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His fingers are shaking as he punches in the code to the door. The cigarette packet is clutched so tightly in his other hand that he’s crumpling it. It’s been one customer after the other today and if Enjolras has to deal another bride-to-be who thinks that if she just offers him more money he can make miracles happen, he will probably make one of them cry. Or politely, always politely, tell them to go fuck themselves.
Enjolras registers that there’s someone else out there with him, propped against the wall, legs crossed, but he needs a cigarette now so he doesn’t really care. He tugs one out of the packet, brings it to his lips and pats down his trousers trying to find a lighter. Of course, he doesn’t have one.
It’s only when a tanned, long-fingered hand holds out a beat-up Zippo lighter does Enjolras finally acknowledge his companion.
“Who are you?” he asks, the words flying from his mouth, because holy shit this guy does not work on his floor. Enjolras would know if he did, because he would never get anything done.
He’s... well, fuck. Enjolras wants to take him by the hair and slam him against the wall, and it’s been a long time since he’s had such a visceral reaction to someone. He’s a mess of black curls and easy smiles, a relaxed grace that comes from practice. He’s dressed well enough; no suit and no tie, but he does have a nice pair of black trousers that aren’t wrinkled, so he’s at least tried. He’s wearing a red shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It shows off his forearms, which are toned, tanned and absolutely covered in curls and lines of inked colour. Enjolras wants to see how far up they go, where else they are and is he really already thinking of this guy naked? What makes words catch on his tongue, though, is the waistcoat. It’s black and fits snugly around his chest and follows the lithe curve of his back, ending just above his ass. He has a measuring tape draped casually around his neck, and Enjolras can see the glint of light off the silver pins he has threaded through the fabric at his shoulder.
He’s never seen this guy before in his life, but Enjolras already hates him.
“Most people say thank you,” the guy says, pulling Enjolras from his blatant staring, words rough like he’s had five whiskeys and ten cigarettes too many. He has an easy, amused smirk on his face.
“Sorry,” Enjolras says with absolutely no sincerity. “Thank you.”
He hands the lighter back, and the guy looks at him assessing, before he pushes off the wall. Enjolras wants him back there, pinned down, and--
“What has the great Enjolras so frustrated today?” he asks, and the question must show on his face because the guy laughs. “Don’t be so surprised, everyone in the store knows who you are, dear Apollo.”
“You don’t work in bridal,” Enjolras snaps, rudely, bristling at the nickname.
“That’s a very correct assessment,” the guy says. If he’s offended by Enjolras’s tone, he doesn’t show it.
Enjolras just stares at him, expectantly, and the guy rolls his eyes and dips in a low, flourishing bow. It’s obviously mocking.
“I work in the suiting department,” he says, and Enjolras wants to bite the cocky grin off his face. “You know, downstairs?”
Enjolras can’t remember the last time he even went downstairs.
“How long have you been working here?” Enjolras demands, and he can hear Cosette’s voice in his head, admonishing his rudeness. This guy, however, doesn’t seem to notice, let alone care.
“Four months, if you must know,” the guy says, shrugs and Enjolras can see the way his tongue presses against his teeth as he grins. “But this isn’t my first rodeo.”
Enjolras is bad at social cues. He can never tell if his clients are only there because they want to see him naked, not because they want a dress. Despite this, even he can see that this guy is flirting. Enjolras has no clue what to do now. The guy is looking at him expectantly, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, before he huffs, half a laugh and half a sigh. He takes the cigarette from his lips to drop it to the ground, grinding it beneath the heel of a highly polished shoe. He tips his head towards Enjolras.
“Well, as lovely as it’s been not-chatting to you, Apollo, my break is over,” the guy says and starts rolling the sleeves of his shirt back down, covering the tattoos. Then, Jesus Christ, he’s doing the buttons up on the cuffs with his teeth and Enjolras nearly crushes his cigarette between his fingers. He looks away, or else he’s going to go back to serving brides-to-be with an erection showing through his suit pants. Which, no.
The the guy is brushing past Enjolras, far too close to be accidental, and disappears back through the building door. Enjolras fights the urge to follow him. Instead, he drops his head back against the brickwork of the wall and breathes in and out, slowly, just like Combeferre taught him.
It’s only when the cigarette burns his fingertips and he drops it in surprise, does Enjolras realise he never even got the guy’s name.
This, the guy, the entire encounter, frustrates Enjolras for the rest of the day.
No matter how many times he glances at the staircase, though, he never goes downstairs.
Not yet.