(A/N): I love how I can just fuck up consistently with this thing and no one cares 'cause I came for the feels, stayed for the feels. I dunno. This is just kind a stress reliever at this point. Thank you to those who remain loyal readers, I love you a lot okay. Any requests for a guilty pleasure cliche to be added in our next installment, feel free to add in the comments! Btw you look lovely today uvu.
The weeks that followed would be later described by Babet as the most confusing, terrifying, and pitiful continuous sequence of events in his entire life. The first day was the hardest, and many times Babet considered emptying his pockets of every cent he carried with him, and some valuables, leaving them on the table, and running while he still could. Now, Babet was certain Claquesous wouldn't try to kill him, or at least maim him, but he was afraid of being threatened or bullied into just giving him the grade he needed. The way their school's tutoring program worked was Babet got his hours as long as they both signed off on the make-up work Sous completed while in session with him. It would be then reviewed by an administrator at a two-week check point, and whether their sessions would continue was up to the progress Claquesous would or would not make.
That was, at least, how Babet had been told it would work. However, he anticipated a more interactive workspace. The first day of studying, Babet couldn't quite find it in himself to speak up and ask Claquesous if he wanted help. The senior just stared through slitted eyelids at the sophomore, his pocketknife sifting against his cuticle beds. There were History and Calculus textbooks splayed out on the table separating them. Sous had his feet up on top of a World History book, while Babet was sat uncomfortably with his hands folded neatly in his lap, and eyes burning a hole into the middle of the table.
"...Didn't you have glasses?" Claquesous' brittle voice shattered the uncomfortable silence. Babet flinches, taking a minute of hesitation before he answers, clearing his throat.
"Ah...yeah, yeah, I-I did. I got contacts?" He coughed again, timidly twiddling his fingers.
"Hm. Good move," Sous said off-handedly, as he reached forward to take hold of the History textbook he'd been using as a footstool. Babet looked down in embarrassment, his bangs-in dire need of a trim, falling into his face. At least this hid the pink creeping into his cheeks. Was that nearly a compliment?
"Um, do you need any help with anything…? History, maybe?" he tried again, hoping that he could at least something that would make his service hours feel like they were actually earned. Claquesous flickered his luminous eyes upwards to meet Babet's, making him appear more catlike then ever. The younger boy's knees went weak.
"-Do you think I'm stupid, kid?" He suddenly asked. It wasn't a question with offense, or even anger. Simple curiosity, as if he was asking his opinion of some summer film. Babet was at a loss for words, at first, unsure how to answer to ensure a result with the least amount of damage done to him.
"No, not...not really. Not necessarily intelligent, I suppose, but, still, cunning," Babet answered carefully, keeping his face honest, but still cautious. It wasn't any sort of insult to Claquesous-at least, that had not been Babet intended. Watching him carefully, he saw the older boy's eyebrows crease, taking in the answer. Suddenly, he got up.
"We're done here."
"Wh-What? Claquesous, we still have, like, fifteen minutes! C'mon, I didn't mean that b-"
Suddenly, the senior laughed. It wasn't cruel, or condescendingly amused, like the ones Babet was used to. It was nice sounding.
"Hey, calm down, man. I've got somewhere to be. Tomorrow, I'll be a good boy, alright? And stop flinching whenever I move-" suddenly, Sous looked grim, "I don't want to hurt you, so, I won't. Okay?"
Babet, with wide eyes, could only nod. Giving a curt smile, Claquesous patted his shoulder. As promised, Babet resisted the urge to flinch. The older boy's touch lingered for a half a moment, before disappearing completely. Brushing his hair out his eyes, Babet called after his disappearing figure, finding a moment of courage.
"-Read Chapter 1 and 2, tonight!"
Sous turned, this time appearing amused. "Of what?"
"Everything."
In truth, Claquesous didn't actually have to be anywhere. He just really wanted a smoke, and to get away from Babet's doey brown eyes. All the time he'd broken those clunky square glasses of his, he'd never actually noticed the color of his eyes. That brought a rough twang of guilt to his gut. If he were to be honest with himself, Sous would not necessarily consider himself to be an all around bad person. Maybe just someone who makes bad choices, and it really only depending on who you asked when it came to whether a choices defined a person, or a person defined their choices.
"-Give it back, or I'll-"
"You'll what, run off to tell 'Ponine? Seriously, kid?"
"Stop calling me kid! Just give it back! Honestly, why do you hate me so much? Just leave me alone!" A voice cried out, sounded choked between hostility and hysterics. Claquesous recognized it as Azelma's panicked, shrill voice. He didn't need to listen very hard to guess the second voice as Brujon's. However, he considered rethinking that notion when he noticed how soft the response to her question was.
"I don't hate you."
They were just around the corner from where Sous was pressed against a wall, playing with a lighter. He peered over to see Brujon holding Azelma's beanie high above her head. The petite girl didn't even try reaching for it; she was a mere 5'2", and his lanky friend stood at 6'0". Her arms were crossed, and she looked near tired, only having barely enough patience for fierce irritation.
"-I'm just playing with you, Petite 'Ponine, God, there's no need to be-"
Brujon didn't even get to finish his sentence. Claquesous nearly dropped his lighter, but even if it had set flames to the place, he wouldn't have noticed. All his focus remained on the twisted look of sheer anger on Azelma's face, the root of the force behind the hand that punched Brujon square in the face. Claquesous near impressed. Brujon toppled against the wall, barely keeping his feet. His eyes were wide, save for the left one, already swelling. Giving a frustrated growl, Azelma turned on her heel and walked in the other direction. Sous couldn't help the smirk on his face when he noticed the way she gingerly held her fist.
Stepping out the shadows, Claquesous leaned his shoulder against the brick wall, watching Brujon stuggle to get to his feet. He couldn't resist; the boy started clapping.
"Man, shut the fuck up! Jesus, who the fuck taught her that? Fuck!" Brujon reserved his more colorful language in times of pain, or duress.
"That's what you get, Jon. 'Parnasse warned you about messing with her. Gotta hand it to the pipsqueak, though, that was awesome," Sous smirked, lighting up a cigarette produced from his back pocket.
Brujon grumbled more cursing, slumping against the wall with annoyance. His eye throbbed, starting in the beginning stages of a good bruising. However much Brujon teased or hazed Azelma, he'd never actually hit her before. Maybe tugged at her hair, or her clothing, but never hurt her. The thought of that made his stomach twist.
"...How's the eye?" He asked after a pause, handing a cigarette to Brujon, who was still tenderly holding a hand over his purpling eye. Claquesous bit down on his bottom lip to keep the laughter at bay. Brujon seemed steamed enough as it was, he didn't feel like adding fuel to the fire.
"Fine. How was your tutoring session?" Brujon snapped, rathering to deter the subject away from his eye.
"Fine, I guess….uh, you know that Babet kid?" Claquesous asked, trying to seem casual.
"Yeah, sure, Azelma's Not Boyfriend, right? Nerdy kid with the glasses, dresses funny?" Brujon grumbled. Claquesous furrowed his brow, confused.
"Are they…? Dating…?" Sous asked, his nose wrinkling in something that could have mirrored disgust.
"How should I know, Sous? Jesus, why do you keep talking about her? She's-she's just-"
"Brujon, calm your ass down! I wasn't asking about Azelma, I was asking about-ah, nevermind, just get some ice or something, yeah?" He growled, turning on his heel towards the parking lot. He needed time to think, and he hoped to God that Brujon would take his own time, as rational and level-headed Brujon may have seemed, he did have a record of being rash, or even unreasonable , on occasion. Shaking his head, Sous popped a CD into the stereo, leaned back in the driver's seat and closed his eyes, and let himself think.
Meanwhile, Brujon sat grumpily on the school steps, watching the last of the loitering students leave the lot. He felt starved for nicotine, but had been pickpocketed of his last ones, most likely by Montparnasse. A twitching hand reached up to softly touch his throbbing eye, and suddenly Brujon felt an unwanted blush coloring his face. Azelma Thenardier had punched him in the face. The tiny girl with big hazel eyes and soft, flaming hair...had socked him. Brujon remembered a time in junior high, when he'd been acquaintance with Montparnasse, Eponine, and by extension, Azelma herself. He remembered her wide grin, chattering a mile a minute about some new issue of some comic she'd been reading, and the way he'd sometimes watch for a glint of blonde hair in the group of downtown misfits that would assemble near the Cafe. Stoic, even at fourteen, Brujon had hoped they'd become better friends. Then she met Babet, and he'd lost his chance.
The seventeen year old couldn't exactly pinpoint the reason he baited the girl so much. Really, he didn't mean anything by it. Surely, anyone could think of the burning coal feeling that ignited in the pit of his stomach whenever he saw the girl as irritation.
Still, Brujon wasn't sure anymore. He didn't want her to hate him, because...he'd never hated her.
Suddenly, the realization struck like another punch to the face. Brujon was in love with her.
[TEXT TO: Professor B]: Yo, B, where r u?
[ TEXT TO: The Annoying Orange]: Library, y?
[TEXT TO: Professor B]: ...i kinda did a thing
[ TEXT TO: The Annoying Orange]: what? u ok?
[TEXT TO: Professor B]: i punched brujon.
[ TEXT TO: The Annoying Orange]: LAWN. 5 MINUTES.