Les Miserables 1. Chapter 1

The Corinthe was buzzing with people, as usual, and Joly struggled to weave his way through the crowd to his friends. They sat at a booth in the corner, so squashed up they were almost on each others laps, and the table was completely full of food and drinks and books and papers. Bossuet waved at him when they made eye contact.

"Sorry," he apologised to the woman in front of him, who was clearly drunk as a Lord, as she looked at him scandalized. He may have accidentally touched her butt as he pushed past. He made a mental note to sanitize his hands as soon as he got to the table.

"Hey Joly," said Azelma, swaying towards the table with a tray of mozzarella sticks. Yum. There was no way she'd balance them on the heaving table, though. He wasn't even sure how he'd manage to sit down.

"Hi." He swerved around a drunk, shouting man. "How's it going?"

"Same as usual. Schoolwork is draining my soul. There's no progress on the shop." She'd been trying to open a shop with loads of witchcraft-y stuff. She'd had loads of stuff delivered, but hadn't actually bought a place yet. It was kind of freaky going into her house and finding seven skulls on the sofa. Although he and Jehan had grown rather fond of them. "I'm poor and miserable, and I haven't washed in five days."

"Ew. That's really unhygienic, 'Zelma. Do you know how many diseases you could-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. What else is new?" Joly scratched his head.

"Nothing. I've got a new patient." They reached the table. "Her name's Meryl. I go round her house once a week to check everything's in order. She's sweet- she keeps trying to give me chocolate." He was a respiratory nurse. The pay wasn't great, but he enjoyed what he did, and that was what mattered- although many people were probably disinclined to think in that way.

"Joly, what are you doing with 'Zelma?" Feuilly stood up, and everyone on the table turned towards them, staring accusingly. He felt blood rush to his cheeks.

"N-n-noth-" he began.

"Nothing, Feu," Azelma interrupted coolly, leaning precariously over three people to kiss him on the cheek, "we're just chatting. You're too paranoid."

"Right, yeah," he said, the blush creeping up on his face creating an interesting clash with his red hair. "Sorry, Joly."

"It's okay," he said, as he was pulled onto Bossuet's lap (there was absolutely no where else to sit. Plus, his boyfriend's lap was a lot more comfortable than the bench). "She's not my type anyway." Bahorel snickered. Azelma glared at him.

"Bahorel!" Someone- Musichetta, judging by the volume and the thick South African accent- hollered from the backroom. "Get your lazy, fat ass over here and work! I ain't covering for you again if Dad calls!" Bahorel sighed and ducked under the table. He was probably drunk. Sober-Bahorel would definitely climb over the table, not under.

"Coming, sis!" He crawled under, punching Jehan in the leg- the bastard- and wobbling the table as he went. "I fucking hate running a business with family."

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes as the back of Bahorel's head disappeared into the crowd- with the rest of his body attached, of course. Grantaire looked up, with charcoal on his nose.

"Wha-," he began, before apparently seeing something and muttering to himself. Joly looked over to where Grantaire had been, but all that was there was a drunk dancer and a waitress. Nothing that would be of interest to him.

"'Taire, what was that?" 'Taire pointed at Enjolras with a stick of charcoal- he must have been drawing him again- and he too seemed to be looking over there between reading and muttering about politics.

"Éponine," the cynic raised an eyebrow, "He keeps looking at her." Sure enough, when Joly looked closer, he saw that it was Éponine carrying trays and avoiding the inebriated customers. He wasn't sure why he hadn't recognized her sooner, because Éponine was most certainly someone you'd notice in a crowd.

"I think," Bossuet announced under his breath, "that our mighty leader has a crush."

"What?" Courfeyrac joined the conversation, "Really? About time."

"You can say that again," Joly nodded.

"What? Really? About time." Courf smirked and Joly proceeded to elbow him in the stomach. Idiot. "Seriously, though. I've known Enjolras my whole life and he's only had two crushes, Feuilly, and Jehan's mum, who everyone had a crush on, so it doesn't count."

"Is it physically possible to speak any louder than you?" Grantaire muttered.

"You know the answer to that as well as I do, my dear friend."

"Well, shut up. He'll hear." Courf shut up. Bossuet furrowed his brow. Joly got his hand sanitizer out. Grantaire turned back to his muse. His muse stared at the waitress.

"Do you think he realizes?" Bossuet asked after a moment of uncharacteristic silence.

"No. He's an idi-"

"Courf, shut up."

"How come he's allowed to talk and I'm not?"

"Courf." Grantaire gave the Irishman a death stare, and he turned to speak to Combeferre instead. "What were you saying, Suet?" They'd started off calling him Boss, but since Enjolras had stormed off under the impression that his leadership was being undermined, they'd started calling him Suet instead (which got considerably more complaints from the man himself, but hey, everyone had to make sacrifices).

"Do you reckon the Chief knows he's got a crush?"

Grantaire scoffed. "Please. He wouldn't recognise a crush if it danced in front of him wearing 'Ferre's cycling jacket."

"And you'd know," Joly commented, sniggering. The death glare was delivered again, and Bossuet slapped Grantaire's arm. He looked away, lips pursed, and they sat again in silence. Well, the only silence that could be possible in a noisy bar at half past ten.

"I say we stay 'til the end," Grantaire announced, rubbing his hands together, "Then we interrogate him."

"Sounds like a plan," Joly nodded, but Suet shook his head.

"I can't. I've got the five o'clock shift tomorrow. Again."

"I never get that bus. Are you as grumpy as the other drivers?"

Joly rolled his eyes. "Have you met Suet? He's like, the embodiment of niceness. Most of the time." Bossuet nodded in agreement.

"I like to think I'm one of the nice one's. Maybe that's why I've got all the early shifts, and the school runs."

"That'll be it."

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_How the hell am I gonna get these drinks on the table_, wondered Éponine, as she wove towards Les Amis with yet another tray of drinks. They were going to drink themselves into a stupor if they carried on. Unless R had actually gone with his ambition to replace his heart with another liver- Joly was disgusted when he'd told the group.

"S'cuse me," she muttered as she shoved her way through the thick throng of people, drinks held precariously above her head. Her inability to walk in a straight line without falling over meant that she was not exactly cut out for waitressing, but until she finished her novel and got it published, she was stuck with it. Fortunately, it paid the bills (most of them, anyway) and the company (ie. Musichetta) was pretty good. There were certainly worse positions she could be in.

Once she reached the table, her sister was sitting there, stuffing her face with mozzarella sticks and crisps. She was perched on Feuilly's lap.

"Azelma, what the hell? You're meant to be serving. There's a shit-tonne of food to be served."

"You try giving out these mozzarella sticks and see how long you can resist them," she shot back, but stood up anyway. Enjolras and Combeferre both jumped as she crawled over them. "Sorry boys. Got to go."

"Bye, 'Zelma," called Feuilly as she left.

"Sorry to steal her away, Feuilly," Éponine addressed the young man, "but she really does need to work. Her rent's due in a week. Eviction or pay. And I'm tired. So, I'm assuming the tequila's for Courf?" He winked at her.

"You bet."

"You're gonna end up like Grantaire if you're not careful," she chided, before taking a swig of someone's beer. "White grape Schloer?" Combeferre raised his hand, nose buried in a book, and Feuilly waved at her. "No alcohol today, Feuilly?"

"I've got work tomorrow," he said simply, disregarding the fact that he had work everyday and he took all the jobs so people like her couldn't get one. She sniffed and put the drinks down.

"Right, so alcoholic ginger beer, lapsang souchon tea, and bucks fizz."

"Tea over here please, 'Ponine," smiled Jehan. She nodded in agreement.

"Should've known. Good choice, Daffodil. Ginger beer?"

"Over here," Bossuet said from the edge of the booth.

"And bucks fizz for me," said Joly from his lap.

"Oh, and Musichetta told me to tell you that if that hamster has escaped again, she is gonna stew it and serve it to the restaurant critic. And that she loves you both." Bossuet and Joly shared a look of absolute horror, and started whispering.

"So, we have left Merlot, Fosters, and red grape Schloer," she finished reading off the list, "which I assume are for Grantaire, Bahorel and Enjolras." The blonde looked up when he heard his name, and his cheeks turned pink.

"Wha-"

"Drinks," Éponine smiled at him, trying to ignore the fact that he was staring at her. _Oh God_, she thought, _have I got something on my face?_ She wiped it quickly with her sleeve, and Enjolras looked away.

"Ah, yes. Schloer, p-please."

Joly smirked. She set the last of the drinks down, putting a Fosters in Bahorel's empty seat. "I'd ask if you want any food, but I doubt you'd fit it on here."

"Actually," said Jehan, sitting up in his seat, "could I have the tofu platter and a miso soup please? I'll put it on my lap."

"Jehan, you can never afford anything from here."

"Well, I can now." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ten euro note. "Guess who just got published? It turns out that my poetry is worth more than cat vomit!" The whole table gasped, and then erupted into applause. Éponine couldn't help feeling just a little jealous- it had always been her dream to get published and make it big in the author world, and Jehan had beaten her to it. Still, she was pleased for him. Judging by his proud smile and the way his eyes looked like they were welling up, he was extremely happy, and if she- or indeed anyone- ruined it for him, she would kick their ass. Even her own.

After everyone had said their congratulations, she returned to the bar. Bartending was more her thing-there were fewer opportunities for clumsiness, and she got to chat to people a lot more. She swapped places with Musichetta, who offered her a quick smile before going to yell at some drunkard for standing on a table, and stood behind the bar. A man walked up.

"Sprite, please," he said, with a vaguely familiar voice. His black hoodie covered most of his face, and he would be completely camouflaged in the darkness if it wasn't for his bright green Converse.

"Coming right up," she replied, and the stranger looked up.

"Éponine?" he asked incredulously. It was Montparnasse. He'd changed. A lot. Last time she'd seen him- it would've been a year ago now- he'd had greasy hair, dyed black, down to his shoulders, a lip piercing, and eyeliner. His hair, now it's natural brown, was cut into a flick -eugh- and the eyeliner and piercings were gone. He'd turned, as much as she hated to admit it, good. He looked nice.

"'Parnasse- you're...different," she said, shaking her head.

"That's a bit rich coming from you," he replied. It was true- this time last year, she was still on the streets. How times had changed. She reached into the cooler beneath the bar to get out his Sprite.

"So," she said, putting his drink and a glass on a coaster, "how have you been?" He sighed.

"It's a long story."

"Do you wanna tell me over coffee? I've got a day off tomorrow, and the drinks here are to die for."

"Sounds like a plan. What sort of time?"

"Two?"

He shook his head. "Can't. I've got...business." She raised an eyebrow. Montparnasse's "business" had never really been exactly legal, and even in his current state of apparent lawfulness, she doubted anything had changed.

Not that she was anyone to judge.

"What sort of "business"?" she inquired, raising her eyebrows again. He laughed.

"None of yours, weirdo," he replied, poking her on the forehead. Gavroche called her a weirdo. It was the kind of insult an eleven year old would use.

"How old are you again?"

"Older than you," he shot back, smirking, "and therefore more powerful and authoritative. So," he said, back down to business, "I'm free between ten and one. We'll meet here at ten, and maybe have lunch, and then go our separate ways."

"Do I get any choice in this," she asked, mildly surprised at the authority in his words.

"Of course," he replied, bowing his head, "I'm sorry, I got too ahead of myself there."

"It's fine," she accepted, "ten's fine."

"Good. I'll see you then." He placed a five euro note on the bar and left, drink in hand. She put the note in her pocket, and shoved a few different coins in the cash machine. Then she turned to the next customer.

"I'll have a Stella Artois, thanks," she slurred.

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Gradually, Les Amis filtered out the bar, in various states of drunkenness. Courfeyrac had left propped on Combeferre's shoulders, and Grantaire would be lying if he said he wasn't impressed by his ability to practically carry six feet of drunk deadweight back home. Perhaps it meant that they'd finally got a grip and confessed their (obvious) crushes on each other.

It was only he, Joly, Bahorel and the Chief left. Azelma had come over with the bill (it was expensive. Too expensive) and sat with them. Most of the drunks from the bar had cleared off. It was almost quiet.

The confrontation began.

"Enjolras," Joly started, snatching his papers away, "we are about to address you on a matter which I, personally, find very important, and I'm sure that Grantaire here agrees." The cynic nodded, a bottle of wine raised to his lips, the charcoal picture long forgotten.

"You were keeping on-" he started, but Joly gave him a pointed stare.

"I am slightly more eloquent at this moment," Joly interrupted- he always seemed to get posher when he was drunk, "and so I shall talk. Now, Enjolras, are you sitting comfortably?" Enjolras nodded, clearly bemused at the sudden formality. "Good. Then we'll begin.

"Now, over the course of this evening, we (meaning myself, Grantaire, Bossuet, and Courfeyrac) have noticed a pattern. That is, between each sentence you read, you glance over towards the bar. Now, this could be due to three factors. One-you're thirsty- and two-you're hungry- are possibilities, but, judging by the cost of this bill, it has nothing to do with either of those. Which leaves only the third option."

Enjolras frowned. He hadn't noticed that he'd been looking- or at least, he'd acknowledged it but hadn't thought about it in great depth. "What's the third option?"

Grantaire snorted. "You," he began, pointing the now empty wine bottle (was his liver invincible?) at him, "like Éponine. Want to kiss her and hug her and marry her and have her babies and spend all the time with her." Enjolras' face was a picture. His eyes seemed to pop out of his sockets, his nostrils flared, his cheeks flushed and twitched, and he had a coughing fit. It was almost as if he'd had an allergic reaction to crushes. Which would actually explain their near absence for the past twenty-six years.

"Wh-w-at," he sputtered incredulously. Grantaire inhaled again, ready to reel off the list of Enjolras' "desires", but Joly put a hand on his arm.

"I wish you hadn't said that," he sighed, "I had a piece planned that was near poetic."

Bahorel and Azelma had been silent throughout the whole ordeal, there mouths reaching the floor, but with Joly's comment, Bahorel fell about laughing. Huge, full, verging on hysteria laughing. Azelma moved away from him a little, frowning as he nearly spilt a drink on her uniform.

"What I was going to say," Joly continued, "was that, however you may try to deny it, you are head over heels in love with our 'Ponine." Enjolras choked on his coffee (his third of the night- caffeine was his only solution for the crippling study that needed to be done), and Bahorel attempted a half-hearted Heimlich manoeuvre. Too hard, apparently, as Enjolras fell off of the seat.

He'd caused a ruckus. Éponine and Musichetta both came over to help. Stuff had fallen out of his pockets-they were like Mary Poppins' bag- and spilled out all over the floor. He flushed an even deeper shade of red, almost the same as the flag he seemed so fond of, and stood up, only to bend over again to pick everything up. Someone else had bent down too.

He scrabbled around on the tiles, picking up pens and notebooks and who-knows-whats and his hand touched someone else's. He looked up and jumped back. It was Éponine. Luck seemed to be deceiving him today, he thought as he felt the blood rush to his cheeks.

"S-sorry, 'Pon- po-ponine," he spluttered, tripping over his words. She simply looked back, with an eyebrow raised, seemingly "weirded out" (that was what Gavroche called it, anyway- though whether it was grammatically correct, he had no idea) by his reactions. He heard Azelma and Joly whispering, while the rest of the table sat in silence.

He'd probably receive hell for it later.


	2. Chapter 2

Enjolras had acted weirdly last night. There was no doubt about it. He was usually so calm and certain, but he'd looked a bit like a nervous wreck to Eponine. After he fell off the seat, and she'd helped pick up his stuff, he hadn't thanked her- and Enjolras was nothing if not a gentleman- or even so much as looked her in the eyes. He barely said a word to her; only a short, polite conversation about work had been exchange, after a lot of pressure from Azelma. Apart from that, he'd completely blanked her.

When the time came to leave, about one, he hadn't even offered to walk her home. He always did that. It was a tradition, and he was a stickler for them, even if she refused every time. She took off by herself, as usual, and walked home alone. There had been the odd whistle and catcall, from drunkards that thought it funny, but that was nothing out of the ordinary, not in her part of Paris. When she got home to her three-room flat, she'd got her laptop out immediately, and wrote for an hour. That was another tradition- for her, at least- and one that she always stuck to, in any and all conditions.

Her story was fantastic, even if she did say so herself. It was a fantasy novel, 80k words, about a woman who was kidnapped by a warlord and has to escape. The herione was a flipping badass, and really one of the best characters she'd ever created. Her name was Alletra, and she may or may not have been slightly based off of herself.

The next day she brought her laptop with her to the cafe, and it was in her bag, probably a hell of a lot warmer than her. It was bloody freezing- the mid-February rain and gloom was getting to her. Not that she minded the rain, at all. It was, or had been, a kind of escape for a while, in the time that she lived with her family and they'd lost the inn. She was notorious throughout most of her part of Paris for disappearing for days on end when it rained. It wasn't a great reputation, admittedly, but it was one of the best she'd had (compared to being the school junkie- along with Jehan and Montparnasse-it was almost desirable) and it wasn't even that popular a rumour any more.

When she reached the cafe, only five minutes late, Montparnasse was already sitting at a table, stirring a cup of coffee. She shrugged off her coat and threw it down on the chair opposite him. He looked up.

"Éponine," he said, standing up and reaching over to kiss her on the cheek, "glad you came. I was starting to think you weren't gonna turn up."

"I'm only five minutes late, 'Parnasse," she replied, "it's probably a record for me." He nodded.

"Probably," he agreed, and gestured to his coffee and cake, "I hope you don't mind my ordering without you. I haven't eaten today."

"Welcome to my world," she sighed, and sat down. Musichetta swayed over, notebook in hand.

"Hey 'Ponine," she said, "what can I get ya?"

"Just the usual," she smiled. "I guess you've met Montparnasse?" Musichetta nodded, glaring at the man. He slid down in his seat, shooting her a sideways scowl.

"Montparnasse, huh? You're back in town then?" He nodded.

"Seems like it."

"Don't stay too long then. Wouldn't want you getting in trouble," she said, her voice dripping with hostility. Éponine rolled her eyes.

"'Chetta, leave it," she said placatingly, "things have changed now." Musichetta raised a disbelieving eyebrow, but walked away anyway. "Sorry about that, 'Parnasse. She's normally much nicer."

"You told her about me, then," he glared accusingly.

"How else could I explain lying on her friend's doorstep in a bloody pulp?" It was an accident really, but the thought of it still made her flinch. They'd been at a bar, and he'd got drunk and insisted he drove her home on his motorbike. She hadn't wanted to, but she was like putty in his hands, and had gone along with it.

They'd driven over the speed limit. He'd lost control. Crashed into a tree. She'd taken the worst of the impact, but he'd been scared, and just left her at someone's doorstep. Luckily, that person had been Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras.

She hadn't seen him since.

"Éponine, I'm sorry," he began, but she waved him off.

"No. We were both different back then. You deserve another chance." He smiled at her- it'd been a while since she'd seen that.

"Thank-you, 'Ponine," he said, and it sounded sincere.

Musichetta came over with Éponine's chai tea and and a cinnamon roll. "Let me know if he tries anything," she muttered in her ear. Éponine rolled her eyes again. Musichetta was too protective, like most of her friends, and having Montparnasse around (the biggest source of trouble she'd ever gotten herself into) wasn't the best way to put her mind at ease. It would be even worse when she told the rest of them.

When she left, Montparnasse leant forward. "How are you?"

"You mean how did I get away from Dad?" He nodded. She'd been stuck with her Dad up until a year ago- just as Azelma was- and he wasn't exactly the nicest person in the world. He'd get drunk and hit them, and wouldn't pay the bills, and make them work so he could buy himself more alcohol. He even let his gang beat them up, on the rare occasion that he was sober enough to speak. "You know how much alcohol he drank?" He nodded again. "Well, he got a liver disease. Taken into hospital. The police did a check up on the house, and they found Azelma lying in a corner covered in blood and bruises, and me trying to help her. He got arrested. We took out all the money in the bank and left. Bought a flat, got a job, made friends. Here we are now."

"How long was his sentence?"

"I think it's ten years in jail. We'll have to get further away by then, because he could find us here. And now we have Gavroche too, so seeing him is completely out of the question." Montparnasse's brows furrowed.

"Gavroche? Who's-"

"He's a kid," she said simply, preferring not to go into details about him. There was still an element of mistrust between them, after all that time.

"You have a kid?" he asked, flabbergasted. He looked offended. Éponine laughed, shaking her head.

"No, no, he's my brother. And that's all I have to say on the matter. Now, what have you been doing in my absence?"

Montparnasse looked around the cafe quickly, like he was scanning it for any trouble. "Do you promise not to tell anybody?" he whispered, looking her into the eyes. She felt a blush creep up her cheeks. He'd always had that effect on her, and it didn't surprise her in the least that he still managed to do it, after all that time.

"Y-yes," she replied, "if it's legal."

He laughed. "'Course it's legal. I'm a changed man now, Eppie." He dropped his voice back down to a whisper. "I've been working… undercover. For the police." Éponine's jaw hit the floor.

"You got a job in the police?" He hushed her, as the old couple a few tables away looked at her angrily.

"Not so loud."

"And how exactly," she whispered, "did you get that?" She knew Montparnasse, and with his record, the job was questionably acquired. She still somehow doubted the legality of it.

"I have friends," he answered, "and they have friends. The force were looking for someone who knew the ins and outs of Paris, and who could do it better than I?"

"Me. I could," she said honestly. Years of surviving mostly on the streets had made her remember her way around. She knew every backstreet, alleyway, and alcove like the back of her hand. Not that she'd get a job in the police- her and the chief, Javert, weren't exactly friends. In fact, they were pretty much mortal enemies. Since she'd stolen the medicine for Azelma's injuries, after her father had gone to jail, he'd glared at her whenever she'd walk past.

"As if they'd let you in," he scoffed, and she agreed. She was too independent, too hot-headed, with too much of a criminal record to join the police.

They sat like that for hours, chatting about anything and everything, picking at their cakes and sipping drinks whenever the other spoke.

"We should do this again," Montparnasse suggested, as he got up to leave at midday, "as a date. If you wanted to, I mean. You don't have to. I get that you're still a bit-"

"'Parnasse," she interrupted, a smile stretching across her cheeks, "I'd love to." His eyes widened.

"R-really?" he stuttered, "That's…that's awesome. Wow. What's you're number?" She dug her phone out of her pocket, glancing up at him with a smile. They exchanged numbers, and he began to walk away, saying goodbye over his shoulder. She followed him quickly and stopped him when got out the door. "Éponine, wha-" he began, but he was interrupted by Éponine sealing her lips on his. He kissed her back, and the old chemistry was still there. They broke apart, giggling like kids. Éponine was internally celebrating-she'd finally got a serious date! Placing a quick peck on her cheek, he walked away into the rain, turning around every few seconds to look at her. She smiled, and when he rounded the corner, went back inside to write some more. As she went to sit down, Musichetta stormed over and grabbed her arm.

"Éponine," she hissed, "that boy is trouble. You're a sensible girl. Stay away from him." Then she left again, leaving Éponine frowning. What did she know? What had inspired that warning? She resolved to ignore it.

On her own head be it.

AN- So, Chapter 2! Sorry it's so short! This isn't betaed, so please let me know if you find any mistakes and I'll try to fix them. What do you think though? Is Musichetta right? Should Éponine leave Montparnasse alone? Please comment, and vote if you think it worthy!

Lots of love,

Isis


	3. Chapter 3

Enjolras resurfaced at the Corinthe about a month later, after coming to terms with the dreaded realisation that _he liked girls too. _About half of the group were there, sitting at their usual table, which was heaving with papers. Again. When he sat down, Bahorel offered him a sympathetic smile, before shouting over to the bar.

"Have you seen this, Eponine? Our beloved leader has returned!" Eponine threw a thumbs up in their direction (and no, Enjolras _did not_ blush, what are you talking about?) before turning back to her customer.

"You missed a lot, Enj," Combeferre said. The others nodded, gravely, all except for Jehan, who was in some kind of trance, scribbling in his notebook.

"Like what?" he answered, dubiously. His friends often claimed to have big news, but it was usually something like Feuilly adopting _another_ cat, or Grantaire getting thrown out of _another _bar.

"Eponine has got herself a boyfriend," Grantaire said, smirking, "Montparnasse. He's back in town. They met up the day after you disappeared, and have been near inseparable since. You should have taken mine and Joly's advice and confessed everything the moment you knew."

"Bit rich coming from you, 'Taire," Bahorel grinned, raising his eyebrows suggestively. Grantaire flipped him a finger.

"Ooh, step back! Vodka-blood over here's getting feisty!" The other's laughed, and Vodka-blood shook his head.

"Give me a break. I could beat you up any day."

"Go on then. Outside. Now." Combeferre raised his hands placatingly.

"Now, now children," he said, "play nicely."

"Montparnasse is back in town?" Enjolras asked, pretending to be nonchalant and completely ignoring Grantaire and Bahorel's bickering. "That can't be good. What's he doing here?" Everyone shrugged.

"That," interrupting Eponine, as she came over with two beer cans, "is none of your business."

"If you're seeing him again, then it is, because he's allowed to be worried for your health," Jehan argued, unnecessarily.

"This doesn't involve you, Daffodil." He shrugged, returning back to his notebook. "Why're you so interested anyway? If I want to date him, I can."

Enjolras nodded. "I know. Only, no offence, but it didn't exactly end well last time."

She sighed. "Times change, people change. We're adults now, and we can sort everything out. And," she added, angrily, "it is not up to you to decide who I do and don't see. I can manage my own business just fine by myself, thank you very much." With that, she slammed the beers on the table, whipped around, and stalked back towards the bar. They all sat in stunned silence.

"Well," said Grantaire, after a moment, "that went well." Enjolras buried his head in his hands.

"Oh god," he murmured, and Combeferre patted him on the back, "she hates me."

"Nah," said Courfeyrac, appearing out of nowhere, "she'll get there. Give it time, man. Always works for me." He smiled at Combeferre, and he ducked his head, grinning. The blonde looked from one to the other, and then his eyes widened in realisation.

"You're...you're...together?"

Bahorel awarded him with a slow clap. "Well done, Einstein. They've finally pulled their heads out of their asses and gone on a date." He looked between them again, seeming to be in mild discomfort.

"B-but you...you're straight, Courf!" he finally said, "You like women! Not men!" Courf smirked.

"You're gay, Enjolras. And yet you still like a woman. As our dear 'Ponine so rightly said, 'Times change, people change.'. The reason I didn't like guys before is because I hadn't found the right one. I'm sure that the same case applies to you and a certain barista. And I'm obviously not straight. I've had a crush on this hottie-" He gestured to Combeferre, and the "hottie" blushed. "-for years. I'm blatantly bisexual." An old man looked around at him, made the sign of a cross on his chest, and muttered "God have mercy on him." Bahorel stood up, and walked to him.

"Excuse me, sir," he said, drawing himself up to his full height (he was ridiculously tall, like his sister, but always seemed shorter, from his slouching), "but I am one of the joint owners of this bar, and if you say or do anything that is the slightest bit racist, sexist, homophobic, or otherwise offensive, I'm afraid that I'll have to ask you to leave. Thank-you for your time, and enjoy the rest of your evening." The man's eyes boggled, and he mumbled an apology, before turning back to his cup of expensive tea embarrassedly. Bahorel strutted back to the booth, turning around when the man wasn't looking to flip him a finger, to the hooting of his friends. He smiled and bowed pompously. "I'm here all week." He sat, and handed a glass to Courf. "You have the speaking glass. Carry on." Courf accepted it graciously, and Enjolras groaned. The rest of Courf's speech would probably be a bogus pep talk about the appeal of women and dating advice.

"Now," he began, "where was I?"

"Blatantly bisexual," Combeferre supplied, with a smile.

"Ah, yes. Now, I am blatantly bisexual, even though for years, I denied the idea of me being with another man. I think that you're in the same position, my friend, except vice versa. You laugh off the idea of being with a girl, until you find the right girl. Never fear, though, for Courf is here to make all of your relationship wishes come true."

Jehan laughed. "Fairy Godmother, is that what we'll call you now?"

Courf looked grievously offended. "No," he said, "you shall call me The Rac."

"How much alcohol have you had," Grantaire asked, recognising the signs of a drunkard.

Courf (or rather, The Rac) raised his hands. "Fine, I confess. I had a glass or two at work. We got a gig at a fancy restaurant, and so Jacques suggested we have some of his wine to celebrate." He was the lead singer in a swing band, which seemed to be the perfect job for him, since he had a flawless voice. "But that's not important. We have more pressing matters to attend to.

"Now, Enjolras, rule one of dating. You aren't going to have a chance if you disappear for a month." Courf reached out to clasp his hand, his grip too strong to shake off. "You have to speak to her. Make friends. Use your words. That's the only way to get her to notice you."

"You should try and find some common ground," Jehan suggested, and Grantaire snorted into his drink.

"Please," he laughed, "Enjolras and Eponine are too similar to get on. The problem isn't that they don't have enough common ground, it's that they have too much. I hate to be pessimistic, but it's never gonna work out. She's got a boyfriend anyway, albeit a terrible one. You have no chance. No chance at all. Why throw your life away?" Jehan slapped his arm, frowning.

"Grantaire, you're not helping." He nodded.

"I know."

Enjolras sighed "Forget it. For once, he's right." Courfeyrac and Jehan both let out an indignant cry.

"Wha- Enjolras, honey," Courf said, standing up, "that's crazy defeatist talk, and I refuse to hear it. Now, you are going to win that barista's heart, and I, and everyone else- yes, that includes you, Grantaire- are going to help you. I expect you at my house at eleven o'clock sharp tomorrow morning. All of you. Operation "Get-Enj-A-Girlfriend" is underway."

He hadn't planned to go to Courf's. He had absolutely no intention of it. It just happened. One minute, he was sitting in the kitchen with his law book and the next he was in a car, being subjected to Joly's (surprisingly decent) rapping. He and Bossuet had come in (Courfeyrac had obviously told them where he hid the spare key) and attacked him from behind, duct-taping his mouth as they grabbed his hands and dragged him outside.

The old lady in the apartment opposite his had turned a blind eye, but that wasn't surprising. This was a fairly regular occurrence with his friends. They'd hauled him down three flights of stairs and out of a revolving door. He'd struggled against them, of course, but Bossuet on a mission was somewhat difficult to contend with.

And now, there he was, sitting in the backseat of a rusty mini that was falling apart with an alcoholic, a boxer, and two rappers. On his way to what probably wasn't going to be the best day of his life.

Joly was driving- Bossuet had had his license revoked, since he'd got into a bad spat with the police-, so they were driving about twenty miles an hour. It took ten minutes to get to Courf's, a journey which would normally take him only three. They finally pulled up outside the flats, and everyone got out except for Joly. He drove off to find a parking space.

"Right," said Bahorel, "I think its about time we took that duct tape off." Enjolras tried to back away, but Bahorel advanced.

"No, no, no, no, no," he repeated, his voice muffled, as the tape covering his mouth was ripped off. He cursed. "Ow! Jesus, Bahorel, did you really have to do that?" He rubbed his chin, frowning, and kicked the idiot in the shins. Bossuet and Grantaire sniggered, and a window opened one floor up. Courfeyrac stuck his head out and nodded.

"Ah," he shouted, "it was you, Enjolras. I thought I recognised your dulcet tone. Good of you to come, old chap." Enjolras flipped him off, earning himself an enthusiastic wave.

"Believe me, it was through no fault of my own. These...idiots over here viciously assaulted me. Twice."

Courfeyrac laughed. "I wouldn't put it past them. Ow, Combeferre..." he whined, and he disappeared from the window. Bahorel and Grantaire both grabbed his arms and frogmarched him in and upstairs. Combeferre was there already, holding the door open and smiling sympathetically.

"I'd like to apologise in advance for what you're about to go through," he said, and Enjolras groaned. It was gonna be bad, he decided. It was gonna be awful.

Courfeyrac greeted them exictedly and ushered them into the living room. The coffee table and sofa was covered in clutter. Magazines, make-up, clothes, pictures, and books were scattered everywhere.

"Honey, we will make you dazzling," the host squealed and clapped his hands together.

It was another five minutes until the rest of Les Amis arrived, plus Cosette. They'd all brought their own stuff- offerings to appease the Gods, Courf had said. As it turned out, the meeting wasn't solely dedicated to making him "right" for Eponine. Everyone else would be taking advice and having a makeover. It seemed that it was to become more of an eight year old girl's party.

He brushed his fingers over the various pots and tubes, frowning. "I don't have to use all of these, do I?" Courfeyrac laughed.

"Enjolras, darling, why would you ever need foundation?"

Cosette giggled.

"No, I don't actually think you'll need to use any makeup at all. We wouldn't want to cover up your beautiful face, would we?"

He'd have liked to say that he emerged hours later a changed man. However, that would not have been strictly true, and he wasn't in a habit of lying. He did come out slightly more confident in his wooing abilities, though, so that was something. In fact, he found himself so confident that he went straight to find Eponine in the Corinthe. Feuilly had volunteered to drive him over on his moped- a frankly terrifying ordeal, and one that he hoped never to experience again- and he got there in time to see her start her shift.

He walked up to the bar, and leaned on it, throwing a wink in her direction as Courf had suggested. She looked at him weirdly, and sent one of the other baristas over.

"Hey, hot stuff," the barista purred, "what can I get you?" Damn it.

AN- Sorry it's been so long! I've had exams and really bad writer's block, but I should be back on track now. Thanks for sticking with it, and please favourite or comment if you deem it worthy.

Isisx


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Les Miserables, Friendship, Romance