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In retrospect, Enjolras probably should’ve listened to Courfeyrac when he said no one would show up to the meeting today. But still—
“I bought six bags of candy,” Enjolras says, for the third time this evening. “Six bags.”
Courfeyrac pats his arm. “It was a nice thought.”
“The good kind, even.”
“It was a really nice thought,” Courf amends, unwrapping a Reese’s. Enjolras groans, but it’s lost in whatever horrible song is playing over the Musain’s speakers right now. (An EDM cover of Monster Mash, maybe? Enjolras still isn’t 100% sure what EDM is, but he thinks this might be it.) Someone’s made a halfhearted attempt to match the Musain’s décor to the playlist, with paper bats dangling from the ceiling and a few plastic jack-o-lanterns on the counter, but for the most part it looks like any other weeknight, minus most of Enjolras’s friends.
Courfeyrac, on the other hand, has been decked out in his costume since breakfast. He’s sitting in his chair like someone poured him into it, wearing a black vest and a white shirt with a deep v-neck and an empty holster on his (handmade) belt, because I’m not about to bring a fake gun on campus, even if it is a perfectly cool blaster replica from eBay, because I’m not an asshole.
It’s actually a pretty great outfit, and the whole no-blaster thing makes Enjolras love Courfeyrac so much his heart aches a bit, so it’s not like the day is a total loss.
And, okay, Enjolras was exaggerating a bit about no one showing up. Combeferre and Joly are bent over Ferre’s laptop at the other end of the table, and—Grantaire is here, too, tucked into the couch with a tablet propped on his knees. He hasn’t said much in the half hour they’ve been here, just fiddled with whatever he’s drawing, but he’s here, and that’s. Something. If Enjolras had to guess who would’ve shown up to a meeting on Halloween, Grantaire…probably wouldn’t have made his top five list. Or top ten.
The thing is, Enjolras hasn’t actually talked to Grantaire that much. He started showing up in the spring, after coming across the ABC sit-in outside the Dean’s office, and of all the fallout from that particular demonstration (coverage in the local paper, another note in their records, and academic probation, like that even made sense) the most surprising thing was, well—Grantaire himself.
(“Um,” Grantaire had said, peering at them over the frankly alarming stack of sound equipment he was holding. Enjolras hadn’t known his name at the time, just that he was kind of tall, he was wearing a black student worker polo, and there was a 50% chance he was going to drop some very heavy, very expensive-looking speakers on the concrete in front of Enjolras. “I have to get by?”
“Well, you can’t,” Enjolras said, and he might’ve been a bit curt, because it was like 3 a.m. and they’d been here for about twelve hours now with nothing to show for it except a few glares from campus PD. “We’re protesting.”
“Protesting what?” Grantaire yawned, and something rattled in the stack. “My ability to finish my job in time to get enough sleep before my 10 a.m. class?”
“The school caps hospitality staff hours at 37 a week,” Enjolras said, fighting the urge to rub his eyes. Combeferre had gone across campus to the 24-hour coffee shop a few minutes ago, but he wasn’t back yet. “So they don’t have to pay full-time wage or give benefits, which is a blatant and calculated policy intended to save money while trapping employees in a cycle of poverty that makes them dependent on the job and unable to negotiate better pay. Meanwhile, the school is building a totally unnecessary addition onto the athletics compound.”
Grantaire had stared at him for a moment, then at the slew of folding chairs and couches and dorm desks spread out across the walkway between the Dean’s office and the auditorium. The rest of the ABC were sprawled on the furniture, napping in the dark or typing on laptops with dying batteries. “Huh,” Grantaire said after a moment. “Guess I’ll go around, then.”
Enjolras clenched his jaw. “The least you could do is take a flyer,” he snapped, brandishing one of the many pieces of paper stacked next to him, and god, where was Combeferre with that coffee?
Grantaire blinked, then shifted the speakers enough to take the paper between two fingers. “Happy now?” he’d said, and then retreated around the corner of the auditorium before Enjolras could say, Not even a little. Or apologize for snapping.
Enjolras thought that’d surely be the last time he’d see Grantaire. But then there Grantaire was, tucked into the back at the next meeting, and Enjolras made a vague note to explore angry 3 a.m. confrontations as a recruitment tactic.)
So Grantaire was part of the ABC, but he wasn’t exactly their most active member. He spent most meetings talking to Bahorel, or Éponine, or Bossuet and Joly and Musichetta, when she could switch shifts and join them. Enjolras could count on one hand the number of times Grantaire had spoken up to the group at large. It was the same number of times their meetings had devolved into all-out debates that left Enjolras wrong-footed and so frustrated that he spent half the night trying to come up with better responses, arguments that would get Grantaire to just fucking give him a chance to try to change the world. He always needed, like, two extra espresso shots in his coffee the next morning.
I just don’t get it, he’d complained to Combeferre back in May, after the last quadruple espresso shot morning. All he does is post memes in the groupchat. And make fun of our website. Is this some sort of comic relief to him? Like, oh, Latin sure was rough today, time to go blow off steam watching the ABC try to implement ethical campus policy?
He doesn’t just make fun of our website, Combeferre pointed out, frowning at something in the oven. Whatever it was, it smelled burnt. He fixes it, sometimes. But, I mean, you could just ask him yourself.
I did. Yesterday. Hence the quad shot.
You could try asking nicely.
But Enjolras didn’t. Not because he liked arguing, but because he just didn’t know how to phrase, Um, so what exactly are you getting out of this? in a way that didn’t sound as horrible as the last three times he’d tried it. And because something about Grantaire made Enjolras equally intrigued and exhausted, and he never had a spare moment to untangle that, between class and his internship and the ABC and—when he could spare a night—Netflix marathons with Courfeyrac and Feuilly and Bahorel and anyone else from the ABC who could make it. (Grantaire was never present at these.) (Not that Enjolras noticed. Much.)
So, yeah, other than those few arguments last semester, and the occasional greeting or exchange about website updates, Enjolras doesn’t talk to Grantaire a whole lot. The only thing Grantaire is working on for them right now is a flyer design for the student org showcase, and Enjolras doesn’t know if he’s even started that, so there’s no need for Grantaire to be here. But clearly Enjolras was wrong about who would—or, wouldn’t—show up today anyway, so he’s not going to spend too long trying to rationalize it.
He takes a deep breath and closes his laptop.
“Fine,” he says. “We can wrap up early. More candy for us.”
Courfeyrac whoops, pulling a bag across the table toward him. Even Combeferre grabs a handful, saying, “We could always drop off the extra bags at the student union, they’re doing a whole trick or treat event for local kids later.”
“Yeah, good idea.” Enjolras slides his laptop into his bag and looks at Grantaire, who hasn’t moved from the couch.
It’s a new semester. And a holiday. Maybe it’s time for another attempt.
“Are you, ah, doing anything fun for Halloween?” he asks. Then, when Grantaire doesn’t look up: “Grantaire?”
Grantaire jumps so hard the tablet slides off his knees, clattering to the floor. “What?” he says, just as Enjolras says, “Shit, sorry, is the screen cracked?” and leans forward, reaching for the tablet.
Grantaire blinks and then moves, scooping it off the ground and shaking his head. “It’s fine. Um, what?”
“I asked if you had plans tonight?”
“He’s coming to the DKE party,” Courfeyrac says, tossing an Almond Joy at Grantaire’s head. Grantaire catches it with a salute. “The party you, Enjolras, also promised to attend.”
“You’re kidding.” Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “He did? Enjolras?”
Enjolras makes a face. Back in sophomore year, Courfeyrac had negotiated a standing holiday armistice in Enjolras’s war against the Greek system at large, which meant he was cajoled into approximately three frat parties a year.
“It’ll be fun,” Courfeyrac tells Grantaire. “My new roommate is going to be there to meet everyone, and we’re gonna count how many frat bros tell me I’m ruining their childhoods because Han Solo is wearing a binder.”
“If anyone says that to you, I’ll break their nose,” Enjolras says.
“You will not,” Joly cuts in from across the table. “Your hand is still healing from the last time you thought it was a good idea to punch someone in the face. Literally how many times do I have to tell you, aim for the soft parts.”
“And in order to punch my foes, you’ll have to actually be at the party,” Courfeyrac points out, delighted.
Enjolras groans again and drops his head to the table, an empty Reese’s wrapper sticking to his cheek. This was one argument, at least, that he’d never actually expected to win.
*
Of course, there’s no universe where Courfeyrac’s costume is as simple as a vest and a blaster-less gun holster. i can’t show up as han solo ALONE, he’d said in the groupchat last month, ignoring Feuilly, Musichetta, and Enjolras’s respective jokes about “to be fair, the name is solo.” you’re ALL my costume. and my roommate is doing star wars too, and i’m trying to convince him my friends are ride or die.
So here Enjolras is, dressed in full Rebel pilot attire in the overcrowded backyard of the DKE house. The music is jarringly loud, he’s half a drink in and already on his way to buzzed because he’s a hopeless lightweight, and he already wants to just go to bed. Also, people keep drunkenly singing who ya gonna call? at him, which, come on, his costume may be mostly duct tape and an old pair of Dickies, but he at least stenciled the Rebel insignia on the back. It’s not rocket science here.
(Maybe he should’ve gone with something more specific, but the only political thing he can be totally sure about in Star Wars is that the Empire = Bad. He has some issues with Jedi philosophy. Han Solo is too cynical for him. He doesn’t have the time or crafting skills for R2-D2. He would’ve gone with Poe, but everyone was like, Enj, we’re doing original trilogy, don’t mix timelines. So he’s just a random Rebel pilot, will everyone please. Let. It. Go.)
(Okay, he’d tried to claim Leia, but Cosette and Éponine both beat him to it.)
Another drink later, and the noise is really grating on him. He finds Courfeyrac a few steps away, huddled with Cosette and Feuilly by the drinks table.
“I’m gonna,” Enjolras says, and gestures vaguely at the house.
“What?” Courf shouts. “You’re leaving? Marius hasn’t even shown up yet! I told him he’d get to meet everyone!”
Enjolras shakes his head. “No, just, bathroom.”
Courfeyrac looks mollified. “Don’t dawdle,” he calls as Enjolras ducks into the crowd.
The bathroom line is already about fifteen people long and spilling out the back of the house, so Enjolras settles against the wall next to a guy in some sort of cape and helmet and tries not to make eye contact with anyone around him. Across the lawn he sees Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta join his friends, someone in a giant Chewbacca costume close behind. That must be Grantaire, because everyone else is here already, and Enjolras feels vaguely surprised—it’s, like, a real costume, maybe professionally rented, and Enjolras had kinda pegged Grantaire for a “shows up in a T-shirt with THIS IS MY COSTUME printed on it” kind of guy.
(Not that he’d put thought into Grantaire’s costume choices.) (Much.)
The line shifts, and Enjolras steps forward, still watching Grantaire—his friends—and accidentally stumbles into the cape guy.
“Sorry,” Cape Guy says, even though, in all fairness, it was Enjolras’s fault. Then Cape Guy does a double take. “Oh—hi.”
“Um,” Enjolras says. “Hi.”
Now that he’s looking, Enjolras can tell the guy’s costume is actually Boba Fett. It’s clearly the same college-budget hodgepodge that Enjolras’s costume is, but it’s got enough green to be recognizable. And the helmet, at least, is especially good—handmade, and by someone with decent crafting skills.
“Hi,” Boba Fett says again, after a pause. His voice is muffled by the helmet, but he sounds kind of familiar. Maybe they have a class together, Enjolras thinks. “So. Who exactly are you supposed to be?”
Jesus Christ, this again. “I’m a Rebel pilot.”
Boba Fett cocks his head. Then, instead of saying, Not Poe? Not [obscure name people use when trying to prove they’re Real Fans]? he goes, “Ah, so you’re more of an idea than a character.”
And, okay, Boba Fett’s definitely laughing as he says it, but Enjolras just—nods. Because, yeah, that’s kind of it. His Halloween costume is literally just the general concept of rebellion.
The silence gets awkward again. Enjolras doesn’t really want to talk—he came to the bathroom to escape talking in the first place—but he’s also a bit intrigued now. “I, um, see you did Star Wars too,” he says.
“I—yeah?” Boba Fett says, and gestures across the lawn, toward the collective Star Wars gaggle of Enjolras’s friends. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta as R2-D2, C3PO, and what looks like the Millennium Falcon personified. Grantaire as Chewbacca. Cosette as “help me, Obi-Wan” transmission Leia. Eponine as Hoth Leia. Jehan as Yoda. Courfeyrac as blaster-less Han and Combeferre as Luke. Feuilly as Lando. Bahorel as Wedge Antilles, who no one recognizes (because why would anyone recognize Wedge Antilles), yet he’s somehow getting less shit about it than Enjolras.
For a moment it doesn’t click, and then, oh. This must be Marius, Courfeyrac’s new roommate, who was supposed to do Star Wars as well. The only one not accounted for across the yard. And he obviously knows who Enjolras is, if he’s pointing out his friends.
Honestly, Enjolras hadn’t been especially jazzed about meeting Marius, because just about all Courfeyrac had said about him was I basically found him on the side of the road, but he’s really smart, followed by, and he’s doing a thesis on Napoleon Bonaparte, and the idea of that inevitable discussion made Enjolras pretty sure there was another quad-shot latte in his future. But if Marius can see the revolution in Enjolras’s slapdash pilot costume, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe Marius would be interested in joining the ABC, even, and they do need to grow their numbers if they’re going to keep the administration’s attention through the next round of petitions.
So— “I like your costume,” Enjolras offers, assembling his Recruiting Face. Which is really just his regular face, with a bit more eye contact. (Though, it’s hard to see Marius’s eyes, because, helmet. But he tries.)
“Thanks,” Marius says, and he sounds taken aback. Or, Enjolras thinks he does. His voice is still more muffled and tinny than anything.
“How are, um, classes going?”
“They’re…fine,” Marius says. “I actually—I mean, how are your classes going?”
“Also fine.” And Enjolras knows he should leave it there, stay cool and move on to his next icebreaker before segueing into hey what are your thoughts on activism and university ethics? but he is half-drunk and wholly exhausted, so he hears himself adding, “I mean, except for the part where my world lit professor won’t let me write my midterm paper on how his class should be renamed.”
“Renamed?”
“Yeah.” It’s kind of chilly out, but Enjolras still feels sweat prickling along his collar, his system overloaded by the party and the alcohol and his general sense of displacement. He focuses on the Boba Fett helmet as he talks. “It’s world lit, but his reading list hardly even encompasses European lit, it’s like, ‘Five Greeks and Lucian, a Syrian Who Mostly Hung Out With Greeks Anyway.’ But my professor says that essay is ‘low-hanging fruit’ and I’m like, if it’s such low-hanging fruit, maybe you should’ve changed the syllabus before deciding to call your class world anything.”
Instead of going, whoa, okay, bit intense there, like Enjolras is expecting, or even lapsing back into awkward silence, Marius tips his head back against the wall and laughs. Laughs. “Wait,” he says. “Is this Hartman?”
“It is,” Enjolras says. “Fucking—Hartman.”
“Fucking Hartman,” Marius agrees. “God, I had him for Late Roman History maybe two semesters ago? You would’ve hated him in that, too. We were studying this text about Theodora—she was like, literally one of the most influential empresses of the entire Roman Empire, and all Hartman wanted to talk about was how horrible and morally twisted she was because she started out as a sex worker. And, don’t get me wrong, she wasn’t a saint—I mean, she was actually a saint in the church sense, but, anyway—she definitely had her twisted moments in the moral sense, but that’s because she literally had thousands of people killed. But Hartman was just, like, oh, she was a Loose Woman, therefore we hate her. Like. My guy. My dude. Why slut shame when you can murder shame.”
“When you can—” Enjolras blinks, and then he’s laughing, hard enough that he actually presses his hand over his mouth when the Power Rangers next to him lean forward to stare. “Murder shame,” he says through his fingers.
“I,” Marius says, and then he laughs again too, once, almost like he’s surprised. “I should’ve ranted about dead Roman empresses months ago, if that’s all it takes.”
We’ve only known each other five minutes, Enjolras almost points out, but doesn’t because he’s still trying to catch his breath. And because something about this doesn’t feel like he’s known Marius for only five minutes, and he doesn’t want to ruin the moment.
The Blue Power Ranger behind them is moment-oblivious, however, and leans forward to say, “Uh, guys? Line’s moving?”
They’re shuffled inside, where a harassed-looking frat pledge is triaging the crowd. “Are you going to puke?” the pledge demands, and looks relieved when Enjolras shakes his head. “Okay, there’s a staircase on the side, don’t open any locked doors. Attention everyone, if you’re going to puke, stay on the first floor only.”
Enjolras turns to Marius, ready to say something like, See you in a bit? but Marius is already gone.
He tries not to feel too disappointed as he makes his way to the side stairwell, stepping over empty solo cups and streamers and ducking under one very enthusiastic fake cobweb stretched across the hallway. The frat house itself is huge, clearly one of the wealthiest on the row, which means they’re serving more than Yuengling and Bud Light outside, and also that there are about a dozen staircases. The one Enjolras enters is narrow and smells a bit less like beer than the rest of the house. There’s a halfhearted orange ribbon wrapped around the railing, and otherwise it’s plain, probably not intended for party use.
The upstairs hallway is much the same, narrow and undecorated, a row of mostly locked bedrooms. It’s quieter here, the music rising muffled and distant through the floorboards. Enjolras finds the bathroom and discovers he’s—thankfully—not as drunk as he’d feared, because he unzips all the right zippers and, aside from the ringing in his ears, he’s pretty clearheaded now that he’s alone.
Actually, his thoughts are hardly muddled at all, because he’s able to focus on one very specific thing as he pees and washes his hands, and that’s scheming ways to get Marius to show up at the next ABC meeting. (Not for personal reasons, because that’d be—that’d be ridiculous, even if there is just something about the guy that seems familiar and brand new all at once, and anyway, he doesn’t even know what Marius looks like, so—)
Enjolras pushes back out into the hall, somehow not dreading going back to the party as much as he’d expected, and nearly runs into someone standing right outside the door.
“Whoa,” the person—a tall white guy dressed as Tarzan, if the speedo/loincloth combo is any indication—says, the word drawn out into about three syllables. “You’re in a hurry. Ha. Ghost emergency?” He points at Enjolras’s chest.
“Actually, I’m—never mind,” Enjolras says, and goes to step around the guy.
Tarzan leans to the side, keeping eye contact. “You look kinda familiar,” Tarzan says, and squints. “Have we hooked up before?”
“Nope.”
Tarzan frowns, processing that and still very much blocking the stairs, then grins, wide. “Okay, well,” he says, and he’s clearly far more drunk than Enjolras, fumbling as he goes to prop an arm against the opposite wall, “there’s a first time for everything.”
“Not always,” says Enjolras, and starts to push past him again.
Tarzan catches his wrist.
“Come on,” he says, and then, “Wait, wait, I do know you.”
“You don’t.” Enjolras tries to pull his hand away, and the guy doesn’t ease his grip. “Look, I’m not interested—”
“You’re that guy,” Tarzan says. The grin is gone. “That guy, the fucking asshole who delayed the athletic center construction, that was you. I saw you handing out flyers.”
Yeah, and dozens of university employees now get full pay and benefits, Enjolras almost says, but suddenly he feels very sober and very aware of just how cramped the hallway is. It’s just the two of them, separated from the rest of the party by a set of stairs. Enjolras reaches for his pocket before remembering Cosette has his phone in her purse, because Enjolras has been known to drunk-text his senators, and…this is not good.
Tarzan’s grip tightens. “You messed up our whole summer season,” he says, eyes narrowing. He takes a step forward, angled so that when Enjolras pulls back he hits the wall. “Fuck, dude, fuck you, not minding your—minding your own fucking business—”
“Let go,” Enjolras says, his voice surprisingly level for the way his heart is pounding.
“What are you even doing here?” Tarzan shakes his wrist, and it rattles Enjolras’s whole arm. “You gonna petition to shut down DKE parties next or something? You got such a problem with us, why are you even here?”
Tarzan shoves closer, close enough that Enjolras can smell the beer on him. Enjolras flexes the fingers of his free hand. Open hand strikes are more effective, Joly said, so he pulls his arm back, and—
—the guy reels back, suddenly out of Enjolras’s space, and Enjolras has the unique experience of watching discount Boba Fett punch Tarzan right in the gut.
(It’s…fuck, it’s really hot, what the fuck.)
Tarzan doubles over, winded, and Marius turns to Enjolras. “You okay?” he says. “Want me to punch him again?”
Enjolras snaps his mouth shut. “Um, no, that’s probably—hey.”
Whether it’s the alcohol or the fuel from his athletic-center fury, Tarzan is already pushing off the wall and launching himself at Marius. Marius whirls around, dodging enough to avoid the initial swing, but not enough to avoid Tarzan’s elbow smashing into the side of his helmet.
“Hey,” Enjolras says again, and now he’s furious. He throws himself forward and catches Tarzan’s shoulder, shoving him away from Marius, who’s cursing up a storm under the helmet.
Tarzan stumbles back a few steps, but not far enough. “This is—this is my fucking house,” he says, with drunk eloquence. “Fuck you, and your fucking boyfriend, I’m gonna—gonna—”
“Please,” Marius says from next to Enjolras, and Enjolras can hear the sneer in it. “By all means, finish what you started.”
Even in the dim lights, Enjolras sees Tarzan’s face go red.
“M—,” Marius, he starts to say, but then Tarzan is there, and Marius is pushing Enjolras back, and—
It’s over in about three seconds. Without the element of surprise, Tarzan doesn’t stand a chance. Marius ducks the first wild right hook and flies back up, kneeing Tarzan in the groin hard enough that Enjolras winces.
Tarzan goes down. And stays down this time.
“Yeah,” Marius says. “Figured as much.” Then he turns to Enjolras. “Seriously, you okay?”
Enjolras can only nod, because his brain is currently playing the last few moments on loop. Marius must be a boxer, Enjolras thinks, because he’s seen Bahorel’s boxing reflexes and he looked just like that ducking his opponent. A boxer. Jesus.
For a moment they just stare at each other.
Then Tarzan groans from where he’s curled up on the floor. Marius glances at him. “Um. Let’s go before he, uh, gets up again.”
“Yeah,” Enjolras says faintly.
He steps over Tarzan and lets Marius lead him to the stairwell, shutting the hallway door firmly behind him. “Jesus,” he says, and then “Jesus,” again when Marius turns to look up at him, because his helmet is dented. “Wait—wait.”
“What?” Marius says, as Enjolras reaches him on the landing. “Are you hurt?”
“No, but—” Enjolras catches Marius’s elbow, and Marius jolts. Enjolras moves him to the side for better lighting. The helmet is dented right around his left eye, enough that it has to hurt. “Your helmet.”
“It’s fine,” Marius says, “it cost, like, seven dollars to make.”
“Yeah, but,” Enjolras says, and frowns. “Let me look.”
He reaches up and starts to lift the helmet. Marius hisses, and, yeah, it’s gotta hurt. Enjolras stops. The helmet stays half-tilted back, enough for Enjolras to see a hint of stubble on Marius’s jaw.
“Um,” Marius says, just as Enjolras says, “Do you want to—”
A second passes. “It’s fine,” Marius says again, voice low, and close, and Enjolras fights the urge to shiver. “Really, I’m fine.”
“Okay, well,” Enjolras says, and stops again. “Either way, um. Listen. Thanks. That was. Uh.” And he wonders how in the world he can give a speech in front of hundreds of students, or march into the dean’s office with a signed petition and a list of demands, but one guy in a dark stairwell is making his throat close up. He’s suddenly aware that he’s sweating in his jumpsuit, and Marius is all planes of shadow and his helmet is still pushed up enough for Enjolras to see the vague outline of his mouth, and something about this whole situation has Enjolras thrown completely off-balance because apparently sarcastic bounty hunters are a thing for him, which is a hell of a realization to have in the back staircase of a frat house. And more to the point, this guy can hold a conversation and throw a well-aimed punch, both of which are important for—for political activism and engaging as a citizen of the world, and—
Fuck it.
“Can I kiss you?” Enjolras asks.
“Uh,” Marius says, sounding even more startled than when Enjolras laughed earlier. “I mean, if—if you want? Are you drunk?”
Enjolras feels like he really is piloting an X-wing. As in, hurtling through space with no emergency brake. “I’m not drunk, and is that a yes?”
“Yes—”
Enjolras kisses him.
For a moment it’s awkward as hell, because the helmet is still half-on and knocks against Enjolras’s face and Marius gasps at the movement, but then he gasps in a different way when Enjolras tilts his head and snags Marius’s lower lip between his teeth. At first Marius holds very, very still, like he’s afraid he’s going to scare Enjolras off with any sudden movements, but then his hands come up to rest on Enjolras’s hips and he makes a small noise, pulling Enjolras closer. His lips are warm and taste like root beer chapstick, which is a bit unexpected, but Enjolras quickly figures out that he’s totally okay with that.
Enjolras has one hand wrapped in the cape where it falls across Marius’s chest, and he lifts the other hand to curl around the back of Marius’s neck, careful not to jostle the helmet again. Hair brushes Enjolras’s fingers, soft and slightly damp, and Enjolras’s heart feels like it’s going to beat right out of his chest, some mixture of adrenaline and anticipation and the way Marius’s entire body is pressed against his, a line of heat that begins with their knees slotted together and ends with the scrape of Marius’s stubble against his cheek.
When he pulls back, he still feels like he’s buzzing out of his skin, or hurtling through space, or some other costume-relevant metaphor, but now it’s like a galaxy has burst to life around him. Like there are so many places to go, and he wants to go everywhere.
He’s never going to thank a drunk frat asshole for anything, but a small part of Enjolras feels triumphant and more than a little vindictive that this is the end result of the Tarzan encounter. And the rest of him just really wants to kiss Marius again. Or talk about dead Roman empresses. Or accompany Marius to the gym. (Enjolras thinks he might have a thing for, like, the cloth that boxers wrap around their knuckles when they train with punching bags, and he’s absolutely willing to find out if that’s true, in the name of science.)
“Want to get a drink with me?” he asks, when he can pull a sentence together again.
“Right—right now?” Marius says, sounding a bit strangled.
“No,” Enjolras says, “another time. Maybe tomorrow. And the drink I mean is coffee, because honestly, I hate alcohol. Though, if you prefer that I’d be totally fine with—not coffee, too.”
“Um,” says Marius. “Ah. Yes. Coffee is fine.” Then: “Just, to be clear, are you—? I mean, you’re—?”
And, oh. Oh, shit. Of course. Enjolras hadn’t actually introduced himself earlier, because he’d been so focused on not making the conversation awkward, and then Marius had disappeared inside the frat house—
“Right, sorry,” Enjolras says, and laughs, rubbing a hand across his eyes. Then he holds out his hand, even though it’s probably a bit weird to go for a handshake after you’ve already kissed someone. “I’m Enjolras.”
Except…Marius doesn’t go for the handshake. He just sort of—stares at Enjolras’s hand through his lopsided helmet. Then he tilts his head back up to look at Enjolras.
And then he takes a step back.
“I have to go,” he says, pulling the helmet back down. He overcorrects, and it’s lopsided the other way now, but he doesn’t fix it, just ducks around Enjolras and hurries down the stairs, disappearing into the main house below.
And—fuck.
Enjolras stands on the landing for a moment, frantically replaying the last few minutes in his head. Marius had said yes, right? He’d said yes to the kiss? And then he’d said yes to coffee? All he can think is that Courfeyrac must’ve warned Marius about him—something like, Tread carefully when you meet Enjolras, he has a low tolerance for bullshit, which he’d heard Courf say, cheerfully, to at least three people in the past. Courfeyrac likes to caution people against arguing with Enjolras, or not warn people at all, depending on his mood on any given day, so—that has to be it, right?
He has to find Courfeyrac.
He makes his way back downstairs and pushes through the crowd until he reaches the yard, scanning costumes and seeing no sign of Boba Fett. The outside crowd is bigger now, and it takes Enjolras one and a half EDM(?) songs to spot his friends again. There’s Courfeyrac, chatting with Combeferre behind Cosette and Chewbacca-Grantaire, and it looks like Cosette and Grantaire are…slow dancing? Which, okay, strange. Irritating, maybe. But he doesn’t have time to deal with that right now.
Enjolras goes to step around them, and as he does Chewbacca-Grantaire breaks away from Cosette. “Hey!” he shouts over the music, holding out a fur-covered arm to Enjolras. “You must be—”
“Uh, not now,” Enjolras says, and keeps going.
It takes half a minute to get Courfeyrac’s attention, because he’s in the middle of telling a story to an entranced Combeferre, waving around a drink cup for emphasis. Enjolras has to duck at least twice to avoid losing an eye (and that just makes him think about Marius ducking Tarzan’s swing, and—damn it).
Finally, Courfeyrac notices him. “Courf, listen—,” Enjolras starts, but Courfeyrac grabs Enjolras’s face before he can finish, smushing his cheeks together.
“Who’s the best? Rebel pilot? In the whole galaxy??”
Enjolras pulls his hands away. “Courf.”
Courfeyrac’s still talking. “You were gone for so long. I wanted to introduce you to Marius—”
“We’ve met. That’s why I’m here. Where is he?”
Courfeyrac blinks, then looks behind Enjolras, frowning. “He was here just—huh.”
Enjolras turns. Only Joly and Musichetta are still behind them. Grantaire and Cosette have disappeared, too.
“He must’ve left,” Combeferre says.
“Ooooh,” Courfeyrac says. “I don’t see Cosette, either. I hope I’m not about to be sexiled. But I also hope she’s getting lucky, if that’s what she wants.”
“Does Cosette like Grantaire?” Enjolras asks, momentarily distracted.
Courfeyrac blinks again. “I don’t think so?”
Enjolras shakes his head. Focus. “I need to talk to Marius,” he says. “Can you help me find him?”
“Oh, god,” Courfeyrac says, “don’t tell me you got in a fight already.”
Enjolras doesn’t answer, and hopes it’s dark enough outside to hide his blush.
Combeferre and Courfeyrac help him scour the party, which takes far too long because there are far too many people, and surely this is a fire code violation or something. But there’s no sign of him. Grantaire and Cosette have totally disappeared, too, which is annoying because Cosette still has Enjolras’s phone.
But, okay. He’ll regroup. Courfeyrac mentions that he’s already planning to bring Marius to the next ABC meeting, and Enjolras makes him turn that into a promise. And then Enjolras goes home. And takes off his duct-taped suit. And sits on his bed in his dark apartment, the floor rattling from his downstairs neighbor’s own party, and he resolutely does not think about Boba Fett.
*
The next meeting is on Monday, and Enjolras definitely doesn’t practice what he’s going to say to Marius. Not at all. Or in front of a mirror. But he vaguely thinks he might lead with something like, Hey, I was a bit concerned when you ran off—I mean, when you left the party—and I just wanted to make sure you’re okay, and, I mean, if you also still want? Coffee? No pressure—?
Anyway, Monday evening arrives—after the longest four days of Enjolras’s university career so far—and there’s only one new face in the back of the Musain. A guy, lanky and light-haired, wearing an ironed button-down and sitting next to Cosette. This must be Marius, and he’s—okay, not exactly what Enjolras pictured, kind of preppy, but Enjolras doesn’t judge based on appearance. (He does not.) And he doesn’t see any bruising on Marius’s (clean-shaven) face, which is good. Maybe Tarzan didn’t hit him that hard.
All the not-practicing in front of the mirror makes Enjolras a bit late, so he doesn’t have time to talk to Marius before the meeting itself. He slides into his seat as Combeferre starts reviewing last week’s notes, and then Jehan and Feuilly report on their meeting with the local school district superintendent, and Enjolras lets himself get swept up in finding ways to allocate university resources back into the surrounding neighborhoods.
Ideas are flying across the tables, and Enjolras feels a bit proud, that Marius’s first meeting is one like this. One where they’re full of optimism and possibility, where they haven’t hit the snags in their planning yet or had someone look at them across a desk and say, This just isn’t a priority for this budget year. He tries not to look at Marius too much, though when he does, Marius is usually whispering to Cosette. (And is Cosette leaning on his shoulder? Do they know each other?)
But it’s fine. He’s not going to be too bothered by it, not when they’ve got traction on their next project and everyone’s here again. (Everyone, that is, except Grantaire, even though Grantaire was supposed to pick up the student org flyers from the print lab to pass out today. Enjolras tries not to be too bothered by this, either.)
Marius still doesn’t talk much throughout the meeting, even during the Q&A at the end. And, again, it’s fine. Maybe Marius is shy. Maybe he’s not that into university finance reform, which makes Enjolras’s heart sink a bit. Or maybe he’s still scoping out the group before he feels like chiming in.
Finally, once Bahorel brings two glasses of wine back to the table and the conversation tips toward social, Enjolras approaches Marius.
“Hey, ah, Marius,” he says. “Hi.”
And this is where all the not-practicing dries up, because Cosette is watching and at least half of his friends are within immediate earshot, and no amount of practice is going to create a non-awkward way to say, Hey, we kissed at the party and then you disappeared, what’s up with that?
So Enjolras clears his throat and says, “We met at the party?”
Marius blinks for a moment, then grins, standing up. “Yeah—we did! Hi!” he says, and then holds out a hand. For a handshake.
Enjolras stares.
Okay.
“You…left early?” he says as they shake. Marius’s hand is cool. Smooth. For some reason, Enjolras remembers his hands being rough when he’d pushed Enjolras away from Tarzan. But it was kind of a blur.
Marius blushes. “Um. Yeah. I didn’t think you’d noticed.” For some reason he glances at Cosette. And for some reason, none of this seems right.
“I mean,” Enjolras says, “I noticed. It was…I guess I wanted to talk more. So.”
At this, Marius beams. “Oh. I didn’t realize! You looked really busy? That night? Sorry! Wow, Courf said you were kind of, ah, harsh, but he was totally kidding, wasn’t he.”
None of this. Is making. Sense.
At least five of his friends are staring at him, including Cosette. And Courfeyrac, who is slowly coming over, and actually looks more concerned than anything. “Enj, you feeling okay?”
“Yes.” No.
“I loved your costume,” Marius is saying. “What a great use of duct tape. You were Poe, right? He’s my favorite. Other than Chewbacca, but, who doesn’t love Chewie? I’ve had my costume for three years because we did a Star Wars show in high school, and hey, I actually used some duct tape on it, too—on the inside, though—”
“You…,” Enjolras says. “You were Chewbacca.”
“Yeah,” Marius says. Everyone is staring. “Oh, are you not—sorry, I assumed you were a fan, no worries, yeah, Chewbacca’s the really big, furry one? Like—” He stretches his hands above his head to show how tall Chewbacca is. How tall the Chewbacca on Halloween was not. The Chewbacca on Halloween was 100% Marius-height. And 100% went home with Cosette. And that means that Marius 100% was not Boba Fett.
“I have to go right now,” Enjolras says, and leaves.
No one follows. Normally Courfeyrac would, but Enjolras suspects he’s still trying to convince Marius that no, Marius didn’t do anything wrong, it’s fine, Enjolras probably has a meeting with Professor Lamarque, he’s just very goal-oriented, you know. Which is fine. Enjolras needs to—breathe. And focus. And pay attention to the hallway and not think about another hallway where not-Marius punched Tarzan in the gut.
He’s doing a great job not thinking about that. So great that he shoves the hallway door open without looking, slamming it right into someone on the other side.
“Fuck,” Enjolras says immediately, and then “fuck,” when he steps on a fallen piece of paper and skids across the tile.
Someone catches him.
“Oh,” that someone says, and lets go. Enjolras stumbles and looks up.
It’s Grantaire, clutching half a stack of flyers, the other half scattered around the hallway floor. He’s a mess, wearing paint-stained jeans and a ragged sweater and day-two stubble and this sort of spooked expression, but that’s not what holds Enjolras’s attention.
He has a black eye.
His left eye.
Like maybe someone hit him.
On the eye.
Four nights ago.
“Oh my god,” Enjolras says.
“Sorry,” Grantaire says, like it’s a reflex, and crouches down to start gathering the flyers. “I mean, um, I was just—bringing the flyers. Because Combeferre called and said the timeline was kind of—sorry they’re late, I guess. But here.” He holds out the messy stack, avoiding Enjolras’s gaze. Enjolras doesn’t move.
“You were,” Enjolras starts.
“Sorry,” Grantaire says again.
“That was you,” Enjolras tries.
Grantaire winces. “Look, I didn’t realize you didn’t—I thought something was up, but I should’ve—can we just forget about it?”
Enjolras stares at Grantaire, who still won’t meet his eyes. He stares at the bruise, that Grantaire got pulling a drunk asshole away from Enjolras. At Grantaire’s hands, which are definitely split around the knuckles from punching said asshole. (Enjolras thinks they’d probably look really good wrapped up at the gym. Okay. That’s a thing, then.) Grantaire was Boba Fett. The mercenary with a handmade helmet. The guy who made Enjolras laugh with a rant about a Roman empress. The guy who kissed Enjolras on the landing of a frat house stairwell.
“You punched Tarzan,” Enjolras says.
Grantaire holds very still, and does not answer.
“You kissed me back,” Enjolras says.
Grantaire drops his hand. “I can—,” he starts. Swallows. “I can not come to meetings anymore, if that’s what you want. Or, I don’t know, you can chalk it up to you being really drunk?”
Enjolras frowns. “I wasn’t drunk.”
Grantaire makes a small, frustrated noise. “I’m sorry—”
“Stop saying that—”
“I don’t know what you want from me.” And finally, finally, Grantaire looks at Enjolras, and Enjolras feels a bit like he’s the one who just got punched. In a good way.
“I already told you what I want,” Enjolras says. “On Halloween.”
Grantaire blinks. “What?”
“Coffee,” Enjolras says. “Get coffee with me.”
For a moment Grantaire just keeps staring, lips parted. And for a moment Enjolras thinks he’s miscalculated again. That he—
“Oh,” Grantaire says, and it’s almost the same soft sound he made when Enjolras kissed him on the stairs. “Oh. Yes. All right.”
“Also,” Enjolras adds, because he’s already feeling off-balance and bold and, fuck it, because he definitely has been thinking about that kiss for four days, “I want to kiss you again. If that’s all right with you.”
“Yes,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras steps forward.
This time, when the flyers fall to the ground again, neither of them stop to pick them up.