She brings you vanilla chai tea when you're in the library too late. It's actually how you met. You had a horrible cold with a rattling cough, and she brought you tea. You looked at her strangely—people in New York City do not help other people, and nobody accepts drinks from strangers, she must be new. But sheepishly you felt guilty because you knew your cough had probably bothered her. She held it out with a smile and introduced herself, a vocal performance and music theory student from Virginia. Somehow, miraculously, you do not snort when she says her name is Euphrasie Fauchelevant, called Cosette.
Everything she owns seems to be either pastel, lacy, polka-dotted, or, horrifyingly, all of the above. She somehow squeezes her feet into heels and toe-pinching flats and never seems fazed by all the walking in less than ideal footwear. Her entire apartment is covered in Impressionist artwork and bright colors and soft edges. She favors romantic literature and vintage movies. You absolutely want to hate her, but she is so different from the other people you know, so devastatingly lovely and wholeheartedly kind that you like her, despite yourself.
You feel drawn to protect her. She is bright-eyed and innocent; people could easily take advantage of her sweetness and you don't want her to get jaded. Under your tutelage, she toughens and learns street smarts. She is much smarter than you had assumed; she's well-versed in the news, and despite coming from a poky little town where nobody locks their doors, she's equally well-versed in Cold Case and Law & Order. So you don't worry. Much, anyway. After all, you've made your name on being tough as nails.
You complement each other well; you are snarky and prone to long and inexplicable periods of melancholy and drinking too much wine, and she is doe-eyed and friendly and never seems to run out of energy. You hesitate at introducing her to your other friends. You're not stupid, you know how it looks that your friend group is almost exclusively male, even if half of them are gay. You worry about the possibilities. Enjolras could be mean, setting his jaw in that way he has and flaring into an argument that comes out of nowhere. Grantaire would undoubtedly drink too much and tread the line between intellectual and insulting. Courfeyrac could make too many crude jokes. She might be conservative, and Joly's, Bossuet's, and Musichetta's ménage-à-trois is hard to adjust to even for the liberal-minded. Bahorel is straight-up terrifying given his size and perpetual surly expression, even though he's golden-hearted. Combeferre and Feuilly are fine, no worries, but while she and her friends found Jehan's exuberance and flamboyance endearing, Cosette might find them offputting. Then there's Marius. You're not about to share Marius.
Mostly, though, you fell into this group of friends almost by chance and don't make friends well by nature, so you don't want anything to jeopardize the fact that you managed to make and keep a friend independently of Les Amis, as they call themselves.
She has a recital in the winter, and it's an unspoken given that you'll be there. She mentions in passing that she hopes your other friends will come, too. The concert is free, she says, it'll provide a nice relief from studying for exams, and she wants to meet these clever boys you talk about so often. You've just about decided that your fears are ridiculous and that provided you don't acquaint the group at a bar, they'd behave. Since this is during finals, they probably won't all come.
You stand in the foyer of the concert hall, and every person you know parades in. Mercifully, Grantaire is sober, and though Jehan's lavender suit jacket practically glows, this is New York, after all. Combeferre teases you about how he'd thought you'd invented an urban legend, that Cosette didn't actually exist. Musichetta plays with your hair and pouts, wishing you'd let her 'go to work' on it and bring out the honey undertones that you're pretty sure don't exist, but you still remember that one time she accidentally dyed her own hair pink, so chances are good you're never letting her near your head with chemicals. Courfeyrac buys you wine and follows you with wistful eyes, but you don't notice. You're on the lookout for Marius, who's running late, as always. Just as the concert is about to start, he peels in and plops next to you with a grin, and your heart turns over in your chest.
The concert is absolutely beautiful, and the rowdier members of your entourage explode into a cacophony of whistles and cheers. Cosette flushes with pride. You make the introductions, and Marius and Cosette are so awestruck by the other that they fumble the handshake. You all go out afterwards for dinner and the two of them might as well be by themselves. They talk to and look at no one else the entire night, and when you all part ways, Cosette teasingly shames you for not introducing her to Marius sooner. Not the rest of the boys. Marius.
You go home and finish the half-bottle of wine, quieting Enjolras' voice in your conscience that says drinking your feelings away is the kind of thing Grantaire would do. And you lay awake. And you want to hate her for doing so instantly and completely what you never could, for making Marius fall hopelessly in love—or at least the beginnings of it. But you are a softy underneath your city-girl exterior. You want both of them to be happy and love them both too much to be angry, only sad.
Sad enough, in fact, that despite the fact that you swore you were done, you call Montparnasse.