Enjolras should have known it wouldn't take long for the world to lose its order.

"What's this?" Courfeyrac asked appraisingly when Jehan pranced into Calculus wearing a plaid skirt with a green ribbon in his hair. "Is there something you'd like to tell us?"

Jehan's face split into a wide smile. "Do you like it? It's for Lamarque's class."

Courfeyrac let out a low whistle. "I love it," he said. "The knee socks are darling. Who lent you the uniform?"

"Cosette did," Jehan said. "I cut the hair ribbons myself. I'm thinking about going to the store to get some silk flowers, what do you think?"

"Fabulous," Courfeyrac said.

Jehan scribbled it in his notebook. "Any other thoughts? I have to take notes for my presentation."

"Who's your partner?" Enjolras asked.

"Bahorel. You know him? Big guy, bigger laugh?"

Enjolras nodded. "Is he doing it too?"

Jehan beamed. "Yep! He's already been called a faggot by three of his wrestling team buddies and written up in two classes."

"It's a great examination of expressions of gender identity," Combeferre said. "Let me know if you need help with anything."

Enjolras set a pencil on his desk. "If I can ask… where did this idea come from?"

Jehan grinned at him. "Grantaire passed it along. He and Bahorel are friends, you know. It's a great idea, don't you think?"

Enjolras was almost grateful when Professor Madeleine interrupted them to begin class.

"You're late."

Grantaire held up his hands. "Don't shoot," he called. "I didn't mean to offend, Your Highness, and I humbly beg pardon."

Enjolras narrowed his eyes. "You're trying to make this about me controlling you."

"If the loss of my personal liberties fits," Grantaire said, one edge of his mouth curling up. The wind toyed with his messy curls, tugging them out from under his knit cap and blowing them in front of his ears.

Enjolras's ears, bereft of the cover of either hat or too-long hair, felt cold. "I thought you were a man of your word," he said sourly.

"Aww, I'm touched. You were listening when I talked." Grantaire crossed his arms in front of him for warmth. "I said I'd be here, and I'm here."

"Half an hour late," Enjolras reminded, thrusting the camera bag at him. "This is the camera. Don't drop it or Professor Avery will have a conniption."

Grantaire shouldered the bag, eyebrow quirked in mild amusement. "Are you sure you trust me with anything so valuable? Your grade and your reputation are at stake."

"My shoulder is sore," Enjolras explained irritably. "It wouldn't be an issue if you'd been on time."

Grantaire's eyes flicked over Enjolras, taking in his khaki pants, red button-down and navy pea coat. "You get a day out of uniform and that's what you wear?"

Enjolras squirmed. "That's not relevant," he snapped. "Can we get on with it?"

Grantaire laughed, throwing back his head and exposing his throat above the collar of his sweatshirt. "You got it, Captain America." He hitched the camera bag up his shoulder and nudged Enjolras's ankle with the toe of his Chuck Taylor. "Where to?"

"There's a soup kitchen on Twelfth," Enjolras said. "Unless you have a better idea?"

Grantaire shook his head. "Oh, no, I'm just here to do your bidding. This is all you."

Enjolras sighed. "Okay, then. To Twelfth."

"After you." Grantaire made a sweeping gesture with one arm.

Enjolras spared his black skinny jeans one last withering look before starting off in the direction of the soup kitchen.

As if this project hadn't found enough ways to disappoint him far beyond his lowest expectations, no one would so much as make eye contact with them.

"This would be a lot less frustrating if we could fail inside," Grantaire whined.

"They don't want us making people uncomfortable in a safe space," Enjolras said for the eighth time, as he wound his scarf more tightly around his neck. He might have been strangling himself; in this cold, it was difficult to feel anything except annoyance. "At least we have dorm rooms with heaters to look forward to afterward."

"Don't remind me," Grantaire said bitterly. "It's all I can do to keep from bolting as it is—wait, is someone coming out?"

Someone was.

"Sir," Enjolras said. "Sir, we're students at McAuliffe Academy, and—damn."

The man's eyes had widened in fear and he'd backed away before Enjolras had made it through even the first sentence of his pitch. Sadly, this wasn't the earliest he'd been cut off.

"You're going to break a tooth," Grantaire said.

"They're my teeth and I'll do with them what I please," Enjolras growled through a jaw tensed against the wind. At least his teeth weren't chattering anymore. One more derisive comment on that topic, and he was likely to have to contact his father's lawyer about a murder trial. At least he'd probably be eligible for a temporary insanity defense.

Grantaire huffed out a breath that fogged up in front of his face. It almost sounded like a chuckle. "What do you say to a hot cup of coffee?" he asked, sizing Enjolras up out of the corner of one eye.

Enjolras waved a hand back toward the soup kitchen behind them. "We've got work to do."

"And we're making such progress." He seemed to notice the tightening of Enjolras's shoulders, and he sighed. "Just a little break, come on. Warm up and reframe the battle plan."

Enjolras bit the inside of his cheek. Was this a plot to get out of work or an honest offer? Combeferre had often told him that breaks make for more efficient work. On the other hand, Grantaire could hardly be counted on to make an unselfish decision. Back to the first hand, though, his fingers were numb enough that he ran the risk of dropping the camera and having to pay to replace it, which meant a call to his father, always unpleasant…

Grantaire laughed. "For that face, I'm buying. I know a place."

The place was on Fourteenth Street. Joly would never have eaten anything that came out of that kitchen, but Enjolras was thankful enough just for the warmth.

"You seem like a coffee drinker, am I right?" Grantaire asked, handing him a mug full of hot liquid. "I bet you've been hooked on caffeine since pre-K."

"Just since ninth grade, actually," Enjolras said. "Thanks," he added quietly.

"No problem," Grantaire said. "Do you need—"

"Black," Enjolras said. He didn't have the patience to experiment with creamer and he'd never been a sugar person—just the coffee, thanks, and he'd get right back to work.

Grantaire raised his eyebrows and took a sip from his own mug. "Hardcore," he said. "I can't speak to its quality—I'm more of a hot chocolate guy, myself—but there are regulars, so it probably won't kill you."

"Comforting," Enjolras said, sipping his coffee. It was good; the surprise must have shown on his face, because Grantaire wiggled his eyebrows cockily over the rim of his mug.

"Better than school's," Grantaire said smugly.

Enjolras shrugged and set it on the table, wrapping his frozen fingers around the mug for warmth. "The coffee at school isn't that bad," he said. "Not this hot, though."

"This convenient, either." Grantaire licked a line of foam off his lips.

Enjolras cleared his throat and looked away. "Okay. You mentioned changing tactics, and I think that's a good idea. We're clearly not getting anywhere, so we should try a different location. I think—"

"Wait," Grantaire said, waving his hand in front of Enjolras's face. "Aren't you going to ask for my opinion?"

"I thought you were just along for the ride?" Enjolras said, brow wrinkling. "We can't go back to school yet, we haven't even started—"

"Did I say anything about giving up?" Grantaire asked. "No. I did not. Because I know someone who might be able to help us." He peeked at Enjolras from under his eyelashes as he stirred his hot chocolate with one finger.

Enjolras forced his mouth closed. "Well," he said, keeping his voice as measured and calm as he could, "could you call him?"

Grantaire smirked. "Actually, I called her while you were in the bathroom," he said. "She's just about to walk in the door." He waved at someone behind Enjolras.

Enjolras turned to see a girl in a shiny purple jacket and combat boots over ripped leggings. She ran her fingers through her long messy dark hair as she came toward them, then stopped when she saw Enjolras.

"R," she said as she narrowed her eyeliner-rimmed eyes. "You didn't tell me he'd be here."

Her voice, low and husky, was familiar. And if he squinted… "Thenardier?" he gasped.

Grantaire's eyes darted back and forth between them, lips twitching into a smile. "You two know each other."

"We used to be in school together," Eponine supplied. "Until I transferred out of that elitist hellhole in eighth grade." She stared at the scuffed toes of her boots. "I didn't agree to help him."

Grantaire blinked at Enjolras over her head. "No, but you agreed to help me," he said, grabbing her hands. "I don't have a chance of making this work without you, you know that."

An idea trickled down the back of Enjolras's neck, as cold and terrible as the outside wind. "Is she—"

"I'm not homeless," Eponine snapped, snatching her hands back from Grantaire's. "Jesus Christ, no wonder no one will talk to you."

"Eppie," Grantaire drawled, shooting Enjolras a dark look. "This is your city, you know everyone, surely you know somebody who'd tell us a story or two."

"I might," she said, chewing her bottom lip.

"And you know I'm honest," he said. "Nobody would have to say anything they weren't comfortable with, and it would end up in the film exactly how they want it."

Eponine nodded slowly. "Houseless," she said finally. "Not homeless. The city's our home, okay?"

"Okay," Grantaire said. "You got it. Houseless. Anything else we should know before we start filming?"

Grantaire was possibly not the worst partner of all time.

"Don't look at me like that," Enjolras said.

"But he's alone," Jehan whined.

"He has friends," Enjolras said. "I'm not one of them."

"They aren't here," Jehan said. "The whole table's empty."

Enjolras sighed. "Maybe he wants to be alone."

"No one wants to be alone in a high school cafeteria," Courfeyrac said.

"No one asked you," Enjolras told him.

Courfeyrac shrugged. "Sorry, it's true."

"Invite him over if you want it so much," Enjolras said.

"You're the one who knows him," Jehan pleaded. "It would be weird if I did it."

"And you're so worried about being weird," Courfeyrac said, tweaking the fabric sunflower clipped in Jehan's hair.

Jehan swatted his hand away. "Not helping."

"I thought your first day of filming had gone well," Combeferre said mildly, setting his tray down at Enjolras's left.

"It was okay," Enjolras said. "He's still an asshole, but he did get us an in with the community. I'm cautiously hopeful."

"The homeless have a community?" Courfeyrac asked.

"Homeless isn't the preferred term," Enjolras informed him. "Houseless, apparently, is less dehumanizing."

Combeferre nodded thoughtfully. "Interesting. I guess it makes sense, if home is where the heart is, that in some ways we're implying they belong less just because they don't have four walls and a roof—"

"What's dehumanizing is letting Grantaire eat lunch by himself," Jehan interrupted. "You said you're cautiously hopeful. Wouldn't asking him over be a nice olive branch?"

Enjolras looked to Combeferre.

"He does look lonely," Combeferre said. "But if you'd rather not, I defer to your judgment."

Enjolras sighed. "Fine. I'll ask. But it isn't my fault if he doesn't want to, okay?"

"Oh, it'll be your fault," Courfeyrac snickered. "I promise."

Enjolras straightened his blazer and closed the distance between his table and Grantaire's.

Grantaire didn't look up from what he was scribbling in his sketch pad.

"Um," Enjolras said, shifting on the balls of his feet. "Hi."

Grantaire's head snapped up and he closed the pad quickly. "Hello," he said, eyes wary. "Can I help you with something?"

"Well," Enjolras swallowed. "We—that is, my friends and I— " he waved a hand back towards them (Courfeyrac waved back) "—we noticed you were—I mean, we wanted to know if you wanted to eat lunch with us."

"Is this a dare?" Grantaire asked. "Did you lose a bet?"

Enjolras's face felt hot. "Forget it," he said, turning away.

"No, I—are you sure your friends won't mind?" Grantaire smiled. It was more timid than his usual smile, and Enjolras tentatively interpreted it as an offer of truce.

"My friends are nicer than I am," Enjolras said. "They'd be thrilled."

Grantaire's smile softened and he slid his sketch pad into his backpack and stood up. "Then I'm honored," he said, lifting his lunch tray easily in one hand.

"Sit here," Courfeyrac said, motioning to a seat rather unnecessarily; it was the only open one remaining at the table. "I'm Courfeyrac."

"Yes, I know," Grantaire said. "You're famous."

"Not as famous as you," Courfeyrac preened.

Enjolras scowled. "He's not an animal in a zoo," he chided.

Combeferre laid a hand on his arm.

"It's fine," Grantaire said. "I've been new before."

"Marius was really glad you transferred in," Courfeyrac said, leaning in. "He'd been the new kid since eighth grade."

Grantaire raised his eyebrows. "Was he still an outsider four years later?"

Jehan shrugged. "It can be kind of tight. Most of us have been here since boarding started. Seventh grade. Some even longer."

Courfeyrac stretched, wrapping his arm around Enjolras's shoulders. "Combeferre and Enjolras and I have been part of the class since grade one."

Enjolras slapped his hand away.

"You're local?" Grantaire asked. "Why didn't I know that?"

Enjolras lifted a shoulder. "It didn't come up."

"Why board?" he asked. "If my parents lived in the state, I think I'd rather have a room to myself than cafeteria food."

Combeferre nudged Enjolras's knee under the table. "It's convenient," he volunteered. "Technically we're only boarders five days a week, but the school doesn't care if we stay to get more work done."

"I go home for weekends more than they do," Courfeyrac said. "But it's boring there. My sisters are away at college, and my mom is always busy with some event or other. All my friends live here." He smiled.

"The rest of us went somewhere else until sixth grade," Feuilly said. "Then we applied for, you know, admission and financial aid and whatever…" Feuilly's uniform was faded and fraying at the hems, and an inch too short for him in the legs and arms. Two full years older than the ones on his friends, by Grantaire's judgment. A scholarship kid, then—poor, but lucky enough to get to go to a prestigious private school.

Luckier than Eponine had been when her family had lost their fortune.

"Except Marius," Grantaire said smoothly.

Courfeyrac nodded. "Marius's grandfather pulled strings, I think."

Combeferre, perhaps sensing that this was too close to a sensitive subject, cleared his throat. "So, Grantaire, are you liking it at McAuliffe?"

"It's fine," Grantaire said. "I've been here half a semester already. It's not that different from my last school."

Combeferre nodded politely.

"Better food, though," Grantaire said, smiling.

"It wasn't always," Jehan said. "They never used to provide vegetarian options until the protest last year."

"Protest?" Grantaire caught Enjolras's eye with a wicked gleam in his own.

Enjolras choked on his water. "He doesn't want to hear about that." He coughed, and Combeferre clapped him on the back.

"Yes, I do," Grantaire said, nudging Enjolras's ankle with his foot. "I very much do."

Feuilly laughed. "It was so great. Enjolras stood on a table and led the cafeteria in a chant—"

"How did it go?" Courfeyrac sighed, looking to the ceiling. "Something about healthy choices, I know that."

"It rhymed," Jehan added. "I remember that. I'll have to tell you later," he said, smiling ruefully at Grantaire. "I've got it all written up in my journal, but I can't remember off the top of my head."

"—and the students even got kind of into it," Feuilly continued. "Usually they ignore him, but I guess they were really interested in the cause."

"The administration was furious," Combeferre said, adjusting his glasses. "Which was satisfying in its own way."

"They did give in to our demands," Enjolras muttered darkly.

"But not without writing a strongly-worded letter to your parents," Courfeyrac reminded him. "And putting you in detention for two weeks."

"It made a great application essay for Hamline, though," Combeferre said.

"It was a great essay if I get in," Enjolras said. "Otherwise it's just an essay."

Grantaire cocked his head to the side. "I'm kind of impressed you're even still in school," he said. "Given your apparent history of stirring up trouble."

"Technically, he isn't," Courfeyrac said, with a thoughtful quirk to his mouth.

"Courfeyrac—" Combeferre warned.

"Oh?" Grantaire asked, voice rising in pitch. The look he flicked at Enjolras might have included a mischievous tongue flick.

Enjolras hoped his hand at Combeferre's wrist appropriately conveyed his request for a list of the symptoms of an aneurysm.

"I mean, if you want to be technical, Enjolras failed the tenth grade," Courfeyrac said, very casually. "He wouldn't be here at all if his dad hadn't paid for the renovation of the east wing of the library."

"You failed a grade?" Grantaire chortled incredulously. "You?"

"It was a statement," Enjolras pressed through gritted teeth.

Feuilly looked down at his plate. (This was a sore spot for Feuilly, who had never approved of the plan on account of education being a privilege few were given the chance to waste.)

"Enjolras was making a point about the insufficiency of grades to determine a person's learning," Combeferre said. "It very nearly worked."

"The only thing it did was make Javert hate him even more," Courfeyrac said. "Because he wouldn't take tests or do his homework, but he knew all the answers in class discussion and he'd sit at the back interrupting everyone. It was awful. He made Professor Avery cry."

Enjolras shifted uncomfortably. "I had to meet with the guidance counselor every week for a year. I would classify it as a failed attempt."

Grantaire laughed; under the table, Enjolras felt the soft trill of Grantaire's foot against his leg.

After a moment, he pulled back.

The bell rang.

"To Lamarque's?" he asked, standing and smiling brightly at the table of people he was going to murder.

"I hope you're all making progress on your projects," Lamarque said. "Remember, you only have six more weeks to disrupt the kyriarchy, write an essay about it, and present your findings to the class. It isn't a project I'd recommend leaving to the last minute." He fixed a student toward the back of his room with a look.

"Read the Outsiders before Friday, please," Lamarque called out over the sound of the bell. "Don't try to watch the movie instead; I'll know, and I'll fail you." He sat at his desk and watched the students file out.

"Enjolras," he said. "Can you stay for a minute?"

Enjolras waved his friends off and walked to the desk. He wasn't afraid of being asked to stay after class like Marius was. By this point in his education, he was immune to the bitter effects of professorial disappointment.

"What do you need?" he asked, eyes bright and voice carefully neutral.

"Just checking on your progress," Lamarque said with a smile. "I recall your proposal being rather ambitious, and I wanted to make sure you were on track."

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. "Shouldn't Grantaire be here for this conversation?"

Lamarque shook his head. "It isn't a criminal trial, Enjolras," he said gently. "You don't need witnesses."

"Things are fine," Enjolras said. "We're doing another interview this afternoon, and a final one on Friday. We should have our film edited and ready to go way ahead of time."

"Good," Lamarque said. "You'll need the camera the rest of the week, then?"

Enjolras nodded. "That isn't a problem, is it?"

"Not at all," Lamarque said. "I just have to let Professor Avery know where his equipment is."

Enjolras waited.

"That's it, then," Lamarque said. "Unless you have anything to say to me?"

"Like what?"

Lamarque shrugged. "Questions, comments. Problems you're having."

Enjolras shook his head. "No, everything's fine. Thanks."

"Okay. See you on Friday. Close the door on your way out."

Grantaire screwed the camera into the tripod. "Okay," he said. "I think we're ready."

"All right," Enjolras sighed, turning to their subject with a smile that felt too rigid for his face. "We're going to turn the camera on, and you'll tell your story, just like we rehearsed it. Do you have any questions?"

"No," Gavroche said, eyeing him with an expression that looked like pity. "I've got it."

"You'll be great," Grantaire said, with a smile that looked a lot more natural than Enjolras's felt. "And once you're a big movie star, you'll be able to get a date with whoever you want."

"Girls are gross," Gavroche said.

"I didn't say whatever girl you want," Grantaire teased. "There are some lovely boys out there who would be lucky to date a charming young gentleman like yourself."

Enjolras's stomach turned over. He busied himself adjusting the already-perfect camera angle.

"That's gross too," Gavroche said. "Can we start now?"

"Sure," Enjolras said, taking a deep breath. "Take breaks if you need to, and if you mess up and have to start over, that's okay. It's your story, and we'll go with it until you're satisfied it's right."

Gavroche nodded.

"And… go whenever you're ready."

Gavroche straightened in the chair. He wore a hat with bunny ears on it over an orange zip-up hoodie—his favorite outfit, according to Eponine. She stood in the back corner to supervise, compliant with what Lamarque had advised them about interviewing minors.

"People always think you need food and clothes," Gavroche began. "But food and clothes are really easy to get. What we really need is a good backpack…"

While Gavroche talked to the camera, Grantaire relaxed against the back of his chair, arm thrown over the back of Enjolras's.

Enjolras's focus was definitely on Gavroche, and not on the way the hairs on the back of his neck prickled against Grantaire's warm skin. Definitely not.

And if he thought about it all that night, warm against his sheets… well, that wasn't anyone's business either.

Author's Note: That's chapter two! Two more chapters are planned, but I am going on vacation and probably won't get much work done until next week. I hope you're enjoying this, and please consider dropping me a line with your thoughts. Until next time...