“This cannot possibly end well.”
“Says the pessimist.”
“Enjolras,” Grantaire said, voice low and sharp. “You have a hundred kilograms of explosives in your deathtrap of a car. I’m not being pessimistic, I’m drawing a logical conclusion based on the evidence presented here.”
“Those are fireworks, not explosives,” Enjolras insisted, arms crossed, shoulders around his ears.
“They explode, therefore: explosives-”
“-And my car is not a deathtrap!”
“-Your brakes went out last week-”
“What’s your plan then, Grantaire, trade them for booze and hope no one dies of alcohol poisoning or falls into the bonfire?” Enjolras sneered and leaned back as Grantaire stepped closer to go through the inventory.
“As opposed to all of us dying by forest fire?” Grantaire bit back.
“Bahorel has a permit for-”
“-Bahorel forged a permit, badly-”
“What do you want me to do, Grantaire? My job for the party, which was your idea, was to get fireworks. I got fireworks: job done. I didn’t even want to go in the first place.”
“Alright, first of all, it was Courfeyrac’s idea, I just agreed with it, not that I had any other choice considering Courfeyrac with a party plan is equivalent to a war campaign, and I wasn’t going to get in the way of that. Secondly, you didn’t just get fireworks, you got a place on a government watch list. Thirdly, help me all this in my truck. I’m not letting you drive that far south in an unreliable car with this much firepower-- you have terrible night vision, you’ll hit a tree and blow up the countryside.”
Enjolras uncrossed his arms and moved aside to allow Grantaire to lift out the crates. “I may have gone a little overboard… I just want everyone to have fun!” He blushed at raised eyebrows. “I’ll admit, I know I’m not the face of fun in the group, but I don’t actively try to interfere.”
“You want Feuilly to think you’re fun, don’t you,” Grantaire asked, dry as bone.
“Shut up. I’m fun-”
“-As a root canal-”
“-I hate you-”
“-I hate you, too.”