Work Text:
1.1 In Which Enjolras Remembers Something Important
It’s on a Wednesday night, while Grantaire is in the middle of lifting Enjolras’ laptop so that he can wipe the table beneath it clean for the night, that the topic first comes up. At first Grantaire takes Enjolras’ sudden noise to mean protest, but his eyes stay glued to the screen and the sound is more surprise than irritation.
“Today is our anniversary,” Enjolras blurts out just as Grantaire gets done apologizing for disturbing him. Which is absurd, anyway. The list of things you can wave in front of Enjolras’ face while the man is absorbed in thought without disturbing him grows with each meeting. And also, what---?
Now it is Grantaire’s turn to make an incomprehensible noise. Enjolras turns his laptop around for Grantaire to see. Pausing his post-shift cleaning ritual, Grantaire furrows his brow, squinting to read the rushed, cursive script on the screen.
“Someone messed up the digitalization on this page,” Grantaire observes. “You can definitely ask for your money back.”
“It’s an old diary,” Enjolras admits sheepishly. “I hadn’t figured out how to make a good job of it yet. Haven’t found the time to redo it since, but it’s legible.”
“You can decipher this ancient screed?”
Enjolras nods.
“Then my eyesight is shittier than I thought it was,” Grantaire realizes. “What’s this you say about anniversaries?”
“We met a decade ago today.”
“Has it really been that long?” Grantaire takes a mental break to count back the years. Enjolras could well be right. The man is convinced of being right and so nods stoically. Grantaire lets out a slow whistle of appreciation.
“Makes a man feel old, that does.”
Ten years. Jesus Christ, that’s a long time to associate with someone. For Grantaire, at least. Enjolras and Courfeyrac have been living in each others’ pockets for their entire lives. Grantaire hasn’t had the same experience with stability. Along with Enjolras, their little group is the only constant he has known since he left home. Ten years. “Wow,” Grantaire stresses.
“You don’t look a day over eighteen.” Enjolras’ face is pinched in amusement. He clicks a few more pages on his laptop, sucks in a sharp breath. “Except for the --” Here Enjolras makes a few vague gestures to the beard on Grantaire’s face. That was a lot more sparse during his uni days, true enough.
Still, he cannot resist teasing, “Now that makes me feel like jailbait.”
“I can’t win with you, can I?”
“Not to worry,” Grantaire pats Enjolras cheek, receives a glare for his daring. “You’ve always been my number one.”
Enjolras huffs.
Grantaire continues cleaning the tables. Wednesday nights are slow, have been slow for one and a half years now. It is a testament to how much time has truly passed. Steady jobs for their group members mean no one except those who make their own hours (Enjolras) and those who regularly work at the Musain (Grantaire) still attend Wednesday night meetings. Back in university, Wednesdays were an honored event. Now Grantaire and Enjolras are the last two standing, backed against the wall; their friends felled by the burden of life’s responsibilities.
It’s fine though. Wednesdays are great to catch up with Enjolras while getting paid to wait on the one or two patrons that get lost on the way to the Metro. It’s easy money on top of a good time. Grantaire wipes the last few tables a little half-heartedly. No one sat there tonight; empty chairs gather dust at empty tables.
“They’re still on strike throughout the whole city,” Enjolras shrugs his shoulders innocently when Grantaire asks how he’s getting home after he fumbles closing up shop twice. It’s cold as all hell, his fingers have frozen through after two minutes outside - he can fumble a little, he feels.
“I can drop you off.”
“I didn’t know Feuilly was done with the bike.”
“He’s still using it,” Grantaire confesses. “I came by car.”
Enjolras’ eyes widen comically. “No way.”
“Way,” Grantaire stresses. “It was raining before my shift and I thought - hey, it’s three on a Wednesday, how bad can traffic be?”
The look he receives is answer enough. Enjolras shivers in the cold a little longer, before he asks, “You car has heating, right?”
It’s not until they’re in Grantaire’s shitty car - not quite as shitty as the piece of junk he drove ten years ago, but not worth crying over if it should be sacrificed to Paris’ traffic gods - that Enjolras brings it up again. “Don’t you want to know what I wrote about you?”
“ Dear Diary ,” Grantaire intonates, dramatically, “ Today my friend Courfeyrac dragged me to a ‘kegger’. I didn’t have the slightest amount of fun and when some drunk fool fell on me the evening swiftly went from tedious to terrible . I’m well aware what you thought of me then, Enjolras.”
Grantaire slams his hand on the horn when some asshole in a Smart cuts him off, weaving along the intersection like he’s got a deathwish. They’re stuck. Grantaire undoes his seatbelt and ignores the whining noise his car makes for a while, until they come to a complete stop. Here they will rest for the foreseeable future. When he glances at Enjolras, he has to laugh at the man’s pinched expression. “Did I get it right?”
“That was mentioned,” Enjolras agrees.
“Undoubtedly followed by a long rant about what a tosser I am,” Grantaire laughs. “ He then proceeded to ralph in my face, because he was trashed beyond belief. I hope I never encounter this fool again.”
“Not quite.”
“Because you did have the misfortune of encountering me, again and again?”
Any further words get lost in the horror of the traffic standstill. Grantaire grows tense, Enjolras begins to rant about one of Courfeyrac’s coworkers. The time is bridged eventually, though they move below a snail’s pace. Exhaustion rules his body as they come up on Enjolras’ apartment complex. “Remind me never to take my car into the inner city again.”
Enjolras takes one look at his wristwatch.
“An hour for five kilometres isn’t so bad,” he comments, mildly.
“It’s actually very bad. Paris has conditioned you into accepting it as normal. Wake up and smell the oppressive hold the streets have on you.”
“Take your bike, next time.”
“Only because I miss having you scream in my ear about not using the pedestrian line to overtake traffic, schnookums .”
Enjolras rolls his eyes, smiles at the fist Grantaire offers up for bumping and gets out of the car. Grantaire dutifully waits until one of C-squared - or possibly both - buzzes him in. It takes him another half hour to get home. Feuilly receives a text regarding the location of Grantaire’s bike swiftly thereafter.
+
1.2 Local Lawyer Upholds Anarchy
Bahorel has his feet up on the reception desk when Grantaire walks through the door. They’re massive things, clad in combat boots probably reinforced with steel. Thin, wiry glasses sit low on his nose as he shuffles their mail. Those always look out of place on the giant, are diametrically opposed to the rebelliousness of his outfit. One letter is torn open rather unceremoniously. The distaste of its content is evident on Bahorel’s face.
“What the fuck does the Paris prefecture want from us now ?” Grantaire asks, peering over Bahorel’s shoulder once he has hung up his jacket. Only a few machines are occupied at this hour. Some more members are with the loose weights. Its shaping up to be a quiet day at Rage Against the Weight Machine .
“Statements regarding the illegal spray painting of the offices across the street,” Bahorel yawns. “They want access to our security cameras.”
“Are you going to give them prime footage of your date? You were very proud of that graffitti, if I recall correctly.”
Bahorel laughs. It is loud enough to startle someone in the weights area, where swearing and loud crashing sounds ensue immediately.
“How was your one on one thinking session with Enjolras?”
“He did most of the thinking, so we were done with the official stuff by eight.”
“I keep telling you to shift the meetings from Wednesdays. Then you two fuckers wouldn’t have to do all the boring shit by yourselves.”
“For someone as opposed to tradition at any cost as Enjolras, he is holding on to Wednesday night meetings rather tightly,” Grantaire concedes, omitting the admission that he holds on just the same.
“Courfeyrac says he’s gonna bring it up again on Friday,” Bahorel threatens. “He made a poll and everything. Man’s prepared, I’m telling you.”
“I’m shaking in my boots.”
“Spies close to him say he’ll move to break your will first. It would leave Enjolras standing as the sole defender of Wednesday night meetings.” Here Bahorel lowers his voice, leans in close to Grantaire as though actually providing confidential information. Any man with a loose grasp of Realpolitik would know to fell Grantaire before taking on Enjolras on this matter. Courfeyrac, as it happens, grasps Realpolitik very firmly, in a fist that may as well be made of iron.
“What a shame I’m terribly busy and can’t come this Friday,” Grantaire decides promptly, in the name of self-preservation.
Bahorel snorts. The letter from the Paris prefecture is fed to the paper shredder before he stands up to scan the membership card of the next person through the door. He looks at Grantaire over his shoulder. “Don’t you have a class to teach?”
1.3. The Friday Night Meeting Grantaire Shows Up To Despite Trying To Claim He Is Too Busy For
The second Courfeyrac approaches the bar, sporting that feral grin of his, Grantaire ducks down low, pretending for all the world to be deeply interested in the dust gathering amongst those rare brandy glasses Musichetta’s great-uncle was gifted by a life-long patron ages ago. They have impossibly ugly copper inlay. Grantaire is astounded by how much they hurt his eyes everytime he looks at them. Time distracts you from their existence only for it to punch you in the face when you rediscover their hiding place.
“One margarita, please,” Courfeyrac calls out, feigning a complete lack of planned warfare.
“Coming right up,” Grantaire answers, reluctantly.
“Are you coming up anytime soon?”
“There’s lots to do down here.”
“Unquestionably.”
A few seconds later: “Look, R, my friend, my favorite bartender South of Barcelona, I know you have free time in your schedule on Mondays. I checked with Bahorel and Musichetta.”
“Excuse me,” Grantaire clears his throat, then rises valiantly to confront the menace, only to falter when faced with the full force against him. “Monday nights are for getting over my perpetually awful case of the Mondays .”
“Then you should have taken five minutes to fill out the poll specifically designed for the purpose of finding a new meeting time.”
“Wednesday works for me.”
“Nobody is stopping you and Enjolras from continuing your weird Wednesday night thing,” Courfeyrac reminds him. This has been brought up multiple times only for Grantaire to ignore it entirely. “Far be it from us to maintain that you two need an excuse at the ready to see each other. From where I stand we left that nonsense behind years ago.”
Grantaire tries to glare at him, he really does.
It’s just that Courfeyrac is too charming for any good to come of him.
“We see each other outside of Wednesdays too.”
“Yeah?” Courfeyrac sips his freshly prepared Margarita. “During Friday meetings, you mean?”
“Why am I friends with you?” Grantaire despairs.
“Because I’m currently strictly monogamous so anything more between us would be unethical.”
The monogamous partner in question slides up to the bar and helps himself to Grantaire’s stash of water bottles. “Why do you have Grantaire cornered, my dear?”
“Courfeyrac is trying to destroy Wednesday night meetings,” Grantaire tells Combeferre, who only hums in response to his complaint.
“Time to face the music.” Courfeyrac announces this before targeting someone else in the room. Combeferre looks a little more empathetic, but then betrays Grantaire’s unspoken demand that, no matter how evident on his face, his distress is to be ignored.
“We’ve given you a year and a half, Grantaire. If you two haven’t figured out how to be friends outside of meetings yet I don’t know how you will.”
“What do you mean you gave --”
Combeferre’s raised eyebrow brokers no further argument.
Half an hour later, the official meeting spot is moved to seven on mondays. Grantaire leans on the bar and morosely sips on the foulest virgin margarita he has ever tasted. Enjolras sighs, rubs his temple and gives in to Courfeyrac’s arguments.
+
1.4 Area Man Surprised His Friend Wants To See Him
The following Wednesday, Grantaire’s phone unexpectedly sounds off during his shift. It’s a slow night, Wednesdays are always slow, which is precisely why he has gladly been doing this shift for years.
Supreme Leader Enjolras, 20:13, 19/12/2019: “Are you at work?”
The sole occupied table calls for the cheque. Afterwards, Grantaire shoots Enjolras a quick affirmative text. Seconds later, the man himself walks through the door, looking hurried.
“Very revolutionary of you. Saint-Just would tremble at the sight of you.”
“What?”
“Blatantly disregarding Courfeyrac’s efforts to move the meeting to Monday. Daring. Bold. Decisive.”
“That doesn’t start until next week,” Enjolras points out, appearing a little confused. “Can I get tea?”
“You can get anything you want.”
He sets up camp with his laptop and several folders worth of potential clients. Two hours into it, he cracks his knuckles and leans back. Their eyes meet. Better said: he catches Grantaire watching and is kind enough not to comment. His features remain even, until the perfect mask is broken by his mouth. “How much of our first meeting do you remember?”
This again.
Grantaire goes through a few filler sounds in his conversational repertoire.
“Didn’t I spill my beer on your head?”
Enjolras nods.
“We also had a conversation.”
“That was probably very one-sided,” Grantaire, who remembers perfectly, theorizes vaguely. He’d talked Enjolras against the wall, as loud, drunk university students are prone to do to their sober counterparts.
“You made very valid points,” Enjolras insists.
“Me?” Grantaire points at himself for clarification. “Perish the thought. I would never, especially not back then.”
“But you did,” Enjolras says with a smile. “I told you I didn't drink and you spent fifteen minutes telling me about all the stupid shit alcohol does to your body.”
“Wonderful pontificating on my part, I’m sure. Preaching to the converted.”
“You scoured the party and brought me back a glass of cranberry juice.”
“It didn’t seem like you appreciated it,” Grantaire shrugs, giving away that he does have a sound recollection of their first meeting after all.
“I did.”
Grantaire chokes back further denial. “What are you working on?”
Thankfully, Enjolras goes along with his blatant attempt at a change of topic.
1.5 The Worst Case of The Mondays
Grantaire knew Monday meetings were a bad idea. He had a bad feeling about them from the start. And, sure enough, within the first half hour, he has so thoroughly put his foot in it that he wants to put his head straight through the wall.
It goes a little like this: Enjolras is standing at the bar, chatting quietly about how odd it feels to be here on a different night than they are accustomed to. “I keep thinking about the weekend almost being here,” he says at some point. Grantaire reminds him that they used to have Monday night meetings in uni before their club got banned the first time and his treated to a fond smile.
And then, without consulting his brain for even a moment, his mouth forms words he never would have said on a Wednesday night, if his head were on right: “Christ, do you remember how stupidly in love I was with you then?”
It’s like the room freezes.
Enjolras’ face goes slack, as though, in compensation for his brain visibly going into overdrive, his muscles have ceased all activity. Grantaire struggles to think of something exculpatory to add, can’t think of anything, resolves to take a vow of silence for all eternity.
“No,” Enjolras says quietly, clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t think I remember that.”
And sure, it’s always been an unspoken thing between them. But everybody knew. Everybody secretly pitied Grantaire for his unrequited pining. It was a whole Thing, to be capitalized when mentioned. Enjolras knew. He definitely knew. He must have.
(That was half of why their friendship didn’t properly develop until Grantaire worked on getting over him instead of under him.)
Grantaire snorts.
“Easy thing to forget,” he claims, just as easily breaking his vow. Eternity passes swiftly in Enjolras company, after all. “I won’t hold it against you. Man, I wish I could forget, sometimes.”
But then Enjolras damns him further. “Grantaire,” he stresses his name oddly, no longer merely uncomfortable but sounding quite in pain. Sort of like after the protest where he lost a tooth.
“Yes, Schnookums?” Grantaire tries. Oh, he tries so hard not to show how much he would like to cease to exist at this very moment. To be sure his head is bright red at this point.
“Were you really in love with me?”
“Is that a topic for a fun evening with friends?”
Enjolras continues looking at him. There is no avoiding this confession anymore. Grantaire sighs. “Yeah,” he admits. “I was really in love with you.”
On the brink of saying something to top the horror of this evening off, Enjolras is interrupted by Courfeyrac jumping on one of the tables Musichetta specifically listed as capable of withstanding being stomped on and clears his throat to begin a tirade on France’s despicable treatment of her People.
Feuilly grabs Enjolras for a conversation, teasingly chastising Grantaire for having grown too used to having Enjolras’ undivided attention for over a year now. They don’t have a chance to talk again that night, no small thanks to Grantaire deliberately throwing himself into every conversation he can, regardless how welcome he is in it.
1.6 Wednesday Worries
Grantaire trades shifts with Musichetta on Wednesday that week, because she needs Thursday off and he has been mooching off her benevolent management for years now - so he kind of owes her. Which is why he doesn’t have his phone on him when he takes Wednesday off. He’s too caught up in working out, his phone is in his locker. He returns to find several unread messages from Enjolras.
The man himself is asleep on Grantaire’s couch when he comes home. Grantaire nearly shits himself when they run into each other this way.
“Jesus Christ!”
“No, just me.”
“Your humor has the sophistication of a five year old child.”
“It’s because my sense of humor wasn’t installed until five years ago,” Enjolras yawns before continuing. “I used the key you hide in your neighbors’ flowerpot. I hope that was okay.” As explanation, he offers: “It was very cold in the hallway.”
“Did I tell you about that spot?”
“You weren’t sober when you did.”
“Makes sense,” Grantaire nods. “I guard my secrets closely when I am not absent sense.”
“Very closely,” Enjolras agrees, giving Grantaire a strange look, appearing to be on the brink of saying something but instead biting his lip. That’s unusual.
“What’s up?” Grantaire prompts.
Enjolras looks sheepish. “You missed Wednesday night.”
“The meeting was definitely on Monday this week. I am weak, I bowed to Courfeyrac’s popular movement. I thought that would resound positively with your socialist spirit.”
Enjolras pouts. “He’s right that it makes more sense to have the meetings on Mondays. I know that, but…” He trails off.
“Something you just had to discuss, I take it?”
Grantaire prays that this is in no way related to Monday’s Mistake, but the God he chooses is vengeful and petty, upset at so long being neglected or taken in vain; his tyranny continues unabated.
“You were in love with me.” Enjolras picks a stellar opening for tonight’s awkward talk.
Grantaire finally gets the notion to remove his coat. It offers him a few seconds to come up with a good answer; not that a few seconds are enough. “That was a long time ago.”
The answer is at least better than the pained gurgling sound he would have otherwise let out.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
This gives Grantaire pause, if only for a moment. “Because it’s embarrassing to reflect on how much of a tool I was in my misspent youth.”
“I mean back then,” Enjolras presses on. “Why didn’t you make a move?”
“I made a million moves,” Grantaire laughs, already grabbing cinnamon tea - Enjolras’ favorite - from the shelves. It looks like he’s going to be here for a while. “You were not receptive. C’mon, Enjolras. Let’s not pretend.”
“Those were jokes. Those were clearly jokes.”
Grantaire cringes. “Were they though?”
“No one hears ‘ nice shoes, wanna make out? ’ and thinks they’re seriously being propositioned. I know what a meme is, Grantaire. I’m not that obtuse.”
“It gave me plausible deniability,” Grantaire relents, eventually. “A common tactic employed by an insecure twat who knew he was punching way above his weight class.”
Enjolras is quiet for a time, adds mjölk to his tea, stirs in sugar. “I never realized.”
“Thank God for that,” says Grantaire, heartfelt.
“Why do you say that?”
“That would have put paid to our tender friendship very abruptly.”
Enjolras gives him a strange look. “What?” Grantaire shrugs. “We’re at a point now where I can admit this stuff, even to my great embarrassment. But a few years ago this would have broken us.”
“And now?”
“Hm?”
“How do you feel now?” About me, is left unsaid. And honestly, what a thing to just bring up on a Wednesday night.
“We’re talking about ten years here,” Grantaire grunts, fully aware that he is being evasive. Enjolras seems to take that for a denial of feelings. Grantaire is relieved when he switches topics soon thereafter.
What Enjolras doesn’t know can’t mortify Grantaire for posterity. Right?
1.7 Observers of Mayhem
“Are you interested in getting incredibly buff?” Grantaire laughs when Enjolras strides into the gym on Saturday afternoon. “Then allow me to introduce you to our wide variety of membership programs--”
“I just wanted to hang with you for a bit,” Enjolras shrugs, smiling that small, infuriatingly adorable smile of his.
“Your funeral.”
“If that’s cool, I mean. You texted that you were about to take your break.”
“Yeah,” Grantaire smiles in return, lulled into it by the unexpected appearance of Enjolras’ soft smile. “I was gonna spend it watching the imperialist clowns from across the street realize the paint Feuilly developed can’t be washed off from their walls.”
“Riveting.” Enjolras clearly approves. “I brought paninis.”
Later, outside, it seems Enjolras is incapable of dropping the topic Grantaire would most like dropped: “When did you stop liking me?”
“Are you going to make me regret telling you in the first place?”
The choice of words lends an unfair amount of weight to the impression that Grantaire had any amount of control over the confession of his oldest secret. “Does it make you uncomfortable to know?”
“Not at all - why would you think that?”
“You’re the one who keeps bringing it up,” Grantaire points out. “And might I add, you always look supremely constipated when you do.”
“I’m just curious, is all.” There is a little bit of irritation in his expression now, but it does not seem to target Grantaire.
“I didn’t peep on you or anything,” Grantaire jokes. “Well, not much. Not above the clothes, is what I’m saying.”
“Never?”
“My soulful staring was strictly limited to your striking side profile,” he crosses his heart, but then swiftly amends, “Well, after your surgery, maybe I did once or twice. At the pool.”
“That wasn’t until two years ago!”
“Listen, hotshot. One can appreciate the fine work of Doctor Joly without being madly in love with you.”
Or one can do those things simultaneously. That is a very possible combination, Grantaire neglects to say. Enjolras considers this as he takes a bite. He nods, as if agreeing. “Very true.”
Grantaire laughs, takes a few more bites.
“I looked more than once or twice.”
Grantaire inhales his food. Obligingly, Enjolras pats his back. Until Grantaire no longer chokes, it feels as though Grantaire enters an eternal hell in which that sentence replays over and over again.
“What?”
His voice is weak. Grantaire supposes he can easily blame that on his culinary near death experience instead of this emotional one.
“That’s what I wanted to tell you on our anniversary.”
Oh, Enjolras really needs to stop calling it that.
“Begging your pardon?”
“You read it! I showed you!”
“I couldn’t! Your handwriting is a disgrace.”
“My handwriting won competitions in high school,” Enjolras huffs.
“And it clearly folded under the weight of that pressure to perform. It’s illegible.”
Enjolras laughs. It sounds like bells are pealing right next to Grantaire.
“To briefly paraphrase, the first thing I ever wrote about you is that you were the most attractive man I had seen in my eighteen years of life.”
“Bullshit.”
“Why would I lie about that? Give me one reason why I would make that up.”
To make me feel better. To make me laugh. Whatever, I don’t know. Grantaire comes up with a million reasons on the spot. “I don’t know,” he voices only the end of his freight train of thought.
“You were one hundred percent my type.”
“Until I opened my mouth and introduced you to the wafting beer stench that was my constant companion in those days?”
They both smile.
He nudges Enjolras with his shoulder. Enjolras nudges back. Then Enjolras turns to the scene unfolding in front of them with delight.
“How long until they try to paint it over and realize the wax base will shine through?”
“I would wait forever to find out,” Grantaire vows.
They only have to wait twenty minutes.
+
1.8 Les Ameetings
“They’re putting a poster over the graffitti,” Grantaire updates Enjolras on Monday when he arrives late at the meeting. He ducks behind the bar, hectically takes orders despite his friends’ protestations that they have all the time in the world. Enjolras remains standing near him, drink firmly in hand.
“Class ran late?”
“Lost track of time,” Grantaire corrects. “I am disgusting, I know. Mondays throw my whole schedule off.”
“It’s a good look,” Enjolras supplies, doubling down when Grantaire gives him a skeptical glance. “It is .”
“One hundred percent your type, yeah?”
Enjolras’ face pinches, but he nods through the embarrassment.
“That’s what you’re into?” Grantaire chuckles. “Gross, sweaty men who look like they haven’t showered in days?”
Enjolras has a long sip of water.
“You nasty,” Grantaire mouths at him, laughing when Enjolras rolls his eyes.
Courfeyrac beckons Enjolras over, who, despite being very red in the face, leads a superb meeting.
1.9 Enjolras and Grantaire Remember More Important Things
On Wednesday, Enjolras arrives shortly after eight and orders tea. He doesn’t set up at one of the tables, instead leans on the counter, looking Grantaire dead in the eye.
“Your shirt perfectly matches the carpet in my bedroom,” he announces, stern-faced. “Real attempt or not? What was it?”
“Fucking pardon?”
“I’ve been reading through my old diaries. Several of your so-called attempts are listed. I kept thinking you were mocking me. Were you?”
“Mocking myself, most of all,” Grantaire sighs. “Look, can we drop it? Please?”
Enjolras sighs, looking for a while as though he wants to insist on it. Then his mien changes. “I found a few good memories as well. Do you want to hear about those?”
Grantaire supposes it is the least he may do.
When later, after Enjolras has once more yelled in his ear about his ‘careless’ tactics for overtaking traffic, he tells Grantaire that Courfeyrac and Combeferre are best not interrupted at the moment, Grantaire offers that they can continue the evening at his place. Enjolras accepts.
1.10 Enjolras’ Mistress is Party-a
Saturday finds Grantaire halfway across the city, at a party thrown by Joly & Co. It’s mostly casual, just the inner circle of their friend group and current partners. Courfeyrac joins him when Grantaire begs off to get some fresh air on the balcony.
“Ten years ago you would have been out here smoking,” Courfeyrac reminisces.
“Why does everybody insist on dragging up a past that, even then, I tried my hardest to forget?”
“It just occurred to me,” Courfeyrac shrugs. “We don’t have to talk about it. We could talk about whether our favorite triad will make vows to each other soon.”
“The boys haven’t mentioned anything.” Grantaire drums his fingers in time to the music drifting in, even through the glass barrier. “I think they’re content as is.”
“And what about you and Enj?”
“Fuck off,” Grantaire groans.
Of course, Courfeyrac does not. Ever well-meaning, he won’t force conversation per se. It is his habit not to pry, but unfortunately there is no getting anything out of Grantaire if not by means of at least a little prying. Grantaire knows he would let off if Grantaire gave him the impression that there truly was nothing to talk about. Alas, he is awful at such charades. “From what he tells me it was your anniversary recently,” Courfeyrac prompts.
“I have no idea why he insists on calling it that.”
“You know.” Courfeyrac’s jovial tone turns serious in an instant.
“Additionally, I have no idea why he is so convinced he was attracted to me.”
“I told you before that he never shut up about you.”
“You never gave the impression that his words were good.”
Then Grantaire laughs it off, swiftly. It is not because there is nothing left to speak of, but because he sees Enjolras struggling to open the door to join them.
“Good evening,” he says, face grave. “I appear to have had the spiked punch. Bossuet’s explanations as to which was which were very misleading.”
“Oh, you are drunk .” Courfeyrac sounds gleeful. Enjolras is reflective enough of that fact to nod. When he steps forward, he stumbles into Grantaire a little. Then he simply stays there, holding onto him after whispering faint gratitude.
“Courfeyrac is asking when we’re getting married,” Grantaire reveals, trying to ridicule the whole situation so as to offer a bit of levity.
“You should ask him and Combeferre the same,” Enjolras suggests. “They’ve long broken the decade rule.”
“I can love the idea of marriage for someone else while simultaneously rejecting it entirely for myself,” Courfeyrac laughs. “Is that what you’ve been so furiously journaling about?”
Enjolras sticks his tongue out at Courfeyrac. A case of impromptu hiccups leaves him unable to properly answer, so Courfeyrac turns to Grantaire and continues: “Enjolras secretly thinks he’s going to be the next Che Guevara and wants to record his political musings for history. He got me and Ferre to do it as well.”
“It’s why I’m so level-headed,” Combeferre agrees, appearing at the door to call them back inside. “Free therapy with myself.”
“Bet,” Grantaire says, distracted by Enjolras' close presence.
Enjolras keeps on giggling into Grantaire’s shirt, long after they’ve left the party. All the way back on Grantaire’s bike he continues to do so intermittently.
“I was imagining what the world would think of my endless pages of pining,” he admits when Grantaire finally breaks and asks him. "If I were to become the next Che."
“Pining?”
“I have feelings.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“They’re very private feelings, so I limit them to my diaries,” Enjolras explains.
“Then I am honored you gave me a glimpse into those private feelings.”
“I can give you more,” Enjolras says, as they reach their destination. He hops off the bike but doesn’t turn away to the apartment complex yet.
“Come again?”
“I’m thinking I shouldn’t have kept them so private for so long.”
Their eyes hold. Enjolras looks vulnerable as he rarely does, possibly because he isn’t sober yet. “Why ever not?” Grantaire brings himself to ask.
“Missed opportunities.” Enjolras elaborates after a few beats pass in silence, “You were in love with me.”
“We’ve been through this,” Grantaire groans, rubs a hand over his face so that the majority of his despair goes unnoticed. Despite being drunk, Enjolras still possesses observational skills second to none.
“And I missed my shot because I made you think you didn’t have a chance.”
His voice is quiet when he admits it, so quiet that Grantaire thinks for a while that he must have imagined it. But he didn’t imagine it. Enjolras is standing in front of him, admitting -- what exactly is he admitting to here?
He’s drunk.
“Because I thought you had cottoned onto the fact that I liked you and were teasing me for it,” Enjolras continues, stepping towards him. One gloved hand lands on Grantaire’s waist. Slowly but surely, Enjolras comes ever closer. Another hand caresses Grantaire’s neck.
“Enjolras--”
He connects their foreheads. Grantaire smells alcohol on his breath. Funny. Time seems to pass in slow motion as Enjolras wets his lips, leans in. Grantaire takes a hasty step back, then a sudden crash startles both of them.
Enjolras’ hands are still holding Grantaire in place, but if he cranes his neck, he can spot his bike, damaged and no longer upright as it should be.
“I should get some sleep,” says Enjolras, voice hoarse.
“Yeah,” Grantaire clears his throat.
“I shouldn’t have told you that.”
“Maybe not,” Grantaire agrees, only half-hearing what Enjolras is saying.
Almost mechanically, he waits until Enjolras has gone into his building. Pushing his bike home offers no clarity. What on earth just happened?
1.11 Hangover Food Is Important
Courfeyrac buzzes him in with an amused look on his face. “What a delightful surprise,” he affects. Grantaire wordlessly holds up both his phone and the bag of pastries he arrived with.
“If you behave there’s something in there for you as well.”
Promptly, Courfeyrac mines zipping his mouth shut and allows Grantaire entry without further comment. Combeferre wordlessly nods at him from his position on the couch.
Grantaire sits at Enjolras’ bedside. “The rare Enjolrasian hangover,” he croons at the mountain of blankets Enjolras is presumably hiding under. “I did not think I would get to see it again while so young.”
A hand swats at him from beneath the mountain.
“Courfeyrac opened the blinds,” Enjolras croaks.
Grantaire dutifully closes them. At last, a disheveled Enjolras reveals himself.
“I feel like shit. My head is a drum and the beat is out of control.”
“Let the rhythm move through you,” Grantaire counsels. “Accept it for what it is. Do you want coffee?”
Enjolras nods. When Grantaire goes to make it, he is handed two cups Courfeyrac has already prepared. Grantaire studiously ignores the silent encouragement in the man’s eyes. He shouldn’t get his hopes up. He shouldn't.
“I found a documentary on the boxing industry,” Enjolras tempts when Grantaire returns to him.
“Is that my prize for bringing you food?”
“It can be.” Enjolras purses his lips.
“That’s a good price. Almost worth the hour of traffic.”
Grantaire hands him his coffee, watches as Enjolras visibly brightens when the smell hits him. It is unbelievably endearing.
“Why didn’t you take your bike?” He asks, after having a few sips.
“Because we wrecked it last night, drunkie.” It’s not beyond repair. He’s already been to see Feuilly this morning. Nothing a week can’t fix.
“I don’t remember that.”
“Some things are easy to forget,” Grantaire comments. They watch the documentary for a while. All the while, Grantaire can’t shake the impression that Enjolras is dying to say something. It’s unnerving to watch Enjolras hesitate, to watch him open his mouth and immediately snap it shut once more.
“Grantaire -- did I say something to you last night?”
When the words finally come out, they still manage to surprise Grantaire, even though he saw them coming from a mile away. Perhaps he didn't expect Enjolras to be so bold, but then - why wouldn't he be? Of course he'd be brave enough to address his fumblings. Grantaire wars with himself on whether he should take the out offered. All he would have to say is no. Enjolras would likely be annoyed and see right through it, but there's a good chance he'd drop it.
“Yeah, you did.”
Curiosity outweighs any instinct for self-preservation.
“Oh. I didn’t--”
“Are you sure you want to have this conversation hungover?”
“No,” Enjolras agrees, sounding a little relieved. “What are you doing Monday?”
1.12 Talking Heads
“I’m fine with skipping a Monday meeting. They still feel weird,” says Enjolras when Grantaire comments on their lack of time. He pushes a cup of coffee into Grantaire’s hand as they leave Rage Against the Weight Machine.
“Courfeyrac will riot.”
“If he’s feeling up to a riot he’ll do it no matter who shows up,” Enjolras corrects.
“Good point.”
Grantaire tries to make a witty comment on the new graffitti that mars the office across the street, this time succinctly calling the company out for their bullshit policies and inhumane treatment of workers across the globe. It looks more Feuilly’s work than Bahorel’s, if Grantaire is being honest with himself. But Enjolras does not engage.
“What did I tell you on Saturday?”
Grantaire takes a fortifying sip of his coffee, swallows so that there remains no possibility for a spit take, if Enjolras should say something worthy of surprise within the next few seconds.
“Most of it was about having missed your shot.”
“I’ve had a lot to think about since you told me you liked me.” Enjolras tone of voice signals agreement with Grantaire’s statement.
“Sorry.”
Enjolras takes a diary out of his backpack, hands it to Grantaire, one page flipped open. Then he looks at Grantaire expectantly.
“You know I can’t read this,” Grantaire sighs.
“Right,” Enjolras nods. He takes a very deep breath, sets his coffee on the window sill. “This is from uni. I had feelings for you, Grantaire. Private feelings.”
Grantaire is stunned. Enjolras, undeterred, continues: “My drunk ramblings were mostly about the fact that if I had known you liked me in then, I would have done something about it.”
“I still like you.”
Ah, fuck. That slipped out unintentionally. Mondays should be days of silence for him. A vow of eternal silence is untenable, but this - this he should seriously consider.
“I - what?”
“Not ‘I would kiss the ground you walk on and polish your boots’ kind of like, obviously. You’ve been knocked off that pedestal.”
“Oh?”
“But you’re still pretty great, Enjolras.”
“Oh.”
Is Grantaire imagining how flustered Enjolras looks? Possibly. But nothing more comes from the mouth of the stammering man next to Grantaire.
“Fantastic speech, really,” Grantaire snorts, training his eyes firmly on Feuilly’s red manifesto.
“This is unexpected.”
“And embarrassing. I didn’t mean to---”
“No! I’m glad you did!” Enjolras insists, grabbing his hand and swiftly pressing a kiss onto the fist Grantaire still has clenched.
“Oh, okay.”
“Eloquent.”
“Aren’t I just?”
“So…” Enjolras begins. “The ground I walk on is no longer enticing to you. What are your feelings on my mouth, as an alternative target?”
And honestly: what?
When he looks at Enjolras, there’s a little hopeful smile playing around his mouth. That does present a very attractive target.
“They’re private,” Grantaire grins, already leaning in.