Chapter Text
The douchebag who Grantaire calls a landlord has just evicted all of the poorer tenants in the building late last week, and currently, Grantaire badly needs a place to stay.
The news buzzes all over the Musain this afternoon, and contrary to popular belief, Enjolras is neither oblivious (not most of the time, anyway) nor heartless. He manages to get the scoop from Jehan, who prattles on obligingly even as Combeferre gives Enjolras yet another of his inscrutable Looks.
So the situation is this: Marius’ grandfather, his only surviving relative who gives Marius every temporal desire he could ask for — if Marius isn’t so good-natured he’d be spoiled rotten — is prepared to hand the newly engaged couple the key to a brand new future house of their own, right beside his, and about a ten-minute walk away from Valjean’s own residence.
That means that Cosette is about to move out from the apartment she shares with Eponine — at any rate, she’s hardly around anyway, with all the time she spends with Marius, her father, and Monsieur Gillenormand.
Eponine would have room, except that she just won custody of Gavroche and Azelma away from their parents, and both youngsters really need — and deserve — their own rooms.
Courfeyrac and Jehan have a spare room, but they use it as storage; and anyway, Grantaire has established that they’re his last resort because of all the sex — and loud sex, at that — that happens 24/7 in that apartment.
Bahorel and Feuilly have their hands full being roommates, especially with their girlfriends Odette and Sabine moving in as well. The two girls have come to meetings at the Musain, and Enjolras has to admit that he does like them. They’re no Musichetta or Eponine or Cosette, but that’s to be expected, and they’re always pretty attentive when he speaks, which is all he’s concerned with.
The apartment that Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet share is just big enough for the three of them, and too small to accommodate another roommate.
Which leaves Enjolras and Combeferre in the apartment that his parents have gifted him. Correction: that his mother gifted him, because his father is convinced that Enjolras will never amount to anything except being a trust fund kid.
He only takes the money he lives on from his mother because she begs him to.
“The apartment has three rooms,” Combeferre muses as Jehan finally stops for breath. “Mine, yours, and one that you use for your office.”
Now that Enjolras thinks about it, it’s kind of silly that he has an office. He keeps all the books and paperwork that he needs in his room, anyway, because he can’t bear to have any of it out of his sight. The only things in the office that he can truly claim as his are some books and a few storage boxes of his clothes. Combeferre stores a couple of boxes in there as well, but nothing too big that they can’t stuff in the hallway closets or their own rooms.
Jehan’s eyes grow big as he realizes what they’re discussing. He looks hopefully from Enjolras to Combeferre and back again with that puppy-dog expression that Enjolras can never refuse, but helpfully waits for them to figure things out.
It doesn’t matter, though. Combeferre has silently given his consent with his innocuous comment, and Jehan is the one living soul in the world apart from Combeferre who Enjolras cannot say no to. Besides, despite Grantaire’s faults, he is still a friend and a part of Les Amis, and the group consists of the only people Enjolras cares about more than his own life.
“He can move in tomorrow morning.”
Jehan jumps up and gives Combeferre a hug before throwing his arms around Enjolras and squeezing the living daylights out of him. “Yay! He’s been so worried. You’re both angels! I’ll go tell him now!”
He practically flies out of the cafe — surprisingly without a pair of wings sprouting from the poet’s back — leaving Enjolras blinking at the space where Jehan was standing and Combeferre chuckling wryly beside him.
“You agreed to that more quickly than I expected,” he remarks, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
Enjolras shrugs by way of explanation.
“I know,” Combeferre says. He claps one hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “He’s one of us. I’m just glad you didn’t take long to remember that, despite how much he irritates you.”
Enjolras shrugs again. For some reason, he finds fault with that statement, but he doesn’t quite know or understand why.