Chapter Text
Enjolras doesn’t even notice him at first.
He’s in the café for twenty minutes, reading the newspaper at a table tucked in the corner, when Courfeyrac and Combeferre finally arrive. Combeferre goes to the counter to order for them—one chai, one latte, and one coffee, black—and Courfeyrac starts toward Enjolras when he spots the man working behind the counter.
“Hello!” Courfeyrac says cheerfully, veering away from Enjolras’s table and moving to stand beside Combeferre. Enjolras looks up from his paper. “Are you new, then?” He turns to their regular barista. “Chetta, who’s your friend?” He fakes being wounded, gasps. “Does this mean you’re leaving us? Surely not!”
Musichetta smiles warmly at Courfeyrac’s theatrics, accustomed to the typical behavior, as she goes about making their drinks with a practiced hand. “Thought I could use an extra pair of hands around here,” she says. “Can’t get rid of me so easily.”
“I’m Grantaire,” the newbie says.
“Courfeyrac.” He points to himself. “And this is Combeferre. The anti-social one in the corner there is Enjolras.” Enjolras has, indeed, gone back to reading his newspaper, and doesn’t acknowledge the mention of his name, nor the rather hopeful glance Grantaire gives him.
“We’re regulars,” Combeferre adds. “There’s a whole group of us, actually. And we like to get to know the people who work here.” He pauses, thinking. “Actually, aside from that kid who worked here, what, a month? It’s pretty much just been Chetta.”
“Well, Grantaire’s long term,” Musichetta says. “Right, honey?”
“That’s the plan.” Grantaire grins. “Until you get sick of me.”
“He’s a good one,” Musichetta tells them knowingly. “I can tell. He’ll stick.”
Joly and Bossuet enter then, quickly making their way to the counter, and Courfeyrac and Combeferre take their drinks over to Enjolras’s table. Jehan enters a few minutes later, and Enjolras finally sets his paper aside and sips at his coffee. He doesn’t spare Grantaire a single glance, and eventually Bahorel and Feuilly arrive and everyone settles, allowing the meeting to start.
“You can take five if you want,” Musichetta tells Grantaire. “They’re usually the only ones around this time. Once they get going there isn’t much left for us to do.” She follows his gaze, watching Enjolras apparently discussing an article from his newspaper, waving it around angrily. “Unless you want to listen?” she asks Grantaire.
He goes out for a smoke.
[To R: how’s the new job?]
[To Eponine: easy. think ill have enough $ in 3-4 months.]
[To R: b careful 2nite i think he knos bout ur new job]
[To Puppy: thanks.]
[To Puppy: when are you going to give up the chat speak?]
[To R: wen r u going 2 change my name in ur contacts]
[To Puppy: no deal.]
Grantaire gets used to the group quickly.
They come together twice a week in the odd evening hours when most people are having dinner, earning a typically empty café. Sometimes he’ll see them during busier hours, in smaller groups of two or three. Joly and Bossuet come in the most often, and Bahorel and Courfeyrac talk with him the most. Enjolras alone remains a mystery to him.
Enjolras rarely acknowledges him, and is the only one who hasn’t formally introduced himself. Enjolras is always the first to arrive, but rarely orders for himself—usually it is Combeferre who orders Enjolras’s drink—and he leaves last, always.
Grantaire finds Enjolras fascinating—intelligent, attractive, but seemingly cold— but he makes no attempt to talk to him. He keeps his distance, from all of them, as much as he can. He falls into a routine.
After a couple of months of working at the café, Musichetta gives him a longer leash while giving herself some free time; he begins to work some shifts solo.
Tonight he’s working the evening shift alone and he can’t help but glance at the clock every five minutes; it’s one of the nights when the group—the Amis, he reminds himself, having been informed of the name only a few days earlier—is meant to come in.
He often finds himself looking forward to these meetings, not because he’s interested—he rarely listens to what they talk about—but because he’s begun to realize that he genuinely enjoys the company. The Amis, for the most part, are friendly and interesting to talk to. And Enjolras, although not much for conversation, is at least nice to look at; aside from his pretty face, Grantaire finds his energy captivating. Enjolras always speaks passionately, waving his arms around and often standing up suddenly as he makes a point, and Grantaire watches, enthralled.
Tonight, however, Grantaire is anxiously checking the clock not because he can’t wait for the Amis to arrive, but because he’s dreading their arrival.
“I should’ve called in sick,” he mutters for what must be the tenth time, before reminding himself that he needs the money. “Suck it up,” he says to himself, and then laughs. “And stop talking to yourself aloud. It’s weird.”
Not long after, Enjolras arrives. He makes his way to his table in the corner, half-glancing at Grantaire before stopping in his tracks. Grantaire watches out of the corner of his eye, pretending to adjust one of the machines. Enjolras is studying him with a frown, looking something between annoyed and concerned. He seems to be debating internally, before he sighs and goes to the counter.
“Um,” Enjolras announces himself, looking rather awkward. “Are you—“ He grimaces. “Are you all right?”
Grantaire looks at him as though he doesn’t know what Enjolras means. Enjolras sighs again.
“You’ve got a black eye,” Enjolras says, gesturing to Grantaire’s face. “I just thought—well, I just wanted to be sure you’re all right?”
Grantaire makes a face like he’d genuinely forgotten about his eye. “Oh, that,” he laughs. “Nah, it’s nothing. Got into a tussle, y’know how it is. Nothing, really. Uh, thanks, though.” He laughs again, awkward and forced. “Um. D’you want your coffee, then?”
Enjolras eyes him suspiciously. “Sure.” He doesn’t leave the counter, but continues watching Grantaire. Grantaire pretends he doesn’t notice and takes his time getting Enjolras’s drink. As he slides it across the counter, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Jehan enter, and Grantaire groans inwardly.
“Whoa,” Courfeyrac says immediately, loudly. He rushes to the counter, eyes wide. “Solid shiner. What happened?”
“A tussle, he says,” Enjolras answers wryly. He’s still watching Grantaire carefully. “If you want us to drop it you’d best tell us the truth.”
Grantaire hesitates. “What do you care?” His eyes never leave Enjolras. By now he can call Courfeyrac a friend, and he’s fond enough of Combeferre and Jehan that he might call them friends as well. But Enjolras has never spoken to him for this long, has never shown any interest in him.
And anyway, friends they might be, but Grantaire isn’t ready to trust them. He’s not going to start just because they’re showing concern.
Absolutely not.
Enjolras sighs. “Look, if you’re being abused—I have some people who I can put you in contact with, they can help you out—“ He stops as Grantaire laughs humorlessly.
“I’m not being abused,” Grantaire says, just as Feuilly and Bahorel enter. They freeze as what Grantaire says registers, and immediately join the group at the counter.
“Who do I need to hit, huh?” Bahorel asks, taking in Grantaire’s face. Grantaire feels touched for a moment.
“No one,” he says. Joly and Bossuet come in, joining the group quietly with matching looks of concern. “All right, the truth then.” He nods at Enjolras. “I walked in on my friend getting slapped around by her boyfriend. All right? I stepped in, stopped it, took a hit. But it’s fine now. So.” He looks around at the Amis, his gaze falling on each in turn. “I’ll make your drinks, yeah?”
There’s a beat of silence before Enjolras relaxes a little, seeming to accept Grantaire’s story. “All right, then,” he says, and that’s that. He takes his coffee and goes to his table in the corner, and Grantaire sets about making drinks, and one by one the Amis reluctantly sit by Enjolras. Only Combeferre remains by the counter.
“That’s the truth,” Grantaire says finally in a low voice. “Honestly. I was helping out a friend, that’s all.” And it’s true. He still seethes a little, remembering the way Eponine’s head had snapped back, her eyes watering from the sting of the blow. He couldn’t do anything except stand between them and wait for Montparnasse to calm down, but he’d done it without hesitating.
Combeferre studies him carefully. Often Grantaire feels that Combeferre can see right through people, can pick out their thoughts like underlined passages in a book, and this moment is no different. He tries not to squirm. “I just hope it doesn’t happen again,” Combeferre says. “Whatever ‘it’ is.” He turns to head toward the group, and hesitates. “Grantaire,” he says carefully. He speaks softly. “You are a friend to us now, and I hope you realize that—that any problems you might be having? Aren’t problems you need to go through alone. Just—if you need anything, we will help in any way we can.”
Grantaire’s brows furrow automatically. Combeferre is being sincere, and Grantaire doesn’t know what to do with such honesty.
“Thank you,” he says finally. Combeferre nods and goes to sit with the Amis. Grantaire watches them all for a while. Occasionally Combeferre or Jehan will glance back at him, smiling reassuringly. Enjolras has gone back to ignoring him, it seems.
After a few minutes, Grantaire goes outside to smoke. His hand shakes a little when he lights his cigarette.
[To R: can you buy some of that tea marius likes? hes upset]
[To Eponine: sure. what’s up?]
[To R: he has to work w that alex guy tonight. you remember him]
[To R: DON’T talk to montparnasse about it, hes still mad at you]
[To R: better bring some whiskey as well]
It’s so late that it’s almost early when Marius comes home.
Eponine jumps up to put the kettle on as Marius drops beside Grantaire at the kitchen table, wincing almost imperceptibly. Grantaire slides the bottle of whiskey toward him; it’s still three-quarters full, which is proof enough of just how much they love him.
“So?” Grantaire asks. Marius gulps some whiskey straight out of the bottle, ignoring the glass Grantaire had set out.
“I can’t keep doing this,” Marius says, gasping slightly at the burn of the drink. He grabs the glass, pours some whiskey, and slides the bottle back to Grantaire, who refills his own glass. “Not with him. I—“ He looks at Grantaire helplessly. “What am I supposed to do?”
Grantaire thinks for a moment, sipping at his drink. “Well. If Montparnasse thinks this guy is leaving you unable to work…” He glances at Marius, a bit apologetically. “I don’t know, kid. If it’s so bad that you can’t do other jobs, maybe—maybe—he’ll consider it, but even then…”
“Won’t do.” Marius sighs, resigned. “Alex pays double, apparently. He’d have to land me in the hospital for Montparnasse to care.” He finishes off his glass just as Eponine sets a mug of tea in front of him. “Thanks, E.”
Eponine takes a seat across from him. “I’m really sorry, Marius.” She’d just come back from work as well, but it’d been with her favorite customer. All of her customers were pretty decent, and she counted herself lucky.
Marius leans heavily against Grantaire as Eponine pours some whiskey into his tea. He smiles his thanks. “I suppose it’ll be all right. Alex isn’t a frequent customer. I’ll just have to deal with it.”
“Our lot in life,” Eponine says. She pours herself a glass and downs it in one. Grantaire throws an arm around Marius.
“I found a place,” Grantaire tells them, and Eponine’s eyes widen dramatically. “It’s small. Like, really small. Crap. But I can afford it.” He can’t stop the small smile that plays on his face. “God, this is weird. Being able to afford things?” He laughs, with only a hint of bitterness.
“So the café gig’s really working out,” Eponine says. “Damn, Taire. I’m proud of you.”
“When are you moving?” Marius asks.
“Aiming for next week. I’d like to go sooner but I figured I’d wait for Montparnasse to cool down. Still pissed at me and all.” Grantaire shrugs. “Not that I’m planning on him finding out, but y’know, just in case.”
Marius nods. “All right. Just tell me when, I’ll be there.” Grantaire squeezes his shoulder in appreciation.
“I can keep Montparnasse busy that day, if you want,” Eponine offers. Grantaire shakes his head.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says firmly.
They sit in silence for a while. As Marius drinks he becomes heavier and heavier against Grantaire. Grantaire doesn’t mind, though. It’s Marius, after all, and anyway after the job he’s just had, Grantaire isn’t about to say no to Marius. Eponine’s eyelids droop a bit and her gaze keeps falling on Marius. Grantaire knows she’s watching for another breakdown. She’d been alone with him after his first time with Alex, and only she had seen the state he was in. She’d cried to Grantaire afterwards; it’s still only one of two times he’s seen her cry.
Grantaire is beginning to think Marius has fallen asleep when he speaks up.
“Filled out another application today,” he mumbles. “Restaurant. Bussing.” He sighs. “Won’t get it.”
“You’ll get something,” Grantaire says. “Both of you.” Eponine looks at him skeptically. “I can talk to my boss.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Eponine says, though her tone suggests she believes otherwise. She stands abruptly. “You should sleep, Marius. You too, R. Are you gonna crash here?” Grantaire hesitates. “Montparnasse won’t come around until tomorrow afternoon. You’re good.” Grantaire nods.
“All right,” he says, helping Marius to his feet. Eponine sets about cleaning the kitchen. Grantaire moves to help, but she slaps his hand away lightly.
“Get him to bed,” she tells him, gesturing to Marius, who’s wobbling a bit and looking at them rather blearily. She smiles at Marius, warm and fond. “Good night, you two.”
“’Night, darling,” Marius responds lazily, blowing a kiss. He always becomes fond of pet names when he drinks. “R, will you—“
“Yes, yes, I will, but I swear, Marius, if I wake up without any covers again…” Grantaire doesn’t bother finishing the threat, because they all know he’ll wake up without covers and he won’t mind one bit.