Chapter Text
Enjolras gets home just in time to catch the tail end of Cosette’s shouts. His sister storms past him on her way out of the house without a word and stalks around the corner towards their porch chair, leaving the door clattering her wake. He watches her go with an arched eyebrow, before reaching out to catch the still rattling door.
“Okay, then,” he says, and steps into the house.
He finds their father standing in the middle of the foyer, eyes wide and mouth open, with his hands outstretched. It would be amusing, if not for the slightly terrifying tremor to his hands and the way he appears to be looking straight through Enjolras. There is a small part of Enjolras that refuses to be unseen, so he has to physically tamp down the urge to snap at Valjean.
He settles for turning his head towards the front door purposefully. Valjean doesn’t seem to get to hint, and continues to stare back at him blankly. “So, what was that?” Enjolras says finally after the silence starts to stretch. Valjean doesn’t move. “Right,” Enjolras says, setting his bag down on the floor and heading towards the kitchen. “The usual, then. I’ll go talk to her.”
Valjean’s mouth opens, but before he can say anything, the phone rings. He steps quickly into the kitchen and reaches to pick it up. “Inspector Javert?” he says, giving Enjolras a grateful smile when he walks by on his way to the fridge. “I—reports of shouting from the neigh—Javert, you’re the only person who lives close enough to us to be able to hear shouting, honestly—”
Valjean sounds put upon, but the slightly amused quirk to his lips betrays his true feelings; the way his shoulders are still not quite relaxed betrays the way he’s still thinking about Cosette.
Enjolras sighs, grabs a carton of orange juice from the fridge, and heads back towards the door. If Valjean is unhappy about that, he doesn’t say anything.
Cosette is perched on the swing with one leg curled up to her chest and the other foot dragging in circles on the wood floor. Her hair is down, but it doesn’t look like it began that way. It’s sticking out a bit in the back, but somehow she pulls that off. A few flyaway strands are falling in her face, and she winds them around her pinky.
Enjolras steps past to her to lean against the railing. “Hey,” he says.
Cosette doesn’t look up at him. “Hey,” she says back. “How was school?”
A few stray tears make their way down her face, and she doesn’t even bother hiding them. Something deep in Enjolras’ chest tightens into a ball of protective rage. “Good,” he says. “You?”
“Make any teachers cry today?” Cosette says instead of answering the question.
Enjolras resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Not you, too,” he says dryly. “I get enough of that from Courfeyrac.”
Cosette laughs, but it lacks her usual charm. “If it happens once, it can happen again,” she points out.
Enjolras lets out a long breath. “Need I remind you that the incident in question happened years ago?”
This time, Cosette’s laugh is genuine, if watery, and she wipes at her eyes. “You were seven,” she says.
“He was wrong,” he replies. “And he knew it.”
Cosette makes an odd sound in the back of her throat. “You know, a normal person would have let it go.”
“Why?” Enjolras says more than a little honestly. “What’s the point in agreeing with a wrong answer?”
Cosette shrugs. “Anyway,” she says quickly, before Enjolras can open his mouth to argue further. “You’ve made teachers cry before.”
“It was that one time,” Enjolras reiterates. “And I was seven.” It takes a moment for the absurdity of that sentence to sink in. “Oh, God.”
Cosette’s lips twitch. “See?” she says.
Enjolras reaches out and cuffs her over the head. “Shut up,” he says, and leans down to hold the juice out to her.
“Thanks.” She takes it and unscrews the cap. “Papa is going to kill you,” she mumbles, before she takes a long sip.
Enjolras snorts. “He saw me take it,” he says. “Didn’t seem all that bothered.”
Cosette gives him a look.
“Alright, so he was on the phone with Javert—”
“That makes more sense.” Cosette snickers, and turns to look over at the neighboring house. Enjolras follows her line of sight; he swears he can see blinds rustling. “Was he angry?”
Enjolras turns to look back down at her. “At you?” he says quietly. She nods. “Cosette, he’s never angry at you. He loves you.”
She laughs, but it’s bitter, and does nothing to ease the knot that's settled into Enjorlas’ chest. “He has a pretty odd way of showing it,” she says tightly. “I’m not a baby.”
It’s on the tip of Enjolras’ tongue to mention that she will always be his baby sister, but something about the sharpness of her eyes gives him pause. “No,” he says instead. “And he doesn’t think you are.”
Cosette’s lips purse. “It’s not like I’m going to start whoring myself out,” she continues. “I’d just like to be able to hang out with people who aren’t girls.”
Enjolras blinks. “Hang out,” he repeats.
“And it’s not like it’s just boys in general,” his sister continues, unperturbed. “It’s just the one.”
Enjolras shakes his head. “Oh?” he says.
Cosette goes a little pink. “Yeah,” she says softly. “His name’s Marius.”
Enjolras very quickly reviews the sophomore class roster and comes up blank. He frowns. “Do you have class with him?”
“Oh, no,” Cosette says. “I haven’t really spoken to him yet, actually. I mean, he said ‘hello.’”
Enjolras isn’t sure how to respond to that. “Oh?” he settles for. “Run that by me again?”
“I was a little late to English today, because Éponine forgot her text book and I let her borrow mine.”
Enjolras nods; he knows well enough that Éponine can’t afford any more absences, let alone being late.
“So I was running, and I ran into him. He dropped all of his books. Tried to tell me to ‘just go’—it was sweet, actually.”
Enjolras’ lips twitch. “Did you?” he says.
Cosette grins. “Of course not,” she says, tossing her head back and raising her nose. “Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I need people to look after me.”
Enjolras gives her his haughtiest look. “Quite right, too,” he says primly.
They keep straight faces for all of three seconds, before they dissolve into fits of giggles. “Was he nice?” he asks finally, when the shudders have subsided.
“Very,” Cosette says softly. “I want to see him again.”
Enjolras nods, and figures, now or never. “What did dad say?”
Cosette sighs. “The usual,” she says. “No dating, no exceptions, you know the drill.”
Enjolras does. “That sucks,” he says.
“I’ll say,” says Cosette. “It’s not like it’s the end of the world. We probably wouldn’t end up doing much of anything, anyway. Just see a movie, or something.”
Enjolras shoots her a sideways look. “Or something?” he says.
“Or something,” Cosette repeats, rolling her eyes. “You know, first date type things.” She waits. “Kissing, Enjolras, God—”
Enjolras makes a face.
“—but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be irresponsible.”
Enjolras is quiet for a long moment. “I don’t think he thinks you’re going to be,” he says, and somehow manages to hold strong in the face of her dubious expression. “To be fair, his only experience with your friends has been Eponine and Montparnasse.”
Cosette’s lips thin, but she doesn’t try to deny it. “It’s still unfair,” she says quietly.
Enjolras takes the empty spot next to her and shoves her lightly with his shoulder. She shoves back, and Enjolras ends up slumped next to her on the swing, pressed shoulder to shoulder. “True,” he says softly. “What was it about this time?”
Cosette goes abruptly pink. “Um,” she says. “Don’t hate me?”
“You do realize that does nothing to comfort me?” says Enjolras, taking the carton of orange juice from her hand and taking his own sip. “And I could never hate you.”
Cosette’s mouth, which had fallen open when he’d taken the juice, snaps shut. “Right,” she says slowly, taking the carton mindlessly when he hands it back. “I mean, yes, but. You have to understand I was angry?”
Enjolras waves a hand at her in a “yes, go on” sort of way and raises an eyebrow.
Cosette takes a deep breath and lets it out in one go. “I may have mentioned how you don’t even want to date people and, uh, Papa decided that I couldn’t until you did.”
It’s Enjolras’ turn to be surprised. “I,” he says. “He did what?”
“I’m not allowed to date until you do?” Cosette’s smile is blinding; Enjolras feels a headache coming on.
“You’re not allowed to date until I do?” he asks.
Cosette, if possible, smiles even wider. “Yes?”
“Right.” Enjolras gets to his feet, sighing. “You owe me,” he says, and the sounds of her excitement as he rounds the corner are well worth the sudden blooming pain in the back of his temples.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Cosette shouts after him, and somehow manages to come thundering into the house before he does. She races past Valjean, still on the phone, pausing to put the orange juice back into the fridge and to peck him on the cheek, before disappearing up the stairs. No doubt, of course, to call Éponine.
Enjolras just shakes his head when Valjean shoots him a confused look, picks up his laptop bag, and heads towards his own room.
It’s only later, after he’s finished three assignments and finished studying for the first test of the year, that it occurs to him that he has quite possibly not thought this through. “Fuck,” he says, and gets up to find his phone.
“So, let me get this straight,” says Combeferre after three rings. He sounds half asleep, and Enjolras winces. “Your crazy ex-convict of a father—”
“Hey!”
“Sorry, your crazy father, has decided that Cosette can only date people once you do?”
“Yes.”
There’s the sound of movement as Combeferre unplugs his phone and settles back against his pillows. “And you, somehow—stupidly, I might add—decided to make her happy by agreeing to date someone?”
“Yes.” There’s a very pregnant pause. Enjolras curls and uncurls his hands into fists.
“Right,” says Combeferre. “We’re having this conversation tomorrow.” And then he hangs up.
They don’t end up having the conversation until the second half of lunch, because Cosette takes it upon herself to introduce Enjolras to the Marius in question (they have, since yesterday, talked and managed to make plans for their date on Saturday) and he ends up spending the morning playing chaperone to the apparent love birds. It would be sickening if it wasn’t Cosette, and it does nothing to ease the knot of tension that had settled into his stomach when the logistics of dating had finally caught up with him.
He manages to sneak away in time for class, and then Combeferre corners him outside his locker.
“Spill,” says his friend, and Enjolras is overwhelmed with sudden relief.
“Thank God you’re here,” he says, throwing a quick look around them, before letting out a deep breath. “How are we going to play this?”
Combeferre frowns. “Play what?” he says.
Enjolras blinks at him. “The fake dating thing,” he says. “I figure it’s safer to not even try to find an outside party, and you’re kind of my best friend?”
Combeferre just sort of stares at him for a long moment, before snickering, which turns into actual laughter, and Enjolras ends up standing in front him with his eyes narrowed waiting for him to compose himself. “Are you—you’re serious, aren’t you?” Combeferre says. “Enjolras, listen, I love you.”
Enjolras makes a face.
“But I’m not going to fake date you to make your sister happy.”
Enjolras glares at him. “Why not?”
“Why—” Combeferre runs a hand through his hair. “Enjolras,” he says. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or amused—”
“It’s the first one,” Enjolras says between his teeth.
Combeferre just wave a hand. “Semantics,” he says. “But the point remains.” He pauses, most likely for effect, and Enjolras would call him on it if he didn’t recognize the action as one of his own. “I’m not exactly on the market.”
Enjolras would be curious, if he didn’t feel well on his way to itching out of his own skin. “Oh,” he says instead.
“Yeah.” Combeferre shakes himself. “Also, this could be good for you.”
“How the hell could this be good for me?” Enjolras nearly spits out. He glances around Combeferre at the clock; he has three hours to find a date, before Cosette gets out of choir and tells Valjean about her own date with Marius.
“Well,” Combeferre says, reasonable despite Enjolras’ panic. “You’ve never dated before.”
Enjolras shoots him a fairly venomous look. “News to me,” he says sharply. And then, “sorry.”
Combeferre’s lips twitch. “It could be good for you,” he says seriously. “You could use other perspectives.”
Enjolras narrows his eyes. “I have other perspectives,” he says. “You, for example.”
“Enjolras,” says Combeferre. “Tell me the last time we disagreed.”
Enjolras opens his mouth, and then shuts it. “That doesn’t count,” he says quickly. “Jehan—”
“The point being,” Combeferre interrupts, “Dating isn’t the end of the world, no matter how your father might view it.”
Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Valjean doesn’t give a fuck who I date.”
Combeferre’s eyebrows raise.
“What?” Enjolras says, flushing. “I had to come out to him, okay?”
“Right.”
“Besides, there’s nothing wrong with being completely devoted to your school work.”
“I never said there was,” says Combeferre. He steps forward to avoid a rush of people, and Enjolras ends up semi pinned against the lockers. He very stubbornly refuses to look away from Combeferre. “That would be pretty hypocritical of me, actually.”
“How so?”
Combeferre snorts. “I’m second behind you in all of our classes,” he says reasonably. “And have dated. Am dating.”
Again, Enjolras would be curious, but he only has three hours. He crosses his arms protectively in front of his chest. “Right,” he says. “So what would you suggest, then?”
Combeferre opens his mouth to respond, but it’s Courfeyrac’s voice that interrupts them.
“Enjolras!” he crows. “I hear you need to find someone to date you by the end of the day?”
The look Enjolras turns on Combeferre would make a wiser man fear for his life; Combeferre simply raises both of his hands and leaves.
“Remember!” he calls over his shoulder. “It’ll be good for you!”
Enjolras flips him off, or rather tries to, because Courfeyrac takes a hold of his extended hand before he can get the full effect. “Hey,” Enjolras starts to say, but Courfeyrac is already off, hauling him along with surprising strength. “I don’t agree with this,” he says, but doesn’t fight nearly as hard as he could.
“I’ve been waiting for this for years,” says Courfeyrac, unperturbed. “I’ve been making plans.”
“Years,” says Enjolras.
“Years.” Courfeyrac doesn’t even look at him. “If I didn’t think you’d murder me on the spot, I’d tell you all about the secret notes I’ve been taking to ascertain your type.”
“What?” says Enjolras.
“What?” repeats Courfeyrac, and he’s very lucky that Enjolras is too desperate to bother pursuing anything.
“So, her?” says Courfeyrac, pointing at a brown haired girl with one hand and, at the same time, somehow managing to get an arm around Enjolras’ shoulders. He feels like he’s on a dating game show.
“Courfeyrac!” Enjolras hisses, grabbing his hand and trying to yank it down so that his friend isn’t randomly pointing. “Stop that!”
“No?” Courfeyrac’s grip on his shoulders prevents him from pulling away. “Any particular reason why?” He maneuvers them down the hallway with far more cheer than necessary. “I ask this only from a purely scientific perspective,” he adds. “Because I have it on good authority that her name is Patricia, if that helps.” He pauses, and turns doe eyes on Enjolras, who honestly has no idea what he’s talking about.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says.
Courfeyrac stares at him for a few seconds with an almost cross-eyed expression on his face, before he looks away and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “patria”—which makes no sense; Courfeyrac isn’t even taking French.
“How about her?” Courfeyrac has the decency not to point this time, but he tilts his head towards the girl in question. She’s blonde, tall, and reminds Enjolras entirely too much of Cosette. He gives Courfeyrac a blank look. “No?” his friend says. “Drat.”
They continue down the hallway in a similar fashion: Courfeyrac pointing at seemingly random people (though, Enjolras has to admit, he seems to have picked up on his preference for brunettes) and Enjolras vetoing them with all the confidence of one who has never so much as entertained the thought of dating.
“Him, then?” says Courfeyrac finally, a bit desperately, when they’re nearing the end of the lunch period. He gestures towards a boy who Enjolras knows for a fact is Montparnasse, Éponine’s ex-boyfriend. He turns back to Courfeyrac with an eyebrow raised.
“Are you serious?” he says.
Courfeyrac makes an unnervingly pensive noise in the back of his throat. “How about—”
“No,” Enjolras says sternly, and finally wrenches his way free. “I don’t need your help, thanks!” he shouts over his shoulder. “I can do this on my own.”
Courfeyrac, he’s fairly certain, is laughing at him, but he refuses to look. “Right!” Courfeyrac manages to say. “Good luck, then!”
This time, Enjolras has no problems in raising up his middle finger.
The first person he tries is a terrified-looking freshman girl with too-large glasses, and she spends the entire conversation staring at him with a less than comforting look of terror, so Enjolras breaks off mid-speech to ask, “Listen, are you okay?” at which point the girl shakes her head quickly and scampers off in a terrified scramble to whisper with her friends. Enjolras pretends that he doesn’t see them, and brings a hand to his temples.
The second person nearly punches him in the face, and Enjolras takes no small pleasure in leaving the guy groaning in the middle of the hall.
The third person is Azelma, Éponine’s little sister, and she almost says “yes” before Enjolras’ self-preservation kicks back in and he laughs it off with a poorly worded excuse of a joke. He leaves her glaring at his back, feeling more than a little winded.
“I’m fucked,” he says under his breath, and checks his watch. He’s got class in about ten minutes. “Completely fucked.” He figures that he should probably start heading back for class.
It is perhaps by chance that he happens upon Éponine when he turns the corner on his way towards his locker. She’s alone surprisingly, and it’s pure desperation that has him reaching out a hand to stop her.
“Would you go on a date with me?” he says quickly before he can overthink it.
Éponine stares at him with a slightly shocked expression on her face, before her mouth falls open. “Oh my God,” she says. “What did you just say?” She doesn’t give him time to respond before she starts laughing hysterically for a good few moments. “I’m pretending you didn’t say that,” she tells him, patting him on the shoulder and walking off, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes.
Enjolras stares after her with a murderous expression on his face, before very slowly turning his eyes skyward in dismay. Which is how, several moments later, Courfeyrac finds him. “Need some help?” he says, and Enjolras visibly jumps.
“Nope,” he says immediately, gathering his wits about him and searching the halls frantically for anyone familiar in the slightest. “Not at all. I’m fine.” His eyes catch on a kid at one of the water fountains, wearing a knit cap over brown curls and holding a water bottle in one hand. Enjolras is relatively certain that they had art together freshman year. “I’m just going to,” he says, and refuses to finish, and starts off in the guy’s direction without a backwards glance at Courfeyrac. He can’t remember the guy’s name, but he’s pretty sure it started with an R.
“You,” he says when he gets within a few feet of the water fountain. The guy finishes his drink, and stands, wiping at his mouth with the back of his arm, before staring back at Enjolras curiously.
“Me,” he repeats.
Enjolras fights the urge to turn around. “Listen, I promise this isn’t creepy, but I really need you to go on a date with me,” he says in one breath, not entirely sure if he wants the heavens to answer his prayers or swallow him whole. “Please,” he tacks on, after a moment.
The guy licks his lips. “Okay,” he says easily. “And what will you give me?”
Enjolras’ mouth opens to beg more, and then shuts abruptly. “What?” he says.
“I said,” says the guy, and he leans forward to rest one arm against the wall to the left of Enjolras’ head. “What will you give me?”
Enjolras is having trouble thinking straight for how close the guy is; his eyes are very blue. “Things?” he gets out. “I mean, money?”
The guy’s lips twitch. “You’ll pay me to date you,” he repeats, but it’s not really a question.
Enjolras’ response most certainly is. “Yes?”
“Hmm,” says the guy. “Do I get to name my price?”
Enjolras very furiously nods his head. “Yes,” he says. “I mean, no. Two hundred?”
“You’ll pay me two hundred dollars to date you?” the guy says, looking far too pleased with himself. “Are you that bad of a date?”
Enjolras blinks. “What does that have to do with it?” he says sharply.
“Just it’s a bit more than I’d have expected, is all,” says the guy. “Makes me wonder if you’re a bad kisser, or something.”
Enjolras’ lips thin. “I’ll have you know that I am a perfectly fine kisser,” he snaps back, because not dating does not mean abstaining, and he’s been to his fair share of spin the bottle parties. “And also—” he doesn’t get to finish his sentence, however, because the guy leans forward and kisses him. Enjolras’ last thought is that he was probably asking for that. But that too gets swallowed up in the sudden rush of blood to his lips.
It is not, by any stretch of the imagination, an innocent kiss. The guy gets one hand in the curls at the back of Enjolras’ head and pulls, and when that move grants him access to Enjolras’ mouth, he licks his way in with no pause. The other hand comes up to grip Enjolras by the shoulder, tightening ever so slightly when Enjolras’ lips part a little in surprise and he makes a little noise in the back of his throat. Because, wow. This is a kiss. This isn’t a two second, obligatory peck on the lips or the awkward fumbling in a closet for 7 minutes. This is toe-curlingly good, the type of kiss that leaves Enjolras gasping for air and gripping so tight at his own jeans that his hands start to hurt.
It’s also over incredibly quickly. The guy pulls back after only a few moments, and licks his lips. “Not bad,” he says. And then, “Tomorrow. I’ll pick you up after school, at four.”
He gets about two feet away before Enjolras regains the ability to properly speak. “Hang on!” he tries to shout, and clears his throat before adding, “I don’t even know your name!”
“Really?” says the guy, turning around to look at him. “We had art together.” He takes a few steps to the right and turns so that he’s facing away again. “It’s Grantaire,” he calls over his shoulder. “And, Apollo? You should probably wear something you don’t mind getting dirty.”
Enjolras watches him go for a moment in silence, before Courfeyrac appears at his side and mirrors him.
“So, Grantaire,” he says. “Interesting choice.”
Enjolras shoots him a sideways glance. “What do you mean?”
Courfeyrac shrugs. “Nothing,” he says. “Apollo.”
Enjolras narrows his eyes. “What did you just call me?” he says.
“Grantaire did it first,” Courfeyrac points out, which, Enjolras realizes with a slowly sinking feeling in his stomach, is completely and totally true.
“Oh, God,” he says, feeling yet another headache coming on. “What have I done?”
“Think of it this way,” says Courfeyrac, putting an arm around his shoulders and steering him towards the classroom. “You’re doing it for Cosette.”
“Cosette,” Enjolras repeats, hoarsely.
“Cosette.”