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“Why did you invite him over?”
Enjolras avoided to look in Courfeyrac's direction as he blurted out the question that had nagged him since recess. Instead he intently eyed the group of younger kids playing tag on the puddle-spotted school yard around the basketball hoop, then looked over to the parking space where some of their classmates were stuffing their backpacks and themselves into a parent's bright red Peugeot, then quickly to his stupid, uncomfortable new shoes which he had tried so hard not to ruin all day. Now the pebble he had just kicked in frustration had left several stains on the leather and Enjolras could already feel the tears welling up in his eyes. Stupid shoes. Stupid him for being an angry crier.
Coufeyrac gave him a soft, encouraging punch on the upper arm.
“I think he's nice”, he stated in typical Courfeyrac fashion that was sometimes excruciatingly difficult for Enjolras to understand. “I'm sure you'll like him, too, and he could really use some friends. Don't you think?“, he prompted when Enjolras stayed quiet.
“Yes, I know, it's just that...”
It was just that yes, they were discussing the new kid in class and yes, Enjolras shouldn't judge him by the heated argument that had gone down in history class and yes, it was not right to let him fend for himself on his certain path to becoming an outsider, but spending the afternoon at Courfeyrac's was a routine Enjolras still didn't want to share.
“It's just...”
But putting this thought into words was hard when said new kid was standing just a few metres away, already discussing the invitation with his parents on Courfeyrac's mobile phone, and the opportunity was gone a few seconds later when he came back over to them.
Enjolras would just have to deal with it.
“Okay modar, nehgaron nabosh, I won't be home nowacht.”
The call was ended and the precious mobile phone (being a Nokia 6600, it made up about thirty percent of Courfeyrac's social prestige in their class) given back to his owner.
“Thank you for letting me make the call and thank you for the invitation. I can come over as long as I'm home for dinner.”
Courfeyrac's answer was a broad grin and another prompting look in Enjolras's direction. “I think we can manage that”, he said then in his Generous Uncle Courf Voice. “Well then, Combeferre...”
“My name's –”
“DON'T!”
Courfeyrac made a rushed movement as if to press his hand over Combeferre's mouth in order to keep him from speaking. „We have made a sacred pact not to use our first names outside school anymore and I must hereby ask you most politely to never mention yours again. I'm Courfeyrac, and this is Enjolras. It's an act of rebellion“, he added after a moment of consideration.
“Okay”, Combeferre said, shrugging. Courfeyrac looked as if he couldn't decide whether to be content or scandalised by Combeferre's lack of confusion about this new rule. He never had the chance to comment on it, however, because Julien, one of their classmates, chose this exact moment to rudely barge into Enjolras as he and some of his friends overtook them on their way to the bus stop.
“Taking your girlfriend out for a Valentine's date?”, Julien asked, no, called out to Courfeyrac. (Enjolras never understood why he had to be so loud.) Grinning, he tugged at what was left of Enjolras's curls. “Please do tell me why she had to cut her beautiful hair.”
“Please do tell me why you don't crawl back into the hole you escaped from”, Courfeyrac responded, angrily shoving Julien away. The five centimetres he was taller, which had proven themselves useful quite a number of times already, also saved their necks this time.
“Idiots”, he mumbled as soon as the group was out of earshot.
Enjolras miserably ran his fingers through his short hair. Although it had been nearly two weeks since his father had insisted on giving him a military haircut – a failed attempt at a more boyish look – he still hadn't gotten used to the feeling.
“Valentine's day! Excellent cue!”, Courfeyrac said very loudly, signaling them to finally get moving. Enjolras groaned, burying his face in his hands, quickly looking to his shoes again when he realised he had been in unison with Combeferre. They were walking in single file because half of the sidewalk was blocked by parking cars, and Courfeyrac, who was in the lead, turned to face them while delivering the news. (Walking backwards was delicate operation, though, if you took into account the sheer amount of puddles.)
“My grandparents have left this morning for a romantic day out”, he announced proudly. “Since I'm responsible enough to take care of myself for the day, we have the house to ourselves. Plus”, he fiddled with the pocket of his bright purple rain jacket for a moment to pull out a blue banknote, “they have decided to leave me with twenty Euros, which I think should be wasted immediately. So, Combeferre, what do you think about the consumption of ice cream during the winter months?”
Combeferre, who was, despite his slightly slouched posture, even a bit taller than Courfeyrac, looked down at him over the rim of his glasses as if to assess whether this was an honest question.
“I don't see why it should be seasonal”, he finally said somewhat thoughtfully.
“Perfect”, Courfeyrac exclaimed, waiting for them to catch up with him when the line of cars ended. He put his arms around him and Enjolras and steered them around the next corner. (Combeferre seemed a bit uncomfortable by the sudden body contact, but didn't say anything.)
“Then let's get up, stand up, bouge the fonk up.”
He laughed as both, Enjolras and Combeferre, groaned in unison once again at the mention of the infamous number one hit – “Le Frunkp” – that had haunted the radio stations and MTV for nearly a month now. Enjolras had tried to negotiate an Alphonse Brown Fee of one scoop of ice cream per mention of the song on several occasions, but since Courfeyrac could be very stubborn, he would have normally just chased him down the road for it. Normally as in: if he had been alone with his best friend.
“So do you like this song?”, Combeferre asked.
“No. It's commercial trash.”
“Coufeyrac is a punk now”, Enjolras explained reluctantly. It was what he had gathered from him listening to a band called The Exploited for a few months now, obsessing over their new album and integrating the word “system” to his vocabulary. (He couldn't really make sense of it, but then again, Enjolras's patience for music was pretty much exhausted by the piano lessons he was taking.)
Combeferre nodded, gracefully not mentioning that Coufeyrac didn't exactly look punk, although Courfeyrac's expression was unconcerned. He was well aware of his struggle, but with his parents keeping a close eye on him, the only possible way left to express himself had been to write “Fuck the system” on his backpack in white-out. (And Enjolras knew that he had made huge efforts to hide said backpack from his mother ever since.)
The ice-cream parlour was placed strategically only two streets away from their collège, so they reached their destination before Courfeyrac could give a complete review of The Exploited's musical portfolio once again. Combeferre, too, seemed to be grateful for that, given the fact that his only contribution to the topic had been “I play the Cello.”
Enjolras quickened his pace at the sight of the “CAFÉ GLACIER” sign, hoping to get warm once inside. The rainy weather was accompanied by a wind that was, in his opinion, so cold that it should be illegal. Before he could push the door open, however, it was opened from the other side, causing Enjolras to lose his balance and stumble inside rather gracelessly. “I'm sorry!”, he said at the same time as the black-haired boy he had nearly run over. (Although, considering how skinny Enjolras was, he probably wouldn't have had the momentum to actually run him over. Instead, he would have most likely bumped into him and knocked himself to the ground, but he quicky shook that thought.) Smiling apologetically, he maneuvered himself through the small space between the boy, the entrance and the counter and quickly headed in the direction of one of the empty tables until –
“Hey! Wait a second!”
Enjolras stopped dead, then turned around cautiously. It was obvious that it was him who was being addressed – Courfeyrac and Combeferre were still standing outside the blocked door and the only guests besides them were a group of elderly women sitting in the back of the café – but what could the boy possibly want? Had he dropped something? Had he forgotten to apologize?
Enjolras looked at him properly for the first time now, through a lowered gaze. He was about his age and taller than him (who wasn't, actually?), but only a tiny bit, which surprised him pleasantly. Enjolras couldn't take in much more of his outer appearance, though, because he was too startled by the boy's bright, dimpled smile and because he seemed so soft, unlike most people, who were just loud.
“Yes?”
“My little sister – she's seven – challenged me this morning to serenade the most handsome person I'd meet today”, the boy said a bit nasally, fiddling with the zip of his tracksuit top. Enjolras noticed only now that he had a cast on his nose.
“Um. Great?”
“She's fantastic”, the boy agreed. “So here you go:
Roses are red,
so are you when you blush.
I'm crap with poems.
This doesn't rhyme.”
Enjolras's face felt very hot. “This didn't rhyme”, he said lamely.
“Yes. Alright, I've gotta go”, and the boy finally made his way out of the door, not before turning back one last time and maybe there was the faintest hint of a blush on his cheeks, too: “Have a nice day, will you?”
Enjolras's ears were still burning when he, Courfeyrac and Combeferre sat down at one of the round tables in the corner.
“Who was that?”, Courfeyrac asked even before getting the menu.
“I don't know”, Enjolras mumbled.
“I do.” The other two looked at Combeferre, surprised. “He's in my brother's – I mean, my second oldest brother's – karate class. I don't recall his name, but I could ask”, he offered.
“Gods, no!”, Enjolras panicked.
“So”, Courfeyrac said, looking unsure at Enjolras, his head slightly tilted. It was typical for him to wait whether Enjolras would like to discuss a topic or not (one of the Courfeyrac traits Enjolras was especially grateful for), but Combeferre seemed to be a rather straightforward type.
“But you seemed to find him cute?”
For a few moments, Enjolras wasn't capable of doing anything but stare at him while his mind raced. How could he – only Courfeyrac knew – he wasn't even sure - was he really that obvious – did anybody else –
“It doesn't matter, right?”, he heard himself blurt out. “I mean, I want to do something useful with my life, I'm never going to marry anyway –”
Courfeyrac put his hand on Enjolras's trembling arm in a protective gesture and glanced across the table. “Do you have any problem with that?”, he asked defensively.
“None”, Combeferre simply stated. “I'm never going to marry, too. I think to wed is to yield to obsolete bourgeois doctrines.”
Despite himself, Enjolras found himself smiling a tiny little bit. “I'm going to keep that in mind as an excuse.”
“Great”, Courfeyrac visibly relaxed. “Then let's not leave the waiter waiting any longer, get up, stand up, bouge the –”
“Courfeyrac”, Enjolras tried very hard to keep a stern face at the sight of Courfeyrac bobbing up and down on his chair. “No.”
Combeferre seemed to feel uncomfortable eating ice cream in public, Enjolras thought, seeing how he glanced over his shoulder from time to time, like he expected someone to jump in, point at him and yell “See? That's why he's chubby!” any minute. He obviously felt uncomfortable letting Coufeyrac pay the complete bill, insisting on paying the 3,50 € back until Courfeyrac, confused and visibly distressed, stated in his most stubborn tone: “They gave me the money to invite my friends so I'm gonna invite my friends!” (Enjolras felt a bit guilty because he hadn't even thought about thanking Courfeyrac for the invitation, simply assuming that in more than ten years of friendship, their mutual accounts were somewhat balanced.)
The rest of their way to Courfeyrac's – or rather: his grandparents's house – was managed without further difficulties. Courfeyrac made a little tour of the quartier, tattling about the weird dog walk routine of one of his neighbours who he and Enjolras simply called “The Dober Man”. Enjolras was once again impressed by his abilities to chat easily and engage someone he barely knew in a discussion that would, for example, evolve around the ideal size of rabbit hutches.
“Enjolras, you want to bring your school stuff home?”, he asked when they passed his family's house, but Enjolras just shook his head. Nobody was home anyway.
“You two live next to each other?”, Combeferre asked with curiosity when Courfeyrac pushed open the garden gate that came up next.
Courfeyrac seemed somewhat proud when he answered: “Yes, we do, and always have.”
They kicked off their shoes in the hallway and ran up the stairs to Courfeyrac's room in the attic. Enjolras tried to imagine what it would be like to see it for the first time, but this was a very far-fetched thought experiment for him. Probably he'd just think colourful and stuffed, because that's what it was: full of books and CDs and socks and board games and cactuses. Combeferre didn't even try to hide that he was drawn to the bookshelf immediately. Enjolras could hear him hum in appreciation several times.
For a start, they tried playing the Harry Potter video game Courfeyrac had gotten for Christmas, taking turns on operating the keyboard and mouse. Enjolras was up first and he anxiously waited for his tasks to come up while they silently watched the intro together, until Combeferre, who obviously couldn't hold back anymore, asked: “Where's Dobby? He's so important in the book, why did they cut him out?”
“I'm glad they did”, Courfeyrac mused, “I swear to god, it drives me mad everytime I see the movie that I can't keep him from dropping that dessert on Aunt Petunia's head –”
“Oh no”, said Enjolras as he was invited to get Harry moving, “what do I do now?”
Enjolras was just as horrendously bad at Harry Potter as he was at every video game, so Courfeyrac made him switch places with Combeferre almost immediately. It turned out Combeferre was no better, mumbling something about his siblings always blocking the computer. Since neither Enjolras nor Combeferre seemed physically able to hit any target with Flipendo, no matter how hard they tried, Courfeyrac had to save the day in the end and degnome the garden all by himself.
“Why are they even allowed to cast spells outside Hogwarts?”, Combeferre said.
“And how do you even do that?”, Enjolras demanded, watching Courfeyrac beating a possessed washing machine in 30 seconds flat.
“Alphonse Brown – mon nom c'est Alphonse Brown”, Courfeyrac chanted instead of an answer, causing Enjolras to throw a pillow at his head and accidentally knock over his Magic trading cards. (Combeferre chuckled a bit at his cry of outrage.)
“Well, I have a lot of time to practise alone”, he said unusually bluntly after he had restored the order in his deck.
“But it's boring when you two can't participate.” He closed the game without saving, then spun around on his office chair to face them expectantly. “What now?”
“What's the state of affairs in Marie's Secret Biscuit Lair?”, Enjolras asked tentatively.
“Enjolras, you literally had the chance to eat ice cream an hour ago and you yet chose hot chocolate over it –”
“Because it's cold, that's why –”
“And now you want me to rob my grandma's store room for you.” Courfeyrac was at the door in the split of a second. “I think we have Sablés, come on.”
“This is the famous Mme. Baudin Biscuit Prison”, he explained a few minutes later in tour guide mode once again while the three boys were tiptoeing on the spot because the floor was ice cold and they were only wearing socks. The basement was indeed a little bit spooky, with with blank walls, softly flickering naked bulbs and a noticeable draught through the hallway. “Here, the poor innocent biscuits will be kept for months unless –”
“But there is no guard”, Combeferre pointed out. “So actually, we can't be sure whether we free or abduct them. Maybe they want to be in their tin.”
“No, they most definitely don't”, Enjolras muttered through gritted teeth. (He was shivering. Why did he have to get cold so easily, again?)
A broad grin spread on Courfeyrac's face. Enjolras recognised it immediately as the unmistakable sign that he had just had an idea.
“Maybe I'm the gruesome Baudin Biscuit Prison Guard and you have to trick me to get in”, he suggested.
Combeferre seemed to like the challenge. “I'm not risking my life to get inside a storage room”, he said, smiling back. “What kind of prison is that?”
“What's a real prison, then?”
Combeferre adjusted his glasses. “The Bastille”, he said darkly. “It's the reign of Louis XVI and we're in the underground dungeons were only the recaptured escapees are kept prison. The living conditions in the Bastille weren't even as bad as later depicted, you know, compared to 18th century standards, but the dungeons...there's a reason why they weren't used anymore. Now if one of our friends were an illegal writer who had been imprisoned for censorship reasons and had tried to escape once, without avail, because one of the guards kept a special eye on him, and he was left here in the dungeons to rot away...that'd be a challenge.”
The three boys looked at each other, considering the fact that they were responsible 12-year olds.
“Damn it”, Courfeyrac said, “let's draw straws.”
Enjolras was the guard, and he was highly uncomfortable with being a symbol of oppression. At least, he had been able to rescue some of the original prisoners only to make them disappear in his stomach one after another while he was guiding the basement entrance. He had wool socks and a cushion, too, so you would think guarding Bastille escapees wasn't that bad, but it did become a bit boring after a while.
Enjolras knew the others had three options: they could somehow lure him away from the door (which would be the hardest since he was not leaving those Sablés unattended), they could enter through the back door or one of the windows (which would be the easiest given the fact that Enjolras wouldn't even notice if he stayed on his spot, but he counted on the fact that he was the only one of the three that would fit through the window bars and that Courfeyrac's grandparents had probably taken their keys with them), or one of them could just knock him over and hold him down, while the other one rescued the plush Bulbasaur that was their token prisoner from the store room (which was depressing).
Most likely they would come up with some crazy Courfeyrac plan that was bound to fail and would somehow succeed against all odds.
Enjolras sighed and took another biscuit.
Although Combeferre seemed to be kind of nice, Enjolras had already felt drained after school and the two hours of having someone around he didn't know, having to think about what to say and how to act had been exhausting to him. He wished he could just sit down on the couch with Courfeyrac and let it be be enveloped in silence for a moment. No talking. No interaction. No alertness.
“Hey, Enjolras?” Combeferre came down the stairs in a somewhat reeling way and Enjolras took a few moments to realise what was missing.
“Have you seen my glasses anywhere? I must have lost them when we left the basement.”
Combeferre looked a lot younger without his glasses, Enjolras thought getting up from his cushion to help him search. “Where's Courfeyrac?”, he asked.
“Working on our master plan to rescue the citizen in the dungeons.” Combeferre opened the door to the basement, squinting in the darkness behind. “Maybe I dropped them on the stairs?”
The phones rang and Courfeyrac could be heard picking up the one on the first floor.
“Hello? Oh, yes. Yes. Alright. Yes, I'll send him right over, Madame. Yes. Goodbye.”
Enjolras tensed.
“Bad news.” Courfeyrac came down the stairs with a look of worry on his face and quickly walked over to Enjolras who was still standing next to the open basement door alone. “It was your mum, you're having a family dinner tonight and she wants you to come over right away. Your grandparents are coming, too”, he added in a low voice.
“Which ones?”, Enjolras asked.
Courfeyrac grimaced. “The wrong ones. I'll see you to the door.”
Only when he put on his red scarf, Enjolras realised something. “The glasses”, he said. “That was a feint, wasn't it?”
Courfeyrac looked at him fondly. “You're the worst prison guard in the history of France, and the best friend anyone could wish for. You know that, right?”
Enjolras smiled back at him. “Death to first names, brotherhood for us”, he said.
“And you can come back later, if you want, just ring or throw some pebbles. Any time.”
Enjolras took the offer.
Without them even noticing, the rain had turned into snow while they were inside, and had continued to fall the entire evening. When Enjolras crawled back through the hole in the fence to Courfeyrac's garden and ran over to the patio, he had to struggle through ten centimetres of damp snow, tears freezing on his cheeks.
He took the offer, hoping desperately that it wouldn't be Courfeyrac's grandparents who would answer the door and, at the same time, somewhat hoping they would.
It was neither.
“Courfeyrac told me to open, he's in the bathroom –” Combeferre broke off, staring at the sorry sight he was offered.
Enjolras snapped.
“Yes I'm fucking crying so would you kindly stop blocking the fucking way and let me into this house and don't you dare make any comment or ask me what's wrong because why are you even here –”
Somehow, the breathing thing didn't seem to work anymore and all the words were gone and Enjolras could only gasp for air and stare at Combeferre in a white-hot rage because Courfeyrac was his friend and no-one should see him like this and no-one had ever seen him like this until Combeferre had shown up and Enjolras wanted to break something –
“What's happening?”
Suddenly, Courfeyrac was there, being Courfeyrac, putting an arm around Enjolras and leading him into the kitchen, sitting him down on one of the chairs, asking his grandma to make some hot chocolate, explaining things like “Combeferre is still here because his bus was cancelled due to the snow and his parents can't pick him up” and “Don't worry, you can stay the night”.
Marie, Courfeyrac's grandma, handed him his bowl of chocolate and a handkerchief, gently putting her arm around him. The house was filled with little, calming noises, like Georges watching the late night news in the living room and some muffled music from the radio over the microwave oven and the kitchen hood running on level one. Enjolras didn't know how long it took him until he carefully extracted himself from Marie's embrace and brushed away the remaining tears.
He blinked.
Courfeyrac was sitting on the chair next to him, smiling reassuringly, indicating to him to drink his chocolate, and, like every time, possessing the magical ability to always make Enjolras smile back at him.
“Where's Combeferre?”, Enjolras asked quietly.
“Here”, Combeferre emerged from the corner where he had been waiting, unsure whether to stay or leave the kitchen. “Look, Courfeyrac, can I call my mum again? I think I should really leave –”
Marie forced a cup of chocolate in his hands and ushered him to sit at the kitchen table. “Dearie, there's no way they can make their way through the streets right now.”
Combeferre looked at his hands. “I've never stayed anywhere overnight”, he said uneasily. “I mean, we just don't do that, it's kind of weird.”
“In any case, they'll have to wait for the snowfall to cease”, Courfeyrac's grandma answered reassuringly. “Everything will work out just fine, you'll see.”
Enjolras had the impression that the meaningful look she gave before she went to the living room was meant for all three of them.
“Don't worry because of me”, he said quickly. “Look, I mean, I shouldn't have shouted. I'm sorry.”
He could feel Combeferre looking directly at him when he said: “No offence taken. I have no idea what was going on, but I was clearly in the way. I didn't take it personally.”
He calmly adjusted his glasses before he went on, “Look, I was glad you invited me over. You're both very nice and maybe I can return the favour and you can come over to me some time. Although it'd get a bit crowded. But I really don't want to impose and you don't have to feel obliged to –”
Courfeyrac, who had struggled not to interrupt this little speech from the very beginning, couldn't hold back anymore.
“No one feels obliged to do anything!”, he protested. “This is a free country and you clearly needed someone to show you who the cool kids in our class are.”
He looked at Enjolras, though, while he was talking, trying to read his expression and searching for any sign of disagreement.
Enjolras smiled, again, and turned to Combeferre.
“And now you know the cool kids love hot chocolate, last names, Harry Potter and prisons”, he said.
“And our tree house, don't forget the tree house”, Courfeyrac added, smiling broadly. “Wait till it gets warm again, Enjolras and I spent a whole day in there last summer –”
“Because the ladder had fallen over, Courf–”
“Listen!” Delighted, Courfeyrac jumped over one of the chairs to turn the radio up, “that's a sign!”, and of course it was “Le Frunkp” that was blasting through the house on full volume now with Courfeyrac chiming in:
“Alphonse Brown -
La puissance du port du Havre!
Son nom c'est Alphonse Brown -
La culture de la betterave!"
“Shut up!”, Combeferre and Enjolras shouted in unison once again, but Courfeyrac was dancing through the kitchen now, unstoppable, and it was still snowing outside and they couldn't help but smile at each other.
Enjolras felt light, because how could he not have realised Courfeyrac would be completely capable of having more than one friend without dividing his affection? Of course his heart was big enough for that.
It was made of gold, after all.