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“You’re going to be the death of me.” Grantaire utters quietly, before taking a drag of his cigarette. Enjolras looks at him critically, it’s late and they are both waiting for a night bus that seems like it will never come. Courfeyrac disappeared hours ago one the arm of a stranger, and no doubt he will reappear tomorrow afternoon with a tale or two to tell. Combeferre remained at home to finish off some work. Enjolras wished Joly and Bousset were here at least, for they always seem to know how to get Grantaire out of a mood, but they had gone home in a taxi after Bousset fell over in drunkeness. Enjolras was quite useless.
“How so?” He retorts, not unkindly, but there isn’t a lot of warmth in his tone either. He pulls up the collar of his jacket a little higher, trying to stave off the cold.
Grantaire just shrugs his shoulders, he doesn’t know what made him say it in the first place. Maybe it was because he and Enjolras were alone, or maybe it was because Enjolras looked amazing tonight, or maybe Enjolras really was going to be the death of him. Enjolras sighs at the none answer, and shuffled a little closer to his friend. Grantaire stiffens a little, as though frightened Enjolras would touch him, when really, that was all he wanted. Enjolras paused, sensing and misinterpreting the discomfort.
“You really shouldn’t smoke you know.” He said, checking the wrist of his left hand to look at the time. Was this bus ever going to come?
Grantaire’s brown eyes widened for a moment, before hardening. “I shouldn’t do a lot of things.” He responded, much to Enjolras’ annoyance. Why was this grown man so full of vices when he had it in him to be brilliant? He could not understand it, Grantaire was a puzzle to him.
“No, you shouldn’t.” Enjolras agreed, voice sharp. Grantaire looks hurt for a moment before grinning impishly at Enjolras and smoking again. There was a silence, not uncomfortable, but not comfortable either. Enjolras was looking around, eyes following forms of the people making their own way home, eyes roaming the road to see if a taxi was nearby. Grantaire was looking at the sky.
Dark clouds illuminated by the moonlight, he could have sworn that the man in the moon winked at him. Was this not what he always dreamt? To converse with Enjolras; just the two of them? But Grantaire never really got what he wanted. He was too busy looking at the heavens that he did not realise his own personal angel following his gaze.
“The stars are out tonight.” Enjolras commented, following the bright light. Grantaire stared at his profile, pale and carved from moonlight. He breathed out.
“No buddy, that’s a plane.” He countered without even sparing the sky another glimpse, because he could never agree with Enjolras; it just wasn’t how they were. Enjolras looked disappointed for a moment. Grantaire threw the cigarette butt to the ground, and both watched the embers dying, the fiery red dying away into the night. “This bus is never going to come.” He said, as loudly as he dared.
“Public transport needs a complete overhaul.” Enjolras began, pleased to have found something he could speak with confidence about. “If they keep increasing the prices of travel in a pseudo contract that the people can’t negotiate with, then they should at least fulfil their own side of said contract.” He paused, maybe to collect his thoughts, maybe because it was unnerving how aptly Grantaire could pay attention when he spoke. He cleared his throat.
“—Let’s just walk.” Grantaire suggested. “I haven’t the pennies for a taxi.” He added apologetically, as though he knew exactly what Enjolras had opened his mouth to suggest.
“I’ll pay.” He offered. Grantaire just shook his head.
“I’d rather stroll. And you can keep your money.” He stuck his hands into his jacket pocket. Grantaire always wore this overlarge leather trench, even in the summer when it must be too hot. Enjolras wondered if there was a sentiment behind it, and made a mental note to ask Courfeyrac at a later date. Courfeyrac was good at remembering things about people; their name, their stories. He was also very good at asking imposing personal questions without seeming like a busy body, and he somehow always got an answer too.
“Penny for your thoughts.” Grantaire joked, he’d been stealing the courage to say something for some while now as they walked.
“I thought you didn’t have any.” Enjolras smiled back.
Grantaire pondered for a moment. “I’ll write an I.O.U” he concluded as the best solution.
“You’d never pay me back.” Enjolras then retorted, and maybe it was the wrong thing to say because Grantaire’s face darkened.
“For you, I would. I’d never take anything from you.” Grantaire spoke seriously. Enjolras didn’t know what he meant. He was good with people, he knew he could be intimidating at times, intense even. But he had friends, he wasn’t rude or stuck up (unless he was talking to a politician so oily that they deserved it) but with Grantaire, he always felt like he’s insulted the man in some way.
“You’re drunk.” They always arrived at this point, this is where they always ended up. Grantaire sighed, aware that Enjolras thought him a fool.
“Drunks speak more truth than revolutionaries.” He said, but it wasn’t mean. He sounded like he was quoting something, but Enjolras knew that was just a tone of voice he used so that he didn’t get accredited for his words.
“More nonsense too.” Enjolras rolled his eyes, he couldn’t help but take the comment personally and it stung. Why did Grantaire even bother to turn up to their meetings if he didn’t believe in what they were doing? Why did he offer his help if he thought their shared dream of a bright future were all lies? Enjolras couldn’t fathom it, and every time he tried to ask Combeferre, his friend shrugged and told him that everyone had their reasons. He’d asked Courfeyrac too but the man just laughed and said Grantaire believed in Enjolras to achieve everything he set his mind to. But Enjolras couldn’t believe that to be true, because Grantaire was a Lost Cause TM, and didn’t believe in anything or anybody; not even himself.
They were stood on the curb, waiting for two cars to pass before crossing the road. “Nonsense is the language of truth.” Grantaire argued, but his tone was almost pleading, begging Enjolras to acknowledge him. Enjolras just sighed, and made to cross the road, as though eager to take an extra moment to think up a response. Grantaire was too good with words, if only he’d see that for himself. The first time Enjolrs had seen the man rant, he’d been in awe at just how well spoken he could be; it was a shame he was ranting about something so insubstantial to the world. He remembered how Balhorel had laughed and snarked ‘tell us how you really feel, Grantaire’, the memory brought a smile to his face and he was quite lost in the thought that he didn’t notice a speeding car turning the corner and hurling straight towards him. It wasn’t until he felt a jolt as a calloused hand grabbed his own and yanked him back to the curb that he realised what had happened. The car beeped as it went past them, and Enjolras looked down at their clasped hands.
Grantaire’s eyes widened, as he looked down too, as though he had been expecting Enjolras to yank himself free of Grantaire’s grip as soon as he was safe. “Sorry.” He panicked, and began to take his hand back, but Enjolras squeezed.
“Don’t be sorry.” He said, blinking in the streetlight, as though still in shock about what had happened. “Thank you.” There was a small pause, in which Grantaire was fighting with himself. Don’t screw this up don’t screw this up don’t screw this up.
“I said you’d be the death of me.” He responded, and to his surprise Enjolras laughed. Grantaire sort of entwined his fingers with Enjolras’. “Is this.. I mean.. are you okay with—“ he trailed off his unasked question because Enjolras answered it with a smile.
“It’s all right.” He said. And then, it was.