. His dad also really likes that TV show, and we both know that anything his father enjoys, Enjolras automatically hates on default.”

“Well, that bites,” Grantaire says lightly, but Combeferre can sense that he is upset on Enjolras’ behalf.

“You’re telling me.”

“Well, there’s the meeting at the Musain tonight,” Grantaire points out. “At least that will get him out and about, right?”

Combeferre nods, then remembers Grantaire can’t see him. “Yeah. I’ll see you both there. Don’t sweat it, okay? He’ll be fine eventually. He always is.”

Grantaire grunts into the phone. “I hope. Thanks, ‘Ferre. See you later.”

This time, when Eponine resumes kissing him, Combeferre’s heart unfortunately isn’t completely invested in it.

Chapter Text

Combeferre and Grantaire are the earliest of the Amis to the Musain that night. Musichetta doesn’t count because she works here. Bahorel bounces at the nightclub around the corner, so he usually turns up 5 minutes before meetings.

He really hasn’t expected Grantaire to be here this early, but when he pushes open the door of the Musain he sees Grantaire in his usual corner with a bottle in front of him. The cork hasn’t even been pulled out of the mouth, and his blue eyes are surprisingly alert.

“He left the apartment at five and hasn’t been back,” Grantaire informs Combeferre as he sits down next to the sober drunk — what a juxtaposition — and unwinds his scarf from around his neck. “I think he took his backpack, but I’m not sure because I was painting and he was out of the apartment in, like, ten seconds, before I could turn around properly.”

“No, that’s okay,” Combeferre convinces him. “He sometimes tears off to campus to work on things when he’s in a really bad mood or when he doesn’t want anybody to badger him.”

Grantaire looks mildly affronted. “I would not.”

“No,” Combeferre agrees, “but Enjolras doesn’t exactly think rationally when he’s emotionally worked up.”

Grantaire gives a grunt of assent. “So what’s on the agenda for tonight?”

Combeferre pulls a folder from his messenger bag and opens it to reveal a neatly typed set of minutes. “Well, the campus rally this Friday is set up and we’ve been given permission to advertise on campus. We’ve got the location for the protest next month, and we’re already distributing the fliers with Bahorel’s contacts. There are other details we need to fine-tune, but I’ll wait for everyone else to get here because it’s a really long list.” He smiles at Grantaire wryly. “Also, as per your suggestion, Jehan’s and Courfeyrac’s parents and mine added to the bail fund.”

“I’m surprised Monsieur Valjean didn’t chip in, either,” Grantaire says mischievously.

“He and Monsieur Gillernomand are way too focused on the impending nuptials to worry about us, but Valjean did give me his number. He said if we needed any help he’d provide it, which is nice, especially since he works at the courthouse, and he’s had several run-ins with Javert.”

“Good to have friends related to a judge.” Grantaire’s lip curled. “Has he really gone up against that son of a bitch before?”

The hard-headed cop has had it in for Les Amis ever since their first protest. He associates Eponine with bad stock because of her parents, which makes Combeferre’s blood boil, and he has made it clear that he will take down any instigator of chaos, no matter the purpose or cause. At the last protest, he arrested the leader of one group in collaboration with Les Amis, someone Enjolras actually respects, and it put him in a bad mood for days.

Combeferre remembers being glad that it wasn’t Enjolras himself to end up on the wrong end of a nightstick.

“Multiple times. Javert thinks Valjean’s a softhearted wimp and useless in his position.”

“I’d like to punch that jackass in the face,” Grantaire mutters.

“Ho! Look who’s here!”

Both Combeferre and Grantaire look up as the door of the Musain swings open to reveal Courfeyrac’s laughing face. He pulls Jehan in by the hand, and they both tumble into the cafe in a mess of brown curls and flowery cashmere and broad smiles.

“Fancy seeing you here early, R,” Courf teases, and Grantaire grins good-naturedly. “And where’s our intrepid leader?”

“Obviously not here yet,” Combeferre points out. “I mean, most of us aren’t even here either.”

“Wrong, ‘Ferre.”

Bossuet bounces into the cafe with Joly in tow. Feuilly and Bahorel aren’t that far behind, and Eponine tugs Gavroche and Azelma along with her. Combeferre feels his heart lift the moment he sees her, a vision in formfitting khakis and blue top with those kickass combat boots of hers and her dark hair cascading over her shoulders. When she catches him staring, she gives him a fond look and the special smile that he’s never seen her bestow on anybody except Marius in her starstruck moments.
Not anymore, though. Now, all those looks and smiles are his and his alone.

Instantly the cafe is brightened by the chatter of his friends and family. Combeferre feels himself relax into his chair as Eponine comes up to him, Gavroche abandoning her for a plate of onion rings slid across the table to him by Musichetta. Azelma retreats to a corner of the room where she proceeds to pull out her phone and giggle to herself — Eponine has mentioned to Combeferre that there’s a cute guy at school who’s texting her constantly. Bossuet and Joly surround Musichetta and start regaling her with tales of their day, while Courfeyrac and Jehan take their seats at the table next to Grantaire’s and start whispering sweet nothings to each other. Feuilly is scrawling something on a napkin, which he then shows Bahorel, their conversation too far away for Combeferre to overhear.

He doesn’t mind, though. Eponine is leaning against his back, her breasts brushing his shoulders, as she gently kneads her fingertips into the knots on his back. He rolls his neck and leans slightly forward to offer her more access to his back, and hums in contentment.

“Long day?” He can hear, rather than see, the smile in her voice. “In the few hours that I’ve left you alone?”

Combeferre thinks of Enjolras. “Sort of. But it’s okay. You’re here now.” He twists his neck to glance back up at her and his heart swells as he sees the smile on her face. It transforms her face into something even lovelier than her usual stunning appearance, and he catches his breath as he smiles back.

“Sorry we’re late.”

Combeferre glances up to see Marius and Cosette walk in. As usual, Marius seems a tad harried, his cheeks flushed and his hair tousled. In contrast, Cosette looks like she just stepped off the cover of a magazine, her blond hair arrayed perfectly on her shoulders and the blue pea coat complementing her porcelain skin. She chirps out a hello and takes Marius’ hand again to tug him over to the table where Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet are.

“You’re not late,” Musichetta assures Marius. “It’s only ten minutes. Want one?” She offers him a French fry, and he takes it — along with everyone else at the table — because only a fool would turn down the food Musichetta prepares. If she, Cosette, and Eponine ever open a restaurant, they’d win over all patrons in the nearby vicinity in a matter of weeks.

Combeferre feels a sharp kick at his shin, and glances Grantaire’s way to see him raising a dark eyebrow. Then he deliberately glances at the clock, and it feels like a stone clenches in Combeferre’s stomach because Enjolras is ten minutes late.

Enjolras is never late.

“Um, so I don’t mean to be a party pooper, but where’s the main man?” Bahorel calls. “Courf? Ferre?”

Combeferre must have tensed, because Eponine stops the back rub and takes the chair next to him, looking at him. He checks his phone. Nothing — no calls or texts. All around him, everyone else reaches for their phones, and the disappointed — or, in Jehan and Grantaire’s case, worried — looks on their faces makes the stone in Combeferre’s stomach grow heavier and larger.

The door to the cafe bangs open, and Enjolras strides in.

“Sorry I’m late.”

He walks to Combeferre’s table, everyone else moving aside like the parting of the Red Sea, and sets his leather rucksack down on the chair with a heavy thump.

He looks like shit. His cheeks are flushed, but his lips are pinched, and there are new lines in his face that Combeferre doesn’t remember being there this morning. His blue eyes burn with a fervor that doesn’t just stem from the passion of revolution, but from the darker emotion of anger. There is something else there, too, clear as day, if you know what to look for.

Pain. And not of the physical sort.

“Where were you?” Bossuet asks innocently.

“I lost track of time,” Enjolras replies, and it’s an innocuous enough excuse, but Combeferre doesn’t believe him. When he glances back at Courfeyrac, Jehan, and Grantaire, he can tell that they’re all just as unconvinced as he is.

Enjolras opens the meeting, and for two hours, Combeferre forgets his worries and focuses on the charismatic figure at the front of the room.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Enjolras?”

The meeting has gone well, and everyone is buoyed up in good spirits about the upcoming rally and protest. The group has pitched in to help Musichetta clear the cafe of trash, and only Enjolras, Combeferre, and Grantaire remain in the room. Eponine has already left to put Gavroche and Azelma to bed in anticipation of the school day tomorrow, and Combeferre is going over there as soon as this conversation is over. As of right now, Grantaire is still sitting in his corner, turning his rum glass around clockwise and counter-clockwise as he keeps his blue eyes fixed firmly on Enjolras.

“What?”

“Why were you late?”

Enjolras is in the process of sweeping his notes together and sliding them into his bag. His hands still before they resume movement. “It’s not a problem, okay? It won’t happen again.”

“I don’t care about that. You can be as late as you want, but where were you?”

Enjolras doesn’t seem to realize that he’s pinching the bridge of his nose between his eyes, obviously to stave off a growing headache. “I was in the library.”

“You missed your classes.”

Enjolras glares in Grantaire’s general direction, but his ire seems more rehearsed than real. He leans against the table and rolls his eyes. “I didn’t feel like going, and I’m allowed four absences rather than the usual two. This is my first and last, so I’m not worried, and you shouldn’t be, either.”

“Do you want to talk about him?” Combeferre says at last, going straight for the jugular because he’s tired of beating around the bush and making Enjolras feel like he’s boxing him in. He doesn’t hide how surprising this bit of news is, considering that Enjolras is usually scandalized at the concept of absences and missing school for any and all reasons. “Or whatever else is bothering you?”

Something flashes in Enjolras’ eyes. “I don’t want to waste a single minute on him.”

“I don’t give a shit about him, Enjolras. I’m just worried about you. We all are.”

“Well, don’t. I’m fine, and he’s a scumbag.” Enjolras’ smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m headed back, and I know you’re going to Ep’s, so I’m not going to take up any more of your time.”

“Did you drive here?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “No, I walked.”

Grantaire is up in a flash before Combeferre says anything else. “I’ll go back with you, then.”

Enjolras nods consent, but he doesn’t see Grantaire’s smile out of range of his peripheral vision. “We’ll see you back home, ‘Ferre.”

And that wraps up the conversation, because there is a tone of finality in Enjolras’ voice that tells Combeferre the subject isn’t just closed but also dead. He drops it for now, but the flash of worry that runs through him makes him determined to let the topic slide just this once.

Chapter Text

Enjolras usually walks with head held high and a confident stride that reminds Grantaire of a model, his long-legged steps making it daunting for anybody moving next to him. For someone who’s never taken a dance class or exercise course for fun in his entire life, he has a natural grace that meshes with his physical beauty, and Grantaire never tires of looking at him.

Tonight, Enjolras is different, whether he realizes it or not.

Even during the meeting, he burned with a different kind of fire — still passionate, still glorious — but akin to one of those flames belonging to an ebbing campfire. Long and orange but tapering; not blazing with blue tipped intensity of the flame that never dies. Hardly anyone else has noticed, but then again, they don’t invest as much in Enjolras as Grantaire does.

He walks next to Grantaire, but his steps are slower and his feet absently placed. One hand holds onto the shoulder strap of his rucksack, and the other is tucked into his pocket. Whenever Grantaire sneaks a look at him, he can see that those blue eyes are both pensive and frustrated at the same time, and he feels helpless. He’s bound by Combeferre to say nothing, to act like everything is normal, but it’s so difficult when Enjolras is clearly struggling and he can’t do anything to help him out of it.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Enjolras says, breaking the silence that has fallen between them ever since they left the Musain.

Grantaire barks a laugh. “You’re one to talk.”

He expects Enjolras to be harsh right back at him, but Enjolras only shakes his head and sighs.

“So why were you late tonight, Apollo?” Grantaire asks flippantly. Maybe if he’s snide enough, Enjolras will finally open up — that’d be the day — rather than bottling everything down under like he always does. “Your golden presence was missed by the people.”

Enjolras’ jaw sets, and Grantaire can’t help but feel triumphant. “I told you, I lost track of time.”

“And I call bullshit on that,” Grantaire fires back.

Enjolras heaves another sigh, and the sound is defeated.

“Come on, Apollo. Talk to me.”

Enjolras smirks humorlessly. “There’s nothing really to talk about. My father’s an asshole. You already know that.”

“Yes, but this time is different. What did he say to you? What did he do?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “It’s fine. I don’t —”

Grantaire cuts across Enjolras’ path and halts, forcing Enjolras to stop as well, maybe a foot away from Grantaire. They’re directly below a lamppost, and the yellow light filters down into Enjolras’ blond waves, tracing a liquid line along his straight nose and chiseled cheekbones. The angular planes of his face are thrown into shadow, but his blue eyes are large and dark pupils centered in navy irises. Even tired and run down, Enjolras still resembles a fallen angel, and Grantaire suppresses his instinctive admiration for the worry he feels.

“Apollo, you know we’ve always been straight with each other. We’ve always been able to trust that the other will speak the truth without blunting it. Come on, now. If you bottle it up, you’re going to explode or self-destruct. I know that.”

Enjolras looks away, but he doesn’t move forward or try to brush Grantaire away. Instead, he lets the rucksack drop to the asphalt of the sidewalk, and sits heavily down on the pavement. When Grantaire joins him, he reaches for the unlit cigarette tucked behind Grantaire’s ear and held there by a stray black curl. His fingers are warm, and they leave Grantaire’s skin tingling as he produces his Zippo from his pocket and touches the flame to the tip of the cigarette. Enjolras doesn’t smoke, and Grantaire’s also trying to cut this habit back, but now is not the time to talk about abstinence. He waits, the cold of the concrete seeping through his jeans, as Enjolras takes a puff of the cigarette and exhales it from his open mouth. A couple more drags on the cigarette, and he flings it to the ground, absently grinding it out with the toe of his wingtip.

“My mother was diagnosed today.”

The news hits Grantaire hard in the chest like an anvil. He leans back on the pavement, placing his palms flat on the asphalt so he doesn’t do something stupid like reach out and grab Enjolras’ hand, because he knows Enjolras will shake him off or retreat into himself. Taking a deep breath makes his chest hurt only marginally less, so he keeps inhaling hard, trying to let it ground him.

“Grantaire.”

Enjolras’ hand is on his shoulder, and Grantaire can feel the warmth of his skin even through his hoodie. He swallows and forces a smile, waiting for Enjolras to go on. Part of him realizes that Enjolras is trying to comfort him, and the thought makes him feel really wretched. Here he is, supposed to help Enjolras, and the latter is the one helping him.

“What with?” he asks.

Enjolras blinks rapidly and looks off into the distance. “Ovarian,” he says at last.

“What stage?”

“Late stage two.” Enjolras sighs, his eyes still not meeting Grantaire’s. “It’s not bad, but it’s still… unexpected.”

Grantaire half snorts, half sighs, because ‘unexpected’ is probably the last thing he would care about in this situation. He doesn’t have to try too hard to imagine what it would be like if his mother or Celine got cancer. The very thought makes him feel like he’s swallowed barbed wire.

“Anyway, what you overheard today” — Enjolras’ lip curls, like he’s just swallowed a lemon — “was my father refusing to let me talk to my mother. I lost my temper, and I really shouldn’t have.”

Or you think you shouldn’t have when I am there to listen, Grantaire thinks, but he doesn’t voice it.

“If you ask me, you had every right to lose it. That was a bitchy thing to do, even for him.”

Enjolras coughs a short laugh. “Yeah. Seriously.”

“What are the prospects for your mum?” Grantaire asks quietly.

The question clearly isn’t expected, because Enjolras looks like he’s been coldcocked in the stomach. “She has good chances.” His voice is hard. “She’s strong. She’ll pull through this.”

Grantaire nods obediently. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that she won’t. I was just wondering if cancer is something that runs in your family history?”

Enjolras’ eyes widen until Grantaire can see the whites around his irises, and his face pales in the light. His brows snap together in a V as he shakes his head sharply once and scrambles up, grabbing his rucksack as he does so.

“We should get back,” he states flatly, his voice even harder than earlier, if that’s possible.

Grantaire doesn’t fight him, because he suspects he crossed a line he doesn’t even know existed. He tries to fight the sinking feeling that he’s messed up, again, but he isn’t entirely successful when they reach the apartment and Enjolras disappears into his room without another word.

Chapter Text

When he shuts the door, practically in Grantaire’s face, Enjolras drops his backpack onto his desk, kicks off his shoes, and lies down on his bed without even changing out of his clothes.

He can still remember his hands going numb at the voicemail from his mother, and his leaden veins filling with heat when his father spoke to him over the phone. Well, he’d yelled and insulted more than actually speaking to Enjolras like a normal human being. He flashes back to an image in his childhood of his father seated in his study as he dictates a letter to his secretary. Louis, his personal bodyguard, would be standing behind his father like a human shield.

He closes his eyes as another memory takes over:

“Help him!”

“There’s nothing I can do.”

“You bastard. He’s dying, and you can afford to give him the best care, but you just won’t.”

“Adrien, watch your tongue. I will not have my own son speaking like that to me.”

“Why not, if the son has more sense than the father?”

“Because I know what’s best for this family.”

“No, you know what’s best to protect your own name and reputation. You’ve never given a flying fuck about your actual family!”

The hand comes out of nowhere and cracks him hard across the face. It feels like the left half of his face has been lit on fire. The blow is powerful enough that it knocks him off his feet and onto his knees. He cups his cheek in his palm, if only to check that his teeth are still in and his cheekbone isn’t broken, although it certainly feels like all of the above has occurred. Despite himself, he gasps in a breath.

“Louis will escort you out, Adrien. When you come to dinner, I expect you to be composed. If you upset your mother, especially as she runs herself ragged being at the hospital along with all the rest of her duties, I will be very displeased.”

Enjolras cups his forehead with his hands, trying to keep them from shaking. His mind moves on to Grantaire’s voice as it echoes again in his head. The image of Grantaire’s blue eyes, bright with tender concern, is superimposed over other less pleasant memories.

“I was just wondering if cancer is something that runs in your family history?”

Oh, it is. It’s the monster that took his brother, and the demon that he fears will take his mother, too, and collapse the poor excuse that he has for a family.

Chapter Text

“You need to tell him.”

Combeferre tears the apple cinnamon muffin apart and places one half in front of Enjolras. The latter is sitting in his chair in the cafeteria looking like he hasn’t slept a wink — which is probably closer to the truth than not — and when he accepts the offering, he doesn’t eat, but starts picking at it with his long fingers. His yogurt stays equally untouched in front of him.

“Tell him what?”

Enjolras is pretending to play dumb, Combeferre knows, but rather than turning the tables on him, he continues as if Enjolras hasn’t said anything.

“He has the right to know, Enjolras. He lives with us. He’s our friend. Your friend.” Enjolras winces, but it’s not in denial of that fact, and Combeferre goes on. “He’s worried about you, and he cares for you deeply. He wants to help, but he can’t if he doesn’t know what’s going on.”

“The past is dead.”

“Keep telling yourself that. With your father, it’s never dead.”

Enjolras sighs and props his chin in his hand. “I don’t want pity, Combeferre. I’ve never wanted it, and I don’t want anyone to start now. Plus I can do this on my own. I always have, and I always will.”

“Don’t say that.” Combeferre glares at him. “You know how difficult it is to bear that trouble, any trouble, alone. I’ve been with you for most of your life, Enjolras, helping to lift the burdens you refuse to share. You didn’t even tell me about your mother without me prying it out of you, and why? Never mind Grantaire; what about Courfeyrac, Jehan, Feuilly, Bahorel, Marius, Joly, Bossuet? What of Cosette and Ep and Musichetta? Has it ever crossed your mind that maybe we want to share your problems with you, that maybe we can help? It’s not out of pity, Enjolras, it’s because we love you, you stupid, hardheaded idiot, and you don’t know how it makes us feel that you refuse to let us show that love and help ease your difficulties in any way!”

By the time Combeferre is done speaking, Enjolras’ mouth is hanging open. It is one of the rare moments that they can both count on one hand where Combeferre has been angry with Enjolras, or at least firm enough to be severe.

“Let the walls down, Enjolras,” Combeferre says, more calmly and encouragingly this time. “Be vulnerable. I know you erected your fortress to keep your father and his ilk from getting in, but in doing so you’re keeping the rest of us out.”

Enjolras closes his eyes, and the fight almost visibly goes out of him. The dark shadows under his eyes and the pale tint to his face worries Combeferre, but before he can say anything chiding Enjolras for his sleeping habits, the latter speaks again.

“He’s a lot like Alain. Probably a lot more than I’m comfortable with.”

Combeferre knows exactly who he’s talking about. He nods with a quiet smile. “That he is. But take this as a chance, Enjolras, and not as a reminder.”

Enjolras remains silent, but Combeferre can see the wheels turning in his head.

“Let us in,” he coaxes. “We want to help, and we can help. You don’t have to do this alone, and we don’t want you to.”

Enjolras worries his bottom lip between his teeth. Finally he nods reluctantly. “Okay.”

Combeferre’s hand relaxes on his Camelbak. “Good.” He takes a sip of coffee and nudges Enjolras’ yogurt across the table closer to him. “Eat. You need it. Did you ever get to talk to your mother?”

Enjolras nods, dipping his spoon into the yogurt. “She heard what happened, yelled at him for being a douchebag, and then gave me a talking-to over the phone for being rude to him.”

Combeferre laughs. “Your mother is fantastic.”

A tiny smile, the first of the day, wings its way onto Enjolras’ lips. “I know. She’s coming out here to visit me before she gets too sick.”

“When?”

“Just this weekend. My father’s flying to Germany for a hostile takeover, so she’s opting to come down here instead of going with him.” Then Enjolras pales. “Shit. The rally.”

“You’re not going,” Combeferre says immediately. “Don’t worry about it.”

“But — but it’s on campus. It’s one of the bigger rallies we’ll have, and we need to get student support before the protest next month, and I have to help prepare for that —”

“Enjolras.” Combeferre lays a firm hand on his arm, startling Enjolras out of his babbling. “Listen to me. We already planned a second rally before the protest. You can go to that one. There will be other rallies, but you only have one mother. If I see you planning or studying anytime this weekend, I will kick your ass. Assuming your conscience, or Grantaire, doesn’t do it already.”

Enjolras barks a wry laugh. “That’s true.” He steeples his chin with his tented fingers. “That means we haven’t got much time to put this together. It’s Wednesday morning; I pick her up from the airport Thursday evening. I get off classes at three, so I’m sure I can finish working on the speeches then.” He continues thinking aloud, as Combeferre watches him fondly. There are too many times for him to count where he has watched Enjolras over the years voicing his thought process verbally, whether it’s planning a simple group outing or organizing a protest with over two thousand people in attendance.

“Who’s going to speak if not me?” Enjolras asks suddenly. It’s not an entirely conceited question. Combeferre knows Enjolras’ll never admit it, even to Combeferre or himself, but Enjolras has inherited his father’s silver tongue and intellectual eloquence, although his glorious passion comes entirely from his mother. It’s an explosive combination that has any crowd — every crowd — that Enjolras addresses screaming his name and pledging their allegiance to his causes.

Combeferre shrugs. “We’ll figure it out,” he says calmly, although Enjolras’ question pricks a wave of concern. He’s right, and there really is no viable solution.

The little furrowed lines of worry have reappeared in Enjolras’ forehead once more, and Combeferre hates it. He stands up — he’s going to be late for class if he doesn’t get a move on — and as he does, he brushes his thumb over Enjolras’ forehead as if to banish the wrinkles.

“We’ll figure it out, Enjolras,” he repeats. “You need to focus on what matters most.”

“The people matter most.”

“And your mother is one of them. You are one of them. Don’t argue with me, Enjolras.”

Enjolras opens his mouth like he’s about to correct Combeferre, but then he closes it, knowing that Combeferre is right.

Chapter Text

Grantaire makes sure he does his best to keep quiet at the meeting in the cafe that night instead of riling Enjolras up like he usually does.

It’s not that he agrees with everything the blond says, or believes half of it, but he doesn’t want to pick Enjolras to pieces just because he’s not sure if pushing him is the best thing right now, despite Combeferre’s reminders to keep things normal between them. He’s starting to realize that sometimes he and Enjolras get carried away, and when that happens, cruel words are often exchanged. Sure, part of it’s Enjolras’ fault, but Grantaire isn’t blameless either. There is productive criticism, and then there’s also hurt in the form of acidic personal attacks.

Enjolras looks exhausted. He’s talking about the rally like it’s the only important thing on the entire planet — “we need to make sure that this goes smoothly because attendance at the protest depends on it, and student support will bring this thing to greater attention compared to those other lackadaisical stories that you read about on page 24 instead of on the front” — and everyone is enraptured. Marius and Cosette are still holding hands under the table, and Jehan is practically sitting in Courfeyrac’s lap, but their gazes are turned up towards Enjolras.

He hasn’t seen Enjolras all day until now, and after last night, he has no desire to go up to Enjolras and be scalded by the full heat of his glory. Part of him, obviously, wants to, because there has never been a moment, even when they’re both cruel to each other, that he’s never not wanted Enjolras — his attention, his respect, and his love — but now is not the time. Enjolras had tried to open up to him last night until he’d said something wrong that derailed the entire conversation — as usual — and he’s not about to go hurt his Apollo again. Even if it means biting on his own tongue till he draws blood, or feeling the terrible ache of loneliness mingled with his unrequited feelings for the man.

When the meeting wraps up, everybody goes their own separate ways, since it’s Wednesday night and there are still classes tomorrow. To Grantaire’s surprise, Enjolras remains behind — he usually rushes out the door after talking to Combeferre and Courfeyrac about logistics and details — casting furtive looks towards the chair where Grantaire is sitting.

They’re both seated at the same effing table, with Enjolras across from him, and Bahorel next to him.

Combeferre and Eponine leave arm in arm, but not before Combeferre claps a hand onto Enjolras’ shoulder as if in encouragement. For what, Grantaire has no inkling. Courfeyrac and Jehan depart in a flurry of air kisses and hurriedly made social plans. Feuilly accompanies Joly and Bossuet as they walk out the door with linked hands and the promise to Musichetta to wait up for her. Cosette and Marius sit a little longer in the cafe before she finally drags him out to go see the baby ducklings on the pond in the square.

That just leaves Bahorel, Grantaire, and Enjolras, who is opening a textbook that has a thickness equivalent to Bahorel’s bicep. Unfortunately, the man doesn’t have time to flex his arms for Grantaire’s comparison — he’s leaving the cafe as well.

“What the hell?” Grantaire protests. “Are you leaving me to drink all by my bloody self?”

Bahorel’s lips twitch in amusement. “You already drink all by yourself when I’m not there.”

“Fuck off,” Grantaire retorts. “You’re not getting the new Pokemon video game anymore, just FYI, you traitor.”

“I’ll make it up to you, R. Sabine’s being way clingy these days. I’d hate it, except she’s really good at fucking my brains out.”

“Bros before hos, asshole.”

“Love you too, R. I’ll promise you two-for-ones tomorrow; how’s that?”

“It’s a start, but you’re not off the hook yet.”

“I knew I’d get you to see the light. Tomorrow, okay?”

Then, just like that, Bahorel snatches up his leather jacket and is gone, leaving Grantaire with a pint in front of him and Enjolras with his nose buried in his book.

He finishes the pint in silence as Enjolras reads on. His thoughts keep turning to the silent marble statue across from him. When Enjolras reads anything, he silently mouths the words — it’s subtle and almost unnoticeable unless you know to look for the slight movements of those beguiling lips. It’s kind of adorable, and Grantaire tries not to focus on Enjolras’ mouth too much.

“Grantaire?”

Belatedly Grantaire realizes that Enjolras is standing up, and blinks. Enjolras gives him a strange look.

“Yeah?”

“I’m going home. Do you want a ride?”

Grantaire considers the proposition. It’s a tempting one, really. Either he can sit here and drink himself into another sulk, like always, or he can sit in the car with Enjolras about a foot away from him, inhaling his scent and admiring his profile. And the best part is that Enjolras can’t catch him doing it, or they’ll both crash and die in a fiery accident.

He’s been trying to cut down on his drinking slowly. Very slowly. So far it seems to be working, and that means that he’s not drunk enough to think about the consequences of his decision when he makes it.

“Sure.”

Enjolras closes the textbook and slides it into his backpack while Grantaire helpfully throws his empty bottles in the trash. They wave goodbye to Musichetta, who blows them both a kiss, a strange look on her face coupled with a tiny little smirk. Grantaire would flip her the bird, but he’s too busy being distracted by the sight of Enjolras in his skinny jeans to care.

They get in Enjolras’ red Ford Focus and he starts the engine, which purrs like a kitten, reminding Grantaire of Stormie. She’s probably curled up in her little kitty bed by now, fast asleep, although she’ll probably come to greet them at the door when they go in. Combeferre’s most likely still out with Eponine so Stormie’s devoid of the attention she so obviously wants.

“Do you have a minute? I want to drive around for a little bit.”

Enjolras is looking at him expectantly, and Grantaire stifles the urge to lean forward, take his face in his hands, and kiss him. “Yeah. Where are we going?”

Enjolras shrugs and doesn’t say anything in the two minutes they’re in the car. He parks in front of a park near his apartment — Grantaire remembers that the group has had a picnic here one Saturday before — and gets out. Grantaire scrambles after him, getting slightly more confused by the minute. His confusion is momentarily misplaced when he spots the swings over at the playground, and runs over with a whoop. Enjolras sighs gustily, but joins him, swinging gently with his hands gripping the plastic seat while Grantaire grabs onto the chains and pumps his legs hard, propelling himself up into the sky. He yells fake insults at Enjolras until the latter gives in and starts to swing a little more energetically as well.

“Come on, hardass. The swings ain’t waiting for nobody, least of all you.”

“Grantaire —”

“Just shut up and swing, Apollo. Remember what it was like to be a kid, okay? Be a kid again. Put aside all the cares of the world and the responsibility, Apollo, and just swing the fucking swing.”

Enjolras swings. For several minutes they both are on opposite ends of a pendulum, Grantaire swinging forward while Enjolras swings backward. Their momentum changes, somehow, and after another minute or two they’re both swinging together in sync, and remain that way for a while.

At least until Enjolras says, very seriously, “Grantaire, I need to talk to you.”

Grantaire nearly falls off the swing and catches his heels against the ground because Enjolras sounds so serious that he can’t help but feel like something is wrong. Both of them slow down the swings until they’re both just gently swaying back and forth, but Grantaire can’t help the small bout of hysteria mingled with dread and anticipation.

Maybe Enjolras is planning to kill him and hide the body, but that’s hogwash, because if anything, they’re both getting along better now. Maybe he’s going to yell at Grantaire for last night. He steels himself, but he’s not prepared for what Enjolras says next.

“I owe you an apology.” He takes a deep breath. “I know I haven’t exactly been the greatest friend to you, R, but I hope you know that I do care for you and I do respect you despite everything I say. You’ve always had the ability to rile me up in exactly all the ways I don’t want to be called out on, and I want you to know that how I react and what I react with isn’t what I really think about you. I just lose my temper in the heat of the moment.” He sighs, and his dark blue eyes look inexpressibly sad all of a sudden.

“Um,” Grantaire says. “Thanks?”

Enjolras shakes his head forcefully. “I’m not kidding or trying to make you feel better about yourself. I mean it.”

He does. Grantaire can see it in his eyes. Enjolras doesn’t do anything by halves, and you can count on him to be completely honest when he actually thinks about and picks his words before saying them. It’s when he says things without thinking that the shit hits the fan sometimes, because usually he says them to get the other person away from touching or invading the personal boundaries he’s set for himself. Grantaire knows he’s crossed those boundaries so many times, and he’s surprised that Enjolras doesn’t hate him for it, that he doesn’t even remotely resent Grantaire for tearing them down time and time again.

Then again, Enjolras has been the single greatest paradox of Grantaire’s life, anyway, so it’s probably fair and square.

“I also haven’t been a good enough friend to you in that I haven’t told you about what’s going on,” Enjolras goes on.

“Apollo, you don’t have to —”

Enjolras cuts him off. “Actually, I do.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “Did Ferre tell you to do this?”

Enjolras nods. “Yes, but when he said it, he brought up something I had already been contemplating doing. I just needed the additional push. The extra courage, as it were.”

“Just speak your mind, O Great One,” Grantaire jokes. “You don’t need courage when you’re with me.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow at him. “Case in point. Can I continue?”

Grantaire lets his chin droop slightly at the mild reprimand. “Yes,” he says meekly.

Enjolras takes another deep breath and looks out at the field. “You’re right to ask about cancer running in my family. My older brother died from leukemia when I was sixteen. Alain was eighteen.”

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire says softly. The pain on Enjolras’ face is naked to the world, but only he and the stars are privileged enough to be the ones present to hear this confession. He feels a rush of great tenderness and gratitude that nearly chokes him, and forces himself back to earth to hear Enjolras out.

“That was the turning point for my relationship with my father,” Enjolras continues bitterly. “He had just earned his first million, and he was well on the track to get millions more, but he didn’t care. He threw Alain’s life away.”

Grantaire is burning with a hundred questions, but he swallows them back for Enjolras’ sake. However, the Adonis beside him goes on unprompted.

“What do you know about my father?”

Grantaire hesitates. “Um. He’s a businessman who buys over companies and remakes them to be better than they were. Right now he’s one of Warren Buffett’s main competitors. Operates out of Wall Street but commutes back and forth from Connecticut. He’s a jerk who makes your life miserable, and you hate him. Did I get it all right?”

“Spot on,” Enjolras says without sarcasm. “While we were both growing up, he’d always been pretty distant, willing to leave the care of us to our mom, the nanny, and just about everyone else but himself. He had rules for everything, and he was a harsh disciplinarian. Anyway, when Alain contracted leukemia, he was away in the financial district for a big merger. Then the merger led to a hostile takeover, and a thousand photo ops and charity events and dinner parties. Business functions and shit. He didn’t call, didn’t visit, didn’t do anything. Alain got worse, and he needed to see a specialist at John Hopkins, but my father refused to fly him out because he said Alain was getting the best care at Lenox Hill. The real reason was that he needed to use the jet to fly to his different events.” Enjolras chokes back something that sounds like a cross between a sob and a furious snarl, and hearing it makes Grantaire’s heart ache. “He chose his business over my brother.”

Grantaire doesn’t know what to say. He desperately wants to comfort Enjolras, but he doesn’t know if he will be accepted, so he stays rigid on his swing.

“By the time he could be persuaded to do what had to be done, Alain had gotten worse,” Enjolras continues flatly. “At that point, he had an estimate of just weeks left. He came home, we spent those weeks together — him and my mother and I — and when those weeks were up, he died. My father threw a huge funeral, and acted like the grieving parent, but I knew better. I know better. It was just another photo op, and he fooled everyone but me into realizing who he truly is. He spent more on celebrating Alain’s death than he did on saving his life.”

The pain emanates through Enjolras’ voice until it breaks on the word death. Grantaire gives up and slides off his swing, crossing the lot to crouch down beside Enjolras’ side. He takes the other young man’s hand, and to his surprise, Enjolras curls his fingers around Grantaire’s, accepting the touch.

“My mother told me the truth. She told me why my father had done it.”

Grantaire winces. He can tell from Enjolras’ dark tone that this isn’t going to lighten things up.

“She’d had a one night stand with my father’s business partner. That union resulted in Alain, and my father was furious. But because it was his first child, and a son, he didn’t get her to abort or abandon Alain. Instead, he dug until he got a sizeable amount of dirt on his partner, blackmailed him into leaving the company and taking a vow of silence regarding my mother and Alain. Then he went back on his word, spreading the dirt to the press, who had a field day. His partner killed himself days later.”

Grantaire feels his jaw dropping.

“That wasn’t the end of it, though. My mother had come clean to my father and told him what happened, and apologized. Tried to make it up. But he slept around with dozens of other women and bought their silence, to punish her. He never forgave her, and he took out his anger on Alain as well throughout those eighteen years. He was furious that Alain wasn’t his, and that Alain could never be the son he wanted.” Enjolras’ voice cracks, and he clears his throat.

“What kind of son is that?”

Enjolras’ lip curls. “Funnily enough, someone with drive and intelligence and strength, but someone pliant enough that he could bend to his will, cunning enough to fool everyone around him, and heartless enough that he can ignore the consequences of his actions and how they harm everyone around him.”

The former criteria describe Enjolras, but certainly not the latter.

“I take it Alain was none of those things.”

Enjolras smiles so warmly that the darkness vanishes from his face. “I think you would have liked him, R. He loved life. Dabbled in everything he could under the sun — art, music, cooking, carpentry, reading, sports. He did things for fun, and he was always smiling, always laughing, always ready for a joke. He would always tell me to lighten up, to relax, to do something with him. We were just boys, but he was hope and light embodied. Being around him was like being buoyed up, all the time, every time.” He looks at Grantaire, then, and the look in his blue eyes makes Grantaire want to fall into them and drown. “You’re a lot like him, you know.”

Grantaire feels the golden warmth of something he can’t even begin to describe unfurl in his chest like a rapidly blooming flower.

“Anyway, I got really angry at my father after Alain passed away. I confronted him, and he hit me. He usually focuses on Alain, so that was one of the first few times he'd deliberately hit me rather than Alain, and it wasn’t the last. We fought every day after that, and he always hit me to end the argument. It didn’t matter, though. I was his golden boy who had turned black in his eyes, and he blamed Alain and my mother again. It always came back to that. I was supposed to be his heir, but every day reminded him of what I wasn’t. My mother and I were inseparable, and we united against him all the time. He finally sent me away to a private school, and then moved with my mother to Connecticut.”

“Bastard,” Grantaire whispers.

“He still harbors a fool’s hope that I’ll change to become like him, that enough money and enough pressure and enough slandering my mother and Alain will make me change my mind. The only reason I haven’t completely cut off connections with him is because I can’t leave my mother. I can’t. She’s all the family I have left, and I can’t leave her alone with my father. Now she has to fight the cancer all alone, knowing that this took one son from her already.”

“You have us, too,” Grantaire assures him. “And it’s the right thing to do to help your mother even if you have to deal with your father too. Even if it’s hard.”

Enjolras shakes his head. He looks even more drained than he did back at the Musain. “I’m scared I’ll actually change and become like him. I can’t. I won’t. But what if I do?”

Grantaire squeezes his hand. “You won’t. I’d know. And so would Ferre and Courf and Jehan and everyone else. Bahorel will beat you up before you become, in his own words, ‘a blood-sucking, disease-ridden, money-grubbing, bloated tick.’” Enjolras actually huffs a laugh at that. “And Feuilly and Joly and everyone else will keep that from happening. I’ll keep it from happening, Apollo. I promise.”

“I’m scared,” Enjolras whispers. “I’m scared my mother will leave me with him. And I’m scared she won’t. And all the while, I’m afraid I’ll just wake up one day and be like him.”

Grantaire brings his lips down to Enjolras’ hand. “You won’t. It’ll all work out.”

Enjolras emits another wry laugh. “You don’t even believe that, R.”

The way his tongue practically purrs over the last letter makes Grantaire feel almost heady. “I believe in you, Apollo. And while it’s true that I don’t believe that things will always work out, I believe that out of us all, you’ll be the one to make it happen. And how we do that is by sticking together, because Les Amis is a force to be reckoned with. Even with my own family, I’ve never dreamed of being able to have friends like ours who are flesh of our flesh, and bone of our bone. Family’s more than just blood, Apollo. You’re not alone, and we won’t let you be alone. You have us. You have your mother. And if that doesn’t give you hope, I don’t know what will.”

Enjolras actually smiles, a soft expression that makes him look even more unbelievably handsome than Grantaire can imagine. “Haven’t I told you that I hate that name?”

“Yes, you have; and no, you don’t.”

Rather than replying, Enjolras keeps on smiling. He’s so beautiful in the light of the moon that it makes Grantaire’s heart ache, and yet he doesn’t feel bitter or angry or self-destructive. Rather, he feels almost hopeful, and he can’t help but brim with the knowledge that Enjolras likes him — not in the way that he would want, but still — and that Enjolras trusts him, and that he has made Enjolras smile and hope for the better.

Things will most likely revert back to the way they always are tomorrow, but for now, Grantaire keeps holding onto Enjolras’ hand — with Enjolras not pulling away — and he is content to just enjoy the moment.

Chapter Text

Combeferre wakes up for his 8 o’clock class at 6:30 in the morning. He always does without variation, because it gives him ample time to shower, check over his homework and lesson plans for the day, prepare himself a sack lunch, and still get to class without having to rush there.

After putting all his notes and books into his messenger bag, he ambles out into the main living area, and that’s when he almost trips over his own feet when he sees it.

Enjolras and Grantaire are sleeping on the couch together. Grantaire is lounging, half sitting and half lying down, his back pinned between the couch back and the comfy armrest. His hand is threaded through Enjolras’ hair, and the little half-smile on his face makes Combeferre smile in return. Enjolras must have had his head leaning on Grantaire’s shoulder earlier, because he’s now resting on Grantaire’s chest, lying on his side and breathing calmly. Stormageddon is curled up in Enjolras’ lap, her tail resting over his thigh, and her ears twitch at Combeferre’s footsteps, but she doesn’t stir, either.

Combeferre can’t resist. He pulls his phone from his pocket and snaps several photos of the trio before he pads into the kitchen. He can’t stop himself from smiling as he battles inwardly about texting everyone a picture, before he finally decides against it. He doesn’t know what they talked about, and he doesn’t want to make either Enjolras or Grantaire backpedal and destroy the peace that has, at long last, been won for them both.

Despite his efforts to remain quiet, he hears a mumble from the couch and looks out through the buffet to see Enjolras peeling his eyes open blearily and looking around before the memories come rushing back. From this angle, Enjolras can’t see Combeferre — yet — but he can hear him, and Combeferre fully expects Enjolras to leap off the couch and run.

Emotional situations have never been his thing — especially not after his father ruined him for that, that bastard. Combeferre remembers far too many business dinners where Sebastien Enjolras has pulled his son aside and struck him in the face to keep him from ‘embarrassing’ him in public after they’ve gone at it verbally in front of Combeferre’s, Cosette’s, and Jehan’s families, among others. He remembers so many times when he’s crept away from the table to hunt Enjolras down and has found him hiding in different places — under the stairs, in the garden, or in a secluded room — with his hand pressed over the offending red imprint of his father’s hand still on his face.

Instead, Enjolras glances around before sliding out carefully from under Grantaire’s arm. He deposits Stormie before she can meow in protest onto Grantaire’s chest where his head has been, and then lifts a crocheted blanket from the basket at the foot of the sofa. After draping it over both Grantaire and the kitten, he heads for his room with near-silent footsteps. Combeferre remains where he is with the butter knife in his hand, not daring to move or even breathe, until he hears the shower start up. He goes on making his sandwich and bags it, putting a couple of granola bars, an apple, and a cookie that Eponine has made into the brown sack.

Then he yanks his phone out of his pocket and texts everybody the most adorable — that would be Eponine’s words, not his, if she is here — picture selected out of the four, along with a smiley face and one word: SHHH.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Courf: SHUT UP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WHY WASN’T I THERE?????????????

Jehan: Awww. Look at them. They’re so cute.

Courf: DID THEY HAVE SEX

Ponine: I knew it. Have they kissed and made up — literally or figuratively?

Combeferre: Figuratively, yes. Literally? I have no idea.

Bahorel: So all tt h8 was juz sexual tension?

Combeferre: Probably.

Courf: FERRE YOU ASSHOLE. DID THEY HAVE SEX OR NOT

Cosette: Aw, how cute! Can I text Enjolras for details?

Combeferre: If you want to risk a potential nuclear explosion? Sure!

Marius: What the what?

Bossuet: ?????????

Chetta: (((:

Feuilly: You wake me up at 7 in the morning for this? I have work at 9, Ferre. Seriously?

Feuilly: But yes, fine, fine. They’re cute, and all I can say is finally. Now let me go back to sleep.

Joly: Having that cat there isn’t very healthy. Just saying. I know she’s had her shots, but really? Cats pick up things all the time.

Courf: FERRE IF YOU LEAVE ME HANGING I WILL COME OVER TO YOUR 8 O’CLOCK AND KILL YOU

Combeferre: Dude, just chill. Everyone’s been showering me with a deluge of texts.

Combeferre: If you want to know whether they had sex, why don’t you just ask them?

Courf: Because you told me to SHHH, and this is Enjy we’re talking about. If we say something that’s too far out of line, he’ll disembowel us.

Combeferre: Don’t you mean he’ll disembowel YOU? As I recall, you’re usually the one saying something too far out of line.

Courf: Yeah, yeah. Whatever. So, did they do it?????

Combeferre: Sorry to disappoint you, but no.

Combeferre: They had a talk about how things are going in E’s life, and somewhere in there, they must have reached an understanding.

Courf: I bet. *Waggles eyebrows* How’s he holding up?

Combeferre: His mother’s coming today to visit. I’m not sure if he’ll be able to spare the time to speak at the rally, but I’m thinking that you and I could handle it, and if we get Marius fired up enough, he’s actually a decent public speaker.

Courf: Okay. Just so you know, Musichetta overheard the convo — or Joly/Bossuet told her, IDK. She volunteered to speak if you need her.

Combeferre: Good idea. I’ve heard her discourse on some other issues, and she’s really good.

Courf: All righty. See you later at the usual haunt. Keep me updated on the E/R drama. I wanna know, and you’re my only in other than Jehan.

Combeferre: Why are Jehan and I everybody’s in?

Courf: Because you get the scoop. Just like this precious little gem today that I’m going to use to blackmail Enjy in the future.

Combeferre: Courf, don’t you dare. At least not right now.

Courf: I know, I'm not stupid. Does nobody have faith in me?

Combeferre: I have faith in you, just not that Kronk-devil sitting on your shoulder.

Courf: Good point, but the Kronk-angel has just hit him with the harp, so he’s out for the count. Fair warning, though, if I see that Enjy is doing better, I’m going to use it as dirt. You did text it to us, so you basically have surrendered the rights to the picture.

Combeferre: I do have three more. You do realize that, right?

Courf: DAMN YOU AND YOUR PENCHANT FOR BACKUP COPIES

Chapter Text

Enjolras is in a really good mood for some reason. He tells himself it’s not because he was talking half the night away with a certain blue-eyed, curly black-haired artist, but his mind isn’t having any of that.

The entire day just seems a little bit brighter. He cruises through his classes, and he spends half an hour talking with Dr. Lamarque when he finishes his test half an hour earlier than everyone else. Catching up with his mentor improves his already good mood. Rather than having lunch with Combeferre like usual — his best friend is taking the time to go see Eponine — he goes to the fountain in the square. His lunchtime is at an odd hour, and so there aren’t a ton of students milling around, which is what he likes.

Sitting down on a bench, he pulls open his rucksack and reaches for his law textbook when a little voice in his head speaks up — and it sounds suspiciously like Alain’s, or Grantaire’s, voice.

Put it away. You need to relax and unwind for once.

He sighs. Talking to Grantaire last night has really helped. He doesn’t feel as bitter about Alain’s death or his mother’s cancer, now. In addition, he can’t get the image of those earnest blue eyes out of his head, or Grantaire’s soft smile, or the fine line of stubble on his jawline. His paper can wait, and besides, his next class is really grueling. It probably would be a good idea to take it easy for now.

Feuilly has just returned To Kill A Mockingbird to him yesterday, and Enjolras forgot to replace it in his bookcase today. It’s one of his all-time favorites, and he opens the paperback cover and starts to read.

He stops on page 26 — he tends to speed read — when a dark green Victorinox Swiss Army backpack thumps down onto the bench beside him. The scent of a familiar cologne reaches his nose, and he unsuccessfully tries to hide his smile when he looks up and sees Grantaire.

For his part, Grantaire looks like he’s feeling pretty great himself. His grin is wide and infectious, he has streaks of gold and blue and red on his cuffs and his fingers, and he smells like soap and vanilla and oil paint. The green of his customary beanie and hoodie looks good on his skin tone, which is a shade between olive and fair. Enjolras can’t place it, but then again, he can’t place many things about Grantaire.

He’s always been used to things and people fitting into the labels he creates and the boxes he places them in. Combeferre’s the unshakable guide of the group; Courfeyrac the heart of the group, or the center, and Jehan a mix between the two. Bahorel’s the good-natured brawler and protector; Feuilly’s the steady working man. Marius is the dreamer; Cosette, the soft butterfly with wings of steel; Eponine’s the streetsmart voice of reason. Musichetta’s the doting mother, Joly the hypochondriac medical expert, and Bossuet the unlucky but optimistic one. Enjolras himself is the leader. And Grantaire?

Well, before he moved in with Enjolras, he’d always thought of Grantaire as the drunk skeptic and the fun-loving slacker who doesn’t care about anything of importance. But now there’s more than that. Grantaire doesn’t fit into any box Enjolras tries to stuff him into. He’s constantly surprising Enjolras with whatever he says and does. He’s like a mix of the entire group — he has his moments of reason, like Eponine, and when it comes to everyone else but himself, he’s as sensible as Combeferre. He seems fragile, especially when he drinks, and when Enjolras hurts his feelings, but he can bite back with just as much steel as Cosette. Enjolras knows that from experience. He can brawl as well as Bahorel; he works as hard as Feuilly — just in different things — and he can dote and fuss over anybody as much as Musichetta. He’s not a hypochondriac — thank goodness — but he loves with as much intensity as Bossuet and Joly. The only one he’s not like is Enjolras.

Which is good, Enjolras thinks. He knows that Grantaire practically worships the ground he walks on, but he doesn’t agree with it. He has as many flaws as the next man — perhaps even more — and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if Grantaire wakes up one day to realize that.

After last night, he doesn’t want that day to come.

“Apollo?”

Enjolras realizes belatedly that he’s staring at Grantaire, completely lost in his thoughts. He feels his cheeks flush, heat flooding them, as Grantaire nudges at his shin with the toe of his Converse, grinning.

“I know I’m hot,” he drawls, “but I do want to sit down at some point.”

“Sorry,” Enjolras says, feeling flustered. “I was just thinking.” He pulls his backpack over and shifts on the bench. Grantaire sits down ridiculously close to him, his shoulder brushing Enjolras’, and Enjolras cannot fathom why it feels so damned good. He likes the feeling, though, so he stays where he is instead of moving away.

“I like that book,” Grantaire says unexpectedly.

There he goes again, surprising Enjolras. “What?”

Grantaire tilts his chin at the book before he reaches into the side pocket of his backpack and takes out a yogurt, thrusting it towards Enjolras. “Um. You better eat that right now. I think the lack of food has gone to your brain.”

“I had breakfast!” Enjolras protests, obediently peeling the tab away from the yogurt. At Grantaire’s raised eyebrow, he sheepishly adds, “Well… I had juice. But that counts as —”

“No, it doesn’t,” Grantaire says firmly.

Enjolras rolls his eyes but smiles. “Yes, sir.”

“I like that title,” Grantaire teases.

“Mmm.” Enjolras takes a bite of the yogurt and hums. “I’m going to need to buy more of this brand. Where did you get it?”

“Are you okay with that flavor? It’s just from that corner store down the street. I go there a lot because they have stuff that Wal-Mart and Target and those other big chains don’t carry.”

Enjolras hums again. “You picked the best-tasting yogurt I’ve ever had. Honey and strawberry, right?”

Grantaire smiles and ducks his head to hide it, but Enjolras has already seen. “Yeah. I like it, too. I just got an extra one for you because I’ve figured out your eating habits. You don’t have any.”

“It’s like he knows me,” Enjolras mutters in a mock monologue, and smiles. “Well, this carton is big enough, if you want some.”

Grantaire just looks at him, his eyes getting bigger, and Enjolras immediately feels awkward and stupid. Like he’s a big white elephant in the room with bright purple spots. “I… um… if you’ve already… don’t worry about it…”

Grantaire smiles, and the sight lights up his face quite thoroughly. The cliche rings true, then, because if his blue eyes are the window to his soul, then Enjolras is seeing the light of all that Grantaire has to offer from his cerulean gaze alone. He’s not stupid; he knows that Grantaire has feelings for him, and he’s starting to wonder deep inside himself if he likes Grantaire too. But that’s complicated, because he’s always thought until fairly recently that the cynic hated him, and so things are a mess because he keeps running through his memories and wondering.

Wondering if the times when he’s snapped back at Grantaire’s jibes and put him down so mercilessly, are because he’s crushing the dejection he’s felt at Grantaire’s words and actions; at the thought that he’s hated by one of Les Amis. To be disliked immensely by someone who could be his intellectual rival, someone who reminds him so strongly of Alain that it makes his chest hurt just thinking about it — he’s never realized it, but it really does hurt.

And now, coming slightly more to terms about Alain and his mother and everything — not his father because there will probably be nothing that will help them reconcile, ever — and the fact that his day just seems to pick up even more with Grantaire’s presence, well… he doesn’t understand everything, but he knows that he just wants to be an even better friend to Grantaire than he’s always been.

And maybe something else, too. But that something else confuses Enjolras to no end when he tries to figure it out, so he decides not to currently think about it too much.

“I don’t mind, Apollo.”

Enjolras passes over the spoon, then, and watches wordlessly as Grantaire takes a mouthful of yogurt. He can’t help dwelling on the tilt of Grantaire’s Adam’s apple when he swallows, or the yogurt that he deftly licks off his bottom lip, or the warmth of Grantaire’s fingers when they brush his.

They stay like that until the carton is empty, trading quiet spoonfuls, sitting in companionable silence.

Grantaire walks him to his next class, and right before he leaves he grips Enjolras’ forearm and looks him straight in the eye. Enjolras in turn cinches his fingertips around Grantaire’s forearm, and it’s not easy to do. His limbs are slimmer than Grantaire’s, while Grantaire’s arm is muscular and hard.

“I’ll see you later, Apollo.”

The feeling of Grantaire’s strong fingers against his skin never leaves Enjolras, and throughout the entire class period, he keeps absently brushing that spot. 

Chapter Text

Combeferre goes with Enjolras to pick up his mother, because right as Enjolras is about to drive to the airport, he has a flat tire.

Throughout the ride, they discuss the details for the rally tomorrow, and Enjolras gives him some pointers for public speaking. Combeferre gratefully takes them, because he will never be like Enjolras, all full of fiery glory and ready to give an hour’s worth of speaking from rote memory and creativity. Or two. His record so far is three solid hours of a monologue so passionate that Combeferre’s blood sings just thinking about it.

At the airport, he watches as Enjolras scans the crowd emerging from the gate before his face breaks out in a wide smile and he runs forward to throw his arms around a woman just as blond as he is. They kiss the other on each cheek before exchanging a few words, and Combeferre can’t help but smile.

Maryse Enjolras has always been one of the far too few lights in Enjolras’ life. His brother Alain was one. Combeferre, Cosette, Jehan, and Courfeyrac have been four others. And now, the other Amis have joined the mix — along with, most notably, Grantaire.

It’s not difficult to see that Enjolras is his parents’ son. Maryse’s aristocratic beauty and Sebastien’s flawlessly good looks have combined to create a dual entity that is even more perfect than the originals. Sebastien is handsome, it is true, but Enjolras has far surpassed him. He’s also inherited Maryse’s thick blond hair and brilliantly blue eyes. The other passersby and travelers are openly staring in admiration as they pass, but neither mother nor son is paying them even the slightest heed.

They walk back to where Combeferre is standing, and Maryse’s face takes on a motherly smile that looks stunning on her.

“Luc,” she says warmly, pulling Combeferre in for a hug and enveloping him in the scent of Chanel No. 5. “Your parents send their love.” Her eyes sparkle. “I want to hear all about your fiancee. And to meet the rest of your friends. You both have told me so much about them that I just can’t believe I haven’t made their acquaintance.”

Enjolras lifts his mother’s suitcase and falls into step beside her while she hangs off Combeferre’s elbow and listens to him regale her with tales about Eponine. He knows that if Eponine were here she would blush at the way Combeferre is describing her, but he can’t help himself. He doesn’t mean to, but he goes off about how they met and their first date and the way she’s so strong and loyal in standing up for their friends and keeping her siblings safe and how beautiful she is inside and out. All the while, Enjolras listens with a fond grin on his face, and Maryse presses for more details.

“How is Cosette holding up? Excited for her wedding?” Maryse asks, when Combeferre finally decides to stop gushing about Eponine with a sheepish smile.

“As a Disney Princess,” Enjolras deadpans, and Maryse shakes her head at him with a laugh.

“Well! I’m looking forward to meeting her fiance. I’ve come across his grandfather, but certainly not the boy himself. I’m sure he’s wonderful, if Cosette loves him.”

That spurns another discussion on how Courfeyrac and Jehan are doing — Maryse thinks it’s adorable that they’re dating, and equally delighted that their parents are fine with it. At the tail end of that conversation, they reach the hotel, and it’s late at night, so they help to escort Maryse up to her hotel room. They’re riding in the elevator when Maryse turns to her son.

“So, do I finally get to meet this Grantaire tomorrow, mon cheri?”

Enjolras blushes, and that just about gives everything away. Combeferre just laughs.

Chapter Text

The rally is a roaring success. Eponine, Joly, Bossuet, Jehan, and Cosette hand out fliers and pamphlets until they’re all gone; Feuilly, Grantaire, and Bahorel are in charge of impromptu security. Musichetta, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Marius do an excellent job of speaking — not up to Enjolras’ level, but whatever, no one is. Although Enjolras’ presence and golden charisma are sorely missed, it’s a nice token to Les Amis, Eponine muses, that they can still reasonably scrape by successfully without him.

The entire time, Eponine hasn’t been able to take her eyes off of Combeferre. He looks quite dashing, really, with a tri-colored cockade pinned to his button-down and his glasses pushed up onto the bridge of his long nose. Courfeyrac was the first to begin the rally, followed by Marius, Combeferre, and then Musichetta, before Courfeyrac ends the rally with quite the stirring speech. Although the other three are stunning — despite the few seconds of awkward hesitation by Marius — Combeferre is all steadiness and calm, speaking his carefully scripted speech with quiet intensity until everyone within earshot is silently listening, and those outside of earshot are pushing to hear him speak.

She remembers all the men — mostly boys — whom she has dated over the years. Just three stand out in particular right now — first Grantaire, considering that they’ve been hanging around each other for longer than she can remember; then Montparnasse; and finally now Combeferre. Grantaire had been an experiment; they’re even closer than siblings, and although it didn’t work out, she isn’t disappointed, because they’ll never be more than siblings, but that already is more than enough and greater than she expects.

Montparnasse, of course, is an asshole of the highest order. He’s just been a good fuck; has always been a pretty face and a sexy piece of ass and nothing else. He’s formed his own gang, and Eponine never asks about the details, because who the hell wants to know? She doesn’t want to ever be held accountable for the stupid-ass shit that he gets up to regularly. He’s left his coke and knives and guns at her place before, and that’s just scraping the surface, she’s sure. He’s danger all gotten up in tight black leather, and she’s gotten burned.

Then there’s Combeferre.

Eponine glances down at the ring on her finger and smiles just ever so slightly before she adjusts it so that the stone can catch the light. The stone is a carat in size, which means that Combeferre has saved up cent by miserable cent from his jobs so that she can get, according to him, “a ring worthy of her and maybe half as perfect as she is.”

“What’re you thinking about?”

Combeferre’s strong arms slide around her middle. He’s not rippling with muscle like Bahorel or Feuilly, or broad and powerful like Grantaire. He’s more ropy and lean like Enjolras, but hides the muscles he has beneath his button-downs and his chinos and reliable jackets. The feeling that Eponine has while in his arms is safe, and she twists her head around to brush her lips against his cheek.

“You, of course. I’m always thinking of you.”

“Liar,” Combeferre says, and he sounds amused. “You’re always thinking about me, true, but you’re also always worrying about Gav and Azelma and R and Cosette and everybody else in our little band of misfits.”

“And what about you?” Eponine counters with a grin. “I’m not the only one in your head either. There’s Enjolras and Courf and Jehan and Feuilly and Bahorel and Joly and everybody else, not to mention the patients you get at your internship, the kids you tutor, your fellow students in class, and just about everybody on this planet. Along with all their parents and siblings and aunts and uncles. How you get them all straight is beyond me.”

Combeferre grins back. “Speaking of parents, Enjolras’ mom is in town —”

“Yeah, you mentioned that.”

“— And she wants to see all of us.”

“Really?”

Combeferre nuzzles her neck. “Why is that a surprise?”

“Well, because, it’s Enjolras’ mum.”

Combeferre hears the question in her voice and smiles. “She’s really the better half in the marriage. I’ve never seen her treat Enjolras anything other than great, and she has been a wonderful mother to him. She and my parents are pretty close, which explains why Enjolras and I are practically brothers.”

“What has she and our fearless leader been up to?”

Combeferre shrugs. “I know they went to breakfast. He got excused from his one class today — not that Lamarque cares about Enjolras skipping — and I think they just hung around and talked a lot. Went to lunch. They visited Lamarque and toured the campus. In fact, I don’t know if you saw them, but they were actually hanging around at the edge of the crowd listening to Courf open the rally before I saw them walk off towards the law building.”

“You both are like R and me,” Eponine murmurs gently. “Always more aware of each other than your own selves.”

Combeferre nods, but turns to face her. “And yet I hope you know that you have now taken his place in my life as the most important person to me.”

“Not in your heart?” Eponine teases.

“My heart expanded to encompass you, him, and all of Les Amis,” Combeferre answers truthfully.

That seems to be the right answer, although he isn’t fishing. Eponine leans forward and slides her arms around his neck. When he moves his own face forward in response to her, she grabs the back of his neck and kisses him full on the lips.

They remain locked like that for a minute or so, because Combeferre can get completely lost in the taste and feel of Eponine’s lips. It’s only when Courfeyrac’s making gagging noises around his giggling and Bahorel’s sighing and going, “I thought Marius and Cosette were the real gushy lovebirds here” and Feuilly’s shaking his head, that they finally break apart.

“Break it up, break it up,” Grantaire shouts through hands cupped to make a megaphone. He stacks the crates that they use to hold the pamphlets, and Jehan gives him a hand. “I’m so glad we got Gav to film that. Enjolras is going to love the video.”

“Yeah, I bet he will,” Courfeyrac says in a loud stage whisper, and Grantaire elbows him.

“Meet at Enjolras’ flat tomorrow at 7,” Combeferre calls over the hubbub of everybody bustling around. “His mum wants to meet us, so everybody be on your best behavior and bring a dish for the potluck. Also a decently rated movie, although I’m not sure she’ll stay for it.” He’s already told everyone of Enjolras’ mum’s diagnosis, since he counts — successfully — on Enjolras forgetting to do just that, because he knows everyone deserves to know, if only to help Enjolras cope throughout this crisis.

“Yeah, don’t count on Enjolras feeding all of us without killing us,” Courfeyrac jokes, and Grantaire laughs.

“Do you remember that one time he tried to make a cake for Jehan’s birthday?”

“Yeah, thank God you made a backup one just in case. That salt-spiked stuff was inedible.”

“He was so crushed. It was kind of cute.”

“You think anything Enjolras does is cute. It’s kind of disgusting.”

Grantaire tackles Courfeyrac, and they roll around on the stage until Bahorel dives in, too, and finally Feuilly intervenes.

“You’re not going to go meet Enjolras’ mum with black eyes and split lips, okay?” He bodily pulls Bahorel and Courfeyrac apart, then rescues Courf’s leg from where Grantaire is yanking on it like an insistent toddler with a pull toy. “You three, seriously.”

“Let’s get out of this madhouse,” Eponine whispers into Combeferre’s ear. “I know your class got canceled because your professor’s sick, and you have hours before your internship at the hospital, so you’re free.”

He grins at her and gathers up his stuff. “Your place or mine?”

Chapter Text

Bossuet is allergic to animals.

Somehow someone forgot to remind him about the freaking cat that Enjolras, Grantaire, and Combeferre own in their apartment.

He follows Joly and Musichetta into the lavishly huge apartment. Musichetta is carrying a casserole dish with her newest delicious creation, and Joly has a side platter of sweet potato fries. He can detect the scent of pork loin coming from the oven in the kitchen, even when he’s in the corridor. Grantaire’s work, most likely, or Enjolras’ mother’s. The smells are making his mouth water.

At least until he steps into the apartment, sees the kitten nestled on Grantaire’s lap, and promptly sneezes six times.

“Good heavens,” a woman exclaims from the kitchen.

Bossuet turns, eyes watering, and spots a tall woman — taller than him and Jehan and all the girls, although it’s really not difficult to be taller than Eponine and Cosette, considering they’re this side of five feet seven inches — standing near the refrigerator. Enjolras is making five different flavors of Italian soda, one of the few recipes he doesn’t botch up and actually tastes really good. He’s wearing an apron that Grantaire has painted a tri-colored cockade on; Grantaire has joked before that if anything has the colors of the French flag and looks even remotely revolutionary, that Enjolras would wear it or do it.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?”

Bossuet shakes his head, wheezing, and scratches at his head. He’s starting to feel puffy already, and he just can’t stop sneezing.

It’s easy to tell that Enjolras and his mother are related. For starters, they’re both the same intimidating height of six feet, and they have the same luxuriously thick blond waves. Although Enjolras hasn’t inherited his mother’s features, they have the same perfectly straight nose, the same enviable lips that Bossuet’s heard Grantaire wax (horribly) lyrical about, and the same strikingly blue eyes. It’s kind of scary, actually. Considering the fact that Enjolras’ mother has aged well, lots of people could mistake them both for siblings rather than mother and son.

At least Bossuet is unlucky, but he’s not stupid.

“I have an antihistamine he can take,” Joly says, putting the dish down on the table. “He’s usually fine after he takes it if we remove the allergen, though.” The look he levels in Grantaire’s direction is at once pleading and firm, because Joly may be a hypochondriac, but he’s not going to unnecessarily subject the people he loves to pain that can be eliminated.

Grantaire raises both hands in surrender. “All right, all right. No need for such drama. You can just say that you don’t like Stormageddon to her face, you know. At the least, she’ll just hiss at you.”

“What’s the most that could happen?” Enjolras asks from the kitchen, sounding bored.

“She’ll bite you and chew up your red V-necks,” Grantaire chirps back gaily.

Enjolras makes a noise that sounds like an outraged lion.

“Just kidding,” Grantaire smirks. “She loves you, and your shirts are safe.” He climbs to his feet and scoops the kitten up, taking her into the bedroom with him. “I’ll grab the vacuum on my way out,” he calls back over his shoulder. “Bossuet, just stay where you are for a moment. Hopefully you don’t get hit in the head by a falling pillar or anything like that.”

Musichetta snorts and turns it into a cough. “He’ll be okay,” she promises. “I’ll stay here with him.” She goes back to the doorway where Bossuet is still standing miserably, and takes his hand.

Enjolras’ mother maneuvers deftly around her son — no mean feat, considering that Enjolras has successfully commandeered most of the kitchen counters — and moves over to where Bossuet and Musichetta are standing. “I’m Maryse Enjolras,” she introduces with a warm smile. “I know you’re not up for introductions, but I thought I’d pay attention to you since my son or Grantaire can’t.”

Bossuet loves her already. He loves her even more when she clasps him in a big hug, him and Musichetta, and talks to them both while standing in the doorway looking the likes of Claudia Schiffer. She hands him a tissue box and a glass of water as Joly prepares the antihistamine, and talks to Musichetta about international relations. Even with the sound of the hand vac blaring and Grantaire singing a deliberately horrible rendition of Katy Perry’s E.T. and Enjolras yelling at him to shut up, Maryse’s voice is calm and soothing, and when Bossuet’s sneezes and sniffling recede, the warm glow in his tummy put there by Joly and Musichetta and Enjolras’ mother doesn’t fade.

* * * * * * * * * *

Eponine loves Enjolras’ mother. From the starry-eyed looks of the group as she glances around, she can tell that all of Les Amis does, too.

She and Combeferre arrive after Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet have already made themselves comfortable in the living room. Bossuet is sniffling — apparently they’re seeing the tail end of an allergy attack — and Joly and Bossuet are talking animatedly to Enjolras’ mother while Chetta is helping Enjolras with the numerous pitchers in the kitchen.

Enjolras’ mother doesn’t waste time. Moments after her arrival, she sits Eponine down and they start to talk about her engagement to Combeferre like they’re having a girls’ night out. She regales Eponine with tales of Combeferre and Enjolras’ childhood, and soon they’re both laughing like old friends. Taking their cue, the boys crowd into the kitchen and good-naturedly make fun of Enjolras while preparing the dishes, plates, and cutlery for dinner. Bahorel and Feuilly come together sans Odette and Sabine.

Cosette and Marius join the circle of gossip because Marius cooks even worse than Enjolras, if that can even be remotely possible; and Courfeyrac shoos Jehan over there as he slides the pasta they both made onto the kitchen island. When Grantaire is done vacuuming, he goes over to check on the roasting meat in the oven. Nobody makes a comment when he and Enjolras tiptoe around each other like they’re dancing in the kitchen — step forward, step backward, sidestep, twist and slip past — although Courfeyrac and Bahorel keep shooting each other sly grins.

Nudge, nudge; wink, wink.

Combeferre and Enjolras are almost two different people here with such a big part of their lives present here. Combeferre isn’t so quiet anymore — he and Maryse are bantering about the scrapes and trickery that he and Enjolras got up to when they were kids, and he’s laughing and blustering and quietly humorous. It’s a side of Combeferre that few people — Enjolras and Eponine and Courfeyrac — have been privileged to witness.

On the other hand, Enjolras is clearly in a better mood than he has been for the past couple of weeks — hell, for most of the two years that Eponine has known him, for most of the two years that Les Amis has been together. He’s smiling a lot, even when he’s yelling at Grantaire to stop singing, or worrying about a missing pitcher. He can’t stop looking over at his mother, although Grantaire is a second hot favorite for his gaze, something that doesn’t avoid Eponine’s attention. In his red shirt and black jacket and skinny jeans, his blond hair falling into his eyes, Eponine can see why Grantaire is so attracted to him.

He’s no Combeferre. But at the same time, he’s a shining beacon of magnetic charisma, a light for the world that shouldn’t ever be extinguished. Combeferre’s like the steady rush of a constant river, but Enjolras is a blazing comet.

“So, have you gotten all of your wedding details finalized?” Maryse asks.

Cosette’s eyes sparkle as she nods. “Yes. We have the venue, the dresses, the cake, the flowers — everything’s prepared. Papa’s really excited and morose at the same time, but he’s cheered by the fact that we’ll be living so close to him and Monsieur Gillernomand.”

“What about you, my dear?” Maryse questions, turning to Eponine. “Are there any details that you’ve planned for your own upcoming nuptials?”

Eponine smiles. “I’ve been looking at Pinterest a lot,” she admits, and Cosette laughs in agreement. “I’ve got a few ideas, but I’ve already gone wedding dress shopping.” She conspiratorially produces photographic evidence on her phone, and the womenfolk, along with Jehan, crowd over the pictures while they send Marius away for the time being.

“I like that one,” Maryse says, pointing to the dress that Eponine currently has in mind. “It favors your figure, but accentuates your slimness, which is quite the asset in our world today.” She smiles. “Plus the color will bring out your skin tone and hair and eyes.”

“That’s what I said!” Cosette declares triumphantly. “And Musichetta suggested that boutique to begin with.”

“You three have good taste,” Maryse praises. She smiles. “I knew you two were planning your weddings, so I brought a few bridal magazines with coupons and such, if you want to take a look. Although I think they may be of more help to Eponine than you, Cosette. My apologies.”

“No worries,” Cosette laughs. “I don’t ever tire of looking at bridal mags, and I would rather Ponine and Chetta take advantage than deprive them.”

Maryse skillfully draws Jehan into the conversation by talking about poetry and asking if he’s going to be doing any readings at the weddings. From there, the conversation leads to his and Courf’s relationship, which then attracts the other student. By the time the food and drinks are all sufficiently prepared, everyone but Enjolras and Grantaire are in the living room, with Maryse sitting in the middle of the small crowd like a queen reigning over her subjects.

If only every queen could be as regal or kind or welcoming.

* * * * * * * * * *

“I like your mum,” Grantaire murmurs.

He’s helping Enjolras carry the pitchers to the kitchen island, which is already groaning under the weight of all the stuff that the other Amis have brought. The pork tenderloin smells amazing, and the pan is seated on a couple of hot pads. There’s pastas and salads and side dishes galore — Maryse actually cooked as well, because Enjolras didn’t inherit her kitchen expertise — and the smells are driving Grantaire insane.

Actually, not as insane as the clean-scrubbed look of Enjolras in those jeans and that red shirt is making him.

“Thanks,” Enjolras says quietly back. He smiles — he hasn’t been able to stop smiling the entire time tonight — but Grantaire senses a quiet seriousness in those words, the gravity behind his happy exterior.

Enjolras knows that things are bad, and he’s willing to take this moment and enjoy it, but that doesn’t mean his mind still isn’t stewing over the possibilities. That’s why he’s trying his best to make this night perfect, and why he’s so happy that everyone likes his mother, even though he hasn’t said anything to Grantaire. He hasn’t needed to.

But should the worst happen, he’ll be able to struggle through it. He always does.

Grantaire remembers being shy when he met Maryse for the first time three hours ago. He had been trying to replicate Van Gogh’s Wheatfield with Crows — most everyone he knows prefers The Starry Night but him and Enjolras — as a sort of belated housewarming present, when Maryse had stepped through the door. Enjolras had been rushing in and out with bags of groceries, although he had spared a “hello” to Grantaire.

Maryse had walked towards the half-completed painting, those blue eyes so like Enjolras alight in her face. She’d studied the painting for a long moment before looking at Grantaire and giving him the same scrutinizing gaze. He’d stood there, curling his toes in his shoes, hoping against hope that he hadn’t been found wanting, when she’d given him a warm smile and an unexpected hug.

“You need just a touch more impasto,” she’d said, “but otherwise, it looks almost as if the master himself painted it.”

The comment had impressed him, and they’d spent the first two hours discussing art and Enjolras — talking over Enjolras like he wasn’t standing there, which clearly both irritated and amused him, judging from the glint in his blue eyes — and by the end of it, Grantaire loves her like he does his own parents. Enjolras obviously idolizes her. Every word she has said to him, every movement and gesture to him, has made him smile and willingly obey.

Enjolras jerkily straightens the line of pitchers, turning them all to the right so that their handles stick out more easily for people to grab. Then he moves the glasses and stack of plates one inch to the right.

Grantaire raises his eyebrows. He hardly ever sees Enjolras in cleaning action, so it’s almost fascinating to witness his OCD tendencies coming out. At least until he realizes that Enjolras is nervous, and before he can ask why, Enjolras swears softly under his breath.

“Damn.”

He burns himself on the pan when he slides the napkin holder closer to the utensils. He jumps back, shaking his hand, his cheeks immediately flushing red.

“Give it here.” Grantaire is already at the tap, turning it on to the right to get the coldest flow of water. He curls his fingers gently around Enjolras’ wrist and tugs, pulling it under the water. The angry red mark starts to fade as Enjolras sighs in relief. His hands are shaking, and he keeps darting glances to where his mother and the other Amis are still blissfully unaware of anything else but their little friendship circle.

“What’s wrong?” Grantaire pushes tentatively.

Enjolras lets out a sharply bitter chuckle, quiet enough that the rest don’t hear him, but loud enough that it’s like a gunshot to Grantaire’s ears.

“I just want everything to be perfect for her. She deserves it.”

“And it is. Look, Apollo. She’s happy.”

Enjolras turns around and leans back against the kitchen counter. “My father called me last night.”

A sudden clench of cold anger flares up in Grantaire, but he forces himself to remain calm. “What did he want?”

Enjolras’ lips flatten. “Complained about how my whining drove my mother to come out here when she just needs to rest and recover, and that I’m going to get her killed in the exact same way that Alain went.”

He blinks rapidly before swallowing hard, and his hands don’t stop shaking. Grantaire’s seized by a rush of tender concern. He pushes Enjolras gently back until they’re hidden out of sight of the living room by the set of cabinets opposite of the stove. Then he wraps his arms around him, clasping him closely and carefully like he’s made of glass. Enjolras trembles in his arms for a moment, but when he stills and straightens Grantaire knows he has gotten himself under control. He’s never seen Enjolras fully break down, and he doesn’t want that day to ever come, because he’s not sure he can handle seeing him in pain.

“My friend,” Grantaire says gently, ignoring the twinge in his heart that says he wants more than that, “your father is wrong. Apollo, you’re doing all you can, and I think your mother wants you to be happy as much as you want the same for her. Perhaps even more.”

He’s dwelt for long moments on just how blue Enjolras’ eyes are. His own eyes are a shade darker than sky blue, but Enjolras’ hover somewhere between deep navy and bright electric blue. It doesn’t make sense to Grantaire except when he mixes those paints on his palette to produce that exact perfect shade.

“Can we eat?” Bahorel bellows from the living room. “I’m fuc — I’m starving!”

Enjolras lets out a near-inaudible laugh, and Grantaire does laugh for real. Bahorel has forgotten there for a microsecond that he’s in the company of a lady, or rather, four ladies — because Grantaire wouldn’t call Cosette, Chetta, or Ponine anything else — but one very classy, very elegant woman is in their midst too. There’s a brief moment of hesitation before they untangle from each other. Grantaire busies himself with turning off the oven, but he doesn’t miss the sidelong look that Enjolras gives him as he carries another pitcher out.

Chapter Text

The next day — Saturday — the entire group takes off to go on a day trip to Central Park.

It’s complete chaos. Enjolras is driving, Maryse is in the shotgun seat, and Grantaire, Bahorel, and Feuilly are all squabbling playfully in the backseat about who’s holding what dish.

“Give me those!”

“Dude, the last time you held the truffles, nobody got any!”

“Watch the potato salad, Bahorel!”

“Just because you made it doesn’t give you ownership rights. They’ve been transferred to the property holdings of Les Amis & Co.”

“Yeah, well, click your heels together three times, and maybe it’ll come true. OW!”

“Hand it over!”

“Over my dead body, you jackass. You didn’t need to hit me!”

“It was only a shoulder punch, you wuss.”

“Feuilly, hit him for me, or you’re not getting any truffles.”

Bonk.

“Ow! You douche! Whose side are you on?”

“Mine,” Feuilly answers. “Don’t you remember how those truffles tasted the last time we had them?”

“Pardon my friends, Mother,” Enjolras says dryly. “It seems like they don’t know how to act like civilized human beings.” He’s expressed earlier the wish to have a button on his dashboard like in the movies where he can forcibly eject passengers from the car.

“Says the almighty Apollo,” Grantaire retorts where he’s in a headlock by Bahorel, who’s surrendered the potato salad to Feuilly.

Maryse laughs.

“That’s a nickname I’ve never thought of applying to my son, but I like it. It says a lot.”

Enjolras blushes red and shoots Grantaire a glare through the rearview mirror, but the look has no heat in it. He quails the fluttering in his stomach and watches Grantaire elbow Bahorel back.

“You dirty — you are so dead when we’re playing football later.”

“More like you’re the one who’s going to cry uncle.”

“Dude, you’re the kickboxing stud, not the football star. I’ll so whoop your ass.”

At long last, the car reaches the park, and everyone else scrambles out of the car like it’s on fire. Grantaire takes across the park — somehow still carrying the coveted package of truffles with admirable aplomb and balance — with Bahorel after him. Feuilly balances both platters that he’s carrying and yells for them to stop.

Enjolras finds himself smiling as he watches the three of them take off.

“I like your friends a lot, mon cheri. They’re really good for you, and you’re good for them.”

Enjolras turns to his mother. “You think so?”

“They’re the family you never had.” Maryse’s smile is sad, yet fond. Enjolras opens his mouth to protest this, but she overrides him. “Alain and I make up part of your heart, Adrien, but Luc, Henri, Jehan, Rene — they all form the rest of your family. And that’s okay. Family’s about more than just blood.”

Enjolras can’t help but rear back at that last line. It almost echoes what Grantaire has told him only mere days ago.

“Have you been talking to Grantaire?” he asks, almost amused. “That last bit sounds like something he’s said recently.”

Maryse shook her head. “No. Is he a good friend to you?”

Enjolras opens his mouth, then shuts it. He can’t help but feel conflicted at that question. “I don’t know,” he admits.

Maryse raises an elegant eyebrow. “Hmmm?”

“I don’t know if we are. I mean, for most of the time I’ve known him, he’s irritated me and made me angry. He challenges me on everything, and questions the cause. He doesn’t believe in it, and yet he hangs around. At the same time, I’m both fascinated and intrigued by him. He’s so… different from everybody else. He loves everyone so much, and he loves life equally much, but it’s just strange when he doesn’t believe in anything.” The conversation with Grantaire floats in his mind, and he takes a deep breath. “But recently… I think things are changing.”

“How so?”

“Ever since he’s moved in, we fight less. We still argue at the Musain, but it’s not as bad. We talk more, and we spend more time together. He’s smart, he’s kind, and he’s really —” Enjolras stops and blushes; he catches himself before he says the word attractive.

Maryse laughs softly. “Describe him to me, Adrien.”

Enjolras shrugs. “He’s an art major. He has a younger sister named Celine. He’s —”

“No, no, mon cheri. I don’t want you to tell me about him, I want you to describe who he is, what he is.”

Enjolras lapses into silence for a minute and a half. Finally he starts haltingly to talk about how Grantaire makes him feel when he holds Enjolras’ hand or hugs him. How blue his eyes are, so different from Enjolras’, full of guileless honesty and tenderness. How he’s so talented in everything — he paints, he reads, he’s clever with his hands, he can cook, he makes everyone laugh, and he loves kids and animals just as passionately as the people around him. How he’s always quick to pick up on any minuscule detail about Enjolras and the rest of their friends and memorize it. His mind is so quick, and Enjolras admires the way Grantaire can pick up the flaws in his arguments. The way he looks when he smiles in Enjolras’ direction, or laughs with Feuilly and Courfeyrac, or teases Eponine and Gavroche. How he looks so graceful when he dances the waltz or foxtrot with Cosette, and when he’s sparring with Bahorel. His endless patience when he’s teaching Azelma to play the piano. How he can sit with Jehan for hours and make the little poet feel at home with himself. That friendliness he shares with everybody and even complete strangers that Enjolras can never summon, just because he’s not that kind of person. Grantaire always talks about him and how he’s full of light, but it’s all an illusion, because Enjolras is just a mirror; he reflects the light of the people around him. His family, the Amis, and Grantaire’s the one who shines the brightest of all…

He stops, abruptly, and cups his forehead with his hands.

“Adrien?”

“You know what Father will say in this situation,” he says as lightly as he can. “That he’s never wanted a queer for a son.”

“I really don’t give a damn about what your father says about you,” Maryse snaps sharply, and Enjolras looks at her, startled. His mother hardly ever swears. “He’s always been wrong about you and Alain. Mon cheri, how do you feel about Rene?”

Enjolras stubbornly refuses to answer. He can’t have the words floating out there to incriminate him.

“I thought as much,” Maryse commented in satisfaction.

“Mother, what do I do? I don’t have any idea that he even likes me that way, either, or if he doesn’t like me at all. We’ve had that long history of disliking each other, and I have no reason to expect anything of him, because I’ve never given him the chance to.”

“Have a little faith, darling. Things always work out.”

Enjolras shakes his head forcefully. “No, they only work out if you work to make them happen, but I can’t force this. I can’t ever say anything to him, because it would ruin our friendship. I’m better off staying quiet about this.”

“Talk to him, Adrien.”

“It’ll have to wait.”

“You can’t wait forever, Adrien, and neither can he. Things don’t last, and we don’t stay around forever. We don’t live forever, so we’ll have to make someday be today.”

Enjolras is gripped by a feeling of sheer terror. His eyes flick up to his mother’s face, and she’s smiling at him with a fondness that’s tinged with the foreboding shadow of things to come.

“You know, I never left your father because of you. I can’t hate him because he gave me you, Adrien. I’m so proud of you, mon cheri. You’ve become the man I always wanted you to be, and even more. I just want you to be happy, and if Rene will make you happy, Adrien, then fight for it. Don’t let your own interests be rolled over with the noble causes you herald.”

“I… I don’t know what to do.”

Maryse smiles understandingly. “That’s okay. Just learn along the way. There’ll be bumps and potholes, but you’ll never know if you don’t try.” She gestures with her head towards the park. “Come on, darling. Your friends are waiting for us.”

Chapter Text

“Celine’s amazing,” Grantaire says, his eyes lighting up. “She’s just two years younger than I am, but we’re really close. I don’t remember a time when we didn’t stick to each other like glue.” He laughs. Maryse has been asking about his family, and he’s been gladly delivering. “She actually just graduated from high school, so she’ll be coming to the city for college. She got accepted to the music program. We’re both kind of the creative type.”

Maryse smiles. “Does she sing or play an instrument?”

“She has the best voice I’ve ever heard,” Grantaire says proudly, then he considers. “Well, she and Feuilly both. She’s a second soprano, and she has a really long range. Feuilly’s a bit of a baritone and tenor.”

“They must both be amazing.”

“Feuilly sang once, at Enjolras’ birthday,” Grantaire adds. “He was so touched. He — I mean, it, it was beautiful.” He feels heat spring to his cheeks and blushes. Did he just say Enjolras was beautiful to his mother?

Maryse just beams angelically. Without warning, she asks, “Rene, do you have feelings for Adrien?”

“I-I-I —”

His eyes flick to where the rest of the group is. Enjolras had been sitting on the sidelines until Courfeyrac yanked him up to go play Frisbee — Enjolras has a wicked right hand and excellent aim for having done no sports at all — and he’s now lobbing the plastic disk to Bahorel, who probably flies three feet as he snatches it out of the air. The three of them are playing Frisbee, along with Bossuet, Joly, Chetta, Combeferre, Eponine, and Gavroche (Azelma has opted out today in favor of her friends). Cosette and Marius are dozing on a beach towel, and Feuilly is sketching while Jehan weaves flowers into his hair. All of them are out of earshot.

Maryse smiles lazily, like the cat who has just caught the canary, but there’s no ill intent or feeling in it. “I thought so,” she says contemplatively.

Grantaire wilts. “I know, I know. It’s stupid of me, but I’m afraid from the first time I laid eyes on him, I’ve just been hooked.” He sighs gloomily. “Sorry if I’m speaking out of place here, I know it’s creepy and weird and —”

Maryse spreads her hands up in the air. “Hang on there, sweetheart. Hear me out first.”

Grantaire waits, absently slitting daisy stems and pleating the stalks together. Once he's done with this impromptu daisy chain, he's going to give it to Jehan. 

“First of all, I’m really sorry about Adrien.”

Ugh. What chances does Grantaire even have when Enjolras’ mother says something like that? The pit of his stomach shrivels, and the sweet taste of the fudge Chetta has made starts to turn sour in his mouth.

“I can hear you thinking,” Maryse says hastily, “and you’re wrong. Or rather, I expressed what I meant in a wrong way. Rene, when I said I’m sorry I don’t mean that you don’t have a chance or that it’ll never happen; I mean that I’m sorry he’s so hardheaded and oblivious, because he just is.”

That startles a laugh out of Grantaire. “Yeah, you’re telling me.” He slaps a hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be flip —”

Maryse chuckles. “I know exactly what you meant. Adrien is like the wind. He goes for what he wants, and nothing else exists in that moment. He’s always had a great deal more passion and zest than my husband has ever wanted or given him credit for. However, that means that in his pursuit of his causes, he tends to neglect relationships and people other than just skimming the surface. It’s not that they aren’t important to him — because all of you are, more than you’ll ever know — but he just doesn’t know how to deal with them. He’s never had a relationship, Rene. If you pardon me saying this, he’s very emotionally oblivious and sexually naive. I love him to death, but I do know that he can forget what’s really important and what’s really in front of him.” She gives him a sideways look. “And you are marvelous, sweetheart. After spending time with the twelve of you, I know that much. Adrien’s father may be pissed off that he’s gay, but I couldn’t be happier if it worked out between you both.”

Grantaire feels a rush of warmth, but tones it down by saying, “I don’t know if I even have a chance with Enjolras.”

Maryse smiles slightly. “You may have more of a chance than you think.”

They stay like that, sitting quietly under the shade and guarding the remains of lunch, until Grantaire laughs ruefully. “Was I really that obvious?”

Maryse chuckles again. “No, but I just could tell. Also, Adrien has talked about you before when he told me about all of your friends.”

“Has he?” He’s not going to get overexcited. He’s not.

“In the past it was always to complain about how much you both fight,” Maryse teases. “Now it’s just to talk about your living together, the little things you all get up to together, etcetera.”

“I can live with just being friends.” He’d be somewhat miserable, because sooner or later, Enjolras is going to get over his celibacy and get with someone else — not Grantaire, because he’s never ever had that much luck before, and why should he start now? Fate has a great way of fucking him over, and she isn’t going to treat him any differently this time.

Although, admittedly, he’s lucked out with firstly his family — if he had Enjolras’ father, he’s not sure he wouldn’t have offed himself by now, or committed first-degree murder — and then with Les Amis, two years ago. He’s a lot more fortunate than he usually thinks.

“Well, I wish you both all the joy and help you can get,” Maryse encourages. “Just keep this in mind, okay? Things aren’t as gloomy as they seem to be — in fact, I think you’ll find that they’re better than you expect — and Adrien hides his emotions very well. He’s always been forced to do so in light of the harsh consequences that would otherwise occur. Even if he tries to bury how he feels, it doesn’t discount the fact that those feelings are still there.”

The Frisbee whirs through the air and hits Grantaire in the shoulder before falling down onto the grass. When he scoops it into his hand and glances up, the first thing he sees is Enjolras running up, slightly out of breath. His eyes are shining as he pushes blond curls off of his forehead, and his slightly sweaty red T-shirt is molded to his ab muscles. He takes the proffered Frisbee from Grantaire, and the corner of his mouth perks up.

“R, Mother, you both should join us,” he cheerfully suggests, and Grantaire raises an eyebrow, because Enjolras being cheerful? What a thought — but he doesn’t question it, choosing to take advantage of Enjolras’ good mood. Instead, he gets up, brushing crumbs from his jeans, and holds out a hand to Maryse, who takes it with a challenging grin.

Chapter Text

Hours and hours later of having the Amis all together, Eponine is pleased when someone — she can’t remember who — suggests that they go out to dinner somewhere. They follow Enjolras’ car to a quaint little Italian restaurant nearby that usually is way too pricey for any of the Amis to afford, even Enjolras or Jehan, but Maryse has casually dropped the hint that she’ll pay for it.

Which is fine, too. Although Enjolras hates being reliant on his parents’ money, Eponine’s more than happy to take as much cash from that bastard he calls his father. It’s not like Sebastien Enjolras cares, anyway, according to what she's heard.

“What’s his father like?” she asks Combeferre quietly while he’s following on the tail of Enjolras’ Ford Focus through the streets. Gavroche has his iPod earphones screwed firmly into his ears, and Jehan and Courfeyrac are busy being all couple-y and adorable in the backseat.

Combeferre scowls. He hardly does that. “He’s a complete asshole, is what.” He signals before he sighs and continues. “Long story short, he probably could give your parents a run for their money. He ruined his business partner and effectively killed him. He held a life-long grudge against his oldest son for having half of his DNA makeup come from someone else to the point that Sebastien spared the expenses when it came to the hospital care that could have saved Alain. He physically, verbally, and emotionally abused Enjolras ever since Alain’s death. Although he doesn’t physically abuse Maryse, I’m sure he isn’t kind to her in other ways — I mean, for starters, he’s slept with so many women I’m surprised he’s STD-free.”

Eponine remains silent. The idea that someone else could actually rival her parents in wrongdoing is a stunning one. Everyone knows that the Thenardiers are the very opposite of saints and parents. They rob people blind in their businesses, and they’re definitely physically and verbally abusive — to the point where the day Azelma and Gavroche were released to her remains one of the best days of her life — but to her knowledge, her father’s never killed anyone, and her mother’s never slept with anyone else. They still have a pretty twisted moral code when it comes to things, but at least they have a code. From the sound of things, Enjolras’ father has never held any sort of moral compass other than that with his wife.

Assuming he isn’t a complete S.O.B. through and through and treats Maryse like dirt.

“No wonder Enjolras sometimes has that stick up his ass,” she jokes, trying to ease the tension, and unable to think of anything else to say.

Combeferre cracks a half smile, although the tightness in his eyes tells Eponine that his mind isn’t diverted by her words. “If Enjolras didn’t have his mother, and if he wasn’t as strong as he is, he would have been crushed by his father long, long ago.”

That’s a scary thought. Eponine thinks of the young man who has helped to cobble their group together. Although she sometimes gets extremely pissed off at him for the thoughtless way in which he treats Grantaire, and the way he steamrolls over all of the others, she’s starting to see that in a different light. He’s had no male role model apart from his father and Combeferre, and as such, he’s bound to have picked up some of the bad as well as all of the good. He throws himself into his work and schooling like they’re the last things on earth. He’s passionately, fiercely devoted to the causes but also to his friends and family. He’s so emotionally constipated that it’s almost hilarious and frightening at the same time, and who can blame him, with a father like that?

Combeferre parks the car and the five of them pile out, Gavroche grumbling that he’s hungry. Courf and Jehan have their hands in each other’s pockets. Behind them, Chetta executes a perfect parking job and gets out with a smirk, Joly clutching at her hand and scolding her about traffic fatalities and the dangers of speeding. Bossuet bumps into Marius and almost falls if not for the fact that Cosette grabs at one hand and Marius the other, stopping his would-be face plant into the ground.

Eponine looks up at the doorway to the restaurant, where Enjolras has his hand on his mother’s elbow and is escorting her through the door that Grantaire is holding open. He looks straight at Eponine and gives her a wink before Bahorel and Feuilly block him from view. Mentally, Eponine makes a note to talk to him; he seems to be in relatively good spirits, which is always nice, and she wants the dirt.

She can’t ever imagine being without her little family. Mentally she hopes that things will never change, and that they will never be apart, because things surely can’t get any better than when the thirteen of them — fifteen including her siblings — are together.

Chapter Text

Combeferre is in the ER doing paperwork as he mentally visualizes a clock in his head, ticking down the minutes to when his shift will end.

For some reason, today has been blissfully slower than most other days. There’s been a kid who came in with his mother, sick from swallowing MiracleGro, but after a moment at the poison control center, he was fine. The guy who hit the telephone pole and isn’t too badly hurt — just a sprained arm and shaken nerves — as well as the girl who’s overdosed on E. (Last Combeferre heard, she’ll also be okay.)

He usually enjoys his internship a lot; he really does. Being here at the hospital is his calling in life. However, he’s tired, and he wants to get off his shift so that he can go out to dinner with Eponine. Which hopefully will lead to him staying over tonight.

His mind goes to Enjolras, as usual. It’s usually split pretty evenly nowadays between the two E’s in his life. Enjolras has been his ‘brother from another mother’ according to Combeferre — and a great mother at that. According to his imaginary clock, Enjolras has just dropped her off at the airport, and Combeferre hopes that he’s okay. He’s worried about all the stress Enjolras is under, although his best friend seems to be doing remarkably well holding up thus far.

His mental musings vanish the instant the ER doors slide automatically open to reveal paramedics wheeling in two gurneys. A couple — a young man and a young woman — are strapped to the gurneys, both badly bloodied and beaten, with clothing ripped away and faces swollen. From where Combeferre is sitting — now standing up, his colleagues all rushing forward — he can see that there’s blood everywhere, and the prognosis doesn’t look good for either man or woman. The man is unconscious, but the woman is hysterical, sobbing the words “Patron-Minette” the entire time. The words mean nothing to Combeferre.

He summons his internal calm that is always able to reassure his friends during any sort of crisis and pushes the hands of his mental clock back thirty more minutes as he moves forward.

Chapter Text

Enjolras has spent his entire Sunday with his mother, and then skipped his classes — with Lamarque’s permission, of course — and was now charged with driving her to the airport. Unfortunately, he’s dead tired because he spent all Sunday night writing papers and grading his students’ homework, and so he’s been trying to locate a driving buddy so he doesn’t crash coming back from the airport without anyone to guide him.

Bahorel is at his film classes and Chetta’s at her International Relations ones; Feuilly is working, and so is Eponine. Cosette and Marius are gone off together — probably making out in some random corner — and Jehan and Courf are both MIA. Combeferre and Joly are at their St. Mary’s internships. Bossuet is attempting to cobble together an essay, so he can’t spare time — the professor moved the deadline up three days, so that’s three days he hasn’t gotten anymore. Just his luck, as usual.

So Enjolras has gone back to his first — and at the same time, last — choice.

Right now, Grantaire is in the backseat talking away at sixty miles an hour with his mother, who definitely looks reluctant to leave. Enjolras keeps glancing from the road to her and back again, trying to watch vigilantly for any signs of exhaustion or illness.

It’s when his mother is on the phone with his father — and Enjolras doesn’t even want to acknowledge the man’s existence, let alone talk to him — that he feels warm air on his ear and Grantaire’s voice, low and reassuring, makes it to his ear.

“Keep your eye on the road, Apollo. I’ve got it covered.”

Enjolras barely keeps from swerving into the next lane, which, thankfully, is empty. He aims a dagger glare at the rearview mirror where Grantaire is smirking. Before he can say anything, his mother cuts the call and goes on talking to Grantaire, who holds his eyes for a second longer before tearing them away to focus completely on Maryse.

It’s really not Enjolras’ fault that Grantaire’s looking especially great today. He’s wearing one of his everpresent emerald green hats — this one a soft knit cap — and it looks really good contrasted with his black curls. He’s wearing a matching green vest over a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and he’s shaved. Then Enjolras realizes that Grantaire put more thought into his appearance today because he’s around Enjolras’ mother. For some reason, this gives him a pang — he likes that everyone likes his mother, but at the same time, he childishly is wishing that Grantaire is looking good for him.

He sinks into a petulant silence until they reach the airport, which helps his driving, anyway, but his thoughts keep jumping all around — worry about his mother, undying anger at his father, nostalgic sadness regarding Alain, random wondering moments about how the others are doing, and, most of all, what it would be like to have his fingers through Grantaire’s hair or his lips on his.

This is all hypothetically speaking, of course. He can’t really think about anything else when Grantaire is sitting there, smelling positively ambrosial and looking devilishly attractive. And being so nice to his mother. The entire group has been on their best behavior, but Enjolras knows that Grantaire has made, for some reason, an especially deep impression on Maryse.

Enjolras grabs his mother’s suitcase out of the trunk, and Grantaire suddenly materializes at his side.

“Let me.”

“It’s okay, I can —” He lets out a squawk of outrage when Grantaire grabs the case from him, pressing warm, strong fingers over his own. There’s a current of something — not electricity, although it does feel like it, Enjolras thinks dazedly — that passes through the skin contacting skin, and Grantaire tightens his grip instinctively, curling his hand completely over Enjolras. Enjolras has long fingers, but Grantaire’s palm is broader and more callused. For a moment, he can only feel the pounding of his heart, and they’re both staring into each other’s eyes.

Then Grantaire is reaching over with his other hand and tugging Enjolras’ fingers off the handle of the rolling suitcase.

“Apollo, I swear — you take this time with your mother. I can handle this.” He bodily shoves Enjolras towards Maryse, and Enjolras pretends not to notice his mother smiling like the Cheshire cat.

“What are you doing,” he hisses under his breath.

“You better talk to him,” his mother whispers back. “Or else I will.”

Enjolras blanches at the thought. “No, thanks. I’ll do it, Mother.”

“Good. I’m expecting some sort of report soon.”

Childishly Enjolras sticks his tongue out at her before offering her his arm. They walk slowly into the terminal of the JFK, ignoring the bustling tourists and the striding businessmen and the screaming children. She leans into him, putting her head on his shoulder like she’s done since he was sixteen, and they do a bit of people-watching — a pastime that they’ve shared lots of memories with — while Grantaire plods behind them with her bag.

“Look,” his mother says.

Enjolras looks. It’s a young couple with two boys who are close in age, but maybe a year or two apart. One of them is blond as anything, and the other has light brown hair that reminds him of Combeferre’s. Or maybe Alain’s. The parents are both watching the children fondly, while the older boy is pointing a chubby hand at the Krispy Kreme shop, the other hand resting on his brother’s shoulder.

“Teaching him the ropes,” he says, and his mother laughs.

“One happy family,” she remarks, then stops walking. Enjolras also pauses, puzzled, and looks at her.

“One happy family,” Maryse repeats. When she looks Enjolras in the eye, her gaze is sad. “They don’t know all the trouble that can befall them. Children dying, lovers growing apart. Sickness. Death.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Enjolras cuts in, and he can hear his own voice growing desperate. “Mother, you’re young, you’re healthy. Don’t give up hope yet when you still have it — when we still have it. Please. I can’t do this without you.”

His mother gives him a fond smile that’s equal parts love and sadness. “I’ll fight, Adrien. Don’t you worry. I have you to fight for. And you have so much to fight for. Your friends will make sure you’re all right, that you’re happy, and that’s all I ever want from you. To be happy.”

She withdraws something from her pocket and takes his hand, pressing it into his palm.

“When Alain died, I know you got everything of his that you wanted, but I don’t think you got this. I’m afraid I haven’t been able to part from it till now, and I want you to have it, darling.”

Enjolras looks down and he feels his eyebrows shoot up despite himself. “I thought this was lost. I looked for it everywhere.”

Maryse shakes her head. “No, mon cheri. I just took it because I wanted something to remind me of him and you every day. Now I don’t need it anymore, and it’s yours.”

She wraps his fingers around it and pulls him into a tight embrace, so tight that Enjolras can almost imagine no evil thing forcing them apart — no terminal sickness, no abusive father and husband, no bad memories of approaching death in white hospital corridors. When his mother finally pulls away, she raises herself slightly on her tiptoes and kisses him on the mouth, then the forehead.

“Goodbye for now, my darling. I expect you back home for the holidays. Your causes can wait for a little bit of family time.” She laughs, and Enjolras smiles back in return.

“I promise.”

Grantaire hurries up with her bag, and Maryse gives him a hug and a kiss on the forehead as well.

“Keep an eye on him for me, please,” she says in a loud stage whisper. “You know how he can forget about taking care of himself.”

“No kidding,” Grantaire agrees.

“I can hear you both,” Enjolras points out.

Grantaire gives him a sarcastic smile that’s also full of saccharine sweetness, and he steps away from Maryse as Enjolras lunges forward and hugs his mother again.

“Just a few more weeks, mon cheri,” she coos into his ear. “I love you. Don’t ever forget that.”

“I love you too, Mother.”

“Be good,” Maryse says cheekily. “I now have twelve additional pairs of eyes and ears on you, Adrien.”

“Great. I’ll try to behave myself.”

He watches his mother turn around and make for the passport checkpoint before the security screening. As he glues his eyes to her form, he curls his fingers and feels warm metal in his palm.

Grantaire slips his arm around him. Enjolras can feel warmth emanating from his body even through his shirt and vest. “We’re all going to miss her,” he says simply.

“I know,” Enjolras admits. “Especially me.”

“You’ll see her soon enough,” Grantaire assures him. “What’s that?”

Enjolras glances down to see Grantaire gesture to his palm. “Oh.” He spreads his fingers and holds his hand up so Grantaire can see. “This was Alain’s.”

It’s a dog tag necklace made out of sleek platinum, only the tag is an actual locket. Enjolras barely manages to open the silvery pendant with his fingernail, revealing two slots for photos. One slot is empty; the other is already occupied with a picture of him with his mother and Alain. The photograph had been taken the day before they’d found out Alain had leukemia, and all three faces are smiling and radiant with health. Age has made Enjolras’ features grow into their prime, but his mother looks practically the same.

“He looks a lot like you,” Grantaire comments, and from the tone of his voice, Enjolras knows he’s smiling.

Enjolras traces his fingertip over the small photo before he nods and snaps the locket shut. “That’s what everyone always said.”

Grantaire hums, and he idly taps his fingers on Enjolras’ shoulder. “Ready to go?”

Enjolras actually doesn’t feel ready. He doesn’t quite want to get back to civilization for the time being, and he’s not sure why. He’s wondering what all the people passing by see when they spot him and Grantaire side by side. Do they think that he and Grantaire are just friends, or something else? The thought makes him smile slightly, and he looks around and sees a coffeeshop — not Starbucks, thank goodness.

“Do you want to grab a cup?” he asks.

Grantaire stares at him, and Enjolras immediately feels self-conscious. Is he doing this wrong? Maybe he isn’t supposed to be so forward. Or maybe… maybe it sounds like he’s asking Grantaire on a date. But no, no, he doesn’t mean it to be a date — or does he?

Ugh. This is far too complicated for Enjolras to catch up.

The corners of Grantaire’s lips are curling up, and he lets out a laugh before Enjolras can babble his thoughts.

“I’d love to, Apollo.”

They grab coffee and split a croissant while discussing favorite TV shows — Grantaire still stubbornly favors Game of Thrones, Breaking Bad, and Mad Men, while Enjolras is fixated on The Big Bang Theory, Modern Family, and How I Met Your Mother.

“Dramas or sci-fi?” Grantaire asks, taking a big swallow of the croissant and smearing a little chocolate on his lip.

Enjolras resists the urge to wipe it away. “Person of Interest, Doctor Who, and Criminal Minds,” he says evenly.

Grantaire groans. “Fine. What about Sherlock, though? Or Elementary? White Collar?”

“I’ve heard of all of them, but I haven’t seen them. I heard Sherlock’s good, but doesn’t he die?”

“Surprise — nope!”

“Benedict Cumberbatch. Sounds like a wonky name to me.”

“You haven’t seen him act, then, have you?”

“Nope.”

Grantaire’s eyes widen. “You haven’t seen Star Trek?”

“The first one? Wait, didn’t the second one come out, like, last week?”

“No shit, Apollo, and actually, that was months ago. You missed the big movie night, didn’t you?”

“It was the night before the demonstration,” Enjolras says defensively. “I had to prepare my speech.”

“Well, we’re watching it,” Grantaire puts in decisively. “Bahorel got the DVD when it came out.”

“Okay. It’s a date.” The words slip out before Enjolras can take them back, and comically, he watches Grantaire’s eyes get even bigger as he feels his own expand.

“Wait, what?”

“Um.” Of course, at the time Enjolras needs it, his eloquence flees him. You’re fired, he mentally thinks.

“Do you want it to be a date, Apollo?” Grantaire’s tone is so deliberately casual Enjolras can tell he’s nervous to hear the answer. He’s heard from the others about how much Grantaire worships him, but hearing and seeing is different from each other. Receiving knowledge passed from others is different from learning things for himself.

“You know, I’m not sure,” he begins, watching Grantaire’s face fall momentarily, before it lights up at the next thing that comes out of his mouth. “But at this point, I’m leaning towards yes.”

Grantaire doesn’t say anything, and soon Enjolras realizes it’s because he’s smiling too much that he can’t even let out another word.

Chapter Text

Six o’clock comes and goes.

Initially, Eponine is pissed as all hell. She’s gone to a ton of trouble to clean her apartment, make one of Combeferre’s favorite dishes — beef bourguignon — and she’s even wearing his favorite color, blue. Gavroche is playing Wii with Courfeyrac and Bahorel, and Azelma is at a sleepover. If there is a night set up better for a date, she hasn’t met it.

When it’s seven, and there’s still no word from Combeferre, she texts Enjolras, Grantaire, and every single one of their friends.

Chief: I thought he was at your place tonight! Shit. I’m going to go find him right now. I’ll keep you updated.

Eponine: If you find him, tell him there’s no way in hell he’s getting any tonight. Or any, for a very long time.

Chief: You’re going to have to tell him that yourself.

R: Okay, don’t panic. I’m sure he’s fine. Enjolras and I are driving down to St. Mary’s and we’ll go look for him, okay? Love ya. Sorry your hot date is currently put on hold :( But I’m sure he’s okay. It’s Combeferre. He’ll always be fine.

Eponine: I think you’re making me more nervous. But thanks, R. Let me know that I’m going to kill him when he gets here. Emphasize: WHEN.

Bahorel: I’ll ask around. I’m with Feuilly; between the two of us, we should be able to cobble together something. Don’t worry, okay?

Eponine: Thanks, big guy.

Courf: Maybe he chickened out.

Courf: I’m just kidding, all right, don’t kill me. Let’s just keep calling him. If we spam him with enough texts and calls he’ll get the hint and check his fucking phone.

Eponine: I’ve already called him 8 times and texted him 5 times.

Courf: That’s obsessive.

Courf: This is Jehan. I just confiscated Courf’s phone on account that he’s being a giant insensitive jerky-jerkface.

Eponine: Thanks, Jehan.

Courf: No problem, Ponine. Don’t worry, okay? He’ll be fine.

At this point, Eponine wants to point out that everybody has been telling her Combeferre will be fine, but they’ve all conveniently forgotten that the word ‘fine’ stands for Freaked-out, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotional. And yes, the Italian Job is one of her favorite films. In fact, it’s a Les Amis favorite.

Bossuet: Does he have a homework deadline? I don’t want to be the only Ami stuck doing homework tonight.

Eponine: I’m pretty sure the hot babe next to you too busy to answer my texts (no hard feelings, Chetta) is also stuck doing homework. Marius and Cosette have homework, but they’re most likely (a) kissing or (b) poring over more bridal stuff. It better be fucking important, because they’re both not replying me. And Enjolras always has homework. You know that.

Joly: Maybe he came down with the plague. I’m joking (only partly). Maybe he just lost track of time in the ER. He’s done that before.

Yes, before he and Eponine started dating.

Eponine: If so, why couldn’t he just pick up the phone and give me a fucking ring?

Joly: You’re swearing. Hmm. Just stay calm, okay. I’m sure there’s a rational explanation for all of this.

Screw Joly and his logic. Eponine makes a concerted effort to remain calm. She — and everyone else — has never known Combeferre to be irresponsible or thoughtless. It’s just so… disappointing when they’ve been planning on this night for weeks. They’ve been that busy.

Still, she waits at the door, chewing on her fingernails and staring at her phone. She tries not to let her brain run through all sorts of different scenarios, each crazier than the last.

When seven-thirty rolls around, she hears his key in the lock. She knows it’s him and not Grantaire — because R has just texted her five minutes to say that Combeferre’s supervisor hasn’t seen him since seven-fifteen, and they were tied up in a lot of crazy shit. Also, R always scrapes and bumps the key she gave him along the door before he actually hits the lock, mainly because all that curly hair of his always blocks the light, so he can’t see anything.

When the door opens, Eponine tucks her phone into her pocket and opens her mouth to launch into a tirade right as Combeferre steps into the light, and her mouth snaps back shut.

Combeferre radiates exhaustion tonight. His shoulders are slumped, there seem to be new lines in his face, and his eyes are weary behind their glasses frames. He keeps rubbing at his left hand, as if there’s something there against his fingers and palm that he keeps trying to get rid of. Against her better judgment, Eponine reaches out and uncurls his fingers.

There’s nothing on his hand. Yet Combeferre again rubs his right thumb over his palm, and shrugs his messenger bag off his shoulder and onto the floor with a dull thud.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he says tiredly. “We got really caught up at the hospital, and I just couldn’t get away.”

Eponine’s gut tells her that there is something else behind the too-innocuous excuse. “What happened, Ferre?” She manages to keep her tone steady, because screaming at him about how inconsiderate he is or bursting into tears don’t seem like appropriate reactions right now.

Combeferre sits down at the table, at the spot where his mug is — for Valentine’s day they’d gotten matching his-’n-her mugs with their names painted on them — and looks like he has zero appetite. He stares down at the elaborate place settings for a whole half minute before he looks back up at her.

“I had ten minutes to get off shift when paramedics came in with a couple. Young, maybe in their early thirties. The man had been beaten so badly that I could barely pick out parts of his face. The woman — his wife, I think, there were lines on their fingers where rings must have been, but they were gone — had been gang-raped, and she was just as badly off. Broken bones, blood loss, that kind of thing. Well, he died half an hour later, but she hung on for a little longer. I was with her — I know, Ponine, I should have left, but I just couldn’t. Her husband had just been killed, and any trained medical professional could tell she didn’t have long, either. I didn’t want to leave her alone. No one should have to die alone.”

Eponine scoots her chair forward and takes his right hand, bringing it to her lips and preventing him from rubbing at the other again.

“She kept reliving the attack over and over again, babbling about it and crying. Occasionally she would ask me a lucid question, and we’d talk for a minute or two before she’d relapse back into her memories. Hysteria, you know. I was there when she died on the table in the operating theater. Her vitals couldn’t take it, and they just crashed. I got her blood on my hands, I think, because I keep feeling like I need to scrub it off.”

Combeferre leans forward, and his eyes are haunted, even as they’re looking directly at Eponine.

“Patron-Minette. That’s all I got, and I don’t even know what the hell it means. Neither of them saw their attackers coming.”

“Ferre —”

Combeferre blinks and seems to come back to himself, which relieves Eponine more than she can express. When Not-Combeferre was talking, goosebumps had been crawling up her skin the entire time.

“Ponine?”

“It’s okay,” she says as gently as she can. “I’m here.”

Combeferre shakes his head blearily for a moment, but when he looks at her, that clearheaded lucidity that has been missing the entire time from his conversation creeps back quickly into his eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s just… I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone die before, and there were two of them today. Plus the police came and talked to us, and my phone died.” He sheepishly looks at her. “I forgot to charge it last night.”

Eponine lunges across the gap and hugs him tightly, feeling his hands tremble a little as they rest on her back, and his breathing hitch just ever so slightly. He’s back in control of himself, but he’s in no wise okay for now, and she instantly regrets her petty anger at him earlier.

“That’s okay,” she tells him gently. “I was just worried.”

And she was — she is. All of Les Amis acts like Combeferre and Enjolras are both superhuman, that they can do anything and everything. Most of the time, that is true; however, at the end of the day, both leader and guide of the group are still human. The thought of losing Combeferre is scarier than anything else Eponine can even think of, and she keeps tight hold of his hand even when they eventually move out of each other’s hugs.

Chapter Text

Grantaire is painting.

Before he moved in with Enjolras and Combeferre, the subject of most of his best work was, obviously, Enjolras himself. Now that he’s been here for several weeks, though, Grantaire finds to his delight that he’s regained his talent for painting anything that stands still, and even most things that don’t. It doesn’t matter what it is — still life of beaches or the Musain or campus, pictures of the apartment or Stormie, portraits of Les Amis — he’s regained the flair to see patterns and details and replicate them with absolute perfection, that Feuilly covets.

Grantaire likes details and colors, and he enjoys different art styles like the impressionist, the mannerist, the Renaissance, photorealism, and more. Oil paint is his favorite medium, but he can sculpt and draw. He’s never without a pencil and a small pad of paper just in case he needs to scribble some inspiration down at any given time. He can replicate the works of Old Masters if he wants to and render real life on paper and canvas with a few quick strokes. At the same time, he has that touch of creativity and imagination that he throws into his work, along with his emotions, turning the picture into a masterpiece that captures the feelings and thoughts he’s always wanted to express. It’s his way of talking when he has no words to say.

Feuilly, on the other hand, also has genius that’s all his. He paints the abstract, the the expressionistic, the modernistic; all of it is incredible. While Grantaire’s favorite artists are the likes of Michelangelo and Rembrandt and Van Gogh, Feuilly favors Picasso and Pollock and Monet. Whenever Grantaire looks at Feuilly’s art, he’s taken aback by how powerful the messages in the paintings are.

He likes painting in the daytime the best, because it gives him the best light, but there is something about making art at night when Enjolras is separated from him only by a wall, and the shadows on the wall deepen while being repulsed by the faint glow of light that comes from the dimmed lamp across the room from Grantaire. When he turns his head, he can look out the French windows at the star-studded night sky.

His passion as of late is attributed to Enjolras’ presence, and tonight he can’t help thinking of their date earlier, whatever label you would like to attach to it, thank you very much. Nor can he stop thinking of the smile on Enjolras’ face, the way he said yes, and of their upcoming second date.

He slashes his brush across the canvas, and in a flurry of movements, a rendition of the Musain in Van Gogh’s Impressionistic style begins to emerge. He’s so engrossed in his work that the faint sounds coming from Enjolras’ room do not disturb him until they grow loud enough that Stormie’s ears prick up from where she’s lying curled up on the window seat. The sudden movement catches his attention, and he puts his palette down.

He can tell it’s Enjolras’ voice, and it’s picking up in volume, although he can’t pick out the words.

Frowning, he puts the brush down on the palette, making sure it doesn’t roll away — he’d hate for Enjolras to go batshit on him for staining the carpet now that they’re getting along so well — and heads down the hall to Enjolras’ room. Stormie jumps off the window seat and follows him, her paws silent on the marble tile.

First he knocks — he doesn’t want Enjolras to gut him if he just thoughtlessly walks right in — and then he goes in when he doesn’t hear Enjolras acknowledging his presence. Easing the door open a crack, he peeks in as Stormie squeezes her fat little body through the gap and enters.

Enjolras is lying right smack in the middle of the bed. The covers are wrapped around his legs, and the only article of clothing that Grantaire can see him wearing is his boxers. Ordinarily that would make his pulse speed up like a racer at Formula One — Feuilly loves those races — but he’s more distracted by the way Enjolras’ hands are curled into fists and he’s breathing in short, quick gasps. Accompanying his hyperventilating is the occasional puppy-like pathetic whimper that goes straight to Grantaire’s heart like an arrow. He keeps shifting and twitching restlessly on the bed, tangling the covers around him even more, and once or twice his long fingers grab at the bedspread like he’s trying to hold on.

Stormie claws her way up the bedspread and jumps onto Enjolras’ hair, her paws pulling at his curls. She nuzzles at his neck, but Enjolras doesn’t wake up. In fact, he lets out a moan that sounds terrified and gasps again, his entire body shaking. The only word that Grantaire can make out is ‘No’.

That’s enough. Grantaire moves until he’s behind Enjolras and crawls up onto the bed, reaching out to shake Enjolras’ shoulder. He doesn’t want to loom up in front of Enjolras like a bad dream if the latter wakes up in a cold sweat. “Enjolras. Enjolras, wake up.”

Enjolras doesn’t respond, so Grantaire surreptitiously increases the firmness of his grip and keeps repeating his name in as soothing a tone as he can summon. Meanwhile, Stormie creeps out of Enjolras’ hair and climbs onto Grantaire’s shoulder. “Enjolras. Come on, Apollo. Wake up. It’s okay, Enjolras.”

Enjolras suddenly snaps out of sleep and shoots up, his breathing coming in hacking sobs as he looks wildly around. There’s no recognition in his eyes for a few scary seconds until the nightmare starts to fade. Then he drops his face into his hands and hunches over the bed, getting his breath back. Grantaire is still pretty close to him, and he places a careful hand against the back of Enjolras’ head before he starts gently carding his fingers through Enjolras’ hair, still whispering to him. “It’s okay, Apollo, it’s okay; you’re fine, you’re safe, it’s okay.”

In response, Enjolras practically flings himself bodily towards Grantaire, pushing his face into Grantaire’s shirt. Startled, Grantaire’s body reacts more quickly than his brain, his arms going around Enjolras and pulling him close while his fingers stay in those damp blond curls. He’s not surprised to find that Enjolras is soaked in sweat — for all intents and purposes, it was obviously a bad nightmare — but he doesn’t mind. If anything, he just wants Enjolras to be okay, because the way the other man is clinging to him and still gasping hard for air says a great deal. He’s never seen Enjolras lose control, and this feels more like a privilege than anything else.

Stormageddon is now lying curled up on the foot of the bed, blinking big gray eyes at him and Enjolras.

Gradually Enjolras’ panicky hyperventilating begins to fade as his breathing rate slows, and his trembling reduces. When Grantaire makes to release him — reluctantly — Enjolras grabs at him again, his breathing hitching right back up.

“Okay, okay,” Grantaire concedes, ignoring the way his heart thuds in his chest because even in Enjolras’ distress, he still looks like the hottest thing that Grantaire has ever seen; and Grantaire’s still human, he can still feel Enjolras’ hard muscles against his and smell a trace of that everpresent cologne that is practically an aphrodisiac at this point. Then, because he really shouldn’t be entertaining fantasies while Enjolras is upset, he adds gently, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Enjolras nods, and they both settle back like that, Grantaire leaning against the headboard while Enjolras is pressed up against him, holding onto Grantaire’s shirtfront as if for dear life. Grantaire keeps one arm around Enjolras, while his other hand is free. He uses it to smooth Enjolras’ hair off of his sticky forehead.

“You’re okay, Apollo. I’ve got you.”

They stay like that for a little bit, and Grantaire hums contentedly as he traces the side of Enjolras’ face without realizing he’s doing it. His first instinct is to jerk away, but Enjolras hasn’t flinched away, so he doesn’t, enjoying the feel of warm skin beneath his hand.

“Bad dream?” he asks softly, and Enjolras nods. “Want to talk about it? It might help.”

Enjolras’ breathing picks up again, ever so slightly, but he takes a deep breath, signaling his acknowledgment of Grantaire’s words.

“I don’t usually remember all the details,” he admits, his perfect voice quiet and strained.

“You get it a lot?”

Enjolras shrugs. “Since I was a kid. I don’t know. Maybe from when I was twelve and up?”

“That’s almost ten years, Apollo.”

Enjolras closes his eyes. “Yeah. It comes every once in a while, but every time it does, it’s… bad.”

“No shit. I was really worried.”

Enjolras mumbles something that sounds like “sorry” and Grantaire laughs fondly. “Yeah, because it’s all your fault that you’re getting nightmares you can’t control. Go on, then.”

“There’s only one thing I remember,” Enjolras says, and his tone has gone dark. “My father’s standing in a doorway with the light behind him. That’s it.”

That could either be literal or symbolic or both, Grantaire thinks. His mind aches for details in the dream that he can piece together, though, so he decides to ask. “When you say there’s light behind him, is the rest of the room dark and it’s artificial light, or sunlight? And what’s the doorway like?”

Enjolras lets out a shaky laugh. “You’re such an artist, wanting all the details.”

“If you don’t —” Grantaire begins, but Enjolras shakes his head. “The room’s dark, and it’s artificial light that’s filtering out behind him. It’s always nighttime. I can’t see anything of him other than his silhouette, though. And his hands. For some reason, I keep flashing back to his arms and hands and his silhouette. You know, other than the fact that he always hits me.” He pauses for a moment before he goes on, while Grantaire struggles not to think of crushing Enjolras’ father’s head in with a mallet. “For the doorway — nothing spectacular. There’s a couple of marks on it.” He frowns.

“What kind of marks?” Grantaire asks.

“I don’t know. Just lines. They’re red.” Enjolras’ tone is surprised. “I never noticed that before.”

“Red,” Grantaire says with a laugh. “Of course.”

“What?” Enjolras asks defensively. “It’s my favorite color. Of course I’d notice it.” His last sentence ends in a spectacularly big yawn, and Grantaire smiles despite himself.

“Go back to sleep, Apollo. You’ll be fine.”

Enjolras puts out a hand. “Stay with me?” he asks sleepily.

“Always,” Grantaire replies, pushing himself away from the headboard and lying down, Enjolras still on top of him. “If the dream comes again, I’ll be here.”

Enjolras yawns again, and Grantaire glances down to see his eyes close. Those ridiculously long lashes flutter once, twice, and then go still as Enjolras settles into a calm breathing routine, his chest falling and rising gently. Grantaire looks at him for a long time, timing his own breaths so that they’re in sync with Enjolras. He still can’t get the sight of Enjolras struggling for air out of his head. Stormie has already long gone to sleep, looking maybe half as angelic as Enjolras.

After maybe half an hour of shamelessly ogling the god lying almost on top of him, Grantaire’s eyes slide shut, and he is asleep.

Chapter Text

Joly catches sight of the news headlines on the front page of the local paper when he’s hurrying to his first class of the day. Rather than slowing down, he grabs a corner of the paper and flips a coin — he’s always been proud of his aim — at the newsboy as he runs past.

When he gets to Medical Biology by the skin of his teeth, he discreetly tucks the paper underneath his desk and unfolds it, the smell of printer’s ink and recycled paper reaching his nostrils. He wrinkles his nose — printer’s ink has chemicals that could lead to cancer, right? — and hastily scans the article he’s interested in. The same one that’s splashed all over the front pages.

Ever since Eponine texted them all last night to report of Combeferre’s little breakdown, he’s been worrying about what happened, and not in a hypochondriac sort of way. Anything that ruffles Combeferre’s feathers is worthy of caution.

He gets more details from the article than Combeferre and Eponine let on. There is a group of killers at large — nobody knows how many there are, because the number ranges from one to four according to surviving victims, but the group goes by the moniker Patron-Minette. Not all of their victims die — about twenty-five percent survive, but those aren’t good odds for anybody. They’ve been attacking and killing randomly and sporadically since last year, right before fall semester started.

Joly thinks back to that time. He smiles to himself. Combeferre and Eponine had just gotten together, and Joly remembers everybody being in good spirits. Whether or not anyone realizes, Les Amis are more or less divided into three tiny groups that have gravitated into one tightly-knit friendship circle: the Enjolras/Combeferre camp, and the Grantaire/Eponine camp, as well as the polyamorous union that Joly himself is in. In the first group, there’s Enjolras, Combeferre, Jehan, and Courfeyrac; in the latter, there’s Grantaire, Eponine, Feuilly, Bahorel, Cosette, and Marius. Well, Cosette bounces from the first to the second and back again all the time, and Marius with her, but that’s about it. Having Combeferre and Eponine date is doing wonders for the group, sealing in the cracks and bringing everybody even closer together, something which Joly hadn’t realized possible.

But this is serious stuff. Joly shakes himself and looks back down at the paper.

The worst part is that the gang seems to operate in a manner different from other gangs. Most of the time, they engage in robbery and burglary, but they have targeted and kidnapped random citizens on the streets and abused them before stringing them up and leaving them — alive or dead — for others to find, in public places or on well-lighted streets. They don’t completely disfigure the face so that they can be identified. Nobody knows who’s in the gang because they never say their names or use fake ones. Everything’s probably smoke and mirrors with them.

The more he reads, the more queasy he gets. Patron-Minette has claimed responsibility for nearly twenty other fatalities so far — not including victims who lived — and they still haven’t been caught. Bodies have turned up in alleyways that Patron-Minette has taken credit for — and nobody has challenged them — the cause of death has always been a gunshot to the stomach, or a slit throat. Joly can’t decide if it would be better to bleed out like that or to be tormented and then possibly killed anyway.

Either the police are more incompetent than Joly thinks or Patron-Minette is just more insane than everyone realizes.

And to think that Combeferre was helping its latest victims only last night.

He manages to correctly answer the question that his professor fires at him as he folds up the paper and tucks it into his backpack. He’ll read it again later; right now, he needs to focus on the board and ignore the churning in his stomach.

He’s not getting sick, is he? He already feels sick, but he’s mostly sure it’s just nausea at the newspaper article and not, heaven forbid, an actual flu bug.

Just to be safe, he pulls out hand sanitizer and douses his hands pretty thoroughly while nudging his backpack — and the newspaper — further under his desk with his toe.

Chapter Text

Everything slowly seems to return to normal after a week. That lost look in Combeferre’s eyes leaves, Joly stops insisting that everyone be accompanied everywhere with a buddy, and Enjolras doesn’t have another nightmare. He usually gets them every once in a blue moon, anyway.

Except that he and Grantaire are now regularly doing the dating thing... but it seems more like just hanging out.

He doesn’t even know how it happens, really. Part of him thinks they just eased into things, because they’re just spending so much more time together. It doesn’t matter what — they do end up watching Star Trek: Into Darkness, along with other movies that Enjolras usually shuns if not for the other Amis showering him with pop culture; they catch lunches and sometimes even dinners together when Grantaire discovers that they have the same odd lunch hour; they text regularly and talk a lot more than they ever used to. Back home, they hang around each other a lot when Grantaire is painting or sketching and Enjolras is reading or grading papers. During group outings, they’re commonly found sitting together or, at least, each in the near vicinity of the other person.

No one else says anything, and Enjolras doesn’t think anything of it until one day when he and Grantaire are watching the Avengers. It’s one of Enjolras’ favorite movies — despite having next to no educational value — and Grantaire has his arm around Enjolras. It’s snug enough on the couch that Enjolras doesn’t want to pull away. He’s beginning to realize that Grantaire has carved out a big enough hole in his life that he doesn’t want him to leave, but he’s not really sure how to convey that into words.

He’s so busy puzzling over it that when Iron Man mocks Thor’s cape — one of his favorite parts, and everyone knows it — he doesn’t laugh.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He shakes himself mentally, bringing himself back to the present. “I was just… thinking.”

“Penny for those thoughts, then.”

“Just… you know. You and me. I’m not sure what this is, but I really like it.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. The expression gives him a sardonic look that Enjolras finds himself liking. “Oh?”

“Whatever this is, it’s… um, it’s good. Fun.”

Grantaire keeps that eyebrow raised even as he smiles. “What? Dating?”

Enjolras panics and backpedals. “Wait, what? Dating? Um. Are we dating?”

Grantaire stares at him for a long moment, and as one, they break apart and scoot towards opposite ends of the couch. “Are we not?”

“I don’t know.”

“You mean, you don’t know if you want to date a broke, starving artist who recently got evicted and has no burning ambitions or passions in his life?”

“I didn’t say that, Grantaire.”

“But you were thinking it, weren’t you?”

“No, at least not until you brought it up, okay?”

“So you were thinking it!” There’s a note of vindictive triumph in Grantaire’s voice, even as it trembles slightly with hurt. “Pardon me for thinking that the great Apollo, the marble lover of liberty himself, would ever stoop to my level.”

“Grantaire, stop it.”

“Why, Apollo? Did I hit a nerve?”

“I don’t want to fight with you.”

“Well, you brought it up. So what’s the reason, huh? Are you just shocked at the realization that while you want to defend the common rabble, you don’t want to sully yourself with the likes of them? With the likes of me? Surprised at the knowledge that you’re so far above us all?”

“I’m not far above you!”

Grantaire’s laugh is as harsh as a crow’s. “Let me spell it out for you, Apollo. Our surroundings are good evidence on their own. Just take a good look. You’re rolling in coin. You’re so fucking attractive that both genders stop to stare at you on the damned streets. You have your life mapped out ahead of you, while I’m ‘unmotivated’, ‘wasting my potential’, and basically just ‘wasting my life away.’ Right?”

“If you applied yourself —” Enjolras begins, but Grantaire interrupts him.

“You’re so fucking presumptuous. You think that everyone’s like you, Apollo, but they’re not. I’m not, and I appreciate you trying not to change me into you, or making me one of your causes.”

“Well, maybe I should!” Enjolras yells, scaring Stormie off the couch. “You’re not doing anything with your life otherwise. You do have so much potential, Grantaire. Maybe you should do something with it like a productive human being rather than squander it all away!”

Grantaire jumps off the couch and grabs his jacket. “Fuck you,” he growls. “I don’t need you around telling me what to do.”

He walks out the door before Enjolras can say anything else — call him back, or yell at him some more, or apologize. At this point, he really doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do… which was his earlier predicament to begin with.

The door slams shut.

Chapter Text

R: Can I come crash at your place? Indefinitely?

Ponine: Sure thing. What happened? Did Enjolras throw you out?

R: No. Thanks for the vote of confidence. I walked out.

Ponine: Well, that’s something at least.

You’ve reached R’s voicemail. If you have a drink ready, we’re new BFFs. If you’re an Ami, I might consider talking to you. Otherwise, here’s a question for you — how much appreciation did Vincent Van Gogh get for his work in his lifetime? Equal to my interest in the voicemail you’re about to leave. So make it short.

Look, Grantaire, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean for us to fight. I just… I guess I’m not sure about what’s going on, and it escalated out of control. Anyway. I, um, I guess I’ll talk to you later.

Enjolras: Ferre, I fucked up.

Combeferre: Where are you? Are you on campus? What happened?

Enjolras: No. I’m at home. He walked out. We fought, and I don’t even know what happened. I don’t even know what I said.

Enjolras: I just found R’s liquor stash.

Combeferre: I’m on my way back. DON’T TOUCH THAT.

Enjolras: What’s the big deal about alcohol and everybody trying to get me to try some, anyway?

Enjolras: You know what, I just fought with Grantaire. I think I deserve to see what the big deal is.

Combeferre: You’ll lose control of your senses. Think of your hard-earned mental and emotional clarity.

Enjolras: It was my so-called emotional clarity that got me into this mess to begin with.

Enjolras: Vodka’s strong.

Enjolras: I love vodja.

Enjolras: Shit I screwd up big didnt I. I dont know what the fig deal is. I was jusst tryg to be mor articlate abouy my feeeeljhgs.

Combeferre: Put that damned bottle down, Enjolras.

Enjolras: No. I ssaid NO

There are many things that Combeferre has learned to accept as fact in his life. The following are five items on that list.

One: Grantaire and Enjolras will always fight eventually, no matter how well things have been going — because, contrary to what Enjolras thinks, his friends are NOT blissfully unaware of how close they’ve been getting.

Two: Enjolras has the emotional range and understanding of a teaspoon. For all his genius and charisma, he doesn’t understand matters of the heart at all.

Three: Grantaire will think that any sort of pushing back on Enjolras’ part is a rejection. His self-esteem just can’t take the hit.

Four: Enjolras doesn’t drink himself to excess. In fact, he counts more than a glass of wine as excess.

Five: Enjolras thinks and talks and acts in complete sentences with perfect grammar, spelling, and punctuation. Combeferre’s the exact same way — they both picked it up from each other.

So it’s kind of shocking to find that Enjolras has already broken two of Combeferre’s preconceptions.

Enjolras is sitting with his back against a kitchen cabinet. The cupboard in front of him has several bottles lined up and arranged according to alcohol type and height — no doubt a hint of Enjolras’ OCD emerging — but an empty two-liter vodka bottle is already lying on its side next to Enjolras’ thigh, and he’s got a second that’s bottoms up, tipping the rest down his throat.

Combeferre strides forward and grabs the bottle before any more of it can go into his mouth. “Hey. Enjolras. Let go.”

Enjolras shakes his head petulantly. “I want it.”

“You’re not going to want the hangover that comes with it tomorrow,” Combeferre says gently. “Good thing it’s Friday, or you’ll be mad at Grantaire, me, and yourself for getting drunk like this and skipping class.”

He notices the way Enjolras perks up at Grantaire’s name. “Yeah, Grand-aire. Where did he go again?”

“You said he walked out.”

Enjolras visibly wilts. “Oh. Yeah. He did. I said something, and chased him away. Again.” He tries to lift his arm to drink more, but Combeferre refuses to relinquish the bottle.

“What happened, old friend?”

“I don’t know. He asked me if we were dating. I told him I didn’t know. Then we, we just fought.” Enjolras frowns. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Can I finish this bottle?”

“It’s hard liquor, Enjolras,” Combeferre tells him, glancing at the label. “Absolut has 50% alcohol in their stuff. You’re going to regret this tomorrow, so trust me when I say I have your best interests at heart.”

“But… but I want it.”

“If you become an alcoholic based on two bottles, Enjolras, I think Grantaire’s going to be even angrier with you. Do you want that?”

Enjolras blinks. “No?”

“Good answer.” Combeferre peels Enjolras’ fingers off of the bottle and sets it on the counter, out of Enjolras’ reach. “Come on. It’s late, and you need to go to bed.”

By the time he manages to put Enjolras to bed, his phone is vibrating all over the place with text messages from Eponine.

Ponine: What the hell did Enjolras do this time? You tore out of here and 10 minutes later I have R at the door.

Ferre: You mean, other than unwittingly get into a long-coming argument with R and then get immensely sloshed out of his mind?

Ponine: You’re lying. Enjolras doesn’t drink.

Ferre: Really, babe. Would I lie about this?

Ponine: Holy shit. You can’t tell me stuff like this, Ferre. It makes me have a harder time hating him on R’s behalf.

Ferre: Don’t worry, I think Enjolras hates himself enough for everybody. Other than that first time, he’s never gotten drunk since.

Ponine: Yeah, well, I’m going to work through it, because R’s really upset. If I didn’t grab that bottle from him, he’d have fallen spectacularly off the wagon.

Ferre: Well, he owes you.

Ponine: I really thought it was going so well.

Ferre: Yeah, me too. Didn’t we figure that, if left to their own devices, though, they might eventually kill each other without all our help?

Ponine: Yeah, but still. I’ll text Bahorel and the rest and let them know what happened.

Ferre: I’ll let Courf and Cosette and co. know too. Good luck with R.

Ponine: I’m not sure which of us has the harder job. Good luck with our fearless leader. Love you.

Ferre: Love you too.

Chapter Text

The first thing Enjolras knows when he wakes up is absolute pain that throbs in his head like a jackhammer drill.

He groans and throws out an arm over his face. The room isn’t bright in the least bit — the curtains and blinds have been drawn, which he usually doesn’t do. It’s evident just how bad his hangover is when he realizes he can’t think of who could have closed them — but every movement, even breathing, hurts like the dickens. This headache hurts almost as bad as his migraines do.

The night comes flooding back to him, and he flings the quilt off of him and sprints for the bathroom. He barely makes it there in time to drop to his knees over the toilet and throw up everything he’s ingested in his entire life. Heaving so sharply he feels like he might have sprained something, he remains doubled over the toilet for a good fifteen minutes at least, his stomach knotted tightly and the taste of bile burning the back of his throat and his tongue.

There’s a warm hand rubbing circles into his back and another keeping the hair out of his face as he continues to throw up. When the nausea passes, and Enjolras is sure there’s nothing else left in his stomach anyway — he hits the flush and leans his side against the wall, closing his eyes.

“How much did I drink?” he asks, his voice raspy.

“Two liters,” Combeferre says calmly. “You had one of those 1.75 liter Absolut vodka bottles. I got you to stop drinking the other one.”

Enjolras groans. “This is why I don’t drink. You’re a godsend, Ferre.”

“I know.” He can hear the smile in Combeferre’s voice. “So what happened last night? This hangover probably will beat your first ever when we stole that burgundy at your father’s dinner party and drank it together in your room.”

Combeferre is making an effort to quieten his voice, but Enjolras feels like each word is knocking at his skull. He talks, though, because the alternative is to be stuck alone with his thoughts.

“I know I fought with Grantaire.” He relates what bits of the conversation he can remember to his best friend. “I don’t know what he wanted. I don’t even know what I wanted, or want. And he just… he just left.”

Combeferre’s eyes are narrowed. “I think you need to apologize to him. It’s Thanksgiving break this week, and after that we have finals, so you really shouldn’t hold off for too long … oh, shit, I shouldn’t have said that, should I?”

Enjolras’ expression has gone from confused and dejected to utterly hysterical. He jumps to his feet, and Combeferre just barely manages to catch him as the room spins sickeningly.

“You need to sit down and not move too suddenly, or you’re just going to make your head feel worse again.”

“Finals?” Enjolras shrieks. “I have a million things to do!”

Combeferre sighs, as if Enjolras has just missed the point. “You need to apologize to R,” he says, but Enjolras doesn’t hear him. He’s too busy worrying — he has that mock trial for Lamarque’s class for his final and its accompanying briefs, two papers he needs to write, his TA students’ finals need to be graded and their scores entered into the computer system, the speeches to be prepared for the protest after Thanksgiving and just before finals, an agenda for the Ami meeting before said protest…

And he can’t even take off Thanksgiving to work on all of that because he has to go home to see his mother. He groans.

“Enjolras?” Combeferre sounds worried. “Are you okay?”

“Maybe it’s better that we fought,” Enjolras says glumly. “I didn’t realize how much I have to get done, and it was getting too much like a holiday, being around him.” He tries to stand again, and Combeferre slings his arm around him and helps him out of the bathroom. “I suppose it was too much to expect that we wouldn’t fight again at some point.”

He knows he sounds dejected, and Combeferre confirms this when he deposits Enjolras onto his bed and kneels down in front of him with a gently understanding expression on his face.

“You’ll get it all done,” he assures him. “Just don’t forget what you two were having — and how you know that you want to fix all of this.”

“But I can’t, not now,” Enjolras blurts, and this time he can hear himself; he knows that he’s near tears, and Combeferre’s eyebrows are climbing up towards his hair. “I want to, but the rest of me needs to just get on all the work I have to do, and I can’t afford the time or the energy on Grantaire, even though I want to, but because I just can’t.”

Combeferre claps a hand on his shoulder and leaves the room for the moment, returning with two glasses of some liquid. Enjolras doesn’t even register what color it is before he tosses it back, drinking it all down, and he coughs when he’s done.

“That’s vile,” he grimaces, but to his surprise he can feel the hangover-induced headache starting to fade.

“Drink this other one when you can,” Combeferre tells him, putting the second glass down on his nightstand. “The Dioralyte will help rehydrate you. Look, get started on what you have to do, but please take it easy on yourself, because if not you’re going to rack up a migraine tomorrow. It’s almost guaranteed you’re going to get one soon enough when you’re handling finals stress, so please be careful.”

“I’ll be okay,” Enjolras mutters. He means about his workload, because there’s no way he’s going to be okay about the fight he’s had with Grantaire. It’s tamer than other fights they’ve had in the past, but for some reason, this time it’s wounding him more. He doesn’t know why, and when he tries to think about it, his head hurts too much, so he stops.

For that matter, Combeferre clearly doesn’t trust his word, anyway. He just looks suspicious.

“I’m not going anywhere, Combeferre,” Enjolras says, feeling a tad exasperated, but he’s too tired to show it. “I have all the material I need for my essays, so I’m just staying in and reading up. And I still have to grade those worksheets even before the students’ finals.”

Combeferre still doesn’t seem convinced. “I’m going over to Eponine’s for a bit, but someone will come over just to make sure you’re not dead.”

Enjolras doesn’t need anybody else. Unless the someone is Grantaire, which, considering the fight they just had, would be quite the stretch.

“Tell him I’m sorry,” he blurts.

Combeferre inclines his head and puts a hand briefly on Enjolras’ shoulder.

“I will,” he says, “but to make it really count, it has to come from your own lips, too.”

Chapter Text

The better part of a week comes and goes and Enjolras doesn’t apologize, so Grantaire doesn’t, either. It feels like he’s stabbing himself in the foot, but the childish part of him doesn’t want to give in.

It’s a difficult thing to do, though. In the weeks he’s been there, he’s gotten so used to having Enjolras around and knowing all his quirks and habits that his absence is like a missing limb.

Way too early on Wednesday morning, he takes advantage of Enjolras going to campus to sneak back into the apartment and pack some of his things — his sketchbook, some oil paints and a brush and a couple of canvases, enough clothes to make it through the break, and the few toiletries he can’t do without. When he hoists the backpack and is about to leave the apartment, he’s distracted by Stormie, prancing around him and meowing frantically.

“Shit,” he says. “What am I going to do with you?” He realizes that in the chaos of his and Enjolras’ fight, no one has given any thought to the fact that they’ll be abandoning a baby animal for the space of five days or more over the Thanksgiving break. Knowing Enjolras, he’ll probably forget about her, and they’ll come back to a dead kitten. Grantaire winces at the morbid thought.

“Good thing my parents already have cats,” he grumbles. He quickly tosses some of Stormie’s kitten paraphernalia into a paper bag before scooping her up in one arm and leaving the apartment.

Enjolras and Combeferre so owe him on this one.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Grantaire: I took Stormie with me because obviously you and the sulking one were going to forget about her.

Combeferre: Actually, Enjolras said he was going to take her. You should text him to tell him she’s with you.

Grantaire: How about no. Nice try, though.

Combeferre: Worth a shot. Enjolras’ dad would have gone apeshit if he’d ‘sprung a mangy mutt on them at the last minute’ anyway.

Grantaire: Whatever you’re trying to do to make me feel bad for him, it’s NOT WORKING.

Combeferre: Whoever said I was trying to make you feel bad for him?

Grantaire: You’ve been spending way too much time with Enjolras, if you’re picking up on his passive-aggressive cross-examining counter-argument tactics, or whatever the hell you just used on me. Tried to use on me. If your medical career doesn't pan out, you’ve got one in law.

Combeferre: I try. If I can’t practice on you, who else can I practice on?

Grantaire: Kill all the lawyers.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The journey from Manhattan to his family home in Connecticut usually takes an hour and forty minutes.

Enjolras takes an hour and fifteen.

Maybe it’s because he keeps speeding, driving through the secret country road he discovered at age nineteen. Or maybe it’s because he can’t stop thinking of Grantaire, his mother, his workload, and Grantaire — in that order — and he’s taking out his aggression on the road. Whatever the reason, he manages to floor it without once spotting a cop until he reaches the sprawling family estate.

He hates everything about this place. The manicured gardens and tennis courts and swimming pools — complete with a bloody pool house — already make him feel nauseated, and he hasn’t even stepped into his father’s domain yet. It’s no secret that Sebastien loves showing off his wealth, and the pretentiousness and greed of it all just drives Enjolras absolutely, positively, up the wall.

Grantaire hasn’t returned to the apartment all week. He just up and left and stayed with Eponine until Thanksgiving break. Even then, he left without saying goodbye, and the thought of it sends a sick feeling through Enjolras’ stomach.

He hasn’t been able to talk to Grantaire because (a) he’s been busy, (b) he doesn’t want to apologize for something he doesn’t think is wrong to believe — Grantaire has so much untapped potential that it is a waste to throw it away, no matter what — and (c) he doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to apologize for, anyway. He doesn’t think that Grantaire is upset about the potential angle of the argument, but if not, then what?

Agathe, the old housekeeper, is standing in the open doorway to welcome Enjolras, and her wrinkled face breaks out into a big smile. She’s about as old as his grandparents, because she’s been around in Enjolras’ life for as long as he can remember. It’s a testament to how fantastic a housekeeper she is that his father, the ever-dissatisfied complainer of the year, has never once tried to send her away.

“Look how you’ve grown,” Agathe teases. It’s their long-running joke, because Enjolras is pretty sure he hasn’t changed since he last saw her, one year ago. “I barely recognize that gangly little kid who used to make mud pies and preach about freedom and equality to the ducks in the pond.”

Enjolras smiles, more warmly than he expects, and hitches his duffel up higher on his shoulder before he goes in for a warm hug from the doting old lady. “I’m still the same as I was last year, Agathe.”

“Piffle,” Agathe scoffs. “Come on in.”

“Is my father here?” Enjolras asks cautiously, following her into the mansion. The butler — complete with black bow tie and tuxedo-style uniform — snaps out a crisp bow as he closes the door behind either of them. “Also, who’s the stiff?” He lowers his voice so he’s not being (completely) rude, and Agathe snorts a laugh as she does the same.

“That’s Pierre. The latest new installment in the History of Sebastien Enjolras’ Bloated Ego.”

Enjolras coughs on his own laugh. Agathe has never been fond of his father, either, solidly taking Enjolras’ and his mother’s side on things, although she’s perfectly respectful to Sebastien when she’s around him. Hard not to be, when he’s the one who could hire or fire her in a beat.

“Why did he want a butler? He already has a cook, a maid, a gardener, and a chauffeur. Plus, he has you.”

“Your father hosts a lot of parties more recently as of late, and apparently he thinks it’s a good idea to get a penguin for a helper. To impress the bigwigs, you know.”

“How in character of him. Is he or my mother home?”

“Your mother’s at the cancer center. She’s been so excited to have you come to visit, Adrien. I think Laurent will be picking her up in half an hour. Your father’s at some photo op, but he’ll be back in time for dinner. I think he’s taking you and your mother out to a restaurant.”

“Really?” Enjolras hisses. “She’s spent all day at the cancer center. The last thing she wants is to be paraded around on the town.”

Agathe shakes her head. “You’re telling me, kiddo.”

“Tell me that’s it for this week, because I really can’t deal with all his shit right now.”

“Language, dear. And no, I’m afraid that’s not it. He’s got all sorts of things scheduled, like a couple of dinner parties… and a visit to the cemetery.” Agathe’s voice is reluctant, and Enjolras knows it’s because she is fully aware of the reaction that her words are provoking in him. He feels a muscle jumping in his jaw as he grits his teeth, trying to get his temper under control, and doesn’t say anything else until Agathe points him back to his childhood room.

“Go on and get freshened up for tonight,” she says calmly. “Then if you want, you can come downstairs and we can catch up in the parlor.”

Enjolras nods. On impulse, he leans up and plants a quick kiss on the old lady’s cheek.

“Thanks, Agathe. I don’t know what she’ll do without you.”

The housekeeper smiles and backs out of the room as Enjolras tosses his duffel bag onto the floor. He reaches into his rucksack and retrieves his phone, hoping to see a text or a missed call — or even an angry, drunk voicemail from Grantaire — but there isn’t anything from him. Instead, he scrolls through a couple of texts from the others, wishing him a happy Thanksgiving, and a note from Combeferre about relaxing and taking things easy this Thanksgiving.

Take things easy. Yeah. Right.

His fingers hesitate over the keypad of his phone, and he debates furiously within himself about texting Grantaire. It doesn’t even have to be a big thing. All he needs to do is wish him a happy Thanksgiving and to have fun with his family. Or something.

He doesn’t do it. Instead, he throws his phone across the room, where it harmlessly bounces onto his leather desk chair, and he rolls over on his bed to bury his face into the thick pillows there.

Welcome home, Enjolras.

* * * * * * * * * * *

For the next couple of days, Grantaire is so blissfully zoned out with his family that he doesn’t even think about Enjolras.

Much.

His family’s comfortable old rent-controlled apartment in the Upper West Side is exactly the same way that he remembers it — crowded with wall-to-wall bookshelves filled with his art and Celine’s music and his father’s books. There’s quite a bit of cat hair around, but it doesn’t bother him. It’s nice that the cats welcome little baby Stormie, who keeps swiping at the broken violin strings that Celine has a habit of leaving around the apartment. The aromas of his mother’s cooking waft through the entire flat, and he gorges himself on her world-famous pastas and pastries and pies, because that’s exactly what Aurelie Grantaire does in her free time. She bakes and cooks until the likes of her wares equal, if not surpass, Martha Stewart’s offerings.

For as long as Grantaire can remember, his father has been struggling to overcome his drinking habit. However, the last time he’s fallen off the wagon was three years ago, and he’s still going strong. Now, without the ravage of alcohol poisoning or the imminent threat of liver cirrhosis, he talks animatedly about his high school students and the literature they’re studying, eyes and brain equally alive with undulled clarity.

Grantaire finds that he resembles his father more than he thinks. They have the same blue eyes and stocky build and facial structure, although Grantaire is somewhat pleased to find that his kickboxing and dancing have lent him more of a fitter figure than he has realized. He got his curly black hair from his mother, while Celine inherited their father’s gleaming chestnut brown locks.

The first day he is back, they visit the New York Historical Society museum and share a decent home-cooked dinner, before spoiling Stormie absolutely rotten. Tomorrow they’re going to go Black Friday shopping; today they’re all helping to pitch in for the big Thanksgiving meal. Grantaire finds it nice to be around three other people — family members, no less — who can cook even better than he can, because it’s sure relaxing to eat something he hasn’t had to cook for himself, for once. He, Cosette, and Chetta are usually the three Amis who handle refreshments at group activities.

Aurelie is chopping up the celery and onions with remarkable aplomb, while Remy argues with her about how to cook the ham. (He’s not that bad of a chef himself, and occasionally he and Aurelie go up against each other with their differing cooking opinions.) Grantaire is tasting the cranberry sauce when Celine sneaks up and squeezes a small gob of whipped cream into his hair.

“You little —!”

Celine ducks out of his reach, throwing a spoonful of uncooked corn in his face and blinding him. Grantaire splutters, trying to wipe the cream off his hair, when his father reaches around and tucks half a squash down the back of his sister’s T-shirt.

“Dad! EW!”

“Remy!”

“Come on, Aurelie. Live a little!”

Grantaire watches open-mouthed as his mother gives his father a very evil grin. “Okay, then,” she says, before she takes a handful of celery and tosses it over Remy’s head.

The food fight becomes a five-minute free-for-all, until his mother orders everyone to clean up the mess and take showers before they resume the Thanksgiving preparation again.

Things are fantastic, Grantaire thinks. Damn near perfect, even.

Now, if only Enjolras would text him back.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Jehan has asked Feuilly to come home with him for Thanksgiving twice in a row already, and he’s glad that Feuilly says yes to this third time, too. He and the others worry about Feuilly a lot at family-themed holidays, because of his own early-orphan, foster-care background.

Besides, Jehan’s parents really do like spending time with Feuilly. The kid is well educated on nearly every subject — almost in a polymath sort of way like Enjolras — and Jehan’s father loves discussing with him economics and politics. Enjolras has a tendency to get overtly passionate about everything — from the smallest ant to the largest bigwig in the British Parliament — while Feuilly has a grave sort of seriousness to him, but a quick wit that means he can banter easily with the best of them. Jehan’s mother always ends up loading the car to bursting with food and supplies, and Jehan knows that it’s something that Feuilly appreciates because (a) it’s not charity; Jehan’s mother genuinely likes giving gifts, and (b) they’re all stuff that Feuilly can save on having to purchase in the rest of the school year, meaning that he doesn’t have to work himself to death at his three jobs to make ends meet.

They’re busy discussing Feuilly’s search for an internship when the housekeeper comes to summon them to dinner.

“Sweetheart,” Jehan’s mother says, putting her hand on Feuilly’s arm, “we have a family friend in one of the professors in the engineering department. He’s had his own firm for years until he recently handed it over to his son, and surely he can put in a good plug for you if we talk to him. Would you be okay with that?”

Jehan is talking to his father about Courfeyrac, both of them pretending not to notice the conversation between his mother and Feuilly, while shamelessly eavesdropping. Jehan holds his breath. Feuilly has been having a hard time searching for internships, and if he says yes, this could really help…

To his utmost relief, Feuilly nods. “That would be wonderful, if it’s not too much of a bother…”

“Nicolas, dear, if it was a bother, I wouldn’t bring it up,” Jehan’s mother says primly with a smile, and Jehan grins at the abashed look on Feuilly’s face. “Zacharie and I always want to help Jehan’s friends, and we do adore you. You’re so clever and so independent. I honestly don’t know how you do it, and Zacharie’s put himself through high school and college working two jobs. You have three. Trust me, this isn’t a bother at all.”

Jehan exchanges conspiratorial smirks with his father as they lead the way to the dining room.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Eponine isn’t nervous about bringing Gavroche and Azelma back to Combeferre’s place for Thanksgiving. Not at all. Nope.

She’s met Combeferre’s parents before, and visited their lavish home before. However, her siblings haven’t, and part of her is irrationally terrified that they’ll do something stupid. She loves them to pieces, but she doesn’t want Gavroche stealing anything or Azelma making coy remarks about wanting an iPad or something like that. It could happen.

However, all it takes is Combeferre’s younger brother Devin and his new puppy to effectively capture Gavroche’s attention. Azelma’s swept off by sixteen-year-old Clarice to talk about nail polishes and makeup and boys and a hundred other things that Eponine doesn’t remember being captivated by when she was Azelma’s age. Not that it matters. Both girls can be talking about coal mining for all she cares, as long as Azelma behaves herself.

“Your brother and sister are lovely, Eponine,” Sophie Combeferre compliments, and Eponine’s bullshit detector tells her that, as usual, Combeferre’s mother is being about as generously sincere as a Disney princess. “Did you say you got custody of them a couple of months ago?”

Eponine nods. “Yeah, it took a while to win that battle,” she says with a sigh, “but it’s been wonderful having both of them with me. I don’t have to worry about them getting into all kinds of mischief with my parents. I still have to worry about them like I’m their mother, now, but for the most part, they’ve got good heads on their shoulders and they’re pretty well-behaved.”

“It’s good practice for motherhood, I’d say,” Vincent says, and winks at his son. Combeferre turns bright red. “You, bucko, need to catch up. At this rate, Eponine’s going to far surpass you in parenting skills.”

“Well, don’t give Luc a hard time, Vincent,” Sophie chastises. “As I recall, you were the same clueless way around your own children.”

“Still am,” Vincent smirks, as everyone laughs.

“I want you to know, though, dear,” Sophie says. “I think you’re such a remarkable woman to have to deal with so much responsibility at so young an age, and to do it so gracefully is quite the feat. That’s worthy of admiration on every count.”

Eponine opens her mouth as she blushes, ready to deny Sophie’s compliment. How many times has she been less than understanding and patient with Gavroche and Azelma just because she was tired or grumpy or worried about how things are going and how she can keep them all afloat?

“Take the compliment, Eponine,” Vincent advises, “because if we get Sophie on your case lecturing you about all your achievements we’ll be here for hours.” He winks at her and good-naturedly takes a swat on the shoulder from his wife.

Combeferre drops a kiss onto Eponine’s cheek as they both smile, quite unable to stop.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Bahorel’s always been really good with his hands. Like, really, really good. The girls whom he’s had sex with all agree, and the guys whose jaws he’s fractured and whose noses he’s broken would attest to that.

But it’s the Amis and his parents who would say that his hands are good for other uses as well.

He may be quite the asshole and more brawn than brain and unable to cut the apron strings that tie him to his parents, but he’s always been a pretty good son. He helps his mum around the house. He’s inherited his father’s auto mechanic skills. And now and then, he always has a good surprise up his sleeve.

“Victor, what are you doing?”

“Careful, Mom, don’t step there.” He guides his mother down the driveway to where the garage is. While his parents have been working in the kitchen on the Thanksgiving dinner, he’s been busy in his own way in the garage, trying feverishly to churn his gift out before the meal is ready. Now that he’s done, he can’t stop fidgeting like a little kid.

“Victor, walking with my eyes closed probably isn’t a safe bet,” his father points out drily.

“Psh, Dad, I’m built like a brick wall. I think I could easily protect you two from tripping,” Bahorel says with a smirk.

“Speaking of which, Victor, you need to be careful when you go working out in the gym. Make sure you don’t pull any muscles and that you know how to work the equipment. I worry about you all the time.” Maurelle has her hand tight on Bahorel’s elbow, and Bahorel nods before he realizes his mother can’t see him.

“Okay, Mom. I’ll be careful.”

“Are we there yet?” Karl asks.

“Yep. Keep your eyes closed, both of you.” Bahorel tugs at the garage door of their tiny one-storey house and grins proudly when he spots his handiwork. “Okay, now you can open them.”

His parents obey, and the silence that greets Bahorel is palpable.

“Victor —”

There’s a brand-new rocking chair carved from maple, and a sturdy desk built from ash. Bahorel has worked on both projects for the better part of a year, and he’s sanded and polished and stained every inch of those suckers himself. The results are as aesthetically and visually pleasing as similar overpriced products at fancy furniture stores. His parents are both gaping in disbelief.

“I know your rocking chair broke for good last month, Mom,” he says. “And Dad, you’d always wanted a desk, but that crappy one you have in the study isn’t something that you really deserve. Now, before you start berating me, the wood and tools and everything didn’t cost much, because I pretty much have free access to the wood shop at school.”

His father approaches the desk first, running his hand over it with a look of awe on his face.

“The wood feels as smooth as polished marble. Victor, this is amazing. No nails, no screws, nothing. With the right care, this could last for decades.”

“I’m assuming you both will be around that long, so don’t make a liar out of me now.”

Bahorel’s surprised when both his parents wrap their arms around him and hug him close. Considering that he’s now bigger than either of them, it’s almost amusing, but also really rather nice. He’s gotten so used to being the big man around the house that warm fuzzies like this don’t happen too often. He’s too macho for that.

Oh, who’s he kidding. He’s still his parents’ son, even with dozens more muscles added.

“Happy Thanksgiving, you two. Thanks for being the best parents ever.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Courfeyrac is in St. Bart’s with his family. Normally he would prefer being at home where he can meet up with Jehan, Enjolras, and Combeferre — and by default, Feuilly, and Eponine — but it’s so freaking cold in New York that being somewhere warm is nice.

Besides, his father is closing a deal with some other oil company, and if Courfeyrac has to sit in surf shorts baking in the sun and drink tall glasses of rum punch as he watches his little sisters splashing in the ocean, then he’ll gladly bear his heavy burden.

Although, right now, being in the middle of a snowbank might help to cool the heat on his cheeks. They’re hot enough that he can probably fry an egg on them.

“Would you say that again, Mom?” he asks, mentally freaking out, but doing his best not to show it.

“I said, your grandmother wants to meet Jehan.”

“My grandmother, as in, Grandmother Jessamine?” Courfeyrac squeaks, shoving his Ray-Bans off of his face to look more squarely at his mother.

“You only have one living grandmother, Henri,” Noemi Courfeyrac says exasperatedly, but not without a touch of amused fondness. “If you want clarification, then, yes, it’s Grandmother Jessamine. My mother, and your maternal grandmother.”

“Mom. You can’t be serious.”

“Would you like me to ask her to tell you herself?”

Courfeyrac wilts. “No.”

His grandmother is the last of Courfeyrac’s grandparents still living, and as such, she commands great respect from everyone. Despite her dowager age of seventy, she’s still as sharp-witted as she was when she was twenty. Since Courfeyrac is her oldest grandson, she tends to favor him, but she’s a traditionalist and a Republican. As such, Courfeyrac knows she isn’t entirely pleased that he’s gay, although her love for him has won out so far.

But if she wants to meet Jehan, then she either wants to tear him a new one — which really isn’t going to help Courfeyrac at all — or she’s getting old. And the thought of losing his last grandparent makes Courfeyrac feel sadder than he would like, especially on Thanksgiving.

“She’s not even remotely near her deathbed,” Noemi states, correctly interpreting the look on Courfeyrac’s face. “She just wants to meet him because she’s decided to be more open-minded about things. And she wants to know what her favorite grandson is up to and who he’s hanging around with.”

“She knows I hang around Enjolras and Combeferre,” Courfeyrac points out.

“That’s not the point. She wants to know who else you’re hanging around with.”

“She’s just nosey,” Courfeyrac mutters, but there’s no heat in it. “Fine, fine. I’ll think about it, okay?”

“No ‘thinking about it.’ She’s decided that she’s going to meet him at Christmas.”

Courfeyrac chokes on his rum and Coke.

“I’m not drunk enough for this conversation,” he mutters, and waves down a passing waiter to order a vodka tonic.

“Don’t drink too much,” Noemi chides. “The resort’s planning a special dinner in light of Thanksgiving.”

“Yes, sir,” Courfeyrac says mockingly, saluting his mother with the little paper umbrella that he plucks off of his glass.

* * * * * * * * * * * 

Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet are together for Thanksgiving again for the fourth time, and Bossuet loves it because it’s always a huge family gathering when that happens. Their three families have known each other for years, especially since Joly and Bossuet have grown up together, and now with talk of things getting even more serious among the three of them, everyone’s gotten together in Joly’s house for a big barbeque-cum-Thanksgiving celebration.

Andre Joly is handling the grill with ease, ignoring his son’s admonishments about carcinogens, while Joly’s little brothers Mason and Julien are playing Matchbox cars with Chetta. Bossuet has been banned from helping with the food after he trips and falls with the corn. Luckily, they are salvageable, since they’re all wrapped in foil, and his parents are both as good-natured as he is, laughing at him and reassuring him that things are okay. Joly’s older sister Aimee and her husband are both feeding their precious six-month-old baby girl. Bossuet’s older brother Blaise carries a bowl of sweet potatoes to the picnic tables set up outside, while the three mothers follow him with more bowls and platters.

Joly still can’t stop freaking out about the smoke that his father is absurdly determined to inhale into his lungs, but when he stops to look around him and sees the hustle and bustle of his lovers’ families and the fun and chatter that everyone is participating in, he can’t help but smile.

Truly, the three of them have so much to be thankful for.

* * * * * * * * * * *

“Please pass the butter, Cosette.”

Monsieur Gillenormand is smiling so widely at her that Cosette can’t help but smile back. She feels like she’s bursting to the rim with joy, because in a few weeks, she’ll be marrying the man of her dreams, which is probably going to make his grandfather and her own father spontaneously combust with happiness.

Or maybe that’s just Cosette herself.

Valjean is beaming at her from the end of the table. It’s just the four of them eating, because the help’s already had their dinner, but the meal looks too perfect to eat, really. Nicolette and Basque have outdone themselves.

“Papa,” she says, when Valjean’s carved the turkey and put some on every plate. “Papa, Monsieur Gillenormand, there’s really too much food here. What if we shared the rest with the homeless shelter over on 9th East when we’re done? That way the food won’t go to waste, and we’ll be able to do a good turn for people who really need a hand.”

Marius stops eating and looks hopefully at his grandfather, who’s staring back at him with the fondest look on his face. He chuckles, which twitches that white walrus mustache that Cosette’s so fascinated by, and shrugs.

“That sounds fine by me.”

Cosette glances over at her father, who has an expression on his face of mixed tenderness and pride. He slowly nods, and sets his napkin down to take her hand.

“If Fantine were here,” he says, speaking freely of Cosette’s deceased mother, “she’d be very proud of you, sweetheart.”

“And your parents of you,” Monsieur Gillenormand tells Marius in a tone that would be pompously overbearing if not for the obvious love behind it. “You both are getting married soon, and I cannot think of a better couple to wish all the happiness in the world to.”

Marius beams and takes Cosette’s hand in his. Cosette loves it when he gets speechless, because he’s always awkward like that, his feelings overcoming his tongue until he can’t think of anything to say. His bumbling adorableness is just one of the many things she loves about him.

“I love you,” she mouths to him. “I’m so thankful for you.”

Marius cannot do anything but give her a silly grin in return.

Chapter Text

Being in his father’s house is every bit as painful as Enjolras remembers. The only perks to the break are his mother and Agathe.

That very first day he’s home, they go out to dinner at some incredibly overpriced bistro. Enjolras wears a dark blue blazer over a sky blue shirt and matching pants — Sebastien has made it abundantly clear that he expects Enjolras always to be looking his best if they’re both ever seen together — and at the blinding flashes of cameras going off when they walk into and out of the restaurant, he wishes he was wearing a hoodie and jeans. If anything, he wants to embarrass his father and make him as uncomfortable as he makes Enjolras feel.

His mother looks well enough, with the shadows beneath her eyes covered with concealer. She hides her tiredness by her long-legged stride and photogenic smiles, but Enjolras isn’t fooled.

“You’re tired,” he whispers under his breath, when his father is posturing like a bloody peacock for the cameras and gushing away into a microphone.

Maryse beams at him and kisses him on the cheek, and Enjolras feels a muscle twitch in his cheek as he is half blinded by more camera flashes.

“I’m okay, mon cheri,” his mother says calmly. “We’re going home soon, so I can rest then.”

Enjolras steams, but even he can’t do anything against the juggernaut that’s his father. It’s ironic, really. He wants to change the world and defend the little people and protect the downtrodden. How can he do all that when he can’t even face his own father?

Are you just shocked at the realization that while you want to defend the common rabble, you don’t want to sully yourself with the likes of them?

Well, he’d much rather ‘sully’ himself with the people than with the likes of his own father.

A microphone is shoved in his face, and rather than answering the white noise of questions flung at him, Enjolras simply escorts his mother to the car, maintaining as stony a silence as he can for the verbal deluge thrown over his head.

Stay calm, his mind warns. Do it for your mother.

When they get home, his mother retires for the night, promising to talk to him tomorrow, because anyone can see that she’s exhausted, it’s not fucking rocket science — although clearly it is for Sebastien. Rather than playing up to his father’s business contacts as Enjolras knows Sebastien wants, he deliberately goes to his room and pulls out the books that he brought all the way here from his apartment.

He’s graded the homework for his students, but he has to start his research for his papers before he gets back, because there’s too much to do and not enough time to do it all. On top of everything else, Grantaire and the other Amis keep lurking in the corners of his mind and the fringes of every thought, which really doesn’t help his mood. He can’t help thinking over and over again that he’s screwed up, and as usual, he doesn’t know what he said or how to fix things. What if Grantaire never forgives him?

What if, what if, what if?

Opening Rousseau’s Discourse on Inequality, he starts to write copious notes in the margins and on a yellow legal pad, forcing his doubts out of his head, at least for now.

He doesn’t sleep that night.

* * * * * * * * * * 

The next day, he picks at his breakfast. Despite the large spread that Agathe and Beatrice have whipped up, he has no appetite. It’s only when Maryse appears at the head of the stairs that he forces himself to choke down his bacon and eggs.

“Good morning, Mother.” He stands to help her down the stairs. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, Adrien, darling.” She smiles at him. “How’s breakfast?”

“Delicious,” he lies. He’s sure it tastes marvelous, but his mind is on a hundred other things.

“I think I’ll have some eggs and a spot of toast,” Maryse remarks. “Mon cheri, were you up late last night?”

Trust his mother to know. Enjolras decides she’s telepathic.

“Just for a little bit,” he lies again. He doesn’t need to tell her that he was up till six last night working on his first essay and then laid in bed for three hours staring up at the ceiling and thinking of Grantaire. There’s no point adding to his mother’s stress if he can pretend that everything is fine. “I just have a lot of work to do.”

Agathe shakes her head as she sails into the dining room with a plate of eggs and toast. “You’re going to work yourself to death, Adrien.”

“Hopefully not,” he says lightly. The subject of death keeps raking up his nerves over and over again, and he feels on edge whenever he thinks about it. “No one’s dying anytime soon.”

Maryse’s eyes flick to his face, and he knows that his mother suspects his feelings. Thankfully, she says nothing.

“So what’s on the agenda for the king today?” Agathe asks.

“Agathe,” Maryse chides, but a smile plays around her lips, bringing no sting in the slightest to the supposed rebuke. “Sebastien has arranged for lunch at the St. Regis.” She takes a deep breath before continuing. “And then a cemetery visit before Thanksgiving dinner tonight.”

Enjolras looks up like he’s heard a gunshot.

“And you’re expected to be there, Adrien,” a new voice breaks into the conversation.

Enjolras whips around in his chair to find his father standing in the doorway of the dining room. As Agathe melts unobtrusively away, Sebastien walks forward and takes a seat beside his wife at the head of the table, kissing her on the cheek as he does so. The entire time, he never takes his eyes off of Enjolras. It’s like being surveyed by a shark. A shark with blue eyes like Enjolras’, and features that he can recognize on his own face.

He’s never hated his own appearance more than in this moment.

Enjolras glares back, doing his best to be completely unintimidated.

“How like you to turn this into a photo op,” he spits. “Having the whole family together on Thanksgiving day. Or at least, what you can cobble together of the family, considering that you sent Alain to an early grave.”

“Adrien —” his mother begins, already looking tired.

Instantly, hot shame plunges right through Enjolras. Here he’s trying to make his mother feel better, but he just ended up making things worse.

“Say that again, young man,” Sebastien begins, rising up out of his chair. “I’m the one trying to keep this family together. Your mother is sick, and I’m giving her the best treatment that there is to offer. And what do you do with your time, other than waste my money and throw away your time on your stupid protests and childish rallies! You’re never going to change a thing, and you’d best get used to that now!”

Enjolras opens his mouth to say something, but he closes it again. He hasn’t forgotten the threat that his father leveled his way at his last visit: “If you don’t behave yourself in public and shut up, I’ll cut you off and you’ll never see your mother again. That’s a promise.”

So he lets his father tear into him for a good half an hour, shaking his head at his mother when she attempts to defend him.

Better for him to take it than her.

Under the table, he curls his hands into fists and thinks of Combeferre and Grantaire, wishing he is anywhere else but here. Hell, he’d even take Grantaire yelling at him again, if it means that he’s not here being cussed out and having his every fault and mistake gone over with a fine-toothed comb by a blond thug in a suit. 

Chapter Text

Grantaire’s putting the finishing touches on a family portrait when his phone buzzes.

By now, he’s learned to not expect a text from Enjolras. Eponine’s name is the one that comes up, so Grantaire slides his phone to unlock it and open the message without thinking.

It’s a picture message, and the photo that accompanies the text is one of Enjolras. He’s seated at a desk, books and papers scattered around him, one hand still curled around a pen. His head is pillowed in the crook of his right arm, and he faces the camera, fast asleep. Grantaire catches himself tracing the line of Enjolras’ lips, when he snaps back to the present and checks the text message.

Ponine: It seems your marble statue is incapable of relaxing even on holidays.

R: So it would seem. What are you even doing over there at his place? Did you break in?

Ponine: Ha, no. Combeferre’s mom is hanging out with Maryse like the BFFs they are, and Ferre and I came over to make sure Enjolras hasn’t killed his father. Or himself. Looks like he’s trying hard for the latter.

R: Don’t think one picture’s going to make me forgive him. I do have my pride.

Ponine: He’s having a hard time, R. Just give him a break, okay?

That’s a new development. Usually Eponine sides with him pretty heartily against Enjolras. Obviously Combeferre has gotten to her.

R: Wow, that’s rich, coming from you. Is Ferre more persuasive than I gave him credit for?

Ponine: Seriously, R. His dad is a fucking douchebag and basically ruined his Thanksgiving. He hasn’t slept in days because he’s swamped with the stuff he has to do. And he feels really, really bad about your fight. Now can you both please kiss and make up and consummate that sexual tension that has been brewing between the two of you ever since you first met three years ago?

R: Tell him I’m game if he is.

Ponine: Tell him yourself.

R: That’s never going to happen, because he’ll never feel the same way I do, and you know it. Not everybody has a fairy tale ending like yours, Ponine.

Ponine: You need to have a little faith. Also, a little sympathy. Doesn’t his plight make you commiserate with him too, or are you completely indifferent?

R: This is how I know Combeferre’s changed you. You’re using words like ‘commiserate’.

Ponine: Are you suggesting I’m unintelligent, you misogynist? Choose your words wisely.

R: I would never dare suggest that, O Great Goddess of Unimaginable Perfection.

Ponine: I like you. This is why we’re best friends.

Grantaire returns to the first message that Eponine has texted. Now that he knows what to look for, he can see the shadows under Enjolras’ eyes. Even when he’s sleeping, there’s a tired frown on his face. He looks frustrated, drained, and helpless; like he’s done with everything on his plate. And, of course, it doesn’t surprise Grantaire at all that he’s doing work, because that’s what Enjolras does.

R: I’ll text him. Happy now?

Ponine: I’ll only be happy when you guys are done being drama queens.

R: You’re demanding. I have to finish this painting. Goodbye.

“Can’t stop obsessing about your Greek god?” Celine’s voice sounds in Grantaire’s ears, and his head snaps up and away from his phone.

His younger sister is leaning against the doorframe in his room, grinning mischievously. Grantaire mimes throwing a pillow from his bed at her, makes a face, and sets his phone down on the easel.

“You can’t see what I’m working on,” he says. “It’s a gift for you guys.”

“I already know what you’re doing,” she quips back. “So do Mom and Dad. Plus I’m surprised you’re already using that set of brushes that you got from Black Friday.”

“This is only one of the three sets I picked up. Best day ever in the entire year, seriously.” And it is. He’s gotten so many fantastic deals on art supplies, books, and clothing — and, yes, he’s actually also gotten a small gift for each of the Amis. Enjolras included.

He’s such a hopeless sap.

But on the plus side, he actually has spending money now that he’s cutting back on the alcohol — which, FYI, is still hard. He’s lucky that his family understands and hasn’t even tried serving alcohol at all since he’s been back.

“Let’s go back to your marble statue,” Celine says, and Grantaire outright groans. “You’re fighting with him, aren’t you?”

“How would you know that?” Grantaire asks tightly.

“Because I texted Eponine,” Celine answers.

Grantaire’s seriously considering falling dramatically back onto his bed, but he decides the effect will be wasted on Celine.

“So what if I am?” he points out. “I’m not pining over him, and I’m not apologizing first.”

Celine cocks her head and looks at him for a minute. Finally, she says, seriously, “R, do you really love him?”

Grantaire does fall back onto his bed at this point, brush in hand. He thinks back to how Enjolras looks in boxers and a T-shirt or a suit, and how the sight always reminds him of Christmas morning. Living with Enjolras has made him hyperaware of the other man — how he sits with a pen between his teeth when he studies, how he’ll ruin his body with junk food and lack of exercise but for his God-given insane metabolism, the way he devours a book, the way he can whip a crowd into his favor in less than five minutes.

He thinks of Enjolras smiling at him. Of his body nestled against his as they’ve watched movies and TV shows together. Of how he smells, how his skin feels under his hands. He thinks of the time they’ve enjoyed together since they’ve gotten closer, and lets out a groan.

“So that’s a yes,” Celine says. She bounces onto the bed beside Grantaire, and looks him in the eye. “And does he love you back?”

Grantaire frowns. “I used to think that he hated me,” he starts slowly. “And now… I’m not sure. But we just fought, and I don’t want to be the one who buckles under first.”

“That sounds reasonable, after all the times you’ve told me about him yelling or driving you out,” Celine points out. “But it sounds like he has a lot on his mind at the moment. Ep said that he wants to apologize — and she said to tell you that Combeferre told her that — but that things are so busy and crazy right now that he hasn’t been able to spare the time to sort things out. Remember, he’s emotionally constipated in every way.”

“So you’re telling me that I need to wait and not give up hope?” Grantaire questions, wrinkling his nose. “That’s all I’ve been doing for three years, Celine.”

“And since you’re hopelessly in love with the guy, a little longer doesn’t matter, does it?”

Grantaire turns to glare at his father, who’s now the one lounging in the doorway.

“Doesn’t privacy mean something anymore?”

“Your door’s open, dummy,” Celine remarks.

“Trust in how you feel, Rene,” Remy tells him. “And trust in how he seems to feel, because that says a lot.”

“This guy has spent three years hating me,” Grantaire protests.

Remy rolls his eyes. “Things can change overnight. And I can tell how much he hates you, from the fact that he’s offered you a place to live, and you’ve spent a lot of time together.”

“Who else did you text?” Grantaire snaps, outraged.

“Combeferre,” Celine says, completely unabashed.

Grantaire shakes his head, annoyed. “Yeah, okay, whatever. Hey, Dad, can I ask you something? In private,” he adds, and Celine huffs at him.

“Fine.”

She exits the room, probably to go text Eponine some more, and Remy sits down on the corner of Grantaire’s bed.

“What’s up, bucko?”

“How do you stay sober?”

Remy’s dark brows shoot up. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. I figured now’s a good time to ask as any.”

Remy grins and shrugs. “Ah, Rene. You’re talking to the wrong man.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t fall off the wagon,” Remy adds hastily, seeing Grantaire’s face. “But I figured I have no right to anything in this matter, considering that I was the one who introduced you to the worm at the bottom of the bottle, anyway.” He scowls, and Grantaire knows that this subject has been a touchy one ever since it happened years ago. His father still feels immensely guilty about it. “Although I must say, I’m really proud of you, Rene. It’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, if not the hardest, and I’m so proud that you’re doing it all on your own.”

“It helps that I’m cutting back really slowly. Bit by bit.”

“Still. That kind of willpower will sustain you throughout your life, Rene. But, hmmm.” His father thinks for a minute or two, humming to himself, and running his fingers through his hair until it’s disheveled. “I just… I think I had to finally decide how important the alcohol really was to me, Rene. And I had to think seriously about who I was doing this for, and what I really wanted for my life. I knew that I wanted to keep the three of you in my life, and I knew that alcohol would push us all apart. But at the same time, I couldn’t do this for you guys. I had to do it for me, or the attempt would fail like so many in the past. I wanted to be more than what the alcohol made me, because I knew that you all deserved better, and I knew that I deserved better. We share a lot of things, Rene. We’re the same in a lot of ways. And I’m telling you, you do deserve better because you are better. You’re my son, you’re your mother’s son, you’re Celine’s brother, and you’re a good friend to all twelve members of your tightly knit group. Along with that, you’re the most talented artist I’ve met — and trust me, after you’ve dragged the family to several hundred art exhibits and museums, I would know. You’re a loyal friend, and you love unconditionally. I know that I used to be a little uncomfortable with the fact that you’re gay, Rene, but I don’t care now. You’re still my son, you’re still a great guy, and I think deep down you know it too. You deserve the best, and you need to go out there and get it because it’s just waiting for you.”

Grantaire has to blink to keep his emotions in check.

“Thanks, Dad.”

Remy grins and claps a hand on his shoulder. “Not a problem. Now, come on. I think your mother has finished baking Pie Number Five, and I want a taste.”

Chapter Text

“Let me in, Adrien.”

“This is my room!”

“And this is my house! You’re a guest here!”

“You’re not taking one step into my room.”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve been in there, you know.”

Enjolras finally rips the door open. “What the fuck do you want?”

“An apology.”

“Why? I haven’t misbehaved in public, and I’ve been letting you and your stupid charade take over my Thanksgiving break. You ruined Mother’s Thanksgiving with your publicity shit. I don’t owe you anything.”

“Just keep going, Adrien, because one more word and you’ll never talk to your mother again.”

Enjolras turns furious eyes to his father’s face, and Sebastien smiles.

“I knew that’d get your attention.”

“Say what you want to say, you bastard.”

“I’m not the bastard in this family,” Sebastien says, right before his left hand comes out from nowhere and strikes Enjolras hard on the face. The slap is loud in the silence, and Enjolras reels back against the doorframe, inadvertently leaving the door open for Sebastien to enter, which he does.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since you came home,” Sebastien sneers. “You’ve gotten impolite, Adrien. Are those friends of yours being a bad influence?”

“My friends have nothing to do with this. Leave them out of it.” His face feels like it’s on fire, and he knows he’s going to bruise. His father hasn’t lost his strength, that’s for sure — he could probably arm-wrestle Bahorel, which says a lot.

“They’re gay degenerates with too-loose morals,” Sebastien snaps back. “I think they have everything to do with it.”

“You’ve never cared about anybody’s sexual orientation,” Enjolras snarls. “Don’t even use that as an excuse. If we want to talk about loose morals, then let’s talk about you. All those women you brought into your bed —”

“What about the man your mother brought to her bed?”

“Leave her and Alain out of this! You’ve spent my entire life punishing them both! You killed Alain because he couldn’t stop reminding you of that one mistake, and you went and committed hundreds more!”

Sebastien looks at him for one long, hard moment, and then he smiles. “Well, that much is true. But that’s not the only mistake he reminded me of.”

Enjolras pushes himself to his feet, his eyes blazing. His entire body goes taut at his father’s confession, like he’s been struck by lightning. Sebastien crosses the room towards him, still smiling, and swats Enjolras’ arm away before he closes his hand around Enjolras’ neck, forcing him up against the wall. Enjolras has to warn himself not to react, despite every cell in his body screaming at how close the other man is standing to him. Far less has pushed his father over the edge, and after Sebastien just threatened Les Amis…

“I held his life in my hands, Adrien. As I do yours and your mother’s. You’d be wise not to forget it.”

He squeezes Enjolras’ throat hard, and then leans in closely to whisper into Enjolras’ ear.

“Happy Thanksgiving, son.”

With another clench of his hand, he finally lets Enjolras go and walks out, laughing.

Enjolras slides to the floor, coughing harshly as he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, struggling to keep the unexpected tears at bay.

Well, at least Sebastien didn’t get his damned apology — although he got more than that. His father has got Enjolras’ obedient silence, which Enjolras instinctively knows is exactly what he was after in the first place.

Chapter Text

The first time Grantaire sees Enjolras is back at the Cafe Musain. All of their friends have arrived for the meeting — the next day is the protest for women’s abortion rights — and Enjolras is already standing at the front of the room, talking to Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

No, actually, Combeferre and Courfeyrac are talking to him. Enjolras really isn’t saying anything. He just has his eyes staring blankly at a sheet of paper, as if he’s not really taking in anything that anyone is saying or doing. When Combeferre claps a hand on his shoulder, though, he snaps back to himself and nods curtly, obviously getting primed to take the floor. Not that Grantaire cares. Enjolras certainly doesn’t.

Grantaire has just ordered a Heineken, and he’s chatting to Eponine, Bahorel, Feuilly, and anybody else, about their vacations, because he certainly isn’t talking to Enjolras, or even looking at him. Most of them have just gotten in from their various destinations only today — he himself returned to Eponine’s apartment just an hour ago, because he’s sure not going back there until Enjolras has acknowledged his presence or is talking to him again.

He texted Enjolras two days ago, just like he promised Eponine he would. As of a minute ago, he’s still waiting for a reply.

He should have known, really. Enjolras isn’t interested in a relationship. He doesn’t want to have anything but the bare minimum to do with Grantaire, even after knowing Grantaire’s feelings for him. And what makes this all the more fucked up is that everybody has been raising Grantaire’s hopes — Enjolras, Enjolras’ mother, Eponine, Combeferre, even himself. The entire time, though, Enjolras has just been playing with him, but he’s not really invested or interested in Grantaire as anything but a friend or a cuddle buddy.

Too bad not as a fuck buddy, his mind snidely comments.

Enjolras takes the floor, and pretty soon the discussion about the protest is solidly under way. Grantaire listens disinterestedly, already bored with the proceedings. He can’t stop concentrating on the color of Enjolras’ blond hair, or the vivid shade of his blue eyes, or the sound of his voice. In fact, his fingers are already itching to pick up a pencil or a brush.

He’s also aching for more than just one drink. For the first time in weeks, he wants to get drunk out of his mind so he can forget the biting sting of rejection whenever he looks at his phone and sees no new text message or voicemail waiting on the screen.

Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre are both talking about pregnancies being potentially life-threatening to the mothers or emotionally jarring due to being caused by rape. Feuilly and Eponine and the others are trying to counter their points, and Grantaire keeps staring at Enjolras, mentally willing him to look at him.

He does. Both sets of blue eyes are fixated on each other for a few good seconds, and Enjolras quickly breaks the stare and looks back at the rest of the Amis.

That does it for Grantaire. It’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

“Look, girls are always going to get themselves pregnant,” he says loudly, interrupting everyone else. “They’re going to sleep with their boyfriends and fool around, no matter how young they are. Making abortions legal means that they’re going to keep killing their unborn babies and making the same bloody mistakes over and over again. If they get mad at their boyfriends, they’ll turn around and call it rape, and the poor sods end up in jail.”

“It’s giving those women the opportunity to get help should they need it,” Combeferre says calmly.

“What if they don’t want the help? This is just going to legalize murder. Babies have heartbeats at 5 weeks in the womb.”

“Grantaire —” Enjolras starts, and the sound of Enjolras saying his name infuriates Grantaire even more.

“What’s the matter, Apollo? Just because they’re not born yet, they’re worthless?”

“No —” Enjolras begins, but Grantaire doesn’t let him go on.

“I’m sorry we’re not all worth that much to you, Apollo, but guess what. Every life inherently has value, whether you like it or not. Whether or not somebody exercises their potential isn’t up to you; it’s up to them. When someone makes a mistake, they have to face the consequences. You can’t just steamroll over the other details at hand just to protect your own selfish interests and safeguard your pride!”

He looks around at the others. Nobody is meeting his eyes. Already he knows everyone can tell this conversation has moved on from being about women’s politics to now being about the fight he and Enjolras has had.

“I’m not trying to do that,” Enjolras says, his voice hard. “Grantaire, if this is about me not replying your message —”

“Maybe it is, but we’ve progressed from that. And I call bullshit on you not doing that. You don’t care about the little people, Enjolras. You don’t care about the fact that everybody has lovers and interests and friends and family and challenges. As long as all these things don’t interfere in your causes, Apollo, you’re fine having them around, but you don’t really care. If Cosette and Marius were to get married tomorrow, during your precious protest, you’d tell them to reschedule it. If Combeferre and Eponine were to have their bachelor party and bridal shower during a rally or demonstration, you’d want them to do it on another day. At the same time, you expect everyone to give up their lives and time and money and effort and sanity for your fucking causes without doing the same for anyone else.”

Combeferre winces. Enjolras’ face has turned to stone.

“At least I’m not a drunk who has no ambitions or greater ideals to cling for. You have so much potential and so much good in you, Grantaire, and you waste it away on alcohol until there’s nothing left. You get wasted and expect great things to happen to you and complain when they don’t. You’re never going to get out of that bottle, and you’re going to piss away a brilliant mind and shining talent because you can’t bring yourself to crawl out of the pit of self-pity and excesses that you’ve dropped yourself into.”

“Enjolras!” Combeferre — surprise, surprise, it’s Combeferre who says that — snaps.

“No, go on,” Grantaire hisses, feeling the hurt sear itself on his heart and his pulse roaring through his ears. Every word that has fallen disdainfully out of Enjolras’ mouth feels like a knife in his ribs. “In fact, while we’re at it, let’s talk about personal statements, since you’re so ready to jump at that. You’re selfish; you always want to be at the center of attention, Apollo, whether you like it or not. You use your parents’ money and your fucking good looks to claw your way there, and you always want to stay there, no matter what.”

“That’s not true, R,” Bahorel says hesitantly. “Enjolras would do anything for us —”

“You’re a machine, Apollo. A fucking marble statue with no heart, no feelings, no nothing. All you care about is your marble pedestal and that flag you carry and the ‘greater good.’ One day you’re going to wake up and find that you’ve sent all the people around you to their deaths. That, or you’ve missed out on what life is really all about, while everyone else has gone on living without you. If you keep pushing everyone around you away, Enjolras, you’re going to find that they’ll all be gone before you realize what you’ve done.”

All the blood drains out of Enjolras’ face, and he’s down and off the stage, plunging through the group of Amis, neatly sidestepping anyone who tries to make a grab for him. Grantaire’s sitting at the back, next to the door, and when Enjolras reaches the exit, he and Grantaire glare at each other for a good few seconds. Finally, Enjolras opens the door so forcefully that it slams against the wall and bounces back closed behind him.

“Damn it, Grantaire!”

Courfeyrac is up and glaring in Grantaire’s direction, his hands clenched into fists. Jehan is up in front of him, pushing against him, clearly keeping him from coming over and beating Grantaire up, or something. A tendril of guilt snakes through Grantaire when he sees that Jehan is actually crying, tears running down his cheeks. Of all things he wants to do, upsetting the little poet has never been one of them.

Eponine looks torn, and, to Grantaire’s surprise, so does Combeferre. He’s fully expected Combeferre to side totally with Enjolras. Feuilly is still sitting quietly in his chair, his mouth a thin line in his face. Chetta, Joly, and Bossuet all seem neutrally placed in their loyalties, but Bahorel keeps leveling an angry look at the door, and then back at Grantaire. Marius looks like he’s going to cry, just like Jehan, but Grantaire can tell from Cosette’s unwavering glare that she’s just as angry as Courfeyrac at him.

“Why did you even say all that?”

"He didn’t deserve —”

“Neither did R, stop it —”

“He attacked him! I’m supposed to not do anything about it?”

“Enough.”

Combeferre’s calm voice cuts powerfully and clearly through the rising babble of angry voices.

“They were both out of line. Let’s leave it at that. No one’s completely to blame.”

No one debates with him. At least, Grantaire thinks, not yet. 

“As always, this is a case of serious miscommunication. We all need to be better friends to one another. We’re all as culpable as R and Enjolras here.”

“Sure,” Courfeyrac snaps angrily.

“They targeted the weakest points, Courf, but we stood by and let it happen,” Combeferre says forcefully and firmly. “We should have said something to stop it, and we let it go on like a bloody theater production.”

Combeferre hardly ever swears, and Grantaire can’t take the feelings churning in him anymore. He feels a little mix of everything — bile-inducing regret, a sort of cold anger that’s running close to his bones, a scary kind of sadness that makes him feel like dropping into a boneless heap and crying his eyes out. He grabs his Heineken bottle and fumbles blindly for the door, letting it slam shut again behind him for the second time in the same night.

Enjolras’ footprints in the snow lead off to the left. Childishly, Grantaire turns to the right and starts walking.

Hot wetness scalds down his cheeks and turn to sleet against his face.

Chapter Text

“I’ll go after him,” Eponine offers, glancing at Combeferre. He immediately relinquishes his hand on hers, and she grabs her phone, keys, and coat, throwing the last around herself as she runs out of the Musain and after her best friend.

Combeferre watches until she’s gone, and then he turns his gaze back to the matter at hand.

“I don’t think Grantaire should have —” Cosette begins, but she’s interrupted by Marius, which is yet another surprise, no less.

“Babe, maybe it’s not my place to say this, but he wasn’t the only one at fault.”

“How do you figure that?” Courfeyrac shouts, and Marius jumps. Combeferre can’t really blame him. Jehan and Courfeyrac are usually so amiable that seeing either of them angry is truly terrifying. That said, Combeferre has heard that his own anger is worse than Enjolras’ — probably the only thing that actually made Courfeyrac back down from flinging the fight into Grantaire’s face.

Part of Combeferre points out the unexpected turn of events that has him defending Grantaire and not just Enjolras. It’s not at all unreasonable, however. Ever since Grantaire has moved in, Combeferre has seen more of the good in him eclipse the bad until he has gained standing in Combeferre’s eyes equal to that of Feuilly and Joly and the others. He’s no longer the bitter, drunken prodigal of the Musain, but someone with as much right and worth and talent as any one of Combeferre’s dearest friends.

It helps, too, that Combeferre is of the opinion that Grantaire would be someone worthy to complement Enjolras’ strengths and flaws — assuming, of course, that they ever do stop fighting with barbed words and looks.

Enjolras isn’t out of the blame on this one. In typical Enjolras fashion, he hasn’t picked up on the fact that Grantaire is drinking less and less — or if he has, he has forgotten it — and he just targeted all of Grantaire’s insecurities in one fell swoop. Grantaire did the same, except that recent events like Maryse’s cancer and Sebastien’s cruelty have made the cynic’s words sharper and more poisonous.

It isn’t either of their faults, Combeferre decides with a sigh, and yet it is. Neither Enjolras nor Grantaire meant their words to sting so much, but because of careless ignorance and recent crises, things have gotten more out of hand than ever before.

“Enjolras has more on his plate, yes,” Combeferre says, and everyone falls silent, “but Grantaire has been actively trying to cut down on his drinking. He’s gotten to the point where he only will have one drink a day, compared to his usual blitzkrieg of ten or more, and Enjolras thoughtlessly cut all of that down.” He holds up a hand when Courfeyrac looks to start arguing. “At the same time, Grantaire’s words will not sit well with Enjolras. He had a difficult time over the break, and he’s stressed out over finals and deadlines, on top of everything else. As are we all.”

Courfeyrac seems partly mollified, but his thick brows are still knitted together. “I’m just saying —”

“Courf, please leave and take a moment to compose yourself,” Combeferre says evenly. It’s usually better to stop Courfeyrac before a rant and let him go blow off steam. He’s usually quick to anger, but also quick to forgive, and Combeferre knows he would rather be forced to desist than have to deal with the consequences of his verbal rashness later.

Courfeyrac storms out of the Musain, and Jehan hurries after him bearing both their jackets.

“Great,” Cosette says, putting her forehead in her hands. Unlike Courfeyrac, she seems to understand now the necessity for patience for both Grantaire and Enjolras, and the danger of taking sides in this latest, particular fight.

“What’s that buzzing?” Feuilly suddenly asks, while Joly wails, “Enjolras left his coat!”

Shit. Combeferre feels his lips go pale as he moves forward and convulsively grabs onto the collar of the leather jacket draped over the back of Enjolras’ chair. Then he turns his head as if by autopilot to stare outside at the flakes of snow coming down, borne by a steady wind.

“I swear I can hear a buzzing,” Feuilly insists. He walks over to where Combeferre is standing, cocks his head to the side, and bends to pull a familiar black smartphone out of the pocket of Enjolras’ jacket. His lips tighten as he also removes a black leather wallet, and he holds both items helplessly out in Combeferre’s direction. The phone already registers several missed calls and text messages, from Feuilly, Joly, Chetta, Bahorel, Eponine, Jehan, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre himself — he tried calling Enjolras when his best friend abruptly left.

Enjolras is out there, somewhere, by himself in thirty-degree weather, without his coat, his wallet, or his phone. Combeferre can almost feel the walls of the Musain moving in on him.

It’s only when Bahorel grabs his arm and pushes him down into a chair that Combeferre starts to think clearly again. Everyone is looking to him for a solution, and he has to give one somehow, complete with assurances. His phone buzzes, and against all odds, he hopes it’s Enjolras, but it’s only Eponine.

Ponine: I have R. He went through his beer pretty quickly. We’re back at my flat now.

Ferre: You’re an angel. I’m sending a couple of Amis over to keep you guys company. We have to go look for Enjolras.

Ponine: Oh, no. What happened?

Ferre: That idiot’s taken off sans coat, phone, wallet, and anything that will help him stay alive in this godforsaken city.

Ponine: Keep me updated. I’ll be here to keep R from doing something stupid. I love you.

Ferre: I love you too.

“Bahorel, I want you and Feuilly to go over to Ep’s now. R’s there. Just make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. Distract him. It’s not like he has a room to retreat to and hide from you, anyway.”

“We can stay to help you search for Enjolras,” Feuilly points out. “Both of us know the city better than any of you, except for Chetta.”

“Yeah, but you both are also R’s closest friends,” Combeferre explains. “I want him not to feel like he’s in second place here.”

“What about the rest of us?”

Combeferre glances at Joly, Bossuet, and Chetta. “I’m sorry, but I need Chetta on this. She does know the city like Feuilly and Bahorel do. Joly, Bossuet, you’re welcome to stay behind and wait, but I do need her, and I figured you three would want to stay together…”

“We’ll go,” Bossuet says firmly, and Joly worries his bottom lip, but finally nods.

“They’re both our friends,” he agrees. “If — if we bundle up, we’ll all be fine.” He seems to be trying to reassure himself, but his resolve appears firm.

Cosette is just as resolute, if not more so. “I’ll call my father to tell him, but otherwise, Marius and I are fine to join in and look for Enjolras,” she offers. Marius nods with a seriousness that belies his youthful appearance.

“Perfect,” Combeferre says. “Split up and stay together. Any news, good or bad, send out a mass text so we’re all informed. If there’s any sign of trouble, look out for yourselves first. Enjolras wouldn’t want us getting hurt or harmed for his sake.”

“Who’re you going with?” Bahorel questions, already pulling on his duster. Feuilly is shrugging on his camo jacket.

“Us.”

All eyes turn to the doors at the Musain. Jehan’s there, wearing his violet blue pea coat, with a sufficiently chastened-looking Courfeyrac behind him.

Combeferre pushes Enjolras’ phone and wallet into his pockets with a tenderness that he can’t help feeling. It pools with the gnawing ache of worry in his stomach, and he deftly folds Enjolras’ jacket and tucks it under his arm.

“Let’s go. And pray hard that we find him before he does something stupid.”

Chapter Text

Enjolras thrusts his hands into his pockets as he hastily strides around the corner. The last thing he needs is someone following him, because he really doesn’t want to have to deal with that shit right now.

The snow that falls is melting on the pavement, but it’s still cold enough that it’s sticking to his hair, his skin, and wetting through his clothing. Too late and four streets away, he realizes that he’s left his coat behind, and the dark gray vest he’s wearing over a blue button-up is the only thing keeping him even remotely warm. It’s doing a piss-poor job, is all he can say. His fingers are now numb, and the sleet is starting to soak through his wingtips.

He made the mistake of leaving his phone in his room when he took a shower late on the one night Sebastien was home. His father opened the text Grantaire sent and freaked out on Enjolras. Since it was the last night Enjolras was going to be home, Sebastien obviously didn’t care about leaving physical evidence of his confrontation. It’s the only reason why Enjolras is wearing a tie, because he doesn’t want to be deluged with questions about the bruises on his neck.

“I know your friends’ names, Adrien. That means with some phone calls and computer hacking, I can find out every detail of their lives — where they live, what they study, where they work, their families and loved ones. Push me, and their college troubles will start mounting.”

Enjolras feels like he can’t breathe. “You can’t threaten Jehan, or Cosette, or Henri, or Luc. Their families are just as powerful as you are.”

“But what about your other friends? There’s Luc’s fiancee and her pathetic, screwed-up family. Henri and Jehan are both involved with each other — lots of hate crimes out there, Adrien. Jean Valjean’s formidable, but he’s old, and so is Benoit Gillenormand. And you’ve forgotten the others — there’s the doctor, and his unholy union of multiple partners. The street fighter. The orphan. The artist. They’re all important to you, hmmm?”

Enjolras finds his hands are shaking. He tucks them into his pockets so he doesn’t wrap them around his father’s neck. “What do you want from me, you bastard?”

“Act the perfect son around everybody. And I mean everybody. If I hear any sort of rebellion, gay shit or stirring up trouble or anything negative at all, you’ll never have contact with your mother again, and your friends will have more on their plates than just a few protests to worry about.”

“You can’t make me stop the causes,” Enjolras says desperately. “It’s out of character for me, and you can be sure people will dig until they find out the truth that you want to hide.” More importantly, the other Amis will dig, and they won’t stop until they find out the truth, in which case the shit will hit the fan, because his father will make good on that promise.

“Fine. While you’re in college, you get to have your little quarter-life crisis. After that, Adrien, you’ll be working for me and meeting my every demand for the rest of your life.” Sebastien rolls his eyes, as if this compromise is more than he has bargained for.

“You mean until you’re dead.” Enjolras can’t help the vindictive note that enters his voice.

“I’m still young, Adrien,” Sebastien purrs in satisfaction. “I’m in the prime of life. I aim to be around for at least twenty more years, and lucky for you, my faithful bodyguard will make sure that I make it that long.”

“You ruin lives, you bastard. Have your twenty years. But bear this in mind: I’ll never stop hating you.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Adrien. At the end of the day, we’re the same. We look the same, we talk the same, and we definitely act the same. If I ruin lives, so do you. If I throw them away, so do you. I know the truth, son, and here it is, unvarnished in every way: you caused your brother’s death. I didn’t. I sped it up, sure, but I wasn’t the one who signed his death warrant all those years ago.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” He feels like his fingertips have gone numb, and he’s lightheaded.

“You really don’t remember? Oh, that’s rich. That’s really rich. Don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll come back to you in time — especially if we’re going to have a lot more father-son bonding in the future. Are you going to text your artist friend back?”

The smile that Sebastien levels his way makes Enjolras suddenly terrified for Grantaire.

“That’s none of your business.” He forces his voice to be cool and even.

“Looking for a fuck buddy, Adrien? Remember what I said about your quarter-life crisis. Enjoy the last year of freedom you have left, bucko, because from now on, I own you.”

“He’s more than that, so shut the fuck up.”

“Or what?” It’s obvious that Sebastien doesn’t really care, because he goes on. “Do we have a deal, son?”

“Fine. You win. For now. I’ll never stop looking for a loophole or fighting you.”

“Good luck with that. I always win, Adrien. So do you, although you'll never beat me. In time, you’ll see that this is the best thing for both of us. We’ll build the Enjolras empire up, and nobody will be able to stop us. Remember, Adrien. We ruin lives. It’s what we do. We might as well get what we can out of it.”

“You get what you want. It’s not what I want.”

“You want your friends and their families to be safe, don’t you?”

Enjolras tastes bile. “Yes.”

“Then you’re getting what you want out of this deal.”

Enjolras closes his eyes. “Get out of my room.”

For once in his life, his father obeys, but the smile he tosses back at Enjolras makes him feel like he’s swallowed broken glass.

Grantaire’s right. He does ignore the little people. That text message meant so much to him, and his father went ahead and botched that completely. Several times he’s opened up the text message, only to remember his father’s gloating smile and that slick teasing tone, and closed it back down.

Grantaire’s gone ahead and put himself out there, and Enjolras didn’t even bother to acknowledge him. He knows how difficult it must have been for Grantaire to do that. They’ve talked about how Grantaire doesn’t do things because he doesn’t want to get people’s hopes up, or worse, his own hopes up. He doesn’t want the disappointment and the regret that comes from expectations, high or not.

And back at the Musain? Grantaire’s words hurt more than anything else, even Sebastien’s caustic attacks, because unlike Sebastien, Grantaire matters. Over the past couple of days, Enjolras has thought things through, and he knows that he does have feelings for Grantaire.

And now he’s messed things up.

Even standing in the Musain, he wasn’t even able to meet Grantaire’s eyes. They made him feel guilty.

“We ruin lives. It’s what we do.”

Everything Grantaire has said is true. If Combeferre and Eponine and Cosette and Marius ever organize their nuptials or wedding activities on the day of an important demonstration or protest, Enjolras is positive he’d ask them to reschedule without a second thought. He ignores Grantaire and pushes him away, time and time again. He’s never been softhearted like Jehan and bothered to ask Feuilly to his home. He’s never spent time developing any sort of relationship with Gavroche or Azelma — if only because he’s creeped out by the way Azelma keeps staring at him like he’s the next Justin Beiber, or how Gavroche has Grantaire’s annoying quality of questioning and tearing down all of Enjolras’ arguments, but without the same qualities that makes Enjolras like Grantaire. He’s never trained with Feuilly, or just hung out with Chetta, Bossuet, and Joly.

There are a dozen memories that he’s created personally with every single one of them, but he pushes the thought away, because he doesn’t deserve to feel good about himself. About anything, really.

“You caused your brother’s death.”

“One day you’re going to wake up and find that you’ve sent all the people around you to their deaths.”

If his father is to be believed — and for some reason Enjolras senses that he’s more or less telling the truth in this case — then what Grantaire says it’s true. And knowing that Grantaire believes that about him hurts more than his father ever could.

“You’ve missed out on what life is really all about, while everyone else has gone on living without you. If you keep pushing everyone around you away, Enjolras, you’re going to find that they’ll all be gone before you realize what you’ve done.”

If he becomes his father’s creature — and he’ll have no choice — then this prophecy will come to pass. And everyone, himself included, will hate him for becoming the one thing he fears — a monster without a soul. It doesn’t matter how good the intention. The road to hell is paved with stuff like that.

Blindly he realizes that he’s completely soaking wet, the snow coming down harder, and he can’t feel his hands or his feet or his face. If he isn’t careful, he might get jumped by someone or hit by a drunk driver.

That would be pretty poetic justice, for the shitty treatment he’s given Grantaire.

He doesn’t care. It wouldn’t be unjustified, anyway.

He can’t go back to the Musain. He can’t return to an apartment with a best friend who he’s going to end up ruining one day and a man who can’t stand the sight of him. He can’t go back home, not to Connecticut, where his father wants to eat him alive and his mother is dying. He can’t stay with any of his friends, knowing that one day they’ll be dead or ruined beyond recognition because he’s dragged them down to a cause they cannot win — or worse, he’s left them to the mercy of his father’s cruelty.

Because Grantaire was right, is right, has been right all along. He’s selfish. He’s cruel. He destroys everyone around him.

Grantaire hates him. The thought makes him want to be sick.

So he keeps on walking in the rain, arms wrapped around himself, wet and cold and miserable.

But alone. Alone means he can’t hurt anybody else.

Chapter Text

Jehan follows Courfeyrac out of the Musain. His boyfriend’s brown curly hair is tousled from running his hands through it over and over again, and he’s huffing and puffing through his nose like a dragon.

Jehan wants to laugh, but he’s still hiccuping back tears. His friends have never fought so viciously before, and truth be told, it makes him sadder than he ever cares to admit.

“I can’t believe this…! R, what the hell, what the hell were you thinking? Enjolras, just running off like that…” Courfeyrac’s mumbling and gesticulating angrily to himself, muttering under his breath as he works out the conflict in his head. Jehan loves that Courfeyrac is never silent. He’s an extrovert to a T — the social butterfly, the expressive one, and Jehan can always read him like a book. There’s no secrecy, no drama, no hidden angst with him. He always says what’s on his mind, sooner or later.

Of course, Jehan always can persuade him to say it sooner rather than later.

“What’s bothering you, love?”

Courfeyrac gives him an almost pissed-off look with his big brown eyes. “What’s bothering… what’s bothering me? Gee, can’t you tell?” His voice picks up at the last line, and Jehan sighs and steps forward, placing the jacket around Courfeyrac’s shoulders and sliding his arms around his boyfriend.

“Breathe,” he says simply. “There’s something else, Courf, because I can tell. You love R as much as the rest, even though Enjolras and Combeferre are your oldest and closest friends. You wouldn’t go so crazy on R like that, not unless something’s bothering you, too.”

Courfeyrac huffs another breath and sighs. He leans into Jehan, and pushes his face into Jehan’s shoulder.

“Grandmother Jessamine wants to meet you,” he mumbles, and Jehan feels his eyes widening.

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t she the one you describe as a real-life, breathing and talking Gorgon? That’s not very nice, by the way.”

“She’s not all that bad, but she can be… prickly sometimes. I’m just worried about what she’ll say and do. She isn’t afraid to speak her mind, Jehan, and I don’t want it to go badly, but it just might. I would have told you when we got back, but the Musain was the first place I saw you since we left for break, and then that happened.”

Jehan laughs despite the obvious gravity of the whole situation. “It’s not a problem, Courf. I promise. I can give as good as I get, you know.”

“I know that, but… things were going so well.”

“R’s been feeling really insecure lately,” Jehan explains, “and the alcohol withdrawal has made him on edge. I think he had a good time being home with his family, but now that that’s gone, he’s back to feeling antsy and scared. It really doesn’t help that Enjolras has been so cold to him as well. I wonder why.”

He bites off the end of that sentiment while looking thoughtfully up at nothing in particular. “I think he’s just been tired and stressed, because he’s as snappy as he is usually during finals season.”

“Which is next week, meaning that he’s not going to be in a happy mood for a while, and all this drama’s going to be happening when we all don’t need it.”

“That’s why we’re here,” Jehan says sweetly. “Our friends need us to be strong for them. And to understand,” he emphasizes, and Courfeyrac rolls his eyes.

“Okay, okay, I won’t be mean to R. I just wish the two of them would kiss and make up already. And he didn’t have to go after Enjolras like that.”

“Better to have things out in the open sooner than dancing around and letting tension build up,” Jehan points out.

“I hate it when you try and refute my points,” Courfeyrac mutters. “Do you want to go back in?”

“Please,” Jehan pleads, batting his eyelashes at Courfeyrac. “I trust your ability to warm me up, but it looks like Combeferre’s organizing the Amis into doing something, and I want to be there to help.”

Courfeyrac reaches his hand out to Jehan, who takes it. He brushes his lips over Jehan’s knuckles, making the latter smile.

“You know, I don’t tell you this enough,” he says, “but I love you. I hope you know that.”

“And I you,” Jehan echoes. They lean in for a quick kiss, and Jehan feels almost heady when they break apart. He’ll never ever get tired of the taste of Courfeyrac’s mouth and the feel of his hard, lean body against his.

“Let’s go in and be heroes,” Courfeyrac says, almost gaily.

“You’re such a dork,” Jehan comments.

“Admit it, that’s one of the reasons why you love me,” Courfeyrac answers, as he reaches for the door.

“It most likely is. Now, behave,” Jehan admonishes, and Courfeyrac has the decency to look embarrassed.

“I will, I promise.”

Chapter Text

They’ve looked everywhere. Enjolras hasn’t turned back up at the apartment — he’s left his duffel bag from Thanksgiving break on his bed, and everything else is immaculate in his room, Grantaire’s room, Combeferre’s room, and anywhere in the entire flat. He hasn’t showed at any of the other Amis’ homes, or at the Musain, Corinthe, or Brammer Street. The police in Central Park are combing the place and they’ll let Combeferre know of any leads. Combeferre has already called his mother to get her to discreetly check around back home — without alerting Maryse, who really doesn’t need the stress of knowing her only living son has vanished into thin air. In addition, Combeferre’s already called Dr. Lamarque, who swears that he hasn’t seen Enjolras since the start of the break.

By now, spirits are flagging, and he’s starting to feel cold. The snow’s coming down so hard that apparently it’ll continue into the night, and the demonstration tomorrow has been called off on behalf of inclement weather. He can’t even imagine what Enjolras must be feeling right now — assuming he’s still alive.

Assuming he hasn't run into anybody like Patron-Minette on the street.

What if he has?

Combeferre grips Enjolras’ jacket so tightly in his hands that he feels his knuckles protesting at the hold.

“Where to now?” Jehan asks. The entire time they’ve been searching, he’s remained cautiously optimistic, which is more than Courfeyrac and Combeferre can be at this point in time.

“Campus?” Courfeyrac suggests.

“Cosette and Marius have already checked the law and politics building,” Combeferre says heavily. “Enjolras isn’t in the student center, either, or the administration building.”

“Do Cosette and Marius know that Enjolras TAs for two classes and not just the one?” Courfeyrac asks.

Jehan’s eyes light up. “The humanities building!”

“He doesn’t have a key for that one,” Combeferre protests. “Why would he go there? It’s not the place he feels comfortable at.”

“You know Enjolras,” Jehan remarks, sounding both annoyed and fond at once. “I get the feeling he’s trying to hide from us, and I don’t know how or why, but we have to try that building, at least.”

They make their way over to the humanities building, which is halfway across campus. When Courfeyrac talks to the security guard there, he confirms that, yes, he did let a soaking wet blond student in, because (a) the guy looked so pathetic (in his own words) and (b) the guy sweet-talked him into believing correctly that he was a TA and needed to go in to grade homework for his students.

“I asked if he was okay,” the guard said defensively, “because no idiot goes out in the middle of the night without a coat to grade papers. That got me a twenty-minute lecture on the virtues of the educational system and the need for students to have dedicated staff and faculty. I’m never making the mistake of questioning that guy again.”

Combeferre hides his smile. It seems that Enjolras is still Enjolras, no matter how depressed he is.

However, Jehan clearly doesn’t seem to share his amusement, because he gives the guard a positively acidic look, and says, “You talked to him for twenty minutes out here in the freezing snow when he has no coat?”

“I didn’t think it was that cold,” the guard says, sounding flustered. “And I wanted to make sure he wasn’t some sort of criminal —”

“Of course you fucking didn’t think it was cold!” Jehan shouts. “You’re wearing a coat and he wasn’t!”

“What floor?” Courfeyrac cuts in, and the guard looks immensely relieved to have a savior.

“Fifth. I’ll let you in.”

“Thank you!” Courfeyrac singsongs, and Combeferre’s not sure if he’s being sarcastic. He can tell that all three of them are displeased at the guard’s scatterbrained behavior.

“Well, he’s not getting away from us, then,” Jehan murmurs, back to his calm self, as they enter the lift together, looking like a trio of drowned rats.

“I don’t ever plan on letting him,” Combeferre points out, watching the numbers light up on the lift doors to signal what floor they’re passing.

It’s not difficult to find the office that Enjolras is in, judging from the fact that it’s the only one with light filtering from beneath the door. When Combeferre knocks, nobody answers.

“Enjolras,” he calls. “I know you’re in there. Open the door, please.”

Silence greets his words, but when Combeferre glances at Jehan, who’s got his ear pressed to the door, the little poet nods rapidly and makes a circle with his middle finger and thumb. He’s in there, for sure.

“Enjolras, it’s me, Courf, and Jehan. Please let us in.”

“No.”

Enjolras’ voice is flat and cool, like he’s back in his marble skin. Combeferre highly doubts it. It’s all a ploy, because suddenly Enjolras has been laden down with the world and he’s cutting himself off from everybody and everything — even emotion — to keep from breaking down. But he needs to break down. He needs to let it all out or he’s going to explode.

“If you don’t let us in, Enjolras,” Jehan states firmly, “we’re going to call Bahorel and have him come and break down the door, or get Chetta to pick the lock. Maybe both. Whether you like it or not, we’re coming in. How many people are going to be on the other side of this door when that happens is entirely up to you.”

Combeferre raises his eyebrows. This approach would be heavy-handed for anyone else to use, but when it comes out of Jehan’s mouth, it only seems like gentle manhandling.

There’s silence where Combeferre can figuratively see the gears turning in Enjolras’ head as he plots out both scenarios and the consequences of either. Finally, there’s the sound of table legs scraping the carpet, along with a chair, and then, finally, the click of the lock itself as it disengages.

Combeferre throws an arm out to halt Courfeyrac running into the room. He somehow manages to calmly count to three in his head before opening the door and herding Jehan and Courf inside.

Enjolras is standing with his back to the door and facing the window, almost as if he’s considering jumping out of it — he can’t, BTW. They’re five stories up and he’ll break a leg. He’s completely soaked through and through, his shirt and vest and pants dark with water. Water’s dripping from his blond hair, as if he hasn’t even bothered squeezing it out, which is probably the case. One of the hard-backed metal chairs has water pooled on the floor around it — clear evidence where he was sitting. He’s shivering, even now, and the bruise that Combeferre glimpsed on his cheek earlier is now an ugly dark purple. He also has a black eye that wasn’t there before. When Combeferre moves forward and takes Enjolras’ hands, they feel like they’re solid ice.

“Damn it, Enjolras,” he snaps. “You’re going to catch your death. If Joly was here he’d berate you for possibly contracting pneumonia or something.”

Enjolras tries to smile, but it comes out funny on his face. He hasn’t stopped shivering since Combeferre and the others came in. Combeferre takes one hand in both of his — Jehan does the other — and they both start rubbing vigorously, trying to bring circulation back into Enjolras’ red fingers.

“Why did you leave like that?” Courfeyrac asks. “Why did you hide from us, Enjolras?” He sounds like he’s ready to start crying. “You could have died! Do you know how cold it is out there? Or you could have been robbed, or hit by a car, or run into street gangs, or…”

“Someone did try to rob me,” Enjolras croaks. His voice sounds rusty, and he sneezes. Courfeyrac forces him to sit down again. “When it got blatantly obvious I didn’t have anything of value, he left me alone.”

“Right,” Jehan says dryly. “Because you clearly had this and that black eye when you left the Musain.” He unbuttons Enjolras’ cuff and pushes his sleeve back to reveal bruises in the shape of a hand, cinched around Enjolras’ forearm like a burn. 

Enjolras doesn’t say anything. He looks miserable, and Combeferre gives in to his own feelings, dropping Enjolras’ hand for a second — where Courfeyrac promptly picks it back up — and falling to his knees to press his forehead against Enjolras’.

“You idiot,” he says shakily. “I was so worried. We were all so worried. You could have died, Enjolras, and where would that have left me? Where would that have left the rest of us?” He chokes back a sob as freezing water drips down Enjolras’ face. Enjolras trembles against him; Combeferre knows that his best friend has picked up on the crack in his voice. They’ve always been more than just best friends, practically brothers; even in whatever depressive state Enjolras has found himself, they’re so close, and the thought of losing him is like Combeferre’s heart has been ripped forcefully out of his chest and lead put there in place of real, beating flesh and blood.

“Talk to us, Enjolras,” Jehan says gently. “Please. We’re here to help. We want to help.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “Not now, Jehan. Please.”

He looks so exhausted that Combeferre really doesn’t want to press the issue, not at twelve in the morning. Hard to believe that the meeting at the Musain started only three hours ago. A moment or two of silence passes — well, as much silence as you can get with Enjolras sneezing and Courfeyrac and Jehan trading raised eyebrows and secret looks at each other.

“All right,” Combeferre says at last. “But we are talking about this tomorrow. Come on, wear this. We need to get you back home.”

Enjolras shivers even more as Courfeyrac helps him into his coat. Combeferre doesn’t like the look of him, but he can’t ask Enjolras to strip off his wet clothing as he normally would, simply because they’re still far enough from home that it would really do Enjolras no good.

“If you get pneumonia, Enjolras, I’m going to sic Joly on you,” Jehan jokes.

“He better not get pneumonia,” Combeferre says darkly. “It’s finals this week, and he’s going to push himself to the brink, and if he does get pneumonia he’ll die for sure.”

“I’ll go get the car,” Courfeyrac speaks up calmly, and he walks out.

Enjolras remains seated on the chair, still dripping water, still shivering. The defeated look on his face makes Combeferre feel helpless.

“How was your break?” Jehan asks, obviously trying to think of something benign to say.

“Educational,” Enjolras says tonelessly.

“What time did you get back?” Combeferre asks suddenly. He was at the apartment till half an hour before the meeting at the Musain, and he only now remembers spotting Enjolras’ travel bag in the apartment when they were earlier searching for him.

“Maybe ten minutes before the meeting started.”

“Did you already have dinner, then?”

“I had it back home before I came.”

“You’re lying.”

Enjolras sighs tiredly and gives Combeferre a Yes, I am, what are you going to do about it? sort of look.

“When we get home, you’re eating something, and going straight to bed,” Combeferre growls. “Hopefully that’ll keep you from getting a cold.”

“The demonstration,” Enjolras begins, and sneezes again. His eyes are red-rimmed, his nose tipped with red.

“Postponed till after finals,” Combeferre says evenly. His phone buzzes. “That’ll be Courf. Come on.”

Enjolras doesn’t argue, which is yet another worry for Combeferre, but at this point, all he wants is to get Enjolras safely home and into bed before he and the others can figure out a good contingency plan.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Eponine!”

Montparnasse pounds on the door of his ex-girlfriend’s apartment, not caring that it’s eight in the morning. Surely she hasn’t left for work yet. If he makes enough noise, he knows she’ll come to the door to avoid inconveniencing her neighbors, which is just fine with him.

He’s used to the fact that she’s now most probably out of his reach. Damn that stupid bespectacled medical student who landed that rock on her finger. How’s Montparnasse supposed to know that Eponine’s the type to want the white picket fence and green lawn and two-storey house? She’s never complained before — at least, not until they were broken up.

Not that he’s bitter about it. Not at all.

But right now, he needs her. Or at least, somebody willing to listen, which always happens to be her. His other friends are absolute morons, and they’re the cause of the problem anyway.

The door bangs open.

“What the fuck do you want? It’s eight in the bloody morning!”

Montparnasse freezes with his fist halfway to knocking on the door again. “Um, who are you?” he asks stupidly.

“One of Ep’s friends. Who the hell are you?”

Montparnasse can’t stop looking away from bloodshot eyes that are still so blue he feels like he’s drowning in them. Stupid cliche, but true nonetheless. The stranger’s black curly hair is tousled on one side, as if he’s just woken up.

“I'm Edouard Montparnasse.”

The other guy’s eyes widen, and recognition dawns in them. Montparnasse isn’t sure what sort of impression he’s radiating or what shit Eponine’s told this guy about himself. Some part of him prays it’s good. “Oh. You’re Montparnasse? You’re not… exactly what I expected.”

“I still don’t hear a name,” Montparnasse purrs, trying to recover the suave charisma that Eponine swears leaks out of his pores.

“Rene Grantaire,” the man introduces himself instantly. “My friends call me Grantaire, or R. Sorry about —” he gestures down at himself, and shrugs casually. Montparnasse can’t say he doesn’t appreciate the sight of a sculpted torso above dark green boxer shorts. “I was asleep.”

“On the couch?” Montparnasse asks slyly.

“I’m crashing at Eponine’s. Fought with my roommate.” Grantaire rolls his eyes.

“Well, my gain, then. Is Ponine home?”

“No, she had to take Gavroche and Azelma to school, then hurry off for an extra shift.”

“Damn it,” Montparnasse mutters. “Fine. Just tell her to call me back.” He whirls around to leave when Grantaire’s voice stops him.

“You okay?”

Montparnasse remains standing with his back to the god standing on the doorstep. “Dandy,” he laughs bitterly. “Except, you know, for the fact that my friends are all homophobic and don’t know that I’m a freewheeling bisexual.”

Grantaire’s voice is sympathetic. “Well, that bites. Do you want to talk about it? I know I don’t know you from Adam, but we’re both Ep’s mutual friends, and I can pretend like I know what I’m doing and help in her stead.”

Montparnasse considers this suggestion for a moment. Either he can go back home and sulk over the fact that Claquesous, Babet, Brujon, and Gueulemer are idiots, or he can stay here in his ex’s apartment with her extremely hot friend. It’s not quite rocket science.

“Is that okay with you? I just woke you up.”

Grantaire grunts. “That’s fine. It was a shitty night, anyway, so I actually went to bed at midnight. Usually I stay up a lot later than that.” He pushes the door open, and Montparnasse inches past him. A hint of a male cologne that isn’t his or Eponine’s fiance’s wafts around him, and he tries not to feel too giddy. “I just don’t know how helpful I’ll be, but I’ll try.”

“That’s fine with me.”

Chapter Text

Ponine: Ferre, how are things on your end?

Ferre: I finally got Enjolras knocked out last night at two in the morning, and as of right now, he’s still asleep. Jehan and Courf went home after I promised them I’ll keep them updated with how he’s doing.

Ponine: I’m surprised it took you only two hours to get him situated.

Ferre: He kept trying to study, and he didn’t want to eat. It took three of us to persuade him. I don’t think ‘only’ is the right word here, babe.

Ponine: Good point.

Ferre: What about you?

Ponine: Um.

Ponine: Um.

Ponine: Don’t tell Enjolras any of this.

Ponine: R is sitting on the couch with my ex-boyfriend. Like, really close.

Ferre: MONTPARNASSE???

Ponine: The one and the same.

Ferre: Doing WHAT?

Ponine: Doing what guys who are into each other are doing. Tonsil hockey.

Ferre: Way to rebound, R.

Ponine: It’s not entirely his fault. Parnasse is very… attractive. And persuasive. That’s all in the past for me, babe, but I’m just saying, he’s actually acting a lot nicer than his usual dick self. I’m not altogether surprised that R is willing to rebound hard with him.

Ferre: I’d be really worried if you didn’t say you do love me. I can’t really compare to Montparnasse.

Ponine: Trust me, Ferre. I love YOU. ONLY YOU. Montparnasse was a drunken, stupid mistake of the past. You’re my present and my future. I promise. If I didn’t have to babysit R, and you our fearless leader, I’ll come over and show you right now.

Ferre: Well, hold onto that thought. Enjolras is still asleep. You can afford to leave R to his makeout session and go into your room. I’ll call you.

Ponine: Can’t wait ;) I love you.

Ferre: I love you too.

Chapter Text

It’s soon verified that Enjolras doesn’t have a cold, according to Combeferre and Joly, but that doesn’t mean they don’t still watch him like a hawk.

“Don’t tell him,” Joly mutters. Courfeyrac stole Combeferre’s phone earlier, so the news about Grantaire hooking up with Montparnasse is now being passed around Les Amis like a hot potato.

“How dumb do you think I am?” Courfeyrac asks.

“Pretty dumb,” Combeferre snipes. He’s not entirely in the best of moods — well, he is on one end, because he and Ep just spent half an hour on a very… stimulating conversation, but at the same time, Enjolras is holed up in his room studying, and Combeferre always feels edgy when that happens. At this point, his best friend is emotionally drained, physically on edge, and mentally overdone, and that combination is never good when things are normal, much less now when chaos is reigning over Enjolras’ life. Of course, it’s not a suitable compromise for Enjolras to have the door open.

“Look, if this is still about your phone, everyone deserved to know.”

“Really.”

“Just shut up and let me study, okay?”

“That argument would carry more weight if you weren't half sitting in Jehan’s lap.”

Courfeyrac flips Combeferre the bird. Combeferre serenely ignores him. He and Eponine have their hands interlocked, both of them reading on the couch. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta are studying quietly on the carpet, occasionally whispering about passing the highlighter or the bowl of chocolate chip cookie dough. Feuilly is studying his accounting textbook with a focus that seems nigh unshakable, and Bahorel has his own eyes glued to his Mac laptop screen — he’s working on his film project, and every now and then he breaks off to gulp the coffee at his side. Cosette and Marius are absent — despite the hubbub of finals, they’re taking their bridals today because their photographer had to move the date up.

Then, of course, Grantaire himself is missing.

Combeferre can’t help the conflict within him. From their conversations, he knows that Grantaire’s not having an entirely easy time with withdrawal. Right now, to him, it must be nice to hook up with someone who doesn’t want to change him — Eponine has stated emphatically that, yes, Montparnasse is just in it for the screw as well — and someone who thinks he’s good-looking and isn’t going to fight with him. It makes going sober a lot easier — hell, it’s the reason why Courfeyrac has moved around sexually so much before he met Jehan. Having someone to warm the bed at night is always better than going without.

On the other hand, Combeferre knows what this will do to Enjolras.

He still hasn’t had the opportunity to talk to Enjolras about his break, or rather, about his father, and he knows that when he does, he’ll unearth a whole can of worms. According to his parents, whom he talked to only last night, Sebastien and Maryse Enjolras seem to not be doing well, and whenever they’re in public, there’s a tense sort of truce between them. Not for the cameras, of course, because Sebastien is an attention whore and control freak who wants everything in his castle to reflect his kingly ego, but around their friends and acquaintances.

Enjolras comes out halfway through the day for coffee. His hair is sticking up where he’s run his hand through it innumerable times, he has huge black shadows under his eyes, and his gaze is distracted. It flits over the Amis crowded into his spacious living room, and then he doesn’t show surprise or alarm or anything like that. In fact, he looks so blankly at the others that Combeferre half suspects he doesn’t even register their presence. It’s common to have everyone studying here for finals, and to have Enjolras so out of it, but in light of recent events, Combeferre is on edge. He gets up, gently releasing Eponine’s hand, and follows Enjolras into the kitchen.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asks in a low tone, when Enjolras reaches for the coffeepot.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Enjolras asks snippily, sounding for a moment there like himself. Then he sighs. “What is it, Ferre?”

“You need food.”

“I don’t have time to make it.”

“Which is why Chetta and Cosette did.”

Enjolras sighs as Combeferre lifts the Saran wrap off the sandwich platter on the island and offers him two. Stubborn to the end, he takes just one, and Combeferre rolls his eyes at him. Then he pours Enjolras a glass of OJ so he can get some vitamins apart from all that caffeine that he might as well hook up an IV into his system. As they both walk out into the living room, he sees Courfeyrac and Jehan whispering, Joly and Bossuet fidgeting, and even Bahorel’s stopped to look up at Enjolras.

“Okay, what is it?”

Combeferre sighs and shakes his head. Trust Enjolras to have the killer instincts of a shark at the worst possible time. At every worst possible time, he corrects himself. Their fearless leader can smell things that go bad from a mile away. It’s one of the myriad of reasons why he’s their leader to begin with, because he keeps them all in line.

“Nothing,” Bossuet squeaks.

“Nothing,” Bahorel repeats, looking back at his laptop screen.

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says in a steely sort of voice that Combeferre swears makes the room shake.

“GrantaireisdatingMontparnasse,” he mumbles, and everybody groans audibly.

“You idiot!”

“Why can’t you ever keep quiet?”

“He used The Voice on me,” Courfeyrac shouts back in self defense. “What the hell was I supposed to do up against that?”

“Good point,” Chetta grudgingly admits.

Enjolras hasn’t moved from where he’s standing, holding his coffee cup like a shield and staring at Courfeyrac. To most people, Combeferre supposes that nothing has changed, except that his grip on the cup is more white-knuckled than usual. However, he sees everything — like the sudden tremor in the hand that Enjolras has locked behind his back, or the way his frame has gone completely tight, or even the muscle that works in Enjolras’ jaw.

“Well, good for him,” he says in a tone of voice that sounds wrong, somehow, but Combeferre can’t pinpoint why. He can feel the hairs on his arms standing on end. “Hopefully he doesn’t use that as an excuse to screw away his grades for finals. Oh, wait. This is Grantaire we’re talking about.”

With that jibe, Enjolras walks off to his room. Combeferre follows him, sighing inwardly. Trust Courfeyrac to mess this up, as usual, but it’s Courfeyrac. He does things and they’re never, ever on purpose, and everyone loves him for it anyway, because it’s Courfeyrac.

“Enjolras, wait.”

Enjolras doesn’t wait. He moves to close the door, but Combeferre blocks it with his foot and thrusts the glass towards his best friend.

“Drink this, and eat. I’ll know if you don’t.”

Enjolras wordlessly takes the glass. Now that he’s out of sight of everybody, Combeferre can see the devastation in his blue eyes, but true to his nature, Enjolras acts like nothing’s wrong.

“Look, Enjolras —”

“Good night, Combeferre.”

The door doesn’t bang shut in his face, but it closes quietly on him nonetheless, and Combeferre leans his forehead against the frame for a moment, wondering how things have managed to get this bad.

* * * * * * * * * * *

R: So how goes the study session?

Ponine: Good. How’s yours?

R: Excellent. Parnasse makes a really good model.

Ponine: More than I needed to know.

R: Please. You’ve slept with the guy. You know what I mean.

Ponine: All in the past. He’s all yours now.

R: It’s nice having someone who doesn’t want to fix me. Or yell at me. How did everyone take it?

Ponine: You already got the ‘congrats on the sex’ texts, I see. Everyone’s happy for you.

R: Really.

Ponine: Fine. You got to him, okay? Is that what you want to hear?

R: That one’s a lie. Nothing gets to him.

Ponine: R, I’m not his best friend, and even I could tell something was wrong when Courf opened his fat trap.

R: He’s probably mad that I’m screwing someone and ruining my chances for good grades and a shot at being a decent human being, right? Tell me he didn’t say something along those lines.

Ponine: Well, yes, he did, but that’s not the point.

R: Ouch. Actually, it kind of is. I rest my case. 

Ponine: Why aren’t you happily screwing/painting your new boyfriend instead of trying to pick a fight with me? I’m on your side. You know that.

R: Sorry. I guess… I don’t really know what’s going on right now. Or what I’m doing. Or what I want.

Ponine: Don’t worry about it. You probably need a break from your marble statue, anyway. Just do what… just do what makes you happy.

R: I am.

Ponine: In the long run, R.

R: When did this turn into a philosophical discussion?

Ponine: When you made it one.

R: Just go back to holding hands with your nerd and let me get some really hot mind-blowing sex.

Ponine: I needed that mental image. Thanks for a whole lot of nothing.

R: My pleasure. And tell Enjolras to go fuck himself, because no one will do it.

Ponine: That one you’re going to have to do on your own.

* * * * * * * * * *

Enjolras locks his door after that.

He eats that sandwich and drinks the juice Combeferre gave him, because only a fool will cross Combeferre in anything. Combeferre’s mild about roughly 99% of the time, but during the 1% of the time that he actually does lose his temper, even Enjolras has been afraid of him. Instead of actual food, Enjolras invests in a second coffeemaker — smaller and simpler than the one in the kitchen, but it still gets the job done and the Kona brewed, which is all he cares about. He doesn’t have time to cook or eat anything, which is just as well, because that means he has more time to spend on his projects.

The only times he steps out of his room the entire week are the increasingly few times when he needs to use the toilet and turn papers in to campus. He doesn’t see any of the Amis; doesn’t reply their text messages or voicemails. The only time he actually talks to Combeferre is through his door, telling his best friend that he can’t come out, because he’s got this to get done and that to finish.

He ends up getting the briefs done for the mock trial on Wednesday, soundly beating his opponents in the debate — he may even have made the football player cry, but he can’t remember exactly what happened. Lamarque ends up giving him 110 out of 100 on his final — if Enjolras didn’t love the old man so much and if he didn’t know of his own excellent academic record, he’d accuse Dr. Lamarque of favoritism.

His Thursday papers score straight As, which is nice considering that he’s spent hours and hours turning out three drafts before being satisfied (somewhat) on the final product. That same night, he learns from his mother that her cancer has entered the third stage.

On Friday, he manages to grade his students’ worksheets and papers without using too much of his red pen — or being too biting on the finals, because whenever he starts using pure snark he can picture Grantaire in his head, glaring at him with those bedamned blue eyes — and their grades go up in the online student portal the next day. Then he deals with some of his students protesting their grades and emailing him their pleas for higher scores. He does end up being incredibly sarcastic when he answers those emails.

His entire Saturday and Sunday are spent writing the agenda for the upcoming meeting and the speeches for the protest for himself, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Musichetta, because everyone else has put them aside in favor of finals. Everyone else is out celebrating, but this protest is way too important for Enjolras to ignore.

Dr. Lamarque has a special interest in this demonstration. The late Mrs. Lamarque had to get an abortion that would otherwise have killed her way before her time and only a year into their marriage, and lots of their family and friends didn’t agree with that. The abortion rendered her sterile, and as far as Enjolras is concerned, the Lamarques treat him as the son they would have had. They’ve told him that multiple times; this is one of the countless ways he can show how much they mean to him, and if he can sacrifice a little sleep to see it done, then he will.

Besides, every time he wants to give up, he thinks of Grantaire’s expression when the other man talked about him demanding too much of the other Amis. He can’t expect the others to handle a simple task that he himself refuses to undertake, and this way, they get to have fun. He’d rather let his friends be happy than get a bit of rest he can’t soldier on without.

It’s Sunday evening now. It’s getting a little difficult to ignore the headache pounding between his eyes and all throughout his head — by some miracle he didn’t get a migraine this time around for finals, but he figures his luck isn’t going to hold out much longer — or the way his entire body hurts, from his neck and shoulders down to his stomach and abdomen. When he holds his hands out, they’re shaking, and for that very purpose he decided not to shave away his five o’clock stubble before the Les Amis meeting at seven.

If he holds out for just a little while longer, he can rest after the meeting’s done. Wait — no, he can’t. The protest is tomorrow, and if he doesn’t sleep, he can go over his speech several more times; have it polished and ready for the crowds.

He goes to the meeting, even though he's dizzy and when his vision is so blurry as he’s driving that he nearly goes through a red light and two Stop signs and has to slam on the brakes each time. At the Musain, Musichetta says hello to him, and he stares at her blankly for half a minute before finally returning the greeting.

For a moment there, he’s forgotten her name.

The same thing happens with Cosette and Joly. Grantaire’s absent for the first time in months, and Enjolras tries not to let the sharp tug at his heart hurt too much. Courfeyrac and Jehan are constantly exchanging looks with Combeferre, and Feuilly keeps staring at him — for what, Enjolras has no idea, but he’s too out of it to care much.

Then, at the meeting, he’s talking to Combeferre and Courfeyrac about the agenda when the room goes black, and he wakes up — minutes later? Hours? — with his head pillowed in Jehan’s lap as everyone is shouting and pushing around them both.

He tries to listen to the voices babbling around him, maybe he even tries to talk, but he can’t, and he doesn’t think he actually says a single word. The words and voices and faces are all garbled up, and he can’t hold onto anything for longer than few seconds.

“… hasn’t been eating, or sleeping, most likely.”

“He took on all our caseloads while we were doing finals.”

“Fuck it.”

Combeferre never swears, but that’s his voice.

“Give him space.”

Enjolras wants to keep listening, even though he can’t really keep track of what’s going on, but he’s swallowed up by the black once more.

Chapter Text

Grantaire tugs on his dark green hoodie and his black jeans. For the first couple of days, nonstop sex with Montparnasse seemed like a fantastic idea, but now that the rush of testosterone and endorphins is wearing off, he’s starting to regret his impulsive decision nearly a week later.

For starters, Montparnasse seems a bit more… clingy than Grantaire remembers Eponine making him out to be. He’s handsome, sure, with that sleek straight black hair perfectly gelled and styled, those red lips — redder than even Enjolras’ — and deadly green eyes. Not to mention a body that makes a sex drive like that all worth it.

He’s so different from Enjolras, Grantaire can’t help thinking. And yet so much the same. They both play things really close to the chest. They’re both ridiculously good-looking — Enjolras more so than Montparnasse, but you can’t win it all — and they both have the same charismatic air of magnetism that draws others to them like moths to a flame.

But this entire week, Grantaire’s has had finals to do. Meaning he’s had to turn in a couple of studio portraits and a still life — and for once he’s had someone other than Enjolras constantly on his mind to paint — but even then, Montparnasse has barely left Eponine’s apartment. He’s just watched Grantaire in a sort-of-voyeuristic way, which is okay, because heaven knows Grantaire does it enough to Enjolras. But then Montparnasse hardly ever leaves, which gets a little old, because Grantaire still needs his own time and his own space.

Then again, when Grantaire wants to go out, because it seems like they’re dating, for crying out loud — and he does want to sample a relationship that isn’t with Enjolras, just to see if he’s really and truly, hopelessly in love with the guy or if he’s still salvageable and he still can be with other people — Montparnasse balks. He clearly doesn’t want to been seen in public with Grantaire, which doesn’t make sense in the slightest considering that he’s the one ravaging Grantaire every chance he gets. Maybe it’s his homophobic friends he’s worried about, but then why wouldn’t he just break away from them and spend more time with the other Amis?

He’s brought it up, and Montparnasse just rolled his eyes and said something completely snarky about how he doesn’t want Combeferre to feel uncomfortable, or Eponine. Or any of the others. Which are two logical points, so Grantaire doesn’t say anything about it again.

He supposes that if Montparnasse’s friends are anything like the other Amis, he wouldn’t want to turn his back on them either — but they’re not. Not from Montparnasse’s description. So what’s going on?

The last thing — and probably the biggest issue — is that if Grantaire’s being honest with himself, he’s using Montparnasse as a way to get back at Enjolras. He’s tired of feeling like he comes last with Enjolras, and he’s having fantastic sex, but the entire time he’s wishing it is a certain blond with him, and not Montparnasse himself. At the same time, he misses Enjolras. He misses being able to talk to Enjolras, spending time with him as he paints or sketches and Enjolras reads, or cooking for them both. He knows a lifetime worth of details about Enjolras, but practically nothing about Montparnasse. Enjolras is light and knowledge personified; Montparnasse seems like a sleek panther of the night. One makes him feel comfortable (most of the time) and want to be a better person (again, most of the time); the other makes him feel like a sex god, but little else.

No prizes for guessing who does which.

He’s run their fights over and over again in his head, just because he’s an art/art history double major and his finals are a joke and he has a lot more time to spare than most of the other Amis. He’s starting to come to the unfortunate conclusion that while Enjolras is an oblivious asshole, Grantaire himself has been quite a dick. He’s gone and lost his temper on Enjolras, even now when Enjolras has way too much to handle on his plate. Even though his feelings have been really hurt — and they still hurt — he’s taken things out on the other man more than Enjolras probably can bear right now.

The thing is, he’s not quite sure what to do about this situation. He can apologize, but he’s probably caused hurts that are beyond repair of a Hallmark-card apology. What’s he supposed to say? "I’m sorry that I was such a bastard and ripped into you like that? Can I have a hug?"

Sorry’s when you step on someone’s foot, not when you tear out their feelings and stomp on them. He and Enjolras are never ever going to be a thing again, or even friends at this point, and Grantaire now wishes he has a drink, because feeling like this makes him want to work his way down to the bottom of the tequila bottle so he can forget what a jerk he’s been.

Tonight, at least, Montparnasse is hanging out with his friends. He’s asked Grantaire to come with, but Celine called earlier, and Grantaire’s decided to use this free few hours to himself to get back to her. In addition, he’s feeling guilty that he missed out on the Musain meeting tonight, because Montparnasse got a little handsy with him at the last moment. He’s talked about his fight with Enjolras to Celine, and she’s given him a couple of pointers to think about.

Before he can chicken out, he gives in and dials Eponine’s phone. The meeting should be over — it’s eleven o’clock, and four hours should be enough for Enjolras’ spiel — and he hears the phone ringing for nearly a minute before Eponine finally picks up.

“Hey,” she says, sounding a little bit breathless, and a lot worried. “Where were you tonight?”

“Sorry,” Grantaire apologizes, feeling horrid. “Montparnasse got a bit frisky, and I had a commission I had to get done at midnight. How did the meeting go?”

Eponine pauses, and when she speaks, she sounds more serious than usual. “Enjolras passed out before the meeting ever really got started, so it didn’t really happen.”

Grantaire feels like he’s been sat on by an elephant. He takes a seat, hard, on the pavement of the sidewalk in front of Ep’s apartment building. “What?”

“He’ll be okay,” Eponine says hurriedly. “Apparently he’s just run himself ragged — he’s exhausted, dehydrated, and suffering from caffeine intoxication. Sounds like him, huh?”

“What happened?” Grantaire’s words end in a screech, and a passerby looks strangely at him. “Ponine. Tell. Me.”

“He just pushed himself, R,” Eponine tells him calmly. “He blacked out twice, and when he woke up he threw up for a bit. Really, he’s going to be okay. He point-blank refused to go to the hospital, though, so Combeferre’s got him set up on an IV back at their place, and he’s sleeping things off right now.”

“How the hell did he get dehydrated? He’s been drinking coffee like it’s his lifeblood!”

“Well, he ran out of coffee this morning, so he took three bottles of 5 Hour Energy instead. He admitted that he’s been feeling sick the entire day, although, of course, he didn’t see it as relevant to anything. Plus, he hasn’t been sleeping or eating, which of course didn’t help matters.”

Grantaire feels like his knees have turned to water.

“R?”

He takes a shaky breath, then another. His heart is pounding hard in his chest. “But he’s going to be okay, right?”

“Of course. Combeferre and Courfeyrac practically had to wrestle him down to sleep. I think Jehan and Bahorel helped, too.”

Grantaire clenches his hands into fists. He feels like he’s swallowed broken glass. “Let me guess. He’s insisting on going to the protest tomorrow, isn’t he?”

“This one’s particularly important to him, yes.”

“Yeah, I know. He told me.” Has it really been only two weeks since he and Enjolras stopped talking to each other?

“Look, R,” Eponine says cautiously. “Combeferre’s really mad at Enjolras right now, and he’s also super worried. I think… I think it might be better if you stayed away for now.”

“Because I’ve made things worse, haven’t I.” It’s not a question but a statement. He’s starting to piece together Enjolras’ systematic self-destruction, and guilt starts to coalesce in the pit of his stomach like dirty oil.

“No,” Eponine corrects him in a steely tone. “Because you and Enjolras both fought with each other, and things were said on both ends, and right now, he needs to remain calm and he needs to rest. You two rile each other up in good and bad ways, and he just can’t take the excitement right now. It’s not just you, R. It’s both of you, and even Ferre knows that.”

“How can he not blame me? I blame me.”

“R. This is Combeferre we’re talking about. He sees both sides of every situation, even if sometimes he doesn’t want to. If he doesn’t see fit to blame you any more than he does Enjolras, I don’t see why you should, either.”

Grantaire closes his eyes. In a voice that he barely recognizes as his own, he says, “I’ll see you guys tomorrow, then. At the protest.”

“I’ll be home soon. Will you be there?”

“I don’t know.”

“Please don’t go out to a bar now, R. Don’t throw away what you’ve worked for just like that. No matter how mad you guys are at each other, Enjolras will never want you to fall off the wagon because of him.”

Assuming Enjolras still ever wants to talk to him or look at him, yes.

“Don’t be stupid. Of course he does.”

“Did I actually say that out loud?”

“Yep.”

“Fuck.”

“Look, just chill for 10 minutes, okay? I’ll be back by then. I think after the protest — when this is all over — you both need to talk.”

Yeah. They really do.

And Grantaire needs to figure out what he’s going to do with Montparnasse.

 * * * * * * * * * * *

“May the record reflect that the idiotic, stubborn-headed defendant is refusing to stay in bed as he should and is instead going to a stupid protest where he will be standing up on his feet shouting for over an hour, most likely further aggravating his already overtaxed body.”

Enjolras sighs as he pushes the covers off of himself and slowly swings his legs over the edge of the bed. “Combeferre, you know why I have to do this.” He has to grab onto the headboard, because four bags of IV fluid and fourteen hours later, he still feels weaker than a newborn kitten.

“I do. I definitely think it’s a bloody stupid idea, but for some reason I’m still helping you. Count it as a lapse in my judgment.”

Enjolras wisely remains silent. He’s sensing that Combeferre’s temper is close to the edge, and it’s never a good idea igniting the powder keg.

Combeferre grabs his red jacket, a white button-up shirt, and a pair of black jeans from the wardrobe and tosses them onto the bed. “Hurry up and get dressed, because you’re not leaving this apartment until you’ve got some food in you, Enjolras, or so help me, I’m tying you down and you’re never going anywhere unsupervised for the rest of your life.”

Yup. Definitely angry. For some reason, Enjolras feels like he’s far too close to tears as he reaches out with a shaky hand and pulls his jeans towards him. He stands up, holding onto the nightstand until he feels like he can remain upright for longer than ten seconds without falling over, and leans against the wall to yank his jeans on. When that’s done, he shoves his hands into the sleeves of his shirt and tries buttoning it up on his own. He does fine until he reaches the third button from the top, and his fingers quiver too much. After four tries, he gives up and pulls his jacket on.

His boots thump down onto the floor in front of him as Combeferre storms out of his room with the IV equipment, and the door bangs shut.

Enjolras sits down heavily on the bed and presses the heels of his hands against his closed eyelids, struggling against the burning in his eyes. If he’s this thin-skinned, he must really be tired or close to being at the end of his rope.

Combeferre hardly ever gets angry with him, and Enjolras supposes that it’s about time he is. His best friend has had to pick up the pieces of every mess Enjolras makes, from Grantaire to his father, and now, to this. It shouldn’t make Enjolras want to cry, but he can’t help it, because he doesn’t know when things managed to go so wrong. From his mother’s worsening cancer to his father’s ultimatum and threats to Grantaire hating him, and now Combeferre.

And for some reason, Enjolras keeps thinking that something else really bad is coming, and he isn’t going to like it.

“We ruin lives. It’s what we do.”

He sucks in a sharp breath, swallowing back the hard, salty lump in his throat, because he can’t afford to lose it now.

A pair of warm hands presses down onto his shoulders, and Enjolras looks up with a gasp, because he hasn’t heard the door open. He scoots back instinctively until he realizes it’s Combeferre.

His best friend looks exhausted, with shadows under his bespectacled eyes. His brown hair is mussed, as if he’s just tugged on it, and there are more worry lines in his face than Enjolras remembers. He feels a stab of guilt that Combeferre reads in his face; his best friend shakes his head and moves his right hand off of Enjolras’ shoulder to brush at his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras manages to stutter out, and he’s not sure what exactly he’s apologizing for — last night, or his constant fights with Grantaire, or the numerous times he’s made the others upset and forced Combeferre to handle his problems. Or maybe this is a preemptive apology for what’s coming in a year’s time.

“It’s okay,” Combeferre murmurs. His hazel eyes are soft with a tenderness Enjolras isn’t quite sure he deserves. “You’re stubborn, and you drive me insane sometimes, and you never take care of yourself, Enjolras. You had me so worried.” His voice breaks in the middle of his words, and he clears his throat. “But that’s you, Enjolras. I love you. You’re like my own brother — actually, even closer,” he amends, and Enjolras laughs brokenly. Combeferre and his brother fight a great deal, and they’re definitely not as close as Enjolras and Combeferre are. “I knew what I was getting into when I signed up for this, Enjolras. Loving you has never been easy, and that’s okay, because it’s you, and I’ll always be here.”

At least until I have to drive you away from me, Enjolras thinks, but he takes it, because he has nothing else at this point. He has to enjoy this one final year before he becomes his father’s creature completely. And it’s up to him to make sure everyone else around him enjoys it, enjoys him, and thinks the best of him, before he’s forced to destroy what love they’ve ever shared. He bites his lip, and Combeferre takes that as a sign to wrap his arms around Enjolras and hold him close, so close, even as tears stream silently down Enjolras’ cheeks.

When he’s cried out for the moment — which doesn’t take much; he generally doesn’t cry a whole lot before he’s spent — he reaches clumsily for his boots, even as Combeferre keeps one arm around his shoulders, gently massaging circles into his back.

“You’ll never do that on your own. Let me.”

Enjolras obediently moves back, and Combeferre turns and goes down on one knee to push a boot onto Enjolras’ foot, deftly crossing the laces together and cinching them into a tight knot. He does the same for the other foot as Enjolras watches him.

Solid, calm, dependable Combeferre. He’s hard-pressed to remember a time when Combeferre hasn’t been by his side. While Enjolras has been a fiery comet, blazing everywhere and igniting a firestorm in his wake, Combeferre has been as calm and constant as a flowing ocean, giving life and comfort and help. He’s taken that far too much for granted, and now that there’s a ticking clock waiting for him, Enjolras can’t help but acknowledge it.

“How many years have we known each other?” he asks quietly into the silence. “Sixteen, seventeen years?”

“Seventeen,” Combeferre corrects with a gentle smile, pushing his glasses further up onto his nose.

“In all those seventeen years, I’ve never told you how much you mean to me. How much you’ve done for me and continue to do for me. I’m sorry. You’ve always been there, and I’ve never told you. I’ve never even shown you.”

Combeferre stands, and looks Enjolras squarely in the eye. “You don’t need to, Enjolras. I know you love me as much as I love you. If you don’t say it, it doesn’t mean you don’t feel it. Trust me, I know how you feel, and you never have to worry that I won’t be here.” He smiles again, and holds out a hand. “Come on. I’m really not letting you leave until you’ve eaten enough to satisfy me. You’ve got a long day ahead of you — and you have some things to sort out.” He cocks an eyebrow, and Enjolras immediately knows with a sinking feeling what he means: you need to talk to Grantaire.

Yeah. He does. He’s just really afraid of that conversation, because he doesn’t want to face the fact that Grantaire hates him.

Enjolras scoffs weakly, but he takes Combeferre’s hand and lets the other man pull him to his feet. “Okay.” 

Chapter Text

“Where are you going?”

Grantaire whips his head around and sees Montparnasse trotting towards him from across the street. It’s ten-thirty, and the protest is at eleven. He needs to hurry, or it’ll begin without him, and he doesn’t want that to happen.

“To the protest down on 9th and Figuero,” he replies. “Want to come with?”

Instantly he wants to slap himself in the face. Taking his so-called boyfriend to go watch Enjolras speak. What a smooth idea. Not only is it cruel to both Enjolras and Montparnasse — as well as the other Amis — but it’s also awkward on all counts.

Fortunately, Montparnasse wrinkles his nose, and Grantaire sends a prayer upward to whatever deity is listening. “Ugh, no. I’m not into that kind of do-gooder shit. Why are you even going, anyway?”

“We’re protesting women’s rights and —”

“No, no.” Montparnasse waves a hand. “Why are you even going?”

“What do you mean?” Grantaire asks, but he has a nagging feeling he already knows.

“I see why Eponine’s in it. Her new man’s all caught up in the grandeur of justice and righteousness. She wants to get a new crowd different from her old because she wants to put that all behind her. She wants Gav and Zelma to get ‘good influences’. I get it. They’re still kids; she wants better for them. But it seems like stuff like this doesn’t mean all that much to you. You don’t believe that the world can be changed for the better. In fact, you believe it’s all going to pot. Why are you even going, if that’s the case?”

Grantaire just stares at him for a moment.

“Well, does it mean that much to you?”

Grantaire shakes himself and turns up his coat collar. It’s turned even colder, all of a sudden. “I have to go, Parnasse. I’ll talk to you when I get back.”

Montparnasse is giving him a strange look. His eyebrows turn downward into a V, and he seems ready to argue, his eyes hard and challenging, when he finally forces a cocky grin.

“I’ll see you when you get back, then.”

Moving forward, he plants a quick but intimate kiss on Grantaire’s lips, and then tucks his hands into his pockets, moving quickly around the corner.

Grantaire remains where he is for a moment, staring until Montparnasse vanishes out of sight, breathing in the scent of tobacco and Calvin Klein’s Obsession that the other man favors wearing.

His mind can’t help floating to the thought that Enjolras doesn’t smoke, and he doesn’t like using big perfume brands — Grantaire knows better than to get him started on the evils of those corporations and how much they exploit their workers to bring long-awaited scents to the masses. Instead, Enjolras smells like the mandarin orange and sandalwood of his soap and deodorant, and the aroma of Kona.

Enjolras, who wants to foolishly change the world and make it into the Garden of Eden on earth, who sees the good in everybody and everything, even in Grantaire himself. Enjolras, who’s brash and passionate and fiery, but who cares so intensely for the people around him.

Then there’s Montparnasse, who’s cynical and sly and pragmatic, who looks out for Number One, who doesn’t want to fix anything or rise up on eagles’ wings. He’s perfectly happy to scrounge out his own existence with tooth and claw, and who doesn’t give a fig for anybody else around him.

Grantaire’s standing somewhere in the fog between them both. He can picture in his head the artist’s details — Enjolras holding out a hand to him, beckoning with that bright gleam in his blue eyes, and the other holding onto his red flag; Montparnasse standing an equal distance away, both hands caressing a knife, his deep green eyes never leaving Grantaire’s blue ones.

“Well, does it mean that much to you?”

Grantaire hangs his head and looks down at the asphalt under his feet.

“If you have to ask, Parnasse,” he says softly, “what does that say about me?” 

Chapter Text

Edouard Montparnasse knows he can be called many things, but never a fool.

Unfortunately, this past week, he’s acted more like a lovesick, brainless fool than anything else. He swore when Eponine left him that he wouldn’t ever tangle himself with the likes of her and her stupid, do-gooder friends again. He’s met her bespectacled beau when he ran into them both being disgustingly sugary-sweet in a restaurant, and he grudgingly admits that Luc Combeferre seems to be good for Ponine and loves her dearly, even if he’s that boring brown-haired, brown-eyed, down-to-earth type that Montparnasse has always scorned.

However, Montparnasse has never met any of the rest of the naive, flea-bitten pack that Eponine runs with now. He’s never cared to make any of their acquaintance, and he has no idea why he keeps getting drawn back to the likes of them. It might be due to the fact that of all the bevy of admirers and lovers Montparnasse has accumulated in his lifetime, only Eponine and Grantaire have ever stood out. Faces in a faceless crowd — or willful spirits that he’s never been able to tame and conquer for his own. Montparnasse has always been the heartbreaker, not the heartbreakee. However, he’s never been able to claim Eponine, and now, he suspects, he can’t do the same for Grantaire — which intrigues, infuriates, and intimidates him.

He blames it all on those stupid blue eyes and that cynical, coolly calculating sneer and those magical artist’s fingers that only Rene Grantaire seems to possess. It seems impossible that he can get so crazy about a guy in the space of a single week, but there you are.

It’s ridiculously easy to follow Grantaire, because the artist never looks behind him. His dark green hoodie stands out, along with those gorgeous thick black curls and the tricolored cockade he’s pinned to the left side of his chest. His walk is purposeful rather than ambling as Montparnasse has always seen it, as if Grantaire knows what he wants and he’s got it fixed firmly in his sights.

The walk to the site of the wildly advertised protest is a short one, and Montparnasse starts getting more and more uneasy as he sees the number of New York’s finest increase with the closer they both get. A couple of them give Montparnasse the shifty eye, and he sinks into the role of bored but curious passerby, slowing his pace and pulling a lackadaisical expression onto his face. Unfortunately, Grantaire hurries onward, and Montparnasse loses sight of him in the crush of people now gathering around a raised sort of dais on the wide sidewalk.

He sidles into the crowd, deftly moving around the idiots in his way with polished ease. There are people of all ages here — older men and women in their prime, wizened ancients, young adults, couples, even teenagers. He resists the urge to use his fists to speak his annoyance, because the last thing he wants to do is attract attention. Not only will the others be furious, but he doesn’t ever plan on being arrested — not that he couldn’t get out easily, anyway, thank you, Claquesous.

Sometimes it works to be good friends with a police informer esconced so well into the ranks that his existence is a question mark.

He catches sight of Grantaire again, and the other man is moving up right close to the dais. Montparnasse recognizes Combeferre, and he sees Eponine right beside him. There are other friends as well: a guy with a close-shaven head, a very exotic-looking Asian-American girl beside him — damn if she isn’t hot — holding onto the hand of another guy, this one with all his hair in a messy brown mop. A man built like a weightlifter is standing near a blond chick who looks like she fell out of a Disney movie, and a cute guy with freckles. There’s a guy with a newsboy cap pulled on over his dark auburn hair, standing in a way that reminds Montparnasse a little of himself. Those hands tell him that this man is used to eking a living out with his own two hands.

On the stage, there are three men, all of them looking the same young age as the rest of Ponine’s crowd. There’s a handsome-looking fellow with dark wavy locks also holding onto the hand of a man who looks like Gueulemer could snap him in half with one flex of his arm. The kid’s dressed in a dark violet coat and he has flowers threaded into his light chestnut hair.

That’s got to be the gay couple Eponine’s told him about. Montparnasse smirks to himself. Although the rest of Patron-Minette is homophobic, and each day Montparnasse has to be very careful about revealing his secret, he has to admit that he enjoys seeing other LGBT individuals around. It makes him feel less alone.

The last figure standing and shouting to the crowd is somewhat new to Montparnasse. He’s blond and very attractive — more so than even Grantaire. Montparnasse moves nearer, close enough to the dais that he can take a good hard look at the blond but not be seen by Ponine, Combeferre, or Grantaire. From the confident, authoritative way the blond’s addressing the crowd, gesturing powerfully, the light of conviction radiating from his eyes and slender frame, Montparnasse decides that this has to be the leader of Eponine’s band of misfits. He remembers seeing Combeferre with this blond kid a lot, being affectionate and easy with each other in a way that means they’re most likely close friends.

Rich kid, too, he thinks disdainfully. The cut of the boy’s clothing — because he’s pretty enough to be just a boy — is expensive and well tailored, and he has smooth hands and a relatively unlined face. What does this kid know of hardship and crime and poverty? That would be absolutely nothing.

Montparnasse casts a glance Grantaire’s way, to see how he’s reacting to having his friends around him, and he feels the blood drain out of his own face.

His Grantaire is staring at the men on the stage. No, not at the men, but at the pretty boy leader, with a look on his face that makes Montparnasse feel like a bolt of lightning has come out of nowhere to raze him from head to toe. It’s a look of such obvious tender emotion that Montparnasse has never seen before — as if the blond is Grantaire’s sun, or the center of his universe.

Grantaire is staring at that blond, the one with eyes like an angel, and a body that would make a woman — or a man — feel less than angelic.

The blond breaks off talking and the dark-haired man picks up the trailing rope of the rally. As the blond’s blue eyes sweep the captivated audience, they flit by Montparnasse and land squarely on Grantaire. Even though he doesn’t smile, those dark blue eyes light up with obvious pleasure.

And then Grantaire smiles back at him, that same tenderness bubbling over into his gaze and expression with that genuine sincerity that Montparnasse admires. He practically glows with it, white teeth flashing in his face, and the sight stabs Montparnasse in the heart. He feels a rising heat in his blood that starts steaming slowly through his veins. Every instinct is screaming for him to leap up on that dais and wrench the blond’s head up around on his neck, and it’s with clenched hands, the nails biting into his palms, that he barely restrains himself from doing so. He can already feel the snapping of bone beneath his fingers and palms.

Then what would Grantaire think of him?

The thought hits him, bringing numbing clarity. This is why Grantaire has come today. He doesn’t believe in these causes, or political statements — any of it. He just believes in that blond man — that boy, really, Montparnasse thinks furiously — and, worse than that, he’s obviously head over heels in love with him. Montparnasse isn’t stupid; it’s clear as day, even to him, even now.

The blond’s taken over again; this time he’s introducing a white-haired gentleman in his late sixties, escorting him on the stage and treating him with a veneration that would befit a son with a father. When the old man addresses the crowd, there’s a hushed, respectful silence that falls, and it sickens Montparnasse to see the same veneration on Grantaire’s face as he keeps staring at his blond idol.

Montparnasse pushes away, blindly plunging through the crowd quietly enough that he melts into it and doesn’t cause a disturbance. Even now, he doesn’t want Eponine or Grantaire to look up and see him, because it will tear down his already wounded pride.

Twice he’s been played by the same group of friends. Twice he’s been made a fool — and by the same one person.

Combeferre, the man who’s stolen Eponine’s heart, is obviously good friends with that blond; Grantaire clearly worships him. It’s really no prize for guessing who’s really to blame here.

Stupid, stupid Les Amis. They want a protest? They want to stir up chaos?

Well, Montparnasse is an expert in that. If they want chaos, then chaos is what they’ll all get. 

Chapter Text

Enjolras finishes his piece in a blaze of glory that has the crowd screaming with him, passion and belief swelling in every face. For just a second there, his eyes meet Grantaire’s again, and this time, the corners of his mouth lift up in a brilliant smile even as his gaze sweeps away.

It’s at moments that Grantaire feels like he can truly fly, that he feels like he can do anything in the world at all. His belief in Enjolras sustains him, and when he glances at the rest of Les Amis, he knows the enthralled awe in their faces is mirrored in his own.

Dr. Lamarque is speaking now. He lacks Enjolras’ fiery beauty, but he definitely shares the same charisma and passion that Enjolras has for the cause. Grantaire lets his words waft gently over him. The old man resembles a shorter Patrick Stewart with a rich crop of white hair, and he does have the same deep, resonating voice and Charles-Xavier-esque air of understanding calm about him. From what Grantaire’s heard about him, he’s a well-respected figure on and off campus, and very recognized in the media as a learned scholar and passionate advocate for human rights.

After his once-over of Dr. Lamarque, though, Grantaire hasn’t been able to stop staring at Enjolras. In his white shirt, red jacket, and black jeans, Enjolras cuts an imposing figure. His golden curls are riotous, those wonderful ocean-blue eyes alight with sheer joy, his cheeks flushed from his exertions. From where he’s standing very close to the makeshift stage, Grantaire can’t help but admire Enjolras’ perfect bone structure. For the first time since their fight, he wants to paint Enjolras as he is now, all beautiful and untouchable and glorious. Their eyes lock once more, and Grantaire feels a thrill shoot through him as Enjolras smiles at him, a little shyly, but definitely buoyant with obvious pleasure

Enjolras is smiling. At him.

The smile gains wattage and confidence when Enjolras looks away, but just for a second there, Enjolras has acknowledged Grantaire’s presence among the masses; maybe he even wants Grantaire to be there.

Dr. Lamarque ends his speech, and Enjolras moves forward, kissing him on both cheeks as they embrace. Then Enjolras pulls back from Dr. Lamarque and slips his hand to the old man’s elbow, clearly all the better to help him away from the podium.

There’s the sound of two pops, reminding Grantaire of the time that he accidentally poked a big hole with his mother’s knitting needle in his sister’s beanbag doll Susannah. For some reason, that image of the dried beans exploding out of the seemingly innocuous slit flashes across his mind’s eye.

Dr. Lamarque staggers back, still holding onto the improvised podium. Then he half turns to face Enjolras, and his face is white.

“Adrien?” he gasps.

Enjolras starts forward, the euphoria on his face fading away to confused concern, and then Dr. Lamarque turns fully, revealing two neat bullet holes in his abdomen. Scarlet blossoms against his white shirt and gray blazer like unfurling rose petals; more scarlet drops have splashed onto Enjolras’ shirt and face. The old man takes a step and then he’s falling, Enjolras leaping forward to take his weight and keep him from hitting the ground with no support.

Someone screams, the high soprano pitch seemingly signaling everyone to simultaneously freak out, and Grantaire watches as everything goes into slow-motion for him, even as the crowd explodes into utter and complete chaos.

Enjolras’ face is still frozen into a rictus of stunned horror as Dr. Lamarque collapses back against him. The raw shock that manifests in his blue eyes wounds Grantaire like a spear to the heart, and he finds himself unable to move as Enjolras’ knees give out and he and Dr. Lamarque both fall to the floor of the dais.

But he has to move. Every nerve, every cell in his body is screaming for him to break his paralysis and act, to get to Enjolras.

Combeferre lunges forward, his eyes only on Enjolras, but Eponine’s fighting him, struggling to do the same and getting tangled up in him. Grantaire, however, has seen more: the cops are indiscriminately slashing out with their batons as they whip riot shields out from nowhere, advancing towards the dais with only a clear goal in mind. Women are screaming; men are swinging their fists; people are getting knocked down.

He surges towards Combeferre, pulling at his sleeve so he can yell into his ear.

“Get Ponine out! I’ll grab Enjolras!”

The cops are firing tear gas into the air, and Grantaire’s eyes sting as he drops to the ground and crawls forward up the few stairs to the dais, desperate to find Enjolras. All around them, Combeferre has already yanked Eponine to safety as per Grantaire’s request; he last saw Bahorel latching onto Feuilly and pulling him out of the chaos. Jehan and Courfeyrac have also vanished into the crowd. Cosette and Marius have joined with Musichetta, Bossuet, and Joly; they’re now being swept along by the crowd. Grantaire catches a glimpse of Chetta’s black hair and Marius’ freckled face contorted in worry, before the five of them disappear along with the rest of the stampeding mob.

Dr. Lamarque’s trying to say something, the entire front of his shirt soaked in blood, and the wild terror in Enjolras’ eyes as his hands ineffectually quiver over his mentor’s torso is something that Grantaire isn’t ever going to forget.

“Shhh, Doctor, don’t talk,” Enjolras whispers, and his proudly confident voice is now a tremulous whisper, shaking with the effort to remain calm. “No, no, no… please, please, God in heaven, please, please!”

The bullet wound is gushing blood, heavily so, and one look tells Grantaire that it’s mortal, even though he’s not a doctor or a surgeon. The ambulance will not get here in time, even though he can already hear sirens. Despite the excellent response time, the bullets have nearly exited out of Dr. Lamarque’s back. He will not be making it out of here alive.

Somewhere deep inside of himself, Grantaire’s aghast at how professionally calm he is.

“Adrien,” Dr. Lamarque mumbles, and coughs, spraying blood down his front. “Adrien, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

Enjolras whimpers, and it’s all Grantaire can do to reach out and put a hand on his shoulder as Enjolras grabs Dr. Lamarque’s hands in his and clutches them to his chest. “Just hang on. Just hang on, please, please, you can’t go, you’ll be okay.”

It’s a lie. Grantaire blinks rapidly and swallows hard, trying to say something around the lump in his throat, but he can’t.

“It’s up to you now,” Dr. Lamarque whispers, and he actually smiles, as tears well up in Enjolras’ blue eyes. “Keep your chin up, Adrien… Son. The son I never had, and wish I did. Things will work out. Just have faith.” Surprisingly, the words are delivered with the fervor that Grantaire recognizes in Enjolras. The old man has influenced Enjolras more than anyone will ever know.

It’s like Enjolras is watching a father die, the man who’s been more of a father to him than his own flesh and blood ever has.

“Doctor —”

Dr. Lamarque shakes his head violently, and then, his eyes are glistening as much as Enjolras’ are.

Enjolras lets out a laugh that’s more of a sob. “You want me to say it, don’t you. Of course I’ll say it. I’ll always say it. Father… Dad. Please, please, please…”

Grantaire knows that Enjolras has never called his own father Dad. Ever.

Dr. Lamarque smiles weakly at Enjolras, seeing him, only him. Then his eyes slide shut as the paramedics run up with the stretcher, he takes one more breath, and then he’s gone.

Enjolras lets out a sound that raises the hair on the back of Grantaire’s neck, and his face completely crumbles, tears running down his cheeks and mingling with the blood spatter there. He grabs onto Dr. Lamarque’s blazer with one hand, the other hand still gripping the old man’s.

“No, no, no, no. You’re not — you’re not — please, please, please, you can’t —”

“Sir, let us do our job. Let us help him.”

Grantaire shakes his head once, sharply. Anyone can see that Dr. Lamarque is gone. But he obeys the paramedics, latching onto Enjolras’ arms, pressing down hard, pulling the other man back in a bear hug. At the same time, he feels the sharp knot in his stomach tighten, and the resulting tears slip out of the corners of his own eyes and down his face like warm rainwater.

Enjolras fights him, then, struggling to push Grantaire’s arms away as Grantaire stubbornly tightens his grip around him. The entire time he’s screaming a single word with a feral pain.

No.

“The boy! Right there! It’s the leader, he started this. Get him!”

Grantaire looks up through streaming tears. There’s that stupid cop that’s always shadowed Enjolras’ footsteps and dogged Les Amis for their demonstrations and rallies. His name comes slowly to Grantaire’s numb mind. Javert. That’s it. Javert, who’s had it in for Enjolras ever since he first dared to ‘disturb the peace’. In his flat brown eyes there’s a singular predatory glint of satisfaction that makes Grantaire’s blood go cold.

“Come on,” he yells roughly into Enjolras’ ear, and drags Enjolras away, even though the blond is still fighting him. However, Grantaire has the weight and muscle advantage, and he easily maneuvers his arms around so that he’s got one hand tightly locked around Enjolras’ forearm, and the other arm he uses to elbow his way through the panicked crowd. People shove at him, tearing at him and Enjolras, almost as if they’re instinctively trying to separate the two of them. All of them combined, they’re much stronger than Grantaire is, and he chokes on panic.

He’s not going to let go. He won’t. He can’t.

Then Enjolras’ arm is ripped from his. Grantaire shouts his rage and fear as he whips around, thrusting out with all his strength to keep from getting trampled. Enjolras’ hand reaches for Grantaire’s; he snatches at it, and their fingertips brush. He sees a glimpse of Enjolras’ wide blue eyes, Javert’s triumphant sneer, and then the police officer’s baton whistling down towards Enjolras.

The crowd pushes forward, and Grantaire slams up against a wall of shrieking women and men. The impact makes him see stars and he almost trips and falls but catches himself. To fall would be to court death. The crowd is so terrified, caught up in the lust of blood and violence and fear, that he’ll get trampled like a dog if he doesn’t keep his footing. He looks around wildly, even as he’s swept away by the mob like a boat in an ocean.

He can’t see Enjolras anymore. 

Chapter Text

They’ve been running for a while, and Courfeyrac realizes that the route they’re on is starting to look more familiar. If they turn right, they’ll be on the boulevard that leads to the Corinthe. If they turn left, they’ll eventually reach the park, which is a public meeting place that the Amis have decided on before the protest.

Jehan turns left, pulling Courfeyrac by the hand down the path, and Courfeyrac obligingly follows. It’s rare to see Jehan so authoritative and forceful; usually he’s the delicate flower and gentle soul who loves everybody around him. The times that he takes charge, though, Courfeyrac always enjoys, because it’s a rare treat to see the different sides to Jehan Prouvaire.

They slow to a brisk walk, as if they’re just an ordinary couple enjoying an afternoon stroll. Courfeyrac still has a death grip on Jehan’s hand, though, and he can’t bring himself to let go. He’s never seen anyone die before; the shock of knowing that Dr. Lamarque has just been murdered is still settling in. He can still see the spreading bloodstains in Dr. Lamarque’s chest and the painful horror in Enjolras’ face.

“I hope the others are okay,” he worries aloud. Enjolras, no doubt, must be heartbroken, and Courfeyrac’s almost afraid to know how he’s doing. And have the others gotten away fine? What of Combeferre, Joly, Cosette, Grantaire? Are they hurt, or in jail, or worse?

Before Jehan can reassure him, someone bumps against Courfeyrac’s shoulder in an almost familiar way. He glances to his right to see a man of roughly average height — maybe 5’7 or 5’8 — and a surprisingly attractive face, walking beside them both. He’s got sleek black hair gelled into a smooth ‘do; green eyes that are several shades paler than Courfeyrac’s, but still striking; a muscular body that’s built like a street fighter. He’s also dressed really, really well in a pretty dandy vest, collared shirt with the first few buttons undone, and criminally tight trousers. If Courfeyrac wasn’t already taken, he’d totally go for this dude. The man appears somewhat familiar, but considering that Courfeyrac has 1,832 friends on Facebook and regularly makes friends with people he’ll never see again everywhere he goes, it’s possible that he has met this guy before.

“Sorry,” the man apologizes, his voice a low, almost seductive drawl. “I’m a bit of a klutz, and you are really easy to bump into.” He winks at Courfeyrac, and Courfeyrac feels Jehan’s hand tighten on his. Even as Jehan picks up his walking speed, the man easily keeps pace with the two of them.

“Can we help you?” Jehan asks bluntly, and Courfeyrac barely manages to keep his expression passive. It’s yet another a rare moment that Jehan is short with anyone. Courfeyrac thinks it might be the stress of the murder and the protest, and/or the fact that a complete stranger just flirted with his boyfriend.

Sure enough, the man laughs, white teeth flashing in a dark face. “Not trying to hit on your man, sorry, dude. I figured from the start that you both are together. Love the orchid, by the way. Listen, I think I just saw you two on the tube at that protest. Everything okay? What happened back there?”

“Dr. Maximilien Lamarque was murdered,” Jehan says quietly. “Last we heard, the police is getting involved and things have… escalated out of control.”

“Yeah, no shit,” the stranger agrees, “considering the chaos I saw when I was safely tucked away at home.”

“What are you doing out here, then?” Courfeyrac asks curiously.

The stranger grins lopsidedly and shrugs. “I was curious. Also, I wanted to see if there was anything I could do. Trying to be a good Samaritan, you know.”

“That’s cool,” Courfeyrac agrees. He thinks he likes this guy already, and he’s about to ask for the man’s name, when the sound of police sirens shrills in the air. Courfeyrac looks around, forgetting already this random passerby. The ambulance and cops are surely on scene at the protest, and again he wonders about how the other Amis are doing with a frisson of fear that surges through his belly.

“Well, gotta run,” the man says airily. “Hopefully the chaos doesn’t come to us, because from the sound and looks of things, it’s pretty messed up out there.” He winks at Courfeyrac again, and smiles before turning his back and walking away.

“Have a good day!” Courfeyrac calls after him, and the stranger raises one hand in acknowledgment.

Jehan doesn’t say anything, and Courfeyrac looks at him, puzzled. He’s startled to see that Jehan looks pale, his eyes slightly unfocused, and he grabs Jehan’s hand.

“Are you okay?”

Jehan tightens his fingers over Courfeyrac’s and leans in close to his boyfriend, pushing his lips up against Courfeyrac’s ear. “Is he gone?” he whispers, practically inaudibly, and Courfeyrac nods.

“Yeah. Why? What’s wrong?”

Jehan pulls back and turns to look over his own shoulder. They both watch as the man vanishes into the throng of people before Jehan looks Courfeyrac straight in the eye. His blue-gray gaze is unflinchingly serious.

“Courf, he was carrying a long-range rifle scope.”

"Wait... really? I didn't see it."

"It was in his pocket, but I saw the objective lens when he moved."  

Courfeyrac stares blankly back at Jehan, clearly not getting it for more than just a few seconds, and Jehan must have read it in his face. Exasperatedly, and yet with evident fondness for Courfeyrac’s obliviousness, he prompts, “Dr. Lamarque wasn’t shot up close and personal, Courf. He was killed by a sniper.”

Courfeyrac’s windpipe closes. He blinks furiously, his eyes popping as he tries to catch his breath. Finally, he squawks, “Are you saying we just walked right by a possible killer? Or that he flirted with me?”

“Maybe,” Jehan concedes. “Or maybe he’s completely innocent and just happened to have a rifle scope poking out of his jacket pocket, like he’s just come from hunting.”

“Yeah, right!”

“Whatever it is, though,” Jehan says, looking troubled, “we know more or less what he looks like. A general idea, at least,” he adds, as Courfeyrac opens his mouth to protest. He’s never been one for details, and although he knows that the stranger was cute, he can’t remember exact features apart from hair and eye color and that lazy, sensual smile. Jehan’s the one who loves the intricacy of details, but his memory isn’t perfect. If they’d been here with Feuilly or Grantaire, they’d have been able to compile a good sketch in five seconds flat.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jehan coaxes. “I'm just spouting a paranoid conspiracy theory. Unless the police turn up further evidence, I don’t see why bringing it up will help.”

“Tell that to Enjolras,” Courfeyrac retorts. "Come on, we need to meet up with the others." 

They join hands again, Courfeyrac lightly running his thumb over the back of Jehan's knuckles as Jehan in turn strokes his palm, and both of them start walking again. 

Chapter Text

Enjolras sits stiffly in the holding cell, hunched over on the cot with one arm clamped around his side. His left wrist — the hand that Grantaire had been hanging onto before Javert had pulled Enjolras away — is aching, and he suspects that it’s sprained, but it’s not too badly swollen. He can’t see out of one eye, and his lip has split from where Javert hit him in the face. A headache is pounding in his temples. The caked blood and dirt in his hair and under his nails and on his skin should bother him, but it doesn’t. He’s just numb.

Earlier when Javert grabbed him, he claimed that Enjolras was ‘disturbing the peace’ and ‘resisting arrest’ — and used both those excuses to hit Enjolras on the head and ribs with his baton. Then he and his sergeant shoved Enjolras around for a bit before finally throwing him into the back of a police car along with several other men and women the police have also arrested.

Ordinarily Enjolras would talk to the others in the same boat as he is — learn of their stories, hear their grievances, strengthen his own unshakable resolve of fighting for freedom for the people — but today, he just can’t. There’s a crater in his chest where his heart used to be, and it actually physically hurts, like someone has reached in and torn a bloody hole in his chest while yanking his heart out. It’s as if his own body knows that Dr. Lamarque is gone, and his heart and mind are on autopilot to try and deal with the new reality.

He hasn’t even said a real goodbye. He isn’t there at the hospital to watch his mentor and adopted father die.

Because, yes, Dr. Lamarque’s dead. Even though he keeps wanting to deny it over and over again, he remembers seeing the blank, unvarnished truth in Grantaire’s eyes. Anyone else might have tried to lie to him, to shield the truth somehow. Not Grantaire. After knowing the other man for so long, he knows that Grantaire will always be truthful with him.

Part of him clamors to know if Grantaire is okay; if Combeferre and Courfeyrac and the others are all okay. They’ve practiced different contingency plans for emergencies and protests gone wrong, with different escape routes and meeting places and emergency contacts and even safehouses, should the need arise. He’s trained the Amis well. He really shouldn’t worry.

But he does. Even with the black hole of grief and apathy he’s sucked into, he still worries. He still cares.

He really doesn’t want to. All he wants to do is lie down in the dirt and sleep with the man who should have been his father. Forever.

Don’t forget your mother, a voice sternly reminds him. It sounds remarkably like Grantaire mingled with Combeferre, somehow. Don’t forget R and Ferre and Courf and Jehan and the rest of them. Don’t give up on them. Don’t give up on yourself.

Javert stomps over to inform him smugly through the bars that he’s being held for 24 hours based on the fact that he was resisting arrest for disturbing the peace. Also, he’s under suspicion for involvement in the murder of Maximilien Lamarque.

Enjolras doesn’t lift his head, he doesn’t look at Javert, he doesn’t do anything but stare at the ground blankly while holding his ribs and the rest of himself together. It’s nice that he doesn’t react in the slightest to Javert, because the brute of a cop just swears at him and storms away. Somewhere in himself, Enjolras knows he should be meanly satisfied about that, but he isn’t. He knows that he should be outraged that he’s a suspect in his mentor’s murder too, but he isn’t. He’s far too tired, too beaten down, and at this point, he doesn’t even care anymore.

Or rather, that’s what he tells himself. Because he’s really caring far too much, so much that it hurts to breathe and it hurts to think about Dr. Lamarque and Grantaire and his mother and the others. It even hurts to cry, so he doesn’t do that either.

You should get some rest, the not-really-Combeferre-but-kind-of voice tells him soothingly. Things will look better in the morning.

Sure they will.

Sleep, Apollo, he can imagine Grantaire saying kindly. Sleep.

He listlessly lays down, ignoring the sharp knifeburst of pain that shoots through his ribs, and takes a shallow breath. His head’s pounding even more, and he wishes he has a painkiller, but he closes his eyes to visions of excited faces and a chanting crowd, and the feeling of having Dr. Lamarque’s blood on his hands and face, and the sound of his mentor’s voice in his ears.

He dreams again of his father standing there in that doorway, a dark monster of the night silhouetted by light, and then, for the first time ever in his dream, he hears Alain’s voice.

“Don’t touch him! Don’t you lay a finger on him again!”

He jerks out of sleep constantly throughout the night, and every time he does, there’s wetness on his cheeks. 

Chapter Text

Thank goodness for Bahorel’s keen eye and Feuilly’s sources, because only those two things are what inform Les Amis that Enjolras has been arrested and taken into police custody for 24 hours.

After a restless night of pacing and staring at the news footage of the protest, Grantaire insistently trails Combeferre to the police station. Everyone else is granted — or rather, forced to undertake — a free night off after Combeferre spent an entire hour persuading them all that rest and quiet are what Enjolras badly needs right now.

Combeferre taps in a repetitive pattern of four consecutive staccato raps against the door of the car as he drives, and then on the frame of the chair he’s sitting on in the police station. Grantaire recognizes the quirk from Doctor Who, but he doesn’t say anything because he has the gut feeling Combeferre’s worried and just wants to be left alone with his thoughts. Instead, Grantaire passes the two hours that they are both waiting for Enjolras by looking straight at Javert and imagining him in different scenarios. Some of them involve Grantaire painting awful caricatures of him and posting them all up on the police station door. Another scenario is Grantaire taping a sign that says Kick Me onto the back of his uniform shirt. When he pictures Javert modeling for an art class, he has to force himself to keep a straight face, but a nervous giggle still emerges.

Combeferre gives him a look that is usually reserved for people who burp in public.

When Javert finally goes to the holding cells — after he can’t put things off and inconvenience them any longer — and returns with Enjolras, Grantaire’s daydreams immediately devolve into something involving Javert’s face, Grantaire’s kickboxing expertise, and Bahorel’s muscles combined with his brutal temper. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something, or worse, doing something to show exactly how furious and upset he is at Enjolras’ appearance, because it won’t help matters.

Combeferre calmly stands to pay the bail and handle the paperwork, while Grantaire hovers behind him, struggling to keep his expression impassive. He doesn’t want Javert to use anything as an excuse to keep Enjolras here a nanosecond longer.

For his part, Enjolras merely stands straight and tall in a valiant effort to appear unintimidated by Javert, and from Javert’s scowl, Grantaire knows the ruse is working. He’s more worried, though, by the dark circles under Enjolras’ eyes and the evidence of his being roughed up by the cops and the way his expression is so detached it’s more at home on a shop mannequin than a real human being.

Finally Javert growls some empty threat that has Grantaire longing to flip him off, takes his fucking sweet time unlocking Enjolras’ handcuffs — and jerks around on them hard enough to make a muscle pop in Combeferre’s jaw — before he stomps back over to his desk and sits there, glaring at the three of them.

Combeferre puts his hand against the small of Enjolras’ back, ushering him gently out the door while Grantaire finally spares a poisonous glare in Javert’s direction before following them both out.

Outside the door, Enjolras walks freely on his own, proudly and erectly, at least until he reaches Combeferre’s car in the parking lot that’s out of sight of the police station doors and windows in a blind spot. His knees buckle once, and he braces himself against the side of the car while Combeferre opens the door and practically bundles Enjolras into the backseat without buckling him in. He catches Grantaire’s eye and jerks his head towards the backseat as well — sit with him — and gets into the driver’s seat, leaving Grantaire to obey. Not that he’s complaining.

He takes the middle seat because he knows Enjolras likes the corner seat — the blond is already huddled up on the left one — and sits awkwardly beside Enjolras for a moment. He’s not sure if he should do something — if Enjolras even wants physical contact, and if he wants it from Grantaire, and what he should even do if Enjolras does need physical comfort, because what he really wants to do is to pull Enjolras into his arms and never let him go. Or kiss away the tears that are already gathering in those blue eyes. Or just kiss him, period.

He doesn’t do any of that, mainly because Enjolras is curled into a pathetic ball on the seat beside him and staring out the window with all the alertness of a comatose patient. Instead he keeps his shoulder and leg and arm pressed up against Enjolras, feeling the heat of his body and wishing he has the courage to reach out.

Enjolras doesn’t move away or retreat further.

They stay like that until Combeferre pulls up to the apartment building. He meets Grantaire’s gaze in the rearview mirror, and they’re again on that same unspoken wavelength — get him upstairs; I’ll park the car — so Grantaire obliges, opening the door for Enjolras and extending a hesitant hand.

Enjolras takes it and puts his weight on it as he struggles to maneuver himself out of the car. His left hand still grips his ribs, where it hasn’t moved since Grantaire first saw him. Grantaire winces as he sees the bruises on Enjolras’ alabaster skin, but he figures that Combeferre will be able to handle Enjolras’ injuries, which, for the most part, appear relatively minor. He can’t help frowning at the dried blood on Enjolras’ temple and lip, though, as well as the spectacular black eye. Once again, he wishes he can kick Javert in the balls, because the police inspector deserves nothing less.

The entire elevator ride up, Enjolras stays silent. His blue eyes are withdrawn, and Grantaire worries his lip against the turmoil of worry swirling up inside of him. The concern is alleviated partially by the fact that Enjolras hasn’t let go of his hand, and the one time Grantaire moves to do just that, Enjolras tightens his grip — which isn’t much, to be honest, but makes Grantaire feel like his heart is going to leap out of his chest.

The flat feels at once familiar and foreign to Grantaire, and he realizes that he’s stepping into it for the first time in two weeks after nearly three months of living here. The guilt springs up in his chest anew, but he shoves it back down. When Enjolras is more emotionally stable, they can talk. Until then, Grantaire is fine putting Enjolras’ needs above his and being unselfish for once in weeks.

Enjolras disappears into the bathroom adjoining his bedroom, and Grantaire sets about locating the painkillers in the apartment. It’s not difficult — everything here is categorized and organized down to a T; while Grantaire prefers organized chaos, it’s situations like this where he feels it’s sensible to know that there’s a place for everything — and he fills a glass with water while shaking out a couple of Advil. He gets Combeferre’s first aid kit from the hallway closet and sets it on the coffee table next to the glass.

There’s a sharp cry from the bathroom, and Grantaire knocks the bottle of Advil over when he springs to his feet.

Enjolras is sitting on the closed toilet seat, his face pale and clenched in pain, right hand gripping his left forearm. He looks up when Grantaire enters the bathroom.

“What happened?” Grantaire makes sure he’s using his don’t-give-me-shit tone, but gentles it a little for Enjolras’ sake.

“Slipped — grabbed the sink,” Enjolras says between gritted teeth. With every word, though, his voice gets a little stronger. “My left wrist — I don’t know if it’s sprained or what —”

Grantaire goes down on his knees and takes Enjolras’ hand in his. Enjolras’ wrist is badly swollen with dark bruises dotting it, and he catches his breath sharply when Grantaire presses gently down on it, feeling for broken bones. He has to take a deep breath when he remembers Javert cruelly jerking the handcuffs, but otherwise remains remarkably calm under the circumstances.

“I’m no Combeferre, but I don’t think it’s broken, at least.”

As if his name conjures him up, Combeferre materializes silently in the doorway of the bathroom.

“Ah, the man of the hour.” Grantaire resorts to jokes when he’s nervous or scared or upset, and now is certainly a time for it. “It’s his wrist, Ferre…”

Combeferre nods and kneels on the bathroom floor while Grantaire gets up and moves around Enjolras so that he’s sitting on the edge of the bathtub with his hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. Somehow it feels right to have it there, and Enjolras doesn’t shrug it off. On the contrary, he seems to be leaning against Grantaire now, but Grantaire sternly tells himself that he’s imagining things.

“A Grade II sprain,” Combeferre finally states decisively. “Pain, some ligament damage, a feeling of looseness to the joint —” here Enjolras nods “— and some loss of function. All you need is to rest, ice it, and elevate it. Anti-inflammatory painkillers should help, too — I see Grantaire was getting you some earlier.” He quirks an eyebrow at Grantaire, who blushes, heat rushing to his cheeks.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

Combeferre only smiles. “They fell out on the table, and are definitely still usable. Don’t worry about it. Black eye, cut on your head — it doesn’t look serious. Are you dizzy or nauseous? Headache?”

“Not anymore,” Enjolras mumbles. “Just a bit of a headache.”

“No concussion, or at least not a bad one, then. Enjolras, you’re holding your ribs. Shirt off. Now.”

Enjolras mumbles something that he doesn’t bother repeating, and which Grantaire can’t hear anyway. His left hand hinders him, so Combeferre and Grantaire help him pull his jacket and shirt off, both of which are smeared with dirt and blood. Grantaire clutches the garments to himself and stares in disbelief at the mottled purple and blue bruises flowering up on Enjolras’ perfect skin, right over his ribcage.

Combeferre pokes around some more, humming tonelessly to himself.

“You have a couple of bruised ribs,” he diagnoses at last. “Swelling and tenderness. Hurts to breathe normally, doesn’t it?” Enjolras nods. “Breathe regularly, even though it hurts, because it’ll help your lungs expand fully and prevent infection. More ice and painkillers and rest — lots of it, Enjolras, I’m not kidding. Starting from now.”

“I want to shower,” Enjolras croaks.

Combeferre gives him the evil eye for a moment and then relents. “Okay. Don’t overdo it on that left arm, or it’s going to take you longer to heal on all counts. Just the basics, because you need to rest. Have you eaten?”

Enjolras blinks and tugs on a curl with a grimace. “Not since before the protest.”

Javert has made Enjolras go without food or drink for over 24 hours. Grantaire feels a retort bubble up, and he chokes it back down, anger snarling up in him like a rabid wolf.

“Go ahead, Enjolras,” Combeferre says, rising to his feet. “But you’re eating something immediately before going to bed. No arguments.”

Grantaire follows Combeferre out and gathers up the scattered Advil as Combeferre opens the refrigerator and starts reheating a plate of something he must have recently cooked — fish and veggies, by the smells of it.

“Is he going to be okay?” he asks, so quietly that he doesn’t think Combeferre can hear him — but he does.

“Yes,” Combeferre promises. “Being dehydrated and exhausted didn’t help, but I think these injuries will help in the long run because they’re legitimate excuses to force him to really rest and take things easy.”

Grantaire can’t help feeling guilty again. He scoops every pill up and dumps it back into the bottle, wishing again that he and Enjolras hadn’t fought, that they still have that peace and friendship between them both.

“You’re frowning,” Combeferre remarks. “Dare I ask why?”

Grantaire shakes his head. “If we hadn’t fought, he might not have been so rash in taking things out on himself.”

Combeferre lets out a quiet laugh. “R, Enjolras would have done that with or without your help. Seriously. Stop blaming yourself and just talk to him, because I know he blames himself as well, and all this negative emotion isn’t going to help either of you. Both of you said hurtful things, but both of you need to get over it and move on, because together you both work. Apart, you both are miserable. And I’m talking platonically and romantically, R. It’s none of my business — well, not all of it anyway — but you both need to figure this out, and figure this out soon.”

“I know,” Grantaire admits, “but he’s not really in an emotional place to do that. He just saw his mentor and adoptive father killed in front of him. Trust me, us is the last thing on his mind right now.”

“Says the guy whose hand he was holding,” Combeferre points out serenely.

Grantaire blushes. “I swear you’re psychic.”

Combeferre blows on the cup of tea he’s making, and smiles. “I plead the Fifth.”

“Okay, joker,” Grantaire answers, hearing the shower stop. “What do you need me to do?”

Combeferre places the plate of food — salmon and broccoli, somehow arranged tastefully by Combeferre to look appetizing. Grantaire thinks that Combeferre is honestly capable of anything at this point — on a tray, along with a glass of orange juice, a mug of tea, and the water glass that Grantaire has forgotten until now. Then he puts the two Advil tablets on the tray as well, and hands it to Grantaire.

“Keep him company. Watch him to see if his minor concussion or rib injuries get worse. Make sure he doesn’t exert himself in the slightest, and that he eats, because without a nursemaid, he won’t.”

“Where are you going?” Grantaire questions curiously, because it’s apparent Combeferre won’t be around to do all of that.

Combeferre grimaces. “Azelma’s having some boy problems. Ponine’s asked me to come over and intimidate the crap out of the kid.”

“Will that be a problem?”

Combeferre smirks. “With everything going on now? I have zero problem taking out my frustrations on a kid who got too handsy with my fiancee’s sister.”

Grantaire doesn’t doubt it. While Enjolras can be intimidating on a daily basis, Combeferre is downright scary when he wants to be. It’s one of the myriad of reasons why they’re both best friends — Combeferre is the only person who can keep Enjolras in line.

“Gotta go,” Combeferre offers, grabbing his jacket and keys. “Call me if you need anything or if anything crops up, okay? And give Enjolras my apologies.”

“No problem.” 

Chapter Text

It takes Enjolras an inordinate amount of water and shampoo to get the blood and dirt out of his hair and skin. Every time he thinks he’s clean, he hears those two pops of the unseen gun; feels blood mist through the air onto his face and neck and hands, and gets to scrubbing away like mad again.

Half an hour later, he finally pads back out into the bedroom and reaches for a clean pair of boxer shorts and his favorite gray T-shirt that’s soft as anything from repeated washings. Careful of his wrist like he has been in the bathroom, he clumsily pulls both on and walks out into the living room.

Grantaire’s sitting on the couch watching Tangled. A tray is carefully placed on the couch, and he’s nibbling on a Fudgsicle that’s most likely pilfered from the deep recesses of Enjolras’ freezer. He’s got a couple of ice packs wrapped in hand towels beside him on the couch.

“Combeferre had to go,” he offers between licks. “Said he had to go intimidate Azelma’s stupid date for being a jerk. Apparently the kid got a little too handsy and Azelma’s a tad upset. He’ll be back soon, though, and he put me in charge of you.”

Enjolras used to get annoyed about Grantaire’s ability to ramble and wax lyrical on anything and everything in great detail and description. Recently, it’s become more endearing than irritating; right now, he’s immensely grateful that Grantaire’s commentary has set him up-to-date on the situation, because Enjolras just doesn’t want to talk. It feels like too big an effort for him — he’s already exhausted having to fulfill Combeferre’s wishes about eating.

He sits down cautiously beside Grantaire over on the next couch cushion. He’s not entirely sure about whether there are boundaries that have been set since they last fought, and he decides he doesn’t want to waste time or effort worrying about it. It’s all he can do just to keep his eyes open, really.

Grantaire lowers the volume on Rapunzel struggling to force Flynn into her wardrobe and hands Enjolras the Advil. When Enjolras looks blearily at the television screen as he downs the Advil with orange juice, Grantaire laughs quietly and shrugs.

“You can’t ever go wrong with Disney,” he says, placing the tray down in Enjolras’ lap. He picks up the first of the ice packs and touches the hem of Enjolras’ T-shirt. “Do you mind, or do you want to do it yourself?”

Enjolras shakes his head and looks down at himself as Grantaire lifts the hem to gently press the ice pack against his ribs. He can’t help the hiss of pain that follows as the cold bites into his side, and Grantaire gently shushes him. “Give it a few more seconds. You’ll feel better already.”

Enjolras forces himself to wait and the pain does start to subside ever so slightly into numbness. With his right hand, he picks at the food on his plate and watches Grantaire drape the second ice pack over his stationary left wrist like a limp sock. The last ice pack Grantaire lifts and pushes gently against his head, where his head was split open by Javert’s baton. Again the pain there devolves into cooling numbness.

He makes a valiant enough effort of finishing half the food on the plate — honestly, does Combeferre think he can eat this much? Even Bahorel probably can’t finish the entire plate on his own — and when he’s done, he’s so spent that he drops his head down onto Grantaire’s shoulder.

Grantaire makes a clicking noise with his tongue. “Apollo, you’re completely beat. Come on. You’ll feel more comfortable on your bed —”

No. Enjolras doesn’t want to move. He’s too tired and it’s actually really, really comfortable here on the couch. He can smell Grantaire’s soap and the scent of oil paint and that one smell that’s Grantaire’s alone; plus his shoulder is surprisingly comfortable. For someone who’s so muscular, he’s also really cuddly. Like, really cuddly. “I don’t want to,” he mumbles, and the ice pack slides off his abdomen onto the couch. “You’re comfy.”

“Okay,” Grantaire answers, sounding a tad breathless, but Enjolras doesn’t know why. “Um, come on. You’re going to lose all the ice packs that way.” He turns slightly so that his back is positioned against the right arm and back of the couch, and Enjolras obediently slides down onto his back, positioning his head onto Grantaire’s thighs and adjusting himself so that he’s comfortable. He thinks he may have heard a squawk from Grantaire, but it’s possible that he just imagines it. Grantaire positions his left hand onto his chest so that it doesn’t get in the way, and covers it again with the ice pack.

“Did you sleep at all last night?”

“I had nightmares last night,” he remarks sleepily. “My father was in them. And Dr. Lamarque. At the protest.” He frowns, and Grantaire traces the lines in his forehead, as if to urge him to stop frowning. “Was that… was what happened all just a really bad dream?”

When Grantaire speaks next, he sounds far too kind. “No, Apollo. I’m sorry. It wasn’t.”

Enjolras turns his face outward and watches the Snuggly Duckling thugs singing along with Rapunzel. He feels his eyes prickling, and he swallows hard, but something big catches in his throat. The resulting sound has Grantaire dropping the ice pack onto the couch and running his fingers through Enjolras’ unruly damp curls, massaging his scalp as he goes. His other hand takes Enjolras’ right, holding him closely, even a little firmly, but his grip is comforting in its security.

“It’s going to be okay,” he whispers reassuringly. “Trust me.”

Enjolras lets out a shuddering breath that hurts his ribs, and nods, because he can’t do anything else. He closes his eyes, surrendering himself to the soothing feeling of those fingers caressing his head and the protective warmth of Grantaire’s hand in his and the hard thigh pillowing his head.

“Sleep, Apollo,” is the last thing he hears. “Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Chapter Text

Grantaire stays awake for another hour and a half until the movie’s done, running his fingers through Enjolras’ hair and holding his hand. He’s lying if having Enjolras this close to him isn’t making all the blood in his body rush southward, but at the same time, there’s a fiery, tender warmth within him that isn’t just about Enjolras’ face or body. It’s a strange yet familiar feeling, and he doesn’t want to dwell on it too much, because Enjolras needs to heal now and Grantaire can’t let his petty feelings get in the way.

The ice packs have now melted into bags of slush, and Grantaire removes them from Enjolras’ hand and torso. He’s applied the ice on and off at regular fifteen-minute intervals according to Combeferre’s instructions, and it may just be his imagination, but the swelling around Enjolras’ wrist seems less intense. He leans over and gently lifts the bottom of Enjolras’ T-shirt. Despite the ugly purple and blue bruising, which Grantaire can’t help but wince at, the swelling does seem a little less when Grantaire applies the slightest of pressure to the spot. Frowning, he returns to his original spot when he sees Enjolras’ phone vibrating on the coffee table.

Glancing at Enjolras — he’s completely out, and doesn’t even respond — Grantaire looks over and takes a good hard peek at the name on the phone. He almost jerks in angry surprise like a pissed-off cat, but remembers himself at the last second and stays still.

Sebastien Enjolras is the name that’s spelled across the screen in broad white letters.

Grantaire’s first instinct is not to pick it up. He lets it vibrate merrily away on the table. When the call finally runs itself out, he brushes his thumb gently across Enjolras’ knuckles, refusing to think of anything else at all. A voicemail notification pops up on the screen.

Another call comes, and Grantaire doesn’t have to look to know it’s Sebastien calling again. He accidentally clenches Enjolras’ hand a little too hard. The blond stirs, but his eyes remain firmly shut, and his breathing continues easily and steadily — really, they’re all lucky that Enjolras is a lightweight when it comes to alcohol or any kind of drugs. Two Advil will ease the pain enough to make him sleep more deeply and soundly than he has in a long time. He pushes Enjolras’ hair off his forehead and strokes the smooth skin there. The angelic vulnerability in his face makes Grantaire smile, and he wishes suddenly that this moment could go on forever.

But he doesn’t delude himself.

After Sebastien leaves a second voicemail and calls for a third time, Grantaire clenches his jaw so hard he feels like he’s going to break it. Rashly he maneuvers the phone across the coffee table and flips it up into the air with the toe of his boot. The phone somersaults through the air, and Grantaire keeps one hand in Enjolras’ and frees the other in time to snatch the phone before it hits the wall. He slams his fingertip against the voicemail button and jams the phone against his ear.

“Adrien,” a very prissy-sounding, annoyed voice snaps over the phone, “call me back. I just saw the news, and I must say, I’m disappointed in you. We had a deal. Let me know what the fuck was up with that shit on the TV, and don’t think this is over, because it’s not.”

The poor excuse for a man hangs up abruptly, and Grantaire dazedly moves onto the next voicemail, because four words are standing out in the tumult of questions smashing through his head.

We had a deal.

What about? What for? He knows that Enjolras hates his father, so what kind of deal would he have made with the devil, and why?

“You retarded little shit,” Sebastien practically howls into the phone, and this time Grantaire does jump slightly for real, because the sheer malice in the man’s tone is absolutely terrifying, and for a heartstopping second, he thinks that he’s accidentally dialed the man back. He glances frantically down at Enjolras, but the perfectly sculpted face is still and calm in sleep. He continues stroking Enjolras’ hand and hits the voicemail button again to replay the message.

“You retarded little shit. How dare you. How dare you denounce me in front of all your pathetic little friends and your crowd of addled fans. And getting yourself tangled up in the murder of a worthless, naive son of a bitch. Your future is at stake, and your family is at stake, and your friends are at stake. Call me back, because if not you’re not going to like the consequences. I won’t just cut you off, you stupid bastard child. The wellbeing of thirteen people depends on you. I’ll ruin all you care about, Adrien, and there’s not a fucking thing you can do about it unless you fix this mess and get the family lawyer involved. Maybe he can help bail you out of that coffin-shaped hole you’ve dug yourself into, although I doubt it. You have two hours to call me back, or so help me, I’ll start and I won’t stop.”

The line clicks off, and Grantaire’s left gripping the phone, his blood churning within his veins as he feels his breath pushing hard and fast in his chest.

“Grantaire?”

Combeferre’s standing there with Eponine, and although his voice is quiet when he calls Grantaire’s name, his eyebrows are knit together in concern and his eyes are wide. Eponine’s mouth has fallen slightly open, and she meets Grantaire’s eyes for a brief second until she looks straight at the phone in his hand.

Grantaire wordlessly hands the phone towards Combeferre. “Voicemail,” he croaks.

Combeferre brings the phone to his ear, his green hazel eyes pinned to Grantaire’s blue ones, as Eponine moves around Combeferre and presses her own ear to the phone. Even from where he’s sitting on the couch, Grantaire can hear Sebastien’s furious voice bellowing the second voicemail again, and he can see the fire in Combeferre’s eyes blazing hotter and hotter.

“I don’t — Enjolras has to call, but — he needs sleep —”

Eponine slips her arm out from Combeferre’s and moves over to the couch where Grantaire is still sitting. She pulls one leg up onto the armrest and slides her arms around Grantaire’s back, and he closes his eyes, because everything is a fucking mess and Enjolras is unbearably sad and broken right now and his chest hurts with an ache that’s sharp and not physical and now he’s starting to figure out why, why, Enjolras would make a deal with the devil. He doesn’t get the entire situation, but he thinks he’s starting to gain a good understanding of it, and from the sharp glint in Combeferre’s eye, he knows that Combeferre does, too.

“Stay with him a little longer,” Combeferre orders. “Give him another hour, because he needs all the rest he can get before we have to wake him.” He pauses ominously before he speaks again, and Grantaire actually does feel the hairs prickle and stand at attention on his arms and the back of his neck.

“This ends now.” 

Chapter Text

The first thing Combeferre does is go into his bedroom with Eponine and send out a mass text to the other Amis. As Eponine forcefully kneads the kinks that have suddenly appeared in his shoulders, he dials his father and requests his mother to join them on the line. Then he puts Enjolras’ phone on speaker and replays the voicemails for his parents.

There’s a stunned silence when the voicemails have stopped playing.

“Yeah,” Combeferre snarls, and Eponine’s fingers tense momentarily on his shoulders at the sound of his voice. “That was my exact reaction, too.”

“You’re serious,” Sophie finally says, managing to find her voice. “Sebastien Enjolras wouldn’t dare to go that far.” Her voice is uncertain, though, and Combeferre knows that she does think Sebastien would dare to go that far.

“I haven’t talked to Enjolras,” Combeferre says tightly, “but I think this is scraping the tip of the iceberg, Mom. You know what happened with Alain. You were there. You know what he’s done to Enjolras and Maryse. Quite honestly, I think he would go that far; he just hasn’t until now, and we’ve become complacent. He has the brazen, he has the money, and he certainly has the megalomaniac personality for it.”

“Did you save the voicemails?” Vincent asks coolly. His temper boils the exact same way as Combeferre’s — they’re the mild, calm, collected ones in the family, but when they get furious, they’re unstoppable and scary in every way.

“Yeah. Both of them. I sent the recordings to my phone, Eponine’s, Grantaire’s, and our email addresses as well.”

“Send them to me,” Vincent states firmly. “I’ll get James Crouch on this right away. Do you want to call Henri’s, Cosette’s, Marius’, and Jehan’s relatives, or shall I?”

James Crouch is the family lawyer. Combeferre finds himself shaking, and it’s not out of cold or fear — although he’s certainly afraid for Enjolras — but mostly out of anger, a rage that’s boiling within his veins like a slow-cooking acid.

“I’m getting the Amis together and talking to them about this before Enjolras wakes up, so they’re all filled in sufficiently. They need to know, and I’ll get Courf, Jehan, Marius, and Cosette on that with their family lawyers. If we so choose, we can bury Sebastien Enjolras alive.”

“I’m worried about Nicolas, Eponine, Rene, and the others,” Sophie mentions quietly. “We’ll throw all the support we can around them, but they’re still very much vulnerable to Sebastien. He has mob connections; he does things in his own unorthodox way. I wonder if Adrien should actually play along for now.”

“I don’t know about that, Mom,” Combeferre grits out, fighting to keep his voice steady. “It’s one thing if Sebastien threatens Enjolras himself, even though it’s fucking not okay with me.” Eponine jerks, and Combeferre puts a hand over hers in silent apology. “But it’s another thing when he threatens the rest of my family, blood-related or no. Heaven knows I already want to kill Sebastien for everything he’s doled out on Enjolras till now, but when he starts threatening you guys, or Ponine, or Courf and the others —”

“That’s it, though,” Vincent cuts in. “We’ll support you all in every way, Luc. I hope you know that, and never question it, because you’ll never have reason to. But if Adrien can smooth this over, we can build up a better case over time. If not, Sebastien’s lawyer will find a way to strike that voicemail off the record and make it inadmissible evidence in court, and then we’re left at square one. We need Maryse’s help, as well as evidence of what’s happened over the years, and that will take time. Understand, Luc, we will nail Sebastien for this, and he will pay, but at this point, he’s got more on his side than we do. With time, that will change, but right now I’m really unsure of our case versus his. And if he gets off scot-free, we have nothing on him anymore.”

Combeferre’s grip tightens on the phone. “Dad,” he says evenly, ignoring the way his voice quivers, “I really don’t want to do that.”

“I know,” Vincent states calmly, but there’s the undertone of fury that Combeferre can recognize, and it makes him feel very marginally better. “I don’t, either. But at the same time, I don’t want Sebastien to get off free yet again. He’s slipped out off the net far too many times, and this time he’s gone too far, and I’ll be damned if he walks this time.”

“Can we actually use the voicemail at all?” Eponine timidly inserts. Combeferre turns his head and smiles at her, and she goes on with a stronger tone. “I mean, couldn’t he come up with some BS that he merely had Enjolras’ interests and future at heart and all that shit?”

“He’ll try,” Vincent replies with steel in his voice.

“This isn’t the first time he’s done something like this, Eponine dear,” Sophie interjects with an air of disgust. “I mean, even though he doesn’t act like it at all, he’s still human somehow, and he messes up. But he’s always bought the person out or threatened them or whatever, and all solid evidence would then be destroyed or made inadmissible in court. If Adrien plays along for now, we can lull Sebastien into a false sense of security and then nail his sorry ass to the wall.”

“Mom!” Combeferre says, sounding aghast, and Eponine stifles a laugh despite the gravity of the situation. In all the time she’s known Sophie, she’s never heard the woman use a stronger expletive than ‘fudge.’

“I’m sorry. Well… not really, actually. Anyway, keep that in mind, Luc, dear, because we need to take careful steps from here onward. What do you think?”

“You’re right,” Combeferre says, although it sounds like it physically pains him to agree. “But I’ll talk to Enjolras and see what he thinks, okay? Then I’ll let you guys know if it’s going to be a show or a no-go.”

“That’s fine,” Vincent agrees.

“How is he doing?” Sophie inquires concernedly. “Poor lamb, we saw it on the news, and I just feel terrible for him. He and Dr. Lamarque are awfully close, aren’t they? Oh, dear me… I suppose were is the right word, but, really…”

“He’s sleeping,” Combeferre admits, mercifully cutting his mother off because he knows she’s embarrassed at the slip-up, although, really, everyone would have done it. “I wish he could sleep through the night without having to deal with this nonsense, but since that arrogant monster has given us a deadline, we have no choice. I’ll give him a melatonin pill or two after he talks to Sebastien, because he’s going to need it.”

“Love you both,” Sophie chirps into the phone. “Tell Adrien we love him too and we’re behind him no matter what.” 

Chapter Text

There’s a hand on his shoulder.

“Enjolras.”

He turns away, not wanting to wake up and face reality. He realizes tiredly that his sleep has been completely dream-free, which is nice, but now he just wants more of it. He hears voices quietly conversing all around him, and the low hum is like a lullaby that he wants to send him right back to slumber.

“Enjolras,” he hears again, and this voice is familiar, even welcoming, the low, deep notes comforting.

Grantaire.

It’s Grantaire’s voice. And he sounds unhappy.

“Enjolras, I’m sorry, I don’t want to, but you have to wake up.”

He can sense the urgency, now, and unwillingly he pries his eyes open. They feel as heavy as concrete. Instead of finding just Grantaire and possibly Combeferre in the apartment, he lifts his head groggily to see all of the Amis in his living room. Bahorel’s digging his way through a 30-quart bowl of chips and a tub of dip, while Feuilly’s back to back with him, typing frantically away on his computer, and occasionally yanking on a handful of his red hair. If Enjolras strains hard, he can see the accounting online lecture window from where he’s sitting.

Chetta’s new thing is crocheting, and she’s got balls of red and white and blue yarn around her, frantically knitting something currently unidentifiable. Bossuet has his head on one of her shoulders; Joly’s leaning up on the other side of her, and both of them have linked their arms in hers. The two young men are looking more sober than Enjolras would ever like to see. Joly’s got a medical textbook open in his lap, but he’s staring off into space; the usual jolly Bossuet is nervously plucking at a seam in his jeans.

Cosette and Marius are squeezed together on the armchair. Both of them are talking quietly while a bridal magazine lies open ignored in Cosette’s hands. They both look up and smile in Enjolras’ direction at the same time, as if their impending nuptials have already made them surgically attached at the hips and attuned to everything around them in the exact same way.

He turns his head to find Grantaire’s face only inches away from his. Those scrutinizing blue eyes that Enjolras always feels could penetrate his soul and see what lies within are soft and apologetic. Enjolras feels warmth rise into his cheeks as he remembers the careful, protective way Grantaire held him last night. He sounded so fucking needy then, but Grantaire didn’t mind; from the looks of things now, he still doesn’t mind. In fact, there’s more than just mere sympathy and condolences in those eyes, and when Grantaire extends a hand to him to help him sit up, Enjolras takes it immediately and his skin tingles upon contact. Like he’s touched a naked wire for less than half a second. The sensation is not unpleasant.

“Enjolras!”

Everyone stops doing their own thing as Combeferre bowls through the living room, with Eponine, Courfeyrac, and Jehan right behind him. The urgency in his voice mirrors Grantaire’s from earlier, and all traces of sleepiness vanish as Enjolras sits up and plants his feet on the floor. He lets go of Grantaire’s hand, but not without looking him straight in the eye for a second — what for, he has no idea, but something passes between them like an electric current before he breaks eye contact.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“This is what’s going on,” Combeferre says, thrusting his phone at him. The voicemail button has already been hit, and Enjolras puts the phone to his ear obediently, frowning confusedly.

All’s made clear in the blink of an eye the moment his father starts to shout into his ear. He forces himself to listen to both venomous voicemails before he drops the phone onto the couch and puts his face in his hands, absolutely not daring to look at any of his friends.

“Enjolras, why didn’t you tell us?” Cosette asks. Her voice is kind, but Enjolras doesn’t look back up. He can’t. He’s filled with a guilt-ridden shame so sharp it’s almost tangible — guilt that he can’t handle this on his own, that he’s too weak to keep his friends safe, shame that his own father can be as monstrous as this, and just a general taste of underlying fear that’s been present ever since his father hissed his ultimatum at him while hovering over him in his own bedroom.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, Enjolras.” Jehan’s voice comes from in front of him, and two delicate hands rest gently on Enjolras’ knees. Enjolras lifts his face out of his hands in time to see Jehan unhook a purple orchid out from behind his ear and slide it into Enjolras’ hair at the same spot.

“You idiot,” Courfeyrac says in a voice that’s far too choked. “Why didn’t you tell us, Enjolras? Why didn’t you let us help you?”

Enjolras is tired. He’s really, really tired, and he’s too broken up over Dr. Lamarque, and right now, he’s starting to get angry. Not at his friends; he can’t ever be furious with his friends — although he acts like it when they get up to their silly little antics, but nothing like this — but at his father. At himself. He’s angry that he can’t be stronger, that his father’s too powerful, and that his friends have gotten caught up in the rifle sights because he can’t handle this problem alone.

“Because I wanted to handle this on my own,” he says shakily, and he feels Grantaire shift uneasily next to him. “Because he threatened all of you, and he said that if I would just obey him and follow him that it would be okay, that he wouldn’t hurt any of you, and if I have to do that, if I have to cater all my life to a monster like that, just to keep you all safe, then I fucking will, Courfeyrac, because it’s better than the alternative!”

He’s on his feet, staring Courfeyrac and Combeferre straight in the eye, while Grantaire and Jehan are still crouched down beside the sofa, his breath coming in heaves. He doesn’t remember when he stood up, and at the look on every face, he doesn’t care.

“Don’t you get it? He can do it. He knows who to go after. He mentioned every single one of you — Feuilly, Bahorel, Eponine, Gavroche and Azelma, Joly, Bossuet, Chetta. Grantaire. He mentioned you specifically. Ferre, Courf, Jehan, Marius, Cosette — nobody’s exempt. Your families are powerful, but my father has mob connections, and he’s not afraid to get his hands dirty doing the illegal to get what he wants. He’ll bleed you all out, or he’ll make you disappear. There isn’t anything anybody can do, except me. I can obey him, I can cater to his whims, I can sell myself out, because I will not let the alternative happen. Don’t tell me that I can’t, or that I won’t, because I can, and I will, because that’s what a leader does, even if I haven’t been acting like a leader recently, even if this mess is all my fault. Even if I’m failing at everything and pulling everyone down around me, the least I can do is this!”

His voice has steadily been rising with every word, and by the end of his declaration, he’s shouting almost at the top of his lungs. The others look a combination of awed fear and stunned veneration.

“Sit.” Combeferre’s hands are on his elbows, pushing him firmly down onto the couch. “You’re white as a sheet.”

Enjolras sits. Now that he has said what he’s needed to say, he feels completely drained and boneless, like there’s nothing left inside of him. Combeferre latches onto Grantaire’s shoulder and practically lifts him up and thrusts him onto the couch with Enjolras, while he sits down on the other side of the blond. Courfeyrac and Jehan come over and perch on the armrests. As tired as he is, Enjolras can see that Courfeyrac is sniffing, and so are Chetta, Eponine, and Cosette. The others are either blinking hard or wide-eyed, and he’s not entirely sure why. It’s not like his speech is very inspirational or his words great by any means. After all, this entire mess is his fault to begin with.

“Look, we’re not saying that you’re not being noble and authoritative and leader-like and all that crap,” Feuilly points out mildly. “We’re just not going to let you do this alone, Enjolras. You don’t really have a say in this matter, because when your father brought you into this, he brought all of us into this.”

“And we’re not exactly all harmless balls of fluff and feathers,” Bahorel interjects with a grin. “Well, except for Courfeyrac and R —”

That earns him a pillow flung his way from Grantaire, and an insulted noise from Courfeyrac that sounds like a parrot puffing out its feathers.

“— but we’re not willing to sit around with our thumbs up our asses while you have to suffer for our sakes,” Bahorel continues. “For goodness’ sake, Enjolras, don’t you know us well enough to know that we’ll never abandon you, and that we’ll help you shoulder the burdens you, and everyone in this room, carry?”

“I’m impressed, Bahorel,” Chetta says mildly. “That’s probably one of the most inspiring things I’ve ever heard from you.”

“Thanks. I try.”

“Trust me, Enjolras,” Cosette chimes in. “Papa’s done time when he was framed for fraud, remember? He’s pretty impressive. I think he can take anything your father will throw at him.”

“Uh, amen to that,” Marius comments, and everyone laughs, even Enjolras himself, surprisingly enough. It’s common knowledge that Marius is absolutely petrified of his father-in-law-to-be despite Cosette’s reassurances that her father does like Marius. Then there’s a moment of silence throughout the entire room in respect for Jean Valjean. He’s even bigger and stronger than Bahorel, five times as intimidating — although around Cosette he turns into a doting daddy who spoils her to no end — and he’s as well-connected illegally as he is legally respectable. Enjolras has no problem imagining that Valjean wouldn’t snap the neck of any attacker unlucky enough to go after him.

“He threatened my best friends, my fiancee and her family, and everyone I care about,” Combeferre declares quietly. When Enjolras turns slightly to look at him, Combeferre levels a tiny smile in his direction, but his eyes say it all, and Enjolras finds tears coming to his eyes. He swallows to hold them at bay, but one slips down past the corner of his eye.

“So he’s a bigot as well as a jerk,” Chetta announces. She cracks her knuckles and places a hand on Joly’s and Bossuet’s knees. “Well, I know my way around, and I really don’t take kindly to people threatening my boys, Chief.”

“What she said,” Eponine adds casually, and Chetta mock-toasts her with a grin.

“Jehan’ll probably ninja-chop his head off,” Courfeyrac says proudly, and Jehan nods acquiescence.

Grantaire doesn’t say anything, but his hand — Enjolras knows it’s his hand, because the calluses from kickboxing and painting are there, and their fingers and palms fit together in a way that’s never happened before with other people for Enjolras — slides into Enjolras’, and stay there. Those fingers are warm, and when Grantaire runs his thumb over the back of Enjolras’ hand, another tear slips free and trails down Enjolras’ face. He makes no move to brush it away, but Jehan does.

“You’re not alone, Enjolras,” Combeferre states calmly and firmly, leaving no room for argument. “You have us all here, always, and together, we all can face anything and anyone head-on. I promise. We promise.” 

Chapter Text

When Enjolras returns his father’s call, it’s kind of stunning to watch. He goes from beaten down and depressed to angry, defiant, and high-strung. Then he swings from that to nervous frustration and back.

Jehan’s always known Enjolras has many talents, but his acting abilities are pretty fantastic, all things considered.

Before Enjolras can even speak, however, Sebastien starts shouting, and Enjolras winces — along with the rest of the Amis — while the rant goes on for five minutes. Finally, when Sebastien breaks off for breath, Enjolras cuts in.

“You told me I could continue the protests. Dr. Lamarque wanted me to do it, and it would definitely have been out of character for me not to. And to answer you, I was asleep. I wasn’t aware I needed your permission to take a nap. Yes, for 24 hours.” Enjolras winces again, and Jehan starts to play with his hair, not just to have something to do, but to offer silent support. Enjolras doesn’t say it, but he likes physical contact, and Jehan’s more than happy to give it to him. “It wasn’t exactly planned. I got trapped in front of a police barricade.” A muscle works in his jaw. “Yes, sir.”

Jehan locks eyes with Courfeyrac across the sofa. Courfeyrac looks both parts outraged and sad. Jehan knows what he’s thinking.

“I think we need to take this elsewhere,” Courfeyrac whispers into Jehan’s ear.

“Why? Worried that people wouldn’t want to see two eighteen-year-olds together?”

Courfeyrac laughs breathlessly against his lips. “I’m worried that they’ll get jealous.”

Jehan laughs back. Still holding onto the back of Courfeyrac’s neck and his hand, he pushes Courfeyrac backwards, fumbling for the doorknob of the guest bedroom that he’s been assigned in Enjolras’ house. He can’t stop stroking Courfeyrac’s ridiculously smooth skin, because it feels like silk, damnit, and the sounds Courfeyrac is making against his mouth should be illegal. Courfeyrac’s arms around his waist are strong and unyielding, and they make Jehan feel like he’s Superman, like he can do anything. In all his years of dating around and coming out of the closet, he’s never known what it’s like to be with someone he really cares for — and it turns out, all along, that that somebody has been under his nose for years.

“I’m glad nobody’s in right now except Enjolras,” Courfeyrac mumbles as he nips at Jehan’s bottom lip. “Really would be awkward to have someone walk in on us while I’m sucking you off.”

“Don’t make a liar out of me,” Jehan growls back. “I thought it was my turn this time.”

Courfeyrac laughs throatily. “All right then, my little flower.”

Jehan smirks and darts his tongue out against his lips in a little move that he knows drives Courfeyrac wild. Sure enough, Courfeyrac half whimpers, half groans, and goes back to devouring his mouth.

There’s the loud bang of a door against its frame, and Courfeyrac stills. “Jehan,” he fairly whispers. “Who’s in the room next to yours?”

“You are,” Jehan whispers back. Courfeyrac’s sudden tension makes him freeze as well.

“Yeah, I meant on the right,” Courfeyrac says.

“Nobody,” Jehan answers. “Ferre is on your left, and it’s just us here on the third floor with Enjolras. Ferre should be out with his parents, and Enjolras was in the library.”

They hear the sound of a loud slap, then another. There’s a crash, and then Sebastien Enjolras raises his voice.

“You son of a bitch. How dare you. How dare you!”

“It’s just a book!” Enjolras’ voice shouts back.

Another slap. “Really? Then why is it, of all things, a faggot story?”

“Because it’s by an award-winning author, and you’re reading into this too much?”

There’s the sound of another crash. “I always knew there was something wrong with you. Is this Alain’s influence? Is it? Some last-ditched attempt to rebel before you go off to college?”

“You just can’t accept that I’m not interested in girls that way.”

Sebastien laughs. “Yeah, I really can’t. I should have known your mother’s soft handling and your stupid brother’s influence was what turned you into such a disappointment. An embarrassment. Give me that book, now.”

“It’s not mine! It’s — it’s a friend’s book!”

"Close Range: Wyoming Stories. Does it belong to Jehan, or Henri, or Luc?” Sebastien’s voice goes dangerously soft, and Jehan feels Courfeyrac grip his shoulders very tightly. They suddenly know that Enjolras has been reading Brokeback Mountain, because it’s one of his favorite stories, and he’s borrowed that book from Courfeyrac.

“No,” Enjolras lies. “It’s just some girl at school that I borrowed off of for the holidays.”

“Well, hopefully she has two copies,” Sebastien sneers. “Give it to me.” There’s the sound of flesh on flesh again, and then paper ripping forcefully, over and over. Jehan bites down hard on Courfeyrac’s lips, because it’s a book, it’s Courfeyrac’s fucking book, and Sebastien Enjolras has just torn it into shreds. Then there’s a sharp crack, something flat and hard colliding with flesh, like Sebastien using the leather binding of the book to hit Enjolras yet again.

“Stay out of the dining room tonight. I’ll make your excuses with our guests. I don’t want any questions from Luc’s or Henri’s or Jehan’s parents. And if I catch you reading anything like that ever again, Adrien, I’ll thrash you until you won’t be able to sit down for days. Thanks to you, I’m now late for my board meeting.”

The moment they hear Sebastien’s Bentley take off through the gates, Jehan throws himself off of Courfeyrac — and Courfeyrac jumps off the bed as well — and they both squeeze through the doorway into the guest room next door. There they find Enjolras, kneeling in the snowstorm of ripped paper, weeping as he tries to piece the pages back together. His lip and nose are bleeding, he’s got a black eye, and there’s a bump the size of an egg on his temple.

Courfeyrac reassures him about the book, while Jehan hugs him from behind and rocks him as Enjolras cries into Courfeyrac’s shoulder for a good long while.

The three of them don’t go to dinner, and neither does Combeferre, when he comes back to the house and finds out what happened.

“You actually think I’ll stoop so low as to be involved in Dr. Lamarque’s murder? Let me tell you, Father, you really have no clue who I am. Because I would never do that, especially not to someone who I care about as much as that. What? I thought our arrangement didn’t involve me lying completely through my teeth. I said he is — was — a wonderful father to me. I didn’t say he was my father, did I? Even though I think it’s more than obvious than I wish he was.” Enjolras’ lip curls, even as he blinks away tears.

“Fine. I’ll talk to the lawyer. Honestly, if the police don’t expect me to be involved in Dr. Lamarque’s death, then I don’t know why you expect me to be, but then again, that’s you. You’ve always thought the worst of me, and let me tell you, right back at you, Father. Yeah, as always, nice talking to you too. Yes, I’ll be back next week for Christmas.” Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Sure, whatever.” He hangs up without saying goodbye, and closes his eyes, breathing hard as if he’s just run a marathon.

“You need to sleep,” Combeferre says without preamble.

Enjolras takes the melatonin pill offered him without question. Jehan can see the weariness in his eyes, coupled with a little bit of defeat. He leans forward and plants a kiss on Enjolras’ forehead, before releasing his friend and leader. “We can leave if —”

“No.” Enjolras’ voice is quiet, but there’s a thread of pleading in it. “Stay. Please. However long you all want. I just… I just don’t want to come out here and find everyone gone.”

Courfeyrac smiles softly at Enjolras. “All right.”

Enjolras lets go of Grantaire’s hand, although the look that he gives him is lingering. Jehan sees Bahorel elbow Feuilly, and Eponine grin behind her hand. Combeferre’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t say anything as he helps Enjolras up and towards his bedroom.

The instant they both disappear into the room, Jehan pinches Grantaire, who’s staring after Enjolras with a sad sort of tenderness in his face.

“Ow! What’s that for?”

“Shhh,” Chetta hisses. Bossuet’s eyelids are closing, and Joly’s back to reading his textbook, although he’s also grinning in Grantaire’s direction.

“Go after him,” Jehan says, nudging Grantaire. “He needs it. He needs you.”

Grantaire gives him a withering look. “No, he doesn’t. He needs to sleep.”

Cosette groans aloud, and even Marius smirks. It’s a No, duh sort of day when even Marius cottons on to what’s going on.

Combeferre emerges after two or three minutes, while the entire time Courfeyrac and Jehan have jumped onto the couch and are alternating between nudging and poking Grantaire to try and get him off the sofa, Cosette and Marius have returned to talking about the wedding, Bossuet has fallen asleep, and Bahorel’s made his way completely through the bowl of chips. Eponine’s on the phone with Gavroche, who she’s sent to get butter — “No, not unsalted. I can’t do anything with salted.” — and Feuilly closes his laptop at long last. Joly also closes the cover of his medical textbook after marking his page, and snuggles down beside Bossuet and Chetta, who has her slim arms entangled around them both.

“You.”

Jehan, Courfeyrac, and Grantaire all look up at Combeferre, who’s smiling and appears to be fighting to control it.

“Get in there. Now.”

Grantaire’s mouth falls open, but Jehan and Courfeyrac don’t give him time to think or protest. Instead, they both bundle him up and off the sofa, while legs and bodies move like the parting of the Red Sea, providing a clear path towards the hallway where the bedrooms are. 

Chapter Text

Grantaire licks his lips nervously as he raises his hand to knock on the door.

It’s been maybe three minutes since Jehan and Courfeyrac forced him off the couch and into the hallway right in front of Enjolras’ room. They’ve finally left him, but Combeferre’s threatened to come find him if he doesn’t go inside soon.

“Come in,” Enjolras’ voice calls from beyond the door.

Grantaire lets himself in and closes the door.

Enjolras is sitting on the edge of his bed, eyes half-lidded. He’s still wearing the T-shirt and boxer shorts, and he’s got a bit of bedhead. Grantaire thinks he looks like Christmas morning, and he swallows, trying to refocus on the situation at hand.

“You need to sleep,” he says, from somewhere around the lump in his throat.

“I know,” Enjolras says wearily, “but there’s something I have to handle first.” He scrubs his face with his hands, and rubs his temples as if to stave off a headache.

“Are you all right?” Grantaire questions cautiously, and he doesn’t just mean in a physical way. The past few days have been awful for Enjolras, and with a stab of guilt, Grantaire remembers that part of it is likely attributed to his own actions.

“I’m fine,” Enjolras says wearily. “I just… I keep thinking of Dr. Lamarque’s upcoming funeral. And I think my migraine has finally caught up with me.”

Grantaire immediately straightens and closes the door, shutting out the sounds coming from outside the bedroom. Then he switches off the overhead lamps, leaving only the flameless votives lit on those antique silver candlesticks that Enjolras favors.

“My mother gave me those,” Enjolras comments quietly. He still has his eyes shadowed by his hands, although now he uncovers them and looks up at Grantaire. “I use them for my nightlights.”

Grantaire draws the curtains, veiling the bright lights of the cityscape, and turns back around to face Enjolras.

“You need to sleep,” he says. “And take your migraine meds. Worry about the funeral in the morning.”

“The melatonin will help, according to Combeferre,” Enjolras answers soberly, peeking between his fingers to look at Grantaire. “And I need to talk to you.”

“Me?” Grantaire repeats like a broken record, although it should be obvious, considering that Enjolras has asked for him in the first place.

“That’s one thing I need to do before I do anything for myself,” Enjolras says flatly. He stands up and joins Grantaire at the window, although judging from the slow, labored way he’s moving and how he squints at Grantaire, he really shouldn’t be on his feet. Grantaire immediately ushers him back to the bed with a gentle hand on his elbow, and Enjolras goes unquestioningly. The pupils of his eyes are large and dark, and the blue of his irises is pale, no longer deep and vibrant. His head must be killing him, because he holds it completely still as he goes.

Then, he moves sharply away from Grantaire before he can sit down, running for the adjoining bathroom as Grantaire bursts in after him. He drops to his knees in front of the toilet and abruptly throws up, vomiting so sharply that Grantaire’s afraid he’s going to sprain something. He leans against Enjolras, rubbing his back in comforting circles as he holds his blond hair out of his face and eyes.

Enjolras groans as he finally expels everything in his stomach and hits the flush, leaning against the bathroom cabinet. “I shouldn’t have… bothered eating,” he rasps, and Grantaire’s startled into a laugh. He fills the glass on the sink with water and hands it to Enjolras, who takes a gulp, spits, and then empties the rest of the glass. Then Enjolras grabs the toothpaste from the countertop and swipes a gob of it onto his teeth and tongue before he gargles with water again and spits it out a final time.

“You needed the nutrients,” Grantaire chides him. “Even if you didn’t manage to digest it all.”

Enjolras makes a face, and then winces again, his eyes turning to slits. The next breath he takes is pained, and he lets out another groan.

“Come on,” Grantaire mock-orders, taking him by the shoulder. He leads Enjolras back to the bed, but even as Enjolras sits down on the side of the bed, he reaches out and snags Grantaire’s sleeve.

“I need to speak with you first.”

“So shoot,” Grantaire says, half exasperatedly, because, really, he’s starting to worry about how severe Enjolras’ migraine is.

“I want to apologize. So… here it is. I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Grantaire asks, since he can’t think of a reason why Enjolras should be apologizing. If anything, he needs to be the one apologizing to the blond. “I should be the one saying sorry, Enjolras, not the other way around.”

“For everything, Grantaire. I said things that were wrong. I didn’t know you had been trying to quit because I never bothered to notice. You’re talented, smart, courageous, and a hundred other qualities that I never acknowledge. You are important, you’re worth infinitely more than what I made you out to be, and how I’ve treated you all these years. You were right — you are right — about me, about everything. I am selfish, and I do steamroll over everybody. And for that, for everything, I’m sorry.”

Grantaire falls to the ground in front of Enjolras, putting his hands on Enjolras’ knees, because he remembers the ugly, ugly things he’s said, and the pain they must have caused. Impulsively, he reaches up to press his hand over Enjolras’ lips.

“No. You listen. I’m the one who should be sorry, and I am sorry. Enjolras, all those things I said, they’re all wrong. You’ll never send us to the death, because we’ll all willingly go to it for you. You never forced us into this. You do tend to steamroll, but it’s not because you care, it’s because you care too much about everybody around you. You’re selfless, Enjolras. You’re not bad, or heartless, or evil. Pretty much the opposite. And I am a drunk, although I’m trying to be better, but you’ve been busy saving the world.”

“I’m —” Enjolras tries to say, but Grantaire shushes him.

“Shhh. I’m not done. Enjolras, you have so much heart. You’re not sentencing any of us to death. It’s just me, being a stupid, stubborn fool with too much of a mouth on me. I said and did things that were unforgivable, Enjolras, and I need you to forgive me.”

“Not unless you do the same for me,” Enjolras replies.

“All right. I forgive you, although I don’t know why you need me to say it, because I’m personally the one at fault here.”

“And I you. I just want you to know that you’re important to me, and that I-I care about you, Grantaire.”

Grantaire blinks. “Is that all?”

Enjolras sighs, as if to say, Are we going to do this now? But because he’s Enjolras, he presses on, only to clam up halfway. “No, Grantaire. It’s not all, but it’ll have to do for now.”

“Why?” Grantaire pushes, because he suddenly is seized by the need to know. He wants to know, because suddenly it’s hard to breathe and he’s just aching to hear the answer, to hear what Enjolras has to say — about them.

“Because —” Enjolras stutters. “Because… well, I’m not sure… I mean, I don’t…” He mumbles something that sounds like Montparnasse, and then he shakes his head. “No. I can’t be selfish.”

“Are you talking about Montparnasse?” Grantaire asks bluntly.

Enjolras blushes. “He makes you happy. And I’m glad he does. I just wish — never mind. Look, I definitely care about you, Grantaire. Just… even when we fight, trust in that. Remember that. I admire you, I respect you, and I like… erm. Uh.”

Grantaire’s staring at him, and he feels as if his veins are filling up with liquid gold, and a blanket is swaddling him from head to toe. A giddy sort of feeling is starting to percolate within his stomach, and he feels his cheeks hurting as he can’t stop smiling. “Did you just say you like me?”

Enjolras is blushing so red he can fry an egg on his face. “Well… um…”

Grantaire moves forward and takes him by the hand. He can’t not. “Montparnasse — geez, Enjolras, do you think I’ll ever like him even a fraction of the way I like you?”

“Well, um, no, I mean, I don’t know —”

But that’s when Grantaire leans forward and shuts him up by kissing him.

Enjolras’ lips are warm for the beautiful marble statue he is, and surprisingly pliant. They’re wonderfully soft, and Grantaire captures them carefully with his, thrusting his tongue into Enjolras’ mouth and hearing the gasp come breathlessly between those lips. Enjolras tastes almost sweet, and it feels like fireworks and rainbows are going off in Grantaire’s tummy. Enjolras’ fingers tangle in his hair and pull, gliding across the back of his neck, and Grantaire almost faints from the touch. Every nerve is primed, every cell just exploding over the sensations Grantaire’s feeling now. He cups the back of Enjolras’ neck, pulling him closer, and bites down gently on his lip, letting out a trembling breath as he dives right back in, devouring Enjolras with tongue and lip, feeling the balmy heat of the other’s breath. He closes his eyes, not because he doesn’t want to visually feast on Enjolras’ glory, but because he’s trying to center himself and stop the world from spinning. His knees are boneless, and they both collapse back onto the bed, still sitting upright, but hands gripping shoulders and necks now, breathing hard and fast. One of Enjolras’ silver candlesticks falls over with a loud thud as Grantaire kicks it carelessly.

Someone pounds on the door, and then Combeferre yells, “Enjolras! You need to get some sleep now that you both have kissed and made up!”

Enjolras barks a breathless laugh in between Grantaire’s lips, and Grantaire mumbles, “I’m going to kill him.”

“I mean it! Don’t try me; you won’t like it. Joly and I are the medical professionals here.”

Enjolras is laughing again, and Grantaire traces the curve of his lips and the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Enjolras himself reaches up and touches Grantaire’s dimples.

“I always wish I had dimples.”

Grantaire bites his lip, but try as he may, he can’t stop smiling. “Go to sleep, Apollo. Ferre’s right; you do need it. You’re starting to gush now.”

Enjolras flips him off but then catches his hand when Grantaire makes to slide off the bed. “Stay with me?”

For his answer, Grantaire crawls up onto the bed, waiting for Enjolras to do the same. When Enjolras turns on his side and carefully plants his head onto one of the pillows, Grantaire maneuvers himself up behind him and wraps one arm around his waist, pushing his cheek against Enjolras’ back. He can hear Enjolras' heartbeat, and feel his body move gently with every steady breath. 

They fall asleep like that, and when Grantaire is briefly woken up by Courfeyrac’s loud stage whispers as Bahorel and Eponine — and even Combeferre — snap a picture, or two, or ten, of them both, he merely grins, holds on more tightly to Enjolras, and goes back to sleep. 

Chapter Text

After running into that gay couple who’s part of R’s crowd, Montparnasse loosens his tie, wades into his favorite bar, and gets completely shit-faced. He stays there until Claquesous comes and finds him nursing a hangover in the barmaid’s bed.

“Let’s go,” the man orders.

Montparnasse obeys, a part of him wondering anew at Claquesous’ ventriloquist abilities. Claquesous has a talent to mimic voices and sounds, and to throw them back and forth at different locations. It’s a talent that suits him well for his role as police informer. In addition, his face has a mongrel appearance — his nondescript brown hair, gray eyes, and simple, reasonably attractive features are easily forgettable and adaptable. The guy is a chameleon, and Montparnasse sometimes wishes he’s more like Claquesous in appearance. Sometimes it must be nice to not stand out.

Claquesous is Montparnasse’s most reliable man in Patron-Minette. He and Montparnasse are the ones who go back together the furthest, and they’re closer to each other than anyone else. Claquesous knows he’s bi, but he’s kept Montparnasse’s secret, even if he doesn’t approve entirely of the fact.

“What’s going on?”

“What’s going on is that things are heating up, Parnasse. While you’re busy having a good fuck and drinking your liver away, I’ve been getting reports. The murder of Maximilien Lamarque has been attributed to Patron-Minette, and the rumors are flying. Do you want to claim responsibility for the hit, or not?”

“You already know I did it, Claq, so why are you even asking me?”

“Because I know your man was part of that crowd, and I don’t know why you would do such a harebrained thing. I mean, I thought we agreed to confine our business to the night. I feel more comfortable that way, and so do Gueulemer and Brujon.”

Montparnasse clenches his hand into a fist. Grantaire hasn’t called him back, and Montparnasse thinks he knows the reason why. A reason with blond hair and blue eyes and a voice like liquid silver. He comforts himself with the image of Adrien Enjolras’ face contorted in horror as his dying mentor collapses back into his arms.

“Spread the rumor that Patron-Minette has claimed responsibility,” he says coldly.

“Why are you really doing this, Parnasse?”

Montparnasse straightens his vest as he walks, and a girl catches his eye and winks. He winks back. “Because the world needs to know that Patron-Minette isn’t just a group of thugs. It needs to know that we mean business, but I want them to not be able to figure us out, and this is key to that. I just wanted to see what would happen when I cut one of the fat cats down to size.”

“As opposed to a personal agenda?”

Montparnasse shoots Claquesous a glare. As usual, those average features are cast in shadow from a hat brim. “Are we done here?”

“Don’t be retarded. I’m just getting warmed up. We’ve gotten some business propositions.”

“What kind of propositions?”

“It’s surprising how much people are willing to pay for assassinations and a scapegoat that will happily take all of the blame.”

Montparnasse grins. “How much?”

“We’ve got one for twenty thousand, another for thirty, a third for fifty, and a fourth for sixty-five.”

“Accept them all. Any scenarios we have to falsify?”

“The first I was thinking we could do a botched mugging. The second, maybe frame the lover? He’s been really disgruntled for the past two weeks. The third could be accidental; the fourth, one of our public displays.”

“I’ll talk over that with you after I read the files.” They probably will end up going with Claquesous’ ideas. He and Montparnasse play off of each other enough that they think and act the same quite a bit.

“Last thing, boss.”

“Fire away.”

“You all right?”

Montparnasse tries not to appear surprised by the question, but he knows he’s not entirely successful. “What? Why?”

Claquesous shrugs. “You just seemed really off-kilter for the past couple of days, is all.”

“I think I may have just gotten dumped.”

“Guy or girl?”

“Guy.”

“Ah.” Claquesous doesn’t pretend that he’s completely comfortable with that, but he makes an effort to appear sympathetic. “Want us to get back at him?”

Montparnasse snorts. “It’s not him I blame. It’s someone else. He broke us up.”

Claquesous straightens, a gleam in his eye. “All you need to do is say the word, Parnasse. The others don’t need to know that you’re connected, anyway.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Montparnasse smiles viciously. “Thanks for having my back.”

“Always, man.” 

Chapter Text

“Don’t touch him! Don’t you lay a finger on him again!”

Enjolras jerks out of sleep, Alain's voice ringing in his ears. For a moment, he doesn’t know where he is. His breathing is sharp and ragged and he gasps for air like he’s run a marathon. He’s gripped by a fear so deep that he struggles from the arm locked around his waist, unsure where he is, unsure even when he is.

“Apollo?”

Enjolras inhales a shaky breath and lets it out tremblingly enough that it sounds like a sob. His hands come up and grip the one that’s tucked around his waist. Grantaire. It’s Grantaire who’s holding onto him, not the phantom imagery of his father in his dream.

If the nightmarish figure of his father is merely a representation, it’s still doing a great job at scaring the shit out of him.

“You okay?”

The memory of their kiss returns with merciful swiftness. As Enjolras recalls the feeling and taste of Grantaire’s lips against his, the dream starts to fade in detail and intensity, and he nods and falls back asleep.

When he finally wakes back up, his migraine’s gone. There’s sunlight streaming in through the curtains, and the room is balanced in that perfect temperature between the coolness of the weather outside and the cozy warmth from the central heating system throughout the apartment. Then there’s that simple fact that he’s still locked in Grantaire’s arms, although they’ve both shifted enough that they’re now face to face.

He takes the opportunity to study Grantaire’s face. He’s got a pretty high forehead that’s set off well with his dark curls. Someone’s talked him into a haircut that keeps the sides a little short and the top a bit fuller, which distributes his golliwog mop in a very good way. He’s got well-formed brows that dip over charcoal lashes. Enjolras wishes he’s awake so he can look into Grantaire’s cerulean eyes, but this is good enough.

Grantaire’s cheekbones are slighter than his own, but the freshness of his rounder cheeks gives him a more youthful, innocent appearance. Enjolras likes it better than his own face. Then there’s that straight nose, those dimples, and those lips. Enjolras feels his face heat up as he remembers what those lips did last night, and he can’t help but reach up to touch his own. He’s smiling giddily, and he’s pretty sure that he won’t be able to stop anytime soon.

Grantaire stirs in his arms at the movement before his eyes fly open. He looks at Enjolras, their faces only inches apart, and a lazy smile slides onto his lips.

“Morning.”

“Good morning,” Enjolras corrects him.

“There’s nothing good about it.” Grantaire’s grin refutes that, and the way he’s gripping onto Enjolras still says it all. “What are you smiling about, you little Cheshire?”

“At you,” Enjolras says, before his mind can stop him from talking.

Grantaire’s eyes go completely soft. “Well, I don’t know why you would, since this face is ugly —” He’s cut off as Enjolras surges forward and plants his lips over Grantaire’s. Clumsily, because he’s got next to no practice, but it’s a valiant effort.

For someone who’s just woke up, Grantaire’s got pretty good morning breath. Enjolras doesn’t know about himself, but from the way Grantaire growls and rolls over so that Enjolras is now pinned under him, it’s clear that Grantaire doesn’t care either way.

“You’re not ugly,” he pants. “You’re about as ugly as I am.”

“Such flattery in the morning,” Grantaire practically purrs, and Enjolras lets out a groan as Grantaire straight up grinds against him. He can feel parts of him responding — well, his entire body is responding eagerly to Grantaire’s touch, but certain parts are more responsive than others — and either there’s a hip flask in Grantaire’s pocket, or he’s starting to go as hard as Enjolras is. Before anything can happen, though, Enjolras’ and Grantaire’s phones buzz on the nightstand. Enjolras doesn’t remember it being there, but clearly Grantaire or someone else pulled the phones so they wouldn’t be disturbed. He’s sorely tempted to ignore them, but Grantaire swears and reaches for his.

“Sorry, Apollo, real life’s calling us.”

 * * * * * * * * * *

“He left almost everything of his to you.”

Enjolras is sitting on one of the couches with a purring Stormie in his lap while the other Amis are sort of lazing around. Combeferre’s standing over him, while Grantaire, Chetta, Eponine, and Cosette are cooking up a storm in the kitchen. Courfeyrac and Jehan are sort of cuddling on the loveseat. Marius is talking to the caterer on the phone about this Saturday’s reception — Enjolras still can’t believe their wedding is finally here — and Bossuet is playing solitaire while Joly is reconstructing a human skeleton model, muttering to himself the names of the different bones and joints. Feuilly’s working, and so is Bahorel, but they’ll both be back in an hour and a half.

“How do you know?” Enjolras mumbles now. He looks up at Combeferre, who’s got sympathy written into every feature in his face and the frame of his body.

“Dr. Mabeuf told me.”

Dr. Georges Mabeuf is Combeferre’s mentor and advisor, and a close friend of Dr. Lamarque’s. He and his wife are organizing Dr. Lamarque’s funeral with the help of other colleagues, and they’ve told Combeferre — and Enjolras by default — not to worry about anything in the funeral because Dr. Lamarque has always wanted a simple affair, and because Enjolras is already having a difficult enough time as it is.

Enjolras shakes his head, because there’s nothing really that he can say to that. He knows Dr. Lamarque so well that he’s 99% sure of what has been left to him — all of Dr. Lamarque’s extensive library of philosophy and law books and files crammed with priceless research, some artifacts, his computer and disks, things like that. The detritus of a great scholarly life, all of which Enjolras holds as dear as his mentor did.

“The funeral’s today,” Combeferre says gently. “In four hours.”

Enjolras rubs his hands over his face. “Right,” he says flatly. “Well, I’ll go get dressed then.”

Combeferre’s hand shoots out and pinions Enjolras back down like a band of steel. “A, you’ve got a kitten in your lap, so don’t forget that. B, wait for breakfast before you change. C, I know you’re going to go in there and start beating yourself up about everything, so, no, you’re not hiding.”

“Ferre,” Enjolras protests wearily.

“Don’t you ‘Ferre’ me,” Combeferre orders calmly. “Your mother called just an hour ago. You should probably return it.”

Enjolras lifts his phone to his ear automatically, like a robot. On his lap, Stormie looks up at him with big gray eyes and blinks, looking very sure of herself. Then she jumps up and crawls up his arm to his shoulder, where she twines around his neck like a furry scarf, purring in his ear like a tiny motor.

“Mom?”

“Adrien, darling, I’ve been so worried. How are things? How are you holding up?”

“I’m — I’m fine, Mom.” And he’s not completely fine, but he’s getting close. It’s surprising how much easier it is to bear things when the other Amis are rallying so tightly and helpfully around him. It’s a relief that he doesn’t have to hide just how much of a monstrosity Sebastien is anymore, and that they’re taking care of him. Although he feels stupidly weak for not being able to handle things on his own, it’s just nice to have his real family around and in the know.

“Well, I’m glad, because I saw things on the news, and I was so afraid. Your father had a fit.”

“I just bet he did,” he says dryly into the phone, and Combeferre plops down on the couch to squeeze his knee reassuringly.

They chat some more about little trivialities — what the help’s doing around the house, how his mother’s cancer treatments are going (remarkably well), the hobbies she’s been up to, the visitors she’s having (mainly Sophie Combeferre, Noemi Courfeyrac, and Bernadette Prouvaire, along with women from her book club, from the community church, and a hundred other well-wishers). It’s a generally innocuous conversation that distracts Enjolras from gloomy thoughts, and when he hangs up, the other Amis crowd around him with plates of the massive breakfast fryup that Grantaire and the ladies have cooked. He doesn’t complain when Grantaire sits next to him, their thighs and shoulders pressed together.

Courfeyrac’s feeding Jehan a bit of mushroom, Joly and Bossuet and Chetta are playfully arguing over who gets the last piece of bacon on their shared plate, Combeferre and Eponine are sharing a piece of toast, and Cosette and Marius are holding hands under their plates, when Enjolras realizes something.

He’s home, in every sense of the word. And even with the unthinkable that’s happened — that’s happening — around him, there’s nowhere else and no one else he’d rather be here with. Especially since he’s got everything and everyone he could ask for.

He turns and glances sidelong at Grantaire, who blinks and looks up at him beneath gorgeously curling lashes. He’s got a bit of ketchup at the corner of his lip, and without thinking, Enjolras reaches out and brushes it off, then brings his fingertip to his mouth and licks it off. When he realizes what he’s done, he starts blushing tomato red.

Grantaire’s full-bodied smile, however, is all worth it. 

Chapter Text

The funeral’s beautiful, Feuilly supposes. He remains lost in his own thoughts for the majority of the whole affair.

He and the other Amis are here and present, mainly because they want to offer support and sympathy to Enjolras. He and Combeferre are the only ones who knew Dr. Lamarque well. Feuilly, Grantaire, Bahorel, Jehan, and Cosette have all taken Dr. Lamarque’s Philosophy 101 for their prerequisite in freshman year, and that’s all the memory that Feuilly has of the man — albeit a very good, respected one.

Enjolras is standing at the casket staring down at the engraved lid, his face completely shuttered. Dr. Mabeuf and his wife have arranged for a closed casket, which is all well and good, considering that Enjolras will most likely never forget the sight of his mentor dying in his arms. As usual, he looks like a model in his black tuxedo and skinny black tie, but for the fact that his raptorlike blue eyes are rimmed in red.

From the time they’ve left Enjolras’ apartment till now, Grantaire hasn’t let go of his hand — and the others have refrained from teasing them both about it for now, because now’s not the time for jokes, not when Enjolras is this fragile. Now, however, Combeferre and Eponine walk in with Gavroche and Azelma in tow, the boy looking horribly self-conscious and the teenage girl appearing bored, and Grantaire releases Enjolras briefly as he whispers in his ear.

Enjolras doesn’t respond, and Grantaire goes over to say hello to the kids. He ruffles Gavroche’s hair, and the kid looks up at him with a wide, adoring grin, while Azelma smiles and is promptly dragged off by Cosette and Chetta, most likely to talk about makeup or nails or hair or whatever the hell it is girls talk about.

Feuilly isn’t a stranger to death and loss. He can recall just as clearly the memories of his own parents dying in that car accident. It would be a horribly tragic recollection, except for the fact that Feuilly’s parents were both able to say goodbye to him and give him their last words.

That moment’s given him sufficient closure to move on with his own life, although he has his times of self-pity and grief. But then again, that always ends when Bahorel bangs on his door, or Chetta comes over with a plate of cookies to make him her baking guinea pig. He’s learned long ago that the Amis are now his family, and he wouldn’t trade them for the entire world.

Enjolras is going to have to learn the same.

Funny, he’s always envied Enjolras and Courfeyrac and the likes of them their gloriously lavish backgrounds — how they’re surrounded by loving family, bathed in the lap of luxury, and insanely talented to boot. Now that he’s learning more and more about Enjolras’ home life, Feuilly almost thinks he’s gotten the better end of the deal. At least he knows his father truly loved him even in his shortened life.

That’s far more than Enjolras can claim.

Someone gives Feuilly a noogie that’s more affectionate and out of habit rather than painful, and he doesn’t even have to look around to know it’s his best friend.

“Thinking deep thoughts?”

Feuilly barks a laugh and shrugs. “I guess.”

“Is this okay for you?” Bahorel asks immediately, sounding more cautious. “I forgot for a moment that this might bring back painful memories.”

Bahorel may act like he’s the world’s toughest macho dude, and maybe he is most of the time, but under that BAMF facade is the squishy marshmallow heart of an oversized teddy bear. “Sometimes memories are the only way my parents manage to stay alive with me. I’m fine, really. It’s Enjolras I’m worried about.”

“I’m more worried about what his father’s going to do. I can’t believe he tried to hide it from us this long. If R hadn’t found out on accident, we’d never have known about it.”

“Look at it this way,” Feuilly explains. “Enjolras is already a perfectionist. He thinks he can handle everything on his own. Having to safeguard himself his entire life against his father has only reinforced that mindset. Plus he’s just noble through and through. If he has to do this alone, he will, even if it kills him. He knows he has us, but he doesn’t quite know. It’s up to us to remind him and to help him.”

“I swear, this sounds like something out of a TV drama,” Bahorel confesses. “Like, I just can’t believe how much of a fucker his father is, you know?”

“Not everyone can have parents like yours and mine, dude,” Feuilly points out. They exchange grins. Bahorel is the only Ami who’s ever met his parents, considering that they’ve been best friends since they could walk, like Enjolras and Combeferre. “I just never expected it from someone like Enjolras. It just goes to show how dedicated he is to us and to everything. It probably fuels his motivation to change the world.”

“What a superhero,” Bahorel says with a laugh. “A real-life Superman.”

“If Enjolras is Superman, what’s that make the rest of us?”

“Enjolras is more of Captain America, I think. Not as conservative, but definitely as awkward to the real world and as idealistic.”

“I think Grantaire would be Spiderman. The new and revamped one, obviously. He’s certainly got snark enough.”

“Who’s Batman?”

“Combeferre’s Superman. I’m Batman.”

“No, you fucking are not.”

“Eponine’s definitely Hawkgirl, but Chetta’s Wonder Woman. Cosette’s Black Widow.”

“I’ll take that to the bank. I think I’m the Hulk.”

“I think you are, too. Jehan would be a more colorful, more expressive sort of Batman. Remember all those martial arts shit he gets up to?”

“Good point.”

“I am Iron Man.”

“Don’t make me Hulk-smash you.”

“How intellectually stimulating,” Grantaire drawls from behind them. “You guys are definitely a BFF match made in heaven.”

“We’ve still got Courfeyrac, Joly, Bossuet, and Marius,” Bahorel complains as they both turn to face Grantaire. He’s wearing a green tie that’s so dark it’s practically black with his shirt and trousers, and he’s clean-shaven, most likely out of respect for Dr. Lamarque.

Not for the first time, Feuilly can see why Enjolras is attracted to him (and why Bahorel, Eponine, Courfeyrac, and Jehan have slept with R before.) If Feuilly was gay — which he’s not — he thinks he’d probably sleep with R too. The guy still doesn’t get around as much as Courfeyrac, but every one of the Amis is hugely attractive in his or her own right, which Feuilly can’t even imagine how it could be possible, but it is. He supposes that it’s the way of the Amis — their group is huge, and yet it brings out the best in every single individual who belongs there. Even Gavroche and Azelma, young though they are, are both pretty remarkable kids.

“How’s Enjolras?” Bahorel asks.

Grantaire frowns. “He’s pulling back. From me, from Ferre, from everybody. He’s kind of turned back into his polite, icy self when he interacts with other people, but with us, he’s just silent. I’m worried he’s going to get lost in himself.”

“He’s stronger than that,” Feuilly assures him. “He’ll be fine. Just give it time. It’s everything crowding him at once, that’s all.”

“I hope so.” Grantaire’s frown deepens.

They stand together in awkward silence for about a minute before Bahorel endeavors to change the subject very successfully. He elbows Grantaire in the ribs and grins. “So, you and Enjolras, huh?”

Grantaire blushes red. “He’s got better things to worry about,” he protests, but the smile that he can’t suppress — though he’s obviously trying — breaks out onto his face, and Feuilly laughs.

“Sure,” he says knowingly. “You do know that we heard you both making out, right?”

“We all had our ears pressed to the door,” Bahorel sniggers, and Grantaire hits him on the arm.

“We didn’t hear all the conversation, okay! Jehan was the one listening in and he was the one to tell us that you guys were locking lips. That’s when we listened in. Take it up with him, dude. Ow. You and that damned left hook of yours.”

“You deserved that one. And don’t you degenerates even think of mocking Enjolras until his crises have been averted.”

“We’re not dumb,” Bahorel snaps, feigning offense. “Geez, R.”

“Just checking. I never know with either of you.”

Feuilly glances back at the casket and sees the priest talking quietly to Enjolras, who then slowly walks to the first row of chairs closest to the casket and sinks into a seat. He nudges Grantaire and gestures with his chin to the front. “I think that’s your cue.”

“Is the service starting?” Bahorel asks. “Shit, I forgot to get a quick smoke beforehand.”

“Smoking and swearing in a church of God. For shame, Bahorel.” Grantaire turns around and waggles his fingers at Feuilly and Bahorel. “See you both in a bit.”

Feuilly watches as Grantaire sits down on the chair to Enjolras’ right and takes his hand almost instinctively, while Combeferre is on Enjolras’ left with Eponine and Gavroche. The kid looks solemn, like he’s already seen it all, and Feuilly’s suddenly reminded of himself at that same age.

Suddenly, he’s twelve years old again, and sitting in another church staring at two caskets. The only difference is that this time, he’s got more love and care surrounding him than in that previous memory, although Bahorel was there back then, and is still here with him now. 

Chapter Text

Enjolras doesn’t know how he gets through the services.

He doesn’t know how he manages to stand up, and apparently give a short, but powerfully stirring eulogy of his mentor and self-adopted father, when the priest gives him his cue. When he’s done, the priest signals for them all to rise as they sing a song from the hymnals that are distributed through the pews. Enjolras stares at his hymnal, because the words make absolutely no sense to him. He can hear Grantaire’s voice, strong and soft and perfectly on key, coming from beside him. Although he hears the melody, he still can’t comprehend the words. It’s as if someone has snipped the wire connecting his hearing and seeing to his brain, because there’s no other explanation for why he’s so out of it.

When the hymn is over and a prayer is said, Enjolras stares straight ahead until someone grips his arm with a hand that’s not Grantaire’s. Combeferre’s. Enjolras knows that other man better than he knows himself. He looks up, and Combeferre’s staring down at him with sympathetic hazel eyes.

“The casket,” he whispers.

The scrambled wires in Enjolras’ brain manage to connect. He, Combeferre, Dr. Mabeuf, and Dr. Myriel — another close colleague and friend of Dr. Lamarque’s — are the pallbearers for the casket, along with two other distant male relatives. They’ve all been briefed on this before. He takes the smooth wooden handle that Combeferre guides him towards, goes down on one knee, and, with the other five men, lift the casket onto the wheeled cart with a heave and no sound. His mouth is just as disconnected from his body and brain as is everything else. He places his hand onto the casket as he’s been directed, walking down the aisle with the others, looking towards the open door where the hearse is waiting, like a black mouth ready to swallow the box whole. He lifts and releases when he’s told, and stands there staring at the hearse as the men close it.

“Enjolras?”

Grantaire’s there, now, and he takes Enjolras’ hand in his, gently guiding him forward like he’s a small child. Combeferre’s there on his other side. They walk behind the hearse for the short distance to the burial site, and when the procession finally stops, Enjolras steps forward and obeys mutely the simple orders to lift, carry, walk, set down, and step back.

The hole’s already dug, six feet deep and seven feet long. Overhead, the sun is shining, even in the crispness of coming winter, and irrationally Enjolras despises the brightness of the rays. With how dark his world has gone, the skies should be pouring rain and hail. His hands are red and feel like ice, because he’s refused to put on gloves, not for Dr. Lamarque, the man who should have been his father, and not for his mother, who soon will be in the ground like his mentor.

The priest is saying the rites for Dr. Lamarque, now, and Enjolras ignores him, instead staring at the casket in the ground. His mind is alive with memories of his interactions with Dr. Lamarque — the times he’s visited his house, talked to him over coffee or a meal, sat in his office discussing philosophical theories and the ins and outs of the law, participated in class. Then there’s that one fateful moment when they’re at the rally, and he sees his mentor get shot in front of him.

Combeferre puts a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder, again, and he comes back to himself to realize that the rites are over, and the priest is staring expectantly at him — along with everyone else. Combeferre’s eyes drop from Enjolras’ down to the mound of fresh dirt, and Enjolras understands. He feels as stiff as a puppet as he bends down and takes a handful of freshly dug soil. The earthy odor worms its way into his nostrils, and he clenches his fist closed for a brief heartbeat before he straightens and lets the dirt tumble from his palm and fingers onto the half-covered casket. He’s the last of the pallbearers to do so, because the crowd of mourners moves forward, and everyone drops a handful of soil or a rose onto the casket. He stands where he’s directed, head down, hands clasped together, and he can’t stop staring at the newly made grave.

Somewhere beneath all that dirt and flowers is the body of the only man he’s ever loved as a father. A man who’s lived and had a body, who married, worked, laughed, spoke, cried, ate, and did everything the living does. Enjolras has helped to carry those dead bones, fingers and hands and arms and legs and feet that toiled and labored for all of Dr. Lamarque’s long life, and now rest forever.

Soon his mother will go the same way. Everyone’s telling him to be optimistic, but he really isn’t. Not with the kind of news that she broke to him only days ago.

He doesn’t know how he manages to get in the car with Grantaire, where he leans his cheek against the doorframe and stares out the window as Grantaire drives him away from the burial site. They’re halfway to Dr. Mabeuf’s house for the post-funeral luncheon when he feels something tighten and break to pieces inside of himself, and suddenly he’s crying, tears falling hard and fast down his face as he sobs until he’s practically gasping for breath.

Grantaire signals and turns off the road into a small side trail, stops the car, and comes around the other side. He rips open the passenger door, unbuckles Enjolras’ seatbelt, and pulls Enjolras roughly up and into his arms. As Enjolras buries his face into Grantaire’s suit jacket, Grantaire tightens his arms around him.

“It’ll be okay,” he whispers. “You’ll be okay.”

Enjolras is crying so hard he can’t answer, and Grantaire keeps holding Enjolras like he’s something precious to be handled with care. As his velvet voice continues to murmur reassurances, his hands rub at Enjolras’ back in soothing circles and run through blond curls and brush the tears from off pale cheeks.

“Come on,” he finally says quietly, when Enjolras has calmed down slightly. “I’m taking you home. You don’t have to be at the luncheon; I know that much.” He hesitates for a brief second, before he plants a lingering, tender kiss to Enjolras’ forehead. His lips are soft and warm, just like the rest of him, and Enjolras closes his eyes.

“Come on, Apollo. Just let it be. It’ll be okay.”

Chapter Text

Maryse rubs at the headache forming in her temples.

Adrien sounds awful. After watching the footage of Maximilien Lamarque getting killed at the protest, Maryse doesn’t blame her son in the slightest. Having to go to the funeral and bury his mentor is heartbreaking, and not for the first time, Maryse wishes she could be by his side.

“It’ll be okay, Adrien,” she coaxes. “Rely on your friends for now, and I’ll see you back here at home for Christmas.”

“Yes, Mother.”

He sounds so exhausted, so worn out and beaten down. Maryse chokes back her anger and the overwhelming sorrow building up inside of her, and uses that to launch into a brief tirade about taking care of himself.

“Grantaire’s here. He’s making me go to sleep. I’m missing the luncheon.”

“Good. You need the rest. How’s he doing?”

“He’s fine.” There’s a pause. “I think. Okay, he says he’s good.”

“Tell him I say hello and I miss him, along with all of your other friends.”

“Okay.”

“I love you, Adrien. Don’t ever forget that. You’re the most important thing in my entire life.”

Adrien sounds like he’s about to cry, and it wrenches Maryse’s heart. “I love you, too. Please get well.”

“I’ll do my best,” Maryse promises. “Go to sleep. If you get sick on top of everything else, you aren’t going to feel any better.”

Adrien hangs up, and Maryse holds onto the cell phone for a few more seconds, her grip so tight her fingers are cramping. Finally she sets the phone down in her lap and pushes her chair around.

Sebastien is standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a big smirk on his face.

“Is our insufferable brat whining away to you?” he asks mockingly. “I can’t imagine why. He’s always wanting to stand on his own two feet and be all grown up. What, is he losing his nerve now?”

Maryse forces herself to keep from moving forward and punching her husband in the jaw. Pshaw. He’s only her husband in name — in everything else he’s a complete asshole. “And you wonder why he doesn’t call you. Who gave you the right to listen in on my private phone calls?”

Sebastien scoffs. He’s the one who moves forward now, stopping only when he’s leaning over her. “Please, my dear. I’m only listening in on your end. You’re lucky I’m not monitoring the entire conversation.”

“You do that and every deal we’ve had is off.”

Sebastien rolls his eyes. “I know that. I’m not stupid.”

“Uh huh,” Maryse says sarcastically.

Sebastien’s eyes narrow, and he changes tacks entirely. “You haven’t told your beloved son the whole truth, have you? Would you like me to?”

“Do that,” she repeats in a hiss, “and every deal we’ve ever had is off. Forever.”

“I won’t,” Sebastien assures her mockingly, “and you’ll keep to your end of the bargain if you know what’s good for you. Even if you survive the treatments, Maryse, Adrien’s young and strong and healthy. He’ll be around for a lot longer than you are, and I fully intend to use him in every way I can. It’s what I do.”

“You can’t punish Adrien for everything,” Maryse says, and she can’t help the desperation in her voice. “None of it has been his fault. It’s not my fault, or Alain’s, that you just can’t forgive and forget — especially since your sins far outweigh everyone else’s!”

“I couldn’t punish Alain,” Sebastien retorts with a grin. “If Adrien’s his brother’s keeper, Alain’s sins are merely transferring to him.”

Maryse snaps her hand up, and it’s only Sebastien’s quick reflexes that save him from a hard slap to the face. He glares down at her. “Do that again, and Adrien will pay.”

“You’re already threatening that,” Maryse snarls back.

Sebastien quirks an eyebrow. “Remember, my darling wife. If Adrien knew the whole truth, it’d cripple him. You’re helping to keep him alive. If you really wanted to spare him from me, you’d kill him yourself.” 

Chapter Text

Enjolras manages to calm down after he talks to his mother. Grantaire has been afraid that the opposite would happen, but it hasn’t, and it’s with a relieved heart that he watches Enjolras fall asleep. Combeferre has given him the go-ahead for a second melatonin pill, and Enjolras takes the pill without complaint. He’s only fussed when Grantaire has attempted to leave the room, and so Grantaire’s stayed, holding onto Enjolras’ hand until the latter is completely out cold.

He only moves when his phone vibrates. He’s already called Combeferre when Enjolras was on the phone with his mother and told him that they can’t make it to the luncheon, so he’s wondering who’s calling him at this point in time. When he looks at the name flashing on his screen, he just manages to keep from swearing out loud, but only barely.

It’s Montparnasse.

* * * * * * * * * *

Montparnasse keeps the phone pressed to his ear, hearing the ringing tone repeat itself over and over again, annoyed and frustrated. He’s picturing Grantaire with that vapid blond, and the thought and sight is driving him to distraction.

So he’s calling to break up with Grantaire first, before the brunette breaks up with him. He’s still got his pride, and that’s all that’s left at this point.

Grantaire finally answers after several rings, right when the call is about to die out. “Hello?”

“Well, finally,” Montparnasse snarks, before he instantly feels bad. Grantaire sounds exhausted enough. “It’s me.” He hesitates for a moment before plunging in. “How have you been?”

Grantaire barks out a cynical laugh. “I’m fine, really. It’s Enjolras who — I don’t know if you watched the protest, Parnasse. His mentor was shot. Maximilien Lamarque?”

“I’ve heard of him before,” Montparnasse says truthfully, because he has. He’s never had a grudge against the old idealist before, except that he was just a means to his end. And his end, as it seems, is not in sight. “Are you with him, then?”

It’s a question with a double entendre, whether Grantaire realizes it or not.

“He’s sleeping,” Grantaire says in lieu of an explanation, before he says hastily, “I mean… it’s not like we’re… he’s been having a really hard time… ugh.” There’s a huff of frustration, and Montparnasse imagines Grantaire running his hand through those boisterous black curls. “He’s sleep-deprived. This isn’t a post-coital thing.” There’s something strange in his voice, and Montparnasse picks up on it immediately.

“You like him, don’t you?”

Grantaire is silent on the line for a few seconds, as if garnering a response or the courage to respond, and Montparnasse feels a bit of his bitter heart break. “Parnasse, the question here is who doesn’t like him? It’s Enjolras, for heaven’s sake.”

That would be Montparnasse who doesn’t like him.

“You’re telling me you’re in love with this guy when we’ve been dating? What a cockblock.”

“It’s not Enjolras’ fault,” Grantaire pleads. “It’s mine. I’ve just always liked him, and that week that I met you, we’d fought big-time. I thought our friendship was over, and I was trying to move on. Please, Parnasse, I never meant to use you at all. You’re wonderful, and I really wish it could have worked out between us. Then he just apologized, and… he needs me, Parnasse. Especially right now.”

Translation: it is Enjolras’ fault. The blond’s just using him, and Montparnasse voices that.

“No, he’s not.”

“Whatever, R. I’m happy for you, but don’t expect me to be happy about this, because I’m not. You’re one of the few good things that’s ever happened to me, and that’s gone.”

He hangs up in a rage. He’s not mad entirely at Grantaire, because unfortunately in the space of a week and a half his heart has unexpectedly turned to goo over this one guy. This one guy — he could probably have his pick of them if he wanted to — has managed to affect him as much as Eponine has. His fists clench as he sweeps his arm out and shoves the glass figurines off of the coffee table and watches them smash with satisfaction on the floor.

It’s all that blond’s fault. That using, manipulating, lying son of a bitch.

Well, he’ll pay. Somehow, somewhere, but it’s going to happen sooner or later.

Montparnasse is a man of his word. 

Chapter Text

They’ve got five days before the entire group will disperse for Christmas vacation.

So Courfeyrac, being the hyperactive social butterfly that he is, splurges on tickets for all of them to go to George Balanchine’s Nutcracker, and declares that the entire day will be devoted to fun and sightseeing outdoors. It really doesn’t take much to persuade the rest — not even Enjolras — except for, surprisingly, Marius.

“Our wedding is in two days!” he wails, and Cosette laughs and kisses him on the cheek.

“Babe, we’ve been planning our wedding for eight months. We’ve got everything down to a T and delivered. We’ll be fine.”

“What she said,” Courfeyrac says exuberantly. “Honestly, Marius, if Enjolras doesn’t protest, you really shouldn’t, either.”

Enjolras smiles very slightly and indulgently at that, and Grantaire squeezes his hand. Since the funeral two days ago, they’ve hardly split up for anything. Grantaire’s moved all of his stuff and Stormie back into his room at the apartment, although it really makes no difference considering he’s slept in Enjolras’ room each night so far. The first night he tried to stay out — after breaking up with Montparnasse — Enjolras had nightmares that stopped only when he returned to the room, and he hasn’t bothered to repeat the experience the next night.

Part of him worries at how Enjolras is going to sleep over Christmas vacation, but right now, he’s just all too happy that he gets to spend so much time around Enjolras, who doesn’t complain, either. These days, he’s just been over the moon despite the roughness of recent events.

Enjolras likes him.

Enjolras likes him.

They haven’t talked about dating, or sex — the thought always makes Grantaire’s palms damp — but at this point, Grantaire doesn’t even care anymore. All he cares about is the hand in his and the shoulder pressed against his own. Or even the sly winks and looks directed at them both from the other Amis, because every little detail is a reminder that Enjolras likes him.

He can’t stop thinking it, or repeating it silently to himself.

On the morning of their all-day visit, Grantaire’s sitting on the corner of Enjolras’ bed with the steaming cup of Kona that he’s just brought in for Enjolras and watching his Apollo shrug on one of his favorite red jackets over a long-sleeved white shirt and those damnable skinny jeans. He’s already wearing his own dark green coat, and he’s got his gloves on, because they need to leave in a jiffy. Combeferre’s left to go pick Eponine, Gavroche, and Azelma up, and they’re meeting in the city in half an hour.

Then, out of the blue, Enjolras says abruptly, “My mother wants to know if we’re dating.”

Grantaire chokes on his own cup of coffee. He splutters, manages to swallow, and sets both mugs down, far away from him so he can have his seizure without worrying about whether he’d destroy Enjolras’ room with his flailing around and breaking the cups. Then he meets Enjolras’ gaze, which is steady and expectant, like he’s gradually returning to his former self despite what’s happened recently.

“I… um… uh…”

Smooth. Real smooth.

Something twists in Enjolras’ face and he looks down before turning around to shut the closet doors. “Sorry. Forget I said anything.”

“No.” No. Grantaire stands and walks over to him. Enjolras’ frame is strung as tightly as a bow, and when Grantaire puts his hand on Enjolras’ shoulder, the other man tenses as if ready to bolt. “I just — do you want to?”

“Yes.” The answer is so quiet Grantaire almost thinks he imagines it. “But if you don’t —”

“I do. Damnit, Enjolras, of course I do. I always have. I just want to make sure you’re not doing this because you’re upset, or stressed, or anything like that. You deserve better than just a one-night stand or a short-lived relationship.” Just like Montparnasse does, a part of him snips.

But this is Enjolras. The man that Grantaire has idolized, respected, admired, and loved for so long. He’s thought of Enjolras as perfect for ages, and now that he’s seeing the man with all his idiocies and quirks and troubles and imperfections — along with the qualities, cute habits, and strengths — he loves him all the more.

“I’m not,” Enjolras answers. He looks Grantaire straight in the eye, and in those blue orbs, Grantaire sees only honesty. Only truth. “I’ve thought about this. If anything, past events have made me realized that I do want you, that I need you in my life, and that I can’t procrastinate or put it off anymore. There’s no time for that. Life’s too short to waste it not going for the things that matter.”

“Ain’t nobody got time fo’ that,” Grantaire jokes, laughing despite his own nervousness, and Enjolras’ eyebrow quirks as he frowns.

“Where’s that from —”

Enjolras doesn’t say anything else, mainly because Grantaire surges forward and shuts him up by kissing him.

When they finally break apart, Grantaire pushes his forehead against Enjolras’, who’s laughing quietly. He reaches down and traces his fingertips over Grantaire’s cheek, and the touch is practically electric.

“Come on,” he says, and his smile is absolutely radiant. “We should go.”

They hold hands on their way out, and when Grantaire tries to fish the keys out of his pocket to unlock the car, his fingers tremble so much that they drop to the concrete when Enjolras leans in and kisses him again. 

Chapter Text

“At long bloody last,” Courfeyrac sighs, when Enjolras and Grantaire walk up towards the rest of the other Amis with gloved hands intertwined and bright smiles that he hasn’t seen from either of his friends for weeks.

“Pay up,” Feuilly smirks, waggling his fingers at Courfeyrac, who dolefully pulls out his wallet and hands a fifty to him and Bahorel. With a smirk, Bossuet holds his hand out to Joly as well for a twenty, and Marius forks out another twenty to Eponine, who kisses it and then passes it to Combeferre with a mournful sigh.

“Did all of you bet on us?” Grantaire asks incredulously.

“Yeah,” Combeferre says. “Who initiated it?”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire admits.

Combeferre’s smirk widens, and Eponine rolls her eyes and shoots Grantaire a mock-disgruntled look before giving Combeferre a twenty. Cosette hands Chetta a ten with a good-natured laugh.

“Who kissed the other first?” Bahorel asks interestedly.

“R,” Enjolras says, another soft smile lighting on his lips.

Combeferre laughs, and Bahorel smirks as more money exchanges hands. This time, Jehan has to pay Bahorel and Feuilly.

“Are we done here?” Enjolras asks, obviously trying to sound stern, but the attempt fails because he’s still smiling, and, Courfeyrac notes fondly, probably will be for a very long time.

“Everybody gets a BSS — Belated Secret Santa,” Courfeyrac chirps, pulling strips of paper out of his pocket and counting them all, just to be sure he hasn’t missed anyone. “You have all of the break to figure out what you’re going to give him or her. When we all get back around the New Year, we’ll have our little party and see how things went over break on your end. That way we can extend Christmas for just a little bit. Or Hanukkah,” he concedes with a nod in the Thenardiers’ direction, as well as to Bossuet and Jehan.

Everyone selects a slip of paper, except for Gavroche and Azelma, who have already skipped ahead, and each Ami reads his or her name quietly. Grantaire grins, Bahorel pumps a fist into the air, Feuilly and Enjolras look thoughtful, and Eponine, Combeferre, and Chetta smile. Bossuet blinks down at his chosen name, Joly starts to tap on his chin — a clear sign that he’s sinking into deep thought — Cosette beams, and Marius frowns in thought. Jehan carefully folds the little piece of paper over in his fingertips, before storing it in his pocket with care. Courfeyrac grins when he opens his own piece of paper and sees the name written there in his own handwriting: Feuilly.

“So what are we doing now?” Enjolras asks, sounding a tad grumpy already, which is to be expected — Grantaire hasn’t had that much time to work miracles, yet.

“Window shopping!” Courfeyrac bellows. “We’re going to FAO Schwarz right now. Gotta roll around on the giant keyboard!”

Enjolras sighs gustily, but when Grantaire leans in and kisses his cheek, he perks up visibly, and Eponine grins without bothering to hide it.

Since it’s a weekday, there are fewer shoppers than would crowd the weekends, but the group ends up having to split into little pairs and trios to zigzag through the crowd. Gavroche and Azelma are having a Fruit Ninja faceoff on separate phones, but somehow manage to maneuver their way skillfully around passersby, while Combeferre and Eponine walk behind the youngsters with fond looks on their faces. If Gav and Azelma are any younger, people would definitely and rightfully mistake the two for Combeferre and Eponine’s own offspring. Naturally, Joly, Chetta, and Bossuet split off, the two men talking loudly about what they’re going to do at the toy store, while Chetta laughs. Cosette and Marius are hand in hand adoring the light drizzle of snowflakes that’s falling from the sky, while Feuilly and Bahorel are arm in arm, both trying to obnoxiously take up as much of the sidewalk as possible so that people have to give way to Les Amis.

Enjolras and Grantaire are also walking hand in hand, and Grantaire’s pointing out different little things — a woman in a mink coat leading a poodle in matching mink booties; a nuclear family with a set of adoring parents, the man with a stroller bearing a fat baby in pink and the woman pushing another all dolled up in blue; a young woman in a Santa hat with hipster sunglasses, black leather jacket, and crazy lace-up boots that look like they’re from back during the reign of the Roman empire; an aged couple bundled up, holding hands, and walking carefully on the salted sidewalks. The shop windows are filled with brightly wrapped packages and Christmas trees and fairy lights and hundreds more Christmas symbols and paraphernalia, each window more lavish and garish than the next. When Grantaire slips on a bit of slush, Enjolras steadies him and they do that staring-into-each-other’s-eyes thing for about ten seconds; when Enjolras shivers, Grantaire pulls him closer and warms his hands between both of his.

If Courfeyrac wasn’t bursting at the seams with joy at how happy all of his friends are, he’d find the whole display nauseatingly sweet. As it is, he’s barely holding himself back from screaming at the world about how awesome everything is. He does take Jehan’s hand and do a little dance on the sidewalk before tipping his head back and letting out a war whoop.

“You’re crazy,” Jehan whispers, but his grin says it all. He squeezes Courfeyrac’s hand and pulls him forward, their lips meeting in a brief moment before they break apart again. Jehan’s big gray eyes are sparkling, and he’s got that demure smile that drives Courfeyrac absolutely nuts. His little poet’s somehow managed to procure a poinsettia, which he’s stuck in his chestnut braid. All he needs is a big red bow around his neck and Courfeyrac will call it the best Christmas present he’ll ever get.

Speaking of Christmas presents… he hopes Jehan will like the one he’s already got him. It’s been sitting in his pocket for over a week already, just because he can’t bear to let it out of his sight. He slides his free hand into his pocket now, and feels the tiny box resting there.

They’ve talked a lot about marriage, especially with Cosette and Marius’ coming up, and Combeferre and Eponine already engaged, but Courfeyrac’s always been the one to shy back, and Jehan’s been perfectly happy to wait. Now, however, Courfeyrac knows what he wants for the rest of his life, and Enjolras’ family has taught him one thing: there’s no waiting. There’s only now.

The big gold letters on the red background greet them as FAO Schwarz comes into view, and everyone starts getting visibly more excited than before. Gav and Azelma even put away their phones to run forward, ahead of all the Amis, into the store. Cosette and Bahorel insist on getting pictures with the Toy Soldiers, and it escalates into them goading everyone else into getting pictures. Enjolras is the most reluctant — not that this is anything new — but when Grantaire makes a silly face and thumbs up with a Toy Soldier doing the same, Enjolras laughs, and that epic moment is captured forever on film, much to Courfeyrac’s delight.

From there, Les Amis kind of go a little crazy. They run into the store, heading straight for the giant piano from the movie Big, and start jumping up and down — after taking their shoes off, of course. Enjolras and Chetta jump onto the C keys, while Grantaire and Joly take D, Eponine and Bossuet E, Combeferre and Bahorel F, Cosette and Feuilly G, Courfeyrac and Gavroche A, and Jehan and Azelma on B. Marius sits out and sneaks a picture before security sternly tells him to refrain from free photography. They jump up and down on the keys to create a wacky symphony of noise that Marius records with his phone — until Bossuet trips and bounces so high up he misses his key and tumbles onto the ground, which then causes Joly to freak out, and Chetta to go comfort them both.

“That was fun,” Enjolras comments, as he’s lacing his boots back on.

“Have you never been here?” Courfeyrac asks incredulously, gleeful at his success of getting Enjolras out of the house and taking his mind off of things.

“Not for years, no,” Enjolras answers. “Not since Alain —” he pauses, before he forges on determinedly. “Not since Alain died.”

He looks downward for a second, and Courfeyrac curses inwardly, until Enjolras looks back at him with a smile that’s partly forced and yet partly genuine.

“Well, what’s next?”

Before Courfeyrac can answer, Jehan, Combeferre, and Grantaire grab Enjolras playfully by the arms and drag him towards FAO Schweetz. 

Chapter Text

“Where do you want to go?” Grantaire finally asks Enjolras.

The group has split up after taking FAO Schweetz by storm. Enjolras, Jehan, and Cosette have pooled their considerable finances and bought their weight in candy — gummy bears and worms, jawbreakers, giant Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Nerds, gobstoppers, Godiva and Lindt chocolate truffles, lollipops, gumballs, licorice sticks, Pop Rock Chocolate Bars, Sugar Daddies, and Jelly Bellies. Everyone’s gotten a sack, and Grantaire’s carefully packed his sack into his backpack, because he wants to make the candy supply last, since Enjolras is the one who got this for him.

Enjolras clearly has no qualms about making his own sack last, although he’s still only on his third piece of candy, a gumball. (He’s one of the slower eaters in Les Amis — he never gets through his food before Bahorel, Feuilly, Courfeyrac, Grantaire, Chetta, and Eponine are done with theirs.) He blinks and looks up at the Clock Tower face before he wrinkles his perfect nose and makes a face at it.

“Ugh. I remember that. It’s as grotesque as the first day I saw it.”

“How many times have you come to FAO Schwarz?” Grantaire questions curiously.

Enjolras pauses to give that one thought. “Three or four. I never did after Alain died,” he answers at last. “And we didn’t go to the sweet shop because my father was adamant that we’d never get cavities. We didn’t go to the piano, either, and when I wanted to look around everywhere — including the doll department, or that baby department — he would psych me out using passive-aggressive homophobic jabs. My mother would have taken us, but she was working back then, and I don’t blame her at all for wanting to stay away from my father for as long as she could at work each day, and he hardly let us do anything without him at night.”

Grantaire bites back a profanity. “So you never just hung around Rockefeller Plaza or FAO Schwarz or anything like that just for the sake of it? Your father’s such a dick. No wonder you have such a stick up your ass.”

Enjolras merely cocks an eyebrow at him, although his expression is contemplative, and his eyes are sad. “You know you like it.”

Grantaire takes his hand and kisses him in front of everyone, although it’s not a kiss that is all hot and heavy, because his heart has just gone gooey from that sad little-lost-boy expression in Enjolras’ gaze. It’s a kiss that is quiet and tender and unobtrusive, although he does brush Enjolras’ lips once with his tongue when he pulls away. When they break apart, there’s something akin to wonder in Enjolras’ eyes, but he only smiles at Grantaire.

“So,” Grantaire repeats, trying to get his brain back to focus from its staticky fizzle at the feeling of Enjolras’ lips, warm and soft and inviting. “Where do you want to go, Apollo?”

Enjolras thinks for a second again. “Well, I do like the Gateway to Bookland,” he finally says.

“Something unfamiliar, Apollo. Something you were forced to avoid when you were here with your parentals.”

“The Newborn Nursery?” It’s more of a question than a statement, but Grantaire will take it.

“Okay. You’re going to take forever in the book section, so we’re going to everything else first.”

Enjolras sighs, as if he’s put out. “Why did you ask me what I wanted, then?”

“Just curious,” Grantaire grins.

Enjolras shakes his head at him but smiles back and lets Grantaire pull him to the Newborn Nursery department — after they cuddle with a dozen stuffed animals at the Steiff boutique, watch kids making their own self-created Muppet monstrosities at the What Not Workshop — Enjolras also doesn’t like it here; he thinks they’re creepy — and run through the doll department, where Grantaire shuts Enjolras up from lecturing the shoppers about the evils of giant toy corporations by kissing him yet again, something that Enjolras seems to happily acquiesce to.

Enjolras gets very quiet at the Newborn Nursery, looking down at the different cribs filled with baby dolls, and the little girls adopting their baby dolls in total silence. When the staff nurse approaches them, Grantaire shakes his head quickly behind Enjolras’ back, and the woman nods and obligingly backs away.

“You okay?”

Enjolras shakes his head, once, and his eyes animate once more. “Yeah. I was just… thinking.”

Grantaire doesn’t push him, simply because the look in Enjolras’ eyes silently pleads for him not to. “Okay, then.”

“Let’s go,” Enjolras says curtly, whipping around smartly on his heel and stalking out of the Nursery.

Grantaire hastily goes after him, but not before the nurse calls to him. “Sir, are you okay?”

Grantaire forces himself to nod and smile back at her. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Is your partner quite all right?”

The woman is in her fifties with nicely coiffed brown hair and a very comforting, maternal look about her. She’s got the warmest brown eyes and laugh lines.

“Yeah. I’m not… exactly sure what’s going on, but I’ll go see if he’s okay.”

“Infertility isn’t anything to be ashamed of,” the woman says sympathetically. “Or childlessness. Everyone has their reasons and their causes.”

Infertility. The thought strikes Grantaire hard, and he feels like he’s been blindsided.

“I’m not — we’re not — we —” he stammers. We’re not anywhere near that yet, he wants to say, we haven’t even had sex, assuming Enjolras wants to, but then his mind twists up and around itself.

Maybe he doesn’t want to have kids because of his father, but at the same time, he does want them.

Grantaire doesn’t know where that last thought comes from, but it arrives with great clarity. He nods at the nurse and then sprints out of the Nursery to go find Enjolras.

After asking three staff employees with a description of Enjolras — both girls blushing and giggling and the one guy looking as if he’s reconsidering being heterosexual — Grantaire finally locates him in the Lego department, squashed behind the life-size statue of Batman and the adjoining pillar, staring out at the cityscape from the floor-to-ceiling windows. He jumps when Grantaire places his hand on his shoulder.

“Talk to me,” he requests, with just a note of pleading in his voice. “You’re here to take your mind off of things, to have fun. Don’t shut us out.”

Enjolras shakes his head violently once. “Nothing. I — I just —”

Grantaire waits, although his instincts are clamoring for him to cut into the silence, but he doesn’t.

“I’m not sterile,” Enjolras says, sounding a little bit defensive. “I just — I want kids. Sometime in the future. I look at Combeferre and Eponine with Gavroche and Azelma, and it’s just… Marius and Cosette are already talking about baby names when they do have kids, since they’ve both tested and they’ve got excellent chances. And I look at myself and Alain, and I don’t know if, if I want kids. I mean, I do want them, I just don’t know if I should have them. If whatever my father passed down to me isn’t genetic and I won’t end up making their lives hell like he did. Like he does.”

Once again, Grantaire doesn’t know where that insight of his has come from, but he’s grateful for it, because in the short time he’s been trying to find Enjolras, he’s already thought of the answers he can give.

“You won’t, Enjolras. I know.”

“How do you know?” Enjolras asks, calmly enough, except when his voice cracks on the last word.

“Because this is me.” Grantaire pushes gently on his shoulder to turn Enjolras around to face him. “I know you, remember? I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you, Enjolras, three years ago, and I’ve never left. I never will. You can be a little selfish, and you can be thoughtlessly mean, but you love with a passion. You care for the welfare and wellbeing of everyone. And when you make mistakes, you apologize for them. You make up for them. You feel remorse for them. I’m willing to bet every painting I’ll ever make that your father’s never done any of that, or cared to.”

Enjolras just blinks at him, and Grantaire goes on.

“Fathers only have two requirements, Enjolras. One, to love their spouse and/or partner, whoever she or he is. Two, to love their children. Trust me, you’ll be fine on both counts.”

Enjolras nods at last, and Grantaire leans in close to him, nudging noses with him. When he feels a drop of warm wetness hit the side of his face, he opens his eyes and lifts his hand to brush away the tears that trail down from the corners of Enjolras’ eyes.

“Come on, Papa Bear. You’ll be fine.”

Enjolras nods again, and quickly changes the subject. Grantaire lets him. He knows what he’s said has sunk into Enjolras’ thoughts.

“Where do you want to go?”

Grantaire grins. “You must be psychic, or something, because I love the Lego department.”

“Me too.”

“Really?” Grantaire feels a tingling thrill at the fact that they share yet another something in common.

“Yeah. Never had too many of those growing up, though. My father thought they were stupid.”

“If I ever get a hold of your father,” Grantaire says lightly, hiding his frustration, “I’d give him a good hiding and let Bahorel help me. We’ll probably put him in the hospital, if he’s lucky.”

Enjolras smiles, his first since fleeing the Nursery, and squeezes Grantaire’s hand. “I think I’d probably join you.”

“Only probably?” Grantaire teases.

They go through the rest of the toy store, constructing Lego buildings and reading kids’ books to each other for a good forty-five minutes, and just being silly in general. Like when Grantaire hides in a shelf of stuffed bears and jumps out to scare Enjolras a good one, or when Enjolras makes out with a stuffed penguin for half a minute and Grantaire pretends to be jealous. He insists on buying Enjolras something when the latter refuses to “spend hard-earned money on sentimentalities of little or no value”, and who finally decides on a Lego minifigure USB flash drive — “it’s useful and cute. I can keep documents in here and the agendas for our meetings and stuff.” “Did you just say ‘cute’? I think I saw a pig fly.” “Oh, shut up.”

Enjolras returns the favor by getting Grantaire the FAO Schwarz Bear in the Box, and two Double-A batteries to power the thing. The bear’s all dolled up in a little red-and-gold soldier suit and is just plain adorable.

“Did you just get it because it’s in your colors and it’s like you?”

“No comment on the color thing. Like me how?”

“Well, you know, a soldier in the cause, someone who’s all concerned about freedom of the other toys and oppression from mega toy corporations.”

“I could always just get you something from Hello Kitty,” Enjolras snarks.

“I’ll take the bear,” Grantaire says, trying to hide the way his heart keeps jackhammering in his chest. He can’t conceal the smile on his face, no matter how hard he tries.

“I thought you would. And I picked it out myself. That counts for something, right?”

Grantaire threads his fingers around Enjolras’. “It certainly does, Apollo.”

They incur Courfeyrac’s (mostly fake) wrath — especially when he sees how happy they both are — when they’re both late to reconvening with the other Amis, but with Enjolras’ hand in his and Enjolras’ gift to him tucked in his backpack, Grantaire doesn’t care. 

Chapter Text

The group stops at various street vendors and food carts after walking for a little bit around midtown.

Bahorel’s polishing off his second burrito — carne asada, with lots of hot sauce — when Feuilly’s phone vibrates and he answers it, still holding his own sweet pork barbacoa burrito.

“Hello?” Feuilly’s face brightens. “It’s Odette,” he mouths to Bahorel, who nods and shoos him away. Feuilly has mentioned earlier that Odette has been meaning to talk to him, and he’s hoping that she wants to take things to a higher level. They’ve slept together, but the girl has been a little too bit careless with Feuilly’s feelings for Bahorel to completely like and accept her.

“Can I try some of that, Enjolras?” Jehan asks, sipping away at his tomato juice while chewing on his soy dog — he’s on one of his on-again, off-again vegetarian stints. Courfeyrac has gone Mexican with his choice of churros, Combeferre’s also got a sweet pork burrito, and Eponine’s wolfing down a kosher hot dog. Cosette's licking a double-decker rocky road and mint chocolate chip cone, and Marius is nibbling at a slice of pizza while looking adoringly at her.

Enjolras willingly passes over his falafel, and Grantaire offers him a grilled pepper from his still-sizzling kebobs. Bahorel smirks as Enjolras plucks the vegetable from Grantaire’s hand and pops it into his mouth, chewing, never taking his eyes off of Grantaire’s own. His tongue licks the grease from the corner of his lip, and Bahorel has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at the look on Grantaire’s face.

“Cat got your tongue, R?” he asks, unable to hide his grin.

Grantaire flips him off and accidentally elbows Joly in the process, who bumps into Bossuet, who nearly drops the styrofoam container of strawberry crepes they’re sharing with Musichetta, except that Chetta calmly holds it out of the way, rescuing the situation — as she always does.

“Sorry,” Grantaire apologizes.

Chetta only laughs.

“Can I have another egg roll?” Gavroche tugs at Eponine’s arm.

“Sure, kiddo. Azelma? Do you want any more curly fries?”

“No, I’m good. Thanks though.”

Bahorel swallows the last bit of his burrito and contemplates buying another, or something else, like maybe a kiwi-strawberry Popsicle to wash everything down, when Feuilly reappears silently at his side. His best friend’s eyes have darkened in color and mood, and his mouth is set in a thin line. Even though Feuilly can safeguard his emotions pretty well — although he still can’t defeat Enjolras in that regard — Bahorel instantly can tell that something is wrong.

“Feuilly and I are going to get Popsicles,” he hollers over his shoulder, grabbing Feuilly’s wrist. “Be right back. Don’t follow us. Male one-on-one bonding.”

“Gross!” Grantaire yells after them both, as Bahorel carts Feuilly off to an ice cream vendor. Feuilly goes completely without protest. He’s still holding onto his phone with one hand and his half-eaten burrito with the other, and he’s starting to look a little pale.

“Okay,” Bahorel orders, suddenly at full alert, putting his hands on Feuilly’s shoulders to look into his eyes. “What happened?”

“Odette broke up with me,” Feuilly says dumbly. “She said I was holding her back and she wasn’t getting anything out of our dating.”

Bahorel immediately begins to fume. Odette’s been cool more or less so far, but recently she’s stopped going to meetings, she doesn’t hang out with Feuilly anymore, and she’s been manipulating him into doing stuff for and being nice to her, but never reciprocating in return. This has been percolating for a while, and today things have finally given out.

But how dare that little bitch say that Feuilly hasn’t done anything for her? Holding her back? What sort of bullshit is that?

He opens his mouth to start yelling, then remembers just in time that Feuilly probably doesn’t need his testosteronal alpha male display. He grits his teeth and forces himself to speak calmly and directly to his best friend. “That sucks, dude. I’m sorry.”

“I just… I don’t… never mind,” Feuilly says, still sounding like he’s shell-shocked. Like this bitch hasn’t just come out of nowhere and blindsided him completely. He thrusts his half-eaten burrito at Bahorel. “I’m sorry, but will you…? I’m not hungry anymore.”

Bahorel’s never ever passed up on food, but his insides are still churning from this unexpected (but not entirely surprising) bit of news. “Sure, buddy.” He takes it and hesitates before reaching out to squeeze Feuilly on the shoulder.

“I’ll be okay,” Feuilly assures him — and it sounds like he’s also trying to reassure himself. Bahorel opens his mouth to say something, but Feuilly beats him to the punch. “I’m better having her out of my life, right?”

“You deserve better and more,” Bahorel says honestly, but he’s unsure if Feuilly takes this to mind, because his best friend’s gaze is already turned inward. He’s reevaluating the relationship, Bahorel knows, thinking about what he could have done better and what’s his fault and what signs pointed to Odette leaving him. It makes Bahorel want to punch through a wall, or better still, Odette’s Barbie-like face.

His own phone buzzes, but he ignores it. Unless it’s Sabine, wanting to break up with Bahorel himself and give Feuilly some company, he’s not interested in answering the call or the text. That is, until he catches a glimpse of Grantaire, looking significantly in their direction with his phone in his hand. He shakes his head once, almost imperceptibly, and turns his attention back to Feuilly.

“Are you still good with the Nutcracker, or do you want to back out and have some time to yourself?”

Feuilly’s longing expression makes Bahorel think that he does want the latter, but he shakes his head after a few seconds. “It’ll probably be better if I’m not alone for too long right now. Hanging out with you guys is going to keep me from doing something stupid. You know what I mean?”

Bahorel’s never one for the touchy-feely sentimental stuff that the girls and Jehan & Co. have always been able to churn out at the drop of a hat. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say or do in situations like this, and so he just nods his head, claps Feuilly on the back, and wishes he’s better at this sort of thing. “You’ll let me know if you need anything?”

He phrases it in such a way that Feuilly can’t misunderstand that this is a statement, rather than a question. Feuilly smiles back at him, and even though the shadow still darkens his eyes, the expression is genuine enough that Bahorel’s concern doesn’t grow — well, any more than it’s already ballooned, anyway.

“I’ll see you guys at the Lincoln Center,” Feuilly says, now.

Red alert. Something warns Bahorel to proceed cautiously. “Where’re you going?”

“Not to go see her, Bahorel. I’ve got my pride.” Feuilly stuffs his hands into his pockets. “I just want to go get a couple. I know not to get sloshed before George Balanchine’s fancy shit.”

“I’m coming with you,” Bahorel says immediately. He fishes his phone out of his own pocket. “Let me just tell the rest that we’ll rejoin them for the ballet —”

“You don’t have to do this,” Feuilly answers quickly.

“Dude, what sort of asshole do you figure me to be that I’ll leave my best friend to go anywhere by himself in NYC?” Bahorel asks, pretending to be offended. “I want to. Plus I’m already full; I’ve got my souvenir from FAO Schwarz. I’m good.” He holds up his new juggling balls for emphasis. “You’ll need someone to watch your back and keep you from drinking so much we’ll both get banned from the Lincoln Center.” He grins easily.

Although Grantaire’s the only one who could drink them all under the table and then some — although not nearly so much now that he’s cutting back — Feuilly and Bahorel are the two Amis who can hold their liquor pretty well. It’s one of their favorite things to do together in their bromance, but Bahorel knows that Feuilly’s looking forward to the Nutcracker — he hasn’t ever seen it, and neither has Bahorel, for that matter — and he doesn’t want his best friend to miss it just because he is too sloshed to be allowed in.

Damn that stupid Odette for picking tonight of all nights.

He opens Grantaire’s text — everything okay? Feuilly seems a little off — and hurriedly shoots off one to him.

Feuilly & I r takg off 2 get a couple. We’ll see u @ the Lincoln @ 7.

Sure. Everything okay?

Bahorel pauses. He and Feuilly have already started walking away from the other Amis. “Do you… do you want me to tell them what happened? It’s your business, dude. I’m just the messenger.”

“Sure,” Feuilly says darkly, with a trace of acerbic bitterness that makes Bahorel bite his lip to keep from shouting at the unfairness of it all. “It’s not like I don’t already have the reputation of a loser. Orphan, deadbeat working his ass off for peanuts to make ends meet, and now I get dumped by my girlfriend.”

Bahorel slugs him hard in the arm. Well, hard for anyone else, but for Bahorel, he’s always having to hold himself back. It would put a big damper on Feuilly’s evening if Bahorel put him in the hospital, too, along with everything else. “Shut up. You’re not a loser, and if I ever hear you say that lying shit again, I’ll punch you so hard you’ll fly into next week.”

Feuilly scoffs, but his smile does last for a little moment.

The bitch dumped him & tried 2 pin everythg on him. I’ll ttyl, R.

K. Tell him he’s awesome & we’re all sorry.

There’s a reason why Bahorel loves Grantaire, sometimes. For all his cynicism, he’s one of the loyalest, most caring people Bahorel’s ever met. Enjolras better not fuck this one up.

“Come on, ginger,” he says affectionately, nudging Feuilly’s arm with his shoulder and nearly knocking his best friend over. “Let’s get some booze and peanuts and yell at the losers playing football on the telly.” 

Chapter Text

Montparnasse slams his shot glass down on the bar. Before he can even blink, the bartender is already there, pouring him a new shot without a single word.

This is why Montparnasse loves New York. The bartenders are fantastic, and the whores are everywhere. And he treats them well — the staff of the nightclubs and bars he frequents have learned to recognize him as a great tipper.

Too bad he doesn’t want whores. He wants someone who’s completely unavailable, off-limits, and uninterested. Just like the girl before him. Both from the same tightly-knit group of friends; both somehow connected with that jackass blond looker.

“Fuck them both,” he growls under his breath. “Fuck them all.”

“Rough night?” someone sneers beside him.

Montparnasse blinks. He’s having a difficult enough time focusing, although he somehow always manages to retain the ability to hold his tongue about the most important things even when he’s dead drunk. All he can see is one of those cool-looking newsboy hats pulled over a mop of strawberry blond hair, and the handsome face of a guy who doesn’t seem like he’s coming onto Montparnasse. This guy has spent his time talking to some dude with lots of muscles who Montparnasse would pay attention to if he isn’t so drunk, and now Muscly Dude is ruling the pool table over in the corner.

Ginger Boy here looks a tad familiar, but Montparnasse can’t really place his finger on where he would know him. If he’s any more drunk, he’ll be holding a conversation with his glass or the bar stool he’s sitting on and think it’s his best friend. This shot better be his last.

“Rough life,” he says dryly right back. “You don’t look so hot yourself.”

Ginger Boy scoffs. “Yeah. My girlfriend dumped me tonight.”

“Meh. I know the feeling.” Montparnasse looks the guy over. Yup. One of those straight guys, he reckons. “Why, you didn’t put out or something?”

The other guy snorts. “Ha. No. She said she wasn’t getting anything out of the relationship. I’m assuming that means she wanted to be padded by a rich sugar daddy. I just don’t get it, though, because she could have just cut it off earlier, and she didn’t. Instead, she just took advantage of the fact that I try to be a nice guy working his ass off to do the right thing.” He sighs, and Montparnasse rolls his eyes.

“Dude, clearly you haven’t learned this one important lesson, so let me spell it out for you. Nice guys finish last. In everything. That’s just the way life is — dog eat dog world. Get used to it before it chews you up and spits you out.”

The ginger sighs. “I guess. I just have a really close friend who’s so cynical that he can’t see the good in himself, around him, and everything. I don’t know how to be like that, because it seems like he doesn’t get hurt by much, but he does still end up getting hurt. I think it’s inevitable.”

“I guess.” Montparnasse briefly thinks of Grantaire, and forces his thoughts away.

They sit in silence for a bit. Montparnasse knocks back the shot and breathes hard as the drink goes down like fire. Then he smacks the glass back down onto the bar and turns to Ginger Boy. “Are you straight?”

Ginger Boy laughs incredulously. “That’s the first I’ve gotten tonight. Yeah, I am.”

“Pity. Ever tried going the other way?”

Ginger Boy shrugs. “Never really occurred to me, to be honest. I have a lot of gay friends and I just haven’t ever thought of swinging that way.”

Montparnasse smiles. Here’s something to take his mind off of R and Eponine. “Wanna give it a try?”

“Are you gay?”

“Bi. I know how it feels to have both.”

“Which do you prefer?” Ginger Boy asks curiously.

Montparnasse really isn’t in the mood to discuss with a naive — albeit, cute — stranger about his complicated life with Patron-Minette and Les Amis, so he merely shrugs and says, “Both have their merits.” Then he leans in towards the ginger, noting the light dusting of freckles on that pointed nose and the way those soulful brown eyes meet his without trepidation. Whoever this dude is, he’s got balls, and Montparnasse actually finds that really attractive.

Rather than beating around the bush, Montparnasse goes in for the kill, pressing his lips against Ginger Boy’s. They taste of vodka and lime, and when Montparnasse molds his lips to his, Ginger Boy boldly thrusts his tongue into Montparnasse’ mouth.

Turns out this guy really doesn’t seem to be all that innocent, after all.

The ginger breaks the kiss first, which goes on for maybe a little over a quarter of a minute, and sits back with a laugh. “Well, that was educational,” he says, taking a sip of his drink.

“What was so —” Montparnasse is interrupted by the vibration of his phone, and he glances down to see Claquesous’ name on the screen. “Sorry, give me a moment. This won’t take more than a few seconds.”

“Go ahead,” the ginger says.

Montparnasse hits the Answer button. “Parnasse,” he answers curtly. “What’s up?”

“We have four more contracts.”

Montparnasse smiles. “Perfect. I’ll see you back at the usual place, then.”

“Make it quick. I want to debrief you so we can get on this ASAP.”

“Patience. TTYL.” Montparnasse breaks the connection and tucks his phone back into his pocket. “Sorry. You were saying?”

“I think I’m still straight,” Ginger Boy says, but he’s smiling and he hasn’t shrank away from Montparnasse, so Montparnasse relaxes and laughs back. “Sorry, dude. Although, I have to give it to you, you’re one hell of a kisser.”

“Practice makes perfect,” Montparnasse replies with a completely straight face.

Ginger Boy snorts. “That’s something R says all the time. I’m sorry, R’s the nickname of one of my close friends. Anyway, he —”

The guy goes on, but Montparnasse freezes with his hand still wrapped around his glass. His veins turn to fire.

R. This guy is friends with R.

No wonder he looks so bloody familiar.

He’s just made out with one of Grantaire’s friends. Those fucking Les Amis.

“R?” he stutters unconsciously.

Ginger Boy cocks an eyebrow and looks at him with concern. “Wait, did you just say your name is Parnasse?”

That’s it. Montparnasse jumps off his seat, grabbing his coat, and pushing through the crowd before anyone can say or do anything else. Seconds later, he’s out in the cold of the early evening, breathing in the air that’s sobering him quickly. But not as quickly as the sick, hurt feeling that’s settling at the bottom of his stomach. He pulls on his coat and starts to head back towards the gang haunt.

No matter where he turns, he’s surrounded by Les Amis. His past is never going to leave him alone. Maybe it’s time to get out.

Or, maybe, it’s time to settle down and get down to business. Patron-Minette has business contracts to fulfill, and it’s up to him to lead like he fucking should instead of screwing around and moaning about his feelings like a pathetic teenage boy. 

Chapter Text

“So let me get this straight,” Eponine says incredulously. “You made out with Montparnasse?”

Feuilly laughs glumly. “I know, right? Seriously, what are the odds?”

Enjolras is looking a little bit uneasy about the conversation topic, right until the point that Grantaire interlocks his fingers with Enjolras’ and presses his forehead against Enjolras’. Then he whispers something that makes Enjolras smile and relax.

The ballet has been fantastic, and Jehan keeps replaying it in his head, caught up in the bliss of sugarplum ballerinas and the giant Christmas tree rising out of the floor of the stage and the beauty of the scenery and props and dances that keep replaying in his head. He’s seen the Nutcracker dozens of times, and he’s always dazzled every time, but for some reason this time it feels even more fantastic than normal.

It might have something to do with the fact that the entire time he was sitting beside Courfeyrac, holding his hand, bodies pressed as close together as the seats would allow.

The group’s now strolling around Rockefeller Plaza, admiring the crowds and the lights and storefront displays and the giant Christmas tree. Snow’s covering everything, causing the lights to glitter, and the chatter and bustle of people around makes Jehan feel like he’s wrapped in a cozy people blanket with a Courfeyrac-teddy-bear. They’ve still got their hands tucked into each other’s, and Jehan is contrasting his lilac winter scarf, flowered coat and braid with Courfeyrac’s blue beanie and jacket and those insane brown curls that drive Jehan crazy in a good way.

He fights to concentrate on Feuilly rather than how hot Courfeyrac looks, or how his giggle is so adorable, or how really good he smells right now. Ever since R has broken the news to them about Feuilly, everyone’s been trying to think about what to do to help him. Hopefully he’s still coming home with Jehan for the Christmas holiday, because he and Courfeyrac and Combeferre (and by default, Eponine) are all making plans to go surprise Enjolras at his house, and it would probably do Feuilly good to be in on that. The Prouvaires genuinely are fond of Feuilly, and Jehan’s glad.

“And then he just got up and left?” Joly asks.

“He just looked really shocked that I knew R. And yeah, he just bounced, just like that.”

“If I’d known he was Montparnasse,” Bahorel says defensively, “I would have come over. I just thought you looked okay, so I didn’t intervene.”

“You’re fine,” Feuilly assures him. “He was actually really nice. I think we just didn’t expect that we knew each other from elsewhere. Also, he seems upset at R. Or about R, I suppose.”

Grantaire shrugs with a melancholy smile. “I feel bad about the whole thing, really, I do — but I’ll be lying if I didn’t say I’m right where I want to be.” He looks at Enjolras, and they squeeze hands again before they both beam at each other, practically glowing with the strength of their emotions.

“Get a room,” Eponine teases. “Seriously, though, I’m just glad you had a somewhat positive experience with him. He can be really… intense.”

“Does he still run with bad crowds?” Marius asks, sounding curious.

Eponine nods. “He’s got his fingers into everything. That’s why he’s so needed. He’s trying to get away from all that, though, but a guy’s gotta eat, and all that bad stuff — it’s his specialty.”

“Are you still going to be able to come home with me, Feuilly?” Jehan asks anxiously. “We all really want you. In fact, we’re demanding your presence. Especially my mother.”

Feuilly smiles. It’s a tiny smile, but sincere. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“We’re gonna do lots of pranks on Sebastien,” Courfeyrac chimes in cheekily, “and he won’t ever know it’s us. Ha.”

“Courf!” Jehan admonishes. “Shhh!”

“Why can’t I know about this?” Enjolras asks, and Jehan’s glad to see that he looks as amused as he sounds.

“Plausible deniability,” Combeferre responds serenely. “Whatever happens, you can truthfully deny that you know nothing about it.”

“Except that you just told me you’re going to prank him,” Enjolras points out.

“Yes, but you have no idea what we’re going to do,” Courfeyrac chimes in. “Or, if anything or nothing happens, you’re completely in the dark.”

Enjolras sighs.

“And no one will ever suspect Feuilly because nobody has met him there before!” Courfeyrac chirps. “Except… this year you’re going to be meeting them all, Feuilly. Brace yourself.”

“Meet who?” Feuilly asks.

“All of Jehan’s extended family and bigwig friends,” Enjolras helpfully supplements. “They meet up every five years, and this is the anniversary year.”

“I only have one cousin our age,” Jehan chimes in excitedly. “Victoire’s the best, Feuilly! We played together as kids all the time. I can’t wait for you to meet her. She’s just gotten back from Europe where she’s lived there for three years, just traveling around and doing humanitarian work.”

“Where did she go?” Cosette asks.

“I’m not sure. She kind of just bounced around. I know she went to France and Russia, but as for everything else in between, I don’t really know.”

“Cool,” Feuilly comments without much interest. “Are you sure your extended family will be fine having me around?”

“Of course, silly. Mom’s been talking about you to everyone. Great-Aunt Rose wants to meet you because she lost her parents young, too, and she’s funded part of the accounting program here. Everyone wants to meet you.”

The corners of Feuilly’s lips quirk upward, and Jehan doesn’t let his own excitement at Feuilly’s lifting mood show on his face.

“Cool,” Feuilly says again, this time with much more enthusiasm.

“It will be,” Courfeyrac promises. “Remember, Enjolras, you don’t know anything.”

“That seems to be my life these days,” Enjolras mutters, but he’s smiling lopsidedly, so nobody takes his comment all that seriously. 

Chapter Text

“You’re thinking of setting your cousin up with Feuilly,” Courfeyrac repeats.

“Yep,” Jehan replies in total satisfaction.

“You do know how Feuilly sees favors that he thinks are charities,” Courfeyrac begins, but he’s stopped short when Jehan gives him an exasperated look.

“Courf, babe, I’m not dumb. I think other than Bahorel, I’m the one who knows Feuilly best.”

“True,” Courfeyrac admits, feeling instantly chastened.

Jehan’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, his fingers carefully crafting the lifelike silk flowers he’s making for Cosette and Marius’ wedding in two days. Courfeyrac has seen one of the samples, and even he still can’t tell the difference between the man-made flowers and the real live ones, which says a lot about Jehan’s skill. The flowers are for a bouquet that will hang at the front of the reception center, and they’re Jehan’s gift after the wedding to the lovely couple.

Courfeyrac’s packing for them both, since they’ll both be driving back home right after the wedding. He folds a shirt into his suitcase and makes a mental note to pull his toiletry bag out.

“It’ll be awesome if your family could, like, adopt Feuilly or something.”

Jehan smiles. “I wish. He hasn’t been a minor for years, and I think he’d want to keep his own name. But my parents have practically adopted him in all but name, and my extended family really wants to meet him. Including Victoire. I honestly think they’ll be a good match together, but don’t tell Feuilly.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Oh, and Victoire’s coming down for Cosette and Marius’ wedding.”

“Excuse me?” Courfeyrac drops the bottle of cologne he’s holding. Thankfully, it bounces onto the bundled-up pair of jeans already in the suitcase, and doesn’t break.

“She grew up with Cosette,” Jehan points out smugly. “When I reminded her that Feuilly was going to be present, it doubled her resolve to come down. She really wants to meet him.”

“You sly thing,” Courfeyrac praises. “I know I’m m — dating the best man in the world.” He feels himself pale at his almost-slipup, and Jehan gives him a raised eyebrow and narrowed eye, as if suspecting what’s going on. Thankfully, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he carefully sets his flowers and sewing things aside, clambers off the bed, and comes over to give Courfeyrac a quick kiss.

Well, it doesn’t really end up being all that quick.

 * * * * * * * * * * *

Enjolras and Grantaire get off the metro in companionable silence. They’re walking back to the apartment, hand in hand, when Grantaire speaks first.

“I can’t believe after all this time, Cosette and Marius are finally getting married.”

Enjolras laughs. “Do you remember how they first met?”

“The whole staring-across-the-room thing at Eponine’s birthday party three years ago? Yeah, gross.” Grantaire rolls his eyes. “And Ponine got so jealous. I was afraid she was going to blow a gasket. And that same night, I was —” he cuts off abruptly, because both of them suddenly remember exactly what happened next.

Enjolras had yelled at him when Grantaire had tried to get him to loosen up and drink, and abruptly stormed out afterwards. Years of this sort of abuse aren’t easily forgiven — or forgotten — and he’s surprised that Grantaire’s willing to do both. For him.

“I’m sorry I was such a dick,” Enjolras says quietly. Then he reconsiders this statement. “Well, still am, I suppose. But I’m trying, although I can’t make that promise true until I apologize for everything I’ve said and done to you. You’ve never deserved any of that.”

The apology sweeps through Grantaire like hot chocolate — filling him up inside with a warm happy glow. It’s short, sweet, and completely sincere. No sarcasm, no hidden meanings, no nothing but the truth.

“It wasn’t all one-sided, Apollo. Apology accepted, if you’ll accept mine for riling you up and being a jackass on purpose and picking apart your arguments and thinking and reasoning for everything.”

“Of course I accept it. You challenge me when you pick apart my arguments,” Enjolras says. “As long as we both keep personal insults out of it, I’m happy to have you keep on doing it. I don’t like it when we fight, although I do like it when we challenge each other.”

“Sounds fair to me,” Grantaire concedes, and they both smile at each other. Enjolras realizes he probably looks like an idiot, but he doesn’t care. There’s a bubble of contentment in his chest, and he can’t really think about anything other than Grantaire’s hand in his. They walk on for a little longer without saying anything.

“Are you ready for the holiday?” Enjolras asks, to alleviate the awkwardness in trivial conversation.

Grantaire nods. “I’m just going to miss you,” he admits flat out. He adds a joke to hide his obvious discomfort. “Stormie will, too.”

“My father won’t be home for the Christmas holiday,” Enjolras says, glad for the change in subject. Part of him is nervous to bring up what’s on his mind, yet he presses on. “My mother called earlier when you were in the bathroom. If you want — I mean, no pressure — you can — but only if your family’s okay with it — if you want, that is. And you’re not busy. Because, you know, everybody is busy at Christmas. Or Hanukkah. Unless they’re —”

Grantaire’s eyes widen, and he starts smiling even more widely, if that’s even possible. Enjolras thinks he looks rather fetching, however, especially when Grantaire mercifully cuts off his babbling.

“Did you just invite me over to your home for Christmas?”

“Did I?” Enjolras asks. He’s only half paying attention to whatever he’s saying, because, damn, when has Grantaire’s eyes gotten this blue? “I suppose I did. But only if you want, because —”

Grantaire cuts him off by kissing him, and Enjolras forgets what he’s about to say. 

Chapter Text

Cosette isn’t nervous.

No, really, she isn’t. She’s known since she and Marius began officially dating — just ask everyone about the messy, hilarious, crazy day that happened — that she is going to marry him. Now that the day is here, it almost feels anticlimactic.

But not really. Because she’s going to marry the love of her life and be with him forever. Today.

“Are you nervous?” Azelma asks her, and she smiles back at the sixteen-year-old. Today, none of Azelma’s teenage rebelliousness is present; the girl looks adorable in a pale blue bridesmaid dress that hugs her willowy figure. The same gorgeous dark brown hair that she shares with Eponine is tamed with a matching ribbon, and pale blue heels complete her innocent-looking ensemble.

“Actually, surprisingly, no,” Cosette answers. “You look absolutely amazing, by the way. Like an ad for a bridal magazine for bridesmaids.”

Azelma beams, a tad shyly, and smooths down the skirt of the dress. “Thank you for it. It’s really pretty.”

“It becomes you,” Eponine chimes in, smiling at her younger sister even with pins in her mouth. She’s busily taking care of the hem just to make sure it won’t fall down and trip Cosette up — at least, that’s what Eponine says she’s doing, because Cosette doesn’t want to look down and potentially mess up the veil that’s sliding off her head. She watches as Eponine and Azelma exchange a tender sisterly look.

For all the times Eponine worries and argues with Azelma, both sisters do still love each other, and Cosette feels privileged to be part of yet another special moment when both Thenardier women just click together. When Azelma smiles back in thanks, Cosette feels like her heart is going to burst with how contentedly happy she is right now.

Eponine is kneeling on the carpet in front of Cosette, but Jehan’s behind her. He’s already in his tux with a pink carnation secured to his lapel, his chestnut-colored hair secured in a braid that’s looped and pinned so that he looks like he’s got short hair until you come up around behind him. Cosette hopes he doesn’t cut his hair because it’s thicker and softer than hers, and feels so good in her hands when she’s braiding it.

“You all look ravishing,” he says in complete seriousness. “Especially you, Cosette.”

Cosette takes a quick glance at herself in the mirror. She can’t really refute Jehan’s point, even if she wants to. She’s grown up with complete innocence about her appearance until she came to college and hooked up with their little motley crew, and she’s developed a matter-of-fact mindset about her own features. It’s not pride; it’s not vanity; it’s just truth. That said, she admires Eponine and Chetta for their own stunning looks, so different from her own, and at the same time, so similar. And each of the menfolk are greatly attractive in his own right. Azelma and Gavroche likewise are going to grow up to be complete stunners.

Jehan attaches the last satin flower he’s made himself — Cosette feels enormously privileged that he’s gone to all this trouble — to the white grosgrain belt cinched around her waist, and smiles. “There you go. You look absolutely perfect.”

On impulse — and it definitely feels like the right thing to do — Cosette straightens and plants a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Jehan.”

The little poet smiles tenderly back at her. “You’re welcome.”

 * * * * * * * * * * *

Bossuet knows he’s unlucky. He’s learned to cope with it, with the little things that seem to come out of nowhere and trip him up — either literally or figuratively. Usually both. He’s tripped and stumbled and fallen more times than he can count, torn more clothing and books and papers than he would care to admit, and spilled more liquids and dropped more solids than he really should.

But today, on the day of Marius and Cosette’s wedding, that simple fact that he’s come to terms with is driving him absolutely crazy.

It’s this tie, this length of sky blue silk that’s dangling from his hand, that’s the problem. It feels like a hangman’s noose rather than a clothing accessory, and seven attempts to tie it later has Bossuet almost in tears as he tries to force himself to dig at the snarled knot with his too-blunt fingernails for the eighth time. The tie keeps coming apart minutes, or even seconds, after he knots it, no matter how hard he tugs.

“Sweetie, what’s wrong?”

It’s Chetta, of course. He and Joly have found each other first, years ago, but Chetta’s the glue that binds their trio together tighter than anything else can ever hope to accomplish. The three of them complement each other so perfectly that he cannot remember them ever having been apart. Now he tries to keep from pouting when he hands her the too-tightly-knotted tie, but his lower lip quivers against his will.

“There, there, baby. It’s okay.”

“Why am I so useless? I can’t even tie a damned tie. That’s not endearing or manly. It wasn’t the first time, and a thousand little things later, it still isn’t. Why do you and Joly even bother with me? I wouldn’t bother with me.”

“Leave the self-deprecating to R, sweetie. Although, speaking of which, I should tell him to lay off of that stuff. It’s toxic, and it’s definitely not like you. Today’s a day for celebration.” Chetta leans down and kisses him on the cheek. Her lips are soft and warm and reassuring, and Bossuet closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, Chetta already has the knot untangled with her nails. She whips the tie around his neck and slowly goes through the motions of tying a Windsor knot before she undoes it and hands the tie to him.

“We bother with you because we love you, not the way you tie a tie. There. Now you try. Use a knot that isn’t too big or fancy. Remember, simplicity is the ultimate sophistication, baby.”

It takes him two more attempts to nail the knot perfectly. When he does, he’s so thrilled that he grabs Chetta by the hands and they both dance around the living room for a few minutes.

Joly comes into the living room then, and Chetta yanks him by the elbow into the fray. They giggle and frolick for about twenty minutes until Chetta’s phone vibrates five times in a row, telling her to bring her extensive makeup collection since Cosette’s face requires some touching up.

“See,” Chetta points out serenely. “Even the bride-to-be is having a crazy day.”

 * * * * * * * * * * * 

Combeferre has just finished straightening his bow tie when Enjolras knocks frantically on his door. He knows it’s Enjolras because of the rapid-fire pounding. Eponine’s knuckles are usually delicate on the wood; Jehan knocks twice patiently and waits; Courfeyrac alternates between banging on the door and singing/calling out Combeferre’s name/coming up with different epithets with every minute Combeferre doesn’t open the door.

He tucks his keys and phone into his pocket and pulls the door open.

“Ferre, I need your help.”

Enjolras barrels into the room, gorgeous cerulean eyes wild, his blond curls slicked back in a tamed hairdo. It’s a hairdo that Combeferre’s seen Sebastien wear, and he hates seeing it on Enjolras, no matter how attractive his best friend looks in it. Whenever Enjolras is nervous or stressed, he always starts to revert back to the rubbish his father’s dumped onto him.

“Why is your hair —”

“I know,” Enjolras interrupts. “It’s awful, isn’t it? I just thought that Marius and Cosette’s wedding deserved a little more… I don’t know. Pomp and circumstance. Anyway. This tie. I know I know how to tie a bow tie, but for some reason, I can’t do it. Not today. I just —”

Combeferre grabs Enjolras’ shoulders and pushes him down onto his bed. When Enjolras opens his mouth, Combeferre claps his thumb and fingers together in a ‘shut it’ motion and shakes his head.

“Breathe. Now.”

Enjolras obeys, inhaling and exhaling deeply.

“Okay. What’s going on?” He reaches out and snatches the black bow tie out of Enjolras’ fingers.

“My father’s coming to the wedding. Now. Today.”

Combeferre jerks and nearly yanks a knot in the bow tie. “Excuse me? I thought you said he was going out of town!”

Enjolras smiles bitterly and looks off into the distance over Combeferre’s shoulder while he bites his lip. When he speaks, his voice is worryingly calm. Too calm. “Yeah, he still is, thank goodness, or I’ll never let Grantaire within three feet of him. He saw my mother’s invite to the wedding, and he’s planned his trip accordingly. If he knew that Grantaire was coming home with me for Christmas…”

He trails off, but Combeferre knows what Enjolras is thinking. If Sebastien even gets wind of what Enjolras is doing, he’ll kill him. Maybe literally.

Combeferre whips the bow tie around Enjolras’ neck and knots it before he squeezes Enjolras’ shoulder in support. Enjolras grabs onto Combeferre’s hand like it’s a lifebelt in the middle of the ocean, and hangs on.

“You won’t be left alone with him for even a minute,” Combeferre promises. He hopes it’s not a rash promise, because Sebastien is just about as cunning and trustworthy as a venomous snake, but seeing Enjolras like this is making him wish he could punch Sebastien in the face and knock out half his teeth. “You do need to tell Grantaire, though. You can’t have him thinking you’re ignoring him.”

“I know.” Enjolras takes a deep breath. “I just — I’m just going to have to pretend, like, like it doesn’t bother me that I’m not able to be around him — be with him — when my father’s here. What if he gets mad? What if —”

“R will understand,” Combeferre cuts in firmly. “Just talk to him. Every relationship starts on the basis of trust and communication, Enjolras.”

Enjolras scoffs. “I should have known I can’t hide anything from you. How did you find out?”

Combeferre smiles. “I could tell. You’ve been a lot happier, the both of you. I’m glad, Enjolras. You deserve each other.”

Enjolras blushes pink. The tint of color to his cheeks makes him look even more fetching. Combeferre’s not in love with his best friend, but he understands all the time the reasons why Grantaire is so smitten.

“Don’t even try to deny it, not here, not now. You both haven’t fought since that one night, and you’re spending so much time together that everyone can see there’s a change in the two of you. It’s a good change. One that we’ve all been looking forward to.”

“We haven’t even gone out anywhere yet,” Enjolras says, but Combeferre knows the comment has pleased him, and in so doing, relaxed him for what is coming tonight. He lays his hand on Enjolras’ jaw for just a brief moment, before swatting him gently on the back.

“Come on, out of my room. I have to go pick up the lady of the hour, her bridesmaids, and one grouchy teenage boy. Don’t forget that you’re driving R, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and Bahorel.”

The corners of Enjolras’ mouth perk up. “Gavroche is never grouchy.”

“Not until it comes to female topics of clothing and makeup and shoes and weddings. He’d much rather play soldier at protests or ride his skateboard or talk with us about manly guy stuff.”

Enjolras chews on his lip and looks towards Grantaire’s bedroom door. “Will you… um… the others… and I’ll go hurry him along.”

“Are you sure?” Combeferre knows Enjolras so well he can hear the plea even without verbal explanation.

“Yeah. I won’t have time to tell the others, and you’re way more diplomatic than I am at these things.”

Combeferre smiles and brushes his lips against Enjolras’ forehead. “As you wish.”

 * * * * * * * * * * *

Enjolras knocks at Grantaire’s door and waits for him to open it. His mouth is dry. Combeferre says that Grantaire will be understanding, but Enjolras isn’t so sure. For all his brashness and pretended bravado, Grantaire is sensitive and delicate on the inside, and Enjolras doesn’t want to make things worse between them. In fact, spending time again with Grantaire and being with him, around him, is like he’s a flower receiving the sun yet again after a period of darkness.

He doesn’t want to lose that. He doesn’t want to drive Grantaire away.

Grantaire flings the door open with a grin on his face. He’s wearing a dark suit and a deep green tie against a crisp white shirt. The dark green brings out the green of his own eyes, and Enjolras can’t stop looking at him, at the way the green just complements the black and white of his suit and the inky curls that have been tamed back but not completely suppressed. Those sinful lips press together in a show of mock exasperation.

“Apollo, I like your hair when it’s curly. Although I suppose, this is fine too… it’s just different.”

“Can we talk?”

Grantaire’s face falls so visibly that Enjolras feels a stab of guilt.

“Yes, of course.”

Enjolras follows him into the bedroom, where he blinks yet again at the unfinished and completed artwork sitting against the walls and leaning on the furniture, the paints and brushes and palettes balanced on the dresser top, the self-created decals and murals applied directly to the walls. Everything that Grantaire owns has his personality leaking in through the decor and colors in his room.

“Sorry,” Grantaire says, looking flustered. “I think I may have forgotten to ask you about the walls. I can paint them over —”

“Don’t you dare.” Enjolras has his eyes pinned to the lifesized mural of Les Amis de l’ABC on the wall opposite Grantaire’s bed. “All of it’s just… so stunning. R, if you paint this over I will kill you.”

“All right then.” Grantaire beams, before his face draws itself into a sober expression. “What did you want to talk about?”

Enjolras takes a deep breath and pulls the pocket square from where it’s sitting perched in his jacket. He starts to worry the silk with his fingers as he talks. “Well, I—I— my father’s going to the wedding.”

Grantaire’s eyebrows snap together into a sharp V. He looks like an angry cat ready to pounce.

“And here’s the thing. I want to — I want to just be with you, R, but I know he’s going to the wedding just to spy. I know he’s going to keep an eye on me, and I can’t put all of you, any of you, into his sights. I can’t have that, R. I want to keep you guys safe, but at the same time, I know how this is going to look. I know you think I’m ashamed of you, that I don’t want to be seen with you, but that’s ridiculous, and so not true. I do, I do, I just want —”

Grantaire reaches out and places his palm over Enjolras’ mouth. His eyes are soft, and his hand is softer. “Hold up, Apollo. Don’t worry, I get it. But what do you want me to do?”

Enjolras takes a deep breath. “Wait, really?”

Grantaire smiles and grazes his lips over Enjolras’ cheek. Enjolras lifts his hand and presses his fingertips to the spot, while Grantaire wrestles the pocket square out of his fingers. “Give me that. You’re going to wrinkle it horribly. Of course I do, Apollo. You told me you want to be with me. I’m not going to let something so minor like that — or even major — scare me off that easily. You’re not getting rid of me.”

Enjolras can’t help himself. He leans forward, grabs Grantaire’s face in his hands, and kisses him, all his chaotic emotions culminating in this single expression of how he feels. Although he clumsily mashes his lips against Grantaire’s at first, he compensates by shifting so that he can interlock his lips with Grantaire’s. He’s still a pretty chaste kisser, using lips rather than tongue, but that alone is making sparks tingle in the pit of his stomach, like he’s swallowed a firework.

Grantaire makes a sound that should be illegal before he returns the favor, moving his lips and thrusting his tongue into Enjolras’ mouth in such a way that his knees turn boneless and his back smacks against the bedroom wall. Their lips meet again, and Grantaire pulls his away to trail them down the side of Enjolras’ neck. Every touch fires all the nerve endings in Enjolras’ body, and his head snaps back onto his neck as he gasps, Grantaire going further down his neck and yanking the sides of his shirt open, bow tie be damned.

Grantaire stops, and Enjolras lets out a garbled sound in protest. Grantaire hums against Enjolras’ neck with a laugh. “I don’t think now is the time for this, Apollo,” he says throatily, “especially in the light of what you’ve just told me. Your father will get a heart attack.”

“Let him,” Enjolras pants. “I really couldn’t care less about him right now, or ever.”

“Don’t make me be the responsible one, Apollo,” Grantaire grits out. He licks the lobe of Enjolras’ right ear, and if Enjolras isn’t braced up against the wall, pinned there by Grantaire’s hips snugly fitted against his, certain parts of their anatomy very clearly aroused, he’d drop to the ground like a ton of bricks. He groans and drops the F bomb.

“We’ve got Christmas ahead of us,” Grantaire says smugly. He meets Enjolras’ eyes with a quizzical look. “That is, if I’m still invited —”

“He won’t be around for that,” Enjolras explains sheepishly. “If you still want to come.”

“Of course I do,” Grantaire says. “The day after Christmas, right?”

Enjolras smiles. “Best after-Christmas present ever.”

This time it’s Grantaire who initiates the kiss, and Enjolras who has to break it when Courfeyrac bangs on the door.

 * * * * * * * * * * *

All of Les Amis have been alerted to the crisis, so when Sebastien Enjolras shows up with Maryse in tow, nobody is particularly surprised to see him — although Chetta glares in his direction, and Jehan takes Courfeyrac’s hand and pulls him away. Sebastien goes up and tries to cozy with the other guests, and to Combeferre’s outrage, many of them do respond positively. It’s almost disheartening to see just how many in the community Sebastien has successfully fooled.

Maryse isn’t looking too good, and this is Combeferre making a completely objective statement here. She does smile at him and kiss him on the cheek in greeting. When Sebastien says hello to him, Combeferre shakes his hand and quickly releases it. He doesn’t want to touch the man anymore than he has to.

“Luc, it’s good to see you. How are you?”

“Good.” Until you got here, he adds silently. “How are you, Mr. En —”

“Please, Luc, it’s Sebastien. I’m good, thank you.”

Ugh, you sleaze. It’s true that he doesn’t want to call Sebastien by his last name, because that’s the name Enjolras prefers, but he wants to be on icily courteous terms with Sebastien because their families interact so much, and showing his blatant hatred for the man isn’t going to help anybody.

“Where is your beautiful fiancee, Luc?” Sebastien scans the crowd as he puts forth the inquiry. “I want to meet her and see who exactly is so worthy of the Combeferre line. And I heard she even brought her siblings! How charming. Such responsibility should be commended.”

Combeferre feels his lip curl back over his teeth like he’s a dog ready to snarl. He’s left Eponine with Chetta and the others, but he doesn’t know where Azelma and Gavroche have disappeared off to. He’ll rather poke his eyes out than have Sebastien Enjolras anywhere near Eponine or her family, Enjolras, and the rest of the Amis.

“I haven’t seen her in a while,” he comments blandly. It’s the truth, somewhat altered: the term ‘a while’ is relative, and while he knows who Eponine is with, he certainly doesn’t know where she is.

Sebastien looks disinterested, but still pretends he cares. “No problem, my boy. I’m sure I’ll meet her soon enough.”

Nice save, you jackass. Combeferre nods and murmurs something noncommittal as Sebastien moves on to Enjolras, who’s standing next to Combeferre, looking primed to flee the scene. Grantaire’s at the opposite end of the room, exactly in Enjolras’ line of sight. They haven’t touched or stood together since they’ve both arrived, but if looks are any indication, they would set this hotel on fire with the power of their searing affection.

Maryse hugs her son, and both of them start talking, but Sebastien silences his wife by putting his hand on her shoulder. She shuts up at once, and not for the first time, Combeferre wonders what kind of mileage Sebastien has on her, because from what he’s seen, this is a model of a perfectly unhealthy relationship. Maryse is not a stupid woman, and there has to be a really good reason for why Maryse hasn’t left Sebastien yet. Combeferre sees her blue eyes narrow, though, and she turns on Sebastien — but Lorraine Joly steps in and sweeps Enjolras’ mother away before any explosive confrontation can occur.

“You haven’t been responding to my emails and voicemails,” Sebastien says in a voice that could and might just have shaken the walls. “What’s going on?”

Enjolras’ blue eyes light on fire, and he steps in closer to his father, although his tone remains deceptively cool. “I just buried my mentor, Father. I’ve been a little busy, so I’m sorry I didn’t have time to waste arguing with you, as usual. It’s not some giant scary reason, like I’ve run off to Vegas to get married or, or died, but you’ll never believe that, so I don’t really know why I’m wasting my breath.”

Sebastien’s eyes turn to ice. “Let’s go somewhere else to talk, shall we, son?” The last word is a threat, and Combeferre can sense the menace in the older man’s voice even as he sees Enjolras tense.

As if on autopilot, Enjolras turns to follow his father, and Combeferre feels like he’s swallowed a stone. He can’t help but be floored at the power that Sebastien wields over Enjolras through sheer abuse alone — because heaven knows Sebastien hasn’t given Enjolras anything else but abuse. He steps forward, gripping Enjolras by the arm to try and pull him away, right as Courfeyrac and Jehan materialize on the other side of Sebastien.

“Hang on there,” Courfeyrac chirrups. “The bride and groom want to speak with Enjolras right now.”

“I’m sure they can wait —” Sebastien begins, but Jehan speaks next, and the steel in his voice isn’t cloaked by the silk of his seemingly fragile exterior.

“Right now.”

Sebastien’s eyes also narrow, and when he answers it sounds like he’s gritting his teeth.

“I’ll come too, then.”

Jehan gestures with his hand for Sebastien to go ahead, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac both hang onto Enjolras’ arms as they bear him forward. Actually, they’re more supporting Enjolras than anything else. Combeferre can feel Enjolras trembling beside him, but when Sebastien looks back at Enjolras and sharply motions for him to come forward, Enjolras shakes off both his best friends and walks proudly forward like nothing is bothering him.

Combeferre winces as Sebastien digs his fingers into Enjolras’ elbow like he wants to curve them around Enjolras’ neck, pulling him forward to Cosette and Marius like he’s dragging a dog and not his own son. Jehan and Courfeyrac are staring daggers at Sebastien’s back, and all three of them are close enough that they can hear the loaded conversation between the happy couple and the two blond men.

“You mentioned that you both wanted to speak with my son now, Cosette? Marius?”

Cosette doesn’t even change expression for even a second, although Marius looks momentarily caught off guard. She merely smiles serenely and nods. “Yes, actually. I wanted to talk to him in private about something, so I thank you for bringing him over here. May I please have a word, Enjolras?”

From the final note in her voice, Combeferre knows it’s fruitless for Sebastien to argue. He still does, however. “I was hoping —”

“Plenty of time afterwards, I’m sure,” Cosette singsongs, as she bears Enjolras away. Combeferre’s best friend has an expression of complete bemusement, but he obediently follows in Cosette’s wake. Combeferre doesn’t blame Enjolras in the least bit — Cosette is every bit as fiercely protective of the Amis as every single one of the Amis is about her and one another, and Combeferre won’t ever cross her if he can help it. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Grantaire peel away from the crowd and head in the same direction in which Cosette and Enjolras disappear.

“Congratulations on your nuptials, Marius,” Sebastien says sweetly, as Cosette bears Enjolras away. “I’m so pleased for the both of you.”

“Thank you.” Marius is no fool, although he can be a little bit doddering sometimes. The look on his face can be appropriately classified as distasteful, and he keeps a polite but aloof smile on his face. “It’s a pleasure to have you around, sir.”

“Oh, call me Sebastien,” Sebastien says airily. “What are your plans for Christmas?”

“We’re going on our honeymoon for most of the time,” Marius gushes, obviously now back on familiar ground. His face lights up as he talks, and Combeferre curls his hands in his pockets. Somehow he knows that Sebastien is up to something, and he’s fishing for information from Marius. “After that, we’re going to come home for Christmas. A lot of us will be in the area, actually.”

“Really,” Sebastien says, pretending interest, and Combeferre actually feels his heart sink. “Like who?”

“Feuilly, Jehan, Courf, Ferre, Ep, Enjolras, and Gran —”

To Marius’ everlasting credit, he cuts himself off, and goes on hastily. “Grandfather’s going to have them all over for dinner.”

Sebastien raises a blond eyebrow. “I didn’t even know your grandfather knew my son or any of your friends.”

Marius looks the man right in the eye and says something that earns Combeferre’s eternal respect. “I think it’s fair to say that you don’t know a fair lot, Mr. Enjolras.” The rebuke is delivered in a calm, steady tone, and is overheard not just by Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Jehan, but by Marius’ grandfather, Jean Valjean, Combeferre’s parents, Jehan’s mother, and Bahorel.

Sebastien turns red for a moment, before he regains his usual coloring. He levels a grudging smile towards Marius but looks back at Courfeyrac, Jehan, and Combeferre, and his smile turns menacing.

“Yes, that is what things seem to be — for the moment. Congratulations to you both, Mr. Pontmercy.”

The worst thing, Combeferre thinks, is that Sebastien Enjolras still appears to have an ace or two up his sleeve even after that dressing down by Marius, of all people.

 * * * * * * * * * * *

“Sit down.”

Cosette pushes Enjolras into the powder room, where her things are spread around on the couch and chairs. Four-way mirrors on the dressing tables reflect back different versions of Enjolras and Cosette and Grantaire in a dizzying array.

Enjolras collapses into a chair, bracing his face in his hands. He scrubs at his cheeks before he stands back up. “I need to go back out there. He’ll be mad —”

“You’re staying right here,” Cosette says severely. Her tone is at odds with how princesslike she looks. Her gown is a beautifully airy designer original in virginal white, decorated with a medley of Swarovski crystals, sequins, and lace. Satin flowers are pinned to the front and back of her dress. Her veil is a splendid crystal-studded affair that’s secured to her elaborate French twist; her makeup’s perfect, and so is her hair and shoes and everything. She looks absolutely stunning, and Grantaire feels like he should collapse at her feet and beg forgiveness from the matrimonial deity that Cosette has become.

To be fair, Marius has always made her out to be a deity, anyway.

“Hold on there, Apollo.” Grantaire places his hands on Enjolras’ shoulders and starts kneading gently at the hard knots under the skin there. He presses down firmly, and Enjolras lets out a sharp groan that does not make Grantaire’s head reel, not in the slightest.

“Is it just me, or has your father become even more of a dick than I remembered?”

Enjolras lets out a clipped laugh at Cosette’s comment and doesn’t say anything, and who can blame him? There’s nothing else to say to that. Grantaire just concentrates on massaging the tension out of Enjolras as best as he can. He wishes he can wave a magic wand and take away all of Enjolras’ problems: namely, Sebastien Enjolras. But you can’t wish for the man to jump off a cliff, because it won’t happen just like that. Sometimes the world is just as ugly as it is beautiful sometimes, and unfortunately, Enjolras and Grantaire both know that as a fact of life in different ways.

Even with his alcoholism — now a lot easier to deal with, thank goodness — and his occasional tendency to depression, Grantaire wouldn’t trade his troubles for Enjolras’. However, he’s starting to realize that by loving Enjolras — and having Enjolras love him back — he’s taking on those burdens willingly as his own.

When he dwells on the blue of Enjolras’ eyes and the timbre of his voice and the way his face lights up when he smiles and Enjolras’ looks and intelligence and loyalty and intensity and the tiny little habits and quirks that he possesses, though, Grantaire knows in his heart of hearts that he also won’t trade Enjolras for anything else in the world.

No matter what. Not even if Enjolras would drive him away again, or if death part them both. It might kill him, but he won’t ever leave.

He can’t. And he won’t.

As if to punctuate his inner vow, he moves around from behind Enjolras’ chair, kneels down in front of his boyfriend — his boyfriend, he still can’t believe it — and kisses Enjolras on the lips, just like he’s wanted to all night.

From the way Enjolras responds, Grantaire knows he’s wanted to do the same. 

Chapter Text

Cosette and Grantaire somehow manage to calm Enjolras down with copious amounts of kisses from Grantaire, a good back rub, about two dozen reassurances, and a carton of chocolate butter toffee ice cream that Grantaire has sent Gavroche to buy at the nearest store. Courfeyrac and Jehan come to fetch Cosette, and Jehan remains behind while Courfeyrac escorts Cosette out to meet the other guests. They have about half an hour before the ring ceremony starts.

Enjolras is scraping the spoon around on the empty bottom of the carton and staring off idly into the distance. He’s insisted that Grantaire and Jehan sit next to him and help him finish the ice cream — which is almost an afterthought, considering that he demolishes two-thirds of the carton alone.

“You okay?” Jehan asks. Grantaire and Enjolras are silently communicating from their knees pressed against each other’s, from the way their little fingers are entwined, as if they can’t even let go of each other until they have to go out again and pretend that they’re not together for Sebastien’s sake.

Enjolras gives Jehan a faint smile. “Better. Thanks.”

“Talk to me.” Enjolras’ eyes are taking on that far-off look again, like he’s leaving Jehan’s presence to fly away, and the horizon he’s soaring away on is not a good, happy one. It’s the sea of blame and self-doubt and personal criticism that he’s paddling on, and Jehan will be damned if he’ll leave Enjolras alone without a paddle or a companion. He can also see Grantaire frowning but saying nothing, letting Jehan take the reins on this one. “Don’t bottle it in.”

Enjolras finally looks back and focuses on him, much to Jehan’s relief. He blinks, and his eyes regain their usual focus. “Sorry. I just —”

“Don’t worry about it.” Jehan cards his fingers through Enjolras’ hair, trying to bring it back to its usual wavy mop rather than the gelled ‘do that Sebastien is also sporting. He doesn’t want Enjolras to look anything else more like his father. “What’s wrong, Enjolras?”

Enjolras smiles halfheartedly at that. “It’s stupid,” he offers.

“Not to me. Never to me. What is it?”

Enjolras tries to keep the smile going, but it wobbles on his face. “No matter how much my father hates me,” he begins shakily, “I just feel like I’ll always be waiting for his approval. For something from him that isn’t shouting or getting hit or called useless or weak or stupid; for something that isn’t going to slur my mother or Alain or me. And I know I’ll always be waiting. Probably forever. I don’t know why he hates me so much, and he always will, no matter what I do. I don’t know what I did wrong. Dr. Lamarque’s gone, and my real father can’t stand my existence, and I don’t know what to do about it. It’s stupid to keep going back and getting burned, but I can’t stop.”

Grantaire doesn’t say anything, but he bends to kiss Enjolras’ knuckles. Their hands remained enjoined. Jehan brushes the hair out of Enjolras’ eyes and tilts his face up to meet his.

“Listen to me,” he says firmly, but gently. “It’s not wrong or stupid to expect or want affection from your father. He’s your father. He’s supposed to give you that, and he hasn’t. That doesn’t make you foolish or needy or ridiculous. And maybe that ache will never go away, but it doesn’t make you bad. In fact, it makes you different from him. It makes you better than him, because you love and you’re getting love in return. You want it, and your father shuns it. And one day, the ache will get smaller and it’ll leave. But in the meantime, don’t see that capacity for love as a weakness. You love so much, and that’s one of the million reasons why we love you.”

Enjolras is shaking his head, blond curls bouncing from Grantaire and Jehan’s ministrations, but Jehan refuses to let him become a victim to his own criticisms.

“Don’t you shake your head. Don’t you start believing what your father has tried to force you to believe.” Jehan knows his voice is raising, but he can’t help himself. He’s not going to stand aside and carelessly let Enjolras fall victim to his father’s atrocities, because that will lead to Enjolras’ undoing, as well as the unraveling of Les Amis. And Jehan will not let any harm come to the others, let alone Enjolras, his chief and his leader, the light and life of the whole group. He grabs Enjolras’ hands and squeezes them tight. “Enjolras, promise me — promise us — that you’ll never let him get you down, because when he does, he’ll win. Sometimes some people are just born or taught to gain satisfaction at the misfortune of others, to revel in their ruin. No matter what the price, we will not let him have your ruin. Do you hear me? He tore your family apart, but you still have us. You’ll always have us, no matter what.”

Enjolras looks away, and Jehan tugs gently on his hands, making him look back into Jehan’s gray eyes.

“Promise us, Enjolras. Grantaire and me and Ferre and Courf and the rest of the Amis.”

Enjolras looks down at his shoes and then back up at Jehan. Very quietly, he answers, “I’ll try.”

It’s not yes or I promise, but Jehan is satisfied, because it’s enough for now.

 * * * * * * * * * * *

The wedding goes on without a single hitch. The ring ceremony and the cake cutting are great and cute and fluffy. Les Amis goes through the reception line, and they take a huge group picture that Marius promises they’ll all get copies of. Bahorel’s now slow-dancing on the dance floor with Sabine, while Courfeyrac and Jehan are doing the same, along with Cosette and Marius, Combeferre and Eponine, and the parentals. Joly, Bossuet, and Chetta are taking turns to dance with each other, while Enjolras and Grantaire are on either side of Maryse, talking to her and also (obviously) taking the time to have eyesex with each other. Honestly, Feuilly’s actually surprised that Sebastien hasn’t noticed, what with all the sexual tension in the air.

Feuilly avoids the drama with Enjolras’ father because he spends his time talking to Jehan’s parents. They’re asking him how he is, and it’s only when Maryse Enjolras comes over to catch up with both Prouvaires that he skillfully escapes the fray.

Feuilly just doesn’t want to talk to anybody who’s a happy couple because he keeps thinking about Odette.

Part of him knows it wasn’t a healthy relationship. Odette has always been the one taking more out of the relationship — expecting him to pay for every one of her frivolous purchases, quizzing and interrogating him rather than conversing with him like an equal, dictating what he should do with his time and money. She’s always been jealous whenever he talks to Cosette or Chetta or Eponine or any girl who isn’t her, but at the same time, there’s a double standard because she can flirt the hell out of any other guy. She’s tried really, really hard with Enjolras before, only to be totally shot down.

Now that he’s steamed at her, Feuilly can’t help but be glad for that moment.

Part of him is worried that if Odette ever returns, he’d take her back in a heartbeat. Not because she’s good for him, because heaven forbid, she’s not, but because he’s lonely. Because he’s the only one out of the Amis who isn’t in a relationship of any kind. He doesn’t want to be desperate, but at the same time, he really does miss her a lot. Despite how selfish and self-absorbed and needy she’s been, he still misses her. And part of him is furious that he does.

Now he wanders over to the bar for a drink. He’s not going to get wasted, but he definitely wants something to take the edge off of the sharp edges of his feelings.

There’s a girl sitting there already, nursing a martini. She’s stunningly pretty — not without Cosette’s ethereal beauty or Eponine’s dark sensual looks or Chetta’s exotic attractiveness, but she’s got a little more than the innocent girl-next-door look. There’s a gleam in her eye that reminds Feuilly of the mischief the female Amis can get up to, and yet her gray eyes are honest, open, and friendly when she looks Feuilly in the eye. Her chestnut hair is fluffed out and around her shoulders, and she’s wearing a gossamer pale blue Calypso cocktail dress and matching heels.

Feuilly sits down on a barstool and orders a martini like hers, which he shoots back with a sigh. He places the glass back down onto the bar, a little harder than he intends, and the girl chuckles.

“Rough day?”

Feuilly’s too grumpy for banter. “Rough life,” he snaps, before he finally manages to screw his head back on straight and smile at her.

Everything that’s happened isn’t her fault.

He looks at the girl, half expecting her to storm off like a prissy princess. Instead, she’s regaling him with sympathetic gray eyes.

“Want to talk about it?”

And Feuilly surprisingly does. He’s bottled it up for a while now, and at this point, why not? He might as well confide in a total stranger, because it’s not like he’ll ever see her again if this goes horribly south.

“My girlfriend broke up with me.”

The girl’s eyes widen, and she immediately looks sad, genuinely so. “That’s horrible. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Feuilly replies, feeling almost instantly abashed. “I just… it’s just ironic that it happened a couple of days ago and now I’m sitting here at a wedding. Sans a plus one.” He laughs shortly. “I think I just got complacent.”

“How do you figure?” the girl asks. She has very long, curling lashes over those cat-gray eyes. Eyelashes that rival Enjolras’.

“Well, all my life I’ve always had to fight for things,” Feuilly explains. “I’ve always had to struggle, and I guess I got used to it. But when Odette came along, it was easier just to have things happen. Even if they were bad, at least something was happening in my life that I didn’t have to worry about leaving. But she did.” He sighs. “That’s all right, though. It really wasn’t a good relationship. I just tried, but I was at work or studying a lot, because I need to do that to pay rent and stuff, and I need to get good grades so I can keep my scholarship. Her needs just weren’t being met because I was so busy, and I neglected her. I’m really not all that surprised she left — she’d been wanting someone to really just take care of her, not the other way around.”

“That’s absurd,” the girl says calmly. “Look, I’m not some sort of bratty feminist who doesn’t know her facts, or a soft marshmallow that can’t do anything on her own. I love being taken care of, if you don’t mind me saying, but a relationship doesn’t just go one way. You can’t have all from one and nothing from the other. And from what I’ve heard — from what I’m hearing, anyway — it seems like you have been giving all and receiving nothing.”

Feuilly drains his second drink and sighs. “It’s not just all about me. I can’t play the victim here. Odette has a point. Maybe I’m so busy trying to hold onto life; to survive, that I wasn’t really living.”

“It’s no crime to survive,” the girl says softly. “Especially if you’re holding onto and living up to the concepts of honesty and integrity and hard work. It’s no shame to scrimp and save and work your best. In fact, it builds character, and I admire that kind of strength, Nicolas.”

“You know my name?” Feuilly asks, surprised. He hasn’t ever met this girl before, and yet she knows of him. He smiles ruefully and shrugs. “I go by Feuilly, actually. My last name is more important than my first to me.”

“Why is that?”

Feuilly grimaces. He doesn’t like talking about his past. “My parents passed away in a car accident when I was young. I’ve gone by my last name rather than my first name to honor them ever since.”

“I’m sorry.”

Those two words, so oft repeated by countless people to Feuilly, are tenderly spoken with genuine sorrow. The only times that Feuilly has received similar sincere condolences have been from Les Amis and Jehan’s parents, and he feels immensely touched — ironic, under the circumstances.

“Thank you.”

The girl smiles, and it transforms her, turning an already pretty face radiant. “You’re welcome — Feuilly.”

“And you are —?” Feuilly begins, feeling awkward despite himself. He feels silly that he’s dispensed with propriety in the midst of looking into gorgeous gray eyes and ranting about his own pathetic troubles.

“Victoire,” the girl answers with a broad smile. “Victoire Bienvenu.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Feuilly replies. He doesn’t understand quite what’s going on, but for some reason he feels both imminent dread and yet a glowing anticipation like nothing he’s ever felt.

Like there’s a door slowly closing in his life, and yet another is gradually opening. 

Chapter Text

Louis grips Enjolras’ arm tightly enough that momentarily he wonders if the bodyguard means to break it. The man stands loosely enough that anyone not listening into the conversation would be fooled into thinking that nothing’s wrong. Enjolras has to stand and listen to his father issue his final edict.

“If I hear of any shit happening when I’m away, Adrien, you better not be involved in it in any way,” Sebastien is saying. “Being unsupervised at home while you revel in your own nonsense is something that unfortunately I’ll have to permit this holiday. I hope you haven’t forgotten our deal.”

“It hasn’t even been two months,” Enjolras snaps back. “I still have over ten more left.”

“Time flies, Adrien,” Sebastien reminds him with a gruesome smile. “I believe Alain had the same deadline you did, except it was his body and not me exacting those demands. Maybe that can give you some cold comfort, knowing that in the end, I have you as much as the cancer had your brother.”

Enjolras lunges forward, ready to hit his father, no matter how rash that decision may be. However, he’s stopped by Louis, who twists his arm up and around behind him until his knees buckle. He regains his footing as sharp pain shoots up the affected limb into his shoulder. He’s well aware that if Louis so chooses, he will break Enjolras’ arm as easily as snapping a matchstick.

“Don’t think I didn’t know how your friends were rallying around you,” Sebastien growls, leaning in close. “You snitched to them, didn’t you?”

Enjolras can’t breathe for a second. Louis isn’t cutting off his airway or anything; Sebastien’s words are enough to suck all the oxygen out of the air.

“I swear I didn’t,” he gasps.

“I don’t believe you,” Sebastien says coldly.

“No, I swear! I didn’t tell — they just —”

“Spare me,” Sebastien interrupts dismissively. “They won’t be any trouble, anyway. They can’t do anything. You’re mine, and that’ll never change.” He snaps his fingers, and Louis releases Enjolras so abruptly that Enjolras drops to his knees. He watches helplessly as the Rolls-Royce pulls out of the driveway, and curls his hands into fists in a desperate attempt to hold back his impotent rage.

He thanks whatever god is listening that his mother has been able to return home with Combeferre’s family. Tucking his arm against his side, he feels it twinge and knows without seeing the bruises that are starting to form from Louis’ impossible grip. Thankfully, his tuxedo jacket and white shirt cover the bruises, because even he himself doesn’t want to look down and see the evidence of his weakness.

He is weak. Once again, he hasn’t been able to stand up to his father. He wonders if he ever will. 

Chapter Text

One week later

Grantaire’s in the highest of spirits. He’s just spent all of the first week of Christmas with his family, painting and helping with Christmas decorations and baking and shopping — and eating, obviously — and now he’s headed to Enjolras’ home with Bahorel (who’s been invited to the Prouvaires, bless their hearts). Joly, Bossuet, and Chetta have also received an invitation, but they’ve declined because their three families have gotten together for the holiday — like they’ve done for every year since the day the three of them met.

“You two are so cute it’s making me throw up in my mouth,” Bahorel mutters, hunched over on the metro seat. He’s still hungover from partying with Sabine the night before, and he’s also dead tired from staying up late 8 days in a row to work on the dining room set for his parents’ Christmas gift. Grantaire’s seen Bahorel’s work, and if Bahorel’s his son, he’d be no prouder than Bahorel’s mom and dad, who are two of the sweetest, nicest people Grantaire knows.

They have one more stop to go before Enjolras picks them up from the station and drives them over to his house. The rest of the gang — sans the trio and Cosette/Marius — are currently there, celebrating the fact that Sebastien is out of the house, even if he isn’t out of Enjolras’ life as yet.

Sometimes, Grantaire wishes there is a way to legally and lawfully take someone out of the equation for good. He’s fantasized about punching Sebastien in the face, but it can only remain a fantasy, because the man seems to have connections that could rival those of the local gangs. He doesn’t want anything to happen to his family if he can help it.

Stormie mews petulantly, and Grantaire reaches down to the door of her cat carrier. She bats at his fingers through the mesh and mews again, sounding cross.

“You’ll see Enjolras soon,” Grantaire promises. “I know you miss him.”

Bahorel makes a fake throwing up sound, and Grantaire elbows him.

“She’s not the only one who misses him.”

Grantaire realizes he just can’t stop smiling, no matter how much Bahorel is ribbing him. “No, she’s not.”

Bahorel rolls his eyes again and shoves his sunglasses back onto his face. “How’s he doing?”

Grantaire shrugs. “As well as he can with that creep hovering over his life, I expect. We text all the time, and I think it’s working having the majority of the gang around for the holidays. Usually it’s a pretty lonely affair. Here.” He hands over his phone to a picture that Courfeyrac has texted him. It’s of Jehan, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Eponine, Enjolras, and Feuilly wrapping Christmas presents together. Eponine and Combeferre are all tucked up snugly together, while Jehan is busily trying to weave a poinsettia into Feuilly’s ginger hair. Courfeyrac is throwing a shower of confetti over Enjolras’ head, and they’re both laughing, a sight to behold.

Bahorel grins, and then pretends he isn’t. “How cute.”

“Dude, acting grumpy isn’t going to get you any brownie points.”

Bahorel gives Grantaire the finger. “I’ve never been in a place like that. All — what’s that word Cosette uses all the time? Swankified?”

Grantaire shrugs. “I think Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Jehan have the most down-to-earth parents. Just ask Feuilly what to do. Cosette and Marius’ households are more formal, or so I’ve heard. Don’t worry, big guy.” He playfully elbows Bahorel again. “Surely you’re not afraid of the trust fund brigade?”

“You think you’re so clever, quoting the Dark Knight. And I’m not. I just don’t want to do something stupid that will shame myself or Feuilly or my parents. I don’t want any stuck up rich gringos thinking I don’t have class or whatever shit they focus on.”

“Dude, you’re a quarter Middle Eastern, not Hispanic. Don’t embarrass yourself. And really, don’t worry about it. Jehan’s parents are like Maryse. They don’t care. They’re genuinely nice people.”

“We’ll see.” Bahorel looks away and out the window of the metro. “We’re here. Up, up, and away.”

“So if you’re Superman, does that mean I’m Batman? Heh, heh, heh. You just admitted yourself —”

“No! Damnit, forget I said anything. Any time I try to quote something around you, you end up using it against me.”

“That’s what best friends do, asshole.”

“Yeah, sure. Try to worm your way back into my good graces. It won’t work.”

They end up bickering and playfully punching each other all the way until they are out of the subway station.

 * * * * * * * * * * *

For most of his life, Enjolras has been asexual. He’s hardly ever been sexually attracted to anyone, male or female, and while he knows he’s attractive, he doesn’t really understand what that means or how that feels.

Till now.

He’s had sex, like, twice in his whole life — once with Courfeyrac and once with Jehan. The former happened because this is Courfeyrac, the romantic guru of all time, and he offered; the latter because Jehan had been waxing lyrical about sex and Courfeyrac to Enjolras (this was before they got together, much to the relief of everyone around), and they’d both gotten carried away. Both times were fantastic, but Enjolras hasn’t ever dwelt on them or wanted more. It’s like the biggest diamond in the world — he’ll take it if it’s offered, but he’s not going to go running after it. He’s never wanted it.

Until now.

Grantaire’s invaded his thoughts more than he’s ever expected. He doesn’t just want the other man sexually, but in every other way. Those penetrating blue eyes with that green tint and those inky black curls and those hard muscles under all that comfy, loose-fitting clothing are only part of the intriguing, irresistible package that is Rene Grantaire.

Enjolras likes to think he’s not so shallow to focus on Grantaire’s appearance, and he isn’t — not completely, anyway. There are dozens of things that he really, really likes about Grantaire. Like how he’s so gentle with Stormie, stroking her back and fondling her silky ears and treating her like she’s made of glass. How he’s so talented and knowledgeable and experienced — even though he doesn’t go after things the way Enjolras does, it seems like he’s lived life more than Enjolras has. Enjolras focuses on book learning, but Grantaire knows how to apply it. He’s clever with his hands, he’s gentle and kind, and he’s intelligent. He doesn’t roll over and play dead when Enjolras is on the warpath, which is nice, because only Combeferre and Jehan can stand up to him when that happens. It’s both humbling and comforting to know that Grantaire sees him as worthy of challenging. The way he makes Enjolras feel is amazing — empowered, strong, like he can do everything and he can be everything he wants to be. Like he wants to do his best and be his greatest self around Grantaire.

Then there’s the manner with which Grantaire treats their friends, and how they all gravitate towards him in different ways. While Les Amis treat Enjolras with respect and veneration, they don’t share with him the same affection that Grantaire so easily commands, and sometimes Enjolras envies Grantaire for that.

Even though things have been terrible as of late, he’s happy. Contentedly so, like the way he sees Combeferre with Eponine or Courfeyrac with Jehan. He thinks he’s finally starting to understand all the hype and fuss about relationships and why everyone likes having them.

“You’re not getting rid of me.”

He hopes not.

It’s a new, wonderful, terrifying feeling, liking someone. Admiring someone’s personality and appearance — being sexually attracted to someone that way — is so foreign to Enjolras that he’s both scared out of his mind and yet giddily, ridiculously excited. It’s as if life has become a holiday, although disaster in the form of his father keeps looming on the horizon. And he doesn’t care as much as he would without Grantaire.

This whole week has been filled with nervous anticipation. He’s driven everyone nuts trying to figure out a good enough present for Grantaire, although his mother seems more delighted than he’s ever seen her. Combeferre is also obviously happy for Enjolras behind his longsuffering patience, while Eponine keeps giving him pointers and tips about Grantaire — along with threats if he ever hurts Grantaire’s feelings again. Courfeyrac has been making suggestive comments every chance he gets, while Jehan patiently listens to Enjolras’ doubts and reassures him. Feuilly’s been spending time with Victoire Bienvenu, Jehan’s cousin, and unlike when Marius began dating Cosette, Enjolras actually encourages it.

When he sees Grantaire emerge out of the subway station with Bahorel, the first thing he does is get out of the car — nearly getting tapped by a yellow cab as he does so — push Grantaire’s green duffel bag out of the way, and kiss him. Hard.

“Gross,” Bahorel says with a grin, shoving by them to toss his own black duffel bag into the trunk.

Grantaire gives Bahorel the finger before he drops his bag onto the sidewalk, takes Enjolras’ face in his hands, and kisses him just as hard right back, teeth and tongue and lips melding in a way that makes the lights short circuit in Enjolras’ brain. When they break apart, he’s barely aware of what Grantaire’s saying to him.

“Huh?”

Grantaire laughs at him. “I was asking if you wanted me to drive,” he says teasingly. Clearly his brain is more on track than Enjolras’, although Enjolras is pleased to note that his voice is rough and his lips are reddened. “You know, for someone who’s never dated ever, you’re doing a damn good job of fooling me.”

There it is again, that rush of pure, sappy emotion. Enjolras just cannot stop smiling, no matter how much he tries. He tosses the keys at Grantaire, hoping to wipe the smug smirk off of his boyfriend’s face. Grantaire catches the keys in one hand, and they’re both smiling, because there is no way life can be so great and the sun can be shining so hard even in the dead of impending winter.

But it is. Life is good. Beautiful, in fact. 

And he wants this to last. 

Chapter Text

Enjolras’ house is huge. Grantaire would feel immensely self-conscious about how obviously wealthy Enjolras’ family is if not for him making funny, sarcastic comments about everything and the fact that he’s so clearly disdainful of it. To someone as morally just and utilitarian as Enjolras, it’s kind of ironic that he would be born into the lap of luxury and hate it as much as he does.

Yet he’s still used to it, the cynical voice in Grantaire’s head whispers.

Grantaire shakes it off. Being with Enjolras hasn’t changed him completely. He still questions things, pokes holes in arguments and mentalities, and he’s still sarcastic. However, he’s learned to dislike the jagged edge that the most poisonous criticisms — of himself or of others — that he’s learning to recognize more and more with every hour and day he spends with the other Amis.

And so what if Enjolras is used to that lifestyle?

It’s an issue if you both continue to be an item in the future, the voice doggedly pursues.

Grantaire mentally laughs as he shoves the voice away. Yeah, sure. He’s overanalyzed the future and overthought things for years. If anything, he’s learned that he and Enjolras just need to enjoy the moment, while still looking towards the future, but they cannot jump the gun. If he’s going to cram his mind up with all sorts of worries, he won’t be able to enjoy life as he wants to.

Come what may, and love it, he thinks firmly, shutting down the naysayer inside of him. Now shut up. I’m busy.

Enjolras takes him by the hand and leads him away from the pool where the others are currently basking. Maryse is at some female affair with the other mothers. Bahorel’s pulled his shirt off and jumped into the kidney-shaped pool in his basketball shorts. He and the others are splashing around playing water polo, and they’ve boisterously called out invitations to Grantaire and Enjolras several times now.

“In a moment,” Enjolras shouts back. “I want to show him around the estate.”

“More like show him around your pants,” Courfeyrac retorts, and gets the ball bounced off of his head by Eponine. “Ow, you minx.”

“Leave them alone and throw me the ball, you degenerate,” she grins. “They deserve their privacy, whatever the hell it is they do.” She winks at Grantaire and gestures with her chin. “Go on then, you two. Go be as innocent or as wild as you like, with no one to bother you.”

“I am wild,” Grantaire points out, as he obeys Enjolras’ insistent tug on his hand. They trot through a foyer filled with antiques and art — the poncey, stuck-up kind that Grantaire doesn’t care too much for — and up the bisecting staircase to the third floor. The carpeting underfoot muffles their footsteps, as Enjolras passes four different doors that are ajar to reveal guest bedrooms, heading for the door at the end of the hallway.

Enjolras is wearing a muted sky blue button-up shirt — as usual, with half the buttons from the top undone, so Grantaire and the entire world can see practically all of his perfectly sculpted chest, complete with the lightest matting of blond hair — and preppy chino shorts. He’s got a bit of a five o’clock shadow, but his expression is relaxed and happy — more so than Grantaire’s ever really seen him. When he flips his blond curls — now getting a tad long — over his collar and looks at Grantaire, Grantaire finds himself drowning in the crystalline blue of those eyes.

“What are you staring at?”

Grantaire leans in and bumps noses with Enjolras, who lets out an adorable squawk. “Ow. You fiend.”

“That didn’t even hurt, and you know it.”

“I was just surprised.”

“And I was thinking about how perfect you are.” Grantaire brushes his lips against the curve of Enjolras’ neck, grazing at the skin ever so gently with his teeth, and he grins when he’s rewarded with a gasp.

“I’m not — no, not now, Grantaire! I want to show you around. That’s what a — damnit, R, ah, fuck you — that’s what a good host does.”

“Do you permit it?” Grantaire purrs into Enjolras’ ear, and Enjolras’ Adam apple jerks up as he swallows.

“Of course. But I don’t really want to do it here. Is that okay? I want to do it when it’s just us. You and me. Special.”

Grantaire runs his tongue up against Enjolras’ ear. “Then we’ll make it special. How’s that sound?”

Enjolras makes a sound that should be illegal, because Grantaire now can’t hide just how much his body obviously likes it. Enjolras is clearly the same way, and Grantaire boldly lets his hand rove downward further, eliciting yet another squeak from Enjolras as Grantaire palms him.

“R —!”

“Haven’t you ever done this before?” Grantaire grins.

Enjolras gasps. “Yes,” he grits. “Combeferre and Jehan — but we never went — damnit, R — all the way. Just oral?”

“Oral. Wow. You show your naivete. It’s called a damn blowjob, Apollo. Or a handjob. Like this.”

Enjolras lets out a growl and pushes himself up against Grantaire, using his free hands to reach out and kiss Grantaire. One hand winds insistently into his curls and tugs; the other snakes up to the back of Grantaire’s head and keeps it braced there so that their faces don’t break apart. They both half stagger forward, and Enjolras practically yanks Grantaire into what’s obviously his room, one hand blindly groping for the doorknob. Once they’re both inside, he slams it shut, and they both trip over each other towards the bed.

Grantaire somehow manages to end up on top when they go down in a heap onto the mattress, the comforter and pillows going poof under their combined weight. Enjolras laughs breathlessly, and Grantaire rips off his belt and pulls down his zipper.

“Damn these pants,” he quips. “They’re so tight you probably have to peel them off to get them off.”

He waits for a snappy comeback, but then Enjolras shifts, and Grantaire can sense the sudden quick spike in his nervousness. His voice is tentative when he speaks, like he’s expecting Grantaire to refuse him now. “Are you okay with… waiting?”

Grantaire looks down at the Greek god beneath him. Even pinned under his weight, looking thoroughly debauched with his kiss-reddened lips and the bites on his neck that Grantaire swears he doesn’t remember giving him, Enjolras’ gaze is trusting beneath those ridiculously long lashes.

“More than okay,” Grantaire promises, and leans down for a kiss.

 * * * * * * * * * * *

“I still can’t believe you’re Jehan’s cousin,” Feuilly says with a laugh. “Or that you didn’t tell me beforehand.”

Victoire grins up at him. They’re in the deeper end of the pool, sitting in inner tubes and paddling lazily around. Eponine and Azelma are tanning, while Combeferre is doing laps. Courfeyrac and Gavroche and Jehan and Bahorel are playing sharks and minnows, and the pool is big enough that the splashing and yelling don’t bother Feuilly or Victoire.

He’s been pleasantly surprised to find that Victoire lives near enough the Prouvaires that they could all go home together for the holidays. Eventually he’s able to discover on the 23rd — two days before Christmas — that she’s Jehan’s cousin. In all that time, they’ve texted every day and hung out regularly, with or without Jehan and Courfeyrac. He’s always assumed that Victoire’s a close friend of Cosette’s — true — and that by default she’s friends with Jehan, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras — again, true.

No wonder that chestnut hair and those gray eyes look so familiar, all the way from Day One.

“I was wondering when you’d cotton on,” Victoire teases now. “For someone lauded as so incredibly smart and independent and talented, you’re a bit dense.”

Feuilly sinks his hand into the water and flicks some drops at her. She squeals and tries to kick away, but only ends up flailing into the water. Feuilly starts laughing until he feels abashed for his lack of gallantry. When Victoire comes up spluttering, he tries not to focus on her cleavage in that blue string bikini of hers and instead reaches out to help her up.

“You okay —”

That’s all he gets out before Victoire springs up, latches onto his arm, and drags him off his own inner tube. 

Chapter Text

“You what?”

Combeferre smacks his forehead and drags his hand down the side of his face. “Courf, you did what?”

Courfeyrac smirks and looks around innocently. “Nothing, Combeferre. Why do you ask?”

Combeferre counts to ten before he speaks again. “Maybe the Costco pack of toilet paper rolls sitting in your car has something to do with it. Or the family-size bottles of Pepsi sitting in your car, one of them empty. You don’t like Pepsi, Courf. Please tell me you’re not going to do anything illegal to Sebastien Enjolras.”

“That would be a crime,” Courfeyrac says blandly. “I’m not so stupid that I’ll stoop to criminal activity against a business mogul, Ferre. And besides, Jehan likes Pepsi.”

“You think taking on Sebastien with childish pranks will help anything?” Combeferre asks. “For all you know, he’ll take things out on Enjolras.”

“He’ll think the neighborhood kids did it,” Courfeyrac argues. “He can’t be as unreasonable as that.”

The look Combeferre levels at him says that yes, yes, Sebastien is as unreasonable as that.

“Shit,” Courfeyrac says.

“What did you do?”

“I may or may not have dumped Pepsi into his gas tank. And lit a marijuana incense stick in there.”

“One, Courf? Really?”

“More like five. Don’t blame me; blame him for leaving his car doors unlocked. Enjolras said once that his dad always forgets to lock the side door into the garage, and I have a good scapegoat. Remember Bigrenaille?”

“The kid who dealt pot and coke out at Saint-Antoine High?”

“He lives in his parents’ basement two streets over. Still a pothead, still a dealer, and he’s added alcohol to his vices. He’s got the reputation of breaking into houses or cars for cash, and his father’s always bailed him out so far. Apparently he’s broken into Enjolras’ house before.” Courfeyrac’s voice takes on a tone of disgust. “If Sebastien nails his ass to the wall this time, it’ll be nothing short of what he deserves.”

“I still haven’t forgotten how he killed Margaux,” Combeferre murmurs.

“If there was an ounce of decency in him, it was not there that night,” Coufeyrac interrupts harshly. “He lied to her, and she overdosed. Just like that. He knew what he was selling, and he knew it was her first try, and he simply didn’t care. And that asshole father of his got him out and his record expunged, just like always.”

Combeferre remembers belatedly that Courfeyrac dated Margaux for a few months in high school. His tone softens. “Still, Courfeyrac. If you are found out, or Enjolras gets blamed —”

“We’ll attest to his innocence,” Courfeyrac says flatly. “And I did nothing illegal. Just awful. He can fine me if he likes, but if I can nail two birds with one stone, I’ll do it.”

Combeferre sighs. He’s heard from his parents when Sebastien Enjolras has railed about Bigrenaille before. Much as he doesn’t exactly condone underhandedness, Courfeyrac’s immensely clever, and this is a remarkably sneaky plan. “Why do you always put me in these situations, Courf?”

“Because I love you,” Courfeyrac jokes, and then his tone goes serious. “And because you and I are the confessional priests of the Amis. I have to confide in someone.”

“I still think this is stupid,” Combeferre tells him honestly. “I still think it’s risky. But… I do understand why you did it, Courf.”

Courfeyrac puts his hand on Combeferre’s arm. “Thank you,” he replies quietly.

Combeferre does understand. Courfeyrac’s always been a man of action. He’s the heart of the group, meaning that he cares and loves deeply and completely, and he always has to do something to express those emotions for others. His love languages are physical affection, service, and gifts, and he’s better at doing rather than talking or listening. With the way things are with Enjolras, Combeferre knows that Courfeyrac’s been wanting to do something to show his support and affection for a friend who doesn’t usually require either — from anyone.

“Sebastien won’t get back till the second of January,” he allows as an olive branch. “At least we all will be back in school by then, and my mom and yours and Jehan’s are always with Maryse. Sebastien won’t have anybody to take his anger out on.”

Courfeyrac smiles at him. It’s a smile of gratitude, of thanks. He’s smart; he knows he may have messed up a tad, but he knows that Combeferre’s forgiven him. This sort of silent communication happens between them and Enjolras all the time — there’s a reason why Bahorel calls them, jokingly, the Holy Trinity. They work in tandem all the time, and they always have since they were six and started elementary school together.

And they always will. 

 * * * * * * * * * * *

Grantaire towels off his hair and dumps them into the fancy wicker laundry hamper in the bathroom of the lavish guest room he’s using for the time being. Picking out a dark green sweater and black jeans, he hurriedly dresses and wanders out to go find Enjolras. It’s not difficult; his room is located right beside Enjolras’, and he smiles when he thinks that Enjolras has probably done that on purpose.

He finds Enjolras sitting on his king-sized bed, reading a book, with Stormie in his lap. He’s wearing a red sweater, unconsciously complementing Grantaire’s clothing choices — especially since their clothes as of two hours ago definitely need to be laundered. Grantaire feels his lips twitching at the thought. Enjolras thinks he’s not talented at anything but public speaking, but he’s definitely capable of great things with those hands and that mouth of his. His blood sings at the thought of them actually going all the way, and he reminds himself to be patient.

Although Enjolras is powerful and confident and strong, he’s delicate and sensitive and naive in so many more ways. Grantaire feels both awed and humbled that he’s willing to put himself in Grantaire’s hands — literally and figuratively — and he’s determined not to mess this one up. Now that he has something or someone to believe in, he doesn’t want to let any of that go.

Ever.

Stormie lifts her head and mews balefully, her tail flicking from side to side. Enjolras looks up, and he smiles warmly.

“Took you long enough.”

Grantaire smirks and crosses the room. “I didn’t factor in the post-coital nap and the shower,” he teases back, and Enjolras blushes. It’s kind of adorable how virginal he really is. “What are you reading?”

Enjolras raises the book.

“Anna Karenina? I didn’t know you read anything other than Robespierre and Dante and the like.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “I’m not that boring.”

“Could have fooled me,” Grantaire jokes. He lets his eyes rove over the room, going from the carefully arranged books in the bookcase to the spotless dresser top and the neatly arrayed clothing hanging up in Enjolras’ closet. The only thing out of order is the bed with its rumpled sheets. He stares at it, remembering the feel of Enjolras’ lips and the subsequent blowjob that’s been the best sex he’s ever had. That’s saying something, considering that he’s been with Montparnasse and done it a couple of times with Courfeyrac, Jehan, and Eponine, among others.

Maybe the reason why this time is so wonderful is because he’s done it with the man he really loves above all.

He looks at Enjolras and finds him smiling back, his eyes firmly fixed on Grantaire rather than the bed.

“Is it wrong to say that I liked the cuddling almost as much as what happened before it?”

Grantaire shakes his head. “Of course it’s not wrong. But you can’t say stuff like that. Seriously. You are going to kill me.” He climbs onto the bed — that luxurious, wonderful, amazing bed — and kisses the side of Enjolras’ face while Stormie walks off Enjolras’ thigh in a dignified huff. “Feed me?”

Enjolras laughs and cards his fingers through Grantaire’s hair, turning his face so that his lips meet Grantaire’s. “Of course,” he says, somehow, the sound muffled between their lips. “Come on, R.”

Grantaire waits beside the door for Enjolras to pull on his Vans. He can’t take his eyes off of his Apollo until he feels a warm lump pounce onto his bare foot, and a plaintive mew.

“Jealous, huh? Sorry, sweetheart. I’m taken.” He grins and bends to lift her up into his arms. Cradling her against him, he takes a step back and spots a bright red mark on the doorframe, right beside his eye.

“Are you like, bleeding or —” his voice trails off as he looks down the doorframe. Right where the door would shut, there’s a column of horizontal red lines, marked at different intervals. The last one ends at about five feet tall. All the marks look like they’ve been made with a skinny red Sharpie, and some marks are darker than the others, as if they’ve been highlighted over and over. There’s no order or regularity — some are an inch apart, and others are steadily a quarter or an eighth of an inch apart.

“Huh?”

Enjolras moves up beside him, hopping on one foot as he tugs his shoe completely on.

“What are these?” Grantaire asks, gesturing at the marks.

Enjolras peers at the doorframe like he’s never seen it before. “Oh. Wow. I haven’t thought about this in years. I think I used those to measure my height while growing up.”

“How old were you when you stopped?”

“Five feet. I think I was twelve.”

“No reason?” Grantaire can remember measuring himself until he was about sixteen, because he was insecure about his small size — at least, until he started bulking up and flowering, just a little bit, when he turned eighteen.

Enjolras throws up his hands like he’s already forgotten about what they’re talking about. “I don’t remember. Guess it wasn’t important. Come on. The kitchen’s this way.”

Stormie takes the opportunity to curl herself up on her haunches and leap from Grantaire’s hands to Enjolras’ shoulder, digging her small claws into his sweater and winding herself up his shoulder and around his neck. Enjolras laughs and walks forward, stroking her as he does so.

“I guess someone’s hungry, huh?”

Grantaire doesn’t answer. A terrible suspicion is starting to brew itself in his head as his mind flashes back to a conversation they’ve had in the past.

“Bad dream… you get it a lot?”

“Since I was a kid. I don’t know. Maybe from when I was twelve and up?”

“There’s only one thing I remember. My father’s standing in a doorway with the light behind him… The room’s dark, and it’s artificial light that’s filtering out behind him. It’s always nighttime. I can’t see anything of him other than his silhouette, though. And his hands. For some reason, I keep flashing back to his arms and hands and his silhouette. You know, other than the fact that he always hits me. For the doorway — nothing spectacular. There’s a couple of marks on it.”

“What kind of marks?”

“I don’t know. Just lines. They’re red. I never noticed that before.”

Red lines. Sebastien Enjolras standing in his doorway. Always nighttime.

Damn it.

His mind fumbles for an explanation, but it keeps returning to his same suspicion.

No. He’s just being paranoid. He’s just being dramatic. Stuff like that doesn’t happen, can’t happen. Not to Enjolras. He’s never said anything of the sort to Grantaire or Combeferre, anyway, and he tells them everything. Grantaire’s just watched too much TV that he’s imagining things.

“R?”

Enjolras’ tone is concerned, and Grantaire is drawn back to the present. Enjolras is standing at the stairway, Stormie curled around his neck. He’s looking at Grantaire with a sweet sort of worry on his face, and holding out his hand.

“Are you okay?”

I’m just being paranoid. Jumping at shadows that aren’t there. Grantaire dredges a smile up onto his face, banishing the awful thoughts from his head, and takes Enjolras’ hand.

“Hunky-dory, Apollo.” He kisses Enjolras’ cheek, and watches those sinful lips relax where Enjolras was pressing them together. “Don’t worry. I love you.”

Just jumping at shadows that aren’t there. Digging up skeletons that don’t exist.

He can’t quite shake the feeling, though, and for the rest of the day, it’s always skulking at the back of his mind. 

Chapter Text

Maryse, Sophie Combeferre, Noemi Courfeyrac, and Bernadette Prouvaire have been in the parlor down the hall ever since dinner ended, while the gang is chilling in the massive family room.

Courfeyrac shrugs when Grantaire asks, “What are they even doing in there?”

“Who knows? Political discussions, social gossip, talking about the Dow Jones, or doing their nails? I have no idea, R. Comes with being an adult, I guess. Part of the territory. You just get boring. That’s why we’re all never going to grow up.”

That was two hours ago. Since then, they’ve sat through Albert Finney’s Scrooge on the 70-inch flat-screen TV. They’ve snacked on peppermint bark, Christmas cookies, buche de Noel, and candy canes, washed down with hot chocolate and buttered rum. The musical film has led to talk about Albert Finney’s role in Skyfall, which has then spawned a discussion about Daniel Craig’s James Bond versus the role played by Pierce Brosnan, Roger Moore, George Lazenby, and Sean Connery.

For the record, Feuilly like Roger Moore and Sean Connery; Victoire prefers Sean Connery and Pierce Brosnan. Grantaire and Courfeyrac both agree with her, while Eponine argues that all but George Lazenby are excellent. Enjolras hasn’t ever seen the other James Bond movies, and neither has Combeferre. (Typical.) Bahorel favors Daniel Craig completely. Jehan likes Daniel Craig and Sean Connery both.

Azelma and Gavroche are in the entertainment room down in the basement — whether they’re playing on the Wii or at the pool table or the foozball table or whatever else Enjolras has down there, Grantaire has no idea. Eponine says they’re both content where they are, and Grantaire suspects the same. Stability and security look good on the Thenardier family, and Grantaire is both grateful and pleased at this turn in their circumstances.

Grantaire is sprawled on one of the many couches with Enjolras’ head pillowed on his chest. It should be difficult to breathe, but it’s not. Instead, it feels like the most natural thing to Grantaire, and he feels so full and comfortable that he doesn’t want to move. He runs his fingers lazily through Enjolras’ hair over and over again, and it’s so soothing he’s fighting to keep from falling asleep right here and now. He can tell that Enjolras himself is close to sleep, but is stubbornly straddling the edge because he wants to stay awake.

That feeling of sleepy contentment disappears when Grantaire hears Maryse quietly bidding Sophie, Noemi, and Bernadette goodbye. He glances at the grandfather clock in the corner for the time. Eleven p.m. Agathe’s already gone to bed by now, and Maryse must be retiring for the night, so that’s his cue.

Grantaire gets up, gently lifting up Enjolras’ shoulders and head and settling him down against one of the fat memory foam pillows that Courfeyrac has pilfered earlier from a linen closet. Enjolras mutters something that sounds like, “R”, lets out a sigh, and reaches out for Grantaire.

“I’ll be back in a jiffy,” he whispers, leaning over to tuck the afghan more snugly around Enjolras. He tugs the end of the crocheted blanket over Enjolras’ bare foot and bends down to kiss the proud forehead, smoothing an errant blond curl away. “Sleep, Apollo.”

Enjolras curls up around the pillow, sliding down beneath the afghan so that he’s covered all the way. He looks like a sleeping angel, beautiful beyond measure but with an air of childlike innocence. In slumber, he looks years younger than his actual age, Grantaire thinks. Half man, half boy. All his.

For that matter, it seems like everyone else is sleeping. Jehan’s lying half on top of Courfeyrac, their arms cocooning each other. Victoire has her head on Feuilly’s shoulder, his arm around her shoulders. Both of them are snugly cuddled together on the loveseat. Eponine has one leg looped over Combeferre’s knee, and her thick dark hair covers his shoulder like a curtain, their hands entwined. Grantaire watches the rise and fall of her chest for a brief moment before he picks his way across the floor. He’s careful not to disturb Bahorel, who’s lying facedown on the thickly carpeted floor with a fleece throw wrapped around him.

“R?”

Combeferre’s voice comes softly across the room, so quietly that no one wakes up. Grantaire turns partway at the door to see their guide’s watchful hazel eyes resting on him.

“Be right back,” he says in reply. He doesn’t want to — doesn’t know if he should — confide in Combeferre at this moment, because he doesn’t want to disturb the blissful air of contentment that the other Amis are projecting. Until his suspicions are founded on some basis of truth, he’ll keep the burden of his paranoia to himself.

Combeferre holds his gaze for just a second or two longer, before he nods.

Grantaire slips out of the room just in time to see Maryse ascending the grand staircase towards the second floor. When she catches sight of him, she smiles, but it’s clear to anyone with two eyes that she’s tired. Immediately, he feels guilty, but she speaks before he can think of an excuse to leave.

“Rene? I mean, Grantaire. Do you need or want anything at all? Are the others in there still?”

Grantaire shakes his head, and then nods. “Yeah, everyone’s back there sleeping. I think we’re all tired.”

Maryse smiles again. It’s the fond, knowing smile of a mother. “I think so, too. Is there anything I can help you with?”

Grantaire takes a deep breath, ready to deny his thoughts, but Maryse’s gaze sharpens. She comes back down the staircase and sits down on a step, bidding Grantaire to come sit beside her. He obeys, surprised by her forward, down-to-earth actions. Just like Enjolras, she’s as real as anyone else, despite how unearthly her beauty — as well as that of her son’s.

“Grantaire. Life is too short for tiptoeing around. Please, just say what’s on your mind, and I’ll do what I can to help. I can see that it’s troubling you, whatever it is.”

Grantaire doesn’t allow himself time or effort to be tactful. He just blurts out what’s on his mind.

“Did Sebastien do something to Enjolras when he was young? Twelve years old or so, maybe?”

The blood drains out of Maryse’s face and she shifts over so that she’s leaning against the banister. Grantaire can see her hands trembling, and he swallows hard against the lump in his throat. He wants to fill the awkward silence with something, anything, but he has nothing to say, and he senses that he shouldn’t anyway. Maryse obviously either won’t answer him or she has to gather her thoughts, so he permits it by looking at her profile. That silky golden hair, that nose that looks like it’s been carved by Michelangelo, those gorgeous blue eyes, and those lips — mother and son share these features, and the thought of it makes Grantaire’s heart ache.

Maryse does speak, and when she does, her voice shakes as much as her limbs do.

“He can never know.”

Grantaire suddenly feels a powerful burning anger. At Sebastien or Maryse, he has no idea. He chokes down the emotion and waits for Maryse to continue.

“Adrien’s always been a good-looking child, but more cherubic than handsome. At age twelve, though, he really blossomed. That year was a difficult year for all of us — Sebastien’s company was growing, so he was usually always gone, and that was the year we stopped having… spousal relations. Then my parents died in a car wreck, and that was a big shock for me. I just — please understand, Rene. I am — was — an only child, and my parents doted on me. Their deaths rocked my universe, and I was always gone as well, trying to pay off their accumulated debts and grieve. I spent time with Alain and Adrien whenever I could, but Sebastien had a lull in the amount of work he had to do, and I didn’t even realize —”

She breaks off, as if it’s become difficult to breathe. After a heartbeat, however, she goes on.

“Adrien started getting a little more aloof, hiding himself away. He became antisocial and threw himself into his studies. At first we all chalked it up to the two of us being gone all the time. However, whenever I tried to talk to him about him or asked him how he was, he always acted like nothing was wrong, that he was fine. He still does that.”

Yeah, he does.

“I knew something was wrong, but he would always brush me off, and he’s always been reserved. I mentioned it to Sebastien and Alain, but neither of them could get it out of him, either; in fact Adrien got in such a big fight with Sebastien that he dropped the subject, and warned me and Alain off of Adrien. Although they’d always been a little bit prickly with each other, because of Alain, that was the day that things went downhill between Sebastien and Adrien. I kept trying to get Adrien to talk to me, but he wouldn’t.”

Grantaire can see it now. Every time anyone tries to push Enjolras on something he holds dear to himself, he’s always shoved back just as hard and isolated himself even more. He holds his secrets close and his skeletons closer. Nowadays he’s getting better at being more open and trusting, but a lifetime of lies is hard to fight against.

“One day, Alain discovered the truth after a particularly terrible time. He told me, and I went straight to Sebastien. We fought — I don’t think we’d ever fought so hard, before and since then. I told him I wanted to go to the police. He said if I did, he’d blame the abuse on me. Even contesting for a divorce was out of the question — Sebastien knew his reputation would suffer if we split because of how prominent each of us and both of us together were in the community. He said that if I left him, I’d never see Alain or Adrien again, and he’d have full custody over them. Meaning that Adrien would still be in danger from him. Sebastien has friends in the police force and courtroom. I’d never have won in any situation — then or now.”

A tear rolls down Maryse’s face, followed by another, trailing mascara. Even with her makeup starting to run, she still looks like a Greek goddess incarnate. Although her lips tremble, she goes on in a calm, steady voice.

“So I told him. Leave our sons alone. What sort of price do you demand for that cost?”

“Yes, I guess you could say I’m guilty. I don’t have any regrets, though.”

“He’s our son! You perversion. How could you? How could you? You son of a bitch.”

Sebastien smiles. It’s a grin that belongs on a skull. “Well, he does look like me enough that it was deliciously satisfying in a narcissistic sort of way. And he puts up quite the fight in bed, my dear. As compared to you. You never had the fire he possesses.”

Maryse slaps him with all the strength she has. It’s a blow that lands hard and well, and Sebastien reels against the wall, using it to catch himself from falling. When he straightens again, a livid bruise is already forming on his face. She braces herself for his anger, but he starts laughing and slaps her back across the face. It’s a light smack, insulting in itself, and she spits in his face.

“I’m going to Nick Collins,” she hisses, turning and moving towards the phone. “And Bryan Skelton. I don’t care how many years they throw at you, or whatever the hell they do.”

“Do it and you’ll never see Alain or Adrien again,” Sebastien shouts at her back. “Collins and Skelton? The judge and the cop? They're only two rungs on a very long ladder, Maryse. I own that ladder. You won’t get a single red cent or either of your sons, and rest assured, if you leave the boys with me, whatever I’ve done to Adrien will look like a lover’s kiss. It’s only been nine months, Maryse. Think of six years.”

Maryse turns back. She’s boiling with rage. It feels like it’s going to bubble over the top of her head and give her a heart attack. But something sinks into her seething mind. “You can’t have me divorce you, can you?”

Sebastien sneers at her. “You’re not that important to me. But my reputation is. And my wealth. I’m climbing up in the world, Maryse, and either you help me, or I sacrifice everything you love and still win, while you lose.”

“Then what the fuck do you want, you bastard?”

“As I’ve told you before, the real bastard is that fourteen-year-old monstrosity who stole the title of my rightful heir from Adrien. I want your father’s company. I want all your assets. Sign them over to me, and I won’t lay a hand on Adrien again.” He considers this for a second before he shakes his head. “Well, he still requires physical discipline. But I can promise that if you sign everything over to me, I won’t touch Adrien sexually.” He smirks. “Of course, he might have gotten so used to me by now that he’ll be mad at you for preventing his sexual education.”

“Fuck you!” Maryse crosses the room, ready to hit her husband again, but he catches her wrist and starts to squeeze.

“You did, my dear. And I fucked him. How do you like that?”

Maryse is glad she’s wearing a loose skirt. She brings up her knee into her husband’s groin, and is rewarded by his shout of anger. Pushing him away, she backs and points at him. She’s so furious that she’s shaking, and her voice rises when she speaks next.

“If you — if you touch Adrien or Alain ever again, I will kill you. I’ll give you anything you want, but I swear, if you renege on this, I will kill you.”

“You could try,” Sebastien answers. “Do we have a deal?”

Maryse grabs her wedding ring off of her finger and flings it at him. The gold band hits Sebastien in the chest and rolls away into the corner.

“I’ll get my own ring. From now on, I’ll wear a ring on my finger and pretend that you’re actually worthy of the title of husband and father, but I won’t wear your ring.”

“Technicalities. Do what you like.” Sebastien rolls his eyes and walks towards the door. “I’ll see you at your lawyer’s in two hours.”

“And what are you going to do about Adrien?” Maryse screams at his back.

“What you like,” Sebastien says, already sounding completely disinterested. “He was just a toy, and a means to an end. He’s an Enjolras. He’ll get over it.”

“He sold his son,” Grantaire states. He struggles to control his emotions, but his voice breaks. “And he used Enjolras to get your company, and all your assets.” He rises to his feet, pacing back and forth, before whirling back to face Maryse. “What’s so important about this fucking company of your father’s that he’s willing to abuse Enjolras for it?” He remembers at the last moment to lower his voice, because he doesn’t want the entire world to know what horrors he’s just heard.

Maryse rubs at her forehead, and her voice is disgusted. “My father left me the majority on his company when he died. It’s Berkshire Hathaway’s prime rival, and very successful at that. Compared to it, Sebastien’s company was — is — nothing. My father never quite liked Sebastien, and he always made me promise not to let Sebastien merge the firms. But my promise to my father isn’t as important as Adrien. I’ll do anything for him, for Alain.” She lets out a quick sob before she swallows it back, but even through the agony, there’s fire in her eyes. “I know you’re disgusted, Grantaire. I know you think that I took the coward’s way out, that I’m not worth it to be Adrien’s mother. But I know Sebastien. He wanted the company ever since he heard of it. He wanted money, and power, and prestige. And when he’s on the warpath, there’s nothing that would stop him. Ever. Either I went along with him, did what he wanted, and kept Adrien safer than if I left and fought Sebastien, or I would be made the outcast and Adrien and Alain continued to suffer alone against Sebastien. At least now I was the prime target rather than Adrien. Or Alain.”

Grantaire goes very still. “What do you mean, the prime target?”

Maryse straightens her head on her swanlike neck, looks Grantaire in the eye, and says nothing for a half minute. Finally, she speaks. “I regret nothing, Grantaire. Except that Adrien and Alain had to be tangled up in this to begin with. Sebastien wasn’t like this until two years into our marriage, and by then, I couldn’t leave.”

“He hit you for six years. Do you think Enjolras will be happy with that?”

“Anything to keep him safe,” Maryse snaps back. “Anything to keep both of my sons safe. Alain and I made sure, every night, that Sebastien never touched Adrien again.” Her mouth twists bitterly. “And Sebastien made it easy for us to tell, because he went out every night and slept with every willing and able and healthy woman he could find.”

“”Enjolras — is he —”

Maryse seems to be able to tell what he means. “I’ve tested him and Alain and myself for years. We’re all free of AIDS and the like.”

Grantaire exhales hard and scrubs his face with his hands. It feels like the ground has dissolved beneath his feet and he’s falling through empty air into a black abyss. “What did Sebastien —” He shakes his head, hard. “No. That’s irrelevant. How did — how did Enjolras even put this shit behind him?”

Maryse blows out a breath. “He couldn’t. Once he admitted it, the lies he’d been telling himself crumbled, and he fell apart. The last few months of his twelfth year were horrible. He cried all the time, and he had nightmares every night. He was depressed. He told me and Alain over and over that he wanted to forget, that he wanted to go back to being normal again. We tried everything — and nothing worked until hypnotherapy.”

Grantaire feels like he’s just been blindsided. “He forgot everything?”

Maryse tugs at a curl in her hair and snorts. Grantaire knows the self-deprecating sound is directed at herself and not him or his question. “That was what he wanted. Alain and I talked about this for hours. We didn’t know what to do anymore. Adrien begged us. When he got worse, we did it.” The look in her eyes is haunted. “Except for the nightmares, and his lingering hatred of Sebastien, he doesn’t remember what happened. Not unless something triggers the memories. But from that time onward, everything changed. I did as Sebastien asked. I signed over everything I had. I’m completely reliant on him. He did keep one promise in his entire lifetime. He did leave Adrien alone. But Alain never forgave him, and he did everything he could to challenge and hurt Sebastien. I know I’ll never forgive him. And the worst part is that he doesn’t care. He sleeps well at night, and he’ll never pay for his sins.” Another tear falls, and another. “He knew that living with the knowledge that I’d let Adrien and Alain down would be worse than any life or death I could face.”

Grantaire feels tears gathering in his own eyes. His first instinct is to yell at Maryse. To demand of her the answer to why she was such a terrible mother. Why she had let this happen to both her sons. Why she had even married Sebastien Enjolras to begin with. But his inner control holds him back, reminding him of other details — how she had no choice, how Enjolras hid the truth from her rather than directly saying what had happened until the damage was irreparable, how Sebastien barricaded her into a corner, and one single mistake of a short-lived affair had never been forgiven and forgotten. How she had been fooled into a loveless marriage by a con artist. How she’s had to spend the rest of her life repenting for simple mistakes, rather than actual crimes and sins like Sebastien has committed. Hindsight’s always twenty-twenty, and he can’t judge her in the least bit. Along with the liking and respect he still has for her, he feels pity. Sympathy. And with that, great sorrow at the horrors that have been committed against Enjolras and his brother and his mother.

She’s made mistakes, yes, but everyone makes mistakes. The real cruel, unrepentant monster here, the devil behind the smiling mask, is Sebastien. Always has been, and always will be.

“You did the best you could,” he says hoarsely.

Maryse buries her face in her hands. “Did I? I don’t think I did. Maybe I could have done more. Said more. Seen more.”

“I really don’t think you could have.”

Grantaire sits back down beside her when she starts crying, and puts his arms around her, offering what little cold comfort he can. He feels sick, like he’s swallowed broken glass, and he has a sudden hunger to go find Sebastien and — quite frankly — kill him. He’ll do it with his bare hands, or with the shattered glass of a beer bottle. Mingled with the murderous desire is the need to go back to Enjolras, to hold his Apollo in his arms, to protect him and keep all the evil of the world from hurting him, ever again. 

Chapter Text

When Enjolras wakes up, the room he’s in is dark, and there is no light emerging from outside the windows. He’s thirsty, although he’s definitely snug. He has a hazy recollection of Grantaire’s fingers and lips against his cheek and forehead, and the artist telling him to sleep, that he’ll be back soon.

Well, he’s not back yet.

He sits up and the crocheted afghan falls away from his shoulders. He reaches to the side table behind his head for his phone, and he’s surprised to find it’s only two in the morning. He’s not sure what time he fell asleep, but when he looks around him, he sees the others around him, all in varying positions and all out for the count.

Grabbing a bottle of mineral water from the minifridge next to the entertainment center, he takes a deep swig and looks at the others, silently counting them in his head as he always does. He has made this a habit since they all met three years ago, checking them off mentally. Les Amis are never far from his thoughts, ever.

Ferre and Eponine are nestled against each other, as are Feuilly and Victoire. Bahorel’s kipped out on the floor — he hasn’t shut up about how comfortable the pile carpet is — while Jehan and Courf are hardcore cuddling on a sofa, and it brings his thoughts to Grantaire.

Where is he?

Stepping over Bahorel, Enjolras makes a detour and gently plucks Combeferre’s glasses off his nose, setting them down carefully onto the coffee table. He slides his phone into his pocket and cracks the door open just an inch or two enough for him to pass through before he shuts it back again.

He pads silently through the massive kitchen, the ornate living room, and the parlor, getting more confused by the second. Grantaire hasn’t been anywhere but the first and third floors, and he won’t go anywhere he’s not invited to. For someone who’s said he’ll be back soon, he’s pretty elusive.

Oh, well. Enjolras takes the stairs to the third floor, enjoying the quiet tranquility of darkness around him. Much as he loves above all to spend time with the other Amis, there’s something peaceful and safe about being by himself. He’s been that way since he was twelve, and he enjoys the feeling of being solitary. That preference has driven him apart from anyone else but Combeferre and Courfeyrac — at least, until now. He smiles as each face of the Amis flashes across his mind’s eye.

Grantaire’s not in his guest room, and his things look untouched. Enjolras’ concern rises, and he pushes his bedroom door open, meaning to change into proper comfy clothing before he commences his one-man search for Grantaire again. He likes his skinny jeans, but they’re not that comfortable to sleep in.

He’s pulled his sweater over his head and is in the process of yanking his jeans over his ankles when a sardonic voice comments, “Nice view, Apollo.”

Enjolras jumps despite himself as Grantaire’s muscular form materializes from the shadows.

“Shit, R. You scared me.”

“That seems obvious.”

Enjolras doesn’t detect the smell of alcohol, which is a relief. His next worry comes swiftly on the heels of the other. Grantaire has a tendency to melancholy, even the occasional bout of depression. Maybe Enjolras has been so busy having fun that he hasn’t noticed. He kicks off his jeans and drags his sweatpants up his legs before he walks towards his boyfriend. “Are you okay? You didn’t come back, and I woke up. I got worried.”

“You woke up?” Grantaire seems suddenly more alert. “Bad dreams?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “I was just thirsty. I haven’t had a nightmare since you came under my roof.” He grins, trying to be cheerful; Grantaire only gives him a distant smile in return, and there’s a nervous twinge in the pit of Enjolras’ stomach. He feels his heart sinking. He knows what this is about. Grantaire’s probably thinking of ending things between them both.

You knew this day would come.

“Go back to bed, Apollo,” Grantaire says, looking back the way he came. “I’ll come back and join you in a moment.”

Enjolras doesn’t move. It’s not that he doesn’t want to; it’s that he’s forgotten how, and his bare feet are rooted to the Persian carpet on the floor. He speaks before he realizes words are coming out of his mouth; when he does, even he can hear that his voice is as dejected as he feels.

“Are you breaking up with me?”

Grantaire’s face registers shock and a growing anger. “What? No. No. Apollo, why would you even think that?”

Enjolras backpedals. “No. Nothing. I don’t think that. I was just being… paranoid, I guess.”

He starts to back away to the door, but Grantaire crosses the room in three broad strides, latches onto his elbow, and stops him from retreating any further.

“Apollo, it’s a problem if you keep thinking like that. What happened — what did I do or say — to make you think that I was going to break up with you?”

Enjolras looks down at Grantaire’s fingers against his elbow. Those long, slender artist fingers are gently stroking the skin of his bare arm. He glances back up at Grantaire, and is immediately captured by those penetrating blue-green eyes. In all the time he’s looked at Grantaire before they’ve started dating, he’s never realized that Grantaire has a unique shade of blue for his eyes — a clear ocean blue, until he looks at a certain angle or the light hits them in a different way, and then the blue takes on a faint emerald tint. It’s faint, but there, if you know what to look for. Enjolras has also learned that the green appears and disappears depending on what mood Grantaire is in. If he’s happy, it comes; if not, it isn’t there.

“You just seemed… distant,” he says, and his voice is very small. “I guess… I just thought you weren’t happy with me. Or how things were going.”

Grantaire smiles. It lights up his face and the green in his eyes appears again. “Apollo, if I’m not happy with you, you’ll know it. I’ll tell you. I won’t break up with you over stupid, unspoken reasons — assuming I break up with you at all. I told you, and I’ll keep telling you if you want me to. I’m here to stay.” He enfolds Enjolras into his arms, and Enjolras grasps at the back of his sweater, breathing in the smell of Grantaire’s deodorant and oil paint. Grantaire’s hands are warm against his back.

Assuming I break up with you at all… I’m here to stay.

“And I’m sorry I didn’t come back,” Grantaire says against his ear. “I was painting.”

“Painting?” Enjolras pulls a little bit away so he can see Grantaire’s face. “What were you painting?”

“I just have a touch or two to finish,” Grantaire says. “Then you can see it.”

“Where were you painting? My father’s study, I hope.”

Grantaire’s face darkens at the mention of Sebastien, but his tone is still lighthearted when he says, “No. Pity you didn’t mention it. But I did discover that your bedroom has its own spacious balcony and an excellent view.”

Enjolras heads for the balcony door, but Grantaire grabs his hand. “Hang on there, Speedy. You’re going to freeze if you go outside like that.”

Right. It’s winter. Correction: it’s winter in New York. Enjolras blushes as he pulls a red hoodie out of a dresser drawer and puts it on, zipping it up to his neck. Then he shoves his feet into the brown Uggs that Courfeyrac got him as a fashion statement two years ago and looks expectantly at Grantaire, as if to say, Do I pass?

For his part, Grantaire’s laughing. “Love the shoes. Let me guess. Courf?”

“The one and the same.”

Grantaire takes his hand again and they both step out into the night air. Enjolras bites back a gasp as the frigid wind swirls around him and nips at his cheeks and nose. Tiny snowflakes are falling, enough to leave a smattering on the balcony floor. He puts up the hood of his sweatshirt and hunches his shoulders forward. Grantaire tucks both his and Enjolras’ entwined hands into his jacket pocket, where the warmth of Grantaire’s body is an immediate relief.

“How are you so warm? It’s freezing out here!”

“I’m a space heater, obviously.” Grantaire grins and plants a quick kiss on Enjolras’ cheek. “Wait a moment. I have to tweak a couple of details. It won’t take long, I promise.”

Enjolras nods and jams his hands into his hoodie pockets as Grantaire picks up with his fingerless gloved hands the paintbrush and palette which are resting on the stool. He doesn’t sit, though; facing the easel with a thoughtful, almost melancholy look on his face. Then he jabs at the palette with the tip of his brush before he starts working furiously at the canvas. Enjorlas can’t see what he’s painting, but each quick movement is comprised of small, repetitive strokes, not the slashing motions that he’s used to seeing. This is no longer the artist looking at the big picture, but a maestro fine-tuning the threads and smidgins of a masterpiece.

After a few shivering minutes, Grantaire stands with the canvas and folds the easel and stool up. Without being told, Enjolras takes the still-wet brush and palette. He vanishes into the bathroom to toss the brush and palette into the sink — Marie is going to have a conniption when she comes in to clean tomorrow, not that Enjolras cares — and he walks back out to find Grantaire waiting for him.

“I just had a bit of inspiration, is all,” he says. “Don’t judge it too harshly. It might be crap. I don’t know.”

Enjolras takes the canvas from him and looks at it. When his brain registers the painting, his knees buckle once, and he has to sit down.

It’s a beautifully rendered likeness of Enjolras and Maryse as they are now — with a matured Alain, Alain as he would look if he were still alive and twenty-four. Enjolras takes in the blond hair and blue eyes that the three of them share, and he lets his fingertips ghost over Alain’s face. It’s exactly the way he imagines Alain to look if he were here, and he feels his eyes mist over. Hastily brushing the back of his hand against his eyes, he looks back at the painting.

Maryse is sitting down on a chair, and she and Alain are portrayed on the right side of the painting, while Enjolras himself is on the left. Alain stands behind Maryse, and he’s got his left hand on Maryse’s shoulder. His right hand clasps Enjolras’ left one, and Maryse has the other. Her free hand is pressed against her bosom, and she’s looking at Enjolras with the tender, yet sorrowful air of Sandro Botticelli’s Madonna paintings. He’s not quite sure why, and he hasn’t read up too much about Botticelli to tell if there’s any significance in that, so he just puts it out of his mind. Except for that stunning artistic quirk, the painting could be a photograph of the three of them.

He doesn’t realize he’s breathing hard until Grantaire’s arm encircles his waist and guides him over to the bed, where they both sit.

“Enjolras?”

He shakes his head to clear it of the cobwebs, and turns to face Grantaire, whose face is tentatively concerned, like he’s waiting for approval.

“R. Oh my — this is amazing.”

Grantaire beams. “Really?”

“Can I, like, buy this from you?”

Grantaire winces just a little. “Actually, you can’t. It’s for your mother. I already have something else for you.”

Enjolras laughs. “If it’s for Mother, I’m fine with not having it. You got me a gift? You really didn’t have to.”

“Nobody ever has to do anything, Apollo. And of course I’d get you a gift. It’s what boyfriends do.”

Enjolras’ face feels like it’s going to split since he’s smiling so widely. “Well, good, because I got you a gift, too. It’s not as personal or meaningful as this, but…” He scowls, but the expression wipes itself off his face when Grantaire lays a hand on his arm.

“I’ll love whatever you get me,” he states quietly, solidly, so matter-of-factly, that Enjolras has to believe it’s the truth. “Because you got it for me, and for me in mind.”

Enjolras looks at him for about two seconds before he lurches across the gap between them. This time, however, Grantaire meets him halfway. Enjolras nearly drops the canvas, but Grantaire reaches down and snags it without a blink, placing it carefully on the trunk at the foot of Enjolras’ bed without breaking contact with Enjolras. Then his hands cup Enjolras’ face as he explores his mouth accordingly, and Enjolras can’t stop kissing him, damnit, because this is Grantaire, this wonderful, thoughtful, kind, smart, amazing man is his boyfriend, and he keeps thinking in the back of his mind, What’s taken me so long?

They end up sprawled onto the bed, and they keep kissing for a good fifteen minutes or so more, until Grantaire lets out a yawn.

“Sorry,” Enjolras apologizes quickly. “You need to sleep.”

Grantaire chuckles and shakes his head. “Apollo, Apollo, Apollo. I’d much rather kiss you than go back to sleep. Or reality.”

“This is reality,” Enjolras points out smugly. “You and me. Right here. Right now.”

“Good point,” Grantaire chirrups, and they kiss again until Enjolras breaks it off by yawning himself.

“You need to sleep,” Grantaire orders, and then laughs at the indignant expression on Enjolras’ face. “All right, all right. We both need to sleep.”

“But, presents,” Enjolras whines. He doesn’t want to go to bed. Not now, when he’s with Grantaire, not when he has a strange nagging feeling deep down inside that they should spend as much time as they can together, before… before… before something happens. He just doesn’t know what that something is. If he’s more awake, he’d be more troubled by this, but he’s not.

“You’re needy,” Grantaire observes. “Presents tomorrow. Yes?”

“All right,” Enjolras says, a little sulkily, and Grantaire merely laughs. He shrugs off his jacket, shoes, and gloves before wrapping his arms around Enjolras’ waist— they’re both side sleepers — and maneuvering himself so that his front is pressed against Enjolras’ back. The warmth of his strong muscles and the comforting feel of him holding so protectively onto Enjolras is more than he can ever describe.

Right before he loses consciousness, he hears Grantaire’s voice, murmuring in a barely audible tone, like he’s almost speaking to himself.

I love you. No matter what happens, don’t ever forget that. No matter what happens. Promise me that.

The words are on the tip of his tongue when Enjolras falls asleep. 

Chapter Text

Courfeyrac and Jehan both simultaneously wake up at seven in the morning when Courfeyrac flails and nearly falls off the sofa. They both escape to Courf’s room, where they have a naughty moment, or two — or several, rather — and take a shower before they both fall asleep again.

At noon, they both wander downstairs for something to eat and find the entire house empty but for themselves. Feuilly and Victoire have gone for a walk. Sabine’s driven up to the estate, and she and Bahorel are on a walk of their own. Combeferre, Eponine, Azelma, and Gavroche have gone back to his house where they’re spending time with his family. Enjolras and Grantaire are out and about — when Courfeyrac texted them, Grantaire’s replied to say that they’re ice skating at a nearby pond. He invited Jehan and Courfeyrac, but Courfeyrac has hardly had any time alone with Jehan, and he wants it now that all the couples are splitting up to do their own thing.

He’s already planned his proposal to Jehan down to a T. He knows that Jehan would want everyone around to share in his triumph, so he’s decided to have the event happen on New Year’s Eve. His family and Jehan’s are already planning on coming down to Manhattan for the big event. He’s scoured all kinds of poetry books for the lines he wants to say, and he’s memorized them so he can say them directly from his heart rather than relying on a piece of paper. The loft is already rented, along with all the food — champagne, strawberries, caviar, Godiva chocolate, and a hundred other foods that are Jehan’s favorites — and flowers. Lots of flowers. He keeps touching the ring box in his pocket, constantly reassuring himself that it’s there, that this is real, that this is going to happen. He, the eternal bachelor, has finally found the man he wants to settle down with forever, and he wants to hold onto him for as long.

“What do you want to do?” Jehan asks. Agathe has made breakfast and left it in warming dishes, bless her heart, before she’s gone out to spend time with her own family. Now they’re bowed over plates of sausages and tomatoes and eggs and toast.

Courfeyrac forks over his mushrooms — Jehan loves them, which works out well, because Courfeyrac hates them — and shrugs. “Whatever you want to do. Like always.”

Jehan smiles at him with a touch of fond exasperation. “If I didn’t love you so much, I’ll be a touch annoyed by how easily and quickly you say yes to me.”

“It annoys you?” Damn. That’s not a good start to Operation Countdown Before Proposal.

“No, not really. It annoys me for your sake. I just don’t want you to keep sacrificing for my sake. I love you, Courf, and I know you love me. That doesn’t mean it’s one-sided. I want you to do what you want, too. You’ve always been the one doing everything and giving me everything, and I want to do the same for you.”

Courfeyrac hesitates, startled despite himself. Since when? He’s affectionate, sure, and helpful, and loyal; he’s also self-centered and selfish and flirtatious, which in itself has caused Jehan heartbreak, he knows. “But —”

Jehan shuts him up by kissing him. “What do you want to do, Courf?” 

Before Courfeyrac can answer Jehan, they hear the sound of buzzing, followed by the tinny blaring of the French national anthem.

“That’s Enjolras’ phone,” Jehan says.

“Leave it,” Courfeyrac replies flippantly.

“But what if it’s important?”

Courfeyrac reluctantly lets go of Jehan’s hand and stands up to get the offending iPhone, which is vibrating and trilling out the anthem over and over again. He looks at the screen and feels his eyebrows draw together.

“It’s Sebastien.”

Jehan’s lip curls in derision. “You’re serious.”

“As an open grave.”

“Don’t answer it.”

Courfeyrac stares down at the phone, which finally stops buzzing. Then it starts again. This commences again, and on the fourth buzzing, Courfeyrac looks at Jehan.

“I don’t think he’s going to stop calling.”

“Well, we could just leave it alone.”

Courfeyrac shakes his head. “He’ll just get angrier and angrier, and he’ll keep brewing up theories and ideas in his head until they explode out of proportion. Maybe I can just tell him to go the hell away since Enjolras left his phone at home. That’s reasonable, right?”

Jehan snorts, but he doesn’t refute it. “I suppose. Although we all have to admit that Sebastien’s not known for being rational or logical in the least bit.”

Courfeyrac slides the screen open to unlock it and hits the Answer icon before putting it on speaker. “Hello?”

“Where the hell were you, Adrien? I called you four fucking times. You better have been doing something extremely important, or so help me —”

“Enjolras is out at the moment,” Courfeyrac says coldly. “He left his phone here. May I take a message?”

“Henri Courfeyrac? What are you doing with my son’s phone?”

Courfeyrac resists the urge to snap back, he’ll be your son if you’ll be his father, but he knows more than enough not to tempt fate.

“We’re at your home,” he responds evenly. “Maryse invited us over for Christmas.”

“Who the hell is we? You and your faggot boyfriend? That pathetic redheaded orphan? Luc and that charity girl of his? Or my useless, bitchy son and his good-for-nothing starving artist?”

Jehan’s bristling by now. The normally gentle soul is furious – on Courfeyrac’s behalf, on Combeferre’s behalf, and certainly on Enjolras’ and Grantaire’s behalf. He cuts in before Courfeyrac can stop him, which is rare, because usually it’s the other way around.

“That’s none of your business, because your wife and your son can invite whoever they want to their house. And your son is not useless. You are!”

“Jean Prouvaire, as I thought,” Sebastien replies icily. “Put my son on the phone.”

“He’s not here. I told you, he’s out for the moment. If you have a message for him, we can deliver it.” Courfeyrac puts a hand on Jehan’s shoulder, stilling and silencing him. He can feel his lover trembling under his touch.

“Tell him to call me back. Thanks to his shenanigans, I need to discuss with him new developments. He’ll understand what I’m talking about. Now I need to get off the phone before either of you infect me with something.”

“The only thing you need to be infected with, Sebastien, is a sense of decency,” Courfeyrac says coldly back. “Although a bout of AIDS from one of us 'faggots' would also suffice.”

Sebastien’s voice goes dangerously quiet. “Always a pleasure talking to you, boy. I won’t forget this.”

“Good!” Jehan yells. “Neither will we, you bastard!”

Courfeyrac brings his thumb down solidly over the End button, stopping the call. He gathers Jehan into his arms, surprised at the little poet’s feisty rage, and also troubled at how that call’s turned out. Jehan doesn’t usually lose his temper this easily, and Courfeyrac’s worried that Sebastien may try to do something rash.

“You okay?”

Jehan’s still trembling. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Courfeyrac rubs his hands up and down Jehan’s arms, trying to warm and comfort him at the same time. He leans forward and nuzzles at the nape of Jehan’s neck. “Talk to me. Are you okay? Don’t let him make you mad, or he wins. I don’t want you upset.” He’s babbling, and he’s scared, because he hates seeing Jehan upset, and he really feels like Sebastien might use that call as an excuse to heap more abuse onto Enjolras.

Jehan turns his face and kisses Courfeyrac on the cheek. “I’m fine. I just… I’ve been thinking about what Enjolras has been going on, and it’s making me so mad. And the way he just immediately went off like that about all of us – Feuilly, you, me, Ferre, Ep, Enjy, R – without even thinking. Without even pretending to be civil. He’s so monstrous, and I can’t, I can’t think about how Enjolras is going to be trapped under his thumb for as long as he lives.”

Courfeyrac shakes his head violently. “No. We’re Les Amis. It’s not going to happen if any of us can help it.”

Jehan smiles grimly. “That may be true, Courf, but we’ve got one thing going against us: Sebastien Enjolras. He’s got power and he’s got capital. In a long battle, he’d run us into the ground.”

Courfeyrac fights to keep from shivering, and fails. “Don’t talk like that. It’ll work out.”

“I’m not so sure, love. I’m worried that this is one fight Les Amis won’t win. And if Enjolras leaves, we won’t make it. We have to stick together to survive, to live. You’re the center, but he’s our chief. We need him. He needs us.”

Courfeyrac’s voice quivers. “I don’t know, Jehan. Please, sweetheart. I’ll do my best to keep that from happening. We all will. Don’t talk like that.”

Jehan finally seems to realize that Courfeyrac is nervous. He brings his arms back up around Courfeyrac’s shoulders, and kisses his brow. Then he takes Courfeyrac’s hand and presses his lips to it. With his other hand he fumbles for the red carnation in his braid – the one that Courfeyrac’s given him this morning – and takes a deep breath of its scent.

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to be depressive. Or antagonistic. I ruined this night, didn’t I?”

“You’ll never ruin anything.” Courfeyrac swallows. He always likes being optimistic and happy, always thinking that things will work out. Jehan’s sudden pessimism is scaring him because deep down inside, he’s facing the same fears, and he doesn’t want to know that they could turn out to be true.

“But I did. And I’ve upset you, too. I’m sorry.” Jehan brushes at Courfeyrac’s brown waves. “I don’t mean to be the naysayer, Courf. Sebastien’s just been getting to me, and I’m sorry I took it out on you. The last thing we all need right now is to be cynical and pessimistic. It’s the Christmas season. We need to enjoy it. Right?”

“Right.” Courfeyrac says, but he cannot shove away the unrest he feels.

 * * * * * * * * * * *

Sebastien Enjolras feels his fingers clench around the phone even as the dial tone echoes in his ear. He brings his fist back and hurls the phone across the interior of the jet, where it bounces off the cushioned paneling of the walls. When he turns back, he sees Louis sitting across from him, watchful eyes ever at the ready, and he makes his decision.

“You have a friend named Bamatabois, do you not? The mercenary for hire?”

Louis inclines his head once.

“Call him,” Sebastien orders. He locks eyes with Louis and holds his gaze to make sure his faithful bodyguard does not misunderstand — not that he ever has before, or ever will. “Tell him that if he completes a hit and invokes Patron-Minette as the culprit, there’s a hundred thousand in it for him. More if he does a good job and makes it look completely unrelated to me.”

“Who do you want him to target?”

Sebastien looks out the window. He enjoys the feeling of soaring above the clouds in the lap of luxury, like he’s invincible, as if nothing can touch him. In his empire, he is God — but not while the demons quail at him and try to tear him down. Not when his cowardly, inferior son is attempting to slander and ruin him at every chance he gets. It's time to indirectly teach Adrien a lesson through his pathetic, worthless friends who he values so much over his own father. 

“Henri Courfeyrac and Jean Prouvaire.” 

Chapter Text

Apart from the dark shadow of Maryse’s secret hovering over him, Grantaire doesn’t think it’s possible to be quite this happy with life.

He and Enjolras have been ice-skating for two or so hours. It’s a marvel to watch his boyfriend move on the ice. Although Enjolras hasn’t ever done sports seriously, he’s taken activities and classes related to the high life — ballroom dance, ice skating, swimming, lacrosse, and cricket (Grantaire still thinks that one is a joke). He doesn’t have toned bulk or strength the way Bahorel and Grantaire do, but his lean musculature and natural grace are bewitching, to say the least. He glides across the ice like a swan, and several times he makes flawless figure skating moves that Grantaire remembers seeing on television during the U.S. and World Figure Skating Championships.

“Did you do figure-skating for a while or are you just good at it, like everything else?”

Enjolras gives him a raised eyebrow. “And what everything else are you referring to? I’m not good at anything but public speaking, remember? Certainly not cooking, or boxing, or dancing, or painting, like you are.”

“Such a lie. We’re both good at different things. You’re good at rallying people and commanding their loyalty. You’re smart, and you’re definitely good at your studies. You work hard. And you’re hot.”

Enjolras smirks. “If only that was all I required in life.” He skates a little bit away from Grantaire before he performs a perfect layback spin, and then sweeps back to Grantaire’s side. “I was pretty good at figure-skating as a kid. I stayed in it for about six years until Alain got too sick.” He casts Grantaire one of those sidelong looks from beneath his lashes that makes Grantaire feel slightly giddy, even as he makes a series of adorable toe steps. “You know, I never introduced you two. I haven’t been to see him since you and the others came over. Do you want to —?”

Grantaire nods his head before Enjolras completes his request. “As you wish, Apollo.”

Enjolras smiles at him. Grantaire’s noticed that Enjolras has different smiles for different people. With his father, he doesn’t even bother smiling in the least bit. There’s the fake smile that he reserves for strangers who irritate him, like the girls who flirt with him at the Corinthe or the police officers at the rally. He has a grin that he wears around the other Amis, filled with amusement and fond exasperation; one of respect and love that he has when he’s talking to Maryse, or about Alain. There’s a special quiet smile of appreciative devotion for Combeferre — and there’s one that’s completely different from all the rest for Grantaire alone. It’s a unique combination of all the rest — a hint of mischief, a touch of admiration, a bit of mild exasperation, even, and the rest is all warm tenderness — that thrills Grantaire’s blood and quickens his pulse.

“Come on, then. It’s not far from here.”

They drive for a few minutes in companionable silence. Grantaire is struck with how domestic his life has become, and how satisfied he is with it. They’re wearing matching peacoats — Enjolras’ in a deep scarlet red, and Grantaire’s a gorgeous emerald green, gifts from Maryse — and Enjolras is holding Grantaire’s left hand with his right one over the center console of the car. Their skates drip slush onto the floor mats. His gift to Enjolras is wrapped in brown paper and propped up in the backseat of the car, while Enjolras’ present to him is wrapped in festive red and green and nests beside the brown package.

Celine’s texted him several times a day over the break. He feels his phone vibrate in his pocket, and smirks when he opens the latest text message.

Celine: I want to know what he gave u. A ring maybe?

R: Patience, young grasshopper. We haven’t exchanged presents yet. And we only just became official. I don’t count on him proposing anytime soon.

Celine: Damnit. So what are u guys doing now?

R: We’re going to the cemetery.

Celine: Ooh. Well. Give him my regards. I’ll leave you two now.

“What’s she saying?”

Grantaire slides his phone into his pocket and gives Enjolras an innocent look. “Who?”

The corners of Enjolras’ mouth prick upward. “Your sister. You have different expressions for different people, you know.”

Like that smile of yours, Grantaire thinks, beaming.

“For someone so oblivious, you do a really good job of reading my mind. She’s just wondering what you’d given me. I said I’d let her know later.”

Enjolras beams. “I really hope you like it.”

“Apollo, you could give me a candy wrapper and I’d frame it.”

Enjolras laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I hope that’s not a dig against me. I don’t think I’m that stingy.”

He makes a right turn, and Grantaire looks out the window to see the gray and white of headstones and mausoleums and statuary rise up out of the snow-dusted green knolls that are everywhere in Westchester.

“Is this it?”

Enjolras nods. His handsome face has turned a touch contemplative. “Yeah, we’re here.”

The red Ford Focus turns into the little lane in front of massive iron-wrought gates, and Grantaire blinks as the automated gates yawn open to allow the car entry. He can see dots of color amidst the green grass and gray-white stone. Flowers, obviously, or decorations and personal belongings of the living and deceased alike. The shrubbery is well-trimmed, and the stone sculptures and markers are devoid of ivy and creeper vines, testifying to the presence of at least one groundskeeper.

Enjolras drives down a narrow dirt path to a certain section in the cemetery and parks. From the trunk of the car, he pulls out a pot of Christmas roses and snowdrops decorated here and there with mistletoe. The off-white waxy bulbs go well with the virginal white of the beautiful seasonal flowers, and Grantaire reaches out to touch one of the velvety petals.

“When did you sneak that in there?” he asks.

“This morning when you were in the shower,” Enjolras says. “I was planning on going later if you didn’t want to, but now’s a good time as any.”

Grantaire’s seized by a sudden brainwave. Reaching into the backseat of the car, he withdraws both Christmas packages and carefully cradles them in his arms as Enjolras gives him a confused look.

“What if we shared a bit of Christmas with Alain?” he asks. “Opened these with him?”

The special smile Enjolras gives him is about as bright as a truck stop floodlight, even as his dark blue eyes turn overbright. He steps forward, moving the flowers out of the way so that he doesn’t crush them, and carefully presses his lips to Grantaire’s. It’s a tender expression of his gratitude, tempered with his melancholy over being here on hallowed ground, and Grantaire takes care not to sexualize the gesture. When they break apart, he thumbs away the tears that slide down Enjolras’ cheeks, takes his hand, and follows him past different headstones and statues.

They walk up a small hill, and at the very top, there’s a pure white headstone with a marble bust atop it. Without asking, Grantaire immediately knows that the bust is of Alain, and he surveys the youthful features on the cusp of adulthood, but never quite making it there. With this physical image of Alain apart from his own flawless artist memory, he can already tell that his painting has actually successfully captured Alain’s essence and personality. He’s seen that spark from the picture Enjolras has shown him before, and he’s glad that his humble talent has been able to paint a decent representation of Enjolras’ beloved brother.

“Hey, Alain,” Enjolras begins, almost shyly. “Sorry I haven’t been by to see you since I came here a week ago with Mother. I was with Ferre and Ep, and Courf and Jehan, and Feuilly. I’ve brought someone to meet you.” He indicates Grantaire, who sets down the gifts on a marble bench that’s a stone’s throw away and walks over to stand next to Enjolras.

“This is Grantaire. Or R, which is what he prefers. He makes sure his close friends call him that. I’ve told you about him, but I wanted you to meet him, and here he is.” Enjolras lets out a soft laugh as Grantaire takes his gloved hand in his and hides them in his coat pocket, as is his habit. “Yeah, we’re dating now. It’s been a long time in coming, and I really can’t imagine what took me so long.” His eyes practically shine as he looks at Grantaire and back at the headstone, and this time Grantaire can’t contain the tear that slips out of the corner of his own eye.

“Father is being an ass, as usual. It’s been great having R and the others around, you know, not having to do this on my own like I always have. Like you’ve always told me not to.”

Grantaire listens as he runs his thumb over Enjolras’ hand, still secured away in his pocket. To the random passerby, Enjolras probably appears insane or bipolar or schizophrenic, talking to himself, but he knows better. Here in the cemetery, with the lives and memories of the dead still preserved, there’s a peace and a quiet that sinks deep into Grantaire’s soul. He feels calm here. Contented. And in the faint, gentle whisper of the wind breezing through the leaves of the weeping willows and yew trees and whistling around their ears, he can almost sense the replies of countless loved ones who have passed on. They’re alive — even if not physically, then certainly in the memories and thoughts of the ones who are left here on earth still. The only real death happens when a soul is no longer remembered or honored.

“What’s he like?” Enjolras laughs again and squeezes Grantaire’s hand. “Well, remember how I found him so infuriating in the past? How I wanted him to just shut up, sometimes, and stop challenging me. Or how I didn’t like him being so cynical, or drinking so much? Well, all that’s been overshadowed. He’s amazing. He knows exactly what to say when I don’t have any words, or when things are awful. He’s so talented, Alain — he can cook as well as Mother can. I know, right? He can paint better than even the famous artists of our day, I wager, judging from the canvas he’s going to give Mother, and all the other ones I’ve seen. He kickboxes, he dances, he fixes things. He’s so smart — he’s well-read, he’s knowledgeable about politics and ethics and everything that he can challenge me. He fixes the holes and weak spots in my arguments. When he hugs me, I just feel so safe, so protected, like nothing bad can happen; when he kisses me, I feel so alive, like there are fireworks going off in my stomach and I’ve been injected with a million grams of caffeine. And just look at him, Alain. Seriously. I know you had a girlfriend right before you passed away. What was her name again? Estelle Baptistine? But it doesn’t matter if you’re straight or gay, because he’s gorgeous. Those eyes, Alain, and that hair. And that face.” Enjolras’ voice takes on a stage whisper quality, but he looks at Grantaire and smiles even as he speaks. “He thinks he’s ugly. That couldn’t be further from the truth. I love that black curly hair of his and those blue eyes that are so different from ours. We hold secrets in ours and we hold ourselves back, but Grantaire just shows everything in his eyes. They’re beautiful. His face is — what does Cosette use to describe it? Adorkable. That’s it. Adorkable. Angelic and dorky and striking and guileless, all at once. And for some bizarre reason, Alain, he’s devoted to me. He doesn’t think so, but he means as much to me as I mean to him. Maybe even more, because I can’t remember how I managed to go through life without him here.”

Enjolras doesn’t manage to go on for much longer, because Grantaire very cautiously takes the pot of blooms from him, sets it down, and proceeds to practically smush his lips down over Enjolras’. Hands fisting in each other’s hair, bodies pressing up against each other, mouths coming together in a display of passion that would make a nun blush. He breaks apart from Enjolras, taking his boyfriend’s hand in his again, and he laughs when Enjolras leans against him, still breathing hard. It’s not a laugh at humor or sarcasm or anything like that; it’s a breathless exclamation of how happy he feels.

“Hey, Alain. It’s nice to meet you.” He looks at Enjolras to make sure this is okay before he goes on. “Yeah, I’ve heard a lot about you from Enjolras. I just want to say, thanks. For everything. Thank you for being such a fantastic role model to him. I adore him. I really do. Devotion doesn’t even cut it. The moment I saw him walk into Dr. Lamarque’s politics class, I was gone; as I got to know him more and more, I just fell more and more in like with him, so going from like to love was really easy.” He smiles at Enjolras again before he addresses the headstone once more. “And I know you’ve seen your brother while he’s grown up, but I want to tell you what I see in him, even if I’m not good with words like he is. He’s absolutely beautiful, and I don’t just mean his physical looks. He worries that it’s all people see, but it’s not what I see, and I know it’s not what most people see. When he speaks in public, he’s fiery and authoritative and powerful and stunning. He’s got a way with words that no one else possesses, and it’s transformative. It turns him from already being beautiful to being completely magnificent. And even though he’s oblivious and sometimes arrogant and really scary at moments, he’s kind and loyal. He loves kids and he treats everyone with respect. He protects and venerates the poor, the humble, and the weak. He’s willing to deal with your father to protect and secure the rest of us. He works himself to death, and gets himself into scrapes with the law over our rallies and protests, which worries the crap out of me, but he does it all for everyone else. He’s so intelligent, and he skates like a pro, and even though he’s not good at cooking or whatever, he tries so hard. He’s so determined, and he’s so powerful, and he gives it all to everyone else and keeps none for himself.”

Grantaire takes a deep breath. This part is hard, but he instinctively feels like he should say it. “Keep a secret, Alain? I already do love him. I’ve loved him for a long while, now. And I know it’s going to scare him, and I don’t even know if we’re going to last, but I really want us to make it. I really want him in my life, and I don’t want him to ever leave. I love him, no matter what, and I don’t ever want him to forget that. I know we’re still young in our relationship, and the L word is a little too early to slip, but he needs to know that.”

He tears his gaze from Alain’s marble features to look at his boyfriend. Enjolras’ mouth has fallen open, and he’s staring at Grantaire with an expression that’s equal parts shock and disbelief.

“I love you,” he repeats. “I know it might be still too early to say this, and I know we might fight and things are going to get worse because somehow they seem to do that when things are already going well. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know if we’ll end up together permanently, Apollo, but I’m praying to whatever god is out there that we do. I don’t want you to ever leave my life. You’ve been the best thing that’s happened to me since my family, and I want this. I want you. I love you, Enjolras, even if you don’t love me. It’s okay. I just want — I just want to have that out there.”

Enjolras keeps gaping at Grantaire for another few seconds. Then he closes his mouth and blows out a long breath, sitting down onto the snow-covered grass and leaning against the stone. Grantaire remains standing where he is, because he doesn’t know what to do now. He’s put himself out there, and it hasn’t worked out. Immediately he feels the dark tendrils of despair reeling him in, and he stuffs his hands roughly into his pockets, curling his toes against his shoes to keep the hurt back.

Enjolras speaks so softly that Grantaire almost doesn’t hear him.

“Alain. I — wow. What do you even say to that?”

“Don’t say anything, Apollo,” Grantaire says harshly. “I don’t need a pity reply.”

Enjolras looks up at him. “What if it’s not a pity reply? What if I’ve had this feeling for a long time, that in the four months since you’ve moved in, I’ve gotten closer to you more than anyone else except for Combeferre and Alain? That I’ve thought about you leaving or getting out of my life, and I don’t like that thought or the feeling that comes with it? Nowadays you and Combeferre are the first two people that ever always spring to my mind above all. When I think of the hole you’ll leave in my life, I just end up feeling empty. I’ve confided in you. I trust you, R. I’ve had sex with you, and you’ve promised me it won’t be the last. Which, I must say, good. I’ve had the worst time of my life and yet the best with you around. I know I want you. I know I don’t want you to go. I’ve never trusted anyone but Combeferre the way I do you; I certainly have never liked anyone but you the way I do. I don’t know if that’s love, Grantaire. I’ve just never felt this way before, and I’m not sure what love is. But if this is what love is, then I do love you.”

Grantaire sinks to his knees and threads his fingers through Enjolras’, holding their hands to his chest. Hope has replaced the colossal hurt in his chest. “Really?”

Enjolras looks at him with a quiet tenderness in his eyes. “Really,” he says softly. “Truly. And I want it to grow, because we’re still young, and it’s only been four months, and I want it to go on.”

When they both lean into each other and kiss, it’s like that special moment they’ve previously experienced back at the car. The kiss isn’t sexualized in the least bit, and every bit of tender joy and respectful love is portrayed in the almost chaste kiss they share. Instead of fireworks, Grantaire feels a comforting blanket of warmth spread over his entire body, heating him with a happiness that lasts. Both are equally wonderful, just in different ways, and he clings to Enjolras because he never wants to let go.

They kneel there on the grass for a long time, even when their jeans start getting damp. When they finally do stand up, they move to the bench, brushing the snow off.

“You first,” Enjolras says shyly, and Grantaire laughs. The sound is an expression of the pure ecstasy he feels, and he doesn’t think anything can quite diminish it at the moment, if at all.

“No, you,” he says teasingly.

“Both of us at the same time,” Enjolras compromises.

“Okay,” Grantaire says, but he carefully slides the green-and-red wrapping foil off of his gift while managing to watch Enjolras pull the brown paper off of the canvas.

He looks at it for so long with that same disbelieving expression that Grantaire’s stomach plummets. At least, until a wondrous smile tugs at Enjolras’ lips. His eyes light up, and he exhales sharply.

“R,” he says, sounding strangled. “Thank you.”

Grantaire knows what he’s looking at even without glancing at the canvas himself. He’s been working on the painting since they reconciled from their most recent, big confrontation. It’s a painting of all the Amis. Courfeyrac, Enjolras, and Combeferre are seated at a table in the Musain discussing strategy, with Jehan and Grantaire standing behind them and participating in the conversation over their shoulders. Eponine is also sitting down beside Combeferre, their hands entwined. Cosette and Marius are next to Eponine with their arms wrapped around each other; Feuilly and Bahorel are beside Jehan, both of them holding drinks and iPhones as they appear to be arguing companionably over some issue. Joly, Bossuet, Chetta, Azelma, and Gavroche are in the foreground of the painting, focusing on finger foods that are most likely Chetta’s experiments.

Much to Enjolras’ obvious surprise, Maryse is also in the painting. She’s on a chair next to Jehan, but her loving gaze is fixated in Enjolras’ direction. There’s also a clearly silhouetted figure of Alain standing behind Enjolras with one translucent hand on his shoulder, and the viewer isn’t sure if Maryse is looking at Enjolras, at Alain, or both.

If one looks hard enough, the painting is filled with as much detail and symbolism that Grantaire can put into it. There’s a full bottle in his hand, but he’s looking at Enjolras, meaning that his boyfriend has now fulfilled his desire for drunkenness. Enjolras has Alain’s dog tag locket around his neck. Combeferre’s wearing sky blue and Courfeyrac’s sporting lime green; Grantaire’s wearing dark emerald green; Enjolras, of course, is in red while Jehan’s has his purple coat on. Grantaire and Jehan and the Holy Trinity are also adorned with tri-colored cockades. Bahorel’s knuckles are bruised — his default state — and Feuilly’s wearing his parents’ wedding rings on a chain around his neck. Jehan’s got flowers tucked into his braid. Chetta’s crocheting, balls of yarn and knitting needles around her. Joly and Bossuet have matching rings on their left ring fingers. Azelma is on Pinterest on her smartphone; Gavroche has his skateboard under one arm and his iPod in his free hand — and he’s also wearing a tri-colored cockade. Much as the others don’t want him to, Gavroche’s starting to be a regular presence at their Musain meetings.

From the cracks and weathered knots in the table to the posters on the walls and the colors and textures of clothing and faces and hair alike, the entire work is a masterpiece, and Grantaire’s immensely proud of it.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says again, sounding hoarse. He runs his fingertips over Grantaire’s figure in the painting, then Alain’s, his mother’s, and Combeferre’s. Looking up, he smiles in Grantaire’s direction, and his eyes again turn overbright in the light. “I love it.”

They exchange another sweet, modest kiss before Grantaire turns back to his package.

“I hope you like it,” Enjolras says again. He looks a little bit worried, and Grantaire wants to tell him not to, but he’s too curious by now. Smoothing the red and green paper, he folds it and opens the box. He swallows a gasp when he sees what’s inside.

All fifty shades of M. Graham oil paint tubes — the brand that Grantaire favors, but which happens to be too expensive for him to ever afford — and a large variety of sable and bristle brushes, are neatly packed into a single carrying case. On top of the case is a card.

“Open it,” Enjolras suggests.

Grantaire does. The envelope has his name written on the front in Enjolras’ elegant script, and the envelope paper feels thick and textured. The card is made from heavy, expensive parchment, and he opens it to find two tickets to Wicked, two more to Phantom of the Opera, and a final two to Lion King on Broadway. He reads the card, covered completely in Enjolras’ handwriting, and while it’s more or less paraphrased from the little speech that Enjolras has just addressed to him, impromptu, it still makes him feel warm and happy all over.

“I don’t know if you’re free then during those dates,” Enjolras begins, “but I thought, seeing as how you like musicals,and you’ve never seen either of those —”

“Apollo, I’d make time.” He stares down at the painting supplies and the Broadway tickets. “How much did you spend — never mind. I can’t believe you’d think that your gift wouldn’t match up to mine. In fact, I think my gift —”

“No,” Enjolras says firmly. He moves forward and gently covers Grantaire’s mouth with his gloved hand. “No self-criticism allowed. I love your gift, R. It means more to me than anything else. I know you spent days on it, and I’m humbled you’d do that for me. Your gift is personal, and that’s all I want. I hope mine was for you.”

Grantaire nods, still feeling overwhelmed. “Of course it was. How did you even find out that was the brand of paint I like?”

“I talked to Bahorel and Eponine and Feuilly and Courf. I also had to go to the art department and ask.”

“You talked to Starkweather?” The realization startles Grantaire out of his shock, and he laughs. “How was that?”

“She’s terrifying. And she’s definitely fond of you. She thinks you’re a genius.”

“I learned from the best.” Grantaire sets the card down into the box and turns to press his forehead against Enjolras’. “Apollo, I love it. Thank you.”

Enjolras kisses his cheek and then his lips. “You’re welcome.”

“Won’t Alain be embarrassed at all this mushyness?” Grantaire asks, half joking.

Enjolras just smiles and shrugs. “Somehow I don’t think he’ll mind all that much.”

They stay for a little longer at the cemetery, holding hands and stealing kisses and casually talking about the Amis and their presents to each other and their families and the upcoming winter semester. It’s only when Enjolras gets too cold — fingers and nose red, not that he complains, because that’s just Grantaire’s little trooper for you — that they bid Alain farewell and walk back to the car.

Grantaire holds onto his box with one hand and Enjolras’ hand in the other, and he can’t help but feel that this is the best date he’s ever had in his entire life. 

Chapter Text

“A hundred thousand?”

Louis nods. “For both of them.”

Bamatabois strokes his neatly cropped beard as he surveys the dossier of information Louis has been able to bring him. He’s as large as Louis, and more surefooted, if not as quick on his feet, and handsome in a roguish sort of way. Louis doesn’t swing that way, though. Not like his boss’ whining, attention-seeking spawn.

“What does Sebastien Enjolras have against these kids, anyway?” Bamatabois asks casually. “They’re both kids of 22 still in school. Hardly a threat to anyone, I would say.”

“That’s not your concern,” Louis says sharply. “Your concern is whether or not you agree to the terms and fulfill your end of the contract.”

“You’ve become such an uptight hardass. Is your boss working you too hard?”

“Sebastien isn’t just a boss. He’s a good man and my number one priority, so watch your mouth, smartass.”

“You haven’t changed since college. Ever the hotheaded jock. I can’t believe how different we were then — and how alike we now are.”

“We’re not all that alike, Bamatabois. You kidnap and kill for a living. I guard a man.”

Bamatabois spreads his arms. “Don’t treat me like a fool, Louis. You’re negotiating with a criminal about killing the friends of his remaining son. Yes, I’ve figured it out. We’re not that different, so get off your moral high horse.”

Louis changes the topic, feeling the conversation getting away from him. “Don’t forget to implicate Patron-Minette in this. Sebastien cannot have this get back to him.”

Bamatabois scoffs. “Patron-Minette. I’m willing to bet that this so-called ‘monstrous threat against the community’ is nothing but a bunch of boisterous teenagers hyped up on testosterone and alcohol. I’m almost insulted that I have to stoop to concealing my art from the world.”

His art. Louis fights the urge to roll his eyes and call Bamatabois out on his vain boast. He kills with a gun and a knife and without honor. The only reason why he’s even relying on his one-time pity friend is because he and Sebastien need a fall guy for this delicate operation, and someone willing to dirty their hands.

“It’s in the terms of the contract,” he replies coolly, and Bamatabois nods.

“I know. It’s just not what I’m used to.”

The bounty hunter looks at the topmost picture in the dossier. Louis can pick out a glimpse of long chestnut hair and familiar trail of flowers, as well as a tousled mop of deep brown curls and impish smile. He waits for Bamatabois to look up before he locks eyes with him.

“Do we have a deal?”

Bamatabois smiles wolfishly.

“Have your money ready,” he says, rising from the table. “I’ll do it when they go back to school.” 

Chapter Text

Combeferre spears a pickle with his fork and hums when he bites into it. The sweet-salty taste of the vegetable is tangy on his tongue, and the smoke from the barbecue doesn’t irritate as it usually does. He leans back in his lawn chair and heaves a sigh of contentment. All around him are people he loves and respects: his family, Eponine’s siblings, Jehan’s and Courfeyrac’s and Enjolras’ families, and the Amis — all of them gathering for one last big cookout before the Amis have to return to school.

There’s a tug on his trouser hem, and he looks down to see Stormie blinking up at him with big gray eyes. Her needle claws are tangled in his pant cuffs. As he bends down to try and free himself, she takes the opportunity to jump up onto his shoulder where she sits, looking smugly at him. Then she mews as soon as she sees his plate.

“You little monster,” he says affectionately. He’s an animal person, always has been, and Stormie is no different. He takes the meat off a chicken leg, cleaning away excess oil and fat, before shredding it with his fork. Nudging her kitty dish towards him with his foot, he drops the shredded meat into it.

Stormie coils up on her haunches and jumps down to the floor on all fours before skidding to a stop in front of her dish and stuffing her face, no longer paying any attention to Combeferre.

“Wow, Stormie. You clearly only love me for feeding you. If I were to die in the apartment and nobody found my body, you’d probably eat my fingers or something like that.”

He laughs, because the possibility of nobody recovering his body is just absurd, and the thought of Stormie nibbling on dead flesh is morbid to a fault so much so that it’s practically hilarious.

“That’s gross,” Enjolras says beside him.

Combeferre smirks at that.

“No, it’s the circle of life, Simba. Get used to it.”

“And what are you?” Enjolras asks dryly. “Mufasa or Zazu?”

“Mufasa, obviously. Courfeyrac’s Zazu. Blustery, enthusiastic, and self-important.”

Enjolras laughs, because that describes the last member of their best-friend-trio perfectly, and Combeferre looks at him appreciatively. He loves it when Enjolras is happy, because that’s something his best friend hasn’t been able to enjoy in over a month. It actually shows — there are lines cut into Enjolras’ face that weren’t there weeks ago, and the shadows under his eyes haven’t quite dissipated.

He and Eponine have split up for the night, mainly because they want to catch up individually with their own best friends, something that they haven’t done in weeks. Enjolras is beside Combeferre, dangling a bit of fish for Stormie, who’s gobbled down the chicken and is now back for seconds. Meanwhile, Eponine is over in the corner with Grantaire and Bahorel, and all three of them are laughing and having a good time. Combeferre’s more accustomed to sitting quietly beside Enjolras, both of them silently enjoying the other’s company without feeling the need to fill it with too much chatter and thought.

He and Eponine haven’t missed the way Enjolras and Grantaire are constantly focused on each other — they’re texting, even now, and they’ve either held hands or brushed shoulders and knees. Grantaire’s face can barely contain his smile, and Enjolras has a tiny little grin lurking on his lips. They’re practically giddy, like they’re brand new newlyweds, and Combeferre can’t help but smile fondly at the sight. Enjolras hasn’t ever had a single relationship, ever, and seeing the joy he takes from this is satisfying at the very least.

“How are you holding up?” he asks.

Enjolras considers the question as he neatly halves a French fry with his fork (he refuses to eat with his fingers, if he can help it, and neither can Combeferre) and finally shrugs. “Good, I guess.” The smile that lifts the corners of his mouth betrays his nonchalance.

“I’m happy for you,” Combeferre says. “You need him, and he needs you.”

Enjolras smiles again. “About as much as I need you, I suppose. You’ve been so focused on me that you haven’t had time for yourself. Is there anything I could help with for your and Ep’s wedding day, or even after that?”

Combeferre places a hand on his shoulder and looks him seriously in the eyes. “Enjolras, I want to focus on you. You’re struggling, and that’s okay. It’s not weakness. It’s strength that you can keep fighting even when you don’t want to. And the wedding details are fine. We actually began planning two months ahead of Cosette and Marius, and you’ll be surprised at the number of decorating and money-saving ideas on Pinterest. Plus we’ve been getting a ton of support from my family and you guys.”

“Well, yes, but —” Enjolras begins, and Combeferre silences him by squeezing his shoulder gently.

“My friend,” he chides softly, “I’m serious. You’re a priority to me just as much as Ep is.”

Enjolras looks away and at the others around them. “I wish this didn’t have to end. That we can all keep on being happy and such.”

As always, Combeferre can practically read his mind. “You haven’t called him back yet, have you?”

Enjolras’ eyes darken. “No. I’m putting it off till the morning, because I don’t want him to ruin what’s been an otherwise perfect day. R’s driving, so I’ll make the call in the car then. Are you guys following us back or staying here for a little bit longer?”

“I think we’ll follow you back. We need to prepare for Courfeyrac and Jehan the next day, remember.”

“I can’t believe you all expect that I’ll be able to distract Jehan from Courf’s engagement hijinks. I’m not exactly the smoothest at these things.”

Combeferre smiles. “You are if you don’t think too hard about it. It’s when you try to pretend that you mess up. You don’t really know how to lie, do you?”

Enjolras thinks back to the days when he’s had to lie to his father about where Alain is, about what his mother is doing, just so they all don’t have to deal with his bullshit and they can relax in peace. He remembers the most recent phone conversation he’s had with his father. “Depends on the crisis, I suppose.”

“Do you want me there when you call him?”

Combeferre is so freaking astute, the FBI could slap a collar on him and tell him to go hunt down all the men and women on their Most Wanted list and he’ll probably find them, right down to their secret hideouts and illegitimate babies.

“I don’t want to bother —”

Combeferre grips Enjolras’ elbow and pulls him nearly face to face. Their noses are inches apart as he forces Enjolras to look him in the eye.

“We’ve known each other for over sixteen years, Enjolras. Please. If it was a bother, I would tell you. I wouldn’t even offer. You need to come to terms with the fact that the lot of us would do anything for you, and this is definitely classified under that category.”

Enjolras’ shoulders droop. “I should be able to take him on my own.”

“Sometimes you can’t. That’s not a bad thing. And we really don’t mind sharing the burden with you. You just need to permit us.” 

Chapter Text

The day of Courfeyrac’s engagement to Jehan finally dawns, and he’s a nervous wreck. He’s shown up early to Enjolras/Combeferre/Grantaire’s apartment. Combeferre is at his internship, and Jehan has slipped out early to go visit the New York Marble Cemetery. He gets his best poetry inspirations from cemeteries and museums and other old places.

“Calm down,” Enjolras tells him, pressing a mug of Courfeyrac’s favorite tea into his hand. He’s wearing his red peacoat and a white scarf that’s wrapped warmly around his swanlike neck, ready to go grab Jehan and distract him for the rest of the time until things are ready. They’ve made a man-date to go to the Met, and he’s meeting Jehan at the nearest metro station. They’ve done this together before as their bonding thing, mainly because Courfeyrac doesn’t have the patience or respect for old things to be interested in the Met.

It’s a funny day when Enjolras has to be the one to tell Courfeyrac to calm down, because as of late he’s been the nervous wreck in the Amis. Today, however, he seems to have forgotten his own troubles in favor of Courf’s, and Courfeyrac appreciates it a great deal more than he can even tell Enjolras.

“But what if —”

Enjolras cuts him off by clapping his hand over Courfeyrac’s mouth. “You’ve planned this evening down to a T,” he says firmly. “Seriously. Jehan will never suspect a thing, and you’ll get everything shipshape. Just stick to the plan, okay? Don’t derail it with last-minute worries because you’ve worked for this day weeks in advance.”

That animal magnetism and charisma that Enjolras possesses in spades are finally returning to him with a swift vengeance, after all the drama he’s been through. Courfeyrac almost feels bolstered by the few short sentences that Enjolras has just uttered. “Okay.”

Grantaire comes out of the kitchen with a thermos of hot coffee for Enjolras. They share a quick kiss that turns out to not be so quick, and Courfeyrac hides his grin behind his hand. Their leader and their artist are fast becoming his favorite couple — with the exception of himself and Jehan, of course — and it’s such a treat to see them happy together, after all the shit they’ve given each other and that life’s thrown at them both, together and separately.

“Gotta go,” Enjolras says, finally breaking the kiss. He runs a finger down the side of Grantaire’s jaw. “Don’t want to be late.”

“Of course.”

Grantaire stares so longingly after Enjolras when the door closes that Courfeyrac resists the urge to tell him to go after Enjolras. His nervousness is starting to return, and he can’t be distracted now. Grantaire is his willing ride, and Courfeyrac intends on keeping it that way.

“Come on, lover boy. We gotta go.”

Grantaire himself is wearing his matching green peacoat and another white scarf — Courfeyrac suspects that he and Enjolras dressed to match on purpose — and he snatches Enjolras’ keys from where they sit in their little dish on the foyer table.

“Lover boy? I think you’ve reversed our titles. I’m the driver. You’re the lover boy, Mister I’m-Proposing-Tonight.”

“What if he says no?” Courfeyrac follows Grantaire out the door, and he’s worrying at his nails, because he’s just realized — what if Jehan says no?

Grantaire snorts inelegantly. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“No. I’m really not.” Courfeyrac opens the car door and sinks into the leather seat, curling up on himself, because what if Jehan really does say no? He just might shrivel up and die on the spot. Already feeling like his heart has shrunk two sizes, he straps on his seatbelt and stares despondently through the glass of the windshield, even though the car hasn’t moved an inch.

He yelps when he feels a finger and thumb yank him by the earlobe to get his attention.

“Now you listen to me, and you listen good,” Grantaire says cheerily. His grip isn’t really painful, just startling. “We’re going to go over to the farmhouse where all of us are going to put up decorations and prepare for tonight, and you are going to calm down and not get the jitters, because you and Jehan are meant to be together, and you will be together. You’re like peanut butter and jam. Bonnie and Clyde. Sherlock and Watson —”

“I get it, I get it. Start the damn car.” Courfeyrac waits till Grantaire’s backed out of the garage and is on the road before he speaks again. “You’re in a committed relationship. Don’t go on drooling about Sherlock when you have Enjolras.” He tosses a smirk over his shoulder and sees Grantaire shaking his own head, smiling as well.

“I can’t help it. I mean, obviously, everyone else is overshadowed by Enjolras. But when I’m alone, I can’t help but notice that Sherlock’s eyes have the same intensity as Enjolras’ when he stares at me through the screen.”

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. “I’m sure he’ll be flattered when you tell him that he bears a resemblance to a sociopathic genius.”

Grantaire waggles his eyebrows, a trick that he’s learned from Courfeyrac. “Of course. I can be very persuasive if I want to be.”

“I’m sure,” Courfeyrac mutters under his breath, because he has a hyperactive imagination but even then there are some things he doesn’t want to know. Actually, that’s a lie. He’s curious about everything and he likes knowing everybody’s business. “So have you both… you know, done it yet?”

Grantaire smirks at him. “You have a dirty imagination, Courf. Some things are private, and shall remain so.”

“Aw, come on,” Courfeyrac wheedles.

“Nope. You’re not getting it out of me.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“So what if it is?”

They continue like that until Grantaire pulls up in front of the beautiful old farmhouse that Courfeyrac has rented as the venue for his proposal tonight. Courfeyrac realizes belatedly that Grantaire’s done this on purpose — distracted him enough that his mind has been taken off bad thoughts. Now he’s going to be preoccupied with the trivialities of his plans, and he won’t have time for the doubts to plague him.

“Thanks,” he says, unable to keep the gratitude or relief out of his voice.

Grantaire flashes him a quick smile and lifts his chin to gesture at the other Amis, who are gathered in front of the farmhouse with flowers and fairy lights and other trappings that Courfeyrac’s chosen.

“Go get ‘em, tiger,” he says. “Let’s get this show on the road.” 

Chapter Text

Enjolras keeps his cold fingers clasped around the new cup of coffee he’s bought. Although the Met is warm — gotta keep those exhibits well preserved, after all, and there are countless bodies that pass through this place — he has a propensity to get chilled easily, and the warmth of the coffee seeps through the cup. Both he and Jehan have finished the thermos Grantaire made before they entered the museum, which is a good thing because outside food and drinks aren’t permitted in the Met anyway.

Jehan is wandering around the Modern and Contemporary Art exhibits, his expression dreamy. He’s got one of his little black books out, and every so often he pauses to scribble in it. Enjolras seizes the opportunity to watch him, knowing what Courfeyrac would be doing in his shoes.

The little poet who all of the Amis are unceasingly fond of is standing in front of a psychedelically colored teacup and saucer. He’s got his fountain pen out, and now he’s furiously writing something that looks like a sonnet from where Enjolras is standing.

Gentle, creative, delicately exquisite Jehan. What a treasure he’s been to the Amis. He’s steady and calm like Combeferre, but more aesthetically cultured, curious, and shy; yet boisterous and happy like Courfeyrac. He’s the youngest of all the Amis, and all of them view him as their beloved little brother. He represents innocence, and yet he’s an old soul — he’s the most comfortable with difficult topics like death and pain, and he’s also wiser than everyone but Combeferre despite his youth.

Enjolras can remember with complete clarity the day they met. Both were chubby six-year-olds when the Prouvaires moved in two houses down (right next to Courfeyrac’s house.)

“What are you doing?”

He looks up, blinking in the sun, to see another little kid his age standing on the wet sidewalk. The newcomer’s standing with the sun behind him, so he can’t see much of him other than the fact that he’s got a daisy stuck behind his ear and he’s holding a book. He stops moving, looking up at this other kid who’s not Ferre or Courf, his fingers still holding the stick with a tiny earthworm curled around it. He takes a deep breath, filled with the scent of just-fallen rain, before answering. 

“Saving worms.”

“Oh.”

No asking him ‘Why would you save them?’ or ‘Ew, that’s gross’ or anything like that. The other boy just walks over and squats down on the sidewalk next to him, careful not to step on the squirming worms on the sidewalk. One or two have already been crushed into the ground by careless feet. He feels defensive, like he needs to say why he’s saving worms, even though this kid hasn’t asked him. He’s not used to people accepting his ideas, and sometimes what he says and thinks makes his mother shake her head and his brother laugh.

“They may be worms, but they need to live too.”

“I know. Can I help? I’m Jehan.”

“Adrien. But I go by E, if you want.”

“What’s the E stand for?” Jehan locates another stick on the sidewalk and carefully pokes a fat earthworm until it starts curling up, then slides his stick underneath it to lift it up. He drops it back into the grass, and looks at it as it flails around for a second or two, then stops, as if suddenly realizing where it is.

“Uhn-shol-ras.” He pronounces it carefully, the way Alain’s taught him how, and he’s proud when it comes out sounding like how his mother says it.

“Do you live here, then? I think my parents mentioned your name in the car.”

“Yeah. This is my house behind us.”

“I’m over there.” Jehan points back two houses down. “We’re moving in, but my mom told me to go play somewhere else.” He frowns. “I wouldn’t have done anything bad, anyway. I would have just read my book.”

“What book is it?” He carefully deposits his baby earthworm down into the lawn before going back for what looks like the papa earthworm, coiled on the wet concrete.

"The Little Prince. By Antoine de Saint-Exupery.”

“I like that book. Although it’s really sad.”

“I think so too. How do you figure?”

“Well, you know, there’s all those people in the story. Like the narr-nar-something, and the drunk man, and the map person. Even the snake, the rose, and the fox.”

“Narrator,” Jehan corrects helpfully.

“Yeah. They’ve all got their lives, and they think that’s all that matters, but they don’t ever think of anyone else. Unlike the little prince. Some of them are smart, some of them aren’t. And all of them are selfish. People can’t be selfish. They’ve gotta think of other people. We’ve gotta all be good cit’zens together.”

“Yes,” Jehan says gently. “But nobody’s perfect. Everyone’s good and bad, and that’s why I like the story. We’re all different. There are people who should be worms, and there are worms who should be people. There are narrators and drunks and map people and snakes and foxes and roses and little princes everywhere.”

He looks at Jehan, liking the way he thinks, noting the daisy in his hair and the way his honey-brown hair is grown out long over the collar of his polo shirt and the nice look in his eye. It reminds him of the look his mother or Alain wears when they’re all together, and his father is not there.

“You’re the little prince,” he says.

Jehan laughs and reaches out to pick up another earthworm. He doesn’t agree or disagree, and Enjolras thinks he likes him very much.

“Do you want to come over for dinner?” he asks.

“Only if that’s okay. Do you know anyone else here?”

“I know Ferre. And Koof. They’re my best friends, and they’ll be here tonight for dinner too. Please, will you come? I know my mom and my brother won’t mind, and my father’s never home to care.”

That night, Jehan’s family does come over for dinner, and Ferre and Courf are also there, and the four end up talking about earthworms, roses, and The Little Prince. That’s the same night that they all decide to swear to being best friends forever, as initiated very heartily by an enthusiastic Courfeyrac. Combeferre thinks about it, seriously, for about five minutes, before he agrees very solemnly. Jehan smiles as if he’s got a secret, and nods his head. As for Enjolras, he looks at each of the other three boys, thinks about how well he knows each of them, how much he wants to know them all better, and how he does want to see them change the world together, and then decides to say yes.

“Enjolras?”

Enjolras comes violently back to himself. He blinks at the sound of Jehan’s voice, and realizes his friend is standing in front of one of the Piece artworks by Brooke Cadwallader, looking in puzzlement at him. This particular textile is made up completely of flowers in bright colors — white and muted yellow and red and navy and lavender — and he smiles. How appropriate for Jehan.

“What are you thinking about? Or, should I say, who?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “Get your mind out of the gutter, little one. I’m not thinking about Grantaire. Certainly not the way Courfeyrac thinks about you.”

Jehan tosses a devilish grin at him. They both know that Enjolras isn’t talking down to Jehan; it’s the way he’s expressing fondness for the little poet. “Dare I ask?”

“Earthworms,” Enjolras blurts out. “Roses, and snakes, and little princes.”

Jehan’s curious gaze softens, and his face also breaks out into a fond smile. “One of the best days of my life, since it was the day I met you three.”

“You’re the little prince,” Enjolras repeats. “The glue that sticks all of us together. And it was one of the greatest days of our lives, too. Without you, we wouldn’t be Les Amis.”

Jehan snaps his notebook shut and slides it into his pocket. He kisses the side of Enjolras’ cheek, a very brotherly/platonic gesture, and yet it’s significant. Jehan’s a romantic at heart, with the tender, wounded soul of a poet. There is no gesture he offers that has no symbol or deeper meaning behind it; no word he speaks that isn’t carefully chosen to make its greatest impact. Anything he says and does takes on greater significance because he says and does everything deliberately, and with love.

They’re all so different, Enjolras thinks. Bahorel’s the muscle, always prone to action, combining offense with defense of those he loves. Feuilly’s the capable, independent lone wolf who’s chosen to fling in his lot with the Amis, and they’re all infinitely better off for it. Joly may be a hypochondriac and the medical expert of the group, but everyone knows that it’s because he cares about everyone so much that he worries about germs and them getting sick and wants to doctor them however he can. (He definitely doesn’t do this to strangers.) And when he wants to, he’s the capable family practitioner foil to Combeferre’s surgical methods. Bossuet’s as merry as Courfeyrac, but without the fits of insecurity and melancholy that Courfeyrac is prone to. Despite his terrible luck, he’s more full of faith and optimism than anyone else. Eponine’s the sharp, silk-clad steel to Cosette’s ethereal maternal figure. Marius is the naive but loyal dreamer; Courfeyrac’s the endearing heart of the group with his need to give — and receive — warm fuzzies from everybody. Combeferre’s the steady, unwavering guide, while Grantaire’s the voice of (sometimes cynical) reason and the one that grounds Les Amis when they get too ambitious or idealistic. And Jehan has the greatest capacity to love and be loved in return.

He’s lost without them. Every single one of them. His mother is right; Les Amis has become his real family without him realizing it.

“Come on, Apollo,” Jehan says playfully, threading his arm through the crook of Enjolras' own. “We’ve got more exhibits and not enough time to do them all. I want to get as much in before I go meet Courf for dinner.”

Enjolras hides his smirk. “Yes, sir.” 

Chapter Text

Jehan feels like Glinda the Good Witch from Wicked. He’s not wearing a dress or a tiara (no on the dress, ever, even though it’s a pretty dress, but certainly yes to the tiara, if he can ever find one) but he certainly feels like he’s walking on air, like he’s traveling in a happy, happy little pink bubble of joy.

He’s gone around what feels like the entire Metropolitan Museum of Art with Enjolras, who’s extraordinarily good company, surprisingly, in a place like this. If Jehan ever brings Courf anywhere to old and historical places, his lover would fidget and point out funny things about the artwork until he’s eating something from the roof garden cafe or the balcony lounge. For someone so grown-up and smart, Courf has his childish moments, and Jehan can’t help but love him for it.

But if there’s someone to take along for serious contemplation and creative inspiration, then Enjolras, Combeferre, and Grantaire are the ones to take along. Combeferre’s so silent you’d just forget he’s there, but he’s still superb enough company that he’s willing to do whatever you want. On the other hand, he’s always busy with his internship and job and classes and fiancee and fiancee’s family and being the Amis’ willing and able babysitter. Sometimes Jehan feels guilty asking him for more time, so he doesn’t. Feuilly and Grantaire are both artists, and so they understand the creative process, but Feuilly is about as busy as Combeferre, so Jehan usually asks Grantaire. And when Grantaire comes, he also gets into the zone so much that Jehan’s the one trying to get him to move on throughout the museum.

Enjolras is like a perfect combination of the others. He obviously isn’t an artist (although his attempted doodles are pretty cute, if a little misshapen), so he has no zone to enter or exit. He doesn’t understand art, but he’s appreciates and respects it and those who wield it. He’s quiet and contemplative, like Combeferre, and he can get caught up in his thoughts when he’s around the artistic and antiquated. That means that Jehan doesn’t have to feel badly about spending so much time in the Met, because they’ve been there for hours. All Enjolras needs is a cup of coffee, and he’s set.

Make that two cups, actually, considering how big the Met is.

Right now Jehan's just changed into a more formal outfit and he’s meeting Courf at a swanky restaurant (the only reason why he’s changed) for their New Year’s Eve dinner. The end of this year marks the sixteenth year they’ve known each other and the fifth year that they’ve dated — their anniversary is in a few months’ time — and he’s not entirely sure why Courfeyrac is putting such a big effort into their date, but he definitely appreciates it. Courfeyrac’s used to doing things big all the time — go big or go home is one of his favorite phrases, and Jehan wrote a poem about that once. It doesn’t matter the day or time, and the gesture is always romantic, whether it’s small or big or overblown. It could be a bouquet of 24 red roses and two lattes, or a carefully penned note pinned with two tickets to the opera, or the words to a poem that’s struck Courf — and he’s not a poem person — copied down onto a clumsily decorated index card.

The cab drops him off in front of Le Cirque, and he stares up at the restaurant sign openmouthed for a second before he goes inside and is ushered to a table for two by the maitre d’hotel under Courf’s reservation. He’d be a little more overwhelmed if Courfeyrac isn’t already sitting at the table, lifting his champagne glass and raising it in Jehan’s direction like Leonardo DiCaprio in The Great Gatsby.

There are roses and candles and champagne in an ice bucket and elaborate place settings. Jehan is suddenly very glad Courfeyrac texted him earlier telling him to wear a suit. Anything short of a tuxedo feels, frankly, underdressed. Even in his three-piece dark gray suit, he’s feeling inadequate.

“Hey, babe.”

And then, just like that, Courfeyrac’s voice makes him forget all his inadequacies. Jehan slides into his chair, completely forgetting about the waiter or the maitre d’, and he stares at Courfeyrac, feeling a smile split his face so much that he feels like it’s going to pop. He can’t stop, though.

It’s also a sin to see just how dashing Courfeyrac looks. He seems to be making an extra effort tonight, which is nice. There’s a red carnation thrust into the lapel of his navy blue suit — also three-piece; it’s awesome how they’re always on the same wavelength 99% of the time — and he smells of his everpresent scent of honeysuckle and that spicy, woodsy cologne that he favors. The look in his eyes when he sees Jehan is like he’s received all the Christmas presents that there could ever be in the entire world.

That look that I want to see every day for the rest of my life.

Jehan shoos away the thought and sits down with a sigh. He doesn’t want thoughts of Courfeyrac’s reluctance to get hitched distract him from a happy night. They’ve talked about this at length for far too many times. They love each other, but Courfeyrac’s just not prepared yet, and that’s okay. Jehan will wait for him as long as he needs to.

That is, assuming Courfeyrac will not move on with someone else.

He’s too prone to fits of melancholy like this. Courfeyrac’s always been understanding of his moods and troubles, just like he’s tried to be for his boyfriend. Hopefully, one day it will be enough. For now, he really should just focus on how delicious Courfeyrac smells and looks and how black-jacketed waiters have begun to serve the different courses.

“How was the Met?” Courfeyrac asks casually. Too casually, but Jehan puts it out of his mind because he’s been pestering Enjolras to go with him for a while now, and he’s just glad their fearless leader acquiesced on New Year’s Eve, of all days.

“Amazing,” he responds heartily. “I filled up ten pages today.”

“Good,” Courfeyrac laughs. “You were there from eleven to five. Did Enjolras have a hernia?”

“Surprisingly enough, he was very docile about the whole affair,” Jehan comments. Now that he thinks about it, it’s extremely odd that Enjolras would willingly consent to six hours of the Met. “Usually he gets antsy around the three-hour mark.”

Courfeyrac hastily takes a sip of his champagne, even as a waiter pours a glassful for Jehan. “I guess he was in a good mood today.”

“Mmm. I suppose. So what are we celebrating tonight?”

Courfeyrac almost chokes. “What?”

“This. Have you seen everything, Courf? You’re pulling out all the stops tonight. Roses, champagne, Le Cirque? For crying out loud, the bill’s going to be sky-high. What’s the occasion?”

“Does there have to be an occasion to treat you well?” Courfeyrac’s wearing such an innocent look that Jehan would be suspicious, but when he maintains it for as long as Jehan stares at him, it becomes apparent to Jehan that there really isn’t anything going on. And it’s kind of a letdown, almost, because part of him is hoping that there is something more to this night. Something like an engagement.

But clearly he’s overthinking things, like always. “No, I guess not.”

Courfeyrac catches his eye. His gaze is warm, and there’s something else in there that looks like anticipation, but Jehan blinks and it’s gone.

“Bon appetit,” Courf says, raising his glass again in a toast to them both. “To us.”

“To us.”

They clink glasses, and Jehan gulps his down. The champagne floods down his gullet and pools in his stomach, and he lets out a sigh as the warm velvety liquid takes effect, loosening his nerves. His silly wish of getting a ring evaporates into nothing, and he is relieved because Courf is clearly making an effort to be nice, and he’s spoiling things by being all tense and demanding.

The rest of the meal is uneventful. Both of them engage in small talk that delves occasionally into deep philosophical discussions and commentary on a book he’s read or a TV episode Courfeyrac’s recently watched. They’ve always been able to talk about anything and everything, as well as do everything together without fear of being judged or scorned in the slightest. They feast on lobster and escargots and foie gras and caviar and wagyu beef that is so tender it practically falls off the bone, wrapping up the meal with a chocolate mousse and a banana souffle — all of Jehan’s favorite foods. Under the table, their feet brush against each other; the table is not so wide that they can’t hold hands, which they do for all courses. Occasionally they talk with their faces so close together that it’s easy to kiss, and they do so. Multiple times.

“Come on,” Courfeyrac whispers when he’s finally paid the bill and left a handsome tip. “Let’s get out of here.”

Jehan rises from the table as Courf takes his hand, and they both leave without looking back. He can’t wait to get home, because Courfeyrac’s been whispering dirty things close to the end of the meal, and it’ll be nice to just unwind in bed instead of a boisterous party like the rest of the world is participating in. Not that he doesn’t like parties, because he’s with Courfeyrac, the king of all merrymaking, and he’s gotten used to it.

But they’re not going home, apparently. Courfeyrac keys an address that Jehan’s never even heard of into the GPS of the Mercedes, and starts driving without an explanation.

“Courf, babe, where are we going? It’s eight-thirty. If this is a New Year’s Eve party I want to change out of my suit so it doesn’t get ruined. And you should, too.”

“It’s not that kind of party,” Courfeyrac says by way of explanation. “Ferre and Eponine are thinking of changing wedding venues, so they’ve asked us for our input.”

Jehan sighs — yet another wedding reminder, something that he’s probably not going to have for another dozen years — and nods. “Okay. How long is the ride?”

“It’s just outside the city, so maybe fifteen minutes. Is that okay? Are you okay?”

“Just a little tired. I’m so full. That was a fantastic meal. Thank you.”

Courfeyrac steals his hand from across the console. “Anything for you. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

 * * * * * * * * * *

When the car pulls up in front of the farmhouse, Courfeyrac looks anxiously out his window. As he’s instructed, the farmhouse windows are dark except for a light burning in one window. All the cars are no longer parked outside — they’re probably hiding around the side road that runs behind the farmhouse, to keep from spoiling the surprise — and he smiles to think of the effort that’s gone into coordinating this engagement. All of the Amis, his family, and Jehan’s family have been on hand to help out, along with R’s sister Celine, who’s come down for the winter semester at NYU.

“Where are Ferre and Ep?”

Courfeyrac’s almost forgotten the lie he’s told Jehan. “Um, I’m sure they’re around here somewhere. Maybe they’re taking a walk around the grounds. There’s a nice orchard and such here, or so I’ve heard. Let’s go on inside!”

Jehan nods trustingly, then frowns at Courfeyrac’s last four words. “Is that a good idea? Maybe we’ll be trespassing.”

Courfeyrac smiles and feels for the box in his pocket again as he turns the key in the ignition and shuts off the car. “I doubt it. And even then, we can just find somewhere to go make out until Ferre and Ponine show up.” He waggles his eyebrows at Jehan and is relieved to see the poet grin.

“You mean, until someone else shows up and tries to sue the gay couple for shameless public displays of affection.”

“Let them.” Courfeyrac puffs out his chest and takes Jehan’s hand once they’re both out of the car. “It’ll be worth it.”

Jehan laughs and follows him into the building. Courfeyrac clenches his free hand around the ring box in his pocket as he rashly leads the way, plunging in through the unlocked door into the main building. The heavy iron-wrought wooden doors give way surprisingly easily, and he inhales the scent of flowers before his eyes can even adjust to the dark.

“There’s got to be a light around here somewhere,” Jehan says, but before he can find one — or attempt to — the lights blaze on overhead and all around them, and both Courfeyrac and Jehan are left blinking.

All of the Amis and Jehan’s and Courfeyrac’s family members are present. There are vases of colorful flowers everywhere — roses, carnations, azaleas, begonias, violets, orchids, peonies, sunflowers, daisies, lilies, tulips — along with potted bonsai, lanterns, book boxes, and other vintage furniture and decorating pieces that Courfeyrac’s found in that new Hobby Lobby store over in Middletown. Rose petals are scattered all over the floor. There’s an elaborate iron-wrought chandelier overhead, and matching candle sconces which hold scented votives, bathing the room in light. Strings of fairy lights are strung at the floor-to-ceiling windows too, adding to the romantic atmosphere.

Or so Courfeyrac hopes.

Before Jehan can even say anything — or, more likely, splutter anything, because his eyes are bigger than plates and he’s gaping at everything and everyone — Feuilly opens his mouth and begins singing Bette Midler’s The Rose, which is one of Jehan’s penultimate favorite love songs. Out of all the Amis, he’s the one who’s been blessed with the voice of an angel — if an angel were to sound like Josh Groban and Michael Crawford combined. Feuilly never believes them, but several of the Amis have assured him that he’s got a singing career in the works if the accounting doesn’t pan out.

Courfeyrac moves forward wordlessly, mouthing the words to the song along with Feuilly. He takes Jehan’s hand and waist in his arms and starts to slow-dance with him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Combeferre sweep Eponine into a foxtrot, and Marius does the same with Cosette. Grantaire starts slow-dancing with Enjolras, who’s definitely not prepared for anything more complicated. Victoire’s standing beside Feuilly, dazzled by his singing and clearly uncaring of not having a partner to dance with, while Bahorel and Sabine are also slow-dancing. Joly and Bossuet and Chetta are holding hands and swaying to the music. Jehan’s parents and Courfeyrac’s also start to dance, and the notes of the a capella song rise gloriously up into the sturdy rafters of the vaulted ceiling, thrilling Courfeyrac’s blood.

Jehan’s leaning into his touch, holding onto him and trembling ever so slightly. The smile on his face, though, is everything that Courfeyrac can want from life. They’re pressed body to body, but Courfeyrac can almost imagine them joined heart to heart as well.

When the song ends, and Feuilly’s voice dies away, Courfeyrac takes both of Jehan’s hands in his as everyone quietens down.

“Sixteen years ago, I met Jehan for the first time. We were both six years old, and Enjolras had invited him to dinner with me and Ferre. Since then, I feel like the four of us have been inseparable. Then, five years ago — five glorious years — we started dating. I’ve never looked back, and I’ve never wanted to. I’ve balked at an engagement before, not because I didn’t love him, but because I wasn’t ready for the next step. And now, I am. With every fiber of my being, I know I’m ready. Most of you, if not all, are familiar with my countless conquests —”

He’s drowned out momentarily by the roar of laughter, before it silences and he goes on.

“— but I don’t need conquests. Not now, not ever again. Because I’ve found the man I want to be with for the rest of my life, and forever. This gentle soul, so artistic and tender and loving and talented, is mine, and has wanted to be mine. We’ve been friends forever, and that has served to make our bond as lovers and soulmates even greater, even more powerful. Since the very first day we started to date, every touch, every look, every word we’ve exchanged, has served to strengthen the love that I feel for him. I know that there are many more days and weeks and months and years ahead of us where that love will only get stronger. Even though I wasn’t prepared five years ago, or even a year ago, life and fate and our beloved friends and families have conspired to bring us together. I love you, I love you so much, and I know you love me. I carry your heart with me, Jehan. I carry it in my heart, and I am never without it. All I want to do, from here onward and forever, is to spend every hour of every day loving you, and hopefully to have you love me even a fraction in return.”

Courfeyrac drops down onto one knee and snaps the ring box that he’s finally, finally, procured from the inside of his pocket. “Jehan Prouvaire, my best friend, the soul of Les Amis, and the love of my life — will you marry me?”

Jehan has tears in his beautiful gray eyes. Before Courfeyrac’s even got the whole question out, he’s already nodding his head.

“Yes,” he says, his voice choked. “I will.”

The sounds of deafening cheering and thunderous applause drown out anything else that could have been said. Jehan’s staring at the ring, and the tears are running down his cheeks, contrasting with the broad smile that seems impossible to remove from his face. Courfeyrac stands back up, although the roar in his ears is really distracting, and gently slides the ring onto Jehan’s finger. Without further ado, he latches onto the sides of Jehan’s face and pulls him in for a kiss that goes on forever. When their lips meet, all of his senses are drawn completely to the scent of old books and cedar and roses that surrounds Jehan, the taste of his lips, the touch of his delicate fingers, and the warm solidness of his body. Everything else fades away like they’ve never been there.

If he is to die right now, he’ll be the happiest man alive, because Jehan does love him, and he said yes.

Chapter Text

“I’m cutting you off,” Sebastien says coldly.

Enjolras is sitting in the small cafe a street away from the Corinthe, across from his father at a table that’s far too small. It’s the day right after Jehan and Courf’s massive engagement, and his head’s feeling three sizes too small for his brain. He blames his migraine on the fact that he’s spent six hours inside the Met yesterday, looking at the dizzying array of far too many art pieces, and he’s drunk too much celebratory champagne at the after-engagement party held at one of the five-star hotels downtown.

His guard is down, and his better judgment is severely impaired, because when Sebastien called this morning, he’s actually agreed to meet his father. Clearly Sebastien is still steaming that he hasn’t been able to chew Enjolras out earlier — the obligatory call that Enjolras made to him was ‘hindered’ by Combeferre helpfully being around, because even Sebastien can’t be rude to Combeferre when the latter is on his best behavior.

However, Enjolras has at least refused to meet Sebastien at a swanky restaurant, instead preferring to face his father on his own terms. Now, he’s grateful for that petulance he exhibited, because being in a familiar place is helping to ground him even when he feels like the ground has fallen out from beneath his feet. He buries his face in his coffee cup, inhaling the scent of well-ground coffee beans and sugar and milk. The aroma settles his rapidly fraying nerves.

“Fine,” he says tonelessly. He’s feeling panic at the pronouncement, sure, knowing that his father is trying to keep him away from his mother, as well as the terrifying uncertainty of not having financial support, but somehow all of that is numbed. He’s still somewhat in shock that he is meeting his father in person, because he has to stifle the urge to get up and run, not walk, out of the cafe. Much as he despises his father, he also is inexplicably afraid of him. Sure, Sebastien has hit him around as a child, but he’s grown up now. He really shouldn’t be nervous around him.

He still is, for some reason.

Sebastien scowls, as if he’s not satisfied with how blase Enjolras is being. “Even when I’m dead, you won’t get a single red cent,” he warns. “I changed my will this morning.”

“Okay,” Enjolras responds. He still feels numb, and part of him realizes that it’s what is saving him from Sebastien’s wrath. “I really never expected anything from you at all, so I don’t know why you’re telling me this to begin with.”

Sebastien seems to finally lose his temper at Enjolras’ too-calm exterior. He slams his coffee cup onto the table, breaking the mug and sending hot coffee splashing over onto Enjolras’ side of the table. It’s like he’s invaded the unspoken no-man’s land between them, and Enjolras watches the porcelain shatter against the Formica tabletop and the deluge of black coffee like everything has gone into slow motion. He drops his napkin onto the table as the coffee sloshes towards him, stopping its spreading flood, but not before the liquid splashes his roll and turns it completely inedible.

Louis is sitting a table away, obviously privy to the conversation, but he looks utterly bored at Sebastien’s outburst and Enjolras’ existence.

“Because I can’t have you in my house!” Sebastien shouts. “You brought your little perverted friends under my roof. My roof! You even participated in their little freak-show engagement. Don’t think I didn’t hear about that, because it was splashed all over the fucking society newsletter this morning. You’re distressing my wife. You’re a good-for-nothing liability that needs to be tied up like the loose end you are. All you’re willing to do is waste my money and throw your life away on your idiotic, useless freak-of-nature friends and stupid causes. You think you’re changing the world? You’re merely shortening your lifespans and irritating all the good folk out there. Sooner or later, you’ll learn that the world will eat you alive, and I can’t wait for that day to happen. You’ve had a privileged upbringing, and you’ve only ever taken it for granted. Now that you don’t have a cent to your name, you’ll start realizing that your causes aren’t as gloriously noble as you would like. You’re not allowed anywhere near the house, and if you want to meet your mother, you’re going to have to make appointments or something, because I aim on keeping you two apart as long and often as I can.”

“The apartment is still mine,” Enjolras says. “Mother bought it and I paid it off. You can’t touch that.” He doesn’t defend his mother or the Amis, not because he doesn’t want to — in fact, his instincts are begging for him to do just that — but because he knows that Sebastien Enjolras will never bother to listen, and he might as well save his breath and energy.

Sebastien sneers at him. “Yeah, not for long. I doubt your paltry bank account will help, either, because your Manhattan living expenses will bury you alive. Before you know it, son, you’ll be crawling back with your tail between your legs, begging me for forgiveness. In fact, I count on it happening sooner rather than later. And when that happens, you better start kissing ass, because either you become my creature, obedient and properly cowed, or I burn this bridge forever.”

“The latter sounds more tempting every day,” Enjolras replies. He doesn’t know where this unearthly calm has come from, but he’s immensely grateful for it. “I don’t get what you mean. You’re banning me from seeing my mother, but at the same time, you’re using her to threaten me. If I can’t see her, there’s no way I’ll bite.”

“You can, and you will,” Sebastien answers triumphantly. “Because your mother and I are all you have in the world of your family. Even though you’re a terrible son, Adrien, don’t think I’m stupid to assume that you won’t sneak around my back somehow to meet up with her. I’m just expanding or reducing your access to her, is all — especially now that she’s a little too ill to go traipsing around by herself. Your heart and your loyalty and your capacity to love are your downfall, Adrien. Once you’ll learn to master your emotions, you’ll succeed at life. I doubt you will, although you have permission to surprise me. Maybe if that day comes I’ll finally see you as a son and not an utter disappointment and waste of space like I always have.”

The words sting, and Enjolras grips the table edge as they finally sink in. Sebastien makes his triumphant exit by standing up and leaving — without bothering to pay his half of the tab, adding insult to injury. At the door, he pauses to look back at Enjolras.

“Sooner or later,” he flings back, “you’ll learn that I’ve been right all along. And when that day comes, you can either have the courage to join me, or you can wallow in the dirt with the rest of your naive, worthless friends. One day they’ll all be gone, Adrien, and that day may come sooner than you expect. Then what will you do?”

The bell tinkles over the door as Sebastien departs for good, and Enjolras glances at the other patrons, who are staring back at him with varying degrees of disgust and pity. Every look is a burning coal heaped on his head. He looks down at the table, at the mess of spilled coffee and broken porcelain pieces, and clumsily grabs several napkins from the holder.

“Don’t bother,” the waitress says, stopping by the table. “We’ll clean it up.”

Enjolras hears the acidic tone in her voice and knows what she and the cafe patrons are thinking. Spoiled white kid, born with a silver spoon, who’s just been turned on his ass by his rich daddy. Who would feel badly off for him? He’s fought for equal rights and prosperity for everyone, and now he’s actually in the same situation.

Funny how things like that work.

Ignoring the sarcasm, he mops up the spilled coffee and collects the broken shards of porcelain, ignoring the way the hot coffee singes his fingers. The waitress grudgingly brings a trash can to him and departs with a sniff. Enjolras tosses the soiled napkins and sweeps the porcelain into the bin, but not before he jabs his palm on a particularly vicious-looking piece with sharp, jagged edges. Although it stings, he simply doesn’t think about it — there’s no room in his head for the paltry at this moment.

By now the coffee is sour in his mouth. He pays the bill, leaving a good tip for the waitress — it’s not her fault as to what happened, or that he’s a loveless good-for-nothing — and exits the cafe, but not before he hears the whispers directed his way. Numbly he tucks his hands into his coat pockets, hunching his shoulders against the wind. Combeferre and Grantaire and a handful of the others are waiting at the Corinthe for him, and the last thing he wants to be is late.

He tries dialing his mother four times, then the home phone another three times. During each of those times, a pleasant-sounding female voice informs him politely that the numbers have been disconnected, and he should try calling a different number.

The cold air blows into the Corinthe when he walks in to see half of the Amis present — Combeferre, Eponine, Grantaire, Bahorel, Joly, Bossuet, and Chetta. Celine’s present, sitting beside Grantaire, who waves cheerily in Enjolras’ direction. Jehan and Courf are out on a post-engagement date while Feuilly and Victoire are on a date of their own; Cosette and Marius are still on their honeymoon, but they’ll get back tomorrow to start the new semester.

“Apollo!”

“Sit down, fearless leader. Joly and Bossuet and Chetta have an announcement.”

Enjolras obeys. He can feel something sticky and warm coating his palm and fingers, and wishes he’s wiped his hand free before sticking it in his pocket. It must be the coffee, he thinks numbly.

“We’re engaged!”

Chetta flashes the two-carat rock that’s sitting on her finger. Joly and Bossuet are sporting matching rings on their left ring fingers as well.

“Who’s the official name on the paperwork?” Eponine asks.

“Joly and Chetta,” Bossuet says proudly. “I’m just the dependent.” He laughs.

Enjolras can understand that decision. Bossuet may be unlucky, but he’s the most optimistic, most happy-go-lucky member of the Amis, even more so than Courfeyrac. He wouldn’t mind not having his name on the deed, and Joly and Chetta won’t ever kick him out of the relationship, just because of how loving and happy he is. The three of them make a permanent, dynamic team, and Enjolras feels a brief rush of envy, coupled with affection towards Grantaire.

The feeling doesn’t last for long, however, when his hand pulses with pain. It feels like it’s getting more wet, not less, and his fingers and palm are now throbbing hard. He withdraws his hand from his pocket and winces when he sees that there’s a deep gash across his palm, and blood’s smeared against his skin. He wants to ask Chetta for a Band-Aid, but she’s showing Eponine and Grantaire the rock, so he refrains, not wanting to spoil her happiness.

Naturally, he’s figured Combeferre out of the equation.

“Hand,” Combeferre orders, his voice coming from right behind Enjolras, his breath tickling Enjolras’ ear.

The Holy Trinity has always been physically affectionate and comfortable around each other in a brotherly, platonic way. After Sebastien’s bombshell, though, Enjolras realizes just how much he needs that affection right now. He offers his hand to Combeferre, who shakes his head and puts a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder to push him down into a chair that Enjolras doesn’t even know is there. Then he opens the small, fully stocked first aid kit that he always carries in his messenger bag and pulls out a bandage, which he then presses down onto the gash and keeps it there with his thumb.

“What did he do now?”

“He cut me off,” Enjolras says. There’s something wrong with his voice, but he doesn’t know what it is. Apart from that, he thinks he sounds reasonably normal, but the look that Combeferre gives him says that his best friend disagrees. “He’s forbidden me from seeing my mother.”

“He can’t do that.”

“I tried calling her and the house, Ferre. She didn’t answer, and nobody on the home land line did, either. I think Sebastien did cancel those services.”

He suddenly feels exhausted, like he’s run a marathon, even though it’s only noon. He leans over, resting his forehead against Combeferre’s shoulder and hiding his face from the other Amis. The touch of Grantaire’s hand in his uninjured one is surprising, but not completely unexpected. Grantaire’s voice murmurs to Combeferre, up above Enjolras’ head, and Combeferre whispers back, and Enjolras feels a rush of gratitude to Grantaire for not making him repeat his bad news.

Bad news. How trite. The words sound so mundane, so meaningless, so overused.

“It’s not the end of the world,” Grantaire says, as calmly as Combeferre usually delivers. “I just got a job doing graphic design for a couple of small companies in New York, and the art commissions I get are pretty highly paid for. If you get that teaching job on campus, we can supplement that income. We’ve got this, Apollo. Together. I promise. And that’s not all of what’s bothering you, is it?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “If he bans me from seeing my mother, I can’t go near the house. I can’t go near the hospital. I won’t be able to see her.” His voice starts to rise into the edge of hysteria, and with great effort he forces it back down. Joly and Bossuet and Chetta do not need his issues interfering with their joyous announcements. His head starts banging again, louder and more forcefully than before, and he starts attempting to massage the migraine away with his unwounded hand. Unprompted, he relates the entire conversation nearly word for word, and when he’s done, the room is tilting and he feels like he can’t stand up on his own anymore.

Grantaire takes him by the elbow, gently so. “Come on,” he says quietly. “You need rest. We’ll figure all of this out, okay?”

Enjolras makes a feeble attempt at protest, but Grantaire stops him.

“Apollo, stop worrying. It’ll all work out.”

 * * * * * * * * * * *

Bamatabois picks up the call when it comes through on his cell phone.

“Louis?”

“The boss wants you to speed things up.”

“I need to conduct my research and surveillance thoroughly, Louis. These matters are delicate. They’ll take time. Rushing into things won’t —”

“There’s another hundred thousand in it for you if you do it as soon as possible.”

There’s a pause as Bamatabois weighs his options. He’s pretty confident that he’s got things worked out enough that he can ambush his targets and successfully kill them both. Besides, they’re only boys. He could take both of them with one hand tied behind his back. For two hundred thousand? It’s almost daylight robbery, really. He’s a seasoned professional; he can pull off this hit easily.

“All right. I’ll do it tomorrow.” 

Chapter Text

“Courf, I need to talk to you.”

Marius’ voice sounds somewhat panicked over the phone, and Courfeyrac laughs. Everything seems funny recently, or, if not funny, then just simply wonderful. And, in all honesty, life only really took on its golden glow since last night, when Jehan told him yes.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to be flippant. What’s wrong?”

“Um. Let’s just talk. I got back a couple hours ago. Where are you? Wait, what time is it?”

“Just at home. It’s almost five, Marius.”

“Okay, will you meet me at 155th and Riverside Drive? Cosette’s having her nails done and I have to go talk to Reverend Cooper about changing her last name in the church records. Apparently we left it a little late, and I just want to get it done and out of the way. It’s the cemetery there, because he’s conducting a service.”

“Talk about grim.” Just kidding. There’s nothing that can dim Courfeyrac’s joy, not even for a moment.

“We can go somewhere else, it’s just that I have to pick Cosette up after her salon appointment, and —”

“Hey, Pontmercy.”

“Yeah?”

“Chill. It’s totally fine. Jehan and I will see you there in a few.”

Courfeyrac hangs up, still chuckling to himself.

“What’s up?”

Jehan’s snuggled on the couch right beside him. Since he’s slipped the ring onto his finger last night, he’s alternated between cuddling with Courfeyrac, kissing him (and being kissed right back), admiring the ring, and making giddy wedding plans. Other than the bathroom — and even then — they’ve hardly ever been out of each other’s sight. Courfeyrac plays with the end of his chestnut braid and kisses him on the tip of his nose, making Jehan laugh.

“The puppy needs my help. I don’t think he’s getting cold feet, but I think the idea of being married after being in love and engaged for so long is starting to sink in and scare him.”

“That won’t happen with us.” Jehan leans up and captures Courf’s lips with his own. After a thoroughly mind-blowing kiss, he pulls back, licking his lips and looking completely satisfied. “Shall we go?”

“What?” Courfeyrac’s trying to handle the static that’s buzzing in between his ears at the feel and taste of Jehan’s lips.

Jehan repeats the question with a smirk. He’s fully aware of what he’s just done to Courfeyrac, which is fine, because Courfeyrac does it right back to him regularly. They know each other’s minds and bodies and personalities so well that they’re able to drive the other insane if they want. In a good way, that is. That’s what their love is all about, knowing each other so thoroughly through and through and yet loving each other completely in spite of and because of it. It’s just so beautiful and perfect, and Courfeyrac is ecstatic that they’re going to have forever together.

“Come on, you minx,” he teases, standing up and reaching his hand to Jehan. “If we dally any longer the puppy might just start crying.”

Jehan grins. He’s been working on a sunflower crown that he now daintily arranges on his head, tucking his braid around it to make sure it stays in place and doesn’t easily fall off. Courfeyrac willingly waits and watches, loving the play of light from the setting sun reflect off of Jehan’s pale skin and fair hair and the gleaming yellow blooms on his head.

It may be a well-known fact that Enjolras is the best-looking of all the male Amis, what with his fantastic bone structure and those too-blue eyes and that gorgeous blond hair, but Jehan’s always been beautiful to Courfeyrac. Maybe it’s because Courfeyrac’s not dating Enjolras, and maybe it’s because his love for Jehan might sort of veil him to the objective truth, but Jehan’s guileless, innocent purity and sensitive, artistic nature have turned his delicate, pretty looks into something ethereal and desirable. His character crowns his appearance, and vice versa.

Seriously, what’s taken him so long to decide to marry Jehan? It’s always been just him, and if Courfeyrac had known how happy he is now, he’d have proposed ages ago.

 * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Jehan trails Courfeyrac, lagging behind to look around as they both walk through the gates of the cemetery. Gray statuary and white headstones rise up out of black dirt and white-dusted green lawn. Tall yews and weeping willows and massive mausoleums tower impressively over everything else.

“Beautiful,” he sighs, squeezing Courfeyrac’s gloved hand.

Courfeyrac looks over at him and smiles. It’s a grin that Jehan sees him give only a handful of people — not a smile brimming with his usual exuberance or unbridled enthusiasm, but one of peace and tender joy. He’s happy, and knowing he’s happy makes Jehan even more glad. All he can think about are wedding plans and the thought that he and Courf will be together for real, not just in act or in name, but both. Just like Combeferre and Eponine, or Cosette and Marius, or Joly and Bossuet and Chetta. And however Grantaire might blush and deny it, he and Enjolras are made to be together. Jehan’s prediction is that they’ll get hitched in a year or two, and he can’t wait for that blessed day to come.

Well, almost as much as he can’t wait for his and Courf’s wedding.

It’s twilight right now, and the sun is setting, but there’s still light enough to see that Marius is pacing at the base of a massive weeping willow tree at the south side of the graveyard. He looks browner compared to a week and a half ago, and there are gold streaks in his hair where it’s been bleached by the sun.

“Looking good, puppy,” Courfeyrac chirps when he comes into earshot. “How were the Bahamas?”

Marius spins around and the relief in his face is almost comical. He starts forward and practically pounces on Marius, grabbing him by the forearms like Courfeyrac’s the last man on earth.

“Courf! Please. You have to help me. I don’t know what to do.”

“Hey, hey, now. I have news of my own, and you’re going to have to congratulate us before I solve your problems.”

Marius seems to notice Jehan for the first time, and a beaming smile flashes over his face. “Hey! Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. Congratulations!” He lunges forward and hugs Jehan in another display of exuberance that reminds Jehan of Courfeyrac. “I heard from Eponine.”

“Damn, that girl knows how to ruin a surprise,” Courfeyrac quips. “Okay. So what’s your troubles? Let Pastor Courfeyrac listen.”

Jehan rolls his eyes. Trust his fiance to be flippant in a sacred place. He glances at Courf just in time to see him wink before he turns back to Marius.

“Um…”

Jehan takes his cue. Marius has always been more comfortable with Courfeyrac than anyone else. It’s not something to resent, but a fact of life. Courfeyrac’s been the one to take Marius under his wide, wide wing, and if Marius has a best friend apart from Cosette, then Courfeyrac’s the obvious candidate.

“I’m going to go look around,” he comments airily. “Don’t mind me.”

“Don’t go far,” Courfeyrac chides. He blows Jehan a kiss. “We won’t be long, okay?”

Jehan blows the kiss right back. Love you, he mouths, before smiling and stuffing his hands into his pockets. He ambles off, enjoying the cold breeze whistling around him and the scent of dirt mingled with flowers and leaves.

Death. He knows none of his friends are comfortable with the concept, but it’s a fact of life. Everyone dies, from stillborn babies to young kids, victims of household accidents, to teenagers who overdose, to adults who get in car wrecks, to the old and invalid who perish of illness. Drowning, stabbings, asphyxiation, gunshot wounds — the list goes on and on, and the only certainty is death or life. He’s never seen anyone die, but he’s certain that there’s more to life than the body. It’s got to just be a shell, and the spirit or soul or whatever term inhabits the body, and departs upon the end of life. Would the spirit perish with the body, crumble into decay and dust just like the flesh and bones, or would it endure? Does the body feel the worms and vermin consuming it? In the afterlife — if there is one — would life continue and relationships prolong?

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t realized he’s wandered past some of the older headstones towards the newer grave plots that have been dug in preparation for future burials. No headstones have been made as yet for these soon-to-be-occupied resting places.

There’s the crack of a foot onto a dry twig behind him, and he smiles. “Either that was really quick, or you’ve become a genie at solving Marius’ problems.”

No answer comes but for a heavy, quickly drawn breath, and Jehan’s skin prickles in sudden dread, sudden warning. He whirls around, right as something hard smashes into the side of his head. Before he can even begin to comprehend what’s just happened, blackness and sharp pain overtake him, and he falls away into nothing.   

Chapter Text

Bamatabois looks down at the young man he’s just hit over the head with part of a stone wing he broke off of an angel sculpture. The kid’s breathing — he’s taken care to make sure the blow isn’t too serious, although the boy’s bleeding freely from his left temple — but he’s not going to be breathing for long, if Bamatabois’ plan goes well.

He bends down and slings the boy over his shoulders with a heave, then staggers over to one of the open graves — fourth from the left, and there’s nine in total. He drops the young man’s body into the dirt hole, where it lands facedown, head cushioned in the crook of one arm. For all intents and purposes, he looks as if he’s merely sleeping, and there is innocence even in the hold of paralyzing unconsciousness.

He regales the boy silently for a few seconds, wondering just why Sebastien Enjolras has it out for him and his boyfriend. Surely the man has better things to do than go after the friends of his estranged son. Bamatabois remembers when he himself was 22, and his days had been relatively carefree ones in comparison. And what kind of relationship does Sebastien possess with his son that he’s willing to torture his heir like this?

That’s Sebastien Enjolras for you. He breaks them to bridle.

Then he reminds himself that it’s really none of his business. There’s two hundred grand in it for him if he keeps his mouth shut and his conscience quietened. And the siren song of all that money is louder than the doubts in his mind.

Shoving away his traitorous thoughts, he carelessly kicks aside the circlet of sunflowers that’s fallen off the kid’s head. Sunflowers mean loyalty and longevity, and their bright yellow hue is vivid against the snowy ground.

No longevity for this kid. Not anymore.

Turning, Bamatabois picks up the shovel that is obediently lying on the ground beside him, and starts to shovel dirt from the massive pile off to the side, tossing the dirt onto the body crumpled at the bottom of the hole.

Alive and breathing, yes, but not for long. 

Chapter Text

“Okay, so what’s wrong? I know I already gave you the sex talk, and I’m pretty sure Cosette talked you through it.”

“I-I-I know you did, but I still don’t know anything.”

Marius has a wild look in his eye that’s not entirely unfamiliar. When he’s panicked, he tends to go on a full-out, freak-out rampage that’s almost endearing but Courfeyrac still tries to curb it whenever he can. After all, none of them want the puppy upset. It’s like with Jehan or Enjolras, or Grantaire, or any of them — their bonds are far too strong to let any sort of distress or pain slip willingly through.

“So you guys haven’t had sex yet?” That kind of blows Courfeyrac’s mind, because when it comes to sex, you don’t talk about it, you just do it, but he’s pretty sure Marius doesn’t need to know that or he probably already knows it too much, so he waits for Marius’ explanation.

“Um, I mean, we did, but it wasn’t like the best, I don’t think. I’ve never had sex and she’s a virgin too, but she knows more about this sort of thing than I do, and I don’t know what I’m doing, and she said it was good, but I think it could have been better, and it wasn’t, and I don’t know what to do, because I don’t want to screw this up right on day one, so we just cuddled a lot and tried it a couple of times, but I really do need your help because you’ve been with girls and guys, and you probably know —”

Courfeyrac holds up both hands in a ‘hold it’ gesture. “Okay, breathe.”

Marius obeys, sucking air in like he’s a drowning man.

“First of all, unless you’re a guru like me, you’re not going to have a mind-blowing experience the first time. Some people do, but others don’t, and it’s not because it’s their fault. They’re just inexperienced. And because you both are virgins, there isn’t one with more experience to guide the other. That’s okay. In those situations, you probably might have to work up to it more, you know?”

“But… we’ve already cuddled and kissed and stuff like that. What else is there?”

Courfeyrac pretends to choke in disbelief. “Marius! Oh, my naive friend. I love you, you know that?” He swings his arm around Marius’ shoulders and squeezes the puppy to him like he’s, well, a real puppy. “Okay. I think I can help you.”

Marius’ face is full of relief. “Really?”

“Of course.” Courfeyrac chortles and hugs him again. “You’re one of my best friends, Marius. If it’s important to you, it’s important to me. That’s what Les Amis are all about.”

Marius smiles. “Thanks.”

“So, about your problem. It’s not a problem. Really. I’ve heard of this before. I think you just need to work up the intimacy even more between you both. You’re both physically attractive, and you both love each other. You just don’t know what to do yet. But if you work things up from cuddling and kissing to getting more intimate — you know, maybe a bit of necking, petting, stuff like that — once you get more intimate, things will come naturally and the awkwardness will leave in time. It’s a beautiful thing to be married, Marius. And it’s okay if you don’t know what you’re doing — you both are the first Amis to marry. You’re like our veterans, our elders. We should pay our respects to you.”

Marius scoffs. “You’ve been spending too much time with Musichetta, haven’t you? Listened to her talk about her culture and her roots and all that?”

“Maybe, but it still rings true.”

Marius laughs. “Okay. I just feel like since I’m married, I need to know everything and be in control, but I’m not.”

“Puppy, you just got married, you didn’t just get perfected. You’re still you. You’re still Marius. And we all hope you don’t change that. Besides, Cosette is a smart girl. She knows that you don’t know everything and that’s okay — now you both are partners in crime and best friends for everything. You can do everything together. That’s why you married her, and she married you.”

“That’s good to know.”

“Yeah, you don’t say. Just so you know, you’re setting the precedent for all of our future marriages, so make sure you’re a good example. I mean, Ferre and Ep, me and Jehan, and Joly, Chetta, and Bossuet. Yeah, I say you’re the father of our little band of misfits. So, how were the Bahamas?”

Marius’ eyes light up, and he starts talking about swimming with dolphins and Cosette parasailing and building sandcastles on powdery beaches and going to Disneyworld on the way and snuggling with Cosette in a hammock. Courfeyrac’s content to sit back figuratively and listen — at least until he realizes they are not alone. There’s a man in a black overcoat approaching them with a shovel in hand. The groundskeeper, perhaps? He reaches out to touch Marius’ sleeve to halt him in his conversation.

“Hold up, dude.”

Marius turns around, and Courfeyrac gets a clearer look at the newcomer. He’s big, maybe even bigger than Bahorel, although Courfeyrac doesn’t know if that is possible. He’s got a bristling black beard, eyes like stones in his face, and his all-black ensemble makes him look really sinister. He keeps walking towards them until he’s about six feet away, and drops the shovel onto the grass. It lands with a heavy thud.

“Evening, boys.”

“Evening,” Marius echoes back, and Courfeyrac mumbles the greeting. He suddenly has an ominous prickling feeling in his stomach, and his instincts are telling him that something is very wrong.

“Can we help you?” Marius asks.

“You can help me by leaving,” the man says pleasantly enough, but Courfeyrac’s instincts are now clamoring for him and Marius to run. But Jehan — where is Jehan? “I wish to speak to Henri Courfeyrac for a moment.”

“I don’t think so,” Marius says flatly, displaying that steely strength of will that he’s got hiding under his endearing, blundering personality, and which always emerges at the right moment. “If you have something to say to him, you may say it to the both of us.”

The man shrugs. “Fine.” He reaches into his overcoat and draws a .22 semiautomatic pistol, which he then levels in Courfeyrac’s direction. “I’m saying it now.”

 * * * * * * * * * *

Jehan wakes up feeling like the one time Bahorel sat on him as a joke. His lungs are heavy, like when he went skiing at the Sundance resort in Utah and breathed in the thinly oxygenated air, and there’s a weight on his back, on his head, on his legs, as if something is resting on him and trying to flatten him to bits. His head hurts so much, and through the pounding he feels wetness on the side of his head.

He tries to move, but he can’t. When he draws a shallow breath, he can smell dirt and grass and decay, and when he opens his mouth, he feels dirt particles begin to tumble in. He panics, and spits them out, but more crowd in until he forces himself to stop hyperventilating and breathe in shallow breaths through his nose. Already the air is starting to trickle away, and the surrounding darkness is sensory deprivation. He can’t move, he can’t see, he can’t breathe deeply, and he can barely think.

Where is he?

Where’s Courfeyrac?

Then it comes to him. The glimpse of the stranger as pain exploded at the side of his head. Slipping in and out of consciousness as the man deposits him somewhere where he’s looking down on Jehan. Little heavy bits of something falling down on him like packing peanuts.

His eyes try to snap open, but he’s blind, and dirt starts irritating them, so he closes them again. He can feel tears burning at his eyelids, and when the truth hits him, he’s overtaken by an all-consuming terror that’s so powerful he can barely keep the contents of his churning stomach down.

I’m buried alive.

He realizes he’s almost completely facedown, which is why he’s still alive since there isn’t dirt packing his nostrils and mouth as yet. He tries to shift so that he can keep that inevitable fact from occurring, and only succeeds in gaining an inch or two. Despite himself, the sob breaks from his lips and he starts crying.

“Help!” he screams. “Courf!”

The dirt shifts in response, and the sound is muffled by the sediment above him.

He chokes down another sob and tries to think. It’s cold, really cold, down here, and his hands are numb even through his gloves, his body chilled despite the coat he’s still wearing. Nice of the guy to let me wear my winter wear to my death, he thinks sourly, and the sarcastic thought helps to ground him. He thinks of Enjolras and Combeferre and Courfeyrac and Grantaire and the others when they’re being snarky, and his memories and thoughts of his friends and family buoy him.

They’ll find me, won’t they? Courfeyrac will find me.

Unless he runs out of air first.

What the hell is he even doing here? Why would anyone bury him alive? He’s just been minding his own business, for heaven’s sake.

“Courf,” he pleads, knowing that no one will hear him anyway. “Please, baby. I love you. I don’t want to die. Please, find me.”

In the distance, he hears a gunshot, then another, and then a final one. The third seems to be the charm, because he doesn’t hear anything after that but sirens.

Courfeyrac?

He starts screaming again, alternating between for help and crying Courfeyrac’s name, because someone’s just been shot, and if it’s Courfeyrac, he’s bleeding to death, he’s dying, and Jehan won’t ever see him again. He’ll die a violent death, alone and without Jehan — and Jehan will die a silent, grossly anonymous demise in an unmarked grave.

Together in life, together in death. Somehow that’s more poetic than I would like.

He screams until his throat is raw, and the air is so thin he’s lightheaded. Somehow it’s become warm down here in his tomb, and he fights the sudden urge to close his eyes and sleep.

If he sleeps, he knows he won’t wake up again. 

Chapter Text

Marius takes a step back, and Courfeyrac feels the blood drain out of his face as he stares down the empty black eye of the pistol pointed squarely at him. “Wha — what?”

“Nothing personal, kid.” The man smiles. It’s the same expression a rattlesnake wears before it bites a mouse. “Just two hundred grand on your head and the head of your little boyfriend. Don’t worry, you’re going the exact same way he did.”

Jehan.

A shocking coldness starts through Courfeyrac’s veins. Instead of freaking out — at least, not externally — he can only think of one name, can only think of one face and one voice. It’s a calm, steady voice; the pointed chin and clear gray eyes and chestnut hair accentuated by bright flower blooms.

What’s happened to him?

Nothing. Nothing can have happened to Jehan. He’s Courfeyrac’s light, his eternal love, his guiding star. There’s no way he can be dead. There’s no way he can be gone.

He feels sharp pain, and realizes that Marius has his fingers digging into his shoulders, keeping him back. He’s fighting his friend’s grip, trying to get to the stranger, wanting to beat the shit out of him until he tells Courfeyrac what’s happened. Until he takes back that awful, awful lie, because there’s no way Jehan can be dead, there’s just no fucking way his fiance is gone.

“What did you do to him?!” he screams, and the sound comes out distorted. Marius flinches, even as he continues to hold Courfeyrac back.

“He’s probably not dead yet,” the man shrugs casually, “but it’s only a matter of time. I buried him six feet under. Don’t worry, kiddo. You’ll join him soon.”

He starts walking forward, and Courfeyrac is glad, he just wants to reach out and punch the fucker to a pulp, because the thought of Jehan buried alive, his lover and his light underground, fighting to breathe even as dirt shifts around him and he’s choking to death, is too much to bear. Nobody can do that to Jehan, not just because he’s Courfeyrac’s, but also because it’s Jehan, the gentlest soul of the Amis, and how dare this son of a bitch do that, how dare he —

“Where is he?” he shouts, louder than before. “Where did you put him?”

The man grins and cocks a thumb back where he’s come. “Over there, where the fresh graves are. Don’t worry, boy, I’ll even bury you both together.”

Courfeyrac immediately pulls back, and Marius does not expect this. He’s bowled over by the force of his own strength to keep Courfeyrac from moving forward, and Courfeyrac leaps away and darts forward, running not towards the stranger, but for the graves at the other end of the cemetery. The man swears and fires, but he misses Courfeyrac, the bullet whistling past him and embedding itself into a tree. The next shot ricochets and chips off stone from the head of a madonna statue twelve feet away. More bullets chew up tree trunks, headstones, and more statuary.

The last shot hits flesh, but not Courfeyrac’s.

Right as the madman draws a bead on Courfeyrac and aims to fire at point-blank range, Marius lunges up from the ground, where he’s fallen onto his hands and knees, and takes the bullet squarely in the abdomen.

The man swears, and Courfeyrac stops in shock, paralyzing terror and energizing fury keeping him rooted to the ground as they battle within him for dominance.

“You little fucker. You weren’t even in the contract, Pontmercy, you meddling fool, and you had to waltz in here and play the hero when you could have just left.”

It’s as if Courfeyrac’s standing outside of his body, watching himself. He doesn’t even have to think about it as his senses register all of his surroundings, taking in things more automatically and clearly than he thinks he ever could. He sees Marius dropping to his knees, his hands going to his stomach. His features curl into a rictus of pain, and he grimaces in Courfeyrac’s direction before he crumples over onto his side. The man’s standing over him, reloading his gun, talking down to Marius like he hasn’t just killed one of Courfeyrac’s best friends, not even taking Courfeyrac’s presence into consideration. Just ignoring him, because he clearly doesn’t represent a threat.

Then Courfeyrac sees rather than feels himself stoop down. His hands curl around the length of the shovel handle, the same shovel that the man dropped earlier, that he doesn’t even remember seeing. He’s picking up the heavy worker’s tool, and swinging as hard as he can as he aims with a coldness that seems to have taken over his entire body and mind. The metal end somehow connects solidly with the stranger’s head with a sickening crack, and the man drops, gun skittering out of his hand and across the grassy lawn. Courfeyrac releases the shovel and immediately goes to Marius’ side.

Marius is white as a sheet, but his eyes are still lucid, even as blood is leaking out bright red and shocking between his fingers. Courfeyrac hovers over him, his thoughts still shockingly clear, and he yanks off his own scarf, bundling it up and pressing it against the bloody wound in Marius’ front. There are sirens, and he thinks that maybe passersby are shouting and screaming from very far away — outside on the street, his mind helpfully supplies — but Courfeyrac’s nearly deaf to it all. Then other hands, hands wearing latex gloves and arms bundled up in blue paramedic jacket sleeves, are pushing Courfeyrac away, but he fights, because this is Marius, and Marius has just taken a fucking bullet for him. For no reason, because Jehan’s dead, he’s got to be, the killer said so, and Marius will soon follow when it really should be Courfeyrac.

Marius lays a hand on Courfeyrac’s arm with a surprisingly strong grip.

“Go find him,” he says simply, before a paramedic claps an oxygen mask down over his face, and his eyes flutter shut.

Then Courfeyrac’s up and running, and he thinks a paramedic tries to stop him, but instead of pushing the man away, he drags him along. The paramedic shrugs off his hand, but keeps running with him, because Courfeyrac’s babbling to him and outside of his own seemingly lucid thoughts he can hear himself: “… and he tried to kill me but Marius took the bullet and we have to find Jehan because that fucker buried him alive and he can’t be dead, he can’t be dead —”

The paramedic doesn’t say anything, but the fact that he’s still running beside Courfeyrac is enough.

Then they’re standing at the west side of the graveyard, and they’re staring down at eight, no, nine freshly dug graves. The problem is that they’re all filled, because clearly that hit man just wanted to fuck with Courfeyrac, and now he’s crying, he can’t stop crying, because Jehan is under one of these, and he can’t think, he can’t figure out which one. The paramedic seems to be seized with the same indecision, and they both stare at the graves as tears blur Courfeyrac’s vision.

“Jehan!”

There’s no sound.

“Baby, it’s me. Answer me, please. Jehan, please. I’m here. I love you, I want to find you. Where are you?”

* * * * * * * * * * * 

Are those voices?

He peels his eyes open, and it’s a juggernaut effort. They feel like they’re weighed down by iron, and his throat is so sore. He’s so tired. He just wants to sleep.

If you sleep, a voice that sounds like Combeferre’s warns, you won’t wake up.

Maybe I don’t want to wake up, he thinks back rebelliously.

We need you, he imagines Enjolras saying gently, the way he does only with Jehan.

Sweetheart, his mother pleads.

But it’s Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac’s the one calling him. Whether Courfeyrac’s hailing Jehan from the land of the living or the realm of the dead, he has no idea.

If anyone but Courfeyrac was calling him, he wouldn’t answer. But it’s Courfeyrac. His handsome face, eyes lit with love, floats before Jehan’s mind’s eye, and he can’t not answer. It wouldn’t be fair to the man he loves.

“Courf,” he calls, but the word emerges as a croak. He clears his throat, rasping over the swelling there, and braces himself for one more word. One last word.

“Courfeyrac!”

The dirt fills his mouth, and he finally closes his eyes. He can do no more.

* * * * * * * * * * * 

Courfeyrac balls his hands into fists, struggling not to cry, and failing miserably. The paramedic’s already digging at the first of nine graves, obviously determining that he’ll invest for now in Courfeyrac’s insanity, and start from somewhere because they don’t know where to begin. But Courfeyrac knows deep down that Jehan’s not in the first or the last — why make it easy, right? — and they’ll just end up wasting time. The trick is that he doesn’t know where to go and which to pick amidst the others.

Devastated beyond words, hopelessness sinking into his skin, he’s scanning the graves when a flash of color catches his eye. Jehan’s sunflower crown is lying at the left corner of the fifth grave, between the fourth and fifth graves from the left. He could be in there, he could be in either grave, and yet the chances are astronomical. It’s more likely that the crown just fell off his head when the hit man put him into one of the graves. Courfeyrac picks the sunflowers up with fingers that have gone numb, and the bright yellow petals seem to mock him, because even now, Jehan is running out of time, and it’s not fair that these flowers are so beautiful when Jehan’s dying mere feet away from Courfeyrac and he’s helpless to prevent it.

He screams Jehan’s name again, not caring that his voice is starting to go, and does it once more.

Then he hears his name, whispered as a rasp, muffled by debris and dirt and barely audible. Coming from the fourth grave.

“Jehan!”

Frantically he drops down to his knees and starts digging at the dirt with his gloved hands. It’s not wet dirt, it doesn’t stick, but the dry particles are looser and more difficult to grasp. He shoves it away as best as he can, and the paramedic is suddenly there, helping him, both of them clawing at the earth and trying to get it off. The guy is speaking into his radio, and there’s another paramedic running up with a groundskeeper, the real deal this time. The man’s got a shovel, and between the four of them — total strangers brought together by chance — they dig and dig until the shovel strikes something and Courfeyrac leans down to see Jehan’s denim-clad leg.

Then they’re clearing the dirt off of his face and head and the paramedics are pulling dirt out of his mouth and from the ugly gash at his temple and they’re lifting him up, out of the ground and into Courfeyrac’s arms while more paramedics run up with their medical equipment and things.

Jehan’s face is white, and his lips are blue, but his eyelashes are moving, and he coughs. The sight and the sound bring more tears to Courfeyrac’s eyes, and he’s crying and blubbering Jehan’s name at the same time, because he’s alive, he’s alive, and just right when Courfeyrac’s thought he’s lost the love of his life forever, Jehan’s back from the dead and how is it possible that he can be this blessed, because he doesn’t deserve it, and yet he’s so absurdly grateful for it that he’s crying and making no sense in the least bit.

“I love you,” he sobs. “Don’t ever leave me again, please, baby, I love you, and if you’d died, I don’t know how I would be able to handle it.”

Jehan’s lips move to soundlessly mouth the words I love you right back. When he rasps something else, Courfeyrac leans in to listen, but the paramedics are pushing him away and putting Jehan on the gurney that has somehow suddenly materialized there, and there are familiar hands on Courfeyrac’s shoulders and familiar voices in his ear.

“Courf, Courf, what happened?”

“He’s white as a sheet, Ferre.”

“Jehan,” Courf says, and the word comes out broken and doesn’t express just how thankful he is, how grateful he is to the world and whatever god is out there, and there are tears coming down his face.

“He’ll be okay. Enjolras went with him.”

“I want —”

“I know you do, Courf. I know. But the police have questions for you, because they need to know what happened, and Marius has already been taken to the hospital too. I promise, Jehan will be fine with Enjolras, and he’ll let us know what’s going on. Okay?”

That’s Combeferre’s voice, steady and calm and confident, the group’s eternal rock of Gibraltar, and Eponine’s here with him. He has absolutely no idea where they’ve materialized from, practically like his own guardian angels, but he doesn’t care, because he needs them, he needs someone to hold him while he falls apart, since he can’t do this by himself, and because Jehan is alive. He’s all right.

“Police?”

“Yeah. They arrested the guy, but they need to know what’s going on. They need to talk to you, okay, Courf? You need to answer their questions and then we can all go to see Jehan and Marius. We’ll both be right here with you the entire time, okay?”

Jehan and Marius. The guy who attacked them. The coldness in Courfeyrac’s veins begins to thaw, replaced by a searing rage.

“Okay.”

 * * * * * * * * * *

“No, I’ve never seen the guy before.”

There are two cops questioning Courfeyrac, who’s sitting on the back of the ambulance looking like he’s about to fall over any second. There’s a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and his eyes and nose are red from crying, and his skin is white, but Combeferre’s just glad he’s alive and not wounded like Marius or just brought back from death’s door like Jehan or dead.

Dead.

Combeferre doesn’t feel very steady himself. Eponine’s hand in his is keeping him from panicking, because despite his calm, assured exterior, he does feel panic, and he does freak out, and right now he’s very close to freaking out.

“What did he say to you?”

Courfeyrac recites the conversation from rote memory, even adding in the bit that the man said to Marius right after he shot him, and he sounds exhausted, like he’s so done with everything. Combeferre doesn’t blame him. In fact, after this, he really wants to bundle Courf up and tuck him into bed, but he knows that Courfeyrac will not go. He’ll want to go sit in the hospital and wait for Jehan to wake up and probably sit there until Jehan is discharged from the hospital.

The idiot. The loving, excitable, happy-go-lucky heart of the group, yes, but still an idiot, because Combeferre just wants to doctor and mother all his friends, and they just won’t let him. They just won’t stay safe, and he has to be the levelheaded one to keep them all out of trouble.

Not that he would do anything else, or that he wants to do anything else. But it would be nice to have a normal day for once.

His mind starts poring over the possibilities as Courfeyrac keeps talking, and his thoughts keep gravitating back to one distinct possibility.

Sebastien Enjolras.

But no. This isn’t a mafia movie, and Sebastien isn’t Sonny Corleone. Or even Joffrey Baratheon and Ramsay Snow.

He acts like them and thinks like them enough. What’s to stop him from doing the same things they did?

Certainly he’s got the hate enough and the money enough for this sort of thing. But what motive would he have? What reasons would he have? Although Sebastien’s a coldblooded abuser, he’s also a businessman, and he plays his cards pretty carefully most of the time.

“… I hit him with it,” Courfeyrac says now. “You might find my fingerprints on there.”

One of the cops — the younger one, closer to their age — laughs, and the other, a grizzled older veteran, smiles. “You defeated a hit man with a shovel. That’s quite a story to tell, kid.”

“Thanks,” Courfeyrac mumbles, but his cheeks tint pink, and Combeferre knows that beneath the anger and fear, he’s pleased at the compliment from these two police officers. However, his attention is drawn by something the older cop said, and he interrupts apologetically.

“Pardon me — you say that he is a hit man? A professional?”

The younger cop stops smiling. “We found nothing to identify him in his pockets. He was carrying a silencer and two additional magazines. His phone was cleared of all contacts and information. We’re going to take it apart, but right now it has a password, and he’s not saying anything.”

Courfeyrac tries to hop off his seat, but Combeferre catches him and props him back. “He’s going to jail, and you’re staying here so you don’t beat the crap out of him and get arrested yourself,” he orders firmly.

“Okay,” Courfeyrac says meekly.

The younger officer keeps going, shaking Courfeyrac’s hand. “If we need any other information, we’ll contact you, but I think that’s all the questions we have for now. Thank you very much for cooperating — you’ve been a really great help.”

Courfeyrac beams at that, and it makes Combeferre smile, because even when he’s worried sick about Marius and Jehan, Courfeyrac still lights up like a Christmas tree at praise and compliments. It’s part of his showy, fun-loving, but sensitive personality, and it’s a relief to Combeferre to see, because despite all that’s happened, Courfeyrac will sail through.

“And now,” the older cop says, “you’re going to the hospital, young man. You have a friend waiting for you there, and if I’m not mistaken, so’s your fiance.” He nods at Courfeyrac’s naked left ring finger. “I saw his ring. Congratulations.”

Courfeyrac visibly brightens. “Thanks.”

Combeferre tries not to show his trepidation as Eponine helps Courfeyrac off his seat and Combeferre leads the way towards the car. Eponine’s going to drive Courf’s car to the hospital, because with the way his hands are shaking, even now, there’s no way Combeferre is letting Courfeyrac do anything for himself until he calms down. He doesn’t want to show Courfeyrac just how scared he is for Jehan and Marius.

Both he and Eponine happened to be in the neighborhood when they heard the sirens, and it’s sheer dumb luck that they passed by and recognized Courfeyrac’s Mercedes. He’s learned from Jeff and Nate and the other paramedics that Marius’ prospects aren’t too good, and Jehan’s such a sensitive soul that the thought of him being underground for even one second makes Combeferre’s blood boil. He might have a concussion and mild hypothermia, at the least. Combeferre’s glad that the ambulances are part of the St. Mary’s crew, because that means he can get more information and help from the doctors there than if he is a stranger at a different hospital.

“Come on,” Eponine says gently, hooking her arm through Combeferre’s as she carefully guides Courfeyrac along. “It’ll be all right.”

He hopes so. He really does. 

Chapter Text

Enjolras bursts into the hospital after running all the way from the parking garage — it’s really not that far from the ER, but to him it’s an eternity — and he practically runs slap-bang into Bahorel at the door. His feet go out from under him, and he bounces backward. Bahorel darts forward and grabs him by the arm, steadying him before he falls over on his behind or his face.

“Hey there, fearless leader.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras pants. “What are — where —”

“Feuilly and Victoire are on their way,” Bahorel says assuringly. “Joly and Bossuet and Chetta are coming, too. R just got out of his art class, so he said he’ll be here in 5 or less.”

“What about Cosette?” Enjolras asks. He looks helplessly at Bahorel like they’ve dropped the ball, considering that Cosette’s married to Marius, after all, and she has no idea what’s just happened to her newlywed husband. If things don’t look good for Marius…

“I’ll go get her,” Grantaire says from behind him. Enjolras feels strong, sinewy arms wrap around his torso, and he places his hands over Grantaire’s and closes his eyes, just for a moment, because the moment he heard over the phone Combeferre’s voice stating words like “hospital” and “gunshot wound” and “Marius and Jehan”, his thoughts immediately scatter, going to each of the Amis, but most of all, Grantaire. Then he takes his hands away and turns to give Grantaire a quick kiss before they simultaneously push each other away.

“Ferre said he and Ep saw Courf’s car, but I’m not sure if they saw Marius’,” he says. “I’ll call —”

“I’ll do it, Apollo.” Grantaire blows a kiss at him and is gone. Enjolras turns back to Bahorel, a question in his eyes that his friend easily reads. That’s how well they all know one another.

“We can’t go in right now,” Bahorel states matter-of-factly. “Marius is still in surgery and Jehan’s still being looked over by the ER doctors.” He glares at the aquarium in the corner, at the Nemo clownfish that’s swimming lazily around a piece of stone. “They won’t tell me anything.”

Enjolras grips him by the shoulder. It’s like trying to hold onto a crag of Mount Everest. “Thanks for getting here so fast.”

“Who called you?” Bahorel questions. He sits down heavily on one of the couches, and it groans but does not break beneath his impressive bulk.

“Ferre. He asked me to go to the hospital because the police had to ask Courf some questions. Apparently some loon tried to kill them all.”

Bahorel bites his knuckle, and Enjolras kicks himself for his words, because he knows what Bahorel is worried about: that man could still succeed. Instead of talking and putting his foot in his mouth even more, Enjolras sits down on the easy chair next to his friend, and they both wait in silence.

Enjolras stares at the aquarium, but his thoughts couldn’t be further away from the colorful array of fish and tank decor that he sees before him. He can only focus on the thudding of his heart and the way his thoughts won’t gather.

Marius can’t die. He only just got married. He’s been a newlywed for all of thirteen days. That’s not even two weeks. And Jehan — buried alive and nearly suffocated?

There’s no hell that is deep or hot enough for the bastard who’s done this.

He sits there silently next to Bahorel, denial and reality fighting for purchase, and doesn’t even realize that he’s picking at the gash on his palm he got yesterday from his father until Bahorel’s hand shoots out and clamps firmly over his right wrist like a vice, pulling his fingers from his left palm.

“No touchy,” his friend says, with hardly any trace of his customary humor, and Enjolras decides it would be in his best interests to obey. He now has nothing to focus his attention on, though, so he picks up a Time magazine and tries to divert his thoughts.

It’s only when he reads a line about Edward Snowden four times that he realizes he hasn’t comprehended a single word of the article. He puts the magazine down, jiggles his foot, glances at the aquarium, tries to people watch — that attempt is squashed very quickly by the fact that somehow he and Bahorel are the only ones here in the waiting area of the ER — and looks at his phone. Nothing works, and Bahorel’s just staring at the fish tank in front of him, so Enjolras decides to go for it.

“How was your Christmas?”

He’s desperate for something to distract him at this point, so Bahorel’s incredulous look in his direction — are we seriously talking about this now? — doesn’t faze him.

The other young man sighs like he’s realized something, but he doesn’t share with the class. Instead, he says, “Well, it was good spending time with my parents. I helped them with their stock options and a few other investments that Feuilly coached me through so I’d know what to say and how to describe it to them. I made them a dining room set for Christmas, and they really liked that.” He smiles, and Enjolras knows his mind has temporarily been relieved of the current situation.

“What did you get for Christmas?”

Bahorel laughs. “Clothes and a couple of gift cards. My parents got me some cool magic-joke stuff from Fantasma over in the Midtown West neighborhood.”

“What do you mean?”

“Card tricks, coin tricks, stuff like that. I dabble in that shit sometimes. Have you never played them, or gone to fairs and fortune tellers and whatever?”

“No. My father wouldn’t let me.”

“Your father’s a fucking tool.” Bahorel pulls a deck of ordinary-looking cards from his pocket and shuffles it. “Okay, pick one.”

Enjolras does. It’s the ace of hearts. As ordered, he doesn’t let Bahorel look at it.

“Now give it here.” Bahorel takes the card without asking and shuffles it back into the deck. Then he shuffles it again and produces a card from the deck with a flourish. “Is this your card?”

It’s the ace of hearts. Enjolras stares in disbelief.

“Okay, how did you do that?”

Bahorel sweeps the card back into the deck and bows from the waist grandly. “I’ll never tell.”

“Do it again. Do it again.”

Bahorel repeats the trick flawlessly for another nine times — with Enjolras being surprised every time — while the others arrive in trickles. Feuilly and Victoire walk in and immediately sit down, with the former helping to comfort the latter. Chetta and Bossuet come bearing the assurance from Joly that he’ll come down from the fourth floor where his internship is as soon as he can get off. Enjolras gets texted by Combeferre and Grantaire, both times with the same general message.

I’m on my way. 

Chapter Text

Cosette enjoys squashing stereotypes.

That’s a good thing, because she’s definitely the brunt of many of them.

She doesn’t count herself as among the self-centered, weak-minded girls who are nothing without their men, as opposed to men being nothing without their women. In fact, she would have happily stayed single and be perfectly content with loving her father and patients and everyone else around her. She’s not a bimbo, because she wants to be a nurse and help the countless men, women, and children out there who will get themselves at some time or place into some sort of incident or illness that reminds them of their own mortality. She isn’t a prima donna or attention whore, because she loves Chetta and Ep like they’re her own sisters and her better halves. She’s not a golddigger, because heaven knows she might be making more than Marius for the next ten to twenty years, and her inheritance is higher than his. It’s not foolish or dishonest vanity to admit all of these truths, because she firmly believes and adheres to them, and she prides herself on being her own woman and person.

So when Grantaire drives up in Marius’ car and tells her he’s taking her to the hospital immediately, Cosette is seized by emotions and thoughts she never knew were possible for her to have.

She can’t do this alone. Marius has become her life, the reason why she exists, and without him, the shadows are overtaking the light, and she’s starting to slide down into an emotional black hole.

“What happened?” she screeches, perfectly manicured hands gripping the dashboard for dear life, and Grantaire, to his credit, doesn’t flinch away. He’s hunched over the steering wheel, changing lanes and going through yellow lights with an expert speed that she should be grateful for. Usually he drives with just one hand — the other either on his phone or holding Enjolras’ hand or braced on the doorframe — and now, his relaxed pose is nowhere to be found.

“Cosette, I told you. I don’t know. All I know is that Marius and Jehan are in the hospital and we’re all going there now. I’m sorry. I wish I had answers for you, babe, but I don’t.”

Cosette flings herself back against her seat, tears already trailing mascara. For a moment there, Grantaire sounds a little bit like Marius, and she can hardly believe that an hour ago he kissed her goodbye and told her goodbye in that shy, sweet way of his.

“Have a good time and I’ll be back in an hour to pick you up. I love you, babe.”

That can’t be their last goodbye. It just can’t, because it’s just a stupid manicure appointment, and if Cosette knew that in just an hour he would be fighting for his life, she wouldn’t have done something so petty. She’d have spent every minute of that hour with him and then some.

Pull yourself up by your bootstraps, she can imagine her father telling her gently. Sometimes it helps to just put a brave face on it. Things will work out.

Daddy. She could call him.

She hits his number on the screen of her iPhone, but the phone rings and rings on unanswered. Then she remembers that he’s in an important late board meeting and he won’t get out till nine or ten. It’s maybe seven right now, and she can’t stop the tears falling down her cheeks at the fact that the second most important person in the world has abandoned her, albeit unintentionally.

“Hey,” Grantaire says quietly, reaching out to squeeze her elbow. Although she resents the touch, she looks at him, and his sweet blue eyes are filled with sincere concern and sorrow for her. “It’ll be okay. Chin up, buttercup.”

She smiles despite her tears, because that’s Grantaire for you. He doesn’t believe in noble causes and glorious revolutions and that kind of thing, but he’ll spout sentiments like this because he wants and means them to be true for his friends. Even though she’s closer to Enjolras and Eponine, she can honestly see why Grantaire and Enjolras fit together and are good for each other. They’re both sensitive and abrasive in different ways, but they complement each other perfectly.

“Thanks, R.”

Grantaire drops her off at the ER entrance so he can go park the car without dragging her along to wait. Grabbing her purse, not even caring about her stupid nails anymore, Cosette dashes into the ER with a speed remarkable to the fact that she’s wearing three-inch heeled boots. Sometimes she doesn’t understand why actresses are filmed with them, because they are a pain in the ass to wear, and Cosette wasn’t even expecting to have to walk more than a few steps today outdoors, although she sure as hell taught herself years ago to run in heels, because what happens on the day she does have to do that, and she doesn’t know how?

Today is the day that calls for it.

She bursts inside, and the first person she lays eyes on is Enjolras, who’s already rising from his chair, his blue eyes meeting hers. She flings herself into his arms and starts sobbing, while making demands at the same time that must be completely unintelligible since she’s blabbering like an idiot.

“He and Courf and Jehan met at Trinity’s Church to talk,” he whispers unbidden into her ear, his fingers tangling in her silky blond mane as he holds her against him. “Some guy tried to kill Jehan and Courf, but Marius took the bullet for Courf. That’s all I know. He’s in surgery, but we don’t know everything yet.”

Enjolras is like the twin brother she’s never had. They both look like they’re related, and once when they were ten and comfortable with each other, Cosette mentioned it, and asked if Enjolras could be her brother. He agreed, and they’ve never thought otherwise since. Although he and Combeferre and Courfeyrac will always be the best of friends, she and Enjolras share a special enough bond where they can tease and advise and confide in each other — usually it’s her doing the confiding and he’s doing the advising, unless it comes to matters of the heart, and then Enjolras knows less than a thimbleful. They don’t share everything — that’s what Cosette does with Eponine, and Enjolras with Combeferre — but they share enough, and they consider each other the brother and sister the other never had.

“Where’s your dad?”

“In a business meeting,” she all but mumbles. “I don’t want to tell Monsieur Gillenormand just yet if it’s bad news — he might get a heart attack. Like that one time when Marius got the flu he thought he was going to die and nearly called an ambulance.”

Enjolras chuckles into her hair. “I remember that. Don’t worry, we’ll let him know what happens when we find out, and not a moment before.” He pauses, and Cosette closes her eyes, trying to pretend that she isn’t feeling worried or afraid or insecure. It’s not Marius holding her, but things will work out. Things will be fine.

Now, if she could only believe that. 

Chapter Text

Courfeyrac sits hunched over on the uncomfortable plastic chair, his hands clenched together in a useless effort to keep them from trembling. Combeferre’s squashed on his left side, and Enjolras is on his right, with Cosette beside him. Eponine and Bahorel complete the row of six seats. Grantaire, Feuilly, Victoire, Joly, Bossuet, and Chetta are seated on a different row of chairs perpendicular to theirs.

Nobody is talking aloud, or at least loud enough for all of the group to hear. Most of them are clutching coffee cups or cardboard pastries that Bahorel and Grantaire have run down to the hospital cafeteria to get. Courfeyrac’s hands are cold — he wants Jehan here to warm them — but he can’t hold onto his coffee cup because the first few times he tries, his hands shake so much that he almost spills the scalding liquid inside onto himself. It’s Combeferre who holds the cup steady until Courfeyrac’s taken a few sips. Then their guide tugs on the cup and takes it away from Courfeyrac to place on the small table in front of them.

Words are bubbling up from the pit of Courfeyrac’s stomach, filling his mouth and head and throat until he almost chokes. Words are not his thing; they’re Jehan’s, he’s able to make them sound pretty and melodious and meaningful even if they’re bad or horrible or angry words. Courfeyrac’s more about physical action, and sitting here like this, not knowing what to say, not knowing what to do or even think, is slowly killing him inside.

He waits, Combeferre’s arm slung around his shoulders as he rubs comforting circles into Courfeyrac’s shoulder muscle, Enjolras’ hand still sitting in his where he grabbed it the moment the blond sat down. Enjolras has got his other arm around Cosette’s shoulders, like Combeferre, and the awkward stretched-out pose must be hurting him because he hasn’t moved an inch from either Cosette or Courfeyrac for nearly half an hour, but he doesn’t complain, because, Enjolras.

By the time an ER doctor emerges, Courfeyrac’s head hurts from thinking excessively about the situation. He’s got one of the police detectives’ cards in his pocket, and it’s practically burning a hole in the material. He keeps thinking about the hit, seeing Marius step into the path of the bullet unthinkingly for him, recalling the way fear made him shake and sweat uncontrollably, even after he’s located Jehan and helped pull him from the grave. He can’t stop himself running over the hit man’s words like they’re the key to a treasure map that he just can’t crack.

Who could have done this? Why? What end would their deaths accomplish? Jehan’s never hurt a fly, an ant, or probably even a blade of grass. Courfeyrac keeps flashing back to the bright red of Marius’ blood on his hands and the blue tinge to Jehan’s lips.

“I’m here on behalf of Jehan Prouvaire. Does he have any relatives present?”

Courfeyrac stands up but doesn’t say anything. Combeferre does, and the doctor talks at Courfeyrac once it’s established that he’s the closest to Jehan at this point — being his fiance. His words are like stones that sink into a deep pond. They’re gone in a blink, and they’re buried too deep for Courfeyrac to get them back again. He stares at the man blankly until a line registers.

“… can go see him now. Just don’t make him talk too much, if at all.”

He’s on his feet and walking forward before he even realizes what’s going on. As if sensing his emotions, the doctor stops yattering at him and leads the way to Jehan’s hospital room. Courfeyrac vaguely hears Combeferre quietly conversing with the doctor, but he has no time or energy to process that.

Jehan’s lying in a bed with the blankets drawn up to his elbows, wearing one of those horribly bland-looking hospital gowns. His eyes are closed, and his head’s bandaged, but at least that awful greenish-white tinge to his face is gone.

Courfeyrac sits down blindly in the hard-backed chair next to the bed and takes Jehan’s hand as gently as he can, as if he’s going to break his fiance if he doesn’t touch carefully. He watches Jehan’s eyelashes flutter as his lids rise to look at him.

“Hey,” he whispers.

“Hey,” Jehan croaks back. “Who was the guy — he said something about Patron-Minette — ” He starts to cough, and Courfeyrac winces at the harsh hacking. He applies the slightest bit of pressure to squeeze Jehan’s hand, noting that there’s still a bit of dirt caked under his nails. His heart twinges within him at the memory of Jehan’s hands and face smeared with earth, like a little kid grubbing in the playground, but not like this. Nothing like this.

“Don’t talk,” he urges. “Just rest.”

“Stay?” Jehan wheezes.

Courfeyrac leans over and kisses the poet’s forehead softly. Then he feathers the fingertips of his other hand over Jehan’s temple and cheek, just the way he does when they’re in bed together and his fiance’s about to fall asleep in his arms.

“Always.” 

Chapter Text

“Damn it.”

Sebastien paces his study as Louis stares stoically back at his employer. They’ve just seen on the eleven o’clock news that Bamatabois has been arrested — no name, no identification, no evidence to his identity. Not right now, anyway. At least the son of a bitch is able to do that much.

“I thought you said he was reliable.”

Louis sighs. He knows that Sebastien is at his boiling point, but he’s not yelling. That much is good. Although he’s the man’s bodyguard, he’s also the closest person to the millionaire tycoon. He’s seen him at his best, and at his worst, and whatever happens, he’ll stick with the man.

“I did, too. But I did warn you, sire. He was far too reliant on his guns and knives. Clearly he underestimated the three boys.”

“He didn’t even kill one,” Sebastien points out furiously. “If he was so incompetent I never would have bought his services.”

“A reminder, sire,” Louis adds calmly. “You paid him a hundred thousand in advance, not the full two hundred thousand. He’s going to stand by that for the time being as the authorities get a crack at him. We’ve bought his silence for now.”

“For now?” Sebastien demands. “And what about later?”

Louis grins.

Chapter Text

The first thing Marius is aware of is how dry his mouth is.

It feels like he’s been walking in the desert for maybe two or three hours without water.

Bone-dry. The sandpapery feel of his mouth extends from the tip of his tongue all the way to the back of his throat.

He also hurts right in the abdomen. Well, not so much. It’s practically a phantom pain, really, because it feels numbed, like he’s staring at it from a distance of a few miles. It’s there, but not really there. From the way his thoughts are slow and fuzzy, he’s on painkillers. Lots of painkillers. The lower half of his body feels strange, and Marius reckons that it’s because he got shot around that area. He’s thankful the bullet didn’t hit him in a place where no male should ever be shot, because that would just be cruel.

Especially to a newly married man who really doesn’t quite know how to be 100% sexually active and familiar with his brand-new, impossibly sexy wife.

He turns his head painfully — it’s harder than normal — to find that he’s not alone. A head that’s crowned by a familiar mane of blond hair is bowed next to his bedside, leaning over against the mattress. His hand is grasped by a beautifully manicured one, this limb also familiar. In fact, he’s memorized every detail and feature of this particular person, so much so that he’s more familiar with her than himself. The familiar scent of roses envelopes him.

“Hey,” he croaks. His voice is barely louder than a whisper, but Cosette is a light sleeper. Sure enough, she lifts her head, blinking sleepily her big blue eyes. Those eyes go from tired slits to large, round orbs, and he’s both surprised and dismayed to see tears fill her eyes.

“Don’t be sad,” he pleads, but the sound wrenches at his dry throat and turns into a squeak.

Immediately Cosette is all business. She reaches over to the bedside table and produces a glass of water with a straw in it. Relinquishing her grip on his hand, she gently places the straw into his mouth. He doesn’t have to be told to suck, which he eagerly does, relishing the cold liquid that floods his mouth and takes away the awful withered taste on his tongue.

“How do you feel?”

He thinks that the question sounds really innocuous, like there’s something he needs to be wary about, but he’s too tired for games. His abdomen throbs in pain, and there’s still something weird about the region of his body below that gunshot-affected area. “Fine. What happened?”

“Do you remember anything that happened at all?”

He musters a smile, because of course he does remember. He knows Cosette is being patient with him, though, so he doesn’t snap at her. He can honestly count on one hand the number of times either of them has lost their temper with the other.

“Some crazy guy tried to kill Courf and Jehan.” He realizes what he’s said a second later and opens his mouth for the follow-up questions, but Cosette beats him to the punch.

“They’re all right. Jehan’s just being kept by the hospital overnight for observation, and Courf’s with him. You saved his life.” Her voice takes on a combination of fond exasperation and begrudging admiration. “What were you thinking, Marius, darling, taking that bullet just like that?”

“But —”

Now she smiles with greater sincerity, and the light in her eyes is completely tender. “I know. I’m proud of you. It’s just… it’s never easy seeing my husband hurt.” She looks away and off into the distance for a heartbeat or two before she returns her gaze to him. “Do you remember one of Enjolras’ first rallies, where I used my pepper spray on that one cop so that he wouldn’t arrest you?”

He nods, and she laughs.

“You were so mad at me for putting myself in harm’s way. Didn’t do a thing, though; thank goodness that cop got reassigned. But I think I now understand where you were coming from. You gave me the biggest scare of my life, sweetheart. Don’t do that again.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

Cosette’s smile is like the sun. “All right. I love you. I want you to know that before you go to sleep.”

“I know. I love you too.”

Cosette beams again and rests her head against his shoulder, tilting her face up to him.

“Where’s everybody?”

“Combeferre took Ponine home because it’s a school night, and Gavroche and Azelma have their first day tomorrow. Grantaire and Enjolras are still here, but I think they might leave at some point because Enjolras has an 8 o’clock class. Joly, Chetta, and Bossuet have gone home. Feuilly and Victoire would have stayed, but he’s got work. I think they dropped Bahorel home on the way.”

Marius takes a deep breath before he goes on. He’s already feeling his eyelids turn heavy and sleep blurring his mind. “What about Grandfather?”

Cosette presses her lips together in worry, not irritation. “I told Papa, Marius, but I held off on your grandfather. The last thing we need is him to come down here and worry, you know? I figured that if we told him soon enough while you’re on the mend that it would be easier for him to bear. What do you think? I don’t want to make a rash decision without your output.”

He doesn’t love Cosette just for her looks. Beneath that stunning blond appearance is the heart of a patron saint, and it still astounds Marius to know that he’s just married this perfect creature only thirteen days ago.

“We’ll have to think about that,” he says. “I don’t want to scare him, but I also can’t leave him in the dark. If we ask your father for his advice, he’ll know what to do.” Jean Valjean and Theodule Gillenormand have become close as acquaintances, if not friends, and Marius truly respects and admires the sharp, upstanding citizen that is Cosette’s father.

“This is sort of a delicate situation,” Cosette replies dryly, “but you’re right. Out of everybody we know, I’m pretty sure Papa would be the only soul completely unruffled by a hit man trying to take Courf and Jehan out and having such terrible aim — or rather, being so distracted — that he shot you instead.”

Marius grins, because that’s Jean Valjean for you, all right. “I really wasn’t planning on this for our 2-week anniversary,” he tries to joke.

“Right, because you were totally planning on getting shot by a hit man trying to kill your best friend and his fiance,” Cosette replies dryly. “You’re so silly sometimes.”

Marius laughs and blinks wearily, already feeling like he wants to sleep. Cosette nestles up beside him, pushing gently against him like a cat seeking attention. She pulls the blankets more snugly up around his form, her fingers brushing his legs and hips, and Marius finally realizes what has been evading him the entire time. Fear turns his fingers cold; he feels the blood drain from his face at the very thought. The weight of the news sits on his chest, pushing the air out of his lungs as he tries to keep from hyperventilating in his panic. He blinks as the world starts to recede from his vision, leaving white spots dancing in his gaze, because this can’t be happening to him. It just can’t.

But it is. 

“Sweetheart,” he manages to gasp through numbed lips. “I can’t feel my legs.” 

Chapter Text

Enjolras is almost asleep against Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire can tell from the way his eyelashes have quit dipping and flicking back up as he tries to catch himself from nodding off. Now they lie spread over the edges of his eyes like an opened handheld fan, long and dark and curling in an exquisitely beautiful way. The tension in his jaw and cheek and the lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes have smoothed out and relaxed. It astounds Grantaire that even with all his responsibilities, Enjolras looks impossibly innocent and vulnerable in slumber.

He resists the urge to kiss those closed eyelids or caress Enjolras’ face out of fear of waking him. Instead, he noses against Enjolras’ curls and sighs.

It’s been a long day for all of them, but most especially Enjolras — apart from Courf, Jehan, Marius, and Cosette, of course. Grantaire can’t believe that only this morning, Enjolras was facing down his own father. He glances down to where Enjolras’ left hand is still swathed in white gauze, and runs a tentative fingertip lightly over the spot where the gash is covered.

He wants to take Enjolras home right now, but Celine is meeting them here — she’s just dropped her stuff off at her dorm, and she wants to come offer support. Grantaire feels awful that he hasn’t been around to help his little sister settle in and begin her college experience, but Celine’s argued that they can pitch in and help her unpack tomorrow.

Raised voices come from the direction of Marius’ hospital room, and Enjolras stirs against Grantaire, his eyes still closed. When a nurse damned near sprints around the corner and into said room, Grantaire thinks it’s time to go investigate.

“Apollo,” he whispers, and gently nudges Enjolras’ shoulder.

“Hm?”

“I think something’s up with Marius.”

Enjolras’ blue eyes struggle open. Even with the fatigue evident in his stare, Grantaire can see resolve as Enjolras grabs his hand, climbs off the couch, and tugs Grantaire behind him. Although his gait is slow, it’s sure and carries a hint of his usual authority. He seems to have all his faculties about him; they pause in a doorway for a few precious seconds when a doctor and accompanying nurse stroll out from an examining room and head off in the opposite direction. Visiting hours are long over, and if they’re both found out they’ll be sent away. Try telling Enjolras that, though.

Marius is half-sitting, half-lying on the bed. His face is pale, and Grantaire isn’t sure if that’s from the pain of a three-hour surgery and a gunshot wound or from some sort of ominous news. Maybe both. Cosette is conversing with — well, more like yelling at — the nurse in a voice more high-pitched from stress as it is unwittingly loud.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying —”

“That he can’t ever walk again? He’s paralyzed?”

The other woman is attempting to appear unruffled, but Cosette’s fury can cut steel, and it’s slicing through the nurse’s so-called calm demeanor. “Miss, the doctor says he will discuss this sensitive matter with you in the morning when Mr. Pontmercy is more refreshed. It’s nearly midnight. He should rest.”

“It’s Mrs. Pontmercy to you, you stupid bi —”

Enjolras steps in, his eyes now clear and alert, and he curls his arms around Cosette to pull her away, whispering something in her ear that Grantaire can’t hear. Cosette fights himHe jerks his chin in Marius’ direction, and Grantaire gratefully takes the cue. He knows Marius and Cosette pretty well — you can’t spend practically every day with a group of people and not expect to get to know them better — but he isn’t as close to Cosette as Enjolras is. Enjolras pulls Cosette out of the room, with the nurse reluctantly following. Surprisingly, she hasn’t said anything about Enjolras and Grantaire bursting in — probably too frazzled with dealing with Cosette that she’s willing to take anyone else who will handle the fiery blond.

“Hey, hero.”

Marius is blinking rapidly, but at Grantaire’s greeting he looks up and gives him a watery smile. “Hey.” His voice is quavery.

“You don’t have to pretend around me, kiddo,” Grantaire says calmly. He’s not trying to be rude by talking down to Marius; rather, he wants to show some affection to the younger man even when he’s not exactly sure what to say to make Marius feel better. He’s going to try, regardless.

Instantly Marius’ lip quivers, and the tears spill over from his eyes onto his cheeks. Grantaire sits down on the edge of the bed and puts a hand on his shoulder, which only makes Marius cry harder. It makes Grantaire’s heart hurt. Marius is smart and talented and independent and strong in his own right, but he really is what Courfeyrac calls him — a puppy at heart, adorably confused and occasionally naive about what the world can do. He’s just saved Courfeyrac’s life, but in that well-meaning gesture, his own life has already been turned on its head, and he’s having to remain brave for Cosette when in reality he’s just as scared and unsure as she is. Maybe even more. It’s all the more heart-wrenching when you realize they haven’t even been married two weeks.

So he wraps his arms around Marius and rests his chin on Marius’ sleek dark brown hair, murmuring nonsensical reassurances and letting Marius cry it all out.

* * * * * * * * * * * 

Celine Grantaire squeezes through the doors of the waiting room, panting. Her brother’s argued with her about coming, but she’s able to hear the worry behind his seemingly light tone and has insisted on coming to the hospital to join him. Her dorm isn’t too far away from St. Mary’s, after all.

“Be careful,” he warns her before he hangs up. “It’s midnight.”

“I’ll have my roommate drop me off.”

R doesn’t need to know that her excuse is a complete lie. Her roommates haven’t even moved in yet. She’s not afraid of walking the streets alone, though — she’s a black belt in karate and Aikido, and she has a knife and pepper spray that she always carries on her. One day there might be that one mugger bigger and stronger than her, but until that day comes, she’s able to hold her own.

There was a guy on the metro who kept staring at her boobs, and in answer she took her switchblade out and started filing her nails. He ceased making eye contact and got off at the next stop.

“Can I help you, miss?”

The nurse sitting at the desk looks up with a carefully plasticized smile. The lateness of the hour probably doesn’t help. No one else is sitting in the waiting room, which is curious, because R has said he and Enjolras will meet her here. Celine's been looking forward to meeting the asshole who her brother’s head over heels in love with.

“Yeah. I’m looking for Marius Pontmercy or Jehan Prouvaire?” Her brother’s babbled about Les Amis enough that the names roll easily off her tongue.

The phony smile doesn’t change one iota. It must be very well rehearsed. “I’m sorry, but visiting hours are over. You have to come back in the morning, dear.”

Celine doesn’t show her annoyance. It won’t get her anywhere with this woman. “Bother. Okay, is there a room number for either of them that I can get so I can send a fruit basket?”

The woman clicks away on her computer and recites two separate numbers tonelessly. Then she seems to remember to display some human decency, looks up, and apologizes mindlessly for the inconvenience.

Right.

Celine thanks her anyway, figuring that her task must be about as boring as it looks, and wanders back to the waiting area. She texts her brother and waits, picking up a Time magazine to pass the time.

After roughly about ten minutes, she hears two raised voices coming from around the corner — past the desk where Nurse Plastic is sitting. Both voices — the baritone tenor of a man and the light soprano of a woman — are conversing in fluent, almost melodic French, and both are weighed with stress.

Celine doesn’t know French as well as R, and she curses herself momentarily for not paying attention to one of the plethora of languages he has proficiency in. With what pitifully little French she knows, she tries to pick out what the pair is saying. There’s something about the woman’s husband — so this guy isn’t her husband, then? Lover? Friend? Brother? — and paralysis, and something about a shooting. The man seems to be trying to calm the woman down. Something about Les Amis.

Les Amis.

Wait a second.

“The others will be here in the morning,” the man insists. “I promise you, Cosette, we’ll be here and we’ll figure it out.”

Holy heck. This pair has to be part of Les Amis. The woman must be Cosette Fauchelevent Pontmercy, if her husband is the one they’re talking about. She wants to call out, but Nurse Plastic is looking pretty annoyed, and Celine doesn’t want to get thrown out.

There’s a teary sigh, not quite a sob, and then the woman speaks again. “Enjolras, you and R need to go home. You have class in the morning.”

“We’re not leaving you.”

Both man and woman walk around the corner and approach the waiting room area.

Just for the moment, Celine feels like whistling, and bites down hard on that urge. Both man and woman are blond and beautiful enough that they look like twins, or siblings at the very least. The woman has gently wavy blond hair that falls to the small of her back and big blue eyes set in a face painted in the likeness of Botticelli’s Venus. The man has the best bone structure of anyone Celine has ever seen — and she lives in fucking New York, where looks are everything — with curly blond hair tamer than R’s scissored off above the nape of his neck. One hand wears a bandage, but the rest of him is dolled up in a striking deep red peacoat and well-fitting jeans. He and the woman are both immersed in a quieter discussion due to Nurse Plastic shushing them when they walk past her desk.

“It’s nothing. It’s just… a shock.”

“The nurse said it may be temporary. The doctor will talk to you guys in the morning, and some of us will be here.”

“No, you and the others will be at work or classes or internships.” Cosette’s voice is frank and matter-of-fact, like she’s got herself under control, but the next few words are bitter. “Nobody’s available. I get that, Enjolras. I’ll be here with Marius and Papa and Monsieur Gillenormand, because you can be sure we’re not going to be able to hide this from him. He’s going to be devastated.”

Enjolras worries the bottom lip of his mouth, and Celine suppresses a sigh, because he’s so attractive, as taken as he is and asshole though he is — was, she supposes — it’s clear to anyone with half a brain that he cares about every single one of the Amis. R’s talked Celine’s ear off about Enjolras multiple times — his qualities, his looks, his flaws, his everything.

“I can skip my classes tomorrow.”

“No,” Cosette snaps. The steel in her voice is magnificent. “I will not be feeling guilty that you’re missing your studies and the classes you took over from Dr. Lamarque. You need to be there. You know that. If anything, R will probably be the one to volunteer to be around.”

“But I want to be here.”

Cosette gentles her voice. “Yes, but your father just cut you off, Enjolras. You’re going to have to start making ends meet, and making a bad impression at your classes as a student and student teacher will not help anybody else, least of all you. I’ll be fine, and we’ll both still be here when you get done and come by, okay?”

Enjolras shakes his head.

“Okay?” Cosette repeats in a voice that could probably shake the earth.

Enjolras sighs. “Okay.”

“I’ll send R back to you,” Cosette says, kissing him on the cheek. “Thanks for being around, but you both need to go to bed. Preferably the same bed.”

That makes Enjolras smile, and Celine mimes gagging, even if she has no audience with which to display her mock disgust.

Cosette turns around and walks back around the corner, and Enjolras makes his way over to the waiting area. He nods in Celine’s direction, acknowledging her presence, and drops into one of the chairs, scrubbing his face with his hands.

“Long night?” Celine asks, if only to make conversation. Long silences are awkward for her, and she genuinely likes talking to people.

“Long life,” Enjolras says dryly. “Thanks for asking, though.”

“What happened to you?” Celine asks, gesturing with her chin to his hand. It must have happened today, whatever it is, because R didn’t tell her about it last night when he called to check up on her packing and moving into her dorm.

Enjolras looks down at his hand like he’s understandably forgotten about it. “Uh. I cut myself by accident. Broken coffee cup. You know the drill.”

“Ouch.”

Enjolras shrugs. “Yeah. It was my own fault, though. Well.” He breaks off in mid-thought and then keeps going. “Someone else broke the cup, but I wasn’t very careful.”

“What, did they break it on you or something?” Celine quips.

Enjolras’ smile turns tight. He lifts his head and looks at her as if seeing her for the first time, and his brow furrows when he takes in her blue eyes and curly chestnut hair and face. “This may sound strange —”

“Celine?”

R’s standing a few feet away from both of them. His eyes are twinkling, and he grins at Enjolras before looking back to Celine. “Hey, little sis.”

Celine stands up and throws her arms around her brother, enjoying the surprised look on Enjolras’ face. “Hey, bro.”

“I see you two have met,” R quips.

Enjolras smiles ruefully. “I think your sister knew who I was before she even started talking to me.”

“Why not?” Celine asks cheekily. “From the way R talks about you —”

Her brother elbows her, and Enjolras watches them both silently with a fond smile. He shakes his head and laughs as he rises to his feet. “Good to meet you,” he says, holding out his hand. “Adrien Enjolras.”

“Celine. Seriously, R has told me all about you. For instance, that you’re an asshole.”

“True.”

“And you’re trying to mend your ways now that you’re living together and fucking each other.”

“True to a degree. We haven’t exactly done the last bit.”

R exaggeratedly exhales loudly enough for Celine to hear. “Next thing I know, you’re going to threaten to castrate him if he breaks my heart.”

“Well, yes.”

“Okay,” Enjolras chimes in. “You can probably say that, since I have no intention of doing that anytime, or ever.”

Celine pretends not to notice when her brother takes Enjolras’ hand right after that declaration and kisses him on the cheek. She does let out a loud sigh when Enjolras kisses him back, and this time not on the cheek.

“You can make out all night, or you can drop me back home and promise on groveled knee that you will come help me move in. What’s it going to be?”

“Bossy face,” R says.

“Shameless exhibitionist,” Celine throws back.

“I’ll have you know that I exhibit for his eyes only,” R answers loftily, steering Enjolras and Celine towards the basement parking lot as they walk beside him in an R sandwich. “And that is all you need to know. I do not need to corrupt my innocent baby sister.”

“This baby sister knows things that would make your hair curl.”

“It must run in the Grantaire family genes, because look at the both of us. Poor choice of words, kiddo.”

“You two are ridiculous,” Enjolras interjects, but he’s smiling, so all the heat of his comment is absent.

“Don’t sit so proudly on your high horse, Blondie,” Celine says. “Your hair is almost as curly as ours.”

“And yet he knows nothing of these things,” her brother points out solemnly. “The other Amis and I have to teach him our ways, and you, young Padawan, have arrived to aid our efforts.”

“What’s a Padawan again?” Enjolras asks. “I’ve heard that term before.” 

Chapter Text

Sebastien walks into the room and finds it completely empty — and dark — except for himself and Louis and two chairs that are six feet apart and facing each other. As instructed, he takes a seat on the chair facing away from the door, and waits.

He’s not used to having Louis apart from him. The man is usually one step behind him, always. Right now his faithful bodyguard is standing three feet in front of the door, watching him; they’re both sitting ducks if this is a trap, or if Patron-Minette goes back on their word.

There’s the sound of footsteps that approach the door. When it opens, Sebastien does his best to sit straight and tall in his chair, trying not to appear intimidated. What sounds like the footsteps of maybe three men — one substantially heavier and more powerfully built than the other two — enter the room, and Heavy-Feet stops where Louis would be standing. The staccato steps of the remaining two men echo off the concrete floor as they walk towards Sebastien. He tenses when they pass him on either side. Then, one man is sliding gracefully into the chair, while the other stands behind him, his face veiled in shadow.

The man in the chair is not what Sebastien has expected of Patron-Minette’s leader, and yet he is everything the rumors have made him out to be. Tall, young, leanly muscular, and handsome, he reminds Sebastien of a wolf — dark, sinister, ravenous, and more dangerous than he’s ever bargained for. Green eyes that are flinty and cold as a snake’s. He swallows before cursing himself for the bit of weakness he’s revealed.

He’s in charge here. He’s the one hiring Patron-Minette. They owe him their services.

“Sebastien Enjolras,” the man in the chair comments. His voice is sultry and crisp, with well-bred intonation. “To whom do we owe this considerable pleasure?”

“My man told me that I could hire you for your services,” Sebastien says. His voice cracks embarrassingly on his first few words, and the sneer on the man’s face spreads and does not bolster his confidence.

“Do we look like hired guns?” His voice holds an ominous note.

Sebastien consults his business expertise and pauses to organize his thoughts. He cannot slip up. Not here, not now; not ever.

“Of course not,” he says calmly — as calmly as he can manage, anyway. “You’re professionals. You have unparalleled expertise and genius in all sorts of fields.” He doesn’t add that those fields are all criminal; he doesn’t have to. “And as professionals, you deserve the highest pay for the work you do. Work which I have for you.”

The man doesn’t move a muscle, although his shadow standing behind his chair does. Clearly the leader is a lot more controlled than his lieutenant.

“What kind of work?”

Sebastien braces himself. If he and Louis can go over this hump, they’ve got it made. Otherwise… they could very well piss Patron-Minette off and end up dead.

“I need you to first assassinate an incarcerated criminal. His name is Bamatabois. He’s at the Vernon C. Bain Correctional Center.”

The leader in the chair barks a laugh that has no humor in the slightest. “You’re kidding, right?”

Sebastien doesn’t join in the laughter. There’s no point in getting into false camaraderie with this man — he can see right through the facade if Sebastien tries far too hard. “No, monsieur. I’m afraid I’m not.”

“What did he ever do to you?” the leader asks, regaining control in a single blink. Sebastien doesn’t even think that the man lets his guard down for that long. “He’s rotting away in jail. They’ll throw the book at him, unless you’re worried about getting him out.” The green eyes sharpen. “Or him blabbing your secrets before he does get out.”

Sebastien affects a sigh. “I’m afraid it’s the latter.”

“What kind of secrets do you guard that you’re so afraid he’ll reveal?” It’s a rhetorical question, but Sebastien isn’t fooled. He knows sooner or later he’ll have to loosen his tongue. “What has he done that you need him dead? Any requests?”

This isn’t rhetorical.

“He failed in an assassination,” Sebastien confesses. “I sent him to kill two young men and he put them and a third in the hospital but they’re alive. Those loose ends cannot be touched for now because they have powerful families. Families that could threaten my position if I go too far. I need you to silence him permanently before he lets slip that I hired him.”

The leader surveys him with a raised eyebrow. There’s a long moment of uncomfortable silence that causes sweat to soak through Sebastien’s dress shirt, hidden safely under his suit jacket.

“Got anything else you want us to know?”

Sebastien winces inwardly. “He tried to impersonate you.”

“And why would he do that?” the leader asks deliberately, his handsome face drawing into a frown. It’s an expression that looks surprisingly frightening on him despite his obvious youth.

“I asked him to. I didn’t want to have to involve you, and I asked my bodyguard if he knew of any small fry who could do a job. We both overestimated his abilities, and I felt it would be wise to appeal to the real experts. In this case, you.” He directs a smile at the man, although it’s not returned.

“You got some small-town loser to impersonate us?”

The anger’s real, and Sebastien shifts in his chair. He can’t help it, and every nerve is screaming for him to stand up and leave. “Yes, monsieur. I sincerely apologize for that. I should have known better than to besmirch your reputation. I did it so it would remove attention from myself.”

The leader’s eyes are like green coals. “What else do you want to burden us with after he’s killed?”

“I need intimidation. Whittle down a group of youngsters until they have no courage or bravado left. They’re my son’s friends.”

Now the leader does laugh, and this time there is a touch of humor in it. “No love lost there, I see. And you can’t kill them all to get back at him — sooner or later, someone will notice.” A vicious glint enters his eye. “Your son wouldn’t be Adrien Enjolras, would he?”

“He is.”

“Then it might please you to know that I have no love lost for him, either.”

“How so?”

The leader shrugs dismissively. “That’s for me to know and for you to never find out. Do you want him dead?”

“No. It would draw too much unwanted attention. I need him alive.” For now, he silently adds. Until his son outlives his usefulness, of which is already questionable to begin with.

“Fuck,” the man casually swears. “I suppose I’ll have to content myself with swatting at flies rather than squashing the creature that spawned them. What’s in it for Patron-Minette?”

Sebastien’s prepared for this question. “You get to regain your reputation by the revenge killing. And if you help me intimidate a group of kids, I’ll see that there’s half a million in it for each of you, however many you are. Should I require your assistance for anything else, I will recompense you for it, of course.”

He’s playing his cards carefully, because he wants to get as much information out of Patron-Minette as possible. So far he’s got nothing, and they have everything on him.

The wheels are clearly turning in the man’s head. Finally he nods curtly, sealing the deal. “We’ll provide you a business contract. We’ll need your information and how to contact you; we also require a dossier on each of the targets. Should we have to carry out our own surveillance, those costs and others will  be passed onto you. You pay them and it doesn’t come out of the half million. The two-point-five million is an upfront payment too.”

Sebastien nods, because two and a half million is nothing to him at this point. His mind carefully files away the information he knows. This clever, dangerous young man is an acquaintance at the very least of Les Amis; there are five members of Patron-Minette; breaking into a jail barge to murder a hardened criminal means absolutely nothing to this man or his associates. He needs to watch his every step, but if he is careful, he’ll come out of this with his skin intact and his path free of Adrien’s antics and sabotage.

Victory will be his. He can already taste it.

“You have a deal.” 

Chapter Text

The alarm cuts through Enjolras’ head like a jackhammer drill. He forces himself to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed before he hits the snooze button.

Far too early to be up.

Grantaire mumbles something and reaches out for Enjolras. The touch of his fingers against Enjolras’ bicep ignites his nerve endings, and he shivers, wishing that he doesn’t have to go anywhere but back to bed. Last night they stayed up for at least another hour longer after leaving the hospital when Grantaire freaks out that Celine’s roommates aren’t around. They spend that time checking locks and assessing the room’s furnishings. Grantaire nags at Celine about walking late at night on the streets alone, while Celine drills Enjolras on their relationship, the Amis, his family, and everything else she can think of. They managed to get back to the apartment at one-thirty. He looks at the alarm clock and inwardly groans; he’s gotten maybe three and a half hours of sleep.

“Go back to sleep,” he says quietly, quelling the grumpiness he feels and kissing the top of Grantaire’s wild bed head as he stifles a yawn. “I’ll see you at the hospital when I’m done, okay?”

Grantaire verbally masticates another few words, one of which sounds like assent, and burrows back into the nest of pillows and blankets that is their bed.

Somehow Enjolras is able to step into the shower. The water rouses him, but just barely, and he manages to dress and shove his books into his satchel thanks to the cup of coffee that Combeferre’s left out for him. He runs out the door and catches the metro with a few minutes to spare.

The rest of the day basically goes about the same way. This being the first day of school, he doesn’t really pay all that much attention in his new classes as the professors drone about grading policies and upcoming assignments. He puts together the syllabi and lesson plans for Dr. Lamarque’s classes during his half-hour lunch break instead of eating, and the classes he’s now teaching thankfully don’t give him any trouble.

If having numerous freshman girls — and the occasional guy — flirting with him, doesn’t count as trouble. Or having the dean of the law and political science department come by and tell him he’s going to be sitting in Enjolras’ classes just to see how he handles teaching the lessons.

By the time he drags himself off campus and onto the metro to go to St. Mary’s, he’s exhausted, his head pounding incessantly, and the sides of his stomach are rubbing themselves together. He knows that Combeferre will probably chide him about taking care of himself, but when he pictures Cosette’s tearstained face or Courfeyrac’s panicked expression, he forces himself to keep plodding onward.

When he walks into Marius’ hospital room, the chaos in there is enough to make him walk right back out after taking a good, hard look at what’s going on. Marius is sitting up, and he, Grantaire, Bahorel, and Bossuet are all yelling at a footie match on the television mounted in the corner of the room. The ladies are sharing recipes while Cosette’s eating something from a tupperware container that Chetta must have prepared. Combeferre and Joly have their heads bent over their medical textbooks. Courfeyrac, Jehan, Feuilly, and Victoire are absent — Enjolras has already gotten a text from Courfeyrac ordering him to stay out of their apartment tonight, as if Enjolras has the intention to even go in there, since he knows Courf and Jehan will want to take it easy for the next couple of days. Or weeks. Maybe even months.

Hell, if Enjolras ever gets buried alive, he probably wouldn’t want to leave his apartment for a year. He can’t say he blames Jehan in the slightest.

Back out in the hallway, he leans against the wall and tries to regulate his breathing rate, which has sped up without his noticing.

He can’t abide being in hospitals. He’s reminded that he once sat in one for hours on end while his brother lay dying in the same room. He hates the smells of antiseptic and industrial cleaner and sickness; the sights of patients slowly wasting away while their family members and friends weep, or the looks on the faces of doctors and nurses when they know the end is near but are forced to keep up the facade of good cheer. It terrifies him, that his mother is in the same hospital Alain was in, because he can’t shoo away the nagging feeling that nothing will save her, just like with Alain.

At least Marius is okay, even if he’s paralyzed. Time will tell whether or not it’s temporary, according to the doctor, but he seems to have pretty good chances. Jehan’s okay, too, if traumatized. His self-created family is intact, at the moment.

But his biological family is not.

“You okay?”

Celine’s voice perkily cuts through his mental and emotional fog. He looks up and sees her standing about six feet away, as if she wishes to approach him but wants to give him space. Even befuddled as he is, he can note the concerned look in her blue eyes that match Grantaire’s.

Thoughtful. Like her brother.

He nods, but he really doesn’t feel all that okay. The reason why becomes apparent when she moves forward and grabs onto his forearm, gripping tightly enough that he looks back at her.

“Breathe. R will kill me if you pass out without me trying to help you.”

He nods and tries to make his lungs work, inhaling a deep breath that rushes into his chest with an intensity that surprises him. Belatedly, he realizes that he’s been holding his breath, and the increased oxygen intake makes him heady for a moment. Celine holds onto his arm, as if she’s worried he’ll fall, and it’s only when his respiratory rate has returned to normal that she lets go.

“So, how was your day?”

The question is asked with the ease of sincerity, rather than the forced manner of small talk. He has to ponder for a few seconds about how to reply.

“Long,” he finally decides. “Also freshman girls are really pushy.”

Celine laughs. “Got hit on, huh. I’m not surprised.”

“I am. Even after they found out I’m gay, they still wouldn’t stop. It’s like they want to flirt the gay out of me or something.”

“Good luck with that,” Celine says with another grin. She cocks her head and looks at him. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Um.”

He’s considering lying to her, but Celine’s got that don’t-fuck-with-me glint in her eye that she must have learned from Grantaire. And Bahorel. And Musichetta. Oh, let’s not forget Combeferre. In fact, all of the Amis at some point have displayed that look. How is it that she hasn’t even been with the Amis 24 hours and already knows their quirks?

“You don’t remember, huh,” Celine points out bluntly. “Well, good thing Chetta brought extra food. Come on. You’ll feel better for it. And I’m not leaving you out here to your thoughts, which seem almost as self-doubting as my brother’s at this point.”

She bumps his shoulder playfully and jerks her head at the door in a stern order that Enjolras can’t refuse. 

* * * * * * * * * * *

Three days later, Jehan still can’t stop trembling.

Courfeyrac has his arms tucked around his waist, but he can feel Jehan’s nervousness in the way his fingers stutter against Courfeyrac’s forearms, and how his hands are cold. He rubs at them, trying to warm them, glad for the physical contact. It’’s been two days since Jehan was discharged from the hospital, and Courfeyrac can’t stop touching him, or kissing him, as if to remind himself that his fiancé is alive and in his arms.

“Are you cold?” he asks, gripping the edge of the quilt to draw it more snugly around Jehan. “I can turn up the thermostat.””

Jehan shakes his head, although he also doesn’t push the quilt away. “No. Don’t go.”

“Okay.” Courfeyrac tightens his grip slightly. He can still remember holding onto Jehan’s shivering form in the growing darkness of the winter evening, and the taste of his own tears coalesced into a salty ball at the back of his throat. Every day, he wakes up and reaches for Jehan to make sure he’s still there. Once or twice he’s dreamed of finding Jehan’s corpse rather than a living, breathing soul, and he always wakes up feeling like an elephant’s sitting on his chest.

Jehan’s had nightmares of his own. Courfeyrac knows without asking that those dreams involve him suffocating to death, because he starts hyperventilating and mumbling Courfeyrac’s name and pleading to be let out of his earthen grave.

Their whole situation makes Courfeyrac want to slam his fists into the walls, while reassuring Jehan over and over with kisses and tender embraces and physical touches, that he’s not going away. That he’s here to stay. That he will keep Jehan safe.

He can’t promise that last bit, so he focuses on the first two vows he can give.

It’s ten in the morning, and Jehan’s tracing lazy circles on Courfeyrac’s palms as he snuggles against him, their bed warm and cozy from their body heat. The air is light with the old scents of flowers that Courfeyrac’s given Jehan, and which Jehan’s pressed and dried. Although snow is beating against the windows in a shallow drizzle, Courfeyrac has a brief wistful feeling of nostalgic security that he’’s not sure he or Jehan will ever feel completely again.

“Breakfast?” he asks, nudging at Jehan’s silky hair that’s spread over the pillow. Jehan favors his deep brown curls, but Courfeyrac prefers the feel of his fingers threading through Jehan’s chestnut mane. It’s like he’s playing with satin, and he enjoys the sensation.

“Sounds good,” Jehan murmurs. He rolls over in bed so that he’s facing Courfeyrac, and there’s a hint of contentment in his sensitive gray eyes. Moving his face forward, he presses his lips gently against Courfeyrac’s. It’s not a kiss of passion. This one is meant to embody all the gentle tenderness and appreciation that Jehan can express, and Courfeyrac does the same by kissing him softly back.

They’ve been giving each other these kinds of kisses and gestures since that eventful day. It’s their way of saying without words how immensely grateful they are to have a second chance to live, to be with each other; their way of showing I love you without the heady ferocity of passion, but the soulful calm of the love they each feel. Love like what is described in the words that pour from the poets’ pens, but love as it isn’t shouted publicly from the rooftops.

Courfeyrac’s phone thrums against the nightstand, and he groans. “I’ll let them call back or leave a voicemail,” he says, in response to Jehan’s questioning look. “I’m busy.”

Jehan smiles. It’s not his usual wide, carefree grin, but Courfeyrac doesn’t care. Every smile, every laugh, and every gentle caress and touch tells Courfeyrac that his emotional wounds are healing, stripe by stripe.

The phone stops after a minute, and then vibrates once more.

“You probably should pick that up,” Jehan comments. “Clearly whoever it is wants to reach you.”

Courfeyrac sighs. “Do I have to?”

“No. But it might get annoying after a little while if the caller just keeps hitting the redial button.”

Sure enough, the unknown caller – Courfeyrac’s checked to see if it’s anyone he knows, and it’s not listed on his contact list – dials again the third time. He lets out a little growl.

“Fine, fine. But only because you asked me to.”

He grabs the phone and glares at it as he answers, half-hoping that the caller has hung up.

No such luck.

“Hello. Is this Henri Courfeyrac?”

“Speaking.”

“Hi. I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Police Detective Jeff Miller of the NYPD. How are you and your fiancé doing?””

Detective Miller. The younger policeman who was there that night. Courfeyrac instantly tenses up, then curses himself for tensing up, because Jehan’s not blind and he’s not stupid and he can see that this call, whatever it is, has just changed their happy, relaxed mood. His fiance’s going to ask, and it’ll throw him back into his traumatic state.

“We’re good, thank you, Detective,” he says automatically, and watches as emotions flit across Jehan’s face, crashing together for purchase. There’s a bit of anger, impotent though it is, alarm at the thought of any sort of bad news, and – what makes Courfeyrac’s blood boil –– fear. Jehan tries his best to hide it, but from the way his fingers start to twitch and his lips lose color, Courfeyrac knows that he’s afraid.

“A little shaken up, I bet,” the detective says matter-of-factly, albeit with evident sympathy. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but could I speak with Jehan Prouvaire, please?”

“Do you mind if I put you on speaker?” Courfeyrac asks, when he looks at Jehan and the poet shakes his head, his eyes widening more than usual.

“No problem. Thanks.”

Courfeyrac hits the speakerphone button on his iPhone and then slides his arms back around Jehan’s waist. The other young man sits up, but his movements are stilted, and his face has taken on that expression that Courfeyrac hates. It’s like his face is made of wood, and reveals just as much emotion. With someone as loving and animated as Jehan, it’s a terrifying look to be had.

“Jehan? How are you doing?”

“Fine,” Jehan says on complete autopilot.

“I apologize again for bothering you both. I know my presence isn’t exactly a comforting one, given our circumstances. I have a request to make of you both.”

“Fire away,” Courfeyrac says, when Jehan doesn’t reply.

“We need you both to come down to the station. Mainly Jehan, actually.”

“Why?” Jehan blurts. His voice is panicky, and Courfeyrac bites his lip, ready to say something, anything, but then Jehan swallows and exhales a deep breath before speaking once more, this time a great deal more calmly.

“Why would you need us there?”

“To identify the man that attacked you,” Detective Miller replies, not unkindly. “Henri has already done so, although a confirmation of his identity in a lineup wouldn’t be amiss, young man. But you haven’t, Jehan. I’m sorry to have to put you through this, but the governor and mayor are both putting pressure on this case to be solved. The sooner we can get this creep behind bars, the quicker you both can get back to your own lives and never hear from me again.”

“The upcoming elections,” Courfeyrac whispers in Jehan’s ear, and Jehan nods curtly.

“When do you need us to be there?” he asks, his voice now taking on a bit of a bite. Courfeyrac makes a mental note to apologize to Detective Miller later, because Jehan’s anger isn’t directed at the cop, but at the events which have transpired and the man who nearly killed them both.

“Is eleven o’clock okay, or do you need a later time?”

“We’ll be there,” Courfeyrac says when Jehan nods again.

“Thank you,” the cop says. “I’ll meet you both here when you come in.”

Courfeyrac hangs up, but before he can say anything or reach out in any way to Jehan, his lover is sliding off the bed, face set in a mask. He enters the bathroom and shuts the door with a bang. 

Chapter Text

The recent turn of events has Jehan at a constant loss for words.

That’s never happened to him before. He’s always been able to master words like none of the other Amis can. Like nearly all of the people he knows can’t do, except maybe the talented maestros he’s met at the Bowery Poetry Club, or the other places he’s been to for readings and things.

Words have always surprised him with their power to express. They can strip away veneers and facades. They can land blows every bit as painful as broken bones and bruises. They can soothe like a mother’s words, caress like a lover’s embrace, and comfort like the supporting smiles of a group of friends as close to Jehan as family.

Since the incident, he’s been unable to use his words to express what he’s feeling. This bout of writer’s block has him floundering, utterly disconcerted. He doesn’’t like it; in fact, he hates it. The resentment seethes within him like acid. Things have got him feeling about as grounded as if he’s bobbing on the ocean without a lifebelt, because he’’s always been able to achieve catharsis through his poetry.

He can’t do that now. And it makes him angry, even as he hides behind the anger to keep the terror from resurfacing and drowning him.

If he dwells on the terror for too long, he’ll be consumed. He’s jumping at sudden noises, looking over his shoulder every other moment, and he’s far too paranoid now where he’’s never been before. Only this morning he’s had to stop himself from checking the lock on the front door of the apartment for the third time. Bahorel’s dropped off a couple of military knives and pepper sprays, and although Jehan’’s verbally protested, he’s inwardly glad. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever use them –– they’ve never really been his thing – but having something, some sort of pathetic defense against the dangers out there, makes him feel marginally safer. It’s better than nothing at all.

Detective Jeff Miller looks to be a decent enough cop. He’s in his early to mid-thirties, with a wedding band on his finger and a leanly trim build that suggests he works out, rather than pushes papers and consumes his body weight in doughnuts. He’s got a close-shaven head like Bossuet’’s, and a face that looks like it’s been cut from a block of wood. One of his redeeming physical qualities is when he smiles – it transforms his face from something grim and expressionless to a look that’’s both approachable and trustworthy. This cop, Jehan feels instinctively, is a family man who sticks to his word.

“You guys are a part of Les Amis, aren’t you?”

Courfeyrac tenses, but his face doesn’t show it. Instead, his hand tightens in Jehan’s a fraction. “We are. How did you know?””

The detective smiles and shrugs, but it’s not meant to be an inscrutable expression. “I’ve seen you both at your protests on the telly, but I’’ve never been stationed when you do them. I admire what you both and your friends are doing, to tell you the truth.”

“I was under the impression that the cops hated what we’re doing,” Jehan says. Normally he has a good filter between his brain and mouth, but it’’s been missing as of late, and he doesn’t miss the look that Courfeyrac sneaks at him.

There’s the bang of someone slamming something onto a table surface, and Jehan looks to his left to see a familiar face scowling at him.

Christian Javert glowers from where he’s sitting at his desk in his swanky private office. The police lieutenant looks just about the same as from when Jehan last saw him at the ill-fated protest roughly a month ago – dark beard bristling, gruffly handsome, and as tenaciously vicious towards Les Amis as a Rottweiler that’s caught the scent. Jehan respects the man for doing his job, but he can’t ever like the cop for roughing Enjolras up every time their fearless leader gets arrested. Ever since Enjolras wrote that piece in the Law Review about police corruption and brutality in Javert’s beloved department two years ago, leading to a witch hunt of sorts, Javert’s been on the warpath, and it looks like he isn’t getting off anytime soon.

Detective Miller laughs. “I just bet you’ve had several bad run-ins. I’m sorry. There are a lot of conservatives here in the force, and they don’’t like change. A lot of the younger cops agree with you, but then again, every organization is divided among its own. Hopefully that doesn’t stop you all from doing what you’re doing.”” He walks obliviously past Javert’s office – or maybe not so obliviously, judging from the way the corners of his mouth turn upward slightly as he moves past his superior’s glare. Jehan’s respect for the man rises even more.

“We’ll try not to,” Courfeyrac replies, and Jehan nods, peeling his eyes away from Javert as they keep walking. “Thank you.”

Detective Miller inclines his head, and pauses for them to enter the waiting room before he does.

“So what’s going to happen here right now?” Jehan asks bluntly.

The three of them get coffee cups from the vending machine and sit down with Jehan and Courf directly facing the cop. Jehan cradles the Styrofoam receptacle in his gloved hands, glad for the warmth, although he doesn’t take a sip. He waits for Courf to do the honors and smiles with a touch of mischief at his fiancé when Courf makes a face at the cup, then at him.

“Sorry we can’t offer better,” Detective Miller says with another shrug. “At the end of a long day tracking down empty leads and wrestling with perps, though, and that swill tastes a whole lot better than at first sip.”

“Understandable,” Courfeyrac chirps. “And it’s really not that bad. It’s like being down in the law building during finals week.”

Detective Miller barks a laugh and then leans forward in his chair. “So here’s the deal. How the lineup works is that the men are all carrying numbers and they’ll file into a room and you’ve got to identify your attacker from a room with a one-way mirror. That’s it. They can’t see you, but you can see them. You can take your time because we don’’t want the wrong man to get nabbed and the real jerk to go free.”

Courfeyrac tightens his fingers around Jehan’s, and to his surprise, Jehan realizes his breathing has hitched up. He inhales hard, forcing his lungs to comply and relax back to their normal breathing rate, and then makes himself nod at the detective.

“You ready?” the man asks, not unkindly.

Master your fears. Don’t let them master you.

He forces a smile, and straightens his back. Courfeyrac’s hand squeezes gently, lending him more courage that he didn’t think he needed till now.

“Sure.”

They all go into another room that’s two corridors down from the waiting area. This one’s small, with three empty walls and a fourth wall with a large glass window which trails from the ceiling and ends at the height of Courfeyrac’’s waist. The glass partition gives way to an empty room, bare but for the door on one end. There are horizontal lines against the back wall, marked with numbers indicating height, just like in the movies.

Detective Miller shuts the door to the viewing room, and that must have triggered some sort of signal, because the door in the room beyond cracks open to admit ten men, all of similar height and weight and build. They’re all dark-haired, and most of them have facial hair of a sort, which Jehan knows is the description that Courfeyrac’s given to the police.

His eye, however, is drawn in short time to Number Seven. Beside him, Courfeyrac lets out a quiet gasp, and Jehan knows immediately that both of them have nailed the same guy.

His beard is a little more scraggly, Jehan thinks distantly. And he’s bigger than Jehan remembers, although here in the police station his size doesn’t intimidate as much as in the graveyard three days ago.

But those eyes. Jehan can’t ever forget those eyes, even in his dreams. It’s like he’s back in the graveyard, making eye contact with this stony black gaze in the split second before the man hits him hard enough to give him a concussion that lands him in the hospital overnight.

Given the look of this guy and his bulk, Jehan supposes it’s a miracle he and Courf are still alive.

“Number seven,” he manages to get out around the lump in his throat. How it’s gotten there, he has no idea. “Number seven’s the guy.”

Their assailant suddenly looks straight at the glass window, like he knows Jehan and Courfeyrac are looking right at him. A heartbeat later, he smiles, and it’s a sight for nightmares, because there is all malice and no regret in that expression. The other nine men are staring blankly ahead, some looking nervous, others seeming not to care about what’’s going on. Even to an outsider, it’s remarkably easy to tell who’s the culprit.

Jehan’s gorge rises, and he takes a step back as Courfeyrac’s grip tightens on his hand. When he glances at his fiancé, he can see that Courfeyrac’s tanned complexion is ghost-white.

“Are you sure?” Detective Miller prompts quietly.

Jehan nods wordlessly. He can’t summon words.

“All right.”

Jehan looks back at the glass, right at the man who’s tried to kill him, who came so close to doing it. There’s still not a hint of shame, or decency, or anything in that swarthy face, just bravado. He can still smell the dirt, feel the blood sliding down his face, and a voice speaking a handful of words.

Patron-Minette wishes you well.

This guy would have murdered him and Courfeyrac without a second thought. No one knows his motives – Detective Miller’s said that this guy isn’t talking. All they know is his prints and his name – Bamatabois – and his reputation of being a bounty hunter and occasional assassin. The Feds are extracting him so they can interrogate him, because apparently he’s wanted for the death of a senator. What the Patron-Minette link is, and who ordered the hit on Courfeyrac and Jehan, no one knows.

You’re in there, and you can’t hurt us again. But someone out there still wants to… and we have no idea who.

Chapter Text

I need to figure out where to cut back expenses. I should ask Feuilly about making a good, solid budget. Grantaire’s got his art school expenses, and I’m not about to cut back on that now that he’s back in school and painting and actually doing really well and everything. Maybe if I eat less, that’ll help to save money on groceries.

R wants to go over to Celine’s dorm tonight.

Maybe if I get a secondhand car and turn in my new one?

Damnit, why hasn’t Mother called me back? I rang the hospital and got a hold of Dr. Barria and he promised me he’ll tell Mother I called. Maybe Father found out.

Jehan and Courf had to go to identify Bamatabois in a lineup today. I need to ask Combeferre to see if we can do anything for them.

Mental note: when I go over to the hospital to see Marius tomorrow, bring along that anatomy textbook for Combeferre and Joly so they can talk to Cosette about spinal paralysis.

‘Consider Kant’s categorical imperative and how that can be applied in this class, or in the workforce.’ Oh, I remember when Dr. Lamarque talked about that in class. And he referenced a story that he’d told me the week before in his office.

Enjolras is chipping away his own extensively kept notes from all of Dr. Lamarque’s classes in order to get a good hold on what his mentor has taught all of his years here at NYU. Once again he’s glad to be such a selective pack rat — he’s obsessive-compulsive and he likes cleanliness and neatness in every single room and every single aspect of his life, but he’ll keep things that are important to him just on the off chance that he’ll need them or want them later. Like the box of souvenirs from his and Grantaire’s dates, or his library-sized book and file collection, or every single card and note Combeferre’s written him. Even the party hats Courfeyrac’s forced on him at numerous New Year’s Eves.

He forces himself to concentrate on his notes, but his mind keeps swirling with his own thoughts, solidly occupied by every single one of the Amis, his parents, and his deceased mentor. It’s almost a relief when there’s a knock at the door of the closet-sized office he’s been given. He looks up and sees Dr. Mabeuf standing in the doorway.

“Adrien, son. It’s going on nine o’clock.”

“I know,” Enjolras says absently. “I’m almost done with these lesson plans.”

Dr. Mabeuf pauses where he is. He looks completely different from Dr. Lamarque. Enjolras’ deceased mentor resembles — resembled, Enjolras’ traitorous mind supplies — an old-school silver screen actor, complete with debonair charisma and distinguished manner. Dr. Mabeuf, in contrast, is small and of average height, maybe four inches shorter than Enjolras’ six feet. He’s got a bit of a belly, and his white walrus mustache complements his mop of hair. He looks like a cartoon character in comparison to Dr. Lamarque’s live-media star, but he’s got the same inquisitive, respectful mind and warm heart that Enjolras’ mentor possesses. Possessed.

“Busy as a bee, huh?”

“Always,” Enjolras replies, turning in his chair to look properly at the old man. As Dr. Lamarque’s colleague and close friend, he deserves as much respect as Enjolras can give him, which is substantial. “How are you, sir? Your family?”

Dr. Mabeuf laughs. It lights up his face, just like Dr. Lamarque’s. “The missus and I are doing well, young Adrien. Thank you. I think the only things she worries about are our grandkids and Christine.”

“Who’s Christine?”

“Our cat,” Dr. Mabeuf says fondly.

Enjolras’ mind flashes to Stormie. For a maturing kitten, she hasn’t really been very needy lately. It’s nice, because he hasn’t had to spend time or effort worrying about her or playing with her. He feels guilty, though, because kittens are still babies, and she’s clearly the runt of her litter, to be abandoned as cavalierly as she has been. Kittens need playtime, and he’s completely ignored Stormie during all this drama with his father.

It’s a cat. I’m a busy man.

That’s what your father would say, his mind reminds him. Maybe he should put a few more minutes into playing with her each day. It’s not like he’s so busy he can’t afford a couple of minutes. Well, he is busy, but she’s his responsibility as much as Grantaire’s.

“… she’s having kittens,” Dr. Mabeuf continues. Guiltily, Enjolras realizes that the elderly professor has been going off on a tangent, and he’s ignored Dr. Mabeuf the entire time.

“Forgive me, Dr. Mabeuf, but what was that again?”

“Christine has kittens,” Dr. Mabeuf repeats patiently. “We’re trying to give them away, but we want them to go to good homes, so the screening process is a bit of a problem.”

“How so?” Enjolras starts gathering up his laptop and papers — there’s no point working this late, because his brain is starting to squeeze a little too hard inside his skull, and he should get going to the hospital anyway.

Dr. Mabeuf doesn’t seem to mind Enjolras’ monosyllabic replies. “Well, you have to figure out if the person will like the kitten, obviously, or if they just want to play with it and neglect its care. That’s the biggest factor. Another is if their finances can support a cat. Pets are expensive. Even the proper care of a fish requires money, which most people don’t realize, much less a cat or a dog. Then their lifestyle has to fit. Someone’s got to be around to take care of the kitten, and they need to be gentle and caring. When the kitten makes messes, there’s got to be someone in that household who can understand and who won’t scold. Things like that. If you didn’t already have a cat, Adrien, I’d give you one.”

Enjolras laughs as he slides his laptop into its sleeve. “I don’t know if I’m very patient, Dr. Mabeuf. My boyfriend’s the understanding, doting one. Combeferre, too. Not me.”

“You have a good heart, Adrien. That’s part of it. You don’t need to be a saint. You just need to be kind. Jean always talked glowingly of your qualities — kindness being among them, mind you — and you know he doesn’t exaggerate, son. Everything he said was the truth, and he only ever spoke the best of you.”

Enjolras ducks his head as he snaps his satchel shut. Finally he says in a voice that’s nearly too soft to be heard, “I wish he was here.”

“So do all of us,” Dr. Mabeuf says gently. “But we all have our time, and it was his.” He hesitates and examines one of the framed photographs on the wall — this one featuring Enjolras and Dr. Lamarque smiling in front of the Eiffel Tower on a study abroad trip — before he changes the subject, as if sensing the emotional depth of the conversation and wanting to avoid those waters, for now.

“So, about the kittens. We’re having a difficult time trying to figure out who would have good homes for the kittens and who would benefit from having kittens.”

“What do you mean?”

Dr. Mabeuf smiles. “Suppose there were two people who wanted kittens and you only had one to give. One home has two parents and a bevy of loving children; the other is a widow on Social Security who needs a companion. The family has the means and companionship for the kitten that the old lady doesn’t possess. She can’t play with the kitten; maybe she can’t afford a hundred toys to give to the kitten, or gourmet cat food, but you know she’ll love the kitten and it’ll love her. Which home would you select?”

“The old lady,” Enjolras says without hesitation. Then, “Oh.”

“Precisely,” Dr. Mabeuf says with a grin. “Same goes for people who are sick, or rehabilitating, or lonely. Factors like that. You’ll want to make sure the kittens are cared for, yes, but you also want to ensure that the people want and need the kittens as much as the kittens want and need them. That way you have a fulfilling owner-pet relationship all around.” He sighs. “It’s a lot more difficult than you think, Adrien.”

“How many kittens do you have left?” Enjolras opens the door, shuts off the light, and waits for Dr. Mabeuf to amble out before he himself exits.

“You’re such a good boy. So respectful. Let’s see, Christine had eight kittens. We already gave away four, and we want to keep two, so there’s two left, but I’ve run out of options. My wife and I have already talked to everyone we know and they already have kittens from us in the past, or our friends and family members.”

Enjolras lets his tired mind rove over what Dr. Mabeuf has just told him. “Have you asked the other professors?”

“I did. Do you know anybody who would want and be good for a kitten or two?”

An idea starts growing in Enjolras’ mind, and he realizes a smile is tugging at his lips. “You know, Dr. Mabeuf, I think I might.”

* * * * * * * * * * 

“You’re really cute, but I don’t think I know how to handle you.”

Enjolras’ plea goes unnoticed by the two kittens, which are climbing up the passenger seats of his car. It’s a good thing he’s got a slipcover over the seats back there, and his own poncho, or his leather upholstery would be punctuated by holes by now from their claws. They’re a lot older than Stormie was when he and Grantaire first got her, and boy, are these ones mischievous — gnawing on his fingers and batting at each other, Enjolras’ chest, and the walls of the box. They’re both male, and while Stormie is shaping up to be quite the gorgeous tortoiseshell, these two brothers are white and gray. One of them is white with dark gray socks and ears; the other is spotty gray and white.

“Ugh. How am I going to carry you both and the cat food and the litter box by myself?”

It’s snowing far too hard at this point, which means he doesn’t want to leave the kitties alone for long. Jehan and Courf know what his car looks like, and if they look out their apartment window and see his car, they’ll want to know what he’s doing here. The idea of this gift is to be anonymous — something he thinks these kittens do not understand — and with their constant meowing and thumping they might streak out of the box and run away before Jehan and Courf even open the door. He glares at the kittens, suddenly glad deep down that he’s got Stormie, and not these two devils.

“I don’t understand why Dr. Mabeuf spoke so highly of you two. No wonder you were the last of the batch to be given away.”

The spotted one jumps from the backseat onto the front shotgun seat, causing Enjolras to jump, and glare at him again. He licks his paws and face and then looks Enjolras in the eye before he purrs.

“Don’t pretend to be all innocent. Too bad Stormie’s not here to teach you both some manners.”

Both brothers meow, as if in assent, and Enjolras bangs his head back against the headrest in frustration. Every time he tries to coax them back into the box, one of them inadvertently climbs out. He’s half convinced they’re doing it on purpose. He’s going to need someone else to help him with keeping them both inside, and the problem is that he’s starting to realize that he’s maybe been a little bit presumptuous and foolhardy in this impulsive gift. Jehan and Courf have lived on their own long enough now. If they’d wanted a cat, they would have gotten one, or two, or ten, ages ago. Clearly there’s a reason why they have gone pet-less for so long, and he’s now forcing two felines on them they might not even want. And after he’s promised Dr. Mabeuf that both Jehan and Courf would like the kittens, too.

If he asks any of the Amis to come help with, they will confirm his suspicions. And then where will he be?

He’s pretty wet and cold from the thickly falling snow, because he hadn’t anticipated needing a thicker coat or better shoes this morning since it hadn’t been snowing earlier. Even so, the parking lots at NYU and the apartment building are covered, so it wouldn’t usually be a problem, but now he’s freezing. The heater’s on, but it’s doing nothing to dry him, so he dials it back.

His phone buzzes, and Enjolras glances at the screen. Somehow, he manages not to curse.

It’s Grantaire. Ordinarily, Enjolras would be very happy — in fact, ecstatic — to see a phone call from his boyfriend and the love of his life (not that he’ll admit that to anyone. At least, not yet.) However, he’s received more than a few phone calls from Combeferre, Grantaire, Cosette, and even an unknown number that, according to his voicemails, turns out to be Celine — all asking him where he is and why he hasn’t shown up at the hospital to say hello. So far he’s managed to stall with the fact that ‘he’s busy’ — but it’s now ten-thirty, because Enjolras had to socialize with Mrs. Mabeuf for a bit, to be polite, and because she also wanted to know how he’s doing, and he had to acclimatize to the kittens, and now he’s sitting here obsessing about what to do with nothing to show for it. So, in a fit of complete insanity, he answers the call rather than have it go to voicemail like he’s done all night.

“Hello?” He practically shrieks it into the phone, and winces.

Yeah, now he’s not going to suspect a thing.

There’s a pause, and then Grantaire speaks.

“Apollo? Where are you at?”

“Um. Just somewhere. What’s up?”

He can practically hear the gears turning in Grantaire’s head. When his boyfriend speaks, it’s subdued. “Apollo — are you with someone right now?”

“What? No!” He knows what someone translates to in Grantaire’s head. Right now he’s off and thinking that Enjolras is cheating on him with another man, and he’s frustrated that Grantaire would jump to such a conclusion. Does he think that Enjolras has no capacity for loyalty? “Why would you think that? Do you want me to be?”

Grantaire’s voice hardens over the phone. “Do you want to be?”

“No!” Enjolras grabs a handful of his hair and tugs it hard. One of the kittens meows, and he whips around in his seat. “Shut up,” he snaps.

“Did you tell me to —”

“No! No, R. I’m not. Look, I’m not with anybody. I’m not cheating on you. I have no plans to do that, now, or ever, and it really makes me feel just dandy when you think that I have no ability to be faithful to you, the one guy I’ve only ever loved romantically, just because my father isn’t.”

“Apollo, I’m not —”

“You want to know what I’ve been doing? Fine. Fine, I’ll tell you, all right? I’m sitting outside Jehan and Courf’s flat right now with two kittens for them that I got from Dr. Mabeuf, because I thought it was a good idea at the time. Except now these two stupid kittens are giving me all hell because I can’t figure out how to bring them both upstairs along with everything else before Courf or Jehan looks out the window and sees me, and I can’t call any of you because you’ll tell me it’s a dumb idea for the one time I’m trying to be spontaneous.”

Grantaire’s quiet for a moment. Then he says, and Enjolras can’t read his tone, “Stay put. I’ll be there in ten.”

He hangs up before Enjolras can protest, and Enjolras thunks his head against the steering wheel. Of course, now he’s upset his boyfriend on top of everything else. All in a day’s work, right?

“You bastard. I hope you burn in hell for this. He’s your son!”

“You’re my son, too, so you better shut up. I am the patriarch of this household, and my word is law.”

“Really. Then what’s the law going to do to you when they find out what the great Sebastien Enjolras has done to his son?”

“Go ahead, Alain. Report it. I own the cops, the news stations, and the courts. You try to swing that falsehood around this state, and you’re only going to get into more trouble than you’re already dealing with.”

“You won’t get away with this.”

“I already have. And the best part is that your brother won’t remember a second of it, thanks to your mother.”

There’s a knocking sound coming from somewhere near his head. It’s loud, it’s annoying, and it’s waking him up. He wants to go back to sleep, but before he can help himself, his lashes dip, and his eyelids crack open.

Grantaire’s standing outside, wearing his green peacoat and a matching emerald beanie. There’s snow melting on his dark curls, but unlike Enjolras, he’s better dressed for the weather. He looks good, but for now Enjolras can only fix on the look of exasperation on Grantaire’s face that’s spoiled by what looks like a smile creeping at the corners of his lips.

Enjolras has got to be imagining the smile, though, because they’ve just bickered, and he’s got to deal with these dumb cats, and he’s cold and tired and frustrated, and he just wants this night over and done with.

“Tired?” Grantaire quips, when Enjolras gets out of the car and slams the door shut, startling both kittens.

“If you want to yell at me, do it later. Right now we need to figure out what to do with these things.”

Grantaire doesn’t question him, or make any smart remarks, and Enjolras doesn’t dare look him in the eye for fear of what the other man will say or do. Instead of their usual close proximity or comfortable silence, there’s a hint of tension in the air that he doesn’t miss.

“What do you need me to do?”

It’s a question that’s delivered calmly, like he’s not angry with Enjolras, and Enjolras really appreciates it.

“Every time I try to put them both into the box, one of them climbs out. And I can’t carry everything by myself. You know that Mrs. Toussaint's stupid dog barks whenever anyone even breathes outside her door, and if he goes berserk Courf and Jehan might get suspicious and look out and see me — us.”

Grantaire shakes his head. “You’re thinking too much. Come on. Let’s get these kitties into their pen.”

Enjolras goes around to the other side of the car, while Grantaire stays where he is. When they open their doors and crawl inside, Grantaire’s bottom lip immediately thrusts itself out.

“Aw, Apollo. They’re so cute.”

“They’re devils,” Enjolras retorts. He grabs onto the Siamese one and plops him into the box before shutting the lid down, where he mews and sticks a paw through one of the air holes at Enjolras. “Okay, here’s where it gets sticky.”

Grantaire watches him expectantly as he picks the spotted kitten up and opens the box to put him inside — whereupon the other kitten jumps back out, using Enjolras’ arm as a springboard to climb up his shoulder. Needle claws dig into his shirt sleeve, and then the kitten bounces up onto his shoulder to nibble at a mouthful of his blond hair. He winces as the animal yanks hard, and suppresses a four-letter word that isn’t ouch.

Grantaire lets out a belly laugh. “That could be something of a situation. Come here.” He takes the offending kitten from Enjolras and starts kneading the top of those silky ears. “Giving Apollo trouble? We should keep these.” At Enjolras’ glare, he adds, “Or not.”

“If Courf and Jehan haven’t already seen us, I propose that we bring these monsters upstairs, now.”

“Okay, okay.”

Between the two of them they manage to corral the kittens back into the box. Then Grantaire latches onto the pallet of kitten food and the bag of cat litter, while Enjolras grabs the litter box and balances it carefully atop the makeshift cat carrier.

“What if they don’t want kittens?” Enjolras whispers as they carry their loads up the stairs, the kittens mewing the entire way.

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “They’ll love the kittens, Apollo. I don’t know why you’re worrying.”

“If they wanted kittens they’d have bought some by now. Maybe they’re allergic. Or they don’t need or want cats. We can’t have more, and I promised Dr. Mabeuf they would go to a good home. What if —”

“I can hear you thinking from here, and it’s all bad. Stop your fussing. They’ll love them. It’s more likely that Courfeyrac just forgot to get cats. Just you wait.”

Sure enough, Mrs. Toussaint's Chihuahua starts barking up a storm when they hit the last step on the staircase. It’s taken Enjolras a lot of self control not to strangle the pooch before when he’s had the opportunity. They abandon their surprise on the doorstep, and then Grantaire rings the doorbell before he grabs Enjolras’ hand and yanks him around the corner, out of sight.

“What if —”

“Apollo! Shhh!”

Someone opens the door, and then Courfeyrac’s voice booms out excitedly.

“Jehan, look!”

“What is it?” Enjolras can hear Jehan call, his voice coming closer.

“Kittens!”

There’s squeals of excitement (mainly from Courfeyrac) and a lot of adorable cooing (from Jehan) that lasts for about three minutes, at least. Enjolras catches himself smiling, and the inward relief he feels is a burden freed from his shoulders.

He and Grantaire are both pressed up against the wall in the darkened corner near the elevators, close enough to hear what’s going on but far enough that if Courfeyrac or Jehan looked their way, neither he nor Grantaire would be seen. Their hands are still linked, and the warmth emanating from Grantaire’s body is like a quilt. Of course, he’s infinitely better to look at than a quilt. Enjolras does just that, turning his head on his neck to look at Grantaire, and he meets Grantaire’s blue-eyed gaze and realizes that his boyfriend has been staring at him for a moment now.

“What?” he whispers.

Grantaire just smiles. “I can’t believe you thought this would be a bad idea.”

His breath is as comforting as the rest of him, and Enjolras blinks, unable to look away.

“I didn’t know if they would like the kittens. Not everybody is a cat person.”

“Dude, anybody who isn’t a cat person is weird. Cats are fantastic.”

“Dogs are, too.”

“Yeah, whatever. You can’t look at a kitten and not think it’s the cutest thing on the bloody planet.”

It’s kind of unfair how freaking attractive Grantaire is, what with those big blue eyes and black hair and rugged face. Somehow the favored green of his outfit suits him well. It’s a look that Enjolras can’t ever turn his back on — a sight from which he can’t pull his eyes away.

“Look, Apollo,” Grantaire says, the tone of his voice gentling. “I don’t think you’re unfaithful because of your father, or that you ever have the capacity to be unfaithful.”

That’s a relief. It’s kept Enjolras up many nights when he’s thought about his father; worried about what traits and tics could be genetically transferred, like his appearance. He’s wondered if his tendency to be aloof from people stems from Sebastien, or his impatience or his thoughtlessness or his ability to cut someone like Grantaire with his eloquently formed speeches. It’s been something he’s wondered all his life, but more so as of late. And the dreams he’s been having — he doesn’t remember most of them, but he does know that they involve his father, and they make him feel uneasy. Unsettled. There’s almost an ominous note to his subconscious, as if it’s warning of things to come.

“Then why did you think I was with someone else?”

He watches as emotions play across Grantaire’s face in rapid succession. Finally his boyfriend looks away and confesses, “I just sometimes don’t know how someone like you can be with someone like me. I worry one day you’ll realize it, too.”

That’s such a big joke. Enjolras barks a laugh, and takes Grantaire’s hand again.

“Okay, first off. That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, because someone like me is a mess. A letdown to people like my father. I don’t have it all put together, R, and if you’re talking about my appearance, then clearly you haven’t looked in the mirror recently, because you’re beautiful. You’re accomplished and talented and a fantastic friend and you’re smart and put together and disciplined. Even if you drink — and you’ve been doing that less and less — I wouldn’t have it any other way, because you’re amazing and I love you. I don’t want to be with anyone else, R. Just you.”

Grantaire’s staring at him, and Enjolras doesn’t know why, until his boyfriend spells it out for him.

“You said it.”

The I love you. It just slipped right out, even though Enjolras has had trouble voicing it before — not that he doesn’t think it all the time, because he does — but this is the first time he’s said it casually, like it’s already become second nature, which it has. Grantaire’s never pushed him on this subject, and he’s always wanted to say it like he means it, so that it doesn’t come out trite or meaningless.

And it isn’t.

Grantaire’s lips crash down onto Enjolras’, and his arms snake around Enjolras’ waist to pull him close. In the heartbeat it takes for them to press up against each other, all thoughts of anything or anyone else but Grantaire, and the taste of that mouth, and the burning touch of those magical fingers, slip out of Enjolras’ head. 

Chapter Text

Christian Javert is all about law and order. He believes solidly in his purpose, his fellow police officers, the law of the land, and the sacredness of his organization. While other cops do what they do for the paychecks, or possibly to look good in the uniforms, he believes that it’s his calling to do what’s right — to keep the peace; to protect and serve. He hates unruly citizens — like the blond leader brat of that youngster activist group, whatever-his-name-is — only a shade less than the lawless degenerates out there who commit all sorts of crimes from the petty to the sordid. If they get in his way, they’ll all taste and feel the full weight of justice. That’s his motto. His life is as ordered as his black-and-white morals, and he likes it that way.

Right now, however, life has just gotten a little weirder and more chaotic than he would like.

“What time?” he barks at the rookie cop, storming into the precinct in his full police regalia, as the target of his frustration trots alongside him, trying to keep up.

He’s been called away to a 419 earlier — the police code for ‘dead body’ — only to find that the call involved a drunk guy who mistook a mannequin in a Dumpster for a corpse. No, the real 419 has been here all along at the station. Multiple 419s, in fact.

Shit.

“Eight A.M., sir.”

“What happened?”

“Sergeant Dickens was manning the desk, and Detective Miller was in one of the interview rooms, as was Detective Pearce. Officers Roberts, Sheffield, Nelson, Trevino, and Bennett were present as well. It was understaffed because of that big 480 out on Wall Street?”

Javert’s gotten the details over the police scanner. A 480 is a felony hit and run; the mayor’s cousin was the one in the car and a smaller Hollywood celebrity was the one hit. In addition, a truck swerved to avoid the car, and the back half of the truck swung itself into a Duane Reade storefront.

Hence the number of police officers called out, which is a troubling factor, because it means that either the perps of this particular crime have been keeping tabs on the police scanners, or they have been watching the precinct. Both options do not sit well with Javert.

“State the facts as facts, son, not questions. How are they?”

“Yes, sir. Dickens, Pearce, Roberts, Sheffield, Nelson, and Bennett are dead. Miller and Trevino are in critical condition.”

Javert swears under his breath and clenches his fists hard. All good men and women who he’s worked with. Dickens, Miller, Sheffield, Roberts, and Nelson, in particular. Why, only yesterday he’s worked side by side together with Detective Miller and Officer Sheffield on the Patron-Minette/Bamatabois case.

“We think there are multiple perps involved. All our people were shot either in the head or stomach. Then the perps made their way to the holding cells, and… well…”

Javert holds up a hand to forestall the rookie’s opinion. He doesn’t need to know, mainly because he can smell the odor of freshly spilled blood — a lot of it — even before he sees the scene of the murder.

Crime scene investigators are scurrying around, taking pictures, examining their surroundings for trace evidence and clues to the crime. They’re finishing up their business, or Javert wouldn’t have been allowed in here. The coroner is hovering against the wall, his features drawn into a rictus of uneasy discomfort, even as he nods in Javert’s direction.

Javert’s eye is drawn instantly to the body contorted on the center of the floor in this particular holding cell. The rookie gags, once, and then he’s out of the room.

At first sight, there seems to be not a single bone left in the man’s body that hasn’t been broken. His face has been completely caved in, eyes pulped within their sockets, nose broken cleanly in several places, bone protruding from what used to be the bridge. His cheeks have caved and his jaw is unhinged. Chunks of brain are visible from a massive yawning hole in the head, like the poor bastard has been brained — poor choice of words — with a brick over and over even after his head got bashed open. His limbs have clearly been shattered in different places, and so are his fingers and toes. From the way his chest sags over his torso, ribs have been broken too. Pelvic bone, shoulder bones, and more. Blood has liberally spattered the walls and floors, along with more of that glutinous grayish-pink substance that’s got to be his brains.

Javert steps forward, and his boot juts onto something that clinks and skitters across the floor away from him. He looks down and realizes it’s a tooth, white and with a nice long root that’s tipped in red. More loose teeth are scattered around. He reaches the count of twelve before he gives up and leaves it for the CSIs.

The wall beyond is smeared with blood in a message that’s unmistakably legible. Javert’s not a squeamish man, by any chance, but he feels a chill run down his spine when he reads it, once and then twice more, so he can sear the message into his memory before he begins trying to piece this case together. This method of murder is familiar to him, because he’s witnessed its results several times before in a case file that he’s never been able to close.

Zamochit, he reads on the wall. It’s a Russian word, the meaning of which he’s become intimately familiar with over the months. Death to the dishonorable.

“Dishonorable, huh?”

The coroner nods to the corpse that’s sprawled on the floor. His line of work must have him immune to the grisly tableau, because even Javert, with his iron-cast stomach, is starting to feel queasy despite himself.

“What does zamochit even mean? And what was his crime?”

Javert shrugs impatiently. He respects the men and women he works with, and this laid-back man is one of them. Ordinarily a bit of chitchat wouldn’t go amiss, but this time, he’s itching to get started on this case. His sacred Holy of Holies has been besmirched with the work of bloodthirsty vigilante murderers. If nothing else, he needs to avenge his brothers and sisters in blue, and restore the sanctity that is his precinct. At all costs, if necessary.

“The word's Russian. It's a old method of killing used by the Red Mafia during the Soviet Union era. It involves the breaking of all the bones in the body, one by one. This guy tried to kill three college kids, and he is — was, I suppose — a hit man for hire. He’s got twenty-five kills racked up. Apparently he was affiliated with Patron-Minette, but if so, then this doesn’t make sense.”

“Well, why not, Lieutenant?”

“Because this is Patron-Minette’s bloodiest method of murder. They use it to indicate dishonor, assuming that such devils can have honor to begin with. If he was one of them, then either they’re conducting a purge, or he lied his head off and it cost him his life.”

Javert fires one last scathing look back at the body before he turns and makes for the door, panting hard to forestall his gag reflex, his mind already working apart the details of this case. Terrible way for this criminal to die, but this is what the sword of justice has opted to bring down upon Gerard Bamatabois.

Now it’s time for that sword to fall upon Patron-Minette, that band of criminals that has plagued New York for two years and counting. It’s time the hand of God brought them to justice before they tear his beloved city apart, just as they’ve done his precinct. 

Chapter Text

Now that the stupid imposter is out of the picture, Sebastien Enjolras has turned his attention to his son and the rest of Les Amis.

Montparnasse has a dossier that he’s supposed to pick up from Sebastien Enjolras labeling all his information on his son, but the business tycoon hasn’t contacted him as yet due to an impending merger, and Montparnasse is an impatient soul. Never mind that he’s about to categorically torment the life of his romantic rival — he’s very much looking forward to that; he just doesn’t like the idea of Sebastien Enjolras jerking his chain around like he’s a pet dog on a leash. There’s half a million dollars in his bank account that dictates he should technically obey the man, but then again, Montparnasse dances to the tune of his own making, and he’s never been that much of a nice, compliant guy to begin with.

He drives out to the Enjolras estate, and when he gets there, he has a decision to make. There’s a Rent-A-Cop guy standing at the front of the gates, complete with security shack, an actual .22 in a holster at his hip, and expressionless mug. He must be a recent development, because the only security mentioned on Montparnasse’s data plan of Sebastien and his estate had been the fancy alarm system and a couple of Rottweilers.

Montparnasse could probably kill the security goof in a heartbeat, but he decides to be indulgent and let the guy live. For now. He’s in a chill mood, anyway, so he might as well spread some of that do-gooder bullshit around.

“May I help you, sir?” Rent-A-Cop asks.

“Yeah, I think I’m lost. Is this the Prouvaire estate?”

Rent-A-Cop seems reassured by Montparnasse’s name-dropping. He walks forward and peers down into the open window of the car. “Actually, it’s over the next hill. You take a —”

Montparnasse swings his hand up where it’s been hiding beside the door and sprays a knockout gas into the guy’s face. He gets out of the car as the burly man collapses, and grabs his collar to drag him into his security shack. The sap is hefty, and Montparnasse makes a mental note to tell Sebastien his newfound security sucks.

“Sorry for the headache when you wake up,” he says cheerily to the unconscious man, and hits the switch operating the iron-wrought gates.

He takes his time driving around the estate, figuring out entrances and exits, looking for weak points in the layout. When he’s done, he disarms the alarm system and lets himself into the mansion. It’s a bit more of a challenge than the lumbering Rent-A-Cop.

He can hear the housekeeper, maid, and cook bustling around and conversing in the kitchen, so he avoids that side of the house. He doesn’t handle screaming women too well, and killing them seems a wee bit hasty. Besides, it might be possible that the live-in help don’t know the true extent of their masters’ sins.

In addition to those excuses, there are enough snotty antiques in the assorted rooms that he’s sufficiently occupied. When Patron-Minette has finished business with Sebastien, Montparnasse aims to clean the estate out.

He trots up to the second floor, where there’s two bedrooms and two bathrooms and a couple of other sitting rooms, most likely for entertaining purposes. The decor of one bedroom is predominantly masculine, with framed portraits of Sebastien shaking hands and kissing the arses of recognizable bigwigs — the president, the vice-president, the secretary of state, Warren Buffett, the governor, the mayor, etc. The room is practically crammed with antiques and expensive trinkets, each more pricey and pretentious than the next. He rolls his eyes — after admiring his reflection in the gilded bathroom mirror — and moves on.

The other bedroom is simple but elegant, and clearly dominated by a female. Unlike her husband’s room, the wife seems to retain some class, and goes for sentimentality rather than snobbery. Apart from a matching set of furniture — queen-size bed, dresser, desk and chair, bookcase, chest of drawers, nightstand — and the walk-in closet, there’s little to be found here but pictures, letters, and other mementos of her relationship with her sons.

Montparnasse’s eye is drawn to the painting that’s framed and hung predominantly above the headboard. It’s of Adrien Enjolras with his brother and mother. The brushstrokes and personality poured into the painting are breathtaking, and it sends a pang straight to his heart when he realizes with a shock of anger that Grantaire has painted this masterpiece.

Furious now, he spins around to make for the exit, only to find the woman in question standing in the doorway.

Maryse Enjolras is a stunningly beautiful woman, despite the cancer that’s ravaging her life. She has similar features to her son, although she seems a tad less expressive. Even now, when Montparnasse shifts into an aggressive stance, she remains completely put together to find a stranger in her bedroom. Her eyes do not even widen a fraction; her hands are clasped loosely behind her back as she stands straight and tall.

“Hello,” she says. There’s not a hint of sarcasm or suspicion or even fear in her voice. “May I help you?”

Her politeness derails Montparnasse, although he strives hard not to show it. Stubbornly, he refuses to answer her immediately, instead preferring to stare her down while he tries to gather his wits.

“If you’re looking for Sebastien, he’s not here. Neither is Adrien. It’s just me and the help.”

She smiles, and it’s another calm, collected expression that takes Montparnasse off guard enough that he replies against his will.

“Technically, I could kill you all easily then.”

“You could,” Maryse says agreeably. “Until then, would you like to join me for a cup of tea?”

Know your enemy. Maybe she could tell him, through her words and her actions and her body language, more about Sebastien and Adrien Enjolras and how to take this entire household down. Information is power, and right now, Montparnasse is on the losing end here. He hasn’t thought that Sebastien would talk about Patron-Minette to his estranged wife, but then again, the man could be dumb enough for all his business smarts and his bloody schemes for brutal revenge and conquest.

“What kind of tea?” he asks.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Maryse comments. She turns around, seeming willing to put her back to Montparnasse without worrying he’d plunge a knife into it, or something, and slowly walks out of the room, trusting him to follow — which he does, much to his annoyance. “We have white, oolong, black, and green. Different brands, too. If you don’t like Earl Grey, we will be happy to make another pot of whatever you would like.”

“Why, because you can afford it?” Montparnasse pushes a sneer into his voice.

Maryse shrugs. “I suppose,” she replies. “It’s more because Agathe and I have these tea parties sometimes, and we sample the good kinds for her to take home.”

“Your housekeeper?”

Maryse nods. “She’s supporting three grandkids on her own, so I try to help her out whenever I can.”

“Why can’t they come here? It’s not like you have a small house.”

Montparnasse is trying to jibe Maryse out of her calm, because there’s a power imbalance here, and he’s pretty sure he’s on the losing end at this point. To his annoyance, it doesn’t seem to be working.

“I think so too. Sebastien doesn’t allow it, unfortunately. But the kids are also at a private boarding school nearby, and they love it there. I figured funding their education at a place they enjoy and helping Agathe with her own livelihood is the best I can do. They get to see one another a lot, and tea is kind of a family thing for them.”

They enter one of the sitting rooms on the second floor, and Maryse takes a seat on an armchair near the fireplace. A little fire is burning in the grate, and it lends a nice bit of warmth and cheer to the room, which is already pretty homey to begin with. The furniture is done in warm browns and greens, and freshly cut flowers are set in vases here and there. Different scents gently permeate the air, along with the aroma of Earl Grey. There’s a fully laden tea tray already set on the table in front of the two armchairs near the fire.

“Do you want a different tea?” Maryse asks. She looks up at Montparnasse with such an expectant look on his face that he can’t help but obligingly sit down on the chair facing her. Although he’s annoyed at himself for capitulating so easily, it feels like the right thing to do.

“Earl Grey’s fine,” he says tersely. “Do you even know why I’m here, or who I am?”

Maryse coolly pours them each a cup of tea. Then she cocks her head to the side as she looks at him, her eyes crinkling ever so slightly in thought.

“Well,” she says at last. “My husband deals with only two types of people. The cutthroat business sort, or just the cutthroat sort. You’re a handsome and highly intelligent young man with personality, so I’m assuming it’s not the former.” She looks back down at the cups, and picks up the silver tongs to offer him a sugar cube. When he doesn’t respond, she drops it into her own cup, and adds milk, even as he stares at her and grows more confused and annoyed by the second.

“There’s also honey, agave nectar, and mint. If you want jam or alcohol, I can ring for some to be brought up.”

“I don’t care!” Montparnasse resists the urge to swipe at his cup. The delicate bone china would shatter, and he’s not sure for whatever reason that he wants to do that to a lady like Maryse Enjolras, although he doesn’t know why. The unfamiliar emotion pisses him off. “You’re offering me tea, for heaven’s sake!”

“Why shouldn’t I be polite and offer you tea?” Maryse asks, looking genuinely perturbed.

“I’m a part of Patron-Minette, Mrs. Enjolras. I’m a criminal. I’ve done lots of things ordinary people would condemn. Aren’t you going to beg me off, or tell me to stay away from your family, or cower and scream at me, or something?”

Maryse shrugs. She takes a sip of her tea and hums before nudging the tray towards him with her knee. “You don’t want me to make your tea, so you should make your own. I feel rude drinking when you aren’t doing the same.”

Montparnasse huffs in exasperation. He’s tempted to disobey, like a petulant child, but for whatever reason he finds himself leaning forward and picking up the sugar tongs.

“About me begging you and the like,” Maryse continues serenely. “I would assume that my husband hired you — correct me if I’m wrong, because I don’t want to insult you, young man — and if so, he has money he can give you and I can’t. I have to rely on him ever since I signed over my assets to him to keep my sons safe. There really isn’t anything for me to do to dissuade you. If you’re hired to come after me and my son, then screaming or begging isn’t going to help now, is it?”

She surveys him over the rim of her cup, and Montparnasse doesn’t really have anything to say to that, so she goes on.

“You’re a part of Patron-Minette. Okay. So what? You’ve done things ordinary people would condemn, yes, but you’re still a human being. You still deserve to be treated like one. If you act like you expect anything else, young man, you will get what you expect.”

Montparnasse can’t help but be floored. He’s never met anyone like this woman before, with all her grace and her dignity. There’s a nobility about her that he expects would flow from kings, and not from an association with a dishonorable bastard like Sebastien Enjolras.

“I don’t like your son,” he blurts out, and then inwardly groans, because now this woman has him confessing his secret thoughts and sins. He thinks that the government should send her into terrorist cells, because by the end of the day Maryse Enjolras will have them all begging for her forgiveness, although he’s not quite sure why.

Maryse smiles. “I love Adrien, don’t get me wrong, but he is difficult sometimes, and difficult to like. I don’t blame you. He’s had a hard life, though, just like you.”

“How do you know?” Montparnasse asks. Now’s the time to find out if Sebastien Enjolras has blabbed about him to his wife.

Maryse shrugs and purses her lips. “I’m guessing. A good young man like you always has more to him than what meets the eye. Do you have any family around here at all, or is it just you?”

“Just me. I was orphaned as a kid.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You don’t even know if I killed my parents, or something.”

Maryse surveys him with steady blue eyes that make Montparnasse fidget. Finally, she says, “I don’t think so.”

“And what makes you so sure?”

“You’re polite to me,” Maryse points out. “You treat women well. At the very least, I don’t think you killed your mother. Now, your father, that could be a different story.”

She smiles, and it’s not a cautious or cool gesture like the earlier ones. This smile is genuinely pleasant, like she’s actually enjoying their conversation, and Montparnasse laughs, much to his surprise.

“He was monstrous,” he admits. “He beat me and my mother a lot. I did kill him, though — when he killed my mother. He was drunk and high. Bad combination.”

“I’m sorry,” Maryse repeats, and her eyes are soft with sympathy.

Why are you telling her the truth? Spin a yarn. Don’t give her everything on you and nothing on her.

“What about you?” he jabs. “What’s your sob story?”

Maryse rolls her eyes. “Well, I married a guy who I thought was the man of my dreams. I cheated once on him and had my older son, Alain. Then I stayed faithful and had Adrien, but Sebastien’s never forgiven me for my indiscretion. He took it out on me and the boys. We’re still paying for it over two decades later.”

“You did cheat on him,” Montparnasse taunts. Here’s familiar ground, and he’s got the higher footing now.

Maryse nods. “Yes, I did. But he had no right to take it out on Alain and Adrien. My sins are mine alone. Just like with you and your mother.”

“Don’t compare us to you,” Montparnasse snaps. “You’re born with a silver spoon. You’ve led a cushy life, you and your stupid spawn. The hardest thing you’ll ever do is to decide what fur coat to wear in the mornings, while people like me and my mother scrimp in the streets and try to eke out a miserable living while seeing the money we earn pissed away on booze and drugs. You’ll never know what it’s like to be us, so don’t pretend you know me or my circumstances. I should just kill you now to shut you up.”

Maryse stares him in the eye, and her gaze is sad, but full of conviction. She doesn’t say anything, and Montparnasse realizes that he’s standing on his feet. Slowly he lowers himself back into his chair.

“I’m not trying to pretend to know you,” she says slowly, but still as calmly as before. Montparnasse is starting to wonder if she’s afraid of him or anything. “I apologize for that presumptuousness. However, my sons and I do know what it’s like to have a husband and a father hate you. And to all intents and purposes, Sebastien did kill his son, and hurt the other beyond repair.”

Montparnasse raises his eyebrows, although he stubbornly refuses to ask the question. How so?

“He always hated Alain,” Maryse explains colorlessly. “When Alain contracted leukemia, Sebastien refused to send him to John Hopkins where he could get better treatment. He might have died eventually, but it was too soon.”

“And what about your golden boy?” Montparnasse snarls. He refuses to feel sympathy, because that is weakness.

Maryse displays for the first time a hint of weariness. She takes a final sip of her tea and leans back in her chair, cradling the cup in both hands. “Sebastien craves his son and yet despises him. He’s the one possession that his father has never been able to control or understand. But there’s more to his past than I have the stomach for right now. If you don’t mind, I’d like to put off that story for another time, assuming there is another time that you can return.”

“Why would you want me to return?”

Maryse raises her eyebrows. “You’re a good conversationalist. I like having company. It’s refreshing.”

Montparnasse shrugs. He doesn’t want to commit to anything — especially not a tea party held by the wife of a client and the mother of a mark.

“You haven’t tried your tea.”

Montparnasse makes a face. He puts milk and sugar and nectar into the brew, and when he takes a cautious sip, he hums in appreciation. It’s excellent tea, with sufficient sugary sweetness and the distinct flavor of bergamot.

“I always wondered what it would be like to live in a house like this,” he admits. It’s an olive branch, because for the first time in a long time, he’s feeling awkward and wants to be able to positively contribute to a conversation with a lady like this. For some reason, Maryse reminds him of his mother — loving and kind but firm, collected, and rock-steady.

Maryse laughs. “If it helps, I didn’t always live in a swanky place like this.”

She launches animatedly into several stories about growing up as an only child with a father who worked hard to build up his company. Thankfully, she doesn’t regale him with tales of her golden child, because that would only inflame Montparnasse’s temper again. He grudgingly shares a story or two of his own about his mother, and a little of what he did in his formative years. He’s careful not to give her everything, mainly because he wants to keep some information to himself despite his traitorous mouth, and also because he doesn’t want to disgust or embarrass such a stately woman as Maryse. Against his better judgment.

It’s maybe an hour later before he hears Louis and Sebastien’s distinctive footsteps on the carpeted hallway floor, and when both men halt in the doorway, he’s well prepared to put down his teacup and give them both a reptilian smile.

“Hello,” he comments.

There’s a muscle visibly throbbing in Sebastien’s cheek. When he speaks, he sounds like he’s going to erupt like Mount Vesuvius. “I wasn’t aware that we had an appointment in my house.”

“We didn’t,” Montparnasse responds cheerfully. Sebastien’s obvious impotent rage is fueling his already good mood. “I just thought I’d stop by and check out the scenery here. Your wife has been very accommodating. You could use a changing of the guard, though.”

“Are you here for the dossier?” Louis cuts in, because Sebastien looks like he’s about to have a stroke. Montparnasse isn’t so sure that he doesn’t want the man to have one. Although Maryse may be a tad biased about her estranged husband, Montparnasse himself is getting the sense that this man is one of immensely unsavory character — more so than at first glance.

“If you’d just given it to me earlier, we could have avoided this unpleasantness,” Montparnasse chirps.

“Take it, and get out of my house,” Sebastien snaps.

“Now, now, darling,” Maryse cuts in. “Is that any way to talk to your business partner?”

“Touche,” Montparnasse smirks. He turns slightly to wink at Maryse before he stands up and shrugs into his jacket. “Thank you for the chat, Maryse. It was… nice.”

He hasn’t really verbalized the word since, well, since his mother was alive, and he’s surprised he’s using it now. However, he manages to retain his calm. Louis has gone for the file, but Sebastien is still standing in the doorway, gripping the frame like he wants to leap forward and bodily drag Montparnasse from the room. Not that he ever could without losing a couple of fingers, or his head. 

“You’re very welcome,” Maryse says.

“We should do this again sometime,” Montparnasse continues pleasantly. He’s not sure if he really will be back, but the apoplectic look on Sebastien’s face makes the comment all worth it. Besides, it’s not like he hated having this conversation. He mimes tipping an invisible hat to her, and is rewarded by a laugh. Then he brushes past Sebastien, making sure to lift the couple hundred bucks from the man’s jacket pocket as he moves away and down the corridor.

Somehow, he can’t help whistling as he leaves. 

Chapter Text

Azelma gets off the metro as she heads for Marius and Cosette’s newlywed apartment, bitterly cursing her lateness and the frigid cold. She’s had to work on a school project with a couple of classmates, and she’s lost track of time. On all days, she has to be tardy on the day of Marius’ discharge from the hospital. Gavroche and the Amis are celebrating, and there’s every reason to expect Eponine’s and Musichetta’s excellent cooking. Food, fun, and friends, older or not — a good way to unwind after a long day.

She crosses the light even though it’s still red — all respectable New Yorkers do — as she moves through the crowd of rush-hour men and women and kids canvassing the streets and sidewalks. All anxious to get to their various unknown destinations from work, or school, or whatever else in which humanity has deigned to partake and participate.

She tucks her hands tightly into the pockets of her fleece-lined leather jacket — a gift from Combeferre’s mother at Thanksgiving — and she’s immensely grateful for the plaid scarf she’s got hitched up to cover her face and warm her neck. Only a few blocks now. The Pontmercies live on the fringes of the main Manhattan city block, and Azelma hardly gets reason to come out here. Usually she’s back home with Ep and Gav and Ferre and the other Amis, or she’s hanging out with her friends from school, and those activities are confined solely to the city itself.

It’s funny, but life has started to look up ever since Ep got custody of her and Gav. Although her older sister fusses far too much for Azelma’s liking, she’s still savvy enough to realize the love that Eponine holds for both Azelma and Gavroche. Although it’s not a traditional family that Azelma has, she much prefers it to the one she would have had.

Her lip still curls whenever she thinks of her parents. Although they birthed her and her siblings, she owes them no loyalty. They both cheat and steal and lie whenever they can — which is 24/7 — and they think nothing of using their kids to further their means whenever they can. Honestly, Azelma’s preferred the times they ignored her rather than the moments where they pretended to care about her existence. Gavroche, however, is too goodhearted to think like that. Even though he’s had to live on the streets for a bit, he still doesn’t wholly resent their parents for it.

Azelma doesn’t know why. She and Ep have a lot in common, and holding a grudge is one of their similarities.

The crowd peters off as she walks on through the streets. It’s not that this place is dingy or ghetto like the Bronx — it’s actually a nice enough area like the buildings near Central Park — but not many people can afford living in a place like this. Even though some of the streetlamps are turned on, Azelma can’t help but feel a tad uneasy. She glances over her shoulder and squeezes her fingers around the pepper spray Bahorel gave her two months ago. Her phone is in her other hand, and she tightens her death grip on it.

Back then, he’d offered her a knife, as well, but she’d refused. Now, she wishes she’d taken him up on it.

Get a grip, girl, she tells herself. Get out your earphones and put on some music. You’re seriously freaking yourself out.

She doesn’t. Life with her parents has taught her that being distracted, whether it’s texting with a cell phone or eating a street dog or listening to music on an iPod, turns a person from a wary passerby into an easy mark.

The ground is strewn with fallen leaf matter from the trees overhead. Azelma skirts the mess, turning it into a game by moving from patch to patch of concrete to see how long she can go without stepping on a dry leaf or twig. She needs to do something, anything, to take her mind off how uneasy she feels.

Crack.

The sound of a dry twig snapping comes from behind her like a gunshot. Azelma whips around, but no one is there. The hair prickles on the back of her neck and her arms, even bundled up as she is.

“Hello?” she calls out, hating the way her voice stutters over itself. “Is anyone… there?”

The sound of the wind hurtling through the trees mocks her, and is the only response to her tentative inquiry.

Azelma turns and starts walking faster, ignoring the way her feet crush the leaves into the ground and how her heart slams furiously against her ribcage. She clutches the pepper spray in her hand so tightly that her knuckles hurt. Her mind runs like a gerbil on a hamster wheel over the steps that Bahorel’s coached her on how to use the spray, along with a dozen other scenarios of how this is going to play out between her and her unseen, unwanted follower.

She’s always had an overactive imagination. It’s an unfortunate thing.

Heavy, sinister footsteps sound behind her, hurriedly but deliberately, and this time Azelma chances another glance over her shoulder. She doesn’t see anyone again, but there’s a corner of a dark overcoat vanishing behind a hedge like a cape. The wind rustles in her hair, and suddenly she swears she hears a laugh — low, thin, and unpleasant.

Spinning back around, she starts running, this time, her bag banging awkwardly against her hip. Her fingers and lips go numb as the blood rushes from them to her feet and her head, making her giddy with nerves. She doesn’t let go of her hold on the pepper spray or her cell phone.

Her cell phone.

Azelma fumbles for her phone as she keeps running, and it bounces out of her grip. Her squeal is cut off as her phone hits the sidewalk but does not break. Not for the first time, she’s grateful to tears that she invested in an Ottercase for her iPhone, because a fall like that would have shattered her phone for sure. Bending down, she scoops up her phone and frantically starts to scroll through her contacts list.

Please answer. Please, please, please.

Bahorel’s voice booms over the earpiece on the fourth ring, and Azelma barely holds back her sob of relief.

“Zelma! Sup?”

“S-s-someone’s following me,” she barely manages to gasp out.

In a blink, Bahorel’s voice turns from jovial to deadly serious. She can hear the chaos surrounding him recede — he’s probably walking away from the party to hear her better. “Where are you?”

“I’m a block away. I just — someone — he’s been following me for two blocks now. Maybe longer.” She realizes she’s whispering, and sneaks another glance back over her shoulder. There’s no one there, but somehow she suspects she’s not alone. Somehow, somewhere, there are eyes on her, and she’s more terrified than she would care to admit.

Bahorel swears under his breath. “Stay on the line. I’m on my way, okay? Just talk to me.”

“Okay. Okay.”

Azelma can hear him clonking down a set of stairs, although he continues calmly talking to her. “Did you see anyone?”

“Nothing. Nobody. Just the corner of a coat, I think? I don’t know; it’s really dark. I didn’t see anyone but I-I-I… heard someone.”

Bahorel murmurs something to someone; Azelma grips her phone tighter. “Are you with someone?”

“Just Celine. She wanted to come downstairs with me.”

The bushes next to Azelma suddenly rustle loudly; she lets out a sound that’s a cross between a squeal and a gasp, and drops her phone. It bounces away, skittering to a stop about two feet from the same set of bushes, and she feels her pulse rate speed up and tears jump to her eyes.

You’re not a scared little girl, she admonishes herself, but she can’t help the other thoughts that flit into her head.

There’s someone watching you. He hasn’t left. He’s still here.

Pick up your damn phone. You have nothing to be scared of.

“Zelma? Zelma!”

She can still hear Bahorel’s voice shouting over the line. It’s the only thing that forces her to creep forward and nudge the phone towards her with the toe of her shoe.

There’s a disconcerting, eerie tune that comes hauntingly from behind her. It’s a three-note melody that’s being hummed, over and over again, with deliberately soft slowness, and the disembodied menace seems to disconnect the wires inside her brain. Before she realizes it, she’s abandoned her phone, and she’s running blindly down the street, keeping her gaze over her shoulder to keep an eye on whatever evil is stalking her. She screams when she runs slap-bang into a hard body, her voice finally tearing free of its paralysis, even as hands clasp at her arms and shoulders to steady her.

“Zelma, it’s me!”

Bahorel’s face looms in front of her vision, and he pulls her easily into a protective hug even as she clings to him, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. She’s shaking violently, even though the weather isn’t all that cold despite the lateness of the hour and the impending winter.

Celine materializes at Bahorel’s side and squeezes Azelma’s shoulder, pointing back to where the hedge is. “Isn’t that your phone, girly?”

Sure enough, the bright orange cover of her iPhone is visible, even from this distance. “Y-yes, but — but there’s someone —”

“No worries,” Bahorel says evenly. He’s a pretty chill guy, usually, but the muscle that’s popping in his jaw tells Azelma that he’s really mad and trying not to show it for her sake. “We’ll get your phone and go upstairs to the flat, okay? You’re safe now, and it’s better for everyone involved that I don’t go hunt down this son of a bitch and make him sorry he ever scared you. Probably just some punk wanting to get fresh with you and practicing for Halloween or some shit like that.”

Celine doesn’t even wait for him to finish before she strides forward and picks up Azelma’s abandoned phone. As she straightens, she stiffens just a little bit, but turns back to Bahorel and Azelma with a wry grin.

“Let’s go upstairs. It’s cold out here, and Chetta made pumpkin hot chocolate. It’ll warm you right up, Zelma.”

Azelma lets the two of them bundle her upstairs and right into the middle of a massive Phase 10 debacle led by Courfeyrac. Gavroche presses a mug of apple cider into Azelma’s hand — followed shortly by another mug of the promised hot cocoa — while Chetta proceeds to ply Azelma with her fabulous baking experiments. If Combeferre and Bahorel and Grantaire and Eponine keep exchanging significant looks, well, Azelma pretends not to see, because she doesn’t want to remember how afraid she was — how unnerved she still is.

As the evening progresses, though, it’s clear that it’s going to take a lot more than Chetta’s good cooking and the Amis’ comforting banter to make her forget the sensation of ice running up and down her spine. Or that eerie tune that doesn’t seem to want to dissipate from her head, despite her best efforts at trying to push it out. 

Chapter Text

“Humming?” Enjolras asks, putting down his fork.

Combeferre can hear the note of innocent surprise in his best friend’s voice. Even though the situation is obviously slightly difficult for Enjolras to understand, Combeferre appreciates that he’s at least taking this seriously, because he himself wants to wring the unseen stalker’s neck.

Bahorel nods. He’s filled them all in surreptitiously about Azelma’s creepy encounter last night, and now he’s trying to make sure that Grantaire isn’t going to run out the door to track the stalker down and beat the living crap out of him. Combeferre would totally join him, to be honest.

Half the Amis are present here at a hole-in-the-wall diner for brunch. Azelma’s spending time with her teenage crowd, and Gavroche is off causing trouble. (Actually, he’s patrolling the neighborhood for more strays to take back and persuade Eponine to keep.) Feuilly is at work, and so is Chetta. Joly’s at his internship; Marius is at physical therapy with Cosette watching him; Celine’s off doing freshman things that Combeferre doesn’t remember doing when he was a freshman.

Courfeyrac has paused with a fry halfway to his mouth, both of his eyebrows raised. Jehan’s eyes are narrowed, and he’s gripping his fork too strongly for Combeferre to know that there’s a red mark forming on his palm from how tightly the metal is digging into his hand. Victoire looks a mix between disgust and angry horror, although some of the former might be directed at the scrambled eggs on her plate. Bossuet’s dropped his fork on the floor — again — and as the waitress ushers over with a long-suffering expression, he gives her a guilty look of apology that’s mingled with annoyance at Bahorel’s recounting. Eponine’s fingers are digging into Combeferre’s palm from where they’re holding hands, and she’s all but ignored her food since Bahorel began his tale.

“So why haven’t we tracked down this son of a bitch?” Grantaire snaps.

Enjolras frees his boyfriend’s hand from its death grip on the table edge and plants a kiss on his stubbled cheek. Eponine doesn’t even pretend to gag because she’s that upset.

“There’s nothing we can get on this guy,” Bahorel explains. “Zelma didn’t see or hear anything usable. All this punk was up to was to scare her, and scare her good. Unfortunately, he succeeded. Celine said that she heard him humming, too, but you can’t tell a person’s voice from that alone, you know? I came downstairs to scour the bushes after Zelma was safely upstairs, but I didn’t see anything or anyone amiss.”

“Thanks for doing that,” Combeferre says. “I know she felt safer around you.”

Grantaire shovels a mouthful of bacon down. His brows are tightly knitted, and he doesn’t say anything else, as if he fears what will pop out of his mouth. Eponine keeps running her fingers through her dark hair like she doesn’t know what to do with her hands otherwise.

“We’ll figure it out,” Bossuet promises with his usual optimism. “It’s a one-time, isolated incident, but we can take precautions. Like travel in twos with the girls. Check up on each other. Make sure that we can keep one another safe. That’s what we’re here for.”

He smiles brightly at Combeferre. Combeferre attempts to smile back.

* * * * * * * * * * *

It turns out to not be a one-time, isolated incident.

Celine has just gotten a job at Jamba Juice. This isn’t her first job — she’s waitressed before, and she’s even worked at a different smoothie place — and she likes it here. Although the tips aren’t as good, it’s not minimum wage, and she actually gets more per hour because she knows how to work the cash register. In addition, it’s on campus, which gives her less travel time and more convenience to boot. Lastly, she’s about to enlist the help of Jamba Juice smoothies to convert her brother from one vice — alcohol — to another lesser craving — sugar.

The lines get thick during the class breaks, and it’s during those Jamba rushes that Celine gets to show what she’s really made of. She gets through the thick queue of people in record time, and then dives in to help with the smoothies. It takes them half an hour to finish serving 60 people, which is excellent timing. The manager observes her and the other workers for 5 minutes with a smile that Celine doesn’t miss, which is always a good sign.

Sally goes to the loo, leaving Aaron in charge. They’re both a couple and Celine’s pretty friendly with them. For his part, Aaron starts talking to the manager when she comes out, and Celine takes the initiative to check the tubs for anything that needs to be refilled.

The tubs of frozen fruit look full enough, but the frozen pineapple and raspberry sherbets need to be replenished. With a sigh, Celine enters the walk-in freezer. She hates it in here — it’s too cold, and while she can tolerate the temperature, her hands freeze far too easily even for a few minutes. It makes her feel like she’s going to freeze into an ice sculpture which will shatter if breathed upon too hard.

The pineapple sherbet is on the second shelf of the freezer. She scoots her fingers around its cardboard sides and cradles it against her chest. The cold bites into the front of her apron and T-shirt, but she sighs and kicks the door open with her foot. One more thirty-pound carton of sherbet, and she’ll be out of this tiny hellhole.

She deposits the pineapple and returns for the raspberry, which is the worse of the two, because it’s located on the bottommost shelf. This means she has to bend down and kneel on the icy floor to yank it out. The metal stings her fingers, and she winces as she stands back up and pushes against the door.

Nothing happens.

The door’s probably gotten stuck. Annoyed, she shoves it again, and it doesn’t give. On the third time, she kicks it with the ball of her foot, and it still doesn’t budge.

Aaron’s reiterated before that the door never gets locked during working hours. On the employee tour, he’s shown Celine how there’s a pin that fits through the socket that secures the door at closing time. Celine’s dared to ask Aaron if anyone’s gotten locked in before, and when she did, Aaron got the most horrified expression and exclaimed, “No one would ever.”

Now, she’s rather inclined not to believe him.

She drops the sherbet onto the frozen floor and slams her palms against the door. “Let me out!”

There’s only silence, and a cold that steadily grows deeper and stronger. Even with how low the temperature is, she can feel her skin getting damp. She’s scared, but she’s determined not to show it. She doesn’t want to give anyone the satisfaction — especially not the people who messed with her.

“Aaron, I know you’re just trying to prank me. Get me out, or I’ll punch you in the face so hard I’ll break half your teeth when I do get out myself.”

She can see her breath emerge as icy clouds in front of her. By now she’s shivering, hunching her shoulders forward against the cold, and her fingers are red and numb enough that she can’t feel them much.

She’s left her knife in her backpack, afraid that she might freak out a student if anyone saw it. Along with her phone, wallet, and anything potentially usable in this icy vault.

That’s it, she thinks. I could have used it to pry open this door. I’m never going anywhere without it again. Especially with Azelma’s stalker on the loose.

Maybe that’s who’s responsible for this.

The thought freezes the breath in her lungs.

That’s ridiculous. It’s a one-time incident. A jerk who was trying to get fresh with her. That’s all.

Celine throws her weight against the door, which doesn’t budge — big surprise — but ends up giving her a bruise the size of her handspan on her shoulder. More angry than scared right now, she kicks it again with the ball of her foot so that she doesn’t break her toes. A thread of growing fear starts blossoming into dread that she can’t squash.

What’s going to happen if no one opens the door?