CHAPTER V

             A few hours and quite a few drinks later, the friends finally decided that it was time to go.  The bar was closing in fifteen minutes anyway, and Matrissa had threatened to ban them from returning if they didn’t go home and get some sleep.  As the others filed out, some laughing, several singing a loud, slurred version of La Marseillaise, Combeferre slipped around the table to where Grantaire was asleep, curled up on Enjolras’s lap like a kitten.  The golden-haired sophomore seemed to be asleep himself, but when Combeferre touched his shoulder lightly, the brilliant blue eyes opened and a smile spread across the handsome features.  He pulled Combeferre close in order to whisper in his friend’s ear.
             “Bonjour,” was all he said, then burst out in giggles.  Ian arched one eyebrow in dismay.
             “Enjolras, it’s time to go home now.”
             Enjolras nodded with exaggerated sobriety. “I know.” He sat still as Combeferre gently pried Grantaire’s arms from around his waist and laid the girl back in her chair.
             “Matty,” Combeferre called. “Take care of her, would you?  I don’t know where she lives, or if she has any loved ones who might care about her, but I hesitate to leave her here alone.”
             “All right, Ian my dove.  This isn’t the first time this one has stayed the night here.” The kindly woman patted the sleeping girl’s cheek. “Poor dear.  I wish she wouldn’t drink so.  She often comes here, you know that?”
             “I had heard something along those lines, yes.” Combeferre grunted as he pulled Enjolras up from his chair, supporting the boy’s full weight. “Marc, would you use your feet, please?  I can’t carry you.”
             “Why not?” The younger boy gazed at him with large, puppy-dog eyes. “I wantcha to carry me.”
             Matrissa smiled affectionately. “Take good care of your little one, Ian.  I know how you love ‘im.”
             “Huh?” Combeferre glanced up at her in surprise. “You really don’t believe that, do you?”
             “Course I do!  I’ve seen enough young lovers in my lifetime to know when two people are more than friends.”
             Combeferre shook his head with a smile. “Not true, I fear.  We’ve never been more than friends, he and I.”
             Enjolras wound his arms around Combeferre’s neck. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here.”
             “You’re not here,” Ian replied patiently. “You’re utterly smashed.”
             “Am not…” Enjolras gave a sweet, childish pout.
             “Are too,” Combeferre answered fondly, dragging his young charge towards the door. “Bye, Matty.  We’ll see you around.”
             “G’bye, boys!  Get home safely!” She waved as they disappeared out the front door.

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             By the time they reached the dorm building, Combeferre was half-dragging, half-carrying his friend, who found it all to be rather amusing, or must have, as he couldn’t stop giggling.  Upon reaching the building, Combeferre dug Enjolras’s ID out of the boy’s coat pocket and flashed it and his own to the guard on duty.  The two boys made it up the stairs with some difficulty, but finally they stood before the door to the room.  The hallway was abandoned, all the parties of the night apparently having ended already.  Combeferre dug around in his pocket for the room key, and not finding it there, went on to search every pocket on Enjolras’s person.  When that search yielded no results, he growled in frustration, sitting cross-legged on the carpeted hall floor.  Enjolras slid down next to him as the philosopher began to fume irritably to himself.
             “So we’re locked out.  Great.  Just great.  And admin won’t be able to get someone down here till morning, no doubt.  So the long and short of it is, we’re sleeping out here tonight.  With the beer bottles, and the drunks who occasionally stumble out of their rooms to retch out here in the hall, and the faulty heater that quits every few hours.  Wonderful.”
             “Could be worse…” Enjolras replied, leaning his head on Combeferre’s shoulder.
             “I don’t see how.”
             Enjolras thought for a moment. “Nope, you’re right.  We’re screwed.” He burst into little hiccupping giggles.
             Ian rolled his eyes, turning his head to look at his friend. “Enjolras, next time I see you take a drink, remind me to smack you upside the head.”
             “’K.” Enjolras grinned.  He leaned over suddenly and kissed Combeferre, full on the lips.  His older friend just stared at him as though he’d lost his mind.
             “You’re a very strange person, Enjolras, you know that.  Particularly when you’re drunk.”
             “Already toldja…’M not drunk.”
             Combeferre sighed, moving his shoulder, which was asleep because of the other boy’s weight leaning on it. “Then why did you do that?”
             “’Cause you looked sad.” Enjolras gazed at him with wide-eyed, if somewhat inebriated, innocence.
             “I really hope you don’t remember any of this in the morning,” was the only reply from Ian.
             Marc grinned. “I wanna remember it.  It’s fun.”
             “You also think insulting random people on the street in Latin is fun.”
             “True, true.” Enjolras smiled, and for a moment, he almost looked like his usual self.  Taking this as a good sign, Combeferre turned to him.
             “Enjolras, do you know that people think we’re lovers?”
             Marc shrugged. “Sure.”
             “And that doesn’t bother you?” Ian was confused.
             “Does it bother you?”
             “Not really,” the dark-haired boy admitted. “But then, I’m gay, and you’re not.”
             Enjolras grinned. “Tha’s okay.  I don’t care what they think.” He paused a moment, then asked, in perfect innocence, “’Ferre, why aren’t we lovers?”
             Combeferre did a double take. “What?” He stopped, thinking how to best explain this.  He answered in a slow, patient voice. “Well, I suppose because I’m gay, and you’re not.”
             Enjolras burrowed closer to his friend, laying his head against Ian’s chest. “I dunno.  Maybe I am gay, I dunno.”
             “Well…have you ever been with a man?”
             “No.”
             “Have you ever been with a woman?”
             “No.”
             “Hm.” Combeferre glanced down at the top of his friend’s head. “I would just call you undeclared, then.”
             Enjolras smiled. “You can put your arm around me, if you want.” It seemed that he’d already followed his own advice, with both of his arms looped around Combeferre’s waist.
             “I don’t know if I should,” Ian replied mildly. “I wouldn’t want to give anyone the wrong idea.”
             “Neither would I,” Enjolras said, leaning up and pressing his lips against Combeferre’s.  Combeferre tolerated the intimacy, but refused to take advantage of it, even as he felt the other’s tongue move into his mouth.  He pulled away gently.
             “Look, Marc, no offense, but this is completely pointless.  I mean, it isn’t as though we can make love out here in the hallway.  And besides, you probably won’t remember this by morning anyway.”
             Enjolras gave him a wide-eyed, disappointed look. “But…don’t you want me?”
             “Perhaps.” Ian was deliberately vague, knowing that his gravest mistake would be to incriminate himself. “But this is neither the time nor the place to decide that, or act on it.  So go to sleep, Enjolras.  You’re going to be exceedingly cranky in the morning, not to mention hung over, and I’m the one who’s going to have to deal with you.”
             “Okay…okay, ‘Ferre.” Discouraged, Marc ducked his head, nestling his face further into Combeferre’s trenchcoat.  After a few minutes, Enjolras’s breathing slowed to regular pattern, and he had fallen deeply asleep.  Combeferre hesitantly wrapped his arm around his young friend’s shoulders, burying a soft kiss in the boy’s golden hair.
            “Goodnight, mon petit.  Goodnight.”
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             “Unhh…” Enjolras groaned.  His head was aching as though someone was hitting him repeatedly with a sledgehammer, and he was as stiff as was humanly possible.  He could not force his eyes open, and he attempted to sit up, groping around for something to pull himself up on.  A voice right beside his ear startled him half out of his wits.
             “Watch where you put your hands, Enjolras.”
             The younger boy’s eyes flew open. “Combeferre!  What’s—argh…” The bright light all around him was intense, and caused his head to throb mercilessly. “Ian…where am I?”
             His friend smiled good-naturedly. “You’re in the hallway of the dormitory.  Don’t you remember?  I couldn’t find the key to the room, and we were stuck out here for the rest of the night.”
             “Ugh…I remember, but it’s kinda foggy.  So I just fell asleep out here?” He noted that he was draped over Combeferre’s body, and they were both sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall next to their door. “God, I’m sorry…I must have fallen on you in my sleep.”
             Combeferre gave a small, sad smile. “Yeah…you must have.” He helped Enjolras sit up, only to have to young man lean back onto him at the first sign of a pounding headache.
             “Aiiiii…Ian…it feels as though my head’s going to explode.”
             “I’m sorry for you, Marc.” Ian scrambled to his feet, practically dragging his friend up with him. “Maybe next time, you’ll think twice before drinking all the bourbon in Corinne’s.”
             Enjolras moaned, holding his head in one hand and leaning on Combeferre with the other hand. “I have Spanish at ten today.  I don’t think I could even make it down to the lecture hall, much less learn anything.”
             “C’mon.” Ian checked his wristwatch. “It’s eleven now anyway.  We’re going to Café Maisha.  Then you can commiserate with all the other hung-over people in Morningside Heights, and get some good black coffee to boot.  And I can get some good bourbon.”
             “Fine, whatever.” Enjolras felt his way down the stairwell. “Just stop shouting.”
             “I’m not shouting, Enjolras.” Combeferre rolled his eyes. “Your senses are acute.”
             The blond youth squinted at him. “I need a drink.”
             “A drink of coffee, yeah.” The older boy led the way down to the lobby.
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             As Combeferre pushed open the cybercafé door, the Internet connection noise once again heralded their arrival, and several moans of protest resulted, both from Enjolras and from the few customers in the café.  The two students went to join Courfeyrac and Prouvaire, who were at their usual table, with Lupe taking up the third chair at the table.  Radley was holding his head in his hands, the poet was asleep with his head resting on his arms, which were folded on the tabletop, and the Cuban was taking a gulp from a huge styrofoam cup of coffee.  As they approached, Courfeyrac turned slowly to look at them, his eyes squinted in agony.
             “Lupe, somebody’s gotta turn off that little bell thingy that goes off every time someone comes in.  It’s causing my head to throb.”
             “Shut your hole, Courfeyrac,” she snapped. “You’re causing my head to throb.”
             “Now, now, guys.” Combeferre pulled another chair up to the table as Enjolras sank into the other seat. “I would ask if we’d all learned a lesson about drinking too much, but I know better.  You guys are gonna go out and get drunk for as long as the world keeps turning and the sun keeps shining.”
             “Ah, cierra la boca°.” Enjolras was obviously not in a pleasant mood.
             “Didn’t you wear that yesterday, Ian?” Lupe asked, watching the med student curiously.
             “Why yes, I did,” Combeferre replied, with just a trace of sarcasm. “It’s a long and sordid story, muchacha.”
             “We got all day,” Courfeyrac moaned, trying to focus on the tabletop in front of him. “Besides, I’d like to hear about someone who’s more pathetic than I am.”
             Combeferre sighed. “You’d be hard-pressed to find someone who’s more pathetic than you are right now, Courfeyrac.  Anyway, last night, when we got home, I discovered that the room key was nowhere on my person, nor on Enjolras’s, so we were forced to sleep in the hall.”
             Courfeyrac began to laugh, but his snickering dissolved into anguished groans as the pangs in his head increased sharply. “That’s really sad, guys.”
             “I know,” Ian replied, taking a sip from Lupe’s coffee cup. “But so is the fact that if I were to merely clap my hands right now, your head would throb agonizingly.”
             “Oh, just shut up.” Courfeyrac said sullenly, laying his head on the sleeping Prouvaire’s shoulder.
             Combeferre smiled smugly, closing his eyes and slouching a bit in his chair.
             “’Ferre…we gotta go to the quickie mart down the street tonight; we’re outta milk.” Enjolras rubbed his temples.
             “Whaddya need milk for,” Courfeyrac interrupted, “when you’ve got beer?”
             Combeferre rolled his eyes. “You see, there’s the problem right there.  You drank beer for breakfast yesterday, Radley, and for dinner.  Do you have any sense of good health whatsoever?”
             “Aww, be nice,” Courfeyrac sighed. “I happen to be fond of beer.”
             “What happened to Prouvaire, anyway?” Enjolras asked, staring curiously at the poet, dead to the world.
             “The poor guy’s tired, that’s what,” Lupe said. “Courfey probably kept ‘im up all night.”
             “How come everything’s my fault all the time?”
             “Because it usually is.”
             “Relax, guys.” Combeferre sighed.  He ran fingers through his wavy hair, trying to comb it into some semblance of order. “Ugh, I hate this hair.”
             “I like it,” Enjolras commented mildly.
             Ian gave him a look. “Hn.  You do?”
             A brief, unique smile flickered across the pale face. “Uh-huh.”
             “Stop, stop, stop!  No flirting this early in the morning!” Courfeyrac groaned.
             Enjolras flushed deeply, leaving Combeferre to stutter helplessly.  Unable to find suitable words, the philosopher settled for a weak contradiction: “It’s…not morning anymore, Radley…”
             “I wasn’t flirting,” Enjolras muttered under his breath.
             “Who cares?!” Lupe rolled her eyes, plugging her ears with her fingers. “Jeez, just stop talking already, will ya?”
             The five friends sat in silence, the only sound being Prouvaire’s soft, even breathing as he slept.
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Footnotes:

1.) cierra la boca: Spanish for "Shut your mouth".

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