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“You’re staring,” Combeferre says quietly, and Enjolras startles. “You’re staring at Grantaire.”
Enjolras wills himself not to blush. It doesn’t really work, but Combeferre doesn’t call him out on it, just flashes him a small smile, and somehow that is worse, because that’s Combeferre’s default I-Know-What’s-Going-On look, and he certainly doesn’t know what’s going on.
“I just happened to be looking in that direction,” Enjolras says.
“Right,” Combeferre says dryly. “And your eyes just happened to be tracking the movement of Grantaire’s hands?”
Enjolras stills. Combeferre noticed, of course he noticed.
“I just—” Enjolras sighs, not knowing how to explain his sudden fascination in Grantaire’s hands to Combeferre without sounding like an idiot. “His hands,” he ends up huffing out, and then buries his head in the crook of his elbow, trying not to think about how red his face must be.
Grantaire just got commissioned to paint a mural and his work schedule happens to overlap with their meetings at the Musain, meaning that he’s been coming in about fifteen minutes late in paint-splattered clothes and paint-stained hands. The first time it happened, Enjolras had a coughing fit, and Combeferre had to take over the meeting while he sat in the corner and tried to discretely stare at the streak of red paint across Grantaire’s left knuckle, wondering why he suddenly had the biggest urge to kiss Grantaire’s knuckles. The next few meetings had been better, but only marginally.
So of course Combeferre noticed, he wasn’t being subtle at all. Everyone must have noticed. Grantaire must have noticed.
“Am I really being that obvious?” Enjolras asks, voice muffled by his arm.
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think Grantaire has noticed yet,” Combeferre replies, and the amusement in his tone is evident so Enjolras lifts his head up to scowl at him. “I suppose Marius probably doesn’t see it yet, but everyone else should have a pretty good idea. I’m surprised Courfeyrac hasn’t said anything about it yet.”
As if on cue, Courfeyrac drops into the seat beside Enjolras’.
“What haven’t I said anything about yet?” he asks, stealing Enjolras’ drink. “Enjolras’ super big crush on Grantaire?”
Enjolras drops his head back to the table. “I hate all of you.”
—
He tries to talk to Grantaire about it, because he can’t keep spending his time at the meetings getting distracted by Grantaire and his paint-stained hands or his stupid shirt that rides up every time he stretches, or his work jeans that look so soft but are tight in all the right places—
Right, so it’s a little bit of a problem, but he can solve it. He’s good at problem solving.
“I’ve been thinking about pushing the meeting back by an hour,” Enjolras tells Grantaire after he adjourns the meeting. “It would give you time to go back home and freshen up before you come.”
Grantaire frowns. “Is the smell of paint bothering you?” he asks, looking sorry, almost like he’s berating himself for it, and God, no, that isn’t what Enjolras is saying.
“No, I just thought it would be nice for you to—” He’s supposed to be a lot better at words, why are words not coming to him? “I didn’t want you to have to rush to get here, or to miss anything,” he settles on.
“Oh,” Grantaire says. He looks like he’s waiting for a catch. “Have I been disturbing you when I come in mid-meeting? Because I suppose I can skip a few meetings. I don’t contribute much, and no-one would really miss me.”
“I would,” Enjolras blurts out, and Grantaire just stares at him like he’s just grown three heads. Judging by how hot his cheeks feel, he must be blushing an awful lot. He has zero idea what he’s doing right now. Why didn’t he just ask Courfeyrac to do this for him? “I don’t want you to miss the meetings,” Enjolras says. “And you do contribute to the cause.”
“Right,” Grantaire says, and reaches up to brush away an errant curl from his face. His hands are lightly splattered with greens and blues today, and Enjolras is trying very hard not to stare. “You don’t have to bother pushing the meeting by that much,” he says, hands resting on the table, and Enjolras bites the inside of his lip to stop himself from tracking the the blur of colours as his fingers drum on the table. “Maybe just by twenty minutes? It’s easier for me to come straight here instead of going home first.”
He smiles at Enjolras, tentative and sweet, and stills his fingers, and oh God, Enjolras doesn’t know what he wants to do more, to reach out to hold his hand, or to kiss him, kiss him everywhere.
He settles for smiling back at Grantaire, and decides that he’s made the right choice when Grantaire’s smile grows into a full-fledge grin in return.
—
Enjolras really, really likes Grantaire’s hands.
They’re very nice hands, strong and steady, with long, slender fingers. There are callouses on his left fingertips, possibly from playing the violin, and his nails are uneven from his constant nail biting. There’s a tiny scar that runs from the base of his palm up about two inches that Enjolras knows is from an accident with a sculpting knife because he overheard Grantaire telling it to Feuilly.
He wishes Grantaire would be freer with his touch when it comes to him, because he’s catalogued all the ways Grantaire’s hands look, but he would really prefer to know how they would feel.
—
The meeting derails from its agenda when Marius bursts into the Musain with Cosette in tow, ten minutes late, yelling she said yes!, to which everyone’s reaction was to pile the both of them with hugs.
It is when the commotion has settled down a little (Enjolras has no plans on resuming the meeting, though, because in their excitement, no-one would be paying enough attention to the matter at hand) that he notices that Grantaire and Eponine are sitting in the back corner of the cafe, away from most of their friends.
Enjolras isn’t stupid; he’s noticed how Eponine looks at Marius, and it only makes sense that she’s a little upset by the turn of events, but that isn’t the only reason he’s looking at them. Grantaire has Eponine’s hands in his, rubbing his purple-paint-stained thumbs in circles over the back of them in an intimate gesture of comfort.
His heart clenches tightly, and it doesn’t make sense, because he knows Grantaire and Eponine are nothing more than best friends, that Grantaire doesn’t even date women, and he’s not jealous, he shouldn’t be jealous—
Except he is, and the idea is so ridiculous, he knows it’s so ridiculous, but there’s really no other way to describe that tight feeling in his chest and that sour taste in his mouth. He wants to march over there and shove Eponine away, and tell Grantaire that he isn’t allowed to put his hands on anyone else, and no, he can’t do that, because Grantaire doesn’t even like him back. What he needs to do is to look away. If he can’t see them, he can’t feel jealous.
But Grantaire catches his eye before he manages to look away in time, and mimes a sad face at him, and for some reason, the tight feeling in his chest loosens a little and he manages to smile at that.
—
“I think I really, really like him,” Enjolras mumbles into Courfeyrac’s couch.
Courfeyrac laughs and ruffles Enjolras’ hair. Enjolras would scowl at him, but he’s face-down on the couch, too busy having a life crisis to care. Besides, it feels sort of good, so he leans into Courfeyrac’s touch, and Courfeyrac takes the hint, and starts combing his fingers through Enjolras’ hair.
“Congratulations,” Courfeyrac says, “you’ve finally figured it out.”
“What do I do?” Enjolras groans.
“Ask him out, silly,” Courfeyrac says, as if the answer is obvious as day, as if he cannot see that Grantaire does not like Enjolras the same way Enjolras likes him, as if there’s even a chance Grantaire would say yes.
He’s too uptight and awkward and boring, and Grantaire is so smart and plays the violin and fences and makes art and quotes philosophy and Greek mythology off the top of his head and is so good with people, why would he want to go out with Enjolras?
Enjolras groans into a cushion. “He’s never going to say yes.”
Courfeyrac lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Enjolras,” he starts, tone gentle, “you’re one of my best friends, and I love you, but you are so oblivious that I want to hit you in the face with a pan Rapunzel-style sometimes.”
Enjolras lifts his head from the couch. “What are you talking about?”
Courfeyrac sighs again. “I’m 100% certain Grantaire likes you back,” he tells Enjolras. “I’m also 100% certain he liked you first.”
Enjolras frowns. “No, he doesn’t.”
“Yes, Enjolras, he does,” Courfeyrac says patiently. “Ask Jehan. Heck, ask anyone. But ask Jehan first. I know he’s been dying to read you that poem he wrote about you guys. It’s called Emotionally Stunted Idiots In Love.”
Enjolras stares at him. “We’re not— I’m not— He’s not—” He lets out a noise of frustration. “He’s always arguing with me and he’s never comfortable around me like he is everyone else and we don’t share inside jokes and—”
“And he’s always looking at you with hearts in his eyes,” Courfeyrac continues. “Always saying yes to anything you ask him to do, prioritises all of them, even though it would mean pushing back deadlines for his other stuff. He comes to the meeting even though he should really go back home to rest after a long day at work because you’re always busy and never want to go anywhere else with us, and it’s the only place he gets to see you. Do I need to continue?”
Enjolras is quiet, running Courfeyrac’s words through his head.
“He likes you,” Courfeyrac repeats, when the silence becomes too much for him. He’s never been known to stay quiet for too long. “He really, really likes you back.”
—
The Amis as a collective get a text from Grantaire on Saturday morning saying that he’s done with his mural commission, and that he has leftover paint from the job and wants to paint his living room, asking for volunteers in exchange for pizza and beer. Everyone says yes, even though Grantaire definitely did not need need so many people to help him paint three walls, and really, the only people actually helping are Feuilly and Bahorel. The rest of them are there to lounge and keep everyone else entertained.
Enjolras probably shouldn’t have come. He hadn’t texted Grantaire back to say that he would be coming, and when Grantaire had opened the door to see him carrying two trays of coffee, he’d been surprised. Grantaire’s surprise only grew when he found out that Enjolras not only knew his coffee order, but had also gotten the coffees from Grantaire’s favourite coffee shop.
Enjolras doesn’t know anything about painting, so he’s not exactly helpful, but he’s been thinking about what Courfeyrac said to him, and figured that even if Courfeyrac had been mistaken about everything else, the part where he said that Enjolras rarely joins the group for anything else except the meetings is true. He’s glad that he decided to come, because he’s getting front-row seats to the muscles on Grantaire’s back as he works the paint roller.
Courfeyrac’s grin from the other side of the room is very smug and Enjolras spares a moment to wonder if Courfeyrac has anything to do with the white t-shirt plastered to Grantaire’s body, drenched in sweat. Enjolras can see hints of Grantaire’s tattoos, he’s pretty sure there’s a watercolour tattoo on his lower back, just as how he’s pretty sure he wants to press his lips to it.
The room is suddenly very hot.
“Is there something you’d like to ask me?” Jehan says suddenly by his side, and Enjolras jumps in his seat, startled. Jehan’s grin is very knowing, and Enjolras doesn’t even think he should bother pretending he doesn’t know what Jehan is talking about.
“Is it true?” he asks quietly, heart beating twice its normal rate.
“Specificity, Enjolras,” Jehan says, grin widening.
Enjolras gives him an unimpressed look, but relents. “Does Grantaire like me back?” Enjolras asks.
Jehan giggles. “Of course, he does, of course!”
Enjolras feels his own lips curve into a smile, because Jehan is a ridiculously bad liar. Everyone knows when Jehan is lying, and Jehan isn’t lying right now.
“Are you going to do something about it?” Jehan asks.
Enjolras considers the question. “Yes,” he decides. “Yes, I am,” he says, but doesn’t elaborate.
Jehan doesn’t press for details, just pats him lightly on the cheek and says, “When the both of you get together, I’m going to read you this poem I wrote of you.”
He’s just about to ask Jehan to read it to him now, because he’s curious of what Jehan might have to say about them, but Courfeyrac lets out a shriek and Enjolras turns his attention to him.
Grantaire is standing in front of Courfeyrac, grinning widely at the beige palm print he put on Courfeyrac’s cheek.
Enjolras stops breathing.
He wants that, wants Grantaire to dip his hand into paint and press it on his skin, wants Grantaire to mark him, wants it so much he doesn’t know how to process it, wants it so much he forgets to keep his mouth shut.
“Do me,” he says, and everyone goes quiet.
Grantaire is staring at him like he cannot believe that Enjolras is suggesting what he is suggesting, like he isn’t sure if he’s in a dream, and Enjolras gets up from his chair, strides up to Grantaire, grabs hold of his wrist, and says again, “Do me.”
He sees Grantaire’s throat bob as he swallows and thinks that he would very much like to press a kiss there.
Grantaire reaches to dip his other hand, the one that Enjolras doesn’t have a hold on, into the beige paint and brings it slowly up to Enjolras’ cheek, close enough that Enjolras can smell the paint and feel the warmth radiating from Grantaire’s hand. “Enjolras,” Grantaire says, and his voice is hoarse, soft. “Enjolras, can I?”
“Yes,” Enjolras says, and he could lean into Grantaire’s touch, tip his head slightly and press his face to Grantaire’s hand, but he wants Grantaire to be the one to make the move. “Yes, please.”
Grantaire does, exhaling shakily as he presses his hand to Enjolras’ cheek.
The paint feels sticky and thick, and it should for all intents and purposes feel horrible, Enjolras has never liked paint all that much, but Grantaire’s hand is warm against his cheek and Grantaire is looking at him with glassy eyes and parted lips and he’s so close, so close that Enjolras could just tug him in and kiss him. He turns his head slightly instead to press his lips to Grantaire’s palm, and doesn’t even mind when it gets paint all over his lips.
He reconsiders that notion when Grantaire leans forward to press his lips against Enjolras’ firmly but doesn’t deepen the kiss because of the paint, probably because Joly is still in the room and would likely have a panic attack about them dying of toxic paint pigments, and drag them to the hospital.
“I really, really like you,” Enjolras whispers when Grantaire pulls away from him.
Grantaire smiles at him, and his paint-stained lips should really make him look ridiculous, but instead makes him look utterly adorable. “I really, really like you too,” he whispers back to Enjolras.
The room bursts into applause and exclamations of finally.
“Can I read my poem now?” Jehan asks, and Enjolras laughs, giddy with happiness, and pulls Grantaire in for another closed-lip kiss.