Work Text:
It starts as a fairly peaceful protest. They’ve managed a substantial crowd with this one; Enjolras stands at the front, as usual, yelling into a megaphone about freedom in Palestine to general shouts of agreement. Grantaire and Combeferre flank him on one side, Marius and Bahorel on the other. The others are scattered in smaller groups throughout the sizeable crowd. There is a small group of police nearby, as there always is, but they have been hanging back, and Courfeyrac suspects some of them— most of them— are in agreement with this protest.
It feels strange to have the cops on their side.
Things begin to go south when a small but angry counter-protest arrives.
The counter-protesters station themselves on the opposite side of the street, but rather than yelling support for their own cause, they hurl insults across the street. They become angrier and louder and more riled as Enjolras resolutely ignores them and continues his own spiel.
Courfeyrac is too far away to hear it, but one of the counter-protestors says something that makes Grantaire whip around furiously, his eyes blazing. Enjolras doesn’t falter in his speech, but even from where he’s standing Courfeyrac can see Marius’s face turning red with anger, Bahorel’s eyes widening. Combeferre turns to Grantaire, but he’s already pushing his way across the street, singling one of the counter-protestors out, and yelling at him.
Enjolras stops, finally, to yell at Grantaire, and Combeferre and Marius both go to physically stop him in the middle of the street. But the counter-protestor is already making his way to meet Grantaire in the middle, each yelling at the other, while Marius and Combeferre struggle to push them apart.
Courfeyrac doesn’t see it—no one sees it—until it’s too late, and suddenly the counter-protestor swings a near-empty beer bottle up and against Grantaire’s head.
Grantaire goes down instantly.
Courfeyrac feels, for a moment, as though everything is moving in slow motion. There is a roaring in his ears, and he just barely registers Jehan’s sharp gasp beside him.
Enjolras moves, faster than anyone else, and throws himself on top of Grantaire, a human shield, as the two opposing group rush at each other.
Marius punches the counter-protestor, who is mid-laugh, and that gets Courfeyrac moving again. He races through the crowd, Jehan at his heels, to where Combeferre is attempting to pull Enjolras away. It’s chaos and it’s loud and Courfeyrac can barely see straight when he reaches them. “Take him,” Combeferre says, “get him out,” and so Courfeyrac hauls Enjolras to his feet and, with Jehan’s help, leads him away. When they reach a safe distance he turns, sees Combeferre running with Grantaire slung over his shoulder, and goes to help. Jehan holds Enjolras up. Someone is screaming. He hears sirens in the distance.
“We have to get out of here,” Combeferre says, almost casually, as though he isn’t carrying his unconscious friend. “Now! Enj, keep it together. Courf?”
Courfeyrac is still watching the crowd. “I think everyone else has gotten out,” Jehan tells him, referring to the rest of their group. “They know what to do. They’re all right, Courf, we have to go.”
Courfeyrac shakes his head. “Go on,” he says. “Get these two out of here. I’ll meet you.” Jehan nods, and Combeferre looks upset but doesn’t argue as Courfeyrac makes his way back to the crowd.
He’d seen the cops heading straight for Marius, who is still at the center of the fight, and now pushes past the throng to grab him. Marius fights the arms off before realizing who’s got him. “Police,” Courfeyrac yells, gripping Marius tightly, “let’s go.” Marius reluctantly allows himself to be pulled away, still looking furious.
Courfeyrac will have time to feel proud later.
He half drags, half leads Marius through the crowd, most of whom are scattering as well, though they make their way past a couple of minor skirmishes that are getting broken up by the police. They trample the discarded signs, briefly stopping to help someone up from the ground, before making it out of the larger crowd and away from the police, who seem to be utilizing their tasers and batons with relish.
They don’t stop running until the sounds of the riot have faded into the distance, and they don’t stop walking until they get to the metro station. They’re both silent for most of the ride, and it is only after the third stop that Marius asks where they’re going.
“Enjolras’s,” Courfeyrac answers. “It’s closest. He’ll end up back there eventually, and given the state Grantaire was in…”
“He shouldn’t be alone right now,” Marius finishes for him. “Yeah. All right.” Marius still looks like he wants to punch someone, which is a rare sight indeed. Courfeyrac briefly considers taking a photo to immortalize the moment. Then he thinks Marius will take that as an invitation to punch him, and reconsiders.
Tough Guy Marius. Courfeyrac doesn’t know what to do with this one. He hopes it wears off with the adrenaline.
Enjolras’s apartment is empty when they arrive. They let themselves in with the key Enjolras had given Marius (“he’s never given me one,” Courfeyrac mutters, out of habit, because this argument is old and familiar) and Courfeyrac orders Marius to sit down.
“You’re going to fall over, kid,” Courfeyrac says, and Marius automatically says, “don’t call me ‘kid’” and sits down at the kitchen table.
“Anything broken?” Courfeyrac asks, rummaging through the freezer for an ice pack. Enjolras is always fully stocked with ice packs; he has had these friends for far too long.
“Uh,” Marius answers, and Courfeyrac rolls his eyes.
“Check,” he says, handing Marius the ice pack. “And don’t try to hide anything, I’ll know if you’re lying.” He will; Marius is a dreadful liar. Courfeyrac pulls out his phone and begins scrolling through the missed texts and calls. “Joly and Feuilly are fine,” Courfeyrac reports as he reads their messages. “Eponine is fine. Bahorel is banged up but… it’s mostly bruises… God, I can never read Joly’s texts. Um. They’re at Bossuet’s? No. Eponine isn’t. The four of them are together, she went home before they could stop her.” Courfeyrac shakes his head. “Another one to worry about, then. Uh— Bossuet is pretty messed up but not bad enough for the hospital—“ Courfeyrac is cut off by a new incoming text. He scans it quickly. “Jehan says… they’re coming back here. They couldn’t decide whether to go to the hospital… Ugh, great, Enjolras is going to be in a mood.”
“Courf,” Marius chastises softly. “Can you blame him?”
Courfeyrac throws his phone down on the table. “Guess not.” He takes a seat beside Marius and pries the forgotten ice pack from Marius’s hand. “That was for your eye, asshole.”
Marius winces at the cold touch. “Ow— is it that bad?”
“It’s already pretty dark. It’ll swell up nicely.” Courfeyrac takes in Marius’s bruised knuckles and split lip. “So what was the final tally?”
“Um.” Marius’s good eye doesn’t meet Courfeyrac’s gaze. “Nothing too bad. The face mostly.”
Courfeyrac is unconvinced. “Uh huh. And the way you’re sitting is just to improve your posture, is it?”
Marius shifts in his seat self-consciously. “I can sleep this one off,” he says, and Courfeyrac drops it for the moment.
They sit mostly in silence until the front door opens. Courfeyrac stands abruptly as Combeferre leads Grantaire inside, Jehan holding onto Enjolras behind them.
“Shit,” Courfeyrac mutters as he takes in Grantaire’s conscious but still-limp form. He helps Combeferre set Grantaire on the couch. “And you decided against the hospital?” he asks incredulously.
“I’m still for it, actually,” Combeferre responds, not taking his eyes off Grantaire. “Hey—“ he shakes Grantaire’s shoulder. “Eyes open. That was the deal.”
“I’m not concussed,” Grantaire mumbles. “Head wounds bleed a lot. I’m fine.”
“You were out for a while,” Jehan reminds him. Jehan’s still got a hand on Enjolras, who looks unsteady on his feet but unharmed.
Combeferre disappears into the bathroom, and returns with a damp washcloth. “Let’s at least see what we’re dealing with,” he says before kneeling in front of Grantaire, and working the dried blood from his face. It had run down the right side of his face, particularly around his eye, and as Combeferre cleans it all off, they can see a small cut near Grantaire’s hairline. “Not too bad,” Combeferre murmurs. “Won’t need much. At least you finally stopped bleeding all over the place. Ruined my shirt,” and Grantaire nudges him. “I’m still worried about a concussion, Taire,” Combeferre says when he’s finally done wiping the blood away, “but I won’t make you go to the hospital.”
“Thank you,” Grantaire says simply. Combeferre goes into the bathroom again; they hear the sound of running water. “Are you just going to stand there staring?” Grantaire shoots Enjolras a look. Enjolras, on his part, hasn’t moved from Jehan, hasn’t said a word, and hasn’t looked away from Grantaire. His eyes are red-rimmed and his skin is pale, and he is trembling a little, though only Jehan can tell.
Courfeyrac had only vaguely registered Enjolras’s tears when he and Jehan pulled him away, leaving Combeferre to carry Grantaire out. Now, though, seeing the red around Enjolras’s eyes, Courfeyrac feels uneasy. Enjolras hadn’t cried much, but the fact that he had shed a tear at all…
It isn’t their first protest that has ended in a riot, in injuries, and in police storming the crowd. But it is the first one where Marius gets into a brawl and Enjolras ends up crying. And the role reversal is almost too much for Courfeyrac to handle.
“You—you looked—“ Enjolras chokes on his words, but they all know. Head wounds really did bleed a lot, and Grantaire had been far too still.
“But I’m fine now,” Grantaire says, as reassuring as he knows how. “I’m here.” And Enjolras goes to the couch, folds himself beside Grantaire. He lays his head on Grantaire’s chest, breathes in. He doesn’t shake so much anymore, but he grips Grantaire tightly, and Grantaire returns it, and it’s quiet for a moment. Combeferre reappears from the bathroom, his hands finally clean of blood.
Courfeyrac turns to Jehan, grips his chin lightly with thumb and forefinger, and examines his face. Jehan bats him away. “I’m not hurt,” he whispers, and Courfeyrac nods, because he had known but still needed to check. They had both been too busy keeping Enjolras out of the fray to get involved themselves. Courfeyrac counts them lucky this time, all things considered. No one arrested, no one in the hospital, and everyone accounted for. He kisses Jehan on the nose lightly, and Jehan smiles and takes his hand.
“How’s the eye?” Combeferre breaks the silence, watching Marius carefully. Marius lowers the ice pack.
“Dunno,” he says. “How’s it look?”
Grantaire glances up and hisses. “Wow.” He sounds impressed. “Solid. Nice and purple.” Enjolras lifts his head to get a look. “Going to be able to see tomorrow?” Grantaire asks, slightly amused.
It’s not that Marius has never gotten into a fight; everyone in the group has, at least once. They have been to enough protests, and inevitably some of the protests have gone wrong. But it is the first time Marius has taken the initiative to fight, and it’s the first time he’s been in the heart of a riot. It’s the first time he’d been visibly angry, and the first time he had caused to cops to take notice. They’ve never seen Marius do much more than basic self-defense, and Grantaire wishes now he hadn’t been unconscious for it.
“Can’t believe I missed the kid’s first fight,” Grantaire mutters, sounding a bit like a proud father, ignoring Marius’s “don’t call me ‘kid’.”
“It was because of you he got into a fight in the first place,” Combeferre reminds him.
Grantaire shrugs. “That asshole deserved it. I hope you got a couple good hits in,” he says to Marius, who sheepishly admits, “just the one.”
“That guy was huge,” Courfeyrac reminds him. “And drunk, and mean. It looked like you broke his nose. One hit, maybe, but it was a damn good one.”
“Thank you, Marius,” Enjolras says quietly, still clinging to Grantaire. Marius looks slightly embarrassed as he raises the ice pack back to his eye. Grantaire lifts a hand to lazily tangle his fingers in Enjolras’s hair, stroking lightly. “Really, thank you.” Enjolras sounds small. It’s too much; Courfeyrac grips Jehan’s hand tighter, and Jehan, understanding, pulls Courfeyrac closer.
Combeferre gives Marius a searching look. “Are you sure you don’t need a hospital?” Marius shakes his head. “Uh huh,” Combeferre says in the same knowing tone Courfeyrac had used only moments earlier. “Sitting like that for fun, are we? Definitely nothing to do with your ribs, then?”
Marius sighs. “They’re not broken or anything.” He sounds so earnest; Courfeyrac nearly smiles. “Really, I don’t think I need the hospital.” (“Always the same tune with this group,” Combeferre mutters.) “I think they’re just… bruised?”
“God.” Combeferre rolls his eyes, steps forward. “Let’s see it then.” Marius looks at him incredulously. “I’m not playing this game with you, too, Marius, it’s bad enough with Head Wound over there. Let me check your ribs or I’m drugging you and taking you to a doctor. You too, Taire,” Combeferre snaps, hearing Grantaire sniggering.
Marius stands and obliges, hissing a little when Combeferre runs a hand over his damaged side. “All right,” Combeferre says finally. “Bruised, not broken. Lucked out this time, Pontmercy.” Marius sits down carefully, hyper aware of everyone watching him. “But put that ice on your ribs. And take some painkillers.” Combeferre shakes his head, muttering about helpless children under his breath.
“Anything else, Papa Ferre?” Courfeyrac says, managing a straight face. Combeferre glares at him.
“Courf means thank you,” Jehan says softly. Courfeyrac rolls his eyes but gives a small grin of agreement.
“Well, someone has to be the voice of reason with this lot.” Combeferre manages to sound exasperated and fond all at once. He glances at his phone. “And speaking of…” He pauses to send a quick text, sighing a little. “I’m going to check on Eponine. She’s being a little too vague, so…” He looks up from his phone. “I’m going to make sure she’s all right.”
“Good,” Courfeyrac says firmly. “Joly said she took off before anyone could check, and you know how she gets in a fight… He sounded worried, but he’s with Bossuet and Bahorel, so there’s not much he can do.”
“I think she’d prefer Ferre’s bedside manner anyway,” Grantaire says, teasing lazily. He laughs as Enjolras says, “hush” and Combeferre snaps, “you’re supposed to be resting” and Marius’s one eye widens as he, once again, realizes his own obliviousness.
“Don’t let Grantaire fall asleep,” Combeferre instructs to the group in general. “Make sure Marius ices his ribs. Someone make Enjolras some tea.” He’s texting rapidly as he opens the door, tosses a “be good!” over his shoulder, and disappears.
“Oh, but imagine when he actually has children,” Jehan says adoringly, and Courfeyrac kisses his cheek. Marius gets up stiffly and goes to make tea, ignoring Enjolras’s “I don’t need anything, really.” Grantaire stops stroking his hair for a moment to press a kiss to the top of his head. Jehan coos a little.
“So,” Courfeyrac says, breaking away from Jehan to force Marius back to his seat, waving away his protests. “Grantaire needs to stay awake. And I guess you should probably get some ice, too, huh? And Marius needs watching over.” He exchanges a look with Jehan. “We’re staying here, then.”
“You don’t have to,” Grantaire tries to argue. “I can think of a few ways Enjolras can keep me awake.” He makes the lewd implication instinctively, and he laughs when Enjolras slaps him gently. “Seriously, though. Don’t feel obligated to stay; I mean, Enj will look after me.”
“Mhm, sure.” Courfeyrac shakes his head. “And who will look after Enjolras?”
Grantaire can’t answer that one; Enjolras is still clinging to him tightly, face still buried in his chest. Grantaire resumes stroking Enjolras’s hair; it’s rare that Enjolras is so publicly affectionate, even when they’re just among friends, and Grantaire is going to take advantage of the moment.
“You aren’t an obligation, Taire,” Jehan says, looking a little wounded. He has perched on top of the kitchen table, beside Marius’s chair. He hugs his knees as he studies the couple on the couch.
“I—“ Grantaire can’t think of an argument. The kettle begins to whistle, and Courfeyrac goes to pour the tea. He comes up with two steaming mugs, and hands one to Enjolras— who accepts it a little reluctantly, finally sitting up and letting go of Grantaire— and the other to Jehan.
“So it’s settled, yeah?” Courfeyrac says cheerfully. He hops onto the table beside Jehan.
“I do have chairs, you know,” Enjolras says casually between sips of tea. He will never admit that the tea is actually helping, but Grantaire can see the tension leaving his shoulders, just a little.
“Oh, please,” Courfeyrac scoffs, “I know for a fact that this table has seen worse things than my clothed butt.” Marius scoots away from the table with a panicked expression. Enjolras scowls into his tea.
“Grantaire is on twenty-four hour watch,” Jehan informs Courfeyrac and Marius. “Ferre’s orders.” Courfeyrac nods, because he had expected as much.
“So that’s that. We’re staying.” He points to Marius, “game night?” points to Jehan, “game night?” points to the couple on the couch, “game night?” Grantaire laughs. Enjolras considers the idea. “A movie night would have everyone falling asleep,” Courfeyrac explains. “Anyway, when’s the last time we had a sober game night? Never, I think?”
“That time we lost power,” Marius supplies.
“Grantaire was buzzed,” Courfeyrac argues, and then shrugs. “Well, sure, I suppose that counts. But that was, what, six or seven months ago? I think we’re due another.”
Enjolras sighs. “Game night it is, then.” He contemplates for a moment. “I don’t think I’ve got anything besides playing cards.”
“Oh, there’s lots we can do with playing cards,” Courfeyrac laughs. “And if it comes down to it, we can play truth or dare.”
Enjolras frowns. “This isn’t a middle school slumber party.”
“We play it drunk all the time!”
“That version,” Enjolras says sternly, “always ends up with you asking Grantaire about our sex life. And ‘daring’ Jehan to take his clothes off.” He uses air quotes.
“Fine. We’ll stick to cards.” Courfeyrac tilts his head. “Who’s in for strip poker?”