All in all, as far as surprise parties go, Joly’s was a success. That is, of course, after they convinced him he wasn’t actually suffering from a heart attack, and he was going to be fine, and no those weren’t palpitations and oh lord, don’t take out your sphygmomanometer, your blood pressure is fine, here just have a drink.
As soon as he stopped checking his pulse and accepted the red solo cup that was pushed into his hand, the party went smoothly from there. Courfeyrac’s flat was roomy enough that they could spread out comfortably, throwing themselves onto the couch, or some chairs, or in Bossuet’s case, the floor after he tripped over the cat. He figured then it would be safer to just stay there. The wine was flowing, as well as the tequila, rum, beer, and vodka. Sooner or later, people paired off into groups of two or four and the conversation mixed with the music, as it usually did.
Grantaire and Enjolras were in the middle of some debate or another about the Occupy Wall street movement. Grantaire, already far gone off his game argued that the movement was pointless, that even if “We are the 99%” the movement will never garner enough people to actually make a difference. “The people are scared.” He claimed, his speech slurred and his breath heavy with the smell of alcohol. “They’re never going to rise to their true potential. There’s too much strength that they have to rise against.” Enjolras looked calm, his passion belied by his sober expression. “It only takes one movement. One event to light a spark. The public will rise. They’re angry, and they have every reason to be. And there’s a great deal of power in a mass of angry men.” R simply shook his head and went back to his flask. Everyone knew that they would be attacking each other all night, with words and eventually, when they needed to shut the other up, with lips and tongue and teeth, and everyone would groan and turn away, secretly pleased for them.
Joly stumbled over to Bossuet, falling contently into the other man’s lap and giggling over something the man had said. Musichetta shook her head in a long suffering amusement and went over to join them, sitting with her legs crossed so as to not muss her skirt. The three of them spoke quietly, too quiet for anyone else to hear, but judging by the loud giggles coming from Joly, it was clear that he was going to have a very exciting birthday night when they left. They were a vision of family, a happy little triangle of lovers, and sometimes they made themselves sick with how much of a couple they were, but tonight, everyone was drunk, and having a good time, so they couldn’t be bothered to care.
Combeferre and Feuilly were fiddling with Courfeyrac’s entertainment system, trying to find a suitable movie that could serve as background noise, even though the music was playing loud enough. They were both visual people, it made sense in a way that they wanted to watch a movie. But when Courfeyrac’s DVD collection of all seasons of the Golden Girls was found, there was no question about it. Soon enough, they were sitting side by side on the sofa, staring intently at Bea Arthur, Betty White, Rue McClanahan, and Estelle Getty, and bemoaning the fact that once Betty White passed, there would be no more Golden Girls, and wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could figure out how she could live forever, and oh my goodness Blanche you sassy mother fucker!
Bahorel was standing with Marius, who was very preoccupied with staring at Cosette and Eponine. The girls were dancing, gossiping, and giggling, as two young girlfriends often do, and throwing glances the boys’ ways. Eventually their smirks grew more apparent and their talking grew softer, and Courfeyrac swore Marius’s eyebrows touched his hairline at one point when Cosette beckoned him over. “You owe me a dance Mr. Pontmercy.” She murmured, wrapping her arms around his neck and swaying slightly. “When did I promise you a dance?” She rolled her eyes. “When you asked me out for coffee the first time. You became my boyfriend, so that means I get to dance with you whenever I want.” He shrugged, not one to argue when Cosette’s lips were against his neck and the music was loud and he was buzzed and Bahorel was driving. Eponine shrugged over at Bahorel, slipping beside him to take Marius’s place. “Having fun?” He smirked and snaked his arm around her shoulders. “Now I am.” They would be dancing later that night, each imagining they were holding someone different, but settling for the one they had. It wasn’t the healthiest of friendships, but it worked for them, and no one questioned them for it.
And that left Jehan and Courfeyrac, laughing together in the kitchen. Courfeyrac mixing yet another rum and coke for Jehan, and Jehan scribbling down another dirty couplet on Courf’s dry erase board. “Penetrate my life, Beat around the bush, We like it dirty when we’ve been smokin the bubba kush.” Courfeyrac managed to read out through his laughter. “Are you serious?!” Jehan merely giggles and downs his drink, his face flush with red. “You match your cup.” Courf pointed out with a chuckle, and that only made Jehan laugh even harder, covering his face with his hands, and his laughter died down as Courf took his hands and held them away from his face. “Don’t hide it. It’s cute.” That earned them both a shy grin and a hurried offer to make another drink, and they should join the others, don’t you think? They meandered in, unhurried, and if Courfeyrac’s hand strayed a little too far down the small of Jehan’s back, neither of them mentioned it.
Slowly but surely, as all parties do, the party ended. Their friends slowly filtered out, two by two, and in some cases, three carrying another, but the party came to an eventual end. All that was left was a very messy flat, a passed out cold Combeferre on Courfeyrac’s sofa, and Jehan and Courfeyrac, studying the selection of paints he had inherited from Grantaire, for when he decided white walls were boring. Everything past Courfeyrac’s hand brushing Jehan’s over a can of bright yellow paint was a blur.
Jehan groaned, his head already pounding with the first signs of a wicked hangover. He turned over to his side and yawned, only to have someone grumble in response. His eyes shot open despite their desire to shut tight and go back to sleep. Oh my god. Courfeyrac, the man he wouldn’t admit he spends too much time thinking about, is lying next to him, and….oh shit, he is definitely not wearing a shirt. Jehan looked down at himself. He wasn’t clothed either. Both of them, stripped down to their boxers. Jehan went into panic mode, or at least, hung-over panic mode, desperately looking for strewn clothes, or any clues that would help him put the pieces to this puzzle together.
In his post wakeup flailing, he woke up his sleeping companion. Courfeyrac groaned and sat up, rubbing his eyes. “What are you doing?” Jehan blushed a deep red. “Oh…I was…uh…well, looking for my clothes. What happened last night? Did we….do you remem…uh…my head is killing me.” Courf rolled his neck, working the kinks out. “Relax, Jehan. We got paint all over our clothes, so I offered to put them in the tub in the bathroom. I think I might have thought that the tub would magically wash them. That plan was not one of my best.” He pressed a hand over his head. “And I’m a clingy drunk. I probably just dragged you in here. Sorry.” He smiled sheepishly before moaning again and turning to lay back down. “I hate birthdays.”
Jehan sighed in relief. It would have not been the ideal first time together he had been picturing with Courf. No, that was going to be special, and he’d remember it the next morning, and for the rest of his life, and there would be a lot of kissing and music, and maybe some poetry, and….he was getting ahead of himself. He slowly, tentatively laid back down, his side touching Courfeyrac’s back. “Is this…okay?” He asked shyly. Courf looked over his shoulder at him to grin. “Yeah, could be better though.” Jehan frowned in confusion. Courfeyrac turned to face the poet, and without warning, had tucked Jehan neatly against his chest, resting his chin against the top of Jehan’s head. “Much better like this.” He murmured sleepily, practically purring. Jehan swore he could feel the vibrations of his voice in his chest, along with the steady hum of his pulse. It was warm, skin on skin, Courfeyrac and Jehan. And for once, Jehan didn’t analyze. He was going to sleep, and he was going to do it wrapped up in Courfeyrac’s arms.
They would wash their clothes and talk when they woke up. But for now, they would sleep soundly, the world around them lost to the sound of each other’s breath.