Chapter Text
I love you
Don’t you mind? Don’t you mind?
—
Grantaire has a habit of lifting books from his flatmates’ rooms. Textbooks mainly—living with two law students and a med student has been an enlightening experience for him, to say the least. He pilfers books of poetry from Jehan’s room and stays up all night with his bedroom door closed and his window open, leaning on the windowsill and breathing smoke into the night air while he reads Keats, Plath, Ginsberg, by the light of his desk lamp. He makes off with Cosette’s socio-political treatises on gender, and when he’s done with those he takes her psychology-focused pop science books. He spends weeks slowly and methodically absorbing Joly’s medical tomes, and then he goes upstairs and checks Combeferre’s room for anything Joly was missing. There he finds books focused on not just medicine, but religion and philosophy, history and politics.
It takes him a few weeks to work up the nerve, but eventually he finds himself running his fingers across the spines of the books that line Enjolras’ shelves—law, yes, but also biographies, Classical texts, scholarly discourse on significant historical events, military campaigns, rebellions failed and successful. He devours them all, one by one, each one returned without so much as a crease in its spine to the exact spot he found it in. He never asks permission, but no one ever says anything.
Then one night, as he’s lying sprawled on his bed halfway through a reread of The Aeneid, there’s a knock at his door. He looks up, mystified that anyone would feel the need to knock, and calls, “Yeah?”
It’s Enjolras, and Grantaire can’t help looking guiltily at the book he’s currently reading. He’d taken it from Enjolras’ room earlier that day.
Enjolras follows his look and actually smiles, if a little wryly. “Is that my copy of The Aeneid?”
Grantaire slams it shut and offers it to him instantly. “Sorry. I know I shouldn’t have taken it without asking, I just—”
Enjolras shakes his head, still hovering in the doorway, making no move to take it from him. “It’s fine. I don’t mind.”
“Oh.” Grantaire sits up, eyeing him curiously. “Well, you can come in, you know. I’m pretty sure the desire to self-medicate with drugs and alcohol and engage in risky sexual behaviour isn’t transmissible via carpet.”
Enjolras looks as if he’d like to retort, but instead he steps into the room and shuts the door behind him. He looks around for somewhere to sit, and settles for perching on the edge of the wooden chair at Grantaire’s desk.
“What’s up?” Grantaire asks. He genuinely has no idea what could possibly compel Enjolras to venture into his den of sin and depression.
There’s a half-empty bottle of whiskey standing on the desk. Next to it there’s a three-quarters-full bottle of tequila (a gift from Éponine). Just behind that there’s a little wood carved pipe that’s recently suffered heavy use if the state of the cone is anything to go by. Enjolras considers all this in his usual grave manner before he speaks.
“They’ve been betting on us,” he says.
Grantaire blinks. He doesn’t need further elaboration to understand that ‘they’ are their flatmates, and ‘us’—he’s not sure he wants to understand the implications of that.
“Oh.”
Enjolras meets his eyes steadily, though, and in a strange way it has a calming effect on Grantaire, although he’s pretty sure that logically, it should make him uncomfortable. All he knows is that if Enjolras is looking at him without a trace of consternation on his face, then it can’t be that bad.
“There’s an obscene amount of money riding on whether you’ll get a boyfriend before I, quote unquote, realize I have a sex drive and decide to do something about it,” Enjolras says conversationally, and Grantaire lets his jaw hang for a moment before he manages to collect himself.
“How much?” is all he can think to say.
“I believe it stands at €140 as of tonight.”
“That is an obscene amount of money,” Grantaire agrees faintly. “And you know all this—how, exactly?”
Enjolras smiles, and it’s devious, and Grantaire stops breathing. “I was looking for some notes I left in Courfeyrac’s room and I found a notebook open on his desk with all the details recorded. It’s been going on for quite some time, if the dates I saw are accurate.”
Grantaire is determined not to bring up the broader implications of this unless Enjolras forces him to, so he doesn’t. Instead he says, “What do you want to do about it?”
Enjolras leans back in the chair and gazes thoughtfully at the ceiling for a moment. “I haven’t decided yet. I thought you might have some ideas.”
Ordinarily he would, but right now Grantaire can’t think. Enjolras is sitting in his room, in his chair, casually discussing the betting pool their friends have running because Grantaire is so clearly in love with Enjolras that it’s actually worth betting on. Enjolras must realize that. Doesn’t he? It’s obvious. It’s always been obvious, though. Maybe he’s always known and simply chose to pretend he was oblivious because it was easier that way. Grantaire wouldn’t blame him for wanting to avoid the subject.
“Maybe I should get in on it,” he ends up saying, half to himself. Hell would freeze over before Enjolras reciprocated his feelings, and Grantaire would be happy to put money on it if anyone was stupid enough to bet against him.
“You could find a boyfriend and win it,” Enjolras suggests, not looking at him. He’s staring at the whiskey on the desk again—or through it, rather, his gaze soft and unfocused. Grantaire has never seen an expression like that on his face before. He’s still achingly lovely, but there’s a wrongness to it, as if it takes an effort to maintain.
“I don’t do boyfriends,” Grantaire says, talking automatically in an attempt to distract from his own scrutiny of the other man’s face. “I’m terrible at it.”
Enjolras frowns, his gaze sharpening slightly but not shifting from the bottle. “It’s possible to be terrible at loving someone?”
“Oh, loving I can do just fine. But you’re conflating love with relationships, which are two very different things.”
“But related, surely,” Enjolras argues, and for once it is actually hypothetical—in this area, at least, he acknowledges Grantaire’s superior working knowledge.
“Not as often as I’d like,” Grantaire says honestly.
Enjolras tilts his head and fixes Grantaire with an intent stare. Grantaire shivers; he can’t help himself. He knows plenty of people find Enjolras intimidating, and he can see why—the man is beautiful, but that beauty is challenging, distant—and Enjolras himself is nothing if not ruthless, with such gravity and sharp intelligence about him. Even so, for Grantaire that unrelenting intensity is as captivating and exhilarating as it is daunting and draining. He revels in the searing force of his attention as very few people ever have.
“They have €400 riding on whether or not you’re going to tell me you’re in love with me before we all graduate,” Enjolras says finally.
Grantaire sits up straight as if he’d been slapped. He feels strangely lightheaded, and if he could see himself he’d realize he’d gone ghost-white. Enjolras regards him silently, making no move in any direction, seemingly unwilling to say anything further.
So Grantaire says, “That’s a lot of money.” And then curses himself for saying something so stupid, but he’s still reeling.
“Yes,” Enjolras agrees softly. “Seems it’s the big question. Even Cosette got involved.”
“Oh?” Grantaire laughs weakly, and it comes out sounding strangled. “What did she think?”
“She thought you would.”
Grantaire nods automatically, picking nervously at a bit of torn skin at the edge of a fingernail. “She’s a sweet girl.”
“Grantaire.”
He stops and forces himself to look at Enjolras. And, oh. His cold composure has finally slipped a little—only a little, but it’s obvious to Grantaire. He’s never seen those startlingly blue eyes look like that, fever-bright and ever so slightly vulnerable. That’s it—it’s the vulnerability that strikes him. Enjolras just isn’tvulnerable. Not ever. Except that he is right now, and Grantaire’s mind is still five steps behind, scrabbling to catch up and offer an explanation as to why that might be.
“Were you ever going to tell me?” Enjolras asks him.
“Probably not,” he admits. He keeps trying to swallow the feeling rising in his chest. It’s dangerously close to hysteria.
“Why not?”
“Because,” he says, forcing himself to speak in a steady voice like a normal human being, “I thought it was obvious, for one. And it’s not like any good would come of it if I did tell you.”
“You’d never know for sure,” Enjolras argues, but his voice is so low Grantaire can barely hear him.
“It’s you,” Grantaire says, willing him to be less obtuse and understand for once. “You wouldn’t—you don’t—”
“I don’t what?” Enjolras asks, and the icy mask is repaired now.
Grantaire sighs. “You don’t do boyfriends, Enjolras. Same as me, except you’re so good at being disinterested we had to ask Combeferre just to clarify that you’re not asexual. Not that there’s anything wrong with being asexual. But apparently you’re just really repressed or something.”
“You asked Combeferre if I was asexual,” Enjolras repeats, deadpan.
Grantaire shifts uncomfortably. “If it makes you feel any better, nobody placed any bets on it.”
“You asked Combeferre if I was—” Enjolras breaks off mid-sentence with an effort, shutting his eyes and sighing deeply. “Fine. I can acknowledge that I have been less than demonstrative in that area.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Grantaire agrees wryly.
“But even if I had been asexual—and I’m not, which you would’ve known if anyone had bothered asking me—even if I were asexual, that wouldn’t necessarily mean I was aromantic.”
Grantaire shrugs gracelessly, returning his attention to his nails. “I’m not the sort of guy people feel romantic about. Not you, anyway. I mean, you haven’t exactly made it a secret that you don’t like me.”
Enjolras blinks, apparently stunned for the first time since he walked through the door. “What are you talking about?”
Grantaire eyes him warily. “What?”
“I don’t dislike you,” Enjolras says, sounding appalled by the idea. “I’ve never disliked you.”
“But,” Grantaire says slowly, “the only time you ever speak to me is to tell me off. Literally.”
“Well, the only time you ever speak to me is to mock me,” Enjolras shoots back fiercely.
Grantaire hesitates. “Okay, point. But to be fair, I was doing that because I am honestly pathetic and it was the only way I could think of to get your attention. And I was trying to act like I didn’t want to fuck you senseless even though I very obviously have wanted to do exactly that since the first time I ever heard you speak, and that was too much information, sorry, but my point is that it was a piss poor disguise for much more complicated feelings on my part, whereas with you—”
Enjolras, blushing deeply at Grantaire’s admission about wanting to fuck him, interrupts: “With me, it was mostly born of frustration that someone so brilliant and talented seemed so intent on derailing every discussion—”
Grantaire scoffs. “You were just sore that I didn’t buy into your idealism.”
“Grantaire, you’re the only person apart from Combeferre to whom I have ever truly lost a debate. You’ve made off with almost every book I own and I can’t bring myself to mind.” Enjolras stands and begins to pace, face still flushed and no less beautiful for it. “And your art—before I met you, I admit, I thought tattoos were pointless and a little trashy. But then there was you, and—I’ve never seen anything like your work.”
Grantaire watches him, slack-jawed and aware of it but unable to correct his expression. He’s never heard Enjolras speak like this, so ineloquent and scattered. Usually the force of his passion serves to galvanize him and only adds to the inexorable conviction of his words, but now it’s as if he’s fighting it every step of the way. It’s equal parts unsettling and endearing.
Grantaire collects himself enough to interrupt: “What exactly are you getting at, O fearless leader?”
“I’ve told you not to call me that,” Enjolras snaps automatically, and then sighs, frowning. “I apologise. This is difficult.”
Grantaire raises his eyebrows. “What is?”
Enjolras squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath and looks Grantaire in the eyes (is he nervous?). “Will you tell me, please?”
“Tell you what?—Oh.” Grantaire hesitates. “Really? What for?”
“Just—please.”
“Are you trying to win the bet for someone so you can split the winnings?” Grantaire asks. He supposes it’s a joke, but his heart’s not in it. When Enjolras just raises his eyebrows and looks at him almost pleadingly, he knows he’s done for. “This is a terrible idea,” he warns him. “We live together. You realize this is going to make things really awkward, right?”
Enjolras doesn’t reply, but sits down beside him on the bed and watches him expectantly.
“Okay. I, um. I love you?”
It comes out a question and he almost winces as he says it, but it’s out. He’s staring fixedly at his own lap, until Enjolras reaches out with one hand and gently tilts his face up with two fingers under his chin. The contact is enough to startle Grantaire into acquiescence, and he’s still trying to process this when Enjolras leans forward and kisses him. It’s light, and brief, and perfectly innocent really, but it has Grantaire’s heart pounding in two seconds flat and he silently thanks God that Joly is just across the hall in case he has a heart attack because holy shit what just happened?
“You didn’t sound especially sure of that,” Enjolras is saying, and he’s teasing him. His tone is definitely playful.
Enjolras, playful.
Enjolras, kissing him again, a little more firmly this time, and Grantaire’s brain kicks in enough that he finally returns it, tentatively. He’s about 70% sure this is a hallucination. Maybe this whole conversation has just been an anxiety-laden acid trip, although he hopes he’d remember dropping acid. Okay, so it’s probably not an acid trip, but that means that this is actually happening. Enjolras is really kissing him and brushing his fingertips across his face like he’s something too delicate to handle roughly. It’s surreal and frankly a little alarming.
“Are you—is this a pity thing?” Grantaire gasps, pulling away.
Enjolras frowns at him. “No. This is an I like you and I find you attractive and I want to kiss you thing.”
“Nothing in that sentence made a lick of sense.”
“The syntax was awful but I think the sentiment was clear,” Enjolras says, completely missing the point.
“No, wait. Since when do you like me or—any of that?”
Enjolras sits back. “I don’t know exactly. Weeks ago, I suppose.” He hesitates, thinking about it. “It was a movie night. I don’t remember the movie, though, because I was sitting next to you and all I could think about was how much I wanted to trace your tattoos.”
Grantaire stares. “You what?”
And now Enjolras is blushing again, good god, he looks unreasonably gorgeous when he does that, it’s completely unfair. “I’ve always liked your tattoos. Is that creepy? It sounds creepy now I say it out loud.”
“It’s not creepy,” Grantaire breathes, and this time it is he who leans forward and when they kiss it’s something between urgent and joyful. Enjolras is warm and eager and amazingly responsive—Grantaire isn’t sure why that comes as a surprise, but it does. His tongue darts between Grantaire’s lips, but delicately, like he’s a little unsure of himself. Grantaire responds in kind and makes it into a sort of challenge, and Enjolras knows what to do with a challenge—he’s stillEnjolras. By the time they break apart he’s half in Grantaire’s lap, his hair is a mess, his pupils blown, his lips shiny and kiss-swollen. Grantaire can’t help it; he laughs, giddily.
“I absolutely do not understand what’s going on,” he confesses. “Not that I’m complaining. At all. But this is very confusing.”
Enjolras scoots a couple of inches away from him, adopting a serious expression, which only throws his debauched appearance into sharper relief. Grantaire thinks he’s never been more beautiful.
“You’re right,” Enjolras is saying. “I’m sorry, I got a bit—ahead of myself. What do normal people do in this situation? Date, I suppose.”
Grantaire eyes him sideways. “Since when do you care what normal people do?”
“I don’t, but it sounds like fun,” Enjolras says, and he’s smiling at Grantaire with such open affection that Grantaire can’t help but smile back.
“Was that—are you seriously asking me out?”
“Yes, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, slightly exasperated, “I am seriously asking you out. Will you please, for the love of god, go on a date with me?”
Grantaire stares at him for a moment, and when he starts to feel dizzy he reminds himself to breathe. “Yeah. Okay. I mean, of course. Are you—sure?”
Enjolras rolls his eyes and doesn’t bother answering the question. “How’s Friday?”