Chapter Text
Feuilly hasn’t met Bahorel’s family before. Grantaire has, but Grantaire and Bahorel have grown up together and Bahorel’s family had let Grantaire live with them when his parents were in the middle of a messy divorce. No other Ami has met the Bahorels, however, and Feuilly isn’t sure if he feels nervous enough as he stands outside the cozy-looking house with the rest of the Amis.
The blue door in front of him swings open to reveal a short, willowy woman with salt-and-pepper hair escaping from the white scarf wrapped around her head. Her face is smooth except for the laugh lines around her mouth and the crow’s feet around her smiling eyes, which are a warm cinnamon-brown not so different than her son’s.
“Ahlein!*” she greets, leaning forward to plant two kisses on Feuilly’s right cheek, and one on his right. “Come in, come in! Bahorel and Grantaire are in the living room.”
The walls of the foyer are cluttered with pictures. Upon closer inspection, Feuilly realises that they’re pictures of Bahorel through the years, from his baby years through toddlerhood and onto teen years. Grantaire is in a fair few of the pictures as well, sporting matching black eyes with Bahorel, posing with a painting and a winner ribbon, locked in a headlock with a pimple-faced teenaged Bahorel. The rest of the pictures are of three girls who look like younger versions of Bahorel’s mother.
When Bahorel’s mother is done greeting each Ami with a kiss, they file into a spacious living room with comfortable-looking couches and even more pictures. There’s a wonderful smell wafting in from somewhere, and Feuilly’s mouth waters at the rich aromas attacking his nose.
“You made it!” yells Bahorel when he lays eyes on the group standing in the middle of his parents’ living room. He’s wearing jeans and a shirt with Arabic calligraphy screen-printed on it.
Soon enough, Feuilly is being tackled to the floor in a Bahorel-specialty hug that makes his ribs feel like they’re about to snap. It’s an affectionate gesture, too affectionate, causing Feuilly to throw a nervous glance at the man who is obviously Bahorel’s father sitting in an armchair close to the television screen.
Bahorel guffaws at that, cuffing him around the head. “Nah, he’s cool. My parents are very open-minded.” He moves on to hug the rest of them.
“Bahorel, your sisters are going to be the death of me,” comes a groan from the entrance of the living room, where Grantaire is being half-obscured by the twin girls climbing all over him.
One of them pulls at Grantaire’s hair, giggling. “R,” she whines playfully, “you promised you’d help me paint!”
The other one pulls at his shirtsleeve until he pays attention to her. “Me too! But I want to paint in pink!”
Her twin nods vigorously. “Yeah, pink! I like pink! But Jake Walters at school said that I can’t like blue because it’s for boys only!”
Grantaire widens his eyes at her in mock shock, playing along with her indignation. “Oh, no! What did you do?”
She smiles smugly, looking so much like Bahorel that Feuilly has to blink in surprise. “I punched him, of course! Made his nose bleed. And then he cried and I got in trouble with the principal, but before that I told him that his het- hetor – heteronormative and gendered thinking is not okay!”
Grantaire breaks out in huffs of laughter, shaking so hard that he has to put the girls down. “Oh, man, that’s awesome, Thuraya!”
Bahorel picks one of girls up, swinging her to rest on his shoulders as she let out a squeal at suddenly being airborne. “No, not awesome. We don’t punch people, right, Star?”
At that, Courfeyrac lets out a snort, causing Grantaire to realise that they’ve arrived.
“Yeah, that’s rich coming from you, B,” Bossuet teases, landing a friendly punch to Bahorel’s arm.
The girl not on Bahorel’s shoulders grasps Grantaire’s hand. “Hi, Bahorel’s friends! I’m Lana and I’m 7 and 8 months old.”
Cosette, up until now silent, steps out from beside Marius to crouch next to Lana. Jehan, too, moves to coo over the girl, letting her run her hands over the flowers in his braid.
Setting Thuraya down so Cosette and Jehan can fuss over her too, Bahorel introduces the rest of them to his father, an intimidating-looking man with an impressive mustache and a gravelly voice.
“Baba, haydol as’habe*,” Bahorel says. “This is Feuilly – we share a flat together. Bossuet, Joly, Musichetta, Eponine, Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Marius, Cosette and Jehan.”
Introductions are over easily enough, but when Bahorel’s father shakes Enjolras’ hand, he pauses for a moment. “You’re Grantaire’s Apollo?”
Enjolras stills as the room quiets down, a steady blush marking his face. “Yes, I suppose I am,” he says calmly. Feuilly can see Grantaire flushing on the other end of the room, both with embarrassment, and pride at having Enjolras acknowledge this thing they’ve started.
“Hm,” Bahorel’s father breathes. “Don’t break my boy’s heart.”
Enjolras stutters, the pink of his blush darkening to a beet red. Courfeyrac tries to hide his snort by coughing.
Finally, Enjolras solemnly says, “I promise,” and Grantaire chokes on air as Bahorel’s father gives an approving nod before motioning for them to take a seat.
Feuilly was right before; the couches are comfortable.