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Courfeyrac had been the first person to witness what a monster Jehan turned into when it came to flower crowns. They had been walking together, Jehan reciting poetry while Courfeyrac recited cheesy pickup lines, when the girl with the flower crown passed them, white flowers sitting on her red hair. Jehan immediately dropped Courfeyrac’s arm to race after her, demanding to know how she made such a beautiful thing while Courfeyrac watched with a frown, his arm feeling cold and empty without Jehan tucked through it.
“Oh, I could never make this,” the girl said, touching one of the flowers. “I got it from Urban Outfitters. They’re kinda expensive but they’re really pretty, so it works.”
“Pssh,” Jehan said, spinning on his heels and returning to Courfeyrac. “Urban Outfitters, really? I’ll just make my own.”
“Spoken like a true hipster,” Courfeyrac teased, but he was soon sitting on the floor of Jehan’s apartment, letting Jehan pull a tape dispenser around his head to see how much wire he would need while a DIY video on flower crowns played in the background.
By the end of the night, the floor was littered with stems and petals, and Jehan’s lips even tasted like flowers when Courfeyrac kissed him. They had seven flower crowns, one for each of their friends to hand out at the next meeting at the café, plus one for Cosette because “her hair, oh my god, it will be perfect.” And then, of course, they needed to make crowns for Éponine and Musichetta, because “every beautiful lady deserves a flower crown,” and as much as Courfeyrac loved seeing Jehan this happy, he was tired of flowers, and he doubted that anyone would actually wear them.
“I mean, can you see Bahorel wearing a flower crown? Or Feuilly?” he tried to explain, but Jehan wouldn’t look up, continuing to defiantly tape flowers together. “Grantaire might, for a while, but he’ll only lose it. Joly will be afraid the flowers will attract bees or something like that, and Bossuet . . . he’s bald, for god’s sake! Can bald people even wear flower crowns?”
“Everyone can wear flower crowns, Courf. It’s not about their hair or appearance. Inner beauty is what makes flower crowns shine.”
Courfeyrac rolled his eyes, even though he was grinning. “No one will wear them.”
“Enjolras will.” Jehan sighed dreamily, most likely imagining Enjolras with his golden mane covered in red roses.
Courfeyrac snorted. “Enjolras is crazy allergic to flowers.”
“Or does he just say that so no one will bother him to Valentine’s Day?”
“No, he really is. But it does work to his advantage on Valentine’s Day, since he considers love and gift-giving such a horror.”
“Well, he’s getting a crown anyway. He’s the only one who will probably be able to look good with one, anyway.”
“Hey!” Courfeyrac scowled, pointing to the large ring of daises around his head.
“Enjolras is a beautiful, angelic creature put on this earth for artists like me and Grantaire to exploit his beauty for our work. You can’t argue against that.”
And Courfeyrac couldn’t, not really, so he accepted Jehan’s kiss and left it at that.
When Courfeyrac finally got back to his own apartment, he found Enjolras and Combeferre sitting back-to-back on the sofa, Combeferre flipping lazily through an old issue of National Geographic while Enjolras scribbled into a notebook, pen cap between his teeth.
“Hello, platonic super husbands!” Courfeyrac called out, kicking off his shoes at the door. Combeferre’s magazine smacked him in the chest in response. Enjolras didn’t even look up.
“What is that?” Combeferre asked, looking at Courfeyrac with squinted eyes. Courfeyrac felt very self-conscious for a moment, wondering if his shirt was inside out or if he had something on his face, before he remembered the flower crown.
“Oh. It’s a flower crown. Jehan made it for me. And don’t worry, you’ll be getting one soon. Because I know you’re really jealous.” He took the crown off, setting it over one of the hat pegs by the door, so he wouldn’t forget it tomorrow when he saw Jehan at the café. “Flower crowns for everyone!” He squeezed his way on to the couch between Combeferre and Enjolras, collapsing dramatically into the cushions. “There is no escape!”
Combeferre, now without a magazine to distract him from Courfeyrac, spun around so his feet were on the floor, scooting over so Courfeyrac could fit better. “I highly doubt he’s going to get a flower crown on any of us.”
“He’s convinced.”
“I wish him luck,” Enjolras said, taking the cap of his mouth to speak, and then putting it back between his teeth.
“Oh hello, Enjolras. Thank you for finally acknowledging my presence.” He leaned over to ruffle Enjolras’ curls. “Jehan is especially looking forward to using you and your golden lion’s mane as a model for the photo shoot he’s already planning.”
Enjolras shook his head.
“Oh, come on! You’re not even that allergic to pollen, are you? You know I’m affected by cats, but I don’t let that stop me for loving them. Jehan really wants to see you wear one of his flower crowns. Indulge him.”
Enjolras spit out the pen cap again, and opened his mouth to object, but he ended up sneezing instead. Which, actually, proved his point rather well.
Courfeyrac realized his hands and hair were probably dotted with pollen, and awkwardly scooted farther away from Enjolras. “Well. Right. I take back my previous point. You’re allergic to pollen.” He looked at Enjolras’ eyes, now watery around the edges, and sighed. “You’re really allergic, damn.”
“Shower.” Combeferre said, pushing Courfeyrac to his feet. And pointing to Enjolras, he added, “Zyrtec.”
Both of them shuffled to their respective places, afraid to challenge Combeferre and the sudden wrath he developed when having to deal with their problems. From the shower, even over the running water, Courfeyrac heard another one of Enjolras’ ridiculously high-pitched sneezes, followed by a crashing sound, followed by someone saying, “shit.” He figured Enjolras had probably dropped something, or thrown himself into one of the cabinets.
As he washed the scent of flowers from his skin, Courfeyrac considered texting Jehan and telling him that the flower crowns were only going to end in disaster and humiliation. But once Jehan got an idea and momentum, there was no stopping him. And besides, Courfeyrac thought, he looked pretty damn adorable with a flower crown. Which was all that mattered, really. So Courfeyrac kept washing the pollen out of his hair and didn’t say a word, humming to himself to tune out Enjolras’ complaints from the kitchen.
Enjolras was the last person to the meeting. Medication of any sort always wore him down, and he had taken an extra pill the night before to stop the painful itching in his eyes that was distracting him from his essay. He woke up the next morning feeling heavy and sluggish, and realized that he should have gotten out of bed fifteen minutes ago. Combeferre and Courfeyrac had left without him, leaving him a cup of tea and a note, from Combeferre, to not worry about the meeting and just get some rest.
But Enjolras was not about to let a flower crown stop him from his cause. So he walked to the café and strode in, tea in hand and head held high, acting like nothing was wrong.
Except for the fact that everyone was wearing a flower crown.
Even Joly, who kept readjusting it. Even Bahorel, who was grinning and actually seemed kind of pleased with the contrast the pink petals created against his muscles. Even Grantaire.
Enjolras blinked. The problem wasn’t even his awful allergies. He could deal with that, he had been dealing with that every year since he was six. The problem was that all his friends were wearing adorable flower crowns, and it was a bit disturbing. He wondered if Jehan had tortured them, or just made puppy-dog eyes until they caved in.
Combeferre pulled his yellow and blue flower crown off his head, looking guilty.
“Are we planning a protest or a maypole gathering?” Enjolras asked, trying his best to be polite. He wished he had brought along his medication and looked desperately at Combeferre, hoping he’d been his typical caring and overprotective self and brought some with him, but Combeferre only shook his head.
Jehan’s eyes widened. “Can we? Have a flower-themed protest, I mean? That would be awesome! We could hand out flowers in the park or something, and Grantaire could make some beautiful artwork with a message about our cause.”
“The Flower Crown Revolution,” Bahorel chuckled.
“We could build a giant flower crown out of wood and hide inside and send it to the government. Then we could jump out and demand they listen to us,” Feuilly suggested.
“You know what that would be?” Bossuet asked, grinning. “A crowning moment for our little society.”
Everyone burst out laughing, except Enjolras, who still looked slightly bewildered by what was going on.
“Be serious,” Enjolras said. “We do have things to discuss today, I hope you’re all aware of that.”
“Are you trying to tell me you don’t think my idea was completely serious?” Feuilly asked, feigning offense. “I think the Trojan Flower is a great idea.”
The group burst into hysterical giggles again, though they quieted more quickly this time when they saw the dangerous glint in Enjolras’ eyes.
“Now,” Enjolras said, striding up to the front of the room. “We do have to make some flyers to pass out at the farmer’s market next week about boycotting places that refuse to stop selling genetically-modified vegetables.”
Bahorel raised a hand, a childish grin still on his face. “Can we wear the flower crowns? I think that would help by showing that we’re on the side of the plants, not the people.”
“No, Bahorel,” Bossuet said, rolling his eyes. “Then we’d have to change our name to Friends of The Oppressed Plants, and that would wreck the pun.”
Enjolras glared at them like he wasn’t sure whose head he was going to rip off first.
Combeferre stood up to help Enjolras calm them down, although he was still chuckling to himself. Meetings had been tense after their last protest had ended with Bahorel nearly arrested and Bossuet nearly with a concussion, and the flower crowns had brought back a calmness and camaraderie that had been missing. “Okay, children,” he said, “just listen to Enjolras and then you can go outside and play with the flowers.”
They all nodded, and more than ever, reminded Combeferre of a class of restless and squirmy kindergartners.
“Thank you,” Enjolras said. His eyes were already starting to turn watery, and he made it a few more sentences before turning away to sneeze. He tried to stifle it with his hand, which only succeeded in making it sound more squeaky. Everyone else made a valiant attempt at trying not to laugh, until Grantaire snorted loudly and they all lost it again.
“Don’t worry, Louison!” Grantaire called to the girl working behind the counter. “There’s not a kitten on the loose in here, that was just Enjolras.”
Joly managed to compose himself first. “Seriously though, are you okay, Enjolras?”
“Just allergies.”
“To what?” Joly looked frantically around the room for something Enjolras could be having an allergic reaction to, before Enjolras gritted his teeth and started at the flower crown resting on Joly’s hair. “Oh. Oh. Sorry. Get rid of the flowers, everyone, Enjolras is suffering.”
“It’s fine. This meeting has deteriorated enough already, I’ll just go home.” He gathered up his papers, nodding cordially to them all. “Have a good day.” He strode dramatically out the door, only to come back in, grab a handful of tissues from the box on the counter, and then leave again.
“Oops,” Grantaire said when everyone turned to glare at him. “What? You know, Courf is the one who is responsible for the kitten comparison in the first place.”
Courfeyrac let his mouth drop open. “Because Combeferre sent me a Youtube video of a sneezing kitten and asked me if I thought it sounded like Enjolras.”
Combeferre shrugged unapologetically. “Okay, okay, so we’ll all apologize to Enjolras next time we see him.”
Without Enjolras, the meeting fell apart even more. Jehan got out his camera and started snapping pictures of everyone with their flower crowns, occasionally stopping to whip out his sharpie and write a quote or poem across their skin that he thought would go well with the moment.
“I’m going to make a whole project out of this,” he announced happily. “Maybe I’ll make flowers my concentration and use you guys for the end-of-semester project.”
“Me first!” Bahorel shouted, pushing Feuilly and Joly out of the way to dive in front of Jehan’s camera, flexing his muscles. “Call this one ‘Badass with a Flower Crown.””
“You can call mine ‘Unlucky Clover,’” Bossuet said when he somehow got his flower crown stuck to one of the nails sticking out of the café’s wall.
Courfeyrac watched from the corner, looking a little worried. “He’s turned into a flower crown monster,” he whispered to Combeferre. They both glanced over at Jehan, who was currently begging Marius to call Cosette and tell her to come to the café so he could take pictures of her. “It’s like he feeds on the happiness it creates or something.”
“You’re jealous because he’s paying more attention to his flowers than he is to you.”
“Well, of course,” Courfeyrac said indignantly. “I’m way better than any flower in this room.”
Combeferre snorted. “I was kidding, but okay. You’re actually jealous of flowers.”
Courfeyrac slumped into his chair. “I’ll never be beautiful enough for him.”
Somehow hearing him over the laughter and chatter in the room, Jehan’s light eyes snapped over to look straight at Courfeyrac.
“Let’s go,” he said, gathering up his flower crowns and quickly giving goodbye hugs before snatching Courfeyrac by the arm and dragging him toward the door.
Jehan, never saying a word the whole time, led Courfeyrac up to his apartment. Courfeyrac had always loved Jehan’s apartment; the walls were covered with stunning black and white photography, and in the kitchen, there was a chalkboard wall that they always wrote on when they had dinner gatherings. Someone had written “Enjolras loves Grantaire” across the center of it in pink chalk, and Courfeyrac smiled, remembering that it was him who had written it one drunken evening.
But then he looked around and thought about the beauty. Jehan hardly lived in the same world as the rest of them. He inhabited a place full of whimsy and colors and poetry inside his head. There was no one else in the world like Jehan, and no world that could hold him. Courfeyrac liked to think that Jehan was his, only his, but Jehan was just so different, so creative, so perfect that one of these days he was going to transcend them all for better things, leaving Courfeyrac behind.
“I’m not good for you,” Courfeyrac said suddenly, spinning around to face Jehan. “You’re made to share beauty with the world, though your art and your poetry and your flower crowns, and being with me is only holding you down when you should be flying.”
“No,” Jehan whispered fiercely. “That is exactly why I love you, Courfeyrac. You keep me grounded here in the most beautiful way, because you’ve shown me that every little thing is special. Every tiny, tiny thing about you is perfect. The way your hair looks in the mornings and how you sing in the shower.” He leaned in to kiss Courfeyrac’s cheek, his breath warm against his skin. “And how you only blush when you really care about something.”
Courfeyrac blushed harder. “But you could do so much better than me.”
“Absolutely not. You’re my anchor that keeps me from getting lost in my own world. You remind me to see the good in everything, not just the art and the words. You complete me, Courfeyrac.”
“So what?” Courfeyrac teased, feeling Jehan’s lips inches away from his. “Enj and Combeferre complete each other, too.”
“Do they do this?” Jehan finally closed the space between their lips, kissing Courfeyrac hard. This time, he tasted like honey and smelled like lavender.
“If they do, they’ve very quiet about it.’
“Do you believe me?” Jehan whispered. “When I tell you you’re the most beautiful person in the world and that I’m so lucky to have you, do you believe me?”
“Yeah.”
“Because it’s true. You. Are. Beautiful.” He tilted his head up to stare at Courfeyrac right in the eyes. “What?” he asked, when Courfeyrac only sighed in response.
“Well.” Courfeyrac tugged on Jehan’s braid. “That was far too anticlimactic. I was picturing a much longer speech, as well as you covering my body in flowers and kissing each of them away.”
Jehan nodded toward the numerous bouquets lining the kitchen table. “That can be arranged.”
When Combeferre returned to the apartment that afternoon, near-blind from camera flashes and smelling overly floral, he found Enjolras lying in his bed, Combeferre’s fuzziest blanket draped over his shoulders while he typed on his laptop.
“I needed a change of scenery,” Enjolras said without looking up, as a way to explain what he was doing in Combeferre’s bed.
“No need to explain. Do you want to hang out in your room for a while, then?”
“No. No, I’d like you to stay here and tell me how today went.” Combeferre moved to sit on the bed beside him, but Enjolras shook his head. “After you take a shower, because you smell like a florist shop.”
Combeferre smiled, slipping into the bathroom. When he emerged, shirtless and hair dripping, Enjolras sniffed at him, nodded in approval, and curled up against Combeferre’s side when he finally sat down next to him.
“I’m sorry we made fun of you at the meeting,” Combeferre said, running a hand through Enjolras’ hair. “That was mean.”
“It’s fine. I’m used to it . . .”
“You shouldn’t have to be ‘used to it’. No one should have laughed at you, especially me. And we shouldn’t have derailed the meeting to a point where you walked out on us. I’m sorry.”
Enjolras shrugged. “No. I do sound like a kitten, Grantaire was right. It’s a truth universally acknowledged.”
“Then why are you upset?”
“I’m not upset.”
“Enjolras.” Combeferre’s leg was already starting to become numb, and he shifted Enjolras so he was lying on his chest instead. “I come home and you’re lying in my bed. Forgive me if I’m wrong, but I’m fairly certain that’s your subtle way of asking me to get into bed with you and hold you while you tell me all about everything that’s wrong with the world.”
Enjolras sighed. “Fine. But I’m not upset. I’m just frustrated. It’s just . . . everyone was so happy today, participating in Jehan’s flowery photo shoot, and I feel awful because I can’t help him with any of his pictures.”
“Because you’re—”
“It’s not just because I’m so damn allergic to flowers. I can work through that, you know I can; you remember the unfortunate debate team incident with the flowers.” Combeferre grimaced, and Enjolras went on, “The problem is that Jehan— and Grantaire, and probably everyone, to be brutally honest— thinks I’m so beautiful and perfect for taking pictures of, and I’m not.”
“What?” Combeferre asked, puzzled. “Look, I know you don’t like looking in mirrors or putting much effort into how you look, but you’re beautiful, Enjolras.”
“Only in appearance. Inside I’m really just a heartless, boring, cold asshole who hates everything beautiful. That’s what you all think, isn’t it?”
“What?” Combeferre asked again. No one of this was making sense. He pulled Enjolras into a sitting position, resting his hand on his slender shoulders. “No one thinks that. No one has ever thought that. Just because you don’t like flowers . . . or romance . . . or Valentine’s Day . . . or a lot of other conventional beautiful thing, really, doesn’t mean you’re heartless and have no appreciation for beauty. Flowers and such aren’t the only beautiful things in the world. Liberty and freedom and equality are beautiful, and everyone knows you appreciate those things.”
Enjolras squirmed out of Combeferre’s grasp and collapsed into the pillows. He was silent for a long moment, lying with his eyes closed and his fingers brushing lightly against Combeferre’s arm.
“Thank you,” he finally said. “You always say the right things.”
“I try.”
“’Ferre?”
“Hmm?”
“I really want a flower crown,” Enjolras mumbled sleepily, sounding so much like a disappointed child that Combeferre had to chuckle to himself.
Combeferre kissed his forehead. “We’ll see what we can do.”
Enjolras quickly fell asleep, one arm thrown across Combeferre’s chest, leaving him a prisoner to Enjolras and his cuddling. Not that he minded. Combeferre shifted to reach the book he left on the bedside table, occasionally glancing down to smile fondly at Enjolras. His fingers twitched in his sleep, and Combeferre knew he must have been dreaming about something beautiful that only he could see.
In the week that passed, everyone stopped by Jehan’s apartment so he could take pictures of them. Bahorel bought his boxing gloves and posed with them and his pink flower crown, wild and beautiful. He made a long string of flowers for Joly and Musichetta and Bossuet to use in their pictures, draping it over their shoulders and across their bodies to show how the three of them were always connected, and how it was always beautiful. Then Bossuet accidently ripped the strand of flowers and Jehan took another picture of him with the fallen flowers lying at his feet while he grinned sheepishly. He got a particularly sweet one of Cosette and Marius, which she promptly demanded be put all over Facebook, while Marius insisted that no one ever share it, in fear that Cosette’s father would see it and wonder what the two of them were doing in the bedroom with a bunch of flowers.
Jehan got pictures of everyone. Except Enjolras. And he wasn’t expecting to get any pictures of Enjolras, lamenting how perfect his collage of pictures would look with one of Enjolras and his golden hair right in the middle, tying the whole piece together, when Enjolras burst into his apartment, holding a gigantic bouquet of roses.
He practically threw the flowers at Jehan, demanding, “take my pictures now before my medication wears off!”
Jehan glanced skeptically at Enjolras, who looked like his medication had already started to wear off.
“Why are you doing this?” Jehan asked Enjolras, going into the kitchen to find wire to make the crown, as well as a fresh box of tissues for Enjolras.
“Because you need all of us for your photo project. Everyone else contributed, why shouldn’t I?”
“Um, because you’re deathly allergic to flowers?”
“I’m not going to die.” Enjolras sniffed indigently.
Jehan sighed. “Okaay. Well, sit down. Don’t touch— stop rubbing your eye, it’ll only make it worse.” He paused, twisted wire between his hands. “Enjolras. You don’t have to do anything for me, you know.”
“I just want you to know that I care,” Enjolras mumbled.
Jehan smiled, almost sadly, and hurried to finish the flower crown, filling it with the roses that Enjolras had brought. He gently rested it on Enjolras’ head, pushing a few stray curls out of the way. He also tucked a rose behind Enjolras’ ear, just for good measure.
Enjolras tried to discreetly rub at his nose. “Are we good?”
“Beautiful,” Jehan said, and patted his cheek to give it a bit more color. He ruffled Enjolras’ hair once more, and then picked up his camera. “All right, look a bit to the left for me. And relax. Please.”
After five minutes of camera clicks and posing commands, Jehan had a handful of decent pictures and Enjolras was starting to look incredibly uncomfortable. His eyes were starting to turn an alarming shade of pink, and each sniffle was starting to sound worse than the one before.
“Jehan . . .”
“Just a couple more.”
“I . . .”
“One more.”
Enjolras took a deep breath and tried to compose himself. But his nose crinkled up and he sneezed into his arm just as the camera flashed.
“Delete that!” Enjolras shouted, through his voice was muffled because his face was still buried in the crook of his arm.
Jehan glanced at the picture on the screen and smiled softly. In the picture, Enjolras was leaning to the side, one hand pressed over his face while the other had shot out to attempt to block the camera, failing miserably. The flower crown was starting to slide off his head, perched sideways over his curls.
“This is perfect!” Jehan said.
“No, no, it’s not! I wrecked that picture. Just . . . just give me a minute and we can take some more. I’m sorry.”
“Enjolras.” Jehan lifted the flower crown from his head. “I think you’re missing the point. Perfect pictures aren’t just about what’s going on in them. It’s about what they show. And this picture shows that you, Enjolras, are the best friend any of us could ever have. It shows that you care more than anything, because clearly you and flowers have some issues, but you’re still here. You still wanted to be here, because you knew it would make me happy to take pictures of you. This picture shows what a beautiful, selfless person you are.”
Enjolras smiled weakly. “I just want to be able to appreciate beautiful things like you do.”
“Well then.” Jehan grabbed Enjolras’ arm, pulling him to his feet. He handed him the box of tissues again. “Let’s go to the café. You need to get out of this pollen-infested apartment, and there’s some books on art and stuff on the back bookshelf; I can show you some works you’ll definitely appreciate.”
“You’d do that?”
“Of course. You’d do anything for me, even put up with your allergies for half an hour so I could take pictures of you. The least I could do it show you some good art and poetry, since you seem to have such an intense desire to understand it.”
“Jehan, why are you so damn nice to everyone?”
“Because, Enjolras, friends who love their friends are supposed to be nice to each other. It’s a common thing.” He grinned, getting that same look he had gotten at the meeting when the flower jokes first began.
“I mean, come on, Enjolras. Wake up and smell the roses,” he said, and then sprinted out the door before Enjolras could chuck the box of tissues at his head.