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Grantaire cleared his throat loudly. “I don’t have a fork to clink against this,” he said above the crowd, indicating the glass of champagne held in his gnarled, liver-spotted hand. “So you all are going to have to just pipe down on your own, since my voice isn’t what it used to be.”
This statement was met with general laughter from the assembled guests, since while Grantaire had just recently turned 78 years old, he was never exactly known for his general volume-control, almost as much as Enjolras. Grantaire allowed the good-natured laughter for a moment before saying, “And completely out of character, I actually get to speak first at this little shindig, something my husband is just going to have to deal with.”
Even with as long as they had been married, there was still a little thrill in Grantaire’s voice when he said the word ‘husband’ as if he still couldn’t quite believe it. The guests laughed again, a little gentler this time, and Grantaire smiled. “I honestly didn’t think that we’d make it to this point. No, really — on the day we got married I warned Enjolras that it wouldn’t last. I told him we’d be lucky if we made it a year without killing each other, and five without getting fed up with each other and getting divorced. And he bet me that we would make it not only to one year and to five years, but to fifty years of marriage.”
He paused, his smile growing fond, and sighed heavily before saying, “As usual, Enjolras won that argument, since here we stand, on the date of our fiftieth wedding anniversary.”
“And as I am the unfortunate loser in that little wager that we placed on our wedding day, when I was 28 years old and he was a sprightly 26, I have to follow through with the terms of that bet: I have to stand here, in front of all of you, in this ridiculous tuxedo, drinking champagne that I don’t really even like because we all know my tastes run more towards whiskey, and tell you all the times that Enjolras convinced me during our fifty years of marriage that we were going to make it after all.”
His grin turned impish, making him look even ten years younger. “But since this is my show, so to speak, I want to share not just the times when Enjolras convinced me we were going to make it, but the times when — I’d like to think, at least — I convinced him of the same. Because that’s what our marriage has always been — partners, a two-way street, constantly supporting each other, and, of course, having lots of fabulous sex. But Combeferre did make me promise to keep it PG-rated, so…”
Laughter again met this statement, and Grantaire looked down at the podium and his briefly scribbled notes. “And so our story begins, all of two hours back from our honeymoon…”
Their honeymoon had gone splendidly, a trip to Australia that was a complete indulgence for both of them (Grantaire because of spending money that he didn’t really have, no matter that their accounts were now joint and that meant he had access to Enjolras’s seven-figure trust fund; Enjolras by taking two weeks off of work and actually taking two weeks off of work, letting Grantaire confiscate his phone and computer). But now that they were back, unpacking their suitcases, Grantaire sat down heavily on the edge of their bed. “This was a terrible idea,” he said slowly.
Enjolras raised an eyebrow at him. “What, coming back from our honeymoon? I mean, it had to happen eventually, as much as I wish it didn’t.”
“Not that,” Grantaire said impatiently, making a dismissive gesture. “This whole marriage thing.”
If possible, Enjolras’s eyebrow went even higher. “What brought this on? I know that the honeymoon phase is meant to be more metaphorical than literal, and it’s understandable that things might seem more real now that we’re home, but…”
Grantaire shrugged, his entire body tense. “I just — there was an exit strategy before.”
“An exit strategy?”
Shrugging again, Grantaire stared determinedly away from Enjolras. “For when you got bored with me. Or tired of me. Before, we were just living together, and yeah, it would have been shitty, but now…Now it’s complicated as fuck. Our marriage isn’t even legally valid in half the world and who’s to say whether our divorce would be and—”
He was working himself up into a panic, and Enjolras cut him off before he could get too far. “Listen to me,” he said quietly, crouching down in front of Grantaire and taking both of his hands. “I love you. I’ve loved you for years now. I love you just as much as I did when we were ‘just’ living together. And that’s the reason why I wanted to get married in the first place — I don’t want an exit strategy. I’m planning on spending the rest of my life with you, and I’ll be damned if I let you start our marriage just thinking that it’s all going to fall apart. Ok?” Grantaire nodded, a little hesitantly, and Enjolras squeezed his hands. “Besides,” he added, after a long moment, “are you really prepared to win our bet two weeks into this? You know how whiny I get when I lose.”
Grantaire managed a small half-smile and shook his head. “When in doubt, bring how irritating you can be into this. No, I don’t want to win. Now or ever. And not just because you are an annoying crybaby when you lose.”
Enjolras smiled as well and stood up, pressing a kiss to Grantaire’s forehead. “Good. Then let’s work on being happy together and spend less time worrying about when — or more accurately if — things are going to fall apart between us.”
Reaching up, Grantaire circled Enjolras’s waist with his arms and pulled him closer. “I can think of a few ways we can work on being happy together,” he said with a smirk, pulling Enjolras down onto the bed with him and ignoring Enjolras’s half-hearted protests.
“Do you know how many hours you’ve been home this week?” Grantaire demanded, his voice breaking more from stress and anger than anything. “Do you? Honestly? Because I’ll give you a fucking clue, it’s in the single digits. So excuse me for wanting my fucking husband to actually be here for once and not in his fucking office working on fucking legislation that’s probably just going to get torn apart in committee!”
Enjolras let out a frustrated noise and drew a hand across his face. It was three years into their marriage and while things had not always gone smoothly, they hadn’t hit a bump like this in quite some time, which made it all the worse to feel like things were crashing down. “Ignoring your fucking pessimism,” Enjolras spat, practically hissing on the word, “this legislation is important. And, yes, I’ve been preoccupied lately and spending a lot of time in the office, but this legislation has the opportunity to save a lot of people’s lives, and if you cared at all—”
Grantaire practically snarled at that. “Don’t you dare accuse me of not caring. Don’t you fucking dare. Not when I am the one putting everything into this and you are the one putting everything into work. Because you know what else is important? Our marriage.”
“And at the moment this legislation is more important than our marriage,” Enjolras shot back.
Suddenly, he froze, his face paling, and he had to reach out to steady himself on one of the kitchen chairs. “Oh my god,” he said quietly, sinking into the chair.
Grantaire, for all his previous vitriolic anger, was concerned and stepped forward. “Enjolras, are you—”
“This legislation is more important than our marriage,” Enjolras repeated hollowly. “I…I actually think that. I promised you, when we got married, I promised that I would never let that happen. I promised…and I lied.” He looked up at Grantaire, a horrified expression on his face. “If you wanted to divorce me right now you would have every right to do so because I am actually the worst husband in the world.”
Grantaire just shook his head, and his voice was soft when he said, “Who said anything about a divorce?”
“Grantaire…”
Without saying anything, Grantaire crossed to Enjolras and sat down on his lap, wrapping his arms around him. “I don’t want to get a divorce,” Grantaire said quietly. “I’m not done fighting for this marriage. And yes, you need to step up a hell of a lot more, but I don’t think you actually believe this legislation is more important than our marriage. It may feel like it right now — and I’m not gonna lie, it definitely feels like it to me — but I love you. And I think that you still love me and that you really want our marriage to be the most important thing, and you’ll remember that.”
Enjolras closed his eyes and leaned against him. “I don’t deserve you,” he said quietly.
“Funny, I’ve been saying that for years.” Enjolras leaned back just enough to glare at him, and Grantaire laughed quietly before bending down to kiss him lightly on the lips. “Tell me that you still love me.”
Enjolras didn’t hesitate. “I love you.”
“Good. Now tell me that you will do everything to make sure I don’t win our bet.”
For a moment, Enjolras looked confused as to what bet Grantaire was referring to, then his expression relaxed. “I very, very much don’t want you to win our bet.”
Grantaire hopped off of Enjolras lap and held out his hand. “And now we’re going to go to our bed, and we’re going to undress each other, and we’re going to cuddle. No sex, maybe just a little kissing, but most importantly just holding each other.”
Enjolras looked almost unwillingly at the clock, his expression pained. “I need to get back to the office…”
“One hour,” Grantaire said quietly. “Prove to me you still love me for an hour. Please.”
After only a brief hesitation, Enjolras nodded and took his hand, following Grantaire into their bedroom.
They both lay together in bed but it felt as if they were miles apart. They hadn’t touched, they hadn’t kissed, they had barely even looked at each other since the letter had arrived in the mail, informing them that they had yet again been turned down for potentially adopting a child.
They didn’t know which had done it this time — Grantaire’s history of drug addiction, or Enjolras’s arrest and conviction record — but it didn’t really matter if the end result was the same.
And there wasn’t any way to make it better, no matter who was at fault.
Could they really make it like this, spending their life just the two of them? Could they be happy like that? Or were things destined to fall apart?
Grantaire shifted and made almost as if to reach out to Enjolras, then hesitated, curling back in on himself. Enjolras glanced over at Grantaire fleetingly, then rolled over onto his other side so that his back faced him.
Neither knew if they could make it. Neither knew if it was still worth it to try.
And so they lay next to each other, feeling almost like strangers. Until, somehow, their hands met in the middle of the bed, and their fingers laced together, and they both thought that maybe, just maybe, they could make it.
Maybe.
On a very different day several years later, Grantaire stirred, Enjolras’s hair tickling his nose, and groaned. “You need a haircut.”
“Calumny and lies,” Enjolras said sleepily, burrowing further into Grantaire’s chest. “My hair is a sacred thing that you would not dare touch if you valued your life.”
“Your hair is greying and is bothering my nose,” Grantaire said calmly, running his fingers through the hair in question, which was in fact greying, its gold fading into silver. “And besides, you know how I feel about your hair when it’s shorter.”
They both fell silent, remembering Grantaire’s reaction to the last time Enjolras had gotten a drastic haircut. It had involved having sex on almost every available surface in their house. “Fair point,” Enjolras said finally. “But you’re going to have to come with me. I hate getting my hair cut.”
Grantaire chuckled and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “You’re a big baby. But deal.”
Enjolras squirmed in Grantaire’s grip until he could kiss Grantaire on the lips. “Do you ever get the feeling that we’re absolutely perfect together?”
Smiling, Grantaire kissed Enjolras back, running his hands down his sides, his eyes gleaming when Enjolras shivered at his touch, even after all these years. “You know what? Sometimes I do.”
Enjolras and Grantaire paused outside their front door, Grantaire’s hands lingering on Enjolras’s chest after they kissed. “All of our friends are inside,” Grantaire whispered.
“I know,” Enjolras whispered back. “They think they’re being sneaky, as if no one has ever planned a surprise twenty-fifth wedding anniversary party before.”
Grantaire chuckled. “Who’d you find out from?”
Enjolras shrugged. “Courfeyrac can’t keep a secret to save his life. You?”
“Bossuet left his email open on my laptop.”
Shaking his head, Enjolras leaned in and kissed Grantaire. “So. Twenty-five years. You know what that means.”
“Yeah, apparently the worst surprise party in the world,” Grantaire grumbled.
Enjolras poked him in the stomach. “No. I mean, yes, technically, but a little more importantly…we’re halfway there.”
For a moment it looked like Grantaire might ask what Enjolras meant, but then his expression softened. “I really honestly didn’t think that we would make it this far. But, well, here we are.”
“Here we are,” Enjolras agreed, bending to kiss Grantaire again, but Grantaire stopped him.
“Wait, I want to say something.” He paused and took a deep breath, reaching down to grab both of Enjolras’s hands in his. “I never expected that we would get this far, but now that we’re here, the only thing that I want to say on the matter is this: I am pretty prepared to let this be the one bet that I lose.”
Enjolras laughed lightly. “The one bet? Need I remind you of—”
“The one bet that I willingly lose,” Grantaire quickly corrected himself, though he smirked at Enjolras and kissed him. “Now. Are you ready to act surprised?”
Enjolras shrugged, squeezing Grantaire’s hands. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
And together they opened the door to their house, both wearing huge grins as their friends shouted in unison, “Surprise!”
“And so,” Grantaire finished his story, beaming out at the assembled guests twenty-five years later at a party very similar in attendance to his and Enjolras’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, “as time went on, we both pretty much gave up on me winning that bet. In fact, it got to the point that when we were fighting or arguing, all one of us had to do was mention the bet and just like that, our fight didn’t seem so important in the face of almost getting to this point.”
He paused, his smile softening. “And I think that was Enjolras’s point, when he first made that bet. I think he knew, even back then, that I would need reassurance, and that I would need reminding of just how much he loves me, even if that reminder came in the form of the most asinine bet. And that’s why we’re here today, in this most unusual choice of venues for a fiftieth wedding anniversary party.”
Grantaire broke off and glanced to his left, to the handsome marble headstone clearly engraved with Enjolras’s full name, birthdate, a date a few years prior, and a simple inscription: “The chain will be broken”.
“When he got sick,” Grantaire continued, his voice breaking slightly, “Enjolras revised his will. I didn’t find out about it, of course, until after he was gone. He had changed just one provision, since we had made up our wills together several years back. Added a provision, in fact, dedicated solely at me. Four simple words: ‘The bet’s still on’.”
He had to pause there, tears brimming in his eyes, and he was not the only one in attendance with tears in his eyes — several noses were blown, and even more people were wiping their eyes, though several let the tears flow freely. “So here we are, just as promised, because as stubborn as I may be, I carry out my vows, and that includes all the ones I made that day fifty years ago, about in sickness and in health, as well as to go through with this ridiculous idea because I lost a bet.”
“And that brings us to the final provision of our bet: I have to admit that I was wrong.” He gripped the podium with his free hand. “Which means that even in death, Enjolras is a stubborn asshole who has to be right.”
The laughter this garnered was quiet and punctuated by a few sniffles, very different from the laughter at the beginning of Grantaire’s speech. Still, Grantaire managed a smile as he looked over at his husband’s headstone. “But unlike most of our usual fights, unlike really any of our fights that I can think of, this is one time where I am happier than I can ever put into words to admit that I was wrong.
“I love Enjolras just as much now as I did fifty years ago when he slid this ring onto my finger. I love Enjolras just as much now as I did when we were happiest, and just as much as I did when we were in the middle of our worst fight. I love him just as much now—” his voice broke, and he had to take moment to compose himself “—just as much now as I did when he was diagnosed with the cancer that would claim his life but never his spirit. I love him just as much now as I did reading those four words handwritten into his will in his crooked handwriting that was so awful, because with those four words, Enjolras reminded me that he still loved me as well. And as much as I have always professed to not believe in anything, I have to admit that I believe that he still does.”
Applause met this statement, and Grantaire smiled through his tears at the crowd of their families and friends, all there for him, and for the memories of Enjolras they all shared. Grantaire turned to the headstone and raised his glass of champagne in a toast. “So to my husband, the greatest man I have ever known, the person whom I have the absolute privilege of being married to for 50 years, and the person whom I have spent the most amazing lifetime loving. You were right, just as you almost always were, and I know you’re smiling down smugly from wherever the hell you are are. And God knows that I love you for it.”
As one the assembled group drank to Grantaire’s toast, and then the conversations began again as old friends and family members caught up with one another. Grantaire, however, had eyes only for Enjolras, just as he always did, just as he always had, shuffling over to lay his hand on top of the sun-warmed marble. He stayed that way for a long moment, before Combeferre touched his back gently. “We were planning on going to the Musain,” he said quietly. “For old times’ sakes. We wanted to know if you wanted to join us.”
“Of course,” Grantaire said instantly. There were fewer of them now — Enjolras was not the only absent friend; Feuilly had also succumbed to cancer, Prouvaire had a heart attack, and Joly had died many years before after contracting a disease while working for Doctors Without Borders (no one had made any jokes in the years since about Bossuet’s luck) — but they were still able to raise quite the ruckus when they put their minds to it.
Combeferre waited for Grantaire to raise his hand to his lips and press his fingers against the stone, and then together they walked away, Grantaire reaching up to loosen his bowtie. “I know you miss him,” Combeferre said quietly.
“I do,” Grantaire said calmly. “And I always will.” He did not pause in his step as he added, “But I know I’ll see him soon. And when I do, I know he’ll be waiting for me.”