WARNING: Strong language (use of the c word) and violence.

Chapter Two

Getting Better

Azelma quickly decided that the Café Musain was not really her thing, and neither were Éponine's friends. They were nice enough, but she couldn't talk to them. They talked about politics and soup kitchens and charities and peaceful protests and it was all gibberish to her. When she was around them, she could feel the differences between her and them like it was a physical wall between them. She looked at them and felt something that may or may not have been envy burning inside her, when she saw their pricey belongings and their well-spoken voices and their healthy appearances. For all their talk of helping the underprivileged, she could hazard a guess that it was not a world that any of them truly understood.

There were exceptions to this, she reluctantly realised after a few more days of hanging around with them; Bossuet, a bald man in scruffy clothes, never seemed to have money and his phone looked more like a brick than anything else. And then there was Feuilly, who was the only one she could definitely see was like her. It was there sometimes, in the way he looked at the others when they spoke; there was almost this indulgence to his gaze, like he wanted to criticise but didn't have the heart to.

The one who did have the heart to was Grantaire, and he was the only one Azelma found she truly liked. She gathered very quickly that he was quite close to Éponine. He had a thick tangle of black curls that usually looked like it had not been touched with a brush in years, and there was a kind of sickly pallor to his face and dark bruise-like marks beneath his deep-set eyes. She had never seen him without either a bottle of beer or a can of cider in his hands, and his breath often reeked of booze. Sometimes it made her uncomfortably think of Gueulemer, the heaviest drinker of her father's friends, but he was too short in stature to carry the resemblance through. What she knew of him was his mouth, which seemed to be faster than his head, and was often spouting counter arguments to things that the rest of Éponine's friends had to say. More often than not, these arguments were directed solely at the pretty blond one, Enjolras. When Grantaire was having these rants she was reminded more of Montparnasse; they shared a waspishness, she decided, even if Grantaire was more eloquent about it.

The rest of them largely annoyed her, and yet, there was something so strangely likeable about them. Éponine's boyfriend was so calm and soft-spoken it was hard to think anything bad of him; slightly vacant Jehan with his classic literature and terrible clothes was almost too much like a puppy for her to be mean. Bahorel and Courfeyrac were too jolly, even if it sometimes got on her nerves.

Joly was another one – she met him properly a day after the rest. He was a small and slight man with a shock of black hair and hazel eyes. She quickly found he had a habit of telling long, complicated jokes where the punchline was lost in Joly's tendency to break down in laughter halfway through.

His girlfriend Musichetta was not as likeable, Azelma found. She was a tall and elegant woman, towering over her boyfriend. She was not pretty, not in a traditional sense. She had an unusual face, Azelma decided, the nose slightly too large and her mouth too wide. And there was a cool, calculating edge to her eyes whenever she looked at Azelma, but it disappeared when she interacted with anybody else, softening to warm.

Overall, Azelma had a lot of conflicting feelings about Éponine's friends. They could be nice enough; their joking around was amusing, their intentions were well meant, but at the same time all of that grated on her as well. At the same time she found herself thinking that she would rather have them around than the ones she had left behind, Montparnasse and Brujon who changed on a whim. She never knew where she stood with them.

That said, she didn't know where she stood with Éponine's friends, either. But they did try to include her, she supposed, which was nice of them.

She found herself sat at the Musain with Éponine one night, waiting for the rest of them to arrive; she was eating a sandwich Éponine had bought for her, which was slices of thick, almost burnt bacon with wedges of strong brie on brown bread. Éponine was eating soup. They hadn't been speaking, but then Éponine suddenly said, "It's Courfeyrac's birthday on Friday."

"That's nice," Azelma said, through a mouthful of her sandwich.

"We're going out," Éponine continued. "To the Corinth. That's a club. It's in the basement here." She nodded with her head downwards. "Do you want to come? You don't have to, but Courfeyrac told me to ask."

"Do I want to come drinking with you and your friends?" Azelma put down her sandwich. "Like, no offence, but I'm getting fed up of sitting in this place with them."

"Look, Courfeyrac told me to ask," Éponine said. "So I am. If you don't want to, don't bother. I just thought it would be nice, that's all."

Éponine had a lot of ideas she thought would be nice, Azelma thought spitefully in her head, but she didn't dare say it out loud. "I'll think about it," she said, grudgingly.

"It'll be just our group," Éponine said, like that made the proposal better. "Courfeyrac has other friends, but they're not invited..."

"Are Courfeyrac's other friends as stuck-up as your lot?" Azelma asked, peeling the crust of the bread away from the sandwich and dropping it on to her plate.

"My friends aren't stuck up," Éponine objected.

"Nah, of course they're not," Azelma said, rolling her eyes.

"Oh, stop it." Éponine sounded tired. "I get it. You don't like them. There's no need to be horrible about it."

"I don't not like them," Azelma objected. "They're just, a bit, you know."

"Yeah, I do know, because I felt the same when I first met them, but give them a chance," Éponine said. "They're lovely people. They're like a family to me."

Azelma had felt that way about Montparnasse and Brujon once. She'd had a few more messages and missed calls from both of them in the past few days, but she hadn't returned any.

"I know," she said, in response to Éponine.

"Courfeyrac was just trying to make sure you feel included," Éponine continued. "He likes you."

"I'll think about it," Azelma repeated, and went back to her sandwich.

OOO

There were a lot of things to think about when considering going out with Éponine's friends. Most of them had to do with Azelma herself – her personality, her behaviour, her experiences.

She had never been to the Corinth, but she'd hazard a guess it was a much nicer place than the usual holes that Montparnasse and Brujon dragged her to. Probably nicer than the shit heap her father owned, too. It was hard to imagine a bunch of ratty drug dealers hiding in the shadows of somewhere Éponine's friends went. It was hard to imagine that there was piss on the floor of the toilets, people fucking in the disabled cubicle. It was hard to imagine that a night ended with someone having their face smashed into a pavement outside.

And that went for the people, too. Azelma's past nights out had a formula to them. Drink, drink, drink, until you don't know your name and until you can't see properly. Montparnasse and Brujon used to have a game, as well, where they'd place bets on how long it would take before Azelma would kick off with somebody, or before someone would kick off with her. Most of her nights ended with a split lip and bruises and then projectile vomiting in the back of whatever poor taxi had been lucky enough to drive them home.

Azelma couldn't imagine that getting that drunk was going to be okay with any of them. She couldn't imagine them putting bets on how long it would take her to punch somebody in the face, and she was willing to bet that they had a designated driver amongst their lot rather than taking a taxi.

Azelma thought of all of this in the days leading up to Courfeyrac's birthday, and dodged around questions of whether she'd go or not. By the time it arrived, however, she had made her decision; she would be sensible, for once, not drink as much, and she would go. She would heed Éponine's request for her to be more polite to her friends, just to try and keep the peace a little bit longer.

She told Éponine about it in the morning, because (as usual) Éponine woke her up accidentally on her way out to work. Azelma was huddled in the corner of the sofa, her blankets wrapped around her like armour, as she told her.

"Good," Éponine said, and she smiled, really smiled. "It'll be nice to see you making an effort. We're drinking at Courfeyrac's beforehand, is there anything you want me to pick you up to drink on my way home from the shop?"

Azelma thought about it. Even though she'd been drunk more times than she could count, she'd never really acquired her own personal taste in alcohol. She usually drank whatever Brujon or Montparnasse pushed into her hands; cheap ciders and lagers for the former, and fruity cocktails for the latter.

"I'll have..." Azelma scrunched up her face. "Whatever you're having?"

"Sure," Éponine said, smiling at her still. "I'm really glad you've decided to come, Azelma."

"Mmm," was all Azelma could manage in response.

OOO

Courfeyrac's apartment was nicer than Éponine's, she decided before they had even got through the doors. The whole building was nicer; maybe a bit more old-fashioned, but well looked after, the wealth of its occupants obvious.

Azelma felt a little out of place. She'd never been one for dressing up, and she hadn't seen any reason to put in more effort tonight of all nights, so she was just wearing her plain black shorts and the dressiest vest top she owned (it had a bit of glitter on the front, or at least, it had glitter on it at one point). Éponine had straightened her hair for her, and she'd spent the afternoon trying her best to paint her nails. She'd borrowed a pair of flat black pumps off Éponine, and had staunchly refused to wear heels.

She knew she looked plain compared to Éponine, who was wearing a clingy red dress and had her hair up and sparkly jewellery on and sky high heels that Azelma saw no use for apart from maybe using them to clobber someone around the head in a fight.

She was just musing over how much damage a stiletto heel would do to the back of someone's heads as they waited for Courfeyrac to answer the door.

It wasn't him who answered, though, it was Combeferre, who was wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black jeans.

"No shoes in the flat," he said, automatically, as if he'd had to say this lots of times before. "New carpet," he added.

The carpet was green and scratchy, and Azelma personally didn't think it was worth bare feet. She sat on the sofa and drew her legs up underneath her.

More or less everybody else had already arrived. After being sat down for a few minutes, Éponine pushed a glass of orange juice into her hand. She could taste the alcohol the juice had been mixed with, and her discomfort in the situation made her knock it back within minutes. It went straight to her head, making the world spin a little. She barricaded herself in the bathroom for a few moments to remind herself she wasn't supposed to be getting very drunk tonight.

It was a couple of hours before they eventually left for the club. Azelma decided within moments of climbing down the stairs to the basement club that it was a lot more upmarket than the ones she'd frequented with Montparnasse and Brujon. The music was loud, mainly indie stuff with the occasional pop song thrown in. Azelma hadn't drunk enough to feel like dancing (and for that she was proud of herself), so she found herself sat at a table, nursing a glass of vodka and orange, watching the rest of them on the crowded dance floor.

Éponine had begun the night being somewhat considerate of Azelma, but the more she had drank the less concerned she'd become. She was now wound tightly around Combeferre, and both of them were on the happy side of tipsy. Azelma tried hard not to begrudge her that.

She shouldn't have come, she decided, knocking back the dregs of her drink and then standing up. She made her way outside. A man who smelled of a combination of body spray and sweat lurched at her as she walked. "Fancy a dance?" he slurred.

Azelma shoved him away from her, but caught hold of the front of his jacket to yank him a little bit closer to snarl a "fuck off" at him before shoving him again. His foot caught on a plastic cup in a puddle of drink, and he hit the ground like a sack of bricks, spluttering as he went.

Azelma carried on, hurrying up the steps and past the bouncers onto the street outside. The air was frosty against her skin, and for a moment she regretted her choice of clothing. Wrapping her arms around herself, she took a few more steps away from the door of the club. There were people outside, aside from those still queuing to get in; nearly all of them were smoking.

She spotted a familiar blond perched on a bollard. Enjolras sat with his back to the club, a cloud of pale bluish smoke around his head and a cigarette hanging between his fingers.

She considered going over to him, then decided not to. But then he glanced over his shoulder and spotted her. For a moment, she didn't think he'd actually seen her, because his expression didn't change. But then he called out her name.

Groaning internally, she walked over.

"Going home?" he said.

"No," she said. "Needed fresh air."

"Ah." He took a drag on his cigarette, flicked ash onto the pavement.

"What brings you outside?" she asked, sitting on the bollard next to him. It was hard and uncomfortable and she was freezing. Why hadn't she just stayed inside?

He raised his eyebrows, and raised his cigarette. "I can't smoke inside."

"I didn't take you for a smoker."

"You're not the first person to say that," he said. "Clubs aren't really my thing," he added.

He was trying, she realised. He looked uncomfortable at trying to speak to her, and his body was tense, but he was trying hard to be friendly towards her.

"Eh," she said. "This one is a lot nicer than the clubs I'm used to."

"Hm." He flicked more ash. Some of it was caught by the wind, and landed on her shoe. She scuffed it off with her other foot. "Are you all right?" he asked, and then seemed to be vaguely surprised by his own audacity in asking the question.

"Do you mean right now, or...?" She cocked her head to one side.

"In general. How are you finding, you know." He waved a hand. "Living with Éponine..."

"Oh, that. It's, um, good," she said. "Getting better."

She noticed that his eyes were tracking over the almost-faded bruises on her face. There was a grim expression on his face. "Good," he said. "If there's anything you need, you can come to me about it. Any help you might –"

"Thanks," she interrupted, feeling slightly awkward. "I'll, um, bear that in mind?"

"I don't want this to come across as weird, or anything," Enjolras hastened to add. "I'm just, you know –"

She didn't know him well enough but she was sure she'd never heard him sound so inarticulate as he did right then. "You like helping the disadvantaged," she said, rolling her eyes. "I get it."

He crushed the cigarette against the side of the bollard he sat on. "Shall we go back inside?" he suggested, but that was when Courfeyrac came bounding over, followed by Jehan and Grantaire.

"We're going somewhere else!" Courfeyrac announced.

Enjolras sighed. "Where?" he asked.

"The..." Courfeyrac whirled around, to face his current companions. "What's it called?"

"Well, this already sounds like a brilliant idea," Enjolras muttered, pushing off the bollard.

"The Panther Parlour," Jehan said. More of them were emerging from the club now, Bahorel lighting up a cigarette in front, the elegant Musichetta arm in arm with Joly and Bossuet, Éponine and Combeferre hand in hand, and Feuilly bringing up the rear, pale hands raking through his hair.

The name sounded familiar.

"Is it far from here?" Enjolras was asking.

"I know the way," Éponine said. "It's in Irving's."

Azelma knew Irving's, not just because Éponine's shop was there but because she'd been dragged there a couple of times when Montparnasse had some spare cash and wanted to look through one of the vintage stores. She wasn't sure it was that close, but the rest of them were obviously drunk enough that they didn't mind the walk. Once Cosette and her fiancé Marius had come out of the club, they set off in a pack towards the new club.

OOO

The walk to the next club took longer than expected, because Cosette and Éponine had an argument about what turn they should take next and they got lost. It had been Azelma who had righted them, her voice cutting through the bickering like the crack of a whip. Feuilly hadn't been able to miss that the newest member of their group wasn't in the best of moods. She'd had a sour face on her in the club, and that expression only got worse the longer it took them to get to the new place.

He wondered whether she was cold – she wasn't exactly dressed for the night, she had no jacket, and he suspected she hadn't drank enough alcohol to act as a barrier against the elements. He considered offering her his jacket, but Jehan already had and she'd turned him down before he could get the full question out.

The new club meant another line to wait in. It was moving along at a snail's pace, creeping forward every few minutes. Feuilly listened in on the slightly slurred conversation taking place between Courfeyrac and Grantaire about some band Feuilly hadn't heard of, watching Azelma all the while. She was the first of them to join the queue, and lolled against the wall every time they inched forwards. She looked bored out of her mind.

A hand dug into his side. He jerked away. The jab either hurt or tickled, and he wasn't sure which, but he found time to be slightly embarrassed by the inhuman noise that escaped his mouth. "What?" he said, glaring at Bahorel, who was the culprit.

Bahorel was grinning, in that daft drunken way of his, and staring pointedly at Azelma.

"Fuck off," Feuilly grumbled. "I have a girlfriend."

"Ah, yes." Bahorel looped an arm around Feuilly's neck. "Saint Flo."

Flo had been his girlfriend for a few months. They were somewhere between serious and casual, and she didn't really like his friends. In fact, sometimes it felt like there wasn't much Flo did like. But he liked her a lot; she was funny, a great cook, and she was pretty. The main issue was the relationship between her and his friends: his friends were his family, after all. She had never openly criticised them, but on the odd occasion she did join them at the café or on a night out, the disapproval was clear in her eyes. He wasn't sure what she disapproved of, in particular. He'd thought to ask, but he wasn't sure he was ready to have that conversation just yet.

His friends, for their part, seemed to like Flo. Most of the time. Bahorel, however, had never been particularly good with anyone who could be seen as being a snob, and had quickly given her the nickname Saint Flo in response.

"Don't call her that," he said.

"It's not exactly an insult," Bahorel said, giving him a squeeze.

The group immediately in front of them were granted access to the club, and just after they had gone in a group of girls came out. They were singing at the top of their voices.

Azelma stepped forwards, but the bouncer on the door held up a hand. "Not yet, love," he said.

Azelma fell back against the wall. She twisted her head, looking at them. She caught his eye, and didn't smile.

"You all right?" he asked, shrugging off Bahorel's massive arm.

"Cold," she said, shortly.

"Well, we'll be in soon," he said, in a way that was supposed to be encouraging.

"Hmm," was the response he got, and she turned her body away, leaning her shoulder against the brick wall behind her.

"I don't think she likes you," Bahorel stage-whispered. Feuilly dug his hand into Bahorel's side, and the larger man jumped away, laughing.

"Hey, you."

It was one of the girls who had just spilled out of the club who had spoken. She was tall, broad, with shaggy white-blonde hair and heavy eye make up. She was smoking a skinny hand-rolled cigarette, and she was staring at Azelma.

Azelma didn't seem to hear her. Before Feuilly could alert her that she was being spoken to, the girl lurched forwards, put her hand on Azelma's shoulder. She'd obviously been drinking, because the lurch was a lot heavier than she seemed to anticipate and resulted in her slamming Azelma into the wall.

A string of expletives left Azelma's mouth, ending in a shout of, "What the fuck?"

"It's you!" The girl still had hold of Azelma's arm. "'Zelma! I thought it was you!"

Azelma planted her hands on the girl's chest and shoved her backwards. The combination of alcohol and five inch heels should have sent the other girl sprawling, but she managed to keep her balance.

"Don't fucking touch me," Azelma shot back.

"All right, all right," the girl said, holding up her hands. She might have stopped herself from falling, but she'd dropped her cigarette. "No need to be so snappy. God." She turned away, and said, under her breath, "Stupid cunt."

Azelma shot forwards, one hand knotting in the girl's pale hair and using it to spin her around. The girl let out a shriek. "Excuse me?" Azelma said, letting go of her. "Do you want to say that again?" she shouted.

"Yeah!" The other girl got closer to her, inches apart. "Cu –"

She didn't get to finish her insult, because Azelma had drawn her arm back and punched her in the face. Feuilly was no expert, but it looked like a good, solid punch, right to the nose. This time, the girl was not able to regain her balance; alcohol and stupid heels won, and she went tumbling down.

Her friends all shrieked, and helped her to her feet. The girl jumped on Azelma, slapping her repeatedly in the face, and they both fell to the ground.

Their tussle didn't last particularly long; Bahorel and Feuilly shot forwards to pull them apart. It wasn't by any means an easy task. When they were apart, both girls were breathing heavily. The other girl had opened up a gash on Azelma's forehead.

Bahorel had Azelma, had her arms pinned to her sides. She shoved at him. "Get off me!" she shouted.

Feuilly had the other girl. She wriggled out of his arms, spat the word that had caused the argument at Azelma once more, and then she and her friends staggered off up the street. It sounded like her friends were congratulating her.

By now, the rest of their friends had joined them, and Bahorel decided to let go of Azelma. She sprang away from him, turning in circles, her hands clenched into fists. Her cheeks were bright red, and blood trickled from the cut on her forehead and down the bridge of her nose.

Éponine was the first to react, dragging herself out of Combeferre's grip to stand close to her sister. "What the fuck was that?" she demanded, her voice climbing in volume with every syllable.

"She called me –" Azelma stopped herself, wiped at her face. She winced as her hand met the cut on her head, and blood was smeared over her face, orange and red. "I hate that word," Azelma hissed, through her teeth.

"You can't go starting fights with people because they call you a name!" Éponine shot back.

"If I'd have been Azelma, I'd have punched him," Bahorel chipped in. The glare that Éponine turned on him was pure ice.

"Not helping," Combeferre murmured, his face pinched in a frown.

"To be fair to Azelma, that word is one of the worst in our language, and the history of it –" Enjolras began, but Éponine waved a hand without even looking at him.

"I don't care," she said. "Tonight was supposed to be fucking fun, Azelma, without you starting fights – it's Courfeyrac's birthday –"

"Hey, I don't care," Courfeyrac said, his grin wide. He winked at Azelma. "I always like a catfight."

Both sisters turned to stare at him. In fact, everybody turned to stare at him. Éponine shook her head. "Dick," she said. The affection was there in the insult, albeit hidden beneath many, many irritated layers.

"Éponine, there's no harm done," Courfeyrac said. "Well, except, obviously, I think Azelma needs cleaning up, but, it's –"

"Don't say it's fine," Éponine bit out. "It's not fine. There is nothing fine about punching someone in the face –"

"She grabbed me," Azelma muttered, sullenly.

"I don't care," Éponine said. "You don't start fights, you're not a kid –"

"Éponine," Combeferre said, as Azelma swiped again at the cut on her forehead.

"Maybe you shouldn't have come," Éponine said loudly, speaking over her boyfriend.

Azelma took a step backwards. She flung her hands up, her fingertips stained red. "Happy to leave," she said. "Fuck knows this night has been shit." She spat on the ground, spun on her heel and stomped away, her arms coming up to wrap around herself.

No one moved after her. She was going in the opposite direction to the other girls, which was probably for the best. His heart ached, right then, watching her slight form grow smaller.

His feet were moving before his mind had really made the decision. At the same time, he thought he saw Enjolras twitch, as if he was going to move as well. "I'll go," he said, to no one in particular, and followed her.