Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Grantaire got the job at the restaurant’s bar through a sequence of events he was far too drunk to follow, but three months later and counting and he’s still here, so it must have been one of his better alcohol-influenced ideas.

It’s an easy job, really. The maître d, Courfeyrac, greets the singles as they come in, checks their reservation, makes a charming comment to put them at ease, then leads them over to where Grantaire waits at the bar. Grantaire mixes them some liquid courage as they wait for their blind date and makes small talk; he is nothing if not full of hot hair. After a few minutes or so their date arrives, Courfeyrac brings them over, and the couple are taken off to a table in the restaurant proper. Nothing to it. 

Over the last few months Grantaire has chatted to all types of single people braving the doors of the First Dates restaurant: ones who have been single forever; ones who should stay single forever; those looking to move on from an earlier relationship; those talked into blind dating by a friend; heavily confident dudebros with muscles bigger than their heads; self-proclaimed geeks who are their own worst enemies when they start prattling on about fake gamers; nervous people with big hearts and trembling hands. 

Grantaire likes talking to them, finding out their stories, what makes them tick – even if he thinks they’re pretty deluded, looking to find love in a restaurant set up for a TV show. None of it’s real.

Then Enjolras walks in. 

Grantaire has seen plenty of hot people in the First Dates restaurant before, has even flirted with a few, confident in the knowledge that they’re not here for him, and so it doesn’t matter if he is rejected. It’s more fun, when he has no chance. He can do what he wants, say what he likes. He wouldn’t have the confidence to be this forward with beautiful people if he didn’t know that they were only interested in their blind date, and their five minutes of fame on TV.

But even so, when Enjolras walks in, Grantaire has to stop what he’s doing for a second and stare because, holy shit.

His second thought, half a second later, is: there’s no way that guy is single.

Courfeyrac greets Enjolras with a familiarity that speaks of a long acquaintance. For a second Grantaire’s mind jars with the idea that this is the infamous Combeferre, Courfeyrac’s oft-talked about but never-seen partner, then Courfeyrac presses a quick kiss to each of Enjolras’s cheeks, entirely chaste. 

The waitress Grantaire’s been talking to for the last few minutes, Floreal, says something, and Grantaire makes a vague noise in response, watching as Enjolras unwinds a red scarf from his neck. His fingers are long and fine-boned, a pianist’s. Underneath his coat is a suit, well-cut and expensive.

“Grantaire,” Floreal says, to get his attention.

“Yeah?” Grantaire replies absently, not listening.

Courfeyrac is very good-looking. He has his own little group of fans who tune in to watch the show each week purely to see his easy smiles as he greets each of the single people through the doors and listen to his words of wisdom when it comes to love. He has his own fan page on Facebook. People retweet gifs of his words on love and the way he brushes his hair out of his eyes. But next to Enjolras he looks like the boy-next-door: easy, charming, warm.

In comparison, Enjolras is sharp, arresting, beautiful. 

As usual, Courfeyrac leads Enjolras towards the bar. Enjolras has arrived first, before his date. He strides with a purpose, like he’s going into battle, not on a date. He wears a small frown; it’s obvious he doesn’t exactly want to be here. Which is cool, Grantaire has put at ease many people dubious about their first dates.

He’s just never had to reassure someone so impossibly stunning before.

Floreal has given up on getting a reply from him altogether, standing with her elbow resting on the bar surface and her chin cupped in the palm of her hand. Her too-intelligent brown eyes are focused on Enjolras. “Hm,” she says. 

“Hm?” Grantaire echoes, unable to tear his eyes away from the approaching model. “What does that mean?”

Floreal tilts her head to look back at him, expression unreadable. “Oh, now you’re paying attention to me?”

Before Grantaire gets time to respond, Courfeyrac and Enjolras are within earshot. Behind them, one of the camera men follows, along with one of the large microphone things. Grantaire never did learn the technical name of all the stuff. After a while you get used to it, forget the crew is even there. 

“Grantaire, this is Enjolras,” says Courfeyrac. “Enjolras, this is Grantaire. Grantaire will look after you whilst you wait for your date.”

Grantaire gives the dumbest wave of his life. He has never waved at a customer before. Courfeyrac arches an eyebrow at him as if to say ‘what the fuck’.

Grantaire clears his throat. “Hey.”

“Hey,” replies Enjolras.

Courfeyrac places a hand on Enjolras’s shoulder, a slight squeeze, and breathes, “Relax,” too low for the camera crew to hear. Then he’s off back to his post at the door, waiting for the next single person to arrive. 

There’s an awkward pause where Enjolras just stands there and Grantaire just watches him stand there. 

“Well,” says Floreal, “As fascinating as this silence is, I have a table to serve.” She picks up her drinks tray from the top of the bar and turns away, leaving the two of them alone.

Grantaire winces and Enjolras's brows draw together into a frown. He looks like he’s working his way through a problem, not quite sure what answer he’s going to find. Like he's a second away from bolting, trying to work out his fight or flight response. It happens a lot, when singles get here, like ordering a drink from Grantaire suddenly makes it all real and not just a TV show they signed up to for a laugh. 

Grantaire slides a coaster across the bar and says, “So, what’ll you have?”

Enjolras seems to come to some sort of decision then, his brow smoothing, though still unreadable, and moves to sit on the nearest bar stool. “The strongest thing you have.” One of his hands rests on the surface of the bar, there’s a simple silver ring on one of his fingers. 

That, Grantaire can do. “Coming up.”

He decides to stick to simple; this guy looks like old money, the type of person who actually tastes wine before deciding on a bottle, rather than just grabbing the cheapest and strongest option from the bottom shelf, like Grantaire. 

His fingers feel clumsy and heavy as he pours the whiskey over ice. “So, Courfeyrac bullied you into this?”

Enjolras quirks an eyebrow at him. There’s the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Something like that.”

“Surprised you held out this long,” Grantaire replies, placing the glass tumbler down on the coaster. “He can be very… persuasive.” Not exactly the adjective he wants to use, but for all he knows Enjolras and Courfeyrac are die-hard best friends. Better not to piss off the customer by insulting his companions. 

“Insistently annoying, you mean,” Enjolras interprets, and picks up the whiskey.

Grantaire feels himself flush slightly as he watches Enjolras knock back two thirds of the glass. His eyes trail the long line of Enjolras’s throat, then imagine trailing it with his teeth, instead. 

“You said it, not me,” he says, as Enjolras puts the glass down. “So where’s he been hiding you?” You think Courfeyrac would have the decency to drop it into conversation: hi, Grantaire, having a good day? By the way, my best friend is a super model.

Maybe not.

“What?” asks Enjolras, looking startled.

Shit. “Well, I mean, he’s never mentioned you? At least, I don’t think he has. He talks about Combeferre, when his guard is down - or he's had a drink. Mostly it's just about how great he is. It's sickeningly sweet.”

Enjolras really smiles now, fond and affectionate. It makes something warm in Grantaire’s chest. He tries desperately to smother the feeling as Enjolras says, “I can imagine,” and finishes off what’s left of his whiskey. “They’re happy together. I think they want the same for me.”

“And, what, you can’t be happy and single?" 

Enjolras looks down at his glass as it’s filled. "I don’t know. I guess I just haven’t met the right guy.” He glances up then, an entirely casual movement, but when his eyes meet Grantaire’s it makes something stutter in his chest.

So Enjolras likes guys, then. Not that it will have any effect on Grantaire’s night. His job is to put Enjolras at ease, to get him ready for his real date. Not to entertain impossible what-ifs. And so he says, “Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place.”

For a second they stare at each other, and then Enjolras laughs. Grantaire can’t help it, he does too. 

“Sorry,” says Grantaire, “I tried to be sincere but seriously. Your friends want you to be happy so they sign you up for a blind dating TV show?”

“Yeah,” replies Enjolras, still smiling. “Some friends, right?”

“Enjolras.” Grantaire hadn’t even noticed Courfeyrac approaching, now he wishes he had. At Courfeyrac’s side is a tall guy with glasses, dirty-blond hair and an undercut. He has that effortless casual look going on, chic librarian. He looks a little nervous, but smiles when he sees Enjolras. 

Enjolras’s eyes move to Courfeyrac’s for a second, some sort of question Grantaire can’t decipher, then he’s standing up from the bar stool. He holds out a hand in greeting and the other man shakes it, firm. He looks a lot more put-together than Grantaire, the type of person who actually has his life together. The camera crew move closer to catch the shots as he and Enjolras exchange names. Courfeyrac leads them away to one of the tables in the restaurant proper and makes a show of pulling out both of their chairs. 

Grantaire does not spend his evening watching how their date is going. 

The night goes on and more singles come and go. Some leave together with their dates, others say hasty goodbyes and dive into the taxis outdoors alone. Numbers are exchanged, promises to meet again are made, there is even an actual kiss between one couple. 

Grantaire pops out at one point for a cigarette on one of his breaks, is startled when he finds a familiar person outside doing the same.

“How goes it?” he asks, “Found the love of your life?”

Enjolras arches an eyebrow at him. In the light of the nearest street lamp his cheekbones look even sharper, his hair burned gold. He is stupidly pretty. He exhales smoke. “He’s… nice.”

Grantaire laughs. “Oh, wow. Wow.” Is there a more damning description?

Enjolras scowls at him. “Don’t. He is nice, really. Genuine, funny, he works hard. Says all the right things, we have plenty in common.”

“But he doesn’t make you tingle?”

The look Enjolras gives him could cut diamonds.

“Dude,” says Grantaire, “So you don’t like him that way, so what? You think you’re the first person to go on a date and not feel any chemistry? Happens to us all. Just smile and enjoy the rest of your night and go home after, safe in the knowledge you’ll never have to see him again.”

Enjolras hums in response, not quite agreement.

Grantaire shrugs, and flicks ash into the wind. “You can always try again. It’s called first dates, right? Plural.”

Enjolras takes a drag of his cigarette as he thinks it over. Cars pass in the night. For once, there are no cameras around; it feels almost as if they are the only two people in the world. He stubs his cigarette out before saying, "I don’t think nice is my type.”

“Oh?” says Grantaire. 

Enjolras grins. There’s nothing nice about it at all. “Doesn’t mean I can’t be charming.” He straightens his tie, which has been fighting with gravity all night, refusing to stay knotted at his neck. “Enjoy your break.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire replies, confused, and watches as Enjolras walks back into the restaurant. 

Grantaire spends the rest of the night thinking about what Enjolras said. When Enjolras and his date are long gone - numbers exchanged, a polite hug, separate taxis - Grantaire cleans own the bar and then waits at the door for Floreal, as she fastens the buttons on her coat with one hand and texts her banker boyfriend with the other.

"Am I nice?“ he asks her, holding the door open. 

Floreal snorts. "No.” She hits send on her message and looks up from the phone screen as she asks, “Why?”

“No reason.”

- - - 

He tries not to read into it then, the following week, when Enjolras returns to First Dates restaurant. 

After all, Grantaire’s just the bartender.

Chapter Text

Enjolras has his own Twitter hashtag. 

Not even five minutes after his first appearance on screen, the hashtag #hotblond appears in the First Dates tag. When his date doesn’t go too well, and after the subsequent awkward after-dinner interview, it morphs into #gethotblondlaid, or so Floreal tells Grantaire, the day after the episode airs.

“You actually watch this shit?” Grantaire asks in response, pretending he doesn’t really care (because he doesn’t, he met the guy once and they spoke for, like, two minutes) by stacking glasses on the shelves behind the bar. 

“Of course I do,” she replies. “I like to see how spectacularly some people fail. Tips for what not to do on a date.”

“You have a boyfriend.”

“That doesn’t mean we don’t go on dates.”

Grantaire tries to imagine Floreal on a date with her boyfriend, a hot-shot banker in the city, and cannot imagine it to be a very thrilling experience - but he’s wise enough not to say so to her face. Instead, he says, “No Netflix and chill?”

“Oh there’s plenty of Netflix and chill.”

“My god why did I even ask.”

Floreal smiles sweetly at him, leaning forwards on the bar, settling in like she's going to tell him all the things he wished he never knew, but he’s managed to distract her from the topic of Enjolras, so it’s worth it. 

Enjolras, who Grantaire tries not to think about for the next few days and ends up thinking about all the time anyway. Plenty of other hot people come through the doors of the First Dates restaurant in the following days, but if he’s honest, none can hold a candle to Enjolras. They’re still interesting to talk to (well, most of them are, a couple are absolute tools) but, again, they’re not him. 

The hashtag doesn’t disappear, keeps doing the rounds on Twitter, so Grantaire is not entirely surprised when Enjolras returns to the First Dates restaurant the following week, though he is surprised when his heart does this weird little clench thing in his chest. 

He's wearing the red scarf again. Grantaire tries not to smile as he busies himself with filling a drinks order for one of the tables, and when he looks up again Enjolras has already seated himself at the bar. Courfeyrac stands with him, chatting idly, and smiles when Grantaire heads over to their end of the bar.

“Hey, hotblond,” Grantaire greets, putting down a glass of whiskey in front of Enjolras. 

Enjolras scowls at the nickname. Courfeyrac makes a sound. “And hotbrunette,” Grantaire amends. “Though I’m sure Combeferre has much more interesting names for you.”

Courfeyrac just grins at that, and doesn’t reply. He is frustrating, with how little he says about his other half. Grantaire wants to know everything — just think of the money he could make, selling the sordid details to the magazines. He could afford the top shelf wine. 

“There was a time he wanted to be called Courfeyrad,” Enjolras says, giving Grantaire reason to look at him. “Dark times.”

“Hey,” says Courfeyrac. “In my defence I was thirteen at the time.”

“There is no defence for Courfeyrad.”

“Better than Courfeylad?” Grantaire suggests, and is surprised when Enjolras laughs softly. He has a nice laugh. “Has he ever suggested going for a Cheeky Nandos?”

“I would never,” Courfeyrac says, looking honestly offended, a hand pressed against his chest, but the corners of his lips are pulling up like he wants to smile. Just then, the door to the restaurant opens as a new single customer walks in. Courfeyrac glances back and then excuses himself, leaving Enjolras and Grantaire alone. 

“So,” says Grantaire, “How’s fame treating you?”

Enjolras gives him a flat look. “Funny. I don’t think it really counts as fame, if people only want to get you laid because you can’t, apparently, do it yourself.” He curls his hand around the tumbler of whiskey and takes a drink.

Somehow Grantaire manages not to choke out, “You can’t get laid? You?” and instead says, in a much more controlled voice as he watches the line of Enjolras's throat as he swallows, “Hey, it could be worse. The tag could be #letuglyblonddiealone.”

Enjolras’s eyebrows rise. “Ugly?” For a moment, Grantaire has the horrible feeling that he’s offended him, that Enjolras is actually fully aware of his looks and conceited because of them, but then Enjolras says, in a fierce voice worthy of arguing a case in court, not discussing twitter hashtags in a bar, “Beauty is a social construct, mass-marketed and sold to us by corporations with agendas. It is damaging to young children who grow up thinking there’s only one way to look, some ideal, and that if they don’t reach it–”

“Woah,” Grantaire says, “Hold up there. Are you saying that beauty doesn’t exist?”

“I’m saying it’s not a real thing, that we’re sold the idea beauty is one thing or another, whatever sells the most products. Usually tall, thin, white, blue-eyed, flawless skin, when actually, the percentage of the population who–”

“Wow,” says Grantaire, “Have you, like, looked in a mirror recently?”

That brings Enjolras up short. “What?”

Grantaire waves a hand in his general direction. “I mean, look at all of - this. It’s easy for you to say beauty doesn’t mean anything when you look like a fucking supermodel with your long legs and blond hair and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen and even your hands—”

“Enjolras,” says Courfeyrac, “I’d like you to meet your date.”

Grantaire may have lost his point somewhere in that rant. Enjolras is looking at him in surprise, mouth slightly open (even his teeth are perfect and white, what the fuck), and then slowly, he seems to get a hold of himself and turns to face his date. 

This time the man is less well-dressed, more casual. Less hipster librarian and more regular working-man. He has ginger hair, a splash of freckles across his nose and an easy smile. “Feuilly,” he says, introducing himself, and holds out a hand for Enjolras to shake. Enjolras returns the smile as he shakes Feuilly’s hand and glances down at his own hand as he pulls it away, thoughtful. 

Then the cameras are zooming in and he’s being steered away with Feuilly to a table, and Grantaire is once again alone at the bar. This time he tries to take a leaf out of Floreal’s book, watching the dates in the restaurant itself - though if he’s honest, he’s mostly just watching Enjolras and Feuilly. 

Only there's no sign of a failed date or any tips for what not to do: they seem to be getting on well. Really well. It’s obvious from the way their conversation never falters, how neither of them reach for their phones as a distraction. They take longer over their meal than they should, too busy talking to eat everything whilst it’s still hot. 

Over at the door by his post Courfeyrac beams, and sends a quick text on his phone. 

It’s a genuine accident when Grantaire ends up speaking to Enjolras again: they’re two staff members down and busier than expected tonight, so when Louison asks him to start taking drinks to tables rather than waiting for the servers to come and collect, Grantaire says yes with minimal good-natured grumping.  

It’s easy enough to take the drinks out to the tables after he’s made them, balancing them on a thick heavy black tray they give him. He was actually a cater-waiter once, for his sins, serving top-shelf wine at functions to people who looked like Enjolras. He realises this means he’ll be in the background of more than one shot, as he passes the camera crew and sound technicians, but figures no one will really notice him. 

He's just dropping off two beers at one table, followed by a cocktail and glass of water at another, then turns and realises he’s right by Enjolras’s table. He falters, and in that moment Enjolras glances up and spots him. He's currently sat alone; Feuilly must have excused himself to go to the toilet. 

“Oh, hey,” says Enjolras. 

“Hey,” Grantaire replies, balancing the serving tray up in the air by his shoulder. “How’s it going?”

“Great,” Enjolras says, genuinely enthusiastic. His eyes light up. “Nice. Feuilly is – he’s wonderful. He’s taking part in those regeneration projects across town, re-purposing derelict land. He’s working with local childcare and foster homes, getting kids involved in the project, so they can help make their own spaces.”

“Uh-huh,” Grantaire replies. He can’t remember the last time he was involved in anything, or had a purpose. It never bothered him before but now, hearing about Feuilly’s virtues, it gnaws.

“It’s admirable,” Enjolras says. “Do you think it’s weird if I ask if I can be involved?”

“Um.”

“It’s weird, isn’t it?”

“Well, you did only meet him an hour ago.”

“Is that all it’s been? It feels like longer.” Like we’ve known each other our whole lives, Grantaire’s mind supplies bitterly. 

“Well,” he says, shifting his grip on his tray, “I have to go. Have, uh, fun.” Enjolras frowns at him, but Grantaire doesn’t stick around, stepping past a nearby camera as he moves between the tables on the way to the bar, his sanctuary. An island. 

He’s careful to make sure he doesn’t go near Enjolras’s table again for the rest of the night, letting those drinks be taken by other servers. He finds himself distracted, his thoughts far away, and only really snaps out of it when two men come in together: Joly and Bossuet. At first, Grantaire thinks that one of them is here to be set up on a date and the other is here for moral support - it wouldn't be the first time - and then Joly admits he's nervous and Bossuet reassures him with a kiss that is definitely not chaste.

"Wow," says Grantaire. "Okay."

They regale him with puns and anecdotes at the bar, somehow managing to cheer him right back up, getting his mind off of Enjolras and Feuilly and their wonderful date. Then Bossuet spills his drink over their date, Musichetta, when she arrives, when he gets to his feet enthusiastically and forgets that he has elbows. 

Musichetta, to her credit, takes it in her stride, and the three of them bundle into a taxi outside without ever sitting down at a table for their date, Joly already pulling off his top to offer it gallantly to her. 

Grantaire doesn’t see Feuilly and Enjolras leave, but he assumes that they both go together.

He’s surprised, then, when the following week Enjolras returns to the First Dates restaurant. It must show on his face, because Enjolras smiles as he sits down on a bar stool opposite him and says, “I told you, I don’t like nice.”

“Oh,” says Grantaire, and feels a little like he can’t breathe.

“Now,” says Enjolras, leaning forwards, his arms crossed on the surface of the bar. “I’ve been thinking about what you said last week…”

Chapter Text

“Do I believe in love?” asks Enjolras. He pauses as he considers the question, looking thoughtful. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Grantaire finally caved and is watching Enjolras’s first appearance on First Dates, almost a month ago now. In his living room, Grantaire sits wearing an extremely sexy over-sized green hoodie and eating dry cereal from a bowl with his fork. On screen, Enjolras looks incredibly smart in the suit Grantaire now knows he was wearing because he’d just come from his job as an associate at a law firm. 

“I believe other people have found it,” Enjolras says. “My best friends, for example. As for me?” he laughs, soft, and glances slightly away from the camera. He's tapping the fingers of one hand on his knee, restless. “I think I’m hard to take. My friends come first, they’re my family; people find that hard to accept. I care a lot about my job, about what I do. I guess you’d say I’m… passionate. It’s difficult to find someone who isn’t put off by that.”

He shrugs, and looks back at the camera, straight to where Grantaire sits in the living room of his shitty apartment. “But who knows? Maybe I just haven’t met the right person yet.”

- - - 

It’s become a bit of a thing, Enjolras appearing in the First Dates restaurant. 

After his first date (one which was doomed from the start, Enjolras once told Grantaire, because Courfeyrac basically set him up with a carbon copy of Combeferre), and his second date with Feuilly (who has since become one of Enjolras’s closest friends), the whole nation seems to have made it their mission to find him a successful first date.

“Last night was the worst one yet,” Enjolras says, sitting down at the bar as Grantaire cleans it down early one morning. This has become a thing, too: Enjolras returning the night after his dates, for what Grantaire has come to refer to as a debrief. 

Grantaire now knows several things about Enjolras’s turn-offs:

1. Using the word ‘friendzone’ un-ironically
2. Not tipping the staff
3. Meninists
4. Man buns
5. And, the worst of all: when his dates are nice

He knows much less about what it turns him on, but then neither does the rest of the nation. The only constants about Enjolras are his red scarf, which he wears every time he comes back for a date; that he’s best friends with Courfeyrac and always greets him with a kiss on the cheek; and that he always arrives first, before his date, and chats to Grantaire at the bar. 

“Oh?” says Grantaire. Just over Enjolras’s shoulder he can see Floreal and Courfeyrac gossiping by the front door. Floreal has taken to giving Grantaire this look, whenever Enjolras is around. 

“I’m starting to think there really isn’t anyone.”

“Why do you keep coming back, then?” Grantaire asks, genuinely curious, and not just because he wishes it was because of him. His ridiculous crush on Enjolras has only continued to grow since that first meeting.

“For the excellent drinks, clearly,” Enjolras drawls. 

Grantaire hits his arm with the end of his cleaning rag. “Don’t mock my mixing skills.”

“It’s all Combeferre’s fault,” Enjolras says, “Or, well, something like it. Courfeyrac was the one who originally wanted me to find someone, but now Combeferre thinks there’s a possibility too. I have no idea why he thinks that, though, considering how all my dates have gone so far.”

“Maybe he just likes watching you squirm on national TV.”

Enjolras flicks a drink coaster at him. “Combeferre’s got good sense. If he believes in something, it’s usually right. So here I am. Well, here I was,” he corrects, as he catches sight of his watch on his wrist. “I’ve got to get to work. See you next week?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire replies. “Same time, same place, new date.”

Enjolras smiles as he leaves, and is swiftly replaced by Floreal, who leans against the bar, watching him watching Enjolras leave, and says, “Wow, you’re fucked.”

- - - 

Grantaire really is; it’s hard enough knowing that he won’t ever have Enjolras, but watching him go on dates is even worse. On the one hand he wants them to go well - he’s not selfish enough to wish a bad time on other people - but there’s a horrible twist in his stomach whenever he sees Enjolras laugh at someone else’s jokes or they manage to make him smile. He starts to look forwards to their debriefs and the conversations they have before Enjolras goes on his dates, brief moments where Grantaire can pretend he's more than just the bartender. 

He discovers a few weeks in that they’re filming his conversations with Enjolras too, when different people seem to recognise him when they come for a drink before their own dates. It’s strange at first, when they greet him by name and talk to him as if they actually know him, but he gets used to it, even fielding a few questions about what he himself thinks Enjolras is looking for in a partner. 

“Well, they’ve got to be a career person,” he tells one, “You know, ‘cause he’s so focused on work. They’d understand.”

“A guy, obviously,” he tells another.

“Likes wearing green,” he says one day in December, “Because then it will be super festive with his red scarf.”

Whilst admiring Enjolras from afar: “Someone who can appreciate those cheekbones.”

"The complete opposite of whoever Courfeyrac suggests," when Courfeyrac is clearly within earshot. 

One time he finds himself saying, “A dog person. Enjolras is clearly a cat person, so the thought amuses me, and we can’t always get what we want.”

- - - 

“Hello.”

Grantaire looks up, startled. It’s the week before Christmas and they’re getting very busy. Tasteful decorations are up everywhere and most people are in a festive mood. Everyone seems happier than usual and more relaxed, willing to enjoy the holiday season. It does mean, however, that they’re busier than usual, as couples stay longer and order more drinks. The mulled wine is going down a treat, even if it's a pain to heat up to the right temperature. 

When Grantaire looks up from the mulled wine to the man stood on the other side of the bar, his eyes widen. He’s - well, he’s hot. Not Enjolras levels of hot, but there’s definitely something there, in an effortless sort of way. Grantaire has never found a hipster attractive before, but hot damn if he did. 

“Hi,” Grantaire replies, a beat too late for it to sound normal. 

The man smiles, and pushes his glasses up his nose from where they’ve slightly slipped. “I’m here to take you on a date.”

“What,” says Grantaire because, seriously, what. 

“I decided it was time I stepped in,” the man says, which makes even less sense. “So if you don’t mind?” he gestures to the open side of the bar for Grantaire to step out. 

Grantaire, still a little stunned, glances around. One of the cameras is focused directly on him. What the fuck. Just behind the camera he can see Floreal, grinning across at him with a quirked eyebrow as if to say ‘well?’ Seeing her confidence makes Grantaire stubborn, which in this context makes him unwilling to make an idiot of himself. He takes a step forwards, and then moves out from behind the bar. 

The man smiles at him, and places a hand on the small of Grantaire’s back to guide him towards a table. Where the hell is Courfeyrac? Is he part of this ambush? Why is no one stopping it?

“Look, seriously, I’m flattered,” Grantaire says, “But I’m working… I’m supposed to be on the bar.”

“Don’t worry about that,” says the man. “It’s all in hand.”

Grantaire can do nothing but sit, when they finally arrive at the table. His date doesn’t do the same and instead steps back. Is he having second thoughts already? Grantaire’s mind shrieks, close to hysteria. Oh God, how is this his life. 

“I don’t even know your name,” he says to his date.

“Combeferre,” the man says, and walks away, leaving Grantaire at the date table by himself with one of the camera crew. 

“What,” says Grantaire. 

Across the restaurant, Combeferre steps behind the bar like he’s been doing it his whole life and begins serving a little old lady who has just arrived for her own date. Grantaire wants to stare some more - it’s the famed Combeferre, after all - but then if Combeferre isn’t his date, who is? Why has he been left at a table by himself? Is this some sort of joke?

Grantaire looks around for Floreal, who has conveniently disappeared, and consequently doesn’t notice two people approaching his table. The camera crew do, though. They zoom right in on Courfeyrac and the man he’s bringing over as Grantaire’s date. 

In fact, the whole restaurant notices. 

It’s the sudden hush and the ripple of anticipation that runs through the restaurant which catches Grantaire’s attention. He turns to see what everyone is looking at, and finds himself staring up at a familiar face. 

“Hey,” says Courfeyrac. “Grantaire, I’d like you to meet Enjolras. Enjolras, this is Grantaire. He’ll be your date for the evening.”

“Hi,” says Enjolras. He looks a little nervous. His tie is undone as usual, loose around his neck. He holds his suit jacket in one hand. 

“What,” says Grantaire. 

Chapter Text