Archive of Our Own

 

The invitation lands on his mat when he’s rushing on his way out to work. He barely has time to glance at it before shoving it into the file he’s cradling in one arm as he bites into a piece of toast held in the other and somehow manages to juggle his keys to lock the door behind him.

He’s running late, so when he arrives at the office he throws the file down on the desk and forgets about the envelope inside, switches the computer on with his elbow and heads over to the kitchen to make himself some coffee. He gets lost in the chaos of the early-morning rush, checking over the proposed titles of articles that have landed on his desk overnight - because journalists never sleep - finding out about the latest changes in world news, and yelling at the copy-editor for being unable to tell the difference between affect and effect.

He skips out on lunch, getting one of the interns to pour him another cup of coffee which goes lukewarm and unnoticed as he double-checks data and sources. It’s nearing three o’clock when there’s movement in his peripheral vision and a shadow falls over his desk.

“I come bearing gifts!” a voice announces, and a pile of work lands unceremoniously on his desk. He barely has time to catch his desk organiser before all the stationary falls out, though one lone pen does make a daring escape onto the floor, rolling until it hits a scuffed pair of Converse.

Grantaire bends down to retrieve it, twirling it around his fingers as he jumps up to sit on the edge of Enjolras’s desk and snags the lukewarm coffee. Next to the pile of work he puts a boxed salad and takes a drink of the coffee, wrinkling his nose at the taste then shrugging. He pushes the pen behind his ear, picks up the nearest file on Enjolras’s desk and begins flicking through it.

“Make yourself at home,” Enjolras drawls.

Grantaire just grins at him and takes another sip of the lukewarm coffee.

Enjolras picks up the first sheet on the pile of papers he’d just dumped on top of his desk and turns it over, revealing a stark and honest political cartoon drawn in bold, biting strokes. It’s good - but then, Grantaire's drawings always are. Enjolras had never really understood the saying a picture is worth a thousand words until he saw Grantaire tear apart a corrupt politician with only a few lines. He sets it down on the desk and picks the next one up from the top of the pile, shifting so he can also open the boxed salad and begin to eat. This one is just as good. It's also a distraction, as when he looks back up, Grantaire has exchanged the coffee for the envelope that was poking out of his file and is slicing it open easily with the letter opener Enjolras keeps on his desk. His eyes light up when he sees what's inside and flips the thick, embossed invitation over to read.

“Give that back,” Enjolras hisses, pushing his chair back as he gets to his feet, trying to reach over the table for the invite. “Grantaire, we’re in the office, Lamarque—”

“You are cordially invited, shit, who speaks like that nowadays?” Grantaire asks, curving easily away from his grasp so Enjolras’s fingertips just brush his hip, “To the wedding of Cosette Fauchelevant and Marius Pontmercy. Wait, isn’t that your sister?” (“Step sister,” Enjolras corrects, from behind gritted teeth) “On Sunday the fifteenth of May at the—”

Enjolras finally manages to grab the invitation out of his hand with a low growl at the back of his throat, and Grantaire turns to watch him as he frowns down at it. He knew the wedding was coming of course; they’d been engaged for almost a year now, but. But it was something he’d put to the back of his mind, one of those inevitable things that he'd placed far in the future, expecting to never actually face in the present. He finishes reading the invitation and then slides it back into the envelope, placing it down on his desk. When he looks up, Grantaire is still watching him, this time with an expression he can’t place. When their eyes meet he quirks an eyebrow at him.

“It’s nothing,” Enjolras says, picking the invitation up again and putting it in his drawer this time, further away as he sits back down at his desk.

“Noth— Your sister is getting married!” Grantaire says, now with an expression he can read. It's disbelief, incredulity, eyes slightly wider than they usually are. “That’s not nothing. Aren’t you happy for her? I mean, I get that you don’t believe in marriage yourself, what with the lack of equality for same-sex couples, but— Is this about who she's getting married to? Don’t you want her to get married?”

“It’s not that.” He feels himself frowning again, as he dots his fingertips against the embossed writing on the envelope. He can’t describe the bottomless feeling his gut, leaving him feeling dry and wanting.  “I want her to be happy—”

“I’m sensing a but.”

Enjolras glowers at him. “But there’s no need for such a lavish affair.”

“Lav— lavish,” Grantaire doesn’t quite throw his hands up into the air, but his whole body moves as if that’s what he would do, if he didn’t live in perpetual slouch. Instead he rolls his eyes and drawls, “It’s one day, Enjolras. Let the girl have her happy day. God knows we could all use one of them once in a while - you especially. How many hours did you clock up last week?”

Enjolras shrugs. “Sixty?”

“Exactly,” says Grantaire, “This is perfect for you. You get time off to spend with your family, you can see your old friends again to catch up and you can take a break from work. It’s perf—”

“I’m not going.”

“Excuse me?”

“There’s too much work,” Enjolras replies, gesturing at the files and paperwork on his desk, “And the deadline for this issue is in three days. With all the new interns, we’re not as ready as we should be and there are more articles to proof than usual. Then next week it’s the by-elections, so we’ll be pushing out an extra issue. Lamarque’s already overrun by how much work there is, he can’t be a man down.” He shuts the top drawer of his desk decisively and picks up one of the articles in the hope Grantaire will get the hint and drop it.

He doesn't.

Grantaire is staring at him. It leaves him feeling unbalanced, an unfamiliar feeling that runs up his spine and then settles between his shoulder blades, making him flex his shoulders back as he looks down at the article. “What?” he asks, but Grantaire just shakes his head, and nudges the salad box across the desk towards him again.  

“I know I call you Apollo, but you do realise you’re just one man, right?” he asks, and his tone is far softer than Enjolras has ever heard it. It’s strange enough that it tugs his attention away from the article he’s pretending to read in an attempt to end the conversation. “The whole newspaper isn’t going to grind to a halt if you’re not here - and if you are here, you can’t do everything.”

“I don’t like the word can’t,” Enjolras replies, and Grantaire groans.

“Of course you don’t, you probably see the word as a challenge. But that’s not my point.” He pushes the salad box further across the desk towards him again, and Enjolras scowls, picking up a fork and stabbing it into a cherry tomato in the hopes it will make him go away. “My point is that you’re mortal and as a mortal you need to do things like eat and,” he drops his voice conspiratorially, “have fun.”

Enjolras swallows the tomato and hits him with the end of the fork, “No. I’m not going, and that’s final.”

“What about if I said you can’t go?”

“Get out of my office, Grantaire.”

He slouches and takes his time about it, but he goes. Enjolras watches him leave from under his eyelashes under the pretence of reading the article in front of him, then when he’s gone he opens the top drawer again to look at the invitation. His fingers curl around the top of the drawer but go no further, and after a few seconds he shakes his head and closes it again.

~

The next two days pass in a blur of twelve-hour days, pro plus and caffeine. He makes two interns cry and finds another with talent for witty headlines that don’t go on for three pages. He sends a grand total of forty articles to the copy-editor with multitudes of sharp critiques scribbled across them in red sharpie, and three of Grantaire’s drawings without any. He doesn’t see the artist himself, which should be a sign that he’s up to something, but there’s always some form of food on his desk every 6 hours or so with obnoxiously lime-green sticky notes with doodles of various people in the office, which he rolls his eyes at then sticks to the side of his computer screen.

Cosette leaves him two messages on the answerphone whilst he’s at work, checking he got the invitation and asking him to ring her back, but he finds them at midnight when it’s too late to call, so never gets around to it.

He’s dictating a piece for the opinion section to one of the writers as she takes notes on her iPad when the door to Lamarque’s office opens and he comes striding out. This isn’t a strange occurrence; he likes to keep an eye on his staff, make sure they’re doing what they’re supposed to be and keeping tabs on them. What is surprising is that he’s smiling and heading straight over to Enjolras, whose stomach feels like it’s turned over as he watches him approach through the glass walls of his office.

He cuts his ranting short and waves the writer away. She just manages to slip out as Lamarque heads in and approaches his desk. “Sir,” he greets him, suddenly conscious of the mess on his desk and the sticky notes, which seem glaringly bright and unprofessional. “I apologise for the mess and the…” he trails off hopelessly, gesturing at his desk, and Lamarque laughs.

“Nothing to apologise for!” he replies, “This is the sign of a desk where work takes place. I’d be worried if it was anything but messy.” His eyes catch on the green post-its for a second and then return to Enjolras’s, smiling as he offers him a hand. “Congratulations.”

“Congratulations?” Enjolras echoes, taking the hand in what he knows is a weak handshake, but he’s too bewildered to do anything else.

“I wasn’t even aware you had a sister,” Lamarque continues, “But what great news! I have to admit, I was surprised when your holiday request form landed on my desk, but—”

White noise fills Enjolras’s head, repeating the words congratulations and sister and holiday request form over and over. He nods distantly as Lamarque keeps talking, saying something about the long hours he works and how he deserves a break, and this can’t be happening. The issue next week needs him - he can’t be off for it. Lamarque must be confused, it must be someone else’s request and he got them mixed up. Or some sort of joke, or—

Lamarque’s hand lands on his shoulder, bringing him out of his thoughts, and he looks up to find the Editor smiling down at him. “I’ve given you two weeks,” he says, “You deserve it, Enjolras. I won’t hear otherwise,” he says, when Enjolras goes to protest, “Just promise me you will relax. You’re an excellent worker, but you’re going to burn yourself out if you keep up like this. Have a drink, dance with someone, embarrass yourself.”

He releases his grip on his shoulder, and steps away from the desk. “Deadline is still 5pm on Thursday for this week’s issue, but once everything’s in, I want you out. No excuses.”

Enjolras nods wordlessly, and watches him disappear around the corner. The minute he’s gone he wrenches open his top drawer, but the invitation is still there. Which means no one else found it, so there’s only one culprit. His insides clench as he bites down on his anger, because of course it was him, of course. Any excuse to go to a party and get drunk, rather than do any work. He probably thought it was funny.

He shuts the drawer hard enough that his desk rattles and gets to his feet, stalking through the office. He finds Grantaire sat on the edge of one of the reporter’s desks, leaning back on one arm as he chats to her. She’s ignoring her work completely, just grinning up at him, and Enjolras’s anger doubles, becoming a roiling, angry cloud. Grantaire looks up and their eyes meet and he grins, that sardonic half-smirk as he tilts his head at him. “Looks like our glorious Junior Editor is on the warpath. Quick, hide the interns!”

The smile falters when Enjolras gets close enough, then disappears completely when Enjolras curls a hand around his arm and yanks, dragging him off the desk and through the office to the copy room, which he shoves Grantaire into and slams the door behind them. He whirls around to see Grantaire stumble and then right himself, leaning against the photocopier with forced nonchalance, and takes a step towards him as he hisses, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Grantaire blinks, expression carefully blank as he leans back against the copier and replies, “Hanging out in the photocopying room?”

“Out there,” Enjolras snaps, gesturing back behind him, as if it’s not clear enough that he means the room outside of where they are right now. He’s too frustrated to get his thoughts in order and say what he wants to say, and he hates that Grantaire can do this to him. It’s a unique talent, one that no one else has ever been able to master, and all Grantaire had to do was waltz into the office one day, ink-stained and curly-haired, drape himself across the entrance to his office and be completely and utterly unimpressed by the message their paper was trying to get across.

“You do realise you’re just one paper, right?” he’d asked, “And no one really trusts journalists anymore?”

“That’s what we’re trying to change,” Enjolras had replied, instantly irritated, “By cultivating a reputation for telling the truth, for exposing those who should be exposed, regardless of who they are. We step away from celebrity culture and focus on the stories that need to be told.”

“That’s nice,” Grantaire had drawled, “Do you believe in fairies too?”

Now he glares across the short expanse of the copier room at him, angry for another reason entirely as Grantaire replies, “Talking to Marian? You’re going to have to be a lot more specific here, Apollo.” His whole body is relaxed, the complete opposite of how Enjolras is feeling, going smooth and pliable like honey. Only the past few years have taught him that this is Grantaire’s way of preparing for a fight, looking defenceless and composed until he darts forwards, suddenly, with an acerbic comment that cuts to the bone.

“This has nothing to do with Marian!” Enjolras snaps, which causes Grantaire to raise his eyebrows, though why Grantaire was perched on the end of her desk in the middle of the day when he should have been working, he doesn’t know. “This is about Lamarque coming to tell me that he received a holiday request, congratulating me on my sister getting married.  A holiday request that I didn’t submit.”

“Wow,” says Grantaire, “What a mystery.”

“Mystery my arse, you submitted the form, my question is why. Is this a joke? Did you think it would be funny to get me forced out of the office during by-elections? Just because you like to spend your time drinking when you’re not in the office doesn’t mean the rest of us—”

“Excuse me? What the hell does that mean?”

“You know very well what it means. Everyone knows that your coffee is always Irish and most of your paycheck goes to the Corinthe—”

“Wow, you’re really not pulling your punches today are you? Excuse me for having a life outside of an office and—”

“Oh hi, sorry, I was just—”

The door to the copier room opens to reveal an intern, clutching a bunch of papers she needs copies of, and they both turn at once to glare at her. She wilts under the joint force of their anger and takes a quick step back. 

“We’re busy,” Enjolras snaps, and shuts the door in her face.

“Well, that’s going to do nothing to allay the Christmas rumours.”

His gaze snaps back to Grantaire, hard. “We don’t talk about Christmas.”

Grantaire nods and the corners of his mouth tighten. “Right you are, Apollo.”

“Stop calling me that,” Enjolras says distantly, thrown by the interruption. His anger has faded somewhat and he can’t quite remember why it was he was so mad. He crosses his arms over his chest and says, “Why did you put the holiday request form in?”

Grantaire looks at him warily, his posture tensing slightly, then glances down at his hands to inspect his nails in affected nonchalance as he says, “You need a break. You might be surviving right now - and doing a fucking amazing job of it - but one day soon you’re gonna snap and murder someone. Probably me. Call it self-preservation, but you need some time off to recharge before you explode.”

Enjolras smiles despite himself. “You think I’m amazing?”

Grantaire inhales sharply and looks up at him, and it always surprises him just how impossible their shade of blue is, like ink from a fountain pen bleeding across paper. Then he gives a laugh that doesn't meet his eyes, saying, “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I said you were doing an amazing job. There’s a difference.”

“Right.”

“So are you going?” he persists after a pause, where neither of them speak.

Enjolras sighs, and uncrosses his arms, thinks of the phone calls Cosette left him and the invitation lying in the top drawer of his desk. Thinks of the people who will be invited, people he hasn’t seen in years, and the four texts he’s already had from Courfeyrac threatening baby pictures emailed to his office if he doesn’t show.

He looks at Grantaire, at the surprisingly hopeful expression in his usually guarded expression and thinks about how exhausted he is, when he does stop for a moment to rest.  “Fine,” he says, brushing a hand over his eyes, “I’ll go.”

~

“Why does it say +1 person, with person underlined?”

They’re sitting eating Chinese at his desk the next day, Enjolras reading through the corrections Grantaire made to his current article, whilst the artist sits on the edge of the desk, reading through the invitation again. A few minutes earlier he’d been attacking Enjolras’s article gleefully with a red pen, and there’s a smudge of ink on his cheekbone, from when he’d lifted his hand to run it through his hair.

“Because Cosette thinks she’s funny,” Enjolras replies, not looking up from the comment he’s currently reading, which just says ‘NO’, underlined three times.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve had a +1 to something, is it?” Grantaire asks, and Enjolras scowls down at the article, “Oh, it isn’t. And last time… Last time you took your work and blackberry with you and spent the entire time on the phone with the work piled up in the seat next to you that was supposed to be for your +1, didn’t you?”

Enjolras shifts in his seat and frowns, pointedly not looking at him and acting like he’s absorbed instead by the corrections to his work.

Grantaire laughs, low and amused, and nudges Enjolras’s calf with his foot again to remind him to eat. Enjolras looks up from the article finally as he picks up a piece of chicken with his chopsticks, and makes the mistake of catching Grantaire’s eyes.  “What?” he asks, defensive, “There was no one to take, so I didn’t. It meant I had less work to catch up on when I got back, too.”

Grantaire mutters something under his breath and then straightens, brushing his hair out of his eyes. Enjolras’s eyes catch on the smudge of ink on his cheekbone, staying there as Grantaire says, “Of course you did. Well, luckily for you, I happen to have some free holidays to take, and I am a kind and generous soul. I can’t possibly let you turn up to your sister’s wedding by yourself, that would be pretty pathetic. Consider me your +1.”

Enjolras’s eyes snap to his, mouth opening to protest, but Grantaire’s pulled the red pen out again from behind his ear and ticked off the box on the RSVP part of the invitation. “Done. You can thank me later,” he says, and hops off the desk with the invitation.

“What,” says Enjolras, but Grantaire’s already disappeared.

~

“I’m bringing a +1,” he tells Cosette later that night on the phone, cradling it between his ear and shoulder as he packs his things into a suitcase, and winces at the excited squeal she makes on the other end of the line. “Don’t get your hopes up, he invited himself. He probably won’t even turn up.”

He does. Leaning heavily on Enjolras’s doorbell at three o’clock in the morning the day of his flight, looking grumpy and sour and rumpled when Enjolras throws open the door, and narrowing his eyes as he looks him up and down and goes, “Of course you’re a morning person.” He shoulders past him into the apartment he’s been in only a few times before and heads instantly for the kitchen.

“Come on in,” Enjolras says to the empty doorway, and shuts the door. He heads into the bathroom to finish brushing his teeth and then emerges to find Grantaire hunched over a mug of coffee at the breakfast bar separating the kitchen from the living room.

“Have you got anything stronger?” Grantaire asks, and his voice at this time of the morning is gravelly and rough, like the stubble across his jaw, and Enjolras’s hand clenches at his side. “No, of course you haven’t,” he answers his own question, and curls even more around the coffee. “I hope there’s a free bar when we get there.”

“The wedding isn’t for another two weeks,” Enjolras reminds him, pouring himself a cup of coffee and sliding into the seat next to Grantaire. A glance at his watch tells him they have a short while before the taxi comes to get them for the airport. “Also it’s three o’clock. It’s a little early for drinking, don’t you think?”

“Not if you’ve been up all night,” Grantaire replies, morose, “Which, unfortunately, I haven’t. A definite mistake on my part. Three am seems so much more appealing when approached from the other side. The things I do for you, Apollo.”

Which is just - Enjolras isn’t sure what to say to that, so he doesn’t. Just sips at his coffee until his phone vibrates on the counter, letting them know the taxi is outside. Grantaire groans and unfolds from his slouch, stretching in all sorts of places Enjolras wasn’t aware it was possible to, before he tears his eyes away to remind himself that he needs to grab his things. He gets his suitcase from the bedroom and holds the door open for Grantaire, letting him out before locking up behind him. There’s no going back now.

~

Enjolras wastes time in the airport by finding wifi and emailing the office, reminding people of what needs to be done in his absence whilst Grantaire wanders off for - something. He’s not really sure, but he assumes it’s alcohol. When he returns, he looks far more awake and less sleep-ruffled, and he rolls his eyes when he sees Enjolras’s blackberry.

“Please tell me you haven’t been emailing work. Enjolras.” The amount of emphasis he puts into one word is impressive. Enjolras crosses his arms defensively and scowls.

“I had to remind them to check the sources on the Johnson article, and not to let Anton near the interns, after what happened last time. Marian also said—” Grantaire’s hand darts forwards suddenly and snatches the phone from his grip, dextrous fingers snapping open the cover and popping out the sim card. “What are you doing?”

“No work,” Grantaire says, sliding the sim card into his back pocket,  “I’m under strict instructions from Lamarque to make sure you relax.”

“Give it back.”

“No.”

“Grantaire.”

“Oh look, they’re calling our flight,” Grantaire says, and it’s enough to distract him, head whipping around to look at the screen and see that their flight is indeed boarding. He grabs his hand luggage and the garment bag for his suit, tells Grantaire this isn’t finished, and heads for their gate quickly. He’d never hear the end of it if he managed to miss his flight.

To his surprise, Grantaire sleeps through the plane journey rather than ordering alcohol, balling his leather jacket up to use as a pillow and curling up against the window. The sharp cynicism fades from his expression when he’s sleeping, turning soft and vulnerable, and it leaves Enjolras feeling unsettled. He’s almost relieved when they arrive and Grantaire picks a fight over which sort of M&Ms they should buy in the shop on the way to get their luggage.

It distracts him enough that he forgets entirely that Grantaire stole his sim card until they’re standing at the hotel’s reception desk checking in, and he blames sleep deprivation for the way he just automatically reaches into the back pocket of Grantaire’s jeans, searching for it. Grantaire’s entire body goes ramrod straight, and Enjolras freezes with his hand in his back pocket.

“Enjolras.”

“Um.”

“What are you doing?”

Enjolras takes a breath, trying not to think about the rough feel of jeans against his hand and the slight hitch to Grantaire’s breathing, or the way the artist is purposefully not looking at him but clutching the pen in his hand tightly, where before he’d been filling in his details on the check-in form, draped over the edge of the counter like he drapes himself over the edge of Enjolras's desk, like he doesn't have the energy to take anything seriously.

He takes a steadying breath to reply when there’s a shout from across the lobby. “Enjolras!”

He pulls his hand sharply from Grantaire’s back pocket and turns just in time to be bowled back into the reception desk by a five-foot-nothing ball of excitement, curls and bitten nails. His arms wrap automatically around her waist, head turning to nuzzle her hair, until he realises what he’s doing and steps back, letting go. Cosette refuses to do the same, however, arms wrapped around his neck as she stands on her tiptoes. “Nope,” she says, “I’m not letting go. You’re not getting away again that quickly.”

Grantaire makes the mistake of laughing, and her sharp green eyes dart to look at him, suspicious. Grantaire meets her look, unperturbed, shifting his weight so he can lean back on the desk as the receptionist looks for their key cards.  

“This is my… this is Grantaire,” Enjolras says to break the silence, ignoring the look Grantaire sends at him and tugging on one of Cosette’s curls. “He’s from work.”

Cosette’s mouth makes a little o of surprise, and then she looks back at Enjolras, loosening her grip around his neck so she can settle back on her heels and turn to face Grantaire properly. She looks him over from head-to-toe unashamedly, takes in the battered Converse and the clothes he’s quite literally slept in, trails over the stubble on his jaw and the jet-black curls of his hair, and Enjolras finds a strange part of himself feeling protective. Grantaire is his colleague, after all; he’s a reflection of a large part of Enjolras’s life now, and Cosette’s acceptance seems important.

He needn’t have worried, because seconds later Cosette nods and holds out her hand for Grantaire to shake. He looks surprised and then unfurls to slip his hand into hers, gripping tight. “I thought you were a myth,” she confides, leaning in close.

Grantaire’s eyes are bright and his lips curve as he says, “Likewise.”

Enjolras narrows his eyes at the both of them and crosses his arms over his chest, unimpressed. He should never have brought Grantaire with him, this was a terrible idea. He’s still not even sure why Grantaire decided to come, beyond wanting to get drunk at the free bar and probably ruin his life by convincing his friends to tell him all the embarrassing stories from his past.

Actually, he’s not sure why he allowed Grantaire to come either, especially not when he tucks Cosette’s hand into the crook of his arm and bends his head towards hers conspiratorially as they walk away from the reception desk.

He doesn’t feel the hand tapping his elbow until it comes again, harder this time and accompanied by a pointed cough, and he turns to find the receptionist holding out the keycards to their hotel room. “Oh, thanks,” he says, tearing his eyes away from Cosette and Grantaire, and takes them from her before following them. He catches up to the conspirators at the lift as the doors slide open, and the three of them step in together.

“Who else is here?” he asks, to draw their attention away from each other and stop them plotting whatever it is they’re plotting. Grantaire looks up first, like he’s genuinely surprised Enjolras would voluntarily ask about other people, and Enjolras glares back at him as Cosette answers.

“Courfeyrac and Combeferre turned up this morning and they brought Jehan with them. Eponine arrived last night with Gavroche, who has somehow already convinced the hotel staff to let him sneak into the kitchens and steal all the food, and Joly and Bossuet called about ten minutes before you got here. They have a flat tyre so they’re waiting for a replacement and are going to be late. Bahorel, Feuilly and Musichetta couldn’t get the time off work, so they’re coming later in the week. Bahorel and Feuilly's dates will be here on the day itself.”

He nods, and it takes a moment for him to realise Grantaire is looking at him strangely. “What?”

“Nothing,” Grantaire replies, but the look doesn’t disappear, and after a second he says, “You’re a veritable social butterfly, Apollo. Who would have guessed?”

Enjolras doesn’t know whether to be offended or not with that, so he’s relieved when the lift dings to signal their arrival at the right floor.  “We’re all together,” Cosette explains as she steps out into the hallway, “You two have the room at the end, Combeferre and Courfeyrac are next door and Jehan’s opposite. I’m just here.”  She points at a door and then stands up on her tiptoes to kiss both their cheeks before disappearing inside, with a last comment about meeting them in the restaurant for dinner.

The silence when she leaves feels awkward, so Enjolras turns and slips the keycard into the door, not looking at Grantaire. The light turns to green and he pushes it open to reveal a room that’s at least double the size of his apartment. Grantaire lets out a low whistle as he steps inside, dropping his bag in the doorway and going investigating. “You’ve been holding out on us,” he says over his shoulder, “You didn’t tell me you were this rich.”

The comment makes him uncomfortable, because whilst he is rich, he’s always tried to downplay it. He’s spent most of his journalistic life, after all, calling out people with far less money with him who throw it around like it grows on trees. His family might have money, but he doesn’t believe that entitles him to a better life than others.

Grantaire’s stood next to him suddenly, bumping his shoulder as he walks past, saying, “It was a joke. Stop having a mid-life crisis.”

“I am not having a crisis,” Enjolras protests, but it snaps him out of his thoughts enough to follow him into the bedroom, where he pulls himself up short, narrowly avoiding walking into Grantaire, who has frozen just inside the room.

“We have a problem,” states Grantaire, and Enjolras can only nod. “Why is there only one bed?” he asks, his voice doing something strange as he turns to look at Enjolras. “One double bed?”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras admits, frowning, but it dawns on him pretty quickly and he sighs, pressing his knuckles to his forehead. “They didn’t believe you.”

“What?”

“The RSVP,” Enjolras explains, “They didn’t believe I’d have a plus one so just gave me a double bed.” He’s torn between laughing and groaning and settles for just taking a deep breath in through his nose, trying not to think about strangling whoever runs the hotel for their shit organisation. Because really, who doesn’t check with guests about their sleeping preferences before booking a room?

“Oh,” Grantaire says into the silence, and then, “Their faith in you is pretty shocking. And here you’d almost convinced me you had friends.”

It’s enough to make him pull his hand away from his forehead and open his eyes and the sharp words he’s about to say die on his lips when he sees Grantaire throwing a couple of pillows onto the sofa by the window and covering it with the blanket from the foot of the bed.  “What are you doing?”

“Setting up another bed,” Grantaire replies without looking up, “What else? It’s big enough to fit me, your gangly legs would just fall off the edge, and it solves the problem.”

“I can go down to the reception and—”

“It’s fine,” Grantaire says, stepping back and gesturing grandly, “See? Instant bed. Problem solved. Now, I’m going to shower because I don’t know about you but I feel fucking gross after being in these clothes for this many hours.”

~

Grantaire sings in the shower. Loudly. And out of key.

Enjolras does not think he’s going to be able to survive the next week and a half. Not without killing someone.

When Grantaire re-emerges, with his hair damp and curling, he grabs a packet of cigarettes and his lighter from his bag and disappears outside in search of somewhere to smoke them. In the silence he leaves behind, Enjolras wanders back into the living area of the hotel room, running his hands back through his hair, trying to think of something he can do to take up time.  He’s never been good at relaxing; it’s not just because he’s so busy that he doesn’t take time off, it’s also that he doesn’t know what to do with free time when he has it.

How do people not get bored, when they’re sat at home with nothing to do? His instincts make him reach for his blackberry, until he remembers that Grantaire still has the sim card, and he didn’t bring his laptop with him in a misguided attempt to take a real holiday, like Lamarque had wanted. He flips on the TV instead, surfing through the channels until he finds the news, and then he just finds himself arguing with the presenters, who are misguided and stupid and puppets people with agendas. The news is never what is shown on TV and it makes something burn in his chest, annoyance gathering together as he thinks about all the people who listen to what they’re forcefed on a daily basis and don’t question the sources or the motives of the people behind it.

He’s on the verge of writing a strongly worded letter to the current news show, about all the inaccuracies in their broadcast, when there’s a knock at the door.

He opens it with more force than he intended, still annoyed at the stupid so-called journalists on TV, when Combeferre and Courfeyrac breeze in, like it’s seven years ago and they’re back at university and have keys to each other’s flats. Combeferre pauses a few steps in, his head tilting as he listens to the TV whilst Courfeyrac goes barreling through into the living area, looking suspicious.

“Oh, Enjolras, you weren’t arguing with the TV again were you?” asks Combeferre, as Courfeyrac busies himself looking behind every possible surface, then disappears into the bedroom.

“No,” Enjolras replies, convincing absolutely no one, as Courfeyrac yells through, “Liar!”

Enjolras scowls and crosses his arms over his chest, defensive. “They were wrong.”

“Please tell me you didn’t write them a strongly-worded letter.”

“Not yet,” he replies, vehement, and Combeferre sighs and turns off the TV. In the background he can hear Courfeyrac opening and closing cupboards in the en suite bathroom. Combeferre turns back to look at him, and he’s expecting annoyance, but instead he’s treated to a fond smile.

“Hello,” says Combeferre.

“Hi,” replies Enjolras, returning the smile, then tilts his head and yells, “He’s not here, Courfeyrac!”

There’s a crash from the bathroom and then Courfeyrac re-appears in the doorway to the bedroom, still looking suspicious as he says, “But he does exist, right?”

“Yes, my plus one exists,” Enjolras replies, sighing, “You can stop trying to find him hiding under the bed. He went out to smoke.”

“You’re dating a smoker?”

Enjolras blinks twice and then scowls. “I’m not dating anyone.”

Courfeyrac is relentless. “But you do have a plus one, and you don’t just mean your blackberry this time. You mean an actual real, live, breathing person.”

“I do have a plus one,” Enjolras confirms on a sigh, “And he is a person.”

“Hmmm.” Courfeyrac gives him a long and considering look and comes further into the room before throwing himself down onto the sofa. A second later Combeferre joins him and with a shrug Enjolras does too, wondering if this is how people relax when they’re on holiday, with friends, just talking.

“So have you seen Marius yet?” Combeferre asks, and Enjolras shakes his head, disliking the unhappy feeling that surfaces in his chest at the thought of Cosette getting married to him. She’s still his little sister, the girl who had turned up at six years old in his house, introduced by a man named Valjean who had taken her in but realised he couldn’t give her the life he wanted to.

Enjolras remembers disliking her at first, this quiet little waif of a girl, whom had seemed almost terrified to be loved and kept to herself. Whom he’d found one day in the library, poring over books in his grandfather’s old chair, frowning at the words and mouthing them aloud as she traced her finger underneath, and it was then that he’d realised she couldn’t read. That wherever she had been before Valjean, it hadn’t been good.

So in the quiet of the library he’d taught her how to read, showing her his favourite books and reading them to her, until she started to pick up sounds and syllables and began to read with him. Then she had devoured absolutely everything in the library. She’d never dated anyone when they’d been at high school, though he had a sneaking suspicion she’d once almost had something with Courfeyrac, but he’d been so absolutely against the idea that he’d refused to believe in it and he was just fine never having his suspicions confirmed.

University had taken him away from home then journalism had taken him further and somewhere in between she’d grown up and gotten engaged to some kid he’d only met twice.

The silence stretches out and he realises that both of his friends are staring at him. “No,” he says, still frowning, “Not yet.”

“He’s an alright kid,” says Courfeyrac, “He’s still idealistic, and clumsy. He’s not lost that in the years you’ve been away. You know he has a heart of gold though. I’ve never seen two people more in love.” And then he ruins it by adding, “But then, I’ve not seen you and your plus one yet!” and Enjolras hits him with one of the cushions.

“Marius is very… Marius,” Combeferre agrees, with a look over his glasses that makes the corner of Enjolras’s mouth twitch into a smile, “But he has mellowed out in his opinions a bit. I think you scarred him for life when you came home for Cosette’s birthday.”

“He said Bush was a good president.” The thought still makes Enjolras scowl, and he flashes back to sitting on the opposite side of the table to Marius, spending the entire time glaring at him.

“We know,” says Combeferre, patting his knee, “But he’s seen the light since then, we’ve seen to that. Which you’d know if you had come home last Christmas.” It’s a gentle rebuke, but Enjolras winces. Things had just been so busy at the paper and then there’d been the staff party and it hadn’t seemed like there was time.

“You do know a phone can be used for calling people, right?” Courfeyrac asks, turning his body to throw his legs over the both of them as he leans back against the arm of the sofa. “They were originally invented for that reason. Not emailing work because you’re out of office.” He digs his heel into Enjolras’s thigh when he tries to look away.

“I know,” he admits, “I do. It’s just - work is busy and there are things to be done… But I’m here, aren’t I?”

“How did Cosette convince you to give up work for two weeks?” Combeferre asks, “We were placing bets on what time you’d turn up on the actual day. No one thought you’d be here early.”

“Yeah, thanks for that,” Courfeyrac grumbles, “I lost good money on you. Couldn’t have called your old friend Courfeyrac to give him an in, could you?”

Enjolras considers and then almost immediately rejects telling them that it was Grantaire who had convinced him to come, because he’s still not entirely sure how he managed it but he does know that it would just add fuel to Courfeyrac’s fire. Instead he just shrugs, and tries to ignore the way Combeferre is looking at him.

“Anyway,” he says, “How are things going?”

“How are things going, he asks, like we could sum up the last year and a half since we saw him in one sentence,” Courfeyrac says with a sigh, “Like we don’t need alcohol and incentives to stay here and tell him everything he should know anyway, being our best friend.”  

He trails off with a look like a puppy, all warm chocolate brown eyes and floppy hair and Enjolras rolls his eyes and gets to his feet, heading to the alcohol-stocked fridge. “Alright, what do you want?”

“See ‘Ferre, he does love us,” says Courfeyrac, “He’s just fucking awful at showing it.”

~

Enjolras is dragged forcefully out of sleep at five o’clock the next morning by the incessantly loud ringing of an alarm and sits bolt upright in the bed, covers pooling around his waist. There’s a groan from across the room as Grantaire surfaces into wakefulness, swearing, “What the fucking hell in the name of all that is holy—”

“I’ve got it,” Enjolras mutters, stumbling out of bed and searching around for his bag. The sound seems to do nothing but get louder and louder in the darkness, making his head pound and he’s on the verge of swearing himself when he finds it.

“Why the fuck is your alarm set for 5 o’clock, oh my god, we’re on holiday do you even know what that means?”

“I’ve got it,” Enjolras hisses again, his fingers clumsy on the keys as he tries to unlock it, making him growl under his breath. His legs feel as clumsy as his fingers and so he sits down abruptly on the floor as he eventually gets it to stop ringing. “Finally.” He throws the phone across the room, losing it in the darkness as it slides under the bed, and leans his head back.  It takes a moment for him to realise he’s leaning back against the sofa, and then his body goes stiff and awkward.

“So do you really get up at 5 o’clock every morning?” Grantaire asks, in the rough voice he’d had the morning they'd caught the plane, and the sofa shifts slightly as he moves. “You really need to get your priorities straight. You know the office doesn’t open until eight, right?”

“I have a key.”

“You have a—” A hand worms its way free from under the covers and jerks on a curl of his hair, making a shiver run down his spine. He flexes his shoulders back to try and ignore it as Grantaire continues, “You have a key? Enjolras, please tell me you don’t let yourself into the office hours before anyone else gets there.”

The silence speaks for itself.

“Oh, my God.” There’s more shifting and out of the corner of his eye he can see Grantaire throwing himself back on the sofa, flinging an arm over his eyes. “I can’t believe I actually like—” his next few words are muttered into his arm, before he pulls it away to say, “Are you sure you’re not a robot?”

“No, I am not a robot,” Enjolras replies, lifting a hand to hit what he thinks it’s Grantaire’s side. “There’s work to be done, so I go in and do it. Anyway, I’m sorry for waking you up. I didn’t mean for the alarm to be on; I just forgot to turn it off last night. What time did you get in?”

“Just after midnight. You were already asleep. I saw the empty glasses and the mini bottles of alcohol on the coffee table. Should I be worried? Or rather, should I be proud?”

“Combeferre and Courfeyrac came around.”

“Oh.”

“Courfeyrac wanted to meet you.”

There’s no response to that, and when he tilts his head back to look, Grantaire’s got his arm thrown over his eyes again, obscuring any view of his expression in the half-light. “He thinks we’re dating,” he says into the quiet, watching the gentle rise-and-fall of Grantaire’s chest, “I told him not to be so stupid.”  It’s probably a trick of the light, but it looks like Grantaire’s breath stops for a second.

The silent stretches out, taut, and he finds himself yawning into a closed fist. “Sorry for waking you up,” he says again, and pushes himself to his feet. “See you in the morning.”  There’s no reply from Grantaire as he stumbles back to the bed and wraps himself up in the covers.

~

When Enjolras struggles into wakefulness the next day it's almost 11am and there's fresh bagels and coffee waiting for him, with a note in Grantaire’s spidery handwriting to say that Cosette stopped by, and there’s a rehearsal at midday in one of the ballrooms downstairs. He looks around for Grantaire but he's nowhere to be found, so he jumps in the shower and gets dressed, then takes a bite out of one of the bagels, picks up the coffee and heads down to reception.

Despite his protests, it does feel good to not have to rush from place to place, to take his time heading to where he's supposed to be. He misses the adrenaline rush and the excitement of a chaotic office, but the caffeine’s a decent substitute to keep him going for now.

When he arrives at the entrance to the ballroom hired out for the wedding, he finds Grantaire already there waiting. He's leaning against one of the ornate pillars, but he pushes away and straightens when he sees Enjolras. "Morning, sunshine."

Enjolras makes a noncommittal noise and then narrows his eyes. "Why are you here?"

"Wow, that's a lovely way to greet the person who bought you breakfast, and by bought I mean made full use of the free breakfast services. Unless you mean why am I here in a more existential sense, in which case I'd have to say the meaning of life is something many have sought after but not found the answer to, however I am confident it can be discovers at the bottom of a wine glass. Preferably red but beggars can't always be choosers-"

He carries on like that, rambling from one topic to the next as Enjolras just stares at him. He's never met someone as impossible as Grantaire, who can talk for hours at length about absolutely nothing, and he still hasn't figured out what the right answer is when he goes off on a tangent. But he's in serious danger of being late to the rehearsal, and Cosette would never forgive him, so he cuts Grantaire off mid-rant with, "I meant at the rehearsal. You don't have to be here, you know. It's going to be boring."

"That's why I brought this," Grantaire says easily, revealing a small sketch pad, "Also you're not getting rid of me that easily. Lamarque made me swear to make sure you relaxed and knowing you, the minute my back is turned you'll start trying to organise the wedding for them. So no, I'm here to stay and you're a minute away from being late."

"Shit," says Enjolras and darts into the room, Grantaire trailing after him at a more sedate pace. As he heads towards the front, Grantaire slips onto one of the benches at the back, propping his feet up on the one in front and leaning his sketch pad against his thigh.

It’s a few hours later when things finally wrap up and they’re set free for the rest of the day. Enjolras heads to the back where Grantaire’s still sitting, absorbed in his drawings, but he looks up when he hears footsteps and flips the sketchbook closed. “All done?”

“Yeah. Do you want to grab something to eat?”

“Well hello. Where has Enjolras been hiding you?”

Shit. Enjolras scowls and turns to find not only Courfeyrac behind him, but Jehan, Combeferre, Cosette, Marius, Eponine and Gavroche. They’re all staring at Grantaire like some sort of exhibit at a zoo, obvious and shameless about it, and Enjolras wants to crawl into a hole. Or take Grantaire’s arm and run. Grantaire himself takes it extremely well, just grins and unfolds himself from the bench. “In the dark, clearly," he answers. "Grantaire,” he introduces himself, holding out a hand, “And you must be Courfeyrac.”

Combeferre makes a sudden ‘oh’ of surprise, but when Enjorlas jerks his head around to look at him, he’s just looking at Grantaire, with that thoughtful look he gets right before tackling a problem. Meanwhile Courfeyrac has ignored Grantaire’s hand completely and thrown an arm around his shoulders and Enjolras is having flashbacks to when he met Cosette. But this is so much worse, because Courfeyrac has baby pictures and embarrassing stories and oh God, why did he agree to come here again?

“He seems nice,” Jehan says later, when they’re set up in the bar and Grantaire is regaling Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Cosette with the story of how Enjolras terrified a rival newspaper into dropping a story so they could be the one to break it and now gets cake from them every six months as a sign of goodwill.

“He’s a menace to society,” Enjolras replies, eyes narrowing as Courfeyrac bursts out laughing at something Grantaire said. “He doesn’t listen to authority, he turns up late to work, he challenges me on everything and spends far too much time talking to the interns instead of working.”

“How terrible of him,” Jehan replies mildly, swirling the plastic stirrer around his vodka. He pops it out to bite down on the end, almost smiling when Enjolras glares again over at where Grantaire is holding court.

“Did you know he invited himself? Of course you didn’t,” he corrects himself, “But he did, as if I couldn’t be trusted to come here by myself and relax. Like he was doing me a favour, or something.”

“Oh?” Jehan asks around the stirrer.

“So what do you do at the paper, Grantaire?” Eponine asks, “Besides trolling Enjolras.”

“Oh, you know,” Grantaire says vaguely, and Enjolras’s attention is caught by the way he turns to look at his knuckles where he raps them against the bar, refusing to meet Eponine’s eyes. “I draw things sometimes.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Enjolras interjects, loud enough to get their attention, and the others shift to glance back at where he’s sat at the other end of the bar with Jehan. “They’re these cartoons, and they’ve got political messages, we get people writing in about them all the time—”

“They’re just doodles really,” Grantaire disagrees, reaching for his drink, “Regardless of what people say.”

“You edit my articles too,” Enjolras points out, “No one else does that, and you do it well. Lamarque won’t have anyone else do it.”

“Lamarque doesn’t have anyone else to do it, because you scared them all off. I heard Juliet’s still having counselling for her nervous breakdown and it’s been four months since she last looked at one of your articles. They only let me do it because I refuse to take you seriously when you start pontificating about austerity measures doing the absolute opposite of fixing the country—”

“Which they do, because the only people who benefit are the rich, the ones who aren’t in any sort of financial difficulty because they have savings and—”

“You’re talking but all I hear is—”

“The cavalry has arrived!”

It takes a physical effort for Enjolras to drag his gaze away from Grantaire and look behind him at where Joly and Bossuet are standing, laden down with bags, and Joly’s expression falters. “Are we interrupting something?”

“No,” Enjolras and Grantaire say in unison, at the same time everyone else says, “Yes!”

Bossuet blinks and says, “Well, that totally convinced me.” Then he does a mock double-take and says, “Enjolras, is that really you?” dropping his bags onto the floor and shuffling over to poke at his chest and his face and his hair, as if he can’t quite believe he’s real. “You’re actually here, and not working? Quick, Joly, I think I’m seeing things, take my temperature—”

Enjolras shoves him away but he can’t help but smile, not even when Joly comes rushing over to prod and poke at him, giving him an impromptu and entirely-for-show medical exam, exclaiming over how much he’s grown and how he better be eating well and Enjolras just knows, without even looking, that Grantaire’s laughing at him. He finally manages to wrestle free and the first person he looks at is the artist, who has a strange, soft expression on his face as he watches Joly and Bossuet. It's unguarded and open and nothing at all like he's seen on Grantaire's face before. Then Grantaire’s eyes catch his and the expression is replaced by his usual lazy sardonic smile as he downs what’s left of his drink and orders another round for everyone, to the sound of cheers.

“Definitely a menace,” Jehan says at Enjolras’s side, hazel eyes shining with mischief as he flicks his drink stirrer across the bar and manages to get it down the back of Bossuet’s shirt. “I don’t know how you put up with him. Hey, are you going to say hi or what?” he demands when Bossuet jumps in surprise, and holds his arms out to be enveloped in a hug.

The night rapidly devolves from there.

~

To Enjolras’s complete and utter horror, Joly, Bossuet and Grantaire hit it off immediately.

It is a match made in hell, as they seem to make it their life’s mission to take nothing about the wedding seriously, including the rehearsals, the next of which takes place two days later. As none of them have parts which require practise, they take it upon themselves to sit at the back of the room, hollering corrections and criticisms whilst Grantaire sketches.

Then four days after their arrival Cosette reveals her plan to have a waltz as the first dance.

Somehow, Joly and Bossuet manage to be conspicuously absent, leaving Enjolras staring in despair as Courfeyrac and Eponine, as best man and chief bridesmaid, attempt what is quite possibly the worst waltz in existence.

It’s so bad that Enjolras can’t help but laugh when Courfeyrac stumbles for the third time in a row, standing on Eponine’s foot and getting a punch to the shoulder for his efforts. It’s a mistake, because as soon as the music cuts out Courfeyrac rounds on him, huffing and annoyed.

“Just because we don’t all have long gazelle legs like you,” he snaps, glaring, and Grantaire snorts with laughter.

“Enjolras can’t dance.”

“What?” This catches the attention of more than one person, who all turn to look at him, and Enjolras clenches his jaw, but doesn’t deny it.

“How do you know?” Courfeyrac asks Grantaire curiously, and Enjolras remembers many nights at university spent stubbornly sat at a table in one of the various clubs Courfeyrac would drag them to on campus, refusing to dance.

“Staff parties,” Grantaire replies, shrugging.

“Enjolras goes to parties?”

“Shut up,” Enjolras interjects, and is completely ignored.

“Yeah, usually just stands at the side, glaring at the room like it personally offends him,” Grantaire says, warming up to the topic of conversation, “But one year this reporter tried to get him to dance. I can’t remember how she did it, he must have been wasted. Maybe that was the year I spiked the… Anyway,” he says, catching Enjolras’s frown, “You should have seen it, arms and legs everywhere, flailing around like he was on some sort of rollercoaster. I’m pretty sure he gave her a black eye, the poor thing.”

“Like you could do any better,” Enjolras snaps, trying to think back to the same staff parties and remember if he ever saw Grantaire dancing at them. Whenever he went to one he was usually dragged to them against his will, and only ever stayed for an hour or two, just to show his face, preferring to stay at the fringes rather than get involved with the drinking and the dancing. It always seemed so unprofessional. Well, apart from that one Christmas… He shakes his head to get rid of the memory and tilts his chin up at Grantaire, a challenge.

Grantaire just looks steadily back at him and doesn’t seem the slightest bit worried. “Are you sure you want to go there?”

Enjolras, unable to ever back down from a challenge, nods once with an unfamiliar feeling - nerves? But why? It’s not like he has to dance - fluttering in his stomach, and Grantaire shrugs, pushing away from the wall and unfolding his arms. “Alright.” He glances around for a likely candidate and his gaze lands on Eponine, recovered from Courfeyrac standing on her toes.  He holds a hand out to her and after a slight pause she takes it, following him out onto the dancefloor.

The music starts up again and Grantaire twirls Eponine around on the spot before settling his hands, one on her waist and the holding her hand in a ridiculously showy movement. Then just when Enjolras expects him to laugh and say he doesn’t know how to dance, that he’s just joking, he begins to move, and it becomes immediately apparent that Grantaire does know how to dance.

And he knows how to dance well.

In his arms, Eponine is transformed, spinning across the floor like she was made to dance, twirling and stepping in time with the music and never missing a beat. Grantaire’s hand on her waist is steady, pulling her in close then pushing her away, holding her gently and making her seem like she’s the most precious thing in the world.The entire room falls silent, just watching, as Grantaire coaxes a smile out of Eponine and then a laugh and it looks like they were born doing this and Enjolras realises he’s digging his fingernails into his palms and he doesn’t understand why as Eponine throws her head back and her hair falls down, brushing Grantaire’s hand where it rests on the small of her back.

Then with one last twirl Grantaire returns Eponine to the centre of the room and without warning, drops her suddenly over his arm, startling a cry out of her then a laugh as she smacks his arm and tells him to straighten her up again. Grantaire holds her like that, his back curved as he leans over her, face close enough to kiss for a few more seconds, and Enjolras’s eyes follow the line of his spine to his neck, where his hair curls, soft against his skin, then snap to his eyes when he turns around. His cheeks feel suddenly hot but he has no idea why, this is Grantaire, so what if he can dance?

Everyone bursts into sudden, spontaneous clapping and Grantaire’s grin is genuine, but his bow is mocking, then he turns to murmur something to Eponine, who grins up at him like Marian did back at the office and Enjolras can’t concentrate.

Cosette hits his arm, exclaiming, “Enjolras! You didn’t tell me you brought a dancer to my wedding! You’ve been holding out on us!” Then whirls away from him and over to Grantaire, and from this distance it’s hard to make out what she’s saying but the meaning is clear; there’s definitely going to be a waltz for her first dance and Grantaire’s going to be the one to teach them.

~

“I didn’t know you could dance,” Enjolras says into the darkness of their shared room later that night. He’s been staring at the ceiling ever since he got into the bed, replaying the events of the day and all he can think about is the way Grantaire had held Eponine and how she’d looked up at him.

There’s a pause and the rustle of covers then, “What?”

“I didn’t know you could dance,” Enjolras repeats, because it feels important, somehow, though he’s not sure why. He stares at the ceiling for a little while longer and then asks: “Are you going to teach Marius and Courfeyrac?”

“Yeah. Cosette asked me and I couldn’t really say no. Seems I have a weakness where blondes are concerned.”

Enjolras thinks of Eponine’s ombre hair, dyed blonde at the ends since he last saw her and his throat feels dry as he says, “So you’ll be dancing with Eponine again then?”

“Yep,” replies Grantaire, shifting again on the sofa. One of his legs is kicked over the arm, the other pulled up at the knee. He grumbles something under his breath and says, “We’ve arranged a few times we can practice. I think she’s just glad to dance with someone who doesn’t have two left feet. Courfeyrac’s got a lot of confidence, but— fuck.”  He twists himself in the covers again and goes tumbling onto the floor with a loud thud.

Surprised, Enjolras sits up, reaching over to flick on the bedside lamp and blinking a few times in the warm amber glow. He shifts to look over the edge at the bed at where Grantaire is scowling on the floor and says, “You alright down there?”

“Perfectly fine,” Grantaire lies, wincing as he struggles into a sitting position and rests a hand on his shoulder, kneading at the muscle. “Just testing out the floor, seeing what it’s like to sleep on. Surprisingly big, lots of space to stretch out on, plenty of room—”

Enjolras sighs and throws back the bed cover. “Get in.”

Grantaire freezes mid-rant, and in the warm light from the lamp accentuates his cheekbones and the curve of his jaw, casting shadows in all the right places. But where he usually associates Grantaire with sharp edges and bitterness, the light softens him, or maybe that’s just the way he looks up at Enjolras, sleep-rumpled and defenceless. “What?” he asks, and his voice sounds wary.

“Get in,” Enjolras repeats, shifting over, “There’s enough room for two, and you can’t teach them how to dance if you’re getting cramp every night.”

Grantaire’s looking at him, expression unreadable and Enjolras is about to sigh and haul him in by his arm if he has to when Grantaire gets to his feet. He leaves the blanket on the floor, because he’s messy and uncaring about it, leaving pens and notes and doodles all over Enjolras's life, then climbs onto the bed at the opposite end. He feels the mattress sink with the added weight and his instinct is to roll into the middle, closer to the warmth of Grantaire’s body, but instead he turns on his side and curls into the cover.

“See?" He says into the silence after Grantaire's movement, "Plenty of room.”

Grantaire makes a choked-off noise and falls quiet before finally saying, “Night, Apollo,” but by then Enjolras’s eyes are already falling closed and within seconds he’s fast asleep.

 ~

"Time to meet the parents," says Grantaire with a wry smile, almost a week into the trip.

Enjolras looks up from his suitcase where he's digging for a pair of socks. "Hmmm?" he says distractedly. He never knows what to wear to brunch, especially not with his parents.

“Nothing,” says Grantaire, and then, “So how does this even work? Your family seems very complicated. Cosette is your… half-sister?”

“Step,” Enjolras corrects, moving to sit on the edge of the bed so he can pull the socks on, “Or rather, adoptive.”  He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “It doesn’t really matter. She’s my sister.”

“You’re kidding,” Grantaire replies, sounding genuinely surprised, “So those cheekbones aren’t genetic?” Enjolras gives him a look over his shoulder and he grins, making a waving motion with his hand, “Carry on.”

“Her mother died not long after she was born, she was taken in by Valjean - he’s not her biological father but again, semantics. However, when she was six he got in trouble with the police because of something, I’m not sure what, and he asked my father for a favour. So we took Cosette in. It was only supposed to be for a little while, until he sorted out his issues, but then when he came back for her he saw how much he couldn’t give her that we could and so. She stayed with us.” He shrugs again, fastening the laces of his shoes then getting to his feet. “Valjean still came to visit, when he could. She calls him Papa. He’ll be walking her down the aisle.”

Grantaire makes a considering noise in the back of his throat and then says, “And your father’s happy with that?”

“Of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be? They might be rich but that doesn’t mean they’re selfish. Oh,” he says, halfway to the door when he remembers, “And Valjean’s husband will be with him too, Javert. He’s the police officer who was pursuing him.”

“What?” demands Grantaire, falling out of the room after him, then turning and swiping the key card to lock it, “Hey, wait! You can’t just drop comments like that and then walk off - Enjolras.” He catches up to him at the lift, where he glares with all the force of an angry kitten, and Enjolras grins. “Were you being serious?”

“I’m always serious.”

“Don’t I know it.” Grantaire slides into the lift behind him as he presses the button for the ground floor. “So your biological parents are going to be there, who are Cosette’s adoptive parents, and her… sort-of step-dad will also be there and his husband? And here I was thinking I would need to have a drink to get through this.”

To Enjolras’s surprise, he does stay sober throughout the whole brunch, keeping to the water from the jugs in the middle, occasionally crunching ice between his teeth, and doesn’t even try to get in an argument with anyone. He seems to genuinely hit it off with Valjean, discusses the best brand of bourbon with Marius’s grandfather and Enjolras’s mother loves him from the moment Cosette reveals that he’s the one teaching them how to dance. He spends most of his time talking to Cosette, though he does nudge Enjolras's foot occasionally when he gets distracted by a heated conversation with his father about tax reforms and forgets to eat.

When everyone disperses afterwards and he’s promised his parents he’ll call them more often, Enjolras catches up to Grantaire in the reception where he’s talking to Cosette, takes hold of his elbow to get his attention.  “Thanks,” he says, “For not - for just - thanks.”  It's inadequate for what he really wants to say, but he can't articulate what it is in his chest beyond some form of gratitute he's never experienced before.

Grantaire’s eyes widen slightly, impossibly bright and blue, and he pulls his arm out of his grip carefully, pushing his hand into his jeans pocket, nonchalant. “No problem,” he drawls, “Any time.”

He feels like he should say something else, something more, but nothing comes to mind, and Grantaire shifts his weight to his other foot, glancing around before saying, “Well, if there’s nothing else, I’ve got a date with a lady who needs to learn how to dance.”

“A date?” Enjolras echoes.

“It’s a turn of phrase, come on, keep up. How have you put up with him for this many years?” This question Grantaire directs to Cosette, who’s still standing at his side, looking amused. He checks his watch and then says, “Got to run, or I’m going to be late and she’ll punch me. Again.” He catches Enjolras’s eyes once again and then turns, disappearing down the hall.

“I don’t understand him,” Enjolras says into the silence he leaves behind. “He can dance and he can draw, he got on with our parents - held his own in a conversation with father about the Leveson Inquiry and he edits my articles better than anyone else. He could be so much more than he is, but it’s like he doesn’t believe in himself.”

“Have you ever asked him why he’s at the paper, when artists for publications are pretty much freelancers and their wage is far from guaranteed? ” Cosette asks. “When that sketchbook of his is filled with the sort of illustrations people would pay for?”

Enjolras frowns and shakes his head, then does a double-take and says, “He let you look at the sketchbook?”  

“Yes, well, not all of it,” says Cosette, linking her arm with his and leading him towards the lift, “Some of the sketches. I had a chat with him about colour schemes, he’s got a knack for seeing people in the best light. You should ask to see it sometime, maybe then you’d understand him some more.”

Enjolras isn’t sure that Grantaire would let him look at the sketchbook; whenever he comes close, Grantaire always flips it shut, and whenever he’s not sketching in it, it’s tucked away somewhere safe that Enjolras can never find. He’s frowning when Cosette glances sideways at him, and she squeezes his arm before saying, “Just because he doesn’t believe in himself, doesn’t mean he doesn’t believe in anything.”

~

Musichetta, Bahorel and Feuilly turn up the next day, completing the wedding party. They’re running late to the next rehearsal, so Enjolras hasn’t had time to prep Grantaire on what to expect - but that’s also partly down to the fact he woke up to Grantaire’s elbow in his side and they’ve managed to get into no less than four arguments between showers and breakfast and running down the stairs because the lift was full.

They’re out of breath when they stumble into the room and Musichetta’s the first one to see them, her eyebrows shooting up in an expression that says far more than words ever could, and Enjolras glances down to realise he’s wearing one of Grantaire’s shirts. It was the first thing he grabbed after stumbling out of the shower, and now he knows, he can’t help but notice that it smells like Grantaire too and he blinks, thoughts going suddenly blank.

Bossuet catcalls and in the corner of his eye Enjolras sees a flush rise on Grantaire’s cheeks.

“And here I thought Courfeyrac was lying when he said you had a plus one,” Bahorel says, striding forwards, “Telling another one of his shit jokes, like he does,” (“Hey!” yells Courfeyrac) “But here you come, stumbling in late with another guy, wearing his clothes—”

“We’re not a couple,” Enjolras interjects immediately, lest anyone get the wrong idea. “Nothing happened.”

“Well this is familiar,” Grantaire says cheerfully at his side, “I almost feel like it’s boxing day all over again, what with the vehement denial after—”

Enjolras’s glare silences him, at least until Bahorel turns the full force of his attention to Grantaire and he says, “Hey, is that—” And suddenly they’re talking about tattoo designs, Grantaire following with his fingers the twisting pattern of ink that crawls up the side of Bahorel’s neck, leaving Enjolras standing there, at a loss.

Bahorel doesn’t have a part in the wedding either, so he and Grantaire retreat to the back of the room with Joly, Musichetta and Bossuet, and their laughter is the most distracting sound Enjolras has ever heard. He tries to concentrate on entrances and exits, when he needs to stand to join Eponine on Cosette’s side at the dais, but his gaze just keeps being dragged back to the back of the room.

The anger builds throughout the rehearsal and he doesn’t bother to question it, just feels himself winding tighter and tighter like a string about to snap until Cosette calls a break and he finds himself at the back of the room, saying, “Do you mind? We’re trying to have a rehearsal here.”

Over Grantaire’s shoulder he sees Joly’s eyes widen, then he’s pulling Musichetta and Bossuet away, giving them space as Grantaire turns fully to look at him. At first he looks confused and more than a little surprised, then the confusion fades in the wake of Enjolras’s anger to something bitter, unreadable.

“Well I am sorry,” he drawls, sounding anything but, which just winds Enjolras up even tighter. His hands clench into fists at his sides and he's just so frustrated and annoyed, and every time he turns his skin brushes the shirt - Grantaire's shirt - and it's distracting and he doesn't know how to deal with it. 

“If you’re not going to contribute, the least you can do is just sit there and be quiet!” he almost yells, and it's a struggle to keep his voice level.

Grantaire laughs, half-turning his head away from him. “I don’t have to listen to this.”

“Just because you’re not part of the wedding doesn’t mean that you can sit at the back and disregard it completely, when—”

“I don't even need to be here!” Grantaire reminds him, turning back suddenly to look at him, body poised for a fight. Someone - Bossuet - puts a hand on his arm but he shrugs it off, knuckles white where he clutches his sketchpad. “Incase you forgot, I'm doing you a favour, but if you're just going to be a dick about it then I might as well leave. I don’t even know why I’m here!”

“Neither do I!” Enjolras practically yells, “I didn’t invite you!”

Grantaire jerks his head back like he’s been slapped, his whole body going tense for a second, two — and then he relaxes in that way that makes Enjolras’s stomach sink, only this time there isn’t an acerbic comment, there’s just a faint curl to his lips as he crosses his arms over his chest and says, “Believe me, Apollo, I know.” He turns to leave, murmuring something to Bahorel, who nods and then frowns past him at Enjolras. Enjolras stares after him for as long as it takes for Combeferre to walk up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder, saying, “That was unkind.”

Enjolras wrestles with his anger, trying to uncurl from the tightness, and with every step Grantaire takes away from him he feels a lessening in his chest, until he can turn to Combeferre, swallowing down his pride as he says, “I know.” Then follows it up with, “I just—”

“I know,” Combeferre says this time, and tightens his grip on his shoulder when Enjolras makes a step to go after Grantaire. “Give him space.”

“But what if he leaves?”

Combeferre lets out a soft laugh and says, “I don’t think there’s any need to worry about that.” He glances around and then says, “Gavroche, keep an eye on him, would you?” Gavroche appears out of nowhere, balancing the ring cushion on his head and glaring at Enjolras. Over the past week he's managed to bond with Grantaire, and he seems to have taken their argument personally.

“Sure,” he answers Combeferre, still glaring at Enjolras, “He’s probably at the bar.” A place Gavroche shouldn’t be allowed to go, being only fifteen, but for as long as Enjolras has known him, Gavroche has always been completely impossible, and the hotel has become almost an extension of him, a place he knows like the back of his hand and disappears into for hours at a time.

“You’re an idiot,” he says to Enjolras, and then disappears out of the room, still with the ring cushion balanced on top of his head.

~

He doesn’t see Grantaire for the rest of the day - or Gavroche, who always seems to be everywhere at once. It leaves him feeling unsettled; when he’d gone days before at the office without seeing Grantaire, he’d usually been too busy with work or other commitments to really notice. On holiday when he’s supposed to be relaxing, he can’t do anything but notice that Grantaire isn’t there.

He goes searching for his sketchpad when he gets back to their room, but when he finds it he just leaves it unopened on the coffee table. It feels like an invasion of privacy to look at it when Grantaire’s not here, especially when he’s mad at him, so he pushes his itching fingers into his pockets and tries to ignore how he’s still wearing Grantaire’s shirt.

He spends the rest of the day with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, then Jehan joins them later in the night, taking it upon himself to braid Enjolras’s hair as they catch-up, reminiscing on old times and swapping stories of what’s happened in the years between. Something has clearly happened between Combeferre and Courfeyrac, but no one seems to want to say what, and the easy way they are with each other, the casual conversation, stops Enjolras from probing further. He knows if Grantaire were here he'd be able to tell him what's up; he's always had an uncanny talent for reading between the lines, where Enjolras has always been completely oblivious.  

When he returns to his room later that night it’s still empty, and he tries to ignore the way it makes him feel, just stripping down to his boxers and climbing under the covers. Sleep eludes him, till he hears the creak of the front door, then a thud and muffled swearing as someone walks into the coffee table. The door to the bedroom opens, revealing Grantaire, framed in a rectangle of light and with him comes the smell of brandy and whiskey, and probably several more spirits he can’t name.

“R?” his voice is thick when he lifts his head to look, and Grantaire freezes in the process of tugging off his shirt. He breathes in for a second, two, and then continues to pull it off over his head. In the darkness Enjolras can’t see more than the outline of his body, and curls his hands into the bed covers.

“Go to sleep,” Grantaire says, the words only slightly slurred as his hands move to his belt buckle. He pulls it out and drops it to the floor carelessly, then steps out of his jeans, as Enjolras stares up at the ceiling and thinks about all the things he should say, but without knowing how to say them. The silence feels heavy and he hates it, pressing down on his chest.

When Grantaire gets into the bed he turns on his side, saying, again, “R—” but Grantaire cuts across him, shaking his head and taking care to keep a respectable distance from him.

“No,” he says, “I’m drunk and I want to sleep. No talking.”

Enjolras wants to argue, wants to reach over and grab him, wants to take hold of his shoulders and shake him, or sink his hands into his hair and feel his body arch beneath him, or something but seconds later Grantaire’s snoring and there’s nothing he can do but try to sleep.

~

He wakes to sunlight and the sound of Grantaire swearing, and despite everything it makes him smile into the pillow, as he turns and lifts his arms above his head in a full-body stretch before opening his eyes. When he does he sees Grantaire glaring at him from the other side of the bed, wrapped up in the covers like a cocoon, looking surly and sleep-rumpled.

The smile stays on his face until he remembers the day before and what he’d said, and he blurts out, “I thought you’d leave.”

The words seem to hang in the air between them, heavy, and he winces. If there was ever a more blunt and less tactful way to start a conversation with someone, he hasn’t heard of it. It’s hard to force himself to keep looking at Grantaire when he just wants to panic and run out of the room, but he manages it somehow, twisting his hands in the bed covers.

“I thought about it,” Grantaire admits, “I even got as far as asking the reception desk downstairs if they could book flights.”

“Oh,” he says, and his chest feels tight.

“But then I remembered that it’s bad form to leave right before the wedding and well, I’m teaching Eponine and Courfeyrac how to dance, aren’t I? I can’t just leave them to embarrass themselves, that would just be plain mean.”

He always uses humour when he’s trying to deflect, to get away from talking about something, so Enjolras presses on with, “I didn’t think you’d still want to be here after - after what I said.”

“Yeah, well,” says Grantaire, “Seems I’m a glutton for punishment. Also I can’t say no to a free bar.”

“Grantaire…”

“What? It’s nothing, we’re all good. I’m here, you’re here, Eponine and Courfeyrac learn how to dance, Marius and Cosette live happily ever after, no harm done.” He rolls over in the covers so his back is to Enjolras and says, “Now if you’d kindly fuck off and close the curtains, I need to sleep off a monster hangover.”

Enjolras stares at his back until he realises it’s creepy and then gets out of bed to do as he asked. It's not exactly sorted between them, or even really a truce, but it's the nearest thing they'll get; a brief respite in the arguments and thoughtless comments. Now if only he could fix everything else. 

~

Christmas had been a mistake.

Grantaire had been new to the company - or rather, new to their floor. Lamarque had given him a permanent contract only a few months earlier, to have a cartoon in every issue they published. Before that he’d just been doing sketches and illustrations as needed and confrontations and cynicism whenever possible, particularly when he ran into Enjolras.

For five years, Enjolras had been so driven and focused that there had never been anything but the paper, and then Grantaire had appeared with his bright blue eyes and his drawling sarcasm and he'd been utterly and completely unable to ignore him. Before Grantaire he’d only ever been in attendance at Christmas parties out of respect for Lamarque, had shown up, talked to a few people and then left within an hour. But Grantaire had changed all that, even if he still spent most of his time avoiding people and staying to the outskirts of the conversation, going home right when everyone started getting rowdy.

Only last year… last year he had stayed.

He’d been promoted to Junior Editor under Lamarque and the first edition he’d helped to print had been praised (informally - but still) and he’d been riding high on genuine happiness. It felt like he was finally getting somewhere, like he was making a difference, and Grantaire had caught him downing whiskey and gone, “Woah there, Apollo, it’s not like you’ve won a Pullitzer.” And his hand had been warm where it rested on Enjolras’s arm.

That’s what he remembers clearest, the rough skin of Grantaire’s fingers on his wrist and the ink stains on his fingertips, the way he hadn’t moved his hand away when Enjolras had quirked his eyebrow at him and said, “Not yet,” then felt the ripple of his laughter run down his arm and through his fingers to skitter along his pulse.

He doesn’t remember how it started, doesn’t remember much beyond letting Grantaire tug him back into the party, then listening to his laughter as he told stories and noticing how his lips curved when he smiled - really smiled. He’d watched Grantaire down glass after glass of brandy, then tasted it again on his tongue when he’d slammed him back against the wall in the hall and kissed him till he forgot how to breathe.

Enjolras has always thought in words, in speeches, in sentences and clauses and punctuation, but all he can remember from Christmas is how it felt, the touch and the taste and the sounds Grantaire had made when Enjolras had pushed a leg between his and pressed him harder into the wall.

Then someone had stumbled across them, going, “Oh, sorry, I'll just-”

And sense had returned with the force of punch to his gut, because he was in the middle of a party filled with his co-workers and he’d just been promoted to Junior Editor and making out with artists in corridors was something that was definitely, seriously, not okay.

He’d taken a breath to say something but Grantaire had beaten him to it, pushing away from the wall and saying, “You saw nothing, yeah?” to the person who had interrupted them, “Nothing happened.” And Enjolras had latched onto that phrase like a lifeline, had grabbed hold of it and held it close and said it to anyone who tried to bring it up afterwards, like if he said it enough he could believe that it was true.

~

He thinks about that night as he prepares for Marius’s bachelor party, because it’s the last time he had alcohol and Grantaire’s eyes are bright like they were then, and Courfeyrac is having a mini panic-attack about the organisation whilst Combeferre just laughs at him, fond. Bahorel has turned up in a short-sleeved shirt with his tattoos showing and he and Grantaire are talking about them again, whilst Feuilly downs whiskey with one hand and fastens his shoelaces with the other and Marius looks like he's seconds away from running out of the room and never looking back. 

“And you’re not coming,” Courfeyrac says to Gavroche, who up until that point has been happily helping himself to mouthfuls of drink from the bottles spread out across the coffee table in the middle of Courfeyrac and Combeferre's shared hotel room. He looks up sharply at Courfeyrac for that and sulks. “No buts,” Courfeyrac says, “You’re under-age.”

“Like that’s ever stopped me before,” Gavroche replies, “You can’t keep the people down! Tell them, Enjolras.”

“What?” Enjolras says, dragging his eyes away from where Grantaire is now pouring a line of shots for himself, Joly and Bossuet. “No. Of course you can’t come. You won’t even get into the club.”

“I could so,” Gavroche protests, “I have an ID and everything—”

“You have a what?” demands Combeferre, but Grantaire gets to him first, turning around and sinking a hand into Gavroche’s hair, ruffling it every-which way until the teenager squirms and wriggles out from underneath him.

“You’re also little over five-foot and full of pimples,” Grantaire says, “Not—” And here he snatches the fake ID from Gavroche’s fingers, ignoring his protests as he holds it out of his reach and says, “Twenty-nine?” then laughs. “Word of advice? Go for a believeable age when you’re getting a fake ID.” He flicks the card back to Gavroche, who fumbles with it, still looking petulant, but downs one of Grantaire’s shots with a defiant look before throwing himself onto the sofa.

“Fine,” he says, “I won’t come, but I’m staying here and watching whatever I want on TV and you can’t stop me.” Even Enjolras has to smile at that.There's no telling the amount of trouble Gavroche can get up to when unsupervised, especially in a room filled with alcohol, but Courfeyrac doesn't seem to catch on to this, is already rounding on Bahorel.

“And you,” he says, going so far as to point a finger at his chest, “No fights.”

“What - why not? It’s not a real party till someone throws a punch and smashes a beer glass.”

“Oh my god,” says Marius.

“You guys never let me have any fun,” continues Bahorel, with an expression that’s so reminiscent of Gavroche it’s uncanny, right down to the sulky bottom lip.

“Fun like the time Bossuet got hospitalised?” Joly asks, as Courfeyrac glances at his watch then drops the conversation in favour of ushering them all towards the door. 

“Hey, look, that was definitely not my fault,” Bahorel protests, holding his hands up as he backs through the doorway.

“To be fair,” says Feuilly, “He did do a spectacular job of pissing that girl off all by himself.”

“And who would have known she was wearing stilettos that were sharp enough to stab someone with?” asks Bahorel, and gives out a contented sigh. “Good times. Good times indeed.”

Enjolras grabs his jacket and pulls it on, catching up with Grantaire at the door. He looks more than a little amused as he follows him through into the hall and when Gavroche gleefully shuts the door behind them, he turns to Enjolras to drawl, “Who knew you would have friends who knew how to party? I don't know if I'm ready for this. They'll never believe me at the office. Here I was, expecting a quiet little get together with friends, and instead I’m getting alcohol and chaos and anarchy. ”

Marius squeaks and Enjolras is stopped from replying by Jehan, who swirls in between them and hooks his arm through Grantaire’s, pulling him away from Enjolras as he says, “Anarchy, you say? Let me tell you about the time Enjolras spent the night in a police cell.” 

~

The music is loud and the club is packed. They’ve got a roped-off area towards the back that gives them a full view of the dancefloor and several buckets filled with ice and bottles of various spirits. Courfeyrac heads towards them immediately as Enjolras’s stomach twists, but he can’t exactly leave now. He just needs to be careful about how much he drinks.

The moment he pauses there’s a steadying hand on the small of his back, and he leans into it without thinking, turning his head to hear Grantaire as he shouts over the noise of the club, “No backing out now!”

Enjolras frowns at him, following the line of his throat as Grantaire turns to call something to Courfeyrac, then deftly catches the bottle of alcohol that’s thrown their way. He twists the top off with his teeth, one hand still on Enjolras’s back as he holds the bottle out to him.

“Time to take a leap of faith,” he yells, “Down the rabbit hole and all that. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Enjolras follows his mouth as he speaks, trying to lipread over the noise in the club, knowing that this is a bad idea for so many reasons but unable to stop himself as he reaches for the bottle. There are so many things that could happen, so many ways this could go wrong, but the enthusiasm of his friends is infectious and he’s in the club already. His fingers brush over Grantaire’s and then grip tighter, and he screws his eyes shut as he takes a long swig of what turns out to be vodka.

He sticks his tongue out afterwards, whole body shuddering at the taste, and says, “That’s disgusting, why does anyone even drink that?” But his question dies somewhere towards the end as Grantaire takes the bottle back and takes a swig from it himself, only he drinks it like it’s water and his fingers are warm where they press against Enjolras’s.

He’s not sure what happens after that, only that it’s lost in a blur of sound and movement and feeling. Everything shifts around him before focusing in on Bahorel, who has procured some salt and lime from somewhere and is talking about shots.

“I don’t even — what?” he shouts to Grantaire, who is by his side once again - had he left? He can’t remember, he thinks not, because Grantaire should always be right there - and Grantaire turns to look at him with an expression he can’t read. Then he catches hold of his wrist and holds it up in the air and Enjolras can only watch, stunned, as he leans down and presses his lips to the pulse point.

His heart is beating rapidly in his chest and he knows he’s being stupid, it’s just someone’s lips on his wrist, it shouldn’t mean anything but it does and then Grantaire’s managed to snag one of the limes from somewhere and is offering it to him. “Open up,” he says, and Enjolras does, catching the bitter fruit between his lips as Grantaire spreads salt on his wrist. He still isn’t sure what’s happening, but the alcohol running through his system is stopping him from panicking - at least until Grantaire leans down again and this time there’s tongue, sweeping over the salt on his wrist, then he’s tipping back a shot and something feels like it explodes in his chest when Grantaire leans in suddenly and takes the lime from between his lips.

He’s too stunned to move, too stunned to do anything but grip desperately onto the front of Grantaire’s shirt, eyes wide and staring at him, at the stupid bright blue of his eyes that’s always so impossible to read and understand. Then Grantaire’s spitting the lime out into his palm, grinning and saying something to one of the others, but Enjolras can’t hear him and instead just surges forwards, closing the distance between them to kiss him.

He tastes of salt and tequila and lime and for a few seconds Grantaire doesn’t move, just takes a step back, his hands coming up to hover over Enjolras’s shoulders, a hair’s breadth away from actually touching, then Enjolras tightens his grip on his shirt and it seems to do something to him and Grantaire shifts, moving against him and with him, hands sinking into his hair and tugging, tilting his head to deepen the kiss and at that point it’s all Enjolras can do to hold on.

~

When he wakes up he’s sprawled over the bed in his hotel room, still wearing most of his clothes but only one of his socks, and there’s a tie around his neck that definitely isn’t his and the sound of someone singing in the shower.

He sits up and the world swims around him, everything tinged with green for a brief, stomach-curdling moment, and then it all settles again in front of him, leaving him hunched over on the edge of the bed. It tastes like something died in his mouth and his head is pounding and he doesn’t understand why anyone would voluntarily do this to themselves.

He’s still sitting on the edge of the bed, in his shirt and the tie that isn’t his, cradling his head in his heads when the bathroom door creaks open and someone steps out.

“Wow, you look like shit.”

His head snaps up out of his hands, glare prepared and ready, but it falters when he sees Grantaire with a towel slung low on his hips and his hair still wet and he’s not prepared for the sharp twist of longing that lodges itself in his chest. It's surprising and shocking and leaves him reeling - or maybe that's just his hangover, he's not sure. Somehow he musters up the ability to say, “Why do people do this to themselves?” inordinately impressed with himself when his voice doesn’t waver.

“Do what? Get drunk?” Grantaire walks further into the room and begins looking for some clothes as he speaks, “Because it’s fun? It loosens people up, lowers their inhibitions, lets them have a good time.”

“Well that’s just stupid,” Enjolras replies, half-closing his eyes because the brightness of the room is starting to give him a headache. “People don’t need intoxicants to have a good time. If anything, lowering their inhibitions will just make them do things they’ll regret.”

He thinks he hears Grantaire take in a sharp breath, but when he turns to look at him he’s got his back to him and is pulling a dark-green shirt out of his bag. Grantaire pulls it on roughly over his head and turns to face him finally, saying, “So it’s a good thing neither of us remember last night, right?”  

There’s something off about his tone, but Enjolras’s head is pounding and he feels like he wants to throw up and so it’s easier to just close his eyes and say, “Yeah,” than it is to admit he remembers it, remembers the feel of the music pounding up through the floor in the club, remembers Grantaire pressing against him under strobe lights and the burn of stubble against his jaw.

It’s the second time he’s thrown himself at Grantaire under the influence of alcohol now, and the second time that Grantaire’s stepped back and said no, this didn’t happen, let’s never talk about it again. He should be prepared for the feeling of rejection but he’s really, really not, hating the way it settles, heavy and uncomfortable in his chest, making everything tight when he takes in a breath.

When he opens his eyes again Grantaire is fully dressed and snatching his cigarettes off the dresser as he heads out of the room. He doesn’t say another word, just lets the door slam shut behind him as Enjolras stumbles into the shower.

~

“What did you do?” Courfeyrac demands, when they both head down for breakfast and Grantaire walks straight past the table to the bar, where he’s joined seconds later by Joly and Bossuet.

“Nothing,” Enjolras replies, filling up a glass with water and slumping down into a chair, “Please lower your voice.”

Courfeyrac does as he asks, but only to hiss, “You two had finally - whatever - and now you’re not talking to each other? How does that work? You were all over each other last night!” His voice gets louder and louder with each word, and Enjolras groans, giving in to temptation and leaning down to press his forehead to the tablecloth.

“He doesn’t remember,” he says to the table, feeling a hand coming to rest on his back, stroking comfortingly before beginning to play with his hair. He shifts his shoulders to allow Jehan more access as he begins to braid his hair, and turns his head to look up at Courfeyrac. Who looks - he looks sad, which is just absurd.

“Oh, Enjolras,” he says softly, and Enjolras just closes his eyes.

“It’s fine,” he says, “I’m fine. People get drunk and make out all the time, it’s not like it means anything. Everything’s fine.”

“For a journalist,” says Courfeyrac, “You’re an awful liar.”

It’s a sign of how hungover he is that he doesn’t even try to start up an argument about journalistic integrity, just folds his arms over his head and tries not to think. It's hours before he begins to feel like a human being again, and he's made his way through a whole pot of coffee and poked at a plate of food but ate none; it seems so completely unappealing when his stomach is doing nothing but churning.

He doesn't contribute much to the conversation with Jehan and Courfeyrac, not even when he hears footsteps approaching their table, though his shoulders tense when he hears Grantaire's voice saying, "Courfeyrac, do you have time to practice?" There's a slight lilt to the edges of his words that comes when he's had more than a bit of alcohol, but it's controlled and his posture is steady when Enjolras turns to look over his shoulder at him. Grantaire's eyes are on Courfeyrac, but they catch on something else as he turns, turning into a shameless stare, and Enjolras feels suddenly self-conscious.

“What is it?” he asks, moving his hand to where Grantaire is staring, and his fingers brush the braid Jehan twisted his hair into, lying at the nape of his neck. “Oh.”

Grantaire's eyes widen and he seems to visibly shake himself, then he looks at Courfeyrac again and says, “Actually, I think I'm still too hungover for this.” He walks away suddenly and abruptly, leaving Enjolras staring after him and Courfeyrac grinning into his coffee - probably because he's gotten out of another dance practice.

~

Luckily, he wasn’t the only one that made a complete fool of himself at Marius’s bachelor party, so he doesn’t get asked about Grantaire again, though occasionally Combeferre will just give him these looks over the top of his glasses. The wedding crept up on him when he wasn’t looking, and suddenly it’s only three days away. He doesn’t have time to scowl and think about his feelings or why it hurts to look at Grantaire now, in the whirlwind of last-minute rehearsals and dress fittings to ensure everything will be perfect.

In fact, he doesn’t get much time to be alone with Grantaire at all in the next two days, not until they’re in the living area of their hotel room one day and something falls out of Grantaire’s bag. When Enjolras stoops to pick it up, he finds a fully-wrapped present and goes, “Shit.”

“What?” Grantaire asks, looking defensive, “We don’t all have the kind of money you do to buy big, expensive pres— wait. You did get a present, didn’t you?”

Enjolras hands back the present and refuses to look him in the eye. In fact, the wall is looking very appealing right now. Far more interesting than the conversation he’s currently having.

“Oh my God, Enjolras,” says Grantaire. “I can’t even - just how?”

“I’ve been busy,” Enjolras snaps, feeling shame rise, flushing his cheeks and making him want to be absolutely anywhere else. “I’ve had other things on my mind.” Like memories of Grantaire laughing and brushing against him and his mouth against his and. They’re becoming a problem, it’s not normal, and he keeps having these thoughts, at the most inconvenient times, like right now he just wants to kiss the smirk off Grantaire’s face, shutting him up before he can even start.

“It’s fine,” Grantaire says, tucking the present back into his bag. “We can share, I don’t mind. We can just say it’s from the both of us.”

Which is so ridiculous Enjolras can’t even entertain the idea. “But we’re not—” he starts, and then, “Cosette would know. I’d never live it down.”

Grantaire just shrugs, and flashes a grin at him, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to say, “Well then we just have to go shopping, don’t we?”

Which is how he ends up, the day before Cosette’s wedding, in the middle of a department store having a conversation with Grantaire about fucking knives.

“You can’t buy your sister knives for her wedding,” Grantaire says, taking away the offending box and putting it back on the shelf before heading away from the display. “That’s boring and thoughtless and just, no.”

“But they’re on the list,” Enjolras protests, holding it out for Grantaire to see, pointing specifically at where it says the soon-to-be-married couple would quite like a set of cooking knives for their new house.

“No,” Grantaire repeats.

“But what’s the point of having a list if I’m not allowed to buy anything on it?” Enjolras demands, trailing after Grantaire as he moves further through the store, “Why did we bring it? Can’t I just get her a - a gift card, or something? Then she can definitely get something she wants.”

“I am not even going to dignify that with a response.”

“By saying that you just did.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise I’d brought Gavroche with me shopping, I thought it was Enjolras, who can come up with far better insults that ‘no, you’. What about this?” Grantaire asks, turning to gesture at an absolutely hideous abstract painting.

“That’s not even on the list,” Enjolras replies, “Also it’s really fucking ugly. Why would she want that in her house?”

“Because then when she looks at it she can always think of you?”

“No.”

“To be honest,” says Grantaire, a little while later when they’re wandering through a different store and Enjolras has just about given up on finding anything ever, “I’m kind of surprised you’ve stuck this out for so long. The wedding, I mean,” he says, at the curious look Enjolras sends him, “Like, I know you think they’re an exercise in narcissism and so I figured after a few days you would find an excuse to leave and head back to the office. But you haven’t even asked me where your sim card is once since the day I took it and at some points it’s even looked like you’re enjoying yourself.”

Enjolras finds himself nodding and then prompts, “Meaning?”

“Meaning… I don’t know, actually,” Grantaire admits, and his arm brushes Enjolras’s when he pushes his hands into his jacket pockets. “Just that I’m glad I met your friends and family, I suppose, and that you do actually know how to have fun.”

Enjolras glances across at him at that, but Grantaire’s looking stonily ahead, focused on their search for the perfect wedding present, and so he looks back himself, and thinks about everything that’s happened in the past thirteen days. He hadn’t expected to enjoy himself this much either, hadn’t expected to forget almost completely about work and lose himself in the wedding preparations and planning and spending time with his friends again.

More than that, though, he hadn’t expected Grantaire to stay. He hadn’t thought that he would stick around at a wedding where he knew no one, with someone he barely even tolerated on a daily basis, but here he was, helping him shop for last minute wedding presents as if he didn’t have anything better to do and it just.

He doesn’t think he ever understood the term bittersweet until now.

Because every time he looks at Grantaire now he’s reminded of what happened at the club and then Christmas, but he also thinks about the little things, like the way he snuggles into a pillow when he’s sleeping and is always grumpy in the mornings. The way he chews one of the togs on his hoodie when he’s sketching and throws his head back when he laughs - really laughs - and how he’s gentle and caring with Gavroche and treats Eponine like she’s precious. How he can draw and dance and make arguments that leave his head spinning without even seeming to try.

The way he makes Enjolras’s heart flutter just by looking at him.

It’s all so ridiculously, completely unfair.

But he can’t say all that and so instead he just nods, his elbow brushing Grantaire’s again as he says, “Me too,” and then adds, “Are you sure I can’t buy a gift certificate?”

“For fuck’s sake Enjolras, no.”

~

The morning of the wedding dawns with a ridiculously early alarm and Grantaire swearing everything curse word under the sun. Enjolras tugs his arm out from under Grantaire’s body and heads to the shower, where he stands for far too long just trying to get his brain to start working. From the minute he steps out of the shower it’s chaos, coffee runs and Bossuet hammering on their door because he can’t find his cufflinks.

He’s standing in front of the mirror, trying - and failing - to fasten his bowtie for the umpteenth time when there’s a low whistle from behind him and he turns to see Grantaire leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest. The stance is relaxed but it also serves to pull his shirt tight across his chest and arms, defining his broad shoulders and narrow waist and Enjolras’s throat feels suddenly dry.

Whilst Grantaire’s suit is a simple black tux, his own is a three-piece affair it has taken far too long to put on, with zips and cufflinks and what seems like hundreds of buttons. He’s managed to get them all, but the bowtie is eluding him, currently dangling around his neck. He turns back to the mirror to wrestle with it, scowling, until Grantaire finally uncurls from his slouch and walks over, putting a hand on his shoulder to turn him around.

“Honestly, you can run an office like clockwork and make sure the newspaper is printed every week, but you can’t fasten a bow tie?” Grantaire’s mouth tugs up at one corner as if he's going to smile as he focuses on fastening it, and the slight height difference means Enjolras is looking down at him as he works. His fingers are dextrous and skilled, for once not stained with ink, and they pass a few moments in almost-comfortable silence.

“So this is apparently another one of your many hidden talents,” Enjolras says, to break it. “What other secrets have you been hiding from me?”

“Oh nothing much,” Grantaire replies, glib, “I’m just an international man of mystery. There,” he says, patting the bowtie in place, his hand shifting to rest on Enjolras’s chest as he looks up at him. “Ready to knock ‘em dead.”

This should be the moment he steps away and grabs his wallet and keycard from the dresser, but his body doesn’t seem to want to comply, just keeps him stood there, head tilted down towards Grantaire’s. Grantaire's hand stays on his chest, fingers curled slightly in his shirt as he looks up at him and he looks on the verge of saying something, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, when Courfeyrac comes barrelling into their room, demanding to know if they've seen the rings, and they pull apart abruptly. 

“You lost the rings?” Enjolras demands, which pulls Courfeyrac up short where he is overturning one of the cushions on the sofa. The best man looks up slowly and puts the cushion back down, patting it as if it were a pet, looking like the dictionary definition of unsubtle.

“Um, no.” He pauses. “Yes. Maybe. Enjolras, help!”

(It turns out Gavroche has them, but it takes another hour to find him, and that’s only when they enlist Grantaire’s help. Grantaire, who has already worked himself through one hipflask and half a packet of cigarettes, even though he has no part in the ceremony itself. When Enjolras overhears Bahorel asking him what’s up he just mutters something about fucking three-piece suits, which makes no sense at all because his isn’t one.)

~

The ceremony goes off without a hitch, though Marius forgets his lines because he’s too busy staring at Cosette and has to be prompted three times to say ‘I do’, with Valjean’s face getting steadily stonier and stonier each time. When he finally gets around to it and they kiss Enjolras does not cry, he doesn’t, there’s just something in his eye and he refuses to look at Grantaire when he bumps shoulders with him, grinning.

The meal also goes to plan, though Enjolras spends more time talking than he does eating, relying on Grantaire’s nudges to his foot to remind him (and pointedly ignoring Combeferre’s look every time it happens). Marius’s speech is adorable and sweet and Courfeyrac’s is hilarious and honest, with Valjean rounding it all off with a talk about the importance not just of family but friends, and being there for people when they need it most - even if they’re too stubborn to ask for help.

As the staff move the tables around to make room for a dancefloor, Grantaire disappears off with Joly and Bossuet to make a start on the free bar whilst Enjolras goes to apologise for his present.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he tells Cosette, who turns the opera tickets over in her hands and quirks an eyebrow at him, then throws them carelessly onto the table so she can wrap her arms around his neck instead and says, “Oh, Enjolras, just you turning up was more than I could have asked for. We worry about you, you know, when you’re away and working. Especially when you don’t answer texts.”

Enjolras smiles at that, and the warm feeling it sends through his body as he curves his arms around her waist to hold her close. “I know - I don’t mean to. I’m just busy and forget, sometimes.”

“Well stop,” she says. “I have Grantaire’s number, now, so if you don’t reply to my texts I can sic him on you.” The grin she pulls back to show him is more than a little evil, but it quickly turns soft, like she can’t help but be happy. “Speaking of, have you seen his present yet?”

“No?” Enjolras asks, frowning.

“You should,” she says, squeezing his arm, “You’ll know which one it is.” Then with a quick kiss to his cheek she heads back over to her - her husband, fitting against his side easily and sliding her hand through his. Enjolras drags his eyes away from them to look at the present table, piled high with gifts, and wonders where to start.

Seconds later he’s pulling out Grantaire’s gift, a photo album, but instead of photographs inside there are sketches. Hundreds of them. Some are more detailed than others, with shadows and shading and contours, whilst others are just line art, simple and sketched in a few seconds. He knows instantly that they’re Grantaire’s without knowing why, finds himself smiling as he flicks through the pages. He takes the photo album with him back to the table, sitting down as he looks through the pictures. Everyone’s in there, from Cosette to Bahorel to Gavroche, little sketches of events over the past two weeks. He finds a couple of himself and pauses over them, dotting his fingers on the pages.

He remembers Cosette saying something almost a week ago, about Grantaire seeing the best in people at all times, and not believing in himself but believing in others and there’s a realisation dawning, something at the back of his mind and—

“I know what you’re thinking.”

He slaps the book shut suddenly as if burned and looks up to see Grantaire grinning down at him as he leans on the back of a chair. When he doesn’t reply, Grantaire just rocks forward on the chair and says, “What a cheap present, right? Didn’t even cost him any money, he just drew a bunch of doodles and put them in an album.”

It’s so far from what Enjolras was thinking that he just stares at him, because how can someone be so wrong about something? Grantaire shifts under his gaze, as if uncomfortable, and Enjolras finally finds his voice to say, “They’re good - you’re good.” And that’s not what he wanted to say at all, but the realisation is still there at the back of his mind, just frustratingly out of reach.

Grantaire arches an eyebrow at that, and then does the last thing Enjolras expects him to, holding a hand out to him. He stares at it, and it wavers, but then Grantaire seems to find his resolve and keeps it there, expression determined. “I’m not going to go away.”

“But - I don’t… You said yourself that I can’t dance,” he says, but his traitorous hand falls away from the photo album, moving towards Grantaire’s, until he’s sliding it into his and strong fingers are wrapping around his wrist to pull him up.

“True,” says Grantaire.

“And I didn’t practice, like the others.”

“Also true.”

“So this isn’t going to go well.”

“False,” says Grantaire, as they reach the dancefloor, where Cosette and Marius and Courfeyrac and Eponine already are, and Enjolras just stares at him because of course it can’t go well. “I can dance well enough for the both of us,” Grantaire replies easily, but his free hand seems less sure of itself as it moves to rest on his waist, feather-light, then slips around to his back, holding him close. “Also it may have escaped your notice but everyone tends to get extremely drunk at these things so if it all goes tits up we can just say you were wasted - hey,” he says, when Enjolras attempts to pull away, “I’m joking. Come on, Enjolas. Please?”

Enjolras looks at him, at the uncharacteristically open expression on his face and the way he’s asking, not just acting, and that seems important for Grantaire, who’s always doing things regardless of what he thinks and refusing to do what he’s supposed to. So Enjolras relaxes, and brings his own hand up to rest on Grantaire’s side and says, “Fine.”

The first few steps he takes are clumsy, and he almost walks away, but then Grantaire’s grip tightens on his waist and his thoughts fall away and suddenly he doesn’t care any more what he looks like. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Cosette and Marius and Courfeyrac and Eponine go whirling past, but he can’t drag his eyes away from Grantaire’s, not even when his parents join in the dancing, then Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta attempt a three-way waltz.

He doesn’t break eye contact even when the music finishes, and Grantaire dips him suddenly and without warning, like he did to Eponine, and Enjolras’s heart lodges itself somewhere in his throat. Breathing suddenly seems hard and his hand moved when he wasn’t paying attention, wrapping itself in Grantaire’s tie to keep his balance, and neither of them are saying anything.

Grantaire makes a move, as if he’s going to straighten up and pull away, but for just a brief second his eyes skirt Enjolras’s face, dropping to his mouth, and it’s enough of an invitation.

Enjolras tightens his grip on the tie and uses it to pull Grantaire forwards suddenly, closing the distance between them to kiss him.

He expects Grantaire to kiss back, he expects movement, he expects something, anything but for Grantaire to soften against him for only a second, his breath wavering, then for his body to suddenly go hard and unyielding as he pulls away. “Where are you going? No,” Enjolras finds himself saying, straightening with him, his hand falling away from Grantaire’s tie as he reaches out for him, “Grantaire—”

“I thought - I thought I could, but no. No, I can’t do this,” Grantaire says, not looking at him as he steps away then turns and walks away abruptly, crossing the dancefloor, couples parting for him as he leaves, heading out of the room. 

Enjolras hesitates for all of a second before charging after him, catching up to him in the hallway, where he gets a hand on the edge of his jacket and uses it to pull him around, to slow him down and get his attention as the words rush out of him and he says, “Grantaire, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

And Grantaire laughs, but it’s not the easy, happy one that makes him throw his head back, but something darker, bitter, and he jerks his suit jacket out of Enjolras’s hand as he says, “Why are you doing this to me? I can’t keep doing this, I can’t just be the guy you make out with when you’re drunk.” Which doesn’t make any sense at all, because Enjolras isn’t drunk, but Grantaire just keeps going, saying, “Bloody hell, Enjolras, I’ve been in love with you for years, and I know that’s pathetic, but it’s starting to hurt when I look at you and God, do you know how hard it is to say no to you? And I need to, I know I need to, because I can’t keep doing this, I can’t keep— why are you smiling?”

Enjolras isn’t really sure, but he can’t seem to stop, hasn’t been able to since Grantaire uttered the words in love with you and he just carries on grinning when he says, “I’m not drunk.”

Grantaire’s eyes narrow and go suspicious, his posture defensive as he says, “What does that mean?”

“It means I’m not drunk,” Enjolras replies, still smiling, “That I kissed you because I wanted to, not because - not down to any alcoholic influence, and if you’d just come here I’d do it again—” but he stops reaching for Grantaire when something occurs to him and he says, “Wait, you said you— that you’re— but then why did you say nothing happened? At the Christmas party,” he presses, at Grantaire’s confused look, “Then after the bachelor party. Why did you act like you didn’t want it to happen?”

“Why did I—” Grantaire cuts himself off with a choked laugh and says, “I said nothing happened because you should have seen your face when we were interrupted. It was like your world had ended or something and I know you hate rumours and that your job means the world to you, and I couldn’t let someone go around saying I made out with the Junior Editor when you looked like you wished it never happened.”

There’s been so much miscommunication he doesn't even know where to start to unravel it all, but it looks like he and Grantaire are finally stepping onto the same page, because the hard lines of Grantaire’s body are starting to soften and there’s something in his eyes, something like hope, and it makes an answering something twist in Enjolras’s chest to see it.

“I was an idiot,” Enjolras says, desperate to keep that look in his eyes. “I have been an idiot, to not see you, when you were right there all along. To not realise what I felt. God, I was so jealous when you danced with Eponine and I was so worried you would leave and do you know how hard it is to sleep in the same bed as you and keep to one side and not touch—”

“What are you talking about? Try sleeping in the same bed as you and meeting your parents - and Cosette - and that fucking suit.”

Enjolras glances down at it in surprise, and then back up at Grantaire, who is glaring at his chest. “This one?” He turns slightly to give Grantaire a better view and hears his breath catch in his throat; now it’s definitely impossible to not smile. All the conversations from the past two weeks are re-arranging themselves in his mind, fitting together in a completely different way, and the silences and the looks and casual comments are all starting to make sense now. 

“That fucking suit,” Grantaire repeats darkly.

“I don’t have to wear it, you know,” Enjolras says, happiness making him bold as he steps forwards and Grantaire steps back, almost against the wall. His hands come to rest on Grantaire’s sides, sliding up to his chest as he listens to his breath waver again and says, “I could always take it off.”

Grantaire’s body thuds as it hits the wall, and his own hands come up to rest on Enjolras’s hips, fingers digging in like he needs something to hold onto to keep standing. “Christ, Apollo, you can’t just go around saying stuff like that. Not unless - not unless you mean it, not if this is just some misguided attempt to thank me for coming to the wedding. Because I mean, I’m okay with it happening but I’m trying to have some self-respect and saying no to you if it’s not real - is this real? You have to tell me, Enjolras.” He sounds so worried and unsure and nervous that Enjolras’s heart just melts.

“I mean it,” he replies, “Then and now and tomorrow, when we wake up and you think you’re doing me a favour by giving me an out, because I don’t want an out. I don’t want to pretend this doesn’t mean anything or I don’t want you because I do. And I have done for a while - I just didn’t realise it and please, can I just kiss you now?”

Grantaire looks at him for the space of a breath, a heartbeat, and then one of those rare, once-in-a-lifetime, breathtaking smiles breaks out across his face. But rather than answer, he just tightens his grip on Enjolras’s hips and turns him around suddenly, pushing him against the wall as he kisses him fiercely.

Enjolras supposes that’s answer enough.

 

 

 

 

EPILOGUE

 

His return to the office is quiet and uneventful. Emile who runs the front desk flashes him a smile on the way up to his floor, and he nods at a few people who catch his eye as he walks through the office. It’s chaos already, even though it’s still two days till deadline, and before he’s even reached his desk he's arranged four meetings and someones shoved a pile of unedited articles into his hands.

He discards the first one almost immediately, dropping it into a shredder as he walks past and sends interns scurrying for coffee when he reads the second, making a considering noise at the back of his throat.

When he gets to his office he sees Lamarque through the glass walls and grins, greeting him by saying, “Who let Anton do the headlines whilst I was gone? Did you want our readers to groan at awful puns?” as Lamarque takes his free hand in his, gripping tight.

“They got the attention of the readers I wanted," he says, then follows it up with, "Did you relax?” and Enjolras thinks back to the past two weeks, of the ups and the downs, the arguments and the laughter, the rehearsals and the dancing and more than one night spent drinking nothing but alcohol. How Grantaire had looked that morning, grumpy and sour when Enjolras's alarm had gone off at 5 o'clock. His knuckles brush of their own accord against the sleeve of the shirt he's wearing - Grantaire's shirt - the only thing he could find when he finally managed to untangle himself from Grantaire and get out of bed, a full hour after his alarm had first rang. 

“Something like that.”

“It’s good to hear,” Lamarque replies, releasing his hand, “Now I expect fully edited copies of all the articles you’re expecting to publish in this week’s edition on my desk by five.”

“Yes sir.”  As Lamarque heads back to his own office, the interns return with coffee, and Enjolras loses himself in the work piled up on his desk, the result of two weeks away.  It feels good to have a purpose again, to be busy with work and have something to work towards. He thrives in chaos, and it feels like coming home to have more work than there are hours in the day and no time to do anything else. He doesn’t notice the time slipping by until a shadow falls over the order forms he’s currently double-checking.

“Wow, straight back into the thick of it, are you? All play and no work makes Enjolras a dull boy?”

He looks up at the voice to find Grantaire leaning against the edge of his desk, a sardonic curve to his lips and two boxes of lunch food balanced on his palm. He drops them down without warning onto the desk and then leans over it to where Enjolras is sitting. Enjolras meets him halfway, rising up out of his seat and slipping one hand to curve around Grantaire’s neck.

“Hello,” he greets, when they finally part for air, and Grantaire grins, nudging his cheek with his nose. He pulls one of the salad boxes towards him as Grantaire moves around the desk, hopping up to sit on the edge of it like he’s done so many times before, only this time he rests his feet on the edge of Enjolras’s chair, bracketing his knees and Enjolras very suddenly has no qualms about sex in the office. All he’d have to do is stand up and push Grantaire back and his files would go toppling to the floor, along with the computer keyboard probably, but he wouldn’t really care, because in the two days since Cosette’s wedding he’s found touching Grantaire to be oddly addictive.

He knows that this is a bad idea for so many reasons, not least because they work in the same office and Grantaire is so terribly, terribly distracting. But he's also never felt as content as he does now, knowing that Grantaire is there and isn't going anywhere, that he can kiss him whenever he wants and they aren't going to pretend it didn't happen the morning after. 

In the past when they’ve had lunch together, he’s always had half his attention focused on the work he should be doing, scribbling notes with one hand whilst eating with the other, but this time he just pushes it all out of the way to give in and slide his hands up Grantaire’s thighs.

“Aren’t you supposed to be doing work?” Grantaire asks.

“It can wait,” says Enjolras, and pulls him in for a kiss.