Chapter Text
For all that Grantaire loves Courfeyrac--and he does love Courfeyrac, even if Courfeyrac’s a completely ridiculous human being who thinks it’s normal to own or sleep in Spice Girls boxers (and oh look at that; now Grantaire is imagining him as Posh Spice, and that’s a lot more than he can reasonably handle at such an early hour, the thought of Courfeyrac in a little Gucci black dress)--he sometimes wishes Courfeyrac wasn’t quite as good at reading people as he is.
Courfeyrac blinks sleep from his eyes as he slides the door open, takes one good look at Grantaire and pulls him into such a tight hug that Grantaire fears he might’ve cracked a few ribs. He wants to fight it and pull back, he does, because he’s not some precious delicate flower that needs hugs at the drop of a hat but… well, he does need a hug and as much of a Disney-loving menace as Courfeyrac is, he could absolutely teach a class on hugging.
Several classes.
He could teach a whole degree on hugging.
His arms are tight around Grantaire, practically crushing him, and he smells like popcorn and bubblegum--and that has to be Courfeyrac’s superpower, smelling like snacks, because it happens every fucking time, even if all he’s had all day has been what he thinks passes for healthy food, like that one time he tried to convince Grantaire chocolate counted as a salad because it came from a plant.
Huh. So maybe it’s not weird at all that Courfeyrac always smells like snacks.
“You are going to die of a heart attack at forty,” Grantaire warns, which is a really fucking ridiculous thing to say at the best of time, especially when someone’s hugging you like it’s a fucking art form, but it’s the only thing he can think of to avoid crying in Courfeyrac’s arms, and that’s a little too much, even for Grantaire.
Whatever else people know about him, let it never be said he once cried on someone wearing Spice Girls boxers.
Courfeyrac chuckles, giving Grantaire’s shoulder one last pat before pulling back and looking at him critically.
“Right, come in,” he says, in a tone of voice that accepts no argument. That’s the perfect indication of what a mess Grantaire looks like, because it usually takes a few explosions for Courfeyrac to get serious about anything. And not the fun kind of explosions that happen whenever Enjolras enters a kitchen.
Grantaire steps inside, cards a hand through his hair as Courfeyrac closes the door behind him.
“Aren’t your parents--”
“Away for the weekend,” Courfeyrac says, waving a hand. “It’s fine. We can talk about whatever this is and eat junk food and watch shitty cartoons. It’s just the two of us, I promise. Well, except--”
“Oh sweet drunk baby Jesus, are those Eponine’s tits?” Grantaire asks, voice about ten octaves higher than it usually is. He doesn’t know much about octaves, and he doubts there actually are ten of them, but the hyperbole seems appropriate, given that he is very much staring directly at Eponine’s boobs, which are firmly attached to an Eponine who is very much standing in front of him looking completely unimpressed.
“They’re great boobs,” she says.
“Yes, and Donald Trump is a great asshole. Doesn’t mean I want to look at him.”
“That’s really--” Eponine narrows her eyes. “Did you seriously just compare my tits to Donald Trump? Because that’s low, dude. And doesn’t even make sense.”
“I need therapy,” Grantaire whines, hiding his face in his hands. “So much therapy, years and years of therapy.”
“It could be worse,” Eponine offers, and Grantaire should stop the conversation, Grantaire knows he should stop the conversation, but he’s never done what he’s supposed to do, has he? Instead, he lets her talk. “I could have told you I was just sitting on Courfeyrac’s face.”
Courfeyrac makes an odd choking sound, like it’s taking all his self-control not to burst into laughter, and then he does burst into laughter.
Grantaire decides to bluff his way through this conversation. It’s like dealing with wild dogs; just don’t show fear and you’ll be fine.
“Were you?” Grantaire asks, curious.
Eponine considers this for a moment. “No,” she says eventually. “I was asleep. But I still could’ve said it happened.”
“Can we, like, not talk about people sleeping together? Because I’d very much appreciate it if we could not talk about people sleeping together,” Grantaire pleads. “Hey, we could talk about me joining a convent. Like Whoopi Goldberg in--whatever that was. God, that was a great movie. Can we do that? We should do that. I’d look great in a habit. Probably. Nuns don’t have to deal with people. And Enjolras. Nuns can get drunk too, right? And they get to go around marching naked people through the streets with a bell, so--”
“I’m pretty sure that’s Game of Thrones, Grantaire,” Eponine points out, shaking her head. “Not a thing that actually happens.”
“Can you put a shirt on, for the love of God?” Grantaire asks, voice strangled. “I vote you put a shirt on. Please put a shirt on.” At least she’s wearing underwear, he supposes, but considering that underwear looks like it came straight from Courfeyrac’s drawers, it does little to relax him.
At least Courfeyrac is wearing a shirt. And proper underwear. He loves Courfeyrac, Courfeyrac is his favorite person. He’s going to give Courfeyrac a salad basket just to show his love and appreciation. Cupcakes arranged like a salad. Something. Anything. Maybe a small country, he can do that now. Political immunity. Never again will Courfeyrac have to worry about the dangers of public sex.
Not that Courfeyrac worries about that now, but Grantaire is sure he’ll appreciate it all the same.
“Say, why are you wearing clothes to open the door?” he asks, frowning slightly, because as grateful as he is, it doesn’t make it normal.
Courfeyrac and Eponine exchange a look.
“I’m going to go put a shirt on,” Eponine says.
“I’ll deal with--whatever this is,” Courfeyrac says, waving her off. “Text you-know-who, you know he worries. Grantaire, coffee?”
“Is she texting Enjolras?” Grantaire shudders. “Why is she texting Enjolras? I’m fine, it’s fine, everything's fine, there’s nothing about my life that’s not fine at all. She doesn’t need to text Enjolras. No one needs to text Enjolras. Why would you, when everything is fine?”
“Say fine one more time and I’ll believe you,” Courfeyrac says firmly, and only smirks when Grantaire won’t meet his eye. “Right,” he says, laying his hands on Grantaire’s shoulders and steering him towards the kitchen. “Enjolras was worried. And jealous. But mostly worried. We all were once we realized you really got kidnapped by a stripper.” He frowns. “Are you that bad of a tipper? How bad of a tipper do you even have to be to get kidnapped by a stripper? How much did you have to pay to be released? Or was Enjolras right and you just annoyed him into letting you go? Because that sounds like something you’d do. Did you sing Justin Bieber’s entire discography like that one time you were trying to distract yourself from Enjolras’ tight pants?”
“I,” Grantaire starts, with no idea how to finish that sentence. He realizes belatedly that Courfeyrac has guided him into a kitchen chair and is working his coffee machine. “I,” he tries again. No other words come out.
“Take your time,” Courfeyrac says soothingly, setting a cup of coffee in front of him. Grantaire grasps it like a lifeline.
“You still haven’t told me why you’re wearing clothes,” Grantaire says, a little more grounded now that he has something to do, even if it’s just to hold a steaming cup of coffee.
“Enjolras texted us at 4 in the morning to let us know you were with him,” Courfeyrac says with a sigh, sitting down besides him. “I figured if he was texting at that time and he was with you, something had to have happened.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, though it’s nowhere near as over the top as it usually is. “So if someone was knocking on my door this morning it was either you or him, and I was going to have to kick some ass, so clothes seemed… wiser. Didn’t want either of you to get jealous of my hot, naked body.”
“We didn’t--nothing happened,” Grantaire says firmly, because last thing he needs is to encourage the inane drinking bet he knows his friends have going on. “I mean, we--we shared a bed. Just. Platonically. He slept on me.”
Grantaire has no idea what to make of the expression on Courfeyrac’s face.
“You shared a bed,” he repeats, somewhat hysterical. “You and Enjolras shared a bed and he slept on you and it was completely platonic, is that what you’re saying?”
“I was--upset,” he says, shrugging. “He was trying to cheer me up.”
“Blowjobs usually do wonders for that,” Eponine says cheerfully as she enters the kitchen, thankfully wearing a shirt this time.
“Look, that’s not--can you two keep a secret?” Grantaire asks, suddenly very focused on his knees. He’s still wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and his skin still smells vaguely like Enjolras. It takes a lot of self-control for him not to try to lick himself.
Courfeyrac and Eponine exchange another look.
“Say, what did happen with the stripper?” Courfeyrac asks, his brow knitting in thought. “Are you thinking about leaving us to join a stripper troupe? Because a) I’d miss you, and b) you don’t have the legs for it. I mean, I do, but…”
“He wasn’t a stripper,” Grantaire says miserably. Maybe they shouldn’t be the first people he tells, maybe he should tell no one at all. Maybe he should drown himself in his coffee cup, that’d make a nice headline. Long lost prince found dead in his coffee cup. Think of the songs the bards would sing. Are there even bards anymore? He’ll have to check.
“Okay,” Eponine says.
“We can keep a secret,” Courfeyrac says.
Grantaire takes a deep breath. He could still change the subject, he knows, but ignoring it isn’t going to make it go away, and he does trust Eponine and Courfeyrac, even if he really wishes he’d never been subjected to their mating habits.
“Right, okay.” Another deep breath. “So, here’s what happened with the stripper…”
---
By the time he’s done, Courfeyrac has his face buried in his hands and Eponine is chain smoking at the kitchen counter.
“That’s,” she starts, shaking her head. She takes a long drag of her cigarette. “Your life is a fucking reality show waiting to happen.”
“Yes, Kim Kardashian’s got nothing on me,” Grantaire says bitterly. “Just give me a video camera and someone to star in a porno with and my career is made.”
Courfeyrac wiggles his eyebrows again. “Well, if you’re offering…”
“No,” Eponine and Grantaire say at the same time.
“Rude.” Courfeyrac pouts, though it isn’t long before he’s falling serious again. “God. I have no idea what to tell you, I really don’t. Most things, I’m your guy, but there’s not really a lot that you can say when your friend turns out to be a long lost prince, is there? You know who you are? You’re Aragorn. That’s who you are.”
“Aragorn is hot,” Eponine says thoughtfully, in between practically inhaling her cigarette. “You could do a lot worse than being Aragorn. And it doesn’t have to be all bad. I mean, you can marry Prince Harry. I wish I could marry Prince Harry. No offense,” she says, waving a hand at Courfeyrac.
“None taken.” He shrugs. “I too wish I could marry Prince Harry.”
“Pretty sure he’s not into guys, Courf,” Grantaire interjects. “And I’m also pretty sure I don’t want to marry Prince Harry. I don’t want to marry anyone, I’m eighteen. I want to get drunk with an illegal ID like God intended and I want a fucking dragon who eats my algebra homework. Also pizza you can 3D print. Maybe a pony as well? Or a unicorn.”
“The American dream,” Courfeyrac hums. “Along with a Spice Girls reunion.”
“You are so weird.”
“At least I’m not a long lost prince from a faraway land,” Courfeyrac points out. “You should start falling asleep in random places so Enjolras can start trying to wake you with true love’s kiss. True love’s blowjob? True love’s political discussions? Whatever, I’m sure you crazy kids can work it out.”
At that, Grantaire slumps even lower in his chair.
“Oh, what’s wrong now?” Courfeyrac asks worriedly. “What did Enjolras do this time?”
“He didn’t do--he’s going to hate me when he finds out.”
Courfeyrac blinks. “Why would he hate you?”
“Because the monarchy stands for everything he hates?” Grantaire drawls.
“Well, that’s not true,” Eponine offers. “He hates plenty of other stuff. Like--hmm. Pineapple on his pizza. Electronic music--”
Grantaire rolls his eyes “--everyone hates electronic music, ‘Ponine, that’s just called good taste.”
“--whenever I sit on your lap,” she finishes, ignoring him completely. He didn’t expect anything else.
“You have to tell him,” Courfeyrac says. He’s spent more time being serious during this conversation than in his entire life up until this point. Grantaire is very proud of him. “You know you have to tell him, right? If you don’t, it’ll just stretch on and on, and then when he inevitably finds out he’ll just get upset everyone but him knows.”
“I don’t actually enjoy making Enjolras hate me, Courfeyrac,” Grantaire says firmly, taking a sip of his coffee just so he has something to do. “And he doesn’t need to know, because I’m going to fix it before it ever comes to that.”
“That’s a lovely plan,” Eponine says. “But how are you going to achieve that?”
Grantaire considers this.
And then considers it again.
“He could say no,” Courfeyrac tries. “You did say no, right? In very clear terms, using very small words, right?”
“Do you think that matters?” Eponine says impatiently. “One word, one fucking word whispered to the paparazzi and then everything fucking changes. They’ll harass him, they’ll harass his friends, they’ll threaten him, they’ll threaten his friends, and by the end he’ll be so fucking desperate for a security detail he’ll go along with whatever they want.”
“You don’t know if it’ll come to that,” Courfeyrac says, weakly.
“I know that if someone with more power and money than you decides they want you to do something, they almost definitely get you to do it.”
“So, what, I should just go along with it because it’s easier in the long run?” Grantaire asks, an edge of desperation on his voice.
“Fuck no,” Eponine says, finishing her cigarette. Her hands shake slightly as she lights another one. “What we need is a plan.”
“I’m all ears,” Grantaire says.
Courfeyrac looks at Eponine. “We need Combeferre, don’t we?”
“We need Combeferre,” she agrees. “Grantaire, are you okay with us telling Combeferre?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Eponine considers this. “Not if you want a way to fix it,” she says. “There’s really nothing much Courfeyrac and I can do right now.”
“Right,” Grantaire relents. “Fucking call Combeferre.”
---
They call Combeferre.
Grantaire waves a hand, lets Eponine and Courfeyrac explain everything. He notes, gratefully, that they don’t mention the night spent at Enjolras’ house, in Enjolras bed, with Enjolras wrapped around him.
“You need to tell Enjolras,” is the first thing Combeferre says. “You know that, right? You have to know that. It’s Enjolras. He’ll find out sooner or later, and it’ll be that much worse if he has to hear about it from someone else.”
“Is there anyone fucking participating in this fucking conversation that doesn’t think I’m fucking in love with fucking Enjolras?” Grantaire snaps.
No one bothers replying.
“I violently dislike you all,” he grumbles.
“Anyway,” Eponine says. “Combeferre--”
“I’m--” Combeferre says through the speakers. “This isn’t a joke, is it? Because I know how much Courfeyrac loves pranks and this is ridiculous enough to be one, but it doesn’t have quite its usual flair. And it’s really not that funny, all things considered.”
Grantaire lets out a truly pitiful whine. “No joke,” he sighs. “Just--my life. Can you just--please, think of something?”
Combeferre is silent for a very long time. “Can I just think of something to not make you the Crown Prince of Genovia?” he asks. The sarcasm is obvious. “Can I just--I don’t know its laws, I don’t know its people, I don’t know its history, I don’t know--”
“We get it,” Eponine cuts him off. “But there has to be something. I mean, I know he can say no, but if they decide to tell everyone he’s supposed to be the future King, that’ll--the cat will be out of the bag, then.”
Combeferre takes in a sharp breath. “What you have to do,” he says after a moment’s consideration, “is convince them you’d be an absolutely terrible choice for the job.”
“So I need to be myself, is what you’re saying,” Grantaire says.
“Don’t be obtuse,” Courfeyrac says, rolling his eyes. “Just--be terrible. Make chocolate illegal. Ban Game of Thrones. Declare war on Portugal. That sort of thing.”
“Why should I declare war on Portugal?” Grantaire blinks. “They have--whatever the fuck it is Portugal has. Um. Is that the one where vodka’s from?”
“Pretty sure that’s Russia, Grantaire,” Eponine explains with a roll of her eyes. “They have Cristiano Ronaldo’s abs and must be protected at all costs. And that’s not a bad idea, actually,” she says thoughtfully. “I mean, obviously he’s not going to declare war on Portugal, but just--be completely unfit to rule.”
“Like I already am?”
Eponine lets out a frustrated whine and looks for all the world as if she’d like nothing better than to strangle him with her bare hands. Knowing Eponine, she might. “Courfeyrac is right, don’t be obtuse. You might have no idea what you’re doing, but you mean well. And you have a good heart. Just--just play them. Be Joffrey. Be Henry VIII. No one wants a scandal, not on this day and age.”
“I still don’t think--” Grantaire starts.
“Do you have a better idea?” Combeferre asks sharply. “Because if you do then we’re all ears, but from where I’m standing this might actually get them off your back before people find out about it. They’ll want to give you some proper training before they go public, to polish you off properly. Just--convince them it’s a terrible idea before you get to that.”
Grantaire wants to argue, Grantaire really, really wants to argue but he has no idea what else he can do. He’s silent for a long time, mulling it over, before giving Eponine and Courfeyrac a small nod.
“Okay,” he says, for Combeferre’s benefit. “Okay, let’s do that. I’ll just--I’ll make Grantaire Donald Trump again. Why not? There’s not a thing that can go wrong in that plan, not a thing at all.”
“I’ll go over their laws of succession anyway, see if there’s anything else we can do in case this doesn’t work,” Combeferre offers. “Might as well get information as thoroughly as possible. Just--please, please talk to Enjolras?”
“Talk to me about what?” a voice says from behind Grantaire, and Grantaire knows that voice, Grantaire knows the man it belongs to, and as much as he likes being around Enjolras almost all the time, this might actually be one of those weird days where he’d like nothing better than to be as far away from Enjolras as possible.
Maybe moving to Alaska hadn’t been such a bad idea, after all.
“And that’s my cue to leave,” Combeferre says, hanging up the phone.
Courfeyrac and Eponine exchange yet another look.
“We should--” Courfeyrac starts.
“Why is your limo still outside?” Enjolras asks.
“How did you even get in here?” Courfeyrac asks.
“I have a key?” Enjolras blinks. “Remember, your parents gave it to me after that one time you locked yourself in your closet and they were at your grandparents?”
Eponine snorts. “How did you even--”
“Playing hide and seek, if you must know,” Courfeyrac says, with as much dignity as he can muster. “Say, did you mention a limo?”
“But why did Enjolras have to come get you?” Grantaire frowns.
“Because if the people he was playing with had to come get him, that meant he'd lose,” Enjolras says, around a truly impressive long-suffering sigh. “Did I mention he was fifteen?”
“So about that limo,” Courfeyrac says, very loudly.
“I stole a limo,” Grantaire explains, for once deciding to take some pity on Courfeyrac.
“I have never been this proud of you,” Courfeyrac coos, before pulling him into another bear-ish hug. “Oh, come here, you brave little soldier.” Lowering his voice to a whisper, he murmurs against Grantaire’s ear, “Tell him.”
Courfeyrac detaches himself from Grantaire with an easy grin. “Say, how pissed off are you about that whole thing?”
“A lot?”
“Perfect.” He rubs his hands together. “Don’t you think you should get back at them by letting me and Eponine have sex in the backseat?”
“I’m Eponine and I approve of this plan,” Eponine offers.
Grantaire rolls his eyes, but tosses Courfeyrac the keys anyway. “Don’t kill anyone?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Courfeyrac says, laughing much more than Grantaire considers strictly necessary.
He offers Enjolras one last salute, laces his fingers with Eponine’s, and goes laughing out of the room.
“They’re not even wearing pants,” Enjolras says, disapproval obvious in his tone.
“I don’t think they need pants for what they’re planning on doing, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, finally turned to look at Enjolras. “Are those donuts? Are we in a cop show? I feel like I should’ve been told if we were in a cop show. I’d wear a bulletproof vest. And ask for a cute man-eating puppy to guard my back.”
Enjolras ignores this completely, just sets the box of donuts down on the counter and stares unblinkingly at Grantaire.
It’s more than a little unnerving. Don’t get Grantaire wrong, he loves having Enjolras’ undivided attention, but--it’s still a little unnerving.
“Why do you have donuts?” Grantaire asks.
“Eponine texted me you were here,” he says, like that explains everything. “I was worried. I stopped for donuts on the way here, it’s why I took so long. Figured you were in good hands anyway. It’s bothering you a lot, isn’t it?” he asks suddenly, completely turning the conversation in its head, and that’s so perfectly Enjolras Grantaire could cry. “About your family.”
“They’re not my family,” Grantaire says harshly. “They’re just--you know, they’re not even people I’m related to. They’re just people who are related to people I was related to. Donating sperm doesn’t make someone a father, Enjolras.”
“I know that,” Enjolras says, taking a small step closer to Grantaire. “I’m--What can I do?”
“I’m fine, Apollo,” Grantaire says bitterly.
Enjolras takes another step, longer this time. “No, you’re not.”
God, he’s so angry, and at least part of it is directed straight at Enjolras. He’s so tired of everything, of his sperm donor’s family--because he sure as Hell isn’t going to call him a father--remembering he exists only when they need something from him, of his grandfather lying to him his entire life, of being pulled in directions he has no interest of being pulled into. And worst, so much worst, he’s so tired of being afraid of disappointing Enjolras, of having no idea what of this thing between them is, of what Enjolras wants it to be, worrying and worrying about worrying about what Enjolras thinks, what Enjolras feels, what Enjolras needs.
“Fine, then I’m not,” Grantaire snaps. “Just let it fucking go, please. It’s not your job to take care of me. It’s not your job to make sure I’m okay. It’s not your job to care about me. It’s not your job to bring me fucking donuts in the morning.”
Enjolras doesn’t move away, doesn’t step back. He’s in arm's reach of Grantaire now. “Yes, it is,” he says, very slowly, enunciating every word very carefully. “Someone should care about you, it’s a full-time job.”
“So sorry I’m such an inconvenience, O Captain My Captain, next time I’ll just--”
But it doesn’t matter what he’d been about to say, it doesn’t matter at all, because Enjolras is stepping closer and closer still, and then he’s wrapping his arms around Grantaire, pulling Grantaire close against his chest, and all the fight goes out of Grantaire. Enjolras keeps one hand tight around Grantaire’s back as the other curls around the nape of his neck, hooking Grantaire’s chin over his shoulder. Grantaire’s treacherous hands flutter up of their own accord, clinging to Enjolras’ back.
He still smells like mangoes.
God, to think he was praising Courfeyrac’s hugs an hour ago. Courfeyrac has no idea how to hug people. Courfeyrac is a mere beginner to the art of hugging. Courfeyrac has no idea what he’s doing. Enjolras, though. Enjolras’ hugs should be illegal.
“It is my job,” he murmurs against Grantaire’s ear, his fingers playing almost absent-mindedly with the fine hairs on the back of Grantaire’s head. It takes every shred of self-control Grantaire has not to burst into tears. “It is my job. I want it to be my job. And you don’t get to tell me it’s not. You don’t get to tell me that I don’t have the right to care about you. You don’t want to tell me what’s wrong or how I can help, that’s fine, that’s your prerogative, but don’t tell me how to feel about you. Don’t tell me to stop trying to take care of you, or not to care. I couldn’t stop caring about you even if I wanted to.”
There is a side of Grantaire--the side that occasionally makes good decisions, rare enough as they are--that knows this is where he should tell Enjolras, this is where he should explain everything, and they’d fight, and Enjolras would be disappointed, and that’d be that.
Instead, he sighs, and clings a little harder.
---