Musichetta likes lazy mornings best.

It's rare for all three of them to have a day off at the same time, but they scheduled this one months in advance, and Musichetta savors the chance to wake up slowly next to her boys. She stretches long from toes to fingertips, relishing the exquisite laziness being released from every muscle.

Next to her, Joly moans softly and curls up more tightly. "Don't feel good," he whimpers.

She reaches one hand to stroke his scalp, feeling her face soften into an affectionate smile. "You say that every morning," she whispers.

"I mean it this time," he whines. "Think I'm getting sick."

"You're not sick," Bossuet grunts from his other side, cheek pressed into the pillow.

"Maybe we should cancel the party," Joly frets.

Musichetta presses her lips to his forehead in that way he likes when he isn't feeling well. "No fever," she promises. "Why don't you go back to sleep for a few hours and see how you feel?"

He doesn't reply, but his assent is signaled by the way he nuzzles sleepily into her.

She tucks him into her chest and wraps her right arm around his belly. She feels Bossuet's weight shift as he rolls over to face them, then grabs her left hand where it lies on the pillow. She gives his fingers a quick squeeze before nestling down and drifting back to sleep.


There is giggling coming from the kitchen. Musichetta feels around in the sheets for another body and doesn't find even a warm place to suggest one has been here.

She slides her feet to the floor and pads softly out of the bedroom, leaving the bed rumpled for now. The hem of Bossuet's Daft Punk T-shirt brushes the backs of her thighs as she creeps toward the kitchen. She grasps the doorframe and peeks around it cautiously. Activity in the kitchen can be a bad sign. They aren't one of those couples that believes the kitchen is the woman's domain—they aren't even a couple, by definition—but cooking usually involves her in some way or another; she has a passion for it, Joly doesn't like messes, and Bossuet really shouldn't be unsupervised around burners and knives.

Bossuet and Joly don't see her right away. They're covered in flour and something sticky; Musichetta suspects pancakes are in the offing. Joly, sickness forgotten, grins as he wipes a smear of batter off his cheek.

"Shh, you'll wake her up," he whispers to Bossuet, turning his head so she can't see his smile. (She can hear it anyway, coloring his voice with happiness.)

"Are you shushing me?" Bossuet asks, brandishing a whisk in a mock-threatening manner. "I'll show you to shush me!" He charges at Joly, tickling his ribcage.

Joly squeals. "Stop." He turns in Bossuet's arms and puts a hand on Bossuet's cheek. His touches leave a pale trail on Bossuet's dark skin.

"Stop?" Bossuet's voice quavers, and he leans in to lick a drip of batter off Joly's jaw.

"Having fun without me?" Musichetta asks.

They turn toward her and grin.

"You're up!" Joly cheers. "We didn't wake you, did we? I was trying to be quiet." Here he shoots an adorable glare at Bossuet and shakes himself out of Bossuet's embrace.

"You might have, but it's fine," she says. "You might want to flip your pancakes; they're going to burn."

Bossuet scrambles over to the stove and grabs the spatula.

"They're blueberry oatmeal pancakes," Joly says. "I hope you like them."

"I'm sure I'll love them," she says, leaning down to kiss his shoulder where it's bared by the collar of his pajama shirt. "Do you have egg in your hair?"

Joly frowns. "Bossuet believes in a full-body cooking experience."

Musichetta stifles a laugh. "You can go get cleaned up," she says, tapping his nose. "I'll get plates."

"Happy anniversary!" Joly says as he dashes off.

"Happy anniversary," she calls back. She crosses the kitchen and wraps her arms around Bossuet's waist, sliding her hands under his shirt to rest on his warm skin. "Happy anniversary," she whispers.

"Happy—oh, shit," He recoils from the skillet, holding his right hand over his head. "Okay, I'm okay."

"Let me see," she says, turning the burner off with one hand and taking his arm in her other. "Not too bad," she says. "My guess is cool water and Neosporin for the blisters, but go show Joly. I'll finish breakfast."

She chuckles to herself as she puts the pancakes on plates and drizzles them with syrup. Happy anniversary indeed.


"It's open!" Eponine yells from the bathroom.

Combeferre lets himself in and stands awkwardly by the door. "I have everything for the guacamole," he says. "I figured you'd run late."

"She's always late," Gavroche mutters.

"Do you want to go to the party or not, you little shit?" His sister's voice is high and tense, but Gavroche ignores her.

Combeferre bites back a smile.

"Sorry," Eponine says, rushing around, her hair a thick cloud around her shoulders. "And thank you." She stands on her tiptoes to peck a kiss to his cheek, then braces herself with a hand on his shoulder to leverage herself into her heels. She beams up at him, red lips peeling back to reveal white teeth. "Ready?"

"You look amazing," he breathes, hand warm and familiar at her waist.

Eponine rolls her eyes. "Let's go."

The party is their first real outing as a couple. Everyone knows, by now; they're official, but they aren't public, and this—this is new territory.

Eponine buckles herself into the passenger seat in Combeferre's car and holds her hands out for the bowl in his hands. He closes the car door behind her as she settles the glass bowl for the guacamole into her lap.

Looking at her from the driver's seat, he thinks he could easily spend the rest of his life this way.

He swallows that thought and puts the car in drive.


"So how did you pick an anniversary?" Cosette asks, lounging on a lawn chair with vintage sunglasses, a floppy hat, and Marius half in her lap. "Like, which first date did you pick?"

Bossuet, who's abandoned his shirt and is letting Joly rub sunscreen on his back because melanoma risk goes up for each serious sunburn under thirty, bites his lip. "I dunno. I think we just picked it."

Musichetta pauses in the act of removing her shorts by the pool to offer her thoughts. "It's kind of arbitrary. I wanted November so it'd be far enough away from all our birthdays, but Joly vetoed."

"November is cold," Joly complains, wiping his hands on a napkin. "August is much better. I like August. Okay, you're free."

Bossuet runs past him to jump in the pool.

"I'm surprised you don't make him swim in the kiddie pool," Grantaire observed, taking a beer from the cooler.

"I tried," Joly frowns, "but he says that's what lifeguards are for. It won't lower the risk of dry-drowning but when I point that out, he laughs at me."

Grantaire holds a beer in the air and raises an eyebrow at Enjolras.

Enjolras shakes his head. "It's two PM," he says, unable to keep a hint of distaste from coloring his tone.

"It's a special occasion," Grantaire says coolly, taking a swig.

"Every day doesn't get to be a special occasion," Enjolras says, but his voice is light and he accepts the kiss Grantaire presses to the freckle on the side of his neck.

Courfeyrac makes gagging noises. "Too much love at this party."

"I'm sorry," Eponine's voice comes from the gate at the entrance to the pool area. "Should we leave?"

Cosette smiles at her and waves lazily as she dabs pink lip gloss on with one finger.

Gavroche runs ahead of them to cannonball into the pool.

"Maybe you need some guacamole to settle your stomach," Combeferre suggests. "Where should I put this stuff?"

Joly trots over to a table shaded by an umbrella and clears a space. "So glad you could make it," he babbles as Eponine kisses his cheek.

"Happy anniversary," she says.

He smiles. "Thanks for bringing a snack."

"No problem," Eponine says, setting the bag of tortilla chips on the table. "I thought about bringing a bowl to put these in, but then I remembered that we're all barbarians anyway."

Combeferre laughs; his arm snakes around her waist.

"Need help?" Feuilly holds up a lime questioningly. "I can assist."

"That'd be great."

"Hey, R!" Bahorel calls. "Deep end. Five minutes."

"Or are you too chicken?" Gavroche shouts.

"Me too!" Courfeyrac whines, which the beginning of how the four of them get kicked out of the pool by the lifeguard, who is emphatically not paid enough to deal with this private party and their shenanigans.

"Who ever heard of a pool banning splash fights," Bahorel grumbles.

"Actually, a lot of pools prohibit splash fights," Cosette says, turning over to sun her back. "But what you guys were doing can only be termed a splash fight by an extremely polite euphemism."

Marius sweeps her hair off her shoulders and starts rubbing them. "It looked like you were actually trying to drown each other."

"They almost succeeded," Courfeyrac coughs. "Hooligans."

"No trying to drown my little brother," Eponine announces. "Or I'm never feeding any of you again."

"Please," Bahorel says. "We all know Combeferre is the cook in this relationship."

Eponine squirts him with a water gun she found in the pool.

Grantaire grins cheekily as he lets his hair drip water droplets onto Enjolras's shirt.

"Do you mind?" Enjolras asks sourly.

"Not at all," Grantaire says. "Move over."

"You'll get me wet," Enjolras sighs, but he inches over on his towel to let Grantaire sit on the edge of his lawn chair. "You're a disgrace."

"You loooove me," Grantaire coos, reaching a glistening hand to wet Enjolras's hair.

Enjolras makes a disapproving noise in his throat, but he doesn't pull away.

"We should get an anniversary of our own," Grantaire murmurs. "It's kind of nice, isn't it?"

"I thought you didn't believe calendars should dictate our lives." Enjolras smiles.

"But I do believe in parties," Grantaire says.

Enjolras cuts off his laughter with a kiss.


"You know," Combeferre says, tracing swirly patterns on Eponine's back with his fingers. "I just realized something."

"Oh?" Musichetta asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Uh, this is kind of Eponine's and my first date," he says. "So… your anniversary is our anniversary."

"Oh no," Joly says. "Does that mean we have to pick a new one?"

"It was so hard last time," Bossuet groans. "Everyone had a conflict, and—"

"You know what?" Chetta asks, silencing him with a hand on his butt. "Get your own damn arbitrary celebration day. This one's ours."


Author's Note:

This has been a long time coming. I've had new projects and 3-d life developments and all sorts of things keeping me away from this verse but here is a new piece! It is short but I am hopeful it's worth something as far as offerings go.

Re_repeat on Ao3 has been working on more things to tie-in to this verse, so if you are interested in the extracurricular goings-on of Eponine and Combeferre, the friendship between Cosette and Courfeyrac, or Feuilly's odd jobs, you may pop on over there and check them out!

As always, my tumblr is notanearlyadopter; come say hi! Your continued support is appreciated. 3