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College Boys and High School Girls

Chapter 60

Summary:

No cliffhangers!

Oh man, guys, I'm going to miss working on this fic so much. Thanks to everyone who's tagged along for this surprisingly long and eventful ride. It's been a pleasure writing for all of you, and I hope you'll pop in to the extended-universe fics as I continue to update those too.

Notes:

When I started writing this fic I had no idea what it was going to turn into. I had Les Mis on the brain, my old love kicked up from the 2012 movie and a recent rereading of the novel, further fed by repeatedly listening to all the soundtracks of the play I've collected over the years. I'd never considered Les Mis something that you could write fan fiction for before, and when I finally realized it was a thing my early forays were all canon-era. And damn were those hard to write (satisfying though...I definitely want to get back into writing canon-era if I can).

I noticed the prevalence of college AUs floating around AO3, thought it might be fun to write my own, and the first chapter of this monster of a fic flowed out of my brain with very little effort on my part. The first story arc came together remarkably easily. It's the kind of writing groove I hope for every time I sit down at my keyboard, and very rarely find. At any rate, I realized right away that I'd captured something wonderful with these altered characters and determined to keep the story going for as long as the ideas held out.

You guys have some sense of what happened afterwards. I realize I've pissed a lot of people off (though thankfully those guys probably haven't hung around for 60 chapters), but I've also indulged in the warmth and passion of the best aspects of a fandom community. I mean it every time I've said it's been a pleasure writing for this audience, and I can't thank you guys enough for giving this fic writer a confidence boost every time I really needed it. The past year wasn't a very good one for me, and some days I dashed out a chapter as quickly as I could just because I knew there'd be some encouraging comments waiting for me in my inbox when I woke up in the morning, and some days those really were the only kind words I had directed at me.

This might sound egotistical of me, and if it does I'm sorry, but I can't help noticing that for the first time in my fourteen years of fic writing that I'm a big fish in a pretty big fandom. Some people have attributed a lot more importance and influence on this fic than I think it really deserves, but on the off hand that's the case I want to throw out a word of support regarding College AUs while I still have a bit of spotlight.

I've noticed what I call fandom-hipsters bitching about the prevalence of College AUs, complaining about how fandom has been hijacked away from them and their "correct" fan fiction, which to me just seems to be missing the point. In my not-always-humble opinion, fandoms are supposed to be about fan love. We create fan works to express our passions for something we love, laboring on our projects for no other purpose than to share our passions with other fans with no reward except kind words. I think College AUs are popular because they're the easiest way to get right to expressing our fan love. It hasn't escaped my notice that people generally set their AUs in their own communities, mostly forgoing keeping the boys French. Les Mis is often praised as a book that, despite its very specific setting and cultural context, has a universal element that pulls everyone in no matter their background. I personally think AUs are fitting to that. We're seeing the universal elements in the boys and adapting them to our contexts, and I think it's a wonderful way to use the canon material. I mean think about, we're injecting life and modern day relevance into a work that's over a hundred years old. That's pretty awesome.

Besides, the idea that there's only one way to write fan fiction is just stupid. I think I got stuck while writing canon-era stuff because I like to explore untrod territory in a story, and that's difficult to do when all your favorite characters died in their youth.

So if you can bear with my preaching a little longer, this is a lead-in to some advice I want to give the fandom.

The whole point in coming together to produce fan works is to express love, right? So don't ever waste time with flames and trolling. A well-meaning critique is one thing, but always encourage. None of us are writing professionally. We're not being paid. This is purely an act of love, so why on earth would you ever punish someone for writing something you didn't enjoy? You didn't pay for it. You didn't have to read it; you chose to. If they present a different view of the characters than you hold, so what? They're not hurting anyone. The canon is still in tact, and you're free to challenge their views by generating your own works.

Maybe this is idealism, but I'd like to think of fan communities as celebratory. Just be kind to one another, or in my view you've missed the point.

Thanks for your patience in dealing with my preaching. Maybe more so than for any chapter I've posted, I'm really eager to hear your thoughts so if you'd take the time to leave one last comment I'd really appreciate it.

<3 D3R

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Thanks to his work schedule Combeferre was a habitual early riser. Even when he had the day off his body still didn’t let him sleep past five thirty. Despite his best efforts, he only managed to laze in his nice warm bed for about twenty minutes before nature called. Sighing, he shook the cats off his legs, found his slippers, and stumbled down the hall to the bathroom.

He was heading back towards his blankets and some irritated cats when he heard movement in the kitchen. Combeferre poked his head in and found Enjolras sitting at the table staring intently at an open laptop. He looked terrible; eyes redder than usual and a bit puffy, hair on end from running his fingers through it, and still wearing his clothes from the night before.

It was difficult to make out in the faint early morning light, but Combeferre thought he saw tear tracks on his friend’s cheeks.

“Enjolras? Is everything okay?”

Enjolras jumped, not having heard Combeferre’s approach. “Oh, good morning ‘Ferre. You’re up early.”

“Mm hm. Thank you morning classes.” He walked over to the coffee maker and switched it on. “What happened? Did you and Grantaire have a fight?” They were rather prone to them during holidays. Something about gatherings always put Grantaire in an off-mood, a dependable occurrence Enjolras still didn’t manage to anticipate even after a decade with his partner.

Enjolras rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Yep.”

“Big one?”

“Yep.”

“Ah.”

Combeferre continued fussing with the coffee while Enjolras scrolled through whatever it was he was looking at. After a few minutes Combeferre set a mug of pumpkin spice by his friend’s elbow and then sat down across from him, warming his hands with his own mug. “What was it this time?”

Enjolras held his mug in his hands, but rather than take a sip he stared dejectedly at his caffeine instead. “He’s not happy with me anymore.”

“Wait, what? Did he say he wants to call things off?” Combeferre knew that statistically speaking at least one of the couples in his life was likely to get a divorce at some point, but he still found the thought unfathomable. Enjolras and Grantaire’s relationship had become one of his constants, as had Marius and Cosette, Feuilly and Eponine, Joly and Bossuet, and even Bahorel and Musichetta, though they were possibly the most unorthodox in their expressions of devotion.

Enjolras shook his head. “No. Nothing like that. He still loves me, thank god. He practically screamed that at me when I started crying. I’m surprised you didn’t hear us.”

Now that he thought about it, Combeferre vaguely recalled being woken by raised voices, but he’d simply rolled over and gone back to sleep with a pillow over his head. He was used to having the spirited couple as houseguests-possibly too used to them, considering.

“So what’s wrong?”

“It’s…our life that he doesn’t like. And, now that I’m thinking about it…I should have noticed.” Enjolras flipped the laptop around so that Combeferre could see it. He’d been looking through back issues of Red and Black, something he often did when he was worried about his lover. Grantaire never consciously drew from his own life for inspiration, but his issues had a way of appearing in his work, especially if he was having trouble trying to communicate them to the people he was frightened of letting down.

Combeferre looked through the page Enjolras had been on and slowly nodded. “He feels trapped?”

“And overworked. It’s not fun for him anymore, the comic. He finds fun moments, and he’s excited about the cartoon, but…I’m pushing him too hard. He’s burning himself out, and, you know…he never had my drive. He has the talent, so I’ve been putting all my energy into pushing him to be successful. He made some good points. We don’t really ever sit back and enjoy what we have. H-he said he’d think about getting a cat again if he didn’t think it would be utterly neglected from how little we’re home. He’s right, ‘Ferre. We’re never home. We never relax.”

“Okay. Well, you guys can work on that.” Combeferre risked a smile. “Actually, so far it sounds like I’m on Grantaire’s side. You guys do work way too hard. It’d be nice if you had enough time off to do things like come out here and visit me a little more so I don’t have to blow so much cash on weekly trips to New York. The train’s not cheap, you know.”

Enjolras rested his elbows on the table and then dropped his head into his hands. “Can you not? I already feel like an ass.”

“Sorry.” He totally wasn’t sorry. “So you and Grantaire are going to be okay then?”

“…I hope so.”

“What does that mean? Enjolras?”

“I don’t know, ‘Ferre. I’ve been up all night searching through his books and interviews for clues to his feelings because he can’t fucking open up to me and talk like an adult.” Enjolras let out a shaking breath and lowered his hands. “This isn’t supposed to happen anymore. Why doesn’t he talk to me? Why didn’t he tell me he was upset? I’ve been just the way I always am. Bantering, jumping him as soon as we’re alone, telling him how mad I am for him…he hasn’t been any different. How could he be stupid and lovey with me when he hates our life? How could he be that dishonest?”

“I don’t think it was dishonesty, Enj,” Combeferre said, careful to keep his tone gentle but firm. “He undoubtedly loves you just as much as ever. Any fool who spends more than five minutes with you two can see that. You’re not the problem. The work schedule is. And…”

“Kids,” Enjolras whispered. It was one of their oldest problems, and tended to rear its ugly head whenever Grantaire got extended time with his herd of honorary nieces and nephews.

Combeferre sighed. “I think he’s always secretly hoped you might change your mind someday. This side of thirty, that hope’s looking more and more unlikely. And we both know Grantaire’s not exactly the hopeful sort, so for him to cling to this one…”

“If it’s the only way I can keep him-”

“Which is completely the wrong reason to have a baby-”

“I know that,” Enjolras snapped. “But I won’t lose my husband. I can’t even picture my life without him at this point.” He slumped down in his chair, shoulders sagging, looking the picture of defeat. It was strange to see on a man who generally appeared to embody conviction.

Gently, Combeferre extracted the coffee mug from Enjolras’ hands and helped him to his feet. “You need to sleep. You’ve got some difficult conversations ahead of you and you’ll do a shit job if you don’t let yourself rest.”

Enjolras shook his head. “I can’t, ‘Ferre, I tried. I’m too tense. I can’t sleep when I’m this…scared.” It seemed to cost him something to admit that that’s what it was.

Combeferre bracingly patted his back. “My friend, you’ll get through this. There are very few things I’ve ever been sure of, but your ability to succeed and the strength of your devotion to Grantaire and his devotion to you are at the top of the list. You’ll get through this.”

Enjolras gave a listless nod and started shuffling back towards the bedrooms. He tensed in the hallway, and when Combeferre looked up his hazel eyes locked on Grantaire’s half-lidded blue gaze. He had severe bedhead and he was shivering in a t-shirt and boxers. “I heard voices…what’s going on?”

Combeferre gave Enjolras a gentle shove. “Your husband can’t sleep. Use your loving influence to get him to relax, won’t you?”

Grantaire pushed some tangled bangs out of his face and squinted at Combeferre. “What makes you think I can get Enjolras to do anything?”

Combeferre faltered, thinking for a second that the comment was meant in sincerity. Grantaire’s delivery was a bit garbled thanks to him being half-awake. However, there was no mistaking his actions for anything other than concerned when he put a hand on Enjolras’ hip and guided him towards the guest room, gently chiding him for working through the night. Combeferre didn’t correct his assumption, but he hoped Enjolras might.

Combeferre packed up Enjolras’ laptop and the stack of comics he’d left on the table, thought about making breakfast, and then decided he’d rather make another attempt at sleeping in.

As he passed by the guest room, he found himself unable to resist opening the door a crack to peek in on the lovers.

Grantaire was leaning up against the headboard, barely awake and reverently stroking his fingers through Enjolras’ hair. Enjolras was asleep with his head on Grantaire’s stomach, arms wrapped around him. They certainly looked peaceful enough.

Hm. Maybe he’d get a godchild out of them yet.


Joly darted up in bed and struggled to open his eyes around the sleepies-gunk. “Hon? Did you hear something?”

“Nnnrgh,” Legle answered. Joly thumped him over the head, then went back to vigorously rubbing his eyes to clear them.

“Bossuet, wake up. I definitely heard something.”

“…then go investigate. M’sleeping.”

“You’re useless.”

“I pay th’bills.”

“Grantaire and Enjolras pay our bills,” Joly corrected. He managed to get his eyes open, stuck a blue calcite in the pocket of his sweatpants as a talisman against vision issues, and crept down to the kitchen to investigate.

As he expected, he found the girls banging around by themselves trying to make breakfast. “Dad!” Angeline exclaimed. “Go back to bed. You’re spoiling our surprise!”

Joly leaned against the counter and eyed the breakfast tray skeptically. “You were making us breakfast out of leftover cookies and pie?”

Emma shrugged her bony shoulders. “I think that’s a perfectly good breakfast. Now get back in bed so we can surprise you.” She shooed her father out of the room, then went back to piling treats on one of their folding breakfast trays.

Realizing that his entire family was going to conspire against him on this and admitting defeat in advance, Joly got back into bed and poked Legle’s shoulder until he started stirring. “The girls have raided the cabinets. We’re having sugar in all its varied forms for breakfast.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

Joly scoffed, so Legle pushed himself up on his elbows and silenced any further protests with a kiss. Joly pushed him away. “Love, morning breath.”

“It shut you up, didn’t it? It’s the holidays, Jol. Relax and enjoy it. You have them eat that gluten free, low sugar, no additives, nothing fun crap all the rest of the year.”

“Thanksgiving was yesterday. Black Friday does not count as a holiday.”

“No, but school’s cancelled and we’re supposed to be sleeping in. It’s like a holiday.” Legle fell back against the pillows and held out his arms invitingly. Wearing a small smile, Joly accepted the invitation and melted against his husband.

They were still cuddling when the girls came in with their trays of junk. They set the trays on the bed then carefully climbed up, Emma sitting in Legle’s lap while Angeline sat in Joly’s, and the four of them ate their sugar. Once they were finished, Joly cleared the sticky dishes away and cleaned up the mess in the kitchen. By the time he’d finished restoring order to his normally tidy domestic sphere, his family had conspired against him to turn his bed into a blanket fort and start a Netflix marathon.

“Love, how well do you think staying in bed all day is going to work when you’ve begun the day with a sugar high to end all sugar highs?”

Legle waved a hand dismissively. “It’s fine. They like our cartoons, don’t you girls?”

“Well, yes…” Angeline began. “But we’re not going to stay inside all day, are we Daddy?”

“I want to go play with Gusty! Can we play with Gusty?” Emma asked. She’d developed what was either a little kid crush on the amiable boy, or the sadistic enjoyment of a super villain with an energetic minion eager to do anything a cute girl in pigtails told him to. Either way, the adults found the relationship amusing, though they were eying it with some wariness in case it turned to bullying.

“I want to see Gigi. Her grandpa gave her the bestest ponies in the history of ever, and, and last night we only had mine to play with, but we could have an even better game together.” Angeline’s powers of persuasion were augmented by darling brown eyes and rosy cheeks that were downright dangerous in a toy store. Legle’s laziness already seemed to be relenting in the wake of his daughters’ wishes.

Smirking, Joly walked over to the dresser and opened the top drawer, where they kept Legle’s “real” pants. Considering his job was a bit of a joke, he mostly worked from home and as such mostly wore pajamas, sweatpants, or boxers. Joly insisted on dressing him in actual adult clothes whenever they left the house with the girls though.

Most of their activism had fallen to the wayside over the years. They still cared passionately about issues of social justice, kept themselves informed, and voted accordingly, but the men were more likely to discuss these things while packing school lunches for their small daughters or doing yard work than by attending a rally or gathering signatures for petitions. However, one of the legacies of their almost fanatical involvement with causes in their youth was Joly’s insistence that as a middle class LGBT family they were representing more than just themselves when the public eye was on them. He firmly believed that advances had been gained for the community through normal, day to day interactions with neighbors as well as through rallies and pickets and politics, and he wanted his family to present a good image for those on the fence about gay rights.

As such, when he and his husband walked down the street with their girls, Legle wasn’t allowed to wear his fleece bacon print pajama pants. He, personally, didn’t think bacon print pajama pants were going to undermine the credibility of the gay community to their somewhat snooty neighbors, but Joly had replaced his hypochondria with a lot of little tics, and Legle was willing to let this one go.

Legle was reluctantly pulled from his blanket-fort to oversee his daughters’ preparations to leave the house (Emma liked trying to sneak out of the house in old Halloween costumes, and Angeline was already oddly fond of makeup considering neither of the fathers had thought to purchase any for the six year olds themselves-they suspected Bahorel) while Joly made phone calls to see about arranging a play date.

He was still on the phone when his husband and girls appeared in the kitchen, all respectably dressed and Angeline only wearing a bit of unnecessary blush and some flavored chapstick. Sighing, Joly hung up and faced his family with a frown. “I’m afraid I couldn’t get ahold of anyone. It looks like you’ll have to pile back into the blanket-fort.”

“But I already took it down,” Legle whined. “Why don’t we just swing by Courfeyrac’s? He’s always home.”

“Yes, but he didn’t pick up. And, considering last night…” Here Joly shot his husband a significant look.

Legle missed the significance at first. “Uh…oh! Oh, yeah. Well wait then, doesn’t that mean he’d need cheering up? I think a munchkin playdate is for the best then.”

Joly threw a pensive look at his cell phone. “Courf didn’t pick up. I suppose it couldn’t hurt to swing by…”

“That’s the spirit! C’mon girls, race to the car!”

Smiling fondly, Joly gathered up the backpack full of healthy snacks, first aid supplies, and emergency boredom fighting activities he never left the house without but Legle never seemed to remember existed, and followed his family out to the car.


As Courfeyrac had rightly suspected, getting ready for a date with a four year old in the house was nearly impossible. Not that his breakfast plans with Jean could really be counted as a date, but it was the closest thing to a date Courfeyrac had seen since becoming a single father.

It took him almost twenty minutes just to brush his teeth, so that was probably a good thing.

“Thanksgiving’s over. Why do I have to wear yucky sweaters that itch my neck?” Gusty asked. “I wanna wear my Star Wars t-shirt!”

Courfeyrac defiantly yanked a dark blue sweater over his son’s curly head and surveyed the results. “First off, it’s too cold out for your Star Wars t-shirt. Second, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to look nice every now and then.”

Gusty glared at him. “My T-Rex shirt is long sleeved.”

“No it’s not-”

“Not the blue one, the black one. I wanna wear that. It doesn’t itch my neck and I can wear my cape with it.”

“You’re not wearing your cape today. C’mon Gus, work with me here.”

Gusty was in no mood to work with his father. Instead, the instant Courfeyrac’s back was turned he stripped naked, threw the sweater into the bathroom sink, and ran from the room screaming Disney song lyrics at the top of his lungs.

Courfeyrac picked the sweater up, counted the toothpaste stains on it, and heaved a dramatic sigh. He tossed the ruined sweater into the laundry hamper, scooped Gusty up as he went running down the hall, carried the squirming boy into his bedroom, and dropped him on the bed. “Time out. I don’t think I even need to list everything about that that was inappropriate.” He shut the door on Gusty’s cries and returned to the bathroom to retrieve his cell phone.

There was no way he was going out for breakfast, not when Gusty was having one of his bad days. He went to call Jean and see if maybe they could do lunch instead, and noticed his missed calls from Joly. “Oh no. It is too frickin’ early in the day for everyone to call me up and ask about Jean. I need coffee before I can deal with this shit.”

He shuffled towards the kitchen, looking through his contacts for Jean’s newly added number, and then the doorbell rang. Courfeyrac squeezed his eyes shut in a grimace.

His friends hadn’t been calling him to pick apart his pathetic excuse of a love life. They’d just wanted a babysitter or a playdate.

Courfeyrac’s bedroom door creaked open. “Daddy?”

“Get back in there,” Courfeyrac snapped. “Your time out isn’t over, and besides that you need pants on to greet company!”

Gusty sniffled, but the door creaked shut again.

Courfeyrac really wasn’t in much better a state when he irritably flung open the front door. He’d gotten halfway through taming his messy nest of hair with a wet comb before having to vacate the bathroom for an emergency potty, so about half of his chocolate brown tresses were neat and half of them were sticking almost straight up and it had dried that way. He was wearing a nice pair of slacks, but he was still wearing the ancient Captain America t-shirt he’d gone to bed in, and it was heavily spattered with oatmeal thanks to a breakfast mishap. He had one sock on, didn’t really remember putting it on, and thusly had no idea where its mate had wound up, and he had bags under his eyes from a mostly sleepless night.

And Joly and Bossuet were standing on his doorstep with their adorable little girls, looking like a fucking JC Penny Father’s Day ad. Courfeyrac involuntarily scowled at them. “What?”

Joly looked concerned. “Rough morning?”

Typical morning, really. Well, with the one significant difference that Courfeyrac was full of anxious energy over his impending breakfast date, which he was likely going to have to miss.

He stepped aside and let his friends into the apartment. Gusty had blatantly been listening by the door, and when he heard company approaching he seemed to decide that their presence nullified his time out. He raced out of the room and immediately tripped on the bottom of the nice shirt Courfeyrac had laid out for himself for the breakfast date. The child had reasoned that running through the house naked would only upset his daddy worse, but none of his clothes were in his father’s room and so he’d made do with what was available.

He ripped the shirt and bumped his head with the fall, and then Courfeyrac was off to comfort him while trying not to cry frustrated tears of his own.

Legle hovered awkwardly in the doorway, one tiny female hand clasped in each of his large ones. “Uh…maybe we should come back later.”

“Take the girls into the living room. I’m going to see what’s going on.” Joly handed off the backpack of supplies before following Courfeyrac into Gusty’s room.

Gusty was still crying softly, now wearing a pair of Spiderman tightie-whities and throwing clothes out of his dresser drawer. To Joly’s surprise Courfeyrac was crying as well, but there wasn’t a trace of it in his voice while he spoke into his cellphone. To Joly’s horror, it sounded like he was cancelling a date with Jehan.

Intervention was obviously necessary. Joly snatched the phone away from Courfeyrac and brightly addressed his former friend. “Hello, Jehan! It was so lovely to see you last night, even if it was only for a minute. How are you doing, hon?”

“Uh…very well, thank you,” Jehan answered, perfectly politely despite a note of puzzlement in his quiet voice. “Is Courfeyrac still there?”

“Yes, but he’s tending to Gusty. You know how kids have a way of monopolizing your attention. Speaking of that, I was just thinking that you and Courf could probably use some private adult time to catch up. Bossuet and I desperately need a playmate for the girls today, so you should totally head on over and steal Courf away so we can make off with his son. Seriously, come on over. I know Bossuet wants to say hi to you too.”

Courfeyrac didn’t seem to know what was going on at first. He just stared at Joly with his mouth hanging open, eyes wide and uncomprehending. Joly felt for him. His first year with twins had given him many moments of what he called ‘Daddy-burn-out’, but thankfully he’d had a husband to split the stress and confusion with. He really marveled sometimes at how well Courfeyrac functioned going it alone.

Once the moment passed, Courfeyrac mouthed a silent thank you while Joly busily traded a few more pleasantries with his old friend. Courfeyrac then bolted from the room to start getting ready for his date. Joly hung up, and then knelt down next to the little boy who was in full-blown tantrum mode.

“Excuse me mister, but is this how we treat our clothes?” Joly asked, slipping into his ‘listen-to-me-now’ dad voice.

Gusty blew a raspberry at him and threw a superhero cape over his head. Joly didn’t blink. “I think that’s how little boys who want to spend their day in their room behave, not big boys who want to escort Emma and Angeline to the library.”

That got Gusty’s attention. “Are Emmy and Angeline here?” Joly nodded. “Um…I’m un-throwing the cape now.” Gusty very politely picked up the cape, folded it as neatly as his clumsy hands were capable, and put it in the drawer, effectively ignoring the pile of clothes he’d already dumped out. “Can I escort Gigi too?”

“Gigi’s not with us, but I can leave a message for Marius. In the meantime, why don’t you pick out just one outfit you like and put all the rest of them back?”

“Okay…then can I play with Emmy and Angeline?”

“Of course.”

Joly helped Gusty change into a pair of maroon sweat pants and a T-Rex shirt that almost matched, combed his hair for him, and then sent him into the living room to color with his children. He then found Courfeyrac in the bathroom, trying to fix his hair and missing all the bits sticking up in the back. “Here, let me.”

“Thanks,” Courfeyrac mumbled.

“So…nervous?”

“Terrified. Which is stupid. I pretty much gave up on him ages ago…y’know, aside from the part where I still dream about him changing his mind and coming back to me every couple of months.”

For ten years. Damn.

“Is that what’s happening then? Are you two rekindling?” Joly asked, unable to suppress an excited smile at the thought.

“I don’t know. I hope so, but I have no clue what’s going on.” Courfeyrac wrinkled his nose up in distaste. “I don’t think Jean’s into single dads, to tell the truth.”

“Is he not aware of Gusty’s existence somehow?” Joly asked, arching a brow with a mischievous look on his face. Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “Ah, so he does know you’re a daddy, and yet he’s still meeting up with you. C’mon, someone can be a little awkward with kids without being full blown Enjolras.”

“That’s true, I guess.” Shit, now he was going to be paranoid about being too defensive. Courfeyrac sighed, then stepped away from Joly and the comb to look at his reflection in the mirror. “Wow, I look like death. I can’t even remember the last time I got a good night of sleep. Wait, pretty sure it was when Grantaire took Gusty to New York with him for a week.”

Joly sympathetically patted his back. “Just do what I do, Courf. Every time you start to worry about how worn and tired and dowdy you might look, just remind yourself that he saw you naked when you were in your prime.”

Courfeyrac gave a startled laugh and covered his face with his hand. “That calms you down? Because seriously? I don’t look a damn thing like I did when I was twenty three.”

“Hon, you’re actually aging better than any of the rest of us. There are people who think you still are twenty three.”

“That’s just because I’m an immature goof.”

“Well it works for you. You might want to put on a shirt with less oatmeal though. I don’t think any amount of charming immaturity can spin that into a fashion statement.”

Courfeyrac glanced down at his chest uncomprehendingly for a minute, then what might have been a look of dismay turned into a laugh no less infectious for the hint of self-deprecation to it. He went to grab a clean shirt, and considering his pep talk successfully administered, Joly left to gather up his children (a category he kindly included his grown husband in) for their trip to the children’s room at the library.


It was much nearer lunch than breakfast by the time Courfeyrac was ready to see Jean, but the poet was craving pancakes so pancakes they were to pursue.

It turned out to be a surprisingly difficult task. Every diner and small family owned restaurant Courfeyrac knew of was either closed or finished with their breakfast menu for the day. Of course, there were two obvious choices for pancakes in the general vicinity, but Courfeyrac was reluctant to suggest large chain restaurants, given that the current focus of Enjolras and Combeferre’s worker’s rights efforts was raising the minimum wage for food servers and getting them paid sick days.

Jean turned to face his passenger wearing a tiny grin. “I won’t tell Enjolras if you won’t.”

Courfeyrac smiled in relief. “IHOP then. I ate enough Denny’s for a lifetime when I was a teen.”


Having exhausted himself with worry and bitter resentment, once Enjolras relaxed enough to slip off to sleep he stayed that way well into the afternoon. Grantaire dozed with him for an hour or two, but having slept during the night (as was his general preference) he was wide awake by ten. He lazed in bed, cuddling his husband for another half hour or so, but eventually his attention drifted from even that well-loved past time.

He slipped out of bed and quietly crept from the room. He found Combeferre settled in the living room, looking so characteristically ‘Ferre that his fingers itched to sketch the familiar sight into a caricature.

He was reclining on the couch with a stack of papers, a mug of tea sitting on the coffee table in front of him, his chubby calico cat sprawled on his lap, and a new one Grantaire hadn’t met perched on his feet. It reminded Grantaire of their college days, though of course the cats were different, the papers he proofread were Combeferre’s students’, not his own, and the glasses and grey hairs were testaments to the passage of time. Logan and Gladiator had met peaceful, old age kitty deaths a few years ago, and after the requisite grieving period Combeferre had visited a shelter and found a new apartment mate in the calico, Minerva. Enjolras’ old cat, Raoul, was still kicking around somewhere, though Grantaire had barely seen him during the visit. He made it a point to avoid the cats as much as was possible and was a bit disgruntled to see a new one.

“Where’s our little allergen factory?” Grantaire asked, when it looked like Combeferre was at a good stopping point in his proof reading.

Combeferre set the paper down in favor of his tea mug and smirked at his friend. “He’s around here somewhere. Raoul’s still not a terribly social cat. I’d guess he’s napping in a dresser drawer, getting his fur and allergens all over my work clothes.”

“He still does that?”

Looking equal parts exasperated and fond of the little pest, Combeferre nodded. “Did you and Enjolras talk?”

“Not yet. The poor guy worked himself into a panic over my last attempt.” Grantaire sighed. “I can’t believe I still suck this much at communicating with him. You’d think I’d have it down to a science after all this time, but no. I still blindside him every time I try to talk about my needs.”

“Yes, well maybe casually slipping bombshells into nighttime chats isn’t the best way to introduce important subjects,” Combeferre said wryly.

Grantaire had the decency to feel a little ashamed of himself. “What’s done is done. At least he knows now. So, uh…you heard from Courf or Jehan yet?”

Combeferre looked a little annoyed by the abrupt dismissal of the old subject, but he played along. Neither of them had heard from their friends, and a perusal of social media turned up no clues about how that might be going. Grantaire indulged Combeferre and listened to him chat about Azelma for a bit, then he claimed a need to distance himself from the cats, snagged a quick breakfast from the kitchen, and retreated to the cat-free guest room where his husband still soundly slept.

Grantaire got out his sketchbook and contemplated the love of his life with pencil and paper, though he knew Enjolras would chew him out for it later (“Honestly ‘Taire, it’s creepy enough to watch someone sleep. Sketching is an entirely new level of creepiness.”), but he didn’t really care. His mind was still a jumble of disoriented half-formed thoughts and desires, and art was still his safest way to escape while retaining any hope of making sense of his bewildering mind.

What stood out clear as day was that there was no way he could even think of leaving his husband. There were things he wanted that Enjolras didn’t. When they’d first come together, Grantaire wouldn’t have dreamed of fighting for his own dreams, so grateful had he been just to have the love he didn’t think he deserved (and besides, how could the few petty wants of a jaded cynic compare to the spectacular goals of an impassioned idealist?). It would have seemed selfish beyond belief, not to mention petulant, to ask for anything more than the miracle that had already been bestowed in the form of Enjolras’ affections.

Grantaire was a different man now. Much of it was for the patient care and work Enjolras had put into him, but the effort had born fruit and Grantaire now knew his worth as an individual. He was allowed to want things, and he was allowed to be happy. Maybe he and Enjolras would never agree on some things, but there must be a way to better balance their joined life so that the sacrifices didn’t weigh more heavily on one than the other.

Grantaire was still sketching by the time Enjolras started stirring, though luckily he was drafting a strip for his book at that point. Enjolras leaned up on his elbows, shot Grantaire a look of distaste over his shoulder when he noticed the open sketchpad and the way his lover was sat facing him, and then dropped back against the pillow with a disgruntled “hrm.”

“I’m not drawing you!” Grantaire whined.

“Uh huh.”

“Well, I’m not drawing you anymore.” He dashed off a quick bit of dialogue before it flew out of his head again, set the sketchpad down, and then bounded into bed. Grantaire gathered the fall of golden curls from the nape of Enjolras’ neck so he could lay a quick kiss there, then settled down beside him with an arm draped over Enjolras’ side, fingers sliding under his shirt to trace along his belly. “You should be less grumpy, you know. Now that you’re waking up.”

“It’s my husband, you see. I think he’s trying to drive me insane.” Enjolras shifted so that he was facing Grantaire, eyes still half lidded and sleepy, and wry smirk failing to hide a few lingering traces of unease. “First he scared the ever living shit out of me by making me think he wanted a divorce-”

“Maybe he thought you’d know better than to think him even capable of such a thing,” Grantaire returned, bringing his hand up to stroke along Enjolras’ face instead. “I’m never going to stop being mad about you, Enj. You’re stuck with me for life. I’ll breathe my last the day I lose you.”

Enjolras was quiet for a fraction of a minute, puzzling out whether he wanted to argue with that or not. Not that he was planning on dying an early death or had any intentions of otherwise parting with his husband, but he still didn’t like Grantaire intimating that he was going to commit suicide if anything should happen to him. He liked to think that if he had to, Grantaire could live a long and healthy life without him.

Opting to leave the tired old fight for another day, he continued. “Then this heartless husband of mine, he decided to spring all these problems on me out of nowhere, making me out to be some heartless bastard who neither cared about nor noticed his needs. And just when I felt like the most miserable excuse for a partner on earth, he fell asleep, apparently unburdened since he’d passed all the weight to me.”

“I’d kick the bum to the curb. Y’know, if that’s even remotely what had happened,” Grantaire said. He interrupted his gentle stroking back of Enjolras’ hair to give him a light bop on his perfectly formed nose.

“Well what’s your version?” Enjolras asked.

“My version? Well for starters, it isn’t exactly news that I’m overworked and lonely. I’ve been telling you, so I don’t see how that was blindsiding you.”

Enjolras turned defensive. “You always get whiny before deadlines. How could I have known this was different?”

“Because it’s been getting worse every time. I’ve been begging you for a vacation, but you keep talking up how well we’re doing, and you light up every time we make a donation to one of your causes. Babe, I’m getting enough migraines and eye strain from how hard I’m working to require medication. It’s different than just deadline whininess.”

Enjolras’ gaze lowered, and he finally nodded. “I guess it was the bluntness, then. When you said you were unhappy like that, it made me think of…” He trailed off, but as he was tracing his fingers along some particularly significant tattoos on Grantaire’s forearm it was pretty clear what he was talking about.

“Love, it’s not that. Not to tempt the fates or anything, but I don’t even know if I’m capable of falling into that kind of despair again. I’ve got you, and we’ve got some pretty rad friends with amazing little babies to cheer me up and get me out of my head when I’ve strayed too far in, and I’ve got the right balance of medication and art therapy to keep me healthy.”

He found himself with an armful of sleepy activist, squeezing him tightly as he let out some shaky breaths. “You promise?”

“Absolutely. This isn’t that kind of unhappiness. I think this one’s more of a discontent, and a conquerable one at that.”

“Good.” Enjolras dropped a kiss onto Grantaire’s stubbled jaw. “I started working on a plan last night, actually.” He climbed out of bed and went to fetch his laptop, leaving an amused husband staring after him. How like Enjolras to treat this like one of his projects. Grantaire wouldn’t have been surprised in the least if Enjolras came back with a power point and lecture notes.

What he showed Grantaire was even better. Grantaire stared at the computer screen in wonder, taking in the sight of neat little pictures of New England homes and their asking prices. “You want to buy a house in Salem?”

“Despite the drama, I think our college years were our best. I’ve always missed that ridiculously big place my parents had for me. Living by the ocean was nice, and we were so close to all our friends.”

“But what about work?”

Enjolras shrugged. “Red and Black may have seen print runs and it may be on its way to becoming a cartoon, but it’s still a web comic at heart. A home studio in Salem would be just as effective as one in the heart of comic publishing. Besides, it’s easy enough to commute to New York through Boston. And if we cut down on your con appearances we won’t be doing all that much commuting anyway.”

Grantaire wore an unmistakable look of longing as he stared at the federalist mansions history nerd Enjolras had been drawn to. It seemed almost too good to be true. “Hey, some of these are two-families. Are these all houses you were thinking of, or just what’s available in the city right now?”

“These are my choices. I was thinking if we got a two family, maybe we could ask Courfeyrac to be our tenant? He’s never going to let us buy him a house, but I don’t think offering him a nicer apartment would be a crushing blow to his dignity.”

“And then Gusty could have a yard and he’d be right next door…” Grantaire’s breath hitched as something occurred to him. He tore his eyes from the cheerful fantasies on the laptop screen and met a pensive look from his husband. “You’re really sure about the no kids thing then?”

Enjolras chewed his lip and nodded. “I don’t have it in me to be a father. I’m sorry, Grantaire, with all my heart I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s…I mean, I like kids, don’t get me wrong. I’ve always gotten along with them better than adults. But I’d probably make a shitty dad.”

“You wouldn’t,” Enjolras insisted unthinkingly.

“Really? With my upbringing you don’t think there’s a chance of it?” Grantaire laughed. “My parents failed me in every way possible. I am terrified of the thought of screwing some poor kid up the way they fucked me up. Mentoring Little R and spoiling Gusty rotten are probably as close to child rearing as I should get.”

Enjolras shook his head. “You’re a warm, loving man and a devoted husband. What happened to you during your early life was tragic, but I’ve never thought it defined you even when you were trying your damndest to force it. My desire to never have children is entirely a selfish one. I just don’t want them. I wouldn’t know what to do with them if I had them. But if circumstances ever dropped any upon us, I wouldn’t have a single qualm about your suitability to be a guardian. ‘Taire, how many of our friends have asked you to be backup guardians should something happen to them?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Just…all of them, actually. Even Marius and Cosette, and I never expected them to think I was good enough for Gigi.”

Grantaire looked at the computer screen again and contemplated the houses Enjolras had picked out, trying to see them as homes. He imagined chasing Gusty around in the yards, setting up art studios in the sunniest of the rooms, and felt the most wonderful ache as he constructed his little castles in the air. “This’ll work. Apparently I’m homesick as fuck.”

Enjolras melted against his side, a relieved smile on his face. “Me too. It’ll be good to live near our friends again. We’ve still got to go back to New York today though. It’s going to take some work to make this happen.”

“Mm. Got to buy the house before we can live in it.” He handed the laptop over and leaned back against the pillows. “Pick out whichever one you want. I don’t care what the house looks like so long as I get the choicest lighting for my studio. Y’know, and a yard for the kiddos.”

“Naturally. And a separate room for cat furniture-”

Grantaire chucked a pillow at him.


Little R jiggled the handle to the bathroom door, found it locked, and let out a disgruntled groan. “Zelma! Can you let me use the bathroom for like ten minutes before you do your three hour girly whatever the hell it is pre-date thing? I need to get to the train station so I can see Grantaire and Enjolras off.”

The lock clicked open, and then Azelma’s face, twisted into an annoyed scowl, peeked through the crack. “I’m sorry, did you just imply that I was getting ready for my dinner with Combeferre now? It’s three thirty. We’re not even meeting up until seven.”

“Uh huh.” Little R waited for her to elaborate, but she just stood there looking pissed off about something. “Uh…you used to groom obsessively when there was just a chance of you bumping into him. I thought that since you were going on a real date…”

She slammed the door with a loud bang that made him jump. Little R stomped downstairs and ran into the kitchen, where Feuilly was simultaneously trying to get some work done on his laptop and prepare hot dogs and beans for the kids. “Feuilly! Azelma’s hogging the bathroom!”

As if in answer, they heard the old pipes of the building rattle in the wake of a flushing toilet. Shortly thereafter Azelma strode smugly into the room, wearing yoga pants and an over-sized sweatshirt, her hair held out of her eyes with an assortment of bobby pins. She stuck her tongue out at her brother and he galloped upstairs to steal the family’s one bathroom before any of the other inhabitants could get to it.

“Can you believe he really thought I was getting ready for the date already?” Azelma asked.

Feuilly looked up from the computer with a pointed smirk and then silently turned towards the stove. Azelma scowled, but she finally dropped the smug down by a few notches. “Okay, fine, so I was a little obsessive when I was a teen. You know, ten frickin’ years ago. I like to think I’ve grown up a bit since then.”

“You undoubtedly have. But Azelma, your obsessive behaviors regarding Combeferre made enough of an impression on your brother than he still clearly remembers and expects them despite having observed them when he was four.”

“Alright, point made. Well, anyway, I’m not the creeper I used to be. I don’t even care if the date doesn’t go well. If it does, great, fine. He’s a wonderful man. If it doesn’t, whatevs. I’m used to getting by on my own. Doesn’t bother me either way.”

Feuilly started scooping the warmed beans onto cheerful plastic baby plates, somehow managing to infect the basic parental task with an air of being amused at his sister-in-law’s expense. “Just don’t take it too far the other way.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Azelma, you like Combeferre. You like him for good reasons. Don’t sabotage the date just to prove your independence, okay?”

“I-I wouldn’t…” But when she stopped to think about it, she kind of was. “Urgh…okay, point ceded. Apparently I only fluctuate between wild extremes.”

“I’d blame the Thenardier blood,” Feuilly said calmly as he began chopping up the hot dogs. “By the by, I’m going to take the kids to Marius’ for a visit around suppertime. Considering how late lunch is today, we probably won’t be leaving until around six, so you and Ponine should have the house to yourselves…”

“An hour before my date. Which is a sensible amount of prep time,” Azelma finished. She walked over to Feuilly and kissed his cheek. “You’re the best big brother ever.”

“Thanks. Though the hope that you’ll bring an amazing brother in law into the family is a bit of a selfish one. I wouldn’t mind having ‘Ferre around for all of the family gatherings.”

“Ah huh. Well I wouldn’t start planning the wedding yet.”

“Mm. We should see how you guys manage a first date, I guess.”

Azelma quirked an eyebrow, picking up on an odd inflection in his voice. “What does that mean?”

Feuilly answered automatically, followed with a wince and a distinct ‘I should not have said that’ face. “Combeferre absolutely sucks at dating.”

“Sucks how?”

“Um…I don’t think there’s a way I can answer this that won’t have me attacked by a six foot plus ginger when I least expect it.”

Azelma leaned against the counter with her arms crossed over her chest. “Combeferre’s a sweet, gentle man-”

“Says you.”

And I’m your sister. Confidentiality’s sort of implied. I didn’t realize Combeferre had a hard time dating.”

Feuilly started putting plates on the table, incidentally putting some space between him and his houseguest. “The guy’s painfully awkward and there’s not a bit of flirt in him. We tried setting him up on a few blind dates a while ago, but none of them took. Just go easy on him, Azelma. If he shuts down, or starts to get twitchy or anxious or anything, it’s overwhelmingly likely that it has nothing to do with you and everything to do with him.”

“Really?” She was almost sure Feuilly was messing with her, but then, she knew the guy well enough to tell when he was joking around and he was deadly serious. “But Combeferre always seemed so confident.”

“Cool and collected, yes. Confident…meh. He’s confident when you’re talking about abstract intellectual subjects that have very little to do with day to day life. Kids! Lunch is done!”

Azelma tried to press Feuilly for more information, but once Thiago and Mehmed thundered into the room she had to give it up as a lost cause. To his credit, Feuilly did try to keep his conversation going, but every other word was interrupted with a “get your hands off your brother’s plate” or a “eat what you’ve got and maybe you can have some carrot sticks.”

She was almost run over by Little R in the hallway. “Oops, sorry sis!”

“Wait a sec.” She grabbed him by the hood of his sweatshirt and forced him to slow down. “How are you getting to the train station?”

“Bike.”

Well that explained the rush. “Get in my car. I’ll give you a ride.”

“Thanks Zelma!”

She snagged her keys from the hook by the door and called back into the kitchen, telling Feuilly and the kids where she was going, then went out to her car where she found her baby brother fidgeting in the front passenger. “You okay kiddo?”

“Yeah. I just don’t want to miss them. I don’t always get a chance to say goodbye. The last two times they left while I was at school and Ponine and Feuilly wouldn’t let me skip.”

“Well you’re definitely seeing them this time, so calm it down. Seriously, that looks like a pee dance and it’s making me nervous.”

Little R stuck his tongue out at her, but he did calm down significantly until they hit just about every red light on the way and struggled to find parking. Despite the car having saved him significant time over what the bike ride would have been, they still got to the train platform with barely five minutes before the train to Boston was supposed to arrive.

Little R jumped out of the car as soon as it was parked. Azelma locked up and hurried after him, and would have lost sight of him entirely were it not for his bright green hair. She pushed her way through the crowd of commuters and finally caught up to her baby brother as he jumped Grantaire, wrapping his skinny arms around the artist’s neck and hanging from him like dead weight. Grantaire hugged him back, and started to say something but was silenced by Enjolras before he could get more than a word out.

`“Uh, guess I’m not allowed to tell you that yet.”

“Don’t you think you should wait until it’s finalized?”

“It’s pretty clear you do,” Grantaire grumbled. He gave Little R’s shoulder a squeeze and promised to call him with good news in a couple of days.

“Hey guys,” Azelma greeted, and got much more subdued acknowledgments from the couple than her brother had received. She was starting to wonder how they’d gotten to the train station to begin with, then she saw Combeferre strolling towards them with a tray of coffees. Combeferre, looking remarkably dashing in his dreamy-yet-approachable professor clothes, and she was wearing a mess of bobby pins and yoga pants stained with Zahara’s spit up.

Feuilly was right. She’d taken this not getting caught up in him thing way too far the other direction.

“’Ferre, hi.” And that squeak of a greeting was totally not going to save it.

Apparently he missed the bobby pins and the throw up, because his eyes lit up when he saw her. “Azelma. It’s so good to see you.” And without further ado, he shoved the coffees into Enjolras’ hands and secured her for some apparently pressing chit chat about an article he’d read on education that needed her thoughts now-right-now.

He completely ignored Enjolras and Grantaire until the train arrived, which seemed to suit Little R as it allowed him to get all of his mentor’s attention for those last, almost sacred five minutes. Enjolras looked a bit pissy about it though.

Little R tried to sneak onto the train with the surge of the crowd, but his neon hair prevented any possibility of that working. Combeferre nabbed him by the collar and pulled him far enough back on the platform to wave at the window as Grantaire and Enjolras departed. Once the train was out of sight, the three of them started walking back towards the parking lot and almost ran into Courfeyrac, who was red in the face and winded looking, his son perched precariously on his back.

“We…we missed them?”

“Um…” Combeferre frowned, not sure if it was worth answering the incredibly obvious inquiry.

Gusty immediately burst into loud sobs. “I didn’t get to say goodbye! I didn’t get to say goodbye or give him a hug and I didn’t get to see the train!”

“Gus, I’m sorry. I tried.”

“No you didn’t! You were kissing that man with the pony tail, which is not saying goodbye to Uncle R and Uncle Angel-ras!”

“Wait a minute, you were what?” Combeferre grinned, already tuning out the tantruming toddler.

With some difficulty, Courfeyrac got Gusty off his shoulders and appeased him by getting Grantaire on the phone for him. Gusty wandered off a few steps and started happily chatting with his godfather, telling him all about his morning with Emma and Angeline, allowing the adults to interrogate their friend.

“Are you and Jehan a thing again?” Combeferre asked. “Shit, I mean Jean. It’s going to take me forever to get used to that.”

“I…I don’t know if we’re a thing,” Courfeyrac said slowly. “But we got breakfast, and we talked a lot, and when he dropped me back at my place he kissed me goodbye. We’re going to take it slowly and see where it goes. Kinda gotta, really…considering…” He motioned towards the four year old happily chatting away about the merits of Curious George as opposed to Thomas the Tank Engine.

Combeferre frowned. “He’s not really put off by you being a single father, is he?”

“If he is he’s an asshole and you can do better,” Azelma said, defensively thinking of her own nieces and nephews, whom she loved with a protective fierceness. The idea that anyone could see a child as a hindrance or a burden made her hackles rise, though she’d never examined exactly where that sensitivity came from.

“He doesn’t hate kids,” Courfeyrac insisted. “But he’s never dated a guy with kids either. He doesn’t want to get too involved too fast in case we don’t work out. He said something about not wanting to lead Gusty on, which I totally agree with. So we’re going to try a few more dates and see what happens. And if we get there, we get there. If we don’t…I’ll handle it more gracefully than I did last time.”

“Hey buddy,” Combeferre said, giving Gusty a prod on the shoulder. “Let your daddy talk to Uncle R for a minute so he can tell him what he just told us. It’ll only take a minute.” Gusty tried to run away, but the phone was negotiated away from him with the promise of a rare piggy back ride from Combeferre, who was infinitely more interesting for piggy back rides than the other adults by virtue of his height. Courfeyrac was thusly able to give the sought after update to Grantaire, who immediately berated him for falling prey to the poet’s charms, but there was no bite to his voice.

Damned if the guy was ever going to admit it, but he sounded happy for his friend.

They all lingered at the edge of the train platform chatting with each other, even after Gusty hung up with Uncle R. When the chilly winds got the better of them, Combeferre walked the Thenardier siblings to their car while Courfeyrac started fighting Gusty into the booster seat in the back of his own vehicle. She snagged Combeferre’s hand where it swung loosely by his side as he walked, and when they got to her car he placed a chaste kiss on her knuckle.

“I’ll see you in a few hours,” he said, looking enormously pleased with life in general.

She was sure she was smiling like an idiot when she said goodbye. She had to be, because Little R was laughing at her when Azelma got into the car. “What?”

“Nothing, actually. It’s nice to see you smile like that, ‘Zelma. Only…you look a little funny with all the bobby pins, when Combeferre looks so suave.”

Then Azelma caught her reflection in the mirror and let out a groan. “Oh no. I look hideous.”

“Combeferre was looking at you like you were a movie star. I wouldn’t worry. Besides, you rock scrubby Auntie clothes almost as well as Ponine rocks the scrubby Mommy clothes.”

“Thanks, kiddo.” It was nice to hear, but Azelma felt a surge of determination to show up for the date looking like a knock out.


The next group gathering may not have seen Feuilly at his goal of having a brother in law to help him weather the holidays with the Thenardiers, but he was a few steps closer.

Combeferre and Azelma had gone on enough dates to have stopped counting them. She came to visit her new sweetie at work with lunch a few times, and found starry eyed little things visiting him for office hours every time. The poor things looked absolutely stricken when the cute blond in the skirt suit and heels leaned her slim hip on their hot professor’s desk, straightened his tie, cleaned his glasses and otherwise fussed over him in a way that was both familiar and territorial. And the perfect dear didn’t notice a damn thing about what was really going on.

“Hon, all of your students are crushing on you.”

“I really don’t understand why you and Courfeyrac keep saying that. We were talking about Anne Bradstreet. It’s not the most romantic poetry in the world. It’s actually rather morbid and depressing.”

It was a few weeks after Christmas when they strolled up the drive to Enjolras and Grantaire’s new home. They’d managed to bully Courfeyrac into submission, and so Gusty was the first to greet them, cheeks red and eyes bright from too much play in the massive sledding course the adults had crafted with the snow blower in the enormous yard.

“Hi guys! You wanna play with my sled? Lookit the fort we made!”

The couple was cheerfully detained by the young child eagerly sharing all the outdoor delights he’d been gifted with. They were able to tempt him inside with them through the lure of hot chocolate, which was thankfully already being fixed for him in the kitchen of Enjolras and Grantaire’s home (Gusty seemed equally at liberty to come and go through either of the homes in the building). Grantaire laid a mug in front of the boy while Courfeyrac got him out of his wet things and Enjolras grumpily followed after all of them with a towel and some organic all-purpose cleaning spray.

After he’d hung Gusty’s things up by the door, Courfeyrac took a seat at the table next to his son and absent mindedly stroked back his hair while the kid fished all the marshmallows out of his cocoa (though of course Uncle R was waiting with a bag of mini marshmallows to refill when needed). The proud papa looked more youthful than ever, something Combeferre attributed to the new living arrangement. Letting his best friend carry some of the burden of fatherhood was helping him enjoy its many perks, and besides that, he didn’t look as haggard or stressed anymore.

Then Jean walked in and the blissful smile Courfeyrac greeted him with prompted Combeferre to re-evaluate. Courfeyrac was less burdened and stupidly in love again.

“Sorry. I went to the wrong house,” Jean said as he shrugged out of his coat. He gave Courfeyrac a quick peck, then sat down on Gusty’s other side, though he swung an arm behind the child’s chair to lace his fingers with the boy’s father’s.

“Who else is meeting us here?” Enjolras asked, casting a look of dismay at the small puddle of slushy snow Jean had tracked in with him.

“I think we’re just waiting on Bahorel and Musicehtta,” Azelma said. “Gav and Little R are at the café already, and they just texted that Joly and Legle are already there, and Ep and Feuilly are going to meet us there with the brood, Zahara permitting. Oh, shoot, no we’re still waiting on Marius and Cosette too.”

“Is Gigi coming? Can she come play with my sled and my fort?” Gusty asked.

“Not tonight, pumpkin. We’ll see if Uncle Marius’ll let her sleep over. Then you and Gigi can play in the yard in the morning.”

“Didn’t we just have a sleepover?” Enjolras whined.

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “Yep. Emma and Angeline slept over a few days ago, but neither of them are Gigi. Besides, what’s it matter to you? They’re sleeping over my place, not yours.”

“I’m getting really sick of that one,” Enjolras grumbled. “You know damn well your sleepovers always spill over to my house.” But the sight of Grantaire cracking his godson up by making silly faces every time he went to take a sip of cocoa softened his heart a little. He mumbled something about having his kitchen overrun with small children whenever Courfeyrac forgot to go food shopping, but was ignored by everyone present in favor of Gusty singing a pop song and basically eating up as much adult attention as he could while he was still the only kid in the room.

The doting adults only managed to cram another six or seven tablespoons of sugar into the little boy before obnoxious honking informed them that Musichetta and Bahorel were waiting outside, with the Pontmercy family idling in a minivan just behind them. Then there was a commotion as everyone got their winter things back on and piled into vehicles to head out for the actual gathering place of the night, the Thenardiers’ café.

“Do you really think the children are going to be able to sit still for a poetry reading?” Enjolras inquired as he climbed into the backseat of Courfeyrac’s car with Grantaire and Gusty.

Courfeyrac shrugged. “Who cares? If they get too antsy we can just kick them out to the back room. Eponine’s got it set up as more of a nursery than an office at this point anyway, since she takes her kids to work with her so much.”

“That’s why I picked Eponine’s café for my book release,” Jean added. “I wanted everyone to be able to be there. Including you, little man,” he added with an affectionate smile for Gusty. Gusty beamed up at the front passenger, nearly as enamored of the poet as his daddy.

It was a short drive downtown to the café, though finding parking turned out to be an issue. “I guess it was a good thing we met up at our place first. Fewer vehicles,” Grantaire said.

Jean looked at the crowded streets in some awe. “Do you think all these people are really here for the poetry reading and the book signing?”

“Most definitely,” Enjolras said, though he refrained from mentioning that he thought quite a few of them were probably there to get copies of the latest volume of Red and Black signed. But the dual signing could only help, even if Jean did get a little upstaged by the established artist.

They finally found a space a couple streets away, and hurried over to the café as quickly as possible, whose warmth seemed all the more inviting the longer they trudged through snow and slush in biting winds.

The café was indeed warm and cheerful, but also packed. If Gavroche hadn’t set aside tables for them they would have had to stand in the back. As is, the kids were herded into the back room just to free some more space. In a reversion to his old hypochondriac habits, Joly had apparently jumped at the chance to play munckin minder in the office rather than expose himself to all the winter colds brought in with a crowd that size.

Everyone politely refrained from reminding him that the group of children were probably carrying more minor pestilences between them than all the adults crammed into the main room, but it wasn’t as much in consideration of Joly’s nerves as it was a desire not to be shut up with the next-gen of Amis when they were there to celebrate Jean and Grantaire’s creative accomplishments.

Eponine had been mingling, but she noticed how overwhelmed her baby brother looked behind the counter and went over to help him. “You need a break, kiddo?”

“No. I should be okay, but um, if you wanted to take the orders and do the, uh, talking to the customers part, that’d be good.”

She shooed him away from the register and over towards the milk steamer. However, the poor thing really did look incredibly fatigued. Enjolras tapped Gavroche’s shoulder, but as he was talking to a pretty college student he pretended not to feel it and determinedly kept talking about his personal acquaintance with the creator of Red and Black. “Oh yeah, we go back ages. Old family friend. I could introduce you if you wanted.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely,” Enjolras said, nudging his way into the conversation. “He’s standing right behind us. Grantaire,” Enjolras tugged his husband’s arm and all but pushed him at his admirer, then turned his attention back to Gavroche. “Your brother is clearly overwhelmed.”

“Yeah, and?” Gavroche snapped, gaze still hopefully fixed on the pretty girl who was chatting a mile a minute about all the meaning Grantaire’s comics had had for her during some dark periods of her adolescence.

“Go help or I will spend the entire night cockblocking you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Ask Courfeyrac if I wouldn’t.”

With a defeated sigh, Gavroche stalked towards the counter. “You know you used to be a barista! You could help too.”

Enjolras didn’t seem to have anything to say to that, so he followed Gavroche and helped the Thenardiers make drinks until business slowed down.

Feuilly was making some last minute adjustments to the sound equipment they’d set up on the stage, with Jean fussing eagerly around him trying to be helpful but mostly just getting in the way. Grantaire managed to shake off his fangirl but was quickly pounced by a couple of fanboys and another girl. He threw an exasperated look Enjolras’ way, but he was too busy making drinks to see it.

“No, really Jean, I think I’ve got…oh look, that went through. Hey everyone! We’re just about ready to start the poetry reading if you want to take your seats.”

“When do we get our comics signed?” someone in the crowd shouted, to whoops and applause from the others.

“Later!” Grantaire yelled. “Poetry first! Yay poetry…” He didn’t sound as enthused as he might have, but Jean blew him a kiss anyway.

The line thinned out as the reading began, allowing Enjolras and Gavroche the opportunity to escape the counter. Gavroche managed to flirt his way into a seat at a table of girls, but the chair Enjolras had claimed for himself had been stolen by Musichetta. He looked like he was considering asking for it back, but at a warning look from the alarmingly pregnant woman with the swollen feet he let out a defeated sigh and backed off.

Then an inked-over arm snagged its way around his waist and Enjolras was pulled onto his husband’s lap. Grantaire pressed a kiss to Enjolras’ cheek and a vanilla latte into his hand. With a small smile, Enjolras settled into his seat for the night and turned his attention towards the amateur poets, though it periodically wandered to the broad hand caressing his leg.

Eponine finished ringing up the last bright eyed little hipster in her line, then leaned against the counter to watch the room. She was struck with an incredible sense of deja-vu at the sight of all of her friends hanging out in a café (even if it was hers) for a poetry reading. It was too good an opportunity for people watching to resist, so she peered around, weighing her friends as they were against how she remembered them.

She looked with pride at her younger sister, looking chic and comfortable, effortlessly holding the attention of and keeping pace with a better man than Eponine ever could have dreamed of her meeting during their turbulent youth. She was so proud of Azelma, and was certain that time would get her a brother in law and maybe some nieces and nephews of her own.

And then there was Combeferre. He hadn’t changed as drastically as some of their other friends, though he was quite different from the quiet intellectual that had become one of the first memorable regulars at her old afterschool job. His changes were the result of a constant growth and evolution. Combeferre would always be improving himself, the result of a restless spirit and a desire to make everything better. One of the chief improvements in him, perhaps Eponine’s favorite, was that he now carried his potentially imposing frame with a friendly ease instead of a shy aloofness. He no longer stood behind his friends, letting them take the spotlight, but shone along with everyone else. It was a pleasure to see, and Eponine was impatient to get to call him her big brother.

Initially she hadn’t really noticed Feuilly when he’d started popping up at Brammer Street. She’d dismissed him as the cheap one, never really noticing that he always dropped the twenty six cents of change from his tea purchase into the tip jar for her or appreciating the fact that it was all he could really give. It had taken her ages to notice just how generous a spirit he possessed, since he hadn’t been in the circumstances to show it, but once she’d taken notice she couldn’t help but be struck by him. She looked down at the tattoo around her left ring finger, a swirl of Celtic knots she and Feuilly had adopted in place of traditional rings, and allowed a rare sappy smile for herself.

Of course, the first objects of her affections needed scrutiny as well, so with some effort Eponine turned away from the pleasant contemplation of her husband to think over the changes ten years had wrought in Marius Pontmercy. Oh who was she kidding? He was and would always be their puppy. No amount of teasing, drama, or financial setbacks seemed able to cure Marius of his daydreaming and almost painful innocence, but really none of them wanted their friend any other way. Certainly not his ladylove, though she did like to heave deep sighs over his atrocious employment record (thankfully Cosette was perfectly able to provide for the family if it came down to it).

And then there was Courfeyrac. In many ways he was much the same as he’d always been. Friendly, upbeat, still a flirt though without the sincerity of the old days, and still remarkably open and generous. Fatherhood had grounded him somewhat and brought out a practical side of his nature that didn’t dull any of the pleasing exuberance and eccentricities of his character, and besides that his boy was adorable. Eponine was hoping to snatch Gusty away as a son in law in the future, though she had a feeling Marius and Cosette’s beautiful little girl might make that tricky for her.

She watched Courfeyrac rest his head on Jean’s shoulder as they listened to the poets and felt a protective urge to drag Jean out back and give him a threatening worthy of the Patron-Minette. The urge fled almost as soon as it came, because it was clear to the codependent “family” that Jean’s intentions towards their flirt were only the best. In fact, sometimes he seemed to go overboard in his attempts to atone for the sudden breakup and subsequent fleeing during their youth, which made Eponine feel guilty about her ruffled overprotective mama feathers…until she remembered that Grantaire still wanted to smack Jean Prouvaire upside his scatterbrained head sometimes too.

Jean’s other friends had come out for the poetry reading, as Jean was featuring and hawking his new book. Eponine supposed she ought to like them, they were all friendly enough…but really she didn’t see herself ever warming up to Hester Gresley, Rachel West, or Enjolras’ snobby cousin.

Bahorel was in what he called lazy drag; he was wearing makeup and heeled boots, and otherwise his clothes were more androgynous than clearly committed to one gender or the other. He’d barely been a presence at Brammer Street when Eponine had first been making judgments about his friends, thanks to the secret lifestyle he’d come clean about only after she’d been properly acquainted with him. Eponine thought back and tried to recall what she’d first thought about the man…aggressive, off-putting, cocky, and kind of slutty. Well, very little of that had turned out to be true. He still liked a good brawl as much as ever, but preferred to do so with his wife and partner at his side, and what Eponine had initially taken to be the short fuse of a hyper macho tough guy was mostly posturing. Bahorel was another puppy and everyone knew it, though a different breed from Marius.

Musichetta had never been one of the Brammer Street regulars, so Eponine reflected on her as a Musain and Corinth buddy instead. Musichetta was probably the first female friend Eponine had that never felt like a threat. She couldn’t tell if this was a reflection on her and the growth she’d accomplished in the months before they’d met, or if Musichetta deserved all the credit just for being the fantastically strong lady that she was. She’d filled a void in Eponine’s life and set her an invaluable example of the kind of fiery and strong woman she wanted to be. In fact, Eponine had probably only been able to get as close to Cosette and Azelma as she had because of her friendship and the genuine closeness she’d shared with Musichetta.

Bossuet was sitting with Musichetta, looking like half a person with his hubby out of the room. He’d been Eponine’s least favorite part of the Student Revolution before she’d gotten to know them; he broke at least a dozen ceramic mugs before the baristas wised up and started giving him to-go cups no matter what he said, he bumped into tables and chairs, making sticky spills for them to clean up, he forgot his wallet and found himself unable to pay once a drink had already been made, or he had his wallet but had very little in it and ordered cheap as fuck drinks that he didn’t tip on. She’d loathed the bald bastard until she’d found the humor in his constant mishaps and learned to laugh with him instead of mean spiritedly digging on him once his back was turned.

And then there was his beautiful, light hearted husband, one of the best “mommy” friends Eponine had. The fussy nature that had manifested in hypochondria made Joly a thorough researcher on all his domestic duties. Eponine texted him at least a dozen times a day to reassure herself that there was nothing suspicious about Thiago’s cough, or that Mehmed would survive eating a bug he’d found in the yard. The very fact that Joly was telling his friends not to go overboard worrying about a cough or an ingested insect was a sign of how far he’d come in ten years.

Then her eyes rested on Enjolras and Eponine was overcome with a sense of approval. She’d hated him when they’d first met, thinking him pompous, judgmental, and hypocritical. Then the asshole had gone and saved her life and she’d had to reevaluate pretty much everything she’d thought she’d known about him, and life in general. Eponine admitted that Enjolras wasn’t a hypocrite about any of his ideals; he really believed in helping people, even when he had to make sacrifices. Eponine still thought he could be a bit of a jerk, but he worked so hard and made good on so many of his values that she couldn’t help but respect him. She’d never seen someone practice what they preached like Enjolras, and she loved that he made her believe things could get better…even if she tended to revert to her upbeat sarcasm when he wasn’t around.

Of course, Enjolras had been a different man when she’d first met him. There’d been a harshness in him that bordered on something almost terrible, but it had been softened with the happiness that came from accepting and celebrating his love for Grantaire. When Grantaire got sentimental he tended to go on about how Enjolras had saved him, but Eponine at least thought the salvation was mutual for the couple.

And then there was Grantaire. Her first friend in what had seemed a closed-off, elitist clique of spoiled rich kids (or so it had seemed to a bad tempered teenager determined to fit labels on all her customers). She was proud of her friend, and eternally thankful for the example he’d set her in overcoming his demons instead of being dragged down by them. She’d been content to sit with him in a dirty living room getting shit faced and mocking the world, but Enjolras lit a fire under his boy and he’d unconsciously shared the lessons with Eponine. Grantaire’s happiness might have been her favorite of the changes the years had brought them.

She was pulled from her contemplations by Grantaire temporarily displacing his husband from his lap and making his way to the front of the room to introduce their feature. Eponine straightened her posture and kept her attention fixed on the stage.

“Hey guys,” Grantaire mumbled into the microphone. Despite the low buzz of excitement in the room from the minor celebrity addressing them, Enjolras’ scoff was clearly audible. Grantaire cleared his throat and spoke more clearly. “This better, babe?”

“Much!” Enjolras called.

“My nagging husband, everyone.” Grantaire feigned a long-suffering expression, but broke off into a snort. “Sorry. Anyway, hey. Thanks for coming out. I promise to stick around after the poetry for as long as it takes to sign everyone’s books, and while you’re getting things signed you should consider getting one of Jean’s books if you haven’t already done so. Guy’s fucking brilliant. Makes my scribbles look like absolute shit in comparison. So yeah. Everyone get ready to be fucking dazzled by Jehan-fucker. I mean Jean Prouvaire. Seriously, you can start clapping now. Fuck, I suck at this.” He looked disgruntled when he left the stage, but the poet seemed to appreciate his introduction, as he was laughing too hard to begin his reading.

Once Jean calmed down he immediately won the hearts of the locals with his meek, yet sweet greeting. “Hi everyone! I’m going to read pieces from the book, of course, but before I get going I want to read a piece I just dashed off on the way over here. It’s a little rough, so the next time you hear it, it might be a completely different poem. This one’s about death…oh dear. Courfeyrac, I swear the fact that I wrote it while I was on my way to visit you does not mean I think of death when I’m around you. I just think about death kind of a lot in general. Anyway, here’s the poem. Ahem:

These days I’m thinking

life is like

a lobster trap.

 

You get in

and make a big show

all snip snap clack

and red plates roiling

thrashing up quite a wake.

 

But you’ve still gotta wait

to be pulled up

for some unknown

to set you free.”

 

The crowd looked a bit bewildered as they clapped for the poem. Grantaire and Enjolras traded a significant look, then both started giggling at something private between them. Though they both later professed to greatly enjoy Jean’s poetry, no one sitting near them failed to notice that they spent the brunt of the feature scribbling notes and doodles back and forth to each other.

It took hours to clear the café after the poetry reading was through. Grantaire felt like he was at a con with how many books he signed and how many pictures he posed for. Thankfully, the night seemed almost equally productive for Jean, who made himself quite a few new fans. He sold the entire stock of books he’d brought with him and gave out impromptu “business cards” he scribbled on napkins so the latecomers could order them online.

Though it was undoubtedly a profitable night, Eponine was glad to lock the doors on the last of the customers and turn to face a room of friendly, familiar faces. “How are the kids?” she asked.

“Mostly asleep. Cammy and Emma are still buzzing, but all the others konked out,” Gavroche informed her.

“Hm. You think you can carry one of the boys to the car without waking them?”

Gavroche openly laughed at that, and Little R rudely shuffled past him to get one of his nephews.

With that, the group dispersed to put on coats and scarves, trade hugs and pecks on cheeks, and go their separate, yet intricately entwined as ever ways, out into the cold New England night.

Notes:

The untitled poem Jean reads at the open mic was written by a friend of mine, M.p. Carver. You can find her professional page on facebook. She should have a book coming out in the near future, though it's seen some significant delays already. Jehan's poetry and the open mics in the fic were entirely shaped by M.p.'s work, so you might be interested in checking her out: https://www.facebook.com/pages/MP-Carver-Poet/529163013770876

Speaking of facebook, some of you have already learned that I'm an absolutely abysmal e-mail correspondent. In the absence of a tumblr (which I still haven't developed a taste for) the best way to keep in touch with me is probably my Facebook page. My professional pen name is Valerie Myers, and my Facebook page is here: https://www.facebook.com/valerie.maiers
I'd love to stay in touch with you guys, so feel free to add me and make sure you introduce yourselves by telling me your AO3 name :)

I've also got an e-book out, so if you've enjoyed my scribbles please consider heading over to Amazon and checking out The Necromancer's Folly.

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