Chapter Text
Grantaire is lying on Eponine's bed a few days later, studying the popcorn ceiling. He’s been stuck in a perpetual state of bitterness since the not-date. Eponine, on the other hand, has been the most bubbly she’s ever been (not that you’d be able to tell - happy Eponine is only so happy). She’s describing the kiss how a teenager might describe it in their diary, burying her face in her hands and erupting in the occasional embarrassed laugh. She must have finished at some point, though, because suddenly she’s sitting cross legged next to him.
“Is this about the thing in the bookshop?” Eponine asks, annoyed. “Because -”
“I don't want to talk about it,” Grantaire replies quickly. But actually, he kind of does, because he shuts his eyes tight and says, “Oh my god, I really, honestly thought he was gonna, yknow,” he recounts, refusing to say the dreaded word kiss like it’s some taboo swear.
“He totally was,” she assures him, “there’s literally no other way that could have played out.”
“Unless your best friend texts you in the middle of it, actually, because that's the way it played out, ‘Ponine.”
“Well I’m sorry,” she snaps back, and then “I really, really am,” because she is. “I just… you haven't even tried texting him since then? You can’t just avoid him forever, R.”
Grantaire groans because he knows that but that's a problem for Friday Grantaire, when he meets with Les Amis again. Or he could just not go, which sounds more and more enticing with each passing minute.
“But I don't want to,” he whines.
“Have you considered, just, like, talking to him? Saying words to him? Acknowledging it?” She asks exasperatedly. Grantaire makes a face at that. He knows that he should and that that's probably the best thing to do (hi, Enj, I’m in love with you - actually I’ve been in love with you for years, sorry about what happened two days ago, and also leave me alone forever so I can be at peace, thanks) but it's really hard and Grantaire can't imagine a whole confessing-in-the-rain scene with Enjolras. He doesn’t really even know what he wants to say to him - I love you seems too bold, What the fuck happened two days ago seems too brash, and anything in between seems pathetic. Whatever. Be in love with Enjolras forever and then die, it seems.
“I really think that maybe if you just talk to him things won't be as bad as they seem.” She hesitates, and then adds, “Cosette said he’s been in ‘a mood’ since the not-date.” That word is starting to feel less fun and convenient and more like a personal jab at Grantaire.
“That makes two of us, I guess,” he mutters.
Eponine gives him the irritated sigh of a mother. “R, you’re being pathetic and not even in a cute, pitiable way that I would maybe understand. Now get off my bed because I’m having a mall date with Cosette and we’re gonna steal from Claires.”
He scrunches up his nose. “Claires?”
She shrugs. “Love has changed me, I guess.”
Grantaire tries to watch a documentary when he gets home. It’s something about welding and fire and steel (or maybe iron), but he can't pay attention to it because his mind keeps wandering back to Enjolras’ hand on his thigh. His thigh. Thats, like, peak porn material. Shitty table TV porn.
Grantaire lets out a cathartic, frustrated noise because it seems that every time he thinks just maybe, perhaps, possibly Enjolras could somehow have a smidge of a crush on him, he goes and fucks it up and suddenly they're not talking again. Grantaire tries to remember what made Enjolras go silent. His phone? Cosette? Eponine? Does Enjolras just have a personal vendetta against texting? If that was the case, Grantaire would probably throw his phone in the garbage and not think twice about it. Probably revert to romantic letter-writing and carrier pigeons.
Suddenly, Grantaire finds himself angry. It’s shocking, because Grantaire is never active or passionate about anything, but he becomes very embittered very quickly. It's not fair, he thinks resentfully, Eponine gets her happy fairytale ending and some John Hughes style first kiss scene and I just get blueballed in a musty bookstore. And not even in the porn section.
He can envision the pathetic future vividly - Grantaire, stealing yearning glances at Enjolras; Enjolras, oblivious; neither of them mentioning it (it), until it fades into an ugly ink stain in their past that Enjolras will eventually forget and Grantaire never, ever will. Because he can't. Because he kind of doesn't want to. Be in love with Enjolras forever and then die, he tells himself. Die without closure. Be in love with Enjolras forever and never get the satisfaction of rejection, the certainty of a firm ‘no.’ For the first time, the thought horrifies him, because actually this whole wingman thing has made everything a hundred times worse. Because before, it was easy for Grantaire to believe Enjolras indubitably wanted nothing to do with him. Because before, Grantaire was so far away from Enjolras in every regard that to hope for anything was unthinkable - the certainty of impossibility was preferable to the uncertainty of almost, maybe, perhaps. Because now Grantaire has hope - unfounded, disillusioned hope, he reminds himself, but hope nonetheless and he just can't shake it no matter how hard he tries. Eponine's voice, clear as day, rings through his head: “I do not accept that,” and then, “We have nothing to lose,” and for the first time Grantaire gets it - what could he possibly ruin now? What has yet to be desecrated?
Fuck it, he thinks, because he’s slipping on his shoes and getting on the bus and arriving at Enjolras’ apartment, simple as anything.
Well, not really simple as anything, because Grantaire is standing shaky in front of Enjolras’ apartment (on his doormat that says Egalité, in front of his red door - it would be funny, maybe, if Grantaire didn't feel like throwing up). He tries to compose himself. He fails. Time to text Eponine.
GRANTAIRE: dude im at enjs house bc i was feeling spontaneous but im kinda losing the fire here
send help
EPONINE: uh
shitty cable tv porn???
Grantaire groans. He should get better friends. Actually, he should just be a better friend, because if he wasn’t such a shithead to Eponine when she was nervous she would probably feel more inclined to help him. Karma. Whatever.
He takes a few deep breaths and is about to knock on the door when it swings open. Am I magic? he wonders, before he is struck with the awful reality: Enjolras has opened the door, just on his way out, and Grantaire is on his doorstep like a creep. Shit.
Enjolras is wide-eyed, lips parted in surprise. “Um,” he says.
“Um,” Grantaire says.
“I didn't know you were coming over, sorry, I-”
“I didn’t tell you, actually.”
“Oh,” Enjolras says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.
“Yeah,” Grantaire replies with uncertainty, and Enjolras must see him peer into his apartment because he’s opening the door wider and gesturing for him to come inside. He obliges.
He quickly runs through topics in his head because there's a million things he wants to say, but he just doesn't know what or how or - he takes a deep breath and tries to calm down. First point of business, he thinks to himself in his best Combeferre impression, is to make sure we’re alone.
“Where’s Cosette?”
“She’s, uh, out. With Eponine. At the mall. I think,” Enjolras replies hastily. Oh, yeah, Grantaire thinks, because he’s an idiot. Then he notices Enjolras’ sudden change in expression, from mildly-panicked to befallen. Before Grantaire can mention it, Enjolras says “Sorry about her, by the way.”
Grantaire wracks his brain trying to figure out what that means, if maybe Cosette got into a horrible injury in the past few days that just happened to slip from Grantaire’s head, or maybe she’s been diagnosed with the plague - probably not. “What?” Grantaire asks, because, well, what? “Did something happen?”
Enjolras studies him. “Uh. Did Eponine not tell you?” Grantaire doesn't really know what to say because if something happened with Cosette, Grantaire would definitely be the first person Eponine told, and if something happened with Cosette, then Eponine must know. “Tell me what?”
Enjolras is visibly uncomfortable, which would be funny, Grantaire muses, in a different context. “She and Eponine are, um. They’re dating.”
Grantaire laughs, because really? Enjolras thinks Eponine is keeping that a secret from him? “Uh, I knew that much, weirdo,” he says. “Why are you apologizing for it?” And then a switch flips in Grantaire's head and he goes from confusion to horrified realization because oh my god, he could not possibly think that, could he?
“Well, uh, I knew you two were um. Close,” and before Enjolras can continue Grantaire interrupts him.
“She’s a lesbian, Enj.”
Enjolras’ ears are pink. Grantaire is equal parts amused and mortified. Cosette?
“I know, but I just thought that maybe, um, you still, uh, yknow -”
“Oh my god, Enj, that is so fucking gross,” Grantaire says, because it is, because Grantaire would never chase a lesbian, because is this really what ruined their not-date? “I'm not - I’ve never - I’m not into Cosette.”
He expects Enjolras to get defensive, or frustrated, or angry, but his face softens and he bites his lip and Grantaire swears something like relief washes over him. “Oh,” he murmurs, and his teeth are digging into his lip hard and he’s looking at Grantaire with something familiar in his eyes. “So, why did you…?”
Grantaire realizes then how it must have looked for Grantaire to have spent nearly every moment in the last month glued to Cosette’s side (except when we were on our not-date and your hand was on my fucking thigh, he muses harshly), and, god, its all so stupid. It’s nearing theatrical, comedic, Shakespearean levels of ridiculous. Grantaire laughs a bitter, frustrated, almost manic laugh and runs a hand through his hair.
“Because Eponine has been in love with Cosette for, like, months, and I was her wingman - a pretty fucking good one, too, because they seem real fucking happy, don't they - and, Enj, have you ever noticed how much time Eponine’s been spending with you recently?” Enjolras is taken aback by this because no, he really hasn't, he’s been a bit preoccupied.
“Um,” he manages, and then, “What.”
Another frantic laugh escapes Grantaire and he can feel it all slipping out of him, years of repressing all this bullshit finally coming back for him. Karma.
“You really never realized that every time I was talking up Cosette that Eponine was talking you up? It never occured to you that maybe that was more than just a weird little coincidence?” He’s unable to stop at this point, pacing in front of Enjolras because he needs to keep moving, keep the energy up, or else it will all come crashing down. “God, Enj, you cant be that smart just to be that stupid, you cant - you can’t really be that oblivious, can you?” He stops in front of him and looks him hard in the eyes. Enjolras is staring at Grantaire, something dawning on him.
“What are you saying, R,” he doesn't really ask so much as he demands.
“I don't - you tell me! You’re supposed to be the smart one, you - you had your hand on my thigh, what the fuck am I supposed to make of that?” Enjolras goes pink. “Im saying that I’ve, like, had this stupid crush on you for, like, years, and you don't even -” and Grantaire can only punctuate it with a strangled noise.
“And right when I think maybe you don't absolutely hate me you get all weird and won't even talk to me, and - what?” He asks, because Enjolras is laughing, so wholly and genuinely that it doesn't even make noise, and Grantaire really doesn't know what's going on.
“You think I hate you?” Enjolras manages between huffs of laughter.
“Obviously,” Grantaire replies defensively.
Enjolras attempts to collect himself. He is mostly successful. “Oh my god, R, I don't - I really, really like you.” Oh. “Like, a lot.” Oh.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Grantaire thinks he’s getting pranked, that suddenly Enjolras is a dedicated fan of practical jokes. “I thought you hated me,” he tells him, because he did.
“I thought you hated me,” laughs Enjolras, softly. Grantaire realizes that in the midst of his pacing he has ended up very close to him. Close enough that he can feel the heat pulsate off of Enjolras, and can read the lettering on his shirt. ‘Ethically Sourced.’ Nerd.
“No,” Grantaire echoes his laugh, because Enjolras must be on Marius levels of oblivion. Then he realizes that, actually, he's on Marius levels of oblivion. “I um, also really like you.”
They are making eye contact. They are making pointed, unavoidable, intense eye contact. Enjolras tucks a wild curl behind Grantaires ear. Grantaire should really get better at haircare.
“We should probably do something about that,” he smiles, and Grantaire smiles too because Enjolras likes him and this is not a dream. He is ready for his YA coming of age teen movie moment, his Molly Ringwald moment. Except, Enjolras doesn’t lean in. He keeps his hand on the side of Grantaire's face, but he doesn't lean in. And Grantaire realizes that he is going to have to be the one to lean in. Fuck. Shitty cable TV porn.
“Im, um, wearing lipgloss,” he offers. “Do you, uh. Want a swatch?”
Enjolras confusedly laughs out a “What?” because, no, Grantaire isn't wearing lipgloss, but instead of an explanation Enjolras gets something soft and warm against his lips and oh. Kissing. That's what this is. And then, the realization fully settling in, he thinks, oh, kissing, that's what this is, I’m kissing Grantaire, Grantaire is kissing me.
His stubble feels surprisingly soothing on Enjolras’ clean-shaven skin, and he can't help but smile against him. Grantaire lets a hand creep up Enjolras’ torso, around his back, and he eases him closer. His hand fits in the small of Enjolras’ back like it’s supposed to, and it all just feels right, like why didn't I do this the first time I saw him, and Enjolras smells like coffee and fresh laundry and Grantaire is shutting his eyes tight, trying to remember it all perfectly. Enjolras’ hand has moved to rest at the nape of Grantaire’s neck, his thumb rubbing along his skin.
When they pull away, Enjolras has this stupid dopey grin that Grantaire will definitely never forget. Grantaire’s still holding Enjolras around his waist, Enjolras still has his hands in Grantaire’s hair, and there's nothing to mention or avoid talking about because it's natural, it's normal, it's fine; whatever goes unspoken does not go unacknowledged. Grantaire's lips are wet.
“That was nice,” he murmurs.
Enjolras nods, and then asks, “Lipgloss?”
Grantaire cringes inwardly. “Um. I heard it in a porno, I think.”
An amused grin spreads over Enjolras’ face. “Can we do it again?”
GRANTAIRE: PONINE
PONINE
THE LIPGLOSS THING WORKED
Eponine rolls her eyes down at her phone, and Cosette (in her lovely, recently-stolen flower crown from Claires) is peering over her shoulder to read it.
“Fucking finally,” she mutters.