Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Grantaire made a mental note to never, not ever, go out with Bahorel again. At all. His self- esteem was crap enough anyway, he didn’t need to suffer through this shit as well.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Bahorel said, the full picture of modern-day chivalry with his black shirt and red waistcoat and grey suit trousers and fucking tattoos and ponytail of dreads and fucking lifting a woman’s hand to his lips. “But, unfortunately, I am an honest man – I am taken.”

The woman giggled – giggled, for fuck’s sake, she was in a skimpy black dress and giggling – and made puppy dog eyes at Bahorel once more, before tottering back to her friends at the other end of the bar. Who were, also, giggling.

Shoving his pint to the side, Grantaire slammed his head onto the bar, for the moment ignoring the dubious stickiness of the wood for dramatic effect. “That’s it,” he groaned, as Bahorel laughed at him.“This is not happening again, okay? Next time, I can wear the fucking suit, and you the paint-stained, whiskey soaked old hoodies, okay? No more of this ‘just come from the office’ shit, it’s not fair, dammit!”

“Sorry, dude,” Bahorel said, patting Grantaire’s back absently and not sounding remotely close to being sorry enough.

“This was meant to be a night for me,” Grantaire muttered in commiseration, words muffled by how his face was buried in his arms. “For me.”

“Sure thing,” Bahorel said, still patting. “You’ve had a hard life. You needed to get out. I get it. I just can’t help sheer animal magnetism, man.”

With great – and most probably unappreciated – effort, Grantaire lifted his head up, and glared at the bastard.

Surprised at Grantaire’s rage, Bahorel blinked and put a shocked hand to his chest. “It’s not like I can help it, man!” he protested. As if to callously prove his point, yet another shockingly attractive woman walked past their space on the bar and winked at Bahorel, who, very respectably, nodded in acknowledgement before turning away.

Grantaire glared at him. Bahorel pretended to start back with affront. “What?”

“And what is it with this whole ‘taken’ bullshit?” Grantaire continued moaning, as if Bahorel hadn’t spoken. “You’re not fucking taken! Though you could very well be fucking about now. And don’t try that ‘being a good friend’ bullshit, because we both know-”

“Yeah, if I thought it could get me a decent fucking, I’d drop you in a heartbeat,” Bahorel admitted quite freely. Grantaire shrugged – fair enough, after all. “But,” Bahorel continued, waving his pint in Grantaire’s face to insure his attention, “I wasn’t lying. I am – believe it or not – and honest man.” And smirking the slyest motherfucking smirk Grantaire had ever seen, Bahorel sipped his drink.

Now this was interesting. “You mean... you have a girlfriend?”

Bahorel laughed, shaking his head before taking a swig from his bottle of Stella. “Yeah, a girlfriend,” he paused to say, before going back to his beer.

Grantaire blinked at him. “What kind of woman would have you?”

Bahorel spluttered on his drink, turning on his chair to glare with shock at Grantaire. “Th-thanks!”

“No, seriously,” Grantaire said, part of him realising he should probably explain before he got decked. “I’m trying to picture it, the kind of woman who’d actually be able to stay in a stable relationship with you – like, is she another lawyer? No, I think you’d fight too much. Strong willed, definitely though, can’t imagine you’d be able to last with a woman who couldn’t hold her own – into BDSM, I’d say, too-”

“Hey, watch it-”

“Good cook... have to be okay with cleaning, if she’s gonna be spending much time with you – oh, and she’d better have a good sense of humour...”

“Hey, are you suggesting dating me would be a joke?” Bahorel asked, pointing his bottle at Grantaire in what was, presumably, a threatening way. But Grantaire was too amuse by the whole situation to care (part of him was also curious as to whether he and Bahorel would be equally matched if it came to a bar brawl, but he was pretty sure 90% of that part of him was alcohol). Apparently realising that Grantaire wasn’t going to back off the subject, Bahorel smirked again, and said in a voice layered in sarcasm, “Yeah, never stops laughing.”

Grantaire nodded, a reflex action. Then he paused, suspicions growing – growing even more when he saw the shit-eating smirk. “It’s not Feuilly?” he asked. “It is, isn’t it? For fuck’s sake, just fucking tell me!”

Bahorel blinked innocently at him.

“I’m right, aren’t I? C’mon, mate, you could win me fifty bucks here – it’s fucking Feuilly, isn’t it?”

“What’s fucking me?”

Grantaire almost fell off his chair, as Feuilly – utterly silently, mind – appeared behind Grantaire and walked around to the free stool the other side of Bahorel. Who was roaring with laughter at Grantaire’s attempts to not fall off his stall as he completely lost his balance.

Resentful, Grantaire shuffled back into position and grumbled, “You took your fucking time.”

“I was stuck doing fucking paperwork,” Feuilly muttered grimly in return, barely even needing to lift a hand to get the attention of the barman. To call him and Grantaire ‘regulars’ would have been putting it mildly. “Trust me, if I could have got away earlier, I would have.”

“These the custody papers?” Bahorel asked.

“Mm. First lot finally came through.”

Grinning with genuine happiness, Grantaire leant on the bar to look around the well-groomed bulk of Bahorel to see Feuilly. “Aww, Feuilly’s gonna be a dad again!”

Feuilly rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to be a dad again – oh, cheers, Brian, stick it on that guy’s tab would you-” Bahorel scowled, but said nothing as the barman set a whiskey in front of Feuilly, “-I’m going to be a legal guardian for the two years it takes Azelma to become an adult, and then she can fuck off. I wouldn’t be doing it at all, if it weren’t-”

“-weren’t that they were doubtful single 19 year old Eponine would be allowed to adopt her as she’s already guardian to one young kid, yes, yes, we’ve all heard that line a thousand times,” Grantaire finished for him, waving the sentence away. “And it’s a lie, we all know it’s a lie. You’ve been missing Gavroche and Eponine-”

“-how have I been missing them, they’re in my bloody shop and flats almost 24/7-”

“-and you’re happy because you’re gonna get to play dad again. Just accept it,” Grantaire finished with a grin.

Feuilly shook his head, avoiding Grantaire’s gaze. “Bullshit, is what it is.”

Grantaire laughed at him outright. “Where’s Jehan? He should be here to back me up.”

“I was expressly told by Courfeyrac we were not to disturb him,” Feuilly said, comically quick to grab onto the new subject, “As they were to be spending the whole day stuck in bed fucking. Except, well, he obviously said so in a more flowery language.”

“Which means they’re probably gonna have a few rounds of vanilla, possibly one kinky, before retiring to bake cookies and watch Disney movies,” Bahorel added. “Knowing them.”

“That’s knowing too much about them, thank you very much,” Grantaire muttered, shuddering and downing his glass. “Where is the new kid, anyway? Still tucked up in your bed, while you’re relegated to the floor?” Grantaire asked, with a grin. Bahorel met his gaze, and snorted into his whiskey.

Bristling, Feuilly set his bottle down heavily. “Look, I wasn’t going to let her sleep on the couch. You can’t just adopt a kid and then shove them onto a fucking couch, or sleeping bag – no, she’s having a bed, so if you would kindly stop mocking me over it, you ignorant little shits?”

Sometimes, you forgot that Feuilly was an orphan. Feeling thoroughly stupid and abashed, Grantaire muttered an apology before turning back to his empty drink.

“Besides, she’s out with her brother and sister. Eponine’s treating them to a movie and dinner out. Nandos.”

Grantaire smiled affectionately. Couldn’t go wrong with Nandos. As long as you didn’t let Gavroche get his hands on a bottle of extra hot.

“Where’s the papers, then?” Bahorel asked, changing the topic. “Sent them off?”

There was a pause as Feuilly swallowed, and Grantaire tried to think what he’d like to drink next. “Nah – I just dropped it off at Enjolras’. He said he’d look it over for me, make sure there’s nothing hidden – it was a pretty shitty orphanage, don’t want them pulling anything. I want her safe, dammit.”

It was remarkably unsubtle, how Bahorel’s eyes darted across to Grantaire at the mention of Enjolras, but Grantaire ignored them. It had taken him a week to get to the stage where he could hear his name, and not react.

He didn’t react to anything for another fifteen minutes after, but still. No response at all was definitely an improvement.

*

“Never have I ever... fucked a guy with dark hair.”

“Hm... probably, yeah.”

Enjolras entered the kitchen in time to see Courfeyrac down a shot of something purple. Several things were wrong about this image. For one thing, it was his kitchen, not Courfeyrac’s. Another, it was 2pm, far too early for such drinking games.

For a third, the person he was playing with was barely fifteen.

Blinking furiously, Enjolras strode forwards, brandishing his folder towards Gavroche. “Courfeyrac, what the fuck?”

Courfeyrac paused to slam his shot glass back on the coffee table before tilting his head back to grin at Enjolras upside-down. “Ah, hello!” he said cheerfully. “I was wondering when you might emerge.”

“And who let you in?” Enjolras hissed, scowling, and not lowering the folder.

“We have a key, you know,” Courfeyrac replied, pouting.

“Oh, you’re using the royal ‘we’ now, are you?” Enjolras retorted snidely, reluctantly lowering the folder. “Or are you saying this kid now, also, has free reign in my flat?”

A hand from a fourth party suddenly appeared over the edge of the sofa, waving in Enjolras’ direction. “Hello!”

Having the feeling that he already knew what he was going to see, Enjolras strode around. And, sure enough, sprawled the full length of the sofa and with his head in Courfeyrac’s lap, was Jehan. He didn’t seem to be playing the drinking game. Rather, he was holding a well-worn and clearly well-loved edition of Some Anatomies of Melancholy above his head.

“Hey, Jehan,” Enjolras replied absently, before returning to the matter at hand. “But none of this explains why you’re playing Never Have I Ever with a fourteen year old!”

“Fifteen in three days,” Jehan and Gavroche said in unison.

“And un-knot your fire-truck-red panties, O Captain my Captain,” Courfeyrac said, grinning, and proffering a shot. “It’s only Ribena.”

Still, Enjolras eyed the glass suspiciously. “Doesn’t lack of alcohol kind of negate the point of Never Have I Ever?” he asked.

Courfeyrac turned to look at him with a serious expression. “Not as long as you both keep to the rules,” he said in an ominous voice which, coupled with Gavroche’s wide grin, set alarm bells ringing. “For example, I’ve already discovered-”

“I really don’t want to know,” Enjolras muttered, holding up a hand to cut him off. “I’d like to be able to plead plausible deniability in court, if that’s okay.” Struggling in the face of so much wrong to remember why he left the safety of his room to begin with, Enjolras cast about him, hoping for a sign. “Why are you infecting my flat, anyway – weren’t you meant to be hiding away from civilized people and going at it like rabbits?”

“Nah, that was yesterday. Today we’re resting, getting our strength back. Marius wanted the flat, because he had company, the hopeless bastard. Oh, and we promised Eponine we’d entertain Gavroche while she does girly things with Azelma.”

“And you thought teaching him drinking games would be a productive use of his time?” Enjolras asked. Law book. That was it. Referencing.

“Well, the kid’s gotta learn some time. And it’s better that he learns the tricks from someone responsible, like me, than some creepy pervert.”

As much as it annoyed him, Enjolras had to give Courfeyrac that. He scanned the room one last time, before he sighed, put his hands on his hips and glared down at Courfeyrac. “You’re sat on my textbook,” he said, the order to move clear in his tone.

Courfeyrac blinked innocently back up at him. “Oh? Why do you want your law book for, Enjolras? You told me you’d finished your work for the weekend.”

Enjolras ground his teeth together. “I have. Piss off. And give my book.”

He was regretting asking nicely, as Courfeyrac’s smile split into a grin. He should have just shoved him off the sofa. But no, Jehan had done nothing to deserve it. Just this twat. “But, Enjolras, I can’t do both!”

Getting desperate, Enjolras resorted to the tried and tested method of glaring. And hoped that Courfeyrac wouldn’t –

With a truly, terrifyingly wicked grin, Courfeyrac blinked up at Enjolras and asked, “Oh, is this the adoption papers you’re checking as a favour for Grantaire?”

“Feuilly,” Enjolras corrected, with only minor hesitation and barely any heart palpitations. “It’s Feuilly’s, not Grantaire’s.”

As Jehan stifled a chuckle badly, Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow and smiled condescendingly. “Are you sure?”

“Very much so. Book.”

“Because, you know, as far as methods of impressing possible love-of-lives go, helping orphans is really cliché-”

“Can you not just give me my fucking book?”

“Also very pathetic, tiresomely so, I mean, I really thought you were better than this.”

He wanted to explode righteous vengeance all over Courfeyrac’s pestering arse, he really did. But all he could manage, watching his friend in domestic bliss and with that name ringing in his ear, was feel his skin start to burn with the oddest combination of fury and fear, and mutter, “Fuck it. I’ll use Google,” before turning and leaving the room.

*

He’d only gone to fetch some fancy food to treat the Thernadier kids with, and Jehan a bit, too.

But then he’d seen a blonde head – not even his – and a flash of red, and then heard a sonorous voice, sarcasm, Frank Turner –

And Grantaire turned straight around and headed to the wine stall.

Borough Market sucked, anyway. He’d stick to Covent Garden in the future.

*

Some time had passed – about ten minutes, maybe half an hour, who really gave a damn – before Courfeyrac slipped into Enjolras’ room, the door barely making a sound.

Enjolras raised his gaze from the blank Google homepage, and then proceeded to raise an eyebrow, not only at Courfeyrac’s visit, but at the law book he’d brought with him. “What’s this?” he asked dryly, “You’re actually being nice to me?”

Courfeyrac pouted at him, and carefully set the book down on the desk by Enjolras’ left hand. “I can do that, occasionally,” he protested.

Enjolras didn’t answer. He just settled for smiling slightly, and leaning back just enough to bump Courfeyrac’s side with his shoulder.

“For what it’s worth,” Courfeyrac said softly, resting a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder, “I hope it works. He’d be perfect for you. And I think you could do him some good, too, if you got your act in gear.” He pressed his lips to the top of Enjolras’ head swiftly, before squeezing his shoulder lightly and stepping away.

“Thank you,” Enjolras replied, as Courfeyrac grinned at him before leaving him to his work.

*

“Food! Food is served!”

A young woman’s voice drifted through from the tiny room that served as a living room. “Aw, Uncle Feuilly, can’t it wait just one more minute? Jehan’s only got a little bit left to do!”

Feuilly sagged momentarily, before setting the plates on the dinner table. “He’s still going to be there after dinner, Azelma,” he called back, sitting in his own chair and picking up his knife and fork. “Come eat.”

With an unmistakable air of perfected teenage sulking, Azelma entered the room, half her hair done up in beautiful medieval style braiding. “Why do adults never let you do anything fun,” she grumbled, not so much sitting on her chair as collapsing grumpily onto it.

“Jehan’s an adult,” Feuilly pointed out, gesturing towards the door with his knife just as Jehan strode happily through, all but skipping. His own hair was done up in its usual hard-working plait.

“Only on paper,” Jehan corrected, pulling out the final chair and spinning it around, so he could straddle it and therefore rest his chin on the backrest. “And I still don’t think that’s right.”

“I hope you’re not expecting food,” Feuilly muttered, stabbing at a sausage with his fork. “This isn’t a B&B, you know.”

Jehan just laughed, before snatching a few potato slices off Feuilly’s plate. “Thank you, Feuilly,” Jehan said sing-song, grinning widely as he ate his stolen goods.

“Yes, thanks Uncle Feuilly,” Azelma said, mouth only slightly overflowing with food. Feuilly let her off this once.

“No need to thank me, you’re my guest,” Feuilly pointed out, wiping up some of the onion gravy with a chunk of sausage. “’Sides, if I didn’t feed you, your sister would have my testicles as Christmas decorations.” ea

Azelma snorted into her forkful of sausage and onion. Jehan just sniggered for a little while. “You need to get yourself a lass,” he said eventually, leaning forwards slightly to tap a finger once beside Feuilly’s plate.

Feuilly chuckled. “You been reading Robbie Burns again?”

He managed to dodge Jehan’s swipe. “Not the point,” Jehan protested, settling back down again – after pinching a few more potatoes. “You need to get some kids of your own.”

That made Feuilly snort into his food. “You what? When I have you lot to babysit? Speaking of, where’s the other one of you two? He better not be covering my walls in paint again.”

“That,” Jehan said snootily, “was an amazing modernist mural, and you should have kept it. But no – he’s gone to a gig with a mate, he said. Won’t be back until late. So I thought I’d keep you company!”

“How kind,” Feuilly said wryly. He moved to finally enjoy his sausage, but paused. “Hang on – what mate?”

“He does have friends, you know,” Jehan said, pouting at Feuilly with slight disapproval. “We’re not the only company he keeps.”

“Yeah, but-” Feuilly stopped himself with a sigh. “Never mind. I guess he could use the distraction.”

The clatter of cutlery on crockery drew his attention, and he looked up. Azelma was smiling at him benevolently, over a completely empty plate. “Finished!” she said. “Can Jehan finish plaiting my hair now?”

With a groan of defeat, Feuilly dropped his fork and first piece of sausage back on his plate.

*

“You’re going to fall, and then you’re going to break something, and then Joly is going to get annoyed at me for bringing people for him to fix when he’s on a shift again.”

Grantaire laughed, shoving Combeferre aside lightly and giving himself a second to stand upright. “Nah, you underestimate my ability, man. I ain’t tripped ‘cause of alcohol in years.”

Seeming not to believe him, Combeferre wrapped a hand around Grantaire’s upper arm anyway. He didn’t try and brush him away that time. Instead he frowned, thinking. “P’rhaps not over a year... but that time is behind me. Behind, way behind. Jehan would turn my guts into a flower crown if I went that bad again...”

“Or a nice feather boa, perhaps,” Combeferre suggested. “Don’t worry, we’d help him.”

“Thanks, man,” Grantaire said with true affection. He paused, frowned again. “Wait. What?”

Combeferre smiled. “Just me being that awesome friend that looks out for everyone. Nothing new.”

It was a warm night, for winter – or was that the alcohol? – there’d been awesome music, lots of cool people, lots of cheap drink, and, strangely, Grantaire wasn’t feeling quite alone. “Yeah, thanks, man,” he said again, is hand taking perhaps a few too many attempts to rest on the hand Combeferre still had holding his arm. “Good company. Wasn’t aware that was your kind of music.”

“The Editors? Mm, a bit soft for me,” Combeferre admitted. Grantaire slipped, but an arm looped around his waist before he hit the floor. “But they’re not bad, the roommate said he’d be working all evening, and Jehan sent a text saying you needed company.”

Grantaire didn’t know why he was surprised. He might as well start paying Jehan for babysitting. “Ah, so you were on duty, were you?”

“Do you see me taking payment?” Combeferre asked him, raising an eye before hefting Grantaire up, putting Grantaire’s arm around his own shoulders. “Tonight was a genuine pleasure, my friend. In fact, Bahorel, Enjolras and I have got tickets to see Asking Alexandria in a few weeks – I think there’s some tickets spare if you want to come along? Should be a good-”

But Grantaire was shaking his head before Combeferre had even finished, his head falling to the side so his hair brushed against Combeferre’s shoulder, his collar. “No... no, I can’t...”

Combeferre nodded. “Yes, I know. But it was worth a try.”

Neither of them said anything else as Combeferre helped Grantaire walk to the nearby bus stop. There, Grantaire tried to pull himself away from Combeferre, only to find the other man keeping a tight grip on him and lowering him onto the wonky bench. “I know it’s pointless to say he didn’t mean it,” Combeferre said with a sigh, sinking himself down beside Grantaire and keeping an arm draped casually over his shoulders. “And I’m not going to make excuses for him, lords know that never works... but I hope I’ve done enough that you’ll trust me, when I say his heart truly is in the right place.”

Feeling more like he was risking a glance than checking on a friend, Combeferre turned his head only slightly to look across at Grantaire. His head had fallen back against the glass, eyes closed, and he was breathing steadily. He was probably asleep. “Why are people always asleep when I actually attempt to be vaguely emotional?” Combeferre mused, copying Grantaire’s posture and leaning back against the shelter. “He is a good man, though. He cocks up a fair bit, but doesn’t everyone? And he means well, he always means well... perhaps too much... by you, he only means the best. He doesn’t understand you, he’s never understood anything that doesn’t parade around with a ‘down with the government’ placard, not really. But you, you are the complete opposite... which is why, I think, you two fit so well. You complement and complete each other. And it’s a very bizarre relationship, but beautiful, I think, in a psychologically aesthetic way.”

He snorted once in laughter, both at his own absurdity and the absurdity of the whole situation. He rolled his head to look at the most likely asleep Grantaire once more. “It’s a shame you’re not conscious to appreciate this. Even if you two get married, I’m not going to make such an emotional speech. This is it, my friend.” He narrowed his eyes to examine the relaxed, bland features of the drunk man once more, before chuckling under his breath, and turning away again. “This blasted bus better arrive, before I start talking of childhood memories and hopes and dreams, et cetera. Jehan would be proud, would he not?”

He left the drunkard to his silence after that.

The bus finally arrived 15 minutes later. Combeferre roused Grantaire, who blinked up at him in confusion, but managed to get onto the bus without much need for help.

*

There was never any peace and quiet anymore.

“You know,” Grantaire said with a sigh, dropping his art stuff by the door, as he couldn’t actually get any further into the backroom. “This used to be my space.”

“‘Used’ being the operative word there,” Bossuet pointed out cheerfully, from where he was sprawled carelessly out on the floor. “I’d say sorry, but I’m actually quite liking this little area, so... not sorry.”

Grantaire snorted, and stepped over a prone Marius to try and get to his easel. Which was, thank god, untouched in its usual place in the corner. “I hope you’re paying rent.”

“Not at all,” Bossuet replied jovially. “We’re getting refreshments, too. Making friends with Feuilly was the best thing I think I ever did!”

There was a ‘thwack’ sound.

“Aside from meeting Joly, obviously,” Bossuet amended. Grantaire looked back over his shoulder, grinning with amusement, to see Joly tangled under a few of Bossuet’s limbs and reading some kind of journal.

Joly whacked Bossuet’s side again, making Grantaire snort. “And meeting ‘Chetta,” Bossuet added. “That it?” he asked, still grinning, tilting his head awkwardly to look down at Joly. “Or do you want me to mention the pets and stuff too?”

He got a third whack for that, but Bossuet was laughing too hard.

“Why are you here, anyway?” Grantaire asked, patting down his various pockets for his pencil.

“Test in a few days’ time,” Marius said, his voice muffled by the carpet. “Revising.”

“And lying face down in the carpet counts as revising?”

“It’s worked the past few times.”

Bossuet chuckled again, twisting himself in a seemingly impossible way to look at Grantaire. Upside down. “Marius would never admit it,” he said in a stage whisper, “But he’s a secret genius. Scholarship boy. Don’t think he’s failed a test in his life.”

A disgruntled groan drifted across from the other side of the room, and Joly sniggered. “Shut up and enjoy your virtues,” he said, taking about three attempts to turn the page on his journal.

“I have no virtues,” Marius groaned, head sliding onto its side so his words could be heard without the impairment of the carpet. “Ask Courfeyrac. Enjolras. Bahorel. Anyone.”

“I’ll confirm it, if you want?” Grantaire suggested.

“That’ll be much appreciated.”

Laughing as much as Bossuet now, Grantaire finally found his pencil caught up in his knotted curls behind his ear, and started to chew the end as he considered what to draw. “Uh, not to say that I’m not grateful for the company,” he said suddenly, half turning to look at the three on the floor again, “But – kind of wondering what the fuck you’re doing on my floor? I don’t know if you noticed, but you’re in the residence of a guy who left school after GCSEs to get work, an art student and a poet. The only way you’d find any of us in a law court is in the docks.” He frowned. “That’s the right term, isn’t it? Docks?”

There was a moment of silence, before Bossuet said, sounding very uncertain, “I think so.”

“Yes, it is,” Marius confirmed, rolling back down into the carpet again. “And we’re here because Bahorel is here, and Bahorel is our guardian angel.”

The lead of the pencil touched the paper, and started to sketch out a curve. “Bahorel’s here?” Grantaire echoed, eyes darting over the line he was drawing and the rest of the empty canvas, shapes starting to emerge in his thoughts. “Again?”

As if he’d been outside, listening for when his entrance would be the most dramatic, Bahorel burst through the door – almost slamming said door into Grantaire’s brand new bag of brand new art products, mind – and boomed, “Right, are you kids playing nicely in my absence?”

With some self-preservation instinct remnant of high school, Marius scrambled and grabbed the nearest textbook, flicking it open to a random page and buried himself in it.

“That’s one of mine, genius,” Joly told him, smirking.

“Yeah, also,” Grantaire said, continuing from a conversation which had ended about five minutes ago, “Joly, you don’t even do law. What’s your excuse?”

Simultaneously, Joly pointed at Bossuet and Bossuet pointed at himself.

Grantaire had to admit that that had been pretty obvious. “And you, why do you live here all of a sudden?” he asked, pausing sketching to scowl at Bahorel.

Bahorel looked at him like he’d gone mad. “I don’t live here.” Leaving Grantaire scowling at him, he turned away, dropping wads of typed pages on top of Marius and Bossuet. “You’re both idiots, but you’re both gonna get a 2.1 at least if I have any say in it. Marius, you’ve improved, but don’t ever quote me on that. Bossuet-”

“It doesn’t need saying,” Bossuet said, holding up both hands in surrender. “I promise to actually try and pass this year.”

With a snort, Bahorel lowered himself to an empty patch of carpet between Marius’ feet and Bossuet’s shoulder. “What, you getting bored of the first year modules?”

“Eh, something like that.”

The slope of a shoulder and two enfolded hands had started to take shape in the pencil lines. “Hold up,” Grantaire said, tilting his head as he considered his sketching. “Bossuet – have you not passed first year?”

With no preamble, Bossuet went straight into the defensive. “Look,” he said, pushing himself onto his elbow and dislodging Joly slightly, “You try and pass seven different modules whilst being on about four different committees-”

“Three,” Joly muttered.

“-several part-time jobs on campus-”

“Two.”

“-volunteering in various charity shops-”

“Just the one.”

“-and at far too many youth groups for cerebral palsy and the like with this fool-”

“You go to three weekly, I only go to one, don’t blame me.”

“-as well as helping Mabeuf out on occasion,” Bossuet finished, smirking proudly. “I’m a busy man. That’s all I’m saying. There are more important things than getting a degree.” He paused, thought, then added, “But I think I’ll pass this year, I think Marius would collapse without company in lectures.”

Again, moaning echoed from the corner, this time muffled by the medical textbook Marius was hiding behind.

“Then read my notes,” Bahorel cut in, picking up the wad of typed paper – presumably an essay Bossuet had written – covered in red, scrawled handwriting, and whacking Bossuet around the head with it. “But on the topic of Mabeuf – coming tonight?”

“Like I could leave you to pester that dear old man without my supervision,” Bossuet scoffed, but he dutifully took the essay and held it over his head. Whether he actually read it or not was another question entirely.

“I’m in too,” Joly said unnecessarily. It might only be near a month since he’d met the guys, but it was already painfully obvious to Grantaire that if Bossuet was going somewhere, Joly wouldn’t be far behind. Especially if there would be alcohol.

A grunting suggested that Marius would be going, too.

There was silence for a few seconds, which Grantaire took advantage of to sketch the outline of a hand.

“Uh, R, buddy?”

Stunned out of his thinking, Grantaire spun around, shoving the pencil into his black tangles of hair momentarily. “Hm?”

“You coming?” Bahorel asked, slumped against the wall with crossed arms and a raised eyebrow.

‘Yes’ was on the tip of his tongue, but it moved no further than that. “Who’s going to be there?”

Bahorel’s one raised eyebrow moved higher. “Everyone.”

“Which means he will be, which means you won’t, right?” Joly asked, sounding almost sad. The Lancet was lowered to let Joly peer at him with large, woeful eyes. “Please come anyway?”

“Yeah man, there’s going to eight other people there, more if Eponine and ‘Chetta come, which they probably will, so you can easily dodge him,” Bossuet added.

Not quite sure what to say in response to that without destroying the mood of everyone in the room, Grantaire just stared blankly at Bossuet, until the cheerful man looked down and away.

“Everyone will want you to be there, man,” Joly said softly.

Then, with a voice of naive doom, Marius chimed in with, “Yeah, even Enjolras!”

In the deathly silence which followed, Marius must have realised that he fucked up, because without even looking up, he tried to bury himself even deeper into the textbook.

Bahorel cleared his throat. Joly raised his journal again, Bossuet concentrated on his paper.

For a second, Grantaire wasn’t sure whether to cry, yell, or collapse. Then, he just smiled wryly, and turned back to his sketching.

“You don’t have to come, we’ll have drinks another time,” Bahorel said tiredly, after time had passed.

“That sounds good, yeah,” Grantaire muttered. His pencil ghosted over the paper, resting where the face should be. He chewed the inside of his lip for a second, before calling over his shoulder, “Hey – d’you lot think Courfeyrac would mind modelling for me at some point?”

No one answered for a second. “Uuuuhhm, I guess he wouldn’t mind...” Bossuet mussed. “I mean, he’s not too self-conscious, is he?” Joly started to snigger. “Marius, would you say I’m right?”

“Sound about right to me,” Marius said, coming out of his textbook cocoon slightly.

Bossuet sighed with put-on affection. “Quiet little thing, our Courfeyrac, your attention to his looks will probably do the poor little fellow’s confidence some good...”

Bahorel snorted, and Marius started to giggling into the book. Joly was poking Bossuet’s side.

Grinning, Grantaire nodded. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said, tip of his pencil gracefully turning to outline where Courfeyrac’s curls would fit into the picture. “Suggest the idea to him tonight for me, would you?”

*

“Good, you’re here with perfect timing for once,” Joly said, grabbing Bossuet just as he strode into the entrance for A&E.

Bossuet gulped, and reluctantly let himself get pulled along the corridors, looking at the baffled people sat with various embarrassing wounds waiting for attention from a doctor or nurse. “I never arrive anywhere on time, so clearly you want me for painful and nefarious purposes,” he protested, lightly tugging his arm free and following Joly. He was wearing mismatched scrubs again – lilac top with yellow trousers. The long sleeved t-shirt he was wearing underneath was grey, so it wasn’t so much of a fashion disaster. “For which procedure am I your crash test dummy this time? Hey, Darren.”

He waved at the man walking past in colour-coordinated green scrubs, who looked at him, looked at the focused Joly, grinned, and said hi back before turning into the radiology department.

“Nothing painful,” Joly said, changing direction so suddenly that Bossuet had to skid to a stop to follow him quick enough. “And only slightly nefarious.”

“Ah, well, that’s a relief,” Bossuet said, slipping his hands back into his pockets and relaxing immensely. “My day’s been okay, by the way, thanks for asking-”

“Good,” Joly muttered, probably without really listening.

“Bit chaotic, managed to break a bottle of salsa in Tesco Express, and some poor granny thought I’d cut my hand off-”

“What, again?”

“Only a little bit.”

“You only dropped it a little bit?”

“Yeah!”

“Right...”

Joly dove left through an unmarked door. As ever, Bossuet followed, things starting to make a bit more sense. “Ooh, I remember this place. Supply room, yeah?”

The room wasn’t much of a room, more an overgrown closet, several meters wide and deep and lined with shelves of various things, from towels to syringes to bedpans. “Yep,” Joly said, scanning the shelves before turning to grin at Bossuet.

Bossuet followed his gaze around the place, before saying, “It’s a bit late for us to go back into the closet, isn’t it?”

With a scowl of disappointment which probably hid a grin – Joly was always upsettingly mature when in his scrubs – Joly lightly whacked Bossuet’s arm.

“And I’ve just had a huge lunch, not sure I’m up for a good old bit of ding-dong woo-hoo in this small a place, not got the energy really-”

That earned him another whack, and a shoulder bag thrown at his face. He scrabbled to catch it, managing to get a finger caught under the strap before it fell. “Shut up, you prat,” Joly said, sounding definitely slightly amused, “Just hold that open, would you?”

Bossuet let out a weary sigh, but did as he was told. “Bit disappointed, not going to lie,” he muttered, trying to find the zip on Joly’s bag. “I feel like the excitement’s gone from our relationship sometimes, y’know.”

Before he had time to prepare himself – before he’d even found that damned zip, even – Joly grabbed his collar, tugged him forwards, and planted a big, badly-aimed wet one on him.

“You daft twit, hold the bloody bag open,” Joly said affectionately, unzipping it for him and handing it to him, open.

Grinning like a fool – a bit pathetic, after two years of a steady relationship, really, but that was Bossuet for you – he held the bag still while Joly grabbed rolls of stuff from the side. “Not that I mind, you know me – but what, exactly, are we stealing from the NHS?”

“Supplies,” Joly muttered, picking something up and examining it. Looked like cotton wool. “If there’s going to be this big bust up, this not-quite-legal protest, then I’m rather sure we’re going to need supplies. When is it again?”

“There’s no ‘if’ about it,” Bossuet corrected, shaking the bag a bit to give Joly more room to cram stuff into. “And the coming Monday, I think. As if people needed any more reason to hate Mondays...”

“And thus even more reason to top up my supplies,” Joly replied resolutely, throwing bottles of antiseptic into the bag with perfect aim.

Behaving himself, Bossuet stood in perfect silence as he waited for Joly to finish. “It’ll look suspicious, us two, emerging from a supply closet,” he pointed out, all halos and innocent eyes. “...Not even a quick blowjob?”

Joly scowled, raised an arm ready to chuck whatever was in his hand at Bossuet – before pausing, shrugging, and going, “Yeah, alright then.”

Bossuet threw the bag to the side without a second thought for breakables.

*

Enjolras’ nose was bleeding, probably more than was good for him. Bahorel had given him his spare towel to hold against it, but it was still dripping a little bit. It didn’t feel broken, which was good, but the bleeding aspect was starting to concern him. And a man in sports gear holding a bloody towel to his face tended to draw unwanted attention on the bus – but even more walking through the streets, so he’d risked it, and tried not to look like a teenage hooligan. It might’ve been better, if he didn’t have the long blonde hair and soft features of a damned fifteen year old, but still.

Now, the challenge he faced was how to hold his bag open and root around in it for his front door key whilst keeping the towel pressed to his nose. Five minutes he was crouched over it, fumbling, before he heard laughter echoing through the door. Giving up, he all but threw his bag to the floor with severe hatred, and slammed his palm against the door.

The laughter stopped immediately. It took a few minutes, however, and some muttering, before the door opened to reveal a hesitant Courfeyrac. “Hello?”

Scowling at him around the bloody towel still pressed to his slightly leaking nose, Enjolras feigned a curtsy and said, heavy on the sarcasm, “If his majesty would kindly let me in my own flat?”

Courfeyrac’s eyes were wide and fixed on Enjolras’ nose. Or rather, the red-stained splodge of material that was hiding it. Enjolras kicked his shins. “Oh! Yes, of course, sorry – what the hell happened to your nose?”

“Bahorel got violent,” Enjolras said by means of explanation, rejecting picking his gym bag back up in place of kicking in into the flat instead. “I think I did something to piss him off, god knows what.” He kicked the bag across the wooden floor to its usual place beside the shoe rack (impulse buy at Ikea, Bossuet’s fault), and shrugged off his jacket.

Only when that was carefully hanging up did he realise the only sound he’d heard since entering was the quiet click of Courfeyrac closing the door.

Frowning with confusion, he turned to look around his flat. A gathering of six people were squished into the space around his sofas; Joly, Bossuet, Marius and Courfeyrac – the usual suspects – along with the now-familiar sight of Jehan and Eponine. Several were looking down and to the side with shifty eyes and growing blushes, others were staring at him with badly disguised fear.

He narrowed his eyes at them. Before addressing them, he lowered the towel to reveal his bloodied nose for full affect. “What,” he said coolly, “are you all doing in my flat?”

Enjolras had to give them credit, there wasn’t a second’s hesitation before he got a response. The problem was, he got two responses.

“Waiting for you and Combeferre, see if we’re gonna do Secret Santa this year,” Courfeyrac said.

At the same time, Bossuet said, “Combeferre said he was making fajitas, thought we’d make an evening of it.”

There was a second where the hope and innocence lasted on everyone’s faces. Then Eponine muttered a curse under her breath, Bossuet winced, Courfeyrac buried his face in his hands and Joly turned to Bossuet and hissed, “Never say anything! You know the rules!”

Marius just started to laugh nervously. Jehan grinned, utterly unapologetic.

Enjolras gave them all a look of disappointment for a moment, before shaking his head. “One, it’s still October. We haven’t even had Halloween yet. Two, Combeferre made fajitas last week.” With a weary sigh, he turned away from them and started to make his way to the bathroom for a shower. “If you’re going to talk about me, I at least expect you to have put in the effort to have come up with a believable lie.”

Courfeyrac yelled at his back, “I hope your nose is broken and mends crooked!”

Enjolras’ last parting communication was a middle finger waved back to them, before he shut the door.

Stripping his blood-stained clothes and craving a warm shower with every cell, he heard Eponine’s weary comment echo through the shut door. “Wouldn’t matter. Grantaire would still obsessively love him anyway.”

If he slammed the door to the bathroom forcefully enough to make the thin walls shake, he hoped the others wouldn’t make anything of it. It was a futile hope, he knew. But he hoped anyway.

*

Grantaire frowned, chewing the end of the pencil and probably eating some of the rubber. He never used it nowadays anyway, just rubbed at the paper with the pad of his thumb.

After several minutes intense concentration on what was wrong, Grantaire raised his head slightly – eyes still fixed on the canvas – and called to his model, “You need to tilt your head about five degrees further down.”

“You presume to instruct me on how to model?” Courfeyrac asked, sounding appalled. “How dare you! I have sheer talent-”

“But not several years of studying art and art history,” Grantaire pointed out, grinning, “So tilt your fucking head down.”

Laughing, Courfeyrac did as instructed, instinctively curling the hand holding the packet of weight loss pills closer to his chest as he bowed his head over it. Grantaire tilted his head, looked between Courfeyrac, the canvas and the reference painting he’d printed out, using Feuilly’s resources. “Perfect.”

“Of course.”

“Yeah, yeah, you fucker. Now, stop moving or I’ll give you a big nose.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“And spots.”

Courfeyrac didn’t reply, and Grantaire chuckled. There was silence as Grantaire sketched his profile onto the canvas – starting simple before moving onto the fingers first clasped around the pills, then around his wrist. He was finding his respect for the old masters growing as the term went on. He was starting to figure out why paintings such as this had managed to last and still be worshipped near two hundred and fifty years after their creation. These were being buggers.

One of Courfeyrac’s fingers twitched – one of those holding his wrist – and Grantaire was about to yell at him, but Courfeyrac spoke first. “You’re aware what’s happening on Monday, I’m guessing?”

“I’ll only credit that with an answer if you put your finger back where it was.” Courfeyrac obediently shifted his finger back the millimetre. With a concerning sense that he’d regret answering this question – and hoping his friends’ attempts to match-make would end soon – he replied to Courfeyrac’s question. “Yes, unfortunately, I am. This non-protest, right?”

“Yes, that. Do you know who’s going?”

Courfeyrac clearly knew – he was asking if Grantaire knew. “Ahh,” Grantaire said, moving to roughly sketch the contours of Courfeyrac’s face – well, he says roughly sketch, but he generally ended up leaving it as it was anyway. “Is this where you subtly try and get my permission for Jehan to join you lot?” he asked, working on the nose first. It was annoying – Courfeyrac had the nose you’d expect to find on a bust of Alexander the Great. It’d be nice if one aspect of him was less than beautiful. Grantaire really needed less pretty friends, he could hardly come across any better in comparison. “Not that he needs my permission,” he continued to mutter, sweeping his pencil up to the outline of Courfeyrac’s brow. “He’s a big boy now...”

“He was scared of how you’d react,” Courfeyrac admitted. “Not that you’d be angry, or anything – more that you’d do that sorrowful puppy-eye, burying-yourself-in-tattered-plaid, curl up on the sofa abandonment routine, which he seems to find emotionally upsetting, rather than absolutely adorable.”

“Your compassion, as ever, is appreciated,” Grantaire said, glancing over the top of the canvas to see Courfeyrac grin and flash him a wink. “Shoulder forwards slightly.”

Courfeyrac complied. “Please don’t go into that whole abandonment routine, by the way, because for one thing, we’re not, and for another it’d make Jehan sad, and Sad Jehan is worse than upsetting a kitten.”

Grantaire made a general noise of agreement, starting work on Courfeyrac’s blue cotton jacket. “You’re not what?”

“What?”

“You said ‘we’re not’. You’re not what?”

“Abandoning you, you silly tosspot,” Courfeyrac said, with a scoff. Grantaire glared at him, and Courfeyrac shifted his shoulders until they were back into position. “You’re welcome to come. You have full invite. Our doors and hearts are open to you. The choice not to come was yours, and yours alone.”

“Well-”

“No, no,” Courfeyrac said, quite softly and with no trace of his usual exuberance. “Enjolras wants you there as well.”

Grantaire almost wanted his pencil nib to snap, for dramatic effect. But then again he didn’t, because that pencil was far more expensive than a piece of wood around a stick of graphite had any right to be. “Just shut up and be quiet, there’s a good model,” he settled on saying, forcibly keeping his tone steady.

For a stunning ten minutes, Courfeyrac obeyed him. Grantaire made solid progress on shaping the creases and folds of his jacket, and was just about to move onto going over the positioning of Courfeyrac’s arms when his model spoke again.

“I do love the bastard, but Enjolras is very bad at motivating people to do better, the poor sod.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Grantaire paused, lifting the pencil off the canvas for the first time in a while. “Look, I can shove this pencil where-”

“I’m sure you could, sweetie, but shut your cute little gob for a short while could you?” Courfeyrac said, again in that soft, calmer tone he’d used earlier. It was a voice that showed it cared too much. As much as Grantaire wanted the topic changed, before that dull ache he was just about managing to fool himself was going away came back again – he couldn’t.

“As soon as his parents realised they had a little blonde haired prodigy on their hands, they decided that was all they cared about,” Courfeyrac continued, staying perfectly still and in position. “Pushed him, but without much encouraging. Usual tale, won’t bore you with it, sure you’ve heard it before. It’s quite common really, the whole ‘Ninety-eight percent? Why not one hundred?’ issue. Of course, he figured it out by the time we reached GCSEs, and that was when the heavy rock music and lipstick and long hair and political activism started to kick in. Rebellion against what society deems ‘good’ and ‘productive’ behaviour. But damage done – he now believes the way to make someone do better, to reach their potential, is to point out all the ways they’re doing wrong. Trust me, I used him as a profile when we studied learning in A Level Psychology.”

Here he paused, clearly indicating that he desired a response of some sort. Grantaire replied with, “Hmph.”

“Now, I didn’t learn much from GCSE maths,” Courfeyrac said wryly, “But I did learn that two negatives make a positive.”

This did garner a response from Grantaire. “If you’re going to try and tell me that my fucked-up-ness and Enjolras’ fucked-up-ness will come together to make one perfect happy soul-”

“If you wanted, darling, I could quote you one of the forty studies I had to memorise concerning personality matches from my Relationships module, again, A Level Psychology, AQA exam board,” Courfeyrac shot back, and yeah, Grantaire should have figured Courfeyrac was the type to use endearments when angry. “I just thought that the maths made a better metaphor. Might I continue?”

Grantaire chewed the inside of his cheek, but let Courfeyrac carry on uninterrupted.

“Yes, you’re a little bit fucked-up. Mainly because you seem to have all these unnecessary self-esteem issues, you adorable fucker. Enjolras is fucked up too. So much of what he does is an act to cover a heart that really doesn’t know how to deal with humanity except shout at it and shoot out snarky comments. Perhaps a joke every now and then. Society, now, that’s a system he understands, a system he can wrap around his little finger. Individual humans? He’s lost as a newborn babe. Why d’you think he needs Combeferre and myself? But we can only do so much.”

Something lightly touched Grantaire’s sternum, and he jumped, blinking and raising his head. Courfeyrac was standing right in front of him, smiling with affection. Grantaire hadn’t even registered that he’d moved. He’d been too focused on what Courfeyrac was saying.

“But you,” Courfeyrac said, touching the tip of his finger to Grantaire’s sternum once again, “You might be able to fix him. You’re funny and tough and don’t suffer fools gladly. You counter him, make him question stuff. And don’t you think that, when you’ve taught him that not all encouragement is the verbal equivalent of a kick up the arse, he might be able to start fixing you too? So if you’re still scared that there’s no possibility of a good outcome from this... well, perhaps you now see that you don’t have to be.”

As Grantaire stood there, open mouthed and wide eyed and utterly silent, Courfeyrac’s smile grew into a joyful grin. “Five o’clock,” he said, tapping his watch face. “My contract’s up. Same time tomorrow, yeah?”

Before Grantaire could respond, Courfeyrac leant forwards and down slightly to press a quick and noisy kiss to the top of Grantaire’s head, before grabbing his satchel and bounding from the room.

Grantaire blinked a few times. He turned back to the sketch, blinked at it. He looked back at the door, still swinging from Courfeyrac’s exit, and frowned.

*

The quiet knock came at some point late into the afternoon. Enjolras’ curtains were shut and his clock was on the other side of the room, and between doing mindless work and watching TV shows, he’d long lost track of what time it was. Could be midnight for all he knew.

“Come in,” he yelled, not moving from where he was slumped back in his desk chair, gently spinning from side to side.

Courfeyrac’s head appeared around the edge of his door. “Hey boi, you done?” he asked, eyes flicking around the room for any signs that he shouldn’t be interrupting.

“Yeah, finished a while ago,” Enjolras admitted. He watched as Courfeyrac’s eyes finally landed on Enjolras’ computer screen, and took in the sight of what was unmistakeably a scene from Downton Abbey. At Courfeyrac’s look of shock, Enjolras smirked and raised an eyebrow. “You’ve caught me doing worse,” he pointed out.

“I know,” Courfeyrac protested, pouting slightly, before slipping into a mischievous grin. “I was just wondering how you could betray Combeferre by watching it without him.”

In a moment of careless immaturity, Enjolras stuck his tongue out.

“Blackmail material I have on you aside, are you able to come out of your little cave and socialise like a good boy?” Courfeyrac asked, for once being the mature one.

Casting one final forlorn look at his computer, Enjolras sighed, and leant forwards to press pause. He ignored Courfeyrac calling him a ‘good boy’. “I hope you realise the sacrifice I’m making for you,” he said, rising to his feet. Within seconds, Courfeyrac’s arm was wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him to the door.

“Oh, totally,” Courfeyrac said, pressing a sloppy kiss to Enjolras’ temple. He made exaggerated retching noises, which, of course, only made Courfeyrac do it again.

“Excuse you,” Combeferre called as they entered the main room, carrying a glass bowl of nachos in oven-gloved hands. “No public displays of affection in my house, thank you very much. Especially when there’s work to be done.”

Laughing and letting Enjolras go, Courfeyrac skipped over to Combeferre, pinching a nacho drowning in melted cheese. “But ‘Feeeerrrrreeee...”

“Just sit down and eat your fajita,” Combeferre ordered, attempting to lift the nachos out of Courfeyrac’s reach and failing, and stifling a grin.

“Work?” Enjolras echoed, falling down onto the sofa, Courfeyrac followed soon after. “And fajitas? You’re spoiling me.”

Combeferre smirked at him, setting the nachos very distinctly on his side of the coffee table before squeezing into the end of the sofa beside Courfeyrac. “I know, it’s just like the good old days.”

Courfeyrac dropped a plate and wrap in Enjolras’ lap as he leant over to pick up the paper folder which was stuck under the bowl of salsa. Clearly from Bahorel – no one else they knew had access to such fancy stationary. “Details of the protest?” he asked, taking the bowl of chicken Combeferre was offering to him.

“Yup,” Courfeyrac confirmed through a mouthful of nachos and depositing far more guacamole onto his chicken than was necessary. “We got a few final things to sort out before we put dates and meeting info up on the ABC Facebook group, Twitter etc, and the masses get rallied.”

Carefully rolling up his minimalist wrap – Courfeyrac had made many arguments in favour of the over-stuffed wrap, but five years later and Enjolras’ eating habits hadn’t changed – Enjolras flicked through the folder. “Do we have any beer?” he muttered, taking in the facts and figures, a plan already starting to solidify in his head.

One was already on its way down to him, courtesy of a smugly smiling Combeferre.

“Oh my god, you two are so slow at constructing your wraps. C’mon, get eating already,” Courfeyrac said, mouth again full, and he swung from side to side to whack both of them with his shoulders. “We’ve got work to do!”

Leaning forwards to grab a handful of nachos, Enjolras caught Combeferre’s eye. Combeferre grinned, and Enjolras was unable to stop himself snorting with laughter as Courfeyrac continued to witter about most effective times for Monday.

He hadn’t realised he’d missed this until now. It was a good feeling, to be reminded that no matter how wrong things felt, he’d always have this, these nights, waiting for him when he needed them.

*

“Oi, fat ass, budge up.”

Gavroche looked up at him with sheer disbelief on his little face, but shuffled closer to Eponine all the same. “I’m the smallest one here!”

Perching in the too-tiny space created, Grantaire snorted. “Who said my insults had to be logical. Here, pass the popcorn along to your sister, would you?”

And yet, the freshly-made batch of popcorn was lifted on Gavroche’s lap and moved no further.

“How long have we got ‘til it starts?”

“About five minutes. Feuilly better – ah, speak of...”

The front door swung open as Grantaire was speaking, Azelma trailing behind him. He stopped short when he saw the three of them already wedged onto the sofa, Jehan relegated to the spot by Eponine’s feet. “Where the fuck am I meant to sit?” he asked, sounding terribly indignant.

Grantaire exchanged glances with the others. “Azelma, we can probably squish on the sofa. You’ll have to sit on the floor.”

Azelma grinned, running right past the scowling Feuilly to jump onto the sofa between her siblings, pushing Gavroche partially onto Grantaire’s lap. “Who owns this bloody space, that’s what I want to know,” Feuilly muttered, stomping over and sliding down with many, many groans until he was sat on the floor, leaning against Grantaire’s armrest.

“Forget owning the place, you’re not going to be living much longer if you don’t shut up soon,” Eponine said, waving a hand at the TV as the BBC’s red spinning circles appeared, announcing the imminent start of the monumental event which was The Great British Bake-Off finale.

“All I want,” Jehan said, leaning back so Azelma could play with his braids, “is some form of technology that lets me reach into the TV and pull out objects in it.”

“You just really want fancy cakes,” Feuilly said dryly, a statement Jehan affirmed with a grin.

“Just tell me what you want, I’ll make it,” Grantaire offered thoughtlessly. He realised his mistake when Gavroche suddenly perked up. “Not you.”

Jehan paused, head tilting as he considered. On the screen, Mary and Paul were in deep discussion about what standards they were expecting from each of the finalists. “I appreciate it,” he said eventually, very carefully, “But... you’re not Mary Berry.”

Grantaire threw popcorn at Jehan’s head – and, of course, it went flying past without so much as bouncing off him. “You take that back.”

“It’s true! Harsh, but true!”

“Then I’ll accept that challenge,” Grantaire said, sniffing in his pride. “Go on. Set me a challenge. I’ll bake it when you’re out doing your little rallying thing, make sure you have some motivation to come back again and don’t run off into the sunset in a revolutionary fervour.”

Oblivious of the Mel and Sue sassing on the TV, Jehan turned sharply to look at Grantaire, before smiling widely. “Like a victory cake,” he said, beaming.

Grantaire’s smile faltered, but only for a second. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Well I’m not going to go riding off into any fucking sunset,” Feuilly muttered. “You all seem to keep forgetting that this is my damn house.”

Laughing, Grantaire reached down and shoved Feuilly’s head to the side. “What, not even if Bahorel offered to sweep you off your feet like the delicate princess you are?”

No doubt Feuilly had a long chain of insults to retort with, but he was cut off before he could start by Gavroche shouting, “Are we going to watch this or not?”

As everyone aside from the irate twelve year old muffled sniggers, Grantaire caught Jehan’s eye and winked, sending Jehan into an extreme bout of giggles. Knowing he still had the power to make his best friend choke on popcorn with uncontrollable laughter made him feel happier than he’d been in a long time. Perhaps not perfect, but better.

*

Theoretically, it was stupid to try and get the papers to Feuilly today. It’s not like he’d be able to do anything with them for a few days. It was Sunday, nothing was ever open on Sunday. Every sensible person was still in bed at this time anyway.

And yet, here he was. Sat in the car he’d borrowed from Combeferre, clutching the file of annotated documents, staring at the flickering digital clock in the dashboard for a solid ten minutes now.

He was such a fucking coward. He wasn’t even here because it’d make Feuilly’s life easier. More like because he’d screwed up enough recently and when he’d said that he’d get the documents to Feuilly before the protest, he damn well meant it.

If only he could get the courage to get out of the car and get into the fucking shop to give it to Feuilly. What was he so scared of, anyway? From what he’d learnt about Grantaire, he probably wouldn’t be awake. He was probably the type for long lie-ins, curled up and hogging the duvet –

Someone knocked on the front window, completely terrifying Enjolras and making him jump so hard he almost hit his head on the roof.

Grantaire was bending down and peering through the driver’s door window with an unimpressed expression and raised eyebrow.

Furiously trying not to blush, Enjolras wound the window down (yes, Combeferre’s car was that old). When the glass had completely vanished, he blinked up at Grantaire and stuttered, “I thought you’d still be in bed.”

Grantaire’s eyes widened a bit in surprise, but he didn’t smile. “Joke’s on you, I’m on Gavroche duty today, so an early start. Please tell me you’re not here with the intention of watching me in my sleep, because as you should know, what with all the Law studying and all, that’s illegal levels of creepy.”

Enjolras retained enough of his wits not to grace that with an answer. Instead, he stared back at Grantaire with a firm ‘you’ve got to be joking’ glare, before holding up the file. “For Feuilly. Could you give them to him?”

Without protest, Grantaire took the folder, absently flicking through it. “Delivering it yourself? Why not use one of your lackeys, Bahorel or Courfeyrac?”

“They’re not my lackeys,” Enjolras sighed, running a hand through his hair, torn between driving away as quickly as possible and staying for as long as Grantaire would let him. He deliberated his next words for a long time, before finally confessing, “And I guess I just couldn’t stay away.”

It was like poking a wound, he didn’t want to see how Grantaire would react, but at the same time he couldn’t not. His eyes flickered for a moment, looking everywhere before finally landing on Grantaire.

He seemed breathless, but at the same time he was looking at Enjolras as if he understood exactly what Enjolras had meant. Willing to take this, any window he was given, however slightly, Enjolras opened his mouth to say anything, apologise, explain, anything, but before he could get the words out Grantaire nodded once, and turned to walk away.

Mouth hanging open, Enjolras watched Grantaire until he entered the art shop, before slamming his head against the steering wheel.

Next time, he’d give it to Bahorel.

*

Grantaire was working in the back room when Feuilly walked in. He didn’t look up, so Feuilly didn’t call out, but his curiosity got the better of him – he’d never been able to stop himself when Grantaire was working on something new.

Tons of photos of Courfeyrac had been taped to the white walls – something Feuilly would throw a fit about later – and the pose looked familiar. Feuilly glanced at the Pre-Raphaelite imitations leaning against the far wall, himself and Bahorel as Dicksee’s Belle Dame, Jehan as Millais’ Ophelia, before stepping forwards to Grantaire’s side and smiling knowingly at the sketch of Courfeyrac that Grantaire was starting to fill in with paint. “Rossetti,” he said, nodding. “Prosperine. Good choice. Brown hair, thick lips... even the goddamn blue jacket fits. What’s that he’s holding, in place of the pomegranate-”

“Pills of some kind, thought I’d leave it ambiguous,” Grantaire muttered, too focused on matching colours to give Feuilly his full attention. “You want something?”

“Hm?” Feuilly muttered, scanning Grantaire’s lines, trying to look for a fault he needed to point out. Nothing. The boy was getting good... “Want? Oh, no, not with you. Have you seen Bahorel’s scarf anywhere, the bastard says he left it here and is too busy to come and fetch it himself. Doing what, it’s a fucking Sunday...”

Grantaire snorted. “You mean the pretentious grey and red one he wears with his suit? No, I haven’t.”

The pause was long enough that Feuilly had started to turn away, ready to leave Grantaire to his work, before Grantaire spoke again.

“But Enjolras dropped the adoption papers off, all annotated and perfected.”

Stunned, Feuilly spun back around. “What? Where are they? And when?”

Grantaire gestured with his brush – the same huge old tattered thing he’d been using for year. True enough, on the chair on the far side of the room, sat the cardboard folder. “Several hours ago, I don’t know. What time is it now?”

“Lunch.”

“Then about four hours ago.”

Feeling as if he was suddenly walking on eggshells, Feuilly walked over to pick up the folder. “Why didn’t you give them to me before?”

He watched Grantaire’s back carefully, but the man just shrugged, before continuing with the colour-wash background.

Absently, Feuilly flicked through the folder. Not only had Enjolras annotated the documents, but he’d added his own, revised version, notes explaining the details in layman’s terms for both him and Azelma, lists of contacts and references if he needed further help... the boy hadn’t half-arsed it. Closing it like it cost a hundred quid, Feuilly frowned, thinking, before tilting his head to look at Grantaire’s back. “How are you?” he asked, as if the question was casual.

Grantaire didn’t stop mid-stroke, he was too professional for that. But when his brush reached the end of the canvas, he paused. “I don’t know,” he answered. Then he dipped the brush back into the paint, and touched it to the white canvas once more.

Not sure how he felt himself, Feuilly nodded, before turning and leaving the room. He’d return in an hour or so, to make sure Grantaire ate. In the meantime, he had accounts to check, and a scarf to find.

*

“Yo. Yo!”

Someone was snapping their fingers in front of Enjolras’ face. He swatted them away. “What,” he said, glaring up at Courfeyrac, who was dancing around him in his SpongeBob pyjama shorts (courtesy of Bossuet).

“Stop daydreaming!” Courfeyrac ordered, flopping down onto the bed next to him. “C’mon, lovely, you gotta getcha head in the game!”

The sentence was followed by a deep, soul-shaking groan from the adjacent bathroom. “I hope he knows that if he starts to quote or, god help us, sing from High School Musical, I will make him drink Listerine until he’s either poisoned or drowns,” Combeferre called through the adjacent wall.

“You dream that I would sing to you,” Courfeyrac called back, grinning, and looping an arm around Enjolras’ shoulder. “My singing is delightful.”

Leaning back against his friend, Enjolras snorted. “Who, exactly, told you that?”

“Marius,” Combeferre answered before Courfeyrac could defend himself. He spoke as he entered the room, just dressed in a pair of old, tattered tracksuit bottoms. Enjolras was the only one wearing a t-shirt, something he’d got for free in his first week at uni and which very much didn’t match his superman pyjama trousers. He felt remarkably modest and prude, next to Mr Toned to his left and Combeferre showing off his geometric sleeves and the lines of Aristotle forming molecular structures across his shoulder blades. “I believe our misled Pontmercy told Courfeyrac the traitorous lie in a moment of extreme inebriation.”

“It wasn’t a fucking - mmph!”

Courfeyrac’s protests were cut off mid-sentence as Enjolras slapped a hand over his mouth, pulling him down with him as he fell back onto the mattress. “Get the lights, would you, Otosan?”

There was a muffled giggle from Courfeyrac, beneath Enjolras’ hands, and a second deathly groan from Combeferre. “Why do persist in quoting anime? You know it hurts me so, and it’s not like you like the stuff.”

“I quote it because it hurts you so, and because you were the one who said Courfeyrac should have his way,” Enjolras pointed out, feeling Courfeyrac shake the whole bed with how much he was laughing. “But seriously, the lights? Or are you expecting us to sleep beneath the deathray you have as a lamp?”

Combeferre sent him a scathing look, before flicking the light switch, causing what would have been pitch black darkness if not for the shine of the streetlights. “Yes, Okasan.”

Even Enjolras couldn’t hold back laughter from that. He and Courfeyrac shuffled higher up onto the bed, and Combeferre climbed carefully onto it the other side of Courfeyrac. It was a tight fit, nowadays, even on Combeferre’s king bed.

“I know it’s a big day tomorrow, but do we have to go to sleep yet?” Courfeyrac asked quietly into the darkness, arm pressed right up against Enjolras’ side. He could hear Combeferre’s slow breathing. “Or can we talk for a bit?”

It had started back in their GCSE years, and somehow become a tradition without any of them intending it, even though they were really too old to be calling it a sleepover anymore. They used to be able to fit onto the double bed Combeferre had in his parent’s house with ease, and they’d found it was easier, with Enjolras tense and Courfeyrac bouncing off the walls, to sleep together the night before a big event. Every results day they’d stay together until the early hours, when the other two had to leave to spend the morning with their parents. Before driving tests, rallies, debates. Now, having to share a bed with two fully-grown men, elbows in each other’s chests, Combeferre snoring heavily, Courfeyrac occasionally whacking them with a flying hand, the covers vanishing halfway through the night – was far more comforting than a night spent in peace in Enjolras’ own bed.

“No,” he said softly, turning onto his side so he could curl up against Courfeyrac. “I guess we can talk for a little while yet.”

*

Grantaire caught the keys Feuilly threw at him with very little skill and sheer luck. It was always more fun when the person throwing wasn’t paying attention to where they were aiming.

“I should be back before midnight,” Feuilly was saying, rummaging through his coat pockets for something. “But if not, you know the drill, lock up by about eleven, it’s a Monday after all-”

“Eleven?” Grantaire exclaimed, settling himself into the chair behind the front desk. “Are you seriously expecting me to do a – what is that – a sixteen hour day by myself, are you nuts-”

“Jehan, you’re going to be late!” Feuilly bellowed, completely ignoring Grantaire’s ranting. “Look, you can take a lunch break, I’m not expecting you to go without food. And, y’know, I could shut the shop if you wanted to come-”

“Yeah, no-”

“Well, then, it’s your own fault. For fuck’s sake, Jehan! I’m going to leave without you if you don’t-”

“Coming, coming...” Finally, Jehan appeared from behind a shelf of sculpting tools, clutching knitted gloves in one hand and a bagel in the other. “Sorry, was just making sure Azelma knew where-”

“Don’t care,” Feuilly said, but Grantaire caught the slight almost-smile. “Can we go now?”

Jehan beamed, and half-skipped, half-jogged towards the door after an exasperated Feuilly.

“I’ll do it,” Grantaire yelled after them, “But when you’re all morose and disappointed tomorrow, don’t coming looking to me for comfort, because I’m going to sleeping. All day. You realise that, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah-”

“And Eponine better show up to keep me company soon, or I promise you, I will be raiding these shelves to postpone death by boredom-”

Feuilly stopped, halfway through the doorway, pausing to turn back and frown and say, “Mate, Eponine’s going to the protest too. I thought you knew that?”

The news struck Grantaire so forcefully that his mouth actually opened slightly. “You – what?” he asked, looking from Feuilly to the apologetic expression on Jehan’s face. “This is a joke, right? She’s a realist, she’d never think something like this could actually work-”

He stopped talking as Jehan’s arms snaked around his chest and squeezed him in what could half be described as a hug, half as a wrestling move. “See you later today,” Jehan promised him, bumping Grantaire’s ear with his nose lightly.

Grantaire swatted him away. “You go change the world, you little sloth you,” he said affectionately, shoving Jehan lightly. Jehan laughed, and Grantaire forced a smile in return.

He watched them leave the shop, and Jehan gave him a cheery little wave through the glass before hurrying over to Feuilly’s car.

Ten minutes later and Grantaire was still sat at his desk, staring at the empty surface and wondering what the hell he could do to take up the sixteen hours and keep him distracted from the guilt that was starting to eat away at his insides.

*

The others were waiting for them outside of the Musain, looking less like the privileged young men they usually were and more like the angry students they were trying to be.

All, that was, except Bossuet, who was wearing about three layers of jumpers and coats and what appeared to be a home-knitted wool hat over his bald head.

However, it was Combeferre who caught Eponine’s eye. His usual neat jeans-and-jumper combo had been replaced by tattered, loose jeans and an Asking Alexandria t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, leaving, for the first time, the entirety of his sleeves on full display. However, his hair was still perfectly quaffed, and he was still wearing tortoise-shell rimmed glasses.

Eponine whistled as she climbed out of the car, leaving Feuilly to mutter about something. “Well check you out, Rambo,” she said, striding forwards and smirking at Combeferre. To her amusement, he just raised one serious eyebrow before striking a Johnny Bravo pose.

To his left, Enjolras was rolling his eyes. “Please stop acting like a tosser.”

“Let the man show off his guns!” Courfeyrac protested, grinning like the Cheshire cat with his chin resting on Enjolras’ shoulder. “It’s not like he does it often. Everyone can be a bit of a tosser upon rare occasion.”

“You ever take your own advice?” Enjolras muttered. The comment seemed malicious, but Enjolras was grinning when Courfeyrac whacked him over the back of the head. With complete dignity, Enjolras straightened up and readjusted the heavy red plaid shirt he was wearing over a Sex Pistols: Vive le Punk top. “Hooligan.”

“That’s why you keep me around, isn’t it?” Courfeyrac continued, still grinning. “Jehan!”

Sure enough, the poet and the Scot had finally left the car, Gavroche jogging along in front of them. At hearing his name Jehan smiled broadly, running in his Wedgewood print docs over to his boyfriend, who romantically wrapped his arms around the younger man’s waist.

Eponine caught Feuilly’s gaze. He looked like he wanted to drown them both.

She was laughing as she turned back to the rest of the group.

Enjolras wasn’t.

Expecting the worst and feeling prepared for it, she followed Enjolras when he jerked his head off to the side and walked away from the main group. “What?” she demanded.

There was a moment’s silence as Enjolras drew to a stop, turning around not to look at her, but rather to where Gavroche was having his hair ruffled by Bahorel. “You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly,” Eponine said coolly. She crossed her arms, and waited for Enjolras to make his next point.

The look of shock on his face reminded her strikingly of the only other person who’d protested so fiercely at Gavroche’s involvement. “He’s a kid!” Enjolras hissed, clearly struggling to stop himself yelling. “Barely a teenager! This thing is going to be filled with men my size and stronger, who are going to be angry-”

“You sound just like Grantaire,” Eponine said sharply, not caring when her comment made Enjolras look like he’d just been stabbed. “Look, I can’t be arsed with this and you don’t have time for this. So just accept that this was his decision, and he wanted to come. Okay?”

For a moment it looked like she’d won, as Enjolras glanced away to look over her shoulder, back at the group. “I barely feel safe about the rest of you coming-”

“Again, not your choice, not your problem,” Eponine cut in before Enjolras could spiral down into guilt again. “And trust us, Apollo – we’ve been in worse situations than this, and come out stronger.” She smiled at him, trying to show that she didn’t mean to insult him.

Enjolras froze where he stood, staring at her. “You don’t call me that,” he said eventually.

Eponine shrugged. “Well, it looks like you fall apart pretty quick without someone mocking you. Thought I’d give it a go.”

Hesitantly, almost bashfully, he smiled. “You’re pretty heartless, you know that?” he said wryly. “Marius would be wasted on you.”

Eponine gasped, and pressed a hand to her chest. “What’s this? Are you giving out relationship advice?”

Enjolras raised one eyebrow and no doubt Eponine would have got the best witty retort she’d ever heard, but instead they got Combeferre yelling over to them, “If you two lovesick housewives have finished, we need to get moving?”

It was a wonderful feeling, watching Enjolras’ face hardened at the exact same time as hers. Eponine flipped her hair as she snapped her head around, furiously yelling back, “We will both garrotte you!”

To add insult to injury, Combeferre just gave her a smile and a thumbs up, before turning back to the others.

Enjolras moved to step past her, to join the rest of the group, but Eponine shot out a hand and grabbed hold of his shirt. “Just – one last thing?”

He turned back to her, the wry humour replaced by his usual serious facade once more. “Of course.”

Eponine bit her lip, thinking, before saying, “Can you just make sure the others know to look out for Gavroche?”

Enjolras frowned at her. “I don’t need to. I can tell you for fact, they’re already planning on looking out for both of you.” He gave her an encouraging nod, before leaving her standing there.

It took Feuilly yelling over to her, a few minutes later, to snap her out of the shock.

*

“If we show up to this thing fifteen minutes late with fucking Costa, I swear to all things even vaguely holy, I will kill you.”

“Better than Starbucks,” Bossuet muttered mutinously into the layers of scarves he was wearing.

“I promised you that I will fight capitalism and inequality, that’s true, but neither of us promised anything to do with early mornings,” Joly added, blowing through the tiny hole in the coffee cup’s lid in a futile attempt to cool it. “Besides, Bossuet already looks like he’s going to get another cold. Just be grateful it’s not raining, I’d still be in bed if it was.”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow at the two of them. “What great activists you two are.”

“Relax, they’re just joking,” Combeferre said. “And we’re not late. We’re here.”

It was a feeling Enjolras would never tire of: turning the corner to Parliament Square and seeing it full, not of tourists, but of more people than you could count holding placards, banners, people with spiked jackets and boots and jumpers and jackets, so many people from so many classes and ages here because... well, because they actually gave a damn. They cared.

This is why he did it, why he ‘wasted time’ exposing corrupt corporations, raising awareness for inequality, of people who abused positions of power. Because, not all the time but every now and then, you’d find people who’d listen, and occasionally there’d be enough, and occasionally, you’d get things changed.

It was worth a few punches, a few nights in jail, to see people so alive with anger and empathy. 

Behind him, he heard Bossuet yell out someone’s name and go running into the crowd, Joly following him with a quick yell of, “We’ll be right back!” to Enjolras and Combeferre.

Enjolras laughed as Bossuet almost tripped over the curb to get onto the grass, weaving through groups of people until he found his friend. Joly’s bag, bursting at the seams with medical supplies, almost whacked someone as he ran past them, but the person dodged with a grin in time.

“Didn’t the girls from Du Maine say they were going to come today?” Courfeyrac asked, arm around Jehan’s shoulders and resting his head against Combeferre.

“Yes, they should be here somewhere,” Combeferre said under his breath. He was standing shoulder to shoulder with Enjolras, watching the crowd with the same proud smile that Enjolras had. “It’s rather good, isn’t it?”

“It’s fantastic,” Courfeyrac breathed.

“Beautiful,” Jehan added.

Enjolras hesitated, then said softly, “‘A glorious people vibrated again, the lightening heart of the nations: Liberty from heart to heart’.” He leant forwards slightly to catch Jehan’s eye, and winked.

Jehan shrugged in admittance. “Can’t beat our boy Percy Bysshe.”

Courfeyrac laughed, and started to bounce on his feet. “Well, come on, then! Are we going to join in or not?”

In answer, Enjolras looped his arm around Combeferre’s shoulder and walked forwards.

It was times like this, places like this, these gatherings, when he could truly believe that things could change, would change, for the better.

*

Feuilly and Bahorel were left watching as the group separated, diffusing into the crowd after friends and classmates, colleagues in Joly’s case. Feuilly’s eyes were fixed on where Gavroche and Eponine were chatting with a guy they knew from Covent Garden, right on the edge of the crowd.

“They all better keep their phones safe,” Feuilly muttered.

“Don’t concern yourself,” Bahorel replied, standing quietly, confidently still with his hands in his back pockets. He was wearing his bright red waistcoat again, over a grey shirt. “They might be acting like excited schoolboys but they know what they’re doing. They’re going to make sure they don’t lose contact. Wouldn’t surprise me to hear Combeferre’s placed trackers on us all.”

“Mm.” As Feuilly watched, a passer-by had to step onto the road to get passed an oblivious group of protestors, one of them holding a sign reading ‘Education is for the masses, not just the ruling classes’. The passer-by, a woman in a suit, shot them a glare. “I don’t like this,” Feuilly said, frowning. “This space is already overflowing, and more people are going to come. It’s going to overflow with angry students, and they’re going to block the roads and drivers and commuters will get angry, and someone will notify the police, and all it will take is one person, one broken nose...”

“Yeah, I know,” Bahorel added. He looked around, frowning in a way that mirrored Feuilly, before he said in a low voice, only for Feuilly to hear, “You know what scares me?”

“Go on.”

“That that is exactly what Montparnasse plans on making happen.”

In reflex, Feuilly’s gaze drifted back to Gavroche and Eponine. They had somehow located a placard of their own, and were leaning against it as they laughed. “If so,” Feuilly said, “Everyone can take care of themselves, right?”

“Sure,” Bahorel replied, but there wasn’t much conviction in his tone. He drew his hands out of his back pockets, and started to swing his arms, loosening his shoulders. “If not – well, I guess that’s what we’re here for.”

*

It reached ten o’clock before Grantaire started to search Google for news.

He neither found nor heard anything, until Radio 1 Newsbeat announced, “There are reports coming in of a gathering of protestors on Parliament Square in London. No officials asked have been able to give us any information, the gathering appears spontaneous. Though it currently seems a peaceful protest, the police are suggesting that drivers take other routes. More on this story as it happens.”

Grantaire turned off the radio, and left a sign on the desk saying that if anyone wanted assistance, he’d be found in the back room. He grabbed two new tubes of paint off shelves as he passed them, and kicked open the door. He let it slam shut.

*

Courfeyrac was copying Gavroche in walking around like a clown, much to the amusement of the surrounding crowd. Jehan had found a girl in one of his modules and they were sat on the grass, watching the two big kids acting like idiots, and occasionally talking about false feminism in Shakespeare. It was quite relaxing, really.

The crowd behind Courfeyrac shifted, some people moving on and some arriving. Jehan absently scanned them as he laughed. He caught something familiar, and scanned the faces again, trying to figure out who it was he recognised – and realised just as the man turned away. For a second, Jehan gaped at his back.

Then he was up on his feet, not wasting time to explain to his classmate, not pausing to tell Courfeyrac to stay with Gavroche before running into the crowds, weaving his way through the people surely faster than the man he was following could have.

True enough, he was coming back into sight. And he must have heard the sound of Jehan running, or heard people call out ‘Watch it!’ as Jehan barrelled past, because he turned around to check and this time, Jehan had no doubts.

The shock of it, the fear, sent Jehan stumbling. He almost fell into a group of men, but one of them grabbed him in time. Someone else yelled at him to watch where he was going, someone else called him an idiot, another, a hippie. Most of them stank of alcohol. The man who’d caught him, some twenty-year-old in skinnies and superman tee, asked him if he was okay and it took a while to convince him that, yes, he was fine, he just needed to find his friends...

He ran out, tried to find some fresh air, jogged past groups and scanned the crowd, fumbling for his mobile phone.

He wasn’t aware he’d walked out into the road.

Someone called out his name, as he turned around in time to see a car swerve towards him, and stop barely a meter away.

Jehan held up his hands to apologise, but the driver was already climbing out of the car.

“You fucking students!” he yelled, “Get off the fucking streets, go do something useful! And, you fucking fairy cunt, watch where the fuck you’re going!” He threw his glass drink bottle at Jehan.

It struck him on the forehead, and the pain was enough to daze him for a few minutes, but he still had sense enough to grab at Courfeyrac as he barrelled past, fists clenched and ready to swing at the driver. “Don’t... don’t...”

Another pair of hands grabbed Jehan’s shoulder. “Hey, brother, you good?” Bossuet asked in a low voice, turning Jehan around to face him. “You’ve got a bit of a scratch there...”

“Stop Courfeyrac,” Jehan muttered, reaching up a hand to press against his forehead. It felt wet, but he wasn’t sure if that was blood or the guy’s drink. “He’s gonna make it worse-”

“I’m here, I’m okay, I’m not going to do anything,” Courfeyrac promised, taking hold of Jehan’s hand. “We’ll get you to Joly, check you for concussion-”

“He’s this way-”

Jehan shook his head, and felt small relief when it didn’t hurt as much as he’d expected. “Don’t need Joly. Had concussion, this isn’t it. We need to get the others together, quickly.”

Courfeyrac and Bossuet exchanged glances, looking concerned. “Why?”

“Because these guys are angry and drunk,” Jehan muttered, waving a hand at the crowd around them, “Because after that attack they’re only going to get worse, and because the police are already here.” Bossuet swore under his breath. Courfeyrac’s eyes widened, and Jehan tried not to panic as he looked at him and said, “Javert’s here. He’s in the crowd.”

*

It’s said that the only thing that moves faster than light is monarchy – a King dies in England, and his daughter in Kenya instantly becomes Queen.

But struggling through the crowds, Bahorel wonders if Mob Mentality travels even faster.

There wasn’t even a moment when everyone changed, but there’s no denying the carefree laughter and communal atmosphere had been completely lost to the anger and fury that was always going to surface at some point.

“The Thernadiers are right on the edge, they should be fine,” Bahorel yelled down to Feuilly, trying to push someone to the side as gently as possible. “So if you could stop worrying-”

“They’re stupid, I mean intelligent in the best way but so stupid,” Feuilly yelled back, not bothering to be careful as he shoved his way through the crowd. “So, quite frankly, I’m not going to-”

Something hit Bahorel in the small of his back. He stopped, ground his teeth together and turned around. “Do you have a problem?” he asked in a low voice at the almost painfully stereotypical tough-guy who was stood behind him. Knock-off Addidas trainers and everything.

“You a policeman?” the man asked, scowling up at Bahorel with a pitbull face.

Confused, Bahorel looked across at Feuilly. The ginger just shrugged. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I need to find my friends, so if you’d just-”

“What, your other plain-clothed bobbies?” another voice asked, no less hostile.

Bahorel turned around slowly, making eye contact with Feuilly. Feuilly nodded back. This was going bad, and quickly.

“Where’s your gun, bobby?” a third voice called out, triggering a forth, a fifth, and too many more.

“I’m not a cop,” Bahorel gritted out.

“Then why’re you wearing a suit, Tory boy?”

Bahorel rolled his eyes, still turning, taking them all in, trying to see if there was a path of escape. “It’s jeans and a shirt, and I’m not a cop, and I’m fucking definitely not a Tory!” Bahorel roared. “I’m a fucking lawyer!”

As some idiot spat at the ground in front of him, he realised that probably wasn’t the best thing to say. “...I prosecute?” he tried in a high voice.

Feuilly laughed at him at the same time the first guy threw the first punch.

Grunts behind him as he stepped under the man’s swinging arm told him Feuilly had got sucked into the fight, too. He half wanted to turn to watch him. A fist grazed his chin and he growled as he slammed his knee up into the guy’s stomach. As no one else moved to attack him from the front, he spun around, to come face to face with a guy holding the broken handle of a placard and wielding it like a baseball bat.

Bahorel swallowed, and adjusted his stance. “Okay, mate, now look-”

The man spat at him, and took a step forwards. And like a guardian angel, Jehan appeared at the man’s side and in one smooth motion spun on his left foot to slam his right heel into the man’s stomach at full force. As the guy bent double, retching, Jehan slammed and elbow right where a kidney would be, then used both hands locked together, swung against his side, to knock him over entirely.

Then little Jehan looked up at Bahorel and grinned.

Bahorel blinked a few times, and failed to shut his mouth. “Courf,” he yelled, as Jehan’s boyfriend appeared and battered over a few guys with the help of Bossuet, “I think your boyfriend just gave me a boner.”

Jehan winked at him, but stepped over the beaten man’s curled form to get to Feuilly. “Keep it in your pants, lawyer,” Courfeyrac called, helping one of the worst injured men to sit up so Joly could check the cuts on his face.

Chuckling, Bahorel flipped him the finger before turning to Feuilly and Jehan. “What’s going on?”

“The police are here,” Jehan said quickly, rushing to get the facts across. “Javert’s in plain clothes, there’s probably more, and everything’s going to go very bad, very quickly, unless we do something.”

“How can we do anything? They’re pissed,” Feuilly countered. “In both meanings of the term.”

“Enjolras,” Bahorel cut in. “We need to get to him. He’ll be able to do something.” He sounded more desperate than certain.

Jehan frowned in though, but Feuilly just frowned in confusion. “What makes you think that?”

“Because,” Bossuet said, appearing at Jehan’s side with a bottle of antiseptic in his hands and eyes searching for hope. “He’s Enjolras. Right?”

*

“He’s not picking up,” Combeferre muttered, staring down at his phone, “But that’s almost certainly because something’s distracting him rather than anything serious...”

Enjolras bowed his head. They’d found a tree, a potential way to make it easier for the others to find them – but all that was for nothing if they couldn’t so much as contact them. “Try Bahorel again,” Enjolras muttered, closing his eyes and leaning back against the tree as he tried to stay calm.

There were just the sounds of the growing riot as Combeferre fell silent to call Bahorel.

“Still nothing,” Combeferre muttered.

Enjolras nodded without saying a word. He felt Combeferre settle against the tree to his right. “This all went so wrong, so fast,” he muttered.

“They do that, sometimes,” Combeferre pointed out, with an attempt at a smile. Enjolras smiled sadly back.

“And it started off so well.” Enjolras bit the inside of his cheek to try and keep his emotions in check. All he could hear was the voice of the one man who’d been right about all this. “I think I made a mistake.”

“Well,” said Courfeyrac, and Enjolras’ eyes shot open, “This was organised by Montparnasse and his lot. I say we take the morning as a win, and accept our losses with grace, and perhaps learn for next time?”

Enjolras pushed up from the tree so fast he almost tripped. The other side of the tree, looking remarkably smug and relieved was Courfeyrac, surrounded by pretty much everyone else. “You bastard,” Enjolras growled, grabbing the lapels of Courfeyrac’s leather jacket and tugging him fiercely into a hug. “Check your fucking phone every once in a while!”

“What about you?” Courfeyrac replied, voice muffled by Enjolras’ shirt. “I called you about twenty times!”

Stepping back, Enjolras whacked Courfeyrac’s ear. “Don’t be stupid, you know I use Combeferre as my phone,” he said, but he could think clearer now. Courfeyrac beamed up at him, and he could smile back. Knowing that his other best friend was safe, Enjolras turned to the others with just as much fear. “Jehan,” he said, frowning and stepping forwards, “You’re hurt?”

Jehan waved Enjolras’ concern away with a smile. “Nothing, just an angry man with a bottle.”

“Trust me, he caused more damage than he received,” Bahorel said, chuckling. He was sporting a scratch or two himself, but Enjolras knew better than baby him and ask how he was.

Enjolras nodded. “So who are we missing?”

“Eponine and Gavroche,” Feuilly said, holding up his phone, “But they’ve called and told me they’re at the edges and staying out until they hear from us.”

“Good, that’s good...”

“I think this is all of us,” Courfeyrac said, nodding and scanning the group again, just in case. “We’ve just – Marius!”

Enjolras blinked. “Wait – you don’t think Marius is in the middle of the riot? Seriously?”

But Courfeyrac flapped his hands at him, and held up his phone, showing ‘Marius’ on his caller ID. Which made a lot more sense. Enjolras turned and caught Combeferre’s eye, and had to stifle a snort.

“You’re ... okay we’re... big tree... what? Okay... be careful...”

Courfeyrac hang up with force, and said with authority, “Marius told us to wait here. Said he’d be here soon.”

“And?” Enjolras asked, expecting there to be more.

Courfeyrac hesitated, before answering, “... He says he has a plan. Sort of.”

Enjolras decided his best option here was not to comment.

 It took all of two minutes for Marius to charge into their little haven beneath the tree, slipping awkwardly between two strangers, and his little face lighting up with relief when he recognised his friends. “Guys!” he called, grinning, His eyes landed on Enjolras and he hurried forwards – and holding out a loudspeaker. “Enjolras. Do it.”

Enjolras looked from the loudspeaker to Marius. “Do what?”

“Anything!” Marius yelled. He took a deep breath, and trying to find a semblance of calm before he continued, “Look, you’re you, you’re pissed, and there’s a bunch of other pissed people out there not really pissed at anything, so give them something to be pissed at! That’s what you do, isn’t it? You’re a leader! So for god’s sake please do some leading because I’m starting to get scared that I’m going to die.”

Slowly, Enjolras took the loudspeaker from Marius, turning it over in his hands, words that he could say already starting to form in his mind. “Where did you even get this?” he mused, realising that the loudspeaker didn’t have a handle, but a base that looked like it should attach to something.

“I think I stole it off a police van? Car? Thing? I don’t know, I’m not really sure, I just thought that you might be able to use it.”

Starting to smile, Enjolras nodded. “You know what? I think I can.” He turned to Combeferre. “Think this might do much?”

Combeferre shrugged at him, and smiled. “Well, it’s bound to do something. And right now, anything’s better than nothing.”

*

Enjolras managed to control the attention of the crowd for half an hour. They let him speak, and they listened. Most of them would remember him. Several journalists took photos.

But there wasn’t peace. Just a circle of listeners amidst what continued to be chaos.

The riot vans showed up at around 2pm. The police in black, holding batons and faces hidden behind black masks just gave the rioters something to aim at, and the fragile hold the blond boy had on his audience started to slip away. Desperate and confused, the police broke out the water cannons.

It was when the tree Enjolras and his friends were standing under caught fire, that they were forced to realise that they were the only ones left who were bothered with trying to stay peaceful. It was either leave or join in with the violence.

Enjolras had never really been good at realising when something was beyond being won. And as his friends got lost in the riot, stronger emotions – desperation, anger, and most predominantly guilt – replaced whatever trace of logic remained.

*

It’s impossible to keep track of the people you care about when the rest of the world seems determined to fight a war around you. Everywhere Feuilly turned there was someone screaming, someone he didn’t know, pushing forwards to get to the front line.

He’d been there a few minutes ago. He could still hear the battering of people against the plastic riot shields, the occasional scream that sounded more like pain than anger.

And he’d lost everyone. At some point he’d caught a blow to the face, leaving one eye out of action. Not that it was making much difference - he couldn’t see anyone he recognised anyway.

If someone got injured, if one of those stupid kids was hurt because he wasn’t there to watch their backs –

He tried to push his way through the crowd, but someone pushed back harder. He landed on the floor, deafened by the thud of boots and Doc Martins hitting the floor around him, right by his head -

“Hey, buddy – buddy, you okay?”

Gasping, trying to get off the ground – because he’d been there, he’d done that and he didn’t fancy having ribs stepped and crushed – he reached up blindly, hoping someone would help him up, anyone –

Please, let the others be okay –

“Hey, let me through, medic – buddy, c’mon get up brother-”

A hand wrapped around his wrist and hauled him to his feet. He turned a blurred gaze on the man. All he saw was a bald head, but it was enough. “Bossuet.”

Bossuet gaped, gently pulling Feuilly forwards and wrapping an arm around his waist, holding him up. “Jesus, buddy, I didn’t recognise you – c’mon, let’s get you to Joly-”

Feuilly let himself be ushered through the crowd, leaning heavily on Bossuet. “You’re – your arm-”

“Yeah, got caught on a broken sign, but what’re you gonna do,” Bossuet yelled. This close, Feuilly could only just hear him. “What happened to your eye?”

“Got too close to a policeman,” Feuilly yelled back. He risked raising his head, and saw clear space, thinning crowds rather than the crushing chaos he’d been trapped in before. “Do you know where-”

Bossuet didn’t hear, but one last push and they were out, a small clearing at the back of the crowd, by one of the trees untouched either by flames or people climbing them for a higher vantage point. Under it was Joly, tying a sling around the neck of a man with a freshly bandaged hand. A woman with a fiercely bleeding cut on her forehead was waiting. Someone else was sat cross-legged and massaging their ankle.

“Joly!” Bossuet yelled, “We’ve got another walking wounded!”

Joly didn’t respond immediately, finishing his work on the man with the broken wrist before turning to see what Bossuet meant. When he did, his jaw dropped. “F- Feuilly? Jesus, what happened there!”

“I somehow ended up at a riot,” Feuilly replied wryly. “She’s a police officer, by the way,” he said, nodding towards the woman with the cut forehead. She froze, looking at him with terror. He looked back impassively. “I’ve seen her by the station when picking up Grantaire.”

Joly frowned up at him with confusion, already searching through his bag for a suitable bandage. “And? I don’t get your point.”

The woman started to shake with relief. Feuilly smiled. “Just checking.”

“We need to get out of here,” Joly muttered, swiftly spraying the woman’s cut with antiseptic before wiping away the blood. “We don’t want our name affiliated with this violence-”

“I know, I’m trying,” Bossuet muttered through gritted teeth, “But you try finding anyone in that crowd, it’s chaos – I don’t know if Bahorel’s found anyone yet, but we’re trying.”

The policewoman winced sharply as the antiseptic started to sting. Joly hushed her, comforting her in a low voice. “And anyway, we’re already affiliated – photos of Enjolras are going to be everywhere tomorrow,” Feuilly said.

“Yes, but hopefully anyone worth their salt will realise he was trying to stop the fighting, not encourage it,” Bossuet pointed out.

Feuilly laughed bitterly. “You’re assuming the media is reliable.” With a grimace, Bossuet shrugged admittance.

“Enjolras isn’t going to come easy,” Joly cut in, using conservative amounts of surgical tape to stick a strip of gauze to the police officer’s cut. “Leave-”

“I’m not going near him,” Bossuet assured him, letting out a slight nervous chuckle. “I’m going to leave that to Bahorel and Combeferre-”

The two continued talking, but Feuilly had stopped paying attention. “Where’s Eponine?” he asked, looking around the clearing, the last remaining empty space in the Square.

Bossuet paused mid-sentence, turning to look at Feuilly with wide eyes. “Feuilly?”

“She – they were meant to wait here, stay where it was safe,” Feuilly muttered, desperately scanning the area. He pulled his phone from his pocket – only missed call was from Bahorel. “They should be here – have you found them? Did they go home?”

He’d made up his mind before Bossuet answered him. The look he shared with Joly was answer enough. “No, I – we haven’t seen them,” Bossuet said. Joly shook his head.

Feuilly nodded, thinking. “Right,” he said, glancing around the small space once more. “Right,” he said, one final time, before he ran back into the rioting crowd.

Joly’s voice drifted to him as he shoved past two guys in flannel. “No – Feuilly – at least let me check your forehead first, please!”

That wasn’t important. Fear was driving away the pain away now anyway.

*

It was tempting, Bahorel couldn’t lie, to join the front lines of the riot. To become one of the people screaming with fury, one of those trying to tear down the police’s barricade of riots shields, and yeah, perhaps throw a punch at the guys in black uniforms hitting the people who were doing nothing but yell with good cause.

But he couldn’t. There was more important stuff to be done. There were people getting hurt, and he couldn’t let that happen.

Not Enjolras, Combeferre or Courfeyrac – he knew where they’d be. They’d be right between the civilians and the riot shields. They could take care of, if not themselves, then at least each other. Jehan was undoubtedly with them too. But there were other people who’d be getting punched, who’d be caught up in fights they weren’t prepared for. He’d already had to carry one guy back in a fireman’s hold because he was unable to walk – concussion or twisted ankle. He’d left Joly to find out.

“Incoming!”

Bahorel looked to his left. A riot van was not twenty meters away, just behind the police line, and it was turning a water canon in their direction. Thinking fast, Bahorel scanned those around him. Seeing two teenage girls, he grabbed their arms, shoving them down and bending over them in time to catch the full force of the spray – if it could still be described as a ‘spray’. If the force of it didn’t knock the breath from him, the cold did.

When it stopped, it took a few minutes before he recovered to the stage where breathing merely hurt. He let go of the girls, telling them to go the fuck home.

Furious, he turned his attention to the water cannon with the full intention of tearing that thing to the fucking ground. And it seemed that everyone around him had the same idea.

As one, the crowd surged forwards, slamming against the thin plastic of the police shield line. Bahorel was close enough to see the terror on the faces of the boys in black, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. He slammed his fists against the shields like the rest, the only thought going through his head being how dare they, what gave them the right -

It took a while for him to realise that someone was trying to get his attention. Realising that he could feel something else through the stinging of his busted knuckles, he paused. Someone was tugging on his shirt, hands slamming against his side, and a kid was shouting.

Gavroche was trying to push past him. He was yelling up at Bahorel, face scrunched and furious. He was jabbing a hand at the police line, the complete opposite direction than he should going.

“Get out of here!” Bahorel yelled down to him, grabbing Gavroche’s pointing hand, “For fuck’s sake kid, go!”

But Gavroche shook his head, scowling furiously, continuing to scream something Bahorel couldn’t hear. Bahorel’s heart stopped as someone’s elbow swung too close to Gavroche’s head, but the boy dodged it as if it was just a fly.

Eventually, Gavroche gave up and grabbed at Bahorel’s shoulder, as high as he could reach, and tugged the larger man down ferociously to his level.

“Let me get through! I can break it!”

Stunned, Bahorel stared at the young teenage boy. But he didn’t have time to respond, as the kid took advantage of his momentary stillness to dive past, and through the gap in the shields.

Growling, Bahorel slammed himself against the wall of plastic again, this time for a different reason entirely. He didn’t give a shit for the guys struggling to hold him back, he just – if he could just see –

At an impressive speed, little Gavroche dived between the oblivious, panicking officers over to the van. He vanished behind it for a second and Bahorel strained desperately against the shields again, needing to – if he’d just acted sooner –

Gavroche appeared on top of the van, crawling across to the canon. He was holding an open Swiss army knife.

A dozen possible endings shot through Bahorel’s mind, none of them good.

As he watched, Gavroche crouched beside the huge pipe that carried the water up from the tank, took the knife in both hands, and stabbed at it.

The result was instantaneous. The police noticed what was happening just as the high pressure of the water was redirected from the canon, to the hole Gavroche had just created. The boy was knocked off balance just as the police reached him, jumping up to grab his arm and pull him away. Gavroche had no hope of maintaining balance. Hit by the water and being yanked by the police, he flew off the roof of the van and hit the ground hard.

The only relief was that in the confusion, Bahorel was able to break through the shields and the police. He grabbed the uniform of the officer who’d tugged Gavroche from the roof and threw him to the side, needing to see Gavroche.

Someone got to kid’s side at the same time he did. Moving faster than Bahorel, Courfeyrac was already crouched beside the small body, shaking him lightly and yelling the kid’s name.

“Tell me he’s okay,” Bahorel begged, breathing hard, heart hurting in his chest. “Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac!”

“Breathing,” Courfeyrac muttered, “But he’s not – I think he’s stunned, we’ve got to get him to Joly.”

Unable to do anything other than what he was told, unable to think, Bahorel nodded. Being gentle as he could be, he scooped the body into his arms. “C’mon, he’ll be around the edges somewhere,” Courfeyrac said. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

Bahorel didn’t know if it was the sight of a young boy in his arms, the rage in his eyes or perhaps, for once, just some God damn common sense, but none of the police bothered them as they left the broken cannon.

*

Feuilly was the first to spot them. At the sight of the limp body of Gavroche, his look of concern was replaced by a look of terror like Courfeyrac had never seen before. He was already sprinting over to them before Bossuet and Joly even realised that anyone else had arrived.

 “He’s okay,” Bahorel yelled as Feuilly reached them, “He’s breathing, he’s awake, he’s okay, he just fell-”

Nodding wordlessly, Feuilly scooped the kid from his arms. Bahorel wasn’t lying; in the few minutes it had taken them to find where Joly had set up camp Gavroche had come round. Still dazed, he let himself be carried without protest, but as he was transferred from Bahorel’s grasp to Feuilly, he spoke up. “M’fine...”

“Shut the fuck up until Joly’s had a look at you,” Feuilly muttered, tightening his grasp. “If you have a single bloody injury, I’ll personally make sure you don’t get pizza for a month.”

Gavroche groaned, and curled inwards against Feuilly’s chest. “Oh, c’mon...”

Feuilly looked up over the kid, catching Courfeyrac’s gaze and jerking his head towards where Joly was sat. Catching his meaning, Courfeyrac nodded and ran towards his other friends.

Bossuet saw him first, and grinned widely. “Courf! Thank fuck – wait, what’s wrong-”

Courfeyrac shook his head, slowing to a stop. “He’s fine, he just fell a bit harder than any of us would’ve liked-”

As if they were communicating by thought, Bossuet turned as Joly looked up from the woman he was tending to. Joly nodded, saying something to the woman before rising to his feet. “Where is he?” Joly asked.

“Here,” Feuilly cut in, appearing at Courfeyrac’s side with a complaining Gavroche still cradled in his arms.

Joly stepped forwards, reaching forwards, first of all, to take Gavroche’s wrist and his pulse. “Can you walk, Gav?” he asked, his voice taking on the soft lilt of a doctor’s bedside manner.

“Yeah, think so,” Gavroche replied, squirming in Feuilly’s hold. Joly gave him the nod to set Gavroche down, then helped the kid stand upright.

“Now, I’m going to give you a once over,” Joly continued, kneeling so he was at the boy’s level. “I’m not groping you. I need you to yell if anything hurts, okay, and answer anything I ask you as best you can. You can do that?”

They waited as Gavroche to nodded, and Joly’s smiled as he started to run his hands over Gavroche’s arms, legs, and torso.

“Where’s Eponine?” Bahorel asked in a low voice, turning his back on Joly and Gavroche so they didn’t hear him. “Anyone found her?”

“She and Marius are on the other side, helping people get out,” Feuilly said, matching Bahorel’s low tone. “She thought her brother was okay, and I decided to let her keeping thinking that. Jehan?”

“He was with me,” Courfeyrac said. “He’s fine, he’s with – well, he and Combeferre are-”

Thankfully, the others knew his friends as well as he did. “They’re looking after Enjolras,” Bossuet finished for him. Courfeyrac nodded.

“What’s the damage?” Joly called across, his careful fingers running through Gavroche’s hair, checking for any bumps on his scalp. Gavroche winced when Joly reached his hairline, and everyone there held their breath. “That hurt?”

Gavroche shrugged. “Just a little bit. Ran into someone earlier.”

“It’s true, he landed on his back,” Bahorel added. Content with that answer, Joly nodded, and Courfeyrac took that as cue to continue.

“What’s the damage with Enjolras? Broken wrist, definitely,” Courfeyrac told him, fighting hard to keep his voice steady. “Something’s wrong with his ankle. Possible rib damage too, we don’t know, he’s not listening to us.”

“He thinks it’s his fault,” Bossuet breathed. Courfeyrac nodded, and Bahorel swore.

“This has gone too far,” Joly muttered, gently dabbing antiseptic on Gavroche’s grazes. “Bossuet, would you-”

Bossuet nodded, crouching down to rummage through Joly’s bag for bandages. “We’ve got to bail. This isn’t our fight anymore, we’ve had our say and it didn’t work.”

“Enjolras won’t like talk of quitting,” Courfeyrac cut in. “He won’t listen, and he won’t back down. No way. We can’t quit.”

Feuilly snorted with derivation. “Quitting? This isn’t quitting, this isn’t running away. This isn’t even a victorious last stand. This is a battle lost. There are going to be so many more opportunities to make your case and win but this? This isn’t it. We need to get the fuck out of here.”

“Yes, I know, but Enjolras is desperate, and grieving, and worst of all hopeful,” Courfeyrac said, eyes wide as pleading as he stared at Feuilly. “I don’t know how to – I don’t know-”

“God, you’re all so stupid!”

Gavroche swatted Joly’s hand away, and stared up at them all. “I really hope idiocy isn’t an adult thing, because I never want to be that stupid!” he yelled. “Christ, why do I have to do everything-”

With a roll of his eyes, he pushed Joly’s hand away once more, and before any of them could stop him, he turned and ran. Joly stumbled to his feet, attempting to run after him but the kid was fast. He’d had years of practise of running without being caught, and it wasn’t long before Joly gave up. Waving his hands in surrender, he turned back to the others, all of whom were stood stock-still, too stunned to move.

“I hate that kid sometimes,” Feuilly groaned finally, shaking his head.

*

The Courfeyrac edition of Proserpine was almost done when the bells chimed for the opening of the door. Not in the sense that it was almost perfect, more that Grantaire was all but ready to chuck down the paintbrushes and admit that he couldn’t do any more to it and renounce drawing folds in materials or weirdly positioned wrists ever again, for the rest of his life.

Commerce had been going pretty steady over the lunch hour – not uncommon, usually they got all the business types who wanted to aspire to not being business type come and spend inordinate amounts of money in the shop as a remnant of a dying youthful dream – so Grantaire wiped down his hands, reducing huge splatters of paint to mere huge smudges as he headed out, welcoming smile in place, geared up and ready to try and sell as much bullshit as possible.

Not seeing anyone at first, he got a bit pissed off. If someone had just walked in, disturbed him, and left immediately...

He jogged forwards and peered around a few of the aisles, pursing his lips and scowling. Nothing, no one to be seen anywhere. Giving it up for a bad case, and probably some very lost tourist, he shrugged and made to head back to his painting.

Then he saw Gavroche, sat on the floor with his back to the front desk, chest heaving and bloody slowly dripping from a split lip and grazed arm. The kid looked up at him, smiled weakly and croaked between deep breaths, “Hey, R. You got any water? Maybe a plaster or two?”

Grantaire felt like he’d just been pushed off a forty-story building. “Shit.”

*

The van swerved so close to the group of them, gathered right on the fringes of the riot, that Joly reached out to drag Bossuet back from the edge.

Feuilly, in contrast, stepped forwards. “Is that my...”

The parking was atrocious, about a meter from the curb and at a forty-five degree angle.

The driver’s door swung open, Grantaire jumped out, and Courfeyrac started to laugh.

“Idiots,” he muttered under his breath. “Of course. All of us. Total idiots.”

He could tell that Grantaire was giving each of them a once-over as he ran towards them. His face tightened as it saw Bossuet’s arm, now in a sling, and he scowled at Feuilly’s bruised and swollen face. Courfeyrac wasn’t sure how bad he himself looked, but Grantaire’s expression didn’t lighten up when it saw him either.

“Gavroche’s safe,” Grantaire said, slowing to a walk as he reached them. “I patched him up and sent him up to help Azelma make cookies, or something, I dunno – where’s everyone else? Is everyone safe?”

“Eponine and Marius are on the other side, helping people get out,” Feuilly said. “Jehan’s still at the front, with Combeferre and Enjolras.”

“As far as I can tell, no one’s seriously injured,” Joly added quickly. “But some of them I’ve only temporarily patched up. I think Courfeyrac’s fractured his hand, and I’m not actually sure what Bossuet’s done to his wrist. I’d like to check Bahorel and Feuilly over properly, too, to just check for internal haemorrhaging or any cracked bones they might have – possible hairline fractures in Feuilly’s skull, for starters. It’s unlikely, but-”

“And Combeferre and Enjolras have been at the front for a lot longer, so they’re going to need medical attention too,” Courfeyrac cut in.

Grantaire nodded, looking past them at the still rioting crowd behind them. “Okay. Where are they?”

Bahorel lifted a hand and pointed high. “Last I saw, at the front nearest the police vans. Enjolras isn’t-”

“Of course he’s not,” Grantaire muttered. “Right – Joly, which of these d’you approve for driving?”

With a wry grin, Joly glanced around at them all, then shook his head. “Quite honestly, the only person I’d feel safe with having behind a wheel right now is me.”

Grantaire threw the van’s keys at him. “Here you go, then. Get everyone into the back – it’s not going to be comfy, it’s used for transporting arts goods mostly, sorry, was the biggest transport I could get without stealing a bus – leave some space for the other three, yeah?”

“Where am I taking them? I suppose Courfeyrac’s is closest-”

“Yeah, but you’ve got better supplies at-”

“The hospital!” Grantaire yelled. “For fuck’s sake, you’re going to the hospital! Why was that not the first thought in all your heads?” At the guilty expressions surrounding him, he rolled his eyes and turned to Courfeyrac. “Where’s Enjolras injured?”

Courfeyrac looked stunned at the question, but he answered swiftly anyway. “Ribs, wrist, possibly ankle.”

“No head injuries?” Grantaire checked.

“Not last I saw.”

“Good.” He looked back to Joly, and shoved a thumb towards the van. “Get going. I’ll be right back.”

*

There was a pain shooting down his arm, across his torso, up his leg, and all logical thought had left long ago. Each motion he made was automatic – a conditioned response, like a robot wound up and set loose. No longer adrenaline, but powered by furious regret, self-hatred and shame, the memory of a good man who should have – who deserved to make more of an impact, more of a legacy, than a few inspiring words at a class of students, half of whom were too busy checking Facebook or Twitter to actually pay attention to the lecture.

The screaming and the yelling and the fear had all merged into a monotonous background. Undoubtedly, if he stopped to think for a second, he’d collapse. A hand on the small of his back, familiar, was the only think keeping him sane.

If someone stopped him, and asked him, right that second, why are you doing this?, all he’d be able to say was what else am I meant to do?

So he couldn’t stop.

So he continued to scream and yell and slam his bleeding hands against the shields of the police, until something started to draw his attention.

“Enjolras. Enjolras!”

Blinking, he turned to look at Combeferre. His best friend’s face was inches from him, bruised jaw, and wide eyes. As Enjolras watched, as he struggled to focus, Combeferre nodded pointedly over Enjolras’ shoulder.

“Look. Look!”

Hands grabbed him, and turned him around. What he saw, he understood even less.

“Grantaire.”

The crowd didn’t part, but Grantaire was shoving his way through, oblivious to the out-of-control masses around him and heading straight towards Enjolras.

He was confused, he was angry, and he was in pain. But somehow, all Enjolras could register in that moment was relief. He smiled. “Grantaire.”

Before he had time to react any further, Grantaire scowled at him, drew back and arm and punched him, fist landing neatly on Enjolras’ temple.

Enjolras went out like a light.

*

“I need nurses, paramedics, I’m going to need x-rays and scans, we’ve got potential broken ribs and neural haemorrhaging, a lot of lost blood – quick!”

The previously silent A&E jumped swiftly to action at Joly’s words – most of the nurses recognised him from his shifts there, and didn’t question why a civilian was giving the instructions. The rest responded to the authoritative voice that seemed to know what he was doing.

Joly waited until two of the nurses were near enough before turning and running back through the entrance. He led them out the front, to where the van was parked in the space usually reserved for ambulances. Bossuet was already helping the others out the back – and away from the riot, by the quiet of the hospital, they looked in a sorry state. Not one of them was unscathed, most holding arms gently, keeping their weight on one leg only, or holding their sides. Feuilly’s eye had swollen and had turned deep purple. One of Combeferre’s tattoo sleeves was completely hidden by blood. Jehan was moving gingerly, trying to keep his back and torso completely straight, and Eponine was cradling an arm, jaw clenched and firmly blinking back tears. Enjolras was sat on the edge of the van, barely conscious, Grantaire’s hand on his shoulder seeming to be the only thing keeping him upright.  Behind him, Joly heard one of the nurses swear.

“Who’s the most at risk?” a familiar voice said.

Darren. Joly hadn’t even realised he was on duty. He turned to smile gratefully at him, before answering, “There’s a man with possible fractured skull, get him scanned ASAP, and then the guy with a long blonde braid has rib damage, same for that one sat there, in the red shirt. Others should primarily be fractured bones and blood loss.”

“You gonna tell me what happened?” Darren asked as they ran swiftly down the steps to the patients.

“Would you accept it if I said car crash?” Joly replied.

Darren shot him a shrewd glance, lips curling into a wry smile. “I could accept that. Nowhere near Parliament Square?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about. We were up by Blackfriars,” Joly said.

For a moment, he wasn’t sure if Darren would call him out on his bullshit or not. Then, with a wry smile, Darren clasped his shoulder. “Let’s start getting these guys inside and tended to, yeah?”

*

 

Enjolras came around with the vague idea that he was still in Combeferre’s bed. A hand slowly closed and his head rolled to the side, feeling the stiff cotton of the pillow. It was rougher than he was used to, and didn’t smell quite right – in fact, it smelled wrong, and his hand was slowly brushing to the side but he couldn’t feel either of his friends next to him...

“Hey, buddy. Enjolras? Enjolras, it’s okay, if you’re waking up man I need you to open your eyes for me. Think you could do that?”

Joly’s voice was quiet, a whisper, but it still echoed uncomfortably through Enjolras’ head. It brought with it an awareness of other pains, the illusion of Combeferre’s soft bed falling away rapidly. He opened his eyes obediently, and immediately flinched away from the bright white of the ceiling. The movement jarred something in his chest and he hissed out through his teeth.

“Ah, there you go. Yeah, I don’t recommend moving too much, you’ve kinda got a few busted ribs there.”

Slowly, Joly came into focus, and Enjolras found enough strength to curl his fingers so only the middle finger was left. To his right, someone – Courfeyrac, it sounded like – laughed. “Oh, he’s feeling better obviously.”

“Of course it had to be now,” someone else said – Feuilly. He seemed to be on the other side of the room. “Right in the few minutes Grantaire actually leaves the room-”

Enjolras blinked slowly a few times. “Where’s-”

“Combeferre and Courfeyrac are sat on the bed to your left, Jehan’s opposite them, and Bahorel and Feuilly are on the bed opposite you,” Joly said, keeping his voice low. Enjolras appreciated the gesture. “They’re all fine – I’ve stitched ‘Ferre back up, Feuilly’s got a hairline fracture in his skull but nothing serious. Bahorel’s just a bit bruised. Eponine’s having a cast put on her arm, and Jehan’s nursing a few bruised ribs. You’re the one with the fractured ribs, fractured wrist and a shattered ankle, genius.”

Fractured ribs? Yeah, that’d explain it. Some of it. “And my head?” Enjolras muttered, raising a hand to feel at the throbbing coming from his left jaw.

“Grantaire knocked you out,” Bahorel said, sounding happy about it. “And Joly put you on the good stuff to help with the pain.”

“Right.” Enjolras blinked a few more times. “Joly – any way you can help me get a bit more upright?”

Joly chuckled, and moved around to the other side of his bed. He was wearing his white coat, but he was still had on his clothes from the protest underneath – clothes that were, in some areas, splattered with blood. “Only slightly, though,” he said, picking up a remote thing. “If you get a punctured lung, I’ll get pissed, but Combeferre and Grantaire will kill you for sure.”

Enjolras ignored him, just tried to hold himself as still as possible as Joly’s remote made the head of the bed tilt, until he was vaguely in a sitting position. Feuilly, most of his red hair hidden beneath bandages, waved cheerfully at him from across the small room. It really was tiny, four beds squashed with about a meter between them. Each bed, however, had about five bouquets of random flowers next to them.

“Being the only vaguely uninjured and unnecessary people, Bossuet and Marius decided to make the room pretty,” Combeferre explained, with a wry smile. He was carefully running an absent finger over the bandage wrapped around his upper arm. At Enjolras’ concerned frown, he shook his head. “Don’t worry. Scar will just make me look even more badass. Would be nice if I could actually see, though...?”

“I’ve already told you, this is an A&E ward, not an opticians,” Joly snapped, with the air of someone who’d long got bored of the topic of conversation. “Bossuet’s looking, but no promises. Your fault for being so stupid as to wear glasses to a fucking protest.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said before something could distract him again. He stumbled on the syllables, tongue still feeling heavy, so he tried again. “You said – where is he?”

“Went to the loo,” Feuilly said, sounding almost amused. “Sat on the corner of your bed, unmoving, like a bloody lapdog for two hours, and of course the instant he leaves you wake up. That’s worse luck than Bossuet, mate.”

“Did we manage to persuade him to get something to eat, or was he still being resolutely angsty?” Courfeyrac asked, smirking. “Oh, wait,” he said, as scuffed footsteps echoed their way. “Is this – it doesn’t sound happy enough to be Bossuet – ah yep-”

The door swung open as Grantaire walked in, rubbing his face and yawning.

Enjolras smiled. “Hello,” he said. His tongue still felt heavy, and his head was still throbbing and felt cloudy, somehow, but Grantaire looked up sharply and he couldn’t help but smile wider.

Grantaire froze in the doorway, one hand still holding the door open. Enjolras couldn’t read anything in his expression, past the shock. He couldn’t really think very clearly.

“I’m awake,” Enjolras said, not really realising the silence that had fallen around him. “Um. That’s important, right? And you carried me from the protest, didn’t you. I remember that, kind of.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, more of a breath than a word. “Yeah, that’s about right.”

“And I love you,” Enjolras said, frowning. “I mean, that’s also important. And I haven’t told you yet. Did you know that already? I’m pretty sure everyone else does.”

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. Before he had finished speaking, Grantaire’s mouth had fallen open. For a few seconds there was complete, terrifying silence, before Grantaire spun around and left the room, the door swinging shut behind him.

Enjolras didn’t know how to react. He couldn’t figure out what he’d done. Someone swore quietly. Slowly, he started to realise, and his eyes closed. “I’m a fucking idiot.”

“I’ll go talk to him,” Jehan said, and Enjolras heard a bed creak.

“Don’t you dare,” he said, opening his eyes again and looking across at Jehan. The kid only had one leg off the bed and he was already wincing. “You need to be resting, you look like shit. Probably not as much as I do, but still. I’ll fix it.”

Combeferre chuckled. “Will you? It’d be about time.”

“You have no right to mock me, I’m barely awake and on drugs, you should have shoved something in my mouth the instant Grantaire walked into the room, you shouldn’t have let me say anything,” Enjolras said, carefully lifting his head to glare at his two best friends. He paused, blinked, and frowned. “There was an innuendo in there somewhere.”

From his position leaning against Combeferre, Courfeyrac sniggered. “How many drugs is he on, Joly?”

Joly shrugged, also grinning. “He’s still talking coherently, so clearly not enough.”

For the second time in fifteen minutes, Enjolras gave him the finger. Joly just laughed and patted him on the head, before going to check that Jehan hadn’t done himself more damage.

“Don’t worry yourself just yet,” Feuilly said. His words were slurring slightly, Enjolras noticed, and he was leaning against Bahorel’s side. Seemed like he was on the same drugs Enjolras was – it was almost a comfort, knowing he wasn’t the only one. “He’s gonna come back.”

“How d’you know?” Courfeyrac asked.

Feuilly shrugged, causing Bahorel’s hand to slip from his shoulder. “I know the kid. He wasn’t running away, he was rushing off. Besides, I can hear his footsteps again. No one else wears Vans that busted.”

Wide-eyed, Enjolras turned back to the door. The door swung open and Grantaire strode back in, brandishing about five packets of earplugs. He was panting and flushed. “Just had to run back to the shop,” he said, “Because I am not putting this off any more, and fuck if we’re gonna have the homosexual supporting cast contributing to our conversation-”

“Homosexual?” echoed Feuilly and Combeferre, sounding amused.

“Supporting cast?” Courfeyrac and Bahorel repeated indignantly.

“You’ve seen Ouran?” Enjolras asked, confused.

Grantaire started. He half turned back to Enjolras, eyes wide. “You’ve seen-?” But he shook his head and continued across the room chucking boxes of earplugs to Courfeyrac and Combeferre, muttering about more important things under his breath.

“Aw, but-”

“Put them on, Courfeyrac, or I swear, I will tell everyone what-”

Without further protest, Courfeyrac pulled out two bright orange earplugs and shoved them in, scowling. Combeferre and Jehan took theirs willingly. Reaching Feuilly, Grantaire faced the problem that Feuilly’s ears were beneath a thin layer of bandages – a problem he solved by lifting up Bahorel’s and putting them over Feuilly’s ears. He shoved Bahorel’s earplugs in himself. Then, he turned to Joly, and, with a firm finger pointed at the door, said, “Out.”

Not liking the idea of having to leave his patients, Joly folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. It was a fact well known amongst them that, though Joly would willingly do what people wanted normally, when you were in his hospital, you’d have more chance ordering around a cat.

Grantaire relented. “I’ll call you immediately if anything happens,” he promised. Seemingly contented, Joly nodded and left the room. But not before turning and giving Enjolras an enthusiastic thumbs up.

Palms starting to turn clammy with sweat, and heart beating an erratic rhythm against his already painful ribs, Enjolras turned back to Grantaire. But he wasn’t done. He was grabbing the two curtain dividers in the room and lugged them across to Enjolras’ bed, forming a vague wall between them at the rest of the room. It wasn’t perfect – one of the curtains was twisted and Enjolras could see Bahorel’s leg, but there was a semblance of privacy about it.

Grantaire finally stopped moving. He stood still, fingers nervously playing with the metal foot of the bed.

“This is a little ridiculous,” Enjolras said, still a little unable to filter before he spoke.

Grantaire shrugged, cheeks flushing a bit. “Yeah, well, ideally we’d be a few miles away from that nosy lot and somewhere private, properly private, but you are not getting out of that bed until Joly gives you the all clear. Let’s get that straight right here, you’re not going anywhere until Joly says you can, no matter how much shit you think you have to do, no matter how many oppressed kittens you think you need to go and personally rescue, like some absurd Mary fucking Poppins, okay? Not happening.”

Enjolras smiled slightly. “I think I’d fall over if I tried to stand up. Don’t worry, I’m not going to run away.”

Grantaire’s fingers paused, hovering over the metal. “I, uh, was actually more concerned with you dislodging a rib and puncturing a lung or something, but if you could avoid the running away thing, that’d also be good.” His fingers started to tap again. If he wasn’t certain that it’d lead to exactly the kind of damage Grantaire was worried about, Enjolras would have leant over and taken Grantaire’s hands in his own, in an attempt to calm him, reassure him. Something like that.

“Okay, here’s what’s going to happen,” Grantaire said eventually, shifting his weight slightly and looking straight at with Enjolras with a renewed confidence that, while slightly scaring Enjolras, still made him feel slightly proud. “I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen.”

This was important. Enjolras considered it for a second, before saying, “I can’t promise that because if you go all cynical again it’ll be really upsetting and I’ll want to make you more optimistic and I’m not sure I’ve fully got control over what I say at the moment, but I think I can stay silent.”

Rather than the exasperation Enjolras was expecting, Grantaire smiled a little at that. Enjolras smiled back.

“Wow, you really are on drugs, aren’t you.”

“Well, obviously-”

“Shut up.”

Enjolras shut up. That made Grantaire smile again.

The finger tapping started again, but stopped almost immediately. “Here’s the situation at the moment,” Grantaire said, speaking decisively. “You kissed me. I liked being kissed by you. I want more of that. And more stuff along a similar vein, if that’s okay by you. All that? That’s okay by me. The shit that’s not okay is how you yelled at me. How you used my alcoholism – which I’m recovering from, fuck you very much – against me as emotional manipulation. You used Gavroche against me, and that’s not right. Courfeyrac pointed out that you’re shit at emotions, not good at figuring people out and frankly that’s bullshit. You know exactly how to make people do what you want. What you’re bad at? Realising when you shouldn’t. So be warned that if you do that to me, or anyone, again? If you use your powers of human manipulation and glowing hair of emotional turmoil for bad, I will punch you. That’s a thing. That’s gonna happen. And don’t fucking think you can kiss it better.”

“I thought that if I kissed you you’d understand better, because every time I tried to explain verbally I fucked it up,” Enjolras said before he thought. He paused, wincing slightly at the glare Grantaire was giving him. “Like now, because I’m talking again. I understand why you thought I hated you, because, honestly, I thought I hated you for a while. Apparently it’s Mr Darcy syndrome, I don’t know, I think Marius mentioned it. But I know – and I want you to know – that I wasn’t trying to – I didn’t want to make you feel bad, I thought – I thought I could motivate you, because you could do so much better-”

“Shut up,” Grantaire ordered again, holding up a hand. When Enjolras fell silent, Grantaire leant forwards over the end of the bed, looking at Enjolras with the wide, passionate, honest expression that had caused Enjolras to realise the true potential, true depth of this astonishing, complex man in the first place. “That’s where you’re wrong. You think I’m some broken, twisted, depressed human who needs an Achilles to his Patroklos to come and save his arse-”

“Nice Iliad reference.”

“Thank you,” Grantaire acknowledged with a proud smile. “I’m not. I’m not a damsel in distress. And you’re certainly not a prince coming to rescue me. You’re just as fucked up as I am. You’re in a hospital. Fuck, Enjolras – you could have died today. Do you fucking get that?” His grip was tightening on the bed, knuckles turning white. Again, Enjolras wanted to sit up and take them in his own, reassure him. “If I hadn’t been there, you could have died. Okay, I might be a little depressed. I have a severely addictive personality and my self esteem is lower than ZZ Top’s baseline. Yeah, you could probably do me good. But if you think, you smug, self-righteous bastard, that you don’t need me to save you, too, then you’re more fucking stupid than I thought.”

“M’not stupid,” Enjolras said, struggling to keep down a smile. “My IQ’s in the range of 142. I could get into MENSA.”

“Well I’m sitting pretty on a 143, so you’re still stupid,” Grantaire said right back, a smile breaking through his defences, too. “Well, it was the last time I had it tested. Alcohol and blunt force trauma’s probably removed a few points since then.”

Concerned, Enjolras frowned. “No, that right there,” he said, “That. That’s what I want to try and get rid of. You’re still clever, why can’t you believe it?”

His cheeks were starting to look flushed. “I’m not – I mean, I don’t feel clever, is all.”

“You are,” Enjolras protested. “143. You’re clever. When did you get tested?”

“A Levels,” Grantaire said, trying to shrug it off. “Got extra time due to dyslexia. 50%.”

Suddenly, a lot more about Grantaire made sense. “You know,” Enjolras said, not bothering to hide his smile anymore, “There’s research that says learning difficulties in one area are linked to genius in another skill set.”

Grantaire didn’t believe it, that much was obvious, but he humoured Enjolras with a smile anyway. It didn’t matter. He’d have Grantaire believing it in time. “Oh yeah, really?”

“Yeah, just ask Combeferre.” As Grantaire shook his head with an amused smile, Enjolras just watched him, and enjoyed the comfortable silence. Grantaire met his gaze, and smiled slightly wider.

“So here’s what I suggest,” Grantaire said, hands now resting comfortably on the foot of Enjolras’ bed. “We have a go at having an romantic and, hopefully, seriously sexual relationship, in which we’re both equal, and force ourselves to work through fights like the sensible adults you are and that I pretend to be-” Enjolras chuckled, “- and that we realise that our happy ever after is always gonna involve us arguing over politics and how much paint I spill on work surfaces, and how you almost get yourself beaten to death, but you won’t, because you’ll listen when I tell you that you’re going too far and need to calm down to reality.”

Something was tight in his chest, but it wasn’t pain. It took a few moments for Enjolras to realise what he was feeling, as he hadn’t felt it in a few weeks – it was joy. Sheer, uncontainable, gonna-burst-through-my-ribcage, need-to-laugh-until-I-can’t-breathe, joy. Biting his bottom lip to stop form laughing, or going a little bit manic, Enjolras nodded. “I, uh, I’m on a few drugs right now, and someone knocked me out, so I’m not sure how clearly I’m thinking right now, but, um,” he swallowed, meeting Grantaire’s gaze again. A stray black curl was hanging over his forehead, and it suddenly struck Enjolras that he now had the right to brush it away, if he wanted to. “But that sounds like a pretty good option from where I’m sat.”

“Actually, it sounds to me like you’re thinking more clearly than you have in a month,” Grantaire said wryly.

Enjolras shrugged. “Well, perhaps I need you to hit me round the head every now and then.” When Grantaire laughed at that, a full, strong laugh that had him pressing a hand to his chest, Enjolras grinned wickedly. “Can you just – can I ask one thing of you, though?” he asked, serious.

Looking concerned, Grantaire hesitated. “Honestly? Depends on what it is.”

Enjolras paused, thinking how to phrase it. “Could you – d’you think you could come a bit closer so I can kiss you? Because if I try and get to you I might just puncture a lung and as that’s not going to help the oppressed citizens of the state, I don’t really fancy it. And I know we agreed compromise in all instances, but I think broken ribs might-”

But Grantaire cut him off by laughing again. “You’re a complete, stone-hard bastard,” he said with a smile, as he walked around to Enjolras’ side.

“Yes, I think the conversation we just had established that.”

Grantaire shook his head, but he was smiling as he did it. It looked like, hopefully, if Enjolras didn’t fuck it up again – it looked like he might get to see Grantaire smile like that more often. He liked it when Grantaire smiled like that. Very gently – probably remembering how the last time he’d touched Enjolras it had been to knock him out – Grantaire ran his fingers through Enjolras’ hair. He looked so in awe that, for the first time in since he was about twelve, Enjolras felt like he was going to start blushing. “It’s just hair,” he muttered. “I’m not even that blond.”

“Just proves how little you know,” Grantaire said, amused. Still touching him so gently, like Enjolras was something precious, something that would shatter if Grantaire held on too tight – and Enjolras guessed, lying in a hospital bed, it could be understood why Grantaire was treating him as such – Grantaire tilted Enjolras’ head up. Finding it hard to swallow and feeling his heart threaten to add another crack to his ribs, Enjolras was suddenly glad that Joly hadn’t hooked him up to any monitors.

“Wait,” Enjolras breathed, his eyes flicking between Grantaire’s unmoving, soft gaze and his smile. “Are you sure – I don’t want to-”

Grantaire groaned, rolling his eyes. “Oh, Enjolras,” he sighed, this thumb tracing gentle circles on Enjolras’ cheek. “Shut the fuck up.”

It was the softest kiss Enjolras had ever had. Not that he had hundreds to compare it to, really, but – he couldn’t think of anything that could possibly be better. Calloused hands cradling him, warm lips touching him so lightly that they were barely there. Silk-soft curls of hair were brushing against his skin, and fingers were curling around strands of his own, holding him there so carefully, as if he might break under Grantaire’s hands.

When Grantaire finally, eventually, after what felt like no time at all but was probably far too long considering how much Enjolras’ chest hurt – when Grantaire finally lifted his lips from Enjolras’, he tried to lift himself up, chase Grantaire and kiss him again. But, unfortunately, he was painfully reminded of why he was in a hospital bed in the first place as his energy levels started to drain again, and his ribs protested loudly. “More,” he whined, trying to reach up a hand to pull Grantaire back down.

Grantaire smiled at him, a hand running through his hair again, cementing in Enjolras’ mind that it was definitely an action he liked. “Later,” Grantaire promised, hesitating for only a second before kissing him on the top of his head. “When I don’t feel like you’ll shatter if I use you for nefarious sexual purposes.” The instant he finished speaking, Grantaire froze, then frowned. “That sounded creepier than I intended.”

Enjolras smiled at him, at his utter stupidity. “I don’t think I’d mind being used for sexual purposes,” he said, using his years of training in self-discipline to keep his voice and expression blank. Just as he’d known he would, Grantaire froze, and looked at Enjolras with undisguised shock, as if he didn’t dare believe it.

“Let’s – uh, let’s save conversations like that for when we can actually do something about it, eh?” he said, sounding kind of strained.

Enjolras grinned. “I just turned you on, didn’t I,” he said, very matter-of-fact, and enjoying himself immensely.

Grantaire nodded furiously. “Yes. Yes you did. Absolutely, and completely not fair.”

Enjolras started to laugh, unable to contain that tight, explosive, wonderful feeling in his chest anymore. It made his chest hurt like hell, but he found he didn’t really care.

The sound of someone knocking shocked both of them, before they remembered where they actually where. “Oh yeah,” Grantaire said, sniggering. “I should probably tell everyone they can take their earplugs out.” He started to shove the curtain dividers back to their places, revealing the curious, or in several cases just bored faces of their friends.

“That really was fucking ridiculous, by the way,” Enjolras called across to him, only to be rewarded by Grantaire returning a very rude gesture. Grinning, Enjolras tilted his head back to the door. “You not going to let them in?”

“Yeah, yeah, stop bossing me around,” Grantaire said with a put-on weariness. “Good gods, five minutes and you’re already-” he pulled the door open to reveal a terrified looking Marius and Bossuet.

“The door was shut and we were worried,” Marius whispered in a very loud voice. Enjolras snorted with laughter, which only served to scare Marius more. Grantaire turned to look at Enjolras over his shoulder, giving him a wink. After that, Enjolras had to press a hand to his mouth to stop himself bursting out with laughter.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Grantaire reassured Marius with a grin, pulling them both inside. To the rest, he gave an over exaggerated gesture of pulling earplugs out of his ears.

Obviously, not a single person in the room was able to keep their mouths shut after finally being told that they could talk. Despairing, and re-evaluating why he spent time with these people, Enjolras first looked over to Combeferre and Courfeyrac – one of who was looking ridiculously smug, and the other who was talking at full speed – before looking back to Grantaire and raising an eyebrow. Grantaire sighed, rolled his eyes, before turning to the room and yelling, “Would you please all shut the fuck up?”

Everyone, but Courfeyrac, shut up.

“Oh thank god, because I was seriously about a week away from locking you two in a fucking cupboard, I hope you understand the restraint I-” he stopped, mid-sentence, looking horrified at himself. “Wait – you two have got together now, right?”

Ridiculously amused by Courfeyrac’s ability to dig himself into any variety of potentially awkward situations with reckless abandon, Enjolras looked at Grantaire, curious to see what he would do. Grantaire met his gaze with a small smile, before shrugging. “Eh,” he said, by way of an answer.

“You’re a fucking piece of shit,” Enjolras told him.

Grantaire winked at him. “Ah, but you’re stuck with me now.”

The cheer that went up around the room made Enjolras want to plot the mass murder of everyone present. The look Grantaire gave him promised that he would, if not help, at least provide sarcastic commentary from the prison cell next to him. Which, in all honesty, was all Enjolras would ever ask of him.

“About fucking time,” Feuilly told them loudly, with an agreeing nod from Bahorel, who seemed to be applauding. Combeferre nodded at Enjolras, smiling with pride, before giving Grantaire a thumbs up. Jehan was beaming between the two of them, as if he couldn’t figure out which of them to smile the widest at. Marius and Bossuet seemed to doing a victory dance in the corner, before Bossuet shrieked, “Joly and Chetta!” and ran from the room.

Courfeyrac was sat bolt upright on his bed, arm around Combeferre’s shoulder and looking proudly across to Jehan. “So fucking happy,” he was declaring, loud enough for people down the corridor to hear, “So fucking happy. I’d jump up and hug you both until you couldn’t breathe, if that wasn’t a legitimate fear in Enjolras’ case and, that, well, my arm’s in a sling. And I knew the protest would be a catalyst, somehow or other – Jehan, Jehan didn’t I say-”

An obedient, loving Jehan nodded with a weary smile. “Yes, love, you did.”

Grantaire came back around to Enjolras’ side, leaning against the small clear patch of wall to the left of the head of Enjolras’ bed. “Is there any way to shut him up?” Grantaire asked under his breath.

Enjolras smirked. “’Fraid not. He gets like this when he’s happy.”

“-now all I need is for Bahorel and Feuilly to admit they’re fucking, and my status as prophet will have to be confirmed!”

The sound of Feuilly choking on air, and Bahorel’s indignant cry of, “Why do none of you fuckers believe I’ve got a girlfriend!” set everyone in the room off laughing again, until Joly re-emerged – without Bossuet – to tell them to keep it down, they were disturbing the other wards.

*

Cosette had been in a seminar and Musichetta had been working, but Joly had finally received a ten minute warning of their arrival not long after he’d returned to find the group dancing in celebration.

Marius was the one waiting out front for them. Which was stupid on so many levels, as he’d probably be unable to speak as soon as Cosette arrived anyway, and there was only a 45% chance that he’d be able to find his way back to the room they were all in.

Either way, he had accepted his fate and was sat on the steps, waiting for Musichetta’s old Jeep to appear. As it was fast approaching sunset, the temperature was dropping rapidly and Marius was bundled in Courfeyrac’s leather jacket. It was a bit baggy on his smaller frame, but it was better than nothing. A few other people were waiting around the entrance, perhaps waiting for people, like him, perhaps for fresh air. He didn’t really want to make assumptions.

There was one guy with a battered nose and split lip that had clearly come outside to smoke. As much as Marius didn’t like to judge, he couldn’t stop himself frowning. His eyes kept flickering over to him, as if the man might suddenly realise the irony of his actions and put out the cigarette with disgust.

Instead what happened was that the man turned around, and looked right back at Marius.

Startled, and some instinct that he’d never be able to overcome telling him to dig himself into a hole and never come out, Marius blinked, and turned away, staring at the ground and flushing. Oh god, that guy probably thought he was a total dick... and he was wearing a leather jacket, that probably just made him seem even more like a thug, or... he was being an idiot.

Marius looked across again, to find that the man was still smoking, but not glaring at Marius. Until Marius started to look away again, only to find that, once again, the man was looking back to him.

Feeling like he was catching a fever, and more than half wanting to get to his feet and go hide in the reception, Marius turned away again and stared fixedly at the ground. A hand reached up to feel the tops of his ears, just confirming what he already knew – they were overheated, flushed with embarrassment. Which meant his freckles and hair would be clashing with the pinky-red of his blush, too. Oh, god. He should have just stayed at home. He was meant to be revising, anyway...

A horn honked, startling him out of the slow spiral of self-criticism, and he looked up to see the familiar battered green jeep that Musichetta shared with Bossuet pausing by the bottom of the steps to let Cosette jump out. She beamed at him, rucksack hanging off one arm and folder scooped under the other. She was wearing high-waisted jeans and a fitted flowery top that suited her so well. Waving off Musichetta over her shoulder, Cosette ran up the steps towards him, two at a time. He scrambled to his feet. The man was openly staring at him now, but he dismissed that as just him being strange.

“Here, let me-” he offered, reaching out to take the bulging folders from her. She slapped his hand away forcefully.

“Don’t you even, you must be battered and bruised all over the place,” she chastised, hoisting her rucksack higher up her shoulder and tightening her grip on her folder. “Sorry, I just came from class and Musichetta’s gone to park the car – how are you, how is everyone-”

“Fine,” Marius said, barely managing not to stutter. “I’m – just a bit bruised, grazed knee, Enjolras is worse, obviously – he and Grantaire, they, uh-”

“Oh, did they, finally?” Cosette finished for him, nodding, and having to readjust her slipping rucksack again. “Something good came of this, then-”

“’Scuse me, kid.”

Marius blinked, and turned to the side. The man had – finally – chucked his cigarette to the side, and was heading up the steps to them. Beside him, Cosette stiffened. “Hold this,” she muttered, sounding furious, and shoving her folder into Marius’ arms. He took it willingly, and watched with a small touch of pride and joy as she straightened up and pushed the sleeves of her cardigan up to her elbows.

The man slowed to a stop a few steps below them. He nodded at Marius, before turning to Cosette. “Miss Fauchelevent,” he said politely.

“Detective Inspector,” she replied, equally formal. Marius blanched. Just his luck – exchanging suspicious glances with the police. “You’ve got blood on your collar. I hope you’re not injured.” Her tone implied that, actually, she hoped nothing of the sort.

Distracted by her comment, Javert glanced down at his collar. “Oh – just a broken nose. I’ve had a lot worse.” He looked back at her, confusion shifting into stern concern. “Your father wouldn’t be happy to know that you’d been to a protest.”

Cosette tilted her head back defiantly. “I’m not sure you’re in any position to tell me what my father would or wouldn’t approve of, DI Javert,” she said coolly. “And not that it matters either way, but I wasn’t at the protest, even though I strongly support the original message it was trying to convey.”

“Your boyfriend was, though,” Javert said, turning to look directly at Marius.

Marius swallowed nervously.

“And he got out as soon as it turned bad, and helped other people get to safety as well,” Cosette said, subtly shifting to stand in front of Marius defensively. “Are you going to press charges for helping people now, Inspector?”

Javert was starting to look really, really tired. “No, of course not,” he sighed. “And can’t he speak for himself?”

“He can,” Marius said quickly. “But clearly you and Cosette know each other, and I tend to make a mess of things when I open my mouth.”

Javert almost smiled at that. “Well, you haven’t messed anything up so far,” he said, sounding amused, “And yes, I do know Ms Fauchelevent, but I’m not concerned with her right now.”

Cosette’s quiet growl of protest made it seem like she was annoyed by that.

Again, Javert almost smiled. But he kept his focus on Marius as he said, “Your friends-”

“Had no responsibility on the turn of events,” Marius interrupted. The words felt like they’d get stuck in his throat, but thinking of his friends dancing around inside, of how they’d all been cheering, he forced them out. “My friends and I were purely there to highlight the issue of the sudden tripling of University fees and the impact that will have upon society. The riot which followed what started as a peaceful protest was caused, we believe, by a man called Montparnasse and his friends, who just like-”

“I know of Montparnasse,” Javert said wearily, reaching up to rub his eyes, an attempt to wake himself up. “That’s why I was there. Reports that the wannabe gang ‘Pussy Boss’ – yes, vulgar, isn’t it – had plans to cause trouble. Considering that none of them hold jobs or pay rent, catching them has been surprisingly hard, especially as our funding has just been reduced once more.” Javert paused, looking between the surprised faces on the two twenty-year olds in front of him. “I’m not always out to hunt down people I have a passing dislike for, I do actually have a job to do, you know,” he said wryly to Cosette.

“I think I can help you find them,” Marius said, before he could think better of it.

This time, it was Javert who looked surprised. “You sure, kid?”

“I’d just need to know that you’re not going to go after my friends,” Marius said, getting more confident when Javert waved away his concern.

“I’ve already told you, I’ve no interest in ‘going after’ your friends,” Javert reassured him. “Look – if you think you can get me that information, call me. I, uh – either of you got a pen?”

Cosette pulled one from her pocket, and Javert scrambled in his pockets for a piece of paper, eventually pulling out a short receipt for a meal deal and a packet of cigarettes. “Call me on this number, and I’ll see what I can do. I’ll only need to know how you know where they are if it goes to full court, in front of a jury, and frankly, with these bastards, I doubt it. Even in that instance, the focus won’t be on you – they won’t be able to get lawyers that good.”

“I know a really good prosecutor who’d be more than happy to lock them up,” Marius added, taking the proffered receipt. “He, uh – after today, he’s probably got a bit of a grudge against them.”

Javert snorted. “I think anyone within a mile radius of that square will have a grudge without them. But give me his or her name, and I’ll be more than happy to recommend them.” He made to turn away, but stopped, and added, “By the way, kid, your friends – if you’d have let me finish, I was going to tell you to pass on the message that they did well. It wasn’t their fault that the crowd turned. People are clever, but a mob just wants blood. For teenagers – you and your friends did well.” He pointed at the receipt once more, before heading back down the steps. With better timing than you’d usually expect from British, inner-city services, a police car pulled up to give him a lift back, presumably, to Scotland Yard.

Wide-eyed and blinking over the top of Cosette’s folder, Marius turned around to look down at his girlfriend. She stared after the cop car for a few more minutes before turning back to Marius.

“Don’t look at me, I’m more confused than you are,” she said with a shrug, taking back her folder.

*

As Halloween passed and the Christmas holidays slowly approached, so did the first set of major deadlines and first load of exams. Most of the gang had barricaded themselves in their rooms or duct taped themselves to their dinner tables, surrounded by textbooks, notebooks and open laptops. Bahorel, when he wasn’t at work, spent most of his time tutoring Bossuet and Marius. Combeferre only left the library to buy sustenance. Jehan and Courfeyrac had group study sessions and actually worked.

And, to the surprise of almost everyone, Grantaire had all but locked himself in Feuilly’s art studio, in a last-ditch attempt to produce artwork that fulfilled the exam board’s criteria.

The only one not studying was Enjolras.

His deadlines had been pushed back for a fortnight, the combination of his injuries and the death of the convener for the two main modules he took. He spent most of the time under house arrest, with Joly supervising him, sat at his table reading various medical textbooks. He’d finished university, it was true, but unfortunately medical training didn’t end there.

It had been near three weeks, and Enjolras was starting to forget what the fuss was all about. He could now walk about (vaguely) autonomously, breathing has stopped hurting, he was walking with one of Bossuet’s hiking sticks rather than a crutch – all in all, he was perfectly functional.

And sitting on the sofa reading Sartre was getting dull.

Rather suddenly, startling Enjolras out of his depressing, boring gloom, Joly snapped his laptop shut and jumped to his feet. Enjolras struggled to twist his head around over the back of the sofa. “Where are you off to?”

“Bossuet,” Joly said, waving his mobile as explanation. Enjolras nodded, understanding instantly. “I shouldn’t be long,” he muttered, organising his books before grabbing his shoes. “But just in case he’s really fucked himself up, I’ve texted Marius. He should be over here in a second.” He finished the final knot and straightened up, looking Enjolras straight in the eye as he continued, “You, behave yourself. No taking advantage of Marius’ gullible condition, okay? Okay?” 

“Who, me?” came out of Enjolras’ mouth before he could think. Joly glared at him, and Enjolras sighed. He’d been spending too much time around Courfeyrac lately. “Fine, fine.”

Joly nodded. “If you’re not still on that sofa when I get back, there will be hell to pay,” were his parting words, before he left the flat.

Alone in his apartment for the first time in weeks, Enjolras chewed the inside of his cheeks and considered his options. When, about fifteen minutes later, Marius entered, Enjolras looked up at with a wide smile. “Marius! It’s been too long.”

Eyes wide with fear, Marius froze in the doorway. He gulped, and Enjolras’ grin grew wider.

*

There was paint everywhere. It was getting to the stage that, like thick eyeliner, even a solid fifteen minute shower and scrub left remains and smudges of colour all over Grantaire’s skin. A day hadn’t passed all week that his skin and hair hadn’t been abused by what was probably the equivalent to a tube of oil paint.

But, you know what? It might actually all end up being worth it.

As he heard the door open behind him, he called out on reflex, “Feuilly, unless you’re here to say-”

“Not Feuilly,” an amused voice corrected him.

Grantaire screamed internally. Brain shutting down in panic, he went with instinct. Which involved whacking the canvas off the easel.

Wincing, regretting choosing instinct over logic, Grantaire slowly turned to see Enjolras watching him from the doorway with a raised eyebrow. “Was that part of the artistic process?” he asked sceptically.

“That… was none of your business!” Grantaire said, awkwardly and slightly too loudly, hands settling on his hips for lack of any other idea of what to do with them. “And – and anyway,” he said, scowling, and deciding that a persistent offense might make a decent enough defence, or at least distract Enjolras enough to make him forget about the massive cock-up he’d just been witness to, “You shouldn’t be here. You’re not meant to be walking. You’re meant to be in a prone position somewhere under Joly’s persistent supervision, what the hell are you doing here?”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow in amusement, before saying carelessly, “Oh, well, if you don’t want me here, I’ll just leave you be-” he backed out of the door with a shrug and a sly smile.

“No, shit, wait, Enjolras, don’t-” Grantaire stumbled over both his words and his feet as he hurried after the blond, tripping through the door and straight into Enjolras’ arms. Still smiling and, if anything, looking smugger than before, Enjolras leant down and pressed a quick kiss to Grantaire’s lips. “What was that for?” Grantaire asked, breathless, staring agape at the wide, bright blue eyes of the man before him.

Enjolras shrugged, eyes flicking down to Grantaire’s lips and back to meet his gaze. “Because I can,” he said simply.

Grantaire licked his lips, relishing in the way Enjolras’ gaze zoomed in on the motion. On impulse, he copied Enjolras, quickly pressing their lips together before pulling back. “So can I,” he pointed out, winking. A small, strange, happy sound slipped past Enjolras’ lips, and Grantaire’s eyes and smile widened in glee. “Was that – Enjolras, did you just giggle?”

“What? No.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I absolutely did not.”

“Awww, how cute! The fearless leader can giggle!”

Scowling, Enjolras punched his shoulder lightly, then winced.

“Yeah, and that reminds me,” Grantaire said, trying to sound as stern as he could after hearing Enjolras fucking giggle for the first time, “Why the fuck are you here? How the fuck are you here?”

Enjolras blinked down at him, smiling softly that just looked strange on Enjolras. “What, can’t I come visit my boyfriend?”

Entirely unaffected by the performance in front of him, Grantaire crossed his arms and stared him down. “Yeah, the cutesy act isn’t going to get you anywhere, even if, and I’m not confirming it’s true, even if hearing you call me your boyfriend gives me happy little butterflies.”

For moment, the smile stayed in place, before the pretence dropped and Enjolras sighed, the happy look falling away to sheer boredom. “Marius was put on Enjolras-babysitting duty and I scared him into submission by being nice to him.” As Grantaire tutted at him, he continued, “But I was getting so bored. There’s only so many movies on Netflix that I want to watch, and Joly wasn’t talking and wouldn’t let me play music or so much as hold heavy books, so when the opportunity to escape presented itself, obviously I had to take it.”

Despite himself – and despite the severe lack of self-preservation instincts Enjolras was showing – Grantaire had to smile. “Of course you did.” He pulled his mobile from his pocket, trying not to let Enjolras see the really bad photo of him Grantaire had as his background, and started to scroll through the contacts.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras asked quickly, sounding one part nervous and two parts angry.

Grantaire smirked, and took his time before replying. “Texting your poor, shell-shocked driver, telling him he can go home. You’re staying with me for the day. Mainly for his own safety, mind,” he added, as Enjolras breathed a sigh of relief. “I don’t trust you around such easily manipulated people.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras said, surprisingly actually sounding genuine. When Grantaire glanced up from his phone, he saw another gentle expression on his boyfriend’s face, one he was only just starting to recognise and appreciate. “Are you going to let me actually do stuff, too?”

“No.”

That gentle expression fell faster than Grantaire could count. “Are you kidding me?”

“I’ll make you pancakes, though,” Grantaire replied cheerfully, leading the way to the stairs.

“I don’t like pancakes.”

“No one doesn’t like pancakes.”

“Fine. If I eat your pancakes, will you tell me why you knocked that painting off its stand when I came in?”

“It’s an easel. And sure!”

“Really?”

“Nope.”

*

“I’m scared.”

Joly’s footsteps momentarily went out of sync with Bossuet’s, his foot slipping down to the step below. “Wh- what? What of?”

 “Them!” Bossuet hissed indignantly, waving a hand up the stairs. “I don’t want to visit them, you realise – oof!”

Joly went up another three steps before he realised that Bossuet was slumped, face down, a few steps behind him. “Good grief, you’re not having a good day,” Joly said, crouching to pick up the ice pack Bossuet had dropped and grab his hand. “You hurt anything?” he asked, pulling the clutz back up to his feet.

Bossuet nodded, looking down at his knees and pouting. “Grazed my knee.”

“I’ll check it out when we get in,” Joly promised. His seemingly innocuous sentence sent Bossuet back into his seething rage.

“Yes, but, as I was saying,” Bossuet resumed, slapping the icepack back to his black eye and continuing his rant as if nothing had happened, as ever, and to Joly’s unending amusement. “You realise, of course, that this, what we’re about to witness, is the first time that those two, those recently reconciled two, have been in the same flat, the same room, alone, for an extended period of time?”

Unsurprisingly, this didn’t clear up anything. “Yes, and your point?” Joly asked.

Bossuet flailed. “My point is, that they, they – they – they might be doing the frick-frack!”

It took a solid ten seconds for Joly to figure out what, exactly, Bossuet was talking about. When he finally did, he grabbed Bossuet’s arm and charged up the stairs.

“What? No! What are you doing!”

“I am Enjolras’ doctor!” Joly growled, stomping up the last few steps. “And I do not sanction such athletic actions!” He came to an abrupt halt, straightened his shoulders, and knocked on Grantaire’s door as hard as he could.

As scuffled footsteps approached, Joly perfected his scowl – which fell immediately as the door creaked open to reveal a gruntled Grantaire wearing tea-stained tracksuit bottoms and tattered plaid shirt. “What?” he asked in a low voice.

Joly stuttered momentarily in the face of such muted annoyance, but eventually managed to choke out the accusation, “Have you been frick-fracking!?”

Grantaire stared back at him blankly, blinking a few times in supposed confusion. “I don’t support fracking and think the government should look to renewable resources, if that’s what you mean,” he answered blandly. “And could you keep the volume down, please, Enjolras is asleep on the sofa.”

For a moment no one said a word. Eventually, Bossuet turned to Joly and said, “Well, now you look like a right tit.”

A solid red blush started to spread over what felt like every inch of Joly’s face. “Look, I was just-” he tried to explain, but stopped when he saw that the other two men were smirking. “You both suck,” he muttered, as Bossuet laughed at him.

“In you come,” Grantaire said, opening the door wider to let them in. “But I wasn’t kidding, keep it down. He seems a pretty deep sleeper – I dropped about five frying pans earlier and he didn’t wake – but hey, better safe than sorry.”

“Yeah I think I broke their entire lounge once and Enjolras didn’t wake up,” Bossuet said, chuckling, and kicking his tattered Toms off. “Dude’s a log when he sleeps.”

Joly followed his boy in, taking his brogues off with slightly more care, and glancing around the flat. He’d only been in it a few times, but even he could recognise that some major spring-cleaning had gone down. He could see the floor and not just canvases and books, for one thing. “The maid been round?” he asked, stunned.

“If by the maid you mean Jehan and myself drastically procrastinating from doing work and revising, then yes. Drinks?”

Bossuet’s screech of “Ribena!” pierced Joly’s eardrums, and Grantaire shushed him furiously, eyes glancing across the room. Following his gaze, Joly finally saw Enjolras. He was curled up on a sofa that, rightly, shouldn’t fit someone of Enjolras’ stature, but somehow he’d folded up his limbs in a way that made it work. His head was resting on about five cushions, including his own jacket, and a badly home-knitted blanket was loosely draped over him. “Uh, nothing for me thanks,” Joly said.

In the small kitchen corner of the open-apartment, Grantaire shrugged and poured out two Ribenas. “So, what brings you two fellows here then?” he asked, pushing one glass across the counter to Bossuet.

“I was thinking of rescuing you from a moaning Enjolras, but I guess…” Joly trailed off, smirking at the form on the sofa.

Grantaire laughed. “Yeah, Sleeping Beauty’s been no trouble – I suggested watching TV, and half an episode into New Girl he fell asleep on my shoulder. Almost a disappointment, really,” he mused, eyes fixed on Enjolras. “How much longer until he gets the all-clear?”

Why did people always want straight answers for questions like that? “I dunno, maybe a fortnight before I let him do stuff like running – and other, hm, athletic activities – maybe four weeks, probably closer to nearer three he way he’s going. If only to get him out of everyone’s hair.”

“Yeah, but,” Bossuet cut in, brandishing his squash, “Joly’s promised me he’s gonna be good by the 25^th, because I had to give Mabeuf a date for when we want the pub to host a ‘The Protest Sucked But At Least We’re All Okay Now’ party.” He nodded knowingly, taking a confident sip of the squash. “It’s gonna be awesome.”

Grantaire’s eyes drift for a second as he thought, then muttered, “So, that gives me just under three weeks…”

Slightly bemused, Joly glanced across to Bossuet, who just shrugged at him with a mouth full of Ribena. “To stock up on lube and condoms?” Bossuet asked after he’d swallowed. Joly snorted. “Because, I mean, I’m sure we could lend you some if you’re finding it that hard to find any…”

“Shut your ugly slut mouth,” Grantaire said, pointing a stern finger. “How dare you imply I am not fully stocked and ready at all times. No, I… I have an idea.”

Joly caught Bossuet’s eye again. And again, all he got in return was another bemused shrug. “Are you… gonna share this idea?”

*

It was Tuesday the 21^st when Joly finally caved, and admitted that Enjolras was in a good enough state to get a clear bill of health. And to celebrate, Enjolras called a group meeting at the Musain. Because what else was he going to do.

The great revolutionary leader, however, wasn’t at the pub just yet, neither were his two deputies. And while Bahorel was jokingly bad-mouthing Enjolras’ tardiness in the company of Feuilly, Bossuet, and a bottle of whiskey, Jehan had an insider’s knowledge. Not five minutes earlier, Courfeyrac had texted him saying that the three of them plus Joly were only a few minutes out, ready for Fearless Leader’s dramatic re-introduction to the world of alcohol.

“I put the bottle of mint flavoured lube on the kitchen work surface, for easy access,” Jehan stage-whispered to Grantaire, sat next to him at the bar. “I know it’s your favourite.”

He proceeded to smile benevolently as Grantaire choked on his beer. “You – fucking what?”

“Well, Enjolras is in the clear now, isn’t he?” Jehan pointed out, pretty certain it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And I’m going to Courfeyrac’s this evening, so you’ve got the flat to yourselves, don’t worry!”

Grantaire blinked across at him, mouth hanging slightly open. “… And how did you know it was my favourite flavour?”

Jehan shrugged. “You were drunk.”

To that, Grantaire just nodded. There was a pause before he asked, “Does the intimacy of our friendship ever concern you?”

“A little bit,” Jehan confessed, with a grin, leaning over to peck Grantaire’s cheek. “But face it – without me, you’d not have had a chance of finally getting your arse laid. Or rather, laying into his ass.”

“Hell no, I would totally-”

“You would not, you’d spend the whole time searching the cabinets for your special lube and condoms – which are by the lube, your welcome – until the mood had totally gone-”

“I am so much smoother than that-”

“Perhaps in your wet dreams-”

Their argument was interrupted by the door to the pub swinging open, and a weary Joly walking in. He cleared his throat, trying to get everyone’s attention. Jehan winked at Grantaire, and gleefully watched at his best friend tried to bury himself in his glass.

Joly waited until the small crowd in the pub had settled down, before making his announcement. “Under pressure, with no small amount of blackmail and barely with the agreement of my medical expertise, I finally say that Enjolras is a physically healthy individual. I can make no comment as to his mental health.”

To scattered laughter and rapturous applause, Enjolras entered the pub, ushered by a grinning Courfeyrac and Combeferre. Even though everyone clapping was personally glared at by Enjolras, it wasn’t until Bossuet yelled, “He’s got his swagger back!” that the applause faded to good-humoured laughter.

“You’re a piece of shit,” Enjolras said, giving Bossuet the middle finger, but it was pretty easy to see the smirk hiding in the curl of his lips. Jehan watched him turn to wink at Grantaire before he turned back to Combeferre, and a distraction in the form of Courfeyrac landed squarely on Jehan’s lap.

“How’s things hanging sweetie?” Courfeyrac asked excitedly, pressing a noisy kiss to Jehan’s cheek. “Ooh, is that a G&T?”

“Martini, actually,” Jehan corrected, giggling and wrapping his arms around Courfeyrac’s waist. “Sorry.”

His apology was rejected as Courfeyrac nuzzled him affectionately, making Grantaire next to them laugh. “Nah, it’s fine,” Courfeyrac said. “Shouldn’t be drinking anyway, I’m on driving duty.”

“You two are fucking kittens and it’s disgustingly adorable,” Grantaire told them firmly, shaking his head and picking up his own pint of coke – also driving, and staying sober for other reasons – presumably to protect it from the clumsy mass that was Jehan and his boyfriend. “Seriously. Not in public, please.”

Courfeyrac chuckled, but to Jehan’s disappointment shifted so that the way he was sat on Jehan’s lap wasn’t so obscene. “You’re just jealous.”

As if disappointed by Courfeyrac’s comeback, Grantaire shook his head. “In case you’re a bit behind in the time, I actually have a boyfriend now,” he pointed out. “Ah, speak of the devil…”

Following Grantaire’s gaze, Jehan saw Enjolras heading over to their corner of the bar with an already annoyed frown. “Alcohol,” Enjolras groaned when he was close enough. “You’d better have alcohol.”

“Ye of little faith,” Grantaire said, handing Enjolras a full bottle of Stella. “It’s all yours. Something gone wrong already?”

Enjolras downed about half the bottle before replying. “Gods, I needed alcohol,” he muttered, handing the beer back to Grantaire. “No, nothing wrong as such,” he said. “Just Marius being his usual imbecilic self. With how well he behaved himself in the protest – or riot, I guess – I forgot what a moron he usually is.”

“Hey, my roomie is only slightly a fucking moron,” Courfeyrac said, in a feeble attempt to protest on behalf of his friend.

He was answered by Enjolras’ sceptical raising of an eyebrow. Eventually, Courfeyrac caved and shrugged in submission. “Exactly,” Enjolras said. He leant forwards and pressed a quick kiss to Grantaire’s forehead, before walking off again, back towards where Combeferre was apparently trying to be patient with a bemused looking Marius.

Jehan exchanged a glance with Courfeyrac, both of them trying to hold back laughter at the soppy expression on Grantaire’s face. Eventually their bestie noticed their sly exchanges, and scowled. “Like you two fuckers are much better,” he mumbled, hiding behind his glass of coke. “On a more serious note, is it a social gathering tonight, or are we actually gonna do some work?”

“Mainly celebratory, though the main party is on Saturday, but we do need to discuss how to deal with the aftermath of the protest gone wrong,” Courfeyrac said. Then, suspicious, he narrowed his eyes. “Wait – why do you care? All you’re going to do is drink and make jokes anyway.”

“Actually, Grantaire has a plan,” Jehan told him.

That seemed to grab Courfeyrac’s attention. “A plan?” he echoed, in just as dramatic a voice. “What plan?”

Jehan shrugged, dislodging Courfeyrac slightly. “No idea, he won’t tell any of us.”

A glint in Courfeyrac’s eye made it clear that he was intent in interrogating Grantaire further – something that Jehan could tell him after about a week’s worth of pestering was not worth it – but, perhaps luckily for all their sanity, Enjolras called for the room’s attention.

Enjolras was standing at the front of the room, waiting with his hands in the pockets of his skinny jeans and looking at everyone in the room to make sure that they all had eyes on him. “First off,” he said, voice loud, clear, and for the first time in weeks not sounding tired, “If anyone else says any more rib or bone fracture related puns, there will be hell to pay. Physical hell. Got that?”

Again, there was scattered laughter, but no one protested.

“Secondly,” Enjolras continued, turning and pointing an accusing finger at Grantaire. “If I start talking politics and protests, will you fucking behave yourself?”

They got more laughter at that. Grantaire just spread his hands and smiled benevolently. “I’ll go easy on you,” he called across teasingly.

“He won’t be saying that tonight!” Courfeyrac wasted no time in saying, followed by even more laughter and a loud “WHEYYYY!” from Joly and Bossuet’s table.

Never one to back down from a fight, Enjolras smirked before winking at Grantaire and saying, “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

“Oooh, Mr Grantaire!” Bahorel moaned teasingly, a hand pressed to his chest comically. “Oooh!”

Enjolras grinned, clearly enjoying Grantaire’s embarrassment, and waited for the next wave of laughter to die down before continuing. “Now, there’s no way around it, the University Fee Protest did not go all that well-”

“You mean it wasn’t a cracking success?” Bossuet chimed in loudly, grinning at his own pun.

Enjolras stared him down. “You’re going to pay for that,” he said in a low voice, and a laughing Joly shoved a scared looking Bossuet off his chair. “Anyway,” Enjolras said, endeavouring to persevere. “It had its problems. However, Combeferre has assured me that some aspects of it should be salvageable, if we get press from the right people, such as Owen Jones, the Guardian, and if, hopefully, most people ignore the Daily Mail’s coverage entirely.”

At this, like a kid in school, Bossuet tentatively raised a hand. After a permitting nod from Enjolras, he spoke. “I can offer some news on that front,” he said. “There are several pictures floating around of the hour or so when the protest was actually a protest, and a few of you speaking, Enjolras. I’ve spoken to my,” here he cleared his throat importantly, “my contacts, and speaking as ‘someone who wished to remain anonymous’ told them the group that took control in that short time was a London Friends of Students political protest group, what we were fighting for, and said contacts now have enough to spin a good and positive story. I also told them that the group behind the violence at the protest had, to my knowledge, been detained by the police…?” His tone turned questioning, and he glanced over his shoulder, to where Bahorel was leaning against the wall with a bottle of something.

Bahorel smirked. “One solid court hearing away from being locked up for long enough to become prison bitches,” he said vindictively. He shrugged at the disapproving glare Combeferre gave him for his comment. “What? The bastards deserve it.”

“Yes, but that’s not really a joking topic,” Courfeyrac cut in, sounding rather sharp. Then, expression suddenly changing to a grin, he turned back to Bossuet. “Think you can tell your drinking buddies that before they put anything to press?”

“I can pass that along to my contacts, yes,” Bossuet replied snidely. Next to him, Joly sniggered.

Even Enjolras smiled. In the momentary pause people muttered jokes, took a drink, enjoying the relieving thought that, perhaps, something good might come out of something most of them had thought they’d much rather forget.

And then Grantaire stirred in his seat. “Here’s the only problem I see, though,” he said, and Enjolras slowly turned to stare daggers at him. Undeterred, and smirking slightly at Enjolras’ rage, Grantaire pressed on. “Well, we all know what the press is like, doom and gloom consistently. Nothing hits the headline unless it’s sure to ruin the lives of at least five people. So what makes you think a story of preppy twenty year-olds will be able to make an appearance through the wall-papering of stories slamming students as being the rebellious little pieces of shit that the upper-classes and older generations always believed us to be? Especially several weeks after the main story hit the headline. You’re gonna need a huge cause for publicity if you have any hope of getting a good side of the story out there.”

Enjolras narrowed his eyes at Grantaire, but didn’t seem able to refute the point. “All right then,” he said, turning to the rest of the group, “Does anyone have any ideas as to how we can raise publicity for our side of the story?”

When Grantaire cleared his throat, Jehan felt sure – probably along with most people in the room – that Enjolras was going to throttle him. “Actually, I might be able to help you there,” Grantaire said, smiling.

Jehan could feel Courfeyrac silently giggling on his lap. Across the room, Bossuet wasn’t being so silent. Even Combeferre was smirking slightly. Enjolras folded his arms, turning to face Grantaire head-on, and hissed through his teeth, “What exactly are you up to?”

“Nothing, not really,” Grantaire promised, raising both hands as an indication of his honesty. “But I think I have an idea of how I can help. You just have to trust me.” Enjolras snorted at that. “What, don’t you trust me?” Grantaire asked, not really sounding too worried.

“With my life, yes,” Enjolras said without a pause. “With this shit? Hell no.”

Grantaire considered Enjolras carefully. He picked up the beer that Enjolras had discarded, rose to his feet and walked across to his boyfriend. “Please,” he said, offering the beer. “I want to help you.”

Enjolras didn’t reply immediately. Eventually, with resignation, he took the beer. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

At the show of trust – no, he’d been told it wasn’t trust – at the show of love, Grantaire beamed. “Well, it’s a secret, so I can’t tell you,” he said, grinning, “But I’m going to need to borrow Courfeyrac and Bahorel Friday night. Oh, and Feuilly and Jehan, of course.”

Enjolras narrowed his eyes, suspicious once more, but any doubts he had were drowned out by Bahorel’s loud shout. “HELL YEAH!”

*

Grantaire’s heart was thudding in his chest as the key clicked in the lock. “Jehan’s with Courfeyrac tonight,” he said, standing back to let Enjolras into the apartment first. “So the place is to ourselves... we can do whatever we want…” He shut the door, and turned to look at Enjolras. His boyfriend – fully healthy, completely in-the-clear boyfriend – was stood in the middle of the room, watching Grantaire with a smile that matched his own, slowly taking off his coat.

“Mm, all to ourselves?” Enjolras echoed, nodding as if in deep thought, but his eyes not leaving Grantaire’s. “The whole night? Are you, by any chance, thinking what I’m thinking?”

Grantaire gasped, and put a hand to his mouth. “You don’t mean – a Harry Potter movie marathon?”

Enjolras frowned with disapproval, dropping his coat onto the back of the sofa. But Grantaire kept the pretence and grin up, and, after only a few seconds, Enjolras cracked. Laughing hard, he walked forwards. His hands rose to grab the collar of his shirt and pushed him back against the door. “You’re so full of shit,” Enjolras said, lips so close that Grantaire could feel the words brushing over his skin. He couldn’t look away from where Enjolras’ darkened eyes were staring fixedly down at him, flickering as if taking in everything of Grantaire he could, memorising it, waiting.

Smiling, knowing what Enjolras was waiting for, this time, Grantaire nodded.

Enjolras surged forwards, lips pressing hard again Grantaire’s, open, desperate, panting. His hands pressed against Grantaire’s chest and Grantaire could hardly breathe, his own hands desperately grasping at Enjolras, his waist, his neck, curling into his hair as he kissed back as fiercely as he could.

“How much did you drink?” Grantaire gasped out between frantic kissing.

“Not enough to get drunk,” Enjolras muttered, running his lips along Grantaire’s jawline, to the sensitive joint just beneath his ear. “And definitely not so much that I can’t give full, exceedingly enthusiastic consent.”

“That’s all I needed to hear.”

As Enjolras laughed breathlessly against his skin, Grantaire gripped his waist, pushing him back. “Move, move,” he muttered, trying to get Enjolras to push back. When Enjolras muttered a negative against Grantaire’s collar bone, Grantaire didn’t know whether to laugh or beg. “Oh, gods, Enjolras, c’mon move,” Grantaire said, patting Enjolras’ chest forcefully. “We’re not fucking against the front door. No way.”

Finally Enjolras stepped back, laughing. “Ooh, Mr Grantaire,” he said, walking backwards, grinning, and eyes fixed unmoving on Grantaire. “Are you going to fuck me?” Enjolras reached for the back of his top and pulled it off in one swift move. “But how do I know you’ll respect me in the morning?”

“I’ll respect the fuck outta you,” Grantaire promised, lungs barely working as he followed Enjolras. His eyes roamed over the perfectly sculpted chest – toned, bronzed, smooth – and promised himself he’d immortalise it one day. He tried not to feel self-conscious as he unbuttoned his shirt to reveal his own pale, slightly flabby and slightly hairy chest. His confidence boosted slightly when Enjolras’ eyes darted over his chest only to bite his lips. “I’d wake you up with kisses, let you lie in, make you breakfast in bed-”

“Would you make me pancakes?” Enjolras asked, one hand gripping the doorframe of Grantaire’s bedroom. His lips were twitching with a grin, but his eyes were wide, honest, and staring at Grantaire like they’d seen nothing more important in their entire life.

Grantaire laughed, stopping barely a meter from Enjolras. “Pancakes? So many pancakes. With Nutella and crushed hazelnuts.”

“Fuck, I love your pancakes,” Enjolras muttered. He lunged forwards, two fingers hooking into the top of Grantaire’s jeans to tug him forwards. This time when they kissed Grantaire could feel the heat of Enjolras’ chest, the thudding heartbeat, hot hands pressing against the small of his back, sweat the only thing between their skin.

Grantaire had just the presence of mind to swipe the bottle of lube and packet of condoms from the side before letting Enjolras drag him into the dimly lit bedroom.

He wrapped his arms around Enjolras’ waist, hands too full to run his fingers through the soft blond hair again, like he wanted to. His lips ran along Enjolras’ defined collar bones, and Enjolras giggled lightly. “What?” murmured Grantaire, flicking his eyes up to Enjolras’ face while his lips never left his skin.

“You’re fucking ridiculous,” Enjolras told him affectionately, smiling wider than Grantaire had ever seen.

Pretending offence, Grantaire stepped back. “Says you!” He pushed against Enjolras’ chest again, and the blond got the idea. Still laughing, Enjolras fell back onto the bed, crawling back until he was against the headboard. “Seriously? The whole box?” he asked, nodding to the box in Grantaire’s hand.

In truth, Grantaire hadn’t realised he’d picked up the whole box, but looking at it, he shrugged. “I don’t know about you,” he said, dropping the box and bottle onto the bed, freeing up his hands to unbutton his jeans. “But I’ve been waiting a fair damn while for this moment. Gods know how many we’ll get through before I’m satisfied.”

“I’ve been waiting a while too,” Enjolras said softly, eyes unashamedly fixed on the tent in Grantaire’s boxers. “For a long time I thought it’d never happen.”

The honesty of the comment, the guilt Enjolras wasn’t bothering to hide, drew Grantaire to a halt. Then he smiled all the wider. “Well, then,” he said, kicking his feet out of his jeans. “We’re only going to be waiting even longer if you keep procrastinating taking off those damn skinny jeans.”

“Procrastinating?” Enjolras growled, fingers nimbly flicking the button of his jeans open. “Who’s procrastinating? Get on the fucking bed.”

Grantaire laughed, climbing onto the bed on his hands and knees, until he was looking down on Enjolras. “Your wish, as ever, my command.”

Enjolras grinned, one hand reaching up to hold the back of Grantaire’s head, fingers twisting in Grantaire’s curls. Softly, a change from the frantic movement of the last few minutes, the desperation that, gods, had lasted weeks, Grantaire leaned down to press a kiss to Enjolras’ forehead, cheeks, lips. It felt… so…

“Is this how it’s going to be from now on?” Enjolras asked, words softly ghosting over Grantaire’s lips, blue eyes staring deep into him. “Annoying quips, bad jokes and romantic kisses?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, kissing him chastely. “Is that good?”

“That’s good,” Enjolras whispered back.

“Good.” Grantaire grinned, and before Enjolras could dodge him, booped their noses together. Clearly trying not to laugh, Enjolras whacked the back of his head.

“Now, enough talk, talk wastes time,” he said, letting go of Grantaire to shimmy his jeans off. “Where’d you put the condoms?”

Laughing, Grantaire rose back onto his heels and reached back to grab a condom from the box and the lube. “How d’you want to do this?”

Enjolras waited until Grantaire was facing him again to answer. He’d sat up. Both of them were in their boxers, kneeling on the bed, chest to chest and Enjolras’ lips brushing over the stubble on Grantaire’s jaw. “I want you to fuck me,” he muttered, teeth momentarily biting on Grantaire’s ear. “God, I want you in me so bad,” he moaned, voice guttural. “Have you thought about what it’d feel like, you in me so deep? I have. I want the real thing.”

Grantaire was left completely unable to talk. Unable to breathe. Forehead resting against Enjolras’ shoulder, trying to compose himself, he nodded. “I can,” he muttered, pressing his lips against Enjolras’ skin, desperate to feel him, taste him, “I can do that.”

Eyes dark, mouth open and panting, Enjolras nodded, shuffling back. He kicked off his boxers, the motion kicking Grantaire back into reality, back from the edge of blissful oblivion to sheer desperate want. He tugged off his own boxers, carelessly ripping the condom packet open with his mouth and with one hand rolling it on, with the other leaning forwards, hand resting on Enjolras’ bare thigh. He thought he should make a joke again, break the tension, but he couldn’t. Not when this tension, this feeling of being right on the edge of something life-changing, felt like it’d shatter if he made a single sound. The condom on, he held himself over Enjolras, exactly where they had been minutes before. This time, Grantaire didn’t tease. He kissed Enjolras, open-mouthed and heady, tongue running against the back of Enjolras’ teeth, Enjolras lightly bit his lower lip, hands tightening on the blond hair as Enjolras’ nails dug into his back.

When he felt like his chest would break, from the effort it took to breathe, from the hammering of his heart against his ribs, Grantaire pushed himself back up, kissing Enjolras’ jaw, biting his collarbone, kissing a line down the centre of his chest, down to his navel, along the defined lines of his hips.

Grantaire glanced up, seeing the shining, heaving chest, and Enjolras looking down at him with wide, dark eyes and longing anticipation. He smiled, before pressing a kiss to the tip of Enjolras’ cock. He ran his tongue along the slit, tasting him, before bobbing down as slowly and as far as he could. In truth, it wasn’t far, but Enjolras groaned loudly with pleasure all the same. Feeling the heat spreading from his chest deeper to his groin, Grantaire hummed as he pulled back, and carefully lifted Enjolras’ thigh up so it was over his shoulder.

He had never gone this far, been this reckless, with someone he cared so much about on their first time together before. But he didn’t care. He’d never felt this comfortable with anyone, either. He lowered his head and licked up from Enjolras’ hole up the perineum.

Above him, Enjolras gasped loudly and jumped, body lifting off the bed quickly. Momentarily, Grantaire felt concern. “Are you-”

“Good,” Enjolras gasped. “Don’t – keep going, don’t stop-”

There wasn’t a need to be told twice. Grantaire bent back down, tongue pressing against the tight ring of muscle, saliva slowly helping him push in, tasting the hot, salty skin.

“I – oh gods, ‘Taire, ‘Taire I need-”

Grantaire nodded, having rest his forehead against the inside of Enjolras’ thigh to compose himself. The sweat, the heat, didn’t help him calm down. He pushed himself back onto his knees, kneeling, Enjolras’ leg still over his shoulder as he reached for the lube. The cool gel poured out onto his fingers, and he pushing one finger in, slowly, making sure that the liquid covered Enjolras’ skin thoroughly. Enjolras moaned again, and Grantaire bit his lip. “Are you-”

“More – more-”

The second finger slipped in easily. Enjolras flexed, back rising from the bed, Grantaire felt the muscle and heat tightening around his fingers. He pressed against it, pushing, stretching, as Enjolras writhed above him.

“’Taire-”

“Okay – okay-”

Third finger was harder, but Enjolras pushed back, taking it in without a single sound of complaint.

“Don’t wait – don’t wait.”

Grantaire nodded wordlessly, even though Enjolras, with his head thrown back and eyes closed, couldn’t see. He took his fingers out of Enjolras, forcing himself to ignore Enjolras’ disappointed moan to cover his own cock with lube. He grabbed Enjolras’ hips, pulling him forwards, lining him up. Enjolras pressed his heel into his back, pulling him in. Enjolras opened his eyes, lifting his head up to meet Grantaire’s gaze. He watched as Grantaire pushed in.

In the time it took to adjust Grantaire lost awareness of what was happening, lost sight of Enjolras. All he could feel was the sweat on Enjolras’ skin beneath his hands, the heat, the tightness of being as close to another – to Enjolras – that was physically and emotionally possible. A hand wrapped around his neck, forcefully pulling him down until he was lying on Enjolras. He leant on the arm resting by Enjolras’ head, the other cupping Enjolras’ face, thumb rubbing over the bright red, open, swollen lips. “I don’t think I’m going to last long,” Grantaire breathed, their lips brushing.

Enjolras let out a stuttered laugh. “I’ve waited months for this,” he murmured. “Don’t worry, neither will I. You know I love you, right?”

“You might’ve mentioned it,” Grantaire replied breathlessly, smiling and kissing Enjolras quickly. “I love you too.”

He rocked his hips experimentally. Beneath him, Enjolras gasped and arched up, their chests pressing, slick with sweat. Groaning, Grantaire fell forwards, their forehead pressed together, a few soaked curls caught between them. He pulled back slightly, and rocked again.

Eventually, it was Enjolras who came first. Mouth open and gasping, his cock caught between their abdomens he came, head rolling back and nails digging deep enough into Grantaire’s back to break skin. Grantaire came a few seconds later, muscles taught and breath stuttering. Gentle fingers brushed away the dark curls stuck to his face and his eyes flickered open. Enjolras was smiling up at him lazily, looking barely awake and completely blissful.

Feeling something similar himself, Grantaire smiled back, resting their foreheads together once more, before he pulled out and rolled to Enjolras’ side. He reached for Enjolras’ hand, closing their fingers together. “I’m going to guess you enjoyed that,” Grantaire tried, smiling in anticipation.

He wasn’t let down when Enjolras started to laugh hard. “Oh, gods… what gave it away?”

Chuckling, Grantaire pressed his smile to Enjolras’ shoulder. “You wanna get the flannel to clean up, or shall I?”

Still laughing, Enjolras rolled his head to look across to Grantaire. “That’s how you want to spend the afterglow?”

“What would you suggest, then, oh wise one?”

Enjolras paused, smirking, thinking, before nudging Grantaire and saying, “Didn’t you promise me pancakes?”

The disbelief and surprise made Grantaire snort, and suddenly he was laughing harder than he ever had in his life as he wrapped his arms around Enjolras and pulled him closer, holding him there for as long as he could. Enjolras’ thumb stroked the back of his hand, where their hands were still intertwined.

“I love you,” he said again, the words whispered to the back of Enjolras’ head.

“I know,” Enjolras said back. “I love you, too.”

*

“I was expecting something slightly more exciting than this,” Courfeyrac said dismally, squashed in the back of Feuilly’s van between a pile of huge cardboard stencils and Bahorel. “Like, this is pretty standard for you, right? Why’s this got to be kept a secret?”

“Because everything’s better as a secret,” Grantaire called from the driver’s seat. Next to him, feet resting on the dashboard, Feuilly snorted. “Also, because plausible deniability. Enjolras kinda needs to be able to honestly say that he has no idea about this.”

Well that made things more interesting. Courfeyrac looked across to Bahorel, raising a questioning eyebrow, and getting a smirk and shrug in return. “So what we’re doing is illegal?”

“Well. I mean. Yeah, kinda.”

“So, what, you don’t care if we go to jail?”

“Eh, you two are parkour kings, you can break yourselves out easy.”

Courfeyrac scoffed at that, unimpressed at the lack of care his friend was displaying for his safety. “Really? Look at me, man. I wouldn’t last a day in prison, and that’s not long enough to form a decent escape plan, even for me!”

“Don’t worry,” Jehan said, catching Courfeyrac’s eye and winking. He was sat on the other side of the van, his feet tangled with Courfeyrac’s. “If we land in prison, I’ll protect you.” Still sulking slightly, Courfeyrac gave Jehan a grateful smile.

Bahorel, however, didn’t seem to be satisfied. He’d been grumbling the whole time, from the moment he was told he had to sit in the unfurnished back of the van while Feuilly got to ride shotgun. He kept calling the decision unfair, regardless of how it was, technically, Feuilly’s van. “I still don’t fucking get it,” he said. “Graffiti’s bad, yeah, but not that bad. What’s all the fuss about?”

“The location, apparently,” Feuilly called from the front.

“And before anyone attempts, like the snarky little pricks you all are, ‘are we there yet’, let me tell you that the answer is, in fact, yes,” Grantaire said, giving them very little warning before he hit the brakes.

In the back of the van, chaos hit very quickly. The sudden loss of momentum sent Bahorel flying into Courfeyrac’s lap, who slid into the painfully hard sides of the sheets of cardboard. Jehan lost balance and landed face-down on the floor. “Everyone okay back there?” Feuilly called through the grate.

Bahorel lifted his face from Courfeyrac’s crotch. “Fuck no,” he spat, and Feuilly laughed.

It wasn’t until they’d stealthily – or rather, with a lot of dropping stuff and swearing by various people – removed the stencils and bag of aerosols from the van that everyone finally had time to look around and realise where Grantaire had brought them. It wasn’t hard to recognise the space. They were standing on the edge of Parliament Square.

“Huh,” Bahorel said, nodding as he looked around. “Yep, this would definitely make an impact. But where are you going to paint? It’s an open field.”

He didn’t get an answer immediately. Grantaire was focused, sorting out the stencils, checking they were ordered, checking the two backpacks of spray cans before finally swinging one onto his shoulder and grinning at Bahorel. “Open field? Please, give me more credit. I’m painting the tarmac,” he said, waving a hand up the road, “And you and Courfeyrac are going to use your impressive climbing skills to paint that.” He pointed over his shoulder, to the imposing building behind him.

Courfeyrac cleared his throat. “Um, call me blind,” he said, looking between the rest of them and seeing the same bemusement on their faces – save for Bahorel’s manic grin, “But all I can see behind you is Westminster Palace.”

The silence, and Grantaire’s sheepish smile, gave him an answer. Courfeyrac sighed, waving his hands in surrender. “Great. Okay. Now I get what you said about being slightly illegal.”

“Not that I’m too bothered,” Jehan chimed in, “But I’m hoping that you have considered the problem of there being guards?”

For the first time, Courfeyrac had the pleasure of seeing Grantaire look slightly guilty. “I, uh,” he muttered, rubbing at the back of his head. “I’ve already dealt with that.” At the panicked faces the immediately surrounded him, and more than slightly annoyed noise that emanated from Feuilly, Grantaire hurriedly added, “Not anything permanent! Or temporary! I just pulled a few strings with a few people, called in a few favours…”

“So no one’s been beaten up, drugged, or killed?” Feuilly asked.

“No,” Grantaire reassured him firmly. “As for the rest, you’re probably going to want to be able to plead plausible deniability again.”

Out of nowhere, surprising most of the group, Bahorel chuckled. “I know more than you do,” he said gleefully to Feuilly.

Feuilly scowled at him. “How d’you-”

“Because it was his favours I had to use,” Grantaire said wearily. “Now, brushing aside my potential jail sentence and you two’s bickering, do either of you two have any experience with using aerosol cans to graffiti stuff?” he asked, looking between Courfeyrac and Bahorel. At the question, they both looked vaguely ashamed, and Grantaire sighed. “Okay. In that case, do you think you can get Feuilly over the fence?”

“Oi!” Feuilly yelled, turning to Grantaire. “What do you think I am, chopped liver? It’s a wrought-iron fence, about nine foot high, I can scale that. And I think I can make sure these two don’t fuck up your artwork.”

“We’re not that incompetent,” Courfeyrac muttered.

“Using aerosol and stencils is harder than you’d think, trust me, it’s better if you’ve got Feuilly helping you,” Grantaire said. “And that one’s important. I don’t want that one being fucked up, in any way. Got it?”

Bahorel mock saluted. “Ay ay, sir,” Courfeyrac chanted.

“Then go forth and do me proud, my minions!” Grantaire handed Bahorel the huge stencils and the backpack to Courfeyrac. “There’s duct tape in there, you’re going to need it,” he told Courfeyrac, nodding at the bag. With no other words of wisdom to bestow, he turned to Jehan, starting to plan their side of things, and heading back to the van.

“So, can you actually get over that fence, or are you gonna need a push up-”

Feuilly strode forwards to the fence and flipped a middle finger up at Bahorel over his shoulder, only to receive booming laughter in return. He stubbornly didn’t let his pride take a hit when Bahorel and Courfeyrac were over it seconds, and he flopped to the ground several minutes later.

It was almost concerning, that one of the major hubs of London politics was so easily accessible. Aside from the fence enclosing the area, and the hut where, presumably, police guards should have been, there was nothing stopping someone from going right up to the side of Westminster Palace, or Big Ben. Presumably there would be hundreds of alarms for inside of the building, but they were only concerned with the outside.

“Okay, so we’ve got time to stick up the stencil, but once you guys start with the spraying we’ve got to move as quickly as possible,” Feuilly instructed, taking the stencils from Bahorel and flicking through them. “The grey cardboard shouldn’t be seen at night, if we get some pedestrian or car going by – though unlikely at 3am, not impossible – but the majority of this is yellow, so we’re gonna want to move fast because it’s going to stand out like a beacon, and the whole point of it is to be as visible as possible. The architecture is pretty damn gothic, I’m assuming there’s enough hand- and foot-holds for you two to scale it?”

“Without breaking a sweat,” Courfeyrac promised, slipping his climbing gloves on and examining the walls. “How high up?”

“We want it pretty smack-bang in the middle of the side visible from the square, so not that high,” Feuilly told him, a nod telling him he’d been heard. “Right then, here’s the first stencil, and here’s the duct tape. Let’s get started!”

Bahorel and Courfeyrac may have been unpractised, but Feuilly had been doing art and sculpting before Grantaire got his first colouring book. It wasn’t long before the frame of the graffiti was taped the brick. For a moment, Courfeyrac and Bahorel just stood on the ground, staring up in awe. “You, take the yellow,” Feuilly muttered, shoving the right can into Courfeyrac’s utility belt, which Feuilly had lent to the cause. “Bahorel, the red. You know which parts you’re filling in?” They both nodded. “Okay. Off you go, and remember, speed is essential.”

Fifteen minutes and it was finished, and the two climbers were throwing down the cardboard for Feuilly to collect before climbing down themselves. Courfeyrac again dallied, staring up at the image. “C’mon, we’ve got to move,” Feuilly said, tugging on his arm.

“Yeah, I’m sure there’ll be plenty of pictures of it around tomorrow for you to gawk at,” Bahorel said, shoving Courfeyrac. “Move, moron.”

Courfeyrac obeyed them and jogged to the fence. Bahorel and Feuilly strolled behind him, the warm feeling of achievement numbing any need to rush. Feuilly looked across, planning to share a grin, only to find that Bahorel was already staring at him. “What, fucknut?” he asked.

Bahorel frowned at him. “When we get back, wanna fuck?”

Feuilly thought for a second before replying. “What about Marina?”

Bahorel shrugged. “Open relationship, I told you. She’s spending the night with her girl anyway. That bother you?”

“Not really,” Feuilly said. “But if you break my bed, I’m gonna be pissed.”

Bahorel laughed. “Good,” he said, winking at Feuilly before he shoved the stencils through a gap in the wrought iron and vaulting the fence.

Feuilly was the only one left in the courtyard, shaking his head and grinning like an idiot.

“Are you coming or what?”

Laughing, Feuilly scrambled over the fence. “If you do your job right,” he retorted, slapping Bahorel’s arse hard as he passed.

While they’d been working, Grantaire and Jehan had been busy. The road, or as much of it that Feuilly could see of it in the night, was covered with slogans that had been used and said by the protestors, each in clear block lettering, facing the direction of the oncoming traffic. “There’s also a quote from Shelley’s ‘Ode to Liberty’ over there,” Grantaire said, coming up to him. “Jehan went mad, I couldn’t control him.”

“It’s a good extract,” Jehan argued stubbornly, coming up to Courfeyrac’s side. His hands were covered in various shades of paint. “And Enjolras quoted it on the day. I thought he’d appreciate it.”

“This is more an appetizer, though,” Grantaire said, turning toward Westminster Palace. “That’s the main event. And you guys did good, it looks great.”

“Great?” echoed Courfeyrac, in disbelief. “It’s fucking stunning! It’s going to be absolutely everywhere tomorrow! Where the fuck did you get your inspiration from?”

The question seemed to confuse Grantaire. “I just thought he was owed the recognition,” he muttered.

“Well, he’s definitely going to get it now,” Feuilly said, resting an arm on Grantaire’s shoulder and letting himself fully appreciate the artwork, the whole image clearly visible from this distance.

On the side of Westminster, clearly visible from Parliament Square in block colours, was a pop-art recreation of curly blonde hair, copied perfectly from the most recognizable image of Enjolras from the protest. Where his face would have been was his most repeat phrase, in bold red capital letters: ‘Fuck Fees, not our Future’.

“C’mon,” Grantaire said, smiling softly. “We’d better get going.”

“Did you remember to tag it?” Feuilly asked, heading towards the driver’s seat.

Grantaire laughed. “Of course I did! What do you take me for?”

*

Saturday morning, Enjolras woken up by a newspaper thrown at his face. “That man of yours is a keeper,” Combeferre said, before throwing the curtains open and leaving again.

Fifteen minutes later, when Enjolras was awake enough to open his eyes, he saw his own face and words staring back at him. He started to laugh.

*

“‘Pictures were too unclear for a firm identification of the passionate speaker-’ Bullshit!” Bossuet yelled, throwing the newspaper back down onto the alcohol-sticky and stained bar for the fifth time in the same amount of minutes, everyone around him laughing. “It’s clearly Enjolras! Such bullcrap, they should do their job properly, this man deserves the recognition and praise! He bust his fucking ribs for it, for God’s sake!”

Enjolras smiled, hiding it behind his beer as Combeferre spoke up. “It’s easy for you to recognise him, yes,” Combeferre said, grinning, one arm around Eponine’s shoulders and the other holding a whiskey and coke. “You’ve known him for years at this point. For the reporters, they have absolutely nothing to connect Blondie, the passionate speaker, to Enjolras, the law, philosophy and politics student.”

“I will remedy that, the instant I’m sober enough for ‘Chetta to give me back my phone,” Bossuet insisted, arms swinging wildly.

He made to stand up, but, laughing, Enjolras reached over to both steady and support him. “No, don’t,” he said. “Better to keep it a symbol, than a student.”

Bossuet looked offended, as if it was his own historical legacy on the line, and tugged his arm from Enjolras’ grasp. Mumbling various disgruntled complaints and followed by the laughter from the table, he staggered across to where Joly, ‘Chetta and Cosette were messing around with Feuilly, Bahorel, and the woman they’d been introduced to as Bahorel’s infamous girlfriend. Tall, stunning, African, and looking far more badass in a three-piece suit than Bahorel ever did, Enjolras had liked her immediately.

Eponine also dismissed herself, making a swift explanation about needing another drink. Grinning, she ducked under Combeferre’s arm and danced off, pressing a quick kiss to Combeferre’s forehead before she left. Stunned by the sudden change of events, Enjolras raised an eyebrow, but Combeferre ignored it snidely.

“Here, pass that,” Combeferre said. Enjolras snorted at his poor attempt to change the topic, but Marius, still laughing, obediently threw the paper across the table. “Hm… oh, apparently people have compared you to a Greek god, Enjolras, in appearance and dictation,” Combeferre pointed out, with a smirk and matching raised eyebrow.

“That’d be thanks to the Shelley quote, probably,” Enjolras said wryly.

“Yes, they’d quoted that passage here, too…” Combeferre chuckled suddenly. “Well that’s amusing.”

Marius shuffled his chair, trying to read over Combeferre’s shoulder. “What?”

Still chuckling, Combeferre chucked the paper back down onto the wooden surface, swapping it for his drink. “As ever, they’ve spouted a load of waffle – flattering waffle, though. The only thing that they seem confident about is that, after the bank assault and now this display in Parliament Square, that ‘the hitherto cynical artist identified through the rebus ‘R’, has now firmly allied himself with the protest group Friends of Students’.”

Enjolras laughed. ‘Allied himself’. It made it sound like Enjolras had waged war against the government. Not that it wasn’t an attractive idea, but still, the thought of Grantaire fighting by his side, with him, regardless of the cause… it made Enjolras happy. Proud, and happy beyond explanation. “Allied?” Enjolras echoed, turning in his chair to find Grantaire in the crowd. Dressed in his best plaid shirt – as in, the only green one that didn’t have paint all over it – fitted black jeans and his same old tattered green Vans, Grantaire was now in a group that consisted of Eponine, Jehan, Courfeyrac, Bossuet and Gavroche, dancing idiotically to whatever pop music Bossuet was playing. “And I’m sure we’re very lucky to have him on our team,” Enjolras said, trying to sound sardonic.

Combeferre snorted. The rustling of paper told Enjolras that the newspaper had been picked back up again, and Marius started to make more joking comments about the journalist’s story, Combeferre occasionally responding with something that made Marius laugh.

But Enjolras was still watching Grantaire. He was holding a bottle of beer lazily between his fingers as he danced back-to back with Eponine, laughing almost inaudible over the loud music. For once, Enjolras didn’t care that he was smiling as he watched him. He was allowed to, after all. It wasn’t a secret anymore. As the song approached the chorus, something seemed to pass between Jehan and Grantaire, because with one wink Courfeyrac was laughing his head off as Grantaire and Jehan grabbed his wrists and dragged him up onto the table. Other groups around Mabeuf’s club broke off their conversations to cheer the three on, whooping and applauding, but mainly laughing. Jehan and Courfeyrac were face to face, palms pressed together and dancing like they were seventeen again. Grantaire was circling his hips exaggeratedly, looking teasingly down at Eponine, who only held his gaze for a few seconds before bursting out laughing.

And finally, Grantaire looked across to him. His eyes caught Enjolras’ and he grinned, holding his hands above his head as he danced. Enjolras tried to look unimpressed, but Grantaire winked and he was gone, laughing and shaking his head. Then Jehan and Courfeyrac turned their attention back to him and were pulling him back around, the three of them belting along to the chorus, not entirely in tune, probably letting everyone within a few streets know how their partners looked so perfect standing there, in my American Apparel underwear…

“That’s yours to deal with now, you know,” Combeferre says, leaning onto the bar to look around Enjolras.

“I know,” Enjolras tries to lament. And yet, Grantaire’s laughing as he turned back to Enjolras, beckoning him and making him show the smile that he’s been trying to hide.

It seems that Enjolras doesn’t have a choice if he goes or not, as, ignoring the shaking of his head, both Combeferre and Marius shove him from his stool and Eponine’s there to grab his hand and tug him forwards, to where Grantaire is waiting to pull him onto the table –

And yeah. It’s a little bit perfect.