Chapter Eleven

Sympathy and Cider

A part of Éponine was not surprised when she saw the familiar forms of Enjolras, Bahorel and Feuilly coming down the street towards her. There were looks of concern across their faces, which smoothed out to relief when they saw her.

"Cosette's freaking out, isn't she?" she said.

The three of them stopped walking to let her draw level with them. "Are you okay?" Feuilly asked, his eyes raking over her form.

"It was just a kid," she said, shoving her hands into the pocket of her hoodie. "He gave it back to me."

The three men exchanged glances.

She rolled her eyes. "At least leave the lecture to Combeferre," she said, knowing what the other man was going to say when he saw her.

Bahorel shook his head. "I think that's the only reason I'm not shaking you right now," he said, turning on his heel to go back up the street. Feuilly fell in step next to him, but Enjolras hung back to walk with her.

"I think that Combeferre has every right to be angry," he said.

"I disagree," Éponine said, not looking at the blond man.

"You would disagree," Enjolras said, before speeding up so he was walking alongside Bahorel and Feuilly.

She stared at the back of Enjolras' head, wondering whether out of all of their friends, was it the marble man with apparently no recognition for romance or sex who had worked out her arrangement with Combeferre?

OOO

She'd barely walked through the door to the Café Musain when she found herself being hugged by Cosette, Jehan, and Courfeyrac.

"Fucking hell, guys," she said, shoving them away from her with an awkward chuckle. "Stop overreacting."

"No, you stop being stupid!" Jehan said fiercely, giving Éponine a small push with the heel of his palm against her shoulder. "Anything could have happened!"

"It was a kid," Éponine argued. "Just a schoolboy. He gave me the wallet back."

"What if he hadn't been 'just a schoolboy', though?" Combeferre piped up, getting to his feet. She watched as he handed an empty bottle of beer back to Grantaire. The three people surrounding her stepped back, presumably getting out of the way of the fight they thought was coming. "Kids can carry knives, Éponine."

"He wasn't carrying a knife."

"That is completely besides the point," Combeferre said sharply. "He could have been. It was a stupid and reckless thing for you to do. Was it worth it? I mean, what's so important about your purse that you'd risk running after a potentially very dangerous person?"

"Oh, I don't know," Éponine shot back, planting her hands on her hips. "Maybe it's the fact I have no fucking money apart from what's in that purse?"

"So?" Combeferre rolled his eyes. "Éponine, any of us would gladly help you out –"

"I don't need charity," Éponine interrupted. "And you know what else I don't need? To explain myself to anyone. Sure, it was a risky move going after that child but get off your high horse, Combeferre, we've all made fucking stupid decisions in our time and I am not standing here being lectured like I'm a child because I acted on instinct. I am here, I'm not hurt, he wasn't dangerous, and it's fine, so what's the point in dwelling on what didn't happen?"

"You worried everyone," Combeferre snapped. "You could at least act like you feel a bit bad about the fact you've made Cosette cry with worry and –"

"It is not my fault if people overreact," she snarled back in response.

Combeferre shook his head. "You really can be insufferable sometimes."

"Oh, shut up, you self-righteous prick." Éponine flung her hands in the air. "You know what? I'm going home. As I said, I don't have to answer to anyone here and if you think I'm going to stand here and be talked down to you can fuck off, Combeferre."

She turned on her heel and shoved past Bahorel to get out of the café. She ignored Cosette's call for her to stop and flung the door open, launching herself out onto the street without a glance behind her.

OOO

It was roughly two hours later when someone knocked on her front door. In this time, she'd changed into her comfiest, rattiest pyjamas and was watching bad reality TV whilst making some tiny, ice-cream cones from her clay. She wasn't sure what she was going to do with them yet, but it was helping to keep her mind occupied and taking it off her argument with Combeferre.

When she heard the knocking, she threw the door the dirtiest look she could manage before getting to her feet, momentarily discarding her clay to answer the door. She pressed her eye to the peephole first, and saw Grantaire stood outside, form distorted by the fisheye lens.

She slid back her security chain and the bolts and opened the door the widest it would go, standing aside so that Grantaire could come in. He was carrying two carrier bags, and she could hear the sound of bottles clanking together.

"I'd hoped you'd be in," he said. "I wasn't sure if you were working or not."

"I called in sick," she replied.

"Well, that's fortunate," he said, dumping the bags onto the sofa. He reached inside, rustling the flimsy plastic. He produced a four-pack of cider and held it out to her. "Fancy a drink?"

"How much have you bought?" She shut the door with a click and put the bolt and chain back in place.

"Enough for me and you to get well and truly plastered," he said, blinking a bit too much.

"I think you're already halfway there," she suggested, taking the four-pack from him.

"Okay, then, enough for you to get plastered and for me to be paralytic," he said, flourishing his hands as he strode over to the kitchen. She watched him root in the drawers for her bottle opener, which he carried back to the sofa and set about opening a bottle of beer.

Éponine sighed, the four-pack in her hands feeling too heavy. Balancing it on her knee, she worked one of the cans out of its plastic rings, and placed the other four on her coffee table. She cracked open the can. Grantaire was looking at her with an expectant expression on his face, and he raised his bottle of beer.

"Cheers," he said.

"Cheers," she muttered back, and the bottle and can touched together with a clinking sound. They both took a swig of their respective drinks. Then she flopped back onto the sofa, curling her legs beneath herself.

Grantaire moved the bags off the sofa and sat down next to her.

"What are you watching?"

"I don't know – some shit," Éponine shrugged. "I think they're getting married and they have some money to plan it and they keep on arguing. I give their marriage six months, tops."

"Sounds riveting," Grantaire said, rolling his eyes.

"I know why you've come over," Éponine said after a few moments.

"Oh, you do, do you?" Grantaire slid his dark eyes towards her, an amused sparkle in their depths.

"It doesn't take a genius to work it out. Did someone send you?"

"I'm hurt." He held his beer bottle over where his heart would be. "Do you not think I care enough about you to come of my own volition?"

"Come on, let's get it over with." She took another swig of cider before setting the can down on the coffee table, right next to the board with her clay ice cream cones on it. "The lecture."

"Right, no one sent me," Grantaire said, twisting his body so he was facing her properly. "I think I need to reiterate that, although we had to physically restrain Combeferre twice from storming around here to carry on your little slanging match."

"I wouldn't have let him in," Éponine declared.

Grantaire's laugh was loud and barking. "Yeah, right, Éponine," he snorted. "You know, I'm surprised you left the café before without lamping him. I think if he came around here looking for a fight you'd give him one."

Éponine pursed her lips and didn't acknowledge his opinion with an answer. Grantaire's grin grew wider and, worse than that, it grew unbelievably smug.

"However, I do agree with Combeferre on several points," Grantaire continued, and the smile slipped somewhat, growing serious. "It was a stupid thing to do, even if our worst fears didn't become a reality. The point that it so easily could have ended badly for you is one worth acknowledging, Éponine."

"I'm not denying it was stupid, I just don't want a lecture on it," Éponine spat, angrily swigging cider. "I'm an adult. I make decisions for myself and everyone else just has to deal with them, they don't have to like them."

"So we're not allowed to worry?" Grantaire put his bottle of beer down on the coffee table.

"I didn't mean that."

"Sooner or later, you're going to have to accept the fact that we all care about you," Grantaire said with a heavy sigh. "I know you don't think it, but we do. All of us. We care about you, and if something had happened today it would have completely destroyed the fabric of our little group."

Éponine rolled her eyes. For the first time, something akin to irritation passed over Grantaire's face.

"I'm serious," he said. "Why is it so hard for you to accept that people care about you?"

She looked at him, not sure how to answer that. She wriggled her shoulders and took a long gulp of cider.

Grantaire nudged her knee with his. "Okay, so I know why its so hard," he said, in a soft voice, "But…"

"I don't think that this conversation is going anywhere," Éponine cut him off. "I've heard it all before."

"Fine." He snatched his bottle of beer back up off the coffee table and tipped the alcohol into his mouth. "But let me say one more thing."

"Do I really get a choice?" Éponine countered.

"Don't be so hard on Combeferre," Grantaire said. "He cares about you in a different way to the rest of us."

She narrowed her eyes at Grantaire. The corners of his mouth quirked upwards. "Hey," he said, "I'm not as oblivious as the rest of them. Why else would Combeferre have suddenly been giving you a hell of a lot of lifts home?"

Éponine's face flushed.

"I think its sweet," he cooed, waggling his fingers in her face. "You and Combeferre. Who'd have thought it?"

"It's just a casual thing," Éponine insisted, pressing her face into her knees to hide her reddening cheeks. "We're not in a relationship or anything."

Grantaire hummed. "Whatever," he said. "Just, as I said, don't be hard on Combeferre. He cares, that's all."

She lifted her head and drained her can, squeezing the air out of it, the noise of metal bucking inwards grating on her ears. She chucked it over her shoulder, over the back of the sofa, the can skimming across the carpet.

"Ready to get paralytic?" she said, not sure what to say to his last statement.

Grantaire grinned, lifting his bottle into the air. "Only if you're ready to get plastered."

She winked at him. "I'll give it my best shot."

OOO

Two hours later, and Éponine and Grantaire decided to venture out to pick up an Indian takeaway to soak up the alcohol they'd ingested. Éponine knew she wasn't drunk – she was tipsy, her head spinning a little, but she wasn't drunk. Grantaire was way past drunk and well on the way to his desired goal of paralytic, but he was so used to being drunk it wasn't immediately obvious he'd been drinking. It had been his idea to get food, and he offered to pay, so Éponine was happy to go along with it.

They hadn't phoned ahead, so they ended up sat in the front of the shop waiting for their food to be prepared. Grantaire sat on the wooden bench meant for those waiting, whilst Éponine sat on the windowsill, flicking through the menu as if it was a piece of literature.

"Feeling better?" Grantaire drawled, linking his fingers together behind his head.

"Hmm?" Éponine looked up from reading the description of tandoori king prawns and frowned at him.

"I mean, have you calmed down," he said, talking through a loud yawn.

"I've been calm for ages," she replied, rolling her eyes and beginning to read the description of a makhan murghi.

"I mean, calmed down as in if Combeferre walked through the door right now you wouldn't start yelling at him?" Grantaire rephrased, a slow smile settling onto his mouth.

"I wouldn't if he didn't start yelling at me first," she said. "Why? He's not going to, is he? You haven't told him to come here, have you?"

"Oh, sure." Grantaire slid his hands into the pocket of his jeans and slid out his phone. "I texted him before and said come round to the Indian near Éponine's so you can start shouting at each other for my entertainment. Of course I haven't. I was just wondering."

"No, I feel a lot better now," she said, watching Grantaire enter his passcode and start to mess about with his phone, before looking back down at the menu in her hands. "Not as…angry. But, you know, that might be to do with the cider."

"Alcohol can help with that," Grantaire said, nodding. "At least you're not Enjolras. Have you ever seen Enjolras drunk?"

She shook her head in response.

"It's funny, but he gets angry. I won't be slipping vodka into his coke again, that's for sure." Grantaire let out a small puff of breath. "According to Courfeyrac, Combeferre's calmed down in a fashion but has began cleaning their flat from top to bottom. He's currently arranging Courfeyrac's sock drawer, apparently."

Éponine snorted. "Really?"

"Really," Grantaire said. "Well, according to Courfeyrac. It all depends on how much you believe him and if you ignore his fondness for exaggeration."

She bit her lip. She felt a little bit guilty that she'd wound up Combeferre to the point of going near Courfeyrac's sock drawer. With a sigh, she put the menu to one side and, glancing to see what the bored looking man behind the counter was doing, put her feet up onto the arm of the bench Grantaire was sat on.

"Oh, and he snapped at Enjolras." Grantaire's eyes widened. "Jesus, Éponine, you've really got to Combeferre if he's having a go at Enjolras."

Éponine groaned and tipped her head back, the crown of her skull tapping lightly against the window behind her head. "Stop it," she warned.

"Stop what?" Grantaire's eyes slid from his phone to Éponine, and his face was expressionless.

"Trying to make me feel bad." She nudged his arm with her toe.

"That's not what I'm trying to do at all," he objected. "I'm just passing on what they're telling me. Oh, and Joly's been in touch to tell you that Musichetta wants you to answer her texts."

"I left my phone at home," Éponine said. Her head was beginning to hurt.

"Just passing on a message," Grantaire said, just as another man came out from the kitchen and handed a bulging plastic carrier bag to the man behind the counter. "That's us, I think."

Grantaire paid for their food whilst Éponine held the bag, hovering near the door. They walked out together, as Éponine's stomach began to rumble and growl with the promise of being fed soon.

"And for the record, even if you're not trying to make me feel guilty, you've succeeded," she said, as they walked back to her flat. "Congratulations."

"Get over yourself," he said, throwing an arm around her shoulder. His action knocked her slightly off balance due to the weight of him, and they both stumbled off the pavement into the road.

She shoved at him, hopping back onto the pavement. He laughed, also returning to the pavement but preferring to walk on the very edge of the kerb, as if it were a tightrope.

"I mean it, though," he said. "Get over yourself."

Éponine huffed under her breath and glared at him in response.

OOO

Food eaten and more cider downed, they found themselves watching a crap monster film on some random channel, guffawing at the terrible special effects and bizarre plotline and dialogue.

"That doesn't – that doesn't even make any sense," Grantaire said loudly, pointing his finger at the television screen. He was lying on his stomach on the sofa, feet bare and waving in the air, whilst Éponine was curled on the floor, wrapped in her duvet. "Like…You've still got a box full of breakfast bars. Why…Why are they starting to eat each other so early? It's only twenty minutes in!"

"None of it makes sense," Éponine snorted in reply. "Why did they leave their coach hanging upside down from his chair when he was still alive?"

"That's a good point," Grantaire agreed. "Also, why was he Scottish?"

"Oh, here we go," Éponine said, as the film changed to a different location. She squinted to read the titles on the screen. "Apparently, we're in the mountain rescue centre."

"Hah, as if that lot will get rescued," Grantaire said. "They're all destined to get torn apart by the monster."

"Hey, Mr. Mountain-Rescue clearly disagrees," Éponine chuckled, gulping back cider. She knew she should probably slow down, but she'd reached that point where the alcohol was going down too easy and now she'd started she didn't see the point in stopping.

"Mr. Mountain-Rescue clearly hasn't watched as many of these films as I have," Grantaire said. "I've got a box set."

"You should lend it to me," Éponine said. "I'm always in need of high-quality horror such as this."

The TV went to adverts. Éponine stretched out her legs, letting the duvet fall away from her shoulders. Yawning, she got to her feet and flopped down onto the sofa, on top of Grantaire's legs.

"Ouch!" he yelled. He rolled onto his back. "Fuck off, Éponine, you're too heavy."

She smacked his thigh. "Fuck off yourself, you prick."

He sat up properly. "Are you looking for a fight?"

Éponine stuck her tongue out at him, and then he was lunging at her, fingers tickling her ribs. She squirmed and shrieked, pummelling at his back with her fists and clawing at his hands.

"Do you apologise for nearly crushing my legs?" he demanded, slightly breathless from their struggle. He now had hold of her wrists, but she was kicking with her legs.

"No," she said, wriggling to try and force her arms out of his hands. "Get off, dickhead, I –"

He grinned at her, all teeth and slight hysteria in his eyes, and she knew he wasn't going to stop tickling her any time soon. So she leaned up and pressed her mouth to his, their teeth knocking together. In surprise, he released her wrists and kissed her back for all of three seconds before pulling away.

His eyes were wide, and he crawled backwards. She remained lying down, but propped herself up on her elbows.

"Should have let go of me when you had the chance," she said, smugly.

"So that's the only reason you kissed me?" Grantaire said, slowly. There was a wariness in his tone, and she snorted.

"Of course," she said. "Why else?"

"Thank fuck for that," he said, relief washing over his face. "Just to clear things up, I only see you as a friend. You're really not my type."

"That's good, because you're really not my type either," she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"No, because your type is geeky and wears glasses and is called Combeferre," Grantaire said, swinging his legs over the edge of the sofa. He reached out for another bottle of beer.

"Shut up," she muttered.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eyes as he pried the lid off his bottle. "So your type," he murmured under his breath.

"Shut up," she repeated. "Look, the students are deciding to split up to look for food."

"Fools," Grantaire sighed, flopping back into the sofa. "Why are they doing that? They've just eaten their team mascot, they don't need food straight away. And why are they all forgetting the breakfast bars?"

Éponine settled back into the cushions of the sofa, satisfied that she had – for now, at least – managed to turn the conversation away from her relationship with Combeferre.