The morning that Grantaire meets Enjolras starts like this:
It’s dull and grey outside, like the universe hasn’t decided yet if it’s going to rain or not, and the first thing that happens when Grantaire wakes up, is that he falls out of bed.
Well, at least he woke up at a decent time. He gets up, toeing his way through books, pens and papers, almost falling over his fencing saber on his way to the bathroom.
This is one of the rare mornings in which he doesn’t wake from any dreams. Sometimes he wakes up with the taste of whiskey still in his mouth, from where he has pulled himself back out of imaginary bars and dreamed-up intoxication, only for coins on his windowsill and the worn out boxing gloves in the corner of his bedroom to wish him good morning. Today seems to be a good day.
There’s only one great thing about being a recovering alcoholic sometimes, and that is without doubt the lack of hangovers. Every morning again. He’s still ecstatic when he finds that he doesn’t have to unstick his face from his pillow and then make it to the bathroom in time to throw up for god knows how long anymore.
Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta are already out, judging by the silence that greets him when he walks out of his room. There is a bowl waiting for him, cereal already inside, plus a post-it with Joly’s familiar doctor scribbles, reminding him to eat and that the milk is in the fridge.
He grumbles and stumbles a bit around, trying to locate the socks he wore yesterday and make coffee at the same time. After his cereal, his phone chimes with a message and he stares at it for a while, deciding if he’s actually ready for human interaction today or not. Human interaction wins when he sees the message.
Bahorel: wakey wakey
He met Bahorel three months ago in the gym, after the giant had scared all the other boxers away. Grantaire, not one to back away from a challenge and still a masochist back then, had just shrugged and put on his gloves. They sparred. Grantaire broke his clavicle. After plaster and the ER, they went to seven bars together and decided to be friends for life.
He supports Grantaire in his battle against addiction and treats Éponine like his long-lost sister. So, yeah, Grantaire owes him.
This is why he ends up at a lecture on History of Human Rights at eight in the morning, even though he’s majoring in Classics, because Bahorel has finally concluded that Grantaire is ready to meet his friends.
Not that Grantaire doesn’t know some friends of Bahorel’s. He knows Cosette, who is an actual Disney princess but also very badass, and Jehan, an obscure poet with a love for spiked Doc Martens and pastel-colored ponchos.
He sights and swings his arm over the back of his uncomfortable crappy chair. Then he proceeds to almost fall off said chair because-holy shit.
Holy motherfucking shit.
He suddenly feels as if someone punched him in the solar plexus, because the hottest guy Grantaire has ever laid eyes on has just walked into the lecture theater.
No, hot doesn’t quite cover it. More like beautiful, illuminating, leaving Grantaire breathless in a way he wishes he could blame on his smoking. Tall, with amazing blond hair that falls around his very handsome face. His red jacket does things to his shoulders that should be illegal and his face is set like someone has just squished his grandmother under their feet.
Bahorel comes into view, followed by another curly-haired guy, a brunet this time. He waves. Grantaire waves back, hoping that his mouth is closed by now and he’s not still openly gawking at the wonder that is Bahorel’s first companion.
Red Jacket follows his gaze and scowls even more at the sign of Grantaire, if that was even possible. He doesn’t mind, because Hot Rod Red looks really hot while scowling. Also because Grantaire aspires to be a little shit in life, and every opportunity that transports him closer to this goal, brings him joy.
He smirks, and leans back in the chair. This is going to be a long hour.
It always costs Enjolras real great effort to remember the day when he met Grantaire, but he supposes it went something like this, because every day before he met Grantaire started like that:
Enjolras wakes up, sun shining through that one hole in the curtains, the hole that makes him want to rip them off and cover said windows with wood. He puts on the clothes he chose the night before and unhooks his laptop from the charger.
Combeferre and coffee are waiting for him when he stumbles into the kitchen because Combeferre is an actual saint.
Enjolras downs the first caffeine dose of the day within two minutes and makes himself more. Courfeyrac appears with bed hair twice the size of his head and grunts in his mug. Combeferre makes a noise behind his stack of papers and magazines and makes toast for all of them, which Enjolras ignores.
Combeferre shoves his toast towards Enjolras in a silent command and he eats while scrolling down several news sites on his laptop. Courfeyrac makes cereal and picks out the marshmallows. Then he proceeds to complain about his lack of marshmallows throughout his entire bowl.
Combeferre throws cartons of orange juice at them and they both drink because no sane person argues with Combeferre.
Half an hour later, Courfeyrac is dressed and ready to go. It takes Enjolras another fifteen to put on his shoes because he keeps getting distracted by the headlines on Combeferre’s paper. He puts on someone’s flannel -Courfeyrac’s? probably Courfeyrac’s- grabs his favorite jacket and they head out the door.
Enjolras leans back in the passengers seat in Combeferre’s car, New Politics in his ears, and sleeps for another twenty minutes. Courfeyrac takes the wheel after they drop off Combeferre and drives them to the lecture hall. They meet Bahorel at the hall and talk about the upcoming Les Amis rally. Courf laughs his ass off when Enjolras almost falls down the stairs in his enthusiasm. Enjolras turns around, ready to snap something in Courf’s general direction when he stops dead in his tracks.
There’s someone sitting on his chair.
And that is a problem on itself. But part two of the tragedy -and yes, Courf might be not as wrong as Enjolras likes him to be about his love for dramatics- is that this guy is hot. Hot as fuck.
Slightly uneven teeth, full lips crooked in a smirk and thick, dark hair. Broad, muscled shoulders and the arms. Jesus Christ, are those arms even legal? Legal. Law. He’s at a lecture.
Focus, he has to focus. But he keeps getting distracted by the hint of muscular biceps that show through sea-green fabric and strong, not-quite-white teeth. He clenches his jaw and glowers. Then the guy takes off his hoodie and he’s so ripped that Enjolras is going to die. He looks around him, at Bahorel, who just shrugs.
His chair, the chair he chose at the beginning of this semester, which he has never left, and now this absurdly hot asshat decided to sit in it. Bahorel claps a hand on his shoulder and pushes him into the empty chair next to him. It’s a good chair, just not as good as the one occupied by Hot Asshole. Enjolras throws his bag down on the table and gathers his supplies, scowl firmly in place.
“Relax, Enjolras. It's just a seat.”
He knows he’s being ridiculous. It still bothers him, so he keeps sulking between Courfeyrac and Bahorel and doesn't take his eyes off the -insanely hot- chair hijacker for a moment.
At some point during Lamarque’s lecture, the guy looks back and Enjolras is struck in his chair by the sign of fuck-me blue eyes, the sharp angle of the jaw and... Tattoos? Enjolras may or may not possibly have a heart attack.
Plus, he loves these lectures, agrees with all his heart with Lamarque, and now he’s getting distracted by some idiot in a green hoodie who has stolen his chair. The stranger winks and waves from his place. He’s not even taking notes, just listening and annoying Enjolras.
Such a waste of a perfect seat.
“Enjolras is getting into angry staring contests with oblivious strangers.” Bahorel whispers very loudly into Courfeyrac’s ear. Courf grins. “Or he’s just aggressively eye-fucking them.”
Enjolras clenches his jaw and absolutely doesn't notice the curve of broad shoulders under sea-green fabric.
He’s still fuming with anger when he comes home that afternoon. Combeferre gives him a look over the rim of his glasses. “Bad lecture?” he asks. Enjolras sags down in a chair and nods.
Then he shakes his head, Combeferre’s words processed by his still-angry brain. “No, no. The lecture was good.”
“Just a bad day, then?” Combeferre asks, while starting the coffee machine. Enjolras thanks the universe on his bare knees for the day that he met Combeferre. He opens his mouth to tell about Green Hoodie Asshole, but on that moment Courfeyrac storms in.
He jumps on the table and plants his feet on a chair. “Still angry, Enje?” he asks, eyes shining with mischief. Combeferre plants down a mug in front of Enjolras, who just stares at it as if it has swallowed his grandmother.
“Care to share?”
Courfeyrac giggles with undiluted glee because Courfeyrac is an awful friend and Enjolras hates him. He glares at him and takes a sip coffee. And quickly empties the rest of the mug down his throat. He deserved it. “Some asshole decided to steal my chair.”
Combeferre gives him a look that speaks of disappointment and disbelief. Courfeyrac steals Enjolras mug and tuts when he finds it empty already. “Our friend here was very attracted to him.” he says, winking at Enjolras on his way to the coffee maker. Combeferre makes a thoughtful humming noise in the back of his throat.
“I wasn’t!” Enjolras protests, and then he remembers why he usually doesn’t lie about small things. Because he’s fucking shit at lying.
Combeferre pushes his glasses further up his nose. “Of course not.”
There's just something about this Enjolras really, truly enjoys.
And it's not just the verbal beating up of people, like Courfeyrac thinks. It's seeing the light of understanding in their eyes. It’s seeing them turn around to tell their friends about it, seeing them walking away and knowing that they will make a difference. How they are now informed about the cause they’re working towards. The progress they’re making.
Enjolras has just dumped about eighty fliers in the hands of the enthusiastically nodding girl in front of him, when he arrives.
He here referring to chair hijacker with the illegal arms and hair and- is he wearing leather? He is, a dark leather jacket that looks like it’ll smell real nice when it’s pressed against his back because the same stranger is pinning him against a wall. With his arms.
He could probably lift Enjolras up and pin him against rough bricks while sucking marks- Enjolras makes a noise that could best be described as a dying fish and feels his cheeks warm up. While Enjolras is trying to will away his blush, Courfeyrac elbows him in the ribs.
“Hey, look who’s here.”
Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’ve seen him.”
Courf grins. “Go and say hi, then.” Enjolras looks at him, disbelief on his face. Bahorel, who of course has heard the conversation, hooks an arm around his neck and wiggles with his eyebrows. “Yeah Enjolras, go and say hi.”
Enjolras huffs and turns in the exact opposite direction, towards a group of freshmen who are giggling around Marius. The boy is bright red, and Bossuet is standing next to him with a vaguely proud look on his face. Enjolras really doesn’t want to know.
He pushes against Bahorel’s massive shoulder, who is still wiggling his eyebrows at him, shoves a handful of fliers towards them and begins his same-as-always introductory talk. It mostly involves the oppression of the people, all the things that are wrong with their society and how they can help with fixing those issues.
From the corner of his eyes, he can catch a flash of sea-green hoodie, hears a deep, throaty voice. He clenches his jaw and walks to the next group of people. There are things to be done, things more important than the sound of some guy’s laugh.
An hour later, they’re in the Musain, celebrating the successes of the day. Enjolras leans back, Cherry Coke in his hand. He hears Bossuet, Joly and Bahorel talking about a mutual friend, who apparently spars with Bahorel on Sundays and lives with Bossuet and Joly. He listens for a while, impressed by the fact that the friend speaks six languages and swears in all of them.
Courfeyrac interrupts his musings with a cheerful; “Thinking about someone?” and an arm over Enjolras’ shoulder. “Aww, look at you. Pining and all.” He pretends to wipe away a tear. “They grow up so fast, don’t they, ‘Ferre?”
Combeferre is cleaning his glasses with the hem of his t-shirt and smiles, traitor. He snorts. “Yeah, they do.”
Enjolras shoves Courf’s arm away, frowning. “Fuck off.” That doesn’t stop the sound of Courfeyrac’s laugh from following him out of the Musain.
Eponine’s feet are dangling off the couch and her glass is dangerously tilted. “So you watched him all afternoon, like some kind of creeper?” Grantaire throws her a look over his textbook, rolls his eyes and sing-songs; “Pontmercy...”
Éponine rolls her eyes at him. “Okay, okay. I can’t judge.”
Grantaire leans against the couch and lets her play with his hair. “You’re right, though. And that afternoon was the most pointless one in a long time. He’s so fucking idealistic. When I’m near him the phrase; ‘are you for real’ just kind of marches through my head like Communist propaganda, and then it turns around but still it says ‘are you for real?’ and it all begins again. I constantly wondered why I was there, but then he turned around and smiled, and you could literally power New York with that smile, the city that never sleeps would, could, run on that endless electric smile, it would be a public service to never make him stop smiling-”
“-electric as in electricity, derived from the Latin word electrum. That in his turn describes him so well, with the hair and piercing eyes like Achilles and Alexander and every other mythical hero described jumped off the page and joined into one magnificent man, with the innocence and naivety of Icarus. Innocence from innocentia, first used in France, 14BC as inocence. He looks like all the good in the world combined with all the stored rage from under the Earth inside his eyes, the archangel Michael here to fight on the behalf-”
Éponine smacks him on the back of his head. “How many Greek tragedies have you read today? You sound like an Ovid cocktail with some Bible sprinkled in there.”
Grantaire shrugs. “Like, four? I kind of lost count.” She sighs, used to his ways by now, and stands up. “I gotta go. Gav will be home in ten.”
Éponine kicks against his textbook lying open and annotated on the floor on her way out and, oh, he totally forgot about those. If there’s one thing he enjoys, it’s annotating books. It’s like his own one-sided conversation with the author. In which he tells them in detail why they’re full of shit.
The door slams and with that, Éponine is gone. Grantaire rolls over, looks at his textbooks, and shoves it all in his bag. That bag has seen more abuse than most boxing gloves, but it tries, so Grantaire keeps it. Library time.
The moment he steps into the library, he already knows what he’s going to do. He’s deserved an evening of hate-reading, myth-picking and snorting at horrible inaccuracies. It’s time for some Bulfinch.
When he spots Bulfinch’ Greek and Roman Mythology on a shelf, he does an inward victory dance. Someone walks up from behind him, towards the shelf, and it’s perfectly understandable that Grantaire wants to throttle him. And then he recognizes him. The hair. The jacket.
But that’s not the point. The actual point is that Grantaire really wants that book.
Red Jacket is standing next to him, hand hovering over the spine. God only knows what Red Jacket wants with it. Grantaire has visited his Political Theory lectures, and he knows Blondie isn’t a man to read myths in his spare time, more one to swoon over Rousseau or Mill.
Also, has Grantaire mentioned he really wants that book?
Blue eyes lock with his, and he knows he’s fucked. And not in the good way. But, the shoulders and the skin and the hair. For fuck’s sake, Grantaire is only human.
“Take it.” he says, grabbing the copy and handing it over with pain in his heart, mentally saying bye bye to his evening of hate-reading.
But then Red Jacket shakes his head and Grantaire wants to punch him in his pretty little face. For God’s sake, can’t he see that he’s making an effort here? “No, you take it.”
Grantaire snorts. Of course Red Jacket wouldn't know the proper way to politely just take something from someone who obviously doesn’t want to part from it. For someone so hot, he’s amazingly oblivious.
Grantaire sights. “I insist. Take it.”
Angry Short-Haired Rapunzel crosses his arms and fixes his gaze on the book until Grantaire lowers his arm awkwardly, and he’s had it. Also, he’s probably going to jump this guy if he doesn’t step back soon. He smells nice, Grantaire thinks, like lemon soap and coffee. But he has to focus, has to make a point.
“Then we both won’t have it.”
No way he’s going to be beaten by some green rookie idealist. Triumphantly he puts the book back on the shelves and marches out of the shop, regretting his decision to go and be sober.
Two weeks later, Enjolras finds himself in a holding cell, but that doesn’t seem to be anything different from a usual Saturday night.
In his defense, it wasn’t his fault. He just called out a guy on some misogynistic comments, and same guy decided to punch him. So, Enjolras had to punch back. And maybe Bahorel’s boxing classes have paid off a little more than expected, and maybe it all ended with a broken nose and Enjolras in handcuffs. Again.
Still, it wasn't his fault.
Someone knocks on his cell door. “Kid, we’re bringing you to the ER. You need to be looked after by a professional.” There’s the sound of of keys colliding. Then, the door opens and he finds the nice officer from earlier that night staring at him, with a bonus very familiar looking inspector.
The inspector holds up the handcuffs. “Again, Enjolras?” he sighs.
Enjolras shrugs and turns around, wrists on his back. He’s already in a cell, he knows his injuries need checking, there’s no point resisting now. He’ll save the rant for the police car.
The nice officer blinks up at the inspector, curiosity in his eyes. “Again?”
The inspector and Enjolras trade looks. “He’s here a lot.” the inspector grumbles. “Too much.”
He just smirks at that and the inspector locks the handcuffs. He looks way too satisfied and Enjolras scowls at him.
“In the car we go.” The nice officer pushes his shoulder. It’s not hard but Enjolras is about to find him a lot less nice if he keeps touching him like that.
The trip to the ER starts silent, tense and awkward. The inspector keeps glaring at Enjolras and Enjolras glares back every time. The officer probably doesn’t dare to say anything. Until Enjolras remembers his rant, and he opens his mouth. The inspector throws him a warning look that he firmly ignores. He taps the officer on the shoulder.
“You know, I lead a student organisation on campus called Les Amis. We-”
“Are a bunch of socialist troublemakers.” the inspector doesn’t even look up from the road. He’s heard this speech a thousand times. Enjolras decides not to bothered by this and keeps talking.
“Yes, we are and I would like you to hear about what we are trying to achieve.” The officer makes the mistake of asking what they do, which results in Enjolras rambling about all the injustice in the world. The inspector rolls his eyes in the background, and Enjolras doesn’t miss his muttered “finally” when they reach the hospital.
He grabs Enjolras by his scruff, as if he is a naughty kitten, and drags him into the ER.
Combeferre, clad in blue scrubs, looks up from his computer. “Enjolras.” he says, almost radiating disappointment from his pores.
He flat-faced forgot about Combeferre and Joly’s internship at the hospital. He’s so dead. He can only imagine the picture, dragged in by two police officers, bleeding and in handcuffs. Combeferre throws him a look, and Enjolras swallows.
Courfeyrac has named the same look ‘the combestare.’ All the Amis dread the aftermath of the combestare. He looks down, knowing well when he’s defeated. “I can explain?”
“You’re fucking grounded.” Combeferre grabs bandages and antiseptic and plants him into a chair. “What the fuck were you thinking, Enje?” Things go down when ‘Ferre starts swearing. It’s a common known fact. Enjolras feels guilty already.
Combeferre cleans the cut on his cheekbone and removes the blood from under his nose. “I’ll take a look at your shoulder in a minute. Stay in this chair until I come back.”
Combeferre and the officer walk away, probably to talk about the situation of the night and what exactly happened. Enjolras already dreads the decaf of tomorrow. He is not allowed to have caffeine after riots. Combeferre’s own little punishment for when Enjolras has misbehaved or acted like a ‘dick’ -Courfeyrac’s words.-
Both Enjolras and the inspector turn to the voice so fast his neck hurts. Behind them, with a shit-eating grin on his face and a shirt covered in blood, is Green Hoodie guy.
Grantaire. Enjolras repeats the name a few times in his head, tries to get his head around the taste of the vowels. It fits him. Wait a minute.
“Why are you here?” The inspector says, well, asks. Shouts. He takes off his hat and combs his fingers furiously through his hair. It’s nice to see the normal put-together inspector so unraveled. “You got in a fight again? I thought that Prouvaire kid kept you out of trouble.”
Grantaire knows Jehan. Enjolras files this information away for later, for when he’s going to interrogate him.
The boy in front of them rolls his eyes. “He doesn’t keep me out of trouble, dad. I was out with him, ‘Ponine and Bahorel, when this dick starts to hit on her. She asked him to back off, shoved him, but he kept going. So I kind of punched him. In the face.”
The words fall from his mouth before he can stop them. Enjolras wants to fucking burn himself. The guy -Grantaire, he finally knows his name- looks at him as if he just spotted him, surprise evident in his eyes. “O yeah? Tell me about your adventure then, hero boy.”
Enjolras feels his cheeks heating up at the nickname. “I was out with a friend of mine, Cosette, her boyfriend and a few of my friends. Then this guy starts to talk to the girls of the group, completely out of the blue, harassing them. Marius steps up, and this guy starts to call him names, faggot and stuff, so I push him away and punch him. Also in the face. I broke his nose, thanks to Bahorel’s boxing classes.”
Enjolras feels a vague sense of pride when finishing the story. Grantaire grins. “Beautiful, beautiful. You need to thank Bahorel.”
“Oh no. No, no, no way you’re talking to him.” The inspector, who looks like he’s going to cry every moment, puts a hand on his son’s shoulder and turns him the other way. “You can’t talk to him. As your legal guardian, I now forbid you to talk to him.”
“Jesus, Javert. Chill.” Grantaire looks annoyed and ashamed at the same time. “It’s not as if we’re pulling a Bonnie and Clyde and start to rob banks together. It’s just a conversation.” He winks at Enjolras, who can feel his cheeks heat up. Ugh.
“Enje, I need to see that shoulder of yours.” Combeferre to the rescue. Never ever has Enjolras been so relieved to see his best friend. Who has a first aid kit in his hand and looks vaguely angry. Enjolras supposes he has heard the story, too.
“Oh, hey, Grantaire. What brought you here?”
“Barfight.” Grantaire says. A disapproving noise leaves Combeferre’s mouth. “You too?” Grantaire shrugs. “We were both defending the honors of the ladies in our late night company.” he says, and bows, complete with flailing hands and flying hair.
Combeferre rolls his eyes and opens the first aid kit. “Enjolras, shirt off.”
No. Just, fuck no. Not with Grantaire less than six feet away from him. Unless Grantaire is also pulling off clothes, because that would be awesome. Really awesome.
Combeferre quirks the Eyebrow of Doom (Courfeyrac has a tendency to name things). “Unless you want me to cut it open, you have to take it off. I need to see if there’s any bruising.”
“I could rip it off you.” Grantaire offers, sliding back in his chair and propping his feet on the chair next to him. “No problem.” Enjolras looks at his hands, broad and calloused, and lets himself imagine. And promptly has to stop because he may or may not have a heart attack.
“Earth to Enjolras? Hello?” Grantaire snaps his fingers in front of his face. “Maybe you should check him on a concussion, doc.” he says, concern evident in his voice. Combeferre shakes his head. “Already done. He’s just being difficult. Take off the shirt, Enje.”
And Enjolras could protest, could say that he’s not a four-year-old so they don’t have to talk to him like that, but this is Combeferre. The Eyebrow of Doom intensifies, so Enjolras sighs, and begins to unbutton his shirt.
If he sneaks glances while a nurse checks Grantaire’s nose, well, that’s nobody’s business.
Javert leaves after about half an hour with a threatening “We are going to talk about this, young man,” in Grantaire’s direction. Grantaire blows him a kiss, and walks out the door fifteen minutes later. After a conversation with a nurse in which he solved her trust issues between her and her uncle. Grantaire is truly a remarkable person.
Enjolras is still thinking about this when a hand lands on his shoulder. “You’re coming?” Combeferre asks. Enjolras nods, and when Combeferre has turned his back on him, shakes his head to lose the thoughts of blue eyes and muscled arms.
For some reason, Grantaire keeps showing up at meetings.
He doesn’t even know why. Most of the times he’s not even participating, not paying attention to the loads of naive bullshit that are leaving Enjolras’ mouth every ten minutes. He just turns the page of Oedipus Rex and rolls his eyes. Where he does pay attention to, are the times when Courfeyrac gets so worked up that he flips tables. The times when Jehan tips back in his chair and rambles, rambles like Grantaire does, only more elegant and thoughtful. Cosette who calls the boys out on their misogynistic bullshit, and Feuilly. Just Feuilly is actual enough, because that guy is mighty interesting.
He doesn’t pay attention to what they do, he is paying attention to who they are. He watches Combeferre push his glasses further up his nose while destroying every argument in the room. He braids Cosette’s hair and laughs along with Joly and Bossuet. He watches. He reads. He lets Jehan write Sharpie-poems on his arm.
But what he does most, is rilling Enjolras up. Because he’s so naive, so pure. He talks like he’s born yesterday, still believing that the world can (and will) change. Grantaire is determined to knock him off the pedestal he himself put Enjolras up, like a god or one of those ballerina figurines that pop out of music boxes.
In a few weeks, he blends in with Les Amis. He attends Courf’s parties and cheers for Jehan at poetry slams. He cleans Combeferre’s glasses for him because god knows who else would, and keeps Bahorel company at the bar. Feuilly drags him to museums and lets him talk about symbolism in paintings and tags along with Cosette to eat macarons. He loves Les Amis.
All but Enjolras, because their facebook status is a ‘it’s complicated’ if he’s ever seen one. Hero boy seems to hate him. He scowls every time Grantaire yells; “Source, hero boy. Source,” which, okay, isn’t weird at all, but still smiles at his jokes. He sits down next to him when all his friends are drinking and even lets him touch his laptop. But they don’t talk, except for the times they argue, which makes them sound like the beginning of some cliché romantic comedy.
So he just leans back, and watches blond hair reflect sunlight.
Eight days later, Enjolras is miserable. And sober.
Way to sober, according to his friends, but he’s not really one to get smashed, so he just watches everybody. He’s sipping on a cherry coke when he spots Grantaire laughing with Bahorel.
Lately, it’s like he’s everywhere. Every meeting, all of Courf’s parties and the Amis study dates, he’s there. With his stupid hair and eyes and Greek tragedies.
He sneaks a look to the laughing friends in the corner and swallows when he sees the stretch of his throat. He wants to touch Grantaire’s hair, he wants to touch Grantaire. All over.
Suddenly he remembers that it’s Friday. His last shower was Monday morning.
Fuck. He suppresses the urge to check his hair in his phone screen and what kind of shirt is he wearing again? Red, or course. He looks down and smooths a few crinkles, because he’s been wearing the same shirt for almost four days now and why didn’t Combeferre say anything?
Usually he doesn’t care, especially when he’s been writing essays or angry letters, like he’s done for the past weeks. But now, now Grantaire is here and Enjolras looks awful, his hair is a mess, he’s panicking and he needs Courfeyrac now. Courf will fix this.
Courfeyrac is talking to Jehan, he laughs about something he says and Enjolras almost feels guilty for the young love he’s about to ruin. He grabs Courf by his sleeve and drags him into the kitchen.
“Well, I’d slap you for ruining my flirting but you look like you’re going to hyperventilate. What’s going on?” Courfeyrac takes a swig from his beer and Enjolras can’t breathe.
“Grantaire.” he squeaks. Courf’s eyes light up with pure, undiluted glee. “What about Grantaire, Enjolras?”
Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. “I know. I invited him, idiot.” At the betrayed look Enjolras throws in his direction, he just sighs. “Listen, R? Good company. Everybody likes him and he has the best stories.”
Enjolras begins to pace. “I know, okay?” He flails around a bit, while Courfeyrac’s amused eyes keep focused on him.
“Then what’s the big deal here, Enje?”
“He’s here,” Enjolras is painfully aware of the fact that his voice is closer to shrill that he’d like, “and I look like shit.”
Courfeyrac begins to laugh. Like, from his belly, doubled over and hiccuping in between, laughing. Enjolras is wounded. “Courf!”
“You’re adorable.” Courfeyrac hiccups. “I’m texting Ferre, he has to hear this. Shit, I should’ve taped this for future reference.”
Enjolras throws his hands in the air. “Cou-hourf!” he moans, like a two-year old. “You need to help me. What if he talks to me? I mean, he’s an idiot, yes, but have you seen his hair? And his arms, fuck, thank the heavens for his arms. And when he smiles he has that one crooked tooth which is too cute and- Not the point. The point is, however, that I look like I just crawled out of a fucking ditch. After a hundred-year sleep!”
Courfeyrac is texting and still making amused humming noises. “Relax, Enje.”
“Relax?!” Enjolras wants to throttle him. Courfeyrac looks up, eyes wide and a bit pale around his nose. “Yeah okay I’m calling Ferre.”
“Ferre is already here.” Combeferre walks into the kitchen and Enjolras feels calmer immediately. Combeferre has that effect on people. “Ferre you gotta hear him out.” Courfeyrac says. Combeferre leans against the fridge, concentrating look on his face, and lifts his eyebrows. “I’m waiting. After fifteen texts in three minutes, it has to be pretty spectacular.”
“Enjolras is panicking because Grantaire is here and he thinks he looks like shit.” Courfeyrac says, happiness evident in his whole posture. Combeferre turns to Enjolras.
Enjolras combs his hands through his hair furiously, and yes, now he definitely looks terrible. “You know what, let it go.” he says, posture sagging and turning away. He’ll go home, eat a pint of the strawberry butterscotch ice cream Cosette always makes for his birthday, and watch Gladiator for the twenty-thousandth time.
“Hey, none of that.” Courfeyrac says. “It’s my party, remember? You’re not leaving until I say so.” White teeth blink in the half-dark kitchen when Courf smirks. “C’mon, we’ll fix your hair and you can argue with him about the state of the world with confidence.”
He really loves his friends a lot, Enjolras thinks while he follows Courfeyrac into the bedroom. Combeferre plants him in front of a mirror and hands him a brush. “I’ll find you a shirt. Yours must be here somewhere in this explosion.”
The three of them are so close that they don’t really have three separate rooms, more like one big room divided over three smaller ones. Courfeyrac plucks a red shirt from his Enjolras pile and throws it at him. “Here.”
“You think I should be wearing more red?” Enjolras asks while he untangles the knots in his hair. Courfeyrac shrugs. “He likes you in red.”
Enjolras puts the shirt on.
He feels a lot more confident when he walks out of the bedroom. He looks for Grantaire until he finds him standing against the wall, laughing at something Feuilly’s saying. He wants to know what he could’ve said to make him laugh. He wants to make him laugh like that. When he walks towards him, Grantaire stops laughing.
And the smile is back, sharp and a bit crooked. Enjolras feels a bit nauseous, but it’s the good type of nauseous? He smiles back when Grantaire turns his entire body to him and asks; “So, what are your opinions on Tony Abbott, that son of a bitch?”
And just like that, he’s back on his feet, in his element. They keep arguing, about immigrants and weapon laws, whether tomatoes are fruit or vegetables and the best Quentin Tarantino movie. Every time Grantaire catches his eyes with his and smiles at him, he feels as if he can take the on whole world.
Looking back, that really should’ve been his first clue.
Ninety-six hours later, midterms may be fucking with Grantaire’s already fucked up sleeping schedule, they don’t fuck with his traditions.
Treat Yourself Saturday is not to be ignored. It was Eponine’s idea, saying he needed to reward himself for every small step forward. His therapist agreed and there, Treat Yourself Saturday was born. It always starts with pastries and coffee. Good pastries. And everybody knows Fantine makes the best pastries.
So it’s not weird for him to lean over the counter, telling Fantine about a discussion he had with one of his professors about Bulfinch. What is weird, though, is to see Enjolras drag himself inside looking like death warmed over.
His blond hair is sticking up in various directions, he’s wearing a red shirt that looks as if someone has stroke it down to earth with a thunderbolt and tried to smooth it down afterwards. The bruises under his eyes are so dark they physically hurt his eyes.
Grantaire thanks Fantine when she hands him his order and sits down next to him. He has already pulled out his laptop and is typing away furiously, fingers shaking and eyes blinking every second.
“You look like you need to sleep for a century.”
Enjolras is so surprised he almost falls out of his chair. “Grantaire?” Grantaire smiles at the softness of his voice.
“Here,” he says, pushing his pastry -German chocolate fudge cake, the things he does for this boy- towards him. Enjolras looks up like he can’t believe Grantaire is real, and then digs in. He eats entirely without manners, it shouldn’t be attractive. It isn’t.
He can feel Fantine smiling at him from across the diner.
“Thabmkz.” Enjolras says, with his mouth full of divine chocolate fudge, and yes, Grantaire is allowed to mourn. He shrugs and takes a sip from his coffee.
“Yeah, I’m too fucking good for this world, I know.”
Enjolras just smiles and continues typing. For a moment, they’re both quiet. Then Grantaire looks down at his coffee and decides something.
“I’m cutting you off caffeine, though.”
The look Enjolras throws him is far from friendly.
Grantaire throws his head back and cackles, which makes Enjolras’ scowl deepen. Grantaire pats his head soothingly and tries not to get distracted by the feeling of softness under his hand. “It’s okay, hero boy. It’s just that you need to relax, and that’s not going to happen when you’re on caffeine.” Enjolras rolls his eyes, but lets Grantaire buy him juice nonetheless.
He doesn’t leaves Enjolras’ table all afternoon.
There’s a moment that feels important:
After the eight increasingly angry text from both Combeferre and Joly with the ‘strong advice’ for him to get lunch, Enjolras is standing in front of his favorite diner.
He always comes here on Sundays, mainly because Fantine keeps giving him free coffee and coddles him. She plays in on his weakness for caffeine to feed her mother instincts, and he loves it. He drags himself to his usual table in the corner, next to window and gets his laptop out of his bag, when he hears; “Working on a Sunday? My, my, hero boy.”
It’s really good he hasn’t got coffee yet, because he would’ve knocked it over with the speed he turns around. “Grantaire?” He takes off his glasses -which he normally never wears what if Grantaire hates them?- and rubs his eyes.
He’s met with the sign of a widely grinning Grantaire. He’s wearing an apron and a name tag, which means he works here, and why hasn’t Enjolras seen him before? Also, who gave him that shirt? It has to be at least one size too small, showing off all of Grantaire’s muscles. Which he has, because he boxes and does ballet and fencing, too, and Enjolras has had fantasies about both the flexibility and strength that is needed for those sports.
Way too many fantasies. It’s a problem. He’s working on it.
But he has seen him here before, that Saturday a few weeks ago, during midterms. He wasn’t wearing an apron then, though. Enjolras had dragged himself in, aching for something to keep him going. He hasn’t ordered anything but Fantine’s German chocolate fudge cake since then, the taste reminding him of sunlight and crooked smiles.
Grantaire smiles and Enjolras wonders if he’s laughing at his awkward behavior or just happy, which would be very good. The happy part, not the laugh-at-awkward-him part.
“Don’t worry, I’m just here to take your order.”
Enjolras orders a large coffee with too much espresso shots just to disobey the Combeferre in his head and, because he really can’t help himself, German chocolate fudge cake. Grantaire’s eyebrows shoot up at that.
“Stealing my favorite pastry?”
Enjolras forces himself not to blush. “I like it.”
“It’s Fantine’s best.” Grantaire says.
“Are you telling me that you only come here for my chocolate fudge, boy?” Fantine’s voice sounds from behind the counter. “That, and the fantastic, super hot staff.” Grantaire says, winking at Enjolras. Who almost has a heart attack. Is he supposed to say something?
“Let the kid be, Grantaire. He hasn’t had his daily caffeine fix, yet.” Fantine tuts.
“I sincerely doubt that. Though he is probably due for his mid-morning dose by now.”cackles Grantaire on his way to the coffee machine. Fantine slaps him on the back of his head and ruffles his hair immediately after. Enjolras is jealous for a fraction of a second, wanting to touch Grantaire’s hair, too.
It looks soft. And fluffy.
“So, Enjolras, how is school going for you?” Fantine says, while she skillfully pours chocolate sauce on his pastry. “I’m aching for some positive news, after this little thundercloud here.” she pokes Grantaire, who lets out an indignant “Hey!”
“Nothing personal, dear.”
Grantaire huffs, coffee in his hand. “By the way, you’re talking to the wrong person. Enjolras here makes his professors cry.”
“I do not!” Enjolras protests.
“Enjolras, I was there. The man had tears in his eyes. You should’ve seen him when you were finally gone.” snickers Grantaire and hands Enjolras his coffee.
“It wasn’t that bad, I swear.”
Fantine shakes her head. “You boys. Here, dear. Your pastry.” She ruffles his hair, too, on her way to the juice bar, and begins to clean an enormous pile of stained glasses.
Grantaire sits down at the seat across from him and Enjolras can’t shake the feeling of deja vu that floods him suddenly. “You know, my shift just ended.” he hums, and throws his apron over the counter, knocking over an empty bottle chocolate sauce in the process. He winces at Fantine’s warning look from across the diner.
“That was intentional.”
Enjolras smirks. “Of course it was.” he says, and goes back to the paper on his screen. “You were saying?” His heart is beating in what feels like his throat and he is staring at the same line for way too long now. Grantaire is looking at him with anticipation in his eyes, anticipation that makes Enjolras’ toes tingle a little bit.
Grantaire clears his throat. “I was saying that my shift has just ended. Also, Joly has been sending me texts since he came by twenty minutes ago to check on you, as commanded by Combeferre. You’re going home.” He winks and shoves his chair back. “Doctor’s orders, and all that.” Enjolras groans and lets his forehead rest on the table.
“But I don’t want to.”
Suddenly, a set of keys dangle in front of his face. He turns his head and meets Grantaire’s eyes. They’re very blue, and there is that one playful twinkle. Enjolras wants to-Enjolras doesn’t know what he wants.
“C’mon, hero boy. I drive.”
Thirteen days later, when Grantaire gets a text from Bahorel and it doesn’t say anything but bro it’s a 3 followed by an adress, he knows what time it is.
He sighs, sweeps his feet of the table and puts his book away. Time to pick Bahorel up. When Bahorel discovered that Grantaire is able to do a lot of useless shit, he made a list. Now he just texts a number and it’s Grantaire to the rescue.
3 means ‘help I’m stuck at this party and I’m v drunk please pick me up’ so he jumps in his car, turns on his radio and drives.
Humming along with the music he’s trying very hard not to picture Enjolras and his glasses in his head. He’s been working a few odd jobs here and there, especially after Bahorel spread the word of his ‘skills’, and at every one of them he seems to meet Enjolras. Maybe he’ll meet him tonight, if he’s lucky. Would be amazing. No, wait, cool.
Cool, and nothing but that. He’d see him, casually wave at him and Enjolras would notice how cool he was. Because he is. He is cool and controlled, he is-He is not fooling anyone.
Also, a huge nerd, the Éponine in his head cheerfully adds.
All the thoughts of Enjolras fly out of the window when he’s stuck behind some slow asshole cab the entire way. Grantaire taps his fingers impatiently on the wheel and groans. Jesus, he’s never going to hear the end of this. The time Grantaire made Bahorel wait three hours because some asshat won’t speed up. He’s got a reputation to maintain, goddamnit.
Finally, finally, finally, he parks outside the house. When he wants to step inside, he feels someone bump into him. He turns around and looks right in the face of a scowling Enjolras.
“You?” Grantaire says, taking a step back. If he wants to maintain his upper brain functions, he has to be less close to the boy in front of him. To avoid babbling. And any other awkward situations.
“Me?” Enjolras says, and whoa, mission failed because this is hella awkward.
Luck is on his side, though, because Bahorel runs towards him, arms stretched. “You came!”
“Of course.” he answers. And so does Enjolras. They turn towards each other, gaping with Bahorel laughing like the asshole he is in the background.
Enjolras frowns. “I took a cab here, Bahorel. You said you had a fight.” Bahorel swings his beer bottle up and down. “I lied.” he says, proud evident in his voice. Enjolras makes a desperate sound and Grantaire wants to know what else could lead to Enjolras making desperate sounds which, okay, not the train of thought he needs right now.
“Okay,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. Fuck, he needs a drink right now. Big, with an alcohol percentage equal or greater to like, sixty. “Here’s the plan; ‘Rel, get in the car. Enjolras, you too.”
“What?” Enjolras looks kind of dazed and he has dark shadows under his eyes. Has he been sleeping properly? Grantaire needs to remember to ask Combeferre. Casually, of course. You know, for a friend and shit.
“I’m driving anyway. No need to spend money on a cab when there’s good ol’ me riding people around.” He grabs them both by the arms -whoa, Enjolras works out, he thinks absently when he feels the firm bicep under his hand- and drags them to the car. “There you go.”
The drive to Bahorel’s place is filled with drunken chatter, something about punching a guy while humming Another One Bites The Dust combined some obscure form of beer pong. There’s nothing but silence from Enjolras, though Grantaire hadn’t expected anything else.
He drops Bahorel off with a sleepy Feuilly, who looks pissed as hell at the sign of his drunk roommate. Then there’s nothing left in the car but him, Enjolras and awkward silence. And a lot of junk. Grantaire is not really a clean person. “And then there were two.”
“Yes.” Enjolras says.
This went better in Grantaire’s head. As in, actually-having-a-conversation-better. Okay, he just has to say something smart. Funny. Witty. He can do that.
“Why do you take cabs?”
Enjolras does look up at that so, hey, score for Grantaire. “Ferre, Courf and I share a car, and they were out.” Grantaire hums. “Seems legit. You guys live together, right?” Enjolras nods, and there is the end of their conversation, hello, good to see you again.
But the silence is comfortable and Grantaire finds himself not wanting to fill it. They stop for a red light, and he feels a bit better now you can’t taste the awkwardness anymore, like some kind of weird wine. Wine. Fuck, he needs a drink. But when he looks at Enjolras, he thinks that he doesn’t as much as he thought he did.
“There’s a stain on your shoulder.” he says, when he spots the shady-looking thing on Enjolras’ shoulder. Is it mustard? Could be. Enjolras actually blushes at that and covers it with his hand, and Grantaire tries not to giggle at that level of adorableness. “I’ll wash it when I get home.”
After some not-that-awkward minutes, Enjolras touches Grantaire’s hand. “This is me.”
Grantaire stops the car and tries to ignore the way the light falls on blond hair. Enjolras looks at him, and then, quick as lightning, he kisses Grantaire on his cheek. “Thanks for the ride.” he says, and flees from the car.
If Grantaire stays frozen for a few minutes, hand pressed against his face, well, nobody has to know.
Then there is a moment that is defining:
There are things that aren’t bound to go wrong. Like baking eggs. But here they are, 3 AM and shivering in the cold outside anyway. Because Enjolras’ eggs caught fire.
It was not his fault. He just forgot about the eggs for a bit, distracted by the TV, and before he could blink the fire alarm was ringing. Their floor and the floor above them had to be evacuated. The only reaction Enjolras got out of his roommates was Combeferre’s disappointed glare on his way out.
“Fucking motherfucking Jesus on a red bike. Who is the fucking asshat who did this?”
Grantaire looks about as murderous as anyone can look clad in green boxers. And nothing but green boxers. Enjolras is going to die.
Courfeyrac, in banana pajamas and wildlife hair, points at Enjolras, and Grantaire stalks towards him. “Explain.”
“Uh.” Enjolras says, too busy with staring at Grantaire’s-everything. There’s so much to stare at. Abs, for example. Lots of abs. Tattoos, too. And a little cute happy trail Enjolras wants to lick. “I tried to make eggs.”
“At 3 AM?! Are you out of your mind?” Grantaire gestures with his hands, the strangling motions scaring Enjolras a bit.
“I’m sorry.” he mumbles.
“Oh, he’s sorry.” Courfeyrac says from Combeferre’s shoulder, his voice still sleep-muffled.
Grantaire sighs and runs a hand through his curls. “Wait, you tried to make eggs? What?” he says, and his confused face is very cute. Enjolras sort of wants to congratulate him on it, but that would be weird. Right? “They caught fire.” he answers, too distracted by the little scar on Grantaire’s eyebrow. How did he get it? He needs to know.
Grantaire snorts. “You can’t make eggs?” Enjolras blushes. Courfeyrac takes that as a good moment to work his nose into their conversation.
“Enje here is lucky he knows how a kettle works.”
Enjolras wants to cause him physical pain. A lot of physical pain. Especially when Grantaire’s eyes light up and he turns to Enjolras, smirk firmly into place. “So we see that even gods aren't perfect, hero boy.”
Enjolras wants to die. But first he digs a grave for Courfeyrac. Because he will kill him.
But then Grantaire swings his arm around his shoulders and suddenly the world looks a lot brighter. “There’s only one option left.” Grantaire says, very serious. “I have to teach you how to cook. Wouldn't want our fearless leader to burn the entire building down, would we?”
Three days later, he shuffles into Grantaire’s apartment, arms full with groceries.
It’s nice to finally see where he lives. He can see the influences of Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta easily, but there’s also something here that is purely Grantaire.
There’s a hoodie casually thrown over a chair that Enjolras immediately recognizes. It’s the hoodie that haunts him in his dreams, seagreen and worn. He struggles against the urge to steal it.
“Hey, you’re here!” Grantaire’s head peeks from around a corner and Enjolras almost drops all his groceries. “Come on.” He follows the sound of the same voice he heard in his dreams last night to a cozy kitchen.
Grantaire is wearing an apron that says Dijon Vu: The feeling you already had this mustard before, and he’s holding one up covered in lobsters. When he sees the look Enjolras throws him, he just shrugs and says; “It has red. I thought you’d like it.” and Enjolras can’t do anything but put it on.
“Okay, we start with something simple. Pasta. You know how to cook pasta? Oh, who am I kidding. I’m talking to the guy who sets eggs on fire...”
The afternoon is a lot more pleasant than Enjolras had expected. And he’s learned a lot. When Grantaire thumbs away a bit of tomato sauce on his cheeks, blushing, the afternoon can suddenly be labeled with ‘lovely’, instead.
And with that, they start to hang out.
The cooking lessons are one thing. Every Tuesday he finds himself chopping vegetables he can’t name and listening to Grantaire’s stories, because all Grantaire’s recipes have stories. In fact, everything Grantaire owns seems to have its story, and Enjolras learns all of them, slowly. Along with the best ways to cook pasta.
Then there is the movie thing.
Enjolras really doesn’t know how it started, really. He stayed after a Tuesday meal, and when Grantaire held up Where Are Thou, Brother? he just found himself nodding. The following Tuesday, he’d brought Interview With The Vampire, and with that, movie night is born.
It doesn’t stop there.
They listen to the same music. Enjolras suddenly changes his study night when he discovers that Grantaire studies every Thursday. He cheers for him at fencing matches and patches him up after boxing competitions, of which Bahorel had told him. He watches Grantaire’s dancing classes, watches the little girls gape at his pirouettes and whatnot, sees them blush when their teacher corrects their posture.
Grantaire picks him up after his morning classes for lunch. He visits his mock trials, something that calms his nerves immensely, and he still comes to every Amis meeting they have. It seems like every day has a little Grantaire moment in it, and Enjolras absolutely doesn’t mind.
It was only a matter of time until their friends would discover their thing. So when Enjolras sees Courfeyrac trying to shadow him, he rolls his eyes. He tells Grantaire, who throws his head back and laughs until he’s breathless and beautiful, tears in the corner of his eye. “They think they’re so smart.” he hiccups. Enjolras can’t help but smile and suddenly gets the most brilliant idea ever. He hooks his arm through Grantaire’s. “Let’s give them a show.” But Grantaire unhooks his arm.
He tells Grantaire, who throws his head back and laughs until he’s breathless and beautiful, tears in the corner of his eye. “They think they’re so smart.” he hiccups. Enjolras can’t help but smile and suddenly gets the most brilliant idea ever. He hooks his arm through Grantaire’s. “Let’s give them a show.” But Grantaire unhooks his arm.
“Maybe next time, hero boy.” he winks. Enjolras shrugs and ignores the sudden ache in his chest.
There’s a moment that leaves him breathless, wondering:
Grantaire throws his hoodie at Enjolras, who startles awake. “Wazzit?”
He does look adorable, sleepy and slightly confused. His hair is sticking up at one side, the one side of his head that was covering Grantaire’s book earlier. “Wake up, idiot. You’re keeping me from writing this essay Joly bullied me so long into.”
“Huh.” Enjolras mumbles, and Grantaire takes pity on him. “It’s okay.” he says. “I wasn’t using the book anyway.” He’s not even lying. He made some notes earlier, and always bullshits his way through essays. “Also, put that on.”
Enjolras stares at the hoodie like it’s an alien that dropped down from outer space. “This?” he says, and touches it almost carefully. Grantaire rolls his eyes. What a nerd.
“Yes. Don’t try and pretend that you aren't cold. I’ve seen you shivering for the past two hours.” Enjolras huffs and does the thing where he puffs his chest out like an angry kitten which is not cute at all, no. But he puts the hoodie on. It’s too big on him, the faded and worn fabric falling around his slim frame and Grantaire wants to glue it on and never let him go.
Enjolras looks down, and a tiny smile appears on his face. “It’s nice.” he says, voice warm.
“Don’t mention it.” Grantaire says. “I have a reputation to uphold.”
They’re having one of their study dates- wait no, not dates. Appointments. Things. Lately, Grantaire seems to have a lot of things with Enjolras, things he can’t name, can’t define. He turns the page in his Ancient Greek textbook and sighs.
“You got it, hero boy.”
Their ten-minute coffee haul turns into two hours of sitting on the roof of Grantaire’s car, talking about everything but the thing between them.
“‘M’tellin’ you, this is the best way to eat warm rocky roads.” Grantaire mumbles with a mouth full of chocolate. He catches Enjolras’ smile and ruffles his hair. Enjolras scowls and tries to crawl even deeper into his jacket.
“You mean, with my hands freezing off and some rookie cop who’s definitely going to report this back to your dad staring at me from across the parking lot?”
“Yep.” Grantaire sighs, and leans back on his hands. He’s not telling Enjolras that every way of them doing things, is the best way of to do things.
A week later, Enjolras is finally going crazy.
Grantaire has just stormed off, angry at something Enjolras had thrown his way, because Enjolras is an asshole who can’t keep his big trap shut. An asshole who is ready to tear his hair out, because he made Grantaire storm off. Slamming door and all.
It’s just, he hates talking to Grantaire. Or he doesn’t, but Grantaire is the only person in this entire world who manages to make Enjolras feel like an awkward flailing chicken on a daily basis. And now he’s said the wrong thing and Grantaire has stormed out and he’s never ever going to talk to him again. Just thinking about that makes him feel like someone punched him in the ribs.
Enjolras is in love.
He slowly lifts his head from where he’s been slamming it on the table, and actually pulls on his hair. He’s in love with Grantaire.
He has to tell him.
He stands up and walks away, away from the Musain and all their flabbergasted friends. His steps grow with the minute and befre he knows it, he’s running. Sprinting around the corner, hastily making his way towards an apartment that he almost knows better than his own.
He punches the button next to the scribbled J/B/M + R and waits anxiously.
It’s Grantaire, and suddenly Enjolras can’t breathe. “Grantaire?”
Silence. Then; “What do you want?”
Enjolras winces at so much cold, almost backs out. But he has to do this. Now, or never. After this, it will be a little less terrible if Grantaire would stop talking to him. He leans his head against the hard brick of the wall, and takes a deep breath.
“Get on with it, Enjolras. I can hear that bitchin’ inside that head of yours.” Grantaire snaps.
“Can you let me in? We have to talk.” The door unlocks. Enjolras jumps into the elevator, jams on the stupid buttons and curses half the universe together because the damn thing won’t go faster.
After eight agonizing minutes, he’s finally banging on Grantaire’s door. It swings open and reveals Grantaire. Enjolras feels as if he can breathe again.
“Listen Enjolras, I really don’t have time for thi-” and he can’t finish his sentence because Enjolras is kissing him.
Enjolras is kissing him.
It’s nothing special, just a soft press of lips, but it’s everything to Enjolras. He stands on his tiptoes and leans his forehead against Grantaire’s. His heart is flattering and for a moment he’s afraid it will fly away because Enjolras has kissed Grantaire and now he can die peacefully.
He pulls back and looks into Grantaire’s blue, blue eyes. “Was this okay?” he asks, suddenly thinking of the fact that he’s not kissed back at all. Grantaire tips his head back and groans. “Okay? Jesus, hero boy. I show you okay.” And with that, he pushes up into Enjolras, kisses him harder, which makes him gasps against Grantaire’s mouth.
Grantaire smirks, licks inside, wraps his hand around Enjolras' upper arm. Grantaire tastes like heady like liquor and too-sweet candy and blazing fire and other things that are dangerous in high doses, and he never wants this to end. The taller boy grabs his wrist, pins it above his head, and Enjolras’ mind stutters and falters. He wraps a hand around the back of Enjolras’ neck and grinds his hips up and he falls on Grantaire like storm. .
After that, there’s not much thinking.
Three days later, Grantaire wakes up because someone is tearing his door down. Well, judging by the noise. He rolls out of bed and walks to the kitchen, ready for caffeine.
Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta are waiting for him. He swallows and keeps ignoring the pounding on their front door while creating his potion of darkness for the day. God knows he’ll need it.
The pounding sound doesn’t stop. In fact, it only seems to get louder. Joly coughs accusingly in Grantaire’s direction, who really tries to ignore everything but the coffee in his hand. Bossuet lets his head lean on his hands and stares at him, making Grantaire more uncomfortable by the minute.
He feels so judged.
Suddenly, his phone chimes. Relieved by the distraction at hand, he unlocks the screen.
Bahorel: Wtf did you do?
Grantaire groans and combs his fingers through his hair. This is not good. Joly coughs again, harder, and Musichetta just shakes her head while she walks to the fridge.
Bahorel: Courf is hiding @F and me
Bahorel: Apparently he mentioned Saturday to E
Okay, so there goes his plan to act like that night never happened. Which is weird, since nothing happened that night. He knows of nothing, especially of Saturday night. He didn’t make out with Enjolras on the kitchen table, and then moved it to the bedroom.
He absolutely can’t recall the way Enjolras’ feet dug in his back, how he moaned when Grantaire had carried him to bedroom, never breaking their kiss. How hot and soft his skin was, and how he blushed when they were finally naked. How easily his skin bruised under Grantaire’s rather persistent lips. How Enjolras gasped against his mouth, sweet pleas and Grantaire’s falling from his lips, like he was shocked by how good Grantaire made him feel.
How fucking him felt like free falling. How he’d breathlessly, hopelessly fell in love when he looked into Enjolras’ eyes afterwards. Or maybe that happened earlier.
He’s so fucked. He wants to- He wants to do it all over. Again, and again, until he has memorized every movement and sound. Until thinking about that night doesn’t make him feel like the air is stripped from his lungs. He looks up when his phone makes another sound.
Courfeyrac: He’s sorry, you know.
It’s serious, mainly because Courf is using actual punctuation, and Grantaire doesn’t know what to make of it.
Musichetta’s hand lands on his shoulder. “You okay?” He drops his head on the table and watches his coffee cup tremble with the force. “No.” he says, quietly. Bossuet makes a sound in the back of his throat, and shoves his chair back.
“C’mon, hug time.” He spreads his arms, and Grantaire falls gratefully forward. His best friends surround him, petting him and murmuring soothing words. It makes him feel a little bit better.
“I love him.” he mumbles into Bossuet’s shoulder. “I love him and we had mind-blowing sex and when we were done, the only thing he said was; ‘Maybe it’s for the best if we both just forget this’ before he walked out.” His voice cracks on the last words.
Musichetta bristles. “I’m going to kill him.”
Joly steps back and wraps his arm around her middle. “I don’t think that will be necessary.” He tightens his hand around his cane and a grim expression falls over his normally bubbly face. “We’ll beat him up and then leave him drowning in his own misery.”
Grantaire untangles himself from Bossuet. “Guys.” Musichetta spins around. “No,” she says, firmly. Her eyes are burning, and she grabs his face with both hands. “You deserve all the happiness in the fucking world, R. This dickwad is not worth it.” On that moment, Joly’s phone throws out the theme song of Dr. Sexy. Joly sighs and picks up. “Yes?”
His shoulders drop their tenseness. “‘Ferre.” He listens for a while, his face losing his calmness with the second. Then he rolls his eyes. “Idiot.” Ending the call, he grabs both his lover’s arms. “Change of plans. We are going to leave,” he pushes them towards the door, “and Grantaire here is going to have The Conversation.”
Musichetta struggles a little bit, but Joly is very determined. He opens the door and reveals a red-faced, panting Enjolras. “If you hurt him, I’m going to squash your stupid curly head like a bug,” ‘Chetta threats.
Enjolras becomes a little bit pale around his nose, and he nods. Joly pushes him forward with his foot. “Conversation. Now.” The last part is directed at Grantaire, who wants to run, hide, jump out of the fucking window, he doesn’t care as long as he’s not here anymore. But Joly is staring at him, and he knows there’s no getting out of this. He steps away from the doorway. His friends leave, and Enjolras walks in.
“Grantaire?” His voice is so careful, so soft and Grantaire wants to cry. He holds up a hand in Enjolras’ direction and turns his head away. “Just, shut up.”
A frustrated sigh. “R, we need to talk about this.”
Grantaire sweeps his head back because he did not just say that. “You did not just say that. What, this is all my fault, now? You were the one that walked out!” He is aware of the fact that he’s shouting now, but he doesn’t give a single fuck. Enjolras deserves a little shouting. “I was not the one who said that it was better if we would just forget, was I?”
He brushes past Enjolras and walks back to the hallway. “I’m only doing what you oh-so-wisely suggested.” he sneers, while opening the door. “Now leave.”
“You know, I really don’t understand all the drama. This was what you wished for. I’m only doing what you wanted.” Fuck. He’s crying. Tears are streaming over his cheeks, and he wipes them away. He doesn’t have time for the emotional shit now. “You know the way out.”
Suddenly, two hands land on his shoulder and turn him around. Enjolras looks up at him, eyes sad and fierce at the same time. “Grantaire, will you listen? I was an asshole.” The blond tugs at a few curls and groans. “Hell, ‘asshole’ is not going to cover it, and I understand that you hate me, but I just have to tell you one thing.” Tears are starting to fall from his eyes, too, and that hurts Grantaire way more than it should.
“I love you. I've loved you all the way through Saturday and now I’ve ruined our friendship with my stupid feelings and you never want to see me again.” He wipes his tears from his eyes with all the anger in the world.
Grantaire can’t breathe, can’t speak, can’t do more than gape at the wonderful golden boy in front of him. As on cue, the sun falls through the window, illuminating him. Enjolras sniffs, and turns around, back to the door and Grantaire has to move, now, before it’s too late.
“Hey, hero boy. Where do you think you’re going?”
Enjolras turns around, eyes wide and happy and the only thing that Grantaire has to do now is kiss him. Enjolras makes a sound in his throat, loops his arms around Grantaire’s neck and pulls him down. When Grantaire pulls back, he’s smiling.
“I love you too, nerd.” Grantaire says, with his forehead against Enjolras’, who lets out the most beautiful laugh at that. “We are so stupid.” he hiccups, and brings their lips together again. Grantaire grins and ends the kiss. “You’re still an asshole.” he says, with his mouth pressed against Enjolras’ collarbone. He tips his head back and laughs again and Grantaire never wants him to stop.
“I’m your asshole, though.” he says, and Grantaire thinks, yeah, they’re going to be alright.