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akumastrife · 4 months

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'I didn't wish for snow (but it's better with you)' // Les Mis - Snowed In

Rating: Teen (language) Pairing: E/R, BahorelFeuilly, Courferre, Eponine/Cosette/Marius, Montparnasse/Jehan, Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta Fandom: Les Mis Word Count: 4k It was Sunday. Sundays were for meeting with L'ABC for the cause of the season. This Sunday was thwarted by approximately two feet of cold, white bullshit. {ALSO ON AO3} (Yes, this was something I started Dec 2022 for my Holiday Fic Advent Challenge. Yes, it could've easily been 40k. But I'm practicing restraint and trying to be more realistic with my abilities, and hey! better late than never.)

Grantaire glanced up from pouring himself another cup of mulled wine, and smiled softly despite himself. “E, darling,” he teased, “I don’t think they’re going to make it.”

“We always meet on Sundays,” Enjolras muttered. He crossed his arms, shifting, and didn’t move from the window. A golden sentinel. Grantaire let himself look while Enjolras sulked. Just for another moment or two.

Grantaire sighed, but humored him by coming over to stand beside him.

Outside, the world was a blur of fast falling snow, drifts building high on the sidewalks and encroaching on the streets. “We’re supposed to get another ten inches at least.”

And then snorted, a joke primed on his lips—

—let it pass at the withering look Enjolras shot him, pressing his smile into a thin seam and shaking his head, eyes wide in faux innocence.

“I think everyone’s snowed in. Or out, depending on where they are. Face it, Étoile, just you and me today. Probably tomorrow. As long as it takes to be shoveled out.”

“Horrors,” Enjolras mused, but the corner of his mouth flickered and betrayed him. He sighed, long and tortured, and took the mug from Grantaire’s hand, sipping it with a pleased hum. “This is the best batch so far.”

“More orange,” Grantaire agreed. He took Enjolras’ elbow and tugged lightly. “Come on, away from the window. Let’s watch a trashy, disgustingly heterosexual hallmark movie, and you can tell me everything wrong with it.”

“I do enjoy that. Be better if Courfeyrac was here, though.”

“Everything’s better with Courf,” Grantaire agreed indulgently. “Maybe we should invite him into the bedroom next time.”

Enjolras hummed in general agreement, because he wasn’t listening, already texting Courfeyrac.

Grantaire laughed to himself and turned on the tv, pulling Enjolras down by his belt loops.

Across town, the door to the cafe blew open on a gust of wind, a swirl of snow, and what appeared to be an honest-to-god Yeti.

And then, upon a second and much longer look, it was only some fool caked in snow from trying to carry out a normal day in this very-abnormal Sunday Blizzard.

“Look like you could use something to warm up with,” Feuilly called across the lobby. He abandoned his broom to slip back behind the counter and tighten his apron strings. At least if he was stuck here for capitalism’s ever-grinding-machine, he’d get a tip out of it.

“Witch’s Tits, it’s a mess out there,” the yeti grunted.

Oh.

Oh, that was his fool.

“What on earth are you doing out in the storm!” Feuilly snapped, putting down the paper cup and coming out into the lobby once again. This time with a dishtowel for Bahorel’s… snowy everything.

Bahorel, the idiot, just smiled at him, shaking himself off like a dog and beat his snow crusted hat on the back of a chair. “Coming to pick you up.”

“My shift doesn’t end for another two hours,” Feuilly reminded him, much less frightening that he’d intended. It was a sweet, if stupid, gesture. He tossed the towel at him so he could properly fold his arms and pretend not be exasperatedly charmed. “It’s messy out there, you said so yourself.”

“Whole city’s shutting down.” Something muffled under the towel. And then Bahorel reappeared with a grin. “Figured even your bosses would have to comply.”

“You figured wrong.”

Bahorel’s glee melted away with the snow in his locs.

Feuilly frowned, but sighed anyway and reached to rub warmth into Bahorel’s cheeks. “But I suppose it’s sweet you came anyway. How was campus?”

“Oh, same as same. Showed my face at the study group, passed out some of Enj’s fliers since I was already there. Tried to duck out early but none of the buses are running with everything.”

Feuilly nodded as he listened, drifting back behind the counter to make Bahorel something warm to drink. Habit and comfort, hands working mechanically as he made something off menu, listening to Bahorel’s animated story-telling just like when they were at home. Only the empty cafe and its softly humming appliances were their captive audience, instead of all his plants and their cat.

“Sorry, wait,” he interrupted, “did you just say you taught a class? Who’s class? What class runs on a Sunday? Aren’t there, I don’t know, laws about that?”

Bahorel sat at a stool, crossing his arms on the counter. “Well, you see, as I was saying, I was trying to leave campus but I came across a classroom in which there was no teacher and a dozen students talking about the fifteen-minute rule.”

“Baz…”

“So, I thought, what the hell, I’m already here, might as well do something. Marched in, said they’d sent a Sub, and got to teaching.”

Feuilly pressed a hand to his mouth, choking back laughter. “You? You barely go to classes, and now you’re teaching them? What was it?”

“Ancient Roman Law.”

“There’s a historical law class… on Sundays?” Feuilly slid a mug across the counter to him, leaning on it himself.

“Oh, don’t know what class it was, but that’s what I taught.”

Feuilly sputtered, coughed, and then couldn’t help the peal of genuine laughter. “You’re terrible. Those poor undergrads are going to think it’ll be on the test!” He leaned to hit Bahorel’s shoulder hard.

Bahorel only flinched so much as to protect him mug from tipping, and grinned, cheeks flushed with cold and joy, eyes twinkling. “Ah, it’ll be good for them. If they thought I was a real teacher, that’s on them.”

“Wait, if the buses aren’t running, how’d you get here?”

“I walked,” Bahorel said, eyebrows raised in the pointed obviously.

Feuilly hit him again. “Then how did you think you were going to ‘pick me up’ with no transportation?”

“I admit, I hadn’t thought that far. It was more about the gesture, really.”

“Here’s a gesture for you,” Feuilly said, and flipped him off. “What if we’re stuck here all night?”

“Could be romantic.”

Feuilly rolled his eyes. “That’d break so many food service regulations. Absolutely not.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Well then I suppose it’s good you’re fun enough for the both of us,” Feuilly sighed, and gave into that cheeky grin by leaning across the counter for a kiss.

“Looks like that’s the last of everyone,” Cosette said, wiping her hands down her powder blue apron and looking around. The food drive had been busy, but not like years previous, and she was dismayed to realize it was because how much snow was falling and more than likely no one not at the shelter itself could get there.

“We should start cleaning up and get out of here,” Eponine said, handing her a rag, “before we get stuck here too. R’s been texting, he and his golden candlestick are stuck at the apartment. Proper lovebirds,” with an insincere sneer.

Cosette giggled.

Gavroche wriggled between a wall and the trash cans, breathing hard and face flushed with cold.

“What’s wrong with you?” Eponine asked, as Cosette brushed snow from his hat, face, and shirt collar.

“Marius’ car’s stuck,” he said, muffled behind Cosette’s hands. “He went off to get help.”

“Oh dear.”

“He’ll be dead in a ditch before dawn,” Eponine said.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Cosette said, but even she couldn’t sound as optimistic as she’d like. “We’ll clean up and see if anyone needs anything else, and maybe by the time we’re ready to leave, it won’t be on homemade snowshoes.”

It didn’t take too long, all in all. The cooks and kitchen helpers mostly had everything wrapped up and ready for deliveries (that likely wouldn’t happen with the weather) while Gavroche flitted around throwing more festive decorations up on any ledge or wall that seemed too depressing.

Eponine changed over laundry and passed out more blankets, and smiled too fond when she found Cosette sat on the floor with a little girl, hand-mending her doll’s dress.

“This is very pretty,” Cosette praised. “I love this color of green. And it’ll hide my stitches beautifully.”

“Did you do that?” the girl asked, pointing and poking at the sprig of forget-me-nots embroidered on her apron strap.

“I did, would your doll like some too?”

The little girl nodded and Eponine smoothed a hand over Cosette’s hair, sitting down beside her to rest her feet for the first time all day.

Cosette had embroidered not only flowers but a tiny bird on the girl’s own sleeve by the time her phone chimed in her pocket.

“Grab that, love?” she asked, hands busy and thread caught in her mouth as she finished.

Eponine slid out her phone and snorted at the ID, before answering it, getting to her feet and looking towards the door. “Is this the man who’s kidnapped my boyfriend? We don’t have any money for ransom, you know.”

Marius’ breath hitched down the line in surprise before laughing softly. He sounded winded, and a little giddy, but mostly probably all right. “Car’s stuck in the snow, I’m sorry, and the buses aren’t running, but I’ve come with a chariot for the ladies none the less.”

“So gallant,” she drawled, glancing down at Cosette’s curious expression, and rolling her eyes in answer. She reached down to help her up. “We’ll be right out, it better be warm, Pontmercy.”

“I’ve done my best.”

She gathered their bags, her little brother, and her girlfriend’s porcelain hand, taking all of it out front of the shelter.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.”

“Oh my,” Cosette echoed, entirely charmed and fluttery because she was actually a Victorian Lady born in the wrong year.

“That’s so cool!” Gavroche exclaimed, and bounded through the snow to clamber up into the sleigh next to Marius. “The horses are real?”

“Yes,” Marius laughed, looking hopefully to the girls. “Called in a favor at the country club. We’ve got them until midnight.”

“They’re beautiful,” Cosette sighed, struggling through the snow to come up beside the pair of chestnut brown horses, patting their necks and down their harnesses, all lined in shining bells. The sleigh was massive, varnished wood, and utterly unbelievable.

“You rich fuck,” Eponine said. “We’re taking this and delivering the rest of the meals to everyone who couldn’t make it.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Marius said. He leaned out of the sleigh for their bags, and set them in the deep back end. “Plenty of room, go get the baskets.”

Cosette climbed into the sleigh and grabbed his face in her mittened hands, kissing him soundly and laughing bright like the sleigh’s bells. “You’re a dream. Absolutely wonderful.”

“I’d hoped you’d like it,” he admitted, spreading a fur blanket over her. Glanced to Eponine. “Both of you. The roads are mostly empty, we’ll finish the rounds in no time.”

“Unbelievable,” Eponine said, but she couldn’t help smiling after all.

Courfeyrac pouted and slid lower in his chair.

All of it was so commonplace, Combeferre didn’t even bother to look up.

“E and R are having a movie night,” Courfeyrac said, thrusting his phone across the table for Combeferre’s perusal. “You said the weather was going to cancel the meeting.”

“Hence, they’re not having a meeting,” Combeferre said, flipping a page in his book.

“Ferre, I don’t think I can study anymore. Every time I read something it just spills out of my ears like spaghetti. I would like to watch movies.”

Combeferre sighed, but pushed his current book back a little and checked the time. Used Courfeyrac’s phone because it was still under his nose, and then took it rather abruptly.

It was… much later than he expected. He’d planned on getting there early, cramming as much as inhumanly possible, and then beat it out of the library before the storm hit in earnest and they were forced to make a bed and campfire from books (only the damaged ones, of course, headed for the bin anyway.)

Instead, he’d spent the whole day at this tiny table in a cramped corner, surrounded by too many empty coffee cups, and Courfeyrac. The very sweet Courfeyrac who hadn’t complained once while sitting with him for six hours.

“Is that really the time? Gracious, Courf, I’m so sorry,” as he jumped up and began organizing his papers and books in earnest.

Courfeyrac’s fluttering fingers appeared under his nose, slowing his hands physically and helping. “Ferre, settle, it’s alright. Really. I needed it too. And I’m only mildly wasting away from starvation, really, easy enough to fix.”

Combeferre frowned, but when he looked up Courfeyrac was smiling at him, not a hint of malice, just fond exhaustion. He was owed that, Combeferre supposed.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

Courfeyrac smiled wider and winked at him, standing to gather his own possessions.

Predictably, Combeferre blushed, but that wasn’t new, either. “I just have to return these to the reference desk, and then we can go.”

“Excellent.”

There wasn’t anyone at the reference desk, so they just stacked their various tomes behind the lip on the counter.

There wasn’t… anyone anywhere, really. The halls were quiet, the computers all idly bouncing around the city logo screen-savers.

Descending the main, winding staircase found no one else. Not a giggle or shriek from the children’s area, not any sulking teens in the lounge, not even late afternoon stragglers in line at the coffee cart.

“Ferre…”

Combeferre knew. It hit him all at once with a creeping sort of icy dread that matched the horror on his face reflected in a frost-coated window.

He pulled on the main doors. Once. Twice.

Several more times in quick, panicked succession.

“They’ve locked us in,” he whispered.

“We’re going to die in here,” Courfeyrac whimpered. “What are we supposed to do? Ferre? I don’t have any cash for the vending machines. Do we break a window—”

“No!”

“-call the fire department? Go upstairs and see if they have any vintage porn on VHS?”

Combeferre yanked on one of his curls quickly. “All your ideas are terrible.”

“I don’t hear you coming up with any. This is your natural habitat.”

“Let me think.”

Courfeyrac quieted obediently, even if he pressed his face to the doors and whimpered to the outside world at large.

Even they did manage to get the doors unlocked, or find a particularly forgotten and unsecured window, the snow was already thigh high with no signs of stopping. They’d be lost in a winter wasteland before they made it to the main road.

“Well, I think there’s really only one thing for it.”

“Hmm?”

“We have to call the Mayor.”

Courfeyrac squawked.

Snow continued to fall thick and heavy outside the wall of foggy windows. Jehan stood on the warm side of it, and watched the activity of an unfamiliar airport. An unfamiliar city.

They picked up their carry-on bags and moved against the stream of people up to one of the service desks.

“This isn’t my city,” they blurted before the attendant was able to even to fully focus on them. “I don’t know where this is, but I’m not supposed to be here.”

It was a fraught several minutes of back and forth, arguing with the attendant that yes, they understood how unusual this was; yes, this should’ve never been able to happen; yes, it was possibly up to them to cover the cost of their appropriate return home, if there were even any seats available, which there weren’t; yes—

A well-manicured hand studded in rings appeared on the counter next to them, distracting both into silence.

“I don’t mean to eavesdrop,” a smooth and melodious voice said. And then what followed was the most beautiful, possibly vampiric, gentleman Jehan had ever seen. “But you seem to be in a spot of distress.”

“I am,” Jehan said immediately, eyes only for this… this… specimen.

They were being ridiculous, like some damsel on a romance novel cover.

But they were also a million miles from home (give or take a few), stranded, and being smiled at by a gorgeous model of sharp gothic refinement.

The airlines attendant said something, but it was lost in the muffled background.

Montparnasse, as he introduced himself, was there on business. What business, he was coyly avoiding mentioning, and every time Jehan tried to circle back around to it, there was another bit of pretty flattery to distract them, another kind question about their travels, and their desire to just go home.

“I’ve always wanted to visit,” Montparnasse said, like it was nothing. Like the concept of changing a plane ticket when there were none to be had, was only a matter of whimsy.

A man all in black edged into their field of vision. Montparnasse glanced over lazily, quirked a smile, and waved him away.

“Do you know him?”

“Friend of a friend. Now, let’s see about if anyone’s wanting to switch flights.”

Jehan couldn’t fathom that being possible at all. The airport was packed, the weather was getting nastier, flights were being canceled left and right. Everyone just wanted to get home. What could Montparnasse possibly have to convince anyone like that?

“You’re so sweet,” Musichetta crooned, gently mopping up the bloody cut at Bossuet’s temple. “A sweet fool.”

“Your fool, at least,” Bossuet said dreamily, beaming up at her. “Sorry I got hurt.”

“Ah, ah,” she said, “what did I say about sorrys?”

“Don’t apologize for what you didn’t do,” Joly said, smiling tight as he focused on the open box of medical supplies. “That’s another quarter for the jar. Why were you trying to shovel? The way it’s coming down, by the time you finished, you’d be right back at the start.”

“I didn’t want you slipping on the ice,” Bossuet said. His smile faltered only until his eyes were able to focus long enough to slip to Joly. Enough to catch Joly wrestling back a fond sigh.

“Ah, so you decided to slip for me.”

“Happy to. I would slip every day so you wouldn’t.”

“Idiot,” Joly sighed, threading a needle. “We should take you to the clinic. Clearly you’ve hit your head too hard, talking like that.”

“Can’t, in this weather,” Musichetta mused. She kissed Bossuet’s head softly, cradling him close to her chest. “You’ll have to do, doc.”

“Only a student,” Joly reminded her, as he always did. “This will sting,” he warned.

“M’used to it.” Bossuet closed his eyes, relaxing into Musichetta and humming at the lovely way she rubbed his head and his chest, fingernails drawing light designs.

Bossuet simmered in it, drifting in the warmth of touch and care, the comforting sting of antiseptic, the soft chatter of his two favorite people, the jingle of bells—

Bells?

“Do I have a concussion?”

“Likely,” Joly said. He still picked up a flashlight to flash in Bossuet’s eyes.

“Do I hear bells? Am I dying? Why are there bells?”

“Bells, what do you—Oh, oh my, there’s bells?”

She stood in a flurry of skirts and hair and Bossuet nearly fell back on his head at the sudden shock of cold at his back.

“It’s Eponine and her boys,” Musichetta said in delight, throwing the front door open wider. “They have a sleigh.”

“Like Santa?” Bossuet asked.

Joly laughed.

“We’re here to pick you up!” Cosette called from the street.

Bossuet couldn’t wait for his ears to stop ringing so he could say hi to Marius.

“Good,” Musichetta said, “we can stop by the clinic on the way.”

“Bossuet?” Cosette asked.

“Isss allll about me,” Bossuet sang cheerfully.

Joly’s cool fingers tugged the end of the suture knot, playing carefully over the perfect little line of stitches. “Hmm, you’ll live.”

“Nice. Can I have a kiss?”

“Hmm.”

“Chetta always kisses me better.”

“That’s because she has healing kisses,” Joly said gravely. He finished wiping Bossuet’s cut and finally leaned back for his cane to push himself up. “You sit there a moment, get yourself settled. Chetta and I will get our stuff for the evening.”

“Bring the heated blanket. We might get stuck there.”

Joly leaned down to kiss Bossuet’s head after all. “So foolish, and yet so smart. I’ll get it. And some painkillers.”

Enjolras had only just gotten his perfect hand into Grantaire’s pants when there was a great and sudden clatter on their little apartment porch.

“The door—”

“Probably buglers,” Grantaire mumbled, tugging Enjolras back into another kiss. “They’ll find their own way in.”

Enjolras pushed away and up, and was across the room before Grantaire could think of anything fun and interesting to keep him. He groaned and flopped back against the back of the couch, limbs akimbo and feeling very pathetic.

“Have we missed it?” Combeferre asked, over several voices all exclaiming at once.

“Did you get the baskets?”

“Oh, here’s more blankets.”

“Do you think we should just stay here? Surely everything will be closed tomorrow.”

“Did you—oh thank fuck, here’s all the leftovers from Feuilly’s.”

It made Grantaire smile, eyes closed, at the ceiling despite himself. Their friends. All here after all. Against all odds.

“How’s the weather out there?” he called.

“Fucking atrocious,” Bahorel said, alongside the sounds of beating snow off his gloves. Possibly against someone’s shoulder, by the following squawk. “We’d been here earlier but Freckles insisted on finishing his shift, and then we helped pull out… I don’t know how many cars.”

“With what?” And then wheezed with a curse, all of Gavroche’s not-insubstantial weight body-slammed into his stomach.

“Marius got us a sleigh! With horses and everything!” Gavroche said.

“Great,” Grantaire croaked. “Your knee is eviscerating me.”

Gavroche giggled and scrambled down, darting off to assault someone else.

Grantaire didn’t care as long as he could breathe.

“You look like a bad morning after,” Eponine said, sliding her fingers through his hair, tugging a few snags out. “Slut.”

“Was trying. No thanks to you. There’s mulled wine in the kitchen. Suppose I should make more, if the Brady Bunch is here.”

“I have to go find a place to, uh, park the horses?” Marius said, and ducked back outside.

“I didn’t know if you’d make it,” Enjolras was saying, voice bright and deeply awed. When Grantaire looked, he was holding Combeferre by the shoulders, gazing into his eyes like they were on a TV special.

“Of course we did,” Combeferre said. “It’s Sunday. The Revolution waits for no one, and certainly not snow.”

“We’ve done our good deeds for the day,” Courfeyrac said, pushing bodily between them and taking Enjolras’ face in his hands. “I heard you were watching movies. I want to watch bad hallmark movies and drink about them. Please, E, I’ve been studying all day and then being good all the way here. Please,” he whined.

“Oh, this is a good cheese.”

Grantaire popped up out of the couch and over it towards the kitchen. “Stay away from my fancy cheese! I was supposed to be wooing Enj before you all crashed.”

Feuilly slanted a flat look at him. Pointedly put the cheese back in the fridge and took out a box of leftover pizza instead. “I will return the coffee I brought you, then.”

“Wait—no, no, wait—”

“Oh, Grantaire,” Cosette admonished sweetly, hand on his arm as she floated by. “It would be such a lovely spread. Let me and Feuilly throw something together, and I’ll buy you even better cheese next week.” She held out her pinky finger, smiling as sweet as any angel he didn’t believe in.

Who was Grantaire to deny a pinky promise? Who was Grantaire to deny Cosette?

The door hit the wall and Jehan, standing square in the opening, flinched. “Sorry! Wind’s picking up. But we made it!”

“Jehan!” Joly called from the armchair. Looked like he would’ve gotten up if he wasn’t weighed down by several people.

“I thought you were stranded?” Musichetta asked. “How did you make it home?”

“Terrible spot of bad luck,” Bossuet sympathized.

“We?” Enjolras set about counting heads, but no—

“You,” Eponine breathed, frozen in the hall, a mug in each hand.

The man behind Jehan ducked into the small entryway, brushing snow from his black hair with his black leather gloves. “Thank you for allowing me to crash your evening plans.”

“Everyone, this is M—”

“Jehan!” Eponine screeched, her pallor of surprise flooding with purpling anger. “You brought the mafia home with you!”

“Huh?” Jehan turned, peering up at his companion. “Don’t be ridiculous, ‘Ponine, he’s not…”

Montparnasse smiled, somehow smoothly confident and sheepish at once. “I didn’t think it was first date appropriate.”

“Was-was this a date?”

Grantaire swore, dragging both hands down his face. “Might as well. Why not. Baz, get out more wine, it’s going to be a weird holiday.”

#les mis #les amis #enjolras #enjoltaire #grantaire #bahorel #feuilly #bahorelfeuilly #courfeyrac #combferre #courferre #eponine #cosette #marius pontmercy #jolybossuetmusichetta #jehan/montparnasse #my writing #there's too many amis omg

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