Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

R

It was bitterly cold by the Pont Charle de Gaulle, and the winter wind whipped off the Seine in a clammy spray. Grantaire could feel it take root in his bones.

He resented the cold almost as much as he resented his past self for landing him community service in November. As he washed away the obscenities and slurs graffitied on the bridge, though, he decided he couldn’t hate either of them as much as he hated the yammering blonde babyface he’d been partnered with.

Blondie hadn’t shut up since they’d started their task, and now he wouldn’t believe Grantaire’s arrest story. “You must be lying, is what I’m saying,”

“Oh?” Grantaire replied, “Oh I’m lying, am I? A liar as well as a crook, my mother will never get over the shame.” He slopped his mop from the bucket to the wall, scrubbing at the foul slogans with new vigour.

“You don’t get community service for busking without a licence! It doesn’t happen! In the worst case scenario, you should get a fine and your instrument will be confiscated.”

Grantaire scoffed. “Yeah, well, whoever told you that was a fucking liar too.” Was the most annoying thing about him the incessant interrogation, or the pompous tone it came with?

“No, listen, I study politics and law, and if they gave you community service for such a minor crime, then you can’t have had a fair trial!” Righteous fire seemed to burn behind Blondie’s eyes now, and he said, “You ought to lodge a complaint.” in the same tone as Grantaire might say, we ought to fuck.

“Brilliant idea. I’ll complain to the fucking police about being arrested, because they love that and definitely don’t get it all the time. They’ll probably apologise, buy me a new fucking violin, and send me on my fucking way.”

“Well, they at least ought to give you your own violin back.”

The chatty little bastard wasn’t even working at this point. He was just leaning on his own mop, pondering the legal ramifications of Grantaire’s plight. He clearly had some kind of anti-authoritarian bent going on, so Grantaire almost relished being able to reply “that would be hard, since they broke it.”

This revelation of possible police brutality pumped new outrage into Blondie’s system. He went from the standard community service small-talk, to railing loudly against the failings of a corrupt judicial system, in the space of about thirty seconds.

This would all be well and good, if he could just remember to channel some of his rage into mopping at the same time.

Grantaire couldn’t deny he was more interesting company than the usual crowd. He was definitely rather out of place here, partly just by virtue of personal hygiene. His face was clean shaven,  angular but still boyish, and his long blonde hair was artfully tousled rather than the tangled fucking mess sprouting from Grantaire’s head. If he’d met any other handsome young man in ratty scrubs today, he’d have assumed they got here from underage drinking, or an inadvisable street fight. This one seemed about as dry as they come, though, and far too obsessed with the common law of Paris to make such a fuckup.

“Oy, Blondie.” Grantaire cut across his ranting.

“…creates an institutional imbalance in the struct- what? You mean me?”

“Yeah, got a question.”

“My name isn’t 'Blondie'”

“Can’t remember your name.”

“It’s-“

“Listen, Lemonhair, I’m trying to guess what you did to get arrested, but I’m stuck.”

“It was-“

“No no no, no telling me, just give me a clue. Was it something to do with you running that big mouth of yours?”

“I- I mean yes, I suppose, but-“

“No, nothing else, gotta think.”

The guy looked confused, which didn’t suit his pretty boy face as well as angry did, but at least he’d stopped talking. Grantaire wasn’t mopping either anymore, but walked around Blondie, sizing him up.

He was dressed entirely in red under his scrubs (even his shoes!) which probably wasn’t a clue to anything but a terrible sense of fashion. His hair was tied in a high ponytail. He had wristbands on both arms full of weird and obscure political slogans. A thought came to Grantaire just as Blondie’s patience ran out.

“My name is-“

Grantaire interrupted him with a faux-shocked gasp. “No… no, it can’t possibly be… you’re a Lycée unionist, aren’t you?”

Blondie gaped at him for a moment, enraged once more. “I am TWENTY ONE!”

The Union Nationale Lycéenne was a huge coalition of high schoolers that regularly went on strike, and brought the French education system to a halt. When Grantaire had been a kid he (like most of his classmates) had gone along with the strikes just to get out of gym classes, but there was always a hard core of genuinely ideological weirdos. They’d been just as into talking about Institutions and Structures as this guy.

“You’re twenty one?” said Grantaire, voice dripping with mock disbelief, “because you look about-“

“I know how I look! Shut up!” Grantaire could immediately tell he’d somehow gone too far. The fire in Blondie’s eyes turned cold. “My name is Enjolras, and I’m twenty one, and I got community service for vandalising the metro, ok! We are done talking now.”

“Fine by me, Sunshine.”

The blessed silence lasted for about five minutes of mediocre scrubbing. They had still only moved about two metres along the wall from where they’d started an hour ago. The other poor sods on cleaning duty had moved further down the bank, leaving them alone with their thoughts (and the dull roar of traffic overhead). 

Enjolras - as he was apparently, absurdly, called - eventually piped up;

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said, almost sheepishly, “I’m just rather touchy, about the fact that I look quite young. And anyway I had already told you that I’m a student so obviously I couldn’t be a Lycée Unionist anymore-”

Grantaire stopped him; “anymore? As in, you definitely did used to be one.”

To his delight, Enjolras flushed a bright scarlet, to match his long undershirt. “Hah! Don’t even try to hide it!” Grantaire allowed himself a proper belly laugh at the other man’s expense, and was still grinning wildly when he declared “I was right, so I win.”

They had both stopped mopping now. This shit was never getting done, but their supervisor had buggered off to check on a different pair half an hour back, and had never reappeared. 

“What do you win?” said Enjolras, still red all over.

“I don’t know, but you definitely owe me something for this. You call me a liar when I try to be up front with you, and then you try and tell me my own INCREDIBLE intuition is wrong? I win detective of the year, is what I win.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I’m still sure you didn’t tell me your whole story about how you got here. There has to be more to it than busking.”

“Well I’d love to hear the story of why you vandalised the metro instead of doing your homework.”

He gave Grantaire a tiny smile, the first one yet. “You first.” Amused suited his elfin looks even better than angry did.

Grantaire swung out his mop with a flourish and gave a Enjolras deep bow. “My lord, I shall regale you with an epic tale of woe, that puts all other community service sob-stories to shame.” With a heft he lifted up their dirty water bucket and sluiced the contents out onto the floor, to much shrieking, then turned it over and placed it down as a seat. “Please, get comfortable, it’s a wild ride.”

Enjolras obliged, and sat on the bucket. “I can’t wait." He didn't even sound like he was joking.

Grantaire gave him a wink, before beginning;

“So my flatmate is a lunatic, right, we need to get that out of the way at the start. Constantly taking more drugs than he sells, which is a very bad way of doing business, as I’m sure you can imagine. Anyway, I wake up one day and I go into the shared room, and lo and behold, the freezer has gone. I run into his room. ‘Monty, my old chum, my old pal, where’s the fucking freezer gone?’ I ask. He’s curling his eyelashes. ‘oh, it’s you’, he says. ‘yes Montparnasse, it’s me’, I say, ‘because I fucking live here and the fucking freezer is gone’

“‘I sold it’, he says, and starts combing his hair. Apparently, he decided the way to deal with his debts was to start selling off appliances. When I suggest, in the politest of ways, that he could possibly have sold some of his designer suits instead, I get a swift punch to the testes.

“Now, this would all be a normal Friday, except for the fact that I’d cooked all my meals for the fortnight on Thursday, then frozen them, on account of being a thrifty genius. Montparnasse, on account of being an utterly thoughtless soulless arsehole, had got rid of the freezer with the food still fucking in it.

“So I have no food for the next two weeks basically, and no money neither. It’s dire straits! There’s no time to renew my busking licence! There’s no time to stake out a spot by the Notre Dame! I was really looking forward to that bolognese! Montparnasse disappears to god knows where for a few days, and I’m starving, so I dust off my violin, get on the metro and get off at Pont Neuf station. Plenty of tourists. I start playing my violin, get a few tips, all going nicely, when these three friends of mine show up. Now I love them, but sometimes I think they love me a bit too much, you know? Suddenly it’s all, ‘R, you’re so thin, are you eating properly?’, ‘R, when was the last time you took your medication?’, ‘R, do you want any help?’

“I tell them I don’t want any help, they don’t take no for an answer. One of the lovable idiots gives me a fifty euro tip. Then, out of nowhere, who would turn up but fucking Montparnasse, slick as ever, because apparently Pont Neuf is just the hottest place to be on a Friday night. He’s like ‘Grantaire, what are you doing here?’, so I say, ‘trying to earn enough to eat, you utter cunt’. He says ‘well clearly it’s going very well… and oh,’ he says, ‘don’t you owe me for rent?’ And guess what. He takes the fucking fifty from my hat.”

Enjolras gave a very satisfying gasp at this point; “He didn’t!”

“He did! What he doesn’t know is that my friends are quite the over-protective bunch. Now, one of them is weedy as shit and one of them's the clumsiest bastard you ever met, but their girlfriend packs a mean punch. A little too mean, actually, and Monty goes flying and trips off the fucking platform.”

“Off the platform?!”

“I know! He could have died! People are screaming, I’m running to get him off the tracks, I manage to pull him up just in time to save the bastard’s life, and he starts to beat me up! Friends try and pull him off, doesn’t work, a train has just arrived at the station, people are trying to get off, we’re rolling around on the floor, and then the police come crashing through the crowd, stepping on my fucking violin on the way.

“They tear us apart, but Montparnasse is a slippery bastard and he doesn’t want to talk to the police any time soon, so he manages to scarper. I’m the only one left. My friends are yelling, trying to stick up for me, but I get arrested and taken in for aggravated assault. Since theres no victim to be found though, and I’m no snitch, I get community service for the only crime they can think of.”

“Busking without a licence?”

“Busking without a licence. Total bullshit.”

Enjolras

This Grantaire guy was an excellent storyteller. He used his whole body to re-enact the tale of his arrest, pairing his wild gesticulations with an impassioned tone that could easily befit Shakespearian tragedy. Enjolras wondered what he was like when he was performing.  

There was something a little crooked about his whole appearance. Like every bone had been broken at some point, and set just off the mark. He was almost ghostly pale, against a shock of tangled black hair that had been wrestled into a short braid. His eyes were deep brown and lidless, with the furrowed bags of an insomniac. A scratch of black stubble crusted over his face and neck. The scruffiness was charming though, in its own way, and his posture lent him the air of a natural jester. Enjolras had found the lopsided grin he’d been treated to a few times now particularly irresistible. He could see Grantaire being a very popular busker indeed.

As he absorbed the story, a thought occurred to him. “Hold on, do your friends call you R?”

“They do indeed.”

“And your name is Grant - aire.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh that is awful, a pun? Your name is a pun!”

“Awful? That’s the best thing about it!”

Enjolras really wanted to criticise some other parts of the story, because from his point of view there were some outrageously poor decisions involved, but Grantaire seemed much happier than when Enjolras had been banging on at him before. The very tiny and underused part of his brain that dealt with Other People’s Feelings noted that most people prefer telling fun stories to being lectured on Parisian bylaws.

This is why he usually communicated with others through the form of rousing political speeches. Amicable banter was largely beyond him.

Before he could put his foot in his mouth again, Grantaire said “go on then, what was the vandalism all about?”

“Oh. Right.” Enjolras stood up, and gestured to the bucket. Grantaire sat, with a wry smile.

Enjolras felt suddenly and unexpectedly awkward from the attention, without quite knowing why. He cleared his throat, and explained;

“I was organising a protest with my activism group, and we were making signs so we had a bunch of spray cans, and on the way home I wrote ‘fuck the 1%’ on the Louvre metro station in gold. The security guard was not very happy about this. He was also not happy about my explanation of anarcho-communist theory. He was also not happy that my flatmate, Courfeyrac, yelled ‘vive la revolution’ and slid down the escalator rail to escape from him. And he called the police.”

It didn’t quite paint a picture in the same way Grantaire’s story had, but he seemed raptly focused on Enjolras nevertheless. He was looking at him like you might look at a particularly strange bug you saw at the zoo.

“I guess les keufs were also not a fan of your theories, huh”

“Oh, I didn’t bother talking to them about it. They never listen.”

“Never? You do this a lot?”

Enjolras could feel himself flushing again. “Usually I get arrested for slightly more noble causes, I’ll admit. This wasn’t our finest hour. Most of our meetings happen at a bar, and in this case we were a little tipsy by the time we were going home.”

“Well, at least the punishment fit the crime.” Grantaire said, gesturing to the walls they had totally failed to clean. “Now you know how the poor cleaners of that metro must have felt.”

Enjolras gave a small chuckle, then frowned as he thought it through. “I’m sure they would have agreed with the sentiment, though.”

Grantaire cracked up again, “yeah, I’m sure they’d love it as much as the guards and the cops!”

Enjolras couldn’t help retorting, “but, unlike the mercenaries of the capitalist status quo, manual workers only stand to gain from attacks against the bourgeoisie!”

“Did you really just talk about the bourgeoisie? Did I really just hear that?”

“Don’t be facile, of course you did, that’s what it was about, wasn’t it?” His Other Peoples Feelings centre tried to stop that particular sentence coming out, but it was too late.

Grantaire still seemed to have a strange kind of smile, but the last traces of laughter had disappeared from his face. “To me it sounds like any other bunch of drunk idiots making life a little harder for those ‘manual workers’. You know most cleaners would rather have an easy day on the job than rail against the system, right?”

Enjolras no longer cared that he must have turned scarlet. Red was his favourite colour. It was the colour of passion, and if this Grantaire was going to cast aspersions on his group or their worth, then passion is what he was going to get. “Are you suggesting that people with more immediate concerns of survival haven’t the potential to look past them to their causes? Do you believe that no sacrifice should be required for worthwhile change? You know that Maslow’s hierarchy of needs makes inherently classist assumptions-“

“And what do you know about need?” Grantaire wasn’t smiling at all now. He stood up, their bucket and their fun forgotten, and the extra few inches of height he had on Enjolras suddenly loomed large. “You’re some rich student - yes I know you’re rich, don’t try to hide it, your metro station is the fucking Louvre - and community service is probably the only time you’ve ever worked your body in your life. And you didn’t even work hard!" He gesticulated madly at Enjolras' cleaning efforts. "We moved one metre along the wall today, and it was no thanks at all to you!”

“You don’t need to be a student to recognise society’s problems-”

“As far as I can tell, you’re one of society’s problems!”

“My friend Feuilly left school at fourteen, and he-“

“What’s his job now? Hm?”

“He makes fans, and he-" 

“It’s not the fucking same! Working a craft, a trade, that’s not the same level of soulless as the jobs most people get by on.” Grantaire’s crooked face was bent almost into a snarl now, as the irritation he’d sensed earlier resurfaced with spitting force. If Enjolras’ tether stopped with his age, Grantaire’s seemed to stop with something Enjolras had just said - he tried to rewind the past few moments in his head, to remember why they had flowed from conversation to argument, but Grantaire was already beating on; “do you have any idea what minimum wage is actually like when you live in a city? You get no respect, no benefits - no pride in yourself as a human being - you can't afford to live in the places you clean or know the people you sell to. You know in Japan, with the bullet train, it was designed to be easily cleaned? And you can actually live off of doing that? You've seen the fucking metro, do you think anyone that designed it or runs it gives a shit about the people who clean it? And do you really think, at the end of the day, that those people would see you as any different than their bourgeois-fucking-bosses? How can you possibly believe that your ideals would be worth more to them than the mess you're adding to their life?"

"I - okay, I know that - the method of communication is flawed, but a lot of what you're saying is - it's exactly why activism is important!" Enjolras nearly screamed.

"My god, why can't you just admit that you were wrong?" Grantaire flung his arms up in the air and stepped backwards. He'd been getting uncomfortably close. "Nobody wants you and your buddies' help! Nobody wants your shit," he rubbed his temples and sighed with a grin, clearly trying to calm down. "Jesus H. Christ, what a stupid hill to die on."

Enjolras felt so hot he didn't know what to do with himself. His whole body was clenched as if into a fist, and he knew he must look like one big radish. The worst thing was, that his cleaning partner had a point. He didn't usually get this angry when disagreeing with someone. He was only ever this angry with himself. This complete stranger had immediately caught on, and been repulsed by, his most shameful tendency; to assume everyone cared about his values more than their lives. His empathy was a grand, sweeping thing. Sometimes he thought he would break from the weight of humanity's sorrows - but he always forgot to pay attention to the people right in front of him.

Grantaire had been right, anyway. The punishment did fit the crime. Instead of telling him that, though, Enjolras just picked his mop up, went to fill up the bucket with water from the Seine, and got back to work.

R

Grantaire knew he had gone too far. He barely knew this guy, and he'd already dumped him with a bunch of his own personal issues and shitty half baked opinions, and clearly made him have some kind of weird, blushing breakdown.

Really though, he'd said 'don't be facile' right after using the word 'bourgeoisie' unironically. He had to be taken down a couple pegs.

At least, that's what Grantaire told himself so he could focus on finally cleaning the wall, and not on his unchecked anger issues or generalised self-loathing.

They passed the rest of their time in silence.

By the time their supervisor came back from his cigarette break or whatever the hell he'd been up to, they had actually managed to clean their assigned area. They went and got ticked off without looking at each other, returned their scrubs without looking at each other, and just as Grantaire was about to try and bridge the awkwardness before they left, Enjolras strode away in the direction of the Rue Boffon.

Grantaire rolled his eyes, lit a cigarette, and walked after him.

After a block or so of walking around five metres apart, Enjolras turned. "Are you following me?" He honestly looked ready to physically fight.

"Non, enculé, I'm just going the same way. You really need to keep that ego in check."

He went the same violent shade of red he'd gone when he'd shut up before, and sped up his pace to put more distance between them.

Grantaire carried on too, and it wasn't long before he caught up, because Enjolras had stopped in the same lay-by where his friends had told him to wait. "I'm starting to think you're the one stalking me" he said, stubbing out the last of his cigarette on the floor. He didn't get a response, though the red face continued, painted onto the rather attractive expression of infuriation he'd been treated to earlier. "Whatever," Grantaire muttered, and pulled out his phone, punching in the numbers of his ride.

Just as it was ringing, Enjolras turned to him. He'd just started to say "Look, I'm-" when Joly, Grantaire's most anxious and devoted friend, answered the phone by immediately screaming "WE'RE SO SORRY R!", and Enjolras went back to haughtily examining the paving stones.

"You don't have to be that sorry, the whole thing overran anyway. When will you be here?"

"We got caught in traffic! We're all going to be there soon!"

"Musichetta too? I need to give her something." Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Enjolras turning back to him, like he'd started listening to the conversation. 

"Yes yes we're all here! I think we might have some trouble fitting everyone in the car actually - oh gosh Bossuet BE CAREFUL you're going to make Musi crash!" Grantaire heard a muffled "sorry!" and a "no he isn't, darling" from elsewhere in the car.

"What do you mean, 'trouble', Joly? There's plenty of room for the four of us."

Enjolras was definitely looking at him now, with great alarm etched across his face. Grantaire thought he saw him mouth the word 'why' to himself.

"Oh crap, yes, fuck, sorry, we found out earlier, we're picking somebody else up at the same time, is he there? He's blonde, probably dressed in red, his name is Enjolras?"

Time stood still. Grantaire slowly turned to face the man next to him. Despite their apparent differences, they both shared the same look of dismay. That is, until Grantaire started to laugh - uncontrollably, wildly - "R why are you laughing? Is he there?"

"Yup, he's here!" Enjolras' face was torture incarnate. It just made Grantaire laugh harder. He actually sat down on the curb, coughing and wheezing with renewed chuckles every time he looked up to see Enjolras' distress.

"Okay? Okay, well, you can tell me what's funny soon, we're FINALLY nearly there. See you in a sec!"

"Bye, Joly."

"Bye R!"

He hung up, his laughter eventually dying down to little occasional giggles. Enjolras' eyes were wide. "They were the three friends from your arrest story."

"Haha, yeah, I'm surprised you didn't recognise them straight away. How many other overly generous, overly worrisome ménages à trois, with a girl who'd punch a guy clear off a train platform, do you think there can be?"

"I've never met Musichetta, I just know her name. I didn't make the connection." He was clearly fretting. Grantaire tried not to laugh at him again.

"Well, I'm sure you'll get along like a house on fire, if that's any comfort." A tiny, metallic blue Fiat lurched round the corner at the end of the road. "Speak of the devil."

The car rolled into the lay by and braked with a screech. Bossuet was riding shotgun, dressed in one of the awful Hawaiian shirts that he always maintained were excusable when you were actually Hawaiian. He was rubbing his big bald head, apparently having hit it on something in transit. Musichetta (statuesque, unfairly gorgeous) reached across him to wave out to Grantaire with a dimpled smile. "Hey R! Sorry for the wait! Joly's been going spare, but it was his fault we left late in the first place-"

Joly had unbuckled himself and leapt out of the car. "Quick, get in! We aren't supposed to even be in this lane!"

Grantaire, as always when he saw the three together, filled up with a well of affection. "Hi Musi! Laigle is your head okay?"

"No time!" said Joly, dragging Grantaire by the coat with his wiry arms, and shoving him into the car. "We can catch up when we aren't illegally parked! Do you want to get us arrested too? You as well Enjolras, get in, get in!"

Enjolras, who had been standing off to the side, was shoved after him to sit in-between Grantaire and Joly, who slammed the door behind him. There was no middle seat, so Enjolras ended up sitting half on top of both of them.

"Nobody gets arrested for picking people up from the curb, Joly" said Musichetta, pulling out with a smile.

"They definitely get stopped for having extra, unbuckled people in the back seat, though." said Grantaire, who was pressed awkwardly between Enjolras and the car door.

"Don't panic Joly any more, R." said Bossuet, in his deep, calming voice.

"Sorry, you know I don't mean it Jolllllly."

Joly snorted, and ran his hands through his already wild and windswept black hair. "Me? Panicking?" he said, taking a puff of his inhaler. Grantaire and Musi both laughed. 

"Enjolras," said Bossuet, "you're being pretty unusually quiet."

Grantaire felt Enjolras shifting on top of his left leg. His voice broke halfway through the word "sorry," and he cleared his throat before continuing. "I didn't realise you had to pick somebody else up. I could have got a cab."

"Well," Musichetta replied, keeping her eyes on the road, "originally it was just going to be me and Joly getting R, then Bossuet said he was meant to use the car to get you, because of course he would forget about that until we were literally about to leave, and then Joly lost his hand sanitiser and we had to deal with that for about an hour-"

"It wasn't an hour!"

"-so we figured we'd just get you all together. I'm Musi, by the way. I'm sure the boys have told you many adoring stories about me."

"They have, actually. It's wonderful to finally meet you." Grantaire was struck, once again, by the complete earnestness of Enjolras' voice. He wondered if he'd ever been casually sarcastic in his life.

"Pleasure's all mine. I suppose you want dropping off at the Musain? Your meeting thing starts in an hour, right?"

The meeting. Of course. Grantaire was struck with revelation, and slapped his own forehead. Enjolras turned to him in alarm. "YOU'RE THAT GUY!" Grantaire exclaimed.

"What... what guy?"

Joly started to giggle and Bossuet said "Yes, he's the guy alright."

"Which guy!? Who am I?" Enjolras was whipping his head between them, desperate to know the joke. Grantaire couldn't believe this was happening.

"The fucking goddamn hero boy that leads that club they're always going to! The one who's always starting protests and getting beaten up! Fuck! I totally take back making fun of you for not realising when I was talking about these three, cause holy shit of course you would be that guy."

Everyone was laughing now, even Enjolras.

"We were wondering on the way over whether you would have spoken at the community service," said Bossuet, "we were hoping you'd get along."

They both, immediately, stopped laughing.

Joly, blissfully unaware of the tension from his side of the car, said "I always wondered what it might be like if you two met. You're both so intense!"

Enjolras said "I suppose we are" at the same time as Grantaire retorted "Hey, I'm very chill!"

"Of course you are, R darling," Musichetta reassured him. She lacked Enjolras' gift for sincerity. 

"Are you two going to be at the meeting today?" Enjolras asked. His bony ankle was digging into Grantaire's leg.

"I wanted to come as well, actually," Musichetta replied, "if that's okay with you? Joly said you only have three girls at the moment, which is honestly a travesty."

"We have to take Grantaire home though, Musi,"

"It's the same direction, we can drop him off then turn back pretty easily."

"But Musi-" Joly seemed to be getting agitated again, "what about Montparnasse?"

Worrying about Montparnasse, and Grantaire's general living situation, was one of Joly's favourite pastimes. He'd only visited their dank basement apartment once, and his hyperchondria had never permitted him to return. "Joly, you know I live with him all the time, right? It is not unusual or scary for him to be there. I don't need an escort for the occasion."

Bossuet turned in his seat to see Grantaire, and hit his head on the same inset ceiling light that must have caused his earlier injury. He really was the clumsiest bastard in the world. "You could always come with all of us, R?"

Grantaire felt Enjolras stiffen in place. It would almost be too cruel to follow the poor guy around to disagree with him more. He'd probably had enough of a bollocking for one day. "I'm really not scared of Monty, guys."

"Maybe you should be!" said Joly.

"Maybe he should be scared of us," Musichetta grumbled.

Grantaire was just about to put his foot down, when Enjolras cleared his throat. "I don't know if you would like the meeting, anyway. It doesn't seem your kind of thing."

For some reason, the idea that this guy - as he had said earlier, this fucking goddamn hero boy - didn't want him to be there was all Grantaire needed to decide being a part of that meeting was now his life's ambition. He'd felt it in Enjolras from the start; an irresistible, terrifying idealism that just begged to be argued with. "Am I not allowed to come to the meeting, Blondie?"

"Of course you're allowed," scoffed Joly, "and it's exactly R's kind of thing! You probably didn't realise while you were cleaning or whatever, but R is very passionate about all kinds of issues, Enj!"

"No I... I realised. It's just that we have a lot of planning to do at the moment."

"Would it be better if I didn't come either, then?" Musichetta asked.

"Oh no, no I'd love for you to come, it's just-"

"He thinks I'll spend the whole time hassling him," said Grantaire, taking pity on Enjolras' blood pressure. Bossuet squinted over at Grantaire in a familiar way - it was his 'what have you done this time?' face. Grantaire responded by looking as wide eyed and innocent as he possibly could.

Joly entreated their leader apparent; "you have to let R come, Enjolras, he's our best friend! Apart from Musi. I promise his bullshit is all talk, he's really nice." Joly strained backwards so he could see Grantaire, who was treated to another classic look behind Enjolras' head; Joly's patented 'would you please just let us be nice to you?'.

"I think it's the talk that would be his problem, Joly. Don't worry, I don't need in on the club."

Enjolras was shifting uncomfortably between them, and the just the tips of his ears had gone red again, under his pearlescent curls. "It isn't a club, it's a general assembly, and I don't want to stop anybody coming. I'm not a dictator. I'm not even the chair."

Musichetta had clearly already decided for them, as she pulled away from the main road that lead to Grantaire's neighbourhood, instead taking them into the hotspot of bars and cafes next to the St Denis.

Grantaire considered his options. "They serve alcohol at this general assembly?"

Enjolras looked at him aghast, then regained his composure and nodded.

"Alright. The Musain, is it?" Joly and Bossuet grinned at him as Musi turned to park. 

"I reckon I could handle taking a table at the back."

Chapter Text

M. Pontmercy

Marius was a sorry sight on the street that day, complete with shaggy ginger hair caught up in a bun, tattered green coat with holes in the elbows, and a mournful expression.

Just opposite, the soggy student was being regarded by a man smoking under the umbrellas of a breakfast cafe. He seemed particularly amused by the giant and overstuffed suitcase that was bringing up the rear. Marius tried to ignore him.

Just as one of the suitcase wheels got stuck in a gutter, the man called out across the street. “Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?”

Marius frowned at him. He was tall and muscular, barely contained by a ghastly pink Hawaiian shirt, and completely bald despite his youthful face. “No, no I don’t think so.”

“Yes I do, your name is M. Pontmercy.”

Marius stopped struggling with the suitcase, now thoroughly perplexed. “How do you know that?”

The stranger stubbed out his cigarette, and crossed the road (without even looking both ways). Marius had been sleeping rough for about a month since getting kicked out of Grandpa Gillenormand’s house, and had lost the capacity to be concerned about this turn of events.

“For one thing, it’s written on your suitcase.”

“Oh, yes.” Marius had bedazzled it a couple of years ago, before travelling to Italy.

“For another, you were meant to be my roommate in first year.”

“Oh. Wow. You really remember that far back?”

“Something about your face is rather recognisable, monsieur. They had pictures of everyone stuck up in the dorm hallways. We all wondered why Pontmercy had never turned up.”

“Ah. Gosh. Do you still go to the Sorbonne-Assas?” That was the name of the international law school that Marius was, ostensibly, enrolled in.

“Non, non. In your absence a couple of other friends occupied the room with me, and lets just say we found better things to do with our time.” The stranger smiled at a private joke. “I had the most fun before getting kicked out of law school, you cannot even imagine.”

“I suppose that makes me partially responsible,” Marius replied, glumly. “sorry.”

The man looked like this apology was the craziest thing he’d heard in his life. “What? Of course it doesn’t! I got kicked out because of my own disorganisation. Even if your absence did have a butterfly effect upon me, it lead to the only luck I have ever had in my life; meeting my partners.” He had a very reassuring voice. “Don’t worry about it, Pontmercy. Who wants to be a lawyer, anyway?”

Just then, another young man emerged from the cafe opposite, holding a paper sandwich bag and looking around in confusion. He was very handsome, but possibly the most oddly dressed human Marius had ever seen. He was wearing neon shutter shades, in the middle of the day. He was also wearing blue capri pants which were tight at the knees and absurdly baggy at the crotch, and one of those vests with the comically open arm holes (even though it had been raining for hours). Written across the vest in cyan was the franglais slogan ‘Turn Down Pourquoi?’

“Courfeyrac! I’m over here!” The first stranger waved hugely with both arms, even though it was a narrow street and he was only ten feet away.

“Bossuet? Who’s with you?” asked Courfeyrac, walking over.

“This is Pontmercy. Sorry, I don’t know your first name.”

“It's Marius.”

Standing next to them, Courfeyrac tilted his head oddly, and looked Marius up and down, before giving him a shark-like smile. “Marius Pontmercy. Where are you from?”

The question was a lot harder to answer than he’d probably expected. Marius eventually stammered out, “Um. Nowhere, at the moment.”

“Huh.” said Courfeyrac, and, without even asking for clarification on what on earth that meant, he pushed his sandwich bag into Marius’ hands. “You hold this, and I’ll help you with that suitcase. We’re going to my place.”

“Oh, uh, I-“

Bossuet seemed to agree with whatever Courfeyrac was trying to accomplish, and clasped Marius’ shoulder; “I promise we aren’t thieves. We just have an altruistic streak. If we did steal from you, Sorbonne-Assass still has my address, so it would be a very short lived theft.”

Courfeyrac’s tan, muscled arms hefted the suitcase up with ease. “Come on, man. Bossuet and I aren’t going to let you ruin that lovely hair in the rain any longer.”

Marius laughed for what felt like (and probably was) the first time in months. “Lovely hair? Are you blind?”

Courfeyrac lowered his bright pink shutter shades down his nose, revealing cloudy pupils, almost fully obscured by cataracts. “Pretty much, yeah.”

The bottom dropped out of Marius' stomach.

Courfeyrac’s poker face didn’t last for long though, and after a moment he grinned again. “Sorry man, couldn’t resist.”

Bossuet sighed and shoved Courfeyrac’s shoulder, who impressively retained his balance despite the gargantuan suitcase now lumbering his right arm. “Don’t worry about this morceau de merde. He does that joke on everyone new he meets. That’s why he wears such garish clothes, as well. He’s just waiting for somebody to ask him if he got dressed in the dark.” Marius laughed again, thankfully. The shutter shades made slightly more sense now. Grandpa Gillenormand had cataracts, and sudden changes of light were a peril to him.

“You coming to my place then? I have a futon. And heated towels.”

“Really I should offer you my own, since it would correct the missed opportunity of our first year at law school,” said Bossuet, “but four’s a crowd.”

“Heated towels sound heavenly.” Marius replied, suddenly overwhelmed by hot tears of gratitude, for the unexpected kindness of strangers.

Courfeyrac whispered to Bossuet, “what’s he doing?”

“Crying.”

“Aww!”

Courfeyrac

From what Courfeyrac could see of Marius, he was a very exciting discovery. He tried to walk on his left on the way to the metro, because his sight was pretty good out of the corner of his right eye. His suspicions were confirmed, that Marius was:

1. Adorable.
2. Alarmingly disheveled.

The occasional sniffling and shivering was of particular concern. If they didn't get him a hot shower soon, poor kid could catch pnuemonia.

As they walked, Bossuet struck up a conversation about how he met Joly and Musichetta, and Courfeyrac followed his lead. Of course, he was desperate to know more about how Bossuet knew this Marius Pontmercy, and why he was in such a state, but he trusted it would come in time. He didn't want to scare the poor guy; he sounded like he'd been through enough anxiety to last a lifetime. Courfeyrac asked if he could hold Marius' elbow as they got into the more crowded part of town. The fabric felt good quality, almost velvety, but tattered and full of small holes.

"Tell him about the pizza, Bossuet"

"Haha, yeah, so this was after me and Musichetta had hooked up at the bar, and she did like both of us, but she felt like she had to 'pick one'. Now, Joly had moved to my room - that is, your old room - because of his OCD. His first roommate was this guy, Grantaire, who's our best friend in the world now, but at the time was a bit... well, you'll probably meet him at some point, and you can imagine for yourself what it would be like to sleep in the same room as him."

"Is he dirty?" Marius asked.

"Oh no, not at all, his lifestyle is just a little unique. Do you want to get a coffee?" Bossuet stopped at a drinks truck parked outside the metro station. Courfeyrac didn't miss the way he'd glossed over Grantaire's particular brand of 'unique'. Personally, he'd only met Grantaire a couple of weeks ago - and the less said about his first time at the Musain, the better. He'd calmed down for the more recent meetings, but it seemed fairly obvious that the guy had some pretty major problems. Judging from the couple of times Grantaire had come up in conversation since then, Joly and Bossuet were in complete denial about this fact. Or at least, in front of everyone else, they were pretending to be.

Courfeyrac bought Marius' coffee, and paid for a new metro card to boot. He waved down Marius' protestations with his usual reply; "my dad is an evil banker, this is a redistribution of wealth."

As he pressed the card into his hand, he heard Marius mumble "I bet you anything I've met far worse."

Whatever he was referring to, his voice was enough to break Courfeyrac's loving heart.

They managed to struggle the suitcase through the barriers and onto the Louvre line, standing in a cramped huddle by the carriage doors, and Bossuet finished his story.

"So this one night, we're drinking before going out, and I suppose Grantaire got more drunk than the rest of us because he passed out, sprawled across my bed. We tucked him in, checked he was breathing, the usual, and decide a bar doesn't sound so fun after all. We order pizza instead. Now, you wouldn't know this, since you weren't at the orientation for our block, and neither did Joly because he technically wasn't supposed to be living there, but theres a back car park through the fire escape right by our door. Joly thinks that to get a pizza delivered, you'd have to go all the way to the campus entrance. Joly knows that I liked Musichetta and that we'd had a brief encounter recently, but he really liked her too. So Musi and he are very tipsy, and they're cuddled up on the same bed, and they think I'll be gone for at least ten minutes. When it actually takes me about thirty seconds."

"This is my favourite part." said Courfeyrac, tearing into his cheese baguette.

Marius chuckled, "for some reason, that already doesn't surprise me about you."

"I walk in on them... I won't go into details, but they are making out in a fairly intense sense. And they leap apart, and it's just silent for a few seconds. My mind was going in a million different directions, I didn't know what to do! And then, Grantaire does the biggest snore you've heard in your life. Truly, it was tremendous, and what could have been the worst argument me and Joly have ever had, suddenly turns into the funniest thing to happen in history. We all start laughing, and we literally can't stop. We didn't even talk about it for the rest of the night, we just ate the pizza and Musi went home like usual."

"And then you and Joly shared his bed that night, to kiss and make up," Courfeyrac interrupted with a smirk, nudging Marius in the ribs.

"Who told you - Musi told you that, didn't she? We should never have introduced you two. I apologise, Marius, for Courf,"

"Um, that's, that's fine, w-what's the end of the story?" Courfeyrac couldn't see whether Marius was flushed with embarrassment, but the stammering gave him a clue.

"Oh, we talked about it the next day, sans Grantaire snoring-"

"-and in the middle of an afterglow,"

"Courfeyrac! Anyway, we talked about it and it seemed silly for anyone to have to 'choose' one or the other, and leave somebody doubly heartbroken. And we've been happy together ever since."

"Wow," said Marius, "I guess it was a good thing I suspended my studies after all."

Courfeyrac heard the ding of arrival, and a muffled tannoy announcement. He gave Marius' elbow a little tug. "This is my stop."

Bossuet gave their new friend one of his smothering bear hugs. "Good to finally meet you, M. Pontmercy. I'm sure whatever's going on with you, some time spent in the company of this encule will make those troubles pale in comparison."

"Are you not coming?"

"Non, mon amis, I just got a text from my friend R - uh, that's my friend Grantaire. He just needs help with something." Again, in an overly casual tone. Courfeyrac liked to see himself as the harmoniser of their group. If Grantaire was going to be sticking around, he needed to get to the bottom of what was going on.

"Goddbye, Bossuet - Laigle, was it? Thank you." There was a tremor in Marius' voice. Bossuet ruffled Courfeyrac's hair, and then they were pushed out of the doors by the crowd. He could hear the click of tourist cameras, and the bustle of the station, and smell cigarette smoke and harsh chemical detergents. Looping his arm through the crook of Marius' elbow, he lead him through a fog of moving figures, up to the light.

M. Pontmercy

As they walked up a broken escalator shaft with Courfeyrac babbling away ("They still haven't fixed it, still! It's been months!"), Marius considered the extraordinary luck of the situation. The thought to count the last month, spent getting kicked out of hostels and sleeping under bridges, as a misfortune did not occur. All that mattered was that it had ended in the company of kindness. Marius was a deeply trusting person who, for some reason, had never been loved by anyone worth trusting. The heart was ever hopeful, though. Maybe this time. Maybe these friends.

"I wonder what that tarp is for?" It was covering a large swathe of the wall at the top of the escalator. Courfeyrac found this question very funny.

"I don't want to put you off meeting my friends, so I can't say."

"Oh. Wait, what? What happened?"

"Okay, one of them - he lives in the flat above me, actually - may have defaced public property. For a good cause though, of course! Well, I say he did it, he's usually the smart one; I may have encouraged him a little."

Marius' eyes were wide with shock as they reached the top of the escalator. "How did you escape?"

"Well Enjolras technically didn't. I slid down this," he said, patting the wide metal rail between the up and down escalators.

"But... how? Because you- sorry, I meant with your... sorry! That's so rude, oh my gosh," Marius felt like dying on the spot, but Courfeyrac just laughed again and yanked them left down the street, wheeled suitcase in tow.

"I can't see well enough to drive, but I got about forty percent of my sight. I can do some cool tricks now and than. I'm a menace on the dancefloor though, seriously, if you want to be anywhere near me in the club then you gotta hold my hands and dance with me, or someone's gonna lose a tooth."

"Huh."

The road they ended up on, after a couple of twists and turns that must have been ingrained in Courfeyrac's muscle memory, was beautiful. The houses didn't have the gaudy adornments of Grandpa Gillenormand's mansion, but Marius couldn't bear to think of that place anymore, and any change of scenery felt like a blessing.

It had stopped raining, and the slick wet streets sparkled with cold sunlight. A gentle breeze rustled through bare winter trees, each girded by a small iron railing. The houses were terraced, tall and pearly white, with curlicues and miniature balconies everywhere. It was the Paris of picture books.

"This is me," said Courfeyrac, turning in to number fourteen, and rummaging in his pockets for his keys. "I'm on the second floor, so you're gonna have to help me with this suitcase."

They heaved it up a narrow and winding staircase, before falling into a bright, airy apartment.

Courfeyrac's home seemed sparse, until you realised that everything was just more compact than usual. Every appliance had at least two functions, and usually a hidden storage unit as well. It was completely open plan, besides a door that presumably lead to the bed and bathroom, and almost floodlit by the south facing windows. Every wall was painted a different colour, and what furniture he had also came completely mismatched.

"Could you shut the curtains?" Courfeyrac asked. Marius leapt to oblige, and he closed his eyes, before switching the main lights on and removing his sunglasses. After a moment, he slowly opened his eyes, and blinked several times. "Much better."

Marius almost did something awful, like ask if he needed any help getting around, but it was like Courfeyrac had a special sense for when someone was about to ruin a social situation. "I have to go to the loo - that's the futon over there, if you want to try and unfold it." He walked off through the door, and Marius took several deep and calming breaths.

Everything was going to be fine. Even if Courfeyrac was a murderer, it would be better to get murdered here than on the freezing streets. Just as the calming breaths were really starting to work, and the futon seemed like it might give in and open already,  Marius felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

"You're not Courfeyrac."

"AaaAARGH!"

On turning (and screaming wildly), the source of the voice seemed to be a small and angry god.

He stood ramrod straight, but still nearly a head shorter than gangly Marius. Everything on his face seemed perfectly proportioned and perfectly sloped, surrounded by a large halo of blonde curls which seemed to glow under the low, warm lighting. He also really didn't seem to be in the mood to meet people who weren't Courfeyrac.

"Where is Courfeyrac?"

The man of the hour reappeared just in time. "Hey hey, Enjy, how's things?"

Apparently satisfied by this, the blonde young man relaxed his face a fraction. "Hello Courf. I wasn't aware you were..." he squinted back at Marius, head cocked to one side, "busy?"

"This is Marius Pontmercy. He's sleeping on my futon tonight. The invitation is open indefinitely, though." Courfeyrac walked over to the futon, and tugged at a little knob Marius hadn't even noticed. It transformed from chair to bed in an instant.

"Thank you."

"Enjolras is not so hot with the everyday social skills, so I'll say he's happy to meet you on his behalf."

No part of Enjolras' composure broke at the jab. He was like the marble sculptures Marius had seen in Rome.

"Courf, I wanted to talk about something privately."

"Well, I'm kind of busy, man. Can't you talk to Combeferre?"

"Yes. I want to talk to both of you. We can go downstairs to Combeferre's."

"I'm not gonna just, immediately abandon my guest. Get Jehan from the basement if you want a second opinion."

"Good idea. Let's all go to the basement apartment."

"Enjolras!"

Marius intervened; "it's fine, Courfeyrac, really! I haven't had a hot shower in a month, I could do that while you chat!"

Courfeyrac threw his arms in the air. "Fine. Go get them and we can talk in here, while I make Marius something to eat."

"I'm also hungry."

"Yes yes, fine, I'll make your weird cheese on toast thing too. The bathroom is through the bedroom over there," he said, waving his arm in the general direction before going over to the kitchen island and opening a set of concealed drawers from within.

"Thank you, thank you so much." Courfeyrac flashed a sunny smile, and Marius shrugged the broken coat off onto the futon, before going through Courfeyrac's room. It was just as eclectically coloured as the rest of the apartment, but somewhat more muted. The bathroom was a dream come true. There really was a heated towel rack.

Marius stripped down, and just stood under the pounding, steaming water of the power shower. It was like being reborn, to become clean after all this time. The soap had lemon peel inside. The shampoo smelt like lilacs.

After spending as long as possibly being numbed by the waterfall, Marius stepped out, pruny fingered and wrapped in a big fluffy towel, with a still-grimy t-shirt over the top.

Stupidly, the suitcase was still by the door.

With the noise of the shower over, Enjolras' voice could clearly be heard throughout the apartment. "I just don't know what to do with him. He clearly cares about the issues, but as soon as he realises that I care about something, he has to make fun of it!"

Marius shuffled awkwardly into view from the bedroom, but didn't make it to the suitcase before Courfeyrac yelled out "Marius! Come and meet some of my best friends."

A man sitting on a bar stool by the kitchen island said "some of?" in an amused tone. He was tall and dark skinned, with close cropped hair and (there wasn't any other way to put it), truly phenomenal cheekbones. He wore wiry spectacles and a smart shirt, with a black jumper layered over the top. A brown walking cane rested between his knees. "I'm Combeferre. I'm sure it will be lovely to have you with us."

"And this is Jehan. They're the poet we keep in the basement."

Jehan gave Marius a little finger wave. Enjolras cut in; "they use they/them pronouns" and looked at Marius as though daring, or just expecting, an argument to start about this. Marius was a little confused, but Enjolras' expression was an excellent encouragement to google more about this phenomenon later, rather than bother Jehan about it now. They were a soft featured Indian with a red bindi between wide, kind eyes. They dressed almost utterly opposite to Combeferre, in flowing, loose fabrics of green and gold.

"Hello Combeferre. Hello Jehan. Hello again, Enjolras." The former two smiled at him. The latter just glumly tore a bite out of some herby-looking cheese on toast.

"We were just talking about our club," said Jehan, sipping at a large cup of tea.

"It's not a club! It's a general assembly!"

"Yes, Enjolras, now eat your toast. Marius, there's food here." Courfeyrac stood so that a space was free at the kitchen island, and Marius consumed the scrambled eggs at an embarrassing velocity.

Enjolras huffed out a sigh, burying his face in his hands. "He hates me." Marius was too happy about food to wonder who he was talking about.

Combeferre reached across the table to pat Enjolras' shoulder. "He's gotten better over the past few weeks. I think he just found the concept a little absurd, at first; you must remember he's coming from a very different background to us. When you really listen to what he's saying, there's a lot of ideas that could make the meetings far more widely appealing."

"What do you do at your meetings?" Marius butted in.

Jehan giggled, "apparently, we drive Enjolras slowly insane."

Courfeyrac, who had been busying himself cleaning up frying pans, turned around with glee in his eyes. "You should come, Marius! There's one tomorrow!"

"Oh, uh, if that's okay? With Enjolras?"

Enjolras corrected, "I'm not in charge, Combeferre is the chair," without even looking up.

"Just like Pericles wasn't in charge of Athens" mused Combeferre. Apparently Enjolras understood this obscure reference, and it struck a nerve, because he glowered across the table.

"Can I? Come, I mean, Combeferre?"

Courfeyrac answered for him. "Of course you can come! Everyone is welcome at the Musain." Enjolras and Combeferre both nodded, so clearly it was law.

Jehan changed the subject to a poetry slam they were going to read at, and Courfeyrac put the kettle on to make more tea. It was a world away from the street, and the life, of just a few hours ago. They spoke idly to one another about this or that poem, and Courfeyrac's awful shirt, and Combeferre's new glasses.

The friendly chatter of the group washed through the frightened corners of Marius' mind,  until it was filled with nothing but comfort, warm light, and the smell of cheese on toast.

Chapter Text

Gavroche Thenardier

At the intersection of Pont d'Invalides and the riverside pavement, two young women chewed gum, clipboards in hand, and blinded tourists with their enthusiasm for an incomprehensible petition. They would launch themselves into happy chatter, thrust a pen towards them, and somehow have an extra five euros in their charity tin before anyone understood what had been signed.

A little ways away, crouched at the foot of the Armenian memorial monument, Gavroche watched his sisters with nothing less than sincere admiration.

He was a nimble pickpocket when they needed it, but Eponine and Azelma's crimes were so elegantly difficult to pin down. Nobody would admit to being fooled so easily by so little, and even if they did, nobody would care to go through the hassle of a foreign police system for the cause of five euros.

There were larger forces at work here. Their father, for one thing. He had similar operations popping up every day in different tourist highways, then vanishing before les keufs could catch wise. Ep and Zelma were the best, though. Had been since they were kids.

Foot traffic lulled. He whistled to them, both fingers in his mouth. "Hey, we goin to the brasserie today?"

"Yeah, we got enough for one afternoon," Ep replied, "we oughta bounce.”

They walked under the trees with Gavroche, and by the time all three had crossed the road, jackets had been removed, caps turned inside out, and hairstyles altered. They descended into the metro, each stood in line behind someone using a metro card, and barrelled right after them through the gates before they closed. Getting around Paris had been way more difficult when everywhere had turnstiles.

"I dunno why we go to these things," said Zelma in the train carriage, flipping down her septum piercing. "I don't even get what they're sayin half the time."

"Free food," said Gavroche, at the same time as Ep said "hot boys".

"Dad would like, kill us I bet.” She whispered, even though everyone around them was American.

"Nah, he doesn't give a fuck who we hang out with, so long as we don't fuck with the other quads."

"What about the new guy? Drunk one? He comes from our ends, I heard he lives with Montparnasse."

"Montparnasse is a chickenshit hitman. Him and the rest of PM are in dad's pocket. And we don't fuck with him anyway, I checked Grantaire out and I think he has no idea what's up. Monty would rather eat his own toes than come with Grantaire to the Musain."

Gavroche was only half listening to his sisters. He was buzzing to get to the meeting. Free food had been a large part of the original appeal when they'd first run into the club at the Musain, 'Les Amis de l'ABC', but a true fire for justice now burned in his twelve year old chest. He'd been kicked out of the house before he could read, and who had cared? Just another grubby kid in a hoodie wandering around St Denis. Home had been worse, the foster system doubly so. Ep would get a flat, take him and Zelma in if she could, but where was the work?

He chewed it all over in his mind, wise eyes crackling in a cherubic face, until they reached their destination. When they got to the right street, he sprinted ahead of his sisters, towards his new brother in all but blood; Courfeyrac.

"Woah! Hey little dude. Come here, come in," he turned to shout through the doorway of the brasserie, the Café Musain, his arm resting on Gavroche's head, "hey! The Thenardiers are here!"

It was crazy to Gavroche that they'd found a place where someone could yell that the Thenardiers had arrived, and nobody would run for the exits. On the contrary, cries of welcome ran down the stairs as they climbed them. Louison Safi, their ever tolerant hostess, pinched Gavroche's cheek on the way past. Courf practically carried him into the room, and Ep and Zelma made a beeline for Jehan, an eccentric slam poet and their new fashion icon, to discuss everything they'd seen on Instagram in recent memory.

Gavroche's first point of order was to rush to the bathroom and clean himself up. Louison probably wouldn't have minded him coming in every morning to wash and brush his teeth and stuff, but he didn't want her parents, who actually owned the place, to notice she was using their business resources to look after some random urchin.

Refreshed, he emerged, and started to circuit the tables like a prince socialising around a ballroom. Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac were gathered at the head table with the snacks, so were obviously the first port of call. As he shoved cake into his mouth and bread rolls into his bag, Courfeyrac told him they were designing and distributing some petitions about police brutality. "Oh, cool, you should ask Ep and Zelma 'bout that. They're SUPER good at getting folks to sign stuff." Enjolras nodded with sincere interest, Combeferre narrowed his eyes in suspicion, and Courfeyrac laughed and ruffled his hair.

He passed over Jehan and his sisters' table fairly quickly, as he had no idea what a hot cloth cleanser was or why they all needed a new one. Next stop was a slightly older squad; Feuilly, Bahorel, and Louison. The two men, one a wiry-muscled fan maker, one a brick-shithouse-muscled lawyer, were resting up at the bar where Louison was cleaning dishes. Really, she should go help out downstairs if Les Amis had finished ordering everything, but her parents had indulged her interest in the group ever since the law students (Combeferre and Enjolras) had helped them out in reporting a hate crime last year. Louison tucked a stray strand of hair back into her lilac headscarf, laughing at one of Bahorel's jokes, and asked Gavroche if he wanted a drink. "Orange juice on the rocks, s'il vous plaît."

"Any good stories today Gav?" said Feuilly with a grin.

"No! It's tragic! Nothing interesting has happened all bloody week. The highlight was someone left almost a whole McDonalds on a bench. Don't worry, I managed to fight the pigeons off it in time. Stupid birds didn't know what hit 'em."

They all laughed, but Bahorel and Louison had a little more concern in their faces. Les Amis were not exactly aware of how literally Gavroche meant it when he called himself a street urchin. They probably assumed he at least lived with his sisters and parents, and none of them were going to be corrected any time soon. The Thenardiers had no love for their dad, but they weren't stupid enough to say something that could get him arrested. And boy, would these guys be willing to get a shit like their dad arrested. It was tempting, sometimes, since he was sure Les Amis would let him crash with them 24/7 if they knew. He'd have to settle for him and Courfeyrac's 'bro-sleepovers' at the weekends for now.

The last table, and most exciting, was the furthest back from the holy trinity and their snacks. It contained two new additions, called Grantaire and Musichetta, who were both thrilling in their own way. Their compatriots, Joly and Bousset, used to be very productive members of the group, but had somewhat lapsed in their contributions since their best friend and (shared!) girlfriend had arrived.

Musichetta, the statuesque museum guide, was conceptually fascinating to Gavroche. He was nearly a teenager now, and keenly aware that normal kids his age would be dating soon, but he didn't know any girls or how you would possibly ask one out. Yet somehow, in the limited pool of a university dorm, Musichetta had managed to find two boyfriends in the span of one week, and keep them til this day. Clearly she was filled with much vital wisdom. She was a firecracker in debate, but kept such good humour that she could never upset anyone she disagreed with. If she was thirteen instead of twenty-three, he would definitely be in love with her as well.

Grantaire, the busker, was interesting like a car crash was interesting. For one thing, he got drunk every meeting. Gavroche had missed the first time he'd attended, and nobody would tell him what had happened, but it was probably the reason Louison had set him on a four-drink limit. For another thing, he had met Enjolras during community service and apparently just followed him here, which was objectively hilarious. Equally hilarious: everyone called him R. You have to appreciate a man who sacrifices his identity for a pun.

The table was unusually sombre when Gavroche arrived. Joly was in a tizz about something. He often was, and everyone tried to indulge him, as he could hardly help his OCD. This time, though, Grantaire was rolling his eyes. "He's not gonna kill me, Joly. Not everyone can live the sheltered life you and your doctor friends are used to -"

"R! Please! This isn’t -"

Bousset pretty blatantly kicked Joly under the table, and the friends noticed Gavroche standing there, hands in pockets, smiling at them. "Hey guys!"

"Hello, Gavroche," said Musichetta warmly, pulling out a chair for him, "want to sit with us? You can distract these boys from arguing about nothing."

"It isn't nothing!"

Gavroche accepted the seat. "Who's gonna kill R?"

Bousset and Musichetta groaned. R explained, "Joly is scared of my roommate. He wants me to find a new place, like I could afford it."

"That's Montparnasse, right?"

"Yeah, like the tower. How'd you hear that?"

"Ep knows him. Kinda."

"Oh, right, yeah I think she mentioned."

This did not calm Joly down. "She... she kinda? She kinda knows him?" In an alarmed whisper, he leant across the table to Gavroche; "listen, no judgement here, but isn't Eponine sort of... isn't Eponine 'kinda' a criminal?"

This was delicious. "Ahhh, that's pretty subjective. She's never been arrested!" Joly looked almost comforted, until Gavroche said, "Montparnasse super has been, though. Arrested, I mean. Bad bad dude. Ep called him a chickenshhh- actually, I shouldn't tell you that. Plausible deniability."

Joly had turned pale, and seemed genuinely faint. He took a swig of his drink, but was prevented from worrying at R further by Combeferre calling clear across the room.

"All right, everyone, the general assembly is beginning.”

Eponine Thenardier

Eponine loved the Musain. Downstairs, it was a fairly average brasserie, chiefly staffed by various members of the Safi family. The room Les Amis hired upstairs was a delight. Cushioned chairs splayed out around round tables, and green lamps dangled from the ceiling like those paintings of dogs playing poker. She almost felt like she was in a painting when she was there. Her and Zelma could be ladies in waiting, to Jehan in all their finery. In front of the damask curtained windows, Combeferre, Enjolras and Courfeyrac cast a last supper tableau over the snack trays. Feuilly, Bahorel, and Louison were perhaps less picturesque at the bar, but Bahorel’s dramatic waistcoats and Louison’s homely gowns could fit a Shakespearean commoners’ scene. The table Gavroche had chosen for the evening were the poker dogs themselves; drinking, laughing, arguing, and often literally playing cards.

Eponine knew she wasn’t nearly as educated as at least two thirds of the room, but there’s no better free place to sit than the Louvre, and she longed for the kind of historic excitement she’d been reading on those little white museum placards her whole life. She couldn’t inherit her father’s world. She didn’t want to just exploit the system, to root around in its garbage, to survive another day. She wanted Liberty leading the people, she wanted Dante’s circles of judgement, she wanted Helen on the ramparts, watching Troy burn.

That started with Enjolras, the blonde bombshell dressed in red down to his socks. As he rose to speak on Combeferre’s invitation, he came to life. It was something she really cared about too, police brutality, but no-one had ever cared for her opinion before - because of course the kids of crooks will say the police should be less violent, why should anyone listen to them?

When she raised her hand here, everyone turned their heads. Combeferre gave her the floor.

“You can’t just focus on all these cases where innocent people were attacked. Even if someone’s committed a crime, they don’t deserve to get their face smashed on the floor.”

Enjolras nodded, and re-read his petition draft. “I suppose I was pre-occupied with the lawyer’s perspective, how to get sympathy of the jury, you know. You’re correct, of course, it’s a violation of rights either way - “

“I second the lawyer’s perspective.” Bahorel grimaced. He wasn’t his profession’s biggest fan. “If we want this petition to have any effect on the Chancellerie, you can’t even hint it’s gonna benefit convicted criminals.”

“Sorry, what do petitions do anyway?” piped a voice from the back of the room. Enjolras closed his eyes like he was awaiting the sweet release of death. Grantaire was starting early today.

“They put public pressure on officials from their constituents between elections. In this case, from the districts of Paris to each mayor and the police municipalities they run.”

“Sounds like the kind of thing I’d only care about in an election year anyway, if that were me.”

The thing about Grantaire that Eponine had noticed these past months, the thing that seemed to annoy Enjolras most of all, was not that he was wrong, but that he was sadly often right.

“Luckily, you aren’t the mayor. Eponine and Bahorel, you both have good points, but personally I would fall on Eponine’s side - we don’t need to convince the Chancellerie. As Grantaire has so… helpfully reminded us to consider, the point of these petitions is to push for training policies at the district level, and there are plenty of voters in these districts who can empathise with every victim of the issue.”

“That’s a nice way of saying everyone from our ends is bent” said Gavroche, earning him a belly laugh and a high five from Grantaire.

“Could we change the text depending on the district?” asked Courfeyrac, and on and on the debate went.

Eventually, Louison couldn’t pretend to be washing the same dish any longer, and started downstairs. As she did, she almost bowled over somebody who seemed to have been loitering in the shadows of the stairwell.

“Oh! Oh gosh! I am so sorry! No no, let me pick it up,”

“Honey, you’re making it worse,”

They heard a crash as a mug bounced down the steps.

“Oh no! Oh no!”

“Really, please just go up hon, we have more than one”

Everyone was craning their necks towards the sounds of the newcomer. From the darkness he emerged, red-faced, red-haired and bony. If everyone had to be a painting, he was one of the young Napoleons, still wispy and waifish against the gunsmoke.

“Marius!” said Bossuet, as Courfeyrac yelled “Pontmercy!”

Jehan elbowed Eponine. “Oh, you’ll like this one.”

Did she ever.

Gavroche Thenardier

The storm began slowly.

The new guy, Marius, seemed innocent enough. Probably too innocent; bordering on oblivious. He took a seat at the closest possible opportunity, realised he was alone and everyone else was in groups, then scooted his chair one table forward, next to Eponine.

Gavroche could tell his sister was checking out Marius like a lynx eyes a wounded deer. Marius loudly whispered to her, “what did I interrupt?”

Courfeyrac saved him the trouble of blending in with a grandiose announcement. “Everybody! This is my new roommate-slash-best-friend Marius Pontmercy, I met him on the street for the first time yesterday. I know this news will be heartbreaking for many of you who I have previously considered best friends - Jehan, Combeferre, Enjolras, our times together will always be special to me - but Marius is where it is at now. He has no idea how to do laundry, and yesterday he tried to wear velvet to the Monoprix. I hope you accept him into your hearts and minds, as I have.”

Marius gave them all a pained smile. “Hi.”

“Welcome to the general assembly of Les Amis de l’ABC,” said Combeferre, “I was hoping you’d be able to make it. As I believe you know, I’m the chair of the meeting. You’ve also met Enjolras, our chief strategist, and of course Courfeyrac, our community organiser. Bahorel over there is our legal advisor. Could the rest of you just wave when I say your name? That’s Feuilly, who lives with Bahorel in Montmartre, those three are Joly, Musichetta, and Bousset who you’ve apparently met, the little one is Gavroche, and his sisters Eponine and Azelma are on your table. That’s Grantaire, or just ‘R’, and you know Jehan from our building. Other groups and members of the public attend now and then, but we aren’t planning a big protest at the moment.” Marius was clearly a little overwhelmed. Gavroche flashed him a crooked-toothed grin. “Don’t worry, we don’t expect you to learn everyone’s name, or even come back again if this isn’t your thing. At the moment we’re finishing the draft of a petition about police brutality.”

“Oh, uh, cool, is there a lot of that, around here?”

Gavroche snorted, which made R and Azelma openly laugh. Who was this guy? Where had he been? He could see Ep hushing Zelma. “She doesn’t mean it, it’s fine you didn’t know.”

Enjolras was still standing. The clipboard he’d been editing the petition on was tucked firmly under his arm. He did not seem to find Marius’ ignorance entertaining.

“Do you not watch the news? There isn’t ‘a lot of that round here’, there’s a lot of violence everywhere, endemic within the police force. It’s just that the residents of certain areas are demographically more likely to be shielded by their privilege.”

“Yeah, see,” said Ep to Gavroche “how should he know about that? I bet he comes from a real nice neighbourhood. You can tell cause he’s got manners.”

“I didn’t say nothing! Carry on, Enjolras, my dude. Write this thing!”

Carry on they did. The finer points of the petition’s advertising were pinned down, and they moved to the actual demands they wanted to make before the next town hall. Gavroche kept watching the new guy, though. He could tell, from that first pained smile, there was something that bothered him about being here. Now and then, when one of the people speaking mentioned a precedent or an older meeting, Eponine would lean over to whisper in his ear. Her explanations just seemed to make him more confused, with a dash of concerned.

It came to a head when Feuilly called out, “this is all well and good, but how do we not look like hypocrites the next time we end up fighting les keufs at a rally?”

“Well A. because you should only fight the police if you’re in the black bloc,” replied Enjolras, “and B. because we bring cameras so the people can see them hit us first.”

Marius raised his hand. Grantaire cleared his throat; “our new member has something to contribute, oh great leader.”

Enjolras whipped his head, hawk-like, to the other side of the room. It was obvious to everyone else that this annoyance was meant for Grantaire, but Marius quailed. “Um. Sorry. I was just going to ask what the black bloc was, I was just- are you talking about fighting the police?”

“The black bloc are the masked section of the protest that defend the rest of the group when things go wrong. And yes, yes we are.”

“So… so he’s right, then? Isn’t he? I’m sorry, what was your name, Feuilly is right, you will look like hypocrites, won’t you? Because you are!”

“Excuse me?” Oh no, now the annoyance was all focused on Marius. Jeez.

“You’re meeting violence with violence. How is that right? An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind, that’s what my father would say.”

Enjolras laughed, “I’m sure he also says that anyone shot by the police probably had it coming, and people are far too sensitive these days, and don’t all lives matter?”

“Well, don’t they?”

Things started spirally pretty quickly after that. “Saying that doesn’t actually help any of the people who clearly matter far less to the political elites and judicial system, and it’s frankly insulting-

“Well I’m not trying to insult you!”

“Not to me! To the black and ethnic minorities-

“Is it about race? Earlier it was about which neighbourhood people came from?”

“And you know what the people in poorer neighbourhoods look like, so,“

Gavroche’s sisters looked more despondent at every sentence Marius and Enjolras were heading down. Gavroche nudged Grantaire as they exchanged their barbs. “Hey, R, I bet you a drink you can’t turn this round on Enjolras. I think this is one time even you couldn’t get a win.”

Grantaire narrowed his eyes at his little friend. “And how are you planning to get a drink?”

“Louison’s not at the bar, is she? I can go ‘fill up my orange juice’ any time I want.”

R considered it, as he caressed the last dregs of his fourth beer of the gathering. Gavroche could always tell when he’d hit his limit, from the time he spent nursing it. “Ok, deal.”

“-if you’re not happy with the realities of resistance in the 21st century, then-“

Marius stood up, to be at eye level with his opponent across the room. “I just don’t see what you’re resisting! I’m not a conservative, you know, my father voted very liberally when he was in politics, for all sorts of laws that improved equality and so forth, and my family has always given a lot to charity,”

“Oh, a Liberal, well thank goodness you’ve arrived,” Enjolras remarked dryly (for some reason he'd become a lot more sarcastic over the past few weeks). He seemed ready to finally dismiss Marius, until Grantaire cleared his throat for the second time.

“Great leader, forgive me,”

“First, I'm not your leader, I'm not even the chair. Second, what am I to forgive, Grantaire?”

“Well, I may be wrong, and please do correct me if so - but isn’t the point of… all this,” he waved his hand airily around the room, to the posters tacked to their boards, to the head table and the holy trinity, and to all the very awkward looking Amis, “isn’t the point of all this to convince people such as Marius of your cause?”

Enjolras flushed.

“Am I wrong?”

Through gritted teeth, “No.”

“So… convince him.”

A few moments passed. Marius’ feet shuffled a little, unsure whether or not to sit down. Enjolras exhaled gently, and straightened up, and walked out from behind his table, leaning back against it at the front. “Alright. Not that this meeting is supposed to be a lecture, but alright.” Combeferre and Courfeyrac smiled at each other behind him. “Marius, are you willing to hear a brief thesis of this group’s beliefs?”

Marius looked relieved. “Of course, I mean, I have the time.” People chuckled.

“Les Amis de l’ABC believe in social justice, rather than simple social equality. Imagine you’re watching a football match over a fence, but some people can’t see the game. The first step into left wing politics is to acknowledge why some people aren’t having the same experience; they’re too short to see over the fence. A classically liberal solution would be to hand everyone a crate to stand on. Everyone is now equal, they say, because we gave them all the same resources, and now more people can see over the fence. This equality is an ineffective solution; after all, you could already see over the fence, and now you have an even better view, but there are probably people still too short to see anything even with their one crate. The philanthropic thing for you to do is to acknowledge your privilege and give your crate to somebody who needs two. It sounds like that’s where your father falls on the political spectrum-“

“Fell.”

Enjolras paused, and nodded. His face softened a little more. “Where he fell on the political spectrum. And that’s all well and good because it does tangibly improve the lives of the people you help, and if the redistribution of wealth is consistent then it provides a level of social equity, the next step to the left. The final step, and where we find ourselves in this room above the Musain once a week, is to consider the fuller picture of what is going on. What has been wrong with this scene from the beginning?”

Marius seemed stumped. Gavroche raised his glass, and called out; “Who built the bloody fence in the first place?”

Enjolras grinned. “Exactly. In this room, we aim not only to acknowledge the context and history of who is in pain, and to find resources to alleviate their pain, but to face the systems that caused the pain and ultimately reshape them. Drill holes, break off panels, tear the whole damn fence down! And I don’t expect you to be on board with that right away, as the son of what sounds like a proud social carpenter. What I hope you can understand, though, is that our enemy is institutional oppression. When I pull a police officer off my friend, or shout down a fascist in the street, or even debate a by all accounts lovely person such as yourself -“ Marius smiled. “that’s not me against one other person. That’s me against every point in the history of greed and power that pit us against each other.”

“Well, I am one other person, is the problem.”

“Quite. And I have been known to... forget myself, and forget to treat people as individuals, before. My apologies if I’ve put you off our perspective for good.”

“So, that’s why you fight the police?”

“Sometimes. When we look at them, we see every institution behind them, and they know everyone is behind them as well. Imagine Feuilly punching a courthouse, if it makes you feel better.”

“Uh… that weirdly does help.” Everyone laughed, and Bahorel clapped Feuilly on the back.

As Marius finally felt free to sit down, Grantaire said “don’t worry, my first meeting was even worse,” eliciting further laughs from everyone besides the head table.

Combeferre stood up. “We’ve overrun our time. Courfeyrac will send you all a new petition draft tomorrow so you can vote on it. We can call the assembly to a close for today.” Enjolras nodded slowly, turned to organise his papers, and talk started up again around the room.

Gavroche tugged on Grantaire’s sleeve. He was still staring rapt at Enjolras, even though the speech was done. “Hey, R, I gotcha somethin.” He waggled a beer bottle at him.

“You little sneak thief! When did you get that?”

“Uh, during the incredibly long speech, duh. Good distraction.” He slid the bottle over to his older friend, grateful Musichetta, Bossuet, and Joly were preoccupied with their own discussion about events.

Grantaire pushed the bottle away.

“Hey! What gives! Est tu R ou pas?”

“I didn’t win the bet.” He nodded towards Enjolras. “He won.”

Gavroche rolled his eyes. Guh. What a time for the drunkard to develop some honour. “Well, try not to be too happy that you averted a catastrophe.”

“Did I?” He was still looking into the distance, with a strange expression.

Gavroche left Grantaire to his thoughts, supposing the four drink limit was a good idea after all. He skipped away, around tables and stools, doing the rounds of his kingdom once more. Before he could get over to Courfeyrac, he was stopped by his sister Eponine. She caught him by the shoulder and leant down. “I saw what you did.”

“What? Who did what? Who stole a beer?”

“No, the other thing. It was nice of you to help defuse that. I think hanging out with these guys has been better for you than living with us ever was.”

“Well. It would still be nice to live with you.”

“That’s not what I meant, Gav, listen - dad’s out tonight. I'm sure we'll be alone. Come eat with us.”

Gavroche shrunk into himself a little, and fiddled with his threadbare pockets. “Well, I guess I do miss your gourmet microwave cooking.”

“That’s my boy.”

“You sure Marius isn’t your new boy?” he goaded in a sing song voice.

She smiled wryly, and lifted him into a hug, “oh Gav, you know you’ll always be our number one. No matter how many pretty idiots we meet here, none of them compare to the ugly idiot we came in with.”

He laughed and tried to shove her away, and to any revolutionary, drunkard, or hapless fool watching, they looked for all the world like a pair of normal siblings again.

Chapter Text

Jehan

Jehan took their hood down when they got out of the Metro. Paris was cutting into December now, but there was always an armed street patrol around Châtelet. Jehan didn’t want to look like they were trying to hide their face. Not when they already didn’t look like your usual Parisien.

They rounded the corner - ah, there were the military and machine guns, right by the Lego store. What a chilling juxtaposition of childhood wonder and adult horror. They rummaged in their shoulder bag, finding their notebook to write that thought down as bangles cascaded down their arms. “Oh, sorry, excuse me.” Better get out of the crowd, first.

They kept moving, on to Sebastopol, and into Thalone’s. It was their favourite place to sit and work, besides the Musain of course. It was a very good value café that didn’t look very French, so naturally was full of French people. Not that Jehan minded tourists - tourists were very interesting to watch and talk to in their way, but sometimes Jehan sought refuge in less crowded pockets of Paris. That tended to mean either slightly shittier, or much more expensive, and as a freelance poet the slightly shittier spots were a better bet.

They weren’t here to stay though, this time. They had an important mission to complete.

They collected three coffees from Thalone’s, which sent up plumes of steam from their cardboard tray as Jehan scurried back out down the boulevard, airy scarves blowing in the cold breeze behind them. They reached the park at the intersection with all three cups still piping hot.

A few pairs of community service workers were cleaning the park and the tower in its centre. Jehan always thought of it as the tower of the broken saints, as it looked like there was supposed to be a saint on each corner of the pinnacle, and all but one had fallen off. The last man standing loomed precariously down upon them, forever threatening the same fate.

Combeferre had said the pinnacle was actually built that way, and was the remaining tower of a church that was destroyed in the French Revolution, but that didn’t strike Jehan as quite so romantic.

Eventually Jehan spotted them - Enjolras and Grantaire, with two sponges and a bucket, cleaning off a glossy map built into a wall by a park bench. Or at least, that’s what they were probably supposed to be doing. Instead, Grantaire was telling some tall tale complete with wild gesticulations, and Enjolras was watching him… amused? That didn’t seem right. All the two acquaintances ever did was antagonise each other (which was partly why Jehan had come). But no, Grantaire seemed perfectly happy prattling on, and Enjolras was standing ramrod straight with his arms crossed, which in Enjolras language meant he was incredibly relaxed.

“Yoohoo! Look who’s here! Hey, R, Enjolras!”

The most incredible transformation occurred. Grantaire turned in surprise, saw Jehan, made some final joking comment to Enjolras, and the other man almost instantly turned red and snapped at him. This drew a raised eyebrow, another sardonic comment, and by the time Jehan was close enough to hear what they were saying it was pure vitriol.

“Can’t believe you could think that even after knowing me for five minutes,” Enjolras stammered, “and on my count it’s been five weeks-“

“Six weeks, you know I count the days, so grateful I am-”

“Do you always have to get one up on me? Can you never let someone just-“

“Can you?”

“-finish their sentence!”

“Why bother, when I know what you’re going to say?”

“Alright!” Jehan yelled across them. “Both of you stop it! Have your coffee, your shift should be over!”

“We have to get signed off, but thank you.” Enjolras took the coffee very gratefully. The two were both wearing jumpers under their community service scrubs, but cleaning the signs had left them with damp and shivering hands.

“Well go, get signed off, because the party starts in just a few hours and you agreed to help!”

“Party?” Grantaire tilted his head, quizzically.

Jehan glared at Enjolras, who shrugged, seeming nonplussed. His beetroot red face told a different story. “Enjolras must have forgotten to tell you, R. We decided to host a small get-together at Courfeyrac’s - well, at all of ours. Just Les Amis, so of course we want you to come too.”

Obviously, Jehan could have put Joly, Bossuet, or Musichetta on the case, or even just asked someone for Grantaire’s number and done it themself, but they had very deliberately entrusted Enjolras with this invitation. Half the point of the party was to help all the newcomers get along with the old guard, and that buck started with these two knuckleheads.

“Oh. Huh. Yeah, guess he forgot.” Grantaire mumbled.

“I’ll go get us both signed off, Jehan can fill you in,” Enjolras practically ripped Grantaire’s time sheet out of the top pocket of his scrubs and hurried off down the path.

Jehan would’ve expected Grantaire to use this opportunity to mock Enjolras, or get mad at him, but instead he looked completely blank. “R? R, hey, you haven’t taken your coffee.” It took a moment for him to register what Jehan had said. He was just staring at where Enjolras had been standing.

“Hmm? Oh. Yeah. Thanks. So, uh, I don’t… I don’t know if I can make it, I can’t really afford to go out, so-“

“You think it’s ‘bring your own booze’? No, don’t be silly, Courfeyrac’s paying. And we’re not gonna go to a bar or anything afterwards, it’ll just be us in the house. Joly and Bossuet and Musi are all coming, and they said they can give you a lift, they want you there. It’s like a spur of the moment thing. A wild night of youthful revelry!” Jehan unravelled one of their sequinned scarves and offered it to Grantaire, “you can find your inner bohemian.”

Some life edged back into Grantaire’s face. “Bohemian? You want me to live in artistic squalor while my lover dies of tuberculosis? Because if so then I’m halfway there.” He smirked, and sipped his coffee.

“It’s not necessary to be that committed to the theme, but do put on the scarf though, you look freezing.”

As Grantaire warmed up, his mood warmed too, and after returning the community service scrubs the three of them walked back to the metro together in mostly silent peace before parting ways. As soon as Grantaire waved goodbye to Jehan and walked off to his own platform, Jehan turned on Enjolras. He was studying a security camera screwed into the wall by the information sign.

“Hey. Great leader. Penny for your thoughts?”

“Don’t call me that!” Enjolras sighed, “god, that’s what he calls me.”

“Why was that the first time Grantaire heard about our party?”

Enjolras’ ears were turning pink. “I was just about to tell him.”

“Oh were you? Well, you’re also just about to spend several hours with him, so if I were you I’d either learn the art of camouflage, or learn the art of one-on-one people skills. Which would you prefer?”

Enjolras frowned, considering the options.

Jehan clipped him round the ear.

Enjolras

Everybody came. Combeferre’s flat was heaving with raucous conversation, and frankly dreadful music. Eponine was monopolising the aux cord, and her club playlist was not to Enjolras’ taste.

It wasn’t til it got a little later, when Louison had left and given Gavroche a ride back to wherever the kid lived, that things grew truly out of hand. Enjolras felt like he had to put in an effort. He cheered with everyone else as Bahorel and Feuilly arm wrestled, and even put his best foot forward on the living room dancefloor, but his heart wasn’t in it. He’d seen Grantaire slip out the door soon after Louison and Gavroche had gone, and he felt worse about that than he would have expected. All the joyful noises of Les Amis weren’t helping, and after a few rounds of cocktails even his closest friends’ conversation was wearing thin on him.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac were having some debate about moral philosophy, except neither of them could remember the Kant quote they were trying to dissect, and when Enjolras tried to offer it to them Courfeyrac called him a nerd and tried to make him take a tequila shot. He would have called him a nerd anyway, but if he was sober he would at least have let him finish the quote.

As soon as he thought he could get away with it, when Jehan was distracted by trying to finally wrestle back control of the music choice, Enjolras left the party floor.

He snuck upstairs, past the food and drink station that Courfeyrac’s floor had become, past his own doorway, and up through the hatch onto their neglected roof garden. He breathed in the crisp air gratefully, before realising he wasn’t alone.

Grantaire was leaning against the glass and wrought iron roof railing, a bottle of Red Label whisky in one hand, staring up at the stars.

“Oh! This is where you went.”

Grantaire startled back. “Shit. Uh. Enjolras. Yeah, I needed a minute.”

Enjolras walked over to the same railing, and craned his neck over the edge. The street below them was quiet under the streetlights, besides the odd shout or swell in the music bleeding through Combeferre’s windows. They stood there in the silence for a moment, both following the taillights of the occasional car with their eyes. “You know, I was going to tell you about the party.”

Grantaire looked behind him at first, as though he was expecting Enjolras to be talking to somebody else. “Oh uh, it’s okay. I mean, you didn’t-“

“No, it’s not okay. I should have just gotten it over with. I think I was waiting for the right moment or something, but it isn’t like I didn’t want you to-

“It’s fine. Enjolras. It’s fine.”

He heard a crash from downstairs, and just prayed that the revellers would obey his edict to stay out of his floor of the house. “I don’t like parties.”

“Yeah. They can get… stressful. I can see why you’d, uh-”

“Too many people in too close a space. And nobody’s really thinking about what they’re saying, which is certainly nothing worthwhile, because they’re all drunk as trout.” He raised an eyebrow at Grantaire. “Not that you’re ever an exception.”

“And you think you are?”

“No. I’m not an interesting drunk either.” A cyclist rode down the street, lights on, weaving around poorly parked overpriced cars. “That’s why I don’t drink much.”

“Oh yeah? What is the uh, the wildest thing you’ve ever done when you had too much champagne of an evening?”

“Tch. Well, you already know about the metro graffiti. I suppose I’ve been arrested a few other times for… similar misdemeanours.” Enjolras knew that thought would entertain him. 

Grantaire chuckled. “Got to make the pigs earn their wages, huh?”

Enjolras smiled, “maybe I wouldn’t put it like that-“

“Oh no, ‘course not, you would uh - protest against the justice system by taking up officer time. Sounds better for the blog.”

They both laughed, and Enjolras said “see, sometimes I do actually find you kind of funny.”

“Oh, I dunno, you’re alright yourself - when you aren’t trying to convince me of anything.”

Enjolras considered what he was about to say. He decided he could trust Grantaire with it. “It’s strange, I mean, when I first met you, I actually found you rather charming. Attractive, even.”

He watched the headlights rolling down boulevards in the distance for a moment, before realising it had been too long for Grantaire to have nothing to say, and turning to face the man.

Grantaire’s mouth made a perfect little ‘o’, mirroring his saucer wide eyes. He swallowed visibly when Enjolras looked at him, then spun away in a precarious circle, his bottle swinging around him, and barked with laughter like he was trying to force something out of his body.

“Oh I’m not - are you? You’re joking, aren’t you? You don’t mean that? I can’t… I’m not…” Grantaire seemed almost angry, and for some reason wasn’t looking at Enjolras, but instead at the reflective sheen of the glass panels set into the railing. “It’s not that I have a problem with that, like, my best friends… but I, I can’t be. I don’t… it’s fine. I mean like, you’re fine, but I’m not. You know. I’m not gay.”

Apparently his trust had been misplaced.  Enjolras drew himself to the fullest height he could muster, and pushed himself back from the railing. “Don’t flatter yourself. Like I said, it was my very first impression. It’s definitely gone now.” He turned on his heel to go back inside.

Grantaire seemed to reach out towards him for a moment, before stumbling in his drunkenness instead.

Enjolras slammed the roof hatch shut behind him, and rushed down the stairs with a sickly heat spreading from his stomach. For goodness sake. For goodness sake. Could he not even make small talk without Grantaire ruining it? Without him saying something incendiary, or worse?

Whatever. Unimportant. Don’t think about it.

And another thing, why did he have to drink so much? He drank beer like a camel at an oasis in the desert. He drank whisky like a child devouring a juice box after football practice. He had no self control.

Not that that was any of Enjolras’ business. He certainly wasn’t going to give it another thought.

But one last thing, how come he only acted so awful to Enjolras? Other people seemed to get along with him just fine, people Enjolras very much respected. Actually, that wasn’t the whole story, because he was at his most tolerable at community service, and nobody was around there. So was this torture a game, to him? A hilarious performance, making fun of silly Enjolras for the entertainment of his friends?

Enjolras was now in Courfeyrac’s kitchen, muttering to himself, walking aimlessly between drawers and cabinets, opening and closing them with no end goal in mind. Of course, he could have gone back to his own flat and locked the door behind him. He was very obviously waiting for somebody to ask him what was wrong, and he hated himself for it.

“What’s wrong, Enjolras?” Jehan had arrived, and sat on one of the bar stools up against Courfeyrac’s marble kitchen island, with an understanding smile.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Uh-huh.”

Enjolras looked around the room. Just Courfeyrac and Marius chatting on the sofa by the food table. Great, and now he was going to lose his best friend to a– to a centrist. He made an inarticulate noise, sat on the bar stool next to Jehan, and buried his face in his arms. “Mmf mmf mm-mmf-“

“Can’t hear you, dear.”

“I said why do people have to be so…”

“Complicated?”

“Annoying.”

“Hmm.” Jehan pretended to examine their nail polish. “Not the best attitude to bring to a party.”

“I was right about him all along. I told you so.” Enjolras would generally never be so petty in front of anyone but Jehan, Combeferre, or Courfeyrac. He considered himself to have a stoic reputation to keep up. Not that after six weeks of being barraged by Grantaire he had any worthwhile reputation left to speak of. “Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe I provoke him.” That would explain the disaster of his first meeting.

“Provoke who?” Jehan asked.

“Oh, you know who. Maybe I’m being too uptight, he needs to relax, and then that’s why he drinks so much, and why he- why he ruins everything.”

“Darling, if you’re talking about R, I think he drinks so much because he’s an alcoholic.”

Jehan

Enjolras looked up at them, shocked. “What?”

Oh sweet, simple Enjolras. It was important to remember that he was a genius, but also kind of a moron. This definitely fell outside his realms of expertise.

Luckily, it was well within Jehan’s. “You remember, what I went through a few years back?”

“Of course,” Enjolras replied, placing a hand on Jehan’s shoulder. They held it there, gratefully.

“Well, I see a lot of the warning signs in Grantaire that I wish someone had spotted in me back in my wilder days.”

“You think he’s on-“

“No, I don’t mean he’s literally going to underground clubs and taking molly, you big lug. I mean he has the personality of an addict. The dependancy. And I think he has it a lot worse than I ever did.”

Enjolras’ mouth twisted in thought for a moment, and then Jehan, who knew his face better than his own mother, saw him dismiss the possibility. “I don’t think so. He just drinks a lot. It’s not as bad as what happened to you. He doesn’t… change, like you did.”

Jehan rolled their eyes. “Maybe you think that because you’ve never seen him sober.”

“Nope!” Enjolras threw his hands up in the air, then buried his face in them again. “I see him at community service twice a week, and he’s a dick to me then, too!”

Jehan sighed. “Are you sure about that?”

Enjolras grumbled “Sure about whether he's sober? Or sure about whether he's a dick?”, just as Joly and Bossuet walked into the room. Great, another Enjolras shaped spanner in the works of everyone getting along.

“Who’s being a dick?”

“Nothing, Bossuet, don’t worry about it,” said Jehan, kicking Enjolras’ shin under the countertop. The great leader didn’t flinch.

“Who do you think?” they could just about hear from Enjolras. Apparently the genius had also forgotten that despite him having met Joly and Bossuet months before he met Grantaire, those three had been friends even longer than that.

“Is, uh, is R ok?” Joly’s eyes beseeched Jehan over Enjolras’ head.

“Is he ok?” said Enjolras, indignant, “how about is everyone around him okay?”

Joly shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, and Bossuet and he shared a meaningful look. “Uh, yeah, um. It’s just, if he’s in a bad way, one of us should go-“

“I think he went up to the roof?” Jehan offered, and Enjolras nodded from his prone position.

“On it,” said Bossuet, squeezing Joly’s shoulder and walking right back out the door he’d come in from. Joly stared after him. He looked scared. After a moment, the young doctor collected himself, walked over to the sink, and started washing his hands with a sigh. Jehan could see him mouthing numbers as he went.

“You know, Enjolras,” Joly piped up after a moment, “R… he’s not… I’m not making excuses for him- well, I guess I am, but I think he deserves them,”

Enjolras lifted his head up. “You really don’t have to.”

“I just, I don’t want you to think he doesn’t have his own problems,”

“Don’t worry, we can tell Grantaire has problems.”

Jehan nudged Enjolras’ leg with their own. “You know, one thing he has rubbed off on you that I rather enjoy is you’re really getting the hang of jokes.” This didn’t cheer their friend up, and made Joly even more agitated. He dried his hands vigorously on a fluffy towel by the sink, before quick stepping back over to the kitchen island.

“He is like this for a reason,”

“Everyone’s the way they are because of a reason, Joly. It doesn’t excuse him saying… saying the things he says.”

“Yes but Enjolras you don’t- You don’t know what his life has been like!” Joly was shaking. Jehan reached a hand across to him, and he flinched away. “I’ve met his family, okay, and there is a reason no-one else here has, and there is a reason he doesn’t take care of himself, and he’s defensive before anyone’s even attacked him, and he doesn’t care that he lives in a damp basement with a psychopath!”

Jehan frowned. This didn’t feel right. Joly seemed ready to continue, but they held up their hand, “I don’t think R would want you to tell us this, Joly. We’ve all had a bit to drink, and I think you’ll feel better in the morning if you don’t carry on. Me too. Enjolras and I should just have minded our own business.”

Enjolras was sitting up now, alert; “no I want to know, what are you talking about?”

As Joly opened his mouth, Jehan cut across, “I wouldn’t like someone to tell my friends about my family for me, and I feel like R would be the same. Right, Joly?”

Joly hesitated, then nodded, morose and a little tipsy.

“So Enjolras, if you really want to know more about Grantaire, and why he acts the way he does, this is a wild suggestion, but you could maybe try asking him sometime?”

“I have asked him, but it’s always a joke, I questioned him when we first met.”

“And how did that go?”

Enjolras genuinely thought about it for a moment, tapping a finger on the smooth marble countertop. “Well. I told him he was lying. And then he wasn’t lying. And at some point we started having an argument.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You don’t understand though, he would never talk to me honestly about anything.“

Jehan snapped. Enjolras was going to have to learn to be friends with people who lived outside this house eventually, or Jehan was going to die trying to teach him. “How do you know? Was that the only time you’ve even tried to speak about something from his life, seriously? When was the last time you actually asked him a question, hmm? Or do you just talk until you get interrupted these days?”

Enjolras gaped at Jehan, clearly hurt, before screwing up all his shame in his fists and hopping down from the bar stool. Without a word, he sloped away across the room, and sat directly between Marius and Courfeyrac on the sofa, who were very happy to induct him into their conversation. He curled his knees and arms in on himself, and didn’t so much as look at Jehan again.

“Oh yikes.”

Jehan jumped. They’d almost forgotten Joly was there.

“You think he’ll get over that?”

Jehan tucked some strands of hair that had come loose over the evening back into their ponytail. “Definitely. I’ll have a well thought out apology note outside my door tomorrow morning. I’m more worried about when he’s planning to get over himself.”

Joly looked a little sheepish, scratching the short dark hair at the nape of his neck, “well I, uh- listen, you’re right, don’t tell R I was gonna- I’m gonna go over to- oh Musi, hey!” He gratefully peeled away as Musichetta came in the room, and joined her as she walked over to the snack table.

Jehan sighed, alone again. So much for encouraging everyone to get along a little better. They got down from the kitchen island themself, and left Courfeyrac’s floor.

As they climbed past Combeferre’s floor, still filled with cheesy music and general hubbub, down the stairs to their basement, they almost tripped over a lump in the darkness.

“Who- oh, hello Combeferre. How are you?”

“Just seeking a little solace from the crowd.”

Jehan smiled, and sat by their friend. “It’s getting to that time of the evening, isn’t it? Do you mind if we seek solace together?” They didn’t need to wait for the answer, and leant their head on his shoulder.

“Oxymoron, but I’ll allow it.”

“Oh Combeferre, this hasn’t really gone how I had hoped.”

“Ah - did you by any chance hope that at some point in the evening, there would be a magical moment, where everyone became as good a friend to one another as we are?”

“Well… yes, sort of. Am I awfully naïve?”

“I would call you a romantic.”

“And you?”

“I would say an idealistic pragmatist, so I suppose I’m an oxymoron myself.” He put his arm around Jehan. “Don’t worry dear. There are always growing pains. We should just be glad we’re growing.”

“I suppose.”

“You can’t expect so much so soon. Just give it more time. After all, Les Amis started off with just the three of us - Courfeyrac, Enjolras and I. And then the strangest person came along, someone completely different. This ethereal poet, wearing so much jangly jewellery even Courfeyrac knew when they were coming, who made us all take it easy now and then. I’d say that went pretty well. This will go well too.”

“You really think so? I suppose that’s your idealist speaking.” Jehan turned his face up, to see Combeferre’s angular face softly lit by street lamps, filtering down from the staircase windows. They could write a poem about that.

“Nope. This is the pragmatist. I know so.”

Jehan pushed the day’s conversations to the back of their mind, and tried their very hardest to believe him.

Chapter Text

R

Sleep is not the same thing as rest. Grantaire dreamt like a drowning person swims. His mind didn’t want him to see what was down there, at the dark ocean floor of his subconscious, and kept trying to drag him out, up, up, into the air. He woke in fits and starts throughout every night, before succumbing to the depths again. 

Down there below the continental shelf, his limbs went cold, his oxygen depleted, and everything was quiet at last.

Suddenly, light, air, horrible noise.

Montparnasse was banging on Grantaire’s door, and a hammer was banging on the inside of his head.

“What! What? What the fuck are you knocking for, cunt?”

“Let me in,” Montparnasse drawled, “you locked your door.”

Yeah, no shit, thought Grantaire. The first thing he’d spent money on after moving in with Montparnasse had been changing that lock, and he always kept the key in it because he was fairly sure Monty could pick it otherwise. 

“What do you want?” He called out from the bed, unwilling to move. A billeous wave of everything he had said the night before was threatening to wash over him. If he didn’t move, maybe he would survive it.

“To pay you back enculé, what else?” Monty’s voice was sickly sweet. 

Grantaire grumbled, but couldn’t afford to ignore the offer. The difficult thing with Montparnasse is he did do things like this, now and then. He would win some money or get high and randomly buy Grantaire dinner or pay his rent. Grantaire pulled his puppet strings together and lolloped off the bed, kicking clothes out of the way. He unlocked the door to see Monty in shades, one arm up against the doorframe, in a black studded jacket.

“What time is it?” asked Grantaire.

“Well past midday, alcoolo.” Monty grinned his shark-toothed smile, and handed Grantaire a tall glass full of red liquid. “Soigner le mal par le mal.” Drink the evil to cure the evil.

Grantaire sniffed it, tentatively. It seemed like a regular bloody mary, or at least tomato juice mixed with some vodka. He shrugged and started gulping it, and stumbled back to bed. “Thanks.”

Montparnasse took the invitation for what it was, stepping into the room and crinkling his nose at Grantaire’s squalor. It wasn’t really that bad, just a touch dishevelled. All the furniture was secondhand from the side of the road, and all the decor was Grantaire’s old drawings stuck up on the walls. Montparnasse threw himself down into a cracked pleather desk chair, and spun himself around whilst getting a joint out of his pocket. “I need a light.”

“In the pencil case.”

Montparnasse started getting high and monologuing, his favourite activity. Not for the first time, Grantaire wondered if Monty thought they were friends. He decided probably not, as he never left Grantaire much space to actually respond to his speeches about who he saw yesterday and what terrible outfit they were wearing. The dull background noise of it normally prevented Grantaire from thinking too deeply about anything, but something about it wasn’t working today. As he drank le mal, the things he’d said last night kept swimming back up to him. 

Nobody had even wanted him there, that was the real soul killer. Nobody had told him about it until a few hours before. He had such an obvious out, could have saved everybody the bother, and he hadn’t taken it. ‘Sorry, too last minute, I have plans’. Easy. Of course, nobody would have believed he had plans, but he didn’t believe that Enjolras ‘forgot’ to invite him to the party, so they could all have been happy liars together. And Enjolras… God, why had he said… that… to Enjolras. He groaned and massaged his temple with his knuckles.

“Grantaire? Hello? Are you not listening to me?” Monty snipped, irritated.

“No please, by all means go ahead about… whatever you are talking about” 

Montparnasse sneered at him, but like any dyed in the wool narcissist he still continued. 

That made Grantaire think about his father, and he really didn’t want to think about his father, but as he was already in the pit of self loathing he might as well dig further. He looked past Monty to the cracked mirror opposite him, examining all of his father’s crooked features in the reflection. He hadn’t managed to take one good thing from his mother, unless you counted art, which his father certainly didn’t. When Grantaire had made it into art school he’d gotten a box of tampons as a congratulations gift, and he’d had to laugh like the joke was very funny, with the exact same laugh he used for Montparnasse.

A new memory surfaced. Until now he’d forgotten exactly why he’d ranted to Enjolras about not being gay, but a voice in his head politely informed him; ‘It’s strange, I mean, when I first met you, I actually found you rather charming. Attractive, even.’

It had made his brain shut down. It was an impossibility. Nothing about these features was attractive. ‘Don’t flatter yourself. Like I said, it was a first impression. It’s definitely gone now’. So his personality had made it even worse.

He’d finished the Bloody Mary. He started rummaging around the mattress, and then got under the floor and reached under the bed. Sometimes he would tactically ‘lose’ bottles, so that he didn’t finish them too quickly, and they’d be there for when he needed them. He pulled out the dregs of a very cheap whisky and sipped it. 

Montparnasse laughed at him. “I honestly believe drunks are the worst kind of addict. It’s so public. You take something that is supposed to be fun for everyone, and ruin it.”

“Fuck off, bastard” Grantaire muttered from the floor.

“Oh! You’ve finally woken up! You kiss your mother with that mouth? Or, you know, whoever it is you’d kiss.” Monty waved an airy hand at the walls.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Montparnasse snickered and pointed at some of Grantaire’s life drawings pinned above the desk. “I’m sorry, but these always make me laugh. Did you have to draw that area in such detail? Or do you just love cock?”

Before he really knew what he was doing, Grantaire had leapt up at Montparnasse, grabbing his stupid designer jacket and trying to push him out of the door, still on the chair. Montparnasse kept laughing, wilder and wilder, kicking back at Grantaire and eventually socking him in the eye. Grantaire fell back, smacking the back of his head on the desk, and crumpled on the floor.

Montparnasse stubbed out his joint and dropped the remainder on Grantaire’s chest. “The last of my repayment. Have fun!”

After a moment of darkness, Grantaire groaned and clutched his head. White spots flared behind his eyelids. He heard his door slam. Then, almost stopping his heart, he heard the lock click. He tried to open his eyes, but couldn’t move right away, eventually pivoting around on the floor and pulling himself along the carpet. When he looked up at his closed door, the key was not in his side of the lock. 

He pulled himself to his knees, banging on the wall, screaming for Monty. Then he heard a knock on his window outside. It was a basement apartment, and he only had one narrow window in his room, high up on the wall, looking out onto the road. Montparnasse was outside, backpack over his shoulder, and had kicked Grantaire’s window just to give him the finger. Grantaire yelled everything he could think of to convince him to stay, but his black leather boots just clacked away down the road.

Grantaire had been left, in complete silence. 

He rummaged through his cupbaord, but only found a half-drunk bottle of schnapps, and a half eaten bag of nuts. He put them with the joint and the whisky on the table, and crawled back into bed. He looked through the blankets for his phone, then gave up and pulled the covers over his head. After an hour or two of trying to go back to sleep, he heard his ringtone chiming from the kitchen, on the other side of the door.

He wheezed, hysterically, it was absurd, it was cruel. It was almost reassuring, the absolute totality of how bad things were. He curled in on himself, burying his knuckles into his temples again, biting the skin of his other hand. His memories dragged him down, down, down beneath the waves, and he was alone in the deep dark trench of his mind, with only the shadows of sharks swimming over him for company.

Musichetta

“So you live around here?” Musi asked.

“Yeah, our patch goes from about that block over there, up to the highway.” Eponine tried to light a cigarette.

Musi offered her the spare lighter she kept in her purse for Grantaire. “Well, thanks for coming to lunch with me.”

“Hey, thanks for buying me lunch,” said Eponine, hopping up to sit on a small concrete wall at the street corner. She handed the lighter back and took a long drag of smoke.

Taking the lighter reminded Musi to check her phone to see if Grantaire had replied to her yet. No luck.

“So if it’s your car, how come you don’t just paint it yourself?” said Eponine, returning to their earlier conversation.

“Hmm? Oh, I just feel like I’d fuck it up. Like, there’s a reason that’s some peoples’ whole job, you know.”

“Yeah, I know a girl who can do it for you pretty cheap,” Eponine gave her a wicked smile, “you hardly know it’s your own car when she’s done with it.”

“Right. I feel like at this point, I know you well enough to know you’re talking about a chop shop,” said Musi. Eponine laughed. Her hair was tied into little space buns on her head, which made her look way too young and innocent.

“Don’t let that ruin a great deal!”

Musi didn’t answer. She was scrolling back through her messages from the last three days.

“Musichetta? What’s up?”

“Oh, sorry. It’s just - I haven’t heard from R since the party. I told Joly to give him some space, but now I’m getting worried.”

“Yeah, that’s a pretty long hangover.” Eponine peered over Musi’s shoulder at the texts. “He lives with a guy called Montparnasse, right?” Musichetta nodded. “Okay, come with me. I know how to handle Monty.”

The two women had met in the centre of Saint Denis, closer to the Musain and cathedral than Grantaire’s place. Eponine took Musi deeper, into a network of smaller buildings, side alleys, and cracked plaster walls, interspersed with corrugated metal garage shutters that never seemed to be open. It was one of those places where everything was eternally under construction, but when you read the notice taped to them the construction was supposed to have ended two years ago. Playground equipment was cordoned off for improvements that had never come.

“Can you believe they’re bidding to host the Olympics here?” Eponine scoffed.

It didn’t seem possible, Musi agreed, but she didn’t want to insult Eponine’s home. There were pockets of charm scattered throughout; some kids playing 7 Familles on the pavement, an old man feeding the birds, and little delis where Eponine would stop for a few moments and ask a hushed question or two. After a few of these places Musi saw her nod and change direction, and understood she had found her mark. They ducked back through a side street, rounding the corner to a café jammed with slot machines. The awning proudly proclaimed BAR • CAFÉ • CASINO • HOTEL • TABAC • LOTO. It was hard to believe that any one establishment could offer all of these services effectively.

Musi grabbed Eponine’s arm and asked, “what is the game plan here?”

“Just follow behind me and don’t give anyone your full name. If someone comes onto you ignore them, we only need to look at Monty.” 

“There’s a small problem with that,” Musi said, not yet letting go of the other girl’s arm. “I’ve only seen him once, and I sort of punched him off a train platform.”

Eponine laughed. “Musi! That’s hot! Okay fine, I’ll go in alone, you stand outside and try to listen.” It was the type of place that had indoor-outdoor dining, whatever the weather, and bifold doors that kept the seating area open onto the streets.

Eponine pulled her buns out, shook her hair, and unzipped the top of her jacket despite the chill. She pulled Musi over to the café corner, where she could pretend to smoke and glance in through the window now and then. A few young men were sitting just inside, most of them in normal jeans and t-shirts and one in fake-punk biker jacket. He had glossy dark hair and a mischievous grin, which Eponine mirrored at him as she rounded the threshold.

“Montparnasse, how goes it?”

“Ponine! How’s your father?” Even from out on the street, it was clear to Musi that Montparnasse’s eyes were rimmed red.

Eponine made an offended noise. “I ask how you are and you ask how my father is! Hardly polite, Monty. I’m fine, if you care.”

Montparnasse laughed generously and gestured to the men he was sitting with - “don’t you guys have somewhere you’re meant to be? Let the lady sit.”

Musi was fairly sure he’d kicked their shins under the table, and she saw one of them slip Montparnasse a crumpled note before he stood to leave. Eponine sat down in the chair furthest from the window, drawing Montparnasse’s eye away from Musi.

“So what brings you to my neck of the woods?”

“Nothing, really, just passing by. Managed to get away from dad before he gave me any jobs today. You know it’s a crazy coincidence I found you, actually.” She leant across the table to Montparnasse, resting a hand on her chin. Not for the first time, Musi admired Eponine’s natural charisma. 

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah I wanted to ask - do you live with a guy called R?”

Musi couldn’t see Montparnasse’s face any more, but she heard him pause before replying. “Why did you want to ask that?”

“A guy I met recently, he said he lives with someone called Montparnasse. Comme la tour, he always says. I was wondering if it was you.”

Montparnasse relaxed in his seat a little. “Well yeah. Grantaire is his real name. I would stay away from him if I were you, ‘Ponine. He’s a drunk.”

Outside, Musi’s face felt hot, and she turned away from the window. At first, she was outraged on R’s behalf. This guy was calling him bad news? From what little she knew of Montparnasse, she was pretty sure he was a career criminal, and she was definitely sure he’d deserved the punch she gave him. There was a worse feeling that came afterwards, though. A feeling of guilt. There was something about how matter-of-factly Montparnasse had just said it. He’s a drunk. At home, none of them said it, not even to each other. He’s a drunk. It had been true since they met him, and they couldn’t even talk about it; he’s a drunk, and he’s not getting better, she thought. He’s a drunk and he’s getting worse.

Musi snapped back to reality when she heard Grantaire’s name again, and realised she’d missed a lot of conversation.

“-and the other thing, Grantaire has such anger issues, like calm down. It isn’t that serious.”

“Really?” said Eponine, batting innocent eyes at Montparnasse, “he never seems angry to me. The last time I saw him was a house party on Saturday, and he seemed fine there. Actually, I’ve not seen him for a few days since.”

Musi was looking back through the window now, and she saw Montparnasse’s head cock to the side. “What day is it now?” he asked.

“Tuesday, why?”

Montparnasse chuckled, “shit, I should get home soon. I’ve been rolling since Sunday. I gotta let him out of the flat.”

A lead weight formed in Musi’s stomach. Her mouth went dry.

“What?” Eponine laughed, “like he’s a cat or something?” She was such a good actress, it didn’t even sound forced.

“Nah, he was pissing me off. He was real hungover, we had a fight - he’s always locking me out of his room, it’s so fucking annoying. Whenever I need anything it’s stuck in there. So I locked him in there, since he loves it so much.” Montparnasse laughed again, egged on in his admission by Eponine. “I didn’t realise how long I’d been out, though.”

Musichetta couldn’t listen anymore. She ran across the street, tucked next to a dumpster, and called 112. 

“Hello emergency services, are you in a safe place?”

“Yes, I am- it’s my friend, my friend is in trouble-” Musi stammered, “someone needs to break his door down, maybe you’ll need an ambulance too, I don’t know-”

“Try to stay calm, madame, can you give me your friend’s location?”

She gave them Grantaire’s address, and said “he’s been locked in his room for three days by his flatmate, I don’t know if he has food or drink, someone needs to break him out, and he has mental health problems as well, so he’ll be… I know who did it, the guy, I can give you his name, but please get my friend out first, he’s not well - “

“Emergency services are on their way to that address, madame.”

“An ambulance?”

“The police will assess the situation on arrival. The address is known to us, madame, so they will need to sweep it first, and call for health services if needed.”

Through the whole call, Musi had tunnel vision onto the pavement cracks. It didn’t feel real, a conversation like this. It felt like you should be hearing a recording of it on the news. Her voice was too clear, loud to her own ears, rising with panic.

The phone was yanked out her hands.

She looked up at Eponine in a daze, and realised she’d sunk to the floor. Eponine held up the phone to her ear momentarily, then hung up without a word and dropped it in Musi’s lap. She looked furious, a Valkyrie, with wild dark waves of hair crackling around her face.

“What have you done, Musi? You called the cops on R?”

“I called for help, they have to get him out of there - I didn’t call the cops on R, I called them on Montparnasse -”

“It’s the same!” Eponine yanked Musi up. “I don’t have time to be mad at you, but fucking hell, what is the fucking point of your little debate group if none of you know that you never call the cops to someone’s house.” She was dragging Musi along, walking so fast they broke into a jog at points. “I have the address, I was about to get Montparnasse to just take me there when I saw you freaking out across the street, what were you thinking,”

“Get Montparnasse to help? The guy who kidnapped him?”

“Yes!” Eponine snapped, “because Montparnasse isn’t going to care what he finds when he gets there, I know you think that’s a bad thing but there are times when it really fucking isn’t.” Eponine was texting with one hand now. “I’m going to tell Montparnasse that he better go get anything illicit out of his apartment because I’ve seen the cops heading over there, and he’s not going to fucking believe me, and it’s going to cause a huge fucking problem even if he gets there on time.”

Musi thought she might be sick, and not just from how fast they started running when Eponine finished her text. She needed to protect R. If she stopped him from starving to death or… doing anything to himself… if she could stop that, then it would be worth it.

She started recognising some of the street signs they ran past, then finally they broke out onto the back road she had dropped Grantaire off at in the car. There were already blue lights flashing, and Eponine tried to yank her back, but Musi shook her off and kept running. It was a basement apartment down a set of steps, with only small windows, and it looked like they’d broken the door down with a battering ram. Neighbours were peeking down from the windows of the apartments above. 

A navy and black-clad officer put his hands up and stepped in her way as she approached. “I called you! I called you,” she panted, out of breath. It was all she could think of to say.

“You know the resident here, madame?”

“Yes I called you, he needs help, he’s been in there for days - a man called Montparnasse, it’s his fault-”

The officer made a few notes as she spoke to him, and looked almost bored. Inside, there was a clattering that sounded like a second door being broken down, then some yelling. Musi started forward instinctively, and the officer stepped in her way again, making a barrier with his body. “Stand back please, madame. We’ve had a report that the resident may not be safe.”

“I’m the one who called,” she cried, frustrated tears starting in her eyes, “he’s not dangerous, he’s unwell!”

More yelling from inside - she definitely heard the word ‘drugs’ - then, lifting a weight that allowed her to breathe again, she heard Grantaire’s voice. It was shouting expletives, and she called out to him, “R, it’s Musi, come out quietly, please!”

He probably couldn’t hear her, or was too out of it to care. There was more clattering, the sound of things falling over, and finally Grantaire emerged. Musi felt her own colour drain from her face as she saw how pale he was, sallow faced and unshaven. He had a black eye that looked like it was fading, and blooming welt on his cheek that looked brand new. Directly after him came a helmeted officer who was holding Grantaire’s arms pinned behind his back. Her friend looked so disoriented that Musi broke down, sobbing, and stupidly pushed against the arm of the officer holding her back.

“Please take him to the hospital, please, he hasn’t done anything wrong, he’s mentally ill, you can see he’s starving,”

The man easily held her back, and at this distance she could see he was younger than her. His voice softened a bit, and he said “it won’t help, all that, madame. I can give you a number to check on him.”

She tried to make some eye contact with Grantaire, let him know that she would be there for him, but he was just staring up at the sky. The officers had started taping off his home with crime scene tape. When he finally lolled his head in her direction, he smiled in recognition. He looked tired. 

“Oh, Musi. Don’t be sad. Don’t worry about old R.”

He was pushed down into the police car, and taken out of her sight.

R

Night fell on Saint Denis, but the fluorescent lights of the police station never dimmed.

Great, thought Grantaire. You couldn’t solve your own problem. You couldn’t handle it. You worried your friends so much they called the cops on you, and now you’ll rot in prison because it’s better for everybody that way.

He was in his own room, at least. A concrete box with a built-in platform you could hardly call a bed. There was nothing loose in the room, not even a blanket. He knew why; he’d been here before. Suicide risk. 

Great.

He’d had some water, at least. Apparently it wasn’t time for food, yet. The hospitality standards around here had really dropped since his last visit. He tried not to be ungrateful. If it was better for everyone else for him to be here, then he’d stay here. It shouldn’t matter to him whether he was trapped in his own room or this one. He got back to doing what he’d been doing before he was interrupted, and lay on his back to daydream.

The world he could create in his head wasn’t subject to anyone’s judgement. He imagined a life for himself. It involved drawing more, and drinking less, and long summers in the park with someone who loved him.

This person who loved him was the most ephemeral part of the daydream. He couldn’t pin their face down. Sometimes a flash of their features would remind of Joly, or his mother, or even, in his most shameful moments - 

“Your lawyer is here for you.” An officer rapped at the steel grate.

Grantaire somehow managed to drag himself to his feet one more time, standing away from the door like he should, swaying gently as the officer opened it and walked him through the station. At least Grantaire was well practiced enough to always refuse to talk without legal aid. He was sat down in an interview room, handcuffed to the metal table, and laid his head down on it to daydream a bit more while he waited for his assigned attorney. 

He heard a door open, then close, and someone sat down in front of him, clearing their breath. 

“Sorry for the slight subterfuge. I’m not technically a lawyer, yet.”

Grantaire lifted his head like he was being offered communion, and looked up at Enjolras, haloed by the halogen light. He smiled. “I’m sorry, great leader. It won’t happen again.”

Enjolras started turning red, but didn’t snap at Grantaire like normal. He was in a suit, and it made him look older. “How are you feeling, have they looked after you?”

Grantaire tapped the tender bruise on his cheek, “oh they took care of me alright, don’t worry about that.”

Enjolras sighed, “yes, I should take a picture of that if you don’t mind.” He took out a camera and Grantaire obliged him with a few close-ups. “What I meant to say was, have you been provided with appropriate medical attention?”

Grantaire shrugged. He would normally be taller than Enjolras, but it felt almost right to stay slouched, supplicant to his saviour. He looked up at him again, remembering how outraged blondie had been when he’d heard about the broken violin, and grinned as he said “they’ve actually not even fed me yet.”

He had thought that would provoke Enjolras into a rant, but although anger consumed his face for a moment, it narrowed into a cold and hard thing. Enjolras asked Grantaire a few more terse questions about his treatment at the police station, and then excused himself to leave.

Grantaire felt bereft, alone in the room, wondering what else he’d done wrong.

There were low voices in the corridor, silence for a few minutes, then Enjolras returned.

“They’ve agreed to let you go, under some unofficial conditions. The first is that you don’t make a complaint about your arresting officers. The second is that you provide a witness statement against Montparnasse, who I think they care far more about arresting. I would hazard a guess that they only arrested you in the first place to try and get you to turn on him.”

“Well, I’m glad to have made their day. I don’t want to leave, though.”

Enjolras pressed his lips together so hard they turned white, and pinched his browbone. “R. It is not an option. We are leaving, together.”

I’m definitely aging him, Grantaire thought, sadly. “It’s a deal though, right? I have to agree to it?”

“It isn’t an official plea deal. You haven’t been charged with anything, yet. They’re basically saying that if you complain about their treatment of you, or refuse to testify against Montparnasse later, they’ll use the evidence they have from your room to arrest you.”

“Ah. Blackmail.” Grantaire smiled again. “But if I turn against Montparnasse, where do I go, when I leave?”

Enjolras had been standing since he returned to the room, but now knelt down by the table, lowering himself, so that he was looking up into Grantaire’s eyes, close enough to kiss. Grantaire frowned at the thought, but couldn’t stop staring. Enjolras’ eyelashes were blonde as well, and there were a few light freckles on his nose. “R. You need to be cared for. You will go to your friends.”

He wanted to protest. He should explain to Enjolras that his friends couldn’t possibly want him, that he had caused them enough trouble. Those eyes would not be argued with, though.

“Alright then, great leader. I will follow you.”

They went through the lengthy process of getting Grantaire checked out of the iron hotel, and Enjolras insisted on taking him to eat. By the time they got through everything the only place he could find was a late-night dessert cafe, where he bought Grantaire a full box of donuts. It was impossible to say how long it had all taken, like they were in a dream. As they sat, Grantaire suddenly registered that earlier Enjolras had called him R for the first time.

“Is there something wrong with them?” Enjolras fretted at the food. Grantaire was just picking at it. 

“No, it’s a funny thing, when you don’t really eat for while you actually stop being hungry,” said Grantaire, speaking from his experience of his account going into the red. “It’s better to eat slowly when you start again, anyway.”

To his surprise, Enjolras nodded. “Yes, I’ve had that before. From essays.”

Grantaire laughed then, properly and completely, and felt the last week sloughing off his back. Enjolras treated him to his small elfin smile.

“I’m sorry for what I said to you. At the party.” Grantaire surprised himself by saying it, but it was true.

“That’s alright. You weren’t yourself.”

Grantaire disagreed. When he was at his most awful, he was quite himself.

He changed the subject.“I can’t believe you lied to les keufs, I’m quite impressed.” That’s right, he thought, tease him to deflect the moment away, god forbid you have an honest conversation.

“I didn’t technically lie to them.” Enjolras flushed again, starting at his ears this time. “I said I was your legal representative, and I showed them the ID badge I have from my internship. So either they’re fine with me being a law student, or they’re bad at their job.” Railing against the system helped him to regain his composure.

“Sorry you had to do this,” Grantaire murmured quietly, licking icing sugar off his thumb. “Was Bahorel not free?” Their friend was not a criminal defence lawyer, but was fully qualified, at least.

Enjolras didn’t reply at first, and when Grantaire looked up at him his expression was strange. He looked like he was trying to work something out.

“I suppose he might have been, but Musi said you needed help. It never occurred to me to ask anybody else.”