Another chapter! Again, if you need it, the English translations for any French dialogue will be included at the bottom.

Happy reading!

Chapter Two

"So, boys, you understand why this punishment is necessary?" A thick French accent asked. Their school's principal, Monsieur Louis-Phillipe, peered over his spectacles at the two with a mockinging smile. Though it was obvious he tried to convey intimidation and authority with each word, his speech's power was slightly diminished by his need to speak in broken English for Grantaire's comprehension.

"You both have been…" He paused, searching for the word. "Enjolras, c'est quoi le mot Anglais pour 'mal intenionné?'"

"Badly behaved," he supplied quietly.

"Oui, merci. You have both been 'badly behaved.'" He paused to see their reactions, which were both unimpressed and bored, and then continued.

"Physical violence and illegal substances are very serious issues. I, personally, think I'm being too lenient, suspending you two only for as long as you're getting. Behaviour like this can create a negative learning environment for the students—and there's nothing École d'Abaissés prides itself more in than a clean, safe, and happy space for staff and students alike."

Enjolras snorted, and conspicuously tried to cover it up with a cough. His principal glared at him.

"Have something you would like to add, Monsieur Enjolras?" He demanded. He turned, and angrily asked: "Or you, for that matter, Monsieur Grantaire?"

Both of them shook their heads, the boy next to him—Grantaire?—doing so with a loud, obnoxious yawn. It was quite obvious that Grantaire, as Courfeyrac would say, didn't give a damn.

"Very well," he said, looking as though he wished he could slap one of them. "Remember to give your parents or guardians those slips—I'll be calling home to check." He looked down at his desk and shuffled some papers. "On your way then. Enjolras, je te verrais lundi prochaîne. Grantaire, I'll be seeing you next Wednesday."

"Au revoir, Monsieur le Directeur," Enjolras muttered.

Grantaire pushed himself out of his chair and walked out the office without a word.

—

"I'm serious, new kid, stop following me."

Enjolras was getting annoyed. They had been walking for almost twenty minutes now, and the American boy was still insisting he lived this way. Well, the joke was on him—this far into the walk, the only two houses were his own, and the abandoned house next to him.

Obviously he lived in neither, so he had to be messing with him.

Whatever, he thought, he'll give it up soon enough.

But he didn't. Another ten minutes passed, leaving only ten more, and the kid was still walking behind him. When was he planning on ending his little joke?

As he often did, he texted Courf, updating him on Enjolras' current situation. He knew he'd appreciate any news or gossip about the new boy. As expected, within sixty seconds of sending his message, he received an enthusiastic response, with strict orders to keep him up to date on any going ons. Apparently, he was in the middle of gym class now—Enjolras truly didn't know how Courfeyrac was always able to answer his phone.

Enjolras smiled at his friend, and glanced over his shoulder to see if the kid was still following him. An unsurprising yes.

The boy walking behind him was dressed simply, in a plain black t-shirt and those paint-splattered jeans, his curly black hair somewhat tucked up in a purple beanie. He was looking down, as if studying each step before he took it, and had two earbuds in his covered ears.

His dark olive skin betrayed no signs of tiredness—strange, as even Enjolras, who walked this route twice a day, was perspiring. He must be quite fit.

There was also a slight bulge in his front left pocket—that damned flask. He couldn't believe Monsieur Louis-Phillipe had allowed him to keep it.

The other boy looked bored, almost weary, but still somehow had that kind of a twinkle—that sarcastic look in his eyes, that easy laugh that seemed merely hidden from view, like the sun that was only temporarily covered with dark clouds—even when he seemed as if he shouldn't. Even when Enjolras had punched him; even when he was being punished in their principal's office.

Whatever, that didn't change anything. He was trying to be funny now, Enjolras assumed, and it seemed he had a weird, annoying sense of humour.

Enjolras's house was now in sight. They both walked up to the front porch, and Enjolras grinned knowing he had won this little game the boy was playing.

"Okay, you had your fun. Right here?" He motioned towards his house, "Is where I live. Right there," he pointed to the abandoned neighboring home, "is the last house on the street for about ten minutes." Pausing slightly, because let no one waste Monsieur Lamarque's teachings of showmanship, he said: "Your joke's over. Just go home, new kid."

The boy looked at him for a second, utterly exasperated. Enjolras met his gaze.

He turned on his heel, and walked in the direction Enjolras still pointed to—to the abandoned house. He hopped up the steps to the porch, and opened the door.

Grantaire raised his eyebrows at him, and spread apart his arms, as if trying to say, yeah, I am home. You messed up .

"Guess I'll see you around then, neighbor." He said with a dry smirk. The door closed behind him with a slam.

Enjolras' jaw dropped. And closed. And dropped again.

Feeling disoriented, and inexplicably fish-like, he walked into his own home.

He slowly took off his shoes, slid his backpack off, and hung up the jacket he had forgotten that morning in the closet. His sister was still at school this time of the day, and his father probably wouldn't be back from work until much later.

As he made his way to his room, a thought took place.

What room is the boy sleeping in? Surely he wouldn't be—Oh no.

Because that would be just his luck, wouldn't it? God.

Running, now, into his room, he slammed the door behind him. Enjolras rushed over to the large window over his bed. He flung open the curtains and pulled up the glass cover, and leaned out a bit to get a better look. The neighboring window, not three feet away from his own, was wide open.

Inside was the new boy. He sat on the floor facing Enjolra, with a look of obvious disbelief on his face. In one hand was a pencil, and what looked to be sketchbook in the other.

They were both silent as they stared at each other.

"Long time no see, neighbor." He said. "Couldn't stay away for more than ten minutes?"

Enjolras didn't say anything, and knew his already strong resemblance to a fish was growing by the second, the way his mouth was flapping about.

The kid, seeing he obviously wasn't going to get a strong reaction that way, continued. "My name's Grantaire, by the way. You keep calling me 'New Kid.'"

The kid honestly lived here?! Oh God, the kid really lived here. The harsh news was still settling in, and Enjolras felt as if he were processing this information for the first time over and over again.

"What-why are you—" Enjolras sputtered.

"This house was my Grandma's. She died a couple years ago." He said by way of explanation, arching one eyebrow in defiance.

That didn't quite make sense—If Grantaire's family really did inherit that house, why didn't they move in years ago? It had been abandoned for a long time. Also, how the hell did Enjolras not know they were moving in? It was the only other house for a while, he should have known everything about it!

He didn't push and ask those questions, though. Not about his dead Grandma, not about why he had felt the need to drink, not about Patron-Minette, not why do you live on my street, and in this room of all places. No. Instead, Enjolras, wanting to elicit the same kind of reaction from the new kid he was having,so brashly blurted:

"T-thanks for getting me suspended!"

Grantaire's mouth fell open in indignant shock.

"I tell you my Grandmother's dead, and all you want to do is blame me for something I didn't do?" He set down his sketchbook and pencil and stood up to see Enjolras better. "Besides, I didn't get us suspended, and you know it."

Enjolras's blood suddenly boiled.

"How are you trying to blame this on me?! I wasn't the one drinking in the men's bathroom!"

He laughed. "I wouldn't have gotten caught if you hadn't butted in and you know it! My brother's going to kill me!"

His brother?

"Well what was I supposed to do, let you drink?"

"Yes!"

"You made a deal with Patron-Minette, you were going to get busted anyway!"

"I don't know what the hell that's supposed to mean—"

"It means you were being an absolute idiot, and that you were going to get yourself in a hell of a lot more trouble than we are now!"

"I don't know who you think you are, trying to tell me how to live my life, but you can stick your advice right up your—"

"Oh yeah, that's mature—"

"You punched me within the first ten seconds of meeting me!"

Both of the boys were breathing hard now, chests rising and falling with their fists tightened at their sides.

Very suddenly, Grantaire seemed to calm down, and gave a lazy, mocking smile.

"Well then, if you saved me from the unmatchable horrors of 'Patron-Minette,'" he snarked, "then I suppose I should be grateful to you, O Good and Kind One. Thank you so much for leading me from harm's way." He bowed, his voice a mean, sarcastic bite. "I am forever in your debt."

With that, Grantaire strode up to his window and slammed it shut. Just before flinging the curtains back over though, he gave Enjolras a vulgar gesture.

"Happy suspension, neighbor." He mouthed.

And then he was gone.

Enjolras, still leaning out of his own window, sat, seething.

How dare he! This whole thing was his fault, not Enjolras', and now they were both suspended, and his father was going to be so disappointed, not because he was suspended, but because he hurt someone, and to think he was going to ask him to join Debate Club.

Finally, after nearly three minutes spent just cursing that new boy, Enjolras scrambled back inside his room.

Fine—that was fine. If Grantaire wanted to spend his time being an idiot, associating with Patron-Minette, and drinking, then that was his choice. He could do what he wanted—Enjolras just refused, though, to let him to hurt his friends.

So, where did that leave them? They were both suspended for the next little while, most likely on house arrest. Would they just ignore each other?

And what about when they got back to school? They were in the same year, so they were almost guaranteed to have some classes together. Would they avoid eye contact, pray they weren't put together for group projects?

It wouldn't work, and Enjolras knew it. One or both of them would have to apologize, so they could both just move on from this whole ridiculous situation.

It wouldn't be him, though.

And through that window, behind those curtains, Grantaire was thinking the same thing.

—

True to their mental vows, neither Enjolras nor Grantaire attempted to communicate with the other—through their nearly conjoined windows, or otherwise. That is, until Sunday. It had been five days since they were both suspended, and Enjolras was going back to school tomorrow.

They were both restless, and both very, very bored. As Enjolras had predicted, his father had been angry and disappointed at his suspension, and had issued a house arrest. As he didn't see him leave his house at any point, Enjolras assumed Grantaire had a similar deal with his family.

It was that night, though—that cold, dark Sunday night—that everything changed.

Enjolras had been downstairs, having yet another tense dinner with his family. After they had finished eating in uncomfortable silence, Enjolras had asked to be excused, which his father answered with a curt nod. His sister had let out a small sigh.

He had taken the steps up to his room two at a time, murmuring something about getting ready for school the next day. He ruffled his hair as he turned down the hallway to his room—a sure sign of stress. He wondered what it said about him that ruffling his hair also happened to be his constant habit. Enjolras flung open his bedroom doors—

and stopped dead.

His room looked normal—his piano, Patrie, still stood in all her glory, his bed and bedsheets were just as undisturbed as he had left them this morning, and the stacks of books and sheet music were still in their regular messy piles. What was different, though, was the boy seated in the middle of his room.

Grantaire sat with a sketchbook, larger than the last one Enjolras had seen him with, his hands stained with the charcoals he was using. (Was it still called drawing when the artist used charcoal? Or was it called shading? Enjolras wasn't sure.)

He wasn't all that sure how to react—angry, indignant, happy?—until he saw what it was Grantaire was drawing. (Or shading. Whatever.)

Patrie.

And God, Grantaire was good. Like, really good.

He captured her perfectly. The way her lid was held with such elegance and quiet power, how the contrast of shadows seemed more intense when cast by her, the light brighter when it reflected off her glossy surface and beautiful keys.

Grantaire still hadn't noticed Enjolras was standing in the doorway—or maybe he just didn't care.

Still facing away from him, still gently shading his drawing, he said distractedly, "Sorry, the light was hitting your piano perfectly." He paused his work, and twisted to see him. "You don't mind, do you?" He asked it like a question, but his tone said he wasn't going to move even if he wanted him to.

Yeah, Grantaire just didn't care.

Still shocked, Enjolras sputtered a moment, and struggled to come up with a response.

"I'm—I mean, you're in my—How did you—"

He turned back and resumed drawing. "Listen, our windows are less than a meter away from each other." He smirked into his sketchbook, "—and you always keep yours unlocked."

Enjolras didn't want to think too much about that; he really didn't want to know if this was Grantaire's first time in his room or not.

So instead, he thought damn my inability to hold a grudge, and sat down next to him.

"Look, I'm really sorry about what happened at school. It—it wasn't my place to try to correct you, or whatever." It all rushed out at once, and he sucked in a conspicuous breath. "Oh, and that bit about thinking you were stalking me. That was rude too."

No answer.

Timidly, Enjolras asked, "how's your jaw?"

The room was filled with the sounds of the charcoal strokes made by the boy sitting next to him. Enjolras thought he wasn't going to answer, but then he evenly said, "you're right."

Enjolras laughed nervously. "About what?"

"It wasn't your place." He replied simply. He kept sketching.

"Listen, I really am sorry for my behaviour in the bathroom—"

Grantaire audibly rolled his eyes. "—But you weren't the only guilty party. I was drinking, and yeah, I probably would have gotten caught. Yes, you did punch me, but I punched you back—harder."

He rubbed under his left eyebrow in rueful reminiscence. Enjolras wasn't exactly sure what to say in response to that.

"So then...Are we good?" He held out his hand, hopefully.

Grantaire finally looked up at him, then put down his charcoal.

Their hands connected, and shook. Grantaire's grip was strong—strong and warm.

"Yeah, we're good." He paused, and picked up his charcoal again. "Have fun trying to get that off your hand, by the way."

Enjolras groaned, and quickly wiped his black-stained palm on his jeans. They both laughed, albeit somewhat jerkily.

They sat in relative silence for a moment or two more, relishing the sense of relief that always comes after relieving yourself of a burden. Then, Grantaire turned to face Enjolras.

"You play?" He asked, motioning towards the grand piano in the center of his room.

"Oh—um yeah. Yeah I do."

"Are you any good?" Grantaire's right eyebrow quirked up, a small smile beginning to play upon his lips.

Enjolras thought about that for a minute. "I—I don't think so. I mean, I've been in lessons since I was twelve, but... What do you consider decent?"

"I consider anyone who can play that classical song—Furry Lis?—to be well on their way to a successful concert pianist career."

Enjolras laughed, still with that obviously nervous tinge though. "Not to sound arrogant, but this might bl—might blow your mind."

Grantaire clapped his back. "Let's hear it then."

Okay, he thought to himself, il n'y a pas de problème avec cette proposition.

Enjolras pushed himself off the floor, and sat down on the piano stool. He shuffled a couple papers around, finding the music he was looking for. Grantaire, still on the floor, had picked up his sketchbook again, and seemed to be flipping to a new page.

Just as he looked down, Grantaire caught his eye. "Well?"

Right, Enjolras thought. Get on with it.

He cleared his throat, and announced, "Primavera, Ludovico Einaudi." His voice broke slightly on the "ein."

He readied himself, then lightly grazed the keys of his Patrie.

Un, deux, trois, quatre—

And then he played.

The piece started off slowly, with only a treble staff for the first few bars, leaving his left hand to hang awkwardly at his side. Then, his favourite part. The bass clef was written in, and his fingers danced accordingly. The music rose and fell, swelling and sloping—a deep tenor wove in between the high notes, filling in the gaps and supporting where it could not do so alone. Suddenly, the tenor was the star, and a deep and powerful strum rumbled through the room, his fingers stretching and tumbling.

He played for what seemed both like forever and only a breath. He hardly recognized he wasn't reading the sheet music—he played this piece often enough to have it memorized, and if he would forget a part, he'd improvise his own chords and notes.

Vaguely, he recognized Grantaire—out of the corner of his eye, he could see him smiling to himself as he drew. Drew him.

Grantaire was drawing him.

He wasn't sure why, but for whatever reason, that solidified the intimacy of this moment for Enjolras. His breath caught in his throat slightly, but his playing never faltered.

Enjolras didn't play for anyone—not like this. Sometimes for his family, like the one year he recorded himself playing songs from the soundtracks of some of Cosette's favourite musicals and gave it to her for her birthday, but never like this. Not for a complete and utter stranger he knew nearly nothing about.

He wasn't sure, but he thought it was a similar feeling for most artists—that their art was an extension of themselves, an essential yet still personal part of their very souls.

Their art was their emotions, their escape, their loves...

Their art were their lives.

And Enjolras was playing for Grantaire, and Grantaire was drawing for Enjolras.

Finally, finally, "Primavera" had her last note, and Grantaire's drawing had its last careful stroke.

Both boys stood still, both in slight awe of what had just occurred. Enjolras was breathing considerably harder than he'd like to admit. He looked down at his hands, resting lightly over the keys, and then over his shoulder to the artist on the floor.

Grantaire broke the silence as their eyes met. He laughed loudly, and his smile reached up to his bright eyes. "Just so you know, you can consider my mind blown."

Enjolras let out a breathless laugh.

"Well, you had to hear me play, so… Do I get to see your drawing, Grantaire?" He realized how awkward and clunky his name sounded on his lips, and wished he could take it back.

"First of all, I got to hear you play," Grantaire corrected. Smiling, he held his work out to him in answer. "I'll be needing it back though."

"Yes, yes of course…" He murmured as he took it into his hands.

Enjolras studied the drawing. It was beautifully done, really. Shaded in careful, elegant, precise strokes—art was so obviously not just a hobby of Grantaire; it was his passion.

And so, he had passionately drawn Enjolras.

Or, his feet, at least.

His feet?!

But there they were, two black sock laden feet, one pressing gently down upon the damper pedal, the other hovering midair, as if waiting a cue. The piano's own legs, and its stool were also depicted, which gave Enjolras the impression he was looking at a part of something—at just one facet of the bigger picture.

Or, maybe it was just a drawing of feet.

Enjolras tried not to think too much into that.

"It's… interesting." He managed. He couldn't deny it wasn't beautiful, no one could. What Enjolras held in his hands was pure and simple art. He didn't need to understand it, he just needed to feel it.

Feel it, like how Grantaire had hopefully felt his piano.

"Well, I appreciate your overwhelming feedback," he laughed lightly as he took back the drawing. He rolled it neatly into a cylinder and said, "but I hope I was a better audience than you are. Your playing is beautiful. Better than that. It was…" He trailed off.

"You may have just raised my standards for 'decent,' at least."

"Well, I mean, if I've accomplished that…" Grantaire laughed louder this time, and Enjolras grinned in return.

Enjolras was more than content to back and forth with this boy for as long as he could, but it was beginning to grow silent again. He wasn't really sure what he was to do now—they still hadn't really discussed what Grantaire was doing in his room.

Or, more importantly, he thought, what the boundaries are for us. Not that he would really mind if Grantaire were to come back another night. It felt kind of nice to have someone to do this with, outside of Debate Club.

A friend, he realized. It was a close friend he missed, despite never truly having one in the first place.

It was hard being the leader of a group, Enjolras would admitted occasionally to himself. He had to make decisions, had to break news, and subconsciously, had to take on an intense feeling of responsibility of every member of the group. Combeferre might have been the mother hen of the friends, but Enjolras took care of them in his own way.

His way, it seemed, was punching people he irrationally deemed a threat. In the jaw.

Emphasis on irrationally.

And besides, they all had one another. He loved them all, but… Courfeyrac and Éponine were the closest things he might have to best friends, but even then, Courf and Combeferre were joined at the hip, and 'Ponine was so fiercely protective of her younger siblings.

Yes: Courf and Combeferre, Éponine Azelma and Gavroche, Jehan and Feuilly, the aromantic Bahourel, Musichetta Joly Bossuet—

And Enjolras.

And now, Grantaire.

So, instead of making some sort of flowery excuse, a thinly disguised social cue to leave, to politely get rid of Grantaire, he asked, with as much bravery he could muster:

"This time again tomorrow?"

Grantaire stared questioningly at him. "This time tomorrow… What?"

Oh, God. The nervous butterflies in his stomach and stutter came back in full force.

"I don't know, but whatever this is? Maybe? I mean, you don't have to, please don't feel like you have to, but I thought we could talk. I could… Keep you updated on what's happening at school!" He was fully conscious he was rambling, and was both screaming and cringing internally at himself. "Or, draw! We could draw. Well, you could draw, and I could play, if you didn't feel like talking. This probably sounds so lame, I'm sorry. I'll st—"

"Enjolras," Grantaire interrupted, "are you asking me on a date?"

Enjolras' eyes widened, and he gave a fake-sounding giggle. (Which, for the record, was very unlike him. Maybe he was developing a new nervous tic, in addition to the hair tousling?)

"Well—I guess so! A, uh, Guy Date!"

There was a pause.

"Ah."

"...Yeah." He finished, lamely.

"Well," Grantaire began to stride towards the window. "I would love to."

That took Enjolras by surprise. "You—you would? I'm not… scaring you off?"

He smiled again, though it now seemed to come less easily than it had moments before.

"'Course not. You should know, I do expect a full report of all the going-ons at school. I'll bring my paints just in case it ends up being a terribly boring day, though. This same time?"

Enjolras checked his watch. "Yeah, this same time."

Grantaire nodded affirmation, and swung one leg out the window. "Alright then."

"Yeah," Enjolras said, for the second time that night.

"Goodnight, Enjolras."

"Goodnight, Grantaire."

They both stared at each other for a moment more, before Grantaire swung his other leg out the window, and climbed back into his own room. He faced Enjolras, and through two layers of glass, he waved. And closed his curtains.

Enjolras waved back, only a moment too late.

"Enjolras, c'est quoi le mot Anglais pour 'mal intenionné?'" = "Enjolras, what's the English word for 'badly behaved?'"

"Je te verrais lundi prochaîne." = "I'll see you next Monday."

"Aurevoir, Monsieur le Directeur." = "Good day, Principal." Saying "Mx. le/la (position of authority)" is a popular French honorific, and shows high respect. It is often used for relationships like principal to student, or something similar.

"Il n'y a pas de problème avec cette proposition." = "There's no problem with that."

"Un, deux trois, quatre." = "One, two, three, four."

Haha, remember when I thought I'd have one chapter up a week? Maybe not. What with school starting, my sport, and other commitments I have, weekly updates just aren't truly attainable for me, unfortunately. As much as I would love to have enough time… Anyway, you can definitely expect many future chapters, however! I really love this story, and I'm so happy I have a place I can put my work out to be read, instead of just keeping it all on my computer, unread.

Thanks for reading!

- B