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Chapter Text

Le Lycée Francais Napoleon Bonaparte was the most miserable place in the world.

It was a school where the teachers were strict, traditional and underpaid. Where the students were stretched to their very limits, breaking down every other day, surviving off anti-depressants and anxiety meds. Where the school psychologist had a three month waiting list. Where failure feels like death. Where the words "FUCK THIS PLACE" have been engraved on every table by the few that have it in them to quietly rebel. Where there are no alumni, only survivors. Where they take your life, your joy, your art, and they crush you into an soulless engineer or lawyer.

In short, it was just another French private high school.

It was from places like these that the most remarkable people tend to emerge. Where, in the absence of art and joy, they have no choice but to make it themselves. And this school was no exception.

There was a boy who sat at the back of every class, who was quiet. No one really knew much about him. He looked as if he was taking notes, but, upon further inspection, he was methodically filling his notebooks with the most breathtaking sketches. He was barely passing, shrugging at his grades no matter what they were. "It's better than 0." He always wore long sleeves. No one knew why. His name was Grantaire.

He only spoke to one person, and that person was a girl called Eponine. She wore long, flowy dresses, ballgowns, corsets, newsboy caps. She took the sneering, thinly veiled insults the other girls gave her at face value, thanking them. She came from a poor family, and was here on a scholarship. She never failed a test, but she also never seemed to study. She was effortless. She stayed in the back of the class with Grantaire, paying attention, but her eyes were always wandering around the room, and she was always humming slightly. You got the impression that her mind was never truly there. The only time she came alive was when they studied theatre. Then she was a dazzling star, designed to be under the spotlight.

There was another artist at this school as well. A boy who wandered alone, writing poetry. A boy who yearned for romance and beauty, but was trapped in this place of grey. His hair was chopped off. It used to be in a ponytail, but that was against school rules. "Boys can't have long hair," his teacher had told him as she snipped off his locks. That was the first and only time he'd ever cried at school, and he vowed never to give them the satisfaction of his tears again. So he didn't cry. He didn't cry when he was the only one in his class who didn't want to be a doctor or and engineer or a lawyer. He didn't cry when his teacher told him that poetry was worthless, and he needed to find a real job. He didn't cry when his notebook, with its five years worth of poems, was set on fire by the bullies of his school. His name was Jean, but there were too many Jeans at this school, and he could feel himself fading into the background of all the others, so he called himself Jehan. No one cared.

Jehan never cried, but a tall, lanky, brown-haired boy named Marius Pontmercy did. He cried when someone yelled. He cried when he got a croix. He cried when he got less then a 15. He lived with his grandfather. His dad died in the army and his mum died of cancer. He didn't want to conform to the system, he wanted to be different, but he also needed that academic validation to feel worth it. He was on track to be a lawyer, to fade into the background of french life.

His best friend was a boy called Courfeyrac. He was an energetic ball of energy, the class clown. He dated a new girl every week, and broke her heart each time. He got decent grades and didn't know what he wanted to do with his life. He was rich. His dad was a CEO of some company, and his mother was always off on some exotic holiday, so he was pretty much raised by a nanny. He hid the pain behind the jokes and prayed that no one would be able to tell.

There were other rich boys there, of course. All in the same situation. All set up to fade away and inherit their father's firm. Except for one. Bahorel's father was a rich owner of a law firm, and was desperately trying to get his son to show an interest in taking over one day. Bahorel didn't care. He hated school, and was failing miserably. They couldn't kick him out, though, he was too rich and important, and he revelled in that fact.

And then there was Joly, who, at first, appeared to be yet another aspiring doctor. But, unlike the others, who sought financial security, he genuinely loved healing and helping people. He had watched his mother die of some illness, unable to save her. From that moment on, he'd swore he'd learn everything there was to learn about medicine. He was riddled with anxiety, terrified of any illness, but also terrified that any bad grade would lead to him not getting into med school. He cried a lot, but never at school. Only behind closed doors.

There was a man at that school who was still in 1ere despite being 18, and his name was Bossuet. He had no friends, no one wanted to associate with a 'retenue', after all. People assumed he was dumb, or a troublemaker. He never explained why he was too old for his year. He never explained that he spend 6eme and 5eme in a hospital bed. He never explained that he was bald because his hair never grew back after his cancer treatment. But he worked hard to get back on track, never talking to anyone, focusing on his work.

There was a boy who was a disorganised train wreck. He was one of those people who were simply not built for academics. Of course, in this school, that excuse was unacceptable. He did his homework on the playground benches two minutes before his class, begged people for their notes twenty minutes before texts, never had pens nor paper. His name was Feuilly, and he was content with his future of a practical job that wouldn't need academics or brains. The school was less content with that future. He hated the system, but was too quiet to fight it.

Then there was Cosette Fauchelevant. She was the model of exactly what the school wanted. Youngest ever head of the student council in school history, perfect grades, sweetest girl to ever grace the earth. She never let her smiling mask slip, never let people see the fact that she was slowly dying inside, that the hatred for this system and all it was was slowly burning inside her until all her inside were destroyed, leaving her an empty shell. But no one knew about that. They won't ever know.

The other perfect model student was a boy called Combeferre. He was short with thick glasses and a bad case of acne, and he was majorly smart. He was the only student to have ever gotten a perfect mark on a maths test, because the teacher considered 20/20 to be reserved for God. He was falling apart, working desperately to keep up his grades. He was terrified of failing.

Then there was Enjolras, the only one brave enough to fight back. He was Combeferre's best friend, and he saw firsthand what the system did to students, to children. So, despite being smart, he fails on purpose. He protests against the school's ridiculous rules, he argues with teachers, and is frequently in detention. He doesn't care. He'll never stop fighting, not until he gets out of here.

These people were, each and every one of them, extraordinary people trying, some most successfully then others, to escape the ordinary. They were stars orbiting each other, never meant to collide. But, irregardless, eventually they did.

Chapter Text

It was yet another day at Lycee Francais Napoleon Bonaparte. The days merge into each other, with no real defining features, until your life is nothing more then a grey blur of events. This particular day was in January, and the cold dark sky was spattering rain on the classroom windows. The students were sitting in their maths class. They were in the same room, but they couldn't be further apart. The teacher started handing out their test results. 

This particular teacher was strict. He was all for traditional values and old-school education. He thinks the school doesn't spend enough time on maths and science and 'usual things'. He thinks the best way to get a child to work is to shame them. So, he reads out the grades to the whole class. He stalked around the class, slamming papers down and chastising the students for their idiocy. 

"Grantaire, 7 out of 20. Does it amuse you to fail or do you have nothing better to do with your pathetic little life? Eponine, 13 out of 20. Aim higher next time. You can do better. Bahorel, 9 out of 20. Remember you need to get these signed by your parents. I don't think your father will be particularly pleased," he sneered down at his student. Continuing, he headed to the front of the class. 

"Cosette, 17 out 20. Very good. You see, students, this is what happens when you apply yourself to achieving excellence, instead of chasing silly dreams like theatre or art or poetry," he said, glaring at Eponine, Grantaire and Jehan. Cosette looked down, embarrassed. "Enjolras, 6 out of 20. Pathetic. Maybe you should stop focusing on being special and start focusing on passing? Combeferre, 12 out of 20. I expected better from you." 

Combeferre stared down at his paper. "Oh my god. No. This can't be happening. I don't understand, I studied for hours, I-" His breathing became rapid as he continued mumbling. "I worked so hard on this. My dad's going to kill me, he's going to have to sign this, and, my average is going to plummet, it was 17 but now-"

"Hey," Enjolras said, putting his hand on Combeferre's back. "It's going to be fine. It'll be fine. Just breathe."

The teacher looked up from his desk. "Enjolras, Combeferre. Did I authorise to speak?"

Enjolras' eyes flashed with anger. "No, but given the fact that you induced your student to have a panic attack, I think this overrides normal protocol," he retorted. 

The teacher scoffed. "Oh, you kids and your 'mental health'. You just want an excuse for being pathetic in my opinion."

"Look around you!" Enjolras shouted. "Three kids in your class are crying because you make them feel worthless if they don't live up to your standards. That's not normal. We're students, we're supposed to be learning and making mistakes, that's how you learn. Not through grades and memorising rules and definitions and Je Retiens."

"You're not allowed to make mistakes in the real world. So why should you be allowed be allowed to make mistakes in school?" the teacher asked.

"Oh, don't give me that," Enjolras said, his voice rising in anger. "You're not preparing us for the real world. You're teaching us useless skills that we'll never use in the name of 'traditional education'. Hey, you want to know something we need for the real world? Critical thinking. But we sure as hell don't learn that here. We're taught that the teacher is god, and they're never wrong, and we're taught to obey the system because if we weren't taught that, we'd realise that, really, this isn't that important. And every single one of us knows that this is bad, and this is wrong, and we deserve better, but we're too scared to rebel because you traumatise us into never disagreeing with you. We're too scared of the consequences. So we just sit here, writing down whatever you put on the board and learning it by heart even though it's been scientifically proven over and over again that that teaches us nothing, and-"

"Are you quite finished, young man?" the teacher said, each word feeling like a threat. 

"No. You make us feel like a bad grade is the end of the world, not a learning opportunity. You make us feel like our only purpose is to be a good student. You don't even give 20s but you make us feel bad for not getting them? And you make us believe that we can't fight against the system because the system is unbreakable and too powerful, but it's not. We can fight against you, you don't let us believe it."

"Vive la revolution francaise!" a voice cried out from the back of the room. Enjolras turned around. It was Grantaire, the quiet, arty kid who sat at the back. Enjolras had never given him much thought before, he had never really noticed him. He almost never said anything. Why was he sticking up for him now? He was grinning at Enjolras, leaning back on his chair. He gave him a grateful smile in return. 

"Well, that was quite an outburst. Two hours of colle. Each. Congratulations. And give me your carnets. Both of you."

Enjolras and Grantaire rummaged through their bags and placed their carnets de liaison on the desk. The teacher scribbled in it for a few minutes, then handed it back to them.

"Get this signed by your parents by tomorrow."

Grantaire nodded and shuffled to the back of the class. Enjolras wanted to argue, but he saw the pleading look on Combeferre's face and sat down, resigned. 

"You okay now?" he asked Combeferre. 

He let out a shaky breath. "I'll survive. It's one grade. I just get so stressed out about it and- I'm sorry."

"Hey, don't apologise. It's okay."

"No, because, I want to be like you, I want to fight the system, I really do, it's just- I guess they already broke me."

The teacher gave him a look, and he went back to writing his notes. Enjolras looked behind his shoulder to Grantaire. He didn't know anything about the boy. No one really did. He was friends with that girl, he knew that. Eponine. He was an artist. Enjolras had a vague memory of him winning some art competition prize, back when they still had art class. But why would he back him up? He got two hours of detention and a letter home for it. Did he care? Did he hate him for it? He didn't know.

"Enjolras, eyes at the front, please," the teacher called. "Eponine is very pretty, I know, but maths is more important then staring at some girl."

Enjolras went bright red as the class burst out laughing. Eponine's head snapped up, as if her bubble of daydreaming she seemed to constantly be in had been burst. Grantaire frowned at him slightly. 

"That's not- I wasn't," he protested. 

"Not so eloquent now, are we?" the teacher responded. 

The bell rang. No one moved. There was a pause. "You are dismissed," the teacher said. 

Everyone streamed out of the class with their friends. Enjolras headed towards Grantaire and Eponine.

"Hey," he said. "I wasn't staring at you, Eponine, for the record. I was-"

"I know," Grantaire interrupted. "You were looking at me."

Enjolras felt his face go warm. "Well, yes, but because, um, I was wondering why you did… that. Stick up for me."

Grantaire shrugged. "I hate the system. It really wasn't about you."

"Oh, no, I didn't mean it was, I just- Thank you."

Grantaire smiled, warm and gentle. "You're very welcome. See you in detention."

"See you in detention. I'm sorry, by the way. About the detention."

"You didn't tell me to burst in. You don't control me." At this, Eponine raised a knowing eyebrow. Grantaire glared at her, eyes widening. 

"Yes. Right. Well. Um," Enjolras said. 

"Bye,"Grantaire said, practically dragging Eponine down the corridor. 

"Have fun in detention, you two," Eponine said, smirking. 

"Have fun ... not in detention," Enjolras said. 

Eponine laughed. "I will. Now I've got to go before Grantaire spontaneously combusts." 

And then Enjolras was left alone in the corridor. 

Chapter Text

Two days later, Combeferre and Enjolras were standing in the corridor outside the detention room together.

"Well, I should probably go," Combeferre said. "I have, uh,"

"Studying," Enjolras said. "I know. See you later, nerd."

Combeferre laughed. "Goodbye, rebel."

Enjolras stood alone in the corridor for a minute or so until Éponine and Grantaire came down the corridor, whispering indistinctly. Éponine was giggling and Grantaire looked highly embarrassed. "Shut up, he's right there," Enjolras heard him hiss, before they both went quiet and walked up to him. Enjolras wondered what Éponine had been teasing him about.

"Hi," he said. "I'm sorry again about detention. Your parents must have been mad, and-"

"They didn't care," Grantaire said quickly. "Trust me." He looked down.

"Okay. Cool."

"Well, I'll leave you boys to it. Have fun!" Éponine said, walking away. Something about Éponine unsettled Enjolras. He got the feeling she knew something he didn't, and that scared him. Grantaire was still looking at the floor. Enjolras was about to say something to him when the detention supervisor walked in. He and Grantaire and the dozen or so of other kids shuffled into the class. He found a desk in the middle, pressed against the window. Surprisingly, Grantaire sat down next to him.

"Right," the supervisor barked. "You know the drill. Don't bother me and I won't bother you. Do your work. If you have to talk, make it quiet. You may not use the computers. If I can hear you, then you're going to be in a lot of trouble." She then put on her headphones and started typing on her laptop.

"Why did you sit next to me?" Enjolras blurted out to Grantaire. Grantaire blinked. "Not that I mind you sitting next to me, I'm totally fine with that, but it's just-"

"I wanted to get to know you. You don't really talk to anyone besides Combeferre. And a lot of people say you're weird," Grantaire explained.

"They do?" Enjolras said.

"Yeah. Well you are. Weird. But that's fine, I am too. Us weirdos gotta stick together," Grantaire said. His smile was so sweet and genuine that it made Enjolras feel warm inside.

"Right. So."

"What made you like this? All 'vive la revolution' and hating the system?" Grantaire asked.

"Well, first of all, 'vive la revolution' were your words, not mine. And, well, I used to be like Ferre. All academic and anxious. And I just hated myself so much and the system was breaking me slowly. And one day, I don't know why, I just snapped out of it and I thought 'this is stupid. I deserve better than this.' And I started to see all the flaws in the system, and I just hated it so much, and no one was fighting back, so I thought I'll be the first."

"Huh," Grantaire said, staring at him with such intensity that Enjolras' face got weirdly hot and he looked down at the table.

"So what about you?" Enjolras said. "You don't seem too fond of this school either."

"Oh, well, I'm an artist, so, you know," Grantaire said. "I'll never be able to study what I actually want to do, so why bother?"

Enjolras opened his mouth to say something, but the detention supervisor cut him off. "You boys! Do you have a reason to be talking?"

Grantaire looked down, his hood covering his face. "Oh, we're working on a Latin project together," Enjolras lied.

"Okay, but be quiet," the supervisor said before returning to her computer.

Grantaire laughed quietly. "You take Latin ?" he asked.

"You don't ?" Enjolras joked, feigning offence. Grantaire laughed again. “So,um, can I see your art, then?" Enjolras asked.

Grantaire looked surprised, as if no one had asked him that before. "Uh, sure," he said, pulling out a sketchbook and flipping through it at an angle where Enjolras couldn't see. He finally showed him a painting he'd done of the school and the hordes of mindless students walking towards it in their uniforms.

"Jesus Christ, Grantaire," Enjolras said.

"It's not my best work, you're right," Grantaire mumbled.

"If this isn't your best work, your best work could probably hang in the Louvre. This is incredible. What the hell are you doing here? You should be in art school."

Grantaire blushed. "I guess. My parents would never pay, and Ép would miss me too much."

"I'm sure Éponine just wants you to be happy." A thought occurred to him suddenly. "You and Éponine are together, right?" For some reason, a rush of anger coursed through him at the thought.

Grantaire laughed. "God, no. She's not my type, and I'm not hers."

Enjolras wanted to ask what his type was, but the words stuck in his throat. "Right. Well. She seems nice."

"She is. Hey, you and Combeferre should eat lunch with us sometimes," Grantaire said, avoiding eye contact like he was bracing himself for rejection.

"Yeah! Of course," Enjolras replied. Grantaire smiled, and his whole face lit up.

The two boys spent the next hour and a half talking, and Enjolras was having a lot of fun. Grantaire was really fun to talk to, and it was nice talking to someone other than Combeferre for once. He barely noticed when the bell rang, signalling that detention was over. Grantaire stood up, throwing his bag over his shoulder.

"Well, I'll see you tomorrow, Enjolras," he said, looking at him with an expression Enjolras couldn't quite place.

"Goodbye, Grantaire," he said, leaving the school and walking away.

Fifteen minutes later, he was, as he almost always was after school, standing in Combeferre's doorway.

"So, how was detention?" Combeferre asked, turning his desk chair around to face him.

"It was great, actually," Enjolras said, sitting on Combeferre's bed. "I spent most of it talking to Grantaire. Oh, by the way, is it okay if we have lunch with him and Éponine tomorrow?"

Combeferre examined him for a moment, squinting his eyes at him. "Okay. Any reason for the dumb smile and the look in your eye?"

"What? That's ridiculous, what look in my eye?" Enjolras said, much too fast and high-pitched. He cleared his throat. "Grantaire is a very nice person. He's my friend."

Combeferre raised his eyebrows slightly. "Okay then. If you say so."

Enjolras had realised he was gay in 4eme. Combeferre was still the only person that knew. He remembered how nervous he was coming out to him, only for Combeferre to burst out laughing and come out as well. He thought about Grantaire. Did he like him that way? He didn't know. He barely knew him as a friend yet. Still, Combeferre tended to know him better than he knew himself. He was probably right.

"You studied for physics-chemistry yet?" Combeferre asked, interrupting his train of thought.

"When have you ever seen me study in the last two years?" Enjolras replied.

Combeferre chuckled. "Good point. But…"

"But what?"

"I mean, as much as I totally get your point about school, you're gonna need to pass the year. And you like our teacher, so, just try to pass this test? I made flashcards, you could at least go through them with me," Combeferre threw a thick stack of notes onto the bed next to him.

Enjolras groaned. "Fine. But only for you."

Combeferre smiled. "And after that you can tell me all about Grantaire ."

"Shut up or I will rip up these flashcards I know you spent hours on," Enjolras threatened.

"Fine, start with the chemistry ones. Because you and Grantaire have chemistry," he joked.

Enjolras glared at him. "I can and will murder you." 

Chapter Text

"I've decided," Courfeyrac declared, sitting down next to Marius, "that I"m going to be an actor."

Marius smiled. "Oh really? What happened to accounting?"

Courfeyrac waved that thought away. "The world doesn't need another white man in finance."

"And the world needs another straight man in the arts?" Marius said.

Courfeyrac didn't know what to reply to that. "Well, I like your new career choice," Marius said. "This one may last over a week."

Courfeyrac had been trying to figure out what to do with his life for the past two years. His predicted future changes every week or so. His best friend Marius finds this hilarious. He laughs along with him, although he does this so he can pretend he has control over his future and will end up doing something he cares about, which is far from the truth. But Marius can't know that.

"Hey, we can't all just decide to be a lawyer and get it over with," Courfeyrac said. He wishes he could have Marius' drive and a dream like that. "So, what are you-" he started to say, but was then cut off by Marius shushing him urgently, which could only mean one thing.

He looked up, and, sure enough, Cosette Fauchelevant had walked in. Cosette was one of the prettiest girls at school. She was a perfect student, she ran a small crochet and gave the money to charity, she was the youngest head of student council ever, the first female head of student council, and the first person of colour to even get on student council. And Marius was head over heels in love with her.

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. It's not like he was jealous of her or anything, but he just didn't get what Marius saw in her. Or, actually he got exactly what Marius saw in her. What concerned him is he doesn't see it.

"Just go and talk to her already," he said, exasperated.

Marius stared at him as if he'd suggested he should kill her entire family. "No! She's pathetically out of my league!"

"Yes, but not on the surface. Sure, you're an awkward bumbling idiot, but she doesn't know that. You're good-looking. Tall, and you have a nice smile and eyes and hair-" Courfeyrac didn't know what he was saying. He didn't know about whether or not Marius what good-looking, because Marius was his friend and a boy and it wasn't like he was-

"And Cosette is super nice, she wouldn't be mean to you anyways," Courfeyrac continued, before his mind went there. "I mean, being mean to you is like kicking a puppy, so."

"You really think I should talk to her?" Marius asked with that far off look in his eyes.

"Yes. For all of our sakes. Please."

"I don't know…" Marius said. Courfeyrac had had enough of this by now, and grabbed him by the sleeve up to Cosette.

"Cosette. Hi. This is my friend Marius. Marius, you know Cosette. Put me out of my misery and have a conversation," he said, to Cosette's confusion and amusement, and Marius' embarrassment. He then turned around and walked back to his table alone.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry," he heard Marius say, going on an quick rant about how awkward this was and how he was sorry until Cosette cut him off.

"It's okay," she said. And then they fell out of earshot.

Courfeyrac watched them talk inaudibly from a distance. In that brief moment, he could see them falling in love, being high school sweethearts, getting married, moving to the suburbs, having two kids. He'd be the third wheel, the best man, the godfather. And he'd get to go through all of this knowing he made it happen. Lucky him.

He had never really been in love with a girl the way Marius was with Cosette. And he's dated half the girls in their school. He never says no to people, and girls think he's funny and cute and they ask him out. And he says yes. And then, usually in less than a week, they're "better off as friends" or she likes someone else or they didn't work out. He never liked any of them anyways. They were fun to talk to, but so was Marius. Despite having a lot of ex-girlfriends (he stopped keeping count at 20), he's only ever been kissed four times. His relationships usually end before they reach the kissing stage. The only one that mattered was a year ago, when he and Marius were playing truth or dare in the attic and Marius dared him to kiss him. As a joke. As friends. They're not gay. But if they weren't, why did Courfeyrac enjoy kissing another boy so much? It didn't matter. They had both fallen apart laughing afterwards. Because it was funny. A joke. And Marius couldn't feel the way his heart pounded in hi  chest and how his stomach flipped and how-

"Can I sit here?" A voice interrupted his replay of that particular memory.

Courfeyrac looked up. A boy was there. Combeferre. The smartest boy in school. He always got top grades and always hung out with that weird revolutionary kid for some reason. He was pretty, with light brown hair and glasses that made his dark eyes look huge. Courfeyrac suddenly felt the pit in the bottom of his stomach close up. He smiled.

"Of course!" Combeferre took a seat opposite to him.

"Where's your weird friend?" Combeferre said. Courfeyrac laughed at Marius being referred to as 'his weird friend'.

"Over there." He nodded in Marius' vague direction. "Talking to the girl he likes."

Combeferre's eyes narrowed, examining him. "I see. The girl you like as well, I assume?"

Courfeyrac blinked. "No. Why?"

"You seemed hurt," Combeferre said, shrugging. I am hurt. But not in the way you think.

"So where's your weird friend?" Courfeyrac asked him.

"Lunch detention," Combeferre said.

"Ah. For the argument in maths class or…" Courfeyrac's voice trailed off. There was so much detention-worthy shit Enjolras pulled it could be anything.

"No, for modifying the school uniform. The detention for the maths class argument is tomorrow after school."

"Oh, I remember the uniform thing. It looked hot," he said, absentmindedly. Combeferre raised an eyebrow.

"Are you calling my best friend hot?" Combeferre asked.

"No! He is NOT my type. Not that I, I, it's- Because men aren't my type, because I'm straight," he got out. Combeferre was still looking at him with those pretty dark brown eyes of his and it was making it very hard to breathe. Because Combeferre was intimidating. Because he found smart people scary. That was why. No other reasons at all.

"Right," Combeferre said slowly. "It'll be fine, though. If you weren't straight. I'm- well not homophobic, let's say."

It felt like Combeferre was trying to imply something, but Courfeyrac couldn't figure out what. He cleared his throat. He wanted to make a joke to break the tension, bu he couldn't think of anything funny around Combeferre. Maybe that was good. Humour was always his shield. He didn't want to shield himself around this strange, smart boy who said what he thought and decided to sit next to him for some reason. Combeferre looked behind his shoulder at Marius and Cosette.

"Well, your friend is coming back. I'll be going," he said, grabbing his now-empty tray.

"Stay," Courfeyrac said automatically.

Combeferre looked at him with an expression Courfeyrac didn't understand anything about except for the fact that it made his head spin and his heart race. "I need to study, sorry. Good luck. With Marius. It'll… it'll pass soon enough." Courfeyrac didn't know what he meant by that, but something in him clearly did, and he felt a lump form in his throat and he wanted to cry for some reason.

"Thank you," he said softly. Combeferre smiled and walked away.

Marius came bounding up to him. He put on his best smile and hid the soft ache Combeferre had ignited in him, building walls around it until no one could ever reach it. 

Chapter Text

"Do you have a fiche de revision I can use?" Bahorel jumped. He turned around, looking for the person who had spoken to him. He looked down, finding a short boy with curly brown hair and freckles wearing a baseball cap.

"Please?" the boy said, staring up at him. "I have a test in 20 minutes and I forgot to study and my dad is gonna kill me if I don't graduate-"

"I think I do," Bahorel interrupted. "For History, right?"

The boy nodded. Bahorel rummaged in his bag for the piece of paper his mother had shoved in there in an attempt to force him to study. He handed it to the boy.

"Do you want me to quiz you on this? I read somewhere that quizzing people makes it easier to remember definitions," the boy said. "You are in my history class, right?"

"Yeah, I think so. What's your name again?" Bahorel asked.

The boy sighed. "Don't make me say it. It may be the most embarrassing name in the history of the world."

Bahorel laughed. "Hey, mine is pretty bad too, if it makes you feel better."

"Not as bad as mine."

"Can't be worse than Bahorel."

The boy raised his eyebrows. "Feuilly still beats it though."

Bahorel laughed. "Jesus Christ, that is bad. Your parents really named you after a leaf?"

"Yep. So, Bahorel, what's the definition of a treaty?" Feuilly said, looking down at his paper.

"Um, a formally concluded and rational agreement between states?" Bahorel said, trying to remember what their teacher had forced them to write down in red ink and memorise.

"Close," Feuilly said. "A formally concluded and ratified agreement between states. Date of the signature of the treaty of Versailles?"

"June 28, 1919," Bahorel replied. He actually was very good at memorising all the information his teachers threw at him, but his father didn't need to know that. If he graduated, it would be off to prepa, and then off to the law firm. He hated his father's company. His father too. He was if a corporation took human form. He was determined never to follow in his footsteps.

"Definition of… hey, do you ever think about how shitty this is?" Feuilly asked him. His brown eyes glinted with silent rage.

"What do you mean?" Bahorel asked.

"The way we learn history. Definitions and dates. Spitting out information that we forget the second we walk out of that room. Shouldn't we be, I don't know, debating historical standpoints and reflecting on how this affects modern life and writing essays?"

"I guess. Maybe that Enjolras kid is right. But we can't change the system. The only way we can change anything is if we get out of here."

"I guess."

The two boys sat in silence for a minute, but it wasn't awkward. It was just companionable, sitting side by side in silence. The bell rang.

"Thanks for the notes," Feuilly said.

"Anytime," Bahorel said, feeling oddly warm inside. They both headed for their history class. Bahorel sat next to Feuilly, at the second row, pressed up against the wall. The teacher walked in.

"Take out a feuille double and a blue pen," she said. "Write 'Interrogation d'Histoire' on the top, the date on the top right, and your full name, class, and number in the margin. Make me a cartouche."

Feuilly stared at Bahorel, panicked. "Do you happen to have a feuille double and a blue pen?" he whispered.

Bahorel laughed. "I got you," he said, handing him a feuille double and a blue pen. It was his only blue pen, and the teacher would probably deduct points for writing in black, but it wasn't like he wanted to pass.

"Between this and the notes, you are my lifesaver. I would literally marry you if you asked me to," he joked, then shut up when the teacher handed his the test paper. Something about Feuilly made Bahorel feel lighter, like the weight he was carrying was taken off his shoulders.

He did the test, not finishing half the questions. The bell rang. Feuilly followed him out of the class.

"How did you do?" Bahorel asked.

"I answered all the questions," Feuilly said.

This was considered a victory for most students. The tests tended to be ridiculously long, often with too little time to fully complete. This was, of course, according to the school, the student's fault.

"Well done," Bahorel said. "You're in my French class, right?"

"Yep," Feuilly replied.

Over the next week, Bahorel learnt that Feuilly was in almost all of his classes. They sat next to each other in class, sometimes talking, sometimes comparing notes. In classes where they had a seating arrangement, Feuilly wrote notes and folded them into paper aeroplanes. Feuilly had a talent for origami, Bahorel found out. Then again, Feuilly seemed to have a talent for everything. "Jack of all trades, master of nothing that this school considers useful," he'd say with a smile that barely hid a lot of pain. They became best friends. They could talk for hours, or they could sit together for hours never talking, simply enjoying each other's company. Bahorel liked a lot of things about Feuilly. He liked the way his curly hair framed his face and fell in his eyes. He liked his laugh. He liked the way he always joked. He liked his freckles. He liked the way he talked super fast, as if he was scared he was gonna get interrupted. He liked the way he constantly made things for Bahorel, t-shirts and bracelets and pins and everything in between. And he loved the way everything felt simple around him.

Like the time they were sitting in the schoolyard and Bahorel finally opened up about his father, and his future, or lack thereof. He had never really told anybody this, so when Feuilly went quiet for a minute, he was terrified. He didn't quite know what about. But Feuilly just smiled and said, "Well, we could always run away together." And the idea was so preposterous and impossible that Bahorel couldn't help but love it.

"Really?" he had said.

"Of course! All this talk of if we get out of here, why don't we just… do it?"

"I can think of fifty different reasons why not."

"And that's why you are depressing to hang out with."

"You love me really."

Feuilly looked at him for a moment. He cleared his throat. "But we could do it. Dream a little, Bahorel. You have enough money to make it out there. We can get a place, just the two of us, I can do whatever, you can hack into your dad's bank account, and we'll finally make it out of this place."

Bahorel smiled. "That sounds nice."

"It will be nice."

"Promise?" Bahorel said, extending a pinkie.

"Promise." Feuilly said, linking his pinkie around Bahorel's. 

Chapter Text

Cosette sat down on her bed with her yarn and crochet hook. One hour, she told herself. One hour to do something she actually enjoyed. And then she had to study.

She had been running her crochet business for three years now. She sold at brocantes, markets, on Etsy. All her profits went to different charities. There had been high demand recently, and Cosette was debating hiring a second person to help. But that would involve talking to people and socialising. And also paying them. That was the main issue. Despite all the demand, she actually wasn't making things to sell that day. Her and her father were planning to visit the local care home at which he was a patron . The kids there loved her creations and always asked her to make certain animals. So she was trying her best to make all of them before she and her dad went that weekend.

Cosette loved her father. He was the kindest, most generous man she knew. He always made her want to give people the same joy he did. He was rich, from something he never really told Cosette. He wasn't Cosette's real father. Her mother and father had died when she was little. She spent three years at a foster family before her dad came to adopt her. He knew her mother, apparently. They lived in a small two bedroom house in their small town. He lived humbly, but he never denied Cosette anything. She had grown up with everything she ever wanted, Barbie dolls and princess dresses. Her father was the one that had raised her to be kind.

Her father was also the one who had held her as she cried into his shoulder at all the words the people at her school had hurled at her. She was one of the few people of colour at her school, and she was bullied intensely for it. She had expected her father to give the same advice all her teachers had given, which was "ignore them and they'll stop." But her father hadn't given her that advice. He had looked her in the eyes with a look of determination and told her to change their mind.

That determination had fuelled her to become a delegué, then head of the year, then head of student council. With the small amount of power she had, she had managed to instill more severe anti-bullying and anti-racism rules. She hosted assemblies, raised awareness, and did everything she could to change their minds.

But still, she felt she should do more. There was so much more wrong with the system. Shouldn't she be able to make it better? Shouldn't she be fighting it? And yet, she was still the model, perfect student. Good grades, no friends, headed to a good uni, riddled with anxiety. Exactly what they want.

Her train of thought was interrupted by a knock on her door. Her dad poked his head through the door.

"Have you taken your meds?" he asked her.

"Yep," she said, not even bothering to look up from her half-finished teddy bear.

"Okay," her dad said, pausing a little before continuing. "It's just, if I'm being honest, Cosette, I'm worried you're working yourself too hard. Between school, and the business, and student council, and charity work, and spending time with me, I'm just worried it's too much for you."

Cosette looked at him. He seemed so genuinely concerned. As much as Cosette loved her father, it was still a struggle to tell him everything about her. She just wanted to be his perfect child. She didn't want him to know how much she was struggling.

"I'm fine, Dad. A little busy, but I'll survive," she lied.

He raised his eyebrows before saying, "Okay. It's just you don't seem to be doing anything teenagers are supposed to do. You don't have any friends, or talk to any boys, or go partying, and… Well, I just want you to be a kid."

Cosette smiled. "Oh, because you went to so many parties and had so many friends at my age?" she teased.

Her dad laughed. "Quite the opposite. I was cooped up in my room all day and my mother was my only friend. Sound familiar?"

Cosette looked down, embarrassed. Her dad saw this and said, "I just want what's best for you, Cosette. I want you to have friends, and fall in love, and be happy."

"I am ha-" she started to say, but the lie caught in her throat. "Well, for your information, there is this one boy."

Her father grinned. "Oh? Pray tell."

Marius Pontmercy had been shoved in front of her a week ago. She didn't know what it was about him that made her fall the way she did. Maybe it was his deep blue eyes, or how tall he was, or his wavy light brown hair. Or maybe it was the way that he was so genuine. She never felt like he was making fun of fun in any way, or that she was using her. She could tell he genuinely respected her, which was much more than she could say for all the other boys at school that flirted with her. Maybe it was the bare minimum, maybe she was starved for options, but she liked him, and she liked the way he liked her too.

"His name is Marius," she told her father. "He's… nice."

Her dad nodded. "Okay. Any other details?"

"Not for now. But I'll keep you posted."

"Okay, honey. Dinner in two hours."

"Okay."

He lingered in her doorway for another second. "I just want you to know that I'm proud of you," he said.

"I know," Cosette replied.

"Yes, but I mean, I'd be proud of you anyways. Without the top grades, and the student council, and the studying, and the tutoring. If you're doing it to make me proud, you don't need to. I already am."

"Okay. I love you," she said.

"I love you too," he said, closing the door.

His words echoed in her head. She wasn't doing it to make him proud, she knew he'd always be proud of her. So why was she doing this? The crochet business was because she loved doing it, and she loved giving. The tutoring was because she enjoyed helping people. But the top grades and the studying was where she had no idea. It wasn't for her, unlike the others. Was it for validation? From who? Not her father. Her teachers? She hated most of them. The school? She hated them as well. So why does she do this? Why can't she stop? Her timer went off. She put down her yarn and crochet hook with a sigh. Time to study.

Chapter Text

Courfeyrac scanned around the cantine for Combeferre. It didn't take him long to find him, because he was sitting next to Enjolras, who stuck out like a sore thumb in his punk clothes. He's seen teachers attempting to exorcise him when he wears certain outfits. He headed towards him.

They were sitting at a relatively empty table. There were only two other students at the table. A bald man who had been held back two years. No one knew why, but rumours were constantly being made. People tended to avoid him. The only person ever seen with him is Joly, a short blond boy who wanted to be a doctor someday. He was sitting opposite him.

Courfeyrac sat down next to Combeferre.

"Hi," he said nervously. "It's okay if I eat lunch with you guys, right?"

Combeferre smiled. "More than okay. But just so you know, we're not staying here for long. We're eating lunch with Enjolras' friend, and he seems to have a secret quiet lunching spot. You can come with us, though"

Courfeyrac nodded. "I didn't know Enjolras had any friends other than you."

Combeferre burst out laughing while Enjolras glared at him. "I'm sitting right here, you know."

The bald boy at the opposite end of the table cut in. "Hey, is it okay if we join you at your secret quiet lunch spot? Joly gets really bad headaches so eating lunch in the cantine is really difficult for him."

Joly went bright red, embarrassed. All three of the boys nodded.

"That's fine with me," Enjolras said.

"Of course!" Courfeyrac said.

"So I guess we're just waiting on Grantaire," Combeferre said.

"Oh, Grantaire is the friend?" Courfeyrac said. "That makes sense, I remember you guys got detention in maths class together. Trauma-bonded I guess."

Enjolras nodded. "Pretty much, yeah."

At that moment, Grantaire and Éponine walked into the cantine. Éponine was always noticeable with her outfits. She didn't do 'fitting in'. Today, she was wearing a purple gradient tulle skirt with a white corseted top under a chunky blue cardigan with a ring on pretty much each finger. Grantaire wore, as usual, a hoodie and jeans.

"Hi," Grantaire said to Enjolras.

"Um, hi," Enjolras said, his usual unbothered facade melting away at the sight of Grantaire. "We have a little more people than anticipated. This is Courfeyrac. And this is Joly, and, um…"

"Bossuet," the bald boy said.

Éponine grinned. "Great! The more the merrier! And Courfeyrac, I'm guessing Marius will be joining us?"

"What? Why? I don't do everything with Marius that would be crazy and obsessive and I am not-"

"Okay, chill," Éponine said. "I was just saying that because he's right behind you. With Cosette."

He turned around and, sure enough, Marius and Cosette were rapidly approaching him.

"Hi guys!" he said to them. "I was going to go eat lunch with these guys, wanna come?"

"Sure!" Cosette said with a smile that could make anyone fall instantly in love with her. Clearly, Marius had. So why hadn't Courfeyrac?

Grantaire led the group outside, past a fence Courfeyrac had never noticed, into a little garden area with a couple of picnic tables.

"Wow," Enjolras said. "I didn't know this school had anywhere nice."

Grantaire laughed. "Yeah. This place was made like 20 years ago but no one uses it anymore. We're allowed to though."

Sitting at one of the tables alone was Jehan Prouvaire. The school's resident poet, he was always alone and often bullied for his aspirations. Courfeyrac had noticed he never sat in the cantine. Now he knew why.

Jehan looked up from his notebook. "Oh, sorry, I didn't realise people were eating here, I'll go-"

"It's fine," Courfeyrac said. "Everyone's welcome, apparently."

They all sat down at a table.

"Well, this is an… odd mix of people," Jehan commented.

Courfeyrac looked around and got what he meant. Enjolras the weird revolutionary kid, Combeferre the smartest boy in school, Courfeyrac the popular class clown who had a reputation for being a heartbreaker, Marius the vaguely idiotic boy who cried a lot, Cosette the perfect head of student council, Éponine the quiet theatre kid who dresses weirdly, Grantaire the quiet art kid, Jehan the bullied poet, Joly the nervous doctor, and Bossuet the retenue.

"Yeah," Courfeyrac said. "Bunch of weirdos, am I right?'

Everybody laughed. Suddenly, they heard a crashing sound near the bushes of the garden. A voice said, "Come on Feuilly, there's got to be a way out- whoa!" Bahorel came tumbling out of the bush, leaves strewn in his hair. Feuilly came after him, falling on top of him.

"Hello there," Bahorel said, pushing Feuilly off him. "I'm guessing we're still in school, right?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Enjolras said.

"Shit," Bahorel swore, "I was so sure this was the way out."

"If you want, you and Feuilly can join us," Grantaire offered.

"Thanks," Bahorel said, sitting down next to Joly.

"Whoa, what happened to your arm?" Joly asked, pointing to a scratch on Bahorel's arm.

"…I fell out of a bush?" Bahorel said, while Joly started scrambling in his bag.

"I swear I had some disinfectant in here, and bandages…" he mumbled.

"Oh, you don't have to do that, it's just a scratch," Bahorel said.

"Well, that's what they all say, and then they get infected. And then they die," Joly replied with the most casual look on his face. "Ah, I found the bandages."

Bahorel stared at Joly, then turned to Bossuet. "Your friend scares me."

Bossuet laughed. "He scared me too."

Joly frowned. "I'm not scary."

Bossuet raised an eyebrow. "Come on, babe-" he started to say, then his eyes widened and he clapped a hand to his mouth. Joly sat up straight, seemingly frozen in terror. Everyone immediately turned to stare at the two boys.

"Are you two together?" Enjolras asked.

Joly sighed. "Yes. Please don't tell anyone, you know how this school is, I can't deal with that."

Courfeyrac did know. The only openly gay boy dropped out two weeks after coming out because the bullying got so bad. It was hell for queer people. Not that he'd know anything about being queer.

"We won't tell anyone," Courfeyrac said instinctively. "Right, guys? You're safe here."

Combeferre smiled at him softly in a way that made his head spin slightly. He held Combeferre's gentle gaze for as long as he could.

"Yeah, and I'm also gay," Enjolras blurted out suddenly. Combeferre looked at Enjolras, as if he was surprised he'd said anything. Éponine was looking at Grantaire, who abruptly sat up straight staring at Enjolras.

"And uh, I'm bi," Grantaire said. Enjolras raised his eyebrows and his mouth opened slightly.

"Oh," Enjolras said. Courfeyrac realised he hadn't actually eaten anything yet, and started eating the school's disgusting take on chicken and rice.

"I'm gay, too, since we're all coming out," Combeferre said casually. Courfeyrac choked on his mouthful of food and started coughing violently. Combeferre looked at him with those beautiful dark eyes, concerned.

"Are you okay?" Combeferre said. Marius slapped Courfeyrac on the back. He finally stopped choking.

"Yeah, yeah, I am great. Fine. Super duper good," he said. Enjolras said something, and soon enough a conversation was happening, but Combeferre was still looking at him as if he was questioning him, scrutinising him with that knowing look. Why did he seem to know everything about him? Even the parts he himself didn't know? Courfeyrac had always despised people smarter than him. They knew too much. It was scary. So that must be why his stomach felt like a hundred little bugs had been trapped inside him whenever Combeferre looked at him. And the sharp, almost electrical shock that coursed through his body when Combeferre said he was gay was just that. Shock. Nothing more.

"Well, we have ten minutes, we should probably go soon," Courfeyrac said, finally breaking Combeferre's stare.

"We should make this a frequent thing," Marius said.

"I'm always down to make more friends," Cosette said.

"We need a name," Grantaire declared.

Everyone chipped in with suggestions, none very good, until Enjolras said, "Les Amis de l"ABC."

Everyone looked at him confused. Combeferre groaned. "Not this again."

Enjolras grinned. "There was this secret society in the 1800s dedicated to bringing down the government. And they were called Les Amis de l'ABC, because ABC is like abaissés, like suppressed."

Grantaire smiled. "You know what? Sure.Let's indulge in Enjolras' nerdy historical revolutionary fact."

Courfeyrac raised his glass. "To Les Amis de L'ABC!"

"To Les Amis de l'ABC!" everyone echoed.

And just like that, twelve people who were, maybe, never supposed to meet, became bonded for life.

Chapter Text

For as long as Éponine could remember, it had been him.

It had been the boy crying on their first ever day of school. The boy who she went to comfort. The boy who rapidly became her best friend. The boy who she stood up for, time and time again. The boy she fought for. The boy who dressed up as Prince Charming while she was Cinderella for Carnival. The boy who she journaled about obsessively when she was eight. The boy who she dared to kiss her and ran away when she tried. The boy she grew up in love with. And the boy who cried on his first day of college. The boy she was too late to comfort. The boy who got comforted by another boy named Courfeyrac. The boy who got a new best friend. The boy who drifted away from her, slowly forgetting her. The boy she watched from a distance waiting for him to come back. The boy that never did. And the boy that, by some twist of fate, was sitting opposite her now.

Marius Pontmercy. She had no idea if he even remembered her. But she remembered him. She remembered everything about him. From the gap between his front teeth that had almost completely disappeared because of the braces he had to the exact shade of blue of his eyes to the good luck hoodie he wears every time he has a test to the sparkle in his eyes whenever he looks at Cosette Fauchelevant. Éponine knows it's too late, he's fallen for another, so she swore to distance herself, to watch from afar, to move on best she could.

And now somehow she's ended up on his lunch table, despite her best efforts. Every rational part of her told her to run, but she knew she had to stay for Grantaire. Marius wasn't the only person who found a new best friend the first day of 6eme. And Éponine knew that should the roles be reversed, and she got a chance to talk to Marius, Grantaire would sit there suffering watching Enjolras make googly eyes at someone else.

Cosette Fauchelevant. She was perfect. Pretty, rich, smart, and the kindest, sweetest person you will ever meet in your life. Éponine couldn't ever hate her, or hate Marius for loving her. He had eyes, it was fair enough. She couldn't compete with that. So she was doomed, in a way, to sit here and watch as he fell through her fingers once again. She avoided looking at him best she could, focusing on Enjolras and Grantaire. The sinking feeling in her stomach worsened as she looked at the way Enjolras acted around Grantaire. Soon, they'd be in love too, she just knew it. And she'd be alone once again. The one person who understood her pain would be happy, and she'd be happy for him, but she would lose her only safe space.

But, this new change of events wasn't all bad. She got a group of new friends, after all. And she'd never lose Grantaire, not really. So the smile on her face wasn't entirely forced. She left her lunch table happy, ready to go to her french class.

"Ponine?" A voice behind her called. A voice she knew better than her own.

"Yeah?" she answered, turning around to face Marius, who was grinning like an idiot.

"It's really you! We haven't seen each other in a while," he said, as if he hadn't been the one to abandon her.

"We've been in the same French, Maths, and German class for the past five years, Marius," she replied, keeping her voice cold.

"Well, yeah, but… I mean we used to be really close, in primary, remember?" Oh, I remember, Marius.

She nodded. "Yeah, well, a lot's changed since then."

"You haven't," Marius said, in a way that made her throat go dry. "From what I can tell."

Éponine smiled. "You haven't either. Well, you cut your hair, but…"

"I don't know when we drifted apart," Marius said.

"When you met Courfeyrac."

Marius' face fell slightly. "Oh. Yeah. Right. Well, I'm really sorry, Éponine."

"It's okay, Marius."

"No, it's not. Let me make it up to you, please. We should hang out more, or something."

"Yeah, maybe." So much for keeping her distance.

"I know! We could go to that park! The one we used to go to when we were kids, remember?" Marius said.

"I remember."

"Are you free Saturday?" he asked.

"I'm free anytime." Anytime for you.

"Okay, then. Awesome!"

"Won't your girlfriend mind? You hanging out one on one with another girl?" she asked, ignoring the way her eyes stung.

"My… Oh, no, Cosette, we're not- well, not yet- we're not together," he stammered.

Éponine smiled. "You should probably get started on that then. She clearly likes you."

"You think so?" Marius asked, a faraway look in his eye.

"I know so. Trust me, you're stupidly oblivious when it comes to love."

"What does that mean?"

"Don't worry about it. Goodbye, Marius," she said, walking away, until she realised they were walking to the same classroom. They stayed in silence during the walk, as if they were strangers. Maybe they were.

Éponine walked to her normal seat next to Grantaire.

"What took you so long?" he asked.

"I, um, talked to Marius," she said.

"Oh? And?"

"I'm hanging out with him on Saturday, and I accidentally gave him advice on how to ask out Cosette."

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. "Were they not already together?"

"Marius is the world's biggest idiot, so no. God, you are lucky you fell for a smart guy."

Grantaire laughed. "I wouldn't call Enjolras smart."

"He's smarter than Marius."

"Low bar."

"Fair enough."

"Hey," Grantaire said, grabbing her hand and giving it a supportive squeeze. "I'm sorry about Marius. It'll be okay. Tell me if there's anything you need."

Éponine smiled. "Thanks. I'm okay for now. I'll just live vicariously through you and Enjolras, who is so clearly in love with you-"

"Shut up!" Grantaire said, blushing. The teacher walked in and told them to sit down. Éponine stared at the back of Cosette's head, hoping if she wished hard enough, she'd become her. 

Chapter Text

Combeferre sat at his desk reading a maths manual thicker than his head. He was halfway through his exercises for the day. He knew the teacher wouldn't even check if he'd done them, let alone correct them, but he still felt he had to do it, and get everything right. Combeferre used to love learning. Knowledge used to fuel him, and learning would be a treat. But then he started getting praised for his intelligence, and he would get good grades, and he was considered the smartest boy in the school. A standard was set for him, and he had to do anything he can to live up to it. So now studying obsessively had taken over his life, all he ever thought about was his averages and how to keep them high enough. It wasn't as if he enjoyed doing it, but he needed to. He was broken, well and truly broken by the pressure his teachers had put on him. He knew every single reason why the system was flawed. It was part of being best friends with Enjolras. And yet, he couldn't fight it. He couldn't stop it from corrupting him slowly bit by bit. So he just needed to keep his head down. Swallow his anxiety. Wait until he gets out. And then what? And then….

His musings were interrupted by Enjolras opening his door and throwing himself onto his bed. Enjolras practically lived in his bedroom and came over every day after school.

"So" Enjolras said. "Courfeyrac." He raised his eyebrow questioningly.

"What about him?" Combeferre asked.

"Well, for starters, when did you become friends with one of the most popular boys in school and why didn't you tell me?"

Combeferre sighed. "I sat next to him at lunch when you were in detention. I was going to tell you, but got distracted by you being all googly eyes about Grantaire."

Enjolras rolled his eyes. "I wasn't- that's-" he sighed. "Okay then."

"If if helps, Grantaire was also all googly eyes at you at lunch today."

Enjolras' head snapped up. "Really?"

"Really."

"Okay, well, that's- we're getting off topic."

"What was the topic?' Combeferre asked innocently.

"Courfeyrac. And you. You and Courfeyrac."

Combeferre sighed. He couldn't deny he liked Courfeyrac, Enjolras knew him too well for that. "He's straight, Enjolras. I'd be an idiot to think otherwise."

"Then call me an idiot, because the way he looks at you and the way he choked on his food when you said you were gay doesn't seem very straight to me."

"Yeah, well, I just, I don't know. He probably has a girlfriend, anyways."

"I doubt there's a girl left in the school he hasn't already dated."

"Exactly! He's straight," Combeferre said, more trying to convince himself than Enjolras.

"Or he's overcompensating."

"That's-" Combeferre sighed. "It doesn't matter, I don't even like him that much anyways."

Enjolras raised his eyebrow.

"Shut up," Combeferre said.

"I didn't say anything."

"Yeah, well, your face."

"I can't stop having a face, Ferre."

"Yeah, well, you can stop making that one. He's… well, I thought he liked Marius, but when I implied it-"

"Hang on, when you what now?" Enjolras asked.

"I- Marius was talking to Cosette, and he just seemed so sad about it, so I asked him if he liked her, and he said no, so I thought he must like Marius, but I implied it, and he didn't seem to know what I mean."

"Maybe he's just dumb. Which is probable, given that he's, you know, straight," Enjolras pulled a disgusted face.

"Well, we don't know that he's straight yet…" Combeferre said. Enjolras grinned.

"Knew I'd get you to consider it." Combeferre groaned.

"You absolute fucker."

"You love me really," Enjolras replied.

"Well, I don't," Combeferre said, a smile spreading on his face, "but I know a certain someone who does."

"Oh no," Enjolras said, his face falling.

"Oh yes. Why don't we stop talking about me and Courf and start talking about you and Gr-"

"Aw, you called him Courf, that's so cute," Enjolras said.

"Shut up. What's going on with you and Grantaire?" Combeferre asked.

Enjolras sighed. "I don't know. I mean, I barely know as a friend, so, I just- it's, I don't know."

"Well, any idiot can see that he likes you. I think he took his eyes off of you once during the whole lunch period. And, we know that he's not straight, so,"

"Yeah, but, then, like, do I only like him because he's the only other available queer guy at school other than you? It's not like I have many options."

"True, but you liked him before you knew he was bi, didn't you?"

"I don't know, I'm not good at this. I can't tell whether I like people or not, and if you don't mind, can we stop talking about this? If I do end up liking him then I don't want to feel like you pressured me into it."

"Fair enough," Combeferre said. "Although you did torture me about Courf, so,"

"Yeah, but you fall in love annoyingly fast and obviously."

Combeferre laughed. "So do you, you're just the last person to figure it out."

"Rude."

No matter how hard his life gets, Combeferre knew he always had Enjolras. To debate with, to joke with, to talk to. He was his best friend, nothing more, and nothing less. He knew Enjolras would always be by his side. People were always surprised at there friendship, what with Enjolras being so anti-school and Combeferre being the epitome of what the school wanted from you, but to them, it was the most natural thing in the world. Combeferre knew Enjolras better than he knew himself, and visa versa. He didn't know how he would make it through school without him.

Combeferre got up from the bed and went back to his exercises.

"Honestly, I don't know why you insist on doing those. The amount of homework the school gives is only to restrict our soc-"

"-Restrict our social growth and ensure we have no life outside of being a student. Enj, try and come up with new arguments at least."

"Shut up and do your exercises."

"Oh, so now you support the amount of homework the school gives?"

"I'm leaving," Enjolras said, heading for the door.

"Bye! Love ya! Tell your mom I said hi!"

"Later, nerd," Enjolras called before leaving Combeferre's house.

Chapter Text

Marius stood fidgeting in the dusty parking lot waiting for Éponine. He would see her coming, he figured. The park was almost abandoned on this cloudy cold January day, and Éponine was quite a noticeable person anyways. But he didn't know if he should stand there or look at his phone or sit on a bench or walk around. Maybe he should have came late. Make it seem like he didn't care. But he was the one who wanted to reconnect, so he felt like he needed to be early. He was overthinking massively now. Maybe he shouldn't have done this at all. But the rift between him and Éponine was driving him crazy. And maybe no one knew him better than her.

He saw her approaching from a mile away. She was wearing a sleeveless collared shirt and a dark blue corset and a light blue tulle skirt, along with white leather sleeveless glove that went up to her elbows, highlighting her long painted nails. Éponine stood out from the crowd, she always had. Even when she was little. Éponine caught sight of him and started walking faster.

"Bonjour, Mam'zelle Ponine," Marius called out. She smiled. It was an old joke. In CE1, Éponine had asked her teacher why they had to call her "Madame De Tournemire" yet she got to call them all by their first names.

"I demand to be called 'Mademoiselle Thénardier', but my fellow students are allowed to call me 'Mademoiselle Éponine'," she had announced. "And my best friends are allowed to call me "Mademoiselle Ponine," she added, smiling at Marius.

That kind of demand with certain teachers would have guaranteed a letter home, but this teacher decided to humour her. From then on, she only referred to her students as Monsieur or Mademoiselle followed by their last name.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Marius," Éponine replied with a smile. "The usual spot, I presume?"

"Ladies first," Marius said, gesturing to the path.

They walked in silence until they came to the lake. Marius's parents used to sit by the riverside, eating a picnic. Marius and Éponine would eat theirs as fast as they could, and then rush to hide away under the massive willow tree. Of course, right now, he had no parents to hide from. Éponine was staring at the river's edge, like she was thinking the same thing as him. They continued walking until they were under the willow tree.

"Wow," Éponine said. "It's smaller than I remembered."

"It's the same size, we're just bigger," Marius said.

"I suppose," she replied.

They sat down, backs to the trunk of the tree. They sat in silence for a few seconds. Marius watched her fiddle with her nails. They were sky blue with detailed clouds painted on them.

"I like your nails," he said. "Did you do them yourself?"

"No, Grantaire did them. Good painting practice, he says."

"Oh, I see. How long have you two been dating?"

Éponine burst out laughing. "We are very much not dating. He's in love with someone else."

"Oh. And you?" The words just came out of his mouth without him realising. He didn't know why he cared.

"I like someone, but he doesn't know I exist."

"Well, you should ask him! Get to know him! Any guy would be lucky to have you. Tell you what, I'll ask Cosette out if you talk to him."

Éponine shook her head. "That won't help."

"Why not?"

"Because then you'll have Cosette, and I'll get rejected."

"You don't know Cosette won't reject me," he argued.

"Oh, she won't. She's head over heels for you, Marius. Trust me."

"Really?" Marius said. "How do you know?"

"Cosette has this smile. And it's pretty, and she looks like a model. But that's not how she smiles around you. Her whole face lights up and it's real, not just pretty. She's in love."

"Huh." Marius said. He didn't know how the conversation had turned to Cosette. Most of his conversations ended up being about Cosette these days. She was as easy to talk about as she was to talk to. But all this talk of smiles made him think of something else.

"You had this smile too," he said.

"What?"

"You used to smile, and I could see every single one of your teeth. But now you don't show your teeth when you smile."

"Oh. I, um, I forced myself out of that smile when I got braces."

"When did you get braces?" Marius asked, shocked. He couldn't believe he never noticed.

"In cinquieme."

"I missed so much," he said. "Ponine, I'm so sorry I just left you like that. It was- I-"

"It's fine, Marius," she said. "You don't owe me anything.

"No, I do, Ponine. You were my best friend for seven years, and I just ignored you. It was a huge mistake, and I'm gonna make it up to you."

"It's just as much my fault as yours. I should have reached out, especially when your mum died-"

Tears stung in Marius' eyes at the reminder of those times. Courfeyrac had tried his best, but he didn't know Marius' mum. Not like Éponine had.

"I'm so sorry, Marius," she said.

"It's fine. If I wanted you there, I should have told you. You couldn't have known."

"I came to the funeral," she said.

Marius' head snapped up. "Really?"

"Yep. I hid at the back. I didn't think you'd wanna see me."

"Of course I wanted to see you."

"Well, sorry," she said.

"No, I'm sorry," Marius said.

"Well, we both made mistakes, I guess. But we're here now."

"We are. And I'm very happy about that. I've missed you."

"I've missed you too, Monsieur Marius."

They spent the next two hours reminiscing over their childhood days, talking about their families, Éponine giving him advice on asking Cosette out, Marius trying to guess who her mystery crush is, joking, laughing, teasing. Marius kept trying to see this grown up, fierce girl as the same person as his childhood best friend, but it felt impossible. The two were linked, but different. He couldn't fill in the gaps as to what happened that changed her, but he could learn everything he could about the girl sitting next to him. She was still his best friend, after all.