CHAPTER II

             “Hey!  Austin!” A young African-American yelled at the top of his lungs at a slight young man across the soccer field.
             “Don’t call me that, Laigle.” The other boy looked up at the shout. “You know how I hate that.  I do have a real name.”
             Laigle grinned, scratching the back of his bald head. “Yeah, but Austin sounds better, Jackson.”
             “I think Jackson is a lovely name, personally,” was the terse reply. “My parents were closely in touch with their southern roots.”
             “Tell me, Joly, what would they think if they knew you were with a black guy, hmmm?” Laigle wrapped his arms possessively around his friend’s waist.
             “Laigle…in public…” Joly shot him a warning look, pushing away the offending hands.
             “Ahhh, that’s nothing.” Laigle groused, but allowed himself to be repelled. “Combeferre goes around making puppy-dog eyes at his roommate all the time, and nobody says jack-shit to him.”
             “Laigle, you don’t have any proof about Combeferre and Enjolras.” Joly straightened his NYU sweatshirt, picking his backpack up off the ground. “I admit, it’s just a little suspicious, but, being a law student, you should realize that all you have is circumstantial evidence.”
             “I’m an ex-law student at the moment, remember?  I got kicked out of AP Comparative Gov on the first day.” The young man snorted, slipping on a pair of sunglasses. “And as for those two, everybody knows that Enjolras spreads his legs like a whore for his roommate, but they’re all too polite to bring up the subject.”
             “Well, that was an inappropriate comment, if I ever heard one.” Joly rolled his eyes, grabbing his companion’s sleeve and dragging him across the soccer field towards the street. “Speaking of the Columbians, are we going to the demonstration this afternoon?”
             “When is it at again?  Two?  Three?”
             “Three.  At their place.”
             “How is it we never get to host the rallies?”
             “Because NYU has much less of a tolerance for activism than Columbia University does, that’s why,” Joly answered. “We’d be tossed out into the street on our asses, while they only get a slap on the wrist, or a call home to mommy and daddy.”
             Laigle chuckled deep in his throat. “Well, at least we’ll be in good company.  I could think of worse people to spend my afternoon with than the pretty-boy revolutionaries of Morningside Heights.”
             “I think I should be jealous,” Joly huffed.
             “Why bother?” Laigle snorted with laughter. “All the good ones are taken anyway.”
             The other boy couldn’t prevent the broad grin from spreading across his face. “Love you, too.”
             “Oh, c’mon Joly.  You know I’m joking.”
             “Yeah, I know,” Jackson answered, still grinning. “I know.  But what about that girl we met in the club last night?  I saw you making eyes at her.”
             “Oh yeah?  You were worse than I was around her!” Laigle accused mischievously.
             “Me?  The girl who told us her name was Musichetta?  I hardly even looked at her!”
             The two young men disappeared around a street corner, still arguing jokingly.

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             “What’re you up to there, Mr. Enjolras?” A stern, bespectacled face gazed up at Marc, who was kneeling on the platform, banging in the last of the nails.
             The young man, his hair shining golden in the sun, looked up from his task. “Hey, Professor Katzenberg.  There’s gonna be a rally here in about half an hour.”
             “A rally?  Young man, do you remember what happened last time you and your little friends had a ‘get-together’ here?  Yes, that’s right, there was a full-scale riot, police and all.”
             Enjolras grinned, going back to pounding away enthusiastically with the hammer. “I’m sorry you disapprove.  I think it gets our point across, professor.”
             “Hey, Enjolras, can you hand me the—“ Combeferre glanced around the corner of the platform, a visor shading his eyes from the high afternoon sun. “Oh, hi, Professor Katz.”
             “Katzenberg,” the teacher corrected dryly.
             Combeferre shrugged, with an apologetic smile.  He glanced back up at Enjolras again. “Enjolras, do you have the electrical tape up there?”
             “Yeah, hang on a sec.” Marc paused from his hammering, and groped around for the roll of tape.  Finally, he found it and tossed it down to Combeferre, who skillfully caught it on one wrist.
             The philosopher nodded in gratitude. “Thanks!” He grinned amiably at the teacher before ducking back around the corner. “Nice seeing you, professor.”
             Katzenberg gave a forced smile in return, and said to Enjolras, “So, there’s nothing I can do to talk you out of this, Mr. Enjolras?”
             “Not a thing, sir.” Enjolras finished his hammering, and sat up, wiping his forehead on his sleeve. “I’m afraid I’m an incorrigible liberal.”
             “An incorrigible radical,” the professor muttered under his breath, turning to walk away.  Out loud, he called back over his shoulder, “Don’t land yourself in a juvenile detention center, Mr. Enjolras.”
             Enjolras watched him go, a small frown playing on his lips.  A moment later, Combeferre hoisted himself up onto the platform beside his friend.
             “Boy, he’s a prune, ain’t he?” the dark-haired young man commented, following Enjolras’s line of vision. “I hope I don’t become such a bitter, dried-up old man when I get to be his age.”
             Enjolras grinned, playfully pulling the visor off Combeferre’s head. “You stick with the protesting, and you may not live to be his age.”
             Ian snatched his hat back with a good-natured smile. “Gimme that.  I’m having a bad hair day; I need my hat.”
             “You have good hair days?” Enjolras teased.
             “Har, har.  Yeah, laugh it up, Mr. I-Can’t-Grow-A-Real-Beard.”
             Enjolras groaned. “That’s a low blow.  Besides, you see this stuff on my chin?  See it?  That’s a beard.”
             “Beard?  That’s peach fuzz, Enjolras.” Combeferre was laughing, in his usual cheerful way.
             “Oh, bite me.  I would say it in Spanish, but the phrase eludes me at the moment.”
             “Hey!”  The sound of a familiar voice shouting attracted their attention.  Both Enjolras and Combeferre turned.
             “Laigle.” Enjolras muttered.
             “And Joly,” added Ian.
             “What do they want?” Enjolras grumbled.
             “Shhh…be nice.” Combeferre elbowed his friend. “They’re allies in the wide world of political activism.”
             “They give me the creeps.”
             “Why?” The dark-haired boy gave him a sharp look. “Because they’re gay?”
             Enjolras was about to reply angrily, when the other two boys reached the platform and Laigle vaulted up onto it, landing beside the blond youth.
             “Hey, guys!  Thought I heard that you’d be here!”
             “Yep,” Combeferre said before Enjolras could retort. “I guess you heard about the demonstration, huh?”
             “’Course we did.” Joly remained on the ground, looking up at the other three. “Word always gets around to us eventually.”
             “Need any help here?” Laigle asked, ruffling Enjolras’s hair fondly.
             “No, I think we’re done, actually,” Combeferre replied, raising an eyebrow at the expression on Enjolras’s face.
             Laigle shrugged. “Okay.  Hey, we’ll meet you back here at three.  That is the kickoff time, am I right?”
             “That’s right.  We’ll be here.” Combeferre watched as the bald young man leapt from the platform, and he and Joly headed off in the direction of Morningside Park.  They hadn’t been alone for a minute when Combeferre whirled to face Enjolras.
             “What’s your problem, Marc?  I mean, really, what do you have against them?”
             “Me?  I don’t have a problem.  Obviously, you do,” Enjolras immediately switched to defensive mode. “What the f*** makes you so touchy, anyway?”
             “If I told you it was P.M.S., would you believe me?” Combeferre snapped back.
             “I just might,” Enjolras replied heatedly.
             “Homophobe,” Combeferre muttered.
             “Oh, so now I’m a homophobe?” The younger man threw up his hands in frustration. “I put up with your little mood swings, don’t I?”
             “Mood swings?  What the hell do you mean, mood swings?”
             Enjolras frowned. “You have the mood swings of a manic depressive.  Oh, that’s right, I forgot, I’m supposed to talk to you with the gentleness I’d use when talking to a woman.  God forbid I should tell you things as directly as I’d tell any other man.”
             Shocked and clearly hurt, Combeferre turned away, blinking back tears. “I can’t believe you said that.”
             Enjolras bit his lip, floundering in his guilt. “I can’t either.” He touched his friend’s shoulder. “Forgive me, Ian?”
             Combeferre refused to face him, not wanting his friend to see him cry. “I don’t know if I can, Enjolras.  Just…give me some time alone, would you?  I’ll be back by three.” He slid off the platform before Marc could protest otherwise.
             Enjolras watched him jog off across the lawn, and slammed his fist onto the platform. “Goddamnit!”
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