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Enjolras and Courfeyrac had already got through the worst bit of the day. Both of them only lived a ten minute walk away from their school, so by half eight their nerves were well behind them, and they were perched on the high brick wall with the slips of paper denoting their grades hanging loosely from their fingers, and a cigarette being passed back and forth between their lips. The small cylindrical slip of paper spent more time between Enjolras’ lips than it did Courfeyrac’s, but the latter still managed to enjoy the odd puff.
Enjolras had got an A* in both Philosophy and Politics, and A grades in both History and Latin, which easily got him in to Politics, Philosophy and Law course at King’s College London he’d been lusting after for the past five years. Courfeyrac also had an A* in Philosophy, but his second was in English Literature rather than Politics. He’d got an A grade in History, and a B in Psychology. He didn’t mind too much, he’d never liked the Psychology teacher anyway, and besides, his other two A*s and A grades were more than enough to get him on his English and Educations Studies combined honours course.
So the weight was very much off their shoulders. The only nerves left in them, were there on behalf of Combeferre.
“He’s a bit late,” Courfeyrac said after a pull on the fag, hissing the smoke out between his teeth and handing it back to Enjolras.
Enjolras shrugged. “He always shows up later.”
“Yeah... and I guess it’s not like he’ll have to be here early to get through clearing...”
Enjolras snorted at the very suggestion, smoke rolling out from between his lips, before he puffed it out into the air.
“And there’s that surprise, too,” Courfeyrac continued, feet bouncing off the brick wall and hands waving excitedly. “He tell you anything?”
“It’s probably just a new car or something,” Enjolras muttered, checking his watch. Eight-thirty two.
“What if he’s got his ears pierced?” Courfeyrac asked, nattering away and Vans bouncing even further away from the wall.
“You’re going to fall off if you’re not careful.”
“He’s always talked about getting his ears pierced, or getting stretchers or something-”
Enjolras shut Courfeyrac up by raising a hand and pointing down the road. “Here he is.”
Sure enough, the little grey car was trundling up the road, Jelly-Belly air freshener hanging from the mirror and still a dent in the hood from where Courfeyrac had crashed into it on his scooter that one time.
“So, it’s not a new car... perhaps it’s to do with the gap year?”
Shaking his head, Enjolras frowned. “No, he would have told me... there’s no issue with that, we’ve raised plenty of money, he wouldn’t change any of the details this late. You know how he is.”
Courfeyrac finally fell silent at the little silver car, a classic mini in very poor condition, pulled up right in front of them, not giving a damn to the big red ‘keep clear’ signs adorned with the black silhouettes depicting school children.
“You know, I’m quite sure you’re not meant to park there,” Enjolras pointed out casually, smirking.
“What’s the Head gonna do, expel me?” Combeferre retorted dryly, shutting the car door and locking it manually. “Back in a sec.”
Courfeyrac waved him off as he headed to the main entrance and presumably the Main Hall after that. Just before Combeferre turned the corner and vanished inside, Courfeyrac’s hand froze, and his eyes narrowed. “Is that-”
Enjolras was full-out smirking. “Apparently.” A define tone of pride in his actions, he once again raised the cigarette to his lips and took a huge drag. Courfeyrac started to laugh.
It was only a few minutes later that that Combeferre emerged, holding the white paper envelope. “And did Dr Searle like your new ink?” Enjolras asked dryly, using the cigarette to gesture at the black patterning on Combeferre’s left arm, clearly visible beneath the rolled up sleeves of the heavy blue cotton shirt he was wearing.
“He didn’t comment,” Combeferre said, sounding almost cheerful. “And besides, he can’t do anything anymore, can he? We officially no longer go here.” As he walked past Enjolras, he reached up and smoothly snatched the fag from between Enjolras’ fingers, dropped it on the pavement and neatly crushed it under the heel of his brogues. Enjolras rolled his eyes, but said nothing.
“No parents?” Courfeyrac asked, as he offered Combeferre a hand to help pull him up.
“No,” Combeferre replied, having to jump – and none all that elegantly – to get up beside Courfeyrac, even after all these years of practise. “For some reason, they weren’t worried enough about my grades to feel the need to come.”
“Shocking,” Enjolras muttered, with a grin.
“And no parents for you two, either?”
At that, Enjolras outright laughed. “Please. My parents have been resolutely avoiding all contact with my education for years, now. Somehow, they’ve got the impression that, being the rebellious teenager that I am, that I’ve flunked it all. You think they’d want to be here to witness such humiliation first hand?”
“Rebellious teenager?” Combeferre echoed wryly. “I wonder where they got that impression.”
“He is wearing a Black Sabbath t-shirt, eyeliner, and just a touch of lipstick,” Courfeyrac helpfully chimed in. “That could have something to do with it. Whereas my parents simply opted to give me space. I called them earlier.”
“I heard his mother squealing from here,” Enjolras said darkly, and Courfeyrac laughed and elbowed him. “It was sickening.”
Combeferre hummed, and lifted his envelope up, as if by holding it to the sun he could see the contents inside.
“You kinda have to open it,” Courfeyrac added, being helpful again.
Throwing a scathing glance in Courfeyrac’s direction Combeferre lowered his envelope again, hands barely shaking at all as he slipped one finger into the gap and tore it open. Breathing forcibly steady, he removed the slip of paper and studied it for a very, very, long time.
When he could bear it no longer, Courfeyrac cried out, “Well?”
Combeferre’s lips twitched. “Philosophy, A*,” he read out, voice sounding remarkably Radio 4. “Latin, A*. English Literature, A*, and Politics, A*.”
The other two blinked at him for a second before Courfeyrac succinctly summarised, “You got four fucking A*s? Fucking four of them?”
As Combeferre sat there, smiling proudly and rightly so, Enjolras started to laugh, one his rare bursts of laughter that were purely joy. Courfeyrac continued to rant. “I fucking hate you, you actual fucking bastard, I mean seriously that’s just greedy, you only fucking need one to get on your course, who gave you the right to go and get four-”
“Possibly how I spent my time revising, rather than gossiping, pranking people, or shopping?” Combeferre suggested lightly, which caused Courfeyrac to shove him so hard he had to dig his nails into the grooves between the bricks so he didn’t fall off. This, of course, only served to make them all laugh louder.
“Nah, you keep your A*s,” Courfeyrac said, waving a dismissive hand at Combeferre. “I have what I need, I don’t need higher. I am content with my lot,” he finished with a beaming smile.
Enjolras smiled back at him, before meeting Combeferre’s gaze, his eyes wide and shining with a shock and happiness he was barely managing to hide behind his usual, calm facade. “We’ve done it,” Enjolras said, excitement finally bubbling over. “We’ve only managed to go and fucking do it.”
Courfeyrac continued to beam as Combeferre nodded sombrely. “Pub?” he suggested, after a pause.
Enjolras and Courfeyrac exchanged glances, then nodded. “Pub,” they agreed, pushing up off the wall and jumping back down to the pavement.
The car was left where it was. Instead, Courfeyrac forcibly linked arms with the other two, pulling them down the street. It was an unusual trio, to say the least: Combeferre on one side, terribly public school in his button-up shirt and designer jeans, if not for the intricate black tattoo sleeve; Enjolras on the other side, traces of black eyeliner around his eyes, lips tinted red and tied back long blonde hair contrasting sharply against his black attire; and then Courfeyrac in the middle, brogues and chinos and oversized, brightly patterned jumper. But it was a trio most of the teachers, students and parents of the public school were used to seeing.
In three weeks, the trio would be on a plane heading towards an orphanage and school in South Africa. Enjolras would assist with the building of a new block for accommodation, Courfeyrac was going to help the kids paint them, and Combeferre would be helping in the classroom for the few months they were there. They’d all play football with the kids in their free time, help cook for them, eat with them, and Courfeyrac would cry when the time came to leave them. Even Enjolras would struggle to stay dry-eyed.
And when the gap year ended, they’d return to London, ready to start university in London.
But for now, eighteen years old, all that was on any of their minds was how much alcohol and chips they could get for the twenties they’d hastily shoved into their pockets that morning, before leaving the house.