Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was while walking home from one of his night classes that Enjolras found him. At first glance he mistook the crumpled heap on the ground before him for one of the many black bags that were strewn over the darkened, snow-covered street. It was only when the heap began to stir that he recognised the wild hair and wide blue eyes of his friend.

Grantaire lay in the mouth of an alley that stunk of piss and things fouler still. A quick inspection showed that he had no injuries but his t-shirt was covered with what appeared to be dried vomit and the fingers that gripped an empty wine bottle were an alarming shade of blue.

Ignoring the lurch of his stomach and resisting the urge to gag, Enjolras bent down and managed to half lift and half drag Grantaire to his feet. Putting an arm around his friend’s waist to support his weight and ignoring the protestations and what sounded suspiciously like a Madonna song being slurred into his ear, Enjolras started the short walk to his apartment.

For a fleeting second Enjolras entertained the idea of taking Grantaire to his own place but remembering the stained mattress that served as a bed, lack of heating (and in some places windows) and the worrying number of junkies that lived in his building, he decided against it.

After a lot of dragging, a close call when he felt Grantaire begin to gag beside him and a steady stream of curses, Enjolras opened the door to his apartment. Without thinking about what the hell he was doing, he managed to get the drunk into his bedroom and onto his bed with his shoes off in record time.

After putting the covers over him and managing not to wince as his pristine white sheets were becoming smudged with suspicious-looking stains, Enjolras grabbed the spare blanket from his closet and made to go and sleep on the sofa when he heard Grantaire mumble from the bed.

“This…not my bed”

“No.” he agreed. The blanket in his hand momentarily forgotten, Enjolras moved to stand awkwardly and then eventually perch beside Grantaire on the bed. “I couldn’t very well leave you in your own place to be killed by some crazed psychopath, now could I?” Then in an undertone, “God knows you’ve probably pissed off enough of them.” He had attempted to sound annoyed, to let Grantaire know that he felt put-out, but only managed fond amusement and even the slightest bit of worry.

“Aw, Enjy…Didn’t know you cared. But…” Grantaire looked like he was struggling to remember something, then, face lighting up like a child’s when they know the answer to a question, he slurred “All men must die!”

Enjolras only half succeeded in hiding his grin at his friend’s pride in being able to quote his favourite book, even in his inebriated state. “Not tonight, they don’t.”

Suspecting that Grantaire would probably have a fever as well as a killer hangover in the morning, Enjolras leaned over to feel his forehead, trying to ignore the sudden urge to brush a stray black curl behind the other man’s ear. He couldn’t ignore, however, how fierce and bright Grantaire’s eyes were at that moment, and how they managed to burn into his own with a ferocity and determination that shouldn’t be possible in his drunken state. They seemed to be searching for something and for a beautiful second Grantaire’s eyes became full of hope, like his prayers were about to be answered. This one look seemed to light up his whole face, the whole room and suddenly his scruffy face became more handsome and less like that of the near homeless alcoholic that he very much was.

Enjolras felt his hand, unbidden, complete its mission to brush a lock of hair away from Grantaire’s face and come to rest on his cheek. Grantaire followed his every movement and seemed awed by the contact, almost reverent. Barely aware of his actions he felt himself slowly bend his head towards Grantaire’s and, slower still, like they had their own gravitational pull, Grantaire moved up as if to meet him in the middle - before promptly throwing up over the floor.

-

After ten minutes of apologies, more retching and mopping, Enjolras manages to tuck Grantaire into his bed again, except this time there are no lingering touches or even conversation as Enjolras retrieves his blanket from where he dropped it before, says a curt “Goodnight” and opens his bedroom door.

As he leaves the room he hears Grantaire whisper “I’m sorry I’m…Not better…” A yawn. “I’m sorry I can’t…be good enough.”

Before Enjolras can even begin think of a response, to let him know that he is good enough, he was always good enough, hear hears a light snore from the already-unconscious man on his bed.

“Goodnight, ‘Taire” he says again, gentler this time and without another word Enjolras leaves the room and makes up his bed on the couch. As he closes his eyes he replays Grantaire’s words over in his head, ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach and wondering why he feels so wounded.

Chapter Text

The first thing Grantaire notices when he wakes up is that the bed he’s in isn’t his own. The first indication of this is the fact that there is a pillow under his head rather than a rolled-up sheet. He also discovers that he isn’t his usual two inches from the ground when he almost rolls out of bed and face-plants the hardwood floor beneath him.

The second thing he notices is his brain trying to explode out of his fucking skull.

Despite being a seasoned drinker he hasn’t had many big hangovers, opting instead to always remain at least a little bit drunk. Forever.

But his plan didn’t seem to be working today as the throbbing pain in his head makes him feel like his brain is getting too big for his skull and he imagines himself turning into Mojo Jojo – lest the Power Puff Girls ever be forgotten -and the gods are shining the sun directly into his eyes on fucking purpose, I swear.

Mentally declaring getting up a heroic and therefore impossible task, Grantaire instead decides to pull the blanket over his eyes and tries to remember the events of the previous night.

 This also proves difficult as all coherent thought is being trampled by what feels like elephants that have apparently decided to have a rave/Greek orgy inside his head – at least someone’s having fun - but he eventually manages to conjure up a few fuzzy memories:  going out to a bar with some new acquaintances. Beer. Getting kicked out of said bar for trying – and failing – to do a strip tease on top of a table to “Like a Virgin”. Vodka. Going back to someone’s house. Wine.  Getting kicked out of said house for stealing someone’s expensive wine. Trying to walk home. Vomit. Strong arms around him. Enjolras. A hand on his face. Enjolras.

Enjolras.

“Holy fu--!”  He manages to shout before he sits up in bed too quickly and, head spinning, falls to the floor in a tangle of limbs and blankets and everything hurts and in a second his brain is going to dribble out of his fucking ear—

A knock at the door. Grantaire stills completely in a moment of blind panic before shouting a strangled “come in” that manages to sound more like Sméagol having sex with a cheese grater and before he knows it his golden God is standing awkwardly in the doorframe.

And he thought the sun was blinding.

Standing there with his hair almost artfully tousled from sleep – because trust fucking Enjolras to pull-off bed head – and his trademark red hoodie, Grantaire swears in this moment that if he could stare at this Apollo every day he wouldn’t need the light of the sun again. Enjolras mustn’t have shaved in a couple of days and there’s light stubble on his cheeks that usually appear so smooth, marble-like. Grantaire finds himself wondering which would feel better under his fingertips, against his own cheeks and --

“So you’re alive, then.” Enjolras says with the infamous raised eyebrow, which can mean anything from “I find you mildly amusing” to “Go play with the buses you insufferable swine”.

Sometimes Grantaire thinks that, for him, it might be a mixture of both.

“Mmmmm…Blurgh.” He says brilliantly, killer hangover remembered and will to live disappearing fast (probably in search of a cigarette). He remembers that he is in fact still lying on the floor and has probably been sitting with his mouth open, gaping at the dazzling creature in front of him.

With a small smirk – or maybe Grantaire imagined it, it disappears that quickly - Enjolras walks out of the bedroom calling “There’s coffee and aspirin in the kitchen” over his shoulder.

After making a mental note to marry Enjolras one day, Grantaire picks himself off the floor and, wincing slightly at the stains he appears to have made on the sheets, shuffles out of the room, blanket still wrapped round him and looking very much like Old Mother Hubbard’s alcoholic alter-ego.

Braving the treacherous journey down the hallway and managing not to fall over the bottom of the blanket or his own two feet, Grantaire finds himself in the kitchen making coffee with no milk or sugar because he’s sweet enough, fuck you very much. After popping a couple aspirin into his mouth he grabs the mug and wanders into the living room in search of Enjolras.

He finds him sitting on the sofa, reading a large book probably filled with the endless drabbles of some great philosopher or another, but something about the way his knee bounces up and down and how he runs an agitated hand through his golden locks makes him seem distracted. When Grantaire gracefully stumbles into the living room and plops himself into the armchair facing him, Enjolras puts the book down and gives Grantaire a small smile that makes Grantaire’s heart beat faster to match the throbbing in his head, and he is absolutely not staring at the Adonis sitting a few feet away from him.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

In the small silence that follows, Grantaire looks at the clock mounted on the kitchen wall that reads 11 o’clock and says “don’t you have class now?”

This seems to startle Enjolras who picks up his book again and mumbles something about “I think my professor is sick, plus I’m way ahead of everyone so it’s fine.”

Grantaire decides to ignore the obvious lie because the thought of Enjolras skipping class to take care of him is too much for his already frazzled brain to handle. Instead he says the obvious.

 “Thanks for, y’know” he waves a hand in the air “the whole Florence Nightingale routine last night.”

Enjolras seems slightly more himself as he raises that eyebrow and says “It’s fine. I wouldn’t want you to be beat up by some strangers you’ve pissed off some for some reason or another.” He considers this, then adds “That’s my job.”

The way the hardness in his tone doesn’t match the amusement and – fondness? – in his eyes brings memories flooding into Grantaire’s mind of a moment they shared last night. The gentle words, a hand on his cheek, their faces getting closer, the feeling in his heart, in his stomach --

“Oh fuck, Ithrewuponyou!” Grantaire wraps the blanket tighter round himself and hides his face behind his mug of coffee, letting his atheism be damned and praying to every God there is to let him fall off the face of the earth.

With his eyes scrunched shut in embarrassment, Grantaire misses the quick grin that breaks across Enjolras’ face before hardening into his usual scowl. “Well, you threw up on my floor, to be exact.”

Grantaire groans from his cotton cocoon “I’m so fucking sorry!”

Enjolras dismisses it with a quick wave of his hand. “There’s no point in crying over spilt milk… Though I doubt it was milk you were drinking last night.” And Grantaire can hear the eyebrow.

He looks up to throw a half-hearted glare at Enjolras. “Don’t try to be funny, Enjy, it doesn’t suit you.”

Though it really does.

Enjolras, wincing at the nickname he despises, turns back to his book, leaving Grantaire to sit in silence and try to stop flashbacks of the previous night popping into his head. Because that moment they shared must have been a figment of his imagination, a fever dream, anything but what it was. Surely that hand on his face hadn’t been real or the blue eyes that studied his face and liked what they found.

“Grantaire?”

Because Enjolras doesn’t like him, can’t like him. He barely tolerates him. It’s like he lives to contradict and chastise him at every opportunity. But despite all his reasoning, a small voice at the back of his head asks the question.

Then why did he save me?

“Grantaire?”

Grantaire realises, too late, that he’s been staring at Enjolras with a look of concentration on his face that borders on painful.

“Why did you help me?” He blurts out before he can stop himself.

Enjolras seems surprised by the question, but recovers quickly and, eyes returning to the book in his lap, calmly says “Like I said, I couldn’t leave you out there to be attacked or worse.”

“I didn’t think you’d care. At least you’d have one less pain in the ass to worry about.” Grantaire tries to hide the truth of his statement with a dry half-hearted chuckle.

“Why? Why would you ever think that Grantaire?” Enjolras has abandoned his book once again and his eyes are burning into Grantaire’s with an anger that is almost frightening but on him still manages to look endearing. “Why do you refuse to believe that people actually care about you?” He is sitting forward in his seat now. “Why do you always treat yourself like you’re nothing?”

“Don’t you?” Grantaire almost spits at him.

A range of emotions pass Enjolras’ face that, if his nerves were in better order, Grantaire might find amusing. For a few moments his face is contorted with shock, outrage, disbelief and hurt before eventually there is nothing in his eyes but guilt.  

“I admit that we’ve had some disagreements in the past,” Grantaire snorts at that but Enjolras continues, ever the professional, “but don’t think for a second that I don’t care about you.”

It’s Grantaire’s turn to be disbelieving. “So you don’t hate me?”

Enjolras looks like he wants to punch something. In the face. Really hard. “Of course I don’t hate you! How could I possibly hate you when I…” He abruptly stops and for a while they just sit and breathe at each other. Grantaire realises that their faces are only inches apart and Enjolras’ hand has somehow made its way onto his knee. Even through the thick blanket that’s pulled around him, the small form of contact somehow manages to burn Grantaire’s skin.

“Why did you help me?” Grantaire asks again, whispered this time.

“Because I--” His voice that could, should he choose, bring a nation to its knees, seems to falter and his blue eyes are what can only be described as pleading. “Because you’re my…friend.” He looks like he wants to go on but instead he just sits in silence and stares at a spot on the wall that has apparently become very interesting all of a sudden.

“Your friend.”

Enjolras just nods.

“That’s it.”

Another nod.

“Okay.”

Grantaire pushes himself from the armchair a little to roughly and tries to shuffle angrily to Enjolras’ bedroom to find his shoes. He shoves them on as quickly as he can and walks back into the living room to see Enjolras reclining on the sofa reading that fucking book again.

“Thanks again.”

Enjolras doesn’t move, just keeps reading like he hasn’t spoken at all.

“I’ll see you around.”

Nothing.

Forgetting that it is most likely snowing outside and he has nothing to wear over his crusty t-shirt and ripped jeans, Grantaire swings the front door open and slams it shut behind him.

He tells himself that he only imagined the wetness in Enjolras’ eyes as he left.

Chapter Text

With the sound of the door slamming still ringing in his ears, Enjolras throws his book to the ground and lets his face fall into his hands, reflecting on the fact that he is a fucking idiot.

Grantaire’s face fills his mind, the look of hope, the hurt in his eyes, because he had been right there and Enjolras couldn’t tell him how he felt.

This gives him pause.

How do I feel?

How does he feel? In short, confused and guilty as hell. But he knows that he needs to look deeper than that.

Ever since meeting Grantaire, the man had infuriated him in more ways than what can be considered healthy. It’s like every dream Enjolras has for making a better and just world is created for Grantaire to mock and question. He just sits there and questions – no, challenges Enjolras’ ideals and beliefs with an easy smile on his face and a bottle in his hand.

But as much as he infuriates him, Grantaire inspires him, pushes him to approach things with more tact, and makes him challenge his own beliefs to make them stronger. Their regular sparring matches keep Enjolras at the top of his game every day, make him fight harder.

Above all things, though, Grantaire exasperates him. Behind his dry wit and the numbing effects of alcohol, he has a brilliant mind, with so much potential hidden behind his stubborn cynicism. His complete lack of faith in humanity in general often makes Enjolras wonder why he bothers to stick around with their group of friends, all of whom fight for the common cause of making the world a better place.

There’s a part of him, however, that already knows.

Contrary to popular belief, Enjolras isn’t completely ignorant to Grantaire’s feelings towards him. But that doesn’t mean he knows how to reciprocate them, or even if he wants to. Because he’s Enjolras, he doesn’t do romantic feelings, especially not for Grantaire. Grantaire who gets under his skin in such a way that sometimes Enjolras even loses sleep thinking about him, his uncompromising cynicism, the defiant jut of his jaw as he makes an argument, the way his face flushes when they almost come to blows, his small smile as he sits in the corner and listens to their friends joking, how Enjolras catches Grantaire staring at him, while biting his lip and burying his head in a sketchbook, how his laughter can spread throughout the whole room and how Enjolras’ heart beats that much faster when Grantaire gives him that crooked grin--

Enjolras abruptly stands up and, grabbing his keys from the small table beside the door and his heavy coat (wincing as he remembers that Grantaire ran out of the apartment wearing nothing but his highly weather-inappropriate clothes), leaves his apartment in search of the one person who might actually have a clue as to what the fuck he should do.

Chapter Text

Grantaire, after wandering aimlessly in the snow for a while, is fairly certain that his balls are going to turn into ice cubes and before he realises it, finds himself standing outside Courfeyrac’s apartment.

Although he knows how pathetic he must look he decides to knock on the door and prays it isn’t obvious that he’s been crying. After a muffled “Hold on!” and what sounds like a lot of falling and giggling, Courfeyrac opens the door wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and what appears to be his roommate’s flowery dressing gown. When Grantaire gives him a look, he takes in his appearance and just raises his eyebrows as if to say why the fuck not?

“Grantaire! Bit early for you isn’t it?” He glances behind him to look out the window. “Seriously, man, the sun’s still up. The fuck?”

“Uh well actually I was…” He is interrupted by the sound of a woman’s laughter coming from Courfeyrac’s room. “Shit, sorry, didn’t realise you had company.”

Courfeyrac looks confused for a minute before saying “Oh. Oh! That’s Marcy.” He says with a grin that’s too wide to be anything close to innocent.

“You wanna get back to her or..?”

“Nah, it’s fine, James can keep her occupied.”

“James? Who’s…”  The sound of feminine laughter in Courfeyrac’s room is soon joined by a deep-throated chuckle and after a minute what sounds suspiciously like moaning.

“That’s James.” Courfeyrac says, still doing his best Cheshire cat impression. Grantaire throws him a look that he hopes is more you slut than you lucky bastard.

“Where’s Jehan?” he asks as he sees himself into the living room and collapses onto the sofa with about as much grace as a sack of potatoes.

“I think he had a poetry class or something. I don’t know, he never sticks around when I have someone over.” He considers this, then waggling his eyebrows “Or someones for that matter.”

Grantaire definitely does not roll his eyes at that. It wasn’t exactly a secret that Jehan had been pining over his roommate for weeks now, so obviously he wouldn’t want to sit in the next room while Courfeyrac gets his jollies from Thing One and Thing Two.

It’s not Courfeyrac’s fault though, not really. Despite his cherub face and butter-wouldn’t-melt façade, being a bit of a man whore is just what he does. He doesn’t realise he’s hurting anyone, probably isn’t even aware that someone likes him that way.

Some people are just blind.

“Anyway, is there something you wanted to talk about? Unless you wanna join us of course.” Courf says, nodding towards the direction of his bedroom. Grantaire has a feeling that he’s only half joking. “Though you’d have to shower first because, no offense, but you fucking stink. Is that vomit?” He sniffs at Grantaire’s t-shirt.

“Probably.” He replies off-handedly, swatting Courfeyrac away with his hand. “Actually that’s kinda why I’m here. Enjolras found me passed-out somewhere and I sorta crashed at his place last night.”

For a second Courfeyrac just blinks at him, before declaring “I need coffee for this shit.” and walking into the kitchen.

He returns a few minutes later with two steaming mugs in his hands and sits himself down on the couch next to Grantaire with a sigh. “Okay, what’d he do this time?”

This takes Grantaire by surprise. “I never said he did anything. Where did that come from?”

Courfeyrac gives him his best cut the bullshit look. “You show up at my doorstep at this ungodly hour instead of going to pass out at your own place, so you obviously need to talk about something. Plus,” his eyes and voice soften, “you’ve been crying.”

Grantaire stares into his coffee as if he’s seriously considering the perks of drowning in it. “Have not.” he protests weakly.

Courfeyrac doesn’t say anything else, just puts a comforting hand on Grantaire’s knee before settling further into the sofa, looking like he’s fully prepared to wait all day – and, knowing Courf, he probably would.

With the most world-weary of sighs, Grantaire begins to tell Courfeyrac the events of the previous night and this morning.

Chapter Text

After listening intently to Grantaire’s recollection of the previous twelve hours (and managing not to piss himself laughing on learning that Grantaire threw up on Enjolras, for the love of fuck), Courfeyrac sits back and tries to figure out what to say to his friend.

For a second he feels a twinge of déjà vu. Even though Courf loves all his friends, he knows as well as everyone how hurtful Enjolras can be when he wants to, especially to Grantaire, even though sometimes he isn’t even aware of it. And every time he cuts the cynic too deep or hits a new low, it’s always Courfeyrac who’s left to clean up the mess (sometimes literally in some of Grantaire’s worse drunken states). It’s not all Enjy’s fault, though. Ever since meeting Grantaire he’s been completely oblivious to the feelings that were aimed at him.

Some people, Courfeyrac supposes, must be blind to these sorts of things.

Last night, however, was a completely different matter. In all the years of Grantaire pining over Enjolras, never has he ever had those feelings reciprocated in the slightest. Because it’s Enjolras. He barely seems to tolerate Grantaire, and everyone is fairly certain that he’s some sort of eunuch because he’s never shown any interest in anyone. But the thought of him actually liking Grantaire in return is just lunacy. They get under each other’s skin so easily and they constantly nag at each other like—

Well, like an old married couple. 

Courfeyrac doesn’t think that voicing this observation would help in his current situation, so he tries to think of something reassuring to say. “Well, I think that--” he starts, before there’s a loud banging on his front door that looks like it’s about to come off its hinges. Courfeyrac gives Grantaire an apologetic smile before standing up to see who it is.

He barely gets the door unlocked before Bahorel stumbles into the apartment with Feuilly, mumbling “The fuck, man, we were supposed to get coffee like an hour ago-- Oh, hey Grantaire.” He looks out the living room window before saying in mock-horror, “You know the sun’s still up, right?”

Before Grantaire flips him the bird he does a double take and nearly chokes on his coffee, saying almost disbelievingly, “Are you two sharing a fucking scarf?”

Courfeyrac, who had been busy trying not to get trampled, gets a good look at Feuilly and Bahorel who are indeed standing together with a hideous (probably hand-knitted) scarf the colour of seaweed wrapped around both their necks.

They just look at each other and shrug nonchalantly as Bahorel says simply “It’s cold.”

There’s silence for a beat before Grantaire chuckles “Are we gonna hear a happy announcement any time soon?”

It’s Feuilly’s turn to give Grantaire the finger as he digs through his pockets for his cigarettes “There’s a recession, you know. And scarves don’t grow on trees.”

“Yeah, they grow on sheep.” Bahorel adds helpfully. “But then again, not all of us can pull off the Kurt Cobain summertime alcoholic look in December. Seriously, what’s with the t-shirt? And is that puke?”

The summertime alcoholic in question just shrugs but as Feuilly sees Grantaire giving him his best begging puppy impression and looking from Feuilly’s face to the box in his hand, he frantically shakes his head and firmly says “No.” before untangling from his and Bahorel’s woollen monstrosity and lighting up in the kitchen. “You smoked half a carton on me last week.”

“And you ran over my dog when you were doing your driving lessons. But I don’t hold grudges because I’m a good friend.” Grantaire says with a shit-eating grin.

“You didn’t even like that fucking dog.” Feuilly whines under his breath but throws Grantaire a cigarette anyway, feeling satisfied when it hits him in the eye. Grantaire holds it in his hands for a moment as if barely daring to believe it’s real, before shoving it between his lips and scrambling through his pockets for a lighter.

“Well, I don’t need any of your pansy-ass cigarettes.” Bahorel loudly declares before pulling out an honest-to-god Cuban cigar and looking scarily like an Italian mob boss as leans against the doorframe and lights up.

Courfeyrac becomes slightly exasperated. “Hey, anyone want a shoe shine? Some scotch on the rocks? Because apparently my apartment has become a goddamn gentleman’s club! And don’t answer that Grantaire.” 

“What pissed in your piccolo? And it’s not just your apartment, its Jehan’s too.” Bahorel states smugly.

Feuilly nods in agreement from where he is perched on a countertop then, looking slightly confused and more than slightly uncomfortable “Um, speaking of, did Jehan bring someonehome last night? It’s just, uh, well…” For a moment they all stop and listen to the increasingly intense moaning coming from one of the bedrooms.

“Oh no, they’re Courf’s.” Grantaire says with a grin, though his eyes don’t completely focus and he seems a little distracted. “He brought them both home last night. Don’t know what their major malfunctions are yet but they’re called James and Darcy--”

“Marcy.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Grantaire dismisses with a decisive flick of his cigarette.

“That’s my boy!” Bahorel says loudly before enveloping Courfeyrac in a bone-crushing bear hug with the expression of an extremely proud father. Courf half expects Bahorel to take him out for ice cream.

Just as Courfeyrac starts to consider how he’s going to get four people out of his apartment, kill Bahorel and continue his agony-aunt session with Grantaire, there’s a quick knock at the door before Enjolras waltzes in, almost knocking Bahorel over and looking like the Terminator with a terrible case of bed head.

Well this should be interesting.

“Courfeyrac I need to talk to-- Oh. Bahorel. Feuilly.” Enjolras nods at them both in turn, before catching sight of the man huddled on the sofa. “Grantaire?”

“Enjolras?”

“Enjolras--”

“Courfeyrac--”

“Grantaire.”

“Rocky!”

“Shut up, Bahorel!” They all shout at once.

For a moment everyone tenses and looks between Grantaire and Enjolras. Bahorel looks as if he’s ready to break up a fight, Feuilly’s sitting dejectedly in the kitchen fiddling with another cigarette, while Courfeyrac wishes he could just up and leave because it’s just too early and ain’t nobody got time for this shit. But as it’s his apartment he decides to put on his Lord-of-the-holdfast face and try to sort everything out.

Which works for all of two seconds.

“Sorry, I didn’t realise everyone was here. I can come back--” Enjolras starts before Grantaire sits up abruptly.

“Oh, Gods forbid Enjolras be inconvenienced by as lowly a creature as myself. I’ll leave.” He rises and starts to look for the coat that he doesn’t have.

“What’s gotten into you today, Grantaire? I take you off the street, let you sleep in my bed -” Feuilly and Bahorel look between Grantaire and Enjolras confusedly and stare questioningly at Courfeyrac, who just quickly shakes his head.

“Maybe you should have just left me on the fucking street to die then!”

“Oh here we go, Grantaire and his usual dramatics--”

“Why don’t you just go suck a fuck, Enjolras?”

“And how, exactly, does one ‘suck a fuck’?”

“Well, maybe you’d know if you got up off your virgin ass and put it to good use--”

“Whether or not I decide to have sexual relations with someone is hardly your concern--”

“Oh, don’t I fucking know it.”

“What’s happening?” Jehan asks timidly from the doorway, looking very much like Bambi watching his mother being shot. Everyone ignores him, an impressive feat considering the alarming number of floral patterns (and in some places, actual flowers) adorning his outfit.

“And just what is that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what I fucking mean--”

“All right, that’s fucking it!” Bahorel shouts before physically putting himself between Grantaire and Enjolras.  

“I completely agree.” Grantaire spits before shoving past Bahorel and leaving the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

For a second everyone stares at the door, then at each other, and then finally at Enjolras, who throws his arms up in the air and says “Well, he started it!” sounding like the petulant child that he very much isn’t.

Courfeyrac has decided he’s had enough. “Right, everybody calm your shit. Enjolras, sit your virgin ass down on the couch. We’re having an intervention.”

In the stunned silence that follows, Courf groans and walks angrily towards his bedroom door.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Kicking two naked people out of my bed. Then we’re having an intervention.”

A bit frightened of the slightly manic look in Courfeyrac’s eyes and more than a little shell-shocked, everyone just nods.

Chapter Text

Whoever invented the sun needs fucking shot.

Eponine rolls out of bed and almost falls, head pounding in time to the banging on her front door. Not even checking to see if she’s decent (because whoever has the nerve to wake her up to the hangover to end all hangovers can see her half naked with vomit in her hair and like it) she strides angrily towards the door and swings it open to find a disgruntled Grantaire, looking like the poster boy for Grungy Alcoholics Anonymous or Hollister After Dark.

“You look like shit.” He says in lieu of greeting.

“Either fuck up or fuck off.” She snarls but still stands aside to let her friend inside her shitty one bedroom apartment. “And you’re not exactly the picture of health and beauty today either. Is that puke on your t-shirt?”

“Yes-- what is everyone’s fucking obsession with the puke on my shirt today?!” Eponine stares at Grantaire, confused, and winces slightly at the volume he is currently speaking at.

“Do I even wanna know?” she asks tiredly.

“Probably not. Got any beer?”

For a minute Eponine just looks pointedly at Grantaire, because it’s just gone one in the afternoon, and her brain is slowly turning into mashed potatoes in her skull and Grantaire doesn’t look much better himself.

“The scales of the dragon that burned you?” Grantaire says with a grin after a minute of silence and Eponine just shrugs and strides over to the fridge to hunt for some form of alcohol, every action screaming fuck it.

A few minutes later she returns with two cans of beer, half a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a bottle of fuck-knows-what that smells a bit like paint stripper, so it can only be good.

Plopping down on the sofa, she hands one of the beers to Grantaire, who hands it right back to her in favour of the whiskey in her other hand. She lets it go with a reluctant sigh and for a minute they just sit and drink at each other.

“So, you wanna talk about it?” She asks after a few moments of silence.

“Fuck no.” He replies immediately, not even bothering deny that there’s something wrong. For a while he stares into the bottle in his hands as if it is the key to unlocking all the secrets of the universe, (pointless, as they already know the meaning of life is 42).

Slightly relieved at not having to deal with her friend’s emotional shit when it feels like her head is about to split open, she presents him with another option; “You wanna watch Jerry Springer and get shit faced?”

“Fuck yes.”  And for the first time in what feels like years, Grantaire smiles.

Chapter Text

Getting the two scantily clad people out of his bed and his apartment was easy enough, though it did nothing for his temper, as he only had enough time to give Marcy (or Darcy or whoever the fuck) a peck on the cheek and cop a feel of James’ ass on their way out the door. They were nice and Courfeyrac hated to see them go.

But loved to watch them leave.

(Because he is the king of all 90’s sitcoms and he can say things like that.)

Getting Enjolras to stay inside the apartment, on the other hand, was proving difficult.

He kept on pacing the room, strategically so as to get closer to the door with each step, rambling something like “Courfeyrac, I refuse to sit here and be pestered for something that isn’t even my fault and, besides that, is none of your concern--”

At that, Bahorel grabs him by the collar of his coat and shoves him down onto the sofa “I’m gonna stop you right there, pretty boy. Because that man over there,” he nods to Courfeyrac, still keeping his hands in Enjolras’ collar, “just kicked two really hot, really naked people out of his bed to sort out your shit. So shut the fuck up and listen because you, my friend, just made it our fucking concern.” Then he stands up to light a pansy-ass cigarette and takes up Enjolras’ previous position pacing the floor, muttering under his breath. “A player that didn’t even get to finish the game. Fucking tragic.”  For a panicking moment he looks dangerously close to tears.

Jehan sits cross-legged on the floor, wringing his long braid in his hands and looking very much like a wilting flower. For some reason he refuses to meet Courfeyrac’s eyes.

Feuilly, still perched on a kitchen counter, has apparently grown bored and is rifling through all the cupboards, (in search of food or drinks or a naked Polish woman, Courf can’t be sure) with nothing but the back of his ginger head visible.

Enjolras is glaring at the floor like it just insulted his mother. He looks pissed. Really pissed.

Well that makes two of us.

“Okay let’s get this show on the road before I kill myself and then you.” Courfeyrac says pointing at Enjolras.

“Courf, that’s not even possible--”

“Your face isn’t even possible. Shut up.”

After a few minutes everyone has arranged themselves into a half-assed semi-circle around Enjolras, with Jehan still huddled on the floor, Courfeyrac sitting on the wooden coffee table and Bahorel squeezed into the tiny armchair with Feuilly sitting on the arm rest looking like a particularly lanky parrot.

“Right…Okay…Um” Courfeyrac starts awkwardly, all anger leaving him as he tries to figure out how to put over three years of annoyance into words. “Basically--”

“You’re an asshole.” Bahorel interjects, smiling pleasantly at Enjolras in a way that is truly terrifying. Feuilly swats him on the back of the head before lighting another cigarette and seriously how does he have any lungs left.

“No,” Courfeyrac says quickly “You’re just…well, yeah you kinda are. I mean, would it kill you to be more sensitive? You see, most of us imperfect humanoids have these funny things called emotions and you kinda fucked with Grantaire’s.”

At that Enjolras lets out an indignant snort. “How, exactly, have I upset Grantaire? I brought him to my apartment and took care of him! I was being nice!”

“Exactly!” Courfeyrac shouts, wondering why Enjolras doesn’t get it. “I mean you go around treating him like dirt for three years and then you think you can just go around being nice?”

Enjolras just stubbornly clenches his jaw. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise making an effort to be civilized was a criminal fucking offense!” And, shit, Enjolras is swearing.

Courfeyrac pushes on because Enjy being driven to use profanity means they have approximately forty seconds to live.  “It’s not but, for the love of fuck, you didn’t have to lead the guy on!”

Enjolras actually starts to rise from his seat “I was doing nothing of the sort!”

“Maybe not intentionally,” Jehan squeaks from the floor, surprising everyone in the room and making Enjolras sit down again. “But the boy’s been pining over you for years now and suddenly he’s getting all these mixed signals and it’s confusing him, Enjolras. It’s hurting him.” For the briefest second, Jehan’s eyes dart over to Courfeyrac before quickly looking down at his feet like they’re the most interesting thing in the world. “You need to make it very clear that nothing will ever happen between you before more damage is done.”

“Or you could just throw the guy a fucking bone,” Bahorel says with a wicked grin, “and by bone I mean your d--” Feuilly stops him by shoving his cigarette in Bahorel’s mouth.

“What did I tell you about speaking without thinking?” Feuilly warns quietly.

“Don’t.” Bahorel mumbles around the cigarette, looking at Feuilly like a child that’s had their favourite toy taken away. Feuilly nods approvingly before sitting back and leaning slightly against Bahorel’s shoulder.

“So, uh, yeah, what Jehan said.” Courfeyrac says quickly, ignoring the apparent full-on bromance going on in the corner and the little poet on the floor who still looks upset for some reason. After Enjolras sits in silence for a few moments, Courf starts carefully “I mean, nothing will ever happen between you, right?”

Enjolras hesitates for the briefest of moments before rambling “What, no, what are you talking about, of course not!”

Courfeyrac positively shrieks “Oh my god you love Grantaire you wanna have his curly-haired alcoholic babies oh my god!”

“What, what, no, this is absurd and that’s not even possible--”

“Oh shush with your possibilities. You love Grantaire, this is perfect, ohmygod we have to tell him--” Courfeyrac reaches for his phone and Enjolras actually smacks it out of his handtill it clatters on the floor somewhere near Jehan’s feet.

“As I have said repeatedly I do not have inappropriate feelings for Grantaire and I’m sorry but you’re hardly the expert on relationships!” Enjolras practically spits. Then under his breath, “and they say I’m the ignorant one.”

“And just what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Courfeyrac asks. He’s angry but still genuinely confused. What was he not getting?

“Nothing, he means nothing!” Jehan squeals a little shrilly.

“Aw fuck man, you still haven’t told him?” Bahorel asks Jehan a little too loudly (because they’re all convinced Bahorel’s inside voice can be heard two streets away). This gets him another smack upside the head from his roommate who had been observing the argument with a sort of courteous detachment which, on anyone else, would look really fucking creepy. Like Hannibal Lector creepy. Especially when he’s surrounded by his usual cloud of smoke and just watches you. But it’s Feuilly. You get used to it.

“Haven’t told me what?!” Courf shouts exasperatedly, because what the actual fuck?

“You see?” Enjolras starts before Jehan can reply. “Maybe you should sort out your own love life and, I don’t know, stop sleeping with anything with legs before putting your nose in anyone’s business!”

For a minute everything just stops.

Everyone is silently glaring at Enjolras who has already made his way over to the door, except Jehan who is openly crying and Feuilly who is apparently trying to physically restrain Bahorel from lunging at Enjy’s throat. If he doesn’t it’s more out of respect for his roommate than the actual hand on his shoulder because, seriously, the guy’s the size of a house. He could throw Feuilly over his shoulder like he was a fair maiden and still be able to kill Enjolras with his other hand. Or maybe a dragon. Or kill Enjolras while riding a dragon. You get the picture.

“Fuck this.” Enjolras says under his breath viciously before ripping the door open and slamming it closed behind him. Nobody moves to stop him.

“What just happened?” Courfeyrac says mostly to himself.

“Uh Courf?” Feuilly speaks up, “Any chance of you putting some pants on?” he gestures at the floral silk robe and boxers he is still wearing.

“None whatsoever.” He didn’t realise he was standing up until he dropped onto the sofa with a dull thud that describes his mood perfectly.

“Thought not.” Feuilly sighs and leans back resignedly, fiddling with his lighter and looking decidedly uncomfortable.

“Jehan, what was Enjolras talking about back there?” Courfeyrac asks the man on the floor who is trying his best to stop crying. At that moment he looks up at Courfeyrac in horror and jumps to his feet.

“Oh, what, no, I don’t know, he was angry, making things up, trying to change the subject, silly Enjolras.” By that point he’s reached his bedroom door and he throws it open and closes it quickly behind him with a little squeak.

Courfeyrac just sits stunned for a second. Then, rounding on his two friends still in the armchair, “Are you two gonna tell me what the fuck is happening?”

Feuilly just gives a small shake of his head and looks at the ground, after giving Bahorel a glare when he looks like he’s dying to say something.

“Fuck this.” Courf parrots Enjolras, striding angrily into his own bedroom and slamming the door shut.

“I think they need an intervention.” Bahorel states before slumping back into the armchair.

Feuilly nods in agreement, “But maybe we should wait for Combeferre to come back from visiting his parents. Somehow he manages not to fuck things up.” He puts his head in his hands, then, with a sigh, “God why are our friends such drama queens…No pun intended.”

Bahorel sits up with a grin, “Well at least that gives us the day free. Strip club?”

“God yes. If I don’t see boobs in the next half-hour I might lose it.”

“What, your heterosexuality? Cause I’m pretty sure you lost it at that drag show with - what was the lovely lady’s name? Steve?”

“Fuck off! He was very convincing! And nothing happened!”

“Yeah, cause the guy’s boyfriend came over and punched you.” Bahorel says with a smile that’s so wide it must hurt. Feuilly smacks him in the head for the third time that day. 

They both stand up and walk out the door, Feuilly lighting another cigarette and Bahorel wrapping the hideous scarf around both their necks again.

Because it’s cold. And they can.

Chapter Text

Grantaire spends the next three days in Eponine’s apartment, sleeping (or, rather, passing out) on her couch and drinking whatever alcohol comes to hand. He doesn’t talk about That Night in Enjolras’ apartment (and, yes, it has earned its italics) or the confrontation in Courfeyrac’s the next morning. And Eponine doesn’t make him.

So before he knows it, it’s Christmas Eve and he’s being startled awake by a text from Feuilly.

Bahorel’s in hospital, get the fuck down here and for the love of God someone get me a cigarette.

Grantaire’s on his feet and throwing on his shoes in a matter of seconds. Eponine emerges from her bedroom sleepily. “You get the text?” she says through a yawn.

Grantaire nods.

“Did he tell you what happened?”

He shakes his head, “No, but I’m heading over there. You coming with?”

“Yeah, gimme a minute.” She goes back into her room and comes out a few minutes later looking half-presentable and holding her car keys. “Okay, let’s go.”

Grantaire looks at her worriedly, “You were drinking earlier, are you okay to drive?”

“Grantaire, that was yesterday.”

“Oh.” He blinks at her. “Well, let’s go then.”

They get into the car and make the slow crawl to the hospital through inner-city traffic on Christmas Eve. They stop off to buy a pack of cigarettes and Grantaire texts Feuilly to let him know that they’re on their way. He doesn’t get a reply.

When they finally, finally get to the hospital and find somewhere to park, they find Feuilly pacing outside the doors of the emergency department. Figuring they’re the first ones to arrive, Eponine runs up to give Feuilly a quick hug which he returns with slightly shaking hands, and when she hands him the pack of Marlboro his legs very nearly give way.

Ripping the box open, he shoves a cigarette into his mouth and physically sags when he lights up, all energy leaving him at that moment.

“Feuilly, what happened?” Grantaire asks, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.

Feuilly shakes his head, “That crazy bastard. Stupid fucker.” He sighs, leaning against the wall, “I was just sitting watching TV, you know, when suddenly Bahorel appears at our window wearing a goddamned Santa suit. He even had sack and everything! Fucker filled it with onesies and cigarettes!”

For a minute Grantaire and Eponine look quizzically at Feuilly, wondering if he’s actually lost it.

“Anyway, he tried to make a show of climbing in the window doing the whole ‘ho ho ho’ thing but then he slipped on some ice out on the fire escape and--” He stops suddenly, apparently focusing on breathing. Grantaire puts a hand on his shoulder and he continues. “I thought he was...” His voice is barely above a whisper. “He was just lying there, not moving, dressed as fucking Santa Claus. I mean… Fuck.”

“Will he be okay? I mean is he…” Grantaire asks quietly, head spinning. Because trust Bahorel to die in a fucking Santa suit and leave them all on Christmas Eve the crazy fucking attention-hogging--

“The doctors said he’ll make a full recovery.” Feuilly interrupts Grantaire’s thoughts and both he and Eponine sigh with relief. “He’s pretty banged up though.  He broke his leg, bruised his tailbone and he’s probably concussed seven ways to hell but he’ll live. They said it was the fucking sack that saved him. Broke his fall. Well, that, and we only live on the first floor, but still…” Then he covers his eyes and breaks into almost hysterical laughter.

“Feuilly!” Suddenly Feuilly has an armful of pyjama-clad poet as Jehan holds onto him like a colourful, frazzled koala. “Ohmygod what happened, is Bahorel okay, are you okay-- Grantaire, you’re alive!” He then launches himself at Grantaire who laughs despite himself.

“Just about. Jehan, where’s Courfeyrac? And where are your clothes?”

Jehan’s mood seems to darken at the mention of his roommate but he powers on, “He’s parking the car, and I came as soon as I got the text and, well” He points towards his reindeer pyjamas and shrugs. “So what happened?”

Feuilly begins to tell Jehan what happened and light his second cigarette when they are interrupted by shouts of “Move, I’m a doctor!” and “Could you please cover your mouth when you cough, for the love of God!” from the nearby parking lot. Though they don’t see who the voice belongs to through the throng of people outside the hospital, they can certainly hazard a guess as the voices come closer.

“You’re not a doctor, sweetheart. You shouldn’t really be shouting that outside a hospital.”

“I’m like a doctor.”

“You’re a nursing student.”

“Well, yes, but that’s hardly the-- Oh, look there they are!”

Suddenly Joly and Bossuet come into view. Well, they hope it’s Joly, as he’s wrapped up in a cocoon of scarves and coats and it’s very hard to tell at this point.

“We came as fast as we could without this idiot breaking the speed limit and getting us killed,” Joly starts, sounding muffled from behind his scarves, “What happened? And, you know Feuilly, you shouldn’t really be smoking outside a hospital, or at all for that matter, do you know just how many diseases-- Oh my god, Grantaire, why are you not wearing a coat?! The number of people that died of pneumonia this year alone--”

Bossuet stops him with a hand on the shoulder. “So. Bahorel?” He asks when Joly has calmed down enough to only mutter to himself about “Might as well stay in the hospital, you’re all going to get frostbite.”

“Feuilly found out he was on the naughty list and threw Santa out a window.” Grantaire says with a grin, still a bit giddy with relief, but he is met with a glare from Feuilly and Eponine and confused looks from Jehan, Joly and Bossuet. “Sorry, too soon?”

“Maybe a bit--” Eponine starts sarcastically

“Suck my dick, Grantaire.” Feuilly says weakly

“Why, Feuilly, I didn’t know you swung that way!” They hear from Courfeyrac who has just appeared from the car park. “But Grantaire, though? What happened to that lovely lady from the other week - what was his name, again?” Courf jests, but he walks over to Feuilly and pulls him into a tight hug that somehow manages to be completely sombre. Feuilly sinks into him gratefully, before pulling away and looking behind Courfeyrac with something akin to fear in his eyes.

“Uh, hi Enjolras.”

Grantaire turns around so fast he’s fairly certain he’ll have whiplash, but he can’t really bring himself to give a fuck because oh.

Enjolras had made his way to the front of the hospital and he was wearing his black trench coat and an expression that said “He better be dead or I’ll kill him.” The way the moonlit snow was in contrast with the golden haze from the streetlamps in his hair made everything glow, gold against silver, burning heat that the cold can’t touch. It was terrifying. Dazzling.

Beautiful.

Grantaire hates him.

He gets the feeling that some of his friends may also share the sentiment as Jehan stiffens and actually tries to hide behind Eponine while Courfeyrac just glares openly at both of both of them. Eponine, Joly and Bossuet have expressions that are on differing scales of “what the fuck?” and Grantaire’s just about managing to not stare at the golden God in front of him.  Feuilly looks exhausted.

Before anyone can start an argument Feuilly launches into the story of what happened to Bahorel. By the time he’s finished, he’s smoked half his cigarettes and everyone is relatively calm, relieved at hearing that Bahorel will be okay.

“Can we see him?” Jehan asks eventually when the silence among them is growing dangerously awkward.  

“Uh, I’ll have to check. I’m not sure if he’s come around yet and I think it would be against hospital policy to let us all in--”

“You leave that to me.” Courfeyrac says with his most charming smile as he walks past Feuilly into the hospital, probably in search of some nurse or doctor he can sweet-talk into letting them visit.

After a few minutes he pokes his head out the doors and gestures with his hand for them to come in. When they’re all inside Courfeyrac is standing with a young woman in a nurse’s uniform.

“Everyone, this lovely lady is Bahorel’s nurse and she has kindly agreed to let us stay.” Then, sweeping down to pick up her hand and putting her fingers to his lips, “She’s like a Christmas angel.” Jehan looks like he’s going to be sick. Grantaire puts a hand on his shoulder and gives him a sympathetic smile that says “I know”. Because he does. He really does.

The nurse blushes furiously and swats Courfeyrac away, and if they were in a 50’s sitcom she might wag her finger and say “Oh, you!”. Instead she just smiles and shows them to Bahorel’s room.

The guy looks like shit. His leg is being held up in a sling like Grantaire had only ever seen that in cartoons. He’s still wearing the pants and undershirt from the Santa suit and the rest is hanging on the plastic chair beside the bed. Feuilly unceremoniously throws it onto the floor and drops onto the chair, looking more tired than Bahorel, who is lying on the bed grinning like the fucking idiot he is.

“Ho ho ho, bitches!” he says with a smile on his face that looks almost smug.

Feuilly suddenly stands up from the chair and puts a hand on his best friend’s arm, “Is your head okay?”

“I’m a bit dizzy and shit but there’s no real damage or bleeding or anything plus I’ve got this groovy pain medication and--” Bahorel is interrupted by Feuilly’s fist connecting with his jaw.

Everyone is stunned silent except for Bossuet who has Feuilly’s hands pinned behind his back and Grantaire who is doubled over with laughter.

“You asshole!”  Feuilly practically roars across the room. “You stupid bastard, you could’ve been fucking killed you crazy son of a fucking… Fuck!”

Feuilly wrenches Bossuet off him and throws himself into the plastic chair again before holding his head in his hands and going still aside from the small shaking of his shoulders. Courfeyrac moves to stand beside Feuilly and rub soothing circles into his back.

“What were you thinking Bahorel?” Enjolras demands hotly. “Do you have any idea how reckless and idiotic--?”

Grantaire, who has recovered from his slightly hysterical laughing fit, interrupts him, “Jesus Christ, calm down, Enjy, he was just trying to have a little fun. Accidents do happen and we can’t all be as perfect as our Apollo--”

“I have told you repeatedly not to call me that. And I hardly see nearly getting yourself killed as having fun.” Enjolras closes most of the distance between them till he’s only a few breaths away from Grantaire’s flushed face. But Grantaire wants to be closer, so much closer, that it’s a physical ache. But he knows he can’t and he never will. It’s something he came to terms with many years ago, putting his lips around a bottle instead of on Enjolras’ own like he desperately wants to. So instead he decides to fill the gap between them with words.

Grantaire snorts, “Please, you wouldn’t know what fun is if it came and sucked your dick--”

“Guys!” Bahorel shouts a little hoarsely from the bed, “I do not need to sit here and listen to your bitching, cause I’m guessing I’ll get enough of it when I go home with this idiot,” he nods towards his still-huddled roommate, “though he really can’t throw a punch to save his life.” When Feuilly actually growls from his place in the chair, Bahorel’s grin only grows wider.

Grantaire and Enjolras mumble apologies and actually look a little embarrassed by their outburst, because seriously, their friend has been in a serious accident and there they are screaming at each other.

“Nah, you’re right, I was being an idiot. Sorry for worrying you guys.” The smile still plastered on Bahorel’s face shows that he isn’t sorry in the slightest.

“We’re just glad you’re alright.” Eponine says from a corner in the room where she’d been watching the scene with a small smile. Everyone else nods in agreement and Jehan throws himself  at Bahorel as well as he can without jostling his leg and bursts into tears.

After a while, everyone goes to find themselves a chair to bring into the room, with occasional coffee runs to keep them all awake. Eventually Feuilly has calmed down enough to make conversation but he looks pissed and keeps throwing Bahorel looks that are half relief and half “we are so going to talk when we get home”.

When they sit and make small talk for a while, Grantaire notices that Courfeyrac and Jehan are sitting at opposite sides of the room and haven’t spoken to each other all night. He also notices the occasional glares that Courf throws to Enjolras, who returns them openly. What the fuck did I miss?

After a nurse comes in to give Bahorel some more pain medication and throw a few dirty looks at the roomful of students who really shouldn’t be there, he sits up in bed suddenly and shouts “What time is it?!”

Joly, who had been asleep against Bossuet’s shoulder wakes with a start and Eponine informs him that it’s just gone 1AM.

“Hey…” he says with a small smile on his face, “Merry Christmas, guys.” Everyone looks at each other, then soon hugs and cries of “Merry Christmas” are shared. For a while all tension is gone and even Enjolras isn’t being a dick for once and returns everyone’s sentiment good-naturedly. Grantaire takes in the whole scene with something like wonder in his eyes. Yeah, he thinks, we’ll be alright. Then Enjolras turns and gives him a small smile that’s meant just for him and his heart feels like it’s going to stop and soon enough he’ll need a hospital bed of his own.

Or not.

Chapter Text

“I am not watching a movie with creepy-ass demon children in it. Nuh-uh. No fucking way. Thank you and goodnight.” Feuilly tries to run away from the ticket booth of the movie theatre, hands already shaking because he hasn’t had a cigarette in ten whole minutes, but is stopped when Bahorel grabs his collar and drags him back to the group.

“Relax, Ginger Nut, it can’t be that scary - Jaime Lannister’s in it!” Bahorel states as if that solves everything.

“Yeah, so are two creepy-as-fuck demon children. No. I refuse. I know my rights.”

“You’re ginger,” Bahorel deadpans, “no soul means no rights.”

Feuilly smacks Bahorel upside the head for what is probably the fifth time that day. “Asshole.”

Bahorel only grins, “You love it.”

“God, will you two just go get married or something?” Courfeyrac groans as he shoves past them to join the rest of their friends in the ticket line.

After a few minutes everyone is sitting in the theatre munching on popcorn and drinking the ridiculously over-priced cinema soda - except for Eponine and Grantaire who are passing Grantaire’s flask of whiskey between themselves - and waiting for the movie to start. Some people, Grantaire notices with a smirk, are waiting more patiently than others.

Because no one bothered to sort out the sitting arrangements beforehand, Grantaire ended up with Eponine on his left side, at the edge of the aisle, and Enjolras at his right. He chats idly with Eponine for a while and when the lights finally go down Feuilly lets out an indignant squeak somewhere near the opposite end of the row and Enjolras looks like he wants to bolt.

Grantaire shakes his head and blinks a couple of times, sure that it must be the low lighting but, no, Enjolras actually looks like he is about to cry and his face is not-so-subtly buried in his bucket of popcorn and Grantaire may be having a conniption because all-go, no-quit, big nuts, fearless leader with the passion of a thousand fiery suns Enjolras is afraid of horror movies.

Grinning wickedly and taking another swig from his flask, Grantaire thinks, this should be interesting.

The film itself is decidedly boring.  The bits that pop aren’t all that bad and even Feuilly has removed his head from its place behind Bahorel’s shoulder, happy with the fact that “okay, the kids are human and that mama thing just looks like a drag queen with a hangover” .

That’s why it comes as a complete shock when something that is probably very interesting happens on screen causes everyone to jump, but Grantaire isn’t looking at the screen; he looks instead at Enjolras’ hand which has a death grip on his own.  

Everyone laughs away the last of their shock and easily turn their attention back to the movie. However, Enjolras looks like he is on the verge of a breakdown and Grantaire squeezes Enjolras’ fingers with his own, deciding that he can explode about the fact that they’re holding hands, they’re holding hands, they’re holding hands oh my god, later when he’s safe in his own apartment and Enjolras doesn’t look like he’s about to faint.

“You okay?” Grantaire whispers in his ear, hoping no one else will be able to hear him over the sound of the Mama creature making a guttural noise that makes Joly wonder aloud if ghosts can get phlegm .

Enjolras nods and smiles shakily, eyes boring into his popcorn bucket like the Bill of Human Rights is in it. “I just…really fucking hate horror movies.”

Grantaire nods and turns his eyes back to the screen when he’s sure Enjolras is okay.

They’re still holding hands when the credits roll.

Chapter Text

Courfeyrac is a decidedly happy person.

When his stupid friends don’t realise they are stupidly in love with each other - or at least one of them doesn’t - and they have an earth-shaking argument, Courfeyrac is the pacifying smile and quick wit that calms the storm. When one of his friends has a panic attack - because sometimes being a hypochondriac and a medical student is just too much - and he doesn’t want to burden his boyfriend, Courfeyrac is the soothing voice and the easy smile that makes him at ease. When one of his friends begins to snap at those closest to him because he can’t always afford his cigarettes between his two barely-minimum-wage jobs, Courfeyrac is the clap on the shoulder and sympathetic smile as he goes to the nearest shop and buys him a packet, meeting all protestations with “No it’s not charity, I’m just making sure you don’t punch someone in the face.” Courfeyrac loves his friends, loves his life and he is happy.

Except when he isn’t.

One crisp January morning, Courfeyrac wakes up, Courfeyrac makes his morning coffee, and Courfeyrac is sad.

This is strange because Courfeyrac is not just a happy person; he is the happy person. When everything falls to shit around him, he is the one to smile through it all and everyone else, upon seeing his happy face, smiles too. He knows he can never be strong like Bahorel, and defend his friends by punching someone in the face, and he can never be like Combeferre who seems to know exactly what to say and when to say it; Courfeyrac helps his friends by being happy and making them happy by doing so. After years of being the jovial centre of the group, Courfeyrac’s happiness is no longer his own.

I’m not allowed to be sad.

After he makes his coffee, Courf goes to sit in the living room and flicks through the TV guide. After finally deciding to watch re-runs of Dexter, Courfeyrac tries to shake the feeling off. Because in those rare, rare times when Courfeyrac is feeling miserable it is always accompanied with a strong sense of anger and, most of all, guilt.

Because what has he to be sad about? He had a great upbringing, always surrounded by a large group of friends and a family who loved him unconditionally, even when he tearfully came out as bisexual all those years ago. He gets by in school, with a B average and help always available for when he is stuck. He has a probably-more-than-active social (read: sex) life and everything is generally great.

What do I have to be sad about?

Try as he might, he can’t shake the feeling off. It feels as though there’s a pit in his stomach and he attacks the lump in his throat with a violent gulp of coffee because Courfeyrac is not allowed to be sad.

Even when smiling hurts.

It’s like this Jehan finds him, probably hours later. After the failed intervention things had been a little awkward in their shared flat and even though there was less tension between them since Bahorel’s accident, Jehan usually comes home, chokes out a small hello to his roommate and scurries off into his bedroom to shun himself for being craven and write poetry about laughing hazel eyes and wonderful brown cork-screw curls.

He comes home planning on doing just that, but when he opens the door to find Courfeyrac huddled into the corner of the sofa, staring into a mug of coffee with wet eyes, Jehan immediately closes the door and all but runs to his best friend.

“Courf, what’s wrong?” He asks, putting an arm around his shoulders and praying that Courfeyrac can’t sense all of Jehan’s hidden feelings for him in that one small form of contact.

“What - uh - nothing. I’m fine” He says with a hard sniff and a quick wipe of his eyes.

“Bullshit.” Jehan states plainly, his voice of few octaves below his usual light, lyrical tone.

The look that Courfeyrac gives him, on any other day, would be comical. His shock is understandable however, as Jehan is a master of words, with the ability to conjure up at least twelve different colourful adjectives for a piece of toast, and is therefore less prone to using profanity than even Enjolras.

He recovers quickly, and turns his lips up into a half smile that doesn’t reach his still-damp eyes and looks almost painful. “Nothing’s wrong, really, it’s just today I’ve been feeling a bit…down.” Courfeyrac whispers the last word like it’s an ugly confession, a horrible secret and Jehan pulls his friend - he still cringes at the word - into a hug.

“It’s okay, Courf.” Jehan says softly, returning to his natural, soothing voice, until Courfeyrac all but throws himself out of Jehan’s arms with a harsh bark that is probably meant to be a laugh.

“No, it’s not okay, Jehan!” He shouts, tears threatening to overflow, but Courfeyrac, clueless, stubborn Courfeyrac, won’t let them. “I don’t just get to be…sad.” His anger tampered down till his last word was no more than a desperate whisper. Jehan is afraid of his heart literally breaking into little pieces all over their Buzz Lightyear rug (“Because why the fuck not” Courf had said when he bought it) and wants nothing more than to go into Koala Mode and hug Courfeyrac till he smiles again. But he doesn’t. Because sometimes everyone needs to a chance to be sad.

He just needs to get Courfeyrac to see that.

“Courfeyrac, yes you do. You do,” he says again when it looks like Courfeyrac wants to interrupt. “I know you think you need to be happy for everyone but you can’t ignore your own emotions. You’re allowed to feel, Courf.”

Courfeyrac gives Jehan an almost disbelieving look, as if it had never occurred to him before, but then he looks down at his shaky hands and gives a watery laugh, “I’m supposed to be stronger than this.”

“You are the strongest person I know, Courfeyrac.” Jehan states like it’s a fact, like one might say “the sky is blue” or “the grass is green” or “Game of Thrones is fucking awesome”.

“You are strong,” Jehan says again, and Courfeyrac is looking at him with something akin to wonder in his eyes, “but sometimes someone else needs to take the reins. Just for a little while.”

With that, Courfeyrac blinks and curls up against Jehan, his body shaking with silent sobs. Jehan, just as silently, wraps his arms around Courf and cards his fingers through those beautiful brown curls, knowing that everything will be fine. Because Courfeyrac is a decidedly happy person.

But everyone is allowed to be sad.

Chapter Text

“Feuilly?”

On a good day, Bahorel is tedious.

“Feuilly!”

When he’s sick, Bahorel is annoying.

“Feuilly!”

With a broken leg, Bahorel is insufferable.

“Yes, Satan?” Feuilly calls from his bedroom in his sweetest, most sympathetic, this-better-be-urgent-or-so-help-me-I’ll-break-the-other-leg voice.

“Get out here, it’s important!”

With a world-weary sigh and a promise to re-evaluate his life choices later, Feuilly crawls out of bed like a creature from the deep and walks into the living room. He finds Bahorel sprawled on the sofa, with one leg propped up on the coffee table and what appears to be every DVD they own littered around him.

“What’s wrong?” Feuilly asks again, half-expecting to hear that their two hamsters, Jake and Elwood, have escaped from their cage again (“We’ll never catch them, they’re on a mission from God!” Bahorel had cried when they went missing, only to find them in a box of Lucky Charms an hour later).

“Took you long enough! What movie should I watch?”

For a minute all Feuilly can do is blink at his roommate, because surely he did not interrupt Feuilly’s precious few hours of sleep between shifts to ask him what movie to watch when he always ends up watching GoodFellas anyway for fuck’s sake.

Feuilly says as much and Bahorel smiles innocently “Well that’s not all I called you in here for.” When Feuilly just raises an eyebrow at him he continues, “I need you to give me the remote.”

Feuilly looks wantonly at their window. Maybe I could push him out and make it look like an accident. Instead he just sighs. “I gave it to you before I went to bed, what happened?”

“I threw it at the TV.” Bahorel states flatly like it’s the most normal occurrence in the world.

“And why, pray tell, did you do that?”

“A Justin Bieber video came on.”

Feuilly just blinks. “And?”

“Justin Bieber’s face was on our television.” And, okay, that’s understandable.

Feuilly sighs again -  and God when is he not - but he’s already crossing the room to grab the remote from where it fell on the floor. “Here’s a crazy fucking idea. Why couldn’t you just, you know, change the channel?”

“Reflexes, man! It was like a surprise attack of pre-pubescent cheesy pop! Or the Spanish inquisition!” He finishes with a laugh. 

“Oh, yes, because no one expects the Spanish Inquisition.” Feuilly replies, taking the bait and smirking despite himself. He then proceeds to throw the remote at Bahorel, which hits him in the head completely by accident, no really.

“Ow!” Bahorel whines.

“Oops.” Feuilly says, putting his hands in his pockets and looking at his shoes like a schoolboy that’s trying to act innocent.

“Asshole.” Bahorel mutters, though both of them are smiling.

Feuilly glances at their collection of DVD’s that lay strewn across the sofa before picking up Fight Club and putting it into the XBOX/DVD player/Holy Grail for his invalid roommate.

“I never said I wanted to watch Fight Club.” Bahorel protests weakly.

“You always want to watch Fight Club. Now shut up and let me go back to bed or next time it’s Twilight.”

Bahorel looks at Feuilly with eyes full of horror and stays silent. Feuilly returns to his bedroom with a satisfied nod, looking forward to an uninterrupted few hours of sleep before work.

Then he remembers who his roommate is and, with a sigh, decides to enjoy the silence while it lasts.

“Feuilly.”

Feuilly was having a nightmare.

“Feuilly?”

A horrible nightmare about a man.

“Feuilly!”

A man who didn’t know how to shut the fuck up and let him sleep.

“Feuilly!”

Oh, wait, no, that’s just life.

“Yes?” He hisses dangerously when he stumbles into the living room.

“The movie’s over. And I’m hungry.” Bahorel whines like a moody child.

“Good for you.” Feuilly deadpans, already turning to go back to bed.

“Come on, just a sandwich! I won’t even insult you for being ginger! Pwetty pwease, Feuilly?” And the sight of the big, bad, muscled, tattooed monster of a man that is Feuilly’s best friend trying to give him puppy dog eyes is just fucking hilarious.

Feuilly sighs for what must be the 24601th time that day and goes into their small kitchenette, returning a few minutes later with a box of chocolate cereal and a carton of milk.

“Don’t I at least get a bowl?” Bahorel asks from the sofa.

“Nope.” Feuilly pours the contents of the milk carton into the cereal box, swirls it around a bit and hands the box over to Bahorel.

“What about a--” Before he can finish, Feuilly throws him a spoon, which again hits him on the head completely by accident.

“Thanks.” He mumbles, too busy attacking his improvised snack to whine about the “domestic violence” that according to Bahorel keeps happening in their apartment.

He puts the nearest DVD that comes to hand, which just happens to be How to Eat Fried Worms (because one can never outgrow one’s love for kids movies about people eating worms), into the XBOX and goes back to his room before His Highness can ask for his pillows to be fluffed or a hooker sent round or a fucking foot massage, each more likely than the last.

“Feuilly?”

How long do people go to prison for murder nowadays?

“Feuilly!”

Surely the judge would sympathise with him.

“Feuilly.”

Maybe he’d get ten, fifteen years?

“Feuilly?”

It’d be worth it.

“What?!” He growls, not even getting up from his bed this time.

“Can I have a cigarette?” Bahorel calls from the living room.

Feuilly rolls out of bed, grabs his cigarettes, opens his bedroom door to wave the box at Bahorel, only to close the door again and fall back into bed, pack of Marlboro clutched tightly in his hand.

Because you can take Feuilly’s faith.

You can take Feuilly’s freedom.

But you can never take his cigarettes.

“Feuilly?”

“FUCK OFF BAHOREL!”

He falls back asleep.

Feuilly sleeps through his alarm and shoots up from his bed like a bat out of hell and quickly throws on whatever clean clothes come to hand because he cannot be late to work, he cannot be late to work goddammit.

When he deems himself presentable Feuilly walks through the living room to find Bahorel asleep on the couch. For a second he just stands and watches him, taking note of how peaceful his usually angry or excited or both-at-the-same-time friend can look. He goes into Bahorel’s bedroom and brings his blanket out to drape over his roommate, careful not to move his leg.

Feuilly grabs his keys and opens the front door, but before he closes it behind him he hears a shout.

“Feuilly?”

He peers through the front door to find a not-so-asleep Bahorel looking at him.

“What is it, I’m already late for work.”

“Thank you.” He says softly, and Feuilly knows that he doesn’t just mean for today. “And I’m sorry.” Again, Feuilly knows he isn’t just talking about being an insufferable asshole.

“It’s fine.” Feuilly turns to leave, but reaches into his pocket and fishes out his cigarettes before throwing one at Bahorel and closing the door behind him with a small smile.

“Feuilly!”  

He runs out of the building as fast as he can.

Chapter Text

“Who the fuck let Courfeyrac choose where we go out?

“Who the fuck knew karaoke bars still existed?”

“I did!” Courfeyrac calls out in his best sing-song voice from the front of their merry band of miscreants (“Courf, we are not being called that” “Okay. Except we totally are.”). The nine men and Eponine are walking through one of the rougher parts of town to get to a place called ‘Katie’s Karaoke Klub’ (“Courf, seriously, the initials are KKK for fuck sake!”) which according to Courfeyrac is much better than sitting in their usual bar with their usual drinks without getting molested by cougars who’ll let you ‘do anything if you buy them a gin and tonic’ (“What? The older ones need some lovin’ too!” “Courf that’s just-- No, I can’t look even at you right now.”)

“This is all your fault.” Grantaire mutters to Combeferre, who had been hanging at the back of the group taking in everything with a small amused smile. “If you had’ve stayed in your parent’s house a couple more days we wouldn’t be in this situation!”

And it was true. They hadn’t seen Combeferre since before Christmas holidays and apparently nothing says “Welcome Home!” like listening to forty-year-old divorcees singing their sorrows away to Abba’s greatest hits.

“The wine cask does have a point, ‘Ferre.” Grantaire doesn’t have to turn around to know it was Enjolras who had spoken, but he does anyway and, dear god, no one should be allowed to be that beautiful.

“You see?!” Joly squeals from somewhere near the front of their group. “Enjolras and Grantaire are agreed on something! Us going to this karaoke place has brought on the apocalypse! Plus do you know how many germs must be on those microphones with so many people’s hands on them and the spit flying everywhere--” Bossuet calms his boyfriend by rubbing soothing circles into his back and whispering something into his ear.

“Well I think it’s a wonderful idea, Courf.” Jehan declares, putting a hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder.

“Well of course you do!” Bahorel shouts with a wink from beside Grantaire, only to have Feuilly shove his elbow into his ribs and receive a truly terrifying death glare from Jehan.

“I’m sure it’ll be alright. It actually sounds kinda fun.”

“Thank you, Feuilly! See, even the ginger can see sense!”

“Courf? I was joking. This will be terrible. Like truly awful. I don’t think there’ll be any coming back from this. I may actually die of boredom if the shame doesn’t get me first.”

“Ah! Well we’re past the point of no return now, my little soulless friend - we’re here!”

It turns out that “here” is a ramshackle old bar tucked into an alleyway, with broken neon signs in the windows advertising karaoke and beer and, hey, at least they got one thing right. 

“Yeah, well you guys have fun with,” Feuilly waves his hand towards the bar while fishing out his cigarettes with the other one, “all of that. But if you excuse me I’ll be out here all night destroying my lungs till we get to go home.”

This is met with many grumbles from the group and even a ‘Boo, you whore!’ from Courfeyrac who is looking as excited as a child on Christmas morning.

“Come on, Feuilly!” Grantaire tries make his friend come round because if he has to sit through this shit then, dammit, so does everyone else. “ We haven’t seen Combeferre in ages! Come in for one drink at least.” Grantaire tries to give him a look that adds or I’ll kill you in your sleep but in his current inebriated state he probably just looks constipated so he gives up.

With a deep sigh and a dramatic eye-roll Feuilly finally caves. “Fine. One drink! Then I’m taking up residence in the smoking area till we leave because - mark my words - I do not sing.”

“Agreed!” Bahorel calls from behind his best friend. “Me and you’ll be the only ones with any dignity left before the night is out, I know it.”

And with that, they enter the bar.

“I will survive. I will survive!”

“For the love of all that is good, tell me someone is filming this.” Grantaire gasps between fits of laughter.

“Way ahead of you.” Eponine says with a smirk from behind her camera phone.

“Oooh as long as I know how to love, I know I’ll stay alive!”

“Who knew Bahorel could do such a good falsetto?” Bossuet says with something like awe in his voice.

“I’ve got all my life to live, I’ve got all my love to give!”

“Where did Feuilly get those dance moves?” Joly mutters with a shake of his head, looking slightly concerned for the redhead with the flailing limbs up on the small makeshift stage.

“I’ll survive…I WILL SURVIVE. HEY HEY!”

“They do harmonise well.” Jehan says with nothing but fondness in his eyes.

“They…They…” Anything Courfeyrac might have said is drowned out by his own laughter and there are even tears in his eyes. Combeferre has his usual small smile on his face but looks a bit disappointed and even Enjolras has noticed.

“What’s wrong with you?” Enjolras asks because even he had been laughing along with everyone else at their friends’ display - okay, maybe Joly was right about that apocalypse - and they don’t see why ‘Ferre isn’t the same.

“It’s just kinda sad… I may never see anything this hilarious ever again…I think this is a major milestone in my life.” And with that Grantaire, Enjolras and Combeferre blink at each other before  joining Courfeyrac in his bout of near-hysterical laughter and fuck, if Enjolras isn’t the most gorgeous thing on this earth when he laughs.

Bossuet slaps Grantaire on the arm, interrupting his latest instalment of Reasons I’m in love with Enjolras And Why He Ruins My Life And God I Need A Drink. “Shhh, they’re reaching the crescendo.” Everyone turns their full attention to the stage where Bahorel is on his knees doing a dramatic air grab and Feuilly is doing a sort of interpretative dance behind him that is in no way in-time with the music.

“I WILL SURVIIIIIIIIIVE!” Feuilly then falls on top of Bahorel and they lie in a tangle of limbs on the stage so they don’t see their standing ovation from the alarming number of cougars sitting closest to them.

“So how much do you think Bahorel will kill us for this?” Eponine asks, saving the video to her phone.

“Oh, I don’t know about Bahorel.” Jehan mutters, his attention half on the stage and half on his roommate, who keeps looking at one of the tables behind him. “I mean, yes he’d beat us to a pulp but I think Feuilly may be the real criminal mastermind here. He would lie in wait until we felt safest and then exact the cruellest revenge.”

Combeferre nods. “I have to agree. Remember that time he found out Grantaire had been stealing his cigarettes for weeks?” Everyone at the table winces and Grantaire actually shudders.

“Uh, do you think they’re okay?” Bossuet asks, looking up at Bahorel and Feuilly who are clearly struggling to untangle themselves from each other.

“Oh they’ll be fine. Stiffler’s Mom over there is just dying for an excuse to touch them.” Courfeyrac says with a grin and, sure enough, a buxom blonde wearing a leopard-print dress is crawling over to the stage to help up their fallen friends. “I’m gonna talk to him.” Courf says suddenly, going to stand up from his seat.

“Talk to who?” Joly asks a little shrilly, his face practically screaming “STRANGER DANGER”

“Him.” Courfeyrac says, gesturing towards a guy sitting a few tables away from their own, looking like the socially awkward penguin personified. “He’s been here for longer than we have and he’s by himself. He just looks so sad.” He finishes with a pout.

“Fine but I’m coming with you,” Grantaire mumbles, rising from his own seat without, somehow, spilling his drink all over himself, “Don’t want you to start flirting and scare the poor kid off.”

“Hmm? Oh, no flirting tonight, methinks.” Courfeyrac mutters half to himself.

Okay, Joly was definitely right about that apocalypse. “Why not? I thought it was like your life-long mission to hit on everyone that has a heartbeat in a thirty mile radius.”

“Uh, nothing, just wanna have a slow night.” Courfeyrac says decisively, and Grantaire can’t help but notice his eyes flitting over to where Jehan is back sitting at their table. Huh. Maybe he isn’t as blind as Enjolras after all.

Grantaire can’t stop his own eyes from moving over to the man in question and is surprised to find that Enjolras had been watching him. Their eyes meet for the briefest of seconds before Enjolras quickly looks away, cheeks reddening. Grantaire finds himself becoming flushed behind his permanent sarcastic smirk too but then decides to check himself because, seriously, when did he and Enjolras turn into blushing maidens? Then again, Enjy certainly is pretty enough…

“Hi!” Courfeyrac says cheerfully when they reach the guy sitting by himself. The kid jumps and nearly knocks his glass over. “Sorry! I couldn’t help but notice that you were sitting over here like a lonely soul and was just wondering if everything was okay…?”

“Oh yes … no? I mean, I was supposed to meet a girl here about,” he checks his watch “four hours ago. But uh, here I am, and she’s, well, not.”

“That’s shit.” Courfeyrac manages to say completely sombrely. “Have you met her before?”

The guy hesitates before speaking again. “Well, no, but we’ve been chatting online for ages and I thought we might really have something…” He dwindles off at the sight of Grantaire trying not to have a conniption or burst a blood vessel containing his laughter but, seriously, who knew such gullible people actually existed in this day and age? Don’t they own a television? Or, you know, common sense?

“Well,” Courf cuts in with what is probably supposed to be a sympathetic smile, “I’m sure she just had a prior engagement. Or an emergency. Or something. I’m sure she’d be here if she could.”

“Yeah, I’m sure MissTasty69 is just dying to come.” Grantaire mumbles only to be smacked in the arm by Courfeyrac.

“Anyway,” he continues, “Haven’t you got friends that can come round so you’re not sitting here like the saddest of sacks? Uh, no offence.” He offers quickly.

“None taken.” The guy mutters. “Um, friends. I don’t really have friends per se…”

Courfeyrac positively shrieks. “What?! You don’t have any friends?!” Oblivious to all the stares they are getting from just about everyone in the bar, Courf picks the guy up and pulls him into a bear hug that looks seriously painful. He then puts him down only to clamp his hands on either side of the kids head. “But look at your little face! You’re like a puppy, or Pinocchio or something…Come with me!” Courfeyrac grabs him by the arm and starts to drag him over to their table.

“Where am I going?” The guy asks uncertainly.

“To meet your new friends, silly sally!”

Grantaire swears that the guy’s face may have literally lit up and there’s a look of pure joy in his big brown eyes that really does make him look like a particularly freckly puppy.

They return to the rest of their friends, including Bahorel and Feuilly who are now slumped together in the corner of the old leather booth, slurring something that sounds suspiciously like

“We should buy a bar!”

“We should totally buy a bar!”

“A karaoke bar!”

“Aw yes, can you imagine the girls we’d get if we had a bar?!”

“So many girls!”

“I love you, man.”

“I love you too, bro.” And it’s about the time when they try to high-five each other - and fail impressively, with Feuilly managing to smack Bossuet in the face - that Grantaire decides to tune out and return to the matter at hand because everyone seems confused and Eponine has a slightly predatory look as she stares out the new kid.

“Everyone, this is our new friend, uh…”

“Marius.” He supplies with an awkward wave. Eponine actually purrs.

“Exactly! Well, I’m Courfeyrac, the resident stud-muffin and all round swell guy,” at that Combeferre lets out something that is dangerously close to a guffaw before quieting down again. Courfeyrac continues on unperturbed, clamping a hand on Jehan’s shoulder. “This beautiful woodland creature is Jean Prouvaire. If he gets drunk enough later he might write a poem for you.”

The man in question blushes till his face is the colour of the old red leather they’re sitting on, before he smiles and says, “Call me Jehan.”

“Anywho, the bald guy over there is Bossuet AKA Lesgle AKA… Actually I can’t remember half of his names. But he may have the worst luck of any human being that ever lived so if he causes you any bodily harm it’s most likely not his fault. And the skinny guy beside him is Joly, our resident hypochondriac and Bossuet’s gay lover.”

Everyone cringes at that. “It can never just be ‘boyfriend’ with you, can it Courf? Oh no, gay lover is much less intimidating, especially around strangers.” Joly throws the new kid - Marius, Grantaire reminds himself - an apologetic glance.

“Joly, didn’t you say sarcasm gives you cancer or something?” Courf interjects, unfazed. “Anyway, moving on, the big guy and the ginger that seem to be lost in the bro-ness in each other’s eyes are Bahorel and Feuilly. We think they’re like heterosexual life partners or some shit. But anyway, if you value your life, don’t tickle Bahorel and stay away from Feuilly’s cigarettes unless he offers you one first, okay?”

Marius, still looking a bit bewildered, chokes out, “oh - um - okay - I don’t smoke so…”

Joly’s eyes immediately light up with approval and he even gives a slight nod of his head. “He makes good life choices.” He stage-whispers to Bossuet who rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

“Yes anyway, my companion who you may have noticed earlier,” Courf nods to Grantaire, “Is Grantaire.”

“You can call me R.” Grantaire he interjects with what he hopes is a friendly smile.

“R?” Marius says confusedly. “I don’t get it.”

“It’s a French thing.” Grantaire says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Are you French?”

“Nope.”

They blink at each other for a second. “But I don’t--“

“Grantaire you’re confusing the poor boy! Don’t mind him. He’s our daily reality-check about all the woes of the world and how the only hopes are at the bottom of a bottle et cetera et cetera. He could probably be a stud-muffin like yours truly if he, y’know, showered regularly.”

“My record was a month,” Grantaire tells Marius with something like pride in his voice. “Well, until Joly chased me with a hose.”

“Do you have any idea just how unhygienic that was?! I mean you could have gotten any number of--”

“He does that a lot.” Courfeyrac cuts Joly off. “Moving on! The lovely man with the glasses is Combeferre. We’re actually drinking in his honour tonight. He’s about the only one who can keep all of us from killing each other…Not literally!” He says quickly when Marius actually starts to look frightened, which, considering their group of friends, is understandable. “The guy beside him who looks like he should be a Hollister model or Roman God--”

“Greek.” Grantaire corrects.

“Greek God - thank you, Grantaire - is Enjolras. He is our fearless leader, Grantaire’s arch enemy and we’re trying to raise enough money for his operation to have that stick removed from his ass. We’re doing well, a lot of people are showing their support.” The man in question, on seeing Marius’ horrified expression, actually gives Grantaire a wink and a small smirk before turning a bored stare on the new kid.  Okay, who gave Enjolras the drugs and where can I get some.  

“And last but certainly not least - the only one of us who doesn’t have a dick - is the lovely--”

“Eponine. Hi.” She finishes for him, somehow managing to look shy and like a smouldering temptress at the same time.

“Hi.” Marius replies and for a minute they just sit and look at each other. The whole table falls into a comfortable silence before Bahorel sits up abruptly and shouts “Another round!”

“Yeah.” Feuilly mumbles sleepily. “And…I need a cigarette. I’m-I’m gonna go get a cigarette.”

“I’ll come with.” Bahorel mutters before he slumps back into his seat and Feuilly passes out against his shoulder.

“They’re like sleeping kittens.” Combeferre muses quietly, looking at the two curling round each other as best as they can with a soft smile on his face. Before taking out his phone and snapping a picture, with the promise of putting it on Facebook later.

“Bad idea.” Enjolras mutters before taking a sip from the bottle of beer he’s been drinking all night, but he can’t keep the amusement out of his eyes.

“We should get another round though.” Courfeyrac says,  moving towards the bar. “Same again everybody? What are you drinking, Marius?”

“Oh, no, let me get it.” Marius suddenly speaks up. Everyone looks at him incredulously before he says, “My grandfather’s a rich asshole, and we’ve kinda had a fight, so I just charge all my drinks to him and I guess I can get a couple rounds.” He says in one breath.

Grantaire puts an arm around his shoulder and starts to guide him towards the bar, declaring “Marius, I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship.”

Chapter Text

“Hey, Jehan, you know a lot about flowers, right? Like, nice ones? That you would give to someone?”

The question takes the poet by surprise, as he hadn’t realised his roommate had come into his bedroom. Plus, Jehan can count the number of times Courf has asked about any “fluffy romantic crap” on one hand with five fingers left over. But he tries to act nonchalant and turns to give Courfeyrac his usual friendly smile. “I suppose. Why? Got a new lover on the go?” He asks playfully.

“Something like that.” Courf replies with a shy smile, looking at his feet.

Oh.

“Oh.” Jehan says brilliantly, trying not to let his smile falter. “Well. Someone’s trying hard for a one night stand.” He tries to continue with the same playful tone as before, though he only half succeeds in keeping the bite out of his voice.

“Actually, I’m thinking it might be more serious than that. At least I hope so.” Courfeyrac says sheepishly, though he looks up at Jehan with a decidedly mischievous look in his eyes.

“Oh.” He says again, and Jehan mentally slaps himself. Use your words. “Well, they must be… very special.” Well done.

“Yeah, he his.” Courf mutters with the most heart-breaking smile and Jehan doesn’t know if he can listen anymore. The fact that it’s a man Courfeyrac likes hurts Jehan for some reason he can’t really explain. Though the thought of anyone being able to affect him so much that he would bring them flowers makes Jehan feels like there’s an iron clamp on his heart.

But who is he to get in the way of Courf’s happiness?

“Jehan?”

Jehan realizes too late that he had been staring at Courfeyrac and his roommate has such a troubled expression on his face that Jehan knows he would do anything, anything to make Courf smile. Even if that means helping him woo another man.

So he puts on his best smile and pretends he doesn’t feel like he’s drowning.

“So, flowers!” Jehan says, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically.

“Flowers.” Courfeyrac agrees with a grin, jumping onto the bed to sit next to Jehan. “So I was thinking maybe a bouquet of red roses--” Jehan cuts him off with a scoff.

Seeing Courf’s startled expression, Jehan realises that he may have come across as rude, so he says quickly, “Well, I mean, you could get those…If you want to be the biggest cliché in the world.”

Courfeyrac positively beams. “I knew I came to the right man. So, roses are a no-go. What would you suggest?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a flower that suits their personality. Or brings out their eyes. Though I’m afraid I can’t be of much help with that as I don’t know who he is.”

Courfeyrac blushes faintly. “Yeah, well, um, I don’t really want to tell anybody who it is until he’s said yes.” He gives Jehan an apologetic smile.

“Oh. Fair enough.” Jehan tries to keep his heart ache at bay, especially because if Courfeyrac won’t tell him who it is then surely it must be someone they know. Even though, going through all their friends in his mind, Jehan can’t figure out who it could be, he firmly believes that is has to be someone they are at least acquainted with. And for some reason, that makes it hurt even more.

“What flowers do you like?” Courfeyrac cuts through Jehan’s internal monologue, making him jump slightly.

“I, um. What?” Literary genius once again, Prouvaire.

“You seem to have good taste.” He says, unfazed. “What flowers do you like?”

“Oh. Well, tulips I suppose. But my favourite flower is hardly relevant right now.”

“Hardly.” Courfeyrac agrees, grinning wickedly. “But yeah, tulips are nice. I can do tulips.”

“Great!” Jehan says a little shrilly, because the fact that Courfeyrac is wooing another man with his favourite flowers is almost too much for him to handle.

For a few seconds they sit on Jehan’s bed and just breathe at each other. Then Courfeyrac bounces up suddenly and says, “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I now have tulips to buy and a declaration of love to plan! I’ll see you later.” He runs out of the room and a few seconds later Jehan hears the front door slamming closed.

Because Courfeyrac has a declaration of love to plan.

Love.

And it’s that word that makes Jehan curl in on himself and cry.

“Are you sure I look okay?” Courf asks, fidgeting with his shirt collar nervously.

“You look perfect.” Jehan whispers, swatting Courfeyrac’s hands away before he can ruin his outfit. Or decide to change it. Again.

Courfeyrac had come home later that day with a bunch of red tulips and three new almost identical button-downs to try on. Sometime between Courfeyrac leaving their apartment and coming back Jehan had decided that he would throw his own feelings aside to help his best friend, because God knew Courf didn’t ask for help lightly and who was Jehan, the hopeless romantic, to get in the way of love?

“Really?” and the look of adorable uncertainty in his big hazel eyes makes Jehan’s heart melt.

“Really. Now, have you figured out what you’re going to say to him?”

“Yup. I’m going to say ‘I’m sorry I haven’t told you sooner, but I really like you, so how about it?’”

Though the thought of those words being said to someone else cuts Jehan deep to the bone, he can’t help but giggle, because they are so unromantic, and so straight to the point and so Courfeyrac.

“Why, Courfeyrac, I thought I was the only poet in this apartment!”

“I’m a man of many talents.” Courfeyrac says with a waggle of his eyebrows, already becoming his old self again.

“I’m sure you are.” Jehan tries to say in a jovial tone, but probably only half succeeds. He only realises just how close they are when Courfeyrac reaches around Jehan to grab the flowers from the kitchen counter. But before Jehan can take it in, he’s already backing away.

“Well, I’d best be off! Wish me luck?”

“Good luck, Courfeyrac.” And the look of pure joy that comes across Courf’s face at hearing Jehan’s words makes Jehan smile genuinely for the first time in what feels like years.

“Okay…” Courf breathes, walking towards the door, tulips in hand and a nervous bounce to his step. “So, I’ll just knock on his door, give him the flowers and tell him… Okay…Okay.” He turns around to Jehan with his hand on the door handle. “Thank you, Jehan.” And he throws Jehan a warm smile before opening the door and walking out of the apartment.

Jehan stares at the door numbly for a few seconds, before turning around sharply to put the kettle on and vowing not to cry again, he will not cry again, dammit.

Jehan’s thoughts are interrupted by a quick knock at the door. Though he’s still emotionally drained and doesn’t feel overly sociable, curiosity gets the better of him as Jehan shuffles through the living room and opens the front door.

What Jehan does not expect to find is Courfeyrac standing outside the door. Before he can ask why Courf is back instead of off to wherever it is his secret lover lives, Courfeyrac holds the tulips out to Jehan and says. “Jehan, I’m sorry for being a dick and not telling you sooner, but I really like you, so…how about it?”

For a second Jehan can’t speak. Or blink. Or breathe. “W-what?” He eventually splutters.

“I really like you. Soooo, how about it?” He says again, nervousness creeping its way into his voice as he still holds the tulips out to Jehan awkwardly.

“But-but- what about the guy--”

“It’s you, Jehan. It’s always been you.” Courfeyrac steps forward slowly. “I mean you’re an amazing, beautiful person, you’re like the best person, you’re probably my favourite person,” and Courf is rambling now. “I mean I know I always said I didn’t believe in love and I slept around and stuff and I was happy, I mean I thought I was happy, but then I see you every day and you’re just so perfect and smart and romantic and you wear fucking ribbons in your hair and you always see the good in the world and the world is so good with you in it. And I’ve tried to ignore this feeling I get when I’m around you like my heart is just gonna explode and I don’t know how you feel but--”

Courfeyrac is cut off by Jehan’s lips crushing his own as Jehan all but jumps into Courf’s arms. “But, the flowers.” Courfeyrac manages to gasp when Jehan starts to trail kisses along his jawline because he can now.

“Fuck the flowers.” Jehan growls before claiming Courfeyrac’s mouth with his own and when Jehan takes his bottom lip between his teeth, Courf actually whimpers. Suddenly Jehan feels strong arms wrapped around his waist and Jehan actually does jump up this time, wrapping his legs around Courfeyrac’s own waist.

He’s vaguely aware of hearing the front door being kicked shut and the feeling of being carried into the living room but Jehan doesn’t focus anything but Courfeyrac’s mouth on his and his heart pounding in his chest and he decides that the flowers can definitely wait.

Chapter Text

One day, Courfeyrac learned a few things.

He learned that he was, indeed, allowed to not be okay, even if it feels like there’s no real reason for it. He learned that drinking coffee five hours after making it is disgusting. He learned that Jehan’s hair smells like apples. He learned that Jehan has a light dusting of freckles on his nose. He learned that Jehan’s eyes aren’t just plain green, but more of a deep moss colour, with specks of gold and brown.

Courfeyrac also learned that he was madly in love with Jean Prouvaire.

And it was torture.

Lust is good, Courf can handle lust. Lust can be sorted with a bit of wham-bam-thank-you-mam, only to be forgotten the next morning - after breakfast of course, because good bacon is worth any amount of morning-after embarrassment. But this is Jehan. He writes love poems and walks through grass meadows barefoot and plays the flute and the other day he had bells braided into his hair like some sort of Dothraki-faerie creature, but he’s strong too and will not hesitate to cut a bitch if they try to start on him or any of their friends. I mean, how can you not love that?

And what only makes matters worse is that Courfeyrac lives with the guy and has to see him all day wearing those adorable clothes that make him look like he just feel out of that Macklemore video and see how his nose scrunches up when he laughs and how he looks so calm when he sips at one of his many different flavours of tea and scribbles poetry into his notebook that has kittens on it. Fucking kittens.

Drunken flings and one night stands he can handle, but love and romance and kittens? Courfeyrac is dangerously out of his element. And he doesn’t know how to do the whole “hopeless pining” thing either, or how to handle it.

But he knows someone who does.

Still lying in bed at two o’clock in the afternoon in his Captain America pyjamas (“Courf, those things are ridiculous.” Enjolras had once scolded. “You’re just jealous because Steve Rogers doesn’t protect you while you’re sleeping.” “Dear God, I’m friends with a child.”), Courfeyrac pulls out his phone and calls the unofficial king of unrequited love.

Grantaire picks up just before it goes to voice mail, “What?” He asks gruffly and Courf realises that he probably woke Grantaire up which only makes his grin grow wider.

“Good morning, Starshine, the Earth says hello!”

“Courfeyrac if you called me at this ungodly hour just to quote Willy Wonka at me I will hunt you. I will find you. And I will kill you.”

“Oh really?” Courfeyrac asks, still grinning widely.

“Oh yeah. Liam Neeson style, bitch.” Though he still sounds tired, he can hear the smile in Grantaire’s voice.

“Yes, well, you’ll be glad to know that there is a purpose to this phone call aside from quoting movies and exchanging death threats.”

Courf hears Grantaire gasp in mock-horror. “I’m intrigued! Continue.”

“Well…” Courfeyrac hesitates slightly, not knowing if this was such a good idea after all. Because what if Jehan had told Grantaire that he didn’t like him? Or that he liked someone else? Or what if Grantaire laughs at him? But then Courf catches himself on and remembers that Grantaire, though many things, is not actually a heartless bastard, so he takes a deep breath before he continues. “I think I like--”

“You like Jehan.” Grantaire states flatly as if this isn’t big fucking news that Courfeyrac has been bottling up for days.

“Wait, how did you--”

Grantaire cuts him off with a scoff that somehow isn’t unfriendly. “I’ve known since we met the puppy.” He refers to Marius with his unofficial nick name.

“How?” Courfeyrac asks confusedly, because honestly he thought he’d been hiding his emotions expertly.

“You didn’t flirt. All night.” Courf can hear Grantaire’s eye-roll and, okay, fair enough.

“Okay. So you know. But what do I do?” Courfeyrac whines in his best petulant child voice.

“Oh, I don’t know, tell him maybe?”

“It’s not that simple, R, and you know it! If it was you’d have confessed your undying love to our marble statue like five billion years ago.”

Grantaire huffs down the phone, something that sounds like “I do not love him.” And now it’s Courfeyrac’s turn to roll his eyes.  “But this is Jehan we’re talking about here! We’re actually one hundred per cent certain he has emotions, which gives you a big advantage, my friend.”

And, okay, he has a point. “But, still it’s Jehan! I can’t just tell him my feelings he needs to be…wooed!” Courf declares, cogs already beginning to turn in his head.

“Wooed?” Grantaire asks incredulously.

“Yeah, with chocolates and flowers and all that fluffy romantic shit!”

“Hmm.” Grantaire considers this for a moment. “It’s a shame that the only person who knows about that kind of stuff is Jehan. Hey, maybe you should ask him!” He chuckles sarcastically.

“Maybe I should ask him! Then I’m sure not to fuck it up!”

“Courf? Yeah, I was kidding? Do not--”

But Courfeyrac has already shouted a quick “Thank you!” down the phone, hung up on Grantaire and started throwing on whatever clothes come to hand.

When he strides out of his bedroom and across the hall to stand outside Jehan’s own door, Courf pauses, wondering whether he should knock, and the nervousness is creeping its way back into his mind. But then he shakes his head because he’s Courfeyrac and Courfeyrac does not simply knock before entering. So he fixes his usual grin, throws the door open and boldly asks the little poet who’s curled up on his bed surrounded by books, “Hey, Jehan, you know a lot about flowers, right?”

Chapter Text

Come to my apartment if convenient.

-E

Grantaire reads the text from Enjolras approximately twelve times, thinking that he’s still drunk from last night or he is hallucinating or maybe his death trap of an apartment is releasing some carbon monoxide to finally finish him off but, nope, the text is definitely telling Grantaire to go to Enjolras’ apartment.

Before he can even dream of a reply that isn’t “Yes, god, please, I’ve been waiting for those words all my life, yes.” His phone buzzes with another text.

If not convenient, come anyway.

-E

Somehow, Grantaire’s brain starts functioning enough to reply with a quick “Be there in 20” instead of “I’d come for you anytime ;)” or something equally embarrassing, and starts to hunt down some clean clothes, despite the fact that it is barely 8AM.

This turns out to be a mammoth task, because shit hole though his apartment may be, it looks more like a back room of a warehouse and is probably the same size, with the same dirty (and in some places, missing) windows and the walls a dull industrial grey. Despite how big it is, the only furniture it contains is a busted-up sofa, a coffee table and a mattress. And of course there’s the few easels in the corner that hold up empty canvases but Grantaire tries to block those out, the reminder that he hasn’t been able to paint anything decent in months making his already trembling hands itching for a bottle.

He eventually manages to find a pair of jeans that only has one rip in them and an old Doors t-shirt that just about passes the sniff-test. It’s not until he’s already out onto the street that he actually stops in his tracks to think what the fuck?

In his haste to make himself presentable and leave so as to not leave Enjolras waiting, he didn’t stop to actually consider the fact that Enjolras wants Grantaire to come over. Walking again so he looks a bit less like a madman, Grantaire mulls the thought over in his head and he suddenly finds himself apprehensive. Did he do something wrong? Why else would Enjolras want to see him? Especially considering that the last and only time Grantaire was in his apartment was That Night and why did he think being sober right now was a good idea?

Lost in his thoughts, Grantaire doesn’t notice Courfeyrac and Bossuet’s cars pull up outside his apartment building.

“Grantaire.” Enjolras greets him with a nod a hint of a smile as he opens the door of his apartment, gesturing with his hand for Grantaire to come in.

“Enjy.” Though Grantaire is still a bundle of nerves, he still manages to chuckle when he sees Enjolras wince at the nickname. “What is it that made you invite me round at this ungodly hour?” Forgetting all of his manners - what manners? - Grantaire gracefully flops himself onto Enjolras’ couch, still trying to keep the flashbacks of what had occurred the last time he was here at bay.

“You draw.” Enjolras says as though that explains the entire situation, taking a seat in the chair facing the sofa.

And you’re gorgeous, why are we stating obvious here? Grantaire doesn’t say. Instead he fixes a puzzled stare on Enjolras before picking up the remote and flicking through the channels on the ridiculously big flat screen TV on the wall. “And?” he presses when it’s clear he’s not going to get another explanation.

“And, we have a rally coming up. I-- We thought that you could make a few posters, maybe design something to go on flyers?”

At hearing that he isn’t actually in trouble Grantaire releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Sure. What’s the rally for this time?”

“Oh, we’re trying to get the bill for same sex marriage passed.”

“Ah.” Grantaire sighs, leaning back into the couch to get himself comfortable. “So, what are you looking for, rainbows and peace signs and all that shit?”

Enjolras’ scowl, had it been directed at anyone else, would be truly terrifying. “If you’re not going to take this seriously, why even do it?”

“I’m not not taking it seriously. I just don’t really see what the big deal is, is all. Don’t like 50% of marriages end in divorce anyway?”

“That’s hardly the point, especially when gay couples don’t even have the option to get married and at least try to make it work!” And, yay, Enjolras is shouting now. Isn’t that the perfect hangover cure.

“Yeah well, I still don’t think it’s a big deal.” Grantaire mumbles off-handedly, not wanting to argue with Enjolras especially since everything has been going so well between them since Christmas. Enjolras, however, is having none of it.

“How are your rights not a big deal?! God, Grantaire, do you not want to be able to get married in your own city?”

This takes him a bit by surprise. Although Grantaire had never been secretive, or even discreet about his sexual conquests - few and far between as they were - he’s never actually did the whole “coming out” thing and has probably never said the words “I’m gay.”

He recovers quickly though and lets out a mirthless laugh, “It’s not like anyone will ever wanna marry me anyway. So, again I say, there’s no point.”

Enjolras clenches his jaw and looks away, looking like his thoughts are flying a mile a minute. Eventually he just turns to look at Grantaire and simply says, “That’s not true.” Though Grantaire doesn’t even want to think about which part he’s referring to.

“Hm. Well.” Grantaire mutters and suddenly pushes himself off of the sofa and walks into the kitchen, where he proceeds to rifle through the cupboards, which are depressingly bare.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras says from somewhere behind Grantaire. Close behind him, and he nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Fuck! Scary bastard.” Grantaire grips the counter in an attempt to steady himself, as Enjolras watches him with more amusement than anger. Argument over, then. “I was looking for something to make for lunch, but Jesus, Apollo, don’t you ever eat? The beggars of King’s Landing have more food than you do.”

Enjolras’ scowl returns, though with less heat behind it than before. “I told you not to call me that.” He appears puzzled for a moment before continuing “King’s what?”

“King’s Landing. Game of Thrones?” At Enjy’s still confused expression Grantaire actually lets out a very manly, very dignified squeal of horror. “You haven’t seen Game of Thrones?! Seven save us all.”

“I know of it. And you and Bahorel have quoted the damn books often enough at me it’s a bit hard not to know some details but I’ve never watched it, no.”  

“This is unacceptable.” Grantaire starts to push Enjolras out of his own kitchen.

“R, what the hell are you doing?” His heart may or may not have skipped a beat when Enjolras called him by his nickname, but he feigns nonchalance.

“I am making coffee. You are going to get your laptop and then we are watching Game of Thrones. And no dawdling! You’re two and a half seasons late to the party.” Grantaire expects him to put up more of a fight, but instead Enjolras just lets out an indignant huff and goes to find his laptop as instructed. Before Grantaire can dwell on it too much, he returns to the task at hand.

When he returns to the living room, Enjolras has connected his laptop to the television and is already opening the link to the first episode of season one.

The both settle on the couch with their coffees after Enjolras hits play. “I’m sure that you’ll love the Lannisters. They’re all about the people.” Enjolras only hums in reply, and Grantaire wonders how much shit he’ll be in when Enjy actually learns who the Lannisters are.

He also tries not to think about how close they’re sitting as the opening credits - probably the best opening credits to any show ever - start.

“Enjy, are you crying?” Grantaire looks at the man beside him who has his knees pulled up to his chest and whose eyes are suspiciously wet.

“No.” He sniffs.

“It’s okay. We all loved Ned. Just let it out.”

Enjolras looks at Grantaire uncertainly, who nods slightly, before he goes into a massive rant. “What the actual fuck?! What was that?! Does nobody see the injustice here? Eddard Stark confessed to a crime he didn’t even commit with the promise that he could take the Black and be with his son on The Wall but Joffrey just goes ahead and kills him anyway?! He had no right, no evidence, he’s not even a Baratheon! Fuck!” Enjolras visibly deflates when he’s finished, face flushed and even panting slightly. Grantaire has never seen a more beautiful sight in his life.

“All done?” Enjolras just nods, before he pulls his phone out of his pocket and, for some reason, seems alarmed. “We’re late!”

Before Grantaire can ask just what exactly they’re late for, Enjolras is bouncing off of the couch and pulling on his shoes and a coat. Grantaire looks at the clock and discovers that it is already after 9PM and how the hell did he last this long without any food or, God, a drink? But then the reason is hauling him up onto his feet and out the door.

“Where are we going?” He asks when they’re on their way to Enjolras’ car.

“A meeting. Then we’re all supposed to go out for dinner or some such activity that is sure to be a major waste of our valuable time.”

“Oh. Well is it okay if we go to my place first? I need to grab money.” And my flask, he doesn’t say, opening the door to the passenger side of Enjolras’ car.

For some reason his question seems to amuse Enjolras greatly as he smirks, a mischievous glint in his eye as he buckles his seat belt. Though all he says is “Sure.” And starts to drive.

When they pull up outside Grantaire’s building about ten minutes later, Enjolras starts to get out of the car. “You can just stay out here, I’ll only be a few minutes.”

“Oh, I insist.” Enjolras says, that damn smirk back on his face and Grantaire wonders again if someone has, indeed, slipped the man drugs in his morning coffee.

“Whatever.” He mutters instead, and they make their way up the stairs towards Grantaire’s apartment.

When they reach the door, Grantaire searches for his keys, then, remembering that his door doesn’t actually have a lock - what does he have worth stealing anyway? - he opens the door and flicks the lights on, Enjolras following him inside.

He then proceeds to almost have several heart attacks as he hears a loud roar of “Happy Birthday, Grantaire.” And finds all of his friends smiling fiercely at him.

Still in shock, all the man can do is stare blankly at them and say, “The fuck?”, before getting dizzy and falling backwards into strong arms.

Chapter Text

The previous morning

Everyone had received a text from Courfeyrac the night before telling them to meet at the Café Musain for some “Super-Secret Scheming”. Sitting around their cluster of tables in the café’s back room (that they basically own now) everyone has some sort of pained expression on their faces, because when Courf uses alliteration, shit goes down as Bahorel had once eloquently put it.

While taking in the somewhat amusing scene in front of him - a room full of college students huddled together awaiting the flirt’s arrival like a convict on death row might wait to be sent to the electric chair - Enjolras can’t help but notice the absence of a certain raven-haired cynic. But, shaking his head as if to clear the thought away, he realises that this shouldn’t be surprising seeing as it’s before 3PM and Grantaire is probably not yet among the land of the living.

Enjolras ignores the pang of disappointment he feels (and just where the hell did that come from?) and does a quick head count of the rest of his friends, noting that his group of friends now contains one Marius Pontmercy and wow doesn’t that thought just fill Enjolras with breathless delight.

It’s not that he doesn’t like Marius, per se, but since they basically adopted him in that godforsaken karaoke bar, his presence has become somewhat…irksome. Of course he means well and he actually can hold his own in a debate (unless someone raises their voice or makes eye contact for too long or is basically Enjolras) and even shares most of their views. But let an attractive female within a mile radius dear god…

 And Enjolras knows he isn’t the only one who is annoyed by the kid’s seemingly genuine naiveté (which is downright unbelievable at times - “No, really, she said that someone was trying to access my bank account and all I had to do was give her my details so she could sort it out! And it was all done over the phone, too! Lovely woman.”), but if anyone so much as looks at Marius the wrong way, Eponine would pull them aside later and say ever so sweetly that if they scared him away she would “cut off their dick and shove it up their ass so they could literally go fuck themselves”. She gave the speech to Bahorel one night and everyone is pretty sure he cried.

So Marius stays. And with every well-meant but usually sappy and almost always irrelevant remark the puppy makes Enjolras feel his will to live slowly going…going…

“Who’s ready for some Super-Secret Scheming, bitches!”

Gone.

Courfeyrac had swaggered into the café with the air of a pimp from a 70’s sitcom, Jehan coming in just behind him, trying to be discreet about the fact that they’re holding hands lest they surprise approximately no one ever. Then again, Marius is here…

“Okay, first order of business!” Courf begins, throwing himself onto an empty chair and, before the poet can protest, pulling Jehan down onto his lap. “We have an announcement.”

“You and Jehan are together.” Bahorel says with an eye-roll, then under his breath “Fucking finally”. Feuilly takes this opportunity to smack his roommate it the head and God, he must have a permanent hand print there by now.

“Yeah come on, guys, if you brought us here to tell us what we already knew would happen like six years ago I will cut a bitch.” Eponine mutters darkly into her coffee mug, expression clearly saying 110% done and it is way too early for this shit.

“Oh. Well.” Courfeyrac actually seems surprised and Jehan is turning a quite impressive shade of red that leaves Joly fretting over the man’s blood pressure.“Second order of business then, since you are all big spoil sports,” and Courf actually sticks his tongue out at them. “It’s Grantaire’s birthday tomorrow!”

This is met with a few surprised hums and a kind of sad smile from Eponine who tries to hide behind her mug again.

“How come he didn’t mention it? I thoughts he’d jump at the chance of getting presents and booze from everyone.” Feuilly asks from where he is perched on the window sill smoking out the open window (“No, it’s not illegal, the smoke’s going outside, see?”).

Courfeyrac and Eponine exchange a quick look, before Courf continues, “Well his family…When he was growing up he, uh…That is to say they--”

“They didn’t really do the whole birthday thing.” Eponine cuts in carefully, though everyone can hear the unspoken they didn’t actually do the whole ‘parenting thing’ either.

Everyone remains silent for a moment. They had guessed that Grantaire hadn’t had the best childhood, though he never talks about it (though everyone has an idea that part of his alcoholism may be partly due to his upbringing - or lack thereof). Well, everyone remains silent except Marius, who actually gasps in shock.

“Oh that’s horrible! I remember every year my Grandfather would get me a huge cake and there would be a party and afterwards there would be a lovely meal and…” Marius trails off when he notices everyone staring at him with expressions on differing scales of are you fucking serious? Even Eponine looks like she's considering punching him in the face a tiny bit. Enjolras actually growls at him and, okay, when did he get so protective over Grantaire? Maybe Marius just brings out the worst in him…

“Yes. Well!” Courfeyrac cuts in before things can get messy, because Bahorel has started cracking his knuckles and it looks like shit is indeed about to go down.“The point is Grantaire probably doesn’t even remember when his birthday is anymore,” Eponine nods slightly in agreement, “and he’s never had the best party planners in the whole world ever to help him celebrate!”

This time, everyone is actually silent for a few beats before Combeferre looks dramatically around the café and says “Where’d you find good party planners? Are they here?”

Courfeyrac throws a skittle at him - because of course he has a random bag of skittles everywhere he goes - before pointing between Combeferre and Enjolras, “You two need to sort out your sarcasm like, yesterday. No one appreciates it.”

“I thought it was funny.” Marius squeaks from his seat beside Eponine.

“He knows what sarcasm is?” Bossuet stage-whispers to Bahorel who grins like a madman in return, while somehow still managing to look wary of Eponine’s I will not hesitate to fuck you and your mother up glare.

“Well in case it wasn’t obvious, we are the fabulous party-planning extraordinaires!  And tomorrow we are gonna throw a party-to-remember-though-we-probably-won’t-be-able-to-because-we’re-so-hung-over. The theme is ‘An alcoholic’s wet dream’.”

Everyone takes the new information in, looking incredulous apart from Joly who looks vaguely faint at the prospect of too much alcohol consumption and Feuilly who is doing the staring thing again.

“And where exactly are we going to throw this amazing event? Unless you’re offering up your apartment?” Combeferre asks, always the voice of reason.

“Hell no! No, the party I have in mind, our apartment would never be inhabitable again. Plus it isn’t big enough for all of us.”

“Well then, where?” Bossuet presses.

Courfeyrac appears to consider this a moment before he exclaims “Grantaire’s place!”

“Is it not a surprise party, though? How will it be a surprise if it’s in his apartment, dipshit?” Bahorel booms from his seat in the corner. Everyone looks at Feuilly, probably expecting him to hit his best friend again but for once they appear to be in agreement.

“Well, we’ll get him out of his apartment tomorrow, obviously!”

Eponine thinks about this for a minute before saying, “That could work, but he’ll need to be gone all day and I don’t think he’d get out of bed before noon for anything or anyone. Unless…” She trails off and, slowly, one by one, everyone turns around to look at Enjolras - even fucking Marius, Jesus Christ.

“What?” Enjolras asks nervously and Eponine’s knowing grin is truly terrifying.

Chapter Text

The next morning…

Hey, wanna hang out?

Enjolras reads through the text before shaking his head and deleting it, deciding that it sounds too casual. Grantaire would definitely be suspicious. Besides, the incorrect spelling, even in a simple text, would probably serve to give Enjolras an anxiety attack.

Grantaire, get your ass over here.

No, that’s probably too rude. It is the guy’s birthday, after all. Enjolras tries again.

Come to my apartment if convenient.

-          E

After reading it through once, Enjolras hits send, before fully acknowledging that it is barely after 8AM and that Grantaire will most likely threaten to castrate him for daring to wake him up at such “an ungodly hour”. Enjolras smirks, hearing the cynic’s grouchy voice in his head.

Reading back over the text after it’s been sent, he realises that it mightn’t have sounded urgent enough. What if Grantaire read it, made up some excuse and crawled back into bed? Enjolras decides to send another text.

If not convenient, come anyway.

-          E

Deciding that would do the trick, Enjolras goes to get dressed, going over the plan (“Secret Mission, excuse you!” Courfeyrac would correct) as he waits for a reply.

It had been decided the day before that while Enjolras kept Grantaire busy for the day (many a wink and wolf whistle came from the Amis at the mention of this - Even from Marius fucking Pontmercy), everyone else would sneak into Grantaire’s apartment and get everything ready for the party.

For some insane reason Enjolras has a bad feeling about his friends - most of whom have the sense of a toddler or a morally corrupt duck - being given free reign over someone’s home for the day -  especially when there’s alcohol and Courfeyrac involved. And for another weird reason, he has a bad feeling about spending the day with Grantaire as well.

Or is it a bad feeling at all? It’s certainly unfamiliar. But what else could it be? Annoyance, dread? Fear of reliving That Night (for it had earned its capitals in Enjolras’ mind, too) or maybe, dear god, excitement?

Surely not.

Before Enjolras can call the whole thing off, or pass Grantaire off to one of their other friends for the day, he receives a text from the man in question informing him that he is on his way. So, deciding that it is, in fact, too late for him to crawl back into his study and re-draft his philosophy essay (again), and try to ignore these …feelings he seems to be having, Enjolras fires off a quick text to Courfeyrac, alerting him that Grantaire is leaving his apartment.

With that done, there’s nothing he can do but sit and wait.

Meanwhile, outside Grantaire’s apartment building…

“The eagle has left the nest!” Courfeyrac all but sings down the phone to Bossuet who is parked inconspicuously a few yards down the street from him.

Somehow everyone managed to get to Grantaire’s apartment relatively safely, with Jehan, Eponine and Marius (of course) in Courfeyrac’s car and Joly, Bahorel and all of the party things in Bossuet’s. Combeferre has a morning lecture and Feuilly is working one of his sixteen thousand jobs, but they both promised they would show up later.

Grantaire isn’t there for obvious reasons and Enjolras is probably trying to aggressively ignore the extreme unresolved sexual tension going on between Grantaire and himself.

Well, probably.

“The what has left the what?” Bossuet asks and Courfeyrac can see him waving confusedly from his rear-view mirror.

“I said, the eagle has left--”

“Oh for god’s sake - Grantaire left his apartment!” Eponine growls down the phone, probably half deafening poor Marius who had been sitting right next to her. She’s about as much of a morning person as Grantaire.

“Yes, Grantaire has left the apartment.” Courfeyrac says exasperatedly. “God, does nobody use my fabulous code names?!”

“No.” Everyone deadpans, including Joly, Bossuet and Bahorel from the other car.

“Why not?” Courf huffs.

“Dude, you just called them ‘fabulous’.” Bahorel shouts down the phone and Courfeyrac flips him the bird, which he sees is returned by Joly of all people in the rear-view mirror.

“Anyway,” Jehan interjects with a sweet smile, “There’s a lot to do so shouldn’t we go in now?”

“Yeah.” Courfeyrac agrees after throwing a dirty look out the rear window to the car full of his friends down the street. “I think there’s an alley round the back of the building. We should park there just to be safe. Plus, it’s closer to the door and Bossuet has to carry most of the stuff from his car so…” Everyone in the car seems to wince before nodding in agreement. Then Marius speaks up.

“What’s wrong with Bossuet  carrying things?”

“Nothing at all.” Jehan assures him, turning around to pat the boy on the knee.

“As long as you have insurance.” Courfeyrac adds with a wink. Marius’ face is an adorable mixture of horrified and confused but before he can get himself all flustered with asking for any further explanation, Eponine starts petting him and he instantly quiets down.

“Ha fucking ha. So, where am I driving?” Bossuet calls down the phone.

Courfeyrac gives him instructions to drive into the back alley (“Back alley, heh heh.” “Oh lord, my boyfriend’s a child.” “Why do people keep calling me that?!”) and they would start bringing everything up to Grantaire’s apartment from there - keeping Bossuet  away from anything breakable and Marius away from anything heavy lest he damage one of his scrawny limbs and give Joly a hernia in the process.

Somehow Courfeyrac, Jehan, Eponine, Marius, Bahorel, Bossuet and Joly manage to get up in one piece and without damaging any of the decorations (or themselves). When they swing open Grantaire’s unlocked - of course -  door, his apartment is certainly a sight to behold.

They walk in slowly, taking the place in, with its stained floors almost completely covered by litter, dull grey walls, dirty/broken windows and only three whole pieces of furniture. After a few moments, everyone sets down whatever they were carrying and stands in an awkward silence.

“Well this is certainly…” Jehan trails off, kicking a beer can that has probably been there for a few months.

“Unsanitary!” Joly half shrieks by the door, and it looks like he’s afraid to go any further into the apartment.

“No!” Insists Jehan, who tries to find the beauty in everything. “Well…yes probably. But it just needs a good clean! It’s still--”

“A shit hole.” Bahorel deadpans, which receives a nervous snicker from Marius who cuts off abruptly with a sort of strangled noise before trying to hide behind Eponine.

“It’s just what we need!” Courf exclaims, picking up Jehan and spinning them both in a circle before landing on Grantaire’s bed. “ It’s a blank canvas.” he continues when he and Jehan have calmed down a bit, removing a crumpled beer can from where it lay crushed underneath his ass, “It just needs a woman’s touch!”

“Courfeyrac, if you start singing I will cut you. And I’ll leave you to move around all the heavy stuff by yourself.” Bahorel threatens, before turning around and physically putting himself between Joly and the door, as their resident hypochondriac looks about ready to try and make his escape to get an emergency CAT scan in case he picked up something deadly from their favourite cynic’s apartment.

“Fine.” Courf grumbles, because he knows that without Bahorel - who probably weight-lifts and leads a Khalasar in his spare time - to do all the heavy lifting, it is up to the rest of them who probably have the combined strength of a baby llama.

“So, where do we start?” It is Marius, surprisingly, who speaks up, picking up a black garbage bag and looking around the place with something akin to determination in his eyes. Eponine all but swoons, and is soon following his example, picking up a bag and looking around.

“Where do we start?” She mutters darkly.

Everyone starts taking in a mammoth task of making Grantaire’s place not only clean but party ready in only a few hours.

Where indeed?

Meanwhile in Enjolras’ apartment…

After getting dressed, Enjolras had proceeded to nervously pace around his apartment and when he hears a quick knock on the door his palms start to get sweaty and heart feels as though it is going to beat out of his chest. It is around this point when he wonders just exactly when he started acting like a schoolgirl with a crush.

He throws open the door to reveal his slightly dishevelled and probably more than slightly hung over friend leaning casually against the doorframe, and when the cynic throws him his usual smirk Enjolras’ heart starts doing that incessant fluttering thing again which is not at all practical at this moment in time and it just needs to calm the fuck down and start beating normally dammit.

“Grantaire.” Enjolras greets the man with what he hopes is a casual friendly smile and he gestures for Grantaire to come inside.

“Enjy.” Grantaire says in a jovial tone as he flops onto his couch with about as much grace as a walrus. Slightly fazed at how the other man has easily made himself at home considering the last and only time he had been in this room had been That Night, Enjolras moves to sit in the chair opposite, decidedly not thinking about that incident and how he almost ruined their friendship and the look in Grantaire’s eyes when he had basically asked what Enjolras felt for him and he just couldn’t say it.

But what could he have said anyway? I don’t love you. In fact, your stubborn cynicism makes me want to punch you in the face sometimes but then my knuckles might scrape your stubble and do you purposefully not shave or do you just forget because you’re too drunk most of the time but maybe you shouldn’t anyway because it’s just so you like your unruly hair and your dirty clothes and your dirty jokes that you make at the most inappropriate times but without them everything is just so quiet and dull. I do not love you, and your infuriating inability to take anything seriously as you just sit there with your laughing eyes and that damn smirk as you cut through all of my ideals. I don’t love you; it’s just that as soon as I enter a room I look for your face in the crowd before anyone else’s.

I do not love you, but when you walked out of here last, you took a piece of my heart with you.

Enjolras is never letting Jehan read him poetry ever again.

“What is it that made you invite me round at this ungodly hour?” Grantaire asks quizzically while flicking through the channels on Enjolras’ TV. Even though he had been having a slight mental breakdown over the guy, he had actually forgotten Grantaire was there. It takes him a moment to remember the plan (“Super-Secret Mission” his mind supplies in Courfeyrac’s voice) before remembering that he had made up a lame-ass excuse to get Grantaire over here.

“You draw.” He states, mentally slapping himself for sounding like an idiot.

Grantaire simply blinks for a moment before continuing, “And?”

“And, we have a rally coming up. I-- We thought that you could make a few posters, maybe design something to go on flyers?”

“Sure.” Grantaire turns most of his attention back to the television and Enjolras breathes a small sigh of relief knowing that his lie is believed. “What’s the rally for this time?”

“Oh, we’re trying to get the bill for same sex marriage passed.”

“Ah.” Grantaire sighs, leaning back into the couch. “So, what are you looking for, rainbows and peace signs and all that shit?”

Enjolras feels his temper rising again, and though he can feel the usual argument coming on, he internally sighs. They had been doing so well. “If you’re not going to take this seriously, why even do it?”

“I’m not not taking it seriously.” Grantaire tries to sound reasonable. “I just don’t really see what the big deal is, is all. Don’t like 50% of marriages end in divorce anyway?”

Enjolras admits he has a point there (like he usually does), he knows the statistics. But there’s more to it than that, and he says as much. “That’s hardly the point, especially when gay couples don’t even have the option to get married and at least try to make it work!”

“Yeah well, I still don’t think it’s a big deal.” Grantaire shrugs. Enjolras has the sudden urge to bang his head against the nearest wall.

“How are your rights not a big deal?! God, Grantaire, do you not want to be able to get married in your own city?”

The cynic lets out a mirthless laugh, “It’s not like anyone will ever wanna marry me anyway. So, again I say, there’s no point.”

Oh.

Ow.

No matter how silly and cliché it sounds, something inside Enjolras actually hurts at hearing the other man’s words. Then, before he can think about what he’s saying, he looks Grantaire in the eye and tells him “That’s not true.”

For a moment they just look at each other. “Hm. Well.” Grantaire mutters and suddenly pushes himself off of the sofa and walks into the kitchen, and starts looking through all of the cupboards which are probably bare as usual.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras says, stepping up behind Grantaire. He doesn’t realise how close they’re standing until Grantaire lets out a yelp and almost falls over himself at hearing Enjolras’ voice in his ear.

“Fuck! Scary bastard.” Grantaire grips the counter in an attempt to steady himself, and Enjolras can’t help but smirk just a little bit. “I was looking for something to make for lunch, but Jesus, Apollo, don’t you ever eat? The beggars of King’s Landing have more food than you do.”

Enjolras’ automatic scowl returns, though with less heat behind it than before. “I told you not to call me that.” Then he remembers all of what Grantaire said and asks, “King’s what?”

“King’s Landing. Game of Thrones?” Enjolras just simply looks at Grantaire for more explanation who actually lets out a girly squeal. “You haven’t seen Game of Thrones?! Seven save us all.”

“I know of it. And you and Bahorel have quoted the damn books often enough at me it’s a bit hard not to know some details but I’ve never watched it, no.” 

“This is unacceptable.” Enjolras feels himself being ushered out of his own kitchen.

“R, what the hell are you doing?” He tries not to think too much about his brain supplying Grantaire’s nickname which he never usually calls him.

“I am making coffee. You are going to get your laptop and then we are watching Game of Thrones. And no dawdling! You’re two and a half seasons late to the party.” He considers arguing, but remembering that he has to keep Grantaire distracted all day to get the party ready, Enjolras just lets out an indignant huff and goes to find his laptop as instructed.

While Grantaire makes the coffee, Enjolras hunts for his laptop and searches for links to the first season of Game of Thrones. By the time the coffee is ready, Enjolras has the laptop connected to the TV and everything is ready to go.

They both settle on the couch with their coffees after Enjolras hits play. “I’m sure that you’ll love the Lannisters.” Mutters beside him. “They’re all about the people.”

Enjolras hums in reply, and considers this, deciding to listen out for the name Lannister in the show.

He also tries not to think about how close they’re sitting, with their shoulders brushing like it’s an everyday occurrence just as the opening credits start.

Enjolras decides that he hates emotions.

Emotions are terrible things.

And so are little incestuous fucks that go by the name of Joffrey Baratheon.

“Enjy, are you crying?” Grantaire asks incredulously beside him.

“No.” He sniffs, discreetly wiping his eyes.

“It’s okay. We all loved Ned. Just let it out.”

Enjolras looks at Grantaire uncertainly, and when he sees the other man nod encouragingly at him, he goes into a massive rant.

“All done?” Grantaire asks when he is finished. Enjolras just nods, before absent-mindedly pulling out his phone and seeing all of the missed messages.

Jehan: Everything’s ready, you can bring him over now :) xox

Eponine: If you two got in an argument and you killed Taire I will castrate you with a rusty spoon x

Bahorel: STOP HAVIN ANGRY HATE SEX & GET OVER HERE FFS

“We’re late!” Enjolras exclaims, simultaneously firing off quick replies to his friends and putting his shoes and coat on.

He turns to the dumbfounded man on his sofa and hauls him up onto his feet, dragging him out the door.

“Where are we going?” Grantaire asks when they’re on their way to Enjolras’ car and, oh yeah, an explanation would help.

“A meeting.” He informs him, proud of his impromptu excuse. “Then we’re all supposed to go out for dinner or some such activity that is sure to be a major waste of our valuable time.”

Grantaire nods acquiescently  “Oh. Well is it okay if we go to my place first? I need to grab money.”

Enjolras smirks, thinking of how Grantaire just helped his plan out immensely but he simply says, “Sure” and starts to drive.

When they pull up outside Grantaire’s building about ten minutes later, Enjolras starts to get out of the car. “You can just stay out here,” Grantaire says, unbuckling his own seatbelt. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

“Oh, I insist.” Enjolras says, and he feels giddy of all things.

“Whatever.” Grantaire mutters, and they make their way up the stairs towards Grantaire’s apartment.

When they reach the door, Grantaire searches his pockets for something, before shaking his head and opening the unlocked (of course) door.

Flicking on the lights, they hear a loud roar of “Happy Birthday, Grantaire.” and see all of their friends smiling fiercely at Grantaire.

Enjolras didn’t really know how he was expecting Grantaire to react, but it was certainly a surprise when the man whispered “The fuck?”, before falling backwards into his arms.

Well, shit.

Chapter Text

Grantaire is vaguely aware of being brought over to his sofa, an arm wrapped around his waist even when he’s sitting down and voices in his hear. After a moment the words being said to him actually start to make sense.

“Grantaire? You okay?” Someone says from somewhere very close to him.

“What’s going on?” He asks, still a little confused as to why his friends are all gathered around his apartment and yes, Enjolras does in fact have his arm wrapped round him and, holy fuck, he looks concerned.

“Uh… Happy birthday!” Marius shouts while doing what looks like a feeble rendition of spirit fingers before Eponine promptly elbows him in the ribcage.

Marius’ words process and Grantaire begins to take in his apartment which looks-- damn it looks good. His friends had somehow managed to put up a big banner saying “Happy Birthday, R!” in big red letters though it’s a bit hard to make out as it looks like something has vomited glitter all over it (no doubt Jehan’s doing). There’s also multi-coloured fairy lights hanging from the ceiling and covering most of the furniture - well, what little there is.  In the corner there’s a big wooden table - that looks suspiciously like the one from Bahorel’s apartment - which has been turned into a makeshift bar, with probably about every alcohol known to man displayed on it in bottles of all sizes and colours. Dear God, there’s even a fishbowl.

But better than all of these things is the look in his friends’ eyes as they look at him expectantly and it’s then that he realises they’re all here for him. They snuck into his apartment, the brilliant bastards that they are, and threw him a fucking surprise party when he didn’t even remember his own birthday at all.

Though there’s a voice in the back of his head practically roaring No, I’m not worth all this! Why are you even here, you’re all too good for me why can’t you how worthless I am? Leave before I drag you all down with me, just go! He throws everyone his most convincing smile because, dammit, he will not ruin things for himself, not anymore, not when everyone he loves is looking at him like he’s the most important person in the room, like they actually care. He reminds himself that they are not like his parents - though these people, these fucking fantastic, amazing, perfect, beautiful, and at times batshit crazy people are more of a family than he’s ever really had.

So he smiles and says a sincere “Thank you.” Which is all the prompting his friends need to envelop him in a bone crushing group hug, which actually turns out to be more of a pile-on due to his current position on the sofa. All the while deafening cheers of “Happy birthday!” are being shouted in his ear and Courfeyrac begins a one-man chant of “For he’s a jolly good fellow” before Eponine thumps him between the eyes and that girl should get a medal one of these days.

When he’s finally allowed to breathe again his heart actually feels like it’s aching with emotion and who the fuck even knew that was possible outside of romance novels? He stands up from the couch suddenly and strides towards the makeshift bar, shouting for someone to get him a drink before he takes in all of his friends’ caring faces again and does something unforgivably stupid like cry.

It’s actually fairly tame as far as Amis parties go, considering no one has thrown up yet, Courfeyrac and Jehan’s public displays of affection have mainly been rated PG-13 and Bossuet hasn’t broken any bones and has only smashed two glasses. Compared to their usual standards it’s like they’ve turned into a room full of spinsters sipping sherry and talking about lost youth (though with Joly’s complaints about some aches and pains and trying to get everyone to have a glass of water after every alcoholic beverage, it becomes increasingly hard not to associate him with a nagging mother or grouchy old woman).

Still, Grantaire finds that he’s beginning to enjoy all of this birthday hokum, though painful memories threaten to rear their ugly heads if he is left alone for too long, which fortunately isn’t a problem as there’s always something interesting going on in one corner of the room, be it Eponine shamelessly flirting with the completely oblivious Marius or Enjolras looking at all the different kinds of alcohol like they’re going to bite him (Enjolras, who keeps turning to glance at Grantaire every few minutes with that smile and he really needs to quit it because his heart needs to calm the fuck down and this is not okay).

Grantaire assumes that either Courfeyrac or Eponine clued everyone else in on his lack of experience with birthday parties of his own (most likely Courf, as Eponine is known to have a tad more discretion and, well, tact with these sorts of things), as there had been an argument at the start of the night over how to give him “The Extreme Birthday Experience” which just ended up with Courfeyrac and Bahorel squabbling over which party games to play,

(“Pin the tail on the donkey.” Courf had suggested with a wiggle of his eyebrows and a quick wink to Jehan, before Eponine had smacked him on the arm saying “No fucking way are you turning a beloved kids’ game into innuendo, Courfeyrac. Just no.”

“No, man, I brought cards, let’s play poker!” Bahorel all but roared across the apartment, almost deafening poor Combeferre who had been standing next to him and Feuilly at the time.

“Strip poker!” Courfeyrac had chimed in.

“Or blackjack.” Bahorel continued on.

“Strip blackjack.”

“Or snap!” Bossuet suggested, as his awful luck meant that he was always terrible at real card games.

“Strip--”

“No strip poker, no strip blackjack, no strip snap, for the love of God.” Feuilly had declared around his cigarette, to the mumbled agreement of everyone else in the room.

“Strip…strip?” Courfeyrac asked and looked utterly defeated when Bahorel threw a crumpled beer can at his head.

It was about the time that Jehan whispered something in Courfeyrac’s ear about “giving him a private strip show later” that Grantaire decided that, really, they should just shut up and drink like the classy ladies they are before they see something that gives them the urge to burn their retinas with bleach.)

So it is a few hours into a relatively uneventful but still amazing party that Grantaire finds himself getting another drink by the mostly deserted bar area (he also realised that he hadn’t been drinking as much as he normally would, being only slightly buzzed when he would usually be passed out on the floor somewhere, and even the buzzed feeling is more from the overall atmosphere in the apartment and the repeated realisation that his friends care about him than the alcohol) and he feels a hand on his shoulder.

He spins around rather gracefully, only spilling about a quarter of his beer on the floor, to find Enjolras who has an amused glint in his eye and something in his hand. Grantaire looks pointedly at it with a raised eyebrow and Enjolras hands the mystery item to Grantaire, looking slightly sheepish of all things.

For a second all Grantaire can do is stare at the thing in his hands, which turns out to be something in a long flat rectangular shape, wrapped immaculately in red paper. “What’s this?” He manages after another moment of silence.

Enjolras, though he still looks nervous looks very pointedly at Grantaire for a beat before saying “A present.” as if he’s talking to a three-year-old and the amused look is back in his eyes.

Grantaire stares dumbly at the parcel in his hands and feels his heart swell as he is suddenly overcome with emotion again and, seriously, when exactly did he become a teenage girl ?

“What is it?” He asks Enjolras whose slightly amused expression turns into a full-blown smile and Grantaire should consider telling him to stop that immediately as his poor heart is confused enough as it is.

“I’m not all too familiar with the gift-giving norms myself, but I think this is the part where you, you know, open it.” And, dear God, sarcasm will get that man everywhere.

Grantaire says as much as he carefully opens the present and almost outright snorts when he sees what it is.

“’A paint-by-numbers colouring book, suitable for ages three and up’.” Grantaire reads aloud. “Are you trying to be funny, Enjy?”

Enjolras, though still smiling, turns slightly sheepish again as he says, “Actually, yeah I am.” He runs a hand through his hair nervously and looks at the ground as he continues in a rush, “Plus I know you haven’t been painting a lot lately and I was afraid of you getting out of practice so…” He dwindles off awkwardly and the sight is just so adorable Grantaire can’t help but pull the other man in for a tight hug, though is body shakes with laughter and maybe even a bit of emotion (though he’ll deny it to the day he dies - which might actually be soon if his heart doesn’t stop that damn fluttering thing).

Enjolras pats him on the back in a very Sheldon Cooper-esque manner before returning the hug with an exasperated but fond eye-roll after a minute.

“I guess you don’t completely hate it then.”

Grantaire snorts and pulls back slightly, “Don’t worry, Apollo, your attempts at humour are much appreciated.” They both chuckle quietly before Grantaire continues in a more serious tone. “Thank you, though. Really.”

Enjolras nods and they just stand like that for a few seconds before simultaneously realising just how close they’re standing and backing away a few steps, only for Grantaire to grab Enjolras by the hand and drag him over to the makeshift bar before filling up two shot glasses with fuck-knows-what and handing one over to Enjolras.

“What’s this?” He asks, taking a small sniff of the glass.

“Alcohol.” Grantaire supplies helpfully, before adding, “I think it’s high time we had some birthday shots.”

“DID SOMEONE SAY BODY SHOTS?!”

“No, Courfeyrac!” Grantaire and Enjolras shout at the same time before smiling and clinking their glasses together and downing their shots - which turn out to be the first of many.

The rest of the night passes in a blur of singing (Courfeyrac), wrestling (Bahorel, Feuilly and Eponine of all people), broken glasses (Bossuet) and alcohol (everyone - including the usually straight edge Combeferre who had actually joined Courfeyrac in the singing at one point for a lovely two-man act of Nicki Minaj’s ‘Superbass’ which will be denied until the day he dies or successfully builds a Bat Cave to disappear into).

Though he’s a little fuzzy on all of the finer details, Grantaire knows that it has been a good night when he sees all of his friends sprawled haphazardly on the floor, with Eponine curled around Marius on the floor beside the couch, Joly and Bossuet spooning underneath the table and Combeferre sandwiched between Bahorel and Feuilly somewhere beside Grantaire’s mattress which is currently occupied by Courfeyrac and Jehan (neither of whom, thank all the gods, are naked).

The only ones awake (though the term can be used loosely) now are Enjolras and Grantaire who are sitting on the sofa, reminiscing over different aspects of the night in hushed tones lest they wake up any of their fallen comrades. After a while Grantaire can feel his eyelids begin to droop but he is loath to fall asleep and never get this precious time alone with Enjolras again. His Apollo notices, however, and says to him, only slurring slightly “We should probably sleep. It’ll be hard enough waking up tomorrow as it is.”

Grantaire mumbles his assent and gracefully slumps onto Enjolras’ shoulder who, surprisingly, rather than shrugs him off, wraps his arms around the cynic’s own shoulders and almost subconsciously buries his face in Grantaire’s curls, making him wonder briefly about exactly how much Enjolras has had to drink but he is too tired and cosy and happy to really give a fuck right now, and decides to let the beautiful moment last.

Before he falls asleep he whispers, “Thank you.”

For a second he doesn’t know if Enjolras heard him before he hears a faint, “You’re welcome.” and a few breaths later, “Happy birthday, Grantaire.”

“Happy birthday, Enjolras.” Grantaire whispers in return with a yawn which earns him a chuckle from his Apollo.

Just before sleep takes him Grantaire thinks that, maybe in another world, “Happy Birthday” could be their “I love you”.

Chapter Text

As Combeferre slowly regains consciousness, he’s confused as to why his blanket smells so strongly of cigarettes and vodka, and wonders how it has apparently sprouted arms and legs that are doing their best to crush him. He’s also fairly certain blankets aren’t supposed to snore.

Cracking an eye open, Combeferre sees a shock of red hair tucked under his chin and a heavily tattooed arm draped over his shoulders from behind and suddenly everything comes rushing back; memories of drinking, several chants of “Happy birthday to you” getting more slurred with each rendition, more drinking and, dear god, Nicki Minaj flooding his mind.

Combeferre slowly untangles himself from the limbs of his sleeping friends, carefully at first so as to avoid waking them up and getting punched in the face by the part-time kick boxer and the truly terrifying ginger by his side, before remembering that they both usually sleep like the dead anyway and simply shoving Feuilly away from him and standing up.   

As he pats down his pockets for his glasses case, Ferre takes in the state of the overgrown studio apartment and all of his sleeping (or perhaps passed-out would be more accurate) friends. Bahorel and Feuilly have already curled around each other in what they will almost certainly say later is a very manly bro-like fashion. A few feet away from them on Grantaire’s mattress are Courfeyrac and Jehan who are thankfully both fully clothed (though a couple of tell-tale bruises on Jehan’s neck and collar bone show that Courfeyrac will probably never master the hands-off approach when it comes to displays of affection).

Scanning around the room Combeferre sees Joly and Bossuet lying underneath the makeshift bar, and despite their height difference Bossuet is sprawled over Joly with his head on the hypochondriac’s chest and Joly occasionally strokes along his spine making them both purr slightly in their sleep and making Bossuet resemble a big bald kitten.  Combeferre tries to be especially quiet when he sees them because training to be a nurse means that Joly has become a light sleeper and he most certainly does not want to witness Joly’s panic attack when he wakes up and realises he slept on the floor. He’ll probably have an emergency doctor’s appointment this very evening.

Lying on the floor beside the couch Combeferre is amused to see Marius and Eponine spooning and for some reason he isn’t at all surprised that Eponine is the big spoon or that, even when he’s sleeping, Marius is still blushing (and also talking quietly. Combeferre swears he can hear him murmuring something along the lines of “No, not the parmesan”).

His gaze lingers on Eponine for a moment. Though she is one of the strongest people he has ever known and is capable of bad-assery that could make even Bahorel cry or cackle wildly (there really is no in-between with that man) Combeferre has noticed that there is almost always a guarded look in her eyes, usually accompanied by dark circles that show how sleep-deprived she must be from work (her and Feuilly are the only ones who aren’t students and instead work multiple minimum wage jobs to pay rent. Though calling Bahorel a student would also be very generous as he only shows up to his lectures often enough so that he doesn’t get thrown out. Grantaire, too, only ever really shows up to fill in his hours at the art studio though Combeferre knows that he isn’t stupid - very far from it, actually).

Now, however, Eponine looks completely at ease, serene, and there’s a small smile on her lips when she occasionally tightens her hold on Marius. Though it is nice to see her take an interest in someone, Combeferre has noticed that Marius hasn’t reciprocated any of Eponine’s obvious (even by “Courfeyrac-standards”) flirting and he just hopes she doesn’t get hurt. But, as she loves to remind everyone repeatedly and often with her fists, Ferre knows that Eponine is fully capable of handling herself and wouldn’t appreciate any of what she would see as patronisation, so he pulls his gaze and thoughts away from the sleeping forms on the floor to look up at the sofa, when he proceeds to have several heart palpitations.

There, lying on the couch looking cosier than most of the real couples on the floor are Enjolras and Grantaire.  

They must have fallen asleep in some sort of sitting position, but now Enjolras is mostly slumped over the arm of the chair with Grantaire’s head tucked under his chin and the cynic lying half in his lap. If Combeferre wasn’t feeling a bit worse for wear and a bit sore (he was spooned by Bahorel all night, come on) the sight of them lying together would probably make him go on a spiel about yin and yang or opposites attracting or some such. As it is, if he doesn’t get a cup of coffee in five minutes there is a strong possibility of his head exploding.

Unfortunately, as much as he would like disappear into a cave and sleep for approximately five years, the sleeping forms on the couch are something of a delicate issue. It is a wide-known fact that Grantaire is infatuated with Enjolras and perhaps one would go as far to say his is in love with him. Combeferre knows it, their friends know it, the busker down the street knows it, and it’s probably listed in the Guinness Book of 1001 Random Facts.

Yes, Grantaire loves Enjolras from afar, but what perhaps nobody else knows is that Enjolras is not, in fact, oblivious to the other man’s feelings for him. And what their friends certainly don’t know is that Enjolras may feel…something in return, whether he is fully aware of it or not. Combeferre knows his best friend well enough to know that he is a creature of logic, of calculation and control, and perhaps isn’t ready for love just yet, at least of the romantic variety. But he also knows him well enough to notice the signs.

Little things, of course. Enjolras scanning the room for Grantaire’s face seemingly without realising it, the slightest of fond smiles at the cynic's many witty comebacks that appear before the marble mask fixes itself onto his face again.

Small signs, but signs nonetheless.

But Enjolras isn’t one for rashness, so if and when he realises his feelings for Grantaire he will take his time, figuring out every thought and feeling regarding the man till he can almost make blueprints of his own mind.  And he will almost definitely tell nobody until all of this is done. Combeferre knows this with a certainty, so he chooses not to meddle in his friends’ lives and instead resigns himself to waiting patiently until the day Enjolras feels he can disclose his feelings with his best friend, if the day does, indeed, come at all and they don’t grow old and die before Enjolras feels he has prepared enough.

And now for the matter at hand. Knowing this is a delicate issue and being an all-round swell guy, Combeferre should gently shake Enjolras awake so as to not rouse Grantaire or any of the others so as to save them both the embarrassment of being discovered cuddling of all things. That is what a good friend would do.

But Enjolras is not his friend; he is his best friend, so Combeferre feels he is perfectly justified in taking out his phone and taking a picture of the sleeping pair first, saving it as blackmail to be used at a later date.

Then, making sure he has all of his belongings, Combeferre gently, carefully, stabs Enjolras in the face with his finger to wake him up before walking towards the front door of the apartment. Enjolras tightens his hold on Grantaire for a moment instinctually but when his eyes open fully they widen in shock and, after a few seconds of looking thoroughly like a deer in the headlights, untangles himself from the cynic’s sleeping form and slowly stands up.

Blushing wildly, Enjolras stares at Combeferre who gives his best friend a small nod and an almost imperceptible wink before gesturing towards the door with his head. After a second understanding dawns on Enjolras’ face and he grins and nods: he knows what Combeferre is going to do.

Giving his friend one last wave, he turns and opens the door carefully, quietly, and when he steps into the hallway, slams it closed behind him as loudly as he can making a sound akin to a thunderclap. He listens with great amusement from the hall as he hears his rudely awakened friends groaning and mumbling and cursing, and walks home grinning like an idiot picturing all of their hung over selves on clean-up duty. Usually Combeferre would be right along with them, usually forcing the black bags and sponges into everyone else’s hands, but he is tired and he has been spooned and everyone is allowed to be a dick once in a while.

Chapter Text

Her nametag reads ‘Musichetta’.

No one actually knows who she is or where she came from, but one day when they come into the Café Musain for their usual get-together, there’s a new waitress with long auburn curls that flow down to her waist, accentuating her curvy figure and caramel skin, and her light brown eyes the colour of the coffee she serves.

She is undoubtedly the most entrancing woman Bossuet has ever seen. 

For a moment he is struck with a feeling of panic, remembering Joly - his boyfriend Joly - on his arm. Except he needn’t have worried at all, since his gaze seems fixed on the new waitress as well. In fact, gazing around the room and taking in his friend’s faces, Bossuet realises that they are all staring at the new arrival as well, to an appreciative once-over (Courfeyrac and Grantaire), a look of impressed envy (Eponine and Jehan), and outright ogling (Bahorel, Feuilly, Marius, Combeferre of all people and…Joly?).

In fact, the only one not openly gaping at this point is Enjolras, which wouldn’t be surprising except he keeps stealing glances at Grantaire when he thinks no one’s looking. Strange. Hopefully they haven’t had a fight or something.

Bossuet is pulled out of his reverie when the Amis seem to realise simultaneously that they’ve all been standing in the doorway checking out the new waitress, so with a lot of blushing and throat clearing they make their way to the counter to order their coffees or fancy green teas (Jehan).

Everyone is pleasantly surprised when the waitress - Musichetta? - turns to them all and flashes them a blinding smile, which everyone feels compelled to return, even their beloved fearless leader. Grantaire is at the front of the line and before he can get his order out Musichetta holds up a hand to silence him and says, “Let me guess; large coffee. Black, like your soul.”

Though there are some spluttering noises from the back of the line, Grantaire simply raises an impressed eyebrow, clearly not offended in the slightest, and says “Yeah. How’d you guess?”

The woman merely chuckles and informs him, “I have a knack for guessing people’s orders. It’s a gift.”

So they decide to humour her and by the time nearly everyone has their exact drink order without saying a word, all the Amis appear to be on the verge of swooning. All that’s left is Enjolras and Combeferre.

Combeferre steps up to the bat first, and the barista/waitress/coffee whisperer raises an eyebrow before saying, “Medium caramel latte, with approximately half the bottle of caramel syrup poured in but - for some unknown reason - no sugar. Coming right up.” If this were an anime cartoon Ferre would probably have big pink love hearts popping out of his eyes and a pink hue of sparkles dancing around his head. As it is, he nods his thanks and hands over the money without his hands shaking too much.

“Ah, now for the Abercrombie model.” Musichetta announces as Enjolras steps up to the counter, much to the amusement of Grantaire and Courfeyrac who are laughing so hard they may actually pull something. “Hmm, curiouser and curiouser… Let’s see… Large coffee - with fair trade beans of course - soy milk and exactly a teaspoon and a half of sugar.”

For a moment the two stare each other down, before Enjolras hands her his money - exact change, of course - and grits out a “Thank you.” As they make their way to the back room of the café which they unofficially own now, Bossuet whispers into Joly’s ear, “She’s magical.” Joly nods his head slightly dazedly in agreement before they take their seats and go about their business as usual.

After about a half hour or so, everything is as it should be, with Enjolras ranting about the cause of the day with Combeferre and Courfeyrac (and by extension, Jehan, seeing as he’s perched on Courf’s lap), Bahorel trying to make Feuilly arm wrestle him while Feuilly promptly flips him off as he is trying to teach himself Polish from his pocket phrasebook, fuck you all very much, Grantaire drawing in his battered sketchbook (guess who) and Eponine attempting to flirt with a very much oblivious Marius.

Bossuet is in his usual seat next to Joly as his boyfriend reads through his medical journal and claims to have at least three new diseases every few pages. Yes, everything is normal and the new waitress all but forgotten.

Which is of course when she comes in to take away their cups.

Which is of course when Bossuet drops his onto the floor, where it smashes into pieces.

Bossuet immediately drops to the floor to pick up the pieces when - of course - he cuts his hand on a shard of the white ceramic.

“Oh my god, Bossuet, you’re bleeding! You could have an infection! You could lose your hand! What if it gets into your bloodstream, oh god, Bossuet no, you’re too young to die, don’t leave me Bossuet!”

“Joly, I’m fine--”

“Hey,” both their heads snap up to see Musichetta standing over the mess with a sort of sympathetic smile, and they both promptly shut up. “Oh, you cut your hand.” She takes Bossuet’s hand in hers and begins to coo over the small slice. “It’s not very deep. Come with me and I’ll clean it up.”

Bossuet attempts to splutter that, really, he’s fine, he’s had worse, but Joly nods his head furiously and all but shoves his boyfriend into a standing position. “Please. Save him. And remember to disinfect it!”

Musichetta just smirks at him and says, “It’s okay, I know what I’m doing.” and it shows how much of a classy lady she is that she didn’t even say this isn’t my first rodeo. She then winks and Joly goes form worrying about Bossuet to worrying about his own heart rate as it is certainly irregular. Bossuet shoots him a comforting smile before following the waitress into what he assumes must be the staff room where she pulls out a first aid kit.

He keeps muttering apologies as she goes about cleaning the cut, disinfecting it and bandaging it. Every time she just chuckles and assures him that it’s fine, and in what seems like no time at all they are returning to their usual table, where Courfeyrac greets him with a loud, “It’s alive!” before Jehan slaps him lightly on the shoulder, which makes Courf retaliate in a fashion that probably isn’t appropriate for a café in the middle of the day. Bossuet thanks Musichetta and apologises a few more times before she shushes him and he takes his seat again.

As she cleans up the broken cup - without damaging herself - she gives Bossuet a playful smile and when she returns from disposing of the pieces to pick up the rest of the cups, she leans in to his ear and whispers, “I get off at five.”

Bossuet must have several heart palpitations when her words finally register but he eventually manages to splutter, “Um, sorry, wow, but um, he’s my boyfriend.” He then gestures towards Joly with his head.

Musichetta’s grin somehow manages to grow wider before she leans in again, very close, and purrs, “Bring him.” before slinking off to clear the other tables.

After relaying the information to Joly, who does a strange flailing thing with his arms for a moment, they both somehow find themselves agreeing to meet up with a beautiful, mysterious, fucking magical woman when she gets out of work.

Bossuet believes that this is the day he became the luckiest man in the world.

“Oh, you’re learning Polish? To jest niesamowite! Mówię trochę po sobie.”

It is also the day that Feuilly came in his pants in the middle of the Café Musain.

Chapter Text

Feelings, Enjolras discovers, are fickle, confusing and above all else, illogical things.  For weeks he has tried to figure out his feelings towards Grantaire, has tried to treat the situation like any other task or conundrum in his life, and has still come short of finding any sort of explanation.

However, during these last few weeks Enjolras has been…studying Grantaire more, learning things about him that he’s never noticed before. For example, he’s noticed that when all of their friends are together Grantaire is always one for casual touches; light pats on the arm, hugs in lieu of greeting or even just brushing shoulders with someone while they walk. But when it comes to Enjolras he seems to distance himself, apologising quietly every time they accidentally come into contact, and for some reason this worries Enjolras more than it probably should.

Because maybe he’s wrong. What if after all this time - the arguments, the mild resentment, and just generally not getting along - Grantaire no longer has feelings for him, what if he’s moved on, what if the feelings he once had towards Enjolras have turned to distain or even hate?

Because - as much as Jehan would have the world believe - life isn’t one big love story. Though Enjolras admits that he thought this had the potential to be relatively simple, what if mutual feelings just aren’t enough? What if his and Grantaire’s opinions and personalities simply clash too much and they lose even the strained acquaintanceship they started out with?

For once in his life, Enjolras doesn’t have a plan, he doesn’t know what to do, and that terrifies him more than he’d care to admit.

So he finds himself doing what he always does when at a loss.

He calls Combeferre.

It is only after he has taken out his phone and dialled Combeferre’s number that Enjolras realises he is calling his best friend about relationship problems (can he even call it that?) of all things. He can’t just call Combeferre about his feelings like a teenager with a crush, he’ll never live it down. Maybe he could call Courfeyrac, or write an anonymous article on an online advice forum or find out if the Equilibrium concept is actually real, though he doesn’t want to get rid of all emotions of course--

“Hello?”

Combeferre’s voice cutting into his internal struggle succeeds in making Enjolras’ heart attempt to leap out of his chest. Well, it’s a bit late now, his inner self pats him on the back.

“Hello.” He replies, making his voice as neutral as possible.

“…You called me?” Combeferre prompts a bit tiredly after a few seconds of silence and, oh yeah, Enjolras’d forgotten the relatively late hour. But he’s awake now so he might as well come out with it.

He’s going to tell him. He’s going to say, I have feelings for Grantaire, and it will be very easy and simple. Yes, he’s going to do it.

“Did I leave my jacket at your apartment?”

Later. He’ll do it later. Really.

“No..?” By this point Combeferre sounds awfully confused and just about done with everyone so Enjolras hastily ends the call and tells him he’ll see him at the next meeting.

Which of course makes him remember on hanging up that Grantaire will be at said meeting, and of course he’ll unleash all of his sarcastic cynicism after every statement Enjolras makes, and of course Enjolras will get angry and yell at Grantaire and then feel like a dick because those eyes should be filled with happiness and life, those blue, blue eyes--

Before he even realises what he’s doing, Enjolras already has his phone in his hand to call Combeferre again.

“Hello, Enjolras.” Combeferre greets in his I-may-sound-calm-but-say-one-wrong-thing-and-I-will-destroy-everything-you-love voice, so Enjolras apologises, says it can wait until tomorrow and hangs up again.

But he still can’t get any of those stupid thoughts out of his head, but before Enjolras can do anything about it, his phone rings and, checking the caller ID, is surprised to find that it is Combeferre.

“Hel--?”

“I can hear you thinking from here. I’m going back to sleep now. And for the love of god, just ask him out already.” And with that he hangs up.

Enjolras to this day maintains that his best friend is psychic. Or a wizard.

A sometimes unhelpful and awfully sarcastic wizard.

But definitely wizard.

Chapter Text

“Just so we’re clear; you want to go out for drinks.”

“Yes.”

“With me.”

“Yes.”

“To ‘get to know me better’.”

“Yes.”

Enjolras swears that the plan had sounded much better in his head - to be fair, he’s lucky he has a plan at all, considering.

He had decided to confer with Combeferre the night after the semi-disastrous phone calls but choosing the Musain as their destination to have the uncomfortable but necessary Grown-Ass-Man-With-A-Crush conversation proved to be rather unwise as shortly after arriving they ran into Courfeyrac and, well…

When Enjolras finally admitted that yes, he does indeed have romantic feelings for the man he has been arguing with almost non-stop for years, it took roughly five minutes for Courfeyrac to stop his flailing arm movements and strangled noises, fifteen minutes for him to be pried from the Koala Grip of Death he had Enjolras in and a further ten minutes to stop crying. Even after he’d calmed down he still spent approximately half an hour suggesting ways for Enjolras to “throw Grantaire down by the fire James Bond style” and Combeferre somehow managed to look about as uncomfortable as Enjolras felt even while calmly explaining that Enjolras doesn’t have a real fireplace nor does he have a bearskin rug and also just no.

However, Courfeyrac eventually calmed down enough for the three of them to come up with the simple but efficient plan that didn’t involve any bottle-spinning or sweeping love declarations: invite Grantaire out to some bar or another in aid to ‘get to know him better’ and ‘try to get him more involved with the group activities’.

(“Like a not-date! That way if you fuck it all up then at least some of your friendship is salvageable!”

“Thank you for that, Courfeyrac, my confidence is so high right now. You should give advice to self-conscious teenage girls.” Enjolras deadpanned.

“…Did you just liken yourself to a teenage girl?”

“…No comment.”)

So now here he is, calling Grantaire to ask him out on a not-date and feeling like an absolute idiot.

“Okay.”

“I mean of course I would understand if you didn’t-- wait what?”

“I said okay? Sure.” Enjolras can’t help but note that Grantaire sounds terribly amused and starts to panic because surely if you like someone you wouldn’t laugh at their expense?

But then again - Grantaire.

 His internal monologue almost prevents him from hearing Grantaire’s next words. “We can go to the Corinth or something?”

“Oh. Okay. Good. Yes.” The Corinth is the local not-quite bar, not-quite club, right around the corner from the Musain. It’s quiet enough that they won’t have to holler at each other to have a conversation but just loud enough to stop any awkward silences.

Plus, cheap drinks are always a good thing when you need to drown your embarrassment.

So Enjolras hopes that the relief doesn’t sound too obvious in his voice as he continues. “I’ll pick you up at eight?”

“Cool. See you then.” And with that Grantaire hangs up, leaving Enjolras alone in his apartment with six hours - six hours - to kill. He decides that the first thing he should do is find clothes for later.

However, while he is rummaging through his wardrobe a few minutes later he realises that he has no idea what to wear to a not-date (and damn Courfeyrac to the deepest pits of hell for giving it that title). He’ll probably make a fool out of himself if he wears anything too fancy, so no three piece suits or sequin dresses and feather boas or whatever it is posh people wear on a night out (not that he owns a suit).

But then again, if he wears his casual everyday clothes maybe it’ll seem like he doesn’t care. But if he doesn’t wear his everyday clothes then it might look suspicious and Grantaire’ll definitely know something is up and why did he think this was a good idea again?

Finally deciding that post-panic attack certainly isn’t a good look on anyone, Enjolras tries to calm down and think rationally when it suddenly occurs to him that maybe he should get a little outside help, and he goes through the list of possible helpers in his mind quickly.

Combeferre, though his best friend, has never been all that interested clothes (though according to Courfeyrac he has mastered the art of ‘geek chic’ whatever that is) so would probably be of little help. Courfeyrac probably has the best fashion sense of them all but his advice would no doubt be accompanied by lengthy discussions about the best ways to seduce Grantaire and which brand of condoms allow for more pleasure and Enjolras will be forced to punch him in the throat. Jehan would probably spend the whole time talking about true love or asking Enjolras if he has a colour scheme for the wedding or possible baby names, and send him out looking like something from the Thrift Shop video besides. Feuilly will be at work and Bahorel would probably show up just to laugh in his face, tell him to ‘man up’ (good-naturedly of course) and go home again. Joly and Bossuet will probably be spending time with their new…friend Musichetta, and he’d more than likely get annoyed at Marius and make him cry, and Enjolras really doesn’t want to meet up with Grantaire while feeling guilty about bringing on Pontmercy’s kicked puppy expression. That only leaves…

“Hey, ‘Ponine!” Enjolras finds himself greeting Eponine - AKA his last chance - a half hour later with what he hopes is his brightest smile.

“Don’t “hey, ‘Ponine” me.” Eponine all but growls as she charges into Enjolras’ apartment and makes herself at home on the couch. “Do you know what time I got home from work at? Four AM! Only to go home to my shitty apartment - that I don’t even think has a functioning lock - for a few hours of sleep. Then I get woken up at this un-fucking-godly hour with orders to “come here immediately if it’s convenient”. Needless to say, I’m not in the best of moods and I love you and all Enjy, but I haven’t even had my coffee yet so if this isn’t important I will murder you. In the face.”

“Okay--”

“And no one will find your body either. Let’s just say I know someone who makes some mean meat pies.”

And there’s some incentive to explain the whole situation as quickly as possible if he ever heard one.

“I need your help.” He starts.

“I gathered.” Eponine informs him with an eye roll and a flippant hand gesture that is probably meant to make him continue. So he does just that.

“I asked Grantaire out earlier and now I need some advice.” He admits in a rush, and before he knows it two arms are pushing Enjolras against his front door as dangerously dark eyes stare at him from under thick brown bangs.

“Wanna run that by me again, Enjolras?” Eponine whispers with an upturn to her lips that is by no means a smile.

“I, uh, I asked Grantaire out..?” He manages to stammer before the woman pinning him against the door quiets him with a Look.

“Did Courfeyrac put you up to this?” She asks, her hold tightening slightly and her eyes promising a slow painful death if she doesn’t like his answer.

“No!” Enjolras shouts with all the dignity that he can muster while being pinned by a woman who is at least a head shorter than him and is thinner than most models.

“Well then why did you ask R out?” Eponine demands hotly.

The question makes Enjolras squirm, “I shouldn’t have to explain myself to--”

Eponine is having none of it. “Why?”

“Because I think I love him, okay?!”

Wait, what? Since when was love a factor in all of this? He knew he had strong feelings for Grantaire, yes, but love…

Eponine’s shocked expression shows that she must be as surprised as he is at the sudden confession. Then, in a matter of seconds, the arms that had him pinned are now encircling him in a bone-crushing hug and Eponine is squealing excitedly - and loudly, goddamn - in his ear, even going so far as to bounce up and down slightly on the spot, still clinging tightly to Enjolras.

Before this can go on for too long, however, Eponine pins him against the door again to growl, “If I find out that this is a sick joke or a way for you to experiment and find out what it’s like to be a real boy or whatever, I will cut off your balls and feed them to you. Got it?”

Enjolras finds that all he can do is nod slightly and try not to cry, but this seems to be enough for Eponine who goes back to jumping up and down excitedly, chanting “I fucking knew it!” repeatedly.

Enjolras watches her with equal parts amusement and confusion at how she knew of Enjolras’ feelings before he did before he asks, “Are you quite finished?”

“Hey, fuck you, I’ve been waiting for this moment for three fucking years, I’m allowed to freak out a little, asshole.” Though there is no bite in her voice and the smile hasn’t left her face once.

When she decides that she is indeed finished she asks Enjolras what he’s wearing.

“Ah. That is where the problem lies, I’m afraid. I just don’t know, ‘Ponine!”

At hearing this Eponine immediately switches to Business Mode - even going so far as to put her hair in a bun and materialize a pair of glasses from her pocket -  and asks for the details of the not-date, from where they’re going almost down to how many breaths they’re going to take per hour. After mulling over the information for a minute she says two simple words; “Smart casual.”

“Okay…and that is..?”

Eponine lets out a noise that can only be described as a wail of despair before demanding that Enjolras take her to his wardrobe. They then proceed to spend another hour going through every article of clothing in Enjolras’ closet, not much being said except, “No…nope… god no…Who even owns corduroy pants in this era…no… no… Jehan wouldn’t even wear this…no” et cetera.

Finally Eponine and Enjolras put together an outfit consisting of a simple red button-up shirt, a pair of black skinny jeans and black Converse shoes.

“Got any ironic Buddy Holly glasses?” Eponine teases before seeing the worried expression on Enjolras’ face and quickly assuring him that his clothes are fine and he does not at all look like a particularly gorgeous hipster.

Somehow, despite the various insults and very creative death threats Eponine has thrown his way, he feels a lot more confident about this date (because it definitely is a date, even if Grantaire doesn’t know it quite yet) and he even feels a lot closer to the girl herself. They’ve been friends as long as most of the Amis but this is probably the most time they’ve spent together, well, ever.

Eponine makes to leave shortly after but before going she hesitates at the door and turns around, looking undecided for a moment before starting almost sadly, “Look. I know I talk a big game but Grantaire really does like you - yes, he does.” Eponine stops Enjolras before he can even begin to voice his uncertainties. “Maybe even too much for his own good at times, but I suppose that can’t really be helped. But please, if you’re going to do this promise me you mean it. Grantaire may be my best friend but you’re the only one who can make or break him, and people have been trying to break him all his life…” Eponine trails off for a moment with a far-away look in her eyes, as if witnessing something that happened a long time ago, before catching herself and addressing Enjolras again.

“Anyway, I know that when it comes to these things you’re pretty much an emotionally stunted llama, and you and R’s personalities clash so much that if this does work out - sorry, when this works out, because we all know it will - that there will be petty arguments where one of you will say the wrong thing and you’ll both feel like shit and sometimes it’ll fall to the rest of us to pick up the pieces.

“But you can’t let that scare you off. Yes, Grantaire has his past and you’ve both got problems, everybody has their own personal shit to deal with, but part of being in a relationship is helping each other out with all that stuff, even if it’s just to remind the other person (or persons for that matter, but that’s a whole different discussion) that there is someone who cares about them. And Grantaire may be more fragile than he lets on but he isn’t broken and you can’t treat him like damaged goods. You can’t be his boyfriend and try to save him at the same time, it just doesn’t work.

“Also Enjolras, I’m sorry, but I think that sometimes you need an actual physical reminder that you’re a human being with feelings and needs and urges and I really really did not intend for this to sound like a birds and the bees talk. Basically, you’re allowed to be happy and sad and confused and nervous about dates just like the rest of us. Remember that and I promise you’ll both be better off.”

When Eponine is finished Enjolras stands there speechless and they both might be crying a tiny bit, but somehow it’s not awkward at all. However, the moment is thoroughly ruined when Eponine claps her hands together and lets out a small whoop, “Well that got real heavy real fast. But yeah just wear the damn clothes, don’t be an ass, listen to my advice and remember I will murder you--”

“In the face, got it.” Enjolras finishes for her, fully aware that he is more than likely grinning like a loon.

“And turn you into a--”

“Meat pie, I’ll remember. Thanks ‘Ponine.”

“No problem.” Eponine hugs him quickly - which is an awkward experience for both of them and should really never happen again - and leaves, calling a quick “Enjoy your date!” over her shoulder as she exits the apartment.

 By some miracle when Enjolras checks his watch it’s already close to six o’clock.

Time really does fly when people are threatening to murder you, after all.

Chapter Text

When Enjolras picks Grantaire up at eight o’clock sharp, he decides that life isn’t fair at all and God probably hates him because R just looks so damn calm and not at all like he’s been nervous, stressed or had his life threatened numerous times over the course of the last six hours. Grantaire just steps out of his apartment building looking simply delectable - which is worrying in itself because Enjolras never knew that term could be applied to anything other than chocolate chip pancakes, let alone a human being - and slides on into the car with nothing but a quiet “Hey.” Then their arms brush as Grantaire puts on his seatbelt and Enjolras has never been as hyper-aware of his close proximity to another person in his life and for now all he can hope for is to get them both to The Corinth in one piece without fixating on Grantaire’s goddamned elbow.

He decides that it’s going to be a very long night, and is just thankful that at least one of them is relatively composed.

Grantaire is fairly certain he’s going to have a panic attack when Enjolras calls him to say he’s outside and he’s pretty sure that he’s hyperventilating which is ridiculous because he’s just going out for a few drinks with a friend. At least he can actually call Enjolras his friend now, which is honestly more than he could ever realistically hope for in this lifetime.

Besides, Enjolras doesn’t even drink all that much (-“I think it’s high time we did some birthday shots.”-)  and it’s not like he and Grantaire have ever been particularly close anyway (-“Happy Birthday, Grantaire.” And he feels arms wrap around him, warm, always so warm, and they fall asleep together-) so they’ll probably go to The Corinth, have a beer, do the whole obligatory getting-to-know-you spiel before having an argument over something as mundane as beermats or some shit, go home in bad spirits and feel terrible for the next few days.

It’s just how they work. Grantaire has stopped letting himself even dream that things could be better between them, easier, maybe… more. But like someone said at some point in history or in a move or some such, if you don’t hope for things then you’ll never be disappointed, and Grantaire’s tired of disappointment.

So he’ll count every good day as a victory, and probably do a happy dance over the fact that at least Enjolras doesn’t hate him when he goes home.

Just because he doesn’t hate you doesn’t mean he likes you. But you’ll take his useless pity anyway, won’t you? Take anything you can get, like a dog looking for scraps--

No. Grantaire won’t let himself think like that, not anymore. Because even if it is true, Enjolras asked him to be here, and Enjolras never wastes time on a lost cause. Somehow, in some small way, Grantaire is important to Enjolras, and that thought alone is enough for him to gather the strength to tell Gollum - the name he’s given to all the negative thoughts in his head - to fuck off, if only for tonight. Or, perhaps more fittingly, to leave now and never come back.

Tonight, he’s just going to absorb Enjolras’ usual calm, have a few drinks, and hopefully part ways with a beautiful man that he can call friend.

Enjolras realises that Grantaire smells like coconut.

Delectable, his traitorous mind whispers.

Enjolras is not okay.

On the short drive to the bar, Grantaire takes the opportunity to casually eye-fuck Enjolras while he’s forced to keep his eyes on the road. He looks good - well, he always looks good - but tonight especially. There’s something different about his appearance, though nothing’s really new except that he’s wearing a shirt instead of a t-shirt but he still looks… smarter?

For a fleeting moment Grantaire wonders if maybe Enjolras made the extra effort for him, before crushing the thought and telling himself that he probably just wanted to look presentable because they’re going to a sort-of club, that’s all.

He takes one last look at Enjolras’ face, and he looks like he’s concentrating very hard on something, like he’s trying to figure out the secrets of the universe. So Grantaire leaves him to his no-doubt important thoughts and they sit in silence.

… Is Grantaire wearing lip balm?

Grantaire feels a little calmer when he’s in The Corinth’s familiar surroundings, a little less like he’s going to need to breathe into a paper bag at any minute. Neither of them has spoken since Grantaire was picked up, so things are a bit tense as they go to the bar, order their drinks and find a small table in one of the more secluded areas of the club where you don’t have to shout too much to be heard. They then proceed to drink at each other for a few minutes before Enjolras finally breaks the painfully awkward silence.

“So… what’s your favourite colour?”

Grantaire can’t help it, he laughs in Enjolras’ face and oh my god, is Enjolras fucking blushing? Eventually he composes himself enough to ask, “What the hell kind of question is that, Enjy?”

Enjolras seems a bit perturbed by the use of his nickname, but continues nonetheless, “As I said earlier, there’s still a lot I don’t know about you.”

“It’s fine, I mean it’s not like you’ve ever cared before.” Grantaire instantly regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, even if what he said was true, because Enjolras just looks like someone shot a puppy right in front of him and Grantaire feels like an utter asshole.

“I know I’ve treated you very poorly most of the time I’ve known you,” Enjolras starts sadly, picking at the label of his bottle and resolutely not looking Grantaire in the eye, “and there isn’t a day goes by that I don’t regret it. But I’m trying to change that, if you’ll permit it.”

And he just looks so adorably crestfallen that Grantaire blurts out, “Green!”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow and looks at him as if checking for signs of momentary insanity, “What’s green?”

“My favourite colour. It’s green. My favourite bands are The Smiths and The Doors and if you ask me to choose my favourite movie my brain may very well explode which, messy, so I wouldn’t do that. My favourite food is peanut butter and banana sandwiches; my favourite drink is, well, alcohol, and coffee and I love cats but I’m probably more of a dog person.” Grantaire realises that he’s rambling and this feels a little too much like bearing his soul for comfort so he adds with his usual sarcastic smirk, “I also like long walks on the beach and men who cry.”

“Good to know,” Enjolras chuckles with a small shake of his head before turning to Grantaire again and asking, “Hey, you know I still don’t know your first name?”

“Nor shall you ever, my dear Enjolras.” No one knows why, but it’s sort of been a running joke that most of the Amis call each other by their surnames. Grantaire only realises now that he doesn’t know Enjolras’ first name either, but he’d rather not ask.

Enjolras starts to do the petulant child huffing thing which is nothing short of adorable. “I want to know.”

“Why, so you can scream it later?” Grantaire quips with a wink and instead of the angry retort he was expecting Enjolras’ eyes go comically wide and he blushes like a maiden before averting his eyes and letting the subject drop. Huh.

Grantaire decides that it’s his turn for questions. “So what has you all dressed up? You planning on abandoning me for some secret lover?” He jests, taking a sip of his beer.

“Not exactly.” Enjolras mutters, and Grantaire has to try very very hard not to choke on his drink.

“What?” He asks when he’s capable of speech once more, “You mean you do have a secret lover on the go?”

“Well no,” Enjolras splutters, blushing furiously again, “at least not yet, I mean, I was hoping that maybe by the end of tonight…”

Oh.

Everything makes sense now. Inviting Grantaire out, the nice clothes, coming out to a club, all along Enjolras just wanted to try and hook up, and didn’t know how to just ask for a fucking wingman.  

For an insane second, Grantaire wonders why he didn’t just ask Courfeyrac or, hell, even Combeferre to do it, or why he’s even trying to find someone after all these years of pure indifference towards any sort of romantic or sexual pursuits. Then his brain catches up on the fact that Enjolras is only using him so as to not look awkward while waiting to be picked up by someone who’ll probably be gorgeous and a member of Mensa and a Nobel Peace Prize winner and know how to make perfect pancakes and fair trade coffee and Grantaire will be left to fend for himself.

Maybe that’s why Enjolras chose him - he’s disposable. He’d feel more pressured to stick around and keep Courf or ‘Ferre company, but he’ll have no such qualms about casting Grantaire off if he finds a suitable partner.

He should have known it was too good to be true, should have fucking listened to Gollum all along, because if you think you’re worthless, and people have been telling you as much all your life, then chances are you really are fucking worthless.

And now Enjolras is looking at him weirdly and he has to smile and reply like everything’s alright, he needs to play his part like he’s supposed to, because Gollum was right, he’ll take any scrap of attention he can get.

“’Taire?”

And Grantaire can’t handle the soft concern in Enjolras’ voice, because he might start to believe that it’s concern for his well-being rather than worry that Enjolras’ plan for a good night out will be ruined by an incompetent wingman.

“I’m alright.” He lies with a smile.

Enjolras still looks unconvinced, but after a moment he says simply, “Okay.” and excuses himself to the bathroom.

Grantaire’s smile is still frozen in place after he’s gone, though he has a white-knuckled grip on the bottle in front of him and his eyes are beginning to sting. Draining the last of his beer, he decides to go to the bar and while ordering a shot of whiskey he sees a relatively attractive man on one of the bar stools, who keeps glancing over and giving Grantaire a suggestive smirk. Ordering another shot Grantaire approaches the guy and introduces himself, deciding that if Enjolras is getting laid tonight, then so will he.

Another shot.

He’ll deal with the self-loathing in the morning.

You can do this, just tell him, you can do this.

Enjolras repeats the mantra over and over again in his head, as he splashes cold water over his face and largely ignores the strange looks he’s receiving from the other men in the restroom.

You can tell him, it’s alright, it’ll be alright.

Except what if it isn’t? What if Enjolras confesses his feelings like a fool and Grantaire spurns his advances? When Enjolras mentioned maybe finding someone tonight Grantaire looked so spooked, what if he caught on that this was supposed to be a date and started to panic? Maybe when Enjolras leaves the bathrooms he’ll have already thought up an excuse to leave and never speak to him again.

No. Enjolras pushes these thoughts aside. That’s right, just tell him and it’ll be okay: he’s still you’re friend no matter what. Enjolras couldn’t be more thankful for the voice inside his head, his way of keeping himself sane and positive throughout everything.

Plus, he has been in the bathroom for a suspiciously long time.

So he leaves the bathroom, calmly telling himself that everything will be fine.

Except maybe it won’t, because Grantaire isn’t at their table. Grantaire is at the bar with another man. Another man who seems to be looking for any excuse to touch him, and then the guy is leaning in to whisper in his ear, and Enjolras sees red.

He knows that it isn’t rational in the slightest. Obviously Grantaire hasn’t picked up on the fact that this was a date, or maybe he did but he just isn’t interested and it’s not like he’s not allowed to talk to other people. Or not talk as the case may presently be…

All of these reasonable, rational thoughts are still running through Enjolras’ head even as he struts up to Grantaire (and even he can’t deny it’s anything other than a strut), grabs him by the shoulder and pulls him out of The Corinth, saying nothing but “We’re leaving.”

Surprisingly, it isn’t until they’re back in the car and almost at Grantaire’s apartment that Grantaire explodes.

“You mind telling me what the actual fuck happened back there Enjolras?” He all but snarls and Enjolras has never heard Grantaire’s voice filled with such anger before, such hatred. Enjolras knows that if he isn’t careful now, he may lose the other man entirely.

“That guy was obviously trying to take advantage of you.” Enjolras grits out as calmly as he can while focusing on keeping his eyes on the road. Good thing they’re only around the corner from Grantaire’s place.

“Oh, bullshit!” Grantaire snaps, before going dangerously quiet for a minute and continuing in an uneven voice that to an outsider would almost sound horribly amused, “What was it, you couldn’t stand to see me happy? Couldn’t wrap your head around the fact that someone might actually want me? Mad that I ruined your perfect fucking plan?”

“Grantaire, what--”

“No, don’t you fucking dare interrupt me. I wanna know what pissed you off so much that you had to physically drag me out of the club, like my fucking mom!” Grantaire pauses before letting out a hollow imitation of a chuckle, “Or maybe you just wanted to save the guy from me? Didn’t want to inflict my company on some poor soul--”

They’ve now reached Grantaire’s building, and as soon as it is relatively legal to do so Enjolras haphazardly pulls into a parking space and slams his foot on the brakes.

“Stop, Grantaire, just stop it!” He turns off the engine and unbuckles his seatbelt, turning around to face the other man fully. “When are you going to get it into your head that I actually care about you? Did it ever occur to you that maybe I was worried for your well-being and didn’t want to see someone I care about getting touched-up by some shady stranger?”

“Bitch please.” Grantaire says - he actually says that - and turns so he is mirroring Enjolras’ position. “Every time we all go out I must flirt with around twelve shady guys before I’m on my third drink and you’ve never ‘cared’ before. So what the fuck gives?”

Despite everything, Enjolras still squirms under Grantaire’s heavy scrutiny, with those blue eyes that look as cold and deadly as glaciers. “I told you. I care--”

“Yeah, ‘you care about me’, you know you keep saying that but I don’t fucking believe you. You’ve never given a shit about me before and that’s hardly changed now.”

“But I do!”

“Bullshit! You never have! And why the fuck would you?”

“Because I fucking love you, you asshole!”

Oh shit. He told him. He really told him. Enjolras doesn’t think he’s ever been as frightened in his life.

But at least it’s over now, at least Grantaire knows and won’t be hurt anymore, won’t think so little of himself and everything will be fine.

“You know what -you can be a real cunt sometimes.” Grantaire’s words are pure venom as he throws the door open and storms out of the car, slamming the door behind him.

Wait, what?

“What? Grantaire!” Before being fully aware of his actions, Enjolras leaps out of the car after him, not even bothering to take the keys out of the ignition despite the shady neighbourhood, because what the fuck is going on?

After a few seconds Enjolras has caught up with Grantaire and when he spins the other man around to face him, he sees that Grantaire is crying and Enjolras honestly wants to whimper because what the fuck did he do?

“No Enjolras. I’m done.” Grantaire sniffs, “You can look at me like I’m the shit on your shoe, you can question my life choices, Christ you can hate me but I can’t hear you joke about this. Not this. I don’t know who told you but-- You know what, no, it’s done now. You got your wish; I’ll never contact you again. Have a nice life, Apollo.”

He makes to walk away again but Enjolras grips his arm until they’re facing each other once more.

“Look, Grantaire, I don’t know what you’re talking about but you know I would never lie about something of this magnitude. Especially not when it comes to…” He flails a hand wildly in the air, trying to summarise all that he feels into words and failing rather miserably. “When it comes to this”, then, quieter “Us.”

For a moment they both just stand and breathe at each other, Grantaire looking slightly stupefied, almost like he can’t believe this is real.

“So, you really..?” Grantaire can’t seem to bring himself to say ‘the L word’ and now, out of the heat of the moment, neither can Enjolras.

So he settles for, “Yes, I do. Very much.”

“But… you can’t! You’re fucking perfect and I’m- I’m--” Grantaire chokes on a sob, and something in Enjolras breaks. In seconds he has his arms wrapped around the slightly smaller man, holding him as his shoulders shake almost minutely with barely-contained sobs. Enjolras feels a familiar hotness marking trails down his own cheeks but he couldn’t care less about saving face while crying in the middle of a parking lot.

Some things are more important than dignity.

“R,” He starts softly, hearing Grantaire sniff before continuing, “You are a good person. You’re a great friend, and a talented artist, and you even make the Twilight movies bearable with your amusing commentary,” R huffs a shaky laugh at that and Enjolras counts that as progress. “And honestly you’re one of the best, strongest people I know. And please, don’t believe for one second that you aren’t good enough - for anything, but especially me. Grantaire, contrary to belief, I am not infallible. I make mistakes and get insecure just like everyone else. And you should know better than anyone how much of an inconsiderate asshole I can be. But you give me balance, remind me that there is more than one way to look at things, more opinions than my own. Grantaire, you make me human.

“And please, please don’t never doubt my feelings for you. I know that I’ve been a dick to you and I’m sorry but believe me when I say that I love you and probably have for a really long time…I’m just sorry I didn’t figure it out sooner, and if you’ll permit it I’d like to do all that I can to make it up to you.”

By now Grantaire’s breathing has evened out and when Enjolras is finished with his unexpected monologue he lifts his head from where it was tucked under Enjolras’ chin and blinks bleary eyes at him. “You must be the most oblivious person on the face of the earth.”

“Agreed.” And somehow they’re both laughing, arms still wrapped around each other, and everything suddenly seems right. They continue to stare dumbly at each other for a few more moments before Grantaire heaves a sigh and buries his face in Enjolras’ neck.

“Just thought I’d let you know that I love you too…you asshole.” They both chuckle. “Even though we’re both crying in the middle of a parking lot with Creepy Moustache Guy from down the hall staring at us,” and sure enough there is a fairly odd moustachioed man staring at the pair from the door of the apartment building.

Enjolras sighs. “Sorry I made you cry. And for being emotionally constipated.”

“Sorry for being really fucking insecure and going bat-shit back there.”  Grantaire mutters.

“We’re so fucked aren’t we?” Enjolras asks quietly, really only half-joking.

“Yep.” Grantaire chuckles, “But at least there’s a sense of adventure!”

“Please don’t start quoting The Hobbit, R.” Enjolras moans. “I swear you’re such a nerd.”

“Aw, you love me though.” Grantaire coos, but his eyes scream the uncertainty that he really feels, so Enjolras places a light kiss on his forehead and envelops him in his arms again.

“Yes, I do.”

There they remain for what is probably an unreasonably long time, in a parking lot, near midnight, with a strange man watching them hug while stroking his moustache.

And for the first time in a very long time, in the arms of the impossible cynic that he loves, Enjolras feels like he’s home.

Chapter Text

Okay so I've left this fic hanging for months now for personal reasons that I shan't bore you with, so I've decided to end the fic here. However, I am working on a sequel which I will dedicate my full attention to when the worst of my exams etc. are over.

If you decide to leave the 'verse here then I'd like to apologise for not updating with no explanation for so long. But mostly I'd like to thank you. Thank you everyone who read this, because every single hit this fic has had has brought a smile to my face and I hope I have returned the favour maybe once or twice in the fic.

Look out for the sequel, but for now I bid you (a temporary) goodbye.

Thank you for being beautiful,

Rhianna.