Archive of Our Own

September

“And that, ladies, gents, and nonbinary friends, is why I would never survive a career in retail,” says Courfeyrac gravely, speaking directly to the lens of the camera. “Seriously. Life advice of the day: be nice to the people who do things for you. Now, I’m going to go pour myself a very large drink and also probably take a nap. Bye until next time, and as always, it’s been a pleasure.”

Jehan waits until he has grinned winningly at his soon-to-be virtual audience for a few seconds before shutting the camera and taking it, carefully, off the tripod. “Do you think you got enough footage?”

“Definitely,” he says fervently, rolling his neck and wincing when it cracks way too many times. “If nothing else, the dude who screamed at me for ten straight minutes because I couldn’t find a plastic bag large enough to fit his flat screen should eat up some time.”

Jehan makes a disbelieving, sympathetic sound and darts a quick glance at the enormous, chunky watch dwarfing their wrist. “There’s time for me to buy you coffee before the meeting.”

“Jehan Prouvaire, you are a gentleperson and a scholar.”

“I know,” they say, and kiss Courfeyrac on the forehead. “For today.”

“For today,” he agrees, and allows himself to be led down the stairs and out the door.

“So what’s the plan?” Jehan asks, when they’ve sat themselves down in a small café that isn’t the Musain for once, their hands wrapped around a green tea latte that proclaims them Daenerys Stormborn. (It’s correctly spelled. Courfeyrac is duly impressed.) “Whose job are you taking next?”

“Maybe that guy’s, if he’s willing,” Courfeyrac replies, squinting thoughtfully over at the deeply attractive barista. He’s nodding bobblehead style at a woman dressed in head-to-toe tie-dye as she rattles off an order that has lasted at least the last two minutes. “He looks like he could use a day off.”

Jehan tilts their head, considering. “You totally think he’s hot.”

Courfeyrac blinks, spoons some whipped cream off the top of his frappe. “So hot.”

“So go talk to him.” Jehan arches an eyebrow in silent challenge.

Courfeyrac has never been one to back down from a challenge, nor has he ever been particularly shy about talking to people he’s decided he likes. He waits until the woman has collected her drink, tasted it, and presumably pronounced it to her satisfaction, given the fact that she leaves and the barista sags against the counter in relief for the briefest of moments. When she’s gone and there’s no one else at the counter, Courfeyrac leaps at his chance. The barista is leaning against the display case, alone now that his coworker has muttered something and disappeared through some hidden back door, surveying the tables of customers. Courfeyrac walks right up to him and leans casually against the other side. “So, is everything the light touches your kingdom?”

The guy’s eyes flicker to him, wide with surprise, and he laughs. It’s a nice laugh, warm and throaty and genuine, and it makes Courfeyrac grin. “No, I guess it’d be Musichetta’s kingdom,” he says. “I am but a lowly peon.”

“Queendom?” Courfeyrac tilts his head, considering. “No, that’s not a thing…is there a gender-neutral term for kingdom?”

He appears to consider this. “Realm, maybe? I’ll have to check into that.” He shrugs. “Or we can just make one up. It’ll probably come in handy one day.” Courfeyrac grins.

“If you’re a lowly peon, you’re one who makes really fantastic coffee, and is excellent at pop culture references. I’m Courfeyrac.”

“Combeferre,” he says, smiling. His eyes crinkle at the corners. “I’d shake your hand, but it’s against our health codes.”

“Well, Combeferre, it is an absolute pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise.” He’s starting to look confused now; clearly, customers don’t usually just come up to the counter for a chat. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Non-creepy question,” says Courfeyrac, who had geared up to speak before Combeferre had managed to finish his query, so that he accidentally bulldozes over the end of Combeferre’s sentence. “How often do you work here?”

“It depends on the week, but usually three to five times.” Combeferre’s eyes narrow slightly behind his glasses as though he’s trying to work something out. It hasn’t escaped Courfeyrac’s notice that he doesn’t specify which days, or when—which is fair; for all he knows, Courfeyrac is a creepy stalker serial killer or something. It also hasn’t escaped him that sometimes, when the light comes through the window a certain way, Combeferre’s dark brown eyes look threaded through with gold. It’s very distracting.

Combeferre is being perfectly polite, but Courfeyrac isn’t sure how close he’s come to crossing the line into complete creeperdom. For safety’s sake, he tries a winning grin and chooses the first pastry he spots. “Actually, you know what…two raspberry scones would be great.” As Combeferre reaches into the case, he draws a deep breath and plunges bravely onward. “I was asking because I run this vlog where I try doing random, different jobs for the day. You’d still get paid for your vacation day, I swear I wouldn’t take your money or anything, I have sponsors and stuff—”

“I watch your show,” says Combeferre, interrupting in his amazement. “I, uh…I thought it was you, when you came in, but I didn’t want to say anything and end up being wrong.”

“You watch my show?”

“Yes.” It’s simply said, but splotches of color bloom on his cheeks as though he’s embarrassed by the admission. He presses the bag containing the scones into Courfeyrac’s hand. “On the house.”

“But I just asked you to do me a favor!”

“You’re taking this job for a day, I’m still getting paid, and I’m doing you a favor?” Combeferre raises an eyebrow. “You may need to reevaluate your definition of the term.”

“Seriously, how much do I owe you for these?”

“If you two could flirt later, that’d be great,” comes a dry voice from behind them, “on account of how are people here actually requiring goods and services.” The speaker is slightly amused, mostly sardonic.

Combeferre jumps and slides a guilty look at his coworker, who has apparently deigned to return from his break in time to notice the slowly growing line. Courfeyrac allows himself a moment to check the new guy out; wind-tousled black curls fall into bright blue eyes, and the barest hint of a tattoo peeks out from under the neckline of his shirt. He’s hot, in a scruffy, careless, unconventional way, but not really Courfeyrac’s type.

“Sorry, R,” Combeferre is saying, hurrying to grab a paper cup for the next customer.

“I’ll leave you my email,” Courfeyrac offers, scribbling it on a nearby napkin and sliding it across the counter. It’s only the greatest possible restraint that keeps him from adding his phone
number along with it. Combeferre grants him a harried smile and crams the napkin into his apron pocket on his way to making something with soy and way too many specifications. He’d never charged for the scones, so Courfeyrac stuffs a ten into the tip jar and wanders back to his table.
Jehan, bless them, is waiting patiently at the table, scribbling idly on a scrap of lilac paper they’d found buried somewhere in their bag. “Success,” Courfeyrac announces when he draws closer. “Well, probably. I bought you a scone.”

“Oooh, you did?” Eagerly, Jehan takes the bag, breaks a piece off the scone, pops it in their mouth, and makes a frankly indecent sound. “Also, I didn’t want to interrupt you,” they add, when they have chewed and swallowed, “but we’re about to be late for the meeting.”

“Dammit,” Courfeyrac mutters, looking mournfully at his own scone. Now he’ll have to give it to Enjolras to keep him happy—he’s like a small child in that as long as you feed him, you’ll pretty much stay on his good side.

Jehan sighs, long-suffering. “I’ll share, let’s go.”

Courfeyrac beams and kisses them on the cheek, and they bolt.

They burst in five minutes late, Courfeyrac already babbling, “Sorry, sorry, it was a work thing I swear,” as he tosses the bag with his scone in it to Enjolras.

Enjolras looks, as usual, like he hasn’t slept in at least a day. There are three empty coffee cups in front of him, and another from which he is currently drinking. “Thanks,” he says, and moves his bag off the seat beside him. Courfeyrac looks around; without him and Jehan there, it’s just Enjolras, Feuilly (who also looks exhausted—Courfeyrac makes a mental note to bring him food as well next time), Joly, Bossuet, and Marius. Their usual table seems kind of empty without all of them sitting together.

“What’d we miss, chief?” Courfeyrac asks playfully as he drops into the newly cleared seat beside Enjolras.

He sighs, and for once doesn’t bother to object to the nickname. “Nothing, actually. I thought we should wait until we were all here.”

“Something wrong?”

“It’s just—our last few events haven’t been particularly well attended,” he says, carding his fingers through his hair so that several more curls stick straight up. “We’re not getting anywhere. I think—well, Feuilly had an idea, actually, and I think it has a lot of merit.”

“I haven’t worked everything out yet, so none of it is definite,” Feuilly warns. “But I’m starting to think we might need to go about things a little differently. We’ve been choosing causes first, and advertising our intentions and opinions in relation to each specific one; but I think it might be more effective to—to find out exactly what it is the majority of the student body is thinking about, and where they stand on the major issues. We know where we are, obviously, but if we want to reach new people we need to know what will get them engaged.” He slides a glance at Enjolras. “It might not be what we were planning to focus on right away, but it’s not like we’re going to start championing causes that aren’t important to us—I’m not saying we fake it just to get people involved. But once they see what we’re about, they might stick around when we start bringing up the things that maybe didn’t originally mean so much to them.” He sits back in his chair, slightly red-faced, and takes a long draught from his bottle.

“That’s great,” says Courfeyrac enthusiastically, leaning forward. “That’s brilliant. Jehan, what if you put something in the paper?”

“Yes. Absolutely.” They’re already writing, quick shorthand that makes no sense to anyone who isn’t them. “I have to think it through, though. It’s got to be done creatively.”

“What about your vlog?” Enjolras pipes up, to Courfeyrac. “I know a good portion of the student body watches it—would it be possible for you to include something?”

“I can figure something out, yeah. Give me til next time, okay?”

“Sure, yeah.” Enjolras’s fingers are tapping an alarming, staccato rhythm against the worn wood of the table; Courfeyrac shoots him a concerned look and slides the coffee slightly further out of his reach.

“Just curious, when was the last time you slept?”

“Like, REM cycle sleep,” Joly cuts in, because they both know Enjolras well enough to know he’ll try to evade the question. “Not falling asleep in the shower for five minutes while you’re shampooing your hair or whatever. That doesn’t count.”

Enjolras lets out a huffing sigh that makes the hair fly off his forehead. “Day before yesterday.”

Joly and Courfeyrac trade exasperated looks. “Right,” Joly says, pushing his chair back. “So we’re not going to get anything else done today—”

“Excuse me,” Enjolras interjects, indignant, and Feuilly puts a placating hand on his shoulder.

“Joly has a point. We could trade the same ideas we’ve been thinking about for the last few weeks, or we can let out early and give Jehan and Courf time to figure out how they’d like to get the word out. I’d say we could all hang out and help them, but I think we could all use a little rest. Marius has been sleeping on the table for the past five minutes.”

Enjolras opens his mouth as though to argue, but instead he lets out a massive yawn. “Maybe you’re right,” he relents, sighing, and Courfeyrac has to fight the urge to let out a delighted whoop. He loves meetings, loves getting to spend time with his friends—especially since most of the time, the meetings devolve into random chatter that, at some point, miraculously becomes a really excellent series of ideas. But he’d had several hours of class, followed by several more hours on his feet trying to do a job for which he hadn’t really been properly trained, and he is itching to get home and take a nap. It’s still toward the beginning of the semester; he’s trying very hard not to think about what’s going to happen when everything really starts in earnest.

He hugs Bossuet and Feuilly, kisses Jehan on each cheek, bids Joly a cheerful adieu (no touching--it’s almost flu season) and wakes up Marius so that they can get back to their shared apartment together. Enjolras, in his exhaustion, is much more tactile than normal, which means, to Courfeyrac’s delight, that he gets a particularly snuggly hug and a sleepy grin.

When he finally gets back to his room and has a moment to check his computer, he finds an email, sent about a half hour ago and politely titled ‘Re: your vlog.” Grinning to himself, he double clicks, and finds an almost excessively proper email stating that Combeferre had spoken to his boss and gotten permission for Courfeyrac to work there for a day.

She does want you to come in for training beforehand, the email continues, but I would be more than willing to help with that. Is there any particular day you were hoping to finish the episode by? That will help us decide when we should schedule everything.

Grinning, Courfeyrac begins to type.

Hey, thanks for getting back to me! I usually like to get the new episodes up at some point on Fridays or Saturdays…don’t freak out, I have this week’s show already taken care of. Maybe we could do training at some point this week? And then figure out how our class and work schedules compare to see when would be best for me to take your shift?

Looking forward to it! :)

--Courf

Combeferre continues to be incredibly punctual and detailed in his correspondence, and before long, they’ve set up a training date for the upcoming Sunday. They decide that Courfeyrac will take Combeferre’s Thursday afternoon shift, because Thursdays are his lightest day, class-wise, and it’s really the only day that they have corresponding free time. (Combeferre doesn’t appear to actually have any time to breathe throughout the course of the week. It’s kind of alarming. So Courfeyrac accepts Thursday, even though he typically prefers to give himself more time to edit the footage.)

He spends the rest of the week trying (and mostly succeeding) to get ahead on his work, attempting to talk Marius into asking “that really pretty blonde girl in my creative writing class Courf I can’t speak to her what is wrong with you she’s an angel” on a date, and hanging out with his friends. There is a slight situation involving Bossuet and the aquarium, and now they’re not allowed to go there anymore, but the damage is minimal and Bossuet heals up in no time, so really, he considers the week a success.
***

Courfeyrac is practically tingling with anticipation as he walks through the door of the coffee shop on Sunday morning. He loves getting hands-on experience of new things, and he’d be lying if he tried to pretend that he wasn’t intrigued by the thought of spending more time alone with Combeferre.

Speaking of Combeferre, it looks like he’s already got the entire shop set up, even though they won’t be opening for a good hour; and there’s a mug sitting on the counter beside a plate of scones. “Good morning,” Courfeyrac chirps, cheerful despite the ungodly earliness of the hour.

Combeferre looks up from cleaning one of the machines and smiles, a bright enough smile to dispel the last of Courfeyrac’s early-morning haze. “Good morning,” he replies, and gestures to the counter. “I couldn’t remember your coffee order, so I took a guess.”

“That’s for me?” Courfeyrac exclaims. “Stop, why are you so great?”

Combeferre shrugs, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “I figured, if we were going to make you get up at the crack of dawn for training, the least I could do was make sure you were well fed.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes widen. “You are already doing me a huge favor, and now this. Are you trying to win some kind of ‘new favorite person’ award, because you are absolutely succeeding.”

Combeferre snorts and he ducks his head. “Wasn’t my intention, but I’ll take it.”

Courfeyrac bites into his scone and makes an involuntary, satisfied sound. “So are you always up this early on Sundays?”

“Usually.” He snickers at the look of horror on Courfeyrac’s face, walking over to join him at the counter. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. It can even be kind of relaxing, when there’s no one in here. Gives me time to clear my head.”

Courfeyrac raises a disbelieving eyebrow. “What’s your major, that getting up at an hour that shouldn’t even exist relaxes you?”

“Pre med and psych,” he says, sheepish, “with a minor in music.”

“Ooh, wow. What do you play?”

“The piano. I’m not very good.”

“Doubt it.” Playful, he nudges Combeferre’s shoulder. “I have a friend with a music minor—they don’t let you declare it unless you’ve proven that you’re good already.”

“Be careful, you’ll inflate my ego.”

"Seems like it could use a little inflation. You don’t seem to realize that you’re superhuman.” He sips from his mug, and then sets it down with a too-loud thud and glares at Combeferre. “Seriously? This is exactly what I would’ve ordered. You’re obviously an Avenger, there’s no point trying to lie anymore.”

Combeferre grins. “Even if I were, I barely know you. I wouldn’t tell you that yet unless we found ourselves in the kind of situation that would force me to admit to it.”

“Good point.” Courfeyrac leans closer, eager. “I’m guessing this would be much later, when we were already very close friends, and you would’ve just saved me from some extremely melodramatic death—”

“—possibly involving you getting tossed from a building or something—”

“—and I would, obviously be very shaken from my near-death experience, so I’d be sort of clinging to you or something, at which point I’d realize, magically, that there was something Very Familiar about you. So I’d say something about it—”

“—and I would finally reveal myself, only to even more melodramatically tell you that you should no longer associate with me, because knowledge of my secret identity would put you in more danger—”

“—but I, of course, would never allow that to happen. They never do, in those movies, and your friendship would be far more important to me than any danger posed by some ridiculous supervillain.”

There is a beat of silence. They look at each other, torn between amusement and amazement at how quickly they seem to have fallen into friendship, and then Combeferre drops his head into his hands and mutters, “Oh my God.” The spell is broken, and they burst out laughing.

“I’m so glad that just happened,” Courfeyrac announces, when they’ve finally controlled themselves. “Seriously, though, Combeferre, do you ever actually, like, sleep?”

“Not particularly often,” Combeferre admits. “What about you, what’s your major?”

“Communications,” says Courfeyrac, proudly. “Which probably isn’t a huge surprise…but I love it.”

“Makes sense.” He tilts his head. “Based on your show, I’m guessing you’re hoping to be in front of the camera?”

“Probably?” He shrugs. “I don’t know, really. I love my silly little vlog, but it’s really fun to be behind the scenes as well. I think I’d like to try that a little more before I make a final decision.”

“Speaking of, I’ve been wondering—how did you get started with the vlog?”

“Okay, this is seriously the best story,” Courfeyrac bubbles. “It started last year, when my friend Jehan was doing this arts-and-craftsy woodworking thing—I literally don’t even know how to explain it, but I made some kind of joke about it, and they were like, ‘Courf, please, as though you could ever do anything like this.’ So then, of course, I had to try it, and our other friend, Enjolras—who’s actually my best friend—brought a camera along. I was a mess at it, of course, because that’s not my thing, and I put it online as a joke, but then somehow it just, like, exploded.” He tosses his hair playfully. “I’ve always been one to capitalize on an opportunity, so the vlog was born. I wasn’t expecting it to end up like this, though.”

“Almost everyone I know watches it,” Combeferre informs him. “Although, to be fair, I don’t spend time with many people, on account of how I never have time for a life.”

Courfeyrac laughs and pretends to glare. “Gee, thanks.”

“No, but in all seriousness, I’m not surprised you’ve got so many subscribers—you’re incredibly engaging.”

Courfeyrac has never been a blusher, but he can feel his cheeks burning. “I’ve been really lucky,” he demurs, unusually modest, dragging his fingers through his hair.

Combeferre opens his mouth to speak, and at that moment, his watch beeps loudly. He jumps, glancing down reflexively. “Half an hour to opening…I can teach you how the machines work, at the very least.”

“Cool,” Courfeyrac agrees readily, pushing back from the table. Truthfully, he’d nearly forgotten that he was here for on-the-job training instead of just hanging out making a new friend.

Combeferre’s preferred method of teaching, he learns quickly, is to demonstrate as he explains what all the different levers on the machines do, encouraging Courfeyrac to do whatever he needs to do to get the idea. Mostly, he just follows Combeferre around, touching stuff without actually pushing any buttons just in case. The last damn thing he needs is to accidentally blow something up or something. But it’s a good thing he’s listening, because after the demonstration/explanation, Combeferre inevitably backs off and asks Courfeyrac if he can show him what he’d just done. (He can, generally, as long as Combeferre drops hints once in a while.)

“You’re a quick study,” says Combeferre, approvingly, as he shows Courfeyrac where to find anything he might need. He’s just about to start talking him through one of the specialty drinks when his watch beeps again. “Ten minutes.” He sighs. “It’s okay, Sundays aren’t generally very busy—Musichetta’s going to be out in a few, so if anything, she can take over while I keep showing you how to do things.”

“Sounds good.” He bounces on the balls of his feet. “Is it silly to admit that I’m kinda nervous?”

“Not at all.” Combeferre smiles. “I promise I won’t ask you to do anything too strenuous for any of the customers.”

“I appreciate you.”

Combeferre’s lips tilt up in the slightest of smiles. “And so you should.”

It’s enough to make Courfeyrac laugh; he’d expected continued, too-careful politeness. He likes this, likes how easy it is to joke with Combeferre, as though they’ve been friends for ages already.

Just as they’re about to open, a woman sweeps in through the back door, her riot of gorgeous, caramel-colored curls tied in a knot on top of her head. She’s wearing the exact same uniform as both of them, but she somehow makes it look like the most professional thing Courfeyrac has ever seen. He is, immediately, awed—especially when he looks down and sees that she is wearing a pair of towering stilettos despite the utter, obvious impracticality of it. “Courfeyrac, isn’t it?” she asks, with no ado whatsoever. “You have that show? I don’t watch it, but Combeferre obviously enjoys it, so I figured what the hell, give you a chance. I’m Musichetta.” He shakes her hand; her grip is impressive.

“It’s a pleasure,” he says, grinning brightly. “I’ve heard great things.”

She lifts one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “I sincerely doubt it.” But she’s grinning, so he’s not particularly worried. “Get ready, kiddies,” she adds, clacking over to the door to flip the sign to open. “The businesspeople and desperate college students are coming.”

She’s right. Within ten minutes, there is a veritable flood of people pouring through the doors. “I thought you said Sundays weren’t busy,” he hisses to Combeferre, watching in wide-eyed alarm as he and Musichetta execute a perfectly choreographed dance that gets everyone in line their drinks in the shortest possible amount of time.

“They’re not. Can you get the pastries, please? Two chocolate chip muffins and a blueberry scone.”

“Sure, of course,” he blurts out, relieved to be doing something helpful, reaching for the pastries in question.

“When you’re done with that, can you check the storage room for hazelnut syrup? We’re running low,” Musichetta adds, not missing a single beat as she draws a smiling cat on top of a customer’s drink. She flashes them a bright smile that makes them nearly fumble the cup as she passes it over.

Courfeyrac has always been good at crowds. Always been good at people. At reading them, at knowing what they need or what they think of him. Right now, Musichetta is testing him, and he is determined to pass. Combeferre hadn’t had time to show him the storage room, or explain its organization system. Luckily, though, it’s pretty straightforward, and he’s found the syrup within a few minutes.

“Thanks,” she says brightly, taking it from him. “Can you ring up these nice people while I refill the syrup?” (That he can do. He’s done lots of jobs that require the use of a cash register over the past couple of months.)

Training continues like this for about an hour—neither of them tries to make him make any drinks, but they do keep him busy, running around to find or clean things. When the line has finally died, they exchange a high five, and Musichetta rests her hip against the wall. “Sorry about that,” she says, kindly. “I promise I’m not always such a dick. But baptism by fire is the best method—it’s how I dealt with Combeferre, here, and he’s one of my very favorite employees.”

“No worries,” he says cheerfully, and means it. “I like being kept busy.”

“Well, good.” She smiles. “Thursday, you will be. Grantaire will be here with you, and maybe Éponine, and I’ll probably be floating around somewhere if there’s any kind of emergency. Maybe I’ll even watch your show after.”

“Sounds good!”

She looks around, chews the inside of her lip as though considering something. “I’ve gotta get back to my office,” she says finally. “I’ve got a shitload of paperwork. Ferre, you’ve got it covered, right?”

“Not a problem,” Combeferre assures her, smiling. “Everyone looks happy.”

“Don’t blow anything up,” she says, stabbing a red-painted finger in Courfeyrac’s direction, and she sweeps out of sight.

“She is a force of nature,” Courfeyrac breathes, and Combeferre laughs, nodding.

“I won’t argue that.” He glances around again; as Musichetta had said, the café is about a quarter full of people who had chosen to stay after getting their drinks, mostly of businesspeople buried in their Blackberries and people about their age with dark smudges under their eyes, clearly cramming for some exam or writing a last minute paper. But everyone seems busy, and everyone has something to eat or drink in front of them. “Right, okay. Let’s try making a latte.”

As it turns out, operating machines and making actual beverages are not the same. Courfeyrac nearly burns himself no fewer than three separate times and makes two, equally horrible lattes in about fifteen minutes. But Combeferre, miraculously, doesn’t lose his cool. Instead, he walks Courfeyrac through the process step-by-step, not letting him move faster than your average glacier. But at the end, Courfeyrac has a drinkable, if not excellent, latte.

It’s still not busy, so they move on; by the time Combeferre’s shift is over, Courfeyrac has nearly mastered some of the most popular, relatively basic drinks on the menu.

“Ooh, can you teach me how to make cool stuff with the foam?” he asks keenly.

Combeferre smiles, indulgent. “Another day, maybe, but we definitely don’t have the time today.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” He grins, watching the flush that climbs Combeferre’s neck as he realizes his own implication. He clears his throat and pushes his glasses up on his nose, stalling.

“Um. Why don’t you try the frappe once more without my help, and then I’ll let you go? Now that you have a better idea of how it works, I think you’ll get it this time.”

Courfeyrac knows when not to push the issue; biting back a grin, he returns to his painstaking work, sending up a silent thank you to whatever deity has decided that the coffee shop should be nearly deserted at this particular moment. He’s pretty sure if there were actual customers right now, his snail-like pace would be causing a massive holdup. Combeferre is watching without hovering, saying little even when Courfeyrac shoots him uncertain looks. “Tell me what you think you should do, first,” he usually says, and Courfeyrac thinks a moment and then offers the next step, questioningly. “Good,” he says, approvingly. Or, sometimes, “No, not quite,” and corrects Courfeyrac with a frankly disarming amount of patience.

“How’s it going out here?” Musichetta asks, appearing again out of thin air. Courfeyrac jumps so badly that he nearly upends the drink he’d just managed to make, but Combeferre steadies it before it can fall.

“He’s got a good grasp of the basics,” Combeferre assures her. “R will definitely have to make the more elaborate drinks, but he’ll be fine for the more normal orders.”

“Hmm.” She picks up the frappe, sniffs, and takes a tentative sip. Courfeyrac, without meaning to, holds his breath; she sets it down, face impassive, and turns to face him.

“Was it bad?” he blurts out, alarmed, and she breaks, a wide, gorgeous smile spreading across her face like the sunrise.

“It’s good. Congratulations, Courfeyrac—you have my official approval.” She pats him hard on the shoulder, and turns to Combeferre. “Now get outta here, you. Go take a nap or something, God knows you need it.”

“I’ll walk you out,” he offers, and Courfeyrac nods and falls into step beside him.

“So what are you up to now?” he asks when they’ve emerged into the bright, early afternoon sunlight, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
“I was actually thinking I might take Chetta’s advice and nap for an hour or two.”

“Naps are amazing,” Courfeyrac agrees. “I recommend them highly.”

He laughs. “What about you, any plans?”

“I’m going to bother my friend Enjolras—it’s a Sunday morning tradition—and then, probably, just crying about the essay I should’ve finished days ago.”

“If you need a sympathetic ear—or eye, or something—I’m pretty good about my phone.”

“I may very well take you up on that,” he says brightly. “But only if I’m sure you’ve slept.” He winks. “Also, this is me.”

“Oh, right.” Combeferre stops moments before walking past Courfeyrac’s car, smiling sheepishly. “Well, good job with training and everything. You’ll be great on Thursday, I’m sure.”

“I hope so.” He shifts from foot to foot, wishing there was an easier way to know whether or not Combeferre is the type of person who likes hugs. Fuck it. “Hey, question, do you like hugs?”

“I do.” Combeferre smiles widely.

“Do you mind hugs from people you don’t know particularly well? Which is my really roundabout way of asking, can I hug you? Also you can say no, please don’t feel like it would be weird if you say no.”

“I wasn’t going to say no,” Combeferre assures him, and opens his arms in a frankly adorable gesture of welcome.

Beaming, Courfeyrac bounces forward and wraps his arms around Combeferre. He’s shorter, so that his head rests perfectly on Combeferre’s shoulder. Combeferre, who is warm and solid and smells like soap and honey, and Courfeyrac actually has to actively remind himself that he shouldn’t just sort of…stay there a while. He clears his throat when he steps back and smiles again, feeling, suddenly, almost shy. “I, uh…will I see you on Thursday?”

“I’ll stop in if you’d like me to, sure.”

“Please do. You can tell me what your lovely co-workers say about me.” He winks again, and Combeferre laughs.

“Sounds good; I’ll see you on Thursday then.”

Courfeyrac finds himself feeling almost giddy for his entire drive, and there’s an extra bounce in his step as he approaches Enjolras’s door.

Enjolras himself is still in his pajamas when he opens the door. “Morning,” he says, and presses a mug of tea into Courfeyrac’s hand. “Everyone’s already here. How was training?”

“Good,” Courfeyrac exclaims as he follows Enjolras inside. “I think I should be capable of doing the job without a total disaster, and Combeferre’s really nice. I just really hope I remember how to make everything.”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine. You always are.”

Enjolras’s house is the biggest, which is why they always meet there. Jehan is sitting on the counter, swinging their legs and gesturing wildly with a half-eaten croissant as they talk to Feuilly about something. Marius is curled up in a chair with a mug of hot chocolate, and Joly is perched contentedly on Bossuet’s lap, feeding him a strawberry. Courfeyrac is aware that his smile is probably lasting way longer than smiles usually do, but he can’t help it. Spending time with his friends when they’re all relaxed like this is pretty much his favorite thing.

Enjolras, meanwhile, is whistling quietly as he flips pancakes (a learning process that had taken him Way Longer Than It Should Have, mostly because it took him ages to understand why cooking was a useful skill to have). There are several bowls of fruit, a plate of chocolate croissants, and a pot of coffee already sitting on the table; someone has brought donuts. Classical music is playing softly in the background, and there’s a new potted plant on the window that must have come from Jehan. Courfeyrac wonders if they’ll bring it home with them again when they leave; Enjolras is well-meaning enough, but he can barely take care of himself, much less a plant.

He sits, and bumps Marius’s shoulder playfully. “Morning all!”

“Mmmmorning,” Joly manages, around an enormous yawn. He’s now holding his mug of tea up under his nose so that the steam from its surface fogs the lenses of his glasses. “You’re happy today.”

“It was a good morning.” He shrugs. “I learned how to make coffee. How’s everyone else?”

“I almost dislocated my shoulder again this morning,” Bossuet offers cheerfully. “My scarf fell off and it got tangled in my feet and I almost fell down the stairs, but then I didn’t—except when I caught myself I almost pulled the shoulder out of its socket.”

“The scariest thing about that,” Feuilly muses, “is that I wasn’t surprised at all when you started that sentence.” He’s facing away from Jehan now; for their part, Jehan has leapt gracefully down and is contentedly playing with Feuilly’s rather scruffier-than-normal hair. He hums approvingly as Jehan scratches at his scalp, leaning, apparently inadvertently, back into the touch. On the table in front of him is a half-painted fan.

“Yeah, well. It happens.” Bossuet shrugs, and winces when the shoulder in question cracks loudly. “That’s really cool-looking, what is it?”

“It’s a project for one of my classes,” Feuilly explains. “We’re supposed to take a medium we’ve never done before, and this is just such an interesting process that I thought it might be fun.” He wrinkles his nose. “I was not correct. It’s so fucking delicate that it’s practically impossible.”

Courfeyrac and Marius lean closer to examine it. “It looks great,” Marius offers. “I like the way you did the shading.”

“Thanks.” He tilts his head back slightly. “I’m trying to do a representation of a modernized Orpheus/Eurydice scene.”

“What.” Yelping, Jehan leans closer. “Yes. Oh, my God, everything about this is perfect.”

Feuilly’s answering smile is very soft. “I’m glad you approve. I’ll give it to you after my professors have finished with it, if you’d like.”

Jehan looks, for a moment, as though they are very seriously considering kissing him. “I would love that.”

Normally, they have a no-homework-during-brunch policy, but given the fact that Feuilly is putting himself through college on a potent combination of scholarships, too many jobs, and sheer force of will, no one is about to say anything to him about it.

“Food,” Enjolras announces, putting a plate piled with pancakes and eggs in the center of the table. They descend upon it immediately, and for a while the only sounds are those of scraping forks and the occasional “oh my God is that real maple syrup?” or “Can someone pass me another napkin?” As usual, they wash their own dishes when they’ve finished, stacking them carefully back in Enjolras’s cabinet and then relocating into his enormous sitting room to flop across the various couches, chairs, and loveseats.

They’ve developed a game of sorts for these mornings. Someone offers a category (best thing that happened to you this week, worst thing, most embarrassing thing, most interesting thing you learned, et cetera), and they go around and share a corresponding moment. It keeps them entertained for hours until someone has to go, at which point they all remember that it’s Sunday and most of them still have a thousand things to do, at which point the party breaks up. Today it’s Jehan who leaves, claiming a maybe-date with a mysterious man he’d met “definitely not at a cemetery, why would any of you think that”? (They’re gone before that registers enough for anyone to question them further.)

On this particular Sunday, Courfeyrac stays with Enjolras. He’s feeling contented, sleepy, and all in all in no mood to work—or drive, or move. Enjolras’s tendency to hyper-focus will keep him on task, hopefully, and he never objects to spending extra time with his best friend anyway. (He’s right. He’s finished with his assignments by late afternoon, and makes Enjolras stir-fry with the leftovers in his fridge as a thank you for keeping him on task.)

The week that follows isn’t boring, per se, but it is rather ordinary. Even some of Courfeyrac’s favorite classes seem to drag a little, and by the middle of the week he’s glad to have something new to do, to switch things up.

He bribes Jehan to go set up his video equipment with eternal love and homemade brownies. (“I do it most weeks anyway, I don’t know why you think you need to resort to petty bribes,” they sniff playfully, and Courfeyrac pretends to rescind his offer.) Courfeyrac’s last class before his shift runs, for the first time ever, just slightly over time, and even though Courfeyrac is generally an extremely relaxed person, he’d be lying if he tried to pretend his pulse wasn’t a little higher than normal as he drives to the shop.
Jehan, too, is running a little later than they’d like to be. They sprint, breathless, through the door in a burst of pink plaid and set everything up with the kind of hurried efficiency that proves exactly how often they’ve done this. “Do you mind if I turn this on now?” they blurt out, turning to a wide-eyed, suitably impressed Grantaire. “I have another class in like seven minutes.”

“Whatever you gotta do, dude,” Grantaire assures Jehan, shrugging.

“Thanks,” Jehan replies, words tumbling out in a rush. “He’ll turn it off himself, there’s nothing to worry about there, and did he explain to you that he’d blur out your face if you didn’t want to be in the video? He has to do that with customers anyway because there’s a whole awkward consent thing.”

“He didn’t, but it doesn’t matter to any of us,” Grantaire says. “I mean, people know who works here anyway, so it’s not like they’ll be seeing anything new.”

“True.” Jehan shrugs. “Just being cautious.”

“Admirable,” he says, and means it.

Jehan waggles their fingers in a farewell and hurries off, nearly running into Courfeyrac as they go—they stop to apologize quickly and press their lips to Courfeyrac’s cheek in a quick good luck gesture, and are gone again in a whirl of color. Courfeyrac grins and kisses back, and then hurries into the café. He waves at Grantaire as he rushes past him to get ready.
Grantaire only responds when he emerges again. “Welcome to the gallows,” he says, rather ominously. Courfeyrac is still tying his apron.

“Don’t be a jerk,” snaps the Asian girl now standing to his left. She grins at Courfeyrac. “I’m Éponine. I’m here as reinforcements.”

“Appreciated,” Courfeyrac replies, smiling back. “I’m Courfeyrac.”

“I know.” She looks up, narrows her eyes just slightly at the couple approaching the counter. “Back up, R and I will take these two.”

“Are you sure—”

But Grantaire mouths trust us, so Courfeyrac hangs back and watches quietly while the couple orders two of the most complex drinks he’s ever heard. Grantaire is dutifully checking things off and scribbling on the side of two coffee cups almost simultaneously, and there are four people in line behind the couple now. Éponine rings them up and jerks her head to Courfeyrac after she’s chivvied them to the side to wait for their drinks; she backs up to help Grantaire, and Courfeyrac takes the hint and hurries to take her spot at the cash register.

He’s a quick thinker. Always has been. It’s one of the things about himself that he’s really proud of. And he’s doing relatively well—even though he doubts, somehow, that a list of prices is usually left right next to the cash register so that he doesn’t have to crane his neck to check every few seconds; either way, the list helps a lot. What doesn’t help is people constantly asking for extra shots or substitutions or mixed flavors while he’s ringing them up. It trips him up a little, scanning the list to look for what costs extra and what’s just a regular substitution. So he just moves, punching buttons and counting change and attempting to smile charmingly, all the while trying desperately not to think about anything but the person in front of him at that very moment.

“Combeferre didn’t do you any favors,” Éponine mutters, close to his ear, as she breezes by on her way to get someone else their pastry of choice.

“What,” he blurts out, fumbling with a little old woman’s change and smiling apologetically at her as he recounts it for the third time.

“He gave you a rush shift,” she explains, to her credit waiting until there’s a momentary lull before she speaks.

There isn’t really time to explain how that had happened, so he just twitches one shoulder and resumes asking for orders. At some point, what feels like at least seven hours later, there is no one at the counter. (A glance at the clock reveals that, no, actually, it’s been all of half an hour. He tries not to whine.) Grantaire takes pity on him and asks, “Want me to take over the register? You can make the easy drinks, next time there are people.”

“Okay, yeah. Sure.” He grins, wondering if Grantaire can smell fear. He’s used to cash registers. He’s done cash registers lots of times. The crowds, not so much, and the coffee, definitely not. He tries to swallow back his trepidation and wonders if it’s too much to hope that no one will come by for the next three and a half hours, give or take.

(It’s too much to hope—within ten minutes, Enjolras himself is strolling up to the counter, golden and grinning like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing, the bastard.)

“What can I get you?” Grantaire asks, sounding casually blasé, and then he looks up and his jaw actually drops. This is something that happens to Enjolras on a fairly regular basis, but he never notices it. Courfeyrac has given up trying to tell him.

“A tall vanilla latte, please,” says Enjolras calmly, and yes, he is absolutely doing this on purpose, because he only ever orders black coffee. Courfeyrac glares at him as he moves toward the machines.

“Uh, sure. Anything else?”

“One of those scones. Blueberry.” He sounds completely guileless. Courfeyrac glares harder.

“It’s $4.50.” Grantaire definitely sounds a little breathless. This would be interesting, if Courfeyrac wasn’t trying desperately to remember how to make a latte.

“Need a lifeline?” Éponine murmurs, and he jumps.

“How do you keep doing that?”

“It’s a small counter. Here—” She leans over slightly, to show him how to get started. It only takes a few seconds before it starts to come back to him, and he thanks her profusely before setting about making Enjolras’s drink. He nearly burns himself in the process, and it takes him longer than it should (Éponine is already finishing off a different drink beside him by the time it’s ready), but when Enjolras tries it, he flashes Courfeyrac a smile and a thumbs up. Whether Enjolras knows what a latte is supposed to taste like is anyone’s guess, but Courfeyrac does appreciate the sentiment.

It’s enough to boost his confidence, until he accidentally makes a caramel frappe instead of mocha. The customer storms over from where he had been sitting, drink in hand, to snap, “This is caramel. I specifically asked for mocha—can you not hear? What if I was allergic to caramel? What would you have done then?”

“I’m sorry,” Courfeyrac manages, when the customer has paused for breath. “Really, I apologize. I’ll make you a new one right away.”

“I want a refund with my new drink, then.”

“Uh—”

“Tell you what, we’ll upgrade you to a grande instead,” says Éponine, in a tone that brooks no argument. “With our sincerest apologies.” She smiles sweetly as she slides a drink across the counter to a petite girl in pigtails.

“I could have died.”

“Fortunately, you didn’t.” Musichetta’s voice snaps like a trap as she sweeps over. (Courfeyrac wonders, again, if she has some sort of magical power.) “Sir, I apologize for the inconvenience, and we will gladly either upgrade your beverage or offer you a refund, but I must ask you to refrain from making a scene in my shop. If you need some time to make a decision, feel free to take a seat over there while we serve the rest of our customers.”

The man splutters, but settles on the upgrade. Éponine and Grantaire are both busy again, which means it falls to Courfeyrac to fix his blunder. He does, burning his fingers slightly when he focuses too hard on what he’s doing to pay any mind to how he does it. But, thankfully, the new drink seems to be satisfactory, because there are no more explosions.

“You alright?” Grantaire mutters. “It happens, there are a lot of really high maintenance people around here. Don't take it personally. You can step out if you need a break, there usually aren’t three of us back here.”

“I can do it,” Courfeyrac says stubbornly. And he can. By the end of the shift, his fingers are blistered and his feet hurt and he’s been yelled at two more times; but really, all things considered, it’s better than he’d dared to expect. Still, when Combeferre comes in, it’s really, really good to see him.

"You’re free,” Grantaire intones dramatically, and Courfeyrac smiles in unmitigated relief, flashes him a double thumbs up, and hurries away to return his apron to the back room.

“Your job sucks,” he says bluntly when he has emerged, collapsing into the nearest overstuffed armchair. “How do you deal with that every day? I am fucking exhausted.”

Combeferre’s lips twitch, but he is a merciful soul and he doesn’t actually laugh. “Practice. I like it, actually, most days.”

“That is incredible. You are incredible,” says Courfeyrac, shaking his head. “Superhuman. I keep telling you, you might as well just come clean now, because it’s becoming progressively more obvious.”

Combeferre coughs and ducks his head. “I’m, um, assuming that you don’t want me to make you some coffee?”

“NO,” he says, too quickly. “I think my coffee addiction is forever cured.” Moodily, he pushes his fingers through his frizzing curls. He blinks as the intent behind Combeferre’s offer registers, and bites the inside of his lip, embarrassed. “Thank you, though.”

He leans forward so that his elbows rest on his thighs. “If it makes you feel any better, everyone said you did well.”

“Really.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Wow.” He tilts his head, considering. “Cool.”

Combeferre does laugh this time, shaking his head slightly. “Well anyway, you should be proud. You survived.”

“Wanna come get a celebratory drink with me? A real drink, I mean?”

“I…yeah, yes, sure. I haven’t eaten yet, but—maybe after?”

“We could go get dinner first,” he says, with the smoothness that only comes when he doesn’t let himself think before he speaks. It catches up with him almost immediately though. “If you want to, I mean. You don’t have to, I don’t wanna pressure you or anything.”

Combeferre appears to be considering this. “I don’t feel pressured at all.” He grins, pushes himself to his feet. “Where are we going for dinner?”

“Oh! I, um…do you have any favorite places?”

“I guess it’s only fair for me to make that decision,” says Combeferre, his lips still curved up in the slightest of smirks, “since you did take my job today.” He thinks a moment, his eyes slightly glazed as he considers his options. “How do you feel about Thai?”

“Yes,” Courfeyrac blurts out immediately, and Combeferre looks pleased.

“There’s a little place not that far. It’s walkable, if you don’t mind a little exercise.”

“I prefer walking anyway, to be honest,” he says, even though his feet are aching from standing all day. It will feel good to move, at least. “What’d you do with your afternoon off?”

“Nothing that makes a particularly interesting story, unfortunately,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “Mostly, I just caught up on some of my work and practiced for a while.”

“Anything good?”

“Rachmaninoff,” he says, with some pride.

“Maybe I could hear it, one day.”

The flush starts under the color of his shirt and climbs its way up. Courfeyrac bites his lip on a smile and hopes he hasn’t overstepped. “When it sounds like music,” he agrees finally, “definitely. Turn here.” Unthinking, he rests his hand on the small of Courfeyrac’s back to steer him, gently, left.

“So will you have a recital or something?”

Combeferre appears to be thinking about this. “Since it’s just a minor I’m not really required to. But I…well, I have performance anxiety, actually, so my teacher suggested that I do one
next semester to get over it. And I do have a big jury sort of thing at the end of the semester.”

Courfeyrac nods quietly. “I’m sure it will help,” he offers. “And leading up to it, you can play for me whenever you’d like. Maybe my friends, too, if you end up meeting them. In my experience the more you do something, the less it scares you.”

Combeferre turns to look at Courfeyrac, head tilted as he regards him, considering. “You don’t seem the kind of person who’s afraid of much.”

“Not usually,” Courfeyrac admits, “but sometimes I’m not sure whether that’s true, or whether I’ve just gotten so used to doing things that make me a little uncomfortable that I don’t even register it anymore. Like a habit.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“In some ways, I think. Because—well, I don’t think I’d keep doing things if I flat out disliked them, so really it just stops me from getting complacent.”

Combeferre nods, thoughtfully, and jerks his head right so that Courfeyrac knows where to turn. “You don’t have to answer this if it’s too personal,” he begins hesitantly, “but…do you ever wonder if it’s possible that—people—can get so used to doing things a certain way that they don’t realize it would be better to change them?”

“Sometimes,” Courfeyrac says. “Definitely. That’s part of why I push myself and do stuff like the vlog. Do you think that too?”

“Often.” Combeferre bites his lip, and is silent for a while. Courfeyrac waits, not wanting to break the spell that the silence has created. When Combeferre speaks again, he looks a little uncomfortable. “I’m sorry. It was a strange thing to ask, given that we don’t know each other very well—”

“I don’t mind,” says Courfeyrac honestly. “Actually, I like that you’re comfortable enough with me to ask; and I definitely like that I’m comfortable enough with you to answer.”

One side of Combeferre’s mouth quirks up into a little, self-deprecating grin. “I’m glad. Oh, this is us.”

Courfeyrac doesn’t actually know anything about Thai food, but he hadn’t wanted to admit that. Which, given the depth of their conversation as they’d walked, seems kind of silly now. Still, he deflects from confessing it by asking Combeferre to help him choose. “What’s your favorite?” he asks, sliding forward on his seat. “I’m really bad at decisions.”

“It depends on the day,” Combeferre says; in the end, they decide to choose several different dishes and just share. As they wait, he draws a deep breath and says, “Much less serious question.”

Courfeyrac looks up in interest. “Shoot.”

“If I am a superhero, as you keep claiming, which one would I be?”

“Combeferre,” Courfeyrac gasps, horrified, “that’s not how it works.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because those superheroes already exist.”

“If Bucky Barnes can take over for Steve Rogers, I can take over for someone else,” Combeferre points out reasonably, bringing Courfeyrac up short.

“I did not even think about that.” He squints, tilts his head, scrutinizing. “That’s a really good question. I gotta think about it.”

“Cool, cool,” says Combeferre, almost absently.

“In the meantime, though, who’s your favorite superhero?”

“Falcon, at the moment,” says Combeferre, without any sort of pause.

Courfeyrac nods slowly, taking this in. “I’m going to analyze that information later,” he informs Combeferre seriously, making him snort into his water.

“What about you, though? It’s only fair that I should have something to analyze as well, hmm?”

“Black Widow,” he says, and beams. “Do with that what you will.”

The rest of the night is much the same. The food is amazing, and the conversation better. Combeferre manages to get Courfeyrac to share his favorite embarrassing moment (which involves climbing out of a window in his boxers in an attempt to escape a girl’s angry parents, and falling out of a tree). Courfeyrac retaliates by getting him to admit that he once accidentally set his high school’s chem lab on fire in the midst of a well intentioned after school experiment. They have a ridiculously detailed conversation about Game of Thrones and come to the conclusion that at the rate things are going, there won’t be anyone left to care about anyway.

(Combeferre had been strictly team Stark, and still clings to shreds of hope; Courfeyrac is torn between Margaery Tyrell and Daenerys Targaryen.)

On finding out that Courfeyrac has never actually seen Doctor Who, Combeferre gasps with a sort of playful melodrama that Courfeyrac hadn’t expected and appreciates, and announces that they should definitely do that, when things are slightly less insane and he has time to ask Grantaire what he’d changed his Netflix password to.

And then, at some point, the evening devolves into a game of this or that, complete with random, vaguely related tangents, that leaves them both howling. By the time they leave the restaurant, mostly because the waitress had continued coming over to ask if there was anything else she could get them and they were starting to feel like an inconvenience, it’s pitch dark outside.

“Wow,” says Courfeyrac, allowing himself a quick glance at his phone to check the time. “It got really late; are you still up for that drink?”

Combeferre glances at his watch and inhales sharply. “I—could I take a rain check on it? I still have homework, as horrifically lame as that sounds.”

“Hey, no, of course! No biggie.” Courfeyrac smiles. “I should probably work a little too.”

They head back to campus together, largely in a companionable silence. Now and again one of them breaks the silence with a random bit of trivia that the other exclaims over accordingly.

The return trip seems to take no time at all. “That was really fun,” says Courfeyrac, grinning. “I think I’ve found a new favorite restaurant.”

“It’s definitely one of my bigger indulgences,” Combeferre admits. “I’m really glad you like it. I sometimes feel weird about taking people there.”

“Oh my God, I get that way about stuff too,” Courfeyrac exclaims. “It’s like…like you’re sharing a piece of your soul or something and then if the person doesn’t like it, it just sucks.”

“Exactly.”

“I get that way about music a lot. Or just media, in general.” He grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Maybe I’ll make you a mix or something.”

“That’d be great, I’m always looking for something new to listen to.”

“I could bring it by next week or something, if you want.” It’s more a way of saying I want to see you again soon than anything to do with music, and they both know it. Courfeyrac waits with baited breath.

“I’d like that,” Combeferre says. “I’d like to see you again outside of, you know…the internet.”

“Me, too,” Courfeyrac murmurs.

“Well, uh…I should really get going, but I’ll see you soon.”

“As long as you want to,” Courfeyrac says, “then absolutely.”

Combeferre’s answering smile is soft. “Good.”

***

He doesn’t see Combeferre again until the following week, after which point he has spent a truly shameful amount of time searching for all the right tracks to put on the mix he’d promised him. He’d actually annoyed Marius with all the playback and skipping and switching as he’d tried to figure out the right order for the songs. Marius. Annoyed.

But, regardless, he’s managed to create a mix of some of his very favorite music that he thinks Combeferre will appreciate. When he walks through the door of the little shop, though, the first person he sees is not Combeferre, but Grantaire. He doesn’t mean to wilt in disappointment, he really doesn’t, but he’d been hoping—he’d just thought Combeferre was working today.

“He’s around back,” says Grantaire, raising an eyebrow. “His shift literally just ended, he’ll be out in a second.”

“I don’t know—I mean, thanks.” Because really, what’s the point of saying I don’t know what you’re talking about when he couldn’t have been acting much more obvious about who he was looking for if it’d been tattooed to his chest in neon letters?

Grantaire shrugs. “Can I get you anything while you wait.”

“No, that’s okay. I don’t think I need any more caffeine than I’ve already had today.”

It’s at this moment that Combeferre appears, dressed in a perfectly pressed light blue button down that sets off his skin beautifully. “Courf, hi!” he exclaims warmly. “How are you?”

“I’m great! I came to deliver on my promise,” he drawls enticingly, fanning himself with the jewel case.

Combeferre makes some sort of excited, involuntary sound; Grantaire snorts, and Courfeyrac actually has to stop himself from cooing at how adorable the whole thing is as he presses the CD into Combeferre’s waiting hand. “Thank you,” Combeferre says, with the kind of sincerity normally associated with receiving much more elaborate gifts.

“It is so far from a problem; let me know what you think!”

“I definitely will.” Combeferre slides a glance at Grantaire, who is now busy with a short line of customers. “Listen, um…I was going to go see that new sci-fi movie—I’m not sure if that’s your thing, but if you wanted to come with me I wouldn’t say no to the company…”

“I totally would,” says Courfeyrac, regretfully, “only I have a meeting to go to in, like…” (a quick glance at his phone) “twenty-three minutes, give or take.”

“Oh.” Is he imagining the slight disappointment in Combeferre’s tone? He must be—right? “Okay. No problem at all.”

“Actually,” he blurts out, the idea hitting him like a bolt of lightning, “if you want, you could come with me. It’s this student advocacy group. We meet at the Musain every week, in that little room upstairs.”

“I don’t want to intrude…”

“You wouldn’t be! Actually, it would be amazing to have you. We’ve been hoping to get some new people. If you’re interested, of course.”

“Advocacy,” says Combeferre, like he’s testing the word on his tongue. “I didn’t know a group like that existed on campus, although to be fair that might be because I am constantly hidden away doing pre-med type things.”

“One of the guys in the group is pre-med,” says Courfeyrac, bouncing excitedly. “See, you have things in common already!”

Combeferre laughs. “I was already planning to agree, but now I definitely can’t say no,” he deadpans, and allows Courfeyrac to lead him out of the coffee shop and down the street to the Musain.

Courfeyrac keeps up a steady stream of chatter as they go, filling Combeferre in on their past events and the sorts of things the group generally gravitates toward. By the time they get to the Musain, Combeferre’s eyes are gleaming with excitement and he’s participating in the conversation as much as Courfeyrac is, asking questions and pressing for details.

“I brought a friend,” Courfeyrac trumpets, when they’ve burst through the doors. They’re the last ones in—it’s getting to be a bit of a habit for Courfeyrac, apparently, although they’ve also managed to make it with five minutes to spare. He clears his throat dramatically and announces, “Everyone, this is Combeferre. He saved my career this week, and then, in return, I managed to seduce him with flowery rhetoric about our political ideals, and here he is.” It’s a ridiculous thing to say, even for him, and it makes Jehan snort and Combeferre flush maroon. “So,” Courfeyrac presses on, oblivious, “Combeferre, the gorgeous blond is Enjolras, our fearless leader.” Enjolras looks very much like he wants to protest Courfeyrac’s phrasing, but he fortunately bites it back in favor of smiling at Combeferre and offering him a handshake, a warm smile and a ‘welcome.’ “Next to him is Feuilly, who makes amazing art for everything we’ve ever done. Directly to your left is Jean Prouvaire, aka Jehan, who writes poetry that will make you weep.” Jehan beams and waves sunnily. “Those are Joly and Bossuet, next to each other—”

“I know you!” says Joly, suddenly, smiling enormously. He’s obviously been sitting on this from the moment they walked in, not wishing to overwhelm Combeferre.

“You saved me the other week,” says Combeferre, fervently. The set of his shoulders has relaxed slightly; it’s clear that he’s relieved to find another familiar face. “I still don’t understand how that happened, but really, thank you again.”

“It was nothing,” says Joly, waving this off easily. “It was a tough lab.”

They grin at each other, bonded over the shared memory of some averted disaster, and then, remembering himself, Combeferre offers Bossuet a friendly greeting.

“And this,” Courfeyrac adds, “is my roommate, Marius.”

Introductions complete, he slides into his normal seat on Enjolras’s right; Bossuet pats the vacant seat on his other side in silent invitation for Combeferre, who smiles as he moves to accept it.

The meeting starts the same as most of them do—in utter anarchy. Enjolras goes downstairs to see if he can charm Madame Houcheloup into brewing him an entire pot of black coffee. Jehan is sketching a tattoo on their arm in multicolored sharpies and having an impassioned debate with Marius about Hades and Persephone (they are all for her having eaten the pomegranate her damn self, thank you very much, and Marius seems to be the only one who doesn’t realize that he is inevitably going to lose this argument). Feuilly is sitting with them, doing the reading for one of his classes, and occasionally interjecting to play devil’s advocate. Joly and Bossuet are laughingly sword-fighting with their cutlery, with Combeferre having seemingly been immediately adopted as referee.

Everything begins properly when Enjolras comes back from downstairs, triumphantly clutching his coffee pot, the contents of which he pours into Feuilly’s mug as well as his own. He sets it down in the middle of the table. “Okay,” he says, and Bossuet lets out a wail of distress as his spoon goes soaring out of his hand and ricochets off the wall, knocked free by an undercut from Joly’s fork. Joly, for his part, just puts the fork down and grins winningly at Enjolras, who continues speaking as though none of this had happened. “Courf, Jehan, did you have any luck with advertising?”

“No one seemed to take it particularly seriously,” Courfeyrac offers. “I threw in a little message at the end of my last video, but people either ignored it or made jokes. I think it just sort of came out of left field for people, so they weren’t sure if I meant it.” He offers an apologetic shrug. “I’ll keep trying.”

“I’m not sure people knew what I was asking for,” Jehan pipes up, biting their lip. “Sorry, E.” (Courfeyrac had seen the advertisement, written as a sonnet in the personals section of the paper. He can say with one hundred percent certainty that that’s why no one had responded to it.)

“It’s fine,” Enjolras replies, distractedly. “I actually have news.”

“You’re pregnant.”

“You met your soul mate.”

“You’re marrying your soul mate!”

Enjolras glares slowly from Courfeyrac to Jehan to Marius, and then sighs loudly. “Today, I found out about a woman at our sister school—Taesha Williams—who was raped by her resident advisor at the end of the second summer session. The administration wouldn’t listen when she told them what happened, and were apparently asking her all sorts of invasive questions about what she had been doing, and what she had been wearing. They gave her assailant a verbal slap on the wrist for having relations with one of his residents, but they said because there was no proof that she hadn’t consented, they couldn’t do anything more for her.”

There is silence for a few heavy moments, broken, eventually, by Marius. “Why isn’t anyone talking about this? Why isn’t it on the news or something?”

“The school has apparently been keeping it hushed up. They’ve spoken to newspapers and news stations, but she’s one girl, and apparently it’s just not an interesting enough story.” His voice drips venom. “I don’t know how her family found me, but I got an email from them, telling me—telling us, and several other student groups—that they’re planning a rally on October 25. In the meantime, they’re circulating petitions demanding the arrest of Taesha’s rapist and a re-examination of both schools’ policies regarding sexual assault and violence against women.”

He holds up a sheaf of papers. “They’ll be collecting the petitions at the rally—from what I could see, they reached out to every college and major university in the state, and probably more. The front page of the petition explains in more detail, but that’s the upshot of it.”

He sets it down in the middle of the table; Feuilly pulls it toward him and skims it quickly. “Jesus,” he breathes, flipping past to sign under Enjolras’s name. “Should we be doing advertising for this?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says immediately. “No one I’ve mentioned it to so far today has any idea it’s happening. Most people don’t even know her name.”

Courfeyrac writes his name on the petition and passes it to Jehan. “I can make a video about it when it gets closer.”

“We could also take turns carrying the petition to our classes; I know it’s not much, but we might be able to make announcements about it if we get there early enough. And the faculty might want to get involved if they know that it’s happening.” It’s Combeferre; Enjolras regards him thoughtfully and nods.

“That’s a good idea, especially since not many of our classes or majors overlap.”
“Why don’t we circulate it around as we see each other,” Joly offers. “Give it a couple of days or a certain number of signatures—that might be better—and then give it to the next person you see.”

“Good,” Enjolras says again, distractedly. He’s got the petition back in his hands and is staring down at the story it bears with a look of utmost distaste on his face.

“E,” Courfeyrac says quietly, putting a gentle hand on Enjolras’s shoulder. Enjolras starts and looks at him, and then nods.

“Right. Sorry.” He clears his throat. “Any other ideas?”

“Why don’t we leave it for now,” Bossuet offers, “and give everyone time to process.”

“Sure.” He pushes the petition away again, and Combeferre takes it and puts it carefully into his messenger bag. “The October food drive, then.”

The food drives are easier to talk about, and the rest of the hour passes quickly. As they pack up to go, Combeferre bids a cheerful goodbye to Joly and Bossuet (who are walking out with linked arms) and walks over to talk to Enjolras.

Courfeyrac doesn’t notice for a while, because he’s busy patiently talking Marius through his latest romantic disaster (“well, she didn’t laugh when you ran into the wall, and she did offer to help you if you needed it, so really, it could be worse.”) But then, as they’re walking out…well, then he does. “I’m definitely planning to come back,” Combeferre is assuring Enjolras, in a low voice. “I think groups like this are incredibly important, and it definitely seems like you all have a really great thing going.”

“I’m glad,” Enjolras replies, sincerely. “I wondered what it might look like to a new person—if you have any suggestions, please do feel free to share them.”

“Actually,” Combeferre begins, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips before he speaks, “I don’t want to overstep—”

“Please.”

“I noticed that you didn’t have any women here and…well, to be honest I think it’s seriously limiting the perspective of the group. Especially given what you’re talking about now.”

“I know.” Enjolras sighs, tugging his hands through his hair. “It’s something I’ve been worrying about for a long time, in truth. Sometimes Marius’s friend Éponine joins us, but she’s one person, and she hasn’t been to many meetings. We are working on expanding, but…well, you and Éponine are the only two to have joined us in quite a while.”

Combeferre looks thoughtful.

***

Courfeyrac is at ‘work’ the following Monday, attempting to be an office secretary (he has inadvertently hung up on at least one relatively important person) when he gets a text. I listened to that mix you gave me. It’s amazing.

He glances around; no one is watching and the phones aren’t ringing, so he answers it immediately. Oh, good, I’m so glad you like it!! Do you have a favorite song?

It depends on what I’m doing, I think.

A second text follows quick on the first one’s heels:

I made one for you, by the way. Figured it was only fair. :)

!!!!!!!! Bring it to the meeting on Wednesday???

Of course! It’s really different from yours, but I tried to pick stuff I thought you’d like…

I’m. so. excited. :D

October

Combeferre walks into his second meeting with a jewel case clutched in his right hand, and Grantaire. Grantaire, who stands just slightly behind him, a beanie crushing his riot of dark curls, hands crammed into the pockets of a red hoodie so well-loved that it has faded practically to pink. There’s a smear of green paint drying on his left cheek, and he gazes around the café like he isn’t sure what he’s doing here.

“Oh, I see,” says Éponine loudly, from where she sits in the corner with her feet kicked up on the table. It’s the first time she’s been since school started up again; Courfeyrac wonders if she’d come because she’d known Grantaire would be here. “I tell you to come, you laugh in my face. Combeferre tells you to come, and here you are.”

Unperturbed, Grantaire slouches further into the café. “Ponine. Darling. Combeferre asked me—you woke me up from a nap and threatened me with bodily harm. I had to refuse on principal.” He grins, having reached her table, and ruffles her hair. “Besides, now that there are two of you kidnapped to join the land of ridiculous idealism, I had to join you. For your safety. To make sure this wasn’t some sort of weird-ass cult or some shit.”

“You’re an asshole,” she snaps, shoving him. (Her lips twitch, and when he shoves her back she ends up nestled under his arm.)

Combeferre starts the meeting by quickly introducing Grantaire to everyone, in case he hasn’t managed to get around to everyone himself. Courfeyrac takes the opportunity to bounce over and hug them both hello.

(If he were able to see Grantaire while hugging him, he’d have noticed that the guarded look in his eyes flickers, briefly, to be replaced by one of warm surprise. He would also have noticed the way Combeferre’s breath caught slightly, the way he’d tensed a moment before relaxing into Courfeyrac’s exuberant embrace.) For his part, Combeferre beams and presses the CD into Courfeyrac’s hand when he’s been released.

Content now that he’s greeted everyone, Courfeyrac returns to his seat, cradling the CD protectively, and watches Grantaire get to know everyone. He seems to fall in with Joly and Bossuet immediately, who are already playing some kind of drinking game with him that involves arm wrestling and a whole lot of laughter. Feuilly and Éponine are talking quietly in the corner, their heads bent close together, and Jehan is showing something to Combeferre and Enjolras, the latter of whom nods, checks his watch, and pushes back his chair to stand.

“Okay,” he begins. “So where are we on things?”

“I have poster sketches,” Feuilly offers, pulling out a few sheets of paper. “There are three different ones, and they’re all rough drafts, but I figured everyone could take a look throughout the meeting.”

“Oooh, yes,” says Jehan eagerly. “And like I was saying, I have the petition—someone else take it from me.”

“I had a look and we actually did pretty well. We have time, though—we should pick a goal. Does a thousand seem reasonable?”

“A thousand what?” Grantaire demands, and Enjolras slides a cool look at him.

“Signatures. On the sexual assault petition.”

“Right, Combeferre told me about that. I signed it, actually. But…well, I mean, it’s a petition, and if the school hasn’t been listening, do you really think something like that’s going to make a difference?”

“Why wouldn’t it?” Enjolras demands hotly.

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “Uh, because since when do authority figures look at shit like that and go, ‘oh! We’ve been so blind!’”

“People will listen. The more people care, the more we can push the issue until we find a way to make them listen. The petition is the first step.”

“And you think shoving a petition in people’s faces is going to make them care?”
“Who wouldn’t care about something like this?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, I never said that. But you’re assuming they’ll actually read it, and not just sign it to stop you badgering them.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Enjolras says stubbornly. “Even if that’s true, their names are still on the petition, and it’s still a jumping off point. Maybe the next time they hear something about it, they’ll remember having seen it before and start listening, even if it’s just out of curiosity.” Grantaire snorts loudly, bringing Enjolras up short. “Is there some sort of problem?” he asks, in an icy tone that makes even those who know him feel about two inches tall.

Grantaire, conversely, just stretches catlike and continues looking completely unimpressed. “Well, yeah, I mean…I just don’t see the point of any of this.”

“The point of what? Of caring?”

He appears to be considering this. “No, not caring. Of trying to force it on people who don’t.”

“Are you saying you don’t care?”

“Of course I fucking care about it, it’s absolutely not okay and this guy needs to be fucking neutered immediately, but I’m just saying, the vast majority of the student body is not listening.”

“What’s your brilliant suggestion, then? That we do nothing?” Grantaire doesn’t answer immediately; Courfeyrac has never actually seen Enjolras’s face turn that red. He knows he should probably speak up, but he just finds himself sort of tilting his head to one side and wondering idly if it’s possible for steam to actually start billowing from someone’s ears.

“No one is asking you to stay,” Enjolras hisses. “In fact, Grantaire, I’m beginning to think that it would be best if—” Fortunately, before he can finish the sentence, Éponine has stood, her chair screeching back loudly, and stormed over to snatch the sheaf of pages from Enjolras’s hand.

“You’re both acting like fucking toddlers and it’s a waste of time,” she snaps. “And you all need to get your heads out of your asses.” Her voice cuts like steel. “Let me ask you an extremely personal question, since we’re apparently doing this: do you have any idea what it’s like to feel that violated? To go to someone you should be able to trust and have that thrown in your face, and to find yourself put right back in the situation where you were violated in the first place?”
She waits.

It is dead silent.

“I thought so,” she says grimly. “Look, I appreciate that you have your preachy male savior bullshit going on in this room, and I appreciate that you deigned to bestow your attention on a woman of color for what is probably the only time in the entire existence of this group, but you’re not thinking. Posters and petitions are fine, but they are not enough. You have no idea what this is like, you have no idea what this woman went through, and you have no idea how to reach other women to tell them about it. You have to be fucking careful.”

The silence stretches on, and finally Marius ventures, “What should we do?”

She shakes her head. “Maybe start by making this a safer space for women, and stop pretending you have all the goddamn answers.”

She tucks the petition carefully between the pages of her textbook and tosses her head, fixing a vicious glare on Enjolras. “Was there something else you wanted to talk about?”

Taking the hint, Enjolras quickly switches tacks to discuss the upcoming food drive.

This, too, seems to draw Grantaire’s disdain; and Enjolras finally snaps.

“Well then what do you think people will care about more?”

“I can make you a list,” Grantaire offers, tossing it off in conversational blandness. “In no particular order: food. Parties. Sex. Paying their rent. Alcohol. Doing just well enough in classes not to actually fail. Sometimes, actually doing well in their classes.” He breaks off and makes a show of looking thoughtful. “Oh, sleep. I forgot about sleep.”

“You took a nap literally this afternoon,” Éponine says dryly, unimpressed. He presses a squelching kiss to her cheek.

“You’re right. And it was perfect.”

“Is that really what you think?” Enjolras demands. “That people don’t care about anything that doesn’t directly affect their day to day lives?”

“Uh, yeah.” He drains what remains in his bottle. “Be realistic, Apollo. Hierarchy of needs, dude—people wanna take care of their own shit before they worry about anyone else.”

Enjolras lifts one eyebrow. “Alcohol and parties are part of the hierarchy of needs now?”

“Technically,” Bossuet puts in, “parties and drinking can contribute to friendship, as long as they’re done in moderation and aren’t putting anyone in danger…so you could actually make that argument, yeah.”

Grantaire laughs and slaps Bossuet familiarly on the back. “I knew I liked you.”

“So you agree with him, then?” You have to know Enjolras well to see the betrayed look in his eyes—otherwise, his expression is utterly impassive. But Courfeyrac has known him for basically his entire life; he bites his lip and starts trying to figure out how to fix this when it inevitably goes south.

“That’s not what I’m saying, E,” Bossuet says patiently. “I just think he has a good point. People do tend to worry about themselves first. Generally.”

“So what do you suggest we do, then?”

“I don’t know.” He bites his lip.

“Why don’t we wrap it up for today,” Courfeyrac interrupts, because if this doesn’t end soon everything is going to disintegrate completely. They’re all still shaken up from earlier, and pushing things further is going to hurt more than it helps. Courfeyrac has gotten good at knowing his limits, as well as Enjolras’s. It’s time.

People are still leaving when Enjolras approaches Grantaire and snaps, “You don’t have to come back, if you find our mission so distasteful.”

Grantaire tips an imaginary hat, beaming cheerfully. “And miss seeing the look of disgust on your gorgeous face every time I open my mouth? Not. A. Chance.” And he promptly offers his arm to Éponine, throwing a quick “see you at work” to Combeferre, who appears to be lingering.

As he had clicked with Courfeyrac, Combeferre seems to be fitting in with the rest of them as though he’s always been there. He is, it turns out, exactly what their group needs. He is rational where Courfeyrac can be overly excitable; calm in the face of Enjolras’s constant fire. They’re quickly on their way to becoming great friends. On this particular day, the three of them linger in the café long after everyone else has left, just to talk. Combeferre, it turns out, agrees with Enjolras in most things, but is also rather calmer about it. Where Enjolras would stop at nothing to achieve his goals, Combeferre seems more likely to consider all sides of things; to think about how people will react, and how to avoid the sort of major trouble they have often found themselves in. He also happen to share an affinity for truly terrible science and math related puns and (unlike Enjolras) pick-up-lines. (Courfeyrac isn’t sure whether to laugh or groan.) They’re in the café until it closes, debating everything from educational philosophy to institutionalized racism and sexism, and all of them have forgotten about life and obligations entirely until Madame Houcheloup nearly turns the lights out on them. They part with regret, promising that they’ll get together again on Friday to ‘help’ Courfeyrac with his video and hang out outside of the café for once.

***

Enjolras shows up first because of course he does. Enjolras’s internal clock runs at least fifteen minutes ahead of everyone else’s—if he isn’t early, something is wrong.

Courfeyrac is in the main room when he lets himself in, playing short clips for Marius and quizzing him eye-doctor style: “One or two? Two or three? Two or four?” and so on. Marius, for his part, is sitting very close, leaning in as though being mere centimeters away from the screen will improve his ability to decide which clips go together best. He answers with confidence each time, munching absently on a handful of chips while being interrogated. Enjolras pours himself a glass of water and ambles over to join them on the couch, adding his opinion to Marius’s with no other preamble or greeting of any kind.

Courfeyrac has gotten over half of the video together when Combeferre knocks at the door. “I’ll get it,” Marius offers cheerfully, and goes pounding down the hallway in socked feet. They can hear him by the door, greeting Combeferre and informing him comfortably that Courfeyrac “would totally have answered the door only he’s literally in the middle of editing footage. Also do you want anything to drink or something?”

“Oh my God,” Courfeyrac mutters, shaking his head fondly. (Combeferre declines politely and makes small talk with Marius as he follows him into the room.) “Hi!” he adds. “I didn’t mean to be rude, I promise, I just had to make sure it would transfer over properly.”

“Not a problem at all.” Combeferre is looking around, curious and interested, and Courfeyrac is very glad he had thought to vacuum and put away the enormous pile of clean laundry that had been sitting on the chair in the corner. “Wow. This is really nice. Very homey.”

“Oh, thanks!” Courfeyrac beams. “My older sister does interior design, so she’s pretty much entirely responsible for everything.”

“Wow.” Combeferre looks impressed. “That’s great, I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“He has three, actually,” Enjolras says, absently gesturing toward a problem with one of Courfeyrac’s transitions. “Two of them are twins.”

They’re sophomores in high school,” Courfeyrac pipes up, brow furrowing as he works to fix the problem. “Am pretty sure they will be the reason I go prematurely gray.”

Combeferre snickers. “You’ll definitely have to tell me stories one of these days. The both of you.”

“There are thousands,” says Courfeyrac darkly. “Also, please sit. Make yourself comfy, I’m gonna feel bad about it if you’re uncomfortable.” Obediently, Combeferre drops into the nearest chair.

“Oh. Hey.” Enjolras brightens suddenly, sitting up straighter. “Listen, I was thinking about what you said at the café the other day, and I think you’re right…a huge part of the problem is that people don’t notice the systematic oppression of others exactly because it is systematic, and—”

It’s at exactly this point that Courfeyrac tunes out, continuing to shift things and edit clips, posing questions now for the room as a whole. Marius remains patiently, painfully sincere in his careful choosing of what he believes to be the best choice, and intermittently talks under his breath to Courfeyrac about how Cosette (the perfect angel in his creative writing class) had presented one of her short stories today and he’s pretty sure she’s actually a genius. Enjolras and Combeferre offer their opinions as well, but in between they’re still talking about institutionalized racism and the wage gap, turned toward each other and talking impossibly fast. On at least three separate occasions, Courfeyrac hears them start to say the same thing, or to finish the other’s sentence as he searches for the word or phrase he’s looking for. He half wishes he had turned on the camera again just to record it; he’s sure it’s a lot funnier than he can appreciate at current.

“Not to interrupt your plans to take over the universe,” he says finally, “but I just gotta record one more quick thing…you can be in it if you want.”

“Do we have to talk?” asks Combeferre, and Courfeyrac shakes his head.

“Nah, I’ll just pan over you real quick.”

They all exchange a look, shrug. “Sure,” says Enjolras finally.

Courfeyrac readjusts his position so that he’ll be able to see them more easily. “Marius, you too!” he adds, cheerfully. “Squish in!” When he has done so, leaning so far over that he’s practically in Combeferre’s lap, Courfeyrac clears his throat melodramatically, and hits record. “Also, if you’re not terribly busy this Wednesday at seven, stop by the Café Musain. I’ll be there with some friends,” (here he pans over them as promised, and Marius beams and waves shyly at the camera) “doing the activism thing…if that’s your gig, come check us out. We’d love to have you!”

He shuts off the camera, adds the clip, and begins the process of uploading the video. Free to socialize at last, he gets up and joins everyone on the couch, at which point Marius remembers that he was supposed to meet up with a few people from his history class to work on a project and excuses himself, muttering under his breath frustratedly as he goes.

“Poor Marius,” Courfeyrac sighs, shaking his head slightly. “He’d lose his head if it wasn’t attached.”

Enjolras snorts quietly.

“Also!” He snaps his fingers, abruptly remembering. “Apparently I’m going to be working at a horse farm this week!”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Do you know anything about horses?”

“Not a damn thing,” he says, delightedly.

“How did that happen?” Combeferre asks, looking vaguely concerned.

“Some girl in one of my classes lives on a horse farm and I mentioned I was running out of options. Maybe they’ll let me ride one.”

“Oh, God, if they do, please make sure you put that in the video,” says Enjolras mirthfully.

Courfeyrac pouts. “Are you implying I’d be bad at riding horses, Enjolras? I will have you know that animals and small children always love me. Always.”

“Are we not remembering that time Jehan was watching their neighbor’s Pomeranian?”

“We do not speak of that,” Courfeyrac hisses, and Combeferre, who had just taken a sip of water, almost chokes.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“There are exceptions to every rule,” Courfeyrac continues, in a voice of great dignity. “And that was the dog from hell. Now I understand how Angel felt about that Akita.”

“Evita?” Combeferre offers, with a small smile, and Courfeyrac instinctively grabs his hand.

“You know Rent,” he says, rapturous.

“Please don’t sing,” Enjolras pipes up. “I’m talking about the time with the Pomeranian so that Combeferre doesn’t feel left out of the conversation, and I really, really would appreciate it if you did not use this as an excuse to turn this evening into a cabaret.”

“Combeferre, do not let him do this to me.”

“As interested as I am in hearing you sing the entirety of ‘La Vie Boheme’ as a solo, I’m curious now,” he says, half apologetic and half amused, and Courfeyrac huffs and relinquishes his grip to sag back against the couch cushions again.

“It’s not my fault that dog was begotten directly from Satan’s loins,” he grumbles. “It liked everyone but me. Animals never like Enjolras, but this one was obsessed with him. And it barked every. Single. Time. I moved.”

“At one point he got up to get food or something and it attached itself to the leg of his jeans,” says Enjolras, eyes misting over in amusement.

“It also piddled on my shoe.” He folds his arms, pouting. “I liked those shoes.”

“They were orange sneakers.”

“They were salmon. And they were comfortable.”

To his credit, Combeferre looks like he’s trying very hard to walk the line between amused and sympathetic, but there’s no denying that the mental image of an evil Pomeranian is a hilarious one. So really, Courfeyrac can’t even be mad when he ends up bursting out laughing.

“Ah, well,” he sighs, “there are exceptions to every rule, I guess.” He lets silence fall again, and then makes his move. “Did you know there’s a brony documentary on Netflix instant play?” he asks, and Enjolras turns to him with the kind of horrified expression normally reserved for one who has just found a cockroach in their salad. (Combeferre snorts loudly and presses his hands to his mouth, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.)

“Excuse me?”

“Brony culture,” says Courfeyrac mock-seriously, “is a very legitimate subspace, Enjolras.”

“Why,” Enjolras wails, “do you insist upon telling me things like this when you know I’m going to have to watch it now?”

“Because I needed to share my pain,” Courfeyrac replies, cheerful. “And because you told the Pomeranian story.”

“I think this is going to require sustenance,” says Combeferre seriously. They order Indian takeout—another of Combeferre’s secret places, given that Enjolras and Courfeyrac mostly just go to the Musain or the Corinth—and cue up the documentary.

It is every bit as ridiculous as promised, and Enjolras nearly upends his food several times when his exclamations get a little too vehement. They follow it up with a two-part mermaid documentary; Marius rejoins them for the latter half and spends most of the time posing well-meaning but ultimately oblivious questions that Combeferre, bless him, answers with perfect patience.

“You can stay if you want,” Courfeyrac offers, when they’ve finished and a glance at the clock reveals it to be nearing midnight. “Enjolras is.”

“I would,” says Combeferre apologetically, “but I have volunteering in the morning, early. Thank you so much, though. This was fantastic.”

“It was,” Courfeyrac agrees, bounding to his feet to give Combeferre a goodbye hug. “Have fun volunteering, see you at the Musain!” Combeferre bids a similar goodbye to Marius and Enjolras (the latter of whom actually hugs him. Courfeyrac beams like an idiot; he loves when friends from different areas of his life click like this) and disappears.

“I like him,” says Enjolras, when Combeferre has gone. “I think he was exactly what we needed.”

“Agreed. And it’s good to have Éponine back…”

“Combeferre was right, we definitely need her opinions, especially with what we’re doing right now. Do you think he asked her to come?”

“He may have. They do work together. But I know he did bring Grantaire, so I thought maybe she’d decided to come because she knew he’d be there. They seem close.” He’s taken the conversation in a risky direction, and he knows it.

Enjolras scoffs. “I don’t expect him back.”

You didn’t see the way he looked at you when he thought no one else could see him. “We shall see,” Courfeyrac says instead, lamely.

“I guess we will.” The conversation shifts then, and remains nebulous and mostly lighthearted; they’ve both had a rather long week, and it’s not long before they’re both drifting off on their respective seats, Courfeyrac choosing proximity to his friend over the comfort of his bed.

***

The coffee shop video has one of Courfeyrac’s most successful opening weekends, racking up tens of thousands of views and up-votes in only two days. By Wednesday, he’s beyond excited to see if his little postscript had had any impact on his viewers. And, as it turns out, he has reason to be.

“What is this?” Enjolras murmurs, in some awe, looking at the crowd outside of the Musain.

“I knew the vlog would be a good idea,” Courfeyrac murmurs, elbowing him playfully. Enjolras beams, and they walk up to the café together.

“A lot of them look young,” Enjolras mutters in some concern, as they get closer.
It takes about five more seconds before Courfeyrac is spotted and, immediately, all hell breaks loose. The new people look young because they are; most of the ones who have come are either from the nearby high school, or underclassmen from the university for whom the novelty of Courfeyrac’s internet fame has not in any way worn off. He’s mobbed in seconds, girls (and some guys) laughing and batting their lashes and asking him question after question about the vlog and his life and nothing at all related to the group.

Enjolras, to his credit, puts up with this for a good few minutes. Then, clearing his throat, he says loudly, “Courfeyrac, I’m going to go inside and get the meeting started.”

“I’ll be right in,” he says, and flashes his audience an apologetic grin. “So sorry, everyone, but we’ve got to get started. Come on in if you want—our meetings are a lot of fun, and they’re really informative.” And he promptly turns and walks into the café, where he drops into his normal seat beside Enjolras.

Grantaire is the only one not there yet; Enjolras watches the clock impatiently and makes an annoyed sound when the flood of people enters the café and settles, giggling and chatting. Seconds after the meeting is set to begin (Enjolras still waiting with clenched jaw), Grantaire walks in. The man who walks in with him is wearing the brightest coat Courfeyrac has possibly ever seen, and given some of the things Jehan has left the house wearing, that’s saying something. He’s also enormous, with dreadlocks and a slashing scar across his eyebrow that promises to have an excellent origin story. He’s laughing when he walks in, shrugging out of the coat to reveal a black muscle shirt and arms covered by tattoo sleeves. “This is Bahorel,” says Grantaire casually, as though he hasn’t just brought Conan the Destroyer into the little café. “He got bored, so I brought him with me.”

“One of the many perils of refusing to declare a major,” he announces, seeming completely unfazed. “There’s nothing to fucking do.”

“Eh, don’t worry about it. I major in shapes and colors, so.” Grantaire shrugs, and then turns his attention back to the rest of the group. “Also I told him there was a relatively decent chance that at some point he’d get to be part of a riot, so don’t disappoint.” No one seems quite sure if he’s joking, but Bahorel smiles in a way that shows way too many teeth and sits, kicking his feet up on the chair across from him.

“I’m down for whatever.”

“At the moment, our focus is on the upcoming rally for Taesha Williams, with a secondary focus on a canned food drive.”

“Because of Halloween,” says Grantaire dryly, and then returns to carving something in the already scarred wood of the table where he’s sitting.

“It’s not,” Enjolras snaps. “We host one once a month. Hunger isn’t a problem that only affects people around major consumer holidays.”

“Question for you, Apollo—has anyone besides your merry band ever donated to your little food drives?”

“As you’ve now come back to waste a second hour of your life arguing with me about things for no reason, I think you’re well on your way to becoming part of the ‘merry band,’” Enjolras snaps. “And for your information, yes. Lots of people donate.”

“Let me rephrase,” Grantaire drawls. “Has anyone besides your merry band actually voluntarily approached you to donate food, or do you literally go pounding down everyone’s doors once a month?”

Enjolras is so infuriated by this that his mouth works soundlessly for a few seconds, which gives Combeferre the opportunity to clear his throat and offer, “Either way, I’m sure none of us would deny that hunger is certainly a problem that needs solving, and that every little bit that people do to help is a good place to start.”

Everyone’s attention snaps to Combeferre, and Joly actually lets out a quiet sigh of relief. “Anyway,” Bossuet cuts in cheerfully. “I know you wanted to start with the rally. I’ve got the petition on me now. We’ve managed to get up to over three hundred signatures.” (Enjolras tosses his head and fixes Grantaire with a glare that very clearly says, see? Grantaire rolls his eyes and huffs under his breath—there are thousands of people at this university, Enjolras. )

“I don’t know about that, let me see,” Bahorel pipes up, and Bossuet passes it over. He scans it quickly, makes the requisite sounds of disgust, snags a pen out from behind Grantaire’s ear and scrawls his name on it before passing it back. “That’s fucked up,” he says frankly. “What’s the plan?”

“Actually, I just got an update from the people who are running it. It’s not really our event, but I know that the intent is to keep it peaceful. They’ve reached out to a bunch of different organizations on both campus and throughout the community and given us all petitions…at the rally, we’re going to hand them in with however many signatures we’ve managed to collect, and there will be speeches about what happened her and similar things that other people have experienced. I don’t know much else, but they did say they wanted to keep it going as long as possible.”

“Um, ‘scuse me?” The girl who had spoken looks like she’s maybe fifteen. She’s chewing gum and holding up her hand like she’s waiting to be called on. Marius smiles at her and makes some sort of encouraging ‘go on’ gesture. “I don’t really know what you’re talking about?”

“Oh!” Bossuet gets up again, his chair scraping slightly on the floor. “Here, take this—the front page explains everything.” She thanks him and he returns to his spot.

“So we’re going just to be there?”

“In a basic sense. We’re showing our support. If we make enough noise, someone’s got to listen.” Grantaire snorts, but says nothing; Bahorel appears to consider this, and then shrugs.

“Sounds cool.”

From there, they move to the food drive; Enjolras has gotten lists of things that the three nearest homeless shelters need, and he distributes these to everyone, including the people still sitting in the back. There’s still an enormous stack of extras, and Jehan mutters something about getting the environment on their list of causes before it’s too late.

“I was thinking we could put these up around campus,” Enjolras says, “anywhere you can think of. That way people are aware and can start buying things for the drive when they go out for their own grocery shopping. Remember, the collection ends on Halloween, and we’ll make the rounds the next night.”

The meeting wraps relatively quickly after that, and Bossuet gets his petition back from the girls, who take the opportunity to return to staring and giggling about Courfeyrac. It seems, though, that throughout the course of the meeting, some of them have transferred their affection to Enjolras as well; but most of them sign the petition, and some even take fliers to distribute.

***

“I had no idea they’d be so young,” Courfeyrac laments. “I don’t even know if most of them were in college.”

“It’s not a problem if they want to come to meetings,” Enjolras says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “They actually did contribute—a lot of them signed the petition and took fliers—but I’m just concerned about them coming to events, given past experience.”

“Yeah. I mean, I feel bad turning people out, but—” groaning, Courfeyrac presses his fingers to his temples. “Okay, serious question: can we, and should we even, try to find a way to keep people who are under eighteen away?”

Enjolras closes his eyes. “My first instinct is to say yes. But if there are younger people who are interested in the cause, can we really tell them they aren’t allowed to participate?”

“I don’t like the idea,” Courfeyrac admits.

“Nor I,” Combeferre pipes up. “But it’s also a matter of their safety. Physically, and legally. If we could come up with something else for them to do, I think that would be ideal. Something to keep them involved without getting into the potentially problematic parts.”

“There’s also the issue of sorting out who actually wants to be here from who’s coming to stare at Courfeyrac for an hour and then leave. No offense,” adds Joly, looking apologetic.

“It’s not just me they’re staring at,” Courfeyrac replies, playfully defensive. “I don’t know if you all realize this, but we are some deeply attractive people. I mean, damn.”

“I had a thought,” says Jehan suddenly, cutting across the lewd comments everyone else is starting to make. “What if we started doing different types of events?”

“I thought that was exactly what we weren’t doing,” Marius interjects skeptically, “because we’re trying to see what other people wanted?”

“And we still can, because that was brilliant.” Jehan tips an imaginary hat to Feuilly. “But. We’ve been very cause-oriented—protests and riots and things that scare people and make them uncomfortable. We all have different skills, right? We could do sort of master classes. A half hour on the week’s topic, and the other half is our normal meeting. Or, an hour and an hour. We can play with the scheduling if we decide it’s a decent idea.”

“That’s good,” says Feuilly thoughtfully. “That’s really good, especially if we don’t limit ourselves to the sorts of things we’ve been doing in the past. Then we can see which of our meetings are well-attended and which aren’t, and we can start taking suggestions at them. We could make a box or something for people to drop ideas into, because we all know if we ask for responses out loud we’ll either get nothing or never leave.”

Enjolras is starting to perk up. “Courf and Jehan, would you mind continuing with your advertising? And—maybe we could have different posters each week.” He looks around. “Feuilly, Grantaire, is that something you two would be willing to do?”

Grantaire starts. “Me?”

“Yes. You.” Enjolras furrows his brow. “You don’t have to, but you’re an artist, aren’t you? I thought it might be something you’d like to do.”

“I…could, yeah. Feuilly, you mind sharing the job?”

“Not at all. It’d be nice, especially since we have that rally to advertise as well.”

“Great.” Enjolras tosses back the rest of his coffee and looks around. “Does anyone have any thoughts? Anything they’d be comfortable teaching?”

“Women’s self-defense,” says Éponine instantly. She elbows Bahorel. “You could be my lovely assistant.” There’s a fire in her eyes that defies anyone to tell her no, an immediate sense that she has guarded herself.

“Fuck yes,” says Bahorel instead. “I’m in.”

“Excellent.” Enjolras flips to a fresh page in his notebook and scribbles this down. “Anyone else have ideas?”

Thoughtful silence. As they ponder, Courfeyrac wanders over and adjusts his camera carefully, and Enjolras turns to Éponine. “How long do you think you need to prepare something?”

“I don’t.” She tosses her head, looking fierce. “I know what I know.”

“Could you do it next week?”

“Not a problem.”

“Grantaire and I can design the posters by…” Feuilly looks to Grantaire, questioningly. “Saturday afternoon?”

A shrug. “Sure, why not?”

“Does anyone want to see them before we put them up?”

“Why? We trust you,” Courfeyrac says cheerfully, clapping each on the shoulder.

“Although,” Bossuet pipes up, “we’d be more than happy to help you put them up.”

“That’d be great. We’ll let you know,” says Feuilly, flashing him a smile.

“I’ll mention something on the vlog, too, Ponine.” She gives him a double thumbs up and blows him an exaggerated kiss.

“What are you doing for the vlog this week, by the way?” asks Combeferre eagerly, leaning forward.

Courfeyrac tilts his head toward the back of the room, where his recording equipment is all set up. “I didn’t have anything figured out, so I’m doing a day-in-the-life kinda thing, as long as it’s okay with everyone. Also, I thought maybe if people saw what we actually do here, we’d get more people.”

Enjolras lifts his head. “Actually…would you possibly be able to keep doing that?”

“Doing—what, exactly?”

“I’m not asking you to completely rework your vlog. I just thought maybe if we had our own, separate one, it would really help us get the word out.”

“We could,” Courfeyrac murmurs, thinking. “I can’t promise how successful it will be, but I can—at least at first—connect the new vlog to the one that’s currently, like, paying me, and then hope that it works.”

“Should we vote on it?”

“If we do, I think it should be by secret ballot,” says Combeferre. “If anyone is uncomfortable, you can vote as you wish without being afraid of what anyone else might say in response.” He looks around. “Two thirds plus one to pass, or unanimous?”

“Personally, I think unanimous,” Courfeyrac pipes up. “Doing this one time on my vlog is different, and I don’t want anyone to be uncomfortable. Also, by the way, if you don’t want to be in the video I’m shooting right now, come tell me that after and I’ll find a way to keep you out of it. Which is still going to be true if we end up making a separate vlog—you never have to be in any specific video. I won’t judge.” Scattered murmurs of assent, and Jehan starts ripping up a sheet of paper so that they can all have a ballot.

“Okay, so our vote is on whether we want to have a weekly vlog that showcases what we do. Vote yes or no—anything else you write will count automatically as a negative. And when you’re voting, keep in mind that if you don’t want to be in any particular video, you can always speak to Courfeyrac about it.”

There is dead silence for at least thirty seconds. Bahorel makes a face. “What the fuck are you all staring at?”

“We’ve just never heard you sound so professional before,” offers Jehan, shrugging.

Bahorel rolls his eyes and stuffs a forkful of pasta into his mouth, but his lips are quirked up slightly in the corners.

“I’ll collect your ballots,” offers Bossuet, folding his own paper in half and pulling off his woven beanie to put it inside.

“Do you mind counting them as well?” asks Enjolras.

Bossuet shakes his head, grinning, and turns to Joly. “Will you be my second?”

“I’d be honored,” Joly replies, intentionally melodramatic, and in minutes they’re sweeping out of the room to count.

In their absence, everyone falls into casual chatter, and Combeferre wraps a gentle hand around Courfeyrac’s wrist to get his attention. Courfeyrac turns to him inquisitively, and Combeferre bends close to murmur, “Will you be alright, running an extra vlog on top of everything else? Will you need any help?”

“I’d welcome ideas for next week, but other than that, I should be okay.” He presses Combeferre’s hand gently. “Anyway, Jehan usually helps me edit; and I wouldn’t want to be the cause of your getting less sleep than you already do.”

“It wouldn’t be a problem,” says Combeferre, painfully sincere; and Joly and Bossuet come running in to announce breathlessly,

“It passed!”

“Excellent,” says Enjolras briskly. “Brainstorm ideas for what we should be doing next, and please don’t forget, we want to have a good presence at the rally next weekend…do what you can to get the word out.” He glances around. “Any further business?”

No one speaks, so they adjourn, which basically just means most of them stay to talk and drink, but it’s not official anymore.

Grantaire is whispering heatedly in a corner with Éponine, glancing none-too-secretly at Enjolras whenever he thinks no one is looking. It’s at times like these that it’s good that Enjolras is way more oblivious than the normal human, because he’s heading over to Grantaire right now, not noticing that Grantaire nearly chokes on his own tongue at the realization that he’s on his way.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” Enjolras says stiffly. “I know Feuilly has been really busy lately, and I’m sure he’ll appreciate the help.”

“Uh. No problem,” Grantaire manages. “One question: how did you know I did art?”

“You mentioned something last week to Bahorel.” He shrugs. “I just remembered.”

“I’m honored,” he drawls, lifting a sardonic eyebrow so that it sounds like a lie. “I am surprised you didn’t want to see any of my work though.”

“Why?” Enjolras asks, almost dismissively. “I don’t know anything about all that; you do. Ergo, no need for me to see anything.”

“Did you just say ergo?”

“I did, yeah.” Enjolras pauses a moment, and then smiles a little. “It’s possible that that was slightly ridiculous.”

“Maybe slightly.” Grantaire smiles, the kind of bright grin Enjolras has rarely, if ever, seen directed toward him.

Enjolras stands silent for a moment, and then, abruptly, says, “Well, thanks again,” and turns on his heel to walk away.

***

Unsurprisingly, women’s self-defense is a popular topic. Despite the class being at a relatively inconvenient time in the middle of the week, about a dozen women and girls, including Musichetta, have turned up to participate, and more had sent messages to the Éponine—whose contact information had been on the fliers—to ask if she would be having another class, or if the information would be available anywhere. (On learning this, Enjolras had been smug about his vlog idea for at least a day. He had also complimented the posters effusively, and then gone bright red when Feuilly said, casually, “Oh, they’re R’s…I gave him some ideas, but I ended up having to work a bunch of overtime this weekend and I couldn’t help him.”

“I’m glad you like them, Apollo,” Grantaire had muttered, not meeting his gaze. If he had, maybe he would have noticed the way Enjolras was looking at him—like he’d never seen him properly before.)

When the clock turns to seven and Éponine gives him a nod, Courfeyrac claps and steps forward from where he’d been fiddling with the camera. “Hi everyone! So, it’s great to have you all here…before we get started, just a reminder that this class will be recorded for our new vlog; but most of the focus will be up here on Éponine and Bahorel. Let me know if you don’t want to be in it at all, and I will do my absolute best to accommodate you.” Grinning, Courfeyrac accepts a round of polite, lukewarm applause and walks off to the sidelines, where he stands by the cameras so that he can adjust them as the class continues. There, he finds Marius, looking pale and shaky and tugging insistently on Courfeyrac’s coat sleeve.

“You alright?” he mutters. “Did you forget to eat? I’ve got crackers in my bag.”

“That’s her,” says Marius, appearing not to have heard any of this. He’s staring fixedly at a pretty blonde girl who’s standing next to Musichetta. “That’s Cosette.”

“Huh.” Courfeyrac tilts his head, and carefully steers Marius further away from his equipment so that the audio doesn’t pick up their conversation. “She’s lovely. A thought: talk to her, for God’s sake. It’s been weeks. You have the opportunity now.”

“How,” Marius half wails, and Jehan comes bustling over to tow him patiently away, murmuring something that is probably poetic as they go.

Éponine, it turns out, is brilliant at this. Within an hour she’s taught the ten women who turned up for her class not only how to throw proper punches and kicks, she’s also shown them how to turn no fewer than a dozen random, innocuous looking items into weapons. By the end of it, all the men in the room are shifting uncomfortably; they’ve talked about rape culture and violence against women in meetings before, but it’s different, somehow, hearing how pervasive the fear is—alarming to realize that it’s become such a norm that it’s practically expected. And then the class is over and Bahorel is grinning and bruised, and the women are crowding around Éponine to thank her and ask questions.

“Do not be afraid to scream,” she’s saying, in answer to a question Courfeyrac didn’t catch. “Your voice is its own weapon. Scream. Yell. Do what you have to do to attract attention. Someone touches you on the subway, loudly tell him he does not have your permission to put his fucking hands anywhere near you. Don’t be afraid to make a scene if someone is making you uncomfortable.”

Musichetta whoops loudly. “Thank you.”

Éponine smirks slightly and nods at her. “I’m out of time, but if you’re all still interested, maybe we could have another one of these later.”

“And we’re having a meeting now to discuss this weekend’s rally,” says Enjolras. “If you don’t know about it, there’s a petition on the stand by the door that explains everything. Please feel free to sign it, and to stay. It will only be another hour, maximum.”

“If you have any ideas for things you’d like to see discussed at future meetings, tell one of us before you go,” adds Courfeyrac quickly, seeing a few women heading for the door. About half of them leave without bothering, but he does see a tiny brunette mutter something to Jehan that makes them beam and scribble it down on their arm. Musichetta and Cosette stay, as well as a girl Grantaire greets with a huge hug and a peck on the lips, who introduces herself as Floréal. Marius nearly knocks over a chair in his haste to make sure that Cosette has somewhere to sit. If she notices this—which she must have, he’s the approximate color of a tomato—she says nothing but ‘thank you,’ and offers him a sweet smile as she drops into the seat.

“Okay,” says Enjolras, when everyone who wants to leave has done so. “They’ve made final decisions as to the timeline. The rally begins at eight, and will go as long as people are there to keep it going. The speakers will be situated on the steps of the administrative building at our partner school, and any speakers are welcome.

“I thought it would be ideal if we could all get there right at the very beginning and stay as long as we could. There are shuttles every hour between campuses on the weekends, so we’d just have to be on ours by about 7:30. If you can’t make eight, that’s fine, just come whenever you can.”

They keep talking a while, throwing around generalized ideas—at some point, somehow, it’s decided that they should all wear red so that it’s clear they’re all together. Jehan gives a preview of the poem they're planning to recite that makes Cosette cry and Marius drop everything to get her a tissue. They’re all confident as they leave, and Courfeyrac finds himself genuinely hopeful about the weekend’s activities.

“Talk to her,” he hisses again, when he nearly runs into Marius because his roommate is too busy staring at Cosette’s retreating back to remember how walking works. Up ahead, Joly and Bossuet are talking to Musichetta, both staring at her as though the sun shines through her every orifice. “Like they are,” he adds, and Marius pales.

“What do I say?”

“I don’t know, maybe hello? Maybe ‘what made you get interested in the group?’ Maybe ‘how are you doing?,’ or ‘my name’s Marius, what’s yours?’ You have many options, my friend, just pick one.”

The option that Marius chooses is to pull a notebook out of his own backpack and then hurry to catch up with Cosette, asking, “Is this yours? I found it on your table!” His own backpack is still flopping open uselessly; Courfeyrac presses his fingertips to his temples.

Cosette turns, looking surprised. “No, it’s not,” she says, squinting slightly at it. “I can ask around if you like?”

“Uh, no, no, that’s okay,” he says hurriedly. “I’ll just…keep it on me and see if anyone asks about it.”

“Okay.” Courfeyrac can actually see the wheels turning in her head, and he knows Marius is caught. She doesn’t seem to care, though, because she just smiles at him and says,

“I’m Cosette, by the way. Cosette Fauchelevent.”

“My name is Marius Pontmercy,” he manages, and nearly drops his notebook in his haste to shift it so that he can shake her hand.

“It’s really nice to meet you,” she says. “We have creative writing together, don’t we?”

The look that crosses his face is like the sun breaking through the clouds. “Yes! We do!”

She looks, for a moment, briefly uncertain. “Listen, I don’t have a partner for workshop this week yet…”

“I’d love to,” he blurts out, with the kind of guileless certainty that really shouldn’t work, but totally does.

“Perfect!” She glances down at the gold chain-link watch that adorns her wrist. “I hate to go, but I promised I’d study with a friend…I’ll see you tomorrow in class.”

“Great! That’s great. I, um. I’m looking forward to it.”

She glances back as she walks away, finding him still standing there spellbound; and she smiles and goes.

***

That Saturday, Courfeyrac is awake with the sun. Marius is up already, too, brewing coffee and humming cheesy love ballads to himself. (He had come home from creative writing workshop waxing poetic about how Cosette is unfairly, ridiculously talented; how she’d been so impossibly sweet about his writing; how he had managed to make her laugh and oh my God Courfeyrac her laugh is what perfection sounds like. So. It’s safe to say that the thought of seeing her again is enough to give him a frankly ridiculous amount of energy.)

“Good morning,” Marius singsongs, pressing a mug into his hand.

“Good morning.” He tilts his head, amused. “You’re happy.”

“I’m just really excited. I just think this is going to be really great.”

“Really?” He’s teasing, but Marius is too happy to do anything other than nod enthusiastically.

“I can’t wait to see her,” he blurts, and his undrunk coffee nearly sloshes over the edge of his mug.

“Are you going to ask her out?” asks Courfeyrac keenly. “I mean, based on the way she was looking at you and the way you said writing workshop went, I’m pretty confident she’ll say yes.”

“Oh, God, no, I can’t,” he says, wide-eyed. “Are you insane?”

“I’ve been told that, occasionally.” He raises an eyebrow. “Also, just wondering, have you considered that you maybe don’t need caffeine today?”

Marius glances down at his mug as though he’s forgotten about it entirely. “Huh. Maybe I don’t.”

“Definitely,” Courfeyrac corrects, freeing it gently from his hand. “We’ll put the rest of it in thermoses and bring it with us. I’m sure someone’ll want it.”

Enjolras and Combeferre are already there when they arrive, shivering in the chilly morning air. Enjolras is in an enormous bright red hoodie and dark jeans that make Courfeyrac silently pity Grantaire; Combeferre’s concession to ‘everyone wear red’ had been to cram a red knit beanie over his curls. His hands are crammed in his pockets, and he bounces on the balls of his feet, face twisted in a pout. “You look frozen,” Courfeyrac greets, hugging them each. Enjolras is wearing gloves and has his hands wrapped around a thermos of his own, but Combeferre is wearing a jacket that is decidedly not appropriate for the weather.

“I thought it would be warmer,” he says, and Courfeyrac presents him with the thermos of coffee.

“You need this more than I,” he says dramatically.

“Your beauty cannot be spanned by the finite basis of vectors,” he says gravely, and Courfeyrac doubles over in hysterics.

“Did you make that up just now?”

“No,” he says, looking pleased with himself.

“That one was actually pretty good,” Enjolras comments, sipping casually from his own thermos. Combeferre bows.

“Thank you. I’ve been waiting for an excuse to use it.”

“I’m honored.”

The others join them quickly, Éponine and Floréal looking particularly sober. The latter has an enormous red scarf wrapped around her neck and is blowing on her fingers; Grantaire peels off one glove and hands it to her. She laughs, surprised, and kisses him on the cheek as she slips it on, taking his free hand in hers.

The rally starts right at eight. The crowd is fired up in minutes, shouting its collective approval of the men and women who are courageous enough to speak. Some people even sing songs, or recite poetry. Jehan’s poem has changed since they last recited it, and when they speak, Courfeyrac notes with a faint undercurrent of pride that their friends are not the only people dabbing the corners of their eyes. Jehan gets stopped by several people on their way back to rejoin their friends, and they are pink-cheeked but faintly glowing when they finally arrive again.

By late morning, the crowd has nearly tripled in size. Éponine is the next of their group to go up. One moment, she’s talking softly to Floréal, who is holding both her hands and murmuring close to her ear, and the next, she’s up on the steps with a megaphone in her hand.

“Rape and abuse are the only crimes where the victim is blamed,” Éponine shouts. “How many times do we hear someone ask, ‘well, why did she stay?’ Why didn’t she say no? What was she drinking? What was she wearing? Well, here’s my question: why does it matter? I could put a fucking t-bone steak in front of my dog, but if I tell him no, he doesn’t fucking eat it.” The crowd explodes into cheers. Buoyed by their enthusiasm, she pushes on. “We might ask robbery victims if the door was unlocked or the window was open, but that doesn’t make the burglar any less guilty. Murder victims aren’t blamed for not wearing bulletproof vests. There is no reason to blame a woman just because some testosterone driven asshole didn’t understand that he wasn’t entitled to take whatever he wanted, and a person like that should not be allowed to roam the streets, much less keep going to school here. Why the fuck is anything about this acceptable? And why does the administration seem to think it’s okay to cover it all up? No one deserves to be violated that way. I don’t care who you are or what you’ve done, you do not deserve to be raped. We will not be silenced. We will keep shouting until we’ve forced them to listen. No matter what.” She descends the steps again, head held high, and the screaming crowd parts to let her through.

As soon as she’s rejoined them, Cosette approaches her, wide-eyed. “That was amazing,” she says warmly. “It was so brave of you to go up there like that.”

“Yeah, well,” Éponine mutters. “When it’s something you’ve been through, a lot of things start seeming less scary.”

Cosette stops short, looking mortified. “I’m sorry, I—I didn’t know.”

“No, shit, I’m sorry.” Groaning, Éponine drags her fingers through her hair, clutching at it momentarily. “You couldn’t’ve known. And…well, thanks.” Her hands are shaking, and she fumbles to pull a pack of cigarettes out of her purse. Grantaire lights it for her, and she flashes him a grateful look.

The speeches continue. There are bloggers walking around interviewing people, and maybe someone from an actual newspaper. Floréal talks to one of them, and when she looks back at the rest of them there are mascara smudges on her cheeks and her nose is red. No one knows quite what to say—she’d come to Éponine’s class, but she hadn’t spoken much, and only Grantaire and Éponine seem to know much of anything about her. Jehan hands her a pack of tissues and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear comfortingly; Grantaire and Éponine stand on either side of her and put their arms around her waist, and everyone knows better than to ask. They stay a long time, and by the time they leave, the sun is hanging low in the sky.

That week, Joly and Combeferre team up for a first aid and CPR workshop that’s also fairly well attended. Cosette, Musichetta, and Floréal are back, which delights everyone for very different reasons. The rest of the group is new, and some of them even stay to hear Jehan read a newspaper article and a few blog posts—one of which includes portions Floréal’s interview—that had cropped up about the previous weekend’s rally.

(“It’s the worst feeling in the world when someone you’re supposed to be able to trust…when someone who’s supposed to be there for you…takes advantage of you. It’s a violation, it’s horrible. You can’t stop asking yourself if you’d done something to make them think you wanted it. Can’t stop going over every little moment. You see it when you sleep at night sometimes, even. And then you’re scared, and you don’t know how to stop being scared. You can’t stop wondering, what would you do if someone did it again? How would you try to stop it? And…and would it work?
“I hope this rally helps some people realize that things like this are never the victim’s fault. And that it’s never okay to let something like this go unpunished. But please, please, if you’ve been through something like this…please remember that it is not your fault.)

Jehan slips into the seat beside her after he’s finished reading, and reaches out a hand. She puts hers on top of it and squeezes gently.

“Listen,” Musichetta says later, before they all part, “I’m having a Halloween thing—relatively small, relatively chill—and I wanted to invite all of you. Wear costumes if you’re into that, but it’s not, like, a requirement.”

“Is this on actual Halloween?” asks Joly.

“Yeah, starting at nine. There will be a stupid amount of food, and horror movies. It should be a good night.”

“We’re in,” they say in unison, and blush, also in unison. Courfeyrac exchanges amused glances with Combeferre. Cosette hides her enormous grin behind her hand, and Grantaire and Éponine scoff, smirking.

***

They all end up going, because they’re all incredibly codependent already. Most of them have conceded to wearing some sort of costume. Combeferre ends up dressing as Carlos the scientist, which delights both Courfeyrac and Enjolras to no end; Courfeyrac and Marius continue their yearly tradition of digging around in each other’s closets for the most ridiculous things they can find and slap on Hello, my name is… stickers to make sure everyone understands the costumes; Bahorel is dressed as Khal Drogo, which sends Cosette into peals of hysterical giggles, because she’s come as Daenerys Targaryen. (Marius’s face falls.) Jehan, esoterically, dresses as the plague, and Joly and Bossuet come as JD and Turk, grinning and obviously endlessly proud of themselves. Floréal is dressed as Poison Ivy. Everyone else has dressed normally, though Éponine does her makeup dark and vampy, and Grantaire and Feuilly paint bruises and cuts on each other’s faces.

They gather at Enjolras’s first, because it’s the largest, and Cosette convinces everyone to pose for a series of increasingly ridiculous photos before they head out. If it’s strange for Éponine, Combeferre, and Grantaire to be going to their boss’s house for Halloween, they don’t say anything about it. In fact, they seem even more enthusiastic than everyone else.

Musichetta’s house is decorated top to bottom, the porch lined with immaculately carved jack-o-lanterns, and webs hanging from every doorway. There’s music blaring, and some people are already dancing wildly. Others are lingering by the table, enjoying spookily themed food and chatting, somehow. “You’re here,” she yells. She’s dressed as a Greek goddess—Aphrodite, Jehan mouths approvingly, and of course they would know. “Good.” She hugs them each, beaming, and if she lingers slightly longer on Joly and Bossuet, well. Everyone just kind of pretends they don’t notice. “Back in a bit,” she says cheerfully. “Doin’ the hostess thing.” And she promptly sashays away.

Joly and Bossuet take to the dance floor immediately; Bahorel holds out a hand to Cosette and says, dramatically, “Khaleesi? Will you do me the honors?”

She giggles, reddening, and lets him quite literally scoop her off her feet to go dance. Marius, distracted by a conversation with Feuilly about the zombie apocalypse, doesn’t notice for the first song or so that she has disappeared. When he does, his face falls so dramatically that it’s actually funny. He manages to keep up conversation with the others for a while (Jehan is, currently, trying to get people to guess their costume via extremely melodramatic and explicit charades, and so far only Combeferre and Éponine have managed to figure it out.), but when Cosette returns, he quickly walks away, pushing his way through the crowds to get to Grantaire (who is foxtrotting around the perimeter of the room with Floréal) under pretext of sudden, extremely important business.

Cosette, because she is not an idiot, sees through this immediately. “Is he mad about something?”

“Uh…I don’t know?” Courfeyrac offers, because it seems easier than saying I’m pretty sure he’s jealous because Bahorel accidentally dressed up as your fictional husband and then had the nerve to dance with you.

“I’m pretty sure he’s jealous,” Musichetta—who had arrived just in time to see this happen—pipes up.

“Of what? Of Bahorel?”

“Logic has never been Marius’s strong suit,” says Courfeyrac, which means yes.

“…what.” Sighing, she seizes a cookie and bites half of it off, viciously. “He can ask me to dance as well.”

“Of course he can, but he won’t.”

“Why not? Does he not like me or something? Because he’s definitely been acting like he’s interested.”

“Oh, no, he definitely does.”

“Ugh, whatever,” Cosette mutters, popping the last of her cookie into her mouth. “I’m just going to go ask him.”

“You go, girl,” says Musichetta approvingly; and they all watch unabashedly as she clacks her way across the floor toward Marius and taps him on the shoulder. It’s hard to see from such a distance, but what is clear is that he very nearly spills his cup of punch, and then nods so enthusiastically that he looks rather like a bobblehead. Courfeyrac lets out a quiet cheer, and Jehan takes the opportunity to switch from the Monster Mash to some completely random, unrelated sappy love song. “That is not on my party playlist,” Musichetta announces, but she’s grinning.
Marius appears to have absolutely no idea what to do; fortunately for him, Cosette just wraps her arms around his neck and steps into his arms. “It feels really weird watching this,” says Combeferre in a loud stage whisper.

“Maybe you should come dance with me, then,” Courfeyrac suggests, and Combeferre nearly falls over.

“That was almost unfairly smooth,” he accuses, and Courfeyrac smirks and extends a hand. Laughing, Combeferre takes it and allows himself to be spun out onto the dance floor.

“You sure this is okay?” he asks, as they dance.

“Of course.” Combeferre furrows his brow. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Just making sure,” he says, playfully defensive, and Combeferre smiles.

“I’d tell you if you did something that made me uncomfortable. Promise.”

“Good.”

When the song ends, it’s replaced with the Addams Family theme, and Courfeyrac leads Combeferre around the room in a ridiculous parody of a tango that’s got him laughing so hard that Courfeyrac practically has to drag him.

When the novelty of talking and dancing has worn off, those who are left collapse on Musichetta’s various overstuffed chairs and couches and watch horror movies.

Éponine and Grantaire mock them quietly; Cosette, who has situated herself next to Marius, exaggerates her fear so that she has an excuse to squeal and bury her face in his shoulder now and again. For his part, Courfeyrac just settles himself contentedly in between Combeferre and Enjolras, too warm and comfortable to be much bothered to pay attention to the movie. Jehan had chosen to sprawl across the floor near Courfeyrac, so he pets Jehan’s hair absently now and then. Musichetta is settled between Joly and Bossuet, who each have an arm around her and are, as they tend to do, making quiet commentary about each film, laughing appreciatively each time the other makes a joke. Frankly, the whole thing is almost too adorable, and it’s the best Halloween Courfeyrac can remember having in quite some time.

November

Life is oddly quiet after Halloween. It always is—they’ve finally settled into the swing of school, and there’s nothing much to celebrate or do until Thanksgiving. Then, Jehan leads a meeting about the issues faced by people on the queer spectrum, to which they bring their legendary pumpkin fudge. To everyone’s frustration, this is the first meeting in a while that people come with, apparently, the sole intention of arguing and being hurtfully disagreeable. Bahorel almost gets into an actual fistfight with someone who seems to think that slurs are a valid way of referring to any person of a marginalized identity. But there are enough people there who seem genuinely interested both in contributing to the conversation and in being willing to learn that Jehan doesn’t seem too upset. (Bahorel insists upon giving them a ride home that night anyway. “I didn’t like the way that assface was talking to you,” he growls, and Jehan doesn’t argue.)

On one otherwise normal day, as Courfeyrac sits in the library decidedly not procrastinating on an essay, he gets a text from Combeferre.

What are you doing?

Just finished my paper. What’s up?

I was hoping you could come listen to my rep? My teacher’s giving me a mock-jury next week.

Yeah of course. Where will you be?

I’ll meet you in the basement of the music building in five, if that’s okay.

omw :)

Courfeyrac hasn’t had much experience with the music building; it takes him, embarrassingly, longer than it should to figure out where the practice rooms are located. When he finally arrives, slightly breathless, with his backpack slipping off his shoulders, Combeferre is already there, leaning against the wall and looking like the poster child for collegiate overachievement (coffee cup, well-loved sweater, stubble, and dark under-eye bags included). “Sorry, sorry,” he blurts out. “I don’t spend time in here like ever. I got a little lost.”

“No problem.” Combeferre’s answering smile is wan. “Thanks for listening.”

“You kidding? I’ve been dying to hear you play. No pressure though.”

“Duly noted.” They start to walk, Combeferre occasionally pressing his ear to the doors they pass to check if anyone is inside. “Thank you for doing this. I have that exam coming up, and, uh, turns out I freak out whenever someone who isn’t my teacher is in the room, and she was worried about it.” He rubs the back of his neck self-consciously, and Courfeyrac experiences a sudden flood of tenderness.

“I’m more than willing to listen whenever you need ears,” he says, and bumps Combeferre’s shoulder lightly with his own.

Combeferre’s answer is interrupted by the sudden reveal of an empty practice room; he darts through the door immediately, and then deflates. “Oh, no, we got the tiny one.”

Tiny is not even the word. Miniscule, perhaps. The room is positively overwhelmed by the grand piano inside, leaving Courfeyrac with approximately three options: right behind Combeferre, so that he’s sandwiched uncomfortably between him and the door; to his left, between the piano bench and the door; or on top of the piano. “Not a problem,” he says playfully draping himself over the lid. (His sweater rides up slightly, not that Combeferre notices or finds it very difficult to pull his eyes away from the small strip of skin that the motion reveals.)

“I, uh, hate to ruin your fun,” he manages, rather more hoarsely than he’d intended, “but I kind of have to put the lid up.”

“Cool, cool.” Oblivious, careless, he slides down and wanders around to Combeferre’s side. “Is this okay, or will I be in your way?”

“That’s great, that’s probably way better than being behind me. And slightly less terrifying, I guess.”

“What are you playing me?”

“A Rachmaninoff piece and a Debussy etude…I’m going to start with the Debussy, okay?”

“You do you!” he says, cheerfully. “I’m just along for the ride.”

Combeferre sets his hands on the keys, lets his head hang for a moment. He breathes in, and begins to play. It’s beautiful, a profusion of notes that brings him all over the keyboard, fingers dancing through the music. And Courfeyrac immediately forgets to breathe. Combeferre is utterly captivating this way, his eyes closed as he plays, swaying just slightly to his own beat. His hands move with a confident grace that makes it hard for Courfeyrac to tear his eyes away; and he doesn’t dare move until the final note has faded away into silence.

“That was beautiful,” he breathes. “You had nothing to be worried about, Ferre. Wow.”

“That was just the first one,” he says, smiling bashfully. “The Rachmaninoff is giving me a little trouble.”

“Don’t think about it that way,” Courfeyrac offers, resting a gentle hand on Combeferre’s shoulder. “Just…let yourself go in the music the way you did with the Debussy just now, and everything will be fine.”

And he’s right, for the most part. Combeferre gets through the first half with much the same skill and artistry as he had the etude. And then he stumbles, just slightly, his fingers slipping. He lets out a quiet breath and doubles back to fix it, but only moments later his hands are freezing on the keys. He tries again for a few seconds, but Courfeyrac can tell from the way his shoulders are beginning to creep up toward his ears that he’s beginning to panic. “I had it earlier,” he laments. “I knew the whole thing, it was perfect a half hour ago.”

“It’s just me,” Courfeyrac murmurs, soothingly. “I’m not judging you, I never would.”

“I know, it’s not that. It’s just. I just don’t remember what’s supposed to come next.” He buries his head in his hands, pulling at his hair. “I don’t have time for this. I don’t know what to do.”

“I think,” Courfeyrac begins gently, “that it’s possible you’re just pushing yourself too hard.”

“But I have to, or I’ll never pass everything.”

“If you kill yourself in the process, you’re still not going to pass anything,” he reminds him, moving around behind him to place both hands on his shoulders. “You said you had it perfect a half hour ago, and most of what you did for me was exactly that: perfect. So maybe all you need is a little breather and some time away, and we can try it again later in the week.”

Combeferre still hasn’t lifted his head, nor moved, but Courfeyrac can feel the tension literally radiating from his muscles, so he begins gently kneading at them. “Is this okay?”

Combeferre lets out a quiet sound that lies somewhere between a groan and a whimper. Heat rushes through Courfeyrac, and he has to take a second to compose himself. “Yes,” he says, a little more breathlessly than normal, going pliant under Courfeyrac’s hands.

“Let me know if I hurt you,” he says, and if his voice is trembling, neither of them comments on it.

“You won’t,” Combeferre breathes, and groans again as Courfeyrac works a kink out of his shoulder.

It’s impossibly sensual feeling the way that Combeferre relaxes under his careful ministrations; Courfeyrac has always loved taking care of people, but this—this is different. And Combeferre makes these lovely little sounds every time he finds a particularly tense spot. “Oh my God,” he says at one point, with something of a whine. “Do you realize how unfair this is?”

“Unfair? How?”

“Your hands. It’s just not fair, you’ll spoil me.”

“All you ever have to do is ask,” Courfeyrac murmurs; Combeferre turns his head toward him—and the door flies open.

“Shit, shit, sorry,” yelps the person, slamming it shut again. But the moment is shattered. Combeferre clears his throat, ducking his head.

“So anyway, thanks. I…really appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Courfeyrac replies, backing off and wondering why his chest feels slightly hollow.

“Besides, you’re right, I should probably leave this building.”

“Yeah, definitely.” He’s only half-listening. “I…I should be going too. Let me know if you need help again, I am but a text away.” The last is said with his typical dramatic flair, and Combeferre manages a laugh. He shoulders his bag, and they walk out together, parting at the first fork in the path even though Courfeyrac actually has nowhere to be and has very little idea what’s just happened.

***

About halfway through the month, some sort of flu rips through campus with an absolutely terrifying tenacity, leaving students staggering in its wake. It gets Bossuet first, because of course it does. Joly follows only days later; Musichetta, despite spending most of her free time with them now, remains, as ever, flawlessly untouchable. She continues to work full time and take care of them, still showing up for every Musain meeting and working every shift at the coffee shop. She even co-hosts a movie night with Floréal, a film about sex trafficking simply called Trade. The movie leaves everyone who joins them—some of whom have now been to at least one previous event, to Enjolras’s delight—somber and disheartened, but it does seem to get them talking. The bake sale they sponsor the following week brings in over two hundred dollars, even though they’d sold well under that in actual snacks.

Unfortunately, Marius’s immune system, apparently, is not nearly as strong as Musichetta’s. He shuffles into the kitchen one Wednesday morning pale and shivering, sniffling every five seconds.

“You’re plagued,” says Courfeyrac, pointing his spoon at him. “Go back to bed.”

“No’m not,” he argues, and ruins it by sneezing loudly half a second later. “’m fine.”

“You are not,” he says calmly. “Go back to bed, I’ll bring you tea in a few minutes.”

“But—but—“

“If the next words out of your mouth are anything about Cosette, Marius, I will not be responsible for my actions.” Marius snaps his mouth shut and pouts like a petulant toddler. Courfeyrac softens. “I’m sorry. I swear to God, being mad at you is like being mad at a puppy. You just…need to take good care of yourself, okay?”

Marius opens his mouth to respond, and breaks into a coughing fit. “You’re right,” he croaks finally, “I probably shouldn’t go near her like this.”

“Proud of you,” he says, absently blowing Marius a kiss before returning to his breakfast. He drops off a bowl of oatmeal and a mug of tea on his way out the door, after making Marius promise that he’ll text if he needs anything, and that he won’t get out of bed unless it’s absolutely necessary.

“Marius is plagued,” he says dramatically when he walks into the Musain for the meeting. Bossuet and Joly are back, but Grantaire is missing now.

“So’s R,” says Éponine, grimacing. “It’s really bad, he can barely even talk.” She shakes her head. “I think he was starting to get it over the weekend, but he kept trying to argue and tell me he was fine.”

“Is he alone?” asks Enjolras suddenly, surprisingly urgent.

“Yyyeah,” she says, slowly. “He knows how to use a phone, E, I’m pretty sure it’ll be fine.”

He nods, slowly, but he’s frowning.

The quick spread of the illness, of course, sets them all to talking about the state of health care in the country. Enjolras yells a lot, and looks vaguely lost when Grantaire isn’t there to argue. There are petitions, and letters written to government officials that none of them truly believes will read them, but they try anyway.

Cosette, for her part, is much more subtle than Enjolras. As Courfeyrac is packing up to leave, she comes up and puts a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Do you think it would be okay if I stopped by tomorrow or something?” she asks. “I was going to make soup tonight, I could bring some over for Marius.”

“I’m pretty sure he would love nothing better,” Courfeyrac assures her.

This proves to be one hundred percent true. Cosette turns up at their apartment the following evening bearing an enormous container of soup for Marius and a frankly sinful looking slice of chocolate cake for Courfeyrac, and she beams and grants him a hug and a kiss on the cheek in greeting. “I think you deserve that,” she says, nodding at the cake. “For taking care of everyone.” He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that everyone really just means Marius, because the cake looks really fucking delicious. So instead he just directs her down the hall to Marius’s room and sits down with a fork and an enormous glass of milk.

He takes one bite of the said cake and finds himself getting up and following Cosette down the hall. He can hear her talking quietly to Marius, and Marius wheezing back at her, which means that he probably won’t be interrupting any declarations of love or whatever, so he sticks his head through the door and says, “Marry her. She’s a beautiful angel princess.”

The resultant coughing fit almost makes him concerned that he’d managed to kill his roommate, but eventually Marius’s hacking subsides and Courfeyrac returns to his cake without a care in the world.

(Because Marius’s life is utterly ridiculous, it transpires that the night that Cosette had come to take care of him, he had somehow managed to confess his love to her while hopped up on cough medicine and antibiotics. She had told him she returned his feelings, and that’s how Marius Pontmercy had managed to ask out the girl of his dreams.)

***

The week before Thanksgiving is Courfeyrac’s birthday. To his chagrin, it falls on a Wednesday this year and the weekend is too busy for a proper party; but then Enjolras concedes to turning the week’s meeting into a celebration anyway, so it turns out for the best.

By the time he arrives, it seems that everyone has already decided to buy Madame Houcheloup out of alcohol and appetizers, because the tables are already laden with enough of both to feed a small army, probably. (This was their concession to ‘don’t buy me presents.’ Courfeyrac knows it. Well, also, Marius had already woken him with chocolate chip pancakes, and Enjolras had bought him a new scarf he’d been drooling over and promised no shop talk at the meeting, but generally, food seems to have been their way of breaking the rule.)

Courfeyrac has always been good at parties, and this one is no exception. It helps that this one is comprised of all his closest friends and if he gets really sidetracked talking to someone for ages, there won’t be someone else getting offended at being ignored. At some point, Cosette has the idea of doing karaoke, and someone manages to convince Combeferre and Jehan to go pound out a bunch of four-chord pop songs on the old out-of-tune piano Madame Houcheloup keeps in the corner. No one’s used it in such a long time that the keys are actually dusty, but Combeferre fixes that soon enough. The girls do a truly epic version of “Dancing Queen”; Grantaire breaks out his guitar and convinces Floréal to sing a set of Civil Wars covers with him; Bahorel, Feuilly, Joly, and Bossuet sing a deeply off key version of “We Are Young; and Courfeyrac belts an entire set of musical theatre songs, including some duets and some ensemble pieces. (Jehan has already played literally all of them for him. It would be kind of embarrassing, if it wasn’t so cool.)

(Bless them, no one downstairs in the café comes to complain about how loud they’re all being.)

At some point in the middle of (yet another) game of Get Down, Mr. President, they run out of vodka. Courfeyrac goes downstairs to see about getting more, and doesn’t notice that Combeferre is following him until he’s touched him gently on the shoulder.

“Happy birthday,” Combeferre volunteers, quietly. “I wanted to get you something, but I couldn’t think what.” He’s twisting his hands together nervously; Courfeyrac takes them, to calm him down.

“I really didn’t want anything,” he assures him. “I’m just glad everyone was able to come. I’m glad you were able to come.”

“I’m really glad I met you,” Combeferre offers, and is it Courfeyrac’s imagination or is he moving slightly closer?

“Me too,” he replies, and yes they are most definitely closer together than they were before, and to be honest he seems to be moving just as much as Combeferre is. And wow, when did they get so close? He reaches out to brush a wayward strand of hair out of Combeferre’s eyes; Combeferre’s eyes flutter shut at his touch, and he tilts his head slightly as he leans closer, and—

--and Marius trips down the stairs at that very moment, loudly asking, “Hey, did you need help bringing things upstairs?”

--and Combeferre jerks back, smiling ruefully

--and the answer is no, the answer is that he’s got it, that Combeferre will help him if he needs it, but he’s somehow saying yes anyway and he’s not quite sure why

--and maybe he’s delusional, but it seems like Combeferre is disappointed, and he might be too…

They don’t get another chance to be alone for the rest of the party, but aside from that, it’s a fantastic time. At the end of it, Grantaire slips him a drawing of all of them together, laughing and talking, and he’ll keep it on his wall for a very long time to come.

December

“I’m tired,” Courfeyrac whines, collapsing sideways so that his head lands on Combeferre’s shoulder.

Without even looking up from the book in his lap, Combeferre carefully adjusts so that his arm is around Courfeyrac, in silent permission to continue using his shoulder as a pillow.

“How much do you have left to do?” asks Enjolras obliviously, from where he is sprawled on the floor in front of the couch in a patch of sun. (Enjolras is, in many ways, much like a large, blond cat. Just don’t say anything to him about it.)

“I still have five pages left. Five. Pages.” He lets out a despairing wail. “Why do I always choose topics that have almost no available sources?”

Combeferre makes a sympathetic sound. “I hate when that happens—when what you’re interested in has hardly even been explored.”

“It is. The worst.” He thunks his head lightly against Combeferre’s shoulder; for his part, Combeferre just clicks his tongue and slides his other hand under Courfeyrac’s forehead.

“You’ll need those brain cells.”

“You know what I need? Ice cream. I really, really need ice cream.” Miraculously re-energized, he launches himself to his feet and thunders toward the freezer. Two seconds later, he has sagged dramatically so much that he actually falls to the ground.

“Did Marius and Cosette finish it again,” Enjolras asks, phrasing it more like a statement than an actual question. Courfeyrac’s response is a quiet groan.

“Hey. Hey, do you wanna come get ice cream with me?”

“Courf.”

“What. Tell me the last time you ate something.”

“11:30,” Enjolras says promptly.

Courfeyrac pushes himself off the floor just enough to catch sight of the oven clock, and makes a distressed sound. “Enjolras, it’s almost five.”

“We could order pizza,” Combeferre offers reasonably. “By the time it gets here it’ll be dinner time, and then we can go get ice cream as a study break or something.”

“Yes. Definitely.” Enthusiastic again, Courfeyrac manages to climb, rather more laboriously than he’d like to admit, to his feet. “We’ll even get veggies on half, I think Joly is worried about most of us developing scurvy.”

“Apparently that’s doable,” says Combeferre absently. “I know someone who developed mild scurvy relatively recently.”

“No shit?”

“In fairness, he was living entirely on Red Bull, ramen, and cigarettes, so that might be why.”

Enjolras whistles lowly. “Jesus.” Combeferre just hums his agreement.

By the time the pizza has arrived, Courfeyrac has managed to hack away another page of his essay, and dug up a few more sources that, from a cursory glance, look like they have some promise. He doesn’t even notice that he’s still sitting nestled back against Combeferre’s free arm until the doorbell rings and they both jump.

“I got it,” he says brightly, all but running over to the door, sliding slightly on the floor in his socked feet. He beams at the guy holding the box and tips him generously, and then practically skips back.

“Fooooood,” he sings, dancing into the main room again with the pizza box. Enjolras and Combeferre have already gotten drinks, plates, and napkins, and they all slide off the couch to sit on the floor, the better to lessen the amount of traveling the pizza has to do before it gets to their mouths. It goes silent for twenty minutes as they inhale their dinner. The only sounds are quiet murmurs of enjoyment, and before long, the dirty dishes are the only evidence that there had ever been food in the first place.

Well, that, and Enjolras’s heavy-lidded eyes. “Hey,” Combeferre murmurs, nudging him lightly. “You alright? I thought you’d been sleeping better lately.”

“M’alright,” Enjolras mutters, listing slightly sideways. “Just. Tired. Sometimes I get up in the middle of the night and can’t get back to sleep.”

“I know,” he says, sympathetically. “Drop me a text when that happens next time, okay? I keep weird hours, I’ll probably be up.”

“No, no.” He yawns, stretches. “You sleep even less than I do.”

“If I’m already awake, it’s not a problem.” He nudges Enjolras’s shoulder gently.

“Take a nap,” Courfeyrac pipes up. “We can stay quiet.”

“Thought you were getting ice cream.”

“We could do that, too.” Combeferre raises an eyebrow at Courfeyrac questioningly, and Courfeyrac nods, enthusiastic.

“Want us to bring you back anything, E?”

“Nah.” He’s already curled up, using one of the couch pillows under his head; Courfeyrac makes a mental note to make sure he’s feeling well later, because Enjolras usually avoids all signs of vulnerability at all costs.

“Back in a bit, then,” Courfeyrac says cheerfully, and holds out his hand for Combeferre. He looks at it for a moment as though he’s not quite sure what to do with it, and then allows Courfeyrac to pull him to his feet. He laughs when Courfeyrac swings their joined hands melodramatically; and then, when he stops swinging them, neither one of them seems to notice enough to let go. So they walk, hands clasped, to Courfeyrac’s car, and he blushes when he turns on the stereo to find that he’d left the mix from Combeferre in the CD player.

Combeferre looks at him, eyebrows raised in touched surprise. “I—didn’t expect...”

“It’s a really good mix,” Courfeyrac blurts. “It, uh. Keeps me calm, y’know?”

“I’m glad you like it that much. I wasn’t sure it’d be your sort of thing.”

“It was the only thing I listened to for like a week after you gave it to me,” Courfeyrac admits.

“Yours too,” Combeferre replies. “It’s a good thing I don’t have a roommate, because I probably would have irritated him endlessly.”

“Marius was humming the songs on yours for days,” Courfeyrac laughs. “I actually did manage to annoy him, I think.”

“I’m incredibly flattered, actually,” Combeferre says, with something of a smug grin. “I didn’t really know Marius got annoyed.”

“Oh, he doesn’t, usually. He was in a bad mood, though, because he had done badly on this one paper he’d worked really hard on, and I didn’t realize it until later.”

“Oh.” Combeferre winces. “Poor Marius.”

“He’s alright now, thankfully. It just required a lot of junk food and Disney movie sing-alongs in the middle of the night.”

“Something about that is almost unfairly adorable,” Combeferre says unthinkingly, raising an eyebrow, and Courfeyrac blushes. Actually blushes. What the hell?

“My goal in life,” he says, waggling his eyebrows ridiculously. Combeferre laughs.

The ice cream shop is nearly deserted, due to it being about thirty degrees outside, and the girl—who Courfeyrac has seen several times before—behind the counter beams her relief at finally seeing customers. Courfeyrac orders double chocolate fudge brownie with caramel sauce and whipped cream; Combeferre opts for a traditional sundae. When she pushes the ice cream across the counter, she lets her fingers brush Courfeyrac’s, lingering for slightly longer than necessary. Her smile is practiced, complete with a flirty little flip of the hair that she’s almost certainly practiced in the mirror. “You want your receipt?”

“Sure, why not?”

She rips it free and holds it out between perfectly manicured fingers, the tiniest of smiles playing about her lips. When Courfeyrac goes to take it from her, she pulls her hand back, giggling. He raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Really, now?”

Her smile widens. “You going to do something about it?”

He thinks about it a moment. She’s gorgeous, and they’ve been keeping up an undercurrent of flirtation since the first time he saw her. But somehow, right now, he can’t seem to shake the vaguest twinge of annoyance. “You are cruel,” he says, resting his elbows on the counters and pouting at her. “Truly cruel.”

“Oh, am I?” She puffs her lower lip out, dangling the receipt toward him again. “I can’t have you thinking so little of me, can I?”

He takes hold of it, tugs; she doesn’t let go. “You’re still going to make me work for it, huh? You know I could just as easily—let it go?” He does so, and the girl heaves an exaggerated sigh, puts it on the counter, and pushes it over.

“You’re a heartbreaker, you know that?”

“I can assure you, it was never my intent.” He grins, salutes her with the newly obtained receipt. “It was good to see you.”

“You, too, as always.”

They choose a corner far from the counter; it’s not Courfeyrac’s intent, but it does make things slightly less awkward when Combeferre leans forward and murmurs, “Does that happen to you everywhere you go?”

“What?”

“People flirting with you.” He’s smiling as he speaks, but there’s a little tension in it.

“Sometimes,” he says truthfully. “I mean, sometimes they’re just being friendly, but it has happened before.”

“So is she your type, then?”

Courfeyrac glances toward her again. “She’s lovely. I don’t know if I actually have a type, though.”

Combeferre clucks his tongue. “Leaving a trail of broken hearts behind you?”

“I wouldn’t go quite that far.” He laughs a little; the air between them suddenly feels strangely charged. “Don’t worry, Ferre, I like you better than all of them anyway.”

“You’d better,” he teases, and spoons up some of his sundae.

The conversation slips back into relative normalcy from there. Courfeyrac regales Combeferre with the most ridiculous stories from his last job; Combeferre enthusiastically tells him about a technical breakthrough he’d made in his piano lessons. At some point, Combeferre is laughing so hard that his spoon jerks in his hand and gets ice cream all over his face. He groans good-naturedly as he goes to clean it off.

“You have a little whipped cream on your nose.”

“Thanks.” Combeferre swipes the side of his nose. “Did I get it?”

“No, it’s higher up on the other side…”

Combeferre tries again, and Courfeyrac laughs fondly. “Here, Ferre, let me, okay?”

“Yeah, alright.”

Courfeyrac dips the edge of his napkin in his untouched water and leans forward, carefully wiping the smear away. It puts him close enough to Combeferre that he can see the gold in his eyes, and he lingers a little longer than he means to. If Combeferre notices this, he doesn’t say anything. He’s watching Courfeyrac with a sort of quiet seriousness, something unreadable in his gaze. Courfeyrac swallows suddenly and falls back into his own chair, mentally shaking himself. What is wrong with me? “Got it.”

“Thanks.” Combeferre’s voice is a little breathier than normal, but it’s nothing, right? Of course it’s nothing.

“Hey, you guys!” Marius’s voice isn’t loud on a normal day, but today it seems to boom. Combeferre jolts so hard that his chair scrapes against the floor. “Wow, I didn’t expect to see you here!”

“Needed a study break, and you and Cosette just so happened to have eaten all the ice cream.” Courfeyrac’s voice is less joking than he’d meant it to be; he tries to smile so that Marius doesn’t notice.

Marius, for his part, winces apologetically. “Sorry. That was a while ago.” He pulls over a chair and drops into it, oblivious to the tension. “So is the ice cream good here? We’ve never been, and I was thinking it might be a nice place to take her later tonight when she’s finished with her essay.”

“It’s great,” Combeferre says, with the kind of unshakeable patience that Courfeyrac can only envy. “I’m sure she’ll love it.”

“It’s my turn to pick the place,” Marius bubbles enthusiastically. “She picked last time and it was awesome. She took me on a scavenger hunt around the city and we ended up in the park for a picnic. She made all my favorite foods and there was champagne and I just—” He lets out something that can only be described as a giggle. “I love her so much and I really want to do this right. I know ice cream isn’t enough, but she’s been so stressed about school lately…”

“Why don’t you ask her about it and see what she’s up for?” Courfeyrac offers, another attempt to make up for an earlier snappiness that Marius doesn’t seem to have noticed anyway. “If she’s still tired and stressed, tell her you’ve got another thing in the works, but that you just wanted to spend a little time with her.”

Marius seems to consider this, and then his whole face lights up. “That’s a really good idea. I don’t have anything else planned, though…”

“Right,” Courfeyrac manages, patient now, “but you’ll give yourself a little more time to come up with something really good.”

“You’re a genius,” says Marius excitedly, clapping Courfeyrac on the shoulder. “A genius. I’m going to go see how she’s doing.” And, with no ado whatsoever, he pushes back from the table and practically sprints out the door, leaving his chair lopsided behind him.

“And you thought he and I were unfairly adorable,” Courfeyrac laughs, wrinkling his nose. “I’m pretty sure the collective preciousness that is Marius and Cosette could actually bring unicorns into existence.”

“There is definitely more than one way to be adorable,” Combeferre points out. He’s using his scientist voice, as though he doesn’t realize exactly what he’s saying.

“Oh?” Courfeyrac lifts an eyebrow. “Define my adorability.”

“How so?”

“However.” Grinning mischievously, he leans forward. “I do so love being told how cute I am.”

He laughs. “You hardly need me to be the one to tell you.”

“No, but you could, if you wanted.”

“Hmm. I’ll see if I can develop you an equation.”

“I’ll await it eagerly.” He pushes back his chair, and holds out his hand. “We should maybe get back to E.”

Combeferre takes his hand.

***

The ice cream adventure is the last bit of calm before the proverbial storm that is finals. For his part, Courfeyrac thrives on the chaos, thrives on pushing himself to his limits and testing how much he can achieve in a set time. Particularly in times like these, he radiates a sort of calm certainty that draws others to him when it all becomes too much. Maybe that’s why it’s his phone that rings at three am somewhere in the middle of the first week.

“H’llo?”

“Hi.” Combeferre sounds exhausted. Drained. “I’m sorry. Were you asleep?”

“Nah,” he lies, readjusting so that he’s sitting up against his pillows. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m just…having a rough night.”

“How can I help?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I guess I just…wanted to hear someone’s voice. I’m feeling really overwhelmed. I have three exams tomorrow and a project due on Friday, and my piano final is early next week, and I’m—I really don’t think I can do it.”

“Hmm.” He thinks a moment. He and Combeferre handle stress very differently, but he’s relatively sure he knows how to help. “Have you had anything to eat in the last few hours?”

“…no. Courf, it’s three am.”

“I know. But what time did you eat dinner?”

“I don’t know…six?”

“I know it’s late, but you’ve been up for hours. A little food and something to drink might help, especially since you have to get up and move to go and get it. Get your blood circulating, you know?”

“Good point.” Combeferre sighs quietly. “You know, I’m usually much better at taking care of myself.”

“It’s finals week, babe, all bets are off.”

It’s silent for a few minutes, but for the sounds of Combeferre’s quiet shuffling, the sound of a door. “Wait,” he says, suddenly. “Did you just--?”

“Sorry,” Courfeyrac blurts out. He uses pet names all the time, but every other time he’s done so with Combeferre, he’s done it melodramatically. Jokingly. It’s different with someone like Jehan, or Feuilly, or even Enjolras (who pretends to hate them much more than he does), because he’s known them for ages. But this is different. “Habit?”

“No, it’s fine, you just…took me by surprise, is all.”

He waits a few seconds, mostly because he’s not sure what to do, and then ventures, “So do you need anything?”

“The intervention of some higher power would be good. Or a hug. One way or the other.”

“I can come over.”

“No,” he says, with the kind of immediacy that would be offensive if it was anyone else. “No, God, it’s three am, don’t you dare.”

“Could I help you study?”

“How?”

“I don’t know…you could tell me about all your stuff…read me your notes or whatever, and I can ask you a bunch of silly questions because I don’t know anything about any of your majors, and you can explain it to me.”

“What about you? Don’t you need to sleep, or study?”

“I napped earlier,” he lies easily. “I couldn’t sleep anyway, and most of my finals this semester are project based. Now stop making excuses and teach me something.”

Combeferre laughs; it’s a little strained, but it’s something. “Okay, so tomorrow is biochem,” he begins, and then starts walking Courfeyrac through a frankly ridiculous amount of information. Courfeyrac stops him now and again to pose a question about something that was vague or unclear, or to ask him to repeat something without using his notes, and within an hour, Combeferre is much more comfortable with the information.

“Thank you,” he says, genuine warmth in every syllable. “Now, you need to go to bed. I owe you huge.”

“You owe me nothing,” he replies flippantly, stifling a yawn in the crook of his arm. “Are you sure you don’t want help with the rest of your studying?”

“No, thanks, I’m feeling much more awake now. Also, even if I did, the sun is practically up…I would lie to you just to avoid the inevitable guilt of keeping you awake.”

“You are ridiculous,” says Courfeyrac fondly. “Tell you what, I’ll put my text alert on silent and you can text me random facts throughout the rest of the morning.”

“I might take you up on that.”

“Night, Combeferre.”

“Night, Courfeyrac.”

***

Combeferre isn’t the only one losing it over his finals. Meetings continue because that’s just what they do, but productivity is practically nonexistent. Feuilly has dark circles under his eyes and is preternaturally smoking or chomping at a mouthful of gum in an attempt to funnel his stress into something else, and seems to be living entirely on caffeinated beverages. At one point, Bahorel catches him pouring an energy drink into a cup of coffee and manages to switch it out for something slightly less toxic when he puts it down to do something else. Joly and Combeferre have both planned out literally every waking moment and are rarely seen without the accompanying faint blue glow of a laptop or cell phone, unless it’s to be buried in a textbook. Though Floréal, Époine, and Cosette all have very different majors, they’re often spotted wandering around in a group, quizzing each other about something or other at every available opportunity. Grantaire’s presence at meetings becomes erratic, and when he does turn up it’s with crazed eyes and paint in his hair or on his clothes. There is, however, one particularly memorable occasion when their normal room has emptied out to be just Courfeyrac, Enjolras, and Grantaire. The last doesn’t appear to be particularly aware that he isn’t alone in the room, or in fact, know where he is.

Courfeyrac is embroiled in an editing project, headphones shutting out the outside world entirely, so he doesn’t notice Enjolras sneaking worried looks over at Grantaire every few minutes, and he definitely doesn’t notice Enjolras getting up and walking over to him.

(“R?” he asks, quietly. “You alright?”

Grantaire jumps, scrubs a hand over his face, and lets out a slightly hysterical laugh. “I’m great. Great, Apollo. Thanks.”

“Are you sure? You don’t really seem it.”

It’s a sign of Grantaire’s desperation that he doesn’t take the opportunity for a sarcastic comment, and instead just mutters, “It’s a little rough right now, is all.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” The words are practically forced out; Enjolras is great at speeches and passionate tirades, but he’s never quite sure what to do when other people are Having Emotions.

Grantaire’s eyes are rimmed with red when he looks up. “What the hell is happening to you?”

“I’m just trying to be nice,” Enjolras snaps, defensive, and then deflates. “Sorry.”

Grantaire blinks, too tired to hide his confusion. “Uh, well, I appreciate it I guess? Thanks.”

Enjolras puts a hand on his shoulder. “You’re much more capable than you think you are, Grantaire.”

This is when he walks away, leaving Grantaire staring gobsmacked after him.)

Combeferre calls again a few days later, because Courfeyrac had assured him that it was not only fine, but encouraged, for him to call the next time he needed something. This time, it’s harder for Courfeyrac to pretend he hadn’t been sleeping; in fact, he’d been right in the middle of what very quickly becomes a hazy dream involving Combeferre himself. For a moment, when he answers the phone, he’s almost sure the dream is continuing, which is why he says, “Hey, wow, I was just talking to you!” instead of hello.

“You were definitely dreaming,” Combeferre replies, amused. “And I am definitely about to hang up the phone.”

“Nooooo,” Courfeyrac whines. “No. Talk to me.”

“Go back to sleep, Courf.”

“But!”

The line goes dead. Courfeyrac pulls it away from his ear to glare at it, momentarily uncomprehending. Finally, when everything registers, he hits speed dial to return the call. It goes unanswered, so he calls again.

And again.

And again.

“Courfeyrac,” says Combeferre patiently after approximately the fifth time this happens, “you need to go back to sleep.”

“Nope, I don’t, I need to talk to you now, okay, thanks, why were you calling what did you need.”

“I don’t need anything, it’s fine. Really. Please get some rest.”

“Combeferre, I swear to God if you hang up this phone I am going to drive myself over to your house and pound down the door until you let me in.”

“Courfeyrac, you are going to be the death of me.”

“I only want that if it’s a sexy death,” he says sleepily, unthinking, and is treated to a series of thuds and crashes as Combeferre promptly drops the phone. “Sorry,” he adds guiltily, when he’s relatively certain the phone is back where it should be. “No brain to mouth filter.”

“That something you offer every time your friends call you in the middle of the night to have existential crises about possibly failing out of school?”

“Not generally, no. What was that about failing out?” Combeferre is silent, and Courfeyrac draws a breath. “Okay, real question: are you afraid you’re going to fail out because you’ve actually done badly in any single class this semester, or are you just projecting your finals anxiety?”

“How are you suddenly so articulate?”

“It’s a gift.” He sits up, stretching luxuriously.

Combeferre sighs in a rush of static. “It’s just…my piano final is soon. And the whole piano department is going to be there, since I’m almost done with the degree.”

“Ah.”

“Can’t I just play it for you?” he laments. “I’ve played the pieces for you so many times I don’t even get nervous about it anymore.”

Something warm flutters in Courfeyrac’s chest. “Would it help if I was there? I could maybe come. Make some excuse, pretend I have to do an observation for a class or something.”

“They’ll never let you,” Combeferre sighs. “Not that I don’t appreciate the offer, a lot.”

“Do you know where they’ll be sitting?”

“…to the sides and the back, I suppose? Why?”

“If you don’t have to look directly at them, you could try to pretend I’m there with you. Close your eyes or something if you have to, that usually helps you visualize where you are in the music anyway.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he says uncertainly. “You know, you don’t have to pick me up off the floor every time I have a crisis.”

“Of course I do, you goof, I care about you.”

“I care about you, too.” He is suddenly, painfully sincere. “You do know that, don’t you? And that if you ever needed to talk about anything, I’d be here for you, if I was the one you wanted to come to?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, I do.”

“I’m going to go try to sleep so that I’m not shaky tomorrow when I have to play, but…thank you. Again. So much.”

“Any time. Honestly.”

***

Courfeyrac is just leaving one of his only written finals when his phone begins to ring. “My brain is melting,” he says in cheerful greeting.

“I aced my piano final!”

He stops dead in the middle of the hallway; several people almost run directly into him, but are too tired to do much more than shuffle around him wordlessly. “Oh my God! Congratulations!”

“I wanna take you to dinner or something,” says Combeferre quickly. “To celebrate, since you’re the one who helped me in the first place.”

“I’d love that, even though I feel like you might be giving me way too much credit.”

“I’m not,” he says. “You were really helpful.”

“Well, in that case…what time are you done today?”

“Three…could I come get you at five?”

“Yes. Yes, absolutely.”

“See you then!”

He’s ripping apart his closet later that evening to find something to wear when Marius gets home. Courfeyrac isn’t actually sure how long he stands there, staring in amazement, but when he turns triumphantly with the shirt he’d been looking for in his hand, he’s still in Courfeyrac’s doorway.

“Not creepy,” he says, unbothered. “Not creepy at all, Marius.”

“Sorry.” Marius blinks owlishly at the pile of clothes on the ground. “Do you have a date or something?”

“Oh, no,” he says, blithely, “it’s Combeferre, we’re celebrating his piano final because I helped him practice and stuff.”

Marius tilts his head. “I don’t think the rest of us even knew he had a piano final today.”

It seems too mean to say well, dear, you’re sort of oblivious, so I’m not sure if that counts for much, but now that he thinks about it, he’s not sure Combeferre had ever mentioned it in anyone else’s presence. So he just shrugs. “Surprise?”

Marius laughs, and seems to decide there’s no point in pushing the issue. This turns out to be a very good thing, because Courfeyrac is barely ready by the time Combeferre knocks on the door ten minutes later.

As soon as Courfeyrac opens the door, he throws himself forward exuberantly to embrace Combeferre, who catches him with a startled laugh and only stumbles back slightly. “I’m not sure I’ve ever been greeted that enthusiastically,” he says, and Courfeyrac exaggerates a frown.

“Well then I have clearly been failing you. Also, you are amazing and unstoppable and I am very proud of you, but you obviously knew that.”

“I, uh, wouldn’t go quite that far, Courf.”

“That’s because you’re too modest.”

“Maybe.” He steps back, clears his throat. “Uh, so, have you eaten yet?”

“Nope!”

“Is there anywhere you want to go? I mean, after all, this is your thank you dinner…”

“I still think you’re being silly, there’s no need to thank me.” He tilts his head, considering. “But, um. If you’re asking, there was this Irish pub that just opened…”

“Oh, that’s right down the street from my apartment!” Combeferre exclaims. “I haven’t been yet, everything’s been so crazy.”

“Let’s do that, then,” Courfeyrac suggests, and Combeferre nods.

Courfeyrac’s mix is still in his CD player, he learns; this time Combeferre neither blushes, nor mentions it at all, but instead just asks Courfeyrac how his finals have been going.

“They’re not bad at all,” he says truthfully. “I only have two left, and both of them are projects that I’m almost done with, so I really have no right to complain.”

Combeferre groans. “I’m jealous, I’ve got at least one a day for the rest of the week. Although, at least the one tomorrow isn’t until evening.”

“Which means we can celebrate properly, bad decisions and all!”

“Sort of does, yeah.” He snickers when Courfeyrac’s jaw drops. “What? I need to let off steam now and then, too.”

“I know you do. It just warms my heart to hear you admit it,” he teases, winking even though he knows Combeferre can’t see it.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

“Whatever you say.”

The pub, when they get there, is pleasantly crowded, but not so much so that they need to wait to be seated. The table they’re given is right by the small raised platform on which performers, apparently, stand. There’s a man in a kilt tuning his guitar and chatting casually into the microphone, and there are TVs mounted on every wall, each playing a different, muted sports game. It’s overwhelming in the best possible way. “Do you wanna split an appetizer?” Courfeyrac asks enthusiastically. “I am dying for nachos.”

“Sure,” he says, grinning. “I will never say no to nachos.”

It’s quiet for a while. They’re both tired, but relieved at the way finals have been going and pleased to be together, and neither one of them feels any particular need to speak. The food is great and the ambiance even better, and by the end of the night they’ve switched from their table to the bar, where they sit loose and laughing, singing loudly when they know the songs and talking about anything that seems interesting when they don’t.

They’d started out a normal distance apart, but at this point in the night they’re both tipping slightly sideways in their chairs so that their shoulders are pressing together. “I’m really proud of you,” Courfeyrac says, for what is approximately the three thousandth time, his hand finding Combeferre’s knee.

“I’m kind of proud of me too,” Combeferre admits, hiccupping a laugh and letting his head fall onto Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “Don’t even wanna think about what would’ve happened t’me’f you hadn’t helped.”

“Nahhh, you’da been fine, you don’t need little old meeeee.”

Combeferre lifts his head and slides off his stool so that he can move closer and put his hands on both of Courfeyrac’s shoulders. “But I do,” he says seriously. “I really, really do.”

Courfeyrac’s lips have parted; suddenly, it’s harder to breathe. “Do what?”

“Need you.”

“Oh,” he manages. Combeferre’s face is very close. Courfeyrac’s gaze slides down to rest on his lips, and lingers there. “I really want to kiss you,” he admits, so softly that it’s more air than sound.

Combeferre’s eyes are very dark. “Then maybe you should.”

By now, there are only centimeters between them. It would be very, very easy to close the distance, but…“Maybe?”

Combeferre’s lips twitch. “Definitely.”

Courfeyrac exhales a laugh and (finally, God, finally) presses their lips together. Combeferre sighs happily against him, twining his fingers through the curls at the base of Courfeyrac’s neck. Courfeyrac’s lips part at the slight tug, and he deepens the kiss, pressing closer and wrapping his arms around Combeferre’s waist.

They have, by this point, entirely forgotten that they are not alone in the bar, and it’s only the quiet, pointed cough of the bartender behind them that encourages them to remember. Combeferre pulls back just enough to whisper “Maybe we should leave,” into Courfeyrac’s ear.

“But where will we go?” he asks, all wide-eyed innocence. It seems like it might be physically impossible to stop touching Combeferre right now, so he doesn’t try.

“My house is right down the road. We should…coffee. Or something.”

“Yes. Good. We should go.”

Combeferre laughs, nuzzling against Courfeyrac’s neck. “Can’t walk unless you let go.”

“Don’t wanna,” Courfeyrac complains, but concedes. To make up for it, Combeferre links their fingers together and pulls Courfeyrac out the door with him.

The temperature has dropped quite a bit, and in comparison to the stuffy bar, it’s freezing. Shivering, they jog down the street, tripping over such things as their shoes, slightly uneven patches of ground, and nothing. Each time sends them into paroxysms of giggles and makes what should be a less than five minute walk stretch much longer. Impatient, Courfeyrac tugs Combeferre into the nearest well-lit alley and presses him against the wall to kiss him again. The tentative innocence from the bar is gone, lost in a desperation that has built over months. They kiss deeper—dirtier—all teeth and tongues and grasping hands. Courfeyrac is pressed impossibly close to Combeferre now, his fingers digging into Combeferre’s hips. Combeferre, he has discovered, tastes (at this moment) like whiskey and peppermint and makes amazing sounds when kissed.

(It occurs to him, at some point, that he cannot actually feel his fingers. He mentions this in passing; they continue on their way.)

Probably it would be very interesting to be inside Combeferre’s house for the first time (probably he would be thinking about the fact that he’s known Combeferre for three months now and never been inside his house), but he is frankly too busy fixating on the person himself to think in any way about that. They’re barely through the door before Combeferre is backing him against it again, to kiss his way down Courfeyrac’s neck.

“Did you actually want coffee,” he mumbles eventually, still busily sucking a hickey into the skin where neck meets shoulder.

“Yeah, no,” Courfeyrac manages, gasping. “Your doorknob is kinda digging into my back though.”

“Sorry.” Combeferre pulls back to look at him again. “My room is probably more comfortable.”

Courfeyrac laughs. “We should go there.”

Grinning, Combeferre takes both hands and backs carefully down the hallway (occasionally bumping into walls or such as he goes). He manages to shove the door open and, with mock solemnity, says, “Welcome, monsieur, to my humble abode.”

“You are such a nerd,” says Courfeyrac delightedly.

“And you are hotter than a Bunsen burner set to full power,” he replies, intentionally outrageous as he switches their positions and continues to back Courfeyrac further into the room.

Laughing breathlessly, Courfeyrac bumps into the edge of the bed and tumbles back against Combeferre’s pillows, Combeferre moving with him willingly. His shirt has started to fall open, and Courfeyrac quickly makes it his mission to divest him of it. This proves slightly difficult—too many tiny buttons—but Combeferre manages to help him get most of them. (If one or two is gone in the morning, well, it cannot be helped.) He surges up to kiss him again, pushing the stupid invasive shirt off Combeferre’s shoulders as he does so. Making an impatient little sound, Combeferre pulls back for the briefest possible moment to yank it the rest of the way off and toss it away.

The movement draws attention to his arms, and it is at that precise moment that Courfeyrac sees the tattoos. He lets out something between a whimper and a moan, and Combeferre, who had been leaning in to kiss him again, pulls back questioningly. “Hmm?”

“Tattoos,” Courfeyrac wails.

“Oh yeah.” Combeferre’s answering smile is just a touch wicked. “Had I never mentioned those?”

“Noooo, you didn’t.” Courfeyrac sits up with effort, gently turning Combeferre’s arm so he can see better. The tattoo starts at the base of his wrist with a spattering of small, white stars and then begins to climb his arm, spiraling around until it reaches his elbow. Courfeyrac traces his way down the pattern lightly with his fingers, and is rewarded when Combeferre shivers. He stops on his pulse point; Courfeyrac presses his thumb there, gently, and realizes with a jolt that he can feel Combeferre’s heart racing. “I like them,” he adds, in a whisper, and presses his lips where his thumb had been.

Combeferre exhales shakily, his eyes fluttering closed; Courfeyrac carefully switches their positions so that Combeferre is the one lying down and connects the stars in shapes and patterns by tracing them, impossibly carefully, with his tongue. He stops only when Combeferre, groaning, pulls him up to kiss him again (and again, and again). “You know,” he says eventually, breathless and reproachful, “it’s very unfair that you’re wearing so many clothes right now.”

“It is, you’re right,” Courfeyrac replies, in some surprise; truthfully, he’d kind of forgotten. He reaches for the hem of his sweater and attempts to pull it over his head, at which point it promptly gets stuck on his elbow, throwing off his equilibrium and sending him tumbling sideways. Combeferre bursts out laughing.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m stuck,” he says, pitifully, voice muffled by the wool of the sweater. “I don’t know how to get up.” Shaking with laughter, Combeferre attempts to pull him up, and nearly falls over himself. But in the end, he’s able to get Courfeyrac vertical and carefully unhook the sweater, pulling it carefully over his head to reveal the t-shirt beneath.

“You’re wearing so many things,” he complains, yanking ineffectually at the shirt. “Why are you wearing so many things?”

“It was cold today,” Courfeyrac whines, finally managing to divest himself of the shirt, and then leans up to kiss Combeferre again. Combeferre stops him just before their lips touch, though, and pulls back just to look at him. His gaze is warm, almost loving.

The urgency is gone as soon as it had appeared, vanished in favor of a sudden fondness. “You’re really beautiful, you know,” he murmurs, and Courfeyrac blushes. He’s always been confident about himself, and about his body, but something about the way Combeferre looks at him turns him into a teenager again.

“Have you seen yourself recently?” he shoots back, and Combeferre smiles.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, and pulls Courfeyrac down so that they’re lying side by side. They kiss a while that way, gentle and lazy, letting their hands roam as they do so.

It feels incredibly natural when, at some point, Courfeyrac drifts off to sleep with his head resting on Combeferre’s chest.

When he wakes up, the neon numbers on Combeferre’s clock read 4:15. His eyes widening, he sits bolt upright; underneath him, Combeferre lets out a sleepy little grunt, but remains otherwise oblivious.

Carefully, Courfeyrac disentangles himself and climbs out of bed. His heart is thumping too hard; they’d been drunk, and very drunk, at that. What if Combeferre regrets it in the morning? What if he feels like Courfeyrac had taken advantage of him? And had he? (Some tiny, horrible voice in his head says yes, and he cannot shut it up.) Shivering, horrified, Courfeyrac gropes around in the dark until he finds his t-shirt. He yanks it over his head, and when he finds his shoes but not his sweater in another few seconds, gives up and slips quietly outside.

Somehow, miraculously, he hadn’t lost his phone at any point in the night. He gropes for it, racking his brain for who to call. It comes to him in a flash of inspiration, and he dials Jehan with shaking fingers.

“Courf? What’s wrong?” Jehan says, instead of Jesus Christ, do you have any idea what time it is?, because Jehan is perfect and seems to have been awake anyway. Which isn’t exactly surprising, but is a comfort all the same.

“I need you to come and pick me up,” he says lowly. “I’ll explain later, just please come get me, I’m at Combeferre’s.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

He paces the entire time he’s waiting; checks his phone about ten times a minute, and when Jehan finally pulls up, he lets out a huge sigh of relief. “Thank God.”

Jehan has three different pens sticking out from behind their ears, and is wearing a flowered bathrobe over yoga pants, but somehow they still manage to look both concerned and not at all ridiculous. “You wanna talk about it now, or later?”

“If I don’t tell you now I never will.” He presses his hands over his face, lets out a shuddering sigh, and begins to talk. They’ve arrived at his house long before the story is finished, so Jehan just pulls into the driveway and lets the engine idle while Courfeyrac talks. “…and now I’m terrified that he’ll think I took advantage of him, and the whole friendship is going to be ruined forever because I fucked up.”

Jehan considers this a moment. “Do you have feelings for him?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“Courfeyrac.”

“I’m really attracted to him, and I love him as a friend, and I don’t know, Jehan, alright, I do not know.”

Jehan doesn’t say anything.

***

He wakes up to three texts from Combeferre.

8:15 am

I’m sorry

8:17 am

We were both really drunk last night and I hope that what happened won’t affect our friendship

8:21 am

I really care about you and I would hate to lose you.

Please text me back when you wake up?

Courfeyrac groans quietly. His mouth is almost painfully dry, and there are knives in his head. The clock on his phone says it’s nearing eleven. “Shit, fuck,” he mutters, pressing his hands over his face. He feels ill, although whether that’s the hangover or the thought that Combeferre feels taken advantage of is anyone’s guess. Probably both.

I’m sorry too, he types. Although I’m not sure what you’ve got to be sorry about…I’m the one who kissed you. And God, the last thing I want is for it to affect our friendship, you’re way too important to me for that.

So I’m just. really, really sorry.

He puts his phone down and promptly goes to lock himself in the bathroom for a while.

They don’t speak again for the rest of the day; in fact, they still haven’t spoken by the time that week’s meeting rolls around. He’s never considered skipping a meeting more; but in the end, his desire to see Combeferre and make sure they’re alright outweighs his fear.

Thankfully, Combeferre is already there when he arrives, talking quietly to Enjolras (Courfeyrac experiences a momentary flash of panic as he wonders whether they’re talking about him, but then he draws nearer and makes out enough of the conversation to realize that they’re actually discussing a class). “Hey, guys,” he says, wishing he could feel more at ease.

“Hey,” Enjolras greets him, grinning a little maniacally. “Combeferre was just sympathizing…I wrote a term paper about Rosseau today.”

“I am not going to ask why you waited until today. I am not.”

“You know exactly why,” says Enjolras darkly, draining his coffee in one long sip.

“Yes, but you always pick the topic that’s going to piss you of the most. It seems kind of counterproductive to me.”

“I write my best when I feel strongly.” He shrugs. “What’s going on with you today? You seem tense.”

“I am not immune to the stress that is finals, Enjolras,” he snaps, and immediately hates himself for it. He draws a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired.” (Combeferre still hasn’t greeted him.)

“It’s alright.” He pats Courfeyrac on the shoulder. “I’m going to go get more coffee. I’ll be right back.”

(He bites his tongue before he can tell Enjolras not to go, not to leave him to what will almost certainly be a horrifically awkward conversation.) “Okay,” he says instead, and studiously watches Enjolras’s retreating back until it’s out of sight.
Combeferre clears his throat quietly. “I brought you your sweater,” he offers, and his voice is flat, emotionless.

“Oh. Thank you.” He turns, takes it—careful not to let their fingers brush. “Combeferre, I—I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to—I mean, we shouldn’t’ve…not…not the way we were, and I’m just. God, I’m so sorry.” oh God please understand me.

“I get it,” Combeferre says, and manages a small smile.

It makes his stomach knot, but he knows Combeferre is right. “I…don’t want to stop talking and hanging out, though, if you think…”

“No, of course. It’s like we said, we mean too much to each other to let this ruin it, we just probably have to…adjust.”

Courfeyrac nods. He’s clutching convulsively at the sweater, and he forces himself to relax his grip a little. And, blessedly, the door opens then to reveal Bahorel, Grantaire, Éponine, and Floréal, all laughing wildly. Bahorel has what looks like a brand new black eye, and Éponine’s hair is half falling out of the braid she’d been wearing. Before he can even begin to ask, Cosette and Marius are coming in as well, and Enjolras is returning and walking over to put a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder (Grantaire’s entire body stiffens and color rushes to his cheeks) and asking him something. Within about a minute, everyone else has emerged, and the little room is filled with the sounds of chatter and laughter. Courfeyrac sinks into a chair and forces a laugh at something Bahorel had said that he’d missed.

God, God, I ruined everything.

“I think we should have a party this weekend,” says Bahorel loudly before the meeting can start properly. He’s smirking like he’s got some sort of secret. “To, uh…celebrate the end of finals.”

“Yes,” Éponine says immediately. “Absolutely. I volunteer my and Grantaire’s place.”

“Oh, do you now?” Grantaire asks, suddenly moody. She blows him a kiss.

“Come on. It’ll be fun.”

He glares at her, but says nothing else.

“I’m down,” says Bossuet, breaking the awkward silence with a casual shrug.

“Me, too,” Courfeyrac says quickly. “You know me. Love a good party.”

It transpires that everyone is interested, and free on the upcoming Saturday, so it’s decided. The rest of the meeting is short; everyone is too excited by their proximity to freedom to focus for particularly long, Enjolras excepted. Their newest project involves working at a soup kitchen sometime around the holidays, and they’ve been collecting clothing and canned goods for nearby homeless shelters. They decide on dates and times, and then they adjourn and what had been a very serious meeting somehow manages to devolve into a massive game of Get Down Mr. President somehow instigated by Bahorel. It only ends when things start getting broken and Madame Houcheloup comes stomping up the stairs to usher them out.

***

The night before the party at Éponine and Grantaire’s, Enjolras stays over. It hadn’t really been intentional; he’d come over to appear in one of Courfeyrac’s video projects, and they’d gotten to talking and hanging out, and then it had just seemed silly for him to go home. Enjolras ends up falling asleep on the couch at some point, and when attempting to wake him up proves useless, Courfeyrac just drapes a blanket over him and retires to his room.

He jolts awake an hour later practically dying of thirst for some reason. Sleepily, he trips toward the kitchen, only to realize that he can hear Enjolras talking in the family room. Bewildered, Courfeyrac tiptoes closer, worriedly hovering by the slightly open door. Enjolras is curled up on his window seat with his forehead pressed against the glass, and Courfeyrac experiences a moment of relief as he realizes that Enjolras is not, in fact, muttering to himself, but is instead on the phone.

“I can come over if you want,” he’s saying. “No, really, Combeferre, it wouldn’t be a problem.” Whatever Combeferre says in response makes him snort softly. “Now you’re worrying me—that was weak, even for you.” It’s teasingly said, and Courfeyrac wonders why that makes his stomach drop. Feeling as though he’s eavesdropping on what might turn out to be a deeply personal conversation, he just turns and shuffles away on silent feet.

If anything’s really wrong, they’d tell him. Right?

He’s still feeling kind of out of sorts when he wakes up in the morning, but he tries his best to shake it off; he hates the idea of being in a bad mood for a party, especially when people will probably expect him to be the life of it.

Enjolras is already awake—even when he’s up impossibly late, he’s the earliest riser. “Morning,” he says, grinning.

“Morning.” He presses his hands over his face, yawning. “Why are you functioning? You were up so late.”

“It’s a gift,” he says, shrugging. “I didn’t keep you awake, did I?”

“Nah. I just know you.” He rolls his shoulders. “Do you want an omelet? I’m gonna make eggs.”

“Do you mind?”

“That’s why I asked you, you goof.”

“Then I’d love one,” he says, gratefully.

He makes one for Marius too, because he’s already awake and cooking, so really why not. The routine of it soothes him, and Enjolras makes toast and coffee—two of the very limited things he is capable of in the kitchen—so that by the time he’s done they actually have a nice meal. They dawdle a long time over breakfast, Courfeyrac trying to muster up the courage to ask what had happened last night and not managing to find it.

“So, remind me for real why were you asking about last night?” asks Enjolras eventually as they’re doing the dishes, unusually perceptive.

“I heard you and Combeferre on the phone,” he blurts out before he can talk himself out of it. “And I guess I just got worried and was hoping that everything was okay?”

“Oh.” A shadow blows across Enjolras’s expression, but it’s gone too quickly for Courfeyrac to decipher it. “Everything’s fine, he just wanted to ask my opinion about something.”

It’s an obvious lie, and Courfeyrac has to work hard to mask his hurt. “Oh. Okay. Well, as long as he’s alright.”

“Totally fine,” Enjolras assures him, and smiles. Courfeyrac wishes he believed him.

***

“So he’s going to get really mad at me for telling you this, but it was Grantaire’s birthday a few days ago!” Floréal announces, as Bahorel emerges from the kitchen carrying an enormous sheet cake.

“Oh, God, you assholes, what have you done,” Grantaire bemoans, but his lips twitch suspiciously.

“What?” Jehan wails. “You couldn’t have told us earlier? We didn’t get a chance to get him anything!”

“Please don’t get me anything,” Grantaire interjects. “I really really do not need anything.”

“But it’s your birthday!”

“I don’t usually do the birthday thing, as these lovely friends of mine are well aware, so really, it’s fine, I promise.”

“Can we at least sing to you?” Cosette wheedles, and he groans and presses his hands over his face.

“The attention. It buuuuurns me.”

(They sing anyway, and he’s nearly beaming as he blows out the candles.) “Can we go back to a normal party now?” he pleads. “Too much alcohol and pretending that it isn’t different than any other day aside from the cake?”

“Alright,” Bahorel shrugs, and begins cutting enormous slices for everyone.

The party, which starts out as music and talking about the upcoming vacation plans, very quickly devolves into utter insanity. At some point, someone decides they should play a drinking game to Disney’s Hercules, which has them all tipsy within the first twenty minutes. They get bored about halfway through and switch to playing drunk Twister, which is about as hilariously unsuccessful as it sounds and ends with Enjolras collapsing spectacularly on top of Grantaire; and then Musichetta has the brilliant idea of playing Seven Minutes in Heaven. Since it’s a relatively boring game for people who aren’t actually actively playing a given turn, Bahorel somehow produces several decks of playing cards and declares that they should play Bullshit.

“So who’s going first, then?” Combeferre asks, and Jehan gestures to him too enthusiastically, nearly tipping over.

“You asked, so you!”

“Wait, but—”

“Combeferre! Go go go!”

He rolls his eyes good-naturedly, finishes his beer in a few quick swallows, and leans forward to spin. It spins several times, and then comes to a stop on Enjolras. Bahorel bursts out laughing. Enjolras shrugs and gets to his feet, amidst the howling and whooping of their friends; the door closes softly behind them.

Nearly everyone else returns to playing Bullshit, aside from the occasional craning to try to hear what’s going on inside. Courfeyrac, who is normally excellent at this game, is soon losing horrifically because he cannot seem to focus.

When they emerge, Combeferre’s shirt is wrinkled, Enjolras’s hair is sticking up in infinite directions, and both of them are blushing bright red. Bahorel laughs and wolf-whistles loudly, and everyone else starts cheering. Grantaire drains his drink and gets to his feet to lurch back into the kitchen for a refill. Courfeyrac isn’t feeling this game all of a sudden, and some part of him really wants to follow Grantaire. But it’s his turn to spin, so instead he just has to make some obnoxious joke he doesn’t remember a second after he says it, give the bottle an aggressive turn, and watch it like he cares where it lands.

Cosette, is the answer. It lands on Cosette.

Marius lets out a strangled yelp and falls off the couch; Cosette giggles and blushes prettily; Éponine and Musichetta start whooping and howling at the top of their lungs. Courfeyrac stands and gallantly offers her his arm. She hooks hers through it and they go through the door.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” she asks, low and close to his ear as soon as the door is closed.

“Talk about what?”

“Why you looked like someone kicked your puppy a few minutes ago,” she says bluntly.

“Did I? I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” She waits in silence for a moment, giving him a chance to change his mind. “It’s just, um. I mean, they can do whatever they want, obviously. But what if it doesn’t work out and then everything’s all weird between us?”

“Is that really what you’re worried about?” Her voice is soft. Nonjudgmental.

He thinks about it. Thinks about the easy way he fits against Combeferre when they hug or cuddle; thinks about how he can’t seem to stop coming up with reasons to casually touch him; thinks about Combeferre’s brilliant eyes and adorable dimples and how stupidly earnest he is about everything and how he has all these amazing, well-informed opinions; thinks about how it had felt to kiss him and how it had been both comfortable and electric all at once, and oh shit, that isn’t what he’s worried about at all, is it?

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, pressing his hands over his face.

“Hey.” Gently, Cosette lays her hand on his shoulder. “It’s going to be okay.”

He makes a quiet, unhappy sound and looks balefully up at her. “You can say that, you have Marius.”

“Do you have any idea how difficult that was?” She arches her eyebrows. “The boy is oblivious.”

“I know.” He drags his hands through his hair. “But. Like. He wasn’t potentially going to date your other best friend.”

“Honey, I—I don’t know what happened between them in here—or between the two of you, but you don’t really seem like the type to just accept things silently.”

“Not usually, but. They’re my best friends, you know? I don’t wanna stand between them if that’s what they want.”

Cosette sighs, stroking his hair gently. “I’m just going to say this one thing and then I’ll shut up and we can come up with a way to use our last few minutes to make a certain someone jealous right back.”

“Okay?”

“Try not to be so upset until we have a little bit more information, okay? Please? For me? Just try.”

He puffs out an exaggerated sigh. “Okay. Yeah. I can try.”

“Thank you.” She kisses his forehead, and a moment later, Éponine knocks on the door to free them. Cosette manages a quick, apologetic wince—sorry we didn’t have time to make them jealous back—but Courfeyrac doesn’t mind. In fact, it’s probably better. He’s not sure Marius’s heart could take it, whether Cosette explained the situation to him or not. So they leave the closet, and returns to where he’d been sitting with Enjolras and Combeferre. They’ve left the space between them open, but he sits to Enjolras’s left instead; they’ve got to notice, but neither of them says anything. Combeferre just scoots over so that the space is closed, and the game continues.

Beyond that point, the game isn’t anything particularly special. Mostly, everyone’s just playing increasingly ridiculous rounds of Bullshit; Feuilly and Bahorel end up in the closet together and take a little too long coming back out; Marius and Joly go in and spend the entire time talking about random inane things loudly enough for everyone to hear them; Éponine ends up in there with Cosette and they come out cackling and blushing. And then Grantaire spins, and the bottle lands on Enjolras.

Everyone goes dead silent. The thing is that it’s very, very clear how Grantaire feels about Enjolras, and—well, no one’s quite sure how Enjolras feels about Grantaire. Grantaire raises his head slowly to look at Enjolras, whose face is utterly impassive. “Yeah, no,” he says; and his voice is too loud in the sudden stillness. Too rough. “We’ve both been drinking, Apollo, and I don’t want you to feel like I’ve taken advantage of your tenuous consent.”

Then he gets up and walks out of the room, leaving Enjolras looking, for a moment, very lost. Then, because he’s Enjolras, he huffs and mutters, “It’s a stupid game anyway.”

Éponine and Bahorel trade worried glances, and she’s the one who follows Grantaire up the stairs. She returns a few minutes later, though, shaking her head. “Just leave him,” she says, and doesn’t bother with an explanation.

The party continues, but it feels strange without Grantaire, and not just because it’s supposed to be his party. Over the past few months, they’ve actually managed to become a sort of family, and now when only one of them is missing, it throws off the whole dynamic. At some point, Courfeyrac gets up to refill his plate of food, and when he returns, Combeferre and Enjolras are practically on top of each other, making stupid puns about science and cackling. He blinks, sighs, and goes upstairs to look for Grantaire.

He’s in his room with the door hanging open, standing outside on the fire escape. “Ponine, I told you to fucking leave it.”

“Not Ponine,” Courfeyrac replies, leaning against the railing. “I can go, but I’d rather not—I kind of needed some air.”

“Sorry,” Grantaire mutters, jerking his head to invite Courfeyrac to come closer, and lights a cigarette off the embers of his last one. “You want a smoke?”

“Nah. Thanks.” He huffs out a breath of air, and with it comes a wry laugh. “I usually love this kind of shit.”

“What, parties?”

“Parties, party games. The whole thing.”

“Not today, then?”

“Not at all.”

“Yeah, it’s been, uh…quite an evening.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Do you?” Grantaire asks challengingly, arching one dark eyebrow.

Courfeyrac considers this, and shakes his head. “No. No, I don’t—maybe we could just…drink more and try to pretend it never happened?”

“That’s my usual method. It might even work until tomorrow morning, but we’ll probably have to miss the rest of the party because we’ll be unconscious.” Courfeyrac stares at him, concerned, and Grantaire sighs. “I’m joking. Mostly.”

“I brought cookies,” Courfeyrac offers, a weak attempt to change the subject. He shakes the plate enticingly, and Grantaire wrinkles his nose, but selects one anyway.

“Thanks,” he mutters. He stubs out his cigarette and lets the butt fall from his fingers. “Do you wanna watch TV or something?”

Normally, Courfeyrac would want to see if he could convince Grantaire to go back downstairs and rejoin the party, but there’s a headache brewing in the vicinity of his temples and he’s not really in the mood to play the awkward third wheel. So he nods.

“Sorry it’s a mess,” Grantaire mumbles, shoving a pile of sketchbooks off his bed with frankly disarming carelessness. One of them falls open, and Courfeyrac catches the briefest glimpse of a very familiar profile before Grantaire bends down to slam it shut. “You can sit wherever.”

“It’s fine,” he says, reassuringly, flopping down onto Grantaire’s bed.

Grantaire crosses to his small fridge and pulls out a couple of beers, hoisting one in Courfeyrac’s direction. He nods, accepts it, and then bumps the bottle against Grantaire’s in a quick toast. Grantaire takes a long sip and then drops down next to him. “I think there’s an SNL marathon on,” he offers uncertainly, and Courfeyrac shrugs.

“That’s cool.”

They sit in silence for a while; Courfeyrac is too lost in thought to pay much attention to what’s going on onscreen, and the absence of laughter proves that Grantaire is as well.

“You ever going to talk to him about it?” Grantaire asks suddenly.

“Probably not,” he replies unthinkingly, and then jolts. “Talk…to who?”

Grantaire levels him with a look. “Combeferre.”

He thinks about denying it, but it seems unfair somehow. “Am I that obvious?”

“Courf, no offense or whatever, but you’ve been obvious about it since the first week you met him.”

“Wait, what?”

“Just being honest,” Grantaire mumbles, and snags another cookie.

“But I didn’t have feelings for him then.”

“Or did you?” He wiggles the fingers of his free hand mock-spookily and stuffs the cookie into his mouth. “Whatever,” he slurs, around a mouthful of crumbs, “I can’t fuckin’ talk. And you at least have a chance in hell, so.”

“Not if they end up together.” He picks a loose thread in the cuff of his sweater, looks at Grantaire. Grantaire, whose eyes are red and who has given up all pretense that they aren’t going to talk about this.

“At least Combeferre actually likes you.”

“He likes you, too. And anyway, I’m not sure how much he likes me right now.”

Luckily, Grantaire had fixated on the first part of what he’d said, and doesn’t seem to have heard the last bit at all. “Combeferre does. Enjolras doesn’t.” He drags a hand through his hair. “Just my luck, the one who fucking hates me—”

“Enjolras doesn’t hate you.”

“Bullshit,” he says, laughing mirthlessly. “I’m a waste of space and he knows it.”

“You’re not,” says Courfeyrac, suddenly fierce, “and he doesn’t. He’s been asking you for help with the posters and stuff, hasn’t he?”

“Feuilly works three jobs. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“He wouldn’t ask you for something if he didn’t believe you could do it, and do it well. And he wouldn’t have kept asking you to do it if he hadn’t liked the way you’d done it the first time.”

“So he uses me for my negligible skills. I guess it’s better than nothing.”

“No—” Courfeyrac lets out a frustrated sigh and drags his hands through his hair, tugging at the curls. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You don’t have to try so hard to make me feel better, you know.”

“I’m not, though. See, the thing about Enjolras is that if he doesn’t care about you, he makes no effort. I’ve seen him ice people out so thoroughly that it’s like they don’t even exist. So it’s not that he hates you. It’s just that…you frustrate him, I guess.”

“I’m not really sure what to do with that, but I guess I appreciate it.”

“You should really talk to him,” Courfeyrac offers. “Not about this, necessarily, although if you want to that’d probably be good too. Just. In general.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know. Anything. Anything that you won’t rip each other’s heads off about.”

“Yeah, alright.” He scoffs quietly. “Only if you talk to Combeferre.”

The very thought is terrifying. “Uh. Sure. Eventually.”

Grantaire salutes half-mockingly. “Let’s just go back to pretending none of this exists, yeah?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

January

The holidays are relatively normal. Everyone goes home for break the day after the party, and Courfeyrac finds a strange relief in being home with his family. They have their usual enormous open house on Christmas Eve, and he has the disarming experience of realizing that one of his baby sisters has a serious enough boyfriend that he’s coming over for the holidays. (He tries very hard not to hate the guy on principal, and mostly succeeds.) He eats too much food and drinks too much wine and eggnog, and loves the distraction of talking to relatives he hasn’t seen in ages. His older sister and her husband come for Christmas dinner and she announces, glowingly, that she is pregnant. (They spend a happy twenty minutes squawking excitedly and debating the merits of various names.)

He gets the usual texts from all his friends, with new ones from the newest members of the group, and the usual call from Enjolras at just after midnight on New Year’s. Aside from a “Merry Christmas” and a “Happy New Year” from Combeferre, he doesn’t hear from him, and he’s too unsure of what the hell to say to be the one to reach out first.

Far too soon, it is time to return to school. Even the usual saving grace—pre-semester brunch at Enjolras’s—is now tinged with awkwardness, but Courfeyrac tries to look forward to it anyway.

The brunch itself is excellent, as long as he ignores the fact that Combeferre greets Enjolras with a playful “Are you a ninety degree angle? Because you are looking right,” and then pales when he sees Courfeyrac and stutters over his “Hey, Courf. How was your holiday?” (Enjolras, incidentally, had just snorted, said, “That one is truly atrocious.”) Bossuet has a broken arm as a souvenir of the ski trip he’d taken with Joly and Musichetta, but the pictures they show everyone are truly adorable. Conversely, Cosette is golden and glowing from a two-week trip to the Bahamas; Bahorel has ended up with a husky puppy that, to hear him tell it, he’d stolen from some abusive asshole he’d met through wrestling; Éponine and Marius remain strangely mum on the topic of their month off, and everyone knows enough about their tenuous family situations not to ask. Everyone else seems to have had a relatively ordinary month, except for Grantaire. Grantaire, who says nothing but “it was chill” when asked how his break had gone, but who, Floréal announces loudly a moment later, has had a few works accepted to a nearby art gallery.

“They’re showing his stuff for two weeks, starting in the last weekend of the month,” she says, ignoring his glare.

The rest of brunch, to Grantaire’s horror, is spent showering him with congratulations and questions about the work and the location of the gallery. He fields them as best he can, and flees at the first available opportunity.

“He does realize we’re all going to go, doesn’t he?” Feuilly asks, and Floréal sighs.

“I think he’s torn between really wanting that, and being terrified to want that.”

It’s not long after that that brunch breaks up for real.

***

The semester starts in earnest from day one, and being busy is actually a total relief. Courfeyrac and Combeferre have managed to find a sort of tentative peace, close to, but not quite, at their old normal. Courfeyrac still misses the occasional late-night phone calls and easy touches when he gives himself time to think about it, but he tries to avoid that as much as he can. (He’s much less successful than he’d like, and even when he manages to suppress the thoughts during the day, they creep into his dreams at night.)

His breaking point comes one day when he goes to meet Enjolras in their favorite corner of the student lounge after class and finds him standing very close to Combeferre, holding his face between his hands and whispering intently. Combeferre nods, and Enjolras—Enjolras—pulls him in for a tight hug. “Uh, sorry,” Courfeyrac blurts out, and they spring apart. “I can come back later.”

“No, it’s fine,” says Combeferre quickly. “I was just leaving for class. Thanks, Enjolras.”

“Of course,” he says, smiling fondly.

Courfeyrac tries not to say anything about it; he really does. But the words burst out of him before he can call them back. “You know, I wish you’d have told me.”

“Courf…what the hell are you talking about?”

“You,” he says, waving his hand vaguely. “You and Combeferre, look, it’s not a big deal, okay, you could’ve just told me that I was being an awkward fifth wheel, I get it—”

“You’re not using sentences,” says Enjolras gently. “You only run your words together like that when you’re really upset. Can you just please—sit down for a second, and take a deep breath? I’m not understanding why you’re upset, and I want to fix it, if there’s something I can do.”

Courfeyrac doesn’t sit down. His hands are sweating, and he rubs them on his jeans and then clutches the worn denim to stop them from shaking. “I know you’re in love with him,” he blurts out, and wow, ouch, that was a lot harder to say than it should have been. “And it really seems like he’s in love with you, too, and that’s great, seriously, E, I’m really happy for you, but it’s just a little awkward for me sometimes because—because—”

But he can’t finish the sentence.

But Enjolras is sitting there, brow furrowed, looking like he has less than no clue what’s going on. “Courfeyrac, I’m not in love with Combeferre.”

“What?”

“I am not in love with Combeferre, and Combeferre is absolutely not in love with me.”

“How do you know that?” It snaps out of him too quick and too sharp, and he groans, scrubbing his hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“I don’t think I should answer that question,” Enjolras replies, “because it’s not my business.”

“How is it not your business? He’s your friend, too, and if—”

“Courf, just…I’m not going to talk to you about this except to promise you that neither Combeferre nor I actually feels like you’ve been a—a fifth wheel. I do think you should talk to Combeferre, though. He thinks you’ve been avoiding him.”

He thinks that because it’s true. Courfeyrac swallows his guilt with effort, sighs. “He just said he’s in class. I can’t go over there right now.”

“So text him. Ask him to meet you somewhere.”

Courfeyrac lets out a slightly hysterical breath of air, dragging his fingers through his hair. “Fine. Okay. Alright. I’m sorry if I’m acting insane.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” says Enjolras, shrugging. “Just…let me know how it goes, okay? I think you’ll feel much better.”

Courfeyrac nods. There’s a lump in his throat, for some reason. “I’m going to go upstairs,” he mutters, and in a rare, tactful moment, Enjolras doesn’t say anything about how choked his voice sounds.

Can I talk to you when you get a second?

He’s sprawled across his bed, not staring at his phone and waiting for it to buzz. But if he were waiting, Combeferre wouldn’t have made him wait long. Within five minutes, even though he knows for a fact that Combeferre is in a lecture right now, he’s got a text.

Of course. Do you want me to call?

In person might be better.

Everything okay?

Yeah. I just think we should talk.

The park? 6:30?

He looks at the clock and tries not to sigh too heavily. He’ll have to be thinking about this for the next two hours. But it also might give him a little time to calm down and figure out what the hell to say, and Combeferre also can’t help if he has class, so Courfeyrac just writes perfect and goes home to use all the hot water on a scalding shower.

The next struggle comes when he’s out of the shower again, because really, what the hell does one wear to inform their best friend that they’re terrified of him developing a relationship with their other best friend? The sounds of him stomping around throwing clothing and groaning loudly when everything just seems wrong actually bring Enjolras—who had come back to his house with him, mostly because he had begged—back into the room. “Are you okay?”

“What do I wear?” he wails. “Like. I don’t—I just—this is really important.”

“Combeferre isn’t going to care what you wear,” Enjolras points out, gently. “I think what really matters is that you’re finally going to talk all this out.”

“I’m really scared,” he admits, and Enjolras crosses the room in a few quick strides to pull him into a hug.

“Don’t be,” he murmurs. “Just wear something you feel confident in, and tell him the truth—whatever that is—and everything will be fine.”

Courfeyrac deflates slightly. “Thanks, E.”

“You’re welcome.” He thumps Courfeyrac on the back. “Now go.”

He goes.

Combeferre is already at the park when he gets there, sitting too rigidly on a bench and toying with the fraying cuffs of a green sweater that does positively sinful things for him.

“Hey,” Courfeyrac murmurs, hovering uncertainly near the bench.

Combeferre jumps and looks up. He looks exhausted; he’s pale, and there are bags under his eyes. He smiles, tentative. “Hey.” He pats the bench, and Courfeyrac joins him. “I’ve…missed you.”

“Me, too.” His heart is beating so fast he can feel it in his throat. He opens his mouth; closes it again. Shifts his weight on the bench as though hoping that it will make him more comfortable. “I’m sorry that…that I haven’t been the best friend lately.”

“I haven’t, either,” Combeferre says quietly. “I’m sorry too.”

“I—Combeferre, if you feel like I pressured you into kissing me, or…or you feel like I took advantage of you, please tell me. It’s been killing me, and I’ve been terrified to ask.”

“No. No, Courf, it’s not—it isn’t that at all.”

“Then what is it? Things have been weird ever since it happened, and I—I know I was weird too, but that was me just being scared I’d crossed a line.”

“It was—I don’t—” Combeferre groans, huffing a sigh. It’s rare to find him speechless, and it’s clear that that’s part of what’s frustrating him. “Part of it was me worrying the same thing on your end.”

“Part of it? What was the other part?”

Combeferre squeezes his eyes shut a moment. Breathes. “Do you regret that it happened?”

The question feels like a test, and he isn’t sure of the right answer. “I…regret what it did to our friendship,” he says carefully, and knows that he’s done the wrong thing immediately because Combeferre flinches. “I’m—Ferre, please tell me what’s going on in your head.”

“Why did you want to kiss me that night?”

“What?”

“Would it have mattered who you were with?” He won’t look at Courfeyrac; his hands are clasped so hard in his lap that he’s leaving marks in his own skin.
Courfeyrac’s mind has gone curiously blank. It feels like it’s taking far too long to decode the question. “Are you asking if I would have kissed anyone else?”

“Yes.”

His mouth is suddenly very dry. He swallows several times, sighs. “No. I don’t think I would have.”

Now Combeferre looks at him, and there’s a fierceness in his gaze that Courfeyrac has never seen before. “Courf…I—I have been attracted to you since the day I met you. That night…I’d been hoping that something like that would happen for weeks. And then I thought you wished it hadn’t happened, and I just...couldn’t actually handle the thought of that. And actually I’m still not really sure where I stand, so I might be making a really terrible mistake right now, and if I am, you should definitely stop me before I make things any worse.”

There’s a rushing in Courfeyrac’s ears; his heart is hammering, and he can feel himself starting to smile. But then, unbidden, he remembers Enjolras and Combeferre emerging from the closet at Grantaire’s birthday party; remembers earlier that day, walking in on them on what looked like an impossibly intimate moment; and he feels the smile fade. “What about Enjolras?”

Combeferre rears back. “What?”

“I just—I thought that you two might be, um. Involved.”

Combeferre’s mouth works silently for a few seconds, and then he shakes his head wildly, a little hysterical. “No, no, nonono, Enjolras and I are decidedly not involved.”

“But at Grantaire’s party, and just now—”

“I am probably about to make an even bigger idiot of myself than I already have, but both of those times we were talking about you.”

“About…about me?”

“Apparently this is continuing to escape your notice,” Combeferre says heavily, “but I like you a frankly ridiculous amount. And I figured that as your best friend, he—”

“You like me?” Courfeyrac interrupts, and now he is smiling—beaming, even.

“I really, really do.”

Now it’s Courfeyrac’s turn to go a little hysterical. “I have been so upset for weeks, thinking that you and Enjolras were a couple. It took me until I thought you had hooked up to realize that I had completely un-platonic feelings for you.”

“Is that why you disappeared?” The tone in Combeferre’s voice is somewhere close to delight. “Oh, my God, Courfeyrac, okay, I know this is ridiculous, but can you just please, please tell me, in certain terms, that we’re on the same page?”

“Absolutely,” he says, and scoots closer. “Combeferre, I really like you. I want to take you out on dates and hold your hand all the time and kiss you and fall asleep cuddling and wake up next to you again, and—”

But how he was going to finish that sentence, Combeferre isn’t quite sure, because he’s too busy kissing him.

***

Over the next weeks, Courfeyrac makes good on all of his promises. They manage to restrain themselves, with effort, from being too couple-y when they’re hanging out with Enjolras, so that he doesn’t feel like a third wheel; but Courfeyrac starts spending most evenings at Combeferre’s, making use of the fact that he doesn’t have a roommate to walk in on them making out all over the house or whatever. (Marius, he’s sure, appreciates the privacy as well.) They go ice skating, which mostly just means Combeferre clutching at the wall in terror while Courfeyrac laughs fondly and tries to wheedle him into going on the ice properly. They go to the science museum, which Combeferre thinks is fascinating and Courfeyrac thinks is delightfully gross. They go to the movies one time and then realize it’s not really worth it to pay for something they’re not going to watch anyway, so they start staying in instead. Once or twice, they even double with Cosette and Marius.

But Courfeyrac’s delight in his own love life doesn’t stop him from noticing that things between Grantaire and Enjolras seem to be getting more and more strained. They can barely seem to interact at all anymore without yelling about something, and Grantaire, with his gallery opening drawing ever nearer, is withdrawing further and further away from everyone. He comes in late to meetings, when he comes at all, and refuses to explain where he’d been, which, of course, only makes things worse.

“I don’t know why you bother,” Enjolras snaps, one Wednesday toward the end of the month when Grantaire has managed to come in for the last twenty or so minutes, sporting a deep cut over his right eye.

“Doing fine, thanks, Apollo, how’re you?”

Enjolras scoffs. “Do you realize how disruptive it is to just come storming in while we’re in the middle of business?”

“Storming? Last I checked I was walking.”

“Why would you even bother coming so late?” he demands. “In fact, why do you bother coming at all if all you’re going to do is sit in the back of the room, drink, and make useless snide comments every five minutes, and continually remind us that you think there’s no point to what we’re doing? When was the last time you did anything productive?”

Grantaire has gone very still. “Maybe I shouldn’t come back at all.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Enjolras snarls, and all the color drains from Grantaire’s face. He had just set down his back, but he seizes it again, throws it over his shoulder, and stalks, jerkily, out the door.

Enjolras is flushed and glaring, and stares after him long after the door has slammed shut again. “Enjolras,” says Combeferre finally, quietly. There is reproach in his voice, but Enjolras refuses to acknowledge it.

“Was that really necessary?” Éponine snaps. “Christ, E, I know he was late, but you didn’t even ask why.”

“Where was he then?” Enjolras challenges her, turning his fury on her. “Are you really going to tell me anything other than that he was at some bar somewhere drowning his sorrows?”

“You really can be a total asshole,” she growls, pushing back her chair with a grating screech and snatching up all of her things. “I’m going to go see if I can find him.” She whirls on the rest of the group. “And none of you’d better fucking forget about the gallery this weekend. He’s been working really goddamn hard and he doesn’t think that any of you are going to show.” And she storms out, leaving utter silence behind her.

It’s in this silence that the meeting breaks up, people trickling out in twos and threes and only beginning to speak as they draw nearer to the door. Enjolras still hasn’t moved. “I did forget,” he admits, finally, when it’s just him, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre left in the café.

“You are going to go, aren’t you?” Combeferre asks, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t think so,” he says, shaking his head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I doubt he expects me there, especially after today.”

“But don’t you see? That’s exactly why you should go,” Combeferre protests, reasonably. “It will prove to him that you care, and that you don’t think he’s a waste of space.”

“You don’t, do you?” Courfeyrac asks shrewdly, suddenly worried.

“Of course I don’t!” Enjolras exclaims hotly. “He’s just so frustrating because I know he’s so much better than he gives himself credit for, and that he could achieve so much, and he doesn’t even really try.”

“He doesn’t try the way you would try, which isn’t the same as not trying at all,” Courfeyrac argues.

“I don’t know anything about art,” Enjolras tries, weakly.

“You don’t know much about poetry, either, but every time Jehan wants us to go hear something, you’re there.” Courfeyrac sits back down again, thinks a moment.
“Enjolras, do you want to go to Grantaire’s gallery opening?”

“I—yes, of course I do.”

“Then why are you fighting it so much?”

This brings Enjolras up short. “I—I don’t know. I guess…I guess I thought he wouldn’t want to see me.”

“I think he’d be more upset if you didn’t come,” Combeferre says finally. “And I really think you need to talk to him.”

“And say what?”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchange looks. “I don’t know,” he says. “But I think there are probably a lot of things you both need to understand, and maybe this might be the best way of doing that.”

Enjolras groans. “Okay. Fine.”

“Thank you.” Courfeyrac kisses him ceremoniously on the head. “We’re going to go get dinner from somewhere that doesn’t only have fried food. Do you want to come?”

“No,” he says heavily. “I should probably go home. Lots to do.”

“Try not to worry too much,” Combeferre says, smiling gently. “We’ll be around if you need us.”

“Thank God we got past that stage,” Courfeyrac mutters as soon as they’ve left the café.

Combeferre grins and links their fingers together, leaning in to press a kiss to Courfeyrac’s cheek just next to his lips. “Thank God,” he repeats, fervently.

“But do you really think he has feelings for Grantaire? To be honest, I can’t really tell.”

“I do, actually, yeah.” He opens the passenger side door for Combeferre, who slips neatly into the car, grinning at him.

Combeferre sighs. “I can’t decide whether I hope you’re right or not.”

“Neither can I.”

***

The night of Grantaire’s opening rushes up on them, and none of them has seen him since he’d stormed out of the Musain. Most of them have texted him at least once by now, and the most response they’d gotten is, ‘sorry, busy, cant talk,’ if anything at all.
They all go anyway, of course, in small groups, staggering their arrival slightly so that it’s not entirely overwhelming, but they’re still all there together. When Éponine, Joly, Bossuet, Floréal, and Bahorel find Grantaire, he’s standing in a corner, wearing a pair of skinny jeans and a tuxedo t-shirt, being talked at by a guy in an incredibly expensive-looking suit. When he sees Éponine over the guy’s shoulder, he practically melts with relief. “You came!”

“Of course we came, you dumbass,” she says, slipping past Suit Guy to throw her arms around Grantaire. “Do you have any idea how proud I am of you?”

“Nope, not a clue,” he says blithely, winking, and she releases him with a fond little smack upside the head. “’Ponine, I’m sure you remember Montparnasse.”

“I do.” She lets her eyes drag over him slowly, and returns her gaze to his face. The blankly unimpressed look she wears is cold enough to discourage anyone. “Good to see you again,” she adds, in the kind of robotic tone that makes it very clear she means none of it.

“And you,” he says, and to this guy’s credit, he’s got enough class to sound sincere, and then to actually fucking salute them both, tell Grantaire, “Your art is really beautiful,” and then walk away like nothing had happened.

“There’s food, and an open bar,” says Grantaire, blinking. “This is one of those extremely classy places, I actually don’t understand how this happened, but you guys should take advantage.”

Joly and Bossuet just blink at him, already sharing a plate of food. “Have you looked at everyone else’s stuff yet?”

“Yeah, some of it. You want me to take you around? I can tell you about it.”

“Yeah,” Bossuet says enthusiastically. “Just maybe wait a couple of minutes for everyone else?”

“Everyone…else?”

“Everyone’s coming!” It’s Cosette’s voice now; she’s towing Marius along behind her as she half-jogs, despite towering stilettos, to catch up with everyone. There’s a champagne flute in her free hand, and she looks like an actual princess. “You didn’t think we’d miss this, did you?”

“Uh, no…?” Grantaire offers, but the twist of his mouth makes it very clear that he’s only saying it because he knows he’s expected to.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre arrive next, with Feuilly and Jehan practically on their heels. Grantaire looks around, his eyes wide, and shakes his head slowly. “Scratch that, I can’t fucking believe you all came.”

“Why not? We’re your friends.”

“Uh, because I’ve been ignoring you all week?”

“It happens,” says Joly, shrugging. “It’s really easy to get busy and overwhelmed. We didn’t take it personally.”

Grantaire looks around again. Opens his mouth as though to say something (Enjolras isn’t here), and closes it (I’m not surprised). “Well,” he manages, clearing his throat. “Uh, thanks.” (Courfeyrac is gripping Combeferre’s hand too hard, clenching and unclenching his teeth. He’d promised, damn it straight to hell, Enjolras had promised he’d be here.) “Come on,” he adds, “I’ll show you around.” (There’s something pleading in his tone, as though he’s hoping someone will say “but wait, Enjolras is on his way.” No one does.)

Grantaire systematically leads them around the gallery, showing them his favorite collections, and his least favorite ones. Feuilly’s the only one besides him who knows anything at all about art, and they get really wrapped up in talking techniques and use of color and line.

“So where’s your stuff?” asks Feuilly eventually, grinning.

Grantaire pulls a face. “I mean, do you really have to see it? Because I’m having way more fun critiquing everyone else’s art…”

“But we’re here for yours, soooo…” Éponine nudges him playfully. “Come on, R. You’ve been killing yourself over this for weeks, and if you don’t show us we’ll just find it on our own anyway.”

Pouting exaggeratedly, Grantaire leads them toward the very back of the gallery, to his section of the wall. There are several people there, admiring the art in hushed voices, and one—one person, standing stock still in front of one particular painting. One person with a very familiar head of blond hair…

“Enjolras?”

He turns around. His eyes are wide. “Grantaire,” he breathes. “Is this—is this really how you see us?”

(The paintings are of all of them, sometimes as mythical figures, sometimes just captured mid-action. He’s made them, somehow, more beautiful than they are, and yet painted them completely realistically. The one that Enjolras had been standing in front of is one of him atop a broken furniture barricade, his mouth open in a beautiful, terrible roar. He holds a bright red flag, and his eyes are fire, and the sun glints off his head like a halo. Grantaire does not appear in any of his own paintings.)
Grantaire scuffs the ground with his toe. “Yeah,” he manages. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

That’s when Enjolras kisses him.

***

Epilogue

Things are never going to be perfect. Enjolras will always want more involvement than they have. There will always be some cause to champion, some reason to be passionately furious with the world. He and Grantaire will always fight, even now that they’ve finally stopped being ridiculous and realized that they’re attracted to each other. Marius and Cosette will always be almost annoyingly adorable. Combeferre and Courfeyrac will have their own issues. There will be petty jealousy and fights over stupid things. But eventually, they'll get really good at talking it out, and somehow, they always come out stronger for it.

But, as horrifically cheesy as it sounds, no matter what happens, the group will always have each other. Even after they’ve all graduated and life has spread them across the country—across the globe—they’ll find ways of staying together. There will be phone calls and Skype, group chats and letter writing. They’ll meet up more often than they should all, conceivably, be able to—will fly or drive or board whatever train they need to take so that they can all be together. Things will change. That’s what things do. But they’ll be okay. They’ll grow, even.

Maybe Enjolras will be President one day. Maybe Courfeyrac will be a famous reporter; maybe Combeferre and Joly will be on the team of doctors that cures cancer. Maybe they won’t. But no matter what, this is a group that will become historic.