Chapter Text
(In angry red letters, taking up half a page) 36. FOOD DYE IS TO REMAIN OUT OF THE BATHROOM. NO EXCEPTIONS.
The bathroom is neat and organised unlike most of the house. Most of the organisation comes from necessity as opposed to natural orderliness as one could see from the state of their rooms.
The remnants of blue food dye that had just missed going into the bottle are running down its side and pooling on the floor underneath it. It’s mixed in with the water left sitting after 3 showers a day. Enjolras doesn’t notice this as he picks up the bottle and soaps his hair.
He doesn’t notice much right now, having gotten in too late the night before and having to wake up too goddamn early this morning.
It was too early to be alive, in all honestly.
But he was, and he was here, and he was scrubbing shampoo mixed with blue food dye into his scalp. His didn’t bother cracking his eyes open as he washed it out.
There was now one significantly less-full blue tinted shampoo bottle on the bathroom floor. This came hand in hand with the outraged Enjolras that was now staring into the mirror, towel falling off his waist.
His hair was blue.
His hair was fucking blue.
Grantaire’s room is closet, which is why he goes there first. Also possibly because he’s probably the culprit. But mainly because it’s closest.
He is still, predictably, asleep, as most sane people should be at this hour.
Well, that simply won’t do.
He pulls the covers off of Grantaire one handedly, resulting in not-quite even removal. The other hand is busy holding the towel up around his waist though. It wasn’t a bad removal though; Grantaire’s new tattoo peeked out from underneath the sheets, a broken clock across his hips that Enjolras hadn’t seen before. It suited him, he thought. It suited him a lot.
However it wasn’t enough to stop annoyance seeping into Enjolras. Enjolras didn’t want blue hair. Enjolras had a very important fucking meeting this morning that he was going to have to go to with blue fucking hair.
“Grantaire, get up and explain this. You had something to do with this don’t even try to deny it.”
Grantaire cracked his eyes, curling to his side. He couldn’t quite figure out who was at the end of the bed yet, not gotten past the “fuck off” stage of waking up. When he figured it was Enjolras talking in what wasn’t really an inside voice though, he felt blood drain from his face.
And then remembered the no sleeping in the nude rule.
Right.
Good. He is actually wearing boxers.
Now to address the Golden God himself.
“Stop stop stop stop stop. Back up. Start again. Give me a second to open my fucking eyes.”
Enjolras pauses in his near-shouting for a moment, lets Grantaire open his eyes.
He pales even further. Enjolras indulges again, enjoying the contrast of the dark bed head curls plastered against his face. It wasn’t something he got to appreciate very often, most the time Grantaire’s face ruddy from alcohol or covered by scarf and stubble.
Ahem.
Grantaire hasn’t said anything yet, instead mouthing wordlessly.
“Shit,” he finally manages to choke out, accompanied by a stuttered “B-B-Bahorel,” and frenzied pointing.
Enjolras spares a second to give him a tight smile of thanks before he crosses the landing and goes to force Bahorel’s door open. Only it wouldn’t open, and he managed to knock his forehead on the wood panel with the anticipated follow through. Fucking—
He distantly registers Grantaire stumbling into the landing behind him as well as the sound of Combeferre’s door opening. That’s irrelevant right now. What is relevant though, is getting to Bahorel.
“You know it’s funny,” Combeferre notes, “that wrapped in nothing but a towel even Bahorel is avoiding Enjolras’s wrath.”
“He’s barricaded himself inside the bloody room.” Grantaire says, each word punctuated with a laugh.
Enjolras is already done with the day and it’s barely 7am.
“Open the goddamn door Bahorel.” His voice is low and dangerous, a tone he normally reserved for when Grantaire insists on slurring his way through a drunken fight that’s already escalated beyond yelling.
Bahorel tries to sound nonplussed. And mostly fails. “I thought you’d like my barricade. You know. Revolution! Um.”
The two onlookers aren’t even trying to hold back their laughter anymore, even if Enjolras is struggling to see the amusement in the situation.
“You know Enjolras, it’s R’s fault, really. He told me the wrong shampoo bottle. He said it was Jehan’s, swear it. C’mon R, help me out.” Grantaire just laughs harder at the pleading.
“Hey, don’t go pinning this one on me. Last time I checked, you were the one who put the food dye in the shampoo in the first place. Not a bloody chance mate.”
The situation having hit a roadblock from there, with Bahorel refusing to dismember whatever barricade of furniture he’d amassed behind the door, Enjolras went to finish getting ready.
It takes over a week for the food dye to wash completely out of his hair. It takes a little under 12 hours for Enjolras to exact his revenge.
See, save for when he sleep-walked, Bahorel was the heaviest sleeper in the house.
Which is a big part of the reason that there was a dick shaved into the side of his head the next morning.
"Yes Enjolras, you are so mature!" Bahorel grumbled after rolling out of bed to see it in the mirror.