Work Text:
Without Combeferre, the ABCs as an organization would crash and burn. Everyone knows this.
But it's never more clear than when Combeferre is out of the office (on a well-deserved vacation—his first in two years) and Courfeyrac answers the phone and suddenly looks very distressed.
"No… no, um," he says uncertainly, looking around the office and gesturing frantically. He covers the phone and says, "Jehan! Jehan, you speak Spanish, right?"
He doesn't. Combeferre would've known that, and he would've been able to list the five languages Jehan does speak off the top of his head. But if Combeferre were there, Courfeyrac wouldn't be panicking—largely because Combeferre usually answers the phone, but also because Combeferre is fluent in Spanish.
Enjolras thinks it's ridiculous that of the four Angelenos remaining in the office, none of them speak passable Spanish. He at least has the excuse of having grown up on the Bay and having taken French in high school, but the rest of them are City-of-Los-Angeles-born-and-bred. Finally, Eponine sighs, opens her browser to Google Translate, and gravely tells Courfeyrac to hand her the phone.
"Habla inglés?" she asks hopefully. "Um, un poquito… mm hmm… uh, no, lo siento, tiene, uh—" she pauses to type a few words into the translator "—el número incorrecto? Sí. Okay, que tenga buen día." Eponine hangs up the phone and punches the air. "I remembered to use the subjunctive! My high school Spanish class has finally paid off!"
"What did they want?" Courfeyrac asks, masking his nervousness by casually examining his fingernails.
"Wrong number," she says with a shrug. "He thought we sold mattresses. I think this line is like one number away from that mattress store on 16th."
Nobody says anything, but everyone is secretly glad it wasn't anything important. They all silently agree not to tell Combeferre about it when he gets back on Monday.
```
Enjolras tells Grantaire about it later—but only after making him swear that he won't tell either on pain of death.
"You should hire me, I speak Spanish," Grantaire says dreamily.
"Hire you?" Enjolras raises an eyebrow. "You? And pay you actual money? To work for a nonprofit organization? When I can use your talents for free as a volunteer?"
"I'm wounded that you think I have no work ethic. Oh wait, that's right, I don't." Grantaire shrugs. "I can't believe you can't even speak a little Spanish, how long have you been living here?"
Enjolras jabs him in the ribs with his elbow. "I took French at school."
"They're both Latin-based languages, though, I mean, they're very similar, structurally. Linguistically speaking—"
"Linguistically speaking, shut the fuck up."
"Someone's in a mood today. Missing Combeferre that much?"
"Well I'm definitely dreading the day he decides to take his two weeks' paid vacation all at once, that's for sure," Enjolras replies with a shrug. They've managed to keep the chaos at the office to a minimum, but he'll rest easier once Combeferre returns to his post. "I do miss having him around, though—he's my best friend. But I can handle eating lunch by myself for a couple days."
Grantaire sits up straight from where he'd been lounging on the couch and says, "I would've had lunch with you."
Enjolras glances at him, surprised at the harshness of his tone. "Yeah, I didn't think to ask, I assumed you had work to do, or something. But seriously, it's just, like, eating a sandwich in the break room, I can do that with a book just as easily as I can with a person. Although if you want to come meet me at the office for lunch sometime…"
"The last time I did that was our not-quite-first date. Remember?"
"I remember," he says with a smile. For a nihilist, Grantaire can be awfully sentimental. "You know what I would appreciate more than lunch, though? If you came in and picked up a little slack while Combeferre is gone. Although I guess that doesn't preclude the possibility of lunch."
"You want me to be your replacement Combeferre."
"Of course not," Enjolras says dismissively. "No one can do that."
Grantaire looks down at his hands and snorts. "Maybe you should just date Combeferre."
"Why would I do that?" he asks, sincerely confused. Combeferre is his best friend and he means a lot of things to him, but he's never been interested in him in any romantic sense. (He's rarely into anyone in a romantic sense, and he's never been as enamored of a person as he is of Grantaire.) "… wait, are you jealous of him?"
"I don't know, should I be?" Grantaire asks, haughty.
"We did kiss once," Enjolras says matter-of-factly. "We were drunk and he was curious—anyway, it wasn't very good. I wasn't the kisser I am now. But it didn't do anything for me." He turns toward Grantaire and bats his eyelashes. "Not like kissing you."
"Oh? And what is it like, kissing me?" Grantaire asks playfully. Enjolras, thinking he's won, leans forward to show him exactly what it's like, but Grantaire puts a finger to his lips. "Use your words."
"I don't have much basis for comparison," Enjolras says with a frown.
"Better than Combeferre," Grantaire prompts. "What else?"
"Let me think," he says thoughtfully. "Okay, well, kissing you is probably my favorite thing to do."
"After your job?" Grantaire asks, only half-joking. (He's right, but Enjolras ignores him.)
"It's hard to stop once I've started, and I seem to want to do it all the time," he continues. "It's a problem."
"A problem!" Grantaire says with mock concern, leaning against the arm of the sofa so that he can face Enjolras and recline at the same time. Enjolras takes it as an invitation and crawls forward until he's propped up on his hands and knees directly above Grantaire.
"A problem," he repeats. "You asked me this semi-serious question but I can't think of an answer because all I can think about is kissing that smug look off your face."
Grantaire doesn't bother even pretending to look innocent. He grins unabashedly at Enjolras' frustration, clearly pleased to have evoked such a reaction. "Go on, then," he says. "Since I've rendered you speechless."
"I do have some self-control, you know," he whispers into Grantaire's ear—because two can play at this game, and Enjolras is accustomed to winning. Just now, the thought of winding Grantaire up is a much more attractive prospect than kissing him, but Enjolras won't tell him that because it would spoil the game. Lips flush against the shell of Grantaire's ear, he continues, "I've put all this effort into not kissing you, it seems like it would be a waste to just…"
"You're allowed to enjoy yourself," Grantaire points out.
"I am enjoying myself."
Grantaire shudders and Enjolras briefly considers whether or not it might be considered cheating if he were to kiss Grantaire's neck. He manages, through some Herculean effort, to push himself away from that temptation and looks Grantaire in the eye instead.
"You're the absolute worst. Shut up and let me kiss you if you like it so much," Grantaire says dramatically, trying his best to sound put-upon. Then, as an afterthought, "Please."
Enjolras counts it as his victory, but decides to let Grantaire celebrate it for him however he wants.
```
No matter how much you love someone—or how blissed out and exhausted you are post-orgasm, apparently—two adult humans cannot comfortably sleep on the same couch. Enjolras, who has never quite gotten the hang of taking naps, only registers that Grantaire has gotten up just enough to take up the extra space he leaves behind before dozing off again.
When he wakes up the sun is almost down and Grantaire is seated on an art horse on the opposite side of the room, surrounded by huge sheets of paper he's torn out of his sketch pad and dropped haphazardly on the floor. His hands, almost completely black with charcoal, are scribbling furiously on the drawing board balanced precariously between the bench and his knees. Somewhere along the line he'd put on some briefs and a T-shirt—not the one he'd been wearing earlier, meaning he'd gone upstairs without waking Enjolras up—in addition to dragging the art horse over from the studio. Enjolras is beginning to wonder if he was really that deeply asleep or if maybe he's dating some kind of spy.
"How long have I been asleep?" he groans. His neck and shoulder are stiff from lying on his side and the knit blanket he'd cocooned himself in earlier has pooled around his waist, but he doesn't want to move if Grantaire is working on something.
"Hour and a half, maybe?" Grantaire ventures. "You don't need to hold still or anything, by the way."
"Have you been doing that this whole time?" he asks. Now that he has permission, Enjolras rolls onto his back and stretches his arms out as far as they'll go. He hears Grantaire draw a few quick lines as his back arches away from the couch.
"You move a lot in your sleep," Grantaire says, nodding at the pile of drawings on the floor. "Did you know you're almost impossible to spoon?"
Enjolras makes a face. "Well, on a couch…"
"In general," Grantaire says bluntly. "It's really hard work, but I manage somehow. I persevere. I muddle through. The things I do for love!" Grantaire is very lucky that there's nothing nearby that Enjolras can throw at him.
"Then maybe I should be the big spoon for a change," Enjolras mutters. He can't see Grantaire's face from behind the drawing board, but his left ear is visible and it turns a fantastic shade of pink. "Would you like that?"
Grantaire sighs and eases himself off of the art horse, mindful of the half-finished drawings littering the floor around him. "I would like anything you did to me, Apollo."
As Grantaire walks back toward the couch, Enjolras reads the insipid writing on his T-shirt—j'aimons les filles, et j'aimons le bon vin in a looping script—and rolls his eyes. "Then you won't mind me taking that shirt out back and burning it. You're like some fucking hipster scion, you disgust me."
"I knew you'd like this one," Grantaire says with a wicked grin, bracing one knee against the couch to lean over him. "Are you gonna rip it off my body?"
"Shut up," Enjolras says good-naturedly, smacking Grantaire's forearm and frowning when the back of his hand comes away black. "You're covered in charcoal."
"Yes, I am," Grantaire agrees. He taps Enjolras lightly on the nose and smirks at the mark he's made. Enjolras thinks he probably looks ridiculous, but he doesn't have the energy to be annoyed with him just yet.
"I love you," he says, for no reason other than because he feels like it, and because it's true. Grantaire smiles at him shyly, like he's still not used to the idea that they're together. In lieu of a response, he doodles absently on Enjolras' skin with his charcoal-stained fingers, finishing with an embellished R over his heart. It's dumb and corny and it tickles, but it's also adorable. Enjolras decides that he'll forgive him after he's taken a shower.
"Can I take a picture?" Grantaire asks suddenly, glancing around for his phone. He finds it in the back pocket of his jeans in a heap on the floor. "I haven't set a picture for you in my address book."
Enjolras, who doesn't have pictures set for any of the contacts in his phone, frowns and says, "You're going to post this on Instagram, aren't you."
"Not if you're gonna make that face," Grantaire says with a shrug, eyes on his phone. "Smile like you were doing a minute ago."
"I can't pose for pictures," Enjolras reminds him. Grantaire snaps a few, anyway.
"Come on, smile," he goads. "I'll tickle you."
"You will not." If Enjolras is smiling, it's because his idiot mouth has betrayed him. (It's always been suspiciously fond of Grantaire.)
"There it is," Grantaire says fondly. Picture taken, he wipes the charcoal stains off the screen with his T-shirt and tosses his phone back into the pile of discarded clothes.
"Are you gonna show me before you post that on the Internet?"
"Later," he says, leaning in to kiss him. When Grantaire pulls away, there's charcoal on his face, too.
```
Courfeyrac doesn't even tease him about the stupid Instagram photo—the novelty of Enjolras having a boyfriend must be wearing off, and it's only from the shoulders up, besides. Combeferre, back from five days in Santa Cruz, merely says that it's nice to see him loosen up. (That makes Courfeyrac laugh—"Loosen up, right! Right? Get it?")
Thankfully, the more pressing issue for everyone is that it's in the mid nineties outside and their air conditioning is broken and it's only May, which is bad news for the coming summer. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are discussing the merits of repairing the old unit versus replacing it while Jehan languishes in front of the tiny rotating fan they have propped up on a card table. Eponine seems to be the only one completely unaffected by the heat and calls them all babies.
"It's not hot until it hits triple digits," she says matter-of-factly.
"It's only supposed to get this hot in the Valley," Jehan complains. "Aren't all our tall buildings supposed to create a microclimate or something? I want my money back."
All of their phones chime at the same time because Joly has sent out a mass text to all of his contacts warning everyone to stay out of the sun and drink plenty of water. It's not that hot, but they suspect that Bossuet was probably unlucky enough to get heat stroke or pass out from dehydration or get a nasty sunburn or something and prompt Joly's text.
Enjolras, for his part, can't stop thinking about what a miserable sweatbox Grantaire's loft must be today and is debating texting him and inviting him over to his apartment, which is blessedly air conditioned. He can't, he knows he can't, they're already playing catch-up from Combeferre's vacation and he's going to have to work from home to get where he wants to be for the day (Combeferre will tell him that he doesn't need to do any of that, which is why he's not going to ask Combeferre's opinion) and Grantaire will insist upon lounging around half naked for the sole purpose of making him uncomfortable.
He hates distractions. He loves Grantaire.
You (1:14:34 PM): Is it a million degrees at your place?
Grantaire (1:38:02 PM): not so bad, only 999,998° here
You (1:39:56 PM): I have air conditioning if you want to come over tonight.
Grantaire (1:49:13 PM): is this a date? should i bring dinner? wear a tie? oh god are your parents gonna be there
You (1:50:01 PM): Oh my god what's wrong with you
You (1:50:14 PM): Just come over.
Grantaire (1:51:34 PM): you don't have to ask twice
Grantaire (1:53:01 PM): seriously though what about dinner
You (1:53:48 PM): I don't care.
Grantaire (1:55:24 PM): don't sound so enthusiastic, someone might think you actually wanted to see me
You (1:57:02 PM): Sorry, that was brusque. Do whatever you want about food, I have half an apple pie in the freezer and I was going to eat it straight out of the tin with a spoon.
You (1:57:09 PM): And I do want to see you.
Grantaire (1:57:29 PM): aw :)
You (1:58:01 PM): Don't push it.
He starts a little when a stack of papers lands on his keyboard.
"House bills," Courfeyrac explains, looking very much like a smug cat as Enjolras drops his phone in surprise. "Electric bill is through the roof this month. Combeferre agrees—replace the air conditioning unit with a newer one, we can save a lot of energy that way."
"Okay, fine," he says distractedly, trying to pretend that he hasn't spent the better part of the past forty five minutes texting Grantaire. "I'll leave the shopping up to you two."
"You don't want to come to Home Depot with us? You love Home Depot!"
"I got excited about building a dog house for Musichetta's terrier once—I do not love Home Depot."
"I seem to remember you liking that guy in the hardhat who showed you how to handle the wood—"
Enjolras frowns. "Dude, don't project your weird Home Depot Guy fantasies onto me, that was you."
"So it was," Courfeyrac says with a far off look. "So it was…"
"Go with someone who knows something about air conditioners."
Courfeyrac frowns. "Combeferre is no fun to shop with, man, you know that. He actually, like, compiles data and makes spreadsheets—in his mind! AC units are already boring! Don't put me through this!"
"May I remind you that this is for work?" Enjolras says.
"Yeah, yeah…" Courfeyrac sighs. "Combeferre, where are you, you gigantic, pulsating brain? We have to go before everyone in the office melts."
"If you don't come back with it before 5:00 I swear to god," Jehan says threateningly, his voice distorted by the fan.
"You could come with us," Combeferre says. "Or maybe instead of us. This is the kind of thing interns generally do, after all."
Jehan sits up straight as Courfeyrac mouths please take my place at him. "I—"
"Someone please go," Enjolras says meaningfully. "Now. Please."
Jehan reflexively picks up his blazer even though it's too hot to wear it and follows Combeferre out the door, Courfeyrac gladly taking his freshly occupied spot in front of the fan.
"That Jehan, what a guy," he says appreciatively. "What a trooper. Hard worker. Decent kisser. Ought to do that kid a favor."
"We pay him," Enjolras reminds him.
"I meant something more along the lines of setting him up with a nice young man, but okay. We don't pay him that much."
"On your own time."
Courfeyrac shrugs and stretches out in front of the fan. "I'll find him someone he can spend hours texting at the office! Oh, to be young and in love!"
Enjolras ignores the jibe (though he knows he deserves it) and goes back to answering e-mails. He tries very hard not to think about poor Grantaire for the rest of the work day, and when he catches his thoughts drifting in that direction, he stabs at his keyboard a little more aggressively.
Jehan and Combeferre are back in about an hour and a half, crowing about same-day installation. The handyman arrives just in time to have the thing installed before everyone goes home for the day, which is a little disappointing, but at least it's been taken care of. Jehan looks somewhat crestfallen that they didn't have a chance to enjoy their shiny new air conditioning unit, so Combeferre promises that they'll run it tomorrow even though the weather forecast only predicts a high of 87°. Eponine complains that she's going to need a sweater.
```
Enjolras has one spare key. It hangs uselessly from a nail in the wall beside the door and has hardly moved from there since he moved into the apartment. He thinks about the key briefly as he parks in his usual space in the complex's parking garage and checks his text message log.
Grantaire (5:17:11 PM): im sitting on the stoop awkwardly sweating to death so please let me in
Grantaire (5:17:43 PM): i realize it is very early
Grantaire (5:17:58 PM): i may have jumped the gun
Grantaire (5:18:05 PM): just a little
His first instinct is to scoff, but instead he smirks and taps out a reply.
You (5:47:02 PM): Don't worry, I'm here to rescue you.
Instead of taking the stairs all the way up to the third floor, he stops at the ground floor and goes out to the lobby. He sees Grantaire through the glass doors, sitting with his back to the building looking forlorn. He turns around with a practiced casualness when Enjolras opens the door and, god, it's like a movie or something, sans the twee acoustic guitar soundtrack.
Grantaire stands up and winces. "My butt fell asleep."
"Good thing there are three flights of stairs to climb to get your circulation back," Enjolras says mildly. "Hi, by the way."
"Hi," he says with a lopsided smile. "Is it air conditioned in there?"
"In the lobby, are you kidding me?" Enjolras lifts an eyebrow and holds the door open for Grantaire. "I hope you've been staying hydrated."
"I got that text from Joly, just like the rest of you—doctor's orders, right?" He trudges up the stairs behind Enjolras as if he doesn't know the way.
"Right, well, staying out of the heat is part of that."
Since there's no point in letting the air conditioning run all day while he isn't home, the apartment is stifling at first. That combined with the three story climb leaves Grantaire exhausted, collapsing into the closest chair he can find.
"You'll be pleased to know that we got a new AC unit at the office," Enjolras says mildly as he messes with the thermostat. Moments later, air starts pumping through the vents. "Jehan and Combeferre went to pick it up this afternoon."
Grantaire looks mildly surprised. "Jehan doesn't strike me as the kind of guy who knows anything about appliances."
"I don't think he does, honestly, but Courfeyrac didn't want to go. And…"
"And?" he asks, getting as comfortable as the kitchen chair will allow now that the AC is kicking in.
"Well, I don't know. I think he might have a little crush."
Grantaire looks at him thoughtfully. "You are, of course, the authority on crushes."
"You may find this difficult to believe, but people have actually thrown themselves at me before," he says with a huff. "Not just you."
"You had no idea I liked you," Grantaire points out.
"That's because you played stupid playground mind games," Enjolras retorts. "And then you asked me out and said 'never mind'! Others were more forthright."
"And yet," Grantaire says, rolling his eyes, "you date me. What makes you think Jehan likes him? Other than the fact that Combeferre is an incredibly desirable bachelor and also kind of a hunk?"
Enjolras blinks at him. "Is this why you're so convinced I've dated Combeferre? Because I haven't, but it sort of sounds like you want to."
"No, no, I only go for people who make me miserable. Combeferre is so thoughtful, it would never work."
Enjolras shoots him a withering look. "I invited you over so you wouldn't roast to death in your studio-slash-convection oven."
"Very thoughtful," Grantaire says with a smile, and god it should be infuriating but instead it's just cute. Enjolras thinks for one very dramatic moment that his heart might be melting but convinces himself that it's just the heat.
"Do you want some water or something?" he asks sourly, opening the fridge with more force than is strictly necessary. It's almost six and he's starving and that chilled apple pie is sounding really good right now. He might even share some with Grantaire if he's feeling particularly generous—but he's a little put off at being compared to his best friend. He's so busy fuming about it that he doesn't hear Grantaire's answer to his question (or whether he even answered at all) and ends up filling a glass for him anyway. He sets it down in front of him before staring moodily at his half a pie and asking, "I mean—I don't treat you badly, do I?"
"It's just the right amount of bad," Grantaire says playfully—because apparently everything is a joke to him. The cuteness is starting to wear thin.
Enjolras stabs into the pie crust, unamused. "Be serious."
"You're serious enough for the both of us," he points out with a frustratingly appropriate amount of levity. "It evens out."
This unsurprisingly does not improve Enjolras' mood. He ends up stress-eating almost a third of his leftover pie, doggedly ignoring Grantaire as he watches in amazement.
He gets brain freeze from eating too fast and Grantaire laughs at him. Great, fantastic night.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't laugh," Grantaire says. He is, in fact, still laughing. "It's just—I don't think you understand how cute you are."
"I am not cute," he mutters. He preferred it when Grantaire was calling him terrifying and warlike.
"You are." Grantaire gets up and puts his now-empty glass in the sink. That done, he stands behind Enjolras and puts a hand on either of his shoulders. Enjolras, no longer upset but still feeling petulant, ducks away when he tries to nuzzle behind his ear, but Grantaire is undeterred. "Don't pout, Apollo. It's too hot to argue. I didn't mean to patronize you. You're everything I could want and I love you and I'm beyond lucky to have you. Forgive me?"
"You talk too much," he says, but it lacks heat.
This is Enjolras forgiving him and Grantaire knows it. This is how he knows it's alright to go in for a kiss even though Enjolras turns away from him, and how he knows that Enjolras is only being obstinate so he can pretend that he's won.
Enjolras is aware that he's acting like a child, but Grantaire lets him get away with it.
```
It's too hot for Enjolras to put his laptop on his lap, but Grantaire whines so much about him working at the kitchen table that he's currently crouched uncomfortably over his messy coffee table trying to finish their booth registration for LA Pride next month. For his part, Grantaire has taken off his jeans ("No wonder you were sweating to death," says Enjolras) and is lying belly-down on the floor while he doodles in a sketchbook.
Truth be told, Enjolras isn't getting a lot of work done because the view of Grantaire's butt from up here is fantastic.
I can almost understand how someone would want to—Enjolras involuntarily pulls a face because no, no, he really can't. When all is said and done, sexual attraction will never make sense to him. He just doesn't get it.
"If I were to say something really nice about your butt—hypothetically, that is—would you think I was coming on to you?"
"Hypothetically?" Grantaire asks, turning his head lazily. "So you're not actually complimenting me, you're just—"
"Whatever, fine, not hypothetically at all. You really, actually, one hundred percent truthfully have a really great butt, it's adorable." Enjolras frowns. "Is that—can I say that?"
"Adorable, wow." Grantaire rolls over onto his side. "You know, I did go to art school. I've seen a lot of people naked in a non-sexual environment in my day. I wouldn't say this to anyone I wasn't already sleeping with at the risk of sounding like a total weirdo, but, uh, there is such a thing as a purely aesthetic appreciation of the human form." He gives Enjolras a meaningful look and turns back to his sketchbook. "That's part of the reason I want to paint you."
"So you understand what I'm trying to say."
"I think so," Grantaire says nonchalantly. "Thank you."
"Are you going to say weird stuff about my body now?" Enjolras asks uncomfortably.
Grantaire laughs at him. "You know me so well. It's too hot to move so just pretend I got up and kissed you."
"The AC is on," Enjolras points out, still frowning.
"Is that your way of asking me to kiss you?"
Grantaire looks so incredibly smug that Enjolras doesn't want to answer. (Yes, the answer is yes.) Instead of answering, he turns his attention back to his computer screen and casually asks, "Will you be spending the night?"
"Am I gonna have to get out of here at 6:30 or whatever ungodly time it is you go to work?"
Enjolras pauses, his fingers hovering over the keyboard as his thoughts turn to the spare key hanging by the door for the second time that day. They've been dating "officially" for a couple of months now—is it too early for him to give Grantaire a key? He still doesn't even bring his own toothbrush when he stays over, and yes, Enjolras is still stuck on this point because that's gross.
He suppresses a sigh; he can always ask for it back later, he supposes. "There's a spare key hanging next to the door, you can let yourself out at a more reasonable time."
"You're letting me stay here unsupervised? Wow. I need a second for that to soak in."
"That makes it sound like you're a toddler or a puppy, or something. Don't pee on the carpet, Grantaire, or I'll lock you outside."
Grantaire chews on the end of his pencil for a second before pointing it accusatorially at Enjolras. "Now you've got me thinking about collars and leashes."
"For the love of—"
Grantaire rolls onto his back, belly exposed like a submissive dog. "Are you going to hit me with a rolled up newspaper?"
"I'm going to squirt you with a spray bottle," Enjolras mutters. Grantaire's submissive display is making his heart beat erratically and he's a little unnerved by how much he wants to close his laptop and climb on top of him (not that he'd know where to go from there). He tries to put words to the feeling and the best he can come up with is I want to fuck you into next week which is obviously unacceptable because it's patently untrue and damn it, there must be some kind of nonsexual equivalent with a similar connotation that's completely eluding him. He's never been good at communicating his feelings, but this is just embarrassing. Carefully, methodically, he finally settles on "I love you."
That feels right. He's confident he's made the right decision when Grantaire's cheeks turn pink.
The sex they try to have that night is light and playful—"try" because Grantaire says something offhanded about puppies and Enjolras cannot stop laughing. He's giddy and lightheaded and every time Grantaire touches him, it tickles (because he's already laughing? He'll have to ask Joly) and he feels a little guilty but Grantaire is laughing, too. Eventually he gives up on trying to stimulate him and flops down beside him on the bed.
"Sorry, I don't know why that was so funny, I just—" Enjolras bursts into another fit of giggles. "I'm happy. I love you and I'm happy."
Grantaire ducks his head bashfully and mutters, "Yeah, well. Laugh it up, I feel like Marius, or some other incredibly embarrassing human."
"Like Marius?"
"I bet all the sex he has is like that," he explains sourly. This makes Enjolras laugh so hard that the entire bed shakes.
"Is that so bad?" Enjolras asks once he's calmed down a little bit. "Marius has two people who love him very much—in spite of him being, well… Marius."
"That sounds like a backhanded compliment, but there's no way I'm that nerdy, so I will elect not to be offended."
Enjolras rolls his eyes. "Come here and let me kiss you before I change my mind."
Two weeks later, Grantaire politely asks if he'd like his key back. Enjolras tells him to keep it.
```
The month of June is incredibly busy for the ABCs; there are weeks upon weeks of pre-planning for LA Pride, frantic last-minute scrambles, and an endless litany of "but why isn't there a straight pride month?" (Enjolras swears he can retire when he stops hearing that. Everyone else understands this to be a feeble attempt at a joke, because Enjolras? Retire?)
Enjolras hates going to LA Pride.
He understands the significance, and he understands what it means to feel included and safe and be able to walk down the streets without fear. Pride hasn't done that for him in a long time. He helps Combeferre and Courfeyrac organize their events for the weekend, but he's going to avoid the parade if he can help it.
Grantaire is unreasonably excited about the thought of ditching the parade with him. "Oh man this is so weird, you're trying to get out of work, it's like a dog walking on its hind legs, I can't—" Enjolras can't see the face he's making over the phone, but he can guess. "We should really stick it to the man by staying in bed all day. Pride. Incredible."
"Actually," Enjolras begins gently, and he can hear Grantaire's face fall. "One of the guys Bahorel worked with in San Francisco last year invited me up for a seminar. SF Pride isn't until the end of the month, so they're still in the prep phase and—"
"You should go," Grantaire says, rather too coolly. "That's your thing, right?"
"Yes," Enjolras admits. "But I could—I mean—" He bites his lip. He can't say it. It's not true.
"Go," Grantaire urges him. "I've pointedly not gone to many pride parades without you, I can do this one on my own, too."
"Okay. As long as you can handle yourself."
Grantaire sniffs. "I can absolutely handle myself. If you know what I mean."
"Wow."
"I'm here all week."
"Anyway, I'd only be gone for a few days…"
"Are they putting you up in a nice motel or a gross one?" Grantaire asks placidly.
"A three-star," he answers, "but I told them to keep the money and use it for something else. I can stay with my parents."
"I was about to invite myself along but, oooh, hit the brakes there."
"You could get along with my parents if you tried," Enjolras says with a laugh.
"I am a pathological slacker, better not."
"Agreed." Enjolras nervously shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "Will you pick me up from the airport?"
"In my car, with my driver's license?" Grantaire says dryly.
"Will you come with Combeferre when he comes to pick me up?" he says without missing a beat.
"I don't know if Combeferre wants to see that," Grantaire says slyly, like he's just realized he's in a position of power. What an absolute bastard, using Enjolras' own tricks against him.
"Oh my god. I don't have time for this I am texting Combeferre right now and telling him to drag you along." He puts Grantaire on speaker and starts typing.
You (7:42:12 PM): Please come and pick me up from the airport on June 14th and bring my stupid uncooperative boyfriend with you even if you have to drag him by the skin of his teeth.
You (7:42:53 PM): Also I am going to San Francisco that weekend.
Combeferre (7:45:01 PM): Aye aye cap'n
Combeferre (7:45:12 PM): Ditching the pride parade, I see
Combeferre (7:45:38 PM): Also teeth don't have skin
You (7:445:47 PM): Um… thanks
"You'll be pleased to know that your henchman just texted me telling me to keep June 14th open because he's going to abduct me," Grantaire says with a sigh. "I guess I'll come, and maybe I'll be really happy to see you, and I might try to pick you up and spin you around like some kind of romcom."
"Go big or go home, R."
"I still have your spare key, you know," Grantaire reminds him. "Maybe I'll come over while you're not here and sleep in your bed."
He imagines Grantaire curled up in the middle of the bed, one pillow clutched to his chest and the blankets pulled up all the way over his head, face pressed up against the fabric because it smells like him. It's an irresistibly romantic image and it's so, so pathetic. "Oh god, would you really?"
"Absolutely."
"Well don't spend the entire weekend pining."
"Nah, Joly, Bossuet, and I have this pre-Pride tradition where we drink all morning and then I pass out and they go to Pride."
"Oh my god."
"At least this year they won't have to listen to me mope about how much you hate me." Grantaire pauses. "Not that I remember doing that. I have allegedly done that in the past. Supposedly."
Enjolras covers his face even though he's alone in his apartment. "Incredible."
"I'll have you know that getting that drunk that early in the morning is an art form."
"Please don't do that," Enjolras half-pleads. "At least not at that time of day."
"If you ask it of me, Apollo," Grantaire says dramatically.
"What I should ask you to do is to go to the parade with Feuilly and Bahorel, but—"
"Oh god."
"—I won't put you through that. I know you don't want to go."
"I'd go if you asked me," Grantaire admits.
"That's touching. Save it up for the next time I'm angry with you."
"Just think of how I'm coming to the airport to get you because you want to see me so much."
Enjolras laughs. "Good night, Grantaire."
```
Bahorel's contact in San Francisco is a man in his eighties named Mabeuf. Queer theory had evolved a lot since the fifties and sixties, but Enjolras is still excited to meet with older generations of queer activists. In fact, part of the reason Mabeuf had been interested in meeting with him is because he'd heard through Bahorel how fiercely anti-assimilation the ABCs are as a whole and how their generation responds to that. He's been invited to speak at an assembly and it's exactly what he needs to be doing right now. Eponine texts him a picture of someone who looks suspiciously like Courfeyrac dressed only in a Batman mask and black briefs roller skating down Santa Monica Blvd (captioned "this is what you're missing xoxo") and that must be from last year's parade (which he also hid in the office for) because it's only Friday and the parade is on Sunday and, yeah, he really doesn't need to be there.
After meeting with Mabeuf, he takes the BART because fuck trying to take a taxi in this town, and walks the rest of the way to his parents' house. His mother is ecstatic to have her only child at home again and his father is unsurprisingly away on business. She's set him up in his childhood bedroom—converted into a guest room now, but the furniture is all in the same positions and it's kind of weird to be there.
It doesn't help that Grantaire has been texting him to complain about how lonely and horny he is since before his flight from LAX even departed. Enjolras hasn't responded at all, apart from a courteous I've landed and the occasional that's enough out of you, but Grantaire is undeterred. So when his phone chimes eight times during dinner and his mom leans over conspiratorially and asks, "Is that the boyfriend?" Enjolras frowns and says, "I was hoping it was Courfeyrac having a last-minute freakout, but no, it's probably him."
She asks if she can see a picture of him and Enjolras realizes that he doesn't have any pictures of Grantaire on his phone. He tries to think of all of the social media networks Grantaire uses and remembers that he has an Instagram account, but when he checks it there are no pictures of Grantaire (but there are quite a few of Enjolras). He belatedly remembers that Grantaire's picture is still up on their website because their T-shirts have been such a popular seller.
She chastises him for having to look that picture up on the Internet, but when she sees it she looks him directly in the eye and simply says, "Good job."
```
When he gives his talk the next day, he doesn't think about Grantaire at all.
Enjolras' activism is about being angry and not taking it anymore, about being fed up with what has arbitrarily been deemed appropriate and what has been insidiously put in place by those in power, about advocating for change—not in politicians' promises but in tangible legislation and, more importantly, cultural shifts. You can only patch up a broken system so many times before you have to replace it. Enjolras absolutely intends to stand on the metaphorical neck of the withered and dying old system and grind it into dust to make a foundation for the new one.
This is, he realizes later, exactly what Grantaire loves about him.
After the lecture, there's a brief reception with free hors d'oeuvres and more cheap champagne than any one person could possibly drink. (They make a good go of it.) A middle-aged man who introduces himself as Cabuc has a bit too much and flirts with him aggressively even after he's told him he's not interested. Enjolras is uncomfortable with his forwardness and this is when he starts to think about Grantaire.
More specifically, this is when he starts to talk loudly about his hot artist boyfriend. He only embellishes a little bit—Grantaire is hot, and he is an artist, and he most certainly is his boyfriend. Cabuc tries to redirect the conversation by talking about the upscale apartment he's just leased; Enjolras deflects by talking about Grantaire's loft and how objectively cool it is and how fiercely he loves it. He checks his phone, half-hoping that Grantaire will have texted him five times during the talk. Of course, he hasn't, and Cabuc misses the cue anyway and keeps talking.
"And anyway, I just got this new carpet installed and it's plush, man, like, you have to feel it to believe it." Cabuc puts a hand on his shoulder. "You should come over after this and check it out, we can have drinks at my place."
Enjolras is generally a very charming young man. He really tries to be polite and courteous to everyone he deals with (unless that person is Grantaire). But there's a limit to courtesy, and oh, as head of a queer rights advocacy group, does he ever know that.
"I told you I wasn't interested," he says flatly. "You have two minutes to get out of here before I break your fingers."
After that, it's much harder to be civil to anyone because now he's thinking about Grantaire and god if he were doing this in LA instead of San Francisco Grantaire would be there even if it was just to argue and drink champagne. He'd much rather argue with Grantaire (or maybe make out with him a little, or maybe both), surrounded by their friends in their shitty little office building than be here, in this place with forty-year-old men hitting on him.
It occurs to him that he might be pining. For Grantaire, certainly, but also for Los Angeles. The Bay had always been home for him, even after he'd moved down south, but he's suddenly starkly aware that this place is now just that: a place. Home is his desk at the office, the passenger's seat in Courfeyrac's car (and, more often than not, the driver's seat when Courfeyrac wrangles him into clubbing and drinks too much), the stacks of printing proofs for their latest pamphlets littering his apartment, evening traffic on Wilshire, the disgusting brown tinge to the sky, his favorite parking spot at the Brewery, Grantaire's mattress. Grantaire.
He makes a polite excuse to Mabeuf (he doesn't mention that he threatened to break a man's fingers, but he feels like he may have ruined the mood, and for that he feels a little guilty) and heads back to his parents' house. It's early enough that the BART is still running, but late enough that his mother will be asleep. He wants to get back to his room and call Grantaire so badly that he's tapping his foot at the platform. A taxi would be quicker, but he can't bring himself to hail one knowing how expensive it'll be. All in all, he's looking at about a forty-five minute journey once the train arrives.
Grantaire had taken his iPod before he left LA and made a playlist for him. "Because your music library is frankly offensive," he'd said. "Listen to it on the plane, thank me later." Enjolras hadn't had time to listen to it on the plane—namely because the flight from LAX to Oakland is only a little more than an hour, but also because he had been busy preparing his presentation. He decides to listen to it now.
The first track opens immediately with a strong female vocal and oh god this was a terrible mistake. Enjolras isn't sure what else he should've expected, but this playlist is surprisingly personal. Less than a minute into the first song and he knows that this is more of a romantic-mixtape-gift than an I-thought-you-might-like-these-songs kind of mix. All of these songs are for him, about him.
This is Grantaire saying, with absolute sincerity and with none of the usual operatics, that he loves him.
About six songs in, he gets over the initial shock and is forced to admit to himself that it's also a pretty decent bunch of songs.
When he finally gets back to the house, he lets himself in quietly and takes a shower. The last track on Grantaire's mix is stuck in his head, and he's not sure whether or not the cannibalistic imagery in the lyrics is romantic or worrying. By the time he tumbles into bed, it's nearly 1:30 in the morning and he's decided that it may just simply be an apt metaphor. Artists.
There's no way he's falling asleep just yet, so he calls Grantaire. It's not as if he needs to rest up for Pride, or anything.
Grantaire answers his phone on the last ring with a noncommittal noise.
"Hey," Enjolras says softly. "I guess I woke you up, huh."
"'salright," Grantaire replies, sounding slightly more awake. "Guess where I am right now."
"Please tell me you're at my place, destroying my bedspread and crying into my pillow."
"I'm not crying."
"Do you miss me?" Enjolras demands. He had only wanted to hear Grantaire's voice, but forty-five minutes of manic indie love songs have left him craving his affection as well.
"Terribly," Grantaire supplies readily. Then, softly, he adds, "Do you miss me, too?"
"Some guy was hitting on me earlier tonight and I just started gushing about you and I listened to your mix thing on the way home and I can't stop thinking—" Enjolras stops and forces himself to take a breath. Brevity has never been one of his strengths, but he's usually a better speaker than this. "I love you and. What I'm trying to say is, yes, I guess, I do miss you."
"God," Grantaire says with a laugh. "You're precious. Did you like my playlist?"
"About that," Enjolras says calmly. "While I find your comments about my music library incredibly uncalled for, I did like it."
"Did you notice any, uh, themes there?"
"Yeah." Enjolras closes his eyes. "You're really in love with someone, huh."
"Yeah," Grantaire snorts. "Someone."
"Don't let him consume you," Enjolras says seriously, mind still stuck on the cannibalism metaphors. "He will, you know. Roll right over you. Don't give him permission."
"What if I want him to?" Grantaire asks, teasing. He sounds relaxed and Enjolras imagines him smiling into the pillowcase. His pillowcase.
"As your trusted friend, I have to advise you against it." He pauses. "Also, as your boyfriend: no."
Grantaire laughs at that. "I promise not to get lost in you except on very special occasions. Shit, him, I mean. I ruined the illusion."
"I'm sure he'll forgive you," he says lightly. "Also, cosigned. Special occasions. Same terms for both of us. I imagine this entails a lot of hiding out in blanket nests."
"Not in this weather. But generally, yes, I'd say blanket nests are a go. If we're in agreement, I can talk to my attorney."
Enjolras smiles and barely masters the urge to press his lips to the receiver. "Bring him with you to the airport. Combeferre can be a witness. Or do we need two witnesses?"
"I'd rather not have any witnesses."
"Okay," Enjolras says with a grin. "But how do we establish it as a binding legal contract?"
"Pinky promise?" Grantaire proposes.
When he relays this exchange to Courfeyrac later, Courfeyrac tells him very seriously: "Marry that man."
```
Bossuet (10:22:46 AM): dude I know you're coming back on Monday but jesus christ
Bossuet (10:23:01 AM): never in my life have I witnessed this much pining
Bossuet (10:23:12 AM): and I used to go drinking with R BEFORE you two were dating
You (10:28:32 AM): I shudder to think.
You (10:28:43 AM): Behave.
Grantaire (10:29:26 AM): thrhts mOld onmu bAGEL
You (10:30:02 AM): You'll live. Joly is a doctor.
Joly (10:34:17 AM): MOLD INGESTION IS NOT A JOKE.
```
Enjolras spends his Sunday having brunch with his mother (he tweets a picture of himself enjoying a mimosa in solidarity with Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire, who are doing precisely that in North Hollywood) and checking his RSS feeds. Jehan is livetweeting Pride events on the group's official twitter—including at least four pictures of Combeferre setting up their booth, and two of him manning the booth and looking charming in a pair of aviator glasses. So far no videos of Courfeyrac being arrested for public indecency, so Enjolras assumes everything is under control. Not that he really expected things to get hectic; Bahorel will be there, but only because Feuilly had specifically asked him to come. (Parades aren't really Bahorel's style—he prefers a riot.) Joly and Bossuet will show up later in the afternoon when they're done pre-gaming, and Grantaire… Grantaire appears to have pre-gamed the pre-gaming.
Later in the afternoon, once Bossuet has courteously texted him saying that they dropped Grantaire off at home before heading toward the parade route ("like responsible friends," reads the text), he decides it would be a good idea to text him and see how he's holding up.
You (3:42:12 PM): Not dead from eating moldy baked goods, I hope.
Grantaire (3:45:37 PM): maYUBEE
Grantaire (3:46:48 PM): rs not herte riught noww hes dead this is ghost
Grantaire (3:46:57 PM): booooo[
You (3:47:37 PM): … Okay, my mistake, this is not a very good indicator of how drunk you actually are.
Grantaire (3:48:14 PM): i keEP TELLINGHJ YOU TYPUING IS HARDF
Grantaire (3:48:53 PM): hOW DRINK DO UYO THINK I WLOUD GET FROM JUST MIMOSAS
Grantaire (3:49:13 PM): YUO OFEEEDND m;
The last puzzling text comes in only seconds before his phone starts to ring. It's Grantaire.
He answers the call with a laugh and asks, "Did you hit the wrong button?"
"Yes!" Grantaire says emphatically, and he doesn't sound very drunk… "The struggle is real. I've got a case of the stupid fingers today. Normally I correct at least some of my typos. No one ever feels like doing that when they're buzzed. You know me, I can't even be bothered with punctuation."
"Uh huh. How many mimosas did you have, anyway?"
"Okay you need to understand that this bar has notoriously bad mimosas, they're mostly juice. Also: three."
"So I'm guessing you made some mimosas of your own before you got there that were mostly champagne?"
"I had to balance the juice-to-champagne ratio," Grantaire says seriously. "But terrible drinks aside, it was a good time. Now I'm gonna take a nap, probably. Just think, if you were here we could just have sex all afternoon." Enjolras clears his throat, prompting Grantaire to add, "Kidding. Just kidding. Just a possible thing we could do. I mean, like, we could also snort cocaine and drive to Las Vegas for no reason, that is also technically possible but I mean we probably wouldn't."
"Do you think about things before you say them?" asks Enjolras. "Or do you just open your mouth and hope that words come out?"
"Is your mom there, should I say hi?"
"Nice subject change. But no, I went down to a coffee shop because my parents haven't figured out wifi yet. She's asked about you, though."
"Oh, really?"
"Yeah, like when you were sending me all those texts the other day."
Grantaire laughs nervously. "You didn't, uh, show those to her, right."
"God, no. But she asked to see a picture of you and I had to show her on my phone and pray that no weird texts came in while she was holding it."
"Eh, what's life without a little risk?" Grantaire says, but he sounds relieved nonetheless.
"Anyway, you're coming with Combeferre to pick me up tomorrow, right?"
"He told me that if I tried to run for some reason, he would find me," Grantaire says flatly. "I hadn't even considered it until he mentioned it, like, why would I not want to see you, but I wouldn't want that guy on my tail."
"He was probably joking." Probably. It's hard to tell with Combeferre sometimes. "But he would definitely find you."
"So yes, I will be there, but only partially because I don't want to be murdered in my sleep. Like, I am mostly there for you. At least 99% there for you."
Enjolras tries to smother his grin (he's in public), fails miserably, and says, "Okay, well, I'll see you tomorrow, then. I was just calling to make sure you made it home okay."
"Safe and sound and slightly buzzed," Grantaire reports. Softly, he adds, "I love you."
"I love you, too. Drink water and eat some real food, please."
```
In a spectacular fit of productivity, Jehan has a write-up of all their Pride Weekend events posted online by midday. Enjolras reads the blog updates on his phone while he sits in the airport terminal and thinks that maybe they should get him a fruit basket or something. Put in a good word with Combeferre, maybe, he thinks only half-jokingly. Actually…
When the ground staff announces over the PA that boarding has commenced, he switches from his phone's Internet browser to messaging.
You (2:37:14 PM): Boarding now, all on time and everything. Also: wow, Jehan.
Combeferre (2:37:49 PM): I KNOW
Combeferre (2:39:13 PM): Also yes I won't forget to pick you up, R's already here at the office. I didn't even have to come and get him.
Combeferre (2:39:56 PM): Also also don't worry about the ~3 hours of workday I'm going to miss and don't try to do any work until tomorrow, we've got it covered.
You (2:40:09 PM): Who exactly runs the show here!?
Combeferre (2:40:27 PM): It was a unanimous vote. Don't you have to shut that thing off soon?
You (2:40:37 PM): See you in two hours, then.
Once he's seated he sends off another text, this time to Grantaire.
You (2:54:12 PM): Am I supposed to text you too even though I've already texted Combeferre? Anyway, see you in a bit.
He shuts his phone off without waiting for a response. The estimated flight time is less than an hour and a half, which gives him just enough time to listen to Grantaire's mix one and a half times and drum his fingers against his armrest impatiently. He's so jittery that the woman sitting next to him offers him Dramamine. He politely declines, somewhat bewildered, because it's not like he's a nervous flier, he'd just really really like to be home, already.
Four days isn't even that long to be away. He wants to be in his apartment, he wants to drive down a familiar street, he wants to go back to work, he wants to kiss his boyfriend, he wants an In-N-Out burger. (He supposes they technically have those in NorCal, but it's the principle of the thing.)
Once the plane lands and he can turn on his phone again, he texts Combeferre and stands up as soon as the fasten-seatbelt sign is turned off. Then, realizing how far back he is and how long he'll have to wait before everyone in the front of the plane collects their carry-ons and files out, he sits back down and anxiously checks his phone.
His phone chimes and he realized he has two unread text messages, one from Combeferre confirming that he's waiting at baggage claim (Enjolras offers to pay his parking fee) and one his phone has received retroactively from Grantaire.
Grantaire (3:12:14 PM): well when you put it that way i guess not BUT STILL
You (4:19:57 PM): Using that same logic I don't have to text you now, either.
Grantaire (4:20:14 PM): just so you know combeferre is preemptively hiding in the bathroom
Enjolras smirks at that and forces his way into the aisle, standing back a bit so the woman in the window seat can get up as well. He gets his luggage from the overhead compartment and helps her get hers down too, because it's not like he's going anywhere just yet. The single-file shuffle off of the plane is agonizingly slow, and once he's clear of the bottlenecked human traffic, he walks (maybe faster than is strictly necessary) to the baggage claim, where Combeferre and Grantaire are waiting for him.
It is almost too easy to spot Grantaire, because who else would be sprawled out in a chair looking Far Too Comfortable? He has a knit beanie pulled over his eyes—which is ridiculous because it's June—and appears to be asleep. Enjolras doesn't see Combeferre; he must still be loitering in the bathroom waiting for some kind of signal. He steps up to him as quietly as he can and gently nudges Grantaire's foot with his own.
Grantaire stretches, catlike and lazy, and lifts his beanie up to expose one eye. On seeing who it was that disturbed him, he pushes the beanie back to his crown and smiles at him almost shyly.
"Hey," Enjolras says meaningfully.
"Hi."
Grantaire looks surprisingly bashful, like he's waiting for something he's not certain he'll get. The look in his eye is tender and Enjolras has absolutely no idea what he's supposed to do. Grantaire licks his lips nervously and oh great now he's looking at his mouth, his very soft, kissable mouth… They stare at each other for what seems like minutes before Enjolras makes an executive decision and bends down precariously to kiss him. The sound Grantaire makes at the back of his throat is appreciative and he tilts his head upward rather than leaning forward or standing up or anything at all helpful. Enjolras clutches Grantaire's shirt and hauls him forward to keep his balance and the terminal erupts into wolf whistles and yelps because he just got off a plane coming from San Francisco and it's Pride Month.
Enjolras pulls away and laughs at that somewhat breathlessly. Grantaire laughs, too, cheeks tinged pink with—he doesn't know what.
"I missed you," he says quietly. He holds his hand out vaguely and Grantaire presses their palms together, loosely entwining their fingers. Enjolras tries to pull him out of his seat but he's having none of it.
"I missed you, too," Grantaire mumbles, turning even pinker.
"Should someone go tell Combeferre it's alright to come out now?"
"I'm not sure I'm done kissing you yet," Grantaire says, smiling up at him lazily and that's more like it.
"Well stand up, then," Enjolras huffs.
Grantaire obeys, dropping his hand in favor of slipping the computer bag off Enjolras' shoulder so he can hug him properly. He clings low to Enjolras' waist and doesn't move. Enjolras, who had been led to believe certain things about being kissed just now, pats his back uncertainly after a while. He's never seen Grantaire so quiet—or publicly affectionate, for that matter. Maybe he's trying to make up for the day before.
"Bossuet tells me you were especially annoying yesterday, even if you weren't especially drunk."
Grantaire merely nods.
"Because…?" Enjolras prompts.
He expects something sarcastic and self-deprecating—like most of the things Grantaire says—but what comes out is a rare, soft, genuine, "I'm in love with you."
Enjolras knows this, despite the fact that Grantaire is not very good at saying it without using melodrama as a shield. It's not that Grantaire isn't eloquent or hopelessly romantic; he's just never serious, meaning he's never vulnerable. It's also not as if he's never told Enjolras that he loves him and meant it. He does. Often. With full theatrics and false tears and flamboyant metaphors about divinity and worship and light.
As it is, Enjolras thinks that they'd both be equally horrified if he ever said any of the flowery, romantic words he frequently uses to tease Marius without a trace of irony. Instead, Grantaire clings and he kisses. He bends to Enjolras' every whim. He makes disturbingly heartfelt mixtapes. Presumably, he even paints.
"Yes," Enjolras says patiently. "I love you, too. Let's go find Combeferre."
```
If one were to ask Enjolras' friends, family, and coworkers to describe him in a single word, the word would unanimously be single-minded.
It's not necessarily a fault. It's part of what makes him such a formidable project leader and what gives him the drive that makes him so charismatic. He gets things done.
His single-mindedness is also what allows him to completely forget about the Supreme Court's upcoming decision on constitutionality of Proposition 8 and the Defense of Marriage Act.
Having long since dismissed the notion of "gay marriage" as the pinnacle of the mainstream Gay Rights Movement, his only personal investment in the decision has to do with how to proceed with his activism; angry-as-hell or slightly-mollified-but-still-incredibly-angry. Since he hasn't been hanging on the decision since 2008, he sets it aside. Right now, he's more invested in the Texan senate and Wendy Davis.
He's already written up a long missive, curt and concise, about how reproductive restrictions are misogynist in their intent and cissexist in their execution; how discussions about reproductive rights often throw transgender and intersex people under the bus; how, contrary to popular belief, reproductive rights are relevant to cisgender queer people; and why this particular situation should disgust anyone who was taught about "checks and balances" in elementary school, regardless of their stance on abortion.
It's the angriest he's been in a long time, and he's been ignoring Grantaire's progressively raunchier text messages (an excerpt: "i get all tingly inside when you blog like that") in favor of fighting with people on the Internet. He's up far later than is responsible on a night when he has to be in the office the next morning.
When he goes in to work the next morning, dark circles under his eyes and jacked up on coffee, he's still itching for a fight. He suspects that Eponine will be just as angry and they can have a long discussion. And while Eponine does look rather annoyed, the general mood in the office is one of weary celebration.
He doesn't understand until he checks his e-mail and—oh.
Combeferre has written up a short e-mail about the Supreme Court decisions (not failing to mention their decision on the Voting Rights Act) and how the fight is far from over. In his message, he congratulates all the newly wed couples in the state, but also calls on them to remember that in most of the country it is still legal to deny employment, housing, and even medical care on the basis of sexual orientation or gender expression. He provides links to petitions, charities, and other grassroots organizations (their own included) that are pushing for the passing of the Employment Non-Discrimination Act and very somberly manages to give a big "fuck you" to anyone who says that "Gay Rights have been achieved." (Enjolras is also pleased to see that Eponine has already drafted an e-mail condemning what happened the night before in Texas, linking to his enraged and unedited blog post. He knew he could count on her.)
Enjolras pushes his chair away from his desk and clears his throat and everyone in the room prepares for what they probably suspect is going to be a long, impassioned speech. Instead, he merely commends Combeferre for his quick work on the e-mail and goes on to approve Eponine's message for their mailing list. "But if you all want to give yourselves a round of applause for being strong and patient throughout this whole mess," he says, "you have absolutely earned that right."
There's a smattering of half-hearted applause. Enjolras sits back down. Not long after, Courfeyrac comes up and sits on his desk.
"Don't be such a defeatist about the marriage thing," he advises, crossing his arms good-naturedly. "You actually have a stake in that, you know."
"What?" Enjolras asks with a squint. He can't think of anything that personally concerns him on the issue.
Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. "The same as most non-political couples. Now Grantaire can propose to you."
The color drains from his face and he feels dizzy for a second. When he comes to, Courfeyrac is still laughing at him.
```
The Prop 8 and DOMA decisions dominate the discussion at that night's meeting. Exhausted, Enjolras speaks up only to support Eponine and Cosette when they start to talk about Wendy Davis. He spends most of the meeting watching Grantaire from across the room (they decided a long time ago that sitting together would be distracting, "and besides, the view is better from over here," Grantaire had said wickedly), biting his fingernails and trying to convince himself that Courfeyrac had been joking. They've only been dating for about four months, Grantaire couldn't possibly… And yet, straight from the horse's mouth, Grantaire has apparently been in love with him for years.
Enjolras frets all through the meeting and is still fretting even after it ends and he and Grantaire are walking from the car to his apartment. They haven't spoken all day, though Grantaire keeps opening his mouth as if to say something and seems to decide better of it each time.
Finally he sighs and says, "I considered dropping to one knee and offering you a Ring Pop during the meeting, but you looked like you might have a heart attack."
Enjolras tenses. "You're—you're not going to do that, right?"
"No," Grantaire says softly. "I guess not. Although I think Courfeyrac might have bet money on it. He looked a little put out."
Enjolras unlocks the door and—he can't help it, he has to ask. "Have you ever thought about getting married?" He blushes and quickly adds, "Not to me, I mean, just. In general."
Grantaire gives him an odd look as he follows him into the kitchen. "Not really. I mean, sure, when I was a little kid, but not once I grew up. And six months ago you wouldn't even have looked twice at me, so." He shrugs, like maybe he's admitted a little too much. "What about you? Please tell me six-year-old you had every intention of growing up to be a yuppie with two-point-five kids and a picket fence and a dog."
Enjolras rolls his eyes. "Six-year-old me was too busy playing with plastic dinosaurs to give it much thought. But. Not especially. I never really…"
"Don't look so nervous, my Orestes," Grantaire says with an easy smile. "I'm not trying to pressure you into anything."
"It's just something Courfeyrac said—wait, Orestes?" Enjolras frowns and tries to remember his Greek myths. "Is that the one who—"
"I am, of course, your Pylades," he says with a flourish. "Unless you prefer Achilles and Patroclus. Or Alexander and Hephaestion? Apollo and Admetus?"
"You're like a Wikipedia article on homoerotic Greek myths," Enjolras says with a laugh.
"I was a sad gay kid with a fixation," he says. "Now I'm a sad gay adult with a fixation."
"You seem really stuck on Apollo. I'm flattered, but I'm not sure I get the comparison." Enjolras thinks he's maybe more of an Athena, personally.
"It's your—" Grantaire gestures at his face, then to his torso, then back to his face "—everything, really."
"I look like it, basically."
"Well, yes," Grantaire says, somewhat exasperated. "But there's also—you know, I paint. And you, uh, you inspire a lot of art."
"You've never shown me any," Enjolras points out.
"That's because it's incredibly embarrassing!" Grantaire insists. "And I mean it's not like—most of it isn't really modeled after you, even, it's just. It's an impression. Apollo is an artistic god. Shut up, it makes sense."
"If you say so," he relents. "Anyway, if I don't go to bed right now, I'll end up going online and arguing with conservatives and not sleep for the rest of the week."
Grantaire agrees that that's probably a bad idea and they call it an early night. They get ready for bed in relative silence, but the tension from earlier has dissipated almost into nothing. It's a comfortable silence. Enjolras may or may not be making mental notes to look up the Greek heroes Grantaire had compared him to.
Enjolras is just on the edge of sleep when Grantaire asks, very softly, as if he's almost hoping he won't hear, "If I had proposed to you tonight, what would you have said?"
Enjolras rolls over. "I probably would've asked if you were joking."
"Well I was, but just supposing I wasn't."
Enjolras stares at him in the dark, glad that Grantaire can't see his face right now but annoyed that he can't try to read Grantaire's expression. "You said there was no pressure," he reminds him.
"There isn't," Grantaire says with a sigh. "I didn't word that right. I just meant—that's a thing, you know? We could do that, if we wanted, and we couldn't before. Doesn't that—I don't know, isn't that kind of exciting?"
Enjolras is stunned. "Who are you and what have you done with Grantaire?"
"Be serious," he says acidly.
"I wish I'd caught that on video, no one will be believe me when I tell them you actually care about something."
Grantaire whacks his shoulder half-heartedly. "Don't be a jerk, I care about a lot of things. I care about you."
"I don't count," Enjolras says loftily. "I mean ideals and abstractions."
Grantaire is quiet for a long time—so long that Enjolras thinks he's fallen asleep, but when he repositions himself, Grantaire wriggles to match him and slides an arm over his waist. "You didn't answer my question, though."
Enjolras smiles involuntarily. "Ask me again in a few years."