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“Are you fucking kidding me,” Grantaire swears.
It’s been a horrible morning. Grantaire woke up fresh as a wilted decaying flower from a 20-minute nap after pulling two all-nighters straight for one of his majors, his parents just called to tell him they’re dropping by for an (extremely unwanted) visit this weekend so they can tut and subtly demean his life choices while pretending they care, and the ensuing argument they had made him miss his bus.
Which made him nearly late. Nearly.
And now—and now!—somebody’s sitting on his seat. His seat. Grantaire’s seat.
So the summary of his morning is basically how life is bullshit and the world is a miasma of despair and 7am classes are cruel and there is an interloper with his ass on Grantaire’s seat.
Aren’t there university regulations for this type of thing? He’s been sitting in that chair since the start of class and everyone knows that a chair occupied by the same student for more than two lectures means that chair was theirs, their butt has staked claim and everyone else is an invader.
Only a few people are with them in class. Valjean may be a popular and brilliant professor (hell, Grantaire likes him enough to sign up for a 7 am class), but sane people usually attend his other lectures, the ones not required at nearly the crack of dawn. Most of the students were flocked at the front, while Grantaire’s seat was smack in the middle. A lot of chairs were empty, so there was no reason for him to go over there and—
Yeah. Grantaire goes to his seat.
He stomps over, pauses right at the end of the row and clears his throat. Loudly.
No response.
He tries again.
No response. The student just kept on typing in his laptop, head bent in concentration, curls of blond hair obscuring his face, his earphones—from what Grantaire can see— plugged in. Almost like he didn’t hear.
Grantaire would have believed him if it weren’t for the slight tightening of his shoulders. And the other end of his headphones, clearly on display right there, tip brushing the floor and not connected to his computer. So.
“Son of a—“ Grantaire mutters, before taking a deep breath and letting out the loudest, most crackling cough he can manage, loud enough that he probably cleared his entire fucking respiratory system.
Finally, the other student deigns to acknowledge his presence. He turns his head to give Grantaire a cool stare, and in the process nearly shortcircuits Grantaire's sleep-deprived brain because what the fuck—what the fuck? Blond curls and fierce eyes and a strong jawline good enough to maybe draw or paint or, wow, that’s a seriously attractive angry face right there and—
Where is your honor, motherfucker! Grantaire screams internally. Defend your territory!
Right. Right. Chair first.
Well, can he annoy him out of the seat?
Yeah. Yeah, he definitely can.
“’Scuse me,” Grantaire says, because the alternative would be to blatantly either ogle or glare. “But is that seat taken?” He gestures to the chair on the far side of the other student, who’s eyes flicker to his face and then dart to the 50 or so chairs unoccupied. There’s a disbelieving tilt to his head when he raises a brow at Grantaire as if to say, ‘are you serious?’
Grantaire keeps his eyes on the other man’s face and his own expression into an easy grin.
There’s a few seconds of silence before he grunts and goes back to ignoring Grantaire, which probably means an extremely disgruntled ‘no’.
He makes sure to be as obnoxious as possible, jostling long legs as he passes, deliberately snagging the tail of a backpack (although he spares the laptop, since he’s aiming for annoyance, not murder) and makes as much racket as possible when he settles in his seat. From his peripheral vision, he can see his unwanted seatmate glaring a hole into the side of his face. If looks can kill then Grantaire and all his ancestors would have been eliminated from the history of the earth.
Grantaire can feel him just dying to say something.
A beat passes.
From the corner of his eyes, he sees him mutter a few words and then stiffly face the front.
There’s a veritable wall of tension between the two of them for the rest of the class. Grantaire can’t say he minds. Surely after this the guy can take a hint, right?
Right.
--
Grantaire takes the stairs two steps at a time, coffee cup on one hand and a bagel crammed into his mouth. He made sure to wake up and go to class extra early (just in case, seriously) because fuck if anyone’s going to steal his seat again. No matter if they’re scorching hot and blond and –
He pushes the doors of the lecture hall, and the triumphant hoot he was going to make dies a gruesome premature death when he spots His Seat.
There’s a red hoodie slung over the chair on the left, a black backpack on the right, and a familiar invader on his seat.
He gapes at the three—three!— occupied seats in growing indignation.
Swearing under his breath, he stomps over and just collapses on the seat right next to the red hoodie. He surreptitiously eyes the side of the other student’s head, who, for his part, seems to be determinedly ignoring his existence, ink-stained hands practically murdering the paper in front of him.
Grantaire can’t have that. He wants his fucking seat.
(And the one sitting on his seat. But. Priorities, Grantaire. Priorities.)
He drums his fingers on the desk. How should he do this?
Twenty minutes into the lecture, he gets his chance, because there’s a debate happening in class, and normally Grantaire’s content to sit and watch but The Invader of His Seat joins in the fray and raises point after point against someone else’s answer, ruthlessly finding fallacies and basically squashing the other side into a pulp. His face is fierce, his gestures are animated, his defense rapid-fire and logically constructed, and its magnificent and brilliant and idealistic and oh my god it is so completely wrong.
Well, Eponine did say that he can be an absolutely stubborn little shit.
Grantaire raises his hand and loudly says, “yeah, that’s a good idea right there except for all its horrible flaws.”
His seatmate whips his head to stare at him incredulously.
Grantaire gives him a charming grin and raises his coffee cup in a toast.
Oh, it’s on.
---
It went without saying that the remainder of the class degenerated into a debate made up of two people and the rest of the students watching like it's a particularly riveting tennis match. Someone actually brought out popcorn.
Professor Valjean can’t even be mad. It was the best entertainment he’s had in years.
---
In a fit of inspiration, Valjean put a halt to their debate and just says to the class at large to partner up with the one beside them and produce an essay about today lecture. He shoots a look to the both of them, as if to say: ‘I expect the two of you to produce work good enough to brag to my colleague’s noses. Particularly to Thenardier’.
He can feel the blonde subtly stiffen next to him, and he sighs. Clearly, he’s going to be the one to initiate contact here. Nice contact, which is totally not what he’s aiming for.
“Hello,” he says loudly, turning to the side and holding out a hand. “Name’s Grantaire.”
The other student pauses from where he’s jerkily arranging his laptop. His eyes flicker from the outstretched hand to Grantaire’s face. He extends a hand and gives him a brief handshake. “Enjolras,” he says shortly, and grudgingly removes the red hoodie. “We can work on my laptop. You can sit beside me so we can more efficiently.”
“Alright,” Grantaire says, standing up. Okay, perfect opening right there. ‘Hey, that’s a totally cool suggestion but I have an even better one: Did you know that you are sitting on my seat? No? Well, now you do, son. Grantaire rubs the back of his head and clears his throat, steeling himself. “Okay, so there’s a thing I’ve been meaning to say and—“
“No, I won’t go out with you,” Enjolras snaps.
“The thing is—what.”
“I won’t go out with you,” Enjolras repeats, slamming his pen down and glaring at him.
Grantaire stares at him, his mouth hanging slightly open. Which, point. There is no denying that the dude looks like a Renaissance painter’s wet dream. He straightens up and raises his eyebrows at Enjolras in disbelief, who looks back defiantly. Really good-looking is an understatement. But. Seriously.
He can’t help it.
Grantaire bursts out laughing.
“What?” Enjolras demands, looking slightly taken aback at the sudden change in personality.
“God, no!” His laughter was winding down now, and so he tries to school his face into a serious expression. “Although, yes, I can’t even be mad. That’s a valid accusation because you’re seriously like a giant middle finger to all nonbelievers who say gods can’t possible walk the earth but—BUT!” Grantaire clasps his hands together and leans in. “I am not flirting with you. I swear.”
Enjolras crosses his arms over his chest, his expression still wholly unimpressed.
“Seriously! Look, it’s just—okay. Don’t laugh.” Grantaire says, pinching the bridge of his nose. He schools his face in a grave expression, because it is a serious situation, dammit, this seat-stealing business. He flails his hands in the air, trying to find the best words. “You’re in my seat,” Grantaire blurts out, and wow, that did not sound immature at all.
Enjolras blinks. “Pardon?”
“That’s my seat. I have been sitting there since the beginning of this lecture and basically claimed it as mineand then last lecture you waltz in and— invaded!—my seat and—and, yeah,” Grantaire says lamely. “That was just extremely uncoolof you.”
Enjolras stares at him for a moment. “Uncool,” he echoes, raising a brow.
Grantaire throws his hands up in exasperation. “Lame! Unfair! Imperialistic,” he spouts off, ignoring the way his face feels hot. He wants to die.
“Imperialistic.” There’s a glint in Enjolras’ eyes, the ire completely gone from his face. There’s a quirk on his lips, like he’s fighting of a smile. “Are you serious.” It wasn’t a question. Do you realize you sound about ten years old goes completely unsaid.
“I know.” He sort of waves his hands in a helpless gesture. “Just—nevermind,” Grantaire groans, crossing his arms and laying his head on top to hide how red his face is. “Don’t mind me,” he says in a muffled voice. “Go on and write something about justice and dismantling societal inequalities and I will do my best to write after you. I have to wallow in embarrassment for like a minute before I can think.”
A few moments later, he hears the sounds of Enjolras moving. He raises his head and then straightens up, because Enjolras is arranging himself on another chair, the one on the other side of Grantaire’s Official Seat. “Well?” Enjolras asks, nodding to the seat beside him. “Don’t you want your seat back?”
Grantaire stares at him for a moment before letting out a small whoop. It takes no time at all to get his things and move, well, one seat away from where he was but, goddammit, this is the best feeling ever. His preening must’ve been too much because Enjolras gives an amused snort (which he totally ignores). “Thank you,” Grantaire tells him, smiling.
“Grantaire, it’s just a seat,” Enjolras says exasperatedly, and before Grantaire can go on an impassioned speech extolling the virtues of his chosen spot, he also says, “I don’t understand why you didn’t just tell me.”
“It’s the principle of the thing,” Grantaire defends. “You have to go away on your own free will. ”
“I was very close to freely committing homicide,” Enjolras says dryly. “You elbowed me twenty-seven times for a seat.”
“Lies!” Grantaire says merrily, settling more comfortably in his seat. “It was only twenty-five.”
He gets an elbow to the side in retaliation.
---
The next lecture, Grantaire makes sure to be just on time, so it won’t look like he’s particularly obsessed with his seat any longer. Still, he can’t help but groan in dismay when he jogs up to his row and sees that there’s a black scarf folded neatly on his chair and a folder on the one beside it.
Are you shitting me? Grantaire grips his coffee cup tighter, glaring at the scarf. Who is it this time? Who dares—!? Maybe he can… move the coat to the row below him? The row above? Outside the hall where it belongs with a note that says ‘that seat wasn’t yours, son’?
Grantaire was still brooding when he’s jerked out of it by a voice.
“Oh, you’re here!”
Grantaire turns and sees Enjolras walking up the aisle, a pleased look on his face. “Yes,” he says slowly. “I am here?”
Enjolras only snorts before bypassing him and grabbing the scarf. He sits on the chair next to it and raises an eyebrow.
Oh, Grantaire thinks, so that’s what it was. He can’t keep himself from grinning. “You saved my seat.”
“You’re blocking the walkway, Grantaire,” Enjolras points out, in lieu of admitting that he totally did, but Grantaire will let that slide because a) that may be a blush he’s seeing on Enjolras’ face and b) he saved Grantaire’s seat. He plunks his backpack on the ground before giving Enjolras a pleased grin. “Thanks for saving my seat.”
Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Seriously, Grantaire. It’s fine.” He clears his throat and then, with a gleam of challenge in his eyes, says, “I want to ask you something about the reading assignment we have for today.”
Grantaire cocks his head. “Okay, but are you sure you don’t want to stay in the front? Good view, lots of people, enough to probably crowdsurf after you inevitably make the opposition cry today…?” Grantaire trails off, gesturing towards the front of the lecture room, where students were already done staking claim via laptops and winter coats.
Enjolras doesn’t answer, just shrugs and makes himself comfortable in his seat. “It’s okay,” he says casually, which is a stark contrast to the way his ears are rapidly turning red. “I think I like this one.”