Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

December 2 ^nd

Combeferre

Enjolras is, his messenger bag and laptop cord included, effectively taking up a whole bench by himself. Combeferre knows it's not out of thoughtlessness, and there's plenty of other empty seats, so it's not even a problem, but Cosette has been standing right next to them both with her eyes firmly on Enjolras for a full twenty seconds now, and Combeferre is curious to see if he's going to notice.

Cosette clears her throat, effectively ruining the experiment.

“Oh.” Enjolras glances up and pulls his bag off the bench. “Sorry, I didn't see you there.”

“Always such a gentleman. Thank you.” She squeezes onto the bench next to him and smiles, reaching up to touch the fluffy white halo that Jehan has, in a fit of impossible courage fuelled by festive cheer, placed on Enjolras' curls. “Courfeyrac's handiwork?”

Enjolras doesn't look away from the laptop screen. “Luckily, no. I'm sure this is subtle and tasteful compared to what Courfeyrac must have in store.” He looks at her, wary when she only nods thoughtfully. “Everything all right?”

“What, I need a reason to seek out my favourite guardian of the heavens now? It's pretty, by the way. Not that you weren't aware.”

He narrows his eyes at her. “Thank you?”

“Here.” And there's the catch, Combeferre thinks, because she's holding out her cupped hands, presenting Enjolras with a small heap of paper stars. “Draw a name.”

Oh, Combeferre thinks, just as Enjolras says the same thing out loud.

“Oh.” He looks down at her hands, instantly alarmed. “Cosette, no.”

“Yes! Feuilly said you'd never done a gift exchange before, so this is happening, it's happening now, I've planned everything, deal with it.”

“There were reasons for never having a gift exchange.” Enjolras is frowning, and Combeferre would feel sorry for Cosette if she wasn't wholly unimpressed with his scowl. “There's no way of working out a fair budget, no one should feel forced to give anything, a lot of us don't celebrate Christmas anyway –”

“It's not about Christmas,” she cuts him off and raises her hands closer to his face. “It's about doing nice things for each other because we're smack in the middle of the most depressing season. Anyone who can't buy or make a gift is free let me know and I'll accept my responsibility as fairy godmother and take their place in the exchange. Draw a name so I can move on, please.”

No one has ever lost an argument against Cosette. It's the eyes, or the whip-smart responses, or the subconscious wish not to let down someone so kind; there's no consensus. Enjolras draws a name, and just as Combeferre reaches out to grab one as well, Cosette darts up from the bench and smiles brightly. “Just a second! I have a sudden craving for hot chocolate.”

Combeferre has an unpleasant suspicion. Enjolras unfolds the star, and it turns out that yes, it actually is possible for him to look still more terrified.

“Can we swap once you have yours?”

“Ah, she hasn't specified yet, but that's probably against the rules.”

“It's Grantaire.” Combeferre's suspicion has just become certainty. “I don't even know – I can't get a gift for Grantaire.”

“I don't think you're supposed to say who it is.”

“I can't give anything to Grantaire,” Enjolras repeats, and now Combeferre remembers that it's really not a question of him being unwilling.

It's an odd story, Enjolras and gifts for Grantaire. This year for his birthday, Enjolras researched thoroughly, for hours, and with single-minded devotion to the task before buying Grantaire a book. It was a good one, too, a large volume with historical illustrated maps and little stories on the mythology behind each one. Combeferre even allowed himself to feel slightly jealous. Enjolras then, in consequence of something Combeferre wasn't able to pin down, didn't show up at the party and never gave Grantaire the gift.

“Maybe that's not such a bad thing. If you've still got his birthday gift lying around somewhere, just put some seasonal wrapping paper on it and you're set.” Enjolras gives him a blank stare. Combeferre moves to get up and pats his shoulder. “I'll leave you to your sulking.”

Cosette is at the bar, cheerfully chatting with the barista who's getting her drink ready. She smiles when she sees Combeferre. “Ready to draw a name?”

“I was ready back at the table, but I think me drawing someone then might have complicated things.”

Cosette, beautiful and devious as she is, keeps smiling brightly and accepts her mug of cocoa. “There's no reason to think that.”

“I see.”

“Look, the only reason it isn't happening is that Enjolras doesn't pay attention to his own wants and needs.” She nods over to Enjolras at his table, leaning over his laptop again, back to typing. “All I'm trying to do is make him think about them.”

“His wants and needs, or about Grantaire?”

“Yes.”

Combeferre leaves it at that. There'd be no point in dissuading her, and it makes sense for her to think what she thinks. After all, she's never been there to see Enjolras pore over gift catalogues and prowl the stores until he found the perfect gift, only for Grantaire to never receive it. Not thinking about it isn't the problem. Thinking about it too much, on the other hand...

He clears his throat. “Have you given any more thought to the 24^th?”

“Oh! Sure, sorry, I've been meaning to let you know. I'm free, I'd love to help out.”

“That's great, thank you. We're chronically understaffed, it really helps.”

She smiles and presses his arm, and he watches, half bewildered, half in awe, as she leaves.

Chapter Text

December 12 ^th

Bahorel

The apartment smells like cinnamon, and Bahorel is appalled.

“I can't believe it's impossible to go out for as little as five minutes without you starting to bake behind my back,” he says, throwing open the kitchen door. Jehan and Courfeyrac are huddled together at the tiny kitchen table, dusting the surface with flour, and Cosette sits on the counter, waving at him. Well, that could have gone wrong in about a hundred different ways – he's almost embarrassingly giddy, and he could have easily proclaimed something definitely not meant for this many ears for all of them to hear. Jehan hasn't warned him. “And it's a whole conspiracy. Great.”

“Hey, I'm not part of this. Just here to scrounge.” Cosette pops a sablé into her mouth, as if demonstration is necessary.

“You've been gone all night.” Jehan doesn't even look up. “But actually, now that you're here, could you help with the frosting? I can't get the consistency right.”

“Amateurs.” Bahorel grabs the bowl of frosting held out by Courfeyrac and goes to find powdered sugar in the cabinet. “So, any particular reason this is happening at...” He glances at the clock. “Two in the morning?”

“Well,” Courfeyrac says, “we planned for this to happen in the afternoon. I got here at four, and it started out pretty great, we were on track and everything, and then someone got the proportions wrong and now there's twice as much dough as expected and it's taking twice as long because there's only one oven, so.”

“Someone, huh.” Bahorel has set up station at the counter next to Cosette, who holds up a palm to hide her other hand pointing at Courfeyrac. “And how come you're here?”

“Boy, does it feel nice to be wanted and appreciated.”

Bahorel rolls his eyes.

“Around eleven, I decided I was bored and that mammalogy notes weren't worth my time, so I did what any reasonable person would do and texted Courfeyrac. You know, because experience says he'll either be out somewhere exciting already, or willing to go out somewhere exciting with me.”

“Fair assumption.”

“Turns out he was stuck cookie-baking here, which is just as good. I mean, it doesn't get more exciting than this.”

“Damn right it doesn't.” Courfeyrac holds up a ball of dough in a dramatic gesture and clutches his chest. “Two unassuming young bakers, an unexpected twist, unmanageable quantities of cookie dough, a roommate coming home way past curfew? That's a blockbuster right there.”

Bahorel stops stirring powdered sugar into the frosting and turns to look at Jehan. “I told you I was going to be out.”

Jehan shrugs helplessly. “You said it was a date! I assumed you weren't coming home at all.”

“So you were baking in secret.”

“Hang on.” Courfeyrac's attention has now strayed from cookies completely, and Bahorel has to stop himself from groaning out loud. This isn't good. “A date, and I wasn't informed?”

“I don't think any of us were.” Cosette arches an eyebrow. “Serious, is it?”

“You're like, two inappropriate questions away from losing the only person in this room who knows their frosting.”

Courfeyrac grins. “Are we going to meet them?”

Cosette pokes Bahorel's arm. “How come you're home? What did you do?”

“Did you make that really bad joke about the dog?”

“Did you pretend to know Latin again, and they turned out to be a classicist?”

“Did they hate your outfit?”

“That's it.” Bahorel puts down the bowl. “You want to fight dirty? What about the fact that Cosette was bored at eleven at night and the best person she could think of calling was Courfeyrac? I mean, come on. There's a bigger story there.”

Cosette laughs. “Hey, I'm cute and friendly, I can make anyone fall in love with me. And just so we're clear on this, calling Courfeyrac as an option comes in second to nothing and no one.”

Courfeyrac holds up his hand, and Cosette abandons her post on the counter to high-five him.

Bahorel goes back to perfecting the frosting. He can still storm out when it's done; let it not be said that he isn't a man of his word. And, backwards or not, his distraction strategy actually worked – Cosette is next to Courfeyrac now, surveying his technique of rolling out dough, and Jehan, the only other person in the room aware of the delicacy of the situation, gives Bahorel a meaningful look. Bahorel holds that gaze, trying to spell out I rest my case with his eyes. The others will find out, in time, but for now no one has to know that the date had been spectacular and the only reason he showed up in the apartment alone is that he and Feuilly both have roommates that really, really don't need to find out about this whole dating thing just yet. Sure, Jehan knows anyway, but it's impossible to predict where there's going to be house guests at any given time with Jehan. If anything, Courfeyrac and Cosette have just offered an excellent example of why playing this close to the chest is a great idea.

So - Jehan knows, but then, what doesn't Jehan know. Bahorel came home at a similar time about two months ago, and Jehan had glanced at him and sighed happily. “Oh, I'm so glad you're in love. You'll be good for each other. Let Feuilly know you have my blessing.” Bahorel, who had previously mentioned neither a date nor Feuilly to Jehan, accepted this development without protest.

“Get over here, grumpy.” Cosette waves a hand. “I had dignity when I was alone at the counter, with you it's just sad.”

“Yeah, you can help with decorating.” Courfeyrac grins. “Nothing like sprinkling cookies with edible glitter to make you forget all about terrible dates.”

Terrible dates, yes, probably. Bahorel doesn't doubt that strategy has already been tried and tested by Courfeyrac multiple times. But when it's nearing half past three and he's frosted and decorated a small mountain of cookies, Feuilly hasn't left his mind, and neither has the image of freckles dusted across the bridge of his nose, or the memory of the soft graze of lips against Bahorel's cheek when they said goodbye, and Bahorel realises that not only is he royally fucked, he also really doesn't mind at all.

Jehan

Jehan didn't mind Cosette's surprise visit to begin with, but when she stays until four to help with the clean-up after Courfeyrac and Bahorel have both disgracefully abandoned the cookie cause, Jehan really doesn't mind. She's good company, too, chatting away as she dries the dishes Jehan hands her, the sugar of a few dozen stolen cookies keeping her going as she powers through the usual four-in-the-morning slump that Jehan has come to expect during all nighters. She looks as always, cheerful and pretty. Jehan wonders what she's running from that had her end up here.

“You should take home as many as you like.” Jehan nods over at the ridiculous amount of cookies stacked up on the kitchen table. “As you've seen, neither Bahorel nor Courfeyrac deserve any of them.”

“Oh, I couldn't.” She turns her head to take stock of them. “How many containers, do you think, can I manually carry with me?”

“You'll stay, won't you?” The thought hasn't occurred to Jehan that she wouldn't. “There's no trains going for another two hours, you can't walk home.”

“I was just going to get a taxi.”

“Please stay.”

She's stopped rubbing dry the baking tray Jehan handed her, and the slight surprise in her eyes gives Jehan a twinge. They're friends, at least Jehan has always considered them to be, but Cosette hasn't known any of them for even a year. Confident as she is, there's a chance some of that uneasiness that comes to being new in a group still hasn't left.

Well, Jehan can't have that.

“I've nothing early to do tomorrow, so it's no trouble at all, and Bahorel and I have the nicest apartment, so everyone stays over here at some point. Technically, you already have. It is morning, after all.”

“Thank you.” She means it, but it still comes out stumbling. “I'm sorry for crashing in the first place. Just a cabin fever thing, I guess, I couldn't stand the walls of my own room anymore.”

“Understandable,” Jehan says, when it really isn't; being cooped up in the kind of house Cosette lives in is every introvert's idea of a good time. “Talk about it?” A pause. “Drink about it?”

She laughs. “You have no idea how fast I'd jump on that drinking offer if it weren't four in the morning. Maybe some other time.”

Jehan nods and goes back to cleaning out a mixing bowl. After a while, a nudge of Cosette's elbow breaks that concentration. “What can I do for you?”

Jehan blinks. “In general, or...?”

“I've been trying to play fairy godmother for the holidays. You know, getting Enjolras and Grantaire together, volunteering with Combeferre, knitting Joly a hat, getting Feuilly a dog –”

“A dog? Does he know?”

“He asked me to, silly. I'm not just showing up on his doorstep with a puppy. He came to me and asked about the shelter, and we normally have a waiting period of a few months to prevent those head-over-heels adoptions that always go wrong. I'll help him get around it. He's already approved.”

Jehan bites back a smile. So Cosette is part of that tiny sub-group of theirs that does particularly nice things for other people when they aren't doing well themselves: Éponine does that too, and so does Enjolras, if in a weirdly aggressive, unrelenting way. Maybe they should form a club of their own. Jehan is tempted to suggest it. “That's really sweet. You won't regret it, he'll be a great owner.”

“I know.” She nods, looking rather happy with herself. “So, any wishes? Unpleasant tasks to transfer? Oblivious crushes to nudge into the right direction?”

Now, Jehan laughs. “I'm pleased to say no, not at the moment, or ever. It's a really nice offer, though.”

Cosette pauses. Jehan can trace how she weighs her words, considering, abandoning and then picking her choices back up. “If that's okay to ask,” she says finally, “are you –”

“Generally bewildered and alienated by all romance except the literary kind?” Jehan smiles when she nods. “Yeah, sort of. In theory, I love it all. I'm obsessed with it. The real thing, I've got no concept of.”

Cosette nods again. “Does it annoy you when people ask for romantic advice?”

“You know, weirdly? Not at all. If I can help, great. It's probably as close to an objective viewpoint as anyone gets – maybe that's good.”

“Maybe.”

Jehan reaches for a dish towel as well to dry the last bowl. “You've got something you want to get off your chest.” It's meant to be a question, but it doesn't come out as one. Cosette shrugs and doesn't go to the trouble of denying it.

“I don't...” She shakes her head, frustrated. “I'm no Grantaire. When something seems pointless, I let it be; when someone doesn't like me back, I move on. I don't pine.”

“Hm.”

“I don't know why that would have changed.”

“But it has?”

“It's become annoying, is what it has.”

“I see.”

Cosette sighs. “Do people think you're good at this?”

Jehan smiles. “Opinions vary. I've been called both 'a revelation' and 'more useless at advice than the Oracle of Delphi'. There's people who notice that I'm not actually saying anything, and there's people who don't.”

“I'm just trying to figure out what's suddenly so different. And it's... I feel like I don't even know where to start.”

“Wouldn't the obvious choice be to start with the person you like?”

“Person? There's no person.”

“Cosette.”

“I think –” She breaks off, then shakes her head as if to shoo a bad thought away. “I know where I'm going to end up if I think about it too much, and I don't like it. It's like, hey, you're in love and that's apparently not changing, it's going to be no fun at all. Enjoy the ride.”

“But it'd be a good first step to accept that for yourself.”

“Would it? What if it just hurts?”

“Then it hurts.”

Cosette stares blankly. After a moment, she shakes her head and sets the final dried baking sheet down with the others. “You know, I'll give anyone the benefit of the doubt, but as far as your advice is concerned, I'm going to have to side with the Oracle of Delphi.”

Chapter Text

December 18^th

Joly

Bossuet takes his time getting their drinks, and Joly knows it's deliberate, but when he gets back to their table, Grantaire still hasn't stopped complaining.

“It's like, why even bother pretending? There's a whole Christmas icon in Coca Cola colours. Or was that the other way around? And does anyone even care?” He turns to shift closer to Joly, dabbing a single finger in his chest. “You, my friend, are a helpless acolyte to a heathen myth conveniently imported from the US.”

“Sure,” Joly says, and grabs the jug in front of Grantaire. “I take it you don't want this, then?”

“Take it. Take it all; give me vodka in return. No one would dare try to soil that stuff with Christmas flavours.”

Bossuet slides into the seat next to Joly. “What happened?”

Joly toasts him. “He tasted cinnamon in his vin chaud. Well, now your vin chaud. Enjoy.”

“Wow, thanks.” Bossuet pushes Grantaire's replacement drink over the table. “You have a sad idea of celebrating, R. Finals are almost over! Doesn't that warrant at least a bad pun or two?”

“Finals may be done soon; pointless obligations won't be. I need to buy Marius a gift because apparently, not doing as Cosette says is the non-Disney equivalent of punching Snow White in the face, or something. What do you give a kid who's ninety per cent anxiety, ten per cent sadness?”

“Stress balls,” Joly suggests.

“Lavender,” Bossuet chimes in.

“Self esteem.”

“Poetry.”

“A hug.”

“Who are you buying for, Joly?” Grantaire looks curious, already half-intent to pounce on whoever it is Joly is about to name. He already has, in a way, and Joly doesn't feel like encouraging him to continue.

“I believe that's to be kept a secret. Just because you don't care about the magic of anonymous gift exchanges doesn't mean the rest of us doesn't, R.”

“Ah.” Grantaire grins. “Sure, I get it. Magic. If that helps at all, I want new headphones, mine need like, the correct alignment of all heavenly bodies and a satanic incantation to work right now. It's starting to take more effort than it's worth.”

“Save it,” Bossuet interjects. “He doesn't have you.”

“Then you do?”

“No, Enjolras does. It's Cosette's ploy to set you two up.”

Joly kicks Bossuet under the table, and, conveniently timed, all colour drains from Grantaire's face.

“What?” Bossuet raises both hands in defence as if he hasn't just kicked off an avalanche of disasters. “He might as well know in advance if all hell is going to break loose. R, don't worry, it's not going to be anything dramatic.”

“Worry? What do I have to worry about? It's Enjolras. He'll get me a spiral notebook and be done with it. If anything, we should be worrying about Cosette; she's in for the most disappointing Christmas Eve of her life if she's actually put effort into this.”

Joly almost wants to protest. Cosette is in for an excellent Christmas Eve, because Joly is excellent at buying gifts, and he drew her name for the gift exchange. It's not quite a good enough present to make up for having to watch one's carefully laid plans of matchmaking crumble, but it's really good. Not that Grantaire deserves to know. “Enjolras is actually really thoughtful about gifts,” he muses instead. “He gave me a portable globe for my last birthday just because I joked around with Combeferre one time that it'd be nice to have one on hand to throw at people who don't know their continents. The guy never forgets anything.”

“That's precisely Cosette's downfall. Do you think he's forgotten me sitting around taking up space and not contributing for the past, what, two hundred meetings? That's not exactly conducive to affection, and unlike Cosette, I'm aware of that. He'd have to be a monster not to want to give you something nice, you're a loveable little snowflake. As far as I'm concerned, Enjolras and I are in accord.”

Bossuet rolls his eyes. “I take everything back, I shouldn't have brought it up.”

“And I wasn't even done earlier. It's just one more thing that proves my point; obligations of gift-giving don't help anyone. Like, hurray, it's the season of giving, so you get to go out and spend time and money to give something to the guy who's been to your activist group what bad CGI has been to the Star Wars prequels.”

“Don't say it.”

“Present in excess and annoyingly pointless. The poor guy didn't even get a choice. I mean, I'm not normally one for sympathy, but if I'm annoyed by Marius, Enjolras is going through hell right now.”

“I meant to jump on that; I don't think you're doing right by Marius,” Joly jumps in. “He's so easy to get a gift for, you're being meaner than he deserves. If you don't want to put thought into it, buy him a pair of socks. The kid's broke. He'll be thrilled about it.”

“I'll second that.” Bossuet waves a hand, and because he can't let it be, adds, “Plus, Enjolras deserves more credit, too. You just spent forever talking about how much you annoy him without acknowledging that he's never been anything but civil to you. I don't know why you go that length to paint him in those colours.”

“Perhaps I'm bitter.” Grantaire grins. “Growing up bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked only to have real life punch you repeatedly in the gut once you hit 18 will do that to you. You've got no reason to rush to his defence, though.”

Bossuet's eyes widen, and he kicks Joly under the table. Joly follows his gaze and thinks that Bossuet probably meant to kick Grantaire, who's still talking.

“I mean, it's not like he'd be heartbroken about hearing me say that. It's Enjolras. Why would he care? We're not friends.”

Enjolras, who has briefly raised a hand to greet Joly and Bossuet, freezes for the fraction of a second before he moves on, swiftly walking by their table and making for the stairs that lead up to the gallery. Grantaire keeps rambling, because he has no idea about anything, and not for the first time in his life is Joly overcome with the sudden desire to headbutt him into another dimension.

Bossuet understands, bless him. They exchange a glance which Grantaire, in his eloquence, doesn't notice, and Joly lets himself fall against Bossuet's side.

“You know,” he says tiredly, “Chetta and you and I, we're good people, we should break this off and find new friends.”

Bossuet laughs, and Joly feels the huff of air against his neck. “Agreed.”

Enjolras

It's not a big deal. It isn't.

Enjolras isn't a child, and he's perfectly aware of the fact that no one is obligated to like him. The world would be a difficult place for him if he weren't aware of it – after all, making people dislike him is part of what he does. It's a part of activism, it's a part of politics, of change, of life. He knows all this. He has no problem dealing with any of it.

What he does have a problem with is people not paying attention to the person they're talking to, so it's easy to forget about this whole thing while he's still with Feuilly. Not listening to Feuilly is impossible; he talks with an infectious sort of enthusiasm and draws others right in. He's happy, Enjolras thinks. Has been, for a while. Something is going right for him.

They go over the ABC's budget declaration, a tedious task that has to happen now or it won't happen at all this year. Feuilly does the numbers, Enjolras does the papers, and after a while, it's oddly soothing. By the time Feuilly hands over the last document, he's almost forgotten.

“So, when are you leaving for home?” Feuilly, thankfully, packs their folders up to store them out of sight and picks up his beer.

“Probably early on the 24^th, or late on the 23^rd. I want to be there for the gift exchange.” Enjolras can't return the question – Feuilly has no home but Paris to leave for, and he never stayed with any of his foster families long enough to want to come back for the holidays. Last year, he was with Enjolras and his family, and Enjolras extended his offer for this year as well, but Feuilly declined. “What are your plans?”

Feuilly smiles. “Enjoying a quiet apartment for once, mainly. I know it sounds awful, but – silence, you know? I miss that.”

“It doesn't sound awful.” Enjolras has lived with Courfeyrac for long enough to be able to relate. It's good to have his own place, but sometimes, when the flat gets a little too quiet, he misses the warmth and noise people like Courfeyrac seem to carry with themselves wherever they go. “And you deserve a break. I think it's only fair to want a little quiet.”

Feuilly looks amused. Enjolras frowns.

“What?”

“Nothing, just –” He grins. “So do you. Deserve a break, I mean. And I can't imagine you've planned for one. So I'll just, you know, be an adult and pretend I didn't pick up on the slight accusation in your tone just then.”

“I wasn't trying to accuse you.”

“Enjolras.”

“I'm sorry if it came across that way – I'm just worried, you've always been so prepared to take on extra tasks for the ABC and I really don't want anyone to get overworked –”

“Enjolras.” Feuilly laughs, now, and Enjolras lets himself breathe. “It's okay. I was teasing, it's all good. Hey.” He nudges him carefully. “Should we just call it a night?”

“We don't have to.” Enjolras sighs. “I'm fine, just a little...” All over the place? Embarrassingly thrown by the realisation that someone I like far too much doesn't consider us friends? He settles for the most universal, completely neutral, “Tired.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Feuilly presses his shoulder and moves to get up. “Come on, let's get going.”

It's a good decision. His apartment is lovely and contained and quiet, and there's a full twenty seconds or so in which he's blissfully aware that there's no more tasks or chores for today, everything there is to do is done, before the residual, small and insistent sting in his chest from earlier catches up with him.

Enjolras tells himself that his eyes didn't stray as they crossed the café to get outside, but the lie falls flat. When his look found the table he'd walked by earlier, Bossuet, Joly and Grantaire seemed to have left.

There's a whole array of gifts on his desk, pushed to the back to make room for stacks of notes and readers. He sits down and pulls them forward, one by one, and finds himself with the question that feels familiar at this point: which one could he give Grantaire? Most of them are old, bought for previous birthdays, because they've known each other for years, and Enjolras gets birthday gifts for all his friends. Grantaire may be the only one who never receives them, sure, but that's a problem in and of itself.

(A problem he doesn't think about, at all, or ever. It just happened as a matter of course – the first time Grantaire celebrated his birthday with them, Enjolras showed up, the miniature tripod he'd bought safely stowed away in a gift bag, and then Grantaire had seen him walk in with Combeferre and Enjolras still hasn't forgotten that look, the blatant surprise and shock that was written in his eyes then. He'd looked at Enjolras that way for a few seconds, an unsaid Why the hell did you show up, and then he'd turned away, as if he'd never seen them come in. Enjolras had watched it, pressed the bag into Combeferre's hands, and excused himself.)

He still has the book from this year's birthday, last year's birthday gift – a simple voice recorder because he heard Grantaire say in an off moment that he was having problems focusing during lectures – has eventually gone to Courfeyrac instead, and some even older ones (a compact trivia game, a Zap Comix poster, that first tripod) were gathering dust in the back of a cabinet when Enjolras got them out again. Now that he's looking at them, it's almost glaringly obvious what the best thing to do is.

Enjolras isn't sure when it started – he's always felt ambivalent about Grantaire, never quite sure what to make of him, and somewhere along the line, so slowly that he can't pin down the moment now, that feeling shifted into a tentative kind of longing mixed with bewilderment. It became more than plain not understanding Grantaire, it became wishing to understand him, trying to make sense of his wildly conflicting words and actions, trying to pull them together into a constellation that made sense. Grantaire is loving and thoughtless at once, he never stops talking and still doesn't seem to say much, he's loud around everyone and quiet around Enjolras. That last part was enough to strike a small spark of hope in Enjolras, but now that he's found the actual reason for it, the thought makes him feel ill. They aren't friends. To Grantaire, it's as simple as that.

The gifts in front of him look especially pathetic now, like sad reminders of a hopeless little infatuation. Enjolras gathers them together as he makes up his mind. He has to get over this, and he will. He just needed a good reason to start trying.

Musichetta

Musichetta would, perhaps, be angry at the interruption by the doorbell if it interrupted the study session that is currently supposed to be taking place, but since no studying has happened for a good two hours now, it comes as a welcome distraction. Even more so when she opens the apartment door once she's buzzed the person up and sees Cosette come up the stairs – and it's not just Cosette, it's Cosette holding a thermos and a cookie tin.

“I love you,” Musichetta says, not waiting for her to say hello; she just ushers her inside and closes the door behind them. “I love you, I love you. You always show up at the best of times. You've never done anything wrong in your life, I can just tell.”

“I haven't actually said these were for you yet, you know,” Cosette says as Musichetta helps her out of her coat. She's smiling, her cheeks still darkened from the cold air outside. “I could be just stopping by on my way to someone else.”

“You wouldn't.”

“No, you're right, I wouldn't. Oh, Bossuet!” He's only just appeared in the doorway, and she hands him the thermos the moment he comes within her reach. “This is for you. You're the one who really likes Chartreuse, right?”

He holds the bottle warily. “Yes?”

“Great! Papa was in the south-east a while ago, so I asked him to bring some of the real stuff. We made Green chaud today. That's your share.”

Bossuet stares for a long few seconds, letting Cosette and Musichetta watch as the words sink in. Then, he steps forward and wraps Cosette up in a hug that lasts, and lasts, and lasts, until Cosette clears her throat.

“Thank you.” Bossuet lets go of Cosette, still holding the thermos. “Thank you. You're a gem. An angel. The only saviour of the most terrible night of the year.”

“Last night of finals week,” Musichetta translates. “Come in, angel. There's a few people over; we're telling ourselves we're studying.”

The others are still clustered around the table in the living room, looking over as Musichetta leads Cosette through. “Everyone, this is Cosette, Cosette, this is a bunch of disenchanted business students.”

There's a flat echo of “Hi, Cosette,” and Cosette waves cheerfully. “Hi, everyone.”

Bossuet goes to find mugs, and Musichetta shares the couch with Cosette, close enough to the others not to be rude and distanced enough for them to talk among themselves.

“You realise you don't have to bake your way into anyone's heart, right?” Musichetta lifts the lid of the cookie tin and the subtle scent of vanilla wafts up. “Not that it hurts, but...”

“It's been a tough year.” Cosette takes the lid off completely and snatches a cookie for herself. “Everyone needs to be cheered up a little bit.”

“But you've been making such an effort. We already love you, I promise.”

“Oh, I'm not trying to buy your affections. It's nothing like that.”

“Good. Just making sure.”

“The cookies are all for you, actually,” Cosette says. “I wasn't sure if you drink, so the Green chaud...”

“I normally don't. Cookies are always good, though.”

“I mean, I say they're for you, and I'm eating them. Sorry. My fatal flaw; no self-control around cookies.”

With anyone else, Musichetta would assume all the talking to be a result of anxiety. For Cosette, it just seems normal. She hasn't known all of them for as long as they've known each other, so it would make sense for her to be still unsure, too, and perhaps she is, but she seems at ease with herself, if a little goofy. Musichetta can't help but find it refreshing.

Bossuet offers Cosette some of her own hot chocolate when he gets back, precariously balancing a tray of mugs that Cosette quickly takes from him. “Where's Joly, anyway?” She glances around. “I brought him a hat.”

“He went with R. It's one of those nights.” Bossuet shrugs. “There was an Enjolras-thing, just a really unfortunate coincidence.”

Musichetta shoots him a look. Cosette brought them spiked hot chocolate and cookies, so mentioning that Bossuet happily spilled the open secret of her set-up to Grantaire is out of the question. Especially seeing as the whole meddling thing seems like more than a bad idea to Musichetta and she'd have to slip in a comment about other people's affairs, and Cosette doesn't really deserve that. She means well.

Bossuet acknowledges her look with a sigh. “They'll be fine. Joly had his last final this morning, so he's not missing out on anything.”

“Except for the Green chaud.” Musichetta grins. “Cosette, are you done with exams yet?”

“Oh, let's just pretend that word has never been invented.” She rolls her eyes. “Every time I'm done with one test, the school just kindly reminds you, like, hey, there's still about six years to go. Medical training is the most soul-crushing thing in the world. I don't know how Joly does it, because every time I want to quit, I can think about puppies. If you're going to treat humans, you don't even have that option.”

Bossuet nods sullenly. “Yeah, soul-sucking courses of study, I can tell you a thing or two about that.”

“So can I,” someone calls over from the table. Musichetta looks up. It's Marc. Studying seems to have resumed. “Chetta, just so you know, we're moving on without you.”

“Traitors,” she calls back and presses Cosette's arm before she gets up. “I'll be right over there if you need someone who throws words like 'quinary sector' into an otherwise harmless conversation.”

“All right,” she hears Bossuet say to Cosette as she walks over, “let me talk to you about the joys of the law faculty.”

Bossuet

When everyone has left, well after midnight, Joly still isn't back. He hasn't texted, either, and Bossuet isn't so much concerned as he is annoyed.

“A fact,” he says and drops onto the bed next to Musichetta, “every single bad thing that has ever happened to anyone has been my fault.”

“I'm not sure how to respond,” Musichetta says. “The logic is so sound, I can hardly argue against that.”

“But you know what I mean, right? Whenever I try to do something right, it just turns out to be the worst idea in history. It's a miracle I haven't accidentally killed someone.”

“You know, it's not on par with murder, but I'm not sure where the idea that bringing that whole thing up to Grantaire could have a positive outcome came from, anyway. It just sounds all bad to me.”

“It seemed completely brilliant in the moment.” Bossuet sighs. “You know? The way stupid things do when you're frustrated. I genuinely thought having that out in the open was a better thing than having friendly puppet-master Cosette behind it without him knowing.”

Musichetta snorts. “Friendly puppet-master.”

“It was the best I could do on the spot.”

“Sure.” She turns on her side. “Honestly, I don't think you've made it worse by mentioning that, because the whole thing was bad when you got there. Whatever's going on between them is none of our business, and of course meddling is going to make it worse. Of course it's going to hinder more than help. They're adults, I don't see why anyone should interfere at all.”

Bossuet does see. At least he thinks he does. Cosette dislikes seeing people stuck and unhappy, and that's easy enough to empathise with. If she has the confidence to think she might be able to change that unhappiness, there's something uplifting about that.

He tells Musichetta so. She shrugs, unimpressed. “We don't even know what both of them are thinking. Literally everything Grantaire says should be taken with a grain of salt, and Enjolras hasn't talked about himself in, I don't know, fifteen years. I've certainly never heard him do it. Trying to push something on them is the wrong way, especially when we can't even be sure they want even remotely the same thing.”

“But can't we be?” Bossuet frowns. “I always thought it was kind of a given.”

“That Grantaire likes him, sure. But the other way around?”

“No, that too.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I don't know.” It's no fun, having your own reality questioned like that. “Just a hunch, I guess.”

“Hm.” Musichetta smiles, finally, and lets out a breath. “You know what? Luckily, as I already said, none of our business. Whatever happens happens.”

“Yeah,” Bossuet says, and lets his last few lingering thoughts on the matter rush away. “And, you know, I can't question anything that girl does. Cookies and Chartreuse, I mean...”

“Should it worry me how easy it is to buy your loyalties?”

“Oh, now it's just me? I'm pretty sure I heard you greet her with not one, not two, but three 'I love you's. All she'd done at that point was show up!”

Musichetta pulls a face. “If this ever turns into the kind of relationship where we have an 'I love you' quota, one of us has to stage an intervention.”

“Hmm,” Bossuet hums in agreement. “Sounds like Joly's kind of thing.”

The sound of a key turning in the front lock, just at the right moment.

“Joly,” Musichetta calls out, too lazy or too tired to move – for Bossuet, it's definitely the latter. “Get in here, we're talking hypothetical interventions.”

Joly is yawning when he walks in – he looks dead on his feet, hair sticking up and eyes red-rimmed. “It's moments like this that I wish I could run and leap into bed,” he says, and then flops down on the mattress unceremoniously. He lifts his head, and Bossuet's heart stutters a little. “What was that about interventions?”

“Just speculation, love,” Musichetta says and leans in to kiss his forehead. “How's R?”

“Phenomenal.” Joly frowns, unhappy with his own sarcasm, and shakes his head. “No, sorry, I didn't mean to be – like that. It's all good. He'll sleep it off. And he kept – has any of you guys heard from Éponine lately?”

Bossuet and Musichetta shake their heads, simultaneously. Éponine doesn't like to show up at meetings when there isn't a specific assignment for her to do, and that goes to the point where none of them can say if she's actively part of the group. Not for lack of an extended invitation, but simply because she doesn't seem to want to be.

“He kept talking about her, but in an obscure way, she understands him, she's far better at dealing than he is, yadda yadda. I don't know. I thought about texting her, and then I realised I don't even have her number.”

“I'm pretty sure only Cosette and Enjolras have it,” Musichetta says. “She's a phantom. It makes sense, kind of.”

It does – the work she does is, for lack of a better word, under the radar – but there's also something to be said for Grantaire and her possibly being friends. Bossuet has never considered that before, but it's not too far-fetched. Cosette was the one who introduced her to Les Amis, and Enjolras keeps her up to date on assignments, so that's those two squared away, and Grantaire?

Bossuet isn't sure what the benefit there might be. Maybe Grantaire can learn from her.

Joly doesn't seem to care. “Sleep,” he mutters, and lowers his head to rest back on the mattress. “Sleep.”

“I'm so glad there's someone here to rival my level of laziness.” Bossuet picks at the shoulder of Joly's jacket, which he hasn't bothered to take off yet. “Can't even get undressed. That's impressive.”

Joly, tiredly, giggles. “Hah, undressed. In your dreams.”

Bossuet exchanges a look with Musichetta, and they set about carefully getting Joly out of his street clothes just to spare him having to get up again. Joly, already half asleep, lets out a sound; something like “Hrrmh.”

Bossuet agrees.

Chapter Text

December 23^rd

Marius

In advance, Marius considered just dropping off his gift, picking up the one intended for him, and leaving again, but those thoughts vanish when he gets to the café. Most of the others are there already, Jehan gives him a hug, and Courfeyrac drags him over to where someone's scarf has been hung up to create a tiny separate area that's shielded from view.

“Put your gift in the box behind the curtain,” Courfeyrac says, referring to the scarf, “don't look into the box, just put it in and make sure no one's watching while you do. We take the secret part super seriously.”

“Right.”

Marius had Joly's name, and he's bought him LED shoelaces. He's not sure why. He's never been great at gift-giving and weeks went by without any idea coming to mind. The shoelaces jumped out at him in a store and he bought them on impulse. Somehow, he thinks that if anyone in the group were to wear light-up shoelaces that look like misplaced glow sticks, it'd be Joly. Maybe a nudge in that direction isn't so bad, and if it is a terrible idea, well – at least they'll be anonymous for now.

He drops the small packet into the box and lets Courfeyrac draw him over to the table they've claimed. It's already cluttered with candy-wrappers and empty glasses and bottles, which is impressive considering Marius is exactly on time. He sits with Feuilly and Bossuet, because that seems like the quietest corner, and gets roped into a discussion on energy transition before he's properly settled in.

Halfway through an argument Feuilly makes, Cosette clears her throat loud enough for everyone to stop what they're doing and turn their eyes to her end of the table. She's carried the box over and piled all gifts onto a small heap in front of her.

“Since we're already running sort of late and some people have to turn in early, I thought we'd just start now. Not everyone's here, but all the gifts are, so you have my permission to go wild. And by go wild, I mean you're allowed to calmly search for the gift with your name and return to your seat.” She hesitates for a moment as if considering something, but then she smiles brightly, effectively making Marius wonder if he imagined the moment. “Happy holidays, everyone!”

There's a chorus of well-wishes in return, and then a scramble for the gifts begins so suddenly and with such enthusiasm that Marius forgets, for a moment, that he's technically surrounded by adults. There's no more grown-up dignity when it comes to presents, apparently – not that most of them, including himself, have much of that to begin with, now that he thinks about it – and elbows and left hooks are completely acceptable. The spectacle is odd to watch, but also a little intimidating, so Marius joins Bossuet in the choice to pick up their gifts when the rest of them has had their fill of wrestling over them.

Jehan is quickest with unwrapping something, which results in a sudden squeal of pure joy as Marius walks back to his seat. When he looks over, Jehan has pulled Feuilly in what looks like a bone-crushing hug, holding a succulent in a clearly hand-painted flower pot precariously in one hand.

“Thank you, it's perfect, I love it and I love you.”

“You could at least try to hold up the illusion of ignorance,” Feuilly says, more amused than reproachful. “And you're welcome.”

Once Jehan has released him, next to Marius, Feuilly unwraps what looks like a rolled-up map, and Bossuet a set of novelty playing cards with optical illusions on them. His own gift is a flat, light parcel that seems to have so little substance, he's afraid of tearing it as he undoes the wrapping. When he unfolds the flaps of paper, he finds a bookmark, slightly larger than average, and easily more beautiful. It must have been hand-painted, motives from Harry Potter and the Iliad and Moby Dick and The Three Musketeers winding together in a wild gradient of colour. Running a finger across the edge of it, Marius can even feel the brushstrokes, uneven and natural. It's already up there with the prettiest things he owns.

“Huh,” Bossuet says when he glances over Marius' shoulder. “Guess I was too quick to judge.”

“Do you know who this was?” Marius turns it in his hands, still a little awed. “It's so nice. I feel bad; I didn't make anything by hand.”

“Hm.” Bossuet frowns. “I won't tell you who it is, but let's just say in spirits of the season that it's a small miracle.”

Just then, Joly, across the table, lets out a small noise and grabs Musichetta's arm. “Look at this,” he whispers, “Chetta, look at this. I'm going to look so good.”

That's a reaction Marius will happily take.

As he lets his eyes sweep across the rest of them, looking for possible hints at who he could thank, his look falls on the end of the table where the presents had been, and sees one still left there, wrapped and unclaimed. He opens his mouth, ready to ask Feuilly who's missing, when he notices and immediately feels ashamed: Éponine isn't here.

Éponine isn't here, and it didn't even strike him as odd, because it isn't, really, she stays away from the meetings that are just socialising, and whenever she's there, she stresses the fact that she's there to do a job so vehemently that it's bordering on hurtful. Despite this, she's as much – or as little – one of them as Marius is, at least that's how he's always seen them, as equally lost among so many enthusiasts and fighters. And Cosette must have thought something similar, after all, Éponine must have been part of the gift exchange if there is one unclaimed gift, and Cosette –

Oh, Cosette.

Marius hasn't been avoiding her, but he hasn't been deliberately seeking her out, because it still hurts just a little bit, and something clicks into place now, the missing piece in the puzzle that consisted of Cosette telling him, gently, “You are so, so wonderful,” and adding that she liked someone, it went without saying that it wasn't him, and of Éponine being invited but not showing up, and of Cosette, right now, keeping to the side of the room, her smile lacking the ease and naturalness that is so easy to love.

Marius, making up his mind within seconds, finds Courfeyrac. He tugs him away from his conversation and his still half-wrapped gift, ignoring his protests, and just as he gets him far enough for them to retain at least some semblance of privacy, he sees Cosette slip out of the room. There's an ache in Marius' chest, and he nudges Courfeyrac towards the door. Someone has to talk to her, and he's the wrong person to do it. “Cosette,” he says with a tired smile when Courfeyrac demands an explanation. “Go.”

Courfeyrac

So far, Courfeyrac has been sure he was already far too involved in the Marius-Cosette drama that unfolded a few months ago with a surprising quietness and discretion, but he saw Cosette before Marius abducted him just then, and yeah, there's something going on with her. And sure, sometimes people just need their space for a moment, and sometimes it's nothing at all, but fuck not intruding; you don't leave the party you practically planned all on your own if you're okay, and if you're not okay, you get checked up on.

It's not far to go, either: right outside, pacing in front of the stairs that lead to the bathrooms in the basement, he finds her. At first, he thinks she might be crying, but then she stops pacing and faces him, and nope, no tears. That's a good thing, right?

She stands before him, shoulders tense, her arms straight at her sides. Her face is tight with tension, lips pinched tight and eyebrows drawn together, and it's barely noticeable, but she's shaking, the tremor so slight he almost overlooks it.

Wrong, he thinks.

“Tell me what's happened?” It's a half-hearted attempt, Courfeyrac realises that, but it's also difficult to gauge the situation right now. He's not even entirely sure if she's angry, terrified, or something else altogether.

“I'm awful,” she says, which isn't an answer, except it also is, sort of, and there's a sting in Courfeyrac's chest. He opens his mouth to respond, but she cuts him off with a quick shake of her head. “I did all this – stuff, you know? Because I like doing nice things for people, and because I wanted to be sure, really sure, that I wasn't just doing one thing, for one person. But right now – it's just, I mean – I can't believe how terrible I feel about this, what's wrong with me? Feuilly is going to get a dog, and all I can think about is how upset I am that she didn't show up? What kind of person does that?”

It takes Courfeyrac a second before it clicks. He remembers Cosette, sitting on a counter with her legs swinging, lightly telling Bahorel that she has no problem making people fall in love with her. In hindsight, it seems like such an obvious sidetrack manoeuvre that he should probably have picked up on something back then.

“I couldn't just be content with this, you know?” she goes on, furious, and Courfeyrac flinches at so much anger in someone he's never even seen irritated. “I just had to put all my stupid expectations into this one detail, and when it doesn't happen, everything's ruined. And it was so unlikely that she'd come, that's the worst of it! Why would I think she'd show? It's not like I asked for her to confirm in advance. I just assumed. And everyone got a gift, that means she was here. She just didn't bother saying hello, and that's her right, she doesn't have to, and here I am, like the worst kind of entitled princess that just has to be greeted personally or she'll have a meltdown, that's – who does that?”

“Anyone would be disappointed.” At least if he's read this situation correctly, which, at this point, well. There's not much room for ambiguity left. “It's not entitled to hope you'll see someone.”

“You know what's even worse?” Cosette huffs. “Now that I look back on it, the whole gift exchange was – Enjolras didn't want one, you know? I had to convince him, and I talked about how it matters to do good things for one another and so forth, and now look at me. I didn't do it to do something for all of you, I did it so I'd have an excuse to give her something, so I was selfish from day one. God, I don't think I could be angrier at myself.”

“Cosette,” Courfeyrac says, and this really isn't what he does, he's good at diffusing, at glossing over, at making jokes until bad situations turn good, “I'm having a hard time believing that working off a whole list of really kind things to do for other people just to cover up that you'd like to be kind to one person in particular constitutes selfishness. By like, any definition. I'm not great with words, but, nah. That's not what that means.”

“Oh, you don't know,” she says, which is another indicator of just how unprecedented this whole thing is, because Cosette has never dismissed anyone for as long as Courfeyrac has known her. Which, granted, isn't extremely long, but long enough. “I mean, sure, I wanted to do something nice for her, I really, really did, but it doesn't get much more selfish than that. Might as well just yell Like me, like me in her face.”

“The exchange was anonymous, she wouldn't even know it was you. And even if it hadn't been, come on, Cosette, we all want to be liked. It's not a big deal, people just pretend it is so they can pat themselves on the shoulder for being oh so above everyone else.”

Cosette looks up at him now, for the first time since he found her, and her expression softens by the slightest shade. “You're not surprised at all, are you?”

“Hey, I haven't been surprised since birth. If it helps at all, this definitely had the potential of doing the trick, but then it made too much sense.”

That gets a laugh, if only the quietest kind. “You just want me to think you saw it coming.”

“Well – I do,” he admits, “but that's not it. I mean, I remember when you introduced her to us, and there was this whole vibe happening –”

“You're making things up now.” She shakes her head. “Come on. I didn't even realise I liked her then; I told myself we really needed a hacker, so it only made sense. Turns out I just thought she was cute.”

“Actually, looking back, the fact that you brought her in at all is weird because we'd never even mentioned any of the less than legal stuff to you at that point.” The thought is so odd that Courfeyrac laughs. “What, did you just assume? I can't believe I didn't question that then. The more I think about it, the more sense it makes.”

Cosette smiles, then, and Courfeyrac's heart sinks as he watches that lightness slowly drop from her expression again. “I really messed up,” she murmurs. “This isn't how it was supposed to go.”

“When you set up a whole gift exchange just so you could give a nice gift to your crush, this wasn't what you had in mind? I can imagine.”

“Oh, shush.”

“I think making your friends happier than they would have been otherwise is a pretty good accidental side effect of a ploy to get with someone,” Courfeyrac postulates. “And this is coming from someone who's seen a lot of those. Most of them with disastrous outcomes. This is fantastic considering the circumstances, Cosette, please believe me.”

For a moment, he wonders if he's said the wrong thing now, because she's gone quiet and she's looking down, still as if waiting for something. Then, slowly, she steps forward and pulls him into a hug.

It's almost a little triumphant. Hey, look at me, comforting people. Maybe he's been underestimating himself. And hugs, well, he's always been brilliant at those.

“Thanks,” she says when she moves away from him. “For being pushy.”

“Anytime.” He grins. “I mean it. Need someone to be pushy, I'm the first in line. Obviously always with the opt-out option which is just, you know, telling me to back the fuck off. That can happen, too.”

“Sure.” She reaches for his hand and squeezes, just once. “Back to the party, monsieur knight in shining armour?”

He's almost cheesy enough to offer his arm. Almost. “After you.”

Feuilly

It's unlikely that anyone saw him slip out, Feuilly thinks, but even if someone had, it wouldn't really matter. A lot of the others have early rides tomorrow, and it's gotten late, so it isn't a terrible offence to be among the first to leave the party anymore. That, and then, Feuilly is slowly beginning to feel that if someone does find out about them sneaking around, perhaps it won't be all that dramatic.

Bahorel is waiting right outside the café, wearing that crooked smirk that's practically begging to be kissed off, and Feuilly pushes his hands into his coat pockets to keep from doing something stupid. “Hey.”

“Hey? That's all I get?”

Feuilly laughs. “Not sure what you were expecting there. A bow and formal address?”

Bahorel responds by drawing him in by a hand and pressing a kiss, lightly, to the corner of his mouth.

“Ah.” His cheeks are warm, which is ridiculous, but he might as well blame the cold. “I see your point.”

“Mhm,” Bahorel hums, and they start walking together.

“What was your gift?” Feuilly asks, curious. He didn't see Bahorel unwrap anything, and he's not carrying a bag, either.

“Engraved shot glasses,” Bahorel says with an odd, lopsided smile.

“With what, initials?”

“Hah.” Bahorel draws something shiny out of his jacket pocket, but it's too dark for Feuilly to see the engraving. Bahorel, solemnly, recites: “Le peuple français proclame solennellement son attachement aux Droits de l'homme et aux principes de la souveraineté nationale – ”

Feuilly groans in sympathy. “No.”

“– tels qu'ils ont été définis par la Déclaration de 1789, confirmée et complétée par le préambule de la Constitution de 1946 –”

“That is brutal.” Feuilly is a little sorry for the admiration that laces his tone, because imprinting the preamble of the constitution on shot glasses is possibly the worst thing anyone's ever done to Bahorel, but credit where credit is due: a lot of thought must have gone into that.

“It's so diabolical, I can't even be mad,” Bahorel says and pockets the glass again with a shrug. “What did you get? I don't think I saw.”

It's clearly a joke, because Feuilly's gift is pretty difficult to overlook, what with the way it leans precariously out of the gift bag by his side, but Feuilly gets it out anyway. “Scratch map. I almost feel bad, that must have been way more expensive than what I spent. So, no idea who got me that thing, but they're rich and I love them.”

Bahorel snorts. “Sounds like Enjolras to me.”

“Well, Enjolras is spoken for.” Feuilly smiles at the thought. “About time, too.”

Bahorel slows, but doesn't stop. “Hang on,” he says. “Did I miss something?”

Feuilly matches his pace. “I don't know? Did you miss R dragging Enjolras out by the hand like, five minutes before you left?”

“Yes?” He laughs, but there's some exasperation to it. “No way that worked. I've underestimated Cosette.”

“That must have been quite the gift,” Feuilly agrees. He doesn't feel as lightly about the whole thing as he lets on, because Enjolras, while the opposite of fragile, is vulnerable simply by way of openness, and Grantaire, well. Feuilly isn't sure there's not still a lot that can go wrong. “I feel bad, you know? Enjolras asked what I was doing over the holidays a while back, and now he thinks I'll just be holed up in the apartment alone. He practically melted with pity.”

“Thanks for that mental image.”

“I'm just saying – I wouldn't have minded, telling him. I didn't, because I wasn't sure what your stance on that was, but, you know. I feel like it's been long enough.”

The silence that follows sends Feuilly's mind into all possible directions, and he's about to add something that sounds terribly like an empty phrase – We don't have to or Only if you're ready, and he'd mean them, he wants to be sure they're not moving too fast, because they have to do this right, and Feuilly doesn't mind working for that, but Bahorel grins when he looks at him. “Same here,” he says. “How about two more weeks of peace, and we'll let them know after the break? There's no hurry right now, almost everyone's going home anyway. We won't have to hide.”

“Sounds ideal.” Feuilly closes his eyes for a moment, breathing in the cool air. “I want to go somewhere,” he says, because he's been thinking it ever since he unwrapped the map, and the sentence has been lodged almost painfully in his chest since then. “Over the break. Doesn't have to be far, or long, just for a while.”

“Sure,” Bahorel says. “Prague?”

Feuilly huffs. “I was being serious.”

“So was I.” Feuilly glances at him, and he's smirking, and oh, his boyfriend is a terrible person. “It's not that far. We'll make a stop in Germany, spend the night. We can be in Prague for New Year's.”

“You have no idea what you're getting yourself into,” Feuilly says easily. “I'm taking you up on all of this.”

Bahoreal laughs, and Feuilly decides to shut him up, stopping them both and spinning around to kiss him, hard. When they separate, lips apart just an inch, Bahorel smiles. “I'm counting on it.”

Grantaire

Grantaire has no idea what he's doing.

In general, and in relation to life at large, sure, always. But right now, with Enjolras trailing behind him because Grantaire couldn't, and still can't, think of anything to say, and as they're heading straight for Grantaire's apartment, Grantaire is even less sure of what's happening than usual.

There's nothing he can say to Enjolras, not really. He has to make him see.

Enjolras stops, suddenly, and Grantaire was half waiting for this to happen, because following without protest has never been Enjolras' thing.

“We don't need to do this.” He looks at Grantaire without a challenge in his eyes, which is new, too, but not better. “If I made you uncomfortable, I'm sorry, and it won't happen again. But this –” He gestures vaguely, at the dingy stores and empty alleys around them. “This isn't necessary. You can say whatever you need to right here.”

Grantaire stares at him for a long moment before turning away. “No,” he says, because he can't, Enjolras can do that, Enjolras can explain things and use words in a way that isn't to dilute and to ridicule and to entertain, he did it just minutes ago, when he'd come to Grantaire to talk about the gift. “I know this is supposed to be anonymous,” he'd said, voice steady, “but your gift wouldn't make a lot of sense without my name to it, so I thought I'd bend the rules just this once.” Grantaire hadn't found a response. He'd looked back and forth between the box of presents – presents, plural, and not just any presents, incredible presents, the kind of stuff Grantaire gazes at longingly in the shops and then decides not to go for – and Enjolras, who was looking at him evenly, with an almost terrifying kind of calm. “I bought those for you over the years. They always – there were occasions for them, but I kept finding reasons not to give them to you, which, in retrospect...” He'd trailed off, and sighed. “I know we've never been close, and I'm aware you don't particularly like me, and I don't want you to think I can't accept that. But I do respect you and I appreciate you as a friend. Regardless of your opinion of me, I want you to know that.”

Speechless isn't what Grantaire does. Enjolras had managed to put so many ridiculous things into his little talk that not a single word had remained in Grantaire's mind – nothing that made sense, anyway, there was just blind, confused and slightly infuriated yelling. That's why he dragged Enjolras with him without comment, because there was nothing he could say that would even begin to encompass just how ridiculously wrong so many of the things Enjolras just said were. That, and he's still not entirely sure he's heard right. I appreciate you as a friend. Who says that? Now that they've walked for a bit, words are beginning to come back to Grantaire, but he still doesn't trust himself with more than one syllable at a time.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, but he's back to following him, so Grantaire figures he can get away with silence for a few more metres. They make it to his building, and Enjolras' expression has shifted from wary to genuinely concerned. “I think it'd be fair to tell me where you're going with this, at this point.”

“It's nothing terrible, okay?” Grantaire unlocks the front door and holds it for Enjolras. He steps through and looks only slightly reluctant – better than nothing, Grantaire supposes. “I'm just. I have to. Uhm. I wasn't trying to lure you away and murder you, if that helps.”

“I feel a lot better now,” Enjolras says flatly and walks the stairs up after Grantaire. He seems to have given up on questions, though, and when they get to the apartment, Enjolras comes in without protest. Grantaire gestures for him to follow, and they walk through to the kitchen, slash living space, where one corner is taken up by the massive bookshelf-cabinet-hybrid Grantaire picked up at a street sale ages ago. He starts rummaging through the lower compartment, finds what he's looking for, and unceremoniously hands it to Enjolras.

It's been his personal idea of a perfect nightmare for years, Enjolras finding out this kind of stuff exists. Sure, it doesn't quite qualify as a dirty little secret that you've been making birthday gifts for a guy and never giving them to him, but if you're definitely a little in love with that guy and you're lucky he hasn't kicked you out of his group yet, that at least drags it into slightly pathetic territory.

Enjolras is holding the picture frame Grantaire handed him like it's entirely made of glass. Grantaire took the picture back when he hadn't been a completely failed artist yet, and had still been bringing a camera or a sketchbook along to one or the other meeting. Enjolras would have liked it as a tribute to his friends and their work together, Grantaire had guessed back then. “Is this...?”

“Meant for your birthday two years ago,” Grantaire supplies. He can't quite to look at him just yet. “You never celebrate; I guess the others give you gifts in private if they have them, but that wasn't really an option, and it was also kind of – I mean. I would have given that thing to someone I thought barely tolerated me, which is, you know, bordering on creepy, and I didn't want to make things weird.”

He's not sure what he expects, but when he looks at Enjolras, he looks utterly lost, confused more than anything else. “But you –”

“I wasn't going to show you,” Grantaire says quickly. “But you gave me all that stuff and you clearly bothered to remember that I grew up worshipping Robert Crumb, which, like, how do you even know that, but also, you just said...” He shakes his head, and it's hard to say, because it makes so little sense. “You thought I didn't like you, fuck. I mean, I let that happen. I guess I could have dealt with you being sort of aware of my feelings and never mentioning them to make it easier for both of us, and I kind of thought that was already happening, I swear I never thought you just assumed I disliked you, or I would have done something about it. Jesus Christ, Enjolras, who could ever...”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire's mouth clamps shut. Enjolras has lowered the picture and he's looking at him, now, careful and measured, but there's something else there, too, a new softness that pulls painfully at something in Grantaire's chest. “Your feelings?”

Grantaire laughs helplessly. “Yeah,” he says, shaking his head. “Those.” He wants to add that it's okay, they've cleared that up now, and Enjolras only just offered him friendship and that's great, that's more than Grantaire thought he could have, but Enjolras leans in and kisses him on the cheek, the touch so soft and unexpected that Grantaire inhales quickly, a sharp, rushed sound, but he doesn't pull back.

Grantaire finds himself again enough to say, quietly, “You don't need to – just because you know, I wasn't trying –”

“Shh.” Enjolras puts a careful hand to the side of his face, never turning his eyes away. He leans in closely again, almost in question, their noses brushing, and says, “Yes?”

Grantaire has lost his voice. He nods, the movement so small it's almost invisible, but Enjolras kisses him and it's a rush of endorphins, a wave breaking in his chest. He thinks, Yes, yes, yes.

Cosette

By the time Cosette gets home, everything looks a little brighter. The world is back in perspective. Her anonymous gift-giver has presented her with a box of her favourite chocolate truffles, which is especially mysterious because she doesn't remember ever talking about that particular brand to anyone, but she's not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when it comes to chocolate. And the others have hopefully been sent off to their well-deserved breaks with some happy memories, no matter how the Enjolras – Grantaire situation ended up resolving itself.

The point is, she's happy again. Tries to be. Tells herself to be, and it works, to a point. The disappointment is still there and she can't ignore it, but she can do what she always does and look forward rather than back, turn towards the happy things she knows haven't gone anywhere. Tomorrow's Christmas. A new year is about to start. There's nothing to mope about when she thinks about that.

Her room, for the holidays, is a frilly thing full of lights and decoration, the perfect place to watch an overrated Christmas-themed comedy, eat mysteriously gifted truffles and forget that the rest of the world exists. She curls up on her bed with more blankets than necessary, a cup of tea, and The Holiday, and prepares to have her attention diverted for at least ninety minutes.

Her mind, stubborn thing that it is, refuses to stay with Hollywood. On screen, Kate Winslet is being strung along by a curly-haired journalist, and Cosette thinks about her phone, about Éponine's brief text of Can't make it, but I dropped off a gift. Really sorry – hope it's a good time for all of you x. When she read it first, Cosette was almost insulted at how business-like it was, at how distancing, how strong the idea of 'There's all of you, and then there's me' was in those few words. She'd have no trouble accepting it if she knew for sure that Éponine didn't like the others, that she didn't want to be a part of the group, but that's not true, and Cosette knows it isn't. Éponine does jobs for them without asking anything in return, she speaks more freely around them than Cosette ever sees her, she talks about them in that fond voice masked as a condescending tone.

When Cosette met her, half a year ago when preparatory classes started, she was just as she is now, closed-off and quiet, with a guarded kind of softness underlying everything she said and did. The longer she knew her, the more Cosette could see it shimmer through, and it was almost frustrating how much she longed to see more of it. It took everything, at some moments, not to grab her by the shoulders and ask her to please, please let the world see that beauty, and if not the world, at least, maybe, Cosette.

It happened, eventually, if not as expected. Cosette was in the process of complaining about how late their exam grades always went up, leaving almost no time to plan for having to possibly re-take a test, when Éponine said, out of nowhere, “I can get yours earlier, if you need them.” It was an offer, but more than that, it was an admission made in confidence, a sudden and unexpected show of vulnerability. There's this illegal thing I'm very good at, Cosette heard. I'm trusting you with this. She remembers thinking, then, that something infinitely delicate had been placed in her hands.

Cosette shakes her head. This won't do. She pauses the movie, grabs her phone, and types out a response to the text: No worries! Saved your gift, you're welcome to pick it up whenever. She adds a heart emoji for good measure, and decides that this is enough, she can let it be now.

The movie resumes, and when the doorbell rings only minutes later, she barely hears it. The knock on her door, she hears, though, and her father's voice right afterwards, “There's a guest for you downstairs, Cosette.”

“Just a minute,” she says, and doesn't think much, because it could really be anyone, Combeferre checking in to go over the logistics for tomorrow, someone from the shelter with an emergency, Enjolras here to curse or kiss her for getting involved...

She scurries down into the hall without bothering to change out of her leggins and sweater combo, and there, at the door, hands tucked deep into the pockets of her coat, waits Éponine.

Cosette stops in her tracks. “Oh,” she says, and her heart does a funny thing. “That was fast.”

Éponine

The Fauchelevent house is as intimidating as a pretty nineteenth-century style villa surrounded by a ridiculously lush garden with not one, but two pergolas, can be. That is to say, very.

She's been here once before, when Cosette offered to host for a study group even though they might as well have met up on campus. As soon as they arrived, Éponine understood the appeal of the house over the crowded libraries at university, because naturally, it was beautiful, it was spacious, but not obscenely large, and Éponine at once loathed and loved it a little bit. Now, it's all those things, too, only with Christmas lights scattered across the fences and the smaller trees in the garden. The city feels smaller around houses like this; Éponine thinks she might as well be in a small town in the country somewhere. There, she'd feel out of place, too. For a moment, her instinct tells her to leave, and she does the same thing she does at university and reminds herself, firmly, of her mantra. This is yours, too, she thinks. You also belong.

Éponine discusses ringing the doorbell for a good ten minutes, just as she's been discussing whether or not to show up at the gift exchange party all day. Just as, in a way, she's been discussing whether or not to stick with Les Amis ever since she's met them, months ago. It's a lot to grasp, still, that they seem to be so wholly accepting and welcoming even when she rebuffs them at every turn. Cosette most of all, Cosette, who has received refusal after refusal from Éponine, and still keeps offering and offering: a ride to the faculty party which Éponine has never shown her face at before, a spot in her study group, a place in the gift exchange. Cosette can pour out kindness after kindness, and it leaves Éponine baffled constantly; baffled and with a small, quiet heartache.

That part, she doesn't think about much. There's no point in wasting time entertaining feelings that nothing will come of. She keeps them close to herself, except on the memorable night that had somehow seen her end up at a table in the café with Grantaire, the two of them agonising and indulging in their own self-pity for a few hours. She still feels ashamed thinking about it.

Just as it gets cold, her phone buzzes, and when she sees Cosette's name, she doesn't even read the text; she steps forward and rings the doorbell. It was unkind, not showing up earlier, and Cosette doesn't deserve to think it might have been her fault. She'll still invite Éponine to the next thing, whenever that will be, but there's something about stretching and straining another person's goodwill, especially Cosette's, that disgusts Éponine. Making an appearance here doesn't really make up for having stayed away, but it's something.

Cosette's father opens the door, a man in his fifties she met the last time she was here. The last time, also, he was somehow a scary and reassuring presence at once.

He asks her inside before she can say a single word. “It's too cold to wait outside like that, you must be freezing,” he says, holding open the door. “I think I remember you; Éponine, was it?”

She nods, not quite sure what to say. Inside, the house is warm and cozy, and it's obvious that her father lets Cosette go as wild as she likes when it comes to decorations. Everything is the tiniest step away from too much, but not quite there yet, resulting in a sensory overload of tinsel and glitter that somehow manages to be charming. “Could I – is Cosette home?”

“Holed up in her room.” He smiles. “I'll tell her to come down. Would you like anything to warm up, tea, chocolate...?”

“I'm fine, thank you.”

She knows, technically, that the entrance hall isn't that big, but she feels small in it, watching the stairwell with a nervous thrum beneath her skin. The thought of fleeing the scene occurs to her more than once, but before the idea can take root, a door clicks upstairs and Cosette comes bounding down the stairs, the curls from her twist-out pulled back messily and her chunky, cream-coloured sweater about two sizes too large. For a moment, Éponine's heart leaps into her throat.

“Oh,” Cosette says, and stands a few steps away from Éponine. She looks surprised, but not, Éponine thinks, in a bad way. “That was fast.”

Éponine would notice, were she capable of thought right now, that Cosette isn't making sense. Instead she says, “Is this a bad time?”

Cosette shakes her head and smiles. “No,” she says and moves to take Éponine's coat. “Not at all.”

They go upstairs, not before Cosette has repeated the offer of a drink and also forced Éponine to borrow fuzzy socks to put over her normal ones because there's no underfloor heating, which is, apparently, a problem. It's always a little bit like wandering into a different world, with Cosette.

“I'm sorry I wasn't at the café,” Éponine says when they're in Cosette's room; Cosette is pushing blankets and pillows aside to make room on her bed. “How was it?”

“Nice, I like to think,” Cosette says, but there's a wry twist to her smile. “Joly got glow-in-the-dark shoelaces; I had a small meltdown. You know, the usual.”

“What happened?” She sounds more alarmed than she wanted to let on, but Cosette doesn't seem to notice.

“Nothing, I was just being – stupid. Sort of. I'm trying to make up for it.” She gestures for Éponine to sit down at one end of the bed and makes to sit next to her, only to draw back and clap a hand over her mouth. “Oh! Your gift, sorry, I totally forgot.”

“It's fine,” Éponine says, and almost adds that it's not why she's here, but Cosette is already at the other end of the room, searching for something in her messenger bag. Éponine breathes deeply. “Cosette, I really just wanted to –”

“Here we are!” Cosette holds up a small parcel. “Left specifically for you.”

“Thanks.” Éponine accepts it and Cosette sits next to her, reaching over as she does to retrieve a box from the other end of the bed.

“I got these,” she says. “Whole milk with an almond core. They're heaven in chocolate form. Try one.”

Éponine sighs. There are worse things, probably, to resign oneself to, than spending a night sharing chocolates with the prettiest girl in the world, so she takes one, and lets Cosette talk her into finishing the movie she was watching with her.

She could do this, Éponine thinks as they sit curled up on the bed together, their sides touching, a box of chocolates balanced on Cosette's knees. She could stay this close to her, stay friends with her, and keep wishing, with a part she keeps tucked away where no one can touch it, that she could be more than that. It'd hurt, sure, but not as much as losing her as a friend would. Eventually, she thinks, it's going to get unbearable, carrying on like this. Right now, it feels like the best thing she can have.

Cosette moves, shifting to adjust her seat, and rests her head on Éponine's shoulder. Éponine, without thinking, brings up an arm around her shoulders, letting her hand rest on her hair, fingers drawing circles there. Cosette makes a small, content noise, and something in Éponine contracts painfully. “'Ponine,” Cosette whispers.

“Hm?”

“I cheated in the gift exchange.” She's still looking at the screen, but to Éponine, the movie has disappeared, the noise and light around them suddenly irrelevant. “Your name wasn't in the pool, I just took it. I really wanted to get you something.”

Cosette is so close, Éponine worries she might feel her heartbeat, which has just sped up considerably. She's not sure where she finds that next word; it comes out even though she doesn't allow it to. “Why?”

She feels Cosette move, a small shrug. “Because you're lovely,” she says. “And beautiful, and so smart it's almost unfair, and I want to give you good things all the time, and I don't know how.”

Éponine's fingers have stilled. Cosette has noticed, and moves slowly to wind herself out of their position.

“I don't want to lose you,” she says, and the words, mirroring her own thoughts, kick something loose in Éponine. She kisses Cosette without thinking, because she couldn't bear to hear the next words out of her mouth, or because it would have felt wrong not to, and it's as if everything else around them disappears as well, the outside world becoming quiet and invisible to leave only them. Cosette hums against her lips, the smallest noise of surprise, before she kisses her back, one hand coming to the side of her neck to steady them. For as long as it lasts, it's bliss, completely removed from the jumble of fears Éponine had felt coiling in the back of her mind just seconds earlier, and then she pulls back as the words she's been meaning to say all night press to the surface.

“I just wanted to see you,” she says, and Cosette's eyes are wide and dark, steady on her own. “I didn't care about the gift, I mean, I do now, because it's yours, but I didn't – I've been thinking all day, I kept thinking until my head hurt, and I just – I just wanted you.”

Cosette laughs, breathless. “I did put effort into that gift, you know,” she says. “You'd better appreciate it.”

Éponine swallows, and she's still catching her own breath, but she also can't stop smiling, and it's incredible how most things in the world stopped mattering just seconds ago. “Can I appreciate it later?”

Cosette leans in, close enough for their lips to brush when she speaks. “I think it can stand to wait for a while longer.”