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“So, I found your boyfriend,” Cosette says, throwing herself onto Grantaire’s couch and kicking off her shoes with satisfied sighs.
“Haven’t lost one,” Grantaire mutters, not bothering to look up from his sketch. She pokes his thigh and he swats her hand away. “Or have I? I don’t know, last night got a bit crazy, note to self: tequila is not my friend, we’re going separate ways.”
Cosette ignores him, like she is wont to do when he starts talking shit. It’s a good thing, most of the time, because his tendency to run his mouth has scared away many of his supposed friends. Of course, it’s a little different with Cosette, because somehow her big Bambi eyes looking at him with reproach and sad disappointment are enough to curl most of his really angry tirades.
She’s been good to him, Cosette has. They met last year in the media art class, after she snickered at his wondering whether the prof was winding them up with the video pieces he kept showing.
They made no fucking sense and just because something is black and white doesn’t make it art. And all the underwater footage was making him seriously uncomfortable.
Cosette was the one to rope him not only into participating in the group assignment, but also actually doing some group work (group assignments, he’ll let you know, are the actual worst. He realises they’re supposed to teach you cooperation and delegation and shit, but they just give him migraines and complete and utter hatred for everyone in the world), and they’ve been good friends since. It’s difficult not to love Cosette.
Now, she pokes her tongue out at him, and opens the drawer at the side of the coffee table, fishing out a collection of his doodles. “I meant your Apollo,” she clarifies, holding up one of the pictures.
It’s one of the newer ones, that’s why it’s in the drawer. But honestly, any collection of his drawings and sketches and doodles she would pick up was bound to have some damning evidence included. He can’t help but come back to sketching the guy, it’s like a mental disease; he’ll be doodling random waves and suddenly they turn into the man’s hair. He’ll be doing a quick exercise drawing of a hand holding a pen, and then it’s his hand. His mind keeps turning and turning every detail and studying it from every angle and it doesn’t even help to exorcise the demons anymore, like he thought (hoped) it would; the more he draws the guy, the more he wants to.
The more he wants to see him again and see if he remembered everything right.
“Where?” he asks and then remembers this is unhealthy and probably a bit creepy. “I mean,” he starts and Cosette rolls her eyes at him.
“He’s a friend of a friend, apparently. Met her for lunch, he stopped by,” she explains and then grins at him widely. “So, get ready, we’re going to this meeting tonight and he’ll be there.”
Now, what are the chances that this won’t end in a disaster. “You know, I have this thing tonight, can’t make it.”
“Thing?”
“Yeah, it’s called last semblance of dignity,” he mutters and the look she gives him is both disbelieving and pitying, or maybe he’s projecting. “It’s a terrible idea.”
“Too late, I told everyone we’re coming.”
That sounds even worse. “Everyone? Cosette, who is everyone?”
She shrugs, and the thing is, now that he looks closer, she might be blushing. You’d think, looking at Mademoiselle Cosette Fauchelevent, that blushing would be something as natural to her as breathing; she looks like a Disney princess, all flowers and softness, but the thing is, Cosette has nerves of steel and a past filled with little sweetness and even less flowers, and she never blushes.
Except, apparently, now. And she does it very prettily. “Cosette?”
“So, there’s this guy.”
“Not...” he starts, gesturing at the picture and she gives him a look plainly saying she shouldn’t even dignify that question with an answer.
“No. Your Apollo is not my type,” she informs him haughtily.
“I didn’t even know you had a type,” he tells her. “Is he like a Disney prince?” he asks flatly and probably deserves the cushion in the face that she hits him with.
*
First things first, something must be made perfectly clear: Grantaire is not, and never has been, pining over the blonde Apollo. He’s not in love with the guy, he’s not waiting for him, he’s not daydreaming and, most certainly, he is not running around town and campus with a glass shoe, trying to find the young gentleman on whose foot it would fit.
First, because Grantaire is not a fucking Disney princess; that would be Cosette (though she is the modern Disney princess type, the one with a bow and arrow, who will fuck you up and smile throughout and then bake cookies for the little birds that help her dress in the morning. Except some of those birds are probably hawks. He’s lost his train of thoughts, but whatever.)
Second, because, no matter what Cosette accuses him of sometimes, he’s not in love with the guy. They’ve met, they’ve talked for hours, Grantaire still can’t get over his hair and bone structure, but that’s purely professional interest, he’s heaven to draw, with the expressive features and excellent coloring. So, that’s it.
Fine, you want more information, alright, fuck. So it went like this:
It happened last October, near the end of it. Grantaire can’t quite remember the date, but it was definitely after the twentieth, because the twentieth was the first snow, incredibly early in the season and no one would shut the fuck about it, like they’ve never seen snow before.
And it was on a Friday, in a club Grantaire almost never frequented, because the drinks were ridiculously expensive and the music majorly sucked. He’s been dragged there, along with half of the Art History class, by one of the girls who has been celebrating... he doesn’t remember what she was celebrating, something major, something that made her open a tab at the bar for all her friends.
That was her first mistake, Grantaire supposes.
He wasn’t in a mood for partying, but he was in a mood for drinking. At the time he was always in the mood for drinking (that’s still partially true, but at least now he can set some limits).
He was three drinks in when he saw the guy; the one person who seemed to have more of a wretched time than Grantaire, and that was an actual accomplishment. He certainly didn’t look like he’d welcome any sort of conversation and Grantaire wasn’t prone to chatting up strangers in clubs, so he can’t for the life of him figure out why he made his way over there to try just that.
Could have been the three drinks.
Or the man’s excellent bone structure.
“I can’t offer you a blindfold, but I have cigarettes,” he said, and it took the stranger a moment to both ascertain that Grantaire was indeed addressing him and narrow his eyes suspiciously. “You look like you’re awaiting a firing squad,” he explained helpfully.
“That might be preferable,” the man said, not missing a beat, and Grantaire couldn’t help but grin, because either he meant it or he had a truly excellent deadpan. Both were interesting though Grantaire was rooting for the second. “Friend’s birthday. He made me swear I will stay until midnight.”
“It’s barely ten,” Grantaire pointed out.
“Trust me, I know,” he got in response, accompanied by a long sigh and the man letting his head fall back against the wall with a rather loud thud.
“Whoever your friend is, I don’t think they’re paying attention. You could leave,” he said, turning his gaze to the dancefloor. He was pretty sure they weren’t being watched.
“He made me swear,” the guy repeated, his tone carrying a sense of finality. Apparently he was a man of honor.
So, Grantaire was out of luck tonight, then.
Kidding.
He downed his drink and put down the glass on the edge of a nearby table. Could have been the alcohol, or the bone structure worthy of Apollo, or the splendid deadpan, but he was feeling charitable for some reason. “Balcony,” he offered.
“Juliet,” the man shot back. At Grantaire’s look, he shrugged. “If this is not a word association game, I’m gonna need something more. Like the rest of the sentence.”
“There’s a balcony that very few people know about. The door sticks, so people assume it’s locked; almost no one goes there. It’s not leaving the club,” he added.
“You had me at ‘very few people,’” Apollo muttered. “Lead the way.”
And that’s how they ended on the balcony, talking until two am rolled around and Apollo’s phone started ringing as his friend called to accuse him of bailing. Really, the whole thing is not as important as Cosette makes it out to be. They hadn’t even exchanged names, somehow, never got around to it after Grantaire offered a cigarette again and got a short (or not so short) lecture on tobacco lobbyists.
Despite the fact that Apollo did take a cigarette off him, followed by two more during the next few hours.
So, here’s an incomplete and slightly chaotic list of things Grantaire knows about His Apollo (there actually is a list like that, somewhere in one of his notebooks, because Cosette made him write everything down when he told her about the whole thing and let it slip that he might not be entirely averse to seeing the guy again. Cosette is also the one responsible for capitalisation of His Apollo, because she says it just like that, capital letters perfectly audible.):
One, Apollo is working towards some sort of a degree. Probably not undergrad but don’t quote Grantaire on this. He doesn’t remember if he’s been told what the degree was in or not, and it’s difficult to figure out from the context of the conversation, because he seems to be taking every class that there is. Grantaire’s money is either on Philosophy or International Relations. Or Environmental Law, who knows.
(To be fair, Grantaire hasn’t shared his educational pursuits either. He did go off on a tangent about his deep hatred for experimental video art and might have mentioned the class he was taking, but that’s pretty much it.)
Two, Apollo doesn't smoke unless he's drinking and he doesn't drink unless he's dragged into a club because of a friend's birthday and it's drinking or shooting himself and he is very much pro gun control and has Grantaire heard about the proposed ammo regulations? (Yes he has, no he doesn't want to hear about them again, except he forgets to protest because he's distracted by the line of Apollo's jaw when the man is being indignant, which is about 78 percent of the time.)
Three, his eyes are astonishingly blue. Like, how do you get that color of paint blue.
Four, he has Opinions about people who don't return library books. To be fair, he has Opinions (capital O; capitalizing is a bad habit Grantaire blames Cosette for, but here it really fits; those aren't simple opinions, oh no) about pretty much everything, but not everything prompts a twenty minutes rant that invokes three philosophers and Terry Pratchett.
Five, he looks seriously fucking great when he's indignant, it's not just the jaw line, it's the eyes too, and the flush in his cheeks, and the way his hands move animatedly and fuck, Grantaire needs a brush or a pencil or just a piece of chalk and a flat surface, anything will do.
Six, he can listen. True, part of him is already composing the counter arguments, you can just tell by the twitch of his mouth, like he's almost already shaping his next words, but he listens all the same, blue eyes fixed on you. And he takes apart everything you said, makes a quick work of it, his sentences sharp yet polished, and sometimes, sometimes, he'll nod a concession, and it feels so much better than expected, better than the fourth drink Grantaire meant to get and somehow forgotten.
Seven, he used to have a cat named Marie Curie.
No, Grantaire can't even either.
Eight, his best friend (not the friend whose birthday it is, that "might be my second best friend but quote me on that and I'll deny everything, he's a public menace") is a Philosophy major who might or might not be actually Yoda (that's not an exact quote, but that's what Grantaire takes from it).
Nine, he's an only child, comes from Connecticut, and his family might be wealthier than anyone Grantaire has ever met in person. He hasn't spoken to his father in nearly a decade but his mother calls every week.
Ten, when he thinks he said too much, or said something he shouldn't, he closes his eyes for the briefest of seconds before meeting your eyes straight on, mouth tight and fists clenching before he forces himself to relax. Grantaire reaches out automatically, squeezes his hand before he can think better of it. Apollo closes his eyes for three full seconds before breathing out and bumming another cigarette off Grantaire.
And then there is the second important list, which is: things about His Apollo Grantaire should have asked about:
One, his fucking name.
Two, his fucking phone number.
Grantaire isn't sure if he would have called even if he had those details. Maybe not. Probably not. After all, he got the flier to the protest from Apollo that night and never went, mostly because the protest was on Monday morning and the only thing you should protest on Monday morning are Monday mornings. And he was too hung over to go.
He should have, maybe. The reason he should have and the reason he didn't are the same, and that's the fact that it was that October, and during that month (and for two before and about four after) he was a fucking mess (more so than usual) and didn't want to inflict that on people more than necessary. Especially not bright young idealists with blue eyes and indignant jawlines. He didn't have time or energy for that, to be honest.
But the point is, the important thing is, he isn't pining. He was never pining, eyes or not, jaws or not.
What he will admit, what he did admit, to himself and to Cosette (which is why she makes with the whole Grantaire and Apollo sitting in the tree k-i-s-s-i-n-g routine) is that meeting the man was a bright spot in an otherwise really bleak and bleary time. And that for those few hours out on the balcony, despite the cold and inane music blasting from the club, he felt like an actual person again and that was something.
*
Cosette's type turns out to be less of a Disney Prince and more of a Disney woodland creature, possibly a newborn deer.
Marius Pontmercy is perfectly lovely.
Cosette's words, of course. Grantaire is still holding off on his final judgement, but his initial impression is that if those two ever reproduce, the kid will be a menace, all big eyes and fantastic hair, and possibly will also be the Antichrist.
"This is tragic, I can't look away," the dark haired girl next to Grantaire says and steals his drink, downing it in one go. She's watching Cosette and Marius shake hands. They've been doing that for the past seven minutes, so her assessment is pretty correct.
She's also keeping it too light, and her grip on the empty glass is too tight, knuckles white. She's either in love with Marius or with Cosette, and it is indeed tragic.
"Eponine, right?" he says, remembering. "I think it's a lost cause," he informs her, inclining his head towards the happy couple about to break into a love ballad in the middle of the cafe. The sad part is, they'd probably have the staff do the backup and synchronized dance routine.
Eponine narrows her eyes at him, looking uncannily like a cat about to hiss. Then her expression clears and she smiles, which might be even more dangerous. "Grantaire, right? And so is wanting to fuck Enjolras, but who am I to judge?"
"Who?" he asks and the cat now got the cream and her smile widens as she glances at her watch.
"Wait for it," she says and waits three second before waving her hand towards the door with a flourish. She's only four seconds off, because soon enough Apollo is entering the cafe, lost in conversation with a tall guy wearing glasses. "He usually has a much better timing," she confides mournfully.
“Sorry for being late,” Apollo, no, Enjolras, says and Eponine mutters “are you fucking kidding me” under her breath. When Grantaire glances at her she looks positively disgruntled.
“I like you, you can stay,” he informs her and she snorts.
“Yeah, thanks. The jury’s still out on you,” she tells him and stands up, pulling down her shirt and straightening her skirt before she hops up on the table, swinging her legs. “New people!” she announces, waving her hand at Enjolras. “That’s Cosette and that’s Grantaire,” she adds, pointing in turn.
Everyone, including Enjolras, seem to recognise Cosette’s name, and since Grantaire is pretty sure she only knew Eponine before, the conclusion is that Pontmercy must have been as elaborate about her as she was about him. No, seriously, the past few hours were torture, all “I don’t know if he even noticed me, do you think he noticed me?” bullshit, like anyone could ever not notice Cosette, for fuck’s sake, does that girl not own any mirrors or what.
Grantaire’s introduction sparks no such recognition, though he’s welcomed with smiles and nods and two or three hellos from around the room. He has to admit, he is curious about Enjolras’ reaction but, once again, not a big deal. He’s here mostly so Cosette has backup while meeting her future husband.
Still, there’s a current running under his skin when his eyes meets Enjolras’, a low buzzing in his head and one or two skipped heartbeats. He has, after all, devoted pages upon pages of drawing space to the guy, it’s only natural to be anxious.
Enjolras nods at him, and Grantaire doesn’t know him well enough to read his expression, to judge if the quick smile he offers is underlaid with recognition or if he’s just happy to have someone join his motley crew. There’s a flicker of something and he opens his mouth and then there’s a terrible crashing sound behind Grantaire, caused, apparently, by Marius trying to clear out some space for Cosette to see next to him on the bench and kicking the small table already loaded with drinks.
Enjolras sighs heavily, Grantaire turns away, and there’s general chaos while everyone tries to help with the cleanup.
Eponine starts laughing and can’t stop, and then hiccups throughout the entire meeting, giggling when she remembers the whole thing. Enjolras rolls his eyes at her every time, to the point where Grantaire thinks his eyeballs are just going to fall out, and wouldn’t that be a tragedy.
Grantaire, on the other hand, is mildly disappointed by the whole thing, and that usually leads to him being less than mildly annoyed and a great deal belligerent. Not that he needs the excuse to argue, and Enjolras would know that if he remembered him, so really, it’s not at all surprising they get into a long argument before the meeting is over. It starts as being about the immigration reform and the issue of visas and somehow ends being about the nature of man. It’s not that dissimilar to that night on the balcony, really, except he knows his remarks weren’t as cutting and pointed then.
Out of the corner of his eye he can see Cosette giving him disappointed and worried looks and he doesn’t even need those to know that even if he wanted a chance with Apollo (and he hasn’t quite decided if he did, but maybe?), he’s blowing it quite spectacularly.
“You can stay,” Eponine tells him afterwards, her hiccups finally subsided. “It was great, I haven’t seen Enjolras this worked up since the last time they upped the campus security measures.”
“So, last week then,” Grantaire mutters and she shrugs.
“You’ll get used to it.”
“I’m pretty sure Enjolras already hates me and everything I stand for, so I probably won’t be...” he starts and startles when Enjolras comes to stand next to him, patting his shoulder briefly.
“You should come to the meeting on Wednesday,” he says and Grantaire gapes at him for a few seconds while Eponine masks her laugh with a cough. He hopes she’ll get the damn hiccups again. “Feuilly will be here, he couldn’t make it today, and he makes some good points about countries who don’t need visas versus the ones who do. Of course, his points always concern Poland, but you get used to it.”
He looks like he wants to add something else, but Courfeyrac distracts him with questions about the march next month and he lets himself be dragged away, with one apologetic look at Grantaire and Eponine.
“Yeah, I see that, he totally hates you,” she tells him.
“You and me, we should go out,” he shoots back at her. “Make it a double date with Marius and Cosette.”
“Sounds fantastic, and then I’ll shoot myself,” she nods, looping her arm with his and pulling him towards the bar.
*
Somehow, the whole thing ends up with Grantaire having his social calendar completely full, which is something that hasn’t happened since...
Ha, ha, never happened. He avoids most people like the plague, because ugh, people. And almost as often they avoid him, because he can be an asshole and from time to time, when he gets low, he turns into a black hole of depression and that has a tendency to scare people away.
He’d care, but he doesn’t care for most people, so it works out.
(Except when it doesn’t, except when he does care, and they leave regardless, always leave. But that’s something you get used to, or slowly learn to get used to. It’s a process.)
He figured he’d be stuck with Marius, because he and Cosette are probably picking out China patterns already, and he took to Eponine, who swears like a sailor and elbows him in the ribs all too often (he bruises easily, okay?) and always knows when to bring booze and when to hide the booze. He knows from Cosette that her father used to own a bar and that is something that might have taught her to see the signs, but the shadows under her eyes and the sadness around her mouth says that it’s more personal and he doesn’t ask.
Marius and Eponine, that was expected, but he didn’t anticipate the level to which he’d let himself be dragged into the group, kicking and screaming.
Well, not much with the kicking and very little with the screaming, because he goes willingly and almost religiously to the meetings twice a week. And then there are the marches and protests, and additional meetings over at Enjolras’ or Courfeyrac’s, and then there are days he goes out with Bahorel, and the movie nights Combeferre invites everybody to, and he rather likes Feuilly and they have lunch at least once a week and, well. He’d make fun for everyone being incredibly fucking codependent but, hey, he’s there at every meeting and last Wednesday he volunteered to host the movie night at his place, because Combeferre’s out of town for his parents’ anniversary.
It’s not because of Enjolras, but his presence doesn’t hurt.
They’ve arrived at something resembling a friendship, Grantaire thinks. They argue a lot, of course they argue a lot, about everything and nothing but mostly about Enjolras' ideals and ventures. Grantaire professes not to care about any of their causes to which Enjolras always, without fail, responds with a question and an accusation: if he doesn't, then why he's there, why he argues against them and sometimes for them and always about them.
Sometimes Grantaire is tempted to reply he doesn't have the faintest idea, he just does, and sometimes he thinks of admitting that arguing with Enjolras is... Something. Not fun, not quite, because it's too exhausting and too aggravating to be fun, because Enjolras just can't get some things into his thick skull, like, for example, that sometimes you can't fix things.
It's something, and that's the most and the best he can say, the closest he could come to explaining it. It makes him feel almost like a proper person again, and it's been a while.
He asks Enjolras sometimes why he starts the arguments in the first place (and it's surprising, but he does, about seventy percent of the time) and Enjolras shrugs and says "You raise decent points, I appreciate the practice."
"So, that's what I am, then, a sparring partner," Grantaire nods, not taking offense. He'd take that, it makes sense, but Enjolras hesitates anyway, like there's more.
"I appreciate it, you know," he says instead, and it's clear he meant to say something else. He then proceeds to force books on Grantaire, a thick tome about second amendment, and Grantaire is tempted to hit him over the head with it because he made it clear he's done with that particular discussion.
He takes it anyway and comes back next Monday with a barrel full of new angry points to make, because the author was wrong wrong wrong and so is Enjolras. Heaven save him from fucking idealists.
So, they argue, Enjolras forces books on him and Grantaire spams his email with passive aggressive links to right wing bloggers and cat gifs and once in a while, every second week or so, they go get coffee and not argue for half an hour.
It works, until Grantaire does the stupidest possible thing and actually falls in love with him.
*
See, the point is, he didn't lie before, he really wasn't in love with Enjolras. He knows this for a fact, because it felt nothing like this, like fucking now.
Cosette mutters that the drawings should have been a clue, but she's wrong; he drew her an embarrassing number of times and they're just best friends. He drew Eponine's little brother constantly for the past three weeks because the kid is just a fucking quicksilver, with an ancient look in his eyes and a kid's smile (age in years: eleven, age in cynicism: about a hundred and forty). He drew Jehan for hours and hours because have you seen Jehan? Yeah. So, no, Cosette, that wasn't a clue.
The part where he went to the meetings because Enjolras' presence made him feel less like a fraud and less like a shadow, that might have been a clue, yes. He missed it, like the giant idiot he is.
The whole thing is unexpected and inconvenient and moronic. It doesn't even happen in the right way. It should be a lightning strike moment mid-argument, passionate and forceful. It should be a quiet, tender moment during their coffee meetings, when their hands meet accidentally.
It should have been that time Grantaire had to bail Enjolras out of jail after a protest and Enjolras spent the night on his couch because he was too tired and a bit too hopped up on painkillers to drive home. Grantaire wasn't even sure why Enjolras called him of all people in the first place, but he probably was a better choice than, say, Courfeyrac. It should have been that time, but instead they watched Looney Tunes and Grantaire made fun of Enjolras' badass bruise on his otherwise impeccable jaw.
No, instead Grantaire realizes how utterly fucked he is (not in the fun way, mind out of the gutter, for god's sake) at Eponine's birthday party. Her apartment is too small, so she throws it at Combeferre's place instead, whose place is pretty used to being invaded by all of them en masse and even the neighbors never complain anymore (also because every other day of the week Combeferre is a model tenant and helps old ladies with their groceries).
Enjolras disappears sometime after the gift giving part and the cake and the champagne toast. No one notices for a while, least of all Grantaire, because he's busy trying to get Eponine to sing and Courfeyrac to stop singing. It's only when he goes out for a smoke and steps onto the fire escape (no smoking inside, 'Ferre's rules, and everyone actually listens to Combeferre. Grantaire swears, this man will be running the United Nations me day.) that he finds Enjolras.
He's bundled up in a coat that is too ill fitting to be his own and is furiously trying to type something up on his phone. Numb fingers and touchscreens are, however, definitely not his friends.
"What the fuck?" Grantaire asks pleasantly, even though he has a pretty good idea.
"I just need to finish this bit," Enjolras says defensively. Grantaire wants to laugh at him, but he feels like this would cheapen the moment and the moment is rather priceless.
“Let me get this straight, you’re hiding out on a fire escape, during your oldest friend’s birthday party, to write your thesis.”
“I have a deadline.”
“Not until next month,” Grantaire points out flatly. He’s not quite sure how he even knows that, but that’s how his brain works, so. “Enjolras,” he mutters, shaking his head, then stops and considers. “I’ll be right back, don’t go anywhere,” he adds and Enjolras gives him a look plainly asking where the fuck would he go.
Grantaire finds his backpack and fishes out his sketchpad, tearing out an empty page. He manages to get back onto the fire escape unnoticed and sits down, already jotting down the quick description of Enjolras’ transgression. He hands the paper to Enjolras, who inspects it suspiciously. “What is that supposed to be?” he asks, but his tone plainly says that he already knows or at least suspects.
“I’m pretty sure I’ve sent you that dog shaming blog last week and don’t lie, you liked it,” he says, taking out his cellphone and grinning. “Look sorry about your behavior.”
“What are you going to do with the picture?”
Grantaire shrugs. “It’s ‘Ponine’s birthday and I know she’ll get a kick out of it.”
And the thing is, the important thing is, the best thing is... Enjolras raises the paper up and peers at the camera from over it, not quite posing but making enough of a show of it that it’s clear he’s fine with the photo, just because it’s going to cheer Eponine up.
Something in Grantaire’s stomach turns and he feels like throwing up, in a good way. Yeah, it’s a strange feeling.
He slides down to sit next to Enjolras on the metal floor and pockets his phone. “You can’t do this kind of shit, it’s a party,” he lectures and gets a pointed look. And fine, he’s being an enabler again, but whatever. “So, how’s the chapter going?” he asks and ignores the way Enjolras’ smile makes him want to run and hide and makes him want to never leave.
Fuck, he thinks. This is just so fucking inconvenient.
*
He goes out of his way to fuck it all up.
Of course he does, that’s what he always goes for, the whole dance is an old and familiar routine by now. When something good might be happening, when by some amazing chance he might end up getting what he wants... this is what he does.
Like in high school, when his teacher suggested AP classes and Grantaire simply started skipping all his classes altogether.
Like the summer he fell in love for the first time and snuck out in the morning and avoided the phonecalls and barely spoke two words to the boy at school and finally almost got punched. He should have gotten punched.
Like the time he almost lasted a year sober and three days before the anniversary got spectacularly drunk on cheap vodka and puked his guts out.
Like a thousand other times, before and since. It’s a pattern, and just because he can recognise it doesn’t mean he will do a fucking thing about it.
Like now. He gets drunk before the next meeting and then starts a pointless argument with Enjolras, not one of the constructive, on the subject ones that Enjolras actually seem to enjoy, even when, or maybe especially when, Grantaire does his best to destroy his carefully posed points. No, that would be too constructive for Grantaire's current taste. Instead he mocks the cause and Enjolras himself and almost gets thrown out.
He wishes he got thrown out, to be honest, because Enjolras' silence as he, for the first time, starts ignoring Grantaire, is worse. So is the disappointment clearly radiating from him as he studiously doesn't look at Grantaire.
The meeting ends with everyone rather depressed and throwing glances between them both. He can almost smell Cosette's concern but he waves her away and she reluctantly leaves with Marius. So does Enjolras. Leave, he means.
He hesitates briefly when he stands up and Grantaire doesn't need to look up to know he's being studied carefully, he can feel the heat of Enjolras' gaze all the same. He takes a swig from the beer bottle and hopes Enjolras would get the hint.
He does.
Surprisingly, it's Combeferre who slides into the booth next to Grantaire, drumming his fingers against the table before he speaks. "Do you need a ride home?"
"Did he make you ask?" Grantaire had seen them talked in a hushed tone right before Enjolras left and he wouldn't put it beneath him. Combeferre shrugs, all but confirming.
"Contrary to popular belief, Enjolras rarely is able to make me do anything," he points out calmly and places his hand on Grantaire's arm. It's warm, reassuring. "He did ask me to check," he offers. "Does that influence your answer?"
"I'm fine," he says, which is neither true nor the answer to the question asked.
Combeferre nods, accepting it anyway. "Enjolras isn't," he offers after a beat, quietly. It's clear he won't elaborate, won't explain what he means and Grantaire is afraid to ask because every possible answer would be equally terrible. "Come on, I'm going in your direction anyway."
Sometimes he's pretty sure none of them really deserves to have Combeferre in their lives.
*
Like in everything, there are better and worse days in Grantaire's life.
On good days, he functions almost like a human being; buys groceries and goes to class, interacts with people and finds that he enjoys it. He drinks too much and smokes a lot and pisses people off and argues with Enjolras and makes his landlady want to strangle him. He meets with Cosette and bothers Eponine at work and paints and draws.
On bad days he... exists. Moves, breathes, walks and talks. Doesn't see the point of either.
Bad days are rare now, especially the really bad ones, but they happen, triggered by something inconsequential and fleeting and unexpected. He prefers to stay at home then, avoid everything and everyone. It's better than the alternatives and people got used to his occasional disappearing act.
Of course, no one has informed Enjolras this was a normal thing.
When there’s knocking on his door, Grantaire considers ignoring it. Everyone he likes enough to warrant getting up from his blanket fort on the couch is at the regular meeting, except for Cosette, who is at an inevitably awkward dinner with her father and his new... apparently, it’s complicated.
But the knocking is insistent and irritated, and he supposes it might be his next door neighbor again, because that girl keeps locking herself out of her own apartment; after the third time she just left a spare key at Grantaire’s - easier than climbing over the balcony railing they share.
He doesn’t bother with neither shoes nor shirt, but takes one of the blankets he’s cocooned in and wraps it around himself as he makes his way towards the door. “What now?”
It’s not Felicity the Key Girl.
“You missed the meeting,” Enjolras says at the same time Grantaire speaks “Shouldn’t you be at the meeting?”
He glances at the hallway clock to make sure he hasn’t somehow zoned out and lost a few hours, but no. By his count the meeting should be in full swing and they should just be getting to Grantaire’s favourite part: Things That Pissed Enjolras Off This Week. He usually makes sure that by the end of the meeting there are few more items on that list.
“It wrapped up early,” Enjolras says flatly. Grantaire peers at him suspiciously because a, that’s not an explanation for Enjolras’ presence here at Grantaire’s flat, and b, when has the meeting ever finished up early? Never, that’s when.
Enjolras holds his gaze, unperturbed, but offers no further explanation. Instead, he shrugs a bit impatiently. “Are you going to let me in?”
Grantaire should think it over, but he steps aside instinctively. Honestly, it’s like he hates himself; there’s no way this is gonna end well.
“Here,” Enjolras hands him a tote bag with what seems to be books and indeed turns out to be books. Mostly his own. “Feuilly brought these back, but since you weren’t there,” he shrugs again and alright, this is a better explanation but not by much. Anyone could have brought them over, or Feuilly could have held on to them, or they could have left them at Musain, it’s not like they’d get lost. And two of these aren’t even his. “I thought you might like them, we’ve discussed the...” he starts and Grantaire nods.
“Fine, sure,” he says tiredly and Enjolras nods sharply back. He seems... if it was anyone else, anyone but Enjolras, Grantaire would say he looked uncertain.
“I also brought this, Cosette made me,” he adds defensively and he’s clearly, completely lying, and Grantaire isn’t sure why. There’s chicken soup in the container, and it must have been Cosette’s idea, because it’s from the place they both love, so the story checks out, sure, but... Enjolras clearly looks like he’s hiding something; for all his marble features he’s quite expressive. It’s puzzling, to say the least.
Grantaire honestly doesn’t have the energy to try and work it out now. He wraps the blanket tighter around himself and Enjolras’ expression changes into one of faint guilt. “You should be in bed,” he offers, and adding to that the chicken soup, it seems like the sick excuse worked.
It’s sort of true, to be honest, it’s just that the sickness has nothing to do with the flu he claimed he might have been coming down with.
He expects Enjolras to say his goodbyes and leave, duty to a sick friend done and all, but instead Enjolras steps further into the apartment, taking the soup back from Grantaire’s hands. “I’m going to heat that up, you want something else? No, get back on the couch,” he adds, gesturing towards the blanket cocoon when Grantaire attempts to follow him to the kitchen, bemused.
Under any other circumstances he might muster up some strength to argue, but he’s too tired, too weak, too... everything to do so now, and still a bit confused as to why this whole thing is happening. This is roughly how he ends up eating the whole container of soup under Enjolras’ watchful eye and then falling asleep while they’re watching old Trek reruns.
Sometimes, apparently, being fucked up in the head doesn’t end all that bad.
*
It’s a better day when he wakes up.
Technically, it’s still the same day, but it feels completely different. It’s dark outside, so he must have napped for a good few hours. His head isn’t quite on Enjolras’ shoulder, but it’s close enough that he can feel Enjolras’ scent.
Sniffing people is a bit creepy, though, so he moves back a little, rubbing at his eyes.
Trek episodes has given way to the news, put on mute. Enjolras is fully awake and looks like he’s remained so for the whole time Grantaire slept next to him. It’s...
Weird. Wonderful. Fucking strange. A bit awkward. A number of things Grantaire can’t quite name and would prefer not to think about, thank you very much.
“Why did you finish the meeting early?” he asks and fuck, that shouldn’t be the first thing he says.
Enjolras, however, doesn’t seem to find anything strange with it, even if he is a little reluctant to answer, clearly turning the question over in his head. “I’m pretty sure it was because you weren’t there,” he offers, smiling ruefully.
“Be serious,” Grantaire tells him, rolling his eyes.
“Am I ever anything but?” Enjolras deadpans.
“I’m the disruptive element, you don’t need me.”
“Funny you should say that, because apparently we do need the distraction. I... Do you know what happens when you aren’t there?”
Grantaire wants to say that he’d guess everything runs smoothly and Enjolras doesn’t edge closer to the possible heart attack, but the thing is, he has a pretty good idea as to what Enjolras might be talking about. “Courf steps in?” he guesses.
“And Eponine helps,” Enjolras agrees with what is clearly fond exasperation. “And their contributions aren’t half as helpful as yours,” he adds.
The most amazing thing is that there’s not a trace of sarcasm in his voice.
“Take that back, I haven’t been helpful in my life,” he jokes. And he means it. Yes, sometimes he does both, he can multitask like this, it’s a skill. Enjolras, however, shakes his head at him.
“But you are. Sure, your arguments are chaotic and you are prone to overusing of metaphors that have a tendency to run away from you, but I suppose one has to excuse that coming from an artist..."
"I'm going to kick you," Grantaire offers flatly and makes no move to do so.
"But more often than not, your points are valid," Enjolras continues, as if Grantaire hasn't spoken, "and you make my arguments better. And as we've proved today, you are now a necessary part of our meetings. Don't miss any more of them because there might be blood. Courfeyrac's," he adds darkly.
"Fine, I swear. Neither rain nor sleet nor gloom of night shall stray this drunk from disrupting your bleeding hearts palooza," he says with all the mock seriousness he can muster.
"Grantaire," Enjolras says, shaking his head again, and he looks too serious. There's a look in his eyes that scares the shit out of Grantaire, because it lets him hope.
Do you know what happens when Grantaire lets himself hope? A world of badness and an ocean or two of alcohol, been there, done that, messed up the very first step of twelve.
"I need a drink," he says, and it's both extremely true and has the benefit of inevitably annoying Enjolras into either leaving or at least dropping the subject.
"I'll make coffee," Enjolras offers, willfully misinterpreting Grantaire's words, and heads for the kitchen.
Grantaire buries his head in the blankets and breathes out slowly, letting go of the words he wouldn't say out loud.
*
It's midterms week and everyone is a bit fucked in their heads.
Grantaire is perfectly fine this time, all he has is studio and two history classes that only have essays and finals, so he's all set. Musichetta is done with all her classes and has only her thesis to write, which she's slowly researching for, shedding post-it's everywhere. Bousset, uncharacteristically, lucked out and has only one midterm to write.
Everyone else, though...
Eponine hisses at him whenever he sees her. Combeferre has succeeded in not only replacing his bloodstream with coffee, but also with finally killing the ancient coffee machine at his place, one that survived even Enjolras during finals last year. Jehan took up to writing on every available surface, even, or especially, ones you wouldn't think could even be written on.
Enjolras practically vanishes from the face of the earth, sighted only occasionally, when he goes out to buy more coffee and red pens. Eponine maintains he took up to muttering to himself about all students being idiots and she'd like to remind him that a, he socializes with quite a few and b, he was one not so long ago and technically he's still studying, phd candidate or not.
Grantaire mostly feels bad for the students in Enjolras' class, because the man is both a dream and a nightmare of a lecturer. There's definitely a lot to look at, and Grantaire doubts anyone could forget his passionate speechifying, but on the other hand, he weeps for anyone whose carefully written essay is to be deconstructed and found lacking by Enjolras.
He has enough experience in being deconstructed and found lacking by the man, thanks. At least he doesn't commit his arguments to paper, to be marked up with red and preserved for posterity.
All that, however, means that he doesn't expect Enjolras to be at Marius and Courfeyrac's place on Friday, where somehow they all end up to commiserate and inhale caffeine, because now that Combeferre killed his, theirs is the best coffee machine.
He doesn't expect Enjolras, but really, by now he should know better, right? Yeah, you'd think.
He’s out on the balcony, smoking, and misses the apparently epic scene of Enjolras’ entrance, because the man brings donuts in the rare stroke of thoughtfulness, and all hell breaks loose when someone who is not Eponine grabs the last jelly one. People really should know better by now, she’s a hairpuller.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” Enjolras jokes, stepping onto the balcony and leaning against the railing. Grantaire snorts and nods before he catches on.
His words imply a pattern and a pattern needs to, has to, have more than two elements. He’s not sure why it matters that Enjolras apparently remembers their first meeting but it does, it does, judging by the way his stomach turns and his pulse speeds up.
“How’s the grading going?” he asks to say something, anything.
Enjolras shrugs, his arm brushing against Grantaire’s. “Their grasp of a simple citation style is atrocious, but not as bad as their understanding of Locke and John Stuart Mill,” he says, in a tired tone of someone who had to answer that question at least twice in the past few minutes. But there’s an underlying note in his voice and Grantaire narrows his eyes suspiciously.
“What are you so happy about, then?” he asks. It’s not on Enjolras’ face, but there’s a glimpse of utter glee in his eyes, and not the one he gets when he can tear your argument to shreds.
“I’m done,” he announces, and yes, there’s the smile. “I’m completely done with grading until the finals and it’s fucking fantastic.”
“Must be, you sound drunk.”
“It’s the relief, Grantaire, at least one of them apparently never heard of any other John Locke but the one from that damn tv show. And I’m done.”
“And you need to rethink your career choices,” Grantaire tells him.
“Clearly, but also, done,” he grins. “Go out with me.”
Grantaire feels like a record that’s been abruptly stopped. He even makes a screeching sound, incredibly undignified, sure, but, are you fucking kidding him?
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Judging by Enjolras’ face, this has been the wrong thing to say. Yeah, shut up, Grantaire’s an idiot, this is hardly news.
The grin disappears, fading by degrees, and Enjolras takes a step back, already schooling his expression down. “I’m sorry, shouldn’t have...” he starts and stops when Grantaire reaches out to catch his wrist. They both look down at their hands before Enjolras looks back up, licking his lips with what, if he wasn’t Enjolras, Grantaire would chalk up to nervousness.
But who knows, maybe, because apparently he is not as good at reading Enjolras as he thought himself to be.
“No. Enjolras, explain,” he says and then adds a quiet “please.”
“What?” Enjolras asks. Stalling, not deflection, and an attempt to lighten the atmosphere again, to bring them back to the easy back-and-fro they’ve perfected. “Should I explain the concept of a date?”
And there’s that word and it’s terrifying.
“I’m familiar with this newfangled invention,” Grantaire tells him, forcing his voice to stay level. His fingers are still around Enjolras’ wrist and he can feel the rushing pulse. Enjolras might look like he’s completely calm and composed now, but his face is making a liar out of him.
“What, then?”
“Why would you want me?” He doesn’t mean to say this, and he certainly doesn’t mean to say it like that, too desperate by half. The look in Enjolras’ eyes is tentative, bordering uncomfortably on pity, and it’s something Grantaire would hate coming from anyone, especially Enjolras.
Enjolras pulls his hand away, slipping away from Grantaire’s fingers, leaving Grantaire’s fingertips itching. But then, oh, but then he raises the same hand, placing it on the side of Grantaire’s neck, this time his fingers over Grantaire’s rapidly beating pulse. It’s defeaning.
“You have a regrettable tendency of getting everything wrong,” he tells Grantaire almost fondly. “And yes, I’ve known that since the beginning, although I’m pretty sure you were just winding me up about gun control.”
“Excuse me, I’ve...”
“Grantaire, just let me, this once,” Enjolras says, a hint of frustration in his tone. He then falls silent for an uncomfortably long moment, like he’s rehashing a speech in his mind, which, don’t get him wrong, Grantaire loves the speeches in a probably unhealthy way, but he really doesn’t need one now.
“Anytime today,” he prompts.
Enjolras breathes out. “Why would you want me?” he shoots back and it’s an unfair question but also a rather stupid one. Why wouldn’t he? Where should he start? What...
Except it was apparently a rhetorical question, because Enjolras is kissing him and that clearly means he’s not expecting an answer, because for one, Grantaire’s mouth is occupied and two, his brain is turning to mush.
And he might have imagined this before (okay, many times), but it had nothing on reality of the kiss, on the way Enjolras’ fingers tangle in Grantaire’s hair, pulling him closer; on how soft Enjolras’ mouth is and on the sound he makes, content and needy at the same time; on how his other hand is already pushing Grantaire’s shirt up, like he can’t get enough of the contact, like he needs more and closer and now.
“You make everything better,” Enjolras says, pulling back, resting his forehead against Grantaire’s. Their breaths mingle, hot and laboured. “My arguments, the meetings, the inane waste-of-time parties I get dragged to... Me. You make me better.”
“Don’t let Courf catch you saying his parties are inane,” Grantaire says and leans in, steals another kiss, because guess what, he can. He gets to have this, by some miracle or a major fuck-up from the universe or karma, he gets to have this.
They keep on kissing until Eponine bangs on the window, whistles at them, and tells them to get a room. Though to be honest, they keep kissing after that too.