I’d do anything to see your funny little expressions
The way your eyebrows furrow together when you are confused,
The way you roll your eyes at someone’s stupidity
The way only your eyes hold anger whilst the rest of your face seems calm
The way you throw your head back as you laugh
I’d do anything to see them all
Yet every time we make eye contact
I will always look away
In fear that you will see the love I have for you in my eyes
I’m officially two weeks into teaching “The Hobbit.”
And it is such a rollercoaster.
Here are just a few of the moments I’ve had this week:
A group of girls being obsessed with how small a hobbit baby must be.
One student drawing me a Gollum for his character poster with a bottle of lotion because “It’ll help with his slimy skin.” Then being mad when I pointed out that, if he was wearing the ring (which he was), that he would be invisible, which resulted in a dramatic sigh and a “So I didn’t have to do anything other than the ring,” which made me laugh.
A student thinking elves and trolls are the same thing and a lengthy discussion on what defines each species.
A SPED student who barely pays attention answering my daily riddle almost immediately after I finished reading it and everyone in the room being super impressed, including his para.
One girl whining because she thinks The Hobbit is boring and me rather bluntly telling her that if she didn’t like this, which is relatively modern and fun with adventure, then the next three years of her English education were going to be rough. She then proceeded to whine and I moved on. A second later, another girl who never talks turned to me and gave me a shy smile and said, “I like it.” And I don’t think she knows how much that meant to me because it’s so hard to hear that something you’ve spent so much time and energy into making fun isn’t being appreciated.
One of the kids I taught during my student teaching burst into my room and yelled, “The Hobbit?!?! Why do the freshmen get to read it?!” So, ya know, even if all my freshmen aren’t thrilled, I’ve got a few jealous upperclassmen.
Some things I’ve absolutely come to love about it:
My “nerdy” kids have an opportunity to really be excited and be appreciated by the class for producing insight and pointing out things that are important later that the other kids didn’t notice.
My artistic kids are finding outlets through some of the projects we’re doing and are generally thriving.
My musical kids are singing (or trying to sing) all the various songs in the play and no one is judging or teasing them for it. Plus, it feels more authentic when the songs are sung.
The kids who have seen the movies are having great discussions about book-to-movie adaptations and are noticing more and more minute things and getting more “deep” with their discussions of why changes were made.
My kids are actively looking for theme and having great group discussions about things like greed and heroism and what it means to be kind.
My students are starting to learn how to annotate and actively think while they’re reading so they notice things.
Overall, it’s so great and I love it and how much I can do with it. It makes teaching English so much fun right now. I love it. This is what teaching is supposed to be like.
You approach your favourite classroom out of the entire school. How could it not be? It’s where the most important and dearest person in your life is. Your TC. Taking a deep breath, you open the door, hoping that he won’t mind you’re a little late.
The first thing you hear is the high pitch wolf-whistle of a fellow classmate. Jesus, do they ever give up? you think with a roll of your eye and take your seat. It wasn’t even your decision to have the closest desk to him, that was all his choice. Just another thing that makes you question what he thinks of you.
You look over to your TC, hiding a smile behind your pencil as he tries to flick locks of curly brown hair out of his eyes. All attempts fail. He looks up and catches you staring. You look away, your heart pace quickening. You can still remember the first time you saw those gorgeous green eyes as he walked the halls, lost and confused. He has been forever grateful for you helping him find his way. Just that simple kindness may have been the thing that makes you his favourite out of everyone. Maybe more than he likes to admit.
“Glad to see that my star pupil decided to join us,” he jokes with a grin.
“Had to have you all missing me and wondering where I was,” you tease.
He chuckles and shakes his head, going back to flicking through papers on his desk, biting the studded ring in his bottom lip. Just watching it makes you shift in your seat. You wonder if he notices how you react to him and try to calm yourself. He doesn’t need to know how much he affects you.
He turns around and grabs a whiteboard marker. As he lifts up his arms, you watch the way his leather jacket moves with his muscles. So perfectly contoured to fit his body that you wonder if it was custom made. As he starts to turn around, you pretend to go back to writing in your book about Animal Farm by George Orwell and the Russian revolution references.
Flicking the marker in his hand as he asks questions to the class, you pretend not to listen, even though every single word churns your stomach and sucks in every ounce of concentration you have.
When the class ends, you’re disappointed, as you have to leave him behind. Like every other time.
“Hey,” he calls out to you as you go to open the door, the last student to leave.
You stop and look at him, very curious. “Yeah?” you ask casually, pretending not to care.
“How’s the work going? Not too hard?” he asks, leaning against his desk. “You just looked a little distracted in class today.”
“Yeah, it’s fine,” you say, keeping up that casual façade. You motion to yourself as you say, “top of class remember,” you laugh.
He nods his head, looking unconvinced. “What’s got you so preoccupied lately then?”
“Nothing,” you lie, making a note to work harder to make it less obvious.
“You can always talk to me, you know?”
You nod, trying to hide a smile. “I know.”
“Come here,” he says, beckoning you with his hand.
You squint your eyes at him, now even more confused.
He chuckles, showing those pearly white teeth. His laugh always makes you melt. It’s perfect.
“Come on,” he grins, continuing to motion you with his hand.
You give in and walk over to him, pretending to be careless of the fact that you’re alone with him and he wants you to come closer.
As you reach him, you stop right in front of him, thankful for a poster covering the window of his door. No eyes can see. No one can assume.
“So, you have me here. Now what?”
He grins again. “You fascinate me,” he says, piercing my eyes with his own.
“Fascinate?” I ask.
“Yeah. The way you hide your emotions. I never know what you’re thinking. What you’re feeling. It’s fascinating. I wish I could hide things as well as you.”
He reaches his hand out slowly and entwines his hand with yours. You look deeply into his eyes, giving nothing away even though all you want to do is wrap your arms around him and never let go.
“See what I mean?” he asks.
You shake your head, swallowing hard.
“Nothing. No recoil of my touch. No smile. You show me nothing of how I make you feel. Do you want to know how I feel?”
“I don’t know, do I?” you lie. Of course you do!
“Yes, I think you do.”
“Okay, tell me then. How do you feel?”
He grins at the fact you want to know. “This,” he says, looking at your fingers clasped together. “It makes me lose all control. You make me lose control. I can’t tell you enough how hard it is to see you walk in here near every day and for me to have to treat you like any other student. When all I want to do, is wrap my arms around you. I hope that I’m not wrong with how I think you feel.”
“How do you think I feel?” you ask, your voice cracking as you try not to cry. Never in your life have you felt so special, so incredibly, blissfully, happy. He cares about you! This is more than you could have ever asked for.
“I think that you feel the same.” He pauses and watches you, hoping for a reaction.
Your eyes become teary and you let a smile break through. “Yeah?” you ask, teasing him a little.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “Am I right?”
You nod and grin like a maniac.
“I hoped so,” he sighs with a smile as he searches your face.
You have never seen him so vulnerable. Just as he has never seen you so exposed either.
A tear slips from the corner of your eye and he wipes it away with a gentle finger. He cups your cheek with his hand, the other still holding onto yours tightly. You close your eyes and open them again, afraid that it’s all just a dream. That you’ll wake up and be sitting by your desk. That you would look up and see your TC, not knowing how he feels. Having to hide how you feel. Trying to act as though he doesn’t affect you.
Your free hand rests on top of his and you close your eyes again. This is real. It’s all real. You finally know how he feels after so long of questioning everything. And he knows how you feel, after so long of pretending.
Finally, the truth. It’s all you have ever asked for and the answer is more than anything your wildest dreams could have thought of. It’s perfect.
Hi! I am an aspiring artist and writer and am currently undertaking year
12. I have wanted to look for a pen pal for a while and it would be
lovely to have someone with similar interest as me, which would be
literature and studying, I know, what a nerd. I am hoping to become an
English teacher for secondary students later on in life and possibly
taking up Psychology. I also love music, opera to rock, to pop music. It
would be lovely to find someone.
Preferences: I don’t really have any preferences, anyone’s fine really!
Maybe moving on is the best thing
Maybe forgetting you is what I should do
But how could I?
You are the first person ever to make me experience such feelings and emotions
And though they do hurt me
I am happy and grateful that it was you
Maybe you’re my first love, maybe
“When you feel awful about yourself, the things you’re thinking about yourself are not the real you. Your brain is making you think that, but it’s not real. Write down everything you’re feeling and go back and read it so you can see how insane it sounds. It’s not real. I promise.”
okay so here is a list of some of the best exr fics ive read recently, i couldnt find one of the other ones that i read and really liked, but luckily i downloaded it so ive just copied and pasted it after the links.
Enjolras likes to credit himself on his ability to remain calm in the face of resistance. His friends will tell you that his pride and temper make him lack such ability at all. He doesn’t quite understand where they’re coming from.
Unless it’s got to do with Grantaire.
Grantaire, the sarcastic and impatient member of their crew, who is the only person who can easily draw out the brash, impulsive, angry side of Enjolras.
He does this every meeting.
Objectively, Enjolras knows that Grantaire argues with him because someone has got to. He knows Grantaire brings up points that force him to better his argument. Objectively, Grantaire is the perfect addition to les Amis. But Enjolras hates the objective.
He supposes it would be easier to ignore Grantaire if it weren’t for the fact Enjolras is nearly positive he’s never seen a more beautiful soul. He’s heard people refer to Grantaire as ‘unconventionally attractive, so to say’. He’s never understood that. The more accurate description would be infuriatingly attractive. And he acts as though he doesn’t know it, which is perhaps the worst part.
To summarize, Enjolras wants to despise Grantaire. He wants to ask him why he even bothers coming to the meetings if he’s got nothing to support. He wants to hate the cynic; how frightened he is at the notion that he might actually be starting to fall for him instead.
It had been a typical meeting for les Amis. The only difference was the Enjolras came in, already high strung from every other inconvenience that had happened that day—his bus broke down, his coffee got spilled, inconsiderate assholes made him late for his own meeting. He was already tense, which didn’t make anything else easier.
“So, our proud leader finally decided to show up?” retorts Grantaire. He’s got a wicked glint in his eye, one only his friends are able to identify as teasing. To anyone else, it would look like scorn. Enjolras recognizes the jesting lilt in his tone and still, still it cuts too close. He turns on his heel instantly.
“And what’s it to you?” Enjolras snaps back. “As if you’d actually care if I didn’t make it. You’d be glad for the night off, I’m sure!”
Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “A night off from what, exactly, Apollo?”
The nickname brings about a flare of white-hot anger than Enjolras can’t justify. It’s not the first time Grantaire has used it on him; hell, Grantaire isn’t even the first person to draw similarities. It never ceases to frustrate Enjolras, regardless of who says it.
Even if he has a slightly obnoxious crush on the person throwing about the nickname.
His own feelings for Grantaire just seem to make him tenser. Nothing makes sense, and he comes to this meeting already on edge only to be taunted by the one person who never ceases to confuse the hell out of him. Seems entirely too plausible.
“Arguing with every damn phrase out of my mouth, for one,” Enjolras finally responds, scathing. He can tell it strikes a chord with everyone in the room; all of his friends shift uncomfortably as their eyes shift between Grantaire and Enjolras. “Since apparently nothing I say merits your approval.”
Grantaire scowls and turns his gaze downwards. “You’re right. I would like a night off from arguing with you,” Grantaire says after a beat. “By all means, continue your meeting. I’ll mind my own business here in the back, same as always, but I’ll be sure to keep my mouth shut this time.”
Something in the way he says it makes Enjolras tense up. It affects him for the rest of the meeting. True to his word, Grantaire sits in the back and sourly drinks out of his glass and doesn’t look at Enjolras. It’s unsettling, and Enjolras is frustrated. The last thing he’d needed was to have the time reserved to be spent with his friends engaged in an argument. Yet, for the entire meeting, all he wants is one scathing remark even just to feel normal again. Damn Grantaire, and damn his ability to constantly through Enjolras off track.
Enjolras thought he’d understood confusion when he’d first realized he had feelings for Grantaire. How constantly frustrated he is that he keeps running into more things to confound him.
Courfeyrac seems to pick up on his tense mood, if the way he slowly starts to take over the meeting is any indication. Enjolras must be doing worse than he’d thought, too; everyone else seems to relax a fraction when Enjolras finally takes a seat. Jehan reassuringly reaches out and twines their fingers through Enjolras’s. It helps, a bit.
He’s still frustrated.
Eventually Courfeyrac can’t even continue to keep the group entertained any longer, so he loudly announces that they’ll be moving the meeting to his flat where copious amounts of alcohol can be consumed. Everybody cheers at that and begins collecting their things to leave—Enjolras stays in his seat.
Courfeyrac comes by and squeezes Enjolras’s shoulder, drawing his attention away from his thoughts. “Whatever’s on your mind, you’ve got to let it go,” Courfeyrac advises quietly. “For what it’s worth, this isn’t doing either of you any good.”
Enjolras stiffens. “I don’t know what you mean,” he mutters. Courfeyrac gives him an unamused look and glances dramatically at Grantaire who—to Enjolras’s surprise—also hasn’t moved from his seat. Enjolras sulks. “I’ve just had a long day, Courf, I’ll be fine.”
Courfeyrac kisses his forehead. “You’re lying through your teeth but because we’re best friends, I’ll let it go,” he sings. “Text me if you’re coming tonight.”
Enjolras watches silently as Courfeyrac leaves. He’s among the last to shuffle out, alongside Joly who’d stayed to chat amicably with Grantaire. Enjolras closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“You’re not going to Courfeyrac’s?” asks Grantaire. Enjolras peers at him with one eye opened.
A muscle in his jaw twitches. “I haven’t decided yet,” Enjolras finally says. Grantaire looks away, retreats back into his glass. Another rush of anger curls up in Enjolras’s belly. “Why do you even come?”
Grantaire’s brows raise dramatically, nearly disappearing underneath tendrils of curls on his forehead. “Excuse me?”
Enjolras gestures broadly. “The meetings,” he says sharply. “Why do you even bother coming? You never seem to enjoy yourself. Courfeyrac almost always invites people over to his flat afterwards, and everyone knows you’d rather spend your entire evening there than here. So why do you even bother coming to these meetings?”
Grantaire’s lips form a thin line. “I know where my alliances lie,” he replies, after a beat. “You may not see them, but I do.”
“Do you even support these causes?” Enjolras asks. His voice is starting to raise, frustration nearly bleeding out of every pore. “Do the things we fight for here even mean anything to you? Or are you just doing it because your friends do? What do you even stand for?”
Grantaire’s sharp intake of breath is enough to make Enjolras falter. Grantaire has risen from his chair, now; he stares angrily at Enjolras with his hands clenched into fists. “What do I stand for?” he says. “Why, for you, o’ great Apollo.”
Enjolras flinches. “Stop calling me that,” he snaps.
“Why?” The glint in Grantaire’s eyes is malicious, teasing, angry—complex and unfairly beautiful. Enjolras bites down another sharp remark. “What complaint could you possibly have about being compared to a god of sun?”
Enjolras doesn’t get a chance to reply.
“Then again, anything I say or do, you’d manage to find a complaint about,” Grantaire mutters. Enjolras rises then, too. His hands grip the back of their chair he’d been sitting in, too tight.
“Is that all you think I do?” Enjolras retorts. “Find ways to argue with you? Spend my days making lists of every scathing remark I’ve ever wanted to say? Do you think I spend my hours preparing to argue with you? That’s all I’m good for, I’m sure.”
Grantaire snorts. “You don’t need preparation,” he bites back. “That’s why we argue. We’re both too quick-witted for our own good. Besides the point, even if that isn’t how you spend your time, you sure do spend the majority of our time together fighting me every damn chance you get.”
“And whose fault is that?” Enjolras demands. “You’re the one who comes in here time after time with countless rebuttals to my claims.”
Grantaire’s nostrils flare. They both know Enjolras is stretching the truth—as if there isn’t a single person who doesn’t know why Grantaire pushes them the way he does. He’s helping, even if Enjolras is too proud and angry to admit it.
“If I don’t, who will?” Grantaire argues. “If I don’t come to the meetings and demand better, stronger answers from you, who will?”
“Do you even like coming to the meetings?” Enjolras throws back. “You always sit in the back, you join your friends occasionally. Do you even like being here?”
“Honestly?” Grantaire laughs. He sounds far too amused, a forced kind of laughter peeling through the air. He doesn’t follow with another response, and it just frustrates Enjolras more. Instead he just gestures at large to the room.
“This isn’t the only place to spend time with your friends!” Enjolras tells him. “Again, Courfeyrac always invites people over after these meetings are done! I’m sure you spend time with them outside of this meeting. Better to spend your nights away from here when you don’t care at all about the ideals we’re presenting.”
“It’s not the ideals I care about, it’s the company,” Grantaire shoots back. “You think I come because your little gang is trying to make a change? You aren’t the only group out there, pal. The world is a shitshow that isn’t going to change, but god forbid I spend time with my friends in a place we all enjoy. I don’t come for your ideals, Apollo.”
“Why bother coming, then?” Enjolras shouts. “Why waste your time at meetings when you believe in nothing?”
“As if you don’t know,” Grantaire spits back. With a joly, Enjolras realizes Grantaire’s eyes are wide, terrified—a sharp contrast to the sharp bite of his tongue. “As if you’re really that blind.”
Enjolras recoils, stunned. “Excuse me?”
Grantaire scoffs. “Don’t act like you don’t know,” he sneers. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? My god, everyone else has been able to piece it together. Don’t tell me you’ve been blinded by your own brightness, Apollo. How can you not see? You, the radiant sun; and I, poor Icarus.”
“Stop saying that,” Enjolras snaps. “I’m not a sun!”
“And you still don’t get it!” Grantaire roars back. “I wear my heart on my sleeve and you’re a damn fool who is too selfish to see it! You’re my goddamn sun, don’t you understand that? You’re so far gone on fighting the fight and winning your own battles that you’ve neglected to notice that I’m the damn fool who’d follow you into any battle—”
Enjolras surges forward. He’s overestimated the distance between them and he slams into Grantaire harder than he’d meant to. “Don’t tell me where my alliances lie!” he shouts. “You haven’t any clue. You think you know me but you don’t!”
Grantaire shoves at his chest. “That’s the point,” he sneers. “How foolish of me, to be willing to follow you wherever you may go when I know that I’ve got no true idea which direction your heart is pointing.”
“Why do you care about my heart?”
“You goddamn idiot,” Grantaire hisses. He reaches out and grabs onto Enjolras’s shirt, tugging him closer. “Do I have to spell it out for you?”
Enjolras doesn’t give him the chance.
Messily, he kisses Grantaire. His hands move of their own accord, finding their way into Grantaire’s hair and twining in the curls. Grantaire gasps, beautifully, deliciously—his own hands move from grasping Enjolras’s shirt to tugging on his hips. Enjolras bites at Grantaire’s bottom lip at the same time that Grantaire grinds up, and they both let out a sharp breath at the sensation.
Grantaire kisses like he argues, teasing and forceful and with purpose. Enjolras cannot get enough, can’t pull Grantaire any closer though he tries, tugging on Grantaire’s hair. Brashly, Grantaire runs his tongue along Enjolras’s lip, and in a particularly tactful move deepens the kiss when Enjolras gasps again. His hands have moved from Enjolras’s hips to his ass, to his thighs—he surprises Enjolras when he moves to lift Enjolras up, wrapping his legs around Grantaire’s waist. They’re too far, too far it seems as Grantaire moves them, but eventually in between kisses Enjolras feels the table behind him. He barely has time to prepare himself before Grantaire is laying him down on it and moving to hover above him.
The warm weight of Grantaire, the feeling of his soft hair in Enjolras’s fingers, the persistent hardness pressing against Enjolras’s thigh; it’s almost too much, unreal. Grantaire is still making quick work of tearing Enjolras apart with his lips and tongue, and Enjolras can’t really complain. They’ve grown accustom to ripping into each other with their words. Enjolras quite likes this turn of events.
“You goddamn idiot,” Grantaire repeats, panting, as he trails kisses along Enjolras’s collarbone. Enjolras hisses when Grantaire latches onto a particularly tender spot, and his hips buck up against Grantaire on their own accord. “It took a fucking fight for you to finally realize?”
“You can’t stop arguing with me, fuck,” Enjolras whines, “for—oh, god—one goddamn second, can you? I guess—jesus christ—I should have—”
“Shut up,” Grantaire growls. The noise vibrates straight through Enjolras, and he shivers. “Do you ever shut up?”
“Make me,” Enjolras challenges. Grantaire complies without further instruction. Enjolras shifts so that Grantaire is settled in between his legs, Enjolras’s knees bracketed on either side of his hips. He finds purchase grabbing onto Grantaire’s shirt. It doesn’t take him long to realize that whatever way he tugs, Grantaire follows easily enough. Grantaire kisses him desperately; their lips and tongues move against each other in the most beautiful of dances. It’s a bit messy, teeth knocking together and both men being a bit too overeager from time to time. But they find their rhythm—Grantaire takes control of the kisses, heated and languid and everything in between, and Enjolras uses everything else in his disposal to drive Grantaire insane. He moves his hips against Grantaire, both groaning at the friction. He trails his hands up Grantaire’s sides, scratches across his back, drags the blunt edges of his nails across Grantaire’s chest. Every move he makes causes Grantaire to gasp a little heavier. Every trick Enjolras pulls, Grantaire matches—he kisses deep, he sucks and nips at a spot on Enjolras’s neck, he tugs on the loose curls at the nape of Enjolras’s neck.
Even in kissing, they find themselves fighting, matching each other’s dirty tricks with tricks of their own. It’s a different kind of arguing, one that Enjolras hadn’t expected but is desperately hoping to continue. So long of fighting with Grantaire when they could have been doing this. He almost laughs at the thought.
“If this,” he pants, “is how we are going to argue from now on…”
Grantaire slides Enjolras’s shirt up languidly and traces his tongue across his nipple. Enjolras gasps, forgets what he meant to say. “Don’t tell me you’ve found another thing to complain about,” he says wickedly. His breath is hot where it dances along Enjolras’s chest.
“Shut up,” Enjolras gasps out.
Grantaire does just that.
Courfeyrac frowns at his phone in dismay. It’s been over an hour and he still hasn’t heard from Enjolras. Something was wrong, at the Musain today. It didn’t take a genius to figure out, even if Courfeyrac did consider himself a genius when it came to all things Enjolras. They’d been best friends for as long as he can remember; he definitely earned his title of expert.
[9:02] if you’re not coming its rly not a big deal but ?? lmk?? like i just need to know you’re okay………
When he doesn’t get an immediate response, he stands dramatically. Well, he sways as he stands, a little bit tipsy from the alcohol he’s already had. Combeferre reaches out to steady him and looks up at him through heavy, lidded eyes. “Where’re you going,” he mutters, and he’s a bit more drunk than Courfeyrac.
“Something’s wrong,” Courfeyrac insists. “I can feel it in my best-friend-senses. Enj had a bad day and he hasn’t texted me. What if he’s moping somewhere and I’m just letting him while I’m off getting drunk? I’m a horrible best friend.”
“You’re a paranoid drunk,” Combeferre says easily. “Enjolras is fine, I’m sure. Sit back down, enjoy yourself.”
“Will you come with me to the Musain?” Courfeyrac begs. “Please, what if he’s still there, all mopey and sad because his two best friends didn’t come rescue him? He stays there so late, all the time, because he’s weird. I bet he’s still there. We have to rescue him.”
Combeferre sighs. “You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re drunk,” he says, and Courfeyrac happily takes his hands to help him stand.
“And you’re getting lucky tonight,” he says decidedly. Combeferre grins and smacks Courfeyrac’s ass as he starts to walk away.
They take a cab to the Musain, despite the fact that it isn’t that far of a walk. Courfeyrac knows he’s probably too far drunk to handle a walk, especially when most people have retreated to their beds. He’s a loud drunk after all. Combeferre holds his hand in the cab and Courfeyrac’s thoughts keep turning back to things he’d like to do to Combeferre right now. He has to snap himself out of it at least seven times on the five minute drive.
Courfeyrac keeps their hands intertwined when they finally reach the Musain, and he’s barreling into the door with Combeferre trailing behind him without a second thought. For a moment, they hesitate on the first floor. Above, they can hear faint voices.
“He’s not alone?” Courfeyrac says, confused. “Oh my god, Grantaire wasn’t at my flat either. They probably got in another fight, they’re fighting up there!”
Combeferre is staring thoughtfully at the ceiling. Courfeyrac has the fleeting thought that maybe they were too drunk to come at all. He regrets thinking he was only tipsy moments ago. “I…don’t think they’re fighting,” Combeferre solemnly replies. The corner of his mouth is twitching upwards.
Courfeyrac frowns at him. “You don’t think—”
He’s cut off by the distinctive sounds of a crash from upstairs, glass shattering and loud curses muffled by the floor in between them. “Or maybe they were fighting,” Combeferre groans, swearing under his breath. Courfeyrac grabs his hand again and drags him up the stairs hurriedly. He doesn’t even hesitate before barging through the door.
“Enjolras!” he’s already saying. The rest of his sentence dies in his throat when he takes in the scene before him. “Oh. Not fighting. We’re—going to go. Um.”
Combeferre is cackling as Courfeyrac yet again drags him, this time away from the room. Courfeyrac might accidentally slam the door behind him; he can’t quite tell over Combeferre’s guffaws. “Definitely not fighting,” he snickers.
Courfeyrac, usually charmed by his boyfriend’s behavior when drunk, shakes his head and joins in with giggles of his own. “Since they were both half-dressed and wrecked-looking, I’m going to have to agree with you,” he laughs. Combeferre nearly falls over in his laughter.
“And you thought something was wrong!” he cackles.