Chapter Text
The Tuesday before Thanksgiving, no one is paying attention in staff meeting. They’re all ready for a four-day weekend, and more to the point, they’ve all seen off more than a hundred children who were also ready for a four-day weekend, clutching their handprint turkeys and singing “Over the River and Through the Woods” because Fantine teaches it every year in music class.
Some of the fifth graders might also be a bit traumatized because Enjolras got fed up and snarled about colonization and capitalism, but he’s going to worry about that after break when he gets his usual complaints. For right now, all he wants is to go home, get out a book that doesn’t have cartoons in it, and not surface until Sunday afternoon.
Valjean, however, is smiling around at them all from the front of the room, not dismissing them like he usually would after they finished any new business. “I normally wouldn’t do this until after Thanksgiving break, but Thanksgiving is late this year, and I want to give you all the time.” Enjolras’s heart sinks, and Valjean takes a top hat out from underneath the library desk. “This year, among the staff we’re doing a nondenominational anonymous holiday gift exchange at our winter party.”
“Secret Santa?” says Courfeyrac, already perking up from his exhausted slump. R, playing with his tablet in a way that suggests he’s doodling instead of taking notes, snorts, and Enjolras scowls even though Grantaire obviously isn’t looking at him.
“Nondenominational anonymous holiday gift exchange,” replies Valjean, with the air of someone who has practiced the phrase multiple times. Enjolras opens his mouth to object and gets a gentle shake of the head from Valjean, who may be a benevolent principal but definitely makes it clear who’s in charge. “If you’re only buying a gift for one of your co-workers, as I know you would be anyway because you’re all friends, then you have more money left over to donate to charity or give to friends or save for other purposes. A nondenominational anonymous holiday gift exchange seemed like the best solution.”
“And be creative,” Joly says with a grin. “We all know each other way too well to stick with the boring things.”
“I’ll go first!” says Courfeyrac. “What are the rules?”
“No putting a name back unless you pull out your own, and no switching afterwards. The present must be given sometime before the holiday party, which is on the twentieth this year. If you don’t want to remain anonymous, you don’t have to, but I encourage it so that revealing at the holiday party is more fun, and I do ask you all not to share who you have widely, because people will start putting it together.” Valjean shakes the hat around a little and walks over to Courfeyrac. “You get us started, then.”
Courfeyrac pulls his name with a flourish and grins down at it, obviously already planning something. Combeferre, next to him, sighs and offers his hand for the hat next, and it goes around the circle after that. Éponine makes a tragic face and Marius looks like he wants to cry (probably hoping for Cosette) and Bahorel starts laughing and keeps going long enough to alarm everyone, but most people seem relatively pleased with who they get.
There are only two names remaining in the hat when it gets to Enjolras—one for him, and one for Valjean. “You first,” Valjean offers, and Enjolras fishes one of the slips out.
Enjolras loves his friends, and he’s lucky to work with them, doing something he loves. He would have given all of them presents anyway, or donated to charity in their names and given them chocolate, which was his strategy last year. He’d be perfectly happy pulling almost anyone’s name, so as silly as it feels, he isn’t too worried when he looks at the slip of paper.
The paper, of course, says, in cheerful green ink, Grantaire – art. Valjean raises his eyebrows at whatever Enjolras’s face shows, so Enjolras does his best to look neutral. When he sneaks a look around, only Combeferre and R are looking at him, since everyone else is exchanging looks as though they’re already trying to guess who has whom, which is why anonymous exchanges never work. Combeferre smiles like he knows what’s going on, and R just grins in that way that always means he’s mocking something Enjolras has done before he turns back to Éponine.
“All of you go home and enjoy your break,” Valjean says after a moment, which is the cue for everyone to start excited chatter about the holiday exchange and their plans for Thanksgiving. Enjolras packs his bag with the worksheets he has to correct for fifth and sixth grade language arts and the history book reports from the sixth graders and makes it his goal to get out before anyone starts asking him if he has any ideas for his recipient.
It isn’t that he dislikes Grantaire. He never has, he doesn’t dislike any of his co-workers, especially since several of them were college friends. If nothing else, the way the students all seem to worship the ground Grantaire walks on would make Enjolras respect him, but he’s never really found a way to be friends with him, either. Anyone else, he would have some idea of what to give them (books for Combeferre, anything both pretty and useful for Cosette, colorful ties for Courfeyrac), but R is more difficult. The obvious gift is art supplies, nicer ones than he uses with the kids, but Enjolras was at his apartment once bringing Bossuet a book and he already has seemingly endless amounts.
He’ll just have to think about it, in between his work with the students. There’s plenty of time until the holiday party.
*
Bahorel really likes working at Musain Elementary. Mostly that’s down to the actual work, the kids and the administration both—not many principals would let him teach a special gym class for fourth grade girls and spend months just teaching them self defense, after all (fourth grade boys get extra time with Éponine talking about their feelings, because fourth grade boys need it). Bahorel refuses to be that gym teacher who plays dodgeball constantly and traumatizes kids for life (the occasional dodgeball-related trauma may still occur, because he isn’t a saint), and Musain makes it easy.
His co-workers are a benefit too: smart, committed, hot (Bahorel thinks the PTA could make a killing selling a sexy holiday calendar of all of them to all the students’ mothers, but there are probably legal reasons against that, which is why Bahorel is not a lawyer). However, his co-workers are also really stupid. In the little incestuous circle of their friends, none of the people who are actually in love with each other have tried to do anything about it.
So when he pulls Joly’s name out of the hat for their Secret Santa (Bahorel believes in calling a spade a spade. And sometimes a trowel a spade. Bahorel does not know a lot about gardening tools), he already knows exactly what he’s going to give him. It will take maneuvering, of course, but Bahorel is way more subtle than everyone gives him credit for.
The thing is that Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet are all stupid in love with each other, and either they think a ménage a trois will get them fired or they’re just pining for the sake of pining, neither of which Bahorel thinks are acceptable. And so he is going to give Joly Bossuet and Musichetta for Christmas. Not that he’s just going to kidnap and wrap them up in bows in Joly’s bed, tempting as that thought is, but that’s what’s going to happen nonetheless.
Jehan interrupts him, wandering over with a smile on his face and a barrette shaped like a turkey holding his hair back because he believes in embracing the stereotypes about kindergarten teachers and novelty clothing. “You look like you’re plotting something.”
“I think we’re all plotting things.” Bahorel jerks his head in Enjolras’s direction to illustrate his point. “Aren’t you?”
“Maybe.” Jehan completely fails at not grinning and drops his bag on the table across from Bahorel. “I’m trying to decide if Valjean realizes the inevitable disaster he’s invited on the staff with this. This is going to be worse than that time with the prank war.”
Bahorel laughs and stands up, scooping the meeting agenda and the paper he was writing his to-do list on into a pile, where they will join the pile of papers on his little-used desk and he will never see them again. “Or hey, maybe it will work out perfectly, in regular holiday-movie style.”
Jehan gives the room a sweeping gesture that manages to encompass Enjolras, sneaking out so nobody can ask him awkward questions, Marius, staring longingly at Cosette instead of listening to Valjean ask him something about his filing system, and Éponine frowning indiscriminately around at everyone. “Does that seem likely?”
Bahorel grins. “I’ll take my chances. Now, any reason you came over here, other than to proclaim possible disaster?”
Jehan blinks and then nods. “I just wanted to know if you were still planning on doing the Nutcracker thing with the kids, because if you do I want to read the storybook version to my kids pretty soon.”
“Yeah, Fantine and I are planning on it, pretty much the only ever collaboration between music and gym ever. I’m probably going to have your kids being the mice.”
“If anyone bites anyone else I am making you take over kindergarten for the rest of the year.”
“They won’t bite, I’ve got that fifth-grader tapped to be the Rat Queen, you know, the one they’re all kind of in love with?”
Jehan grins. “Maybe I’ll ask her to come in and read the story with me, then they’ll behave forever. Who are you getting to do Clara?”
“One of the third graders. It should be a pretty good production. If maybe not the most traditional balletic kind. Then I’d have to ask R, and he would have to say no. Heartbreak and humiliation all around. We’ll have to stick with what we’ve got.”
“Well, we can get the whole school involved—if all the kids are involved both through music and PE, we should get R and the kids doing sets, and Cosette helping with costumes, she sews, and maybe we could convince Valjean to play Drosselmeyer, sort of a cameo thing.”
Bahorel nods. “We’ll make it happen. Biggest show Musain has ever seen. It’s a fairly new school, we still need to get in the map. If it’s for the most adorable production of the Nutcracker ever, then so be it.” He grins. “And in the meantime, we’ll work on coming up with what presents to give each other.”
“Chaos and disaster,” Jehan predicts, and leaves, Bahorel only a minute behind him.
*
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Enjolras says, mostly for form’s sake. And then, when Combeferre doesn’t dignify that with a response, “He already has enough art supplies.”
“Yes, I imagine he does. I feel like I should remind you that it doesn’t have to be perfect or anything, Enjolras. It can be a book you think he’ll like, or a gift certificate.”
Enjolras considers that. It’s not a bad idea, on the surface (though he isn’t sure about what books he could in good conscience recommend that he thinks Grantaire would like, Grantaire hate-reads philosophers and scrawls insulting comments in the margins of used art books he picks up at yard sales, Enjolras can’t remember the last time he saw him read a book for pleasure). “Gift certificates would feel like giving up,” he admits. “We’re all friends, on the staff. People are going to give thoughtful gifts. I don’t want R to feel left out just because he had the bad luck of me picking his name out.”
Combeferre makes a thoughtful noise, and when he speaks, he sounds a little exasperated. “Why is it bad luck for you in particular to have picked his name out? For R, I mean, not you, I’m well-acquainted with your difficulties with Grantaire.”
“They aren’t difficulties as such. We just don’t have much in common. Which is why it’s not good for him, really. If Joly or Bossuet picked him, he might have mentioned something to them he wants, and he and Éponine adore each other, she would have found him something good, or Jehan would know just the book … what would you give him?”
“As I said, probably a book. Or something for his classroom, he loves his kids.”
Enjolras sighs. “That’s not much help. And I’m sorry, you don’t need to effectively have two gifts to choose. Who do you have?”
“None of your business,” says Combeferre, with great satisfaction, because sometimes he takes great delight in getting one over on Enjolras. “And I have some ideas already.”
“This whole thing is ridiculous,” Enjolras mutters, more for form’s sake than because he thinks Combeferre will agree. “Valjean made a point about charity, but considering I usually donate to charities on behalf of my friends anyway …”
“You could donate to charity on Grantaire’s behalf. An arts charity, maybe? Scholarships for disadvantaged youth for art camps and programs?”
Enjolras stirs the leftovers he finally has warming up on the stove and scrawls that idea down on the bottom of the grocery list taped to his refrigerator. “I think he would like it, but I think he would also mock me.”
“Since when have you ever cared about Grantaire mocking you?”
Enjolras goes back to stirring his dinner. “Besides, that ruins the anonymity of it, doesn’t it?”
“If you think the anonymity is going to last longer than it takes Bahorel to open his mouth or Marius to start trying to be sneaky, you are very much mistaken.” Enjolras laughs a little, and Combeferre sounds like he’s smiling when he answers. “Anyway, we have other things to think about. Bahorel sent that e-mail around—”
“About the Nutcracker, right. What are we supposed to do to help? None of it is really in our curricula. You teach science and math, I at least could do something of a history lesson about it for our fifth and sixth graders.”
He can almost hear Combeferre’s shrug. “I don’t know, but I’m sure they’ll find some way to get us involved. It’s not like we were going to get much done with the kids before holiday break anyway.”
Enjolras sighs. “Very good point. Do you think Valjean would fire me if I pretended to contract a deathly illness for the next three weeks?”
“No, but only because we’re low on substitutes this year.” Someone in the background on Combeferre’s end starts talking, probably one of his sisters telling him to get off the phone, since he’s home for the holiday. “I’ve got to go,” Combeferre says next, sure enough. “I’ll call you sometime this weekend to brainstorm ways for us to contribute to the production, it’s important for the whole school to be involved. And you think more about ideas for R.”
“Believe me, I will,” says Enjolras, and says a brief goodbye before he hangs up and turns the stove off, deciding his dinner is probably warm enough to eat.
*
For a third, it’s really stupid for Éponine to resent the way Marius stares at her like she hung the moon. Éponine has known Marius longest, even though she isn’t as close to him as Courfeyrac is: she had a crush on him from afar in high school, when he was the only person who bothered to be nice most days, she was stupidly, dangerously in love with him in college, when he was the best friend she had and she was struggling to keep everything from falling apart. That’s mostly over with now, filed down to dim regret and protectiveness because it’s hard not to be protective of Marius, but it doesn’t make it any easier to like Cosette.
Disliking Cosette over a boy, even if that boy is Marius, is stupid, and Éponine has been trying to figure out what to do about it for a month, ever since afternoon trick-or-treating at the school on Halloween, when Cosette dressed up as a fairy princess from some children’s book she’d been reading her kids (in a costume she sewed herself, of course) and Marius almost declared his love then and there and then came and sat on her couch and pined until Gavroche was looking at Éponine like he was sorry for her. Cosette isn’t going anywhere, and Marius’s adoration for her isn’t going anywhere, so Éponine has to like her.
That’s why she’s not sure if she’s more happy or annoyed that she got assigned Cosette for their holiday exchange. This is her opportunity to get to know Cosette, to figure out what present is going to make her happy, and be some kind of peace offering from Éponine, who has maybe avoided Cosette enough to make her look baffled and hurt a few times.
The question, of course, is what that present should be. Normally, Marius is the person she asks about this kind of thing, but he’s out for obvious reasons. She tries Gav next, more because she lives with him than because she actually thinks he’ll be helpful. “What should I give Cosette for Christmas?” she asks over their Thanksgiving meal, which is actually just turkey breasts and stuffing, because Gav is in a weird anti-potato phase. Preteen boys make no sense, but then again Éponine isn’t sure any boys at all make sense.
Gav looks at her like he’s waiting for a punch line. “A tiara?” he finally says, and Éponine really needs to stop talking about her co-workers to her kid brother.
Éponine goes to visit Grantaire the day after Thanksgiving while Gav is at a friend’s house playing video games and curls up on his couch while he flips through the fifth graders’ assignments on contrasting colors. “You’re good at gifts,” she says after a few minutes. “And I need help.”
Grantaire puts his stack of papers down. He isn’t grading them, really, more just leafing through them in a continuous circle. Éponine doesn’t pretend to understand R’s methods at times. “Need to figure out what to give Marius that doesn’t say you love him madly? A non-awkward gift for our dear leader?”
“Valjean or Enjolras?” Éponine asks, distracted.
R snorts. “Touché.”
“Who have you got?”
“You ask me to violate the sacred rites of Secret Santa?” Éponine rolls her eyes, and he laughs. “Bossuet, which should be fun. What he really needs is courage, Dutch or otherwise, so he’ll ask Joly and Musichetta out. But I am not the Wizard of Oz, whether or not he’s the Cowardly Lion, so I suppose I’ll have to think of something else. Sex toys, maybe.”
“We work at an elementary school.” She draws her knees up to her chin. “I’ve got Cosette.” He lets out a sympathetic hiss, because Grantaire gets unwise pining and stupid resentment. “What am I supposed to do about that?”
“Craft supplies, maybe.”
“Would you want art supplies?” She nods over at the corner of his living room, where there’s a stack of filled sketchbooks being used as a stand for a papier-mâché fish made by one of his students, some canvases facing the wall, and bookshelves full of fancy oil paints and watercolors and pencils, none of which have been touched in months. R is careful with his students’ work, but his own is intermittent and he doesn’t do much with it. Though he has his reasons, just like any of them.
“Ah, but art is my living, she just likes doing crafts. But I see what you mean. You want this to be a beautiful gesture to prove your readiness to be friends with her and get over Pontmercy.”
“It’s time. Past time.”
“Believe me, I get it.”
“At least Enjolras isn’t in love with someone else.”
There’s a pause, and Éponine almost regrets it. Usually she’s nice enough not to put a name to the elephant in the room, the way R has been in the painful, awful kind of love that isn’t even fun while it hurts almost since he met Enjolras at training last year. “He’s in love,” he finally says, and apparently it’s a holiday miracle and they’re talking about it. “Just not with a person. With education reform and his kids and dreaming about the leaders of tomorrow.”
“Most teachers are,” Éponine points out.
“Maybe. It’s a special level of intensity at Musain, and he’s at the forefront of it.” R picks his papers back up again. “What about plants? For Cosette, I mean. Some kind of potted flower for her apartment.”
“Possible, I guess. What if she asked me how to take care of it?”
He smiles. It’s only a little forced. “Then you would admit that you kill plants. Look, you’ve got almost a month to figure it out, and I believe in you. Maybe you should pick up a new crafting skill and make her something, that would get your message across.”
Éponine thinks briefly about the disaster that was her attempt to learn how to crochet in college. “I’ll think of something,” she says, and lets him change the subject as he so obviously wants to do.
*
This particular session wanders into distraction and annoyance sooner than usual, and Enjolras finds himself making a list of potential ideas for presents for R. It’s depressingly sparse, and all the ideas are Combeferre’s, other than the pathetic art supplies at the top.
Eventually, he gives in and calls Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac doesn’t have assignments to grade, unless he’s going over their cursive workbooks. Sometimes Enjolras questions why he doesn’t teach first grade like Courfeyrac, and then he remembers what large groups of six-year-olds are like. “Avoiding grading?” Courfeyrac asks, because both of Enjolras’s best friends know him far too well.
“Brainstorming for my holiday exchange recipient, actually.”
“If you’re angling for ideas, I could use a new school bag, mine is falling apart.”
“Good to know,” says Enjolras, rolling his eyes and doodling a little bird on the corner of his list. He isn’t much of an artist. He isn’t sure it would actually look like a bird to anyone else. “Who do you have?”
“No fun, I’m not telling. Just because you and Combeferre have no sense of adventure doesn’t mean I have to join in your boring club.”
“Combeferre wouldn’t tell me who he has, actually.”
Courfeyrac sounds surprised when he answers. “Well, I’m glad I’m not the only one who’s embraced the spirit of things, then. But seriously, Enjolras. You’re fairly fond of all your friends. You know what we like. What’s so difficult about a present? You give good birthday presents.”
Grantaire’s birthday is over the summer, and Enjolras was overseas spending too much of his savings seeing the sights in Oslo for it. He sent Grantaire a Facebook message and a postcard saying he went to a museum in his honor. And even did go to the museum. “I don’t know why it’s so difficult,” he says. That’s honest.
Courfeyrac laughs. “Look, just observe whoever it is, as though that doesn’t narrow it down to maybe four people, and see what they like. Secret Santa etiquette demands that you wander around school happening to mention good gift ideas for yourself as though they’re just occurring to you and you’re thinking out loud.”
“It’s a nondenominational anonymous holiday gift exchange,” Enjolras says, but he’s smiling. Valjean tries, but some traditions are entrenched in the cultural consciousness, no matter how capitalistic and devoid of meaning Enjolras feels Christmas often is. Perhaps that’s the difficulty of the gift, on top of having to give it to Grantaire. He’d like it to mean something. “So you aren’t going to help me?”
“Young Skywalker, it is not my help you need.”
Enjolras groans. “Don’t start. I don’t want my recipient to end up with something unwanted just because I don’t come up with good ideas.”
“You’re good at gifts, Enjolras. You’ll get it. You’ve got three whole weeks of school to stalk whoever it is into giving you an answer you like.”
Courfeyrac launches into a story about Marius and his pining for Cosette, and Enjolras doodles more on the margins of his mostly-empty list, waiting for inspiration. Something meaningful, something that won’t make anyone wince at how little he knows Grantaire. Something that won’t make Grantaire wince at how little Enjolras knows him.
Maybe Courfeyrac’s mention of stalking him around the school until he finds an answer isn’t such a bad idea after all.