~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Musichetta had managed to outfit the boys in clothing that fit somewhat more securely. While not stylish by any stretch of the imagination it was nice not having yards of fabric flap about whenever they moved.
Combeferre chewed on his pen thoughtfully. The message sounded like a bad joke. Nevertheless, he signed it and beneath his signature added the usual three letters that all of the missives of Les Amis ended with: ABC.
He sealed it and pressed the wax smooth and addressed it hurriedly:
To:
Hector Enjolras
6 Rue de Leroux
Combeferre shrugged and handed the missive to Musichetta. "This is for Enjolras. It explains everything just incase we don't find him…in time."
Musichetta's brown eyes sparkled once more. "So I finally get to meet the famed and fabled Enjolras." She said as she put the letter in her basket. "Charles-Leon tells me that Enjolras hates women. Is that true?" She asked.
For a split second Combefrerre's mind fumbled around, wondering who the heck Charles-Leon was…then he smiled in a bemused sort of manner at his absentmindedness…of course Musichetta was referring to Joly. This mystery solved, Combeferre set to answer her question.
"I don't think he actively hates women, no. Just doesn't see why the rest of us put up so much of a fuss, I guess."
Musichetta's eyes misted over briefly. "He's never been in love."
Marquette was watching Jehan and Michel play on the floor. She raised an arched eyebrow as Joly joined them. "Hey, Musichetta! Charles-Leon's gone kiddo on us too."
Michel eyed the newcomer distrustfully. "Who are you?" He asked darkly.
"I'm Charles-Leon."
"I'm Jean." Jehan replied. "Do you wanna play with us?"
"He can't play with us." Michel said in the same dark moody tones. "There aren't 'nuff soldier for us all."
Jehan smiled. "You can have half of mine, Charles-Leon."
"NO." Michel slammed his hand against the floor. "I don't want him playing with us, Jean!"
"I can play here if I want to!" Charles-Leon snapped.
Michel stood up and so did Charles-Leon. Michel snarled. "Don't make me hit you!"
Jehan scrambled to his feet. "Its just a stupid game, Michel."
Michel shoved Charles-Leon. The blonde boy staggered backwards just barely managing to catch himself from falling.
"Will you quit?" Jehan asked.
Michel tried to clamp his hand over Jehan's mouth. "Shut up, Je—OW!" He cried out in pain as Jehan sunk his teeth into Michel Bahorel's hand.
Combeferre suddenly looked on in alarm. So did Bossuet. They exchanged looks, both clearly asking the other What should we do?
Their answer came in the form of a full-fledged three-way fight. All three boys were doing their best to kick, bite, hit, scratch, and otherwise bodily maim the others.
Musichetta's eyes flashed dangerously. "Boys, that's enough." She cried.
There was no response from the group. Her eyes narrowed and she walked up to the squirming mass of youth and grabbed the first ear lobe she could reach.
"OUCH!" Michel cried.
Musichetta ignored his pleas and grabbed Charles-Leon Joly by the earlobe as well. Pinching them tightly she asked, "Now, boys what do you say?"
"You're dead meat, Charles!" Michel snarled. His snarl turned into a yelp as Musichetta pinched harder. "S-s-s-so—sorry!" He stammered.
"I'm sorry too!" Charles-Leon wailed.
Jehan was still seated on the floor. "You're not gonna pinch my earlobe are you?" He asked his voice filled with anxiety. "Because, I'm sorry too." His eyes were bright with tears and his voice shook slightly. He was the very picture of an innocent party fearing prosecution through association.
Marquette's lip quivered. "Oh heavens, 'hetta, they are just to die for aren't they?"
Musichetta sighed as she gave her sister a half-hearted glare. "You are no help whatsoever." But she let go of Michel's ear. "When I was fifteen, I wasn't nearly as much of an interference."
Marquette put her arms protectively around Joly and Jehan. Both of which seemed relieved at the intervention and sighed audibly.
Combeferre decided that perhaps things might turn out all right after all.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Enjolras sighed heavily as he was nearly knocked off his feet for the fourth time in a block.
"Ooops! Sorry Enjolras!" Grantaire cried as he bounded happily in between the three men like an excited puppy.
"I hope he's housebroken." Courfeyrac commented as Grantaire catcalled to yet another passing grisette.
"She's a pretty one!" Grantaire commented and Feuilly had to grab him by the scruff of his neck in order to keep him at bay.
"Hey, sweetie, how 'bout you get yourself a real man?" Grantaire called.
The young woman raised an eyebrow. "Let me know when you dry up behind the ears, kid." Then she hurried on her way, leaving a slightly doleful Grantaire in her wake.
Courfeyrac howled with laughter. "Callous!"
"Well…I can do better than her anyway. Who needs ya!" Grantaire called to the girl's retreating figure.
"Do try and act human." Enjolras growled.
"He is." Courfeyrac and Feuilly replied in unison.
"I am." Grantaire answered, attempting to wriggle out of Feuilly's gentle yet firm grasp.
"Then do so more subtly. You don't see Feuilly and Courfey—well you don't see Feuilly acting like that." Enjolras amended as Courfeyrac gave a passing woman a wink with a mischievous smile.
"You're just jealous."
"Jealous?" Enjolras stopped and stared at Grantaire. "I? Jealous!" He seemed offended by the mere notion that he could have such feelings. He gave the youth an icy glare. Enjolras had come to realize that this glare had a wonderful effect on Grantaire. Normally the inebriate would fall into abashed silence with his head bowed slightly.
Today however, Grantaire, who had been acting most peculiar since they passed the Rue Scribe stuck his chin out and said haughtily, "That's right. Jealous! I'm younger, better looking, and the grisettes love me. Puh. You probably couldn't get a woman to pay attention to you if you got down on your knees in front of one."
Feuilly was stunned for a moment and his grip went lax. "Grantaire?"
Grantaire spun around. "Well? Isn't he the biggest jerk you've ever met?"
"Yeah, he kinda is—er" Courfeyrac broke off into a peculiar fit of coughing when Enjolras glared at him.
"I could have the attentions of the fairer sex if I so chose to—"
"The words of a man who has been turned down flat by everything in a skirt!" Grantaire howled.
Enjolras' ears turned pink "I hardly think---that is---what exactly are you---"
"I bet she was ugly to boot!" Grantaire cried gripping onto a bewildered, yet slightly amused Courfeyrac.
"She was not ugly---I mean---oh shut UP Courfeyrac---Feuilly? I hardly see what this has to do with the subject at hand---SHUT UP Courfeyrac!"
"She! Singular! Turned down by one girl and the whole gender is forever branded! So that's your problem, mon ami! Why didn't you say so?" Courfeyrac asked, as Grantaire clung to his arm howling with laughter.
"I thought," Enjolras growled, suddenly the image of icy marble once more, "that we were in search of our friends?"
Courfeyrac stopped laughing, and the smile fell off of Feuilly's face. "Yeah." Courfeyrac muttered. "I forgot." Satisfied, Enjolras walked off in front of the group, leading the way once more.
Grantaire looked at Courfeyrac with bewildered brown eyes. "Forgot what?"
"Mortals can be Amis with gods, but they cannot be amis." Feuilly said softly.
"But," Courfeyrac said, suddenly smiling once more, "at least we know she wasn't ugly."
The three stood silent for a moment and then lost any semblance of composure as they doubled over with laughter.
More to come.