Chapter Text
Combeferre would love this speech, Enjolras was sure.
He’d sat down when the small digital clock on his desk had bleakly indicated the time to be 1:29 am, and he’d pulled out his laptop and got a glass of water from the tap and started writing. Sleep after meetings was impossible, because his body would still thrum with the need to do something, the ultimate itch, impossible to be ignored.
They were planning to attend a gathering of agriculture lobbyists next week – the worst sort of practice in Enjolras’ mind, lobbying, because it favoured those with money and left those who were either poor or a minority or both with no chance – and he had to prepare a speech for that. Improvisation wasn’t his style, though he was good at it. He preferred to go through his thoughts with Combeferre, because it felt good to have a quiet, calm reassurance for his own, red-blooded and boiling passion.
So it was half past one, and he was writing a speech on the blatant economical inequality that Europe’s agricultural subventions perpetuated. Or at least, that was how it had started.
He’d deviated, somewhere between giving examples for the failure of local businesses in developing countries and drawing parallels to countries in Europe who suffered from similar problems, and then he was suddenly arguing in favour of a Common Foreign and Security Policy where only minutes ago he’d taken apart what Europe was doing with said Policy.
Combeferre always said that he deviated in his midnight writing sessions, but Combeferre was snoring happily in his bed a few feet away.
Squinting, he went back to find the argument where he’d gone wrong. Incidentally, the point he’d made about CFSP was rather good, he decided. Maybe not one fit for a speech, but one for discussion. In any case, he saved it to tumblr as a draft and went back to his writing.
Something felt off.
Something felt off, even though he’d carefully stashed his phone under his pillow where he couldn’t see whether the screen lit up or not. That he’d felt the urge to check alone was strange enough, but that it kept him from concentrating on what he did best, on what he wanted to do, was even stranger.
Maybe that text to Grantaire had been a mistake.
He resumed typing again, hell-bent on finishing at least a rough draft of the speech. Only there was a little voice in his head when he continued.
Agricultural subventions are the only thing keeping our farmers out of poverty. It those were cut, poverty and unemployment in the countryside would rise significantly. Great stance you’re taking there.
Enjolras huffed at the imagined voice of Grantaire – Grantaire, of all people, why couldn’t his sleep-deprived brain come up with a helpfully soothing Combeferre – and continued typing.
While cutting the agricultural subventions would incidentally lead to a rise of unemployment in the countries that benefit from those subventions, it would also create opportunity for new jobs in those areas. Agriculture that can only compete internationally because of subventions costs the state more money than it does good, and it keeps those areas from developing a safe and independent source of income.
There. That would show Grantaire.
No sooner had the thought crossed Enjolras’ mind that he buried his face in his hands and groaned – quietly, though, he didn’t want to wake up Combeferre. This wasn’t about Grantaire, in no way, and yet he couldn’t stop thinking about him and it was infuriating.
Though, apparently, strangely helpful.
Are you going to ignore the implications on foreign policy a cut in the subventions would have? Because as soon as we’re no longer self-sustaining, we’ll have to apply a different policy. It’ll change our position, and the basis upon which we lead international negotiations.
Challenging his own arguments was nothing new to Enjolras; he did that all the time. Sometimes he had those small discussions with himself, which Combeferre claimed made him look more than slightly manic, but it worked and made him more secure when he had to go and talk in front of people, because he’d taken his time to anticipate the worst response his arguments could get.
He just wasn’t used to having the voice in his head be that of Grantaire.
He also wasn’t used to that making him want to try harder.
Those who are afraid that the lack of an ability to sustain ourselves agriculturally will lead to an international dependency have clearly missed the last few years of international relations: No country is internationally independent, whether we want it or not. On the contrary, it will strengthen our international relations through giving other countries the chance to compete on the global market.
He sighed quietly. That’d show Grantaire.
A loud groan followed when he realised that he’d done it again. He wasn’t even arguing with Grantaire, but he somehow was, because he couldn’t not think of him, and that was the best he could come up with. And no, now he wasn’t thinking of Courfeyrac teasing him about being unable to even have sexual fantasies.
But that wasn’t even the point.
He realised that he was getting nowhere, and slammed the laptop shut angrily. Some part of him wanted to go retrieve his phone, but that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, not as long as he had an ounce of self-control left. Instead, he tip-toed over to Combeferre’s room and pried open the door, kneeling down next to his bed.
He grabbed his friend’s shoulder and shook him lightly.
“Combeferre.”
Combeferre didn’t move, so Enjolras shook a little more insistently. “Combeferre?”
Combeferre rolled over, his hair messed up and his face unnaturally sleepy and soft without his glasses. The blanket had wrapped itself around Combeferre like some sort of exotic snake that attempted to strangle him. “Wassup?”
Enjolras, kneeling, drew up closer to his friend. “Help,” he whispered, “I think I’m in love with Grantaire.”
Combeferre made a noise somewhere between a laugh and an exclamation of surprise. Enjolras took that as a sign to continue pouring out his heart. “I can’t stop thinking about what he’d say about my speech.”
“Courfeyrac would make some very bad joke about kinks now,” Combeferre mumbled and managed to half-raise his head from the pillow. He still didn’t look convincingly awake though, especially because he couldn’t pry open his eyes more than halfway.
“But I’m in love with someone who hates me for the very things I do!”
“I’m not sure that’s...” Combeferre started to interject sleepily, but Enjolras cut him off. “You’ve heard him. And I don’t have time for this, but I want to and it’s confusing.”
“Ask him out,” Combeferre grumbled and turned his back to Enjolras.
“That’s not a good idea,” Enjolras replied.
“It’s approximately three am and I couldn’t care less,” Combeferre groaned, kicking back one of his legs lazily in the hope of maybe hitting Enjolras. He didn’t even come close.
“He hates me,” Enjolras stated, “I don’t like him that much, either.”
“Enjolras...”
Enjolras got to his feet. “Okay, okay, I’ll get some sleep.”
Combeferre groaned, because that wasn’t what he had meant and he was too tired to get his point across. Enjolras was already half across the room, and Combeferre found the pillow far too soft and loving to raise his head another time to tell Enjolras that his conception of Grantaire was wrong. He was asleep again before Enjolras had finished cleaning his teeth.
Ξ|Ξ
Enjolras found the phone when he felt something edgy and uncomfortable under his pillow.
There was, indeed, a new text on it.
He rolled onto his back and unlocked his phone, finding that the message was the anticipated reply from Grantaire. Even though he knew Combeferre was fast asleep again, he still did a quick double check to make sure that he wasn’t watching him and then opened the message.
Like I said, don’t worry. Just don’t forget that not all of us are invincible, Achilles.
Something twisted in his stomach.
The feeling of guilt from earlier this night was back, and this time it was stronger and less vague than before. He recalled the image of Grantaire, pale and tired, and realised he knew far too little about him to make assumptions, and that, in turn, made him feel even worse. The others were used to him shouting about revolution every two seconds, and they knew that he never meant to hurt – he only ever meant to hurt people that threatened his friends, he got violent in those cases – but Grantaire didn’t know him and he didn’t know Grantaire.
Achilles, though. Really?
Enjolras frowned at the phone, as if Grantaire would be able to see the scowl. Was that the impression he gave off? Invincible and strong and terrible and thoroughly unapproachable? He wasn’t like that, was he?
He could almost hear Grantaire telling him not to worry with that bitter edge to his voice, and it didn’t even make sense because they hadn’t done much besides shouting at each other, but Enjolras found himself wanting to, because there were things he didn’t know about Grantaire that he probably should know if he wanted to avoid feeling like a piece of shit after accidentally saying something wrong. How else was he supposed to know if Grantaire leaving the meeting today was his fault, or the fault of some unforeseen disaster in Grantaire’s life that he lead when Enjolras didn’t see him, a life that entailed more than just a sneering sense of apathy and the ability to strike down the best of Enjolras’ arguments with a practiced nonchalance that made him furious, because couldn’t Grantaire at least humour him and pretend to play along for the sake of it. His arguments were missing the point most of the time and still they managed to unsettle Enjolras.
Oh, he was really very far gone.
He stared at the screen of the phone one last time, mouthing Achilles under his breath, and wondered if Grantaire was aware that even Achilles hadn’t been invincible.
Not if you knew where to hit.
Ξ|Ξ
“You’re moving,” Courfeyrac announced when he barged into Grantaire’s apartment at an ungodly hour the next morning. He had Feuilly and Bahorel trailing behind him, and that alone was too much to process for Grantaire’s sleepy mind.
“I’m what?” he mumbled while trying to hide under his comforter to save at least some of his dignity. He was calm, he reminded himself, calm and not about to throw something at Courfeyrac, or better yet, throw Courfeyrac out of the window.
Courfeyrac tore the comforter away from him, exposing Grantaire in all his naked-except-for-the-boxers glory to the cold air of the room and the amused glances of Bahorel and Feuilly.
“I’m taking away that key and your life with it, Courfeyrac,” Grantaire threatened, “if you do not leave me alone this very instant.”
“He’s playing hard-to-get,” Courfeyrac said with a fond smile, “That’s adorable.”
Grantaire sat up and rubbed his eyes. A glance at the clock on the nightstand told him it was eight in the morning, on a Monday morning, and didn’t they have classes to attend and places to work at?
Courfeyrac, as always, followed Grantaire’s thoughts – maybe even a bit faster than Grantaire was able to process them.
“Sudden outbreak of the cold at our university. Half the professors caught it over the weekend, and some of the janitors and secretaries. Nothing’s happening there for at least a week.”
“The medical students are having a field day,” Bahorel laughed, “Especially Joly. He was the one who said swine flu when he first heard about it. Bossuet’s taking him to the hospital.”
“Is he sick?” Grantaire asked, worried for the guy who had so helpfully patched him up when he’d hit his head at the door. He’d never met anyone who worked calmer under pressure, and he’d seen a lot of doctors treating injuries back when he’d been doing kickboxing.
“Going by previous evidence, probably not,” Courfeyrac said, “but then again, sometimes he is right and everybody’s glad that they checked. He really knows his medicine, and he’s only in his third semester.”
“He’s gonna be alright,” Feuilly interrupted, “Now, can we please get a move on?”
On second thought, Grantaire found the situation wasn’t even so bad – at least he had been wearing boxers when Courfeyrac woke him, and his apartment was relatively clean thanks to his best friend’s visit yesterday. He smiled back and swung his legs out of bed. “Okay, you got me. What’s the matter?”
“You’re moving,” Courfeyrac repeated, “I found you an apartment near the Musain. It could be a bit loud on Sundays and Thursdays, but apart from that, it’s really nice.”
“Hot water?” Grantaire asked hopefully.
“Tested it myself,” Courfeyrac replied, moving over to Grantaire’s suitcase – he still kept most of his stuff in that suitcase, it was practicable and probably had some underlying psychological implications that he refused to think about – to find some clothes. He threw a pair of jeans and a sweater at Grantaire. “Get dressed, we’re getting your stuff there and then we’ll watch a movie and eat pizza.”
Courfeyrac lead Feuilly and Bahorel out of Grantaire’s bedroom, and Grantaire came to the conclusion that their presence had only been required for Courfeyrac’s personal amusement, because they could’ve waited in the hallway just as well, only that Courfeyrac was cruel sometimes and he knew how to get Grantaire out of bed. Grantaire wondered if Courfeyrac had figured out that it was easier for him to put on a show when others were around, other people that he hadn’t included into his circle of close friends.
To be fair, that circle consisted of Courfeyrac.
He got dressed quickly and then walked out of the bedroom and into Feuilly shoving a cup of coffee into his hands. “Courfeyrac already packed the coffee maker.”
Grantaire groaned.
“You can unpack that one!” he called into the direction of the kitchen. “It’s not mine, Courf!”
There was a collective sigh of disappointment from Bahorel and Courfeyrac. Grantaire joined them in the kitchen, putting the coffee maker back on the counter. “Actually, you can leave the kitchen to me,” he said quickly, “Go do the bathroom or something.”
“I ain’t packing your beauty products,” Bahorel muttered, his arms crossed, while Grantaire managed to strategically position himself between his friends and the cabinets.
“Okay, new plan. I’m packing the boxes and you carry them to the car and don’t ask questions.”
“You want to pack all that furniture into boxes on your own?” Feuilly asked with a raised eyebrow, his own cup of coffee firmly in his hand.
“It’s not mine,” Grantaire explained, “The owner of the apartment rented it to me completely furnished. They’re returning in about one and a half months from some trip to New Zealand. At least I think it was New Zealand.”
“You’re gonna need some stuff,” Courfeyrac stated, “I mean, the other apartment has a bed and a fridge and a table in the kitchen, but there’s no sofa, no TV, no cupboard or closet or something. I forgot that you sold all your stuff before England.”
“It’s alright,” Grantaire assured him, “I’ll live without those for a while. Now hush, get out of here, I need peace and serenity to pack my stuff.”
He grabbed the foldable cardboard boxes from Bahorel and shooed them out of the kitchen. They were complaining in the living room, mainly Bahorel, but Courfeyrac would have had to be very dense not to know why Grantaire wanted them out of the kitchen. Still, he pretended – for Grantaire’s sake.
He began packing the toaster – that was his, he’d bought that one a few months ago in London, and it was running beautifully, though sometimes the bread got stuck and burnt – and some of his food supplies, mainly those who didn’t need to be cooled. There was bread and some crackers and then he really had no other excuse to delay emptying the upper cabinet any longer.
Luckily, most of his bottles had been emptied the other night when he’d been drinking in horror of the prospect of a new job, of an actual job in his actual field of expertise. He packed those extra, throwing them into a bag to put into the trash later, and then stacked away the leftover bottles – one bottle of Jack Daniel’s, a sixpack of beer and some exotic Polish vodka – in a box with the rest of his kitchen supplies.
He taped the box shut with duct tape and then opened the door. “Box one ready for takeoff.”
“You’re so full of shit,” Bahorel remarked with a grunt when he lifted up the box.
Grantaire smiled fondly and patted his shoulder. “What car are we taking, anyway?”
“Feuilly’s,” Courfeyrac replied, “He’s got this nice van that he takes to festivals and it might actually fall apart under him one day but--”
“One more word and you can walk,” Feuilly interrupted, taking a box from Grantaire to fold it into box-shape and then thrusting it back at him. “Pack up, we don’t have all day.”
The living room was done equally fast – there was nothing much that he owned anyway, apart from his laptop, his tablet and a few sketchbooks that were distributed carelessly around the room. Grantaire went to get his razor and toothbrush from the bathroom and then made sure none of the items would break by throwing his towels into the box as well. Courfeyrac helped him stuff the pillow case and bedsheet into another box, along with his clothes and shoes, and then they were done.
“That really wasn’t much,” Bahorel remarked when he closed the trunk and leaned against the van, despite Feuilly glaring at him warningly. He lit up a cigarette while Feuilly and Courfeyrac moved to the front to debate the best route to the apartment.
Grantaire followed them. “Who signed the contract for me anyway? Because you didn’t just pack up my entire stuff when the apartment isn’t even mine, did you?”
“I have it here,” Courfeyrac replied, “The landlord wanted to see you personally, but apparently I am charming and confident enough for the both of us, so she just let me go with it.”
He smiled brightly, and the opened the back door of the van. “If you please, Monsieur Grantaire. We’ll be leaving shortly.”
Grantaire elbowed him but climbed into the car anyway, ducking his head and slumping down on the seat that squeaked in protest. Feuilly threw a worried glance over his shoulder, and then turned the key in the ignition when Courfeyrac climbed in next to him.
“Move your ass, Bahorel! We haven’t got all day.”
Bahorel cursed, but he stubbed out his cigarette and joined Grantaire on the backseat. They drove off, and Grantaire realised too late that this was probably the last time he would be seeing this apartment.
Well, it wasn’t like he was gonna miss it, anyway.
Ξ|Ξ
The boxes ended up in the apartment within less than five minutes, because it had started to rain the moment Feuilly pulled up in front of the building and opened the driver’s door.
Grantaire didn’t even take the time to check out the street or any of the neighbouring houses, because it was positively pouring and they were wet to their bones by the time they were upstairs and waiting for Courfeyrac, who had to stop at the landlord’s apartment to hand in the contract. Grantaire was shivering, Feuilly was cursing, and Bahorel was wringing out his sweater on the mat in front of Grantaire’s new apartment.
Grantaire had half-heartedly tried to stop him, but... well, they were talking about Bahorel here. Nobody stopped Bahorel from doing anything.
“I fucking hate spring,” Bahorel muttered, “Too much rain, and everybody’s getting sick and fussing about allergies. Fucking disgusting.”
Courfeyrac came sprinting up the stairs. He was as wet as his friends, but considerably more happy and grinning more brightly, even though the tip of his nose looked suspiciously red. Maybe Bahorel had a point about getting sick.
“Let’s see then, shall we?”
He held out the key to Grantaire, who tried to grab it from him – he should have known better, he really should have, Courfeyrac had been his friend for three years and he knew that guy loved to play stupid games – but Courfeyrac drew the key back and shook his head. “Ah, ah, patience, my friend.”
Grantaire stepped aside, rolling his eyes but letting Courfeyrac unlock the door. There was a rush of warm air and they all sighed, and then Courfeyrac pushed the door open all the way to reveal a narrow hallway and three dark, wooden doors.
“Shoes off,” Grantaire ordered, because he wouldn’t have the first day in his new apartment be one for cleaning just because his friends were dripping all over his floor. They obeyed, and Grantaire followed behind Courfeyrac into the apartment.
“Bedroom’s on your left,” Courfeyrac explained, opening the door in passing. Grantaire peeked inside curiously to find a narrow bed under a window with half-closed jalousies. The floor was a rough white carpet that gave off a warm and cosy air, even though it promised to be a bitch to clean. Grantaire especially liked the huge window. Huge windows meant good light for painting.
“I love the rug,” Courfeyrac said, “I mean, for all I care you could fall out of bed and still be warm and comfortable. Rugs are great.”
Courfeyrac dragged him back from the bedroom and into the room opposite, which happened to be the small kitchen of the apartment. It had a small window at the far end, and Grantaire assumed that it also had everything a kitchen required – he was no expert in that field, but it seemed alright.
“What a waste that we’re ordering pizza tonight,” Courfeyrac sighed, “Feuilly could’ve cooked us something, and we all would have gotten food poisoning. What a waste.”
The room at the far end of the hallway was the bathroom, which seemed, at least in Grantaire’s mind, a little bigger than the kitchen. It had a tub that could also pass as a shower, a huge sink and a washing machine behind the toilet, Grantaire noted happily. No more doing laundry at the Laundromat.
Courfeyrac said nothing to the bathroom, and Grantaire felt more than a little speechless.
“Dude,” he said, and suddenly noticed he was on the verge of tears. No, really, he felt like he was about to cry because this was perfect and affordable and Courfeyrac had found it for him and he already owed the guy his life and probably more and how was he ever going to pay that back?
“Dude,” he said again, and it didn’t come across as more eloquent the second time around. It was just that he was at loss of words, and embarrassingly emotional.
“I know it’s smaller than your other flat,” Courfeyrac said, “But it’s cheaper, and the light is better, and you don’t have it as far to the Musain, which is great considering that you work there now, and also the shower, have you seen the shower?”
Grantaire nodded slowly, trying not to seem too overwhelmed.
“I like the shower,” he croaked, and Courfeyrac flung an arm around his shoulder and smiled at him. “Bahorel, set up the Xbox.”
Grantaire frowned at Courfeyrac. “What Xbox?”
Courfeyrac let go again, smiling even brighter. “Well, you need a housewarming party, don’t you? What could be better than a gamer night? So I asked Bahorel to bring along his Xbox and Feuilly to bring along his flatscreen – I’m using the term flatscreen liberally here, it’s not really flat, but I have been assured that it is indeed a screen – and we can order pizza and play games until I am summoned to wherever Combeferre needs me tonight.”
He cleared his throat. “Stop thinking dirty things, I didn’t mean it like that.”
They all groaned, because naturally, the only one who had been thinking dirty things had been Courfeyrac.
“It’d be better for you to shut up,” Bahorel decided, and followed Feuilly downstairs to get the gaming supplies.
Courfeyrac raided his backpack for the flyer of that one pizza place he’d put there a few days ago. Grantaire took the chance to sit down on the edge of the tub and inconspicuously wipe away the tears in the corners of his eyes. He felt unsettled, but in a good way.
Also, it was a good opportunity to switch on the water to check the temperature. It turned out to be beautifully well-tempered and inviting for a shower. That was the final proof, he was definitely in heaven.
Courfeyrac pulled the flyer out of his backpack with a triumphant shout, and fumbled his mobile from his jeans pocket to dial the number. “Hello, yes, this is Courfeyrac, we’d like to order a giant party pizza.”
He hummed while listening to the person at the other end. “Classical, please.”
Turning to Grantaire with a smile, he gave them Grantaire’s new address and then hung up. “Thirty minutes, they said.”
He sat down next to Grantaire on the edge of the tub. “We’re not bothering you, I hope.”
It was his way of asking if Grantaire was okay. Grantaire could read between the lines, especially when it came to Courfeyrac. Actually, most of their serious conversations weren’t spoken at all, but consisted more of a weird mix of gestures, touches, and words that were laden too heavy with meaning.
“Not at all,” Grantaire replied, raising one of his hands to stare at it idly. It wasn’t shaking.
“Are you going back to training?” Courfeyrac asked. He regarded Grantaire from the corner of his eye, carefully, curiously.
Grantaire dropped his hand and nodded. “I’ll go again tomorrow. It was great.”
“No trouble?” Courfeyrac inquired with an edge of uncertainty, or maybe dread and anticipation.
“None at all.” Grantaire turned to face him fully and smiled crookedly. “I think the lesson here is that I’m not actually a bad person. More of a person who did shitty things. That’s it, right? That’s the thing I’m supposed to take from this?”
Courfeyrac had to turn to him to see that Grantaire was actually asking something here, a question that might still be drenched in sarcasm, but a question nonetheless. He was re-evaluating things, questioning things that had happened to him, that he had made happen.
He was changing – or at least trying to.
Courfeyrac was one word short of letting his mouth fall open in shock. “Grantaire, I...”
Grantaire laughed bleakly. “I really don’t get it. I fucked up. I’m supposed to pay for that, as the responsible adult I am. But what’s the second chance for? So I can fuck up again?”
He looked down embarrassed, like he hadn’t actually meant to say that. Courfeyrac prayed to God that Feuilly and Bahorel wouldn’t choose this exact moment to show up again, because this was a gift, this was his chance, and he wasn’t going to waste it. Grantaire was being honest.
“So you can not fuck up,” he replied quietly, and had to keep himself from reaching out to Grantaire once more, “You know, you’re capable of learning. And you’re definitely not the same person you were last year.”
Grantaire let out a shuddering breath. “Maybe not,” he said, and then he was quiet for a long time.
Courfeyrac thought he heard footsteps on the staircase.
“I think I want to try doing this right,” Grantaire said, but before Courfeyrac could reply, the door opened and Feuilly and Bahorel were back.
Ξ|Ξ
Courfeyrac’s phone rang just shortly after the pizza had arrived.
“I’m gonna have to get that,” he mumbled incoherently, his mouth full of pizza, and struggled to get up to answer the phone. He frowned at its screen, and then moved to the hallway, shutting the door behind himself. Bahorel, who had been fumbling with the screen and the console, took Courfeyrac’s place on the rug of the bedroom floor.
“Are you gonna be a little shit about the games again?” Bahorel asked.
Grantaire scoffed. “You’re just afraid you’ll be getting your ass kicked again.”
Feuilly was quietly going through the box of games Bahorel had brought along, occasionally taking one out and reading the description on the back. “I’ll have to borrow some of these.”
“Take what you want,” Bahorel replied, “as long as you leave LA Noir to me, I’m grand.”
“He loves cop games,” Feuilly explained, “And cop shows, and those stupid two-euro-murder-mystery-books. He does the best Horatio Cane impersonation I’ve ever seen.”
Grantaire grinned smugly. “Aw! Care to give a little demonstration?”
“You can all fuck off,” Bahorel remarked, “Now, are we going to play Halo or what?”
“You’ll have to count me out.” Courfeyrac swept back into the bedroom with his phone still in his hand. “Combeferre needs me, and apparently this can’t wait until tomorrow.”
He cast a regretful glance at the pizza. “I am so sorry,” he mumbled dramatically, clutching his heart, then became serious again. “Okay, no, really, I have to go.”
He grabbed his bag and his jacket and went for the door, calling a last “See you tomorrow!” over his shoulder.
Bahorel grabbed another slice of pizza and slumped back, leaning against the frame of the bed. “Well, that leaves three of us. Pity. Courfeyrac’s an easy target.”
Grantaire snickered. “He totally is. Easily distracted, you know?”
Feuilly snorted. “Well, you won’t have that luck with me. Now, are we going to play or not?”
Grantaire moved to insert the game and set up their match while Feuilly and Bahorel started bickering about past games. He took his seat again, picked up his controller, and smiled easily.
Ξ|Ξ
“I hate you,” Bahorel announced to Feuilly, when said student aimed another flawless shot at his character’s head.
“You are just jealous,” replied Feuilly nonchalantly, shrugging it off lightly and Grantaire had never seen him taking a compliment in any other way. Feuilly was peculiar, in a charming way.
Bahorel grumbled something incoherent, and Grantaire slapped him on his back friendly. “At least you look like you could kick his ass in real life.”
Bahorel glanced at Feuilly darkly. “Don’t underestimate him. I took him to the gym once and he kicked my ass in front of my trainer. I’m never doing that again.”
Grantaire couldn’t stifle the laugh, even though he tried to at least feign pity for his friend. “What sorts of stuff are you doing?”
“Oh, I forgot, you’re doing martial arts too,” Bahorel nodded absentmindedly, “Well, I’ve been boxing for almost over ten years now. They just made me a trainer at your sports centre.”
“My sports centre?” Grantaire frowned.
“Mabeuf knew you. At least he said he did.” Bahorel mustered Grantaire. “That was where you were training though, right?”
Grantaire was glad for the excuse of a game to glance at the screen. “Yeah, I did.”
It was quiet for a moment, not counting the shouting and gun noises from the screen, before Grantaire mustered up the courage to speak again. “Did he tell you about...?”
Bahorel, that Grantaire could tell by looking at him from the corner of his eye, frowned at him. “Did he tell me about what?”
Grantaire shook his head. “Nevermind. I suppose you told him about me being back in Paris, then?”
“I might have mentioned you,” Bahorel grinned, “I couldn’t help it, you looked like a pretty decent boxer and I wondered where you’d learnt it.”
Grantaire smiled bleakly. “Well, now you know.”
Bahorel seemed to sense is uneasiness – then again, it really wasn’t hard to tell what with him grinding his teeth subconsciously and gripping the controller just that bit tighter. Feuilly had noticed, too. And, contrarily to Bahorel, he also knew what Grantaire had told him a couple of weeks ago.
“Since neither of you are actually capable of properly playing this game, would you consider a different one to perhaps make it easier for you?”
Bahorel glanced first at Grantaire and then at Feuilly, and then back at Grantaire. He seemed to understand, even though he couldn’t have.
“Oh, fuck you,” he muttered in the direction of Feuilly, but obediently grabbed his bag to offer Feuilly the other games he had brought along. “Don’t pick Mario Kart,” he advised, “R is wicked at that.”
Feuilly glanced over at Grantaire. “You don’t seem the type.”
“I can kick your ass at any game,” Grantaire grumbled, “Unless it’s three am and I’m playing Halo against Bahorel.”
Bahorel roared with laughter. “He still hasn’t forgiven me.”
Ξ|Ξ
“I’m really glad we’re not doing the whole scandal thing with the newspaper.”
A second-rate zombie shooter was playing on the screen, disembodied moans, screams and gunfire floating through the room. Feuilly didn’t even seem to look at his part of the screen as he steered his character through hordes of walking dead that fell behind him, while Bahorel struggled considerably with keeping up on his end – even though Feuilly’s knife shouldn’t hold anything against the rifle Bahorel had chosen. Grantaire kept quiet, so quiet, in fact, that Feuilly didn’t notice him stealing every third or so of his kills.
Bahorel briefly glanced over at Feuilly, who had uttered the comment. “Me too. I mean, I’m all in for a few dirty tricks, but the whole thing was a bit overambitious.”
Grantaire tried to make himself even smaller.
It didn’t work.
“You are a rare gift, man.” Bahorel patted his back briefly before taking both hands back to the controller. “I mean, I’ve seen people challenge Enjolras before, and I’m not afraid to do so myself, but he’s just so fucking convincing that after a while you’d believe him anything. And it just doesn’t work with you.”
Grantaire grumbled and slouched down even farther. “’m a fucking gift, sure.”
He didn’t like to be reminded of the fact that he just couldn’t keep his mouth shut when it was good for him. It felt ugly to him, tearing down all the things that Enjolras had so carefully built up, even when he believed he was right in what he was saying. He didn’t feel better just because he thought he could see through the disillusionments of idealism and tear down all their pretty ideas, it only made him feel world-weary and old and bitter.
Feuilly chimed in again. “I mean it, though. I don’t like the idea that we would’ve gotten over a hundred people into unemployment.”
“Sympathy for the people at the press?” Grantaire raised an eyebrow and shot a quick glance at Feuilly.
To his surprise, Feuilly didn’t rise to the bait. “You know what, I let it slide the first time, because your comment was well-intended, but it’s a) unnecessary, b) condescending and c) a false assumption because I am not politically indifferent or blind as soon as I am in need of money and a job. You’re a nice enough guy, and I’m sure you didn’t mean it that way, but I’m just saying. Don’t fucking use me to make your point. If I want to be a point, I’ll make myself one.”
“Wow, dude, that sounded wrong in so many ways,” Bahorel remarked quietly.
Grantaire shot Feuilly a sheepish glance. “I’m sorry,” he said and meant it. If there was one thing he didn’t want to do, it was to reduce people he considered his friends to some abstract idea – he had a feeling this was something Enjolras would do.
Or maybe not. He valued his friends, apparently even more than his ideals.
Grantaire was frustrated with Enjolras, to say the least.
Feuilly waved his controller dismissively, still managing to take out a zombie in the process. “Nevermind. It’s just that I get it so often, the poor students in debt, the diligent workers, apparently I fit all kinds of stereotypes. Just leave me the fuck alone and I will leave you alone.”
“Unless you are the head of an oppressive system,” Bahorel muttered, “Then he will kick your ass.”
“Then I will kick your ass,” Feuilly concluded, “Now, does anybody else feel like you really can’t hold up to me in this game?”
“Again?” Bahorel grumbled unintelligibly, and Grantaire had to concede that indeed, he didn’t even come close to Feuilly’s hitcount. Admittedly, he’d done his part in trying to keep the number of Feuilly’s kills lower, but it still hadn’t impaired one bit on his score.
“You’re cheating.”
“You just suck,” Feuilly replied.
“You really are good, though,” Bahorel added, “God knows how you do it.”
Feuilly grinned. “Anybody in for a movie?”
“What have you got?” Grantaire asked, leaning over as Feuilly rummaged around in his backpack. It was a large, military-style backpack with a lot of space for leaving a lot of illegal things – those backpacks really came in handy for a lot of situations. Not just art supplies, Grantaire knew that.
“Inglorious Basterds?”
“Fucking hell!” Bahorel’s fist shot up in the air. “I’m in.”
“Sounds good,” Grantaire said with a shrug. He felt weightless, in a good way – there was nothing dragging him down, nothing holding him back from enjoying the moment, and he could simply let go and float through the mass of sensations of friendship and camaraderie and easy living. He had an apartment, and friends, and a fair prospect of keeping a job.
Life was wonderful, and then there was Enjolras.