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“C’mon, Manhattan would be a fun stop!”

“Manhattan is in the complete opposite direction of the one we are driving, you guys.”

“Then let’s hit it on the way back!”

“No, I don’t think you understand, we would literally have to PASS OUR STARTING POINT on the way back to go to Manhattan. It is the very definition of out of the way.”

“Enjolraaaaas, someone’s not being very adventurooouuuusssss!”

“I’m being /practical,/ we’re not going to fucking Manhattan! Maybe next summer.”

When Combeferre came home to the sight of Courfeyrac sitting outside of Enjolras’s bedroom door and grinning in a way that couldn’t mean anything good, he frowned and took his headphones off.

“Courfeyrac, what are you doing?”

If possible, Courf’s grin became even more Chesire. “I like putting them into rooms together and seeing what ensues.”

“Wh –?” Combeferre hadn’t even gotten the question all the way out of his mouth before he could hear Enjolras shouting: “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, GRANTAIRE, GO BREATHE VODKA INTO SOMEONE ELSE’S FACE! THIS IS DUE TOMORROW!” He had to close his eyes and take a deep breath to keep himself from laughing.

“Courfeyrac, get him out of there,” he managed to say with only the smallest quirk of his lips.

Grantaire felt Enjolras’s hand clasp his, felt strong fingers squeeze his palm. He didn’t know if he’d be able to stand looking, but of course he did; he’d spent his life looking, suffering blows to the heart with each burst of light, and here he was about to die, so what did it matter anyway? He turned for one last shock of sun and was not disappointed; there Apollo stood smiling, there Orestes stood comforting, there Grantaire finally found gratitude, admiration, fondness where once there had only been disdain and disgust and disappointment. Finally, redemption, at the end of it all.

She flicked her to one side and tipped her head forward. He passed the necklace under her chin and brought the ends up behind her neck. Fumbling he tried to fasten the clasp.

He rolled a little of the compost between his thumb and first finger, letting it powder back into the planter. He finds it harder work to bend down to it nowadays, but the feel of the soil makes him smile wryly. He fumbles with a packet, tipping several seeds into his dirty palm.

“Wake up. Wake up, Grantaire!”

Grantaire grumbled, shielding his face from the light that suddenly burst past his eyelids. “I’m not violating any laws, I’m –”

“Grantaire, come on, you’ll miss it!”

/”Miss what?”/ He was a little more than half-conscious now and none too pleased about it. “Bloody fuck one minute you’re telling me to ‘sleep off the fumes of the wine’ and the next you’re telling me to –”

“TEN! NINE! EIGHT! SEVEN!”

Grantaire blinked, rubbed his face, then forced himself to really look around. The café around him was simultaneously familiar and strange, a place of his daily life newly strewn with streamers and lights and balloons and confetti. He pulled his coat around him and frowned. What was the date again?

“SIX! FIVE! FOUR! THREE! TWO! ONE! /HAPPY NEW YEAR!”/

“Uh, Courf?” Combeferre blinked around the bedroom. He could’ve sworn he’d heard him in here.

“‘M here.”

The comforter shifted a bit. It appeared Courfeyrac had dug himself a little burrow in his covers. Combeferre couldn’t stop a little half grin.

“He’ll come round, Courfeyrac,” he assured him, sitting down on the edge of the bed and tentatively patting one of the lumps in the blanket, hoping it was his head or something and not his ass. “You know damn well that no one can stay angry at you.”

Of habit.
Of mind.
Of comfort.
Of deceit.
Of feature.
Of terror.
Of mind.
Of presence.
Of creation.
Of knowledge.
Of doubt.
Of love.

“We’ve got just the right amount of leverage. Now is the perfect time to act!” Enjolras said.

Combeferre refused to be moved, meeting Enjolras’s hard blue gaze calmly. “There are too few of us. It’s too dangerous. If you care about the safety of –”

“Of course I care about everyone’s safety,” Enjolras spat, irritably shaking his hands through his hair. “But if we don’t do this now it’ll be /years/ before –”

“Then put it to a vote. Talk it over with everyone at the same time,” Combeferre cut across, never raising his voice. “It’s their lives. Let them decide what’s more important to them.” His gaze obtained a gravity that forced Enjolras to drop his. “Be the kind of leader you wish our king was.”

“Hold still.”

Enjolras sighed impatiently, but did as he was told. Grantaire smirked before setting to work, using his paintbrush to cover Enjolras’s body with various geometric shapes. The first few strokes made Enjolras shiver, but eventually he grew accustomed to it. He relaxed, stood still.

When at last Grantaire was done he took a few steps back, now smirking more than ever. Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Grantaire, /what/ is so funny?”

In answer, Grantaire sidled up beside the older boy and passionately belted, “BUT YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO /CUUUUUT ME OFF!!!”/

“I fucking hate you.”