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Grantaire smiles as he inhales the heavenly scent wafting from his frying pan. It’s a nonstick Calphalon frying pan and it’s beautiful, and it’s only his second favorite thing he owns. (He’s also got a Nikon but he doesn’t really get into that a lot - it’s his baby but it’s also work, as opposed to the easy flip of the frying pan as he stands in the kitchen in his t-shirt and boxers.) It’s easy in his hand, the chicken sizzling wonderfully as he gets out a lemon chardonnay finishing sauce to drizzle over it. His mouth waters as he takes the lid off the potatoes, and can’t help but do a little dance in front of his stove.
Food. Food. Food. Grantaire’s never felt about anything quite like the way he feels about mashed potatoes. He mashes them quickly, adorning them lovingly with butter and cream. The chicken goes over the potatoes, and the steamed broccoli gets added to the side.
“You are so beautiful,” Grantaire smiles at his plate, after making sure the stove is completely off (it won’t do to have his beautiful, beloved kitchen burn down on this fine Saturday). He eyes the minibar, but ultimately ends up refilling his glass of water before he sits down at his altogether too large dining table.
After all, it’s just him in this ridiculously posh city flat. Grantaire has friends over some nights, but it’s just him in during the days, and he likes it. The big glass windows let in a lot of light, and the apartment is gloriously open. He really doesn’t need this much space, but to have a kitchen this large, he’ll suffer through the hardships that come with the large apartment. (Really, dusting though.)
He gets his fork full of chicken and mashed potatoes and brings it up to his face, inhaling as he opens his mouth.
It’s just as delicious as he knew it would be. Unfortunately, he hears a loud crash outside his hallway just as bite two is making its way to his mouth. He flinches, then sighs. Unfortunately, this is a “welcoming” community, not the usual New York apartment building anonymity. So Grantaire feels obligated to step out into the hallway.
The door across the way is propped open, and it must be someone new moving in, because he would definitely remember cheekbones that sculpted if he had ever seen them before.
“Do you, uh, need help?” He remains in his doorway, observing. The blonde with the exceptional cheekbones looks up and oh - well, he has a nice jawline too. And eyes. Grantaire wants to lick chocolate syrup off his collarbone and take shots of peppermint schnapps out of the hollow of his throat.
Well, that escalated fast.
“Sure,” blonde hair, blue-eyed and beautiful says. “Thanks.”
“Grantaire,” he says, offering a hand. The other man shakes it and smiles.
“Enjolras.”
“Very nice to meet you, Enjolras. Do you have a moving van outside?”
“Just my friend Cosette’s truck.”
“Okay. Well, lets get this inside,” he motions to the mess of boxes on the floor, (presumably the cause of the loud crash he had heard earlier) “and then we can head out for another trip. Yeah?”
They get Enjolras’s stuff inside his door, and somehow Grantaire gets roped into helping Enjolras move all of his things from the truck to his apartment.
Along the way he learns a few things about Enjolras. Namely, that he’s from Wyoming, starting work at a fancy lawyer firm on Monday, and is ridiculously idealistic. Also, optimistic. It’s absurd and should make Grantaire laugh but for some reason he wants to sit at Enjolras’s feet and just let him talk about changing the world. Especially since Enjolras’s feet are clad in gorgeous red flats. He looks like he belongs in New York City already, with his naturally trendy fashion sense and disregard for gender norms. Long platinum hair is thrown in a loose bun at the base of his neck, and he smiles like he knows what he looks like. Which is gorgeous. They idly chatter as they bring up boxes, and eventually they stand in the entrance of Enjolras’s new apartment and stare at them.
“Well, I should probably get started unpacking. it was very nice to meet you. Maybe you could show me around sometime,” Enjolras says lightly.
Grantaire nods, recognizing the words for what they are: a dismissal.
“Sure,” Grantaire sighs, “let me give you my phone number and you can call if you need anything, okay? Photography-wise or just city-wise.” So he scrawls his cell phone number, his name, as well as his apartment number on the back of a grocery receipt.
“Thanks,” Enjolras says with a smile, as he carefully closes the door behind him.
Well, that’s nice. Grantaire hadn’t even talked about his endlessly pessimistic views of politics, society, and the human race, and he’s still never going to see Enjolras again.
He functions under that premise for a week, until the fire alarm goes off. It’s a shrill, horrible sound. He’s jolted out of a mid-morning nap and checks his watch. He has an assignment in an hour and a half, so the alarm isn’t completely unwelcome.
Grantaire grabs his camera bag on the way out, not bothering to fix his wrinkled khakis and t-shirt, instead opting for the blazer which lives on the back of his front door, precisely for occasions such as these. (Although generally, it’s more of his drunk-hangover blazer than his an idiot-neighbors-set-off-the-fire-alarm blazer.)
He locks his door only to turn around and see Enjolras standing outside his own door, staring pensively at it.
“Are you okay? You do know you’re supposed to leave when the fire alarm goes off, right?” Grantaire asks. Enjolras turns to him and flushes.
“I burnt chicken,” he offers, as if he needed to supply a reason for standing thoughtfully outside of his apartment. Oh. Grantaire blinks, and wonders how someone could burn chicken so badly as to set the fire alarm off. His stomach grumbles at the mention, and he’s suddenly reminded that he hadn’t eaten breakfast. Oh well, one problem at a time.
“Did you take it off the stove?” Enjolras pales and shakes his head. Grantaire rolls his eyes and steps into Enjolras’s apartment. The smoke really isn’t that bad, but the alarms are testy, and the idiot really did leave the burner on, even after the alarm started going off. There’s smoke coming from the chicken and it smells horrid.
Grantaire removes the pan from the burner, turns the stove off, and opens a window, while shaking a tea towel around in a desperate bid to get the smoke to dissipate.
The chicken is blackened, but not in a culinary masterpiece kind of way. Grantaire makes a face and turns to Enjolras.
“Really?” he says. Enjolras has the grace to look sheepish. “I don’t have time to deal with this now, but I’m teaching you how to make chicken later this evening.”
“What?” Enjolras looks taken aback, which makes sense, because Granatire just basically forced cooking lessons on his gorgeous across-the-hall-neighbor, who he’s only spoken to once before.
“I like my apartment, and I would prefer to avoid living in ashes. I am offering to teach you how to cook chicken so we can avoid,” he waves his hand at the still-beeping alarm, “this.” Enjolras turns a nasty shade of red.
“What makes you think I-” Grantaire cuts him off, waving his hand around again. Enjolras seems to get the point, and nods.
“It would be much appreciated,” he says softly. Grantaire smiles, and leaves to go shoot some new off-Broadway show for their souvenir playbill.
~
The show is actually pretty good, and Grantaire comes home humming a catchy tune. He gets all the way inside and puts his stuff away while contemplating the show’s Broadway prospects. He’s about to sit down on his couch when he realizes what he’s promised to do. With a conflicted sigh, he pushes himself off his couch.
Enjolras opens his door when Grantaire knocks, and Grantaire stands in the hallway tentatively, now feeling a bit unsure.
“Did you still want to…” he trails off. Enjolras nods fervently and steps aside for him to enter. The windows are still open and all the smoke has dissipated. “Nice,” Grantaire says. “Looks much better without all the smoke.”
“Thanks,” Enjolras laughs. Grantaire gestures towards his cabinets.
“May I?” he asks, and Enjolras nods again.
“Please,” he begins, earnest, opening a cabinet and grabbing a frying pan. The kitchen does, however, still smell vaguely of smoke, even with the window open.
“They didn’t teach you how to cook in Wyoming?” Grantaire asks, only half-sarcastic.
“My parents weren’t around a lot; we had a chef.” Grantaire raises his eyebrows. “I’ve never had to do a whole lot of cooking for myself.”
“Well, you’re in luck. It’s pretty much my only hobby; I’ll have to have you over sometime so I can show off. But let’s just stick to chicken in the pan, right now. Sound good?”
“Of course,” Enjolras says.
He’s a quick learner, which is good. However, it means that Grantaire is backing out the door sooner than he’d like, turning down Enjolras’s offer to eat with him. When he shuts Enjolras’s door he leans against it and takes a deep breath.
I can’t believe I just invited myself over like that, he thinks. Enjolras had been polite. Really, really, sickeningly nice and polite. Grantaire resists the urge to bash his head against the door, tightens his hands into fists, and returns to his own apartment, too upset with himself to cook anything more challenging than Easy Mac.
He sits on his couch and watches television while eating, as he tries to ignore the subtle ache lodged somewhere in his chest. Grantaire tells himself the feeling has nothing to do with soft blue eyes and lovely blonde hair, but he ends up eating a carton of Ben & Jerry’s anyways.
To his surprise, the next evening finds Enjolras on his doorstep, wringing his hands together. Grantaire is dumbfounded. Things like this don’t happen to him, they don’t. Pretty boys with lovely blonde hair don’t stand on his doorstep looking nervous, it just doesn’t happen.
“I was hoping you could help me.” Enjolras stares at Grantaire’s feet, where he’s sporting mismatched socks. A hint of a smile makes its way onto his face, and Grantaire blushes when Enjolras looks up to meet his eyes.
“Depends,” Grantaire says, like there’s even a chance he would pass up time spent with Enjolras.
“Could you show me how to cook vegetables?” Grantaire wilts a bit inside - it’s the cooking thing again. But it’s a way to spend time with Enjolras, who makes his heart do funny things in his chest.
“That’s a pretty vague request,” Grantaire forces a smile. “In a stir-fry? Steamed? Grilled? In salads? In-”
“Um, steamed, probably? To start? That sounds the easiest.”
“None of them are very hard,” Grantaire says lightly, but follows Enjolras to his apartment, where they stare at some broccoli on the counter for a minute. Grantaire wonders if Enjolras is trying to cook it with his mind, before realizing he is waiting for instruction. Grantaire sighs. “Where do you keep your pots?”
~
It becomes a regular thing after that. Grantaure shows up on Enjolras’s doorstep, hesitantly, with a box of pasta. Enjolras texts him about fish and Grantaire knocks on his door only moments later.
Grantaire has gotten to a point where he’s comfortable around Enjolras, even if he is more than half-convinced Enjolras is only using him for his culinary skills. Combeferre has assured him it isn’t so, that people don’t take advantage of Grantaire in the ways he expects them to.
He dials Enjolras’s number.
“Hey, Grantaire,” the warm voice on the other end of the line says. “How are you?”
“Fine,” Enjolras says, “What’s up?”
“I was wondering if you wanted to do dessert tonight?” He pales, realizing what he’s said, and furiously tries to cover. “I just mean, I was thinking about chocolate souffles, and I thought maybe you might like to learn. At six?”
“Oh, Grantaire, I’m really sorry,” he starts, and Grantaire has to head this off now.
“No, no, it’s fine we can just-”
“I have to stay later at the office than usual. Is closer to eight okay?”
“Of course.” Grantaire’s smile nearly cracks his face.
“Do you need me to pick up anything?”
“Some Ghirardelli milk chocolate bars would be splendid.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
Enjolras makes a pleased humming sound in the back of his throat as he says this and Granatire resists the urge to whimper. When they hang up, he has to take several deep breaths before he’s able to get out his souffle recipe. He loves spending time with Enjolras, even if it’s just to cook and bake, and he’ll be damned if this isn’t going to be the best chocolate souffle he’s ever made in his entire life.
When there’s a knock on his door, Grantaire rushes to open it. As promised, Enjolras is holding chocolate bars. His hair is in an elegant braid which curves around his slender neck, and Grantaire’s fingers itch for his camera. Enjolras speaks first.
“I also got an ice cream starter for this place at the mall, but I wasn’t sure if you had-”
“Of course I have an ice cream maker,” Grantaire rolls his eyes, but can’t keep the grin off his face. “If you haven’t eaten yet I have some leftover pizza in the fridge.”
“Leftover pizza?”
“Homemade, of course.” Grantaire shrugs, it’s no big deal, really, but Enjolras looks impressed.
“I actually had takeout with some of the people in the office. But I am definitely up for dessert.”
“So, chocolate souffles?” Grantaire smiles, and Enjolras nods happily, holding out the chocolate bars.
“Where do we start?” Enjolras moves to wash his hands and get out the butter.
He shows him how to butter the ramekins and cover them with sugar, and mix and pour the batter. All in all, it’s not an incredibly complicated process. The ice cream is even easier, with the package Enjolras brought.
They’re watching the ice cream churn when Enjolras starts spouting nonsense.
“We should, um, eat together sometime.” Grantaire looks over curiously, but Enjolras is staring at his feet resolutely, hands white knuckled on the counter as he desperately plays at nonchalance.
“We eat together all the time,” Grantaire replies tentatively, as the timer dings to take the souffles out. When he opens the oven, he’s hit with a mouthwatering smell. He sets them to cool on the granite countertop and turns back to face Enjolras, who is now looking up at him.
“I mean like at a restaurant,” Enjolras says quietly, and Grantaire’s heart sinks. He really enjoys cooking with Enjolras, but he had offered to show him around. Enjolras has been here for a few months and they haven’t done anything but cook in their apartments.
“Oh,” Grantaire says lightly, “yeah, sure, I did promise to show you all the best places.”
“No,” Enjolras says forcefully, and Grantaire furrows his brow. He’s getting some mixed signals here. “Yes,” Enjolras continues (and that’s not making himself any clearer). “I mean like a date.”
Oh.
Grantaire blinks.
“Sorry, I think I misheard you,” he says lightly, turning off the ice cream maker. The apartment falls silent without the soft whirring.
“Grantaire, will you go on a date with me?”
“You want me to-”
“Yes.” Enjolras looks sure of himself now, passion shining in those blue eyes, and Grantaire has to steady himself against the counter.
“The souffles are ready,” Grantaire says weakly. “Ice cream, too.”
Enjolras looks confused, and Grantaire can understand why.
“Is that a no?” Enjolras’s face falls, and in response, Grantaire takes a step towards Enjolras, putting their faces just inches apart.
“‘Is that a no?" Jesus, Enjolras, no, it is not a no, I just - are you sure?”
In response, Enjolras cups his jaw and brings their lips together softly, fitting a hand around to the small of Grantaire’s back. Grantaire’s hands immediately come to rest on Enjolras’s shoulders. His lips are soft and the kiss is too short for Grantaire’s liking, but long enough that feels like he’s falling in love all over again.
“Yes, I’m sure,” Enjolras says, when they part. Grantaire can’t help the grin which spreads across his face.
“Good,” Grantaire murmurs, pressing small kisses to the corners of Enjolras’s mouth. “Because I know this place that has the best burnt chicken.”
“Is it right across the hall?” Enjolras rolls his eyes, but his expression is fond.
“Yeah,” Grantaire smiles, “my compliments to the chef.” Enjolras blushes, and Grantaire pulls him into a tight embrace.
“Well, you can kiss the chef any time you like.”
So he does.