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They’re not even together so Grantaire shouldn’t be making such a big deal about this. He has never liked Valentine’s Day in the first place. It’s not only because it’s a consumerist ploy disguised as a “holiday”, but that’s part of it too. It’s because in the past 23 years, he’s never had anyone to spend the blessed day with. He shouldn’t even care and will deny any and all accusation asserting so. But there are only so many sickeningly lovey-dovey couples and the sudden abundance of love declarations one can endure before one grows bitter about it.
So no, Grantaire shouldn’t care nor should he make a big deal out of this.
But he does anyway.
What do you give your sort of friends with benefits-cum-occasional not-date? (Read: they often end up in a bar or a restaurant and enjoy each other’s company; if people mistake them as a couple, well, that’s not on them anymore). It’s not as if they ever really labelled what they are to each other so Grantaire couldn’t even Google search the proper etiquette.
And that’s where Jehan found him: splayed out on the couch, lamenting his current predicament. He may also be making anguished groans, but that’s neither here nor there.
Jehan looks delightful in his pale floral trousers and oversized jumper, his hair tucked in a messy braid over his shoulder. He’s just come home from shopping, two massive shopping bags on either side of him, brimming with that week’s food supply and miscellaneous home things. He drops them on the floor and Granitaire winces at the sound of glass hitting solid ground.
“What now?” Jehan asks him, not really putting his hand on his hip all sassy-like, but you can tell from his intonation.
Grantaire just lets out another whine and he’s never claimed he’s not one for over dramatics, okay?
“Is this an Enjolras thing?”
Jehan approaches him and nudges his arm so Grantaire could make space for him on the couch. They try to get as comfortable as they can on the two-seater and they manage just fine, with Grantaire’s head on Jehan’s lap. Jehan plays with his hair and Grantaire momentarily thinks that he should probably go wash because it’s been two days and it’s bordering on disgusting. But this is too comfortable and he never ever wants to leave this happy bubble of safety and face reality ever again.
Of course, that’s when Jehan pries again.
“You know, you wouldn’t have half the problems you have if you would just talk to Enjolras like a normal person.”
“I talk to him just fine,” Grantaire says, trying to glare at Jehan from where he’s lying. The effect is lost when Jehan starts braiding his unruly curls.
“You either argue or shag. There is literally no in between with you two.”
And the sad thing is, Jehan is right. Save for a few occasions where they end up not arguing, that is. (He’s not going to offer the fact that this is becoming more regular rather than rare and far between). But Grantaire is afraid that openly discussing what they are will make Enjolras realise how he could do so much better and he doesn’t really want anything to do with Grantaire. And Grantaire would rather live in limbo of not knowing than have Enjolras finally decide that he’s not even worth his time.
It was so much easier when Enjolras was someone he could look at but not touch. It wouldn’t feel like an addiction that will just about kill him if he goes cold turkey.
Eventually, Jehan had to get up because there are shopping to be put away and he had plans to go out with Bahorel. But that evening, just as Grantaire is getting ready for bed, he receives an email from Jehan with a singular link and nothing else.
To: Grantaire <[email protected]>
From: Jehan <[email protected]>
Subject: !http://www.buzzfeed.com/robinedds/emotionally-repressed-valentines-cards-for-british-people
It doesn’t matter if 14th February falls on a Friday, their weekly meetings continue anyway. They’re currently talking about the abuse of undocumented workers in France and how the new Mayoral hopeful of Paris is putting forward an initiative to combat this. It’s an issue that is close to home as everyone remembers the story of Feuilly when he first settled in Paris. How it took a long time for his papers to get processed and in the time between, he had to work all sorts of jobs that are just on the side of unjust and unlawful. Enjolras looks every bit the Golden Archangel of Rage and Justice as he talks about the plights of these migrants.
Grantaire is almost distracted and he watches Enjolras gesticulate as he speaks.
Almost being the operative, that is.
He’s been playing with the corners of the damned thing since he arrived at the Musain and situated himself in his little corner at the back. He almost wants to just forget this whole thing and burn the evidence. But before he can physically execute his misgivings, everyone else starts arriving. Leaving now will only lead to more questioning and suspicion.
So he stays put, argues at the correct moments and nurses his lone glass of wine for the night. He just wants today to end so he can go back to his and Jehan’s apartment and wallow in self-pity and shame.
Once the actual meeting is over and everyone disperses and socialises, Enjolras approaches his table. They sit in a moment of silence, not looking at each other and just watching their friends.
“You know I truly support this cause, right?” Grantaire says.
Enjolras gives him a strange look. A soft look that is bordering on adoration, and that could not be right. “I know,” he says. A pause. “You know I appreciate your valid counter points anyway, right?”
Grantaire just nods because he does know that, sort of. He continues with his wine and Enjolras stays silent next to him.
It’s too much, Grantaire thinks. His emotions are waging war on his mind and it’s just too much. Before he knows it, he’s slipped the damned card out of his jacket pocket and gives it to Enjolras. It’s hopelessly wrinkled and mediocre and Enjolras probably won’t even appreciate it but goddamnitall.
He hazards a look because he’s a masochist and Enjolras has got the most bewildered and fond look on his face. It would be funny if Grantaire were not nearly in tears because of nerves and shame.
“I know we’re not, like, together or anything but it felt weird to just not say anything so I got you this card. It’s not a big deal. It doesn’t really mean anything. There isn’t even a heart on it. So basically it’s a card saying hi. Forget it.”
Inside is a watercolour painting of Enjolras lounging in Grantaire’s two-seater couch, books and papers strewn around him. He’s holding a sheaf of paper, eyes boring through it in concentration but his whole demeanour is otherwise relaxed. His hair is tied in a messy bun, a pen sticking out of it and it looks like he’s wearing Grantaire’s oversized sweatshirt. The afternoon light coming through the window hits him in a way that makes him look radiant and breathtakingly beautiful. It’s a quiet moment captured in the light strokes of watercolour and pure reverence.
It takes a long moment before Enjolras speaks, and when he does, his face is blank and his expression is shuttered. It feels like Grantaire’s heart just plummeted down to his stomach.
“Is this—,” Enjolras starts and stops. He takes a breath. “Is this from that one afternoon last week when we had the plumber banging around in our flat and I needed a quiet place to study in?”
Grantaire’s throat feels dry and his heart is hammering wildly in his chest. God, what has he gotten himself into now?
He might look very distressed because Enjolras looks concerned now and he takes Grantaire’s hands in his.
“Grantaire, are you in love with me?” he asks slowly, as if unsure.
God, this is so embarrassing. Can the ground just swallow him up whole and end his misery?
“Are you in love with me?” Enjolras repeats himself. “Because it would be really humiliating for me to admit that I might be in love with you if you don’t feel the same way.”
It might be possible that Grantaire’s heart just stopped on the spot and he’s died and gone to his own Nirvana.
“Excuse me, what?” Grantaire splutters.
Enjolras’ whole face is scarlet and his eyes are wide and uncertain and god, he should never ever look uncertain when it comes to Grantaire. Ever.
“If it’s all the same to you,” Enjolras starts and his hands are still holding onto Grantaire’s and they might be trembling just a slightly and oh god. “If it’s all the same to you, I would like us to be together properly.”
All Grantaire could do is nod because any attempt at coherence would just be shot.
“May I kiss you now?” Enjolras finally asks and Grantaire brings their lips together in lieu of an answer. This is hardly their first kiss but it feels monumental just the same. It feels heavy with meaning and significance. It feels like this one, so far, is the one that matters most. He puts everything that he can’t say into the kiss. How much he’s loved this man for the longest time and how much this feels like the happiest he’s ever been.
They break apart when there is loud hooting and wolf-whistling coming from their friends. There are shouts of fucking finally, you lot owe me money (that might’ve come from Cosette) and collective groans from the losers.
Grantaire can’t seem to stop smiling and his cheeks hurt from it already but that’s all right, because Enjolras seems to be on the same euphoric high as him.