Archive of Our Own

On Poignant Questions and the Evolution of their Answers

There are things Enjolras doesn’t understand, and those things get under her skin.

Grantaire - though Enjolras is loathe to refer to any human being as a thing she allows it in the context of her current thoughts - is one of those things. Grantaire gets under her skin and she itches, and no amount of scratching alleviates the itch, but she can’t ignore it either.

It started out as indifference, and Enjolras longs for those days sometimes. That didn’t last long. Nobody is truly capable of indifference when it comes to that woman.

Some days Enjolras manages to convince herself that she hates Grantaire, instead of settling for annoyance as she does most of the time. How else can she justify such strong reactions to the other woman’s presence? When Enjolras does not feel a stab of irritation as soon as Grantaire opens her mouth, she gets headaches, or her blood starts boiling until the pounding in her skull becomes unbearable. It’s a very visceral reaction, but indifference is impossible, even to feign.

“Why - oh god, sorry - are you here?”

Today is one of those days. As she finds the brunette doubled over outside of the Musain, hands on her knees and staring at the puddle her vomit made, Enjolras can tell herself she hates Grantaire and almost mean it. She certainly hates Grantaire’s excessive drinking, her inability to even consider moderation, always overshooting, never course-correcting - and that is as much a part of her as anything else, maybe more, who can say? If the majority of a person’s actions disgust you, can the person perpetrating them be entirely exempt from the disgust?

Exactly.

Her bile is dark, looks a little like she just had granulated coffee by the spoonful.

(Enjolras wishes she could say she hasn’t seen Grantaire do that before to keep herself awake. But she has. Grantaire had winked at her while she’d shoveled it down despite earning only immense aversion from all witnesses, the crunch of her teeth making Enjolras shiver. Disgusting. She’d told herself she hated Grantaire a bit then as well, and she’d definitely hated the thought of what the inside of her mouth must have tasted like for hours afterwards, bitter like her words.)

It’s raining, and already the puddle has formed a small stream towards the gutter, as if to erase what Enjolras just witnessed.

“The meeting hasn’t even started yet,” Enjolras huffs, aware that she doesn’t need to voice her criticism but feeling the need to. “How are you already this wasted? Go home, Grantaire. You’ll do no good here anyway.”

Grantaire’s eyes snap up, red-rimmed and mascara smudged. Her eyes don’t focus for a while, she has to blink to get rid of the apparent delirium. Enjolras can’t remember seeing the woman looking acceptably put together, ever. Granted, she only sees Grantaire when she sullenly sits in the back of the room, nursing a drink or ten. Nobody puts their best foot forward while drunk, and Grantaire seems to always be drunk or well on the way there. Grantaire might not even have a good foot to put forward, but Enjolras is not the leading authority on All Things Grantaire; Grantaire isn’t even the leading authority on that.

Perhaps Enjolras’ opinion of Grantaire would change if she ever saw her at university like Combeferre does when she wants someone to have a look at her philosophy papers before she hands them in. But that would require interest, to start with, which neither of them have in one another, and Enjolras truly has different priorities than wasting her time on a woman that, for all she knows, does nothing but drink and have a lot of sex with whomever tickles her fancy. (There are two things Grantaire talks about loud enough for Enjolras to be forced to overhear at the Musain, her sex life and how much life ‘blows’, while utterly wasted. Incidentally, those are the only two things she knows about Grantaire with certainty.)

Enjolras keeps company with a category of people Grantaire doesn’t fit into. Somehow she assimilates well enough into her group of friends, but if you’d line them up one by one for analysis, Grantaire would stick out like a sore thumb. For the life of her Enjolras can’t figure out how Grantaire snuck in and then integrated herself so well that unsuspecting folks would lump her right in with Enjolras’ friends.

“Good call,” Grantaire croaks out, dry heaving again even though no further emissions feed the puddle, “I really don’t feel so hot. Started a couple of hours ago and ever since-”

“Go sleep it off,” Enjolras orders, then steps past the vomit into the Musain.

(Grantaire’s presence is not missed at the meeting, not by Enjolras. It would be like missing a wall decoration.  Granted, a wall decoration that has great capacity for distraction and drawing attention to itself, but a decoration nonetheless. She has seen paintings perform the same trick on admirers with less words. The woman never opens her mouth during the official part of meetings, though Enjolras has watched her talk Joly and Bossuet into a corner, while at the same time drinking them under the table, after Enjolras has made her final point for the night. She’s very clearly capable of speech, and apparently capable of making excellent points if her friends are to be believed, so she must choose to avoid serious discourse with only Enjolras. Instead, Enjolras gets treated to her drunk mockery whenever she does something new with her hair every once in a while, or wears a new sweater, or leaves her contacts out for the day to opt for glasses. Is it any wonder they’ve grown to hate one another over the past two years? Yes. She does hate Grantaire. Probably. That must be it. What else could it be?)

//

“Who is this, Courfeyrac?” Enjolras had come home from dinner with her parents, ready to burst out crying and looking for comfort only to find Courfeyrac on the couch, sipping beers with a brown haired girl she’d never seen before. She’d been wearing a green beanie and dark eyeshadow, terribly gaudy earrings that looked like they might actually be made of tin foil and plastic beads, and slightly smudged red lipstick. It had looked ridiculously messy.

“This is Grantaire, she’s in Ferre’s philosophy class, have you met?” Courfeyrac had been eager to introduce, though less so once she noticed Enjolras’ emotional state.

“Ferre is at work. Why is she in our apartment?”

In hindsight, of course Enjolras understood why those words had come across as cold and rude. She’d tried her hardest to appear nicer the next time she’d met one of Courfeyrac’s friends, but the Pontmercy girl still ducked her head in panic when they ran into one another on campus afterwards, never mind that Enjolras had been the picture of politeness. Her version of friendliness is an acquired taste, Feuilly had said once.

“I was just wondering the same,” Grantaire had snorted, not at all oblivious to what was going on and how unwelcome her presence was to Enjolras, and already standing up to excuse herself, reaching for her jacket.

Courfeyrac, looking distressed, had said: “She’s here because she’s my friend and we’re having a beer. No need for you to get your panties in a twist.”

Ordinarily she would have never snapped at Courfeyrac, and the next words had been intended for her best friend, but she’d realized later that she’d insulted Grantaire as well.

“Looks like you drank a lot more than that. I’m going to bed. Come join me when you’re sober, I still want to talk.”

She’d not even acknowledged Grantaire, she had been told afterwards, but really could not bring herself to care. Courfeyrac made new friends like other people breathe, there’d be others.

How was she supposed to know Grantaire would be a constant presence from then on out?

//

Enjolras notices Grantaire’s absence again three nights later. This time the table at the very back doesn’t look like it’s been occupied at all. And she’d gotten here early without even seeing a trace of the brunette. Usually her presence manifests so strongly that the entire back corner seems to become hers, territory where Enjolras does not venture by choice. Not if she can help it. When they’re both early - which happens often enough - they sit as far apart as possible and don’t make conversation unless Grantaire is drunk enough to go off and try to annoy her. That doesn’t happen often, because Grantaire rarely drinks alone, but it has happened.

“Did Grantaire go home already?” Enjolras catches Joly when the small woman comes up the stairs, cane knocking against wood rhythmically. Despite her total lack of contributions, Grantaire has never just not shown up. Her continued presence is the one reliable thing about her. Enjolras wishes she could pinpoint why this sudden change unsettles her. She should have taken into account that nothing about Grantaire is actually reliable, and then she finds herself getting angry again. That must be it. Anger at being disappointed.

“No, she’s still sick.”

“Sick?” Enjolras reassures herself that she heard correctly, and when Joly nods, she snorts. “Suffering from what? A particularly terrible hangover?”

Joly glares at her and Enjolras sucks in a sharp breath. That’s a rare sight. “She gave herself an ulcer, the idiot. Started throwing up three days ago and hasn’t really stopped.”

“An… ulcer?”

Fuck.

And she’d thought it was granulated coffee…

“Bahorel drove her to the hospital when she threw up blood and passed out during a match, now she’s on acid blockers, and she’s temporarily off the alcohol under my orders so she’s in a mood like you wouldn’t believe, but that also means she’s holed up at our place and can’t teach her classes. It’s been tough on her.”

“Grantaire teaches classes…?” Enjolras sounds skeptical, but one of Joly’s glares is enough for one night. Contrary to popular belief, Enjolras can manage civility well enough when among friends. She’s learning, at least. Baby steps.

“Boxing,” Joly says, checking text messages and frowning. Then she looks back up at Enjolras. “If you really miss having someone quietly sitting in the back I can definitely take that part on for tonight as the imperfect understudy to her maestro. I didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t.”

She’s just irritated. That’s what it is. Maybe there’s also some disappointment at Grantaire’s inability to show up.

And beneath that, a twinge of guilt is waiting to pounce her, if she lets herself think about it some more.

//

Alright, so Enjolras never spared a thought for Grantaire outside of acknowledging her as a tolerated hanger-on for meetings. Barely tolerated, even. She’s never thrown Grantaire out, but there have been close calls.

(Once, Grantaire had made a show of loudly yawning while she presented plans for a panel she wanted to organize to raise awareness for safe sex, and Enjolras had nearly lost the cool she already struggles to keep on a daily basis.

Grantaire, as if sensing her impending outburst, had ducked her head, sheepishly, and apologized, saying she hadn’t slept well, and that her ‘admirable dedication’ had nothing to do with the cause of her sleepiness. Come to think of it, her eyes had been rather baggy, but then they always are.)

Enjolras stews in her thoughts for a whole day, until it bursts out of her.

“Combeferre?”

“That is my name, well done,” Combeferre replies from where she is on her tiptoes reaching for the highest row of books on their shelves. Her glasses are dangling from her mouth, lips pressed tight. If Courfeyrac were home she’d want to take a picture, so Enjolras takes one out of habit and sends it her way. She receives a series of heart-eye and monkey emojis in return.

“How dangerous exactly are ulcers?”

“They can do a lot of damage if left untreated, the stomach lining erodes and if it gets really bad you have food leaking out, which is essentially a cordial invitation for an infection, you know how that goes.” Combeferre dries her glasses on her sweater vest, then pushes them back onto her nose, running a hand through her dark undercut for good measure. “Grantaire’s is being treated. Go back to studying, you said you didn’t want to be distracted.”

“We haven’t heard from her in two weeks,” Enjolras sighs.

“You haven’t heard from her in two weeks. I saw her last night. She’s fine.”

Combeferre’s look is very severe. Enjolras turns her eyes back to her book, an uneasy feeling in her stomach settling in. It doesn’t feel like hatred at all.

“Right.”

//

The next morning she resolves to do something about all the distracting, conflicting signals her body gives her, and goes through with her plan before she can talk herself out of it again.

“Door is open,” Grantaire’s voice calls out from inside when Enjolras knocks on her apartment door.

Grantaire spends a good minute gaping when Enjolras stands in front of her. The metal container she brought is outstretched in her hand, extended towards Grantaire like a ridiculous peace offering. Both of them are uncomfortable, Enjolras thinks, and wonders if this might have been a bad idea after all, one that she should have talked herself out of. Why should they make peace? They’ve gotten by well enough with nothing but mutual disinclination between them.

(But then Enjolras thinks about not being able to differentiate between Grantaire, drunk and Grantaire, seriously ill, conflating it as one and the same. The feeling that notion leaves in her gut is unbearable, and when something needs to be changed Enjolras is usually at the front of the line to advocate for it. The fact that she doesn’t particularly like what she knows of Grantaire so far shouldn’t be that much of an obstacle to overcome.)

Courfeyrac had seemed enthusiastic when Enjolras ran it by her, but then again, Courfeyrac lives and breathes enthusiasm. Admittedly she’s very good about interpersonal relations, on a level Enjolras can only stare at in awe, but even she has been known to make a misinterpretation once in a while.

“What’s this?”

Grantaire is very obviously speaking about the phenomenon that is Enjolras’ presence at her doorstep, but Enjolras doesn’t feel like coming up with an appropriate reason that isn’t in the vein of ‘I realized that in my annoyance I did wrong by you and my gut is telling me to make it right. While we’re on the subject, how is your gut doing?’

“It’s a smoothie bowl. Antioxidants are supposed to help with ulcers.”

Grantaire takes a step back as though the sheer surprise of Enjolras’ visit bowled her over.

“That’s… nice of you, but I can’t keep anything down anyway. Why are you here? Joly is at the hospital all day and Bossuet is out visiting their boyfriend. You could probably swing by Muse’s place, if you know where he lives, though you’ll catch her pegging him, from what Joly told me of their plans. Not sure you want to deal with that...”

“I wanted to see if you were alright.”

“Am I ever?” Grantaire snorts, running a hand through hair that looks like it hasn’t been washed in weeks. A great sigh, then: “Alright, you’ve seen that I’m not dying, I only feel like I am. Nothing new about that. Anything else?”

“Joly said you’re on acid blockers, but that’s a short term fix, right? Have you thought about eliminating your stressors?”

“I can’t eliminate myself,” Grantaire waves a dismissive hand, then hesitates: “Actually, now there’s a thought.”

“Grantaire, that is not funny.”

“I’ve long stopped trying to make you laugh, ice princess. I know better.”

“Joly mentioned finals were giving you hell. Those are over at least,” Enjolras prods, feeling increasingly awkward just standing in the door to the hallway. Grantaire has caught on, because she’s staring at Enjolras as if she is debating letting her in. Enjolras decides to take the decision out of her hands. There’s no need to push when nothing will give, not when it comes to Grantaire. (When it comes to protests...that’s a different matter.)

“Listen, I’ve got a class to get to. Try and keep that down and bring the container to the next meeting you can make it to.”

Grantaire, brows furrowed and balancing the container on a nimble hand, manages to somehow execute the world’s most sarcastic two-fingered salute, then closes the door in Enjolras’ face. 

//

Grantaire doesn’t show up to a meeting, again. Enjolras stares at her table in the corner, abandoned and probably gathering dust. The Musain is not particularly into wiping tables, to put it lightly, but Grantaire and her wine spills usually force them into it for the sake of preserving the wood a few more years. It looks odd, like something has been taken out of the room, now that she considers it.

It’s what Enjolras has designated ‘Grantaire’s space’, and she fit into it perfectly. She completed the picture. Now it looks like a work-in-progress again, like the dynamic of the room is thrown off just a little more with each meeting she misses.

She doesn’t ask Joly, because Joly is in the middle of lecturing Bahorel on the dangers of motorcycles and that’s something Enjolras does not have the patience to get into when she really just wants to know how Grantaire is doing.

Once or twice she debates asking Combeferre, who probably knows more about the situation, but she always stops herself just in time. Combeferre is reading, and she doesn’t have more capacity for distraction. Courfeyrac is already seated sideways in her lap, and on Courfeyrac’s lap is a lexicon that Combeferre is annotating.

“Just go ask Grantaire herself how she’s doing, it’s not like she’ll slam the door in your face,” Combeferre sighs after Enjolras has started and stopped asking for the fifth time, slamming the lexicon on Courfeyrac’s lap shut determinedly, “I love you, Enj, but I am not your Thalamus.”

“My...what?”

“The gateway to your consciousness, look, whatever, it’s not important. You’re very capable of finding these things out yourself. Go do it.”

Brief silence, then Courfeyrac: “After the meeting though, right? Just to be clear, you’re not about to storm out of here? Because I can definitely improv a fiery speech when needed, but we do have a set plan for tonight.”

//

Grantaire answers to her knocking, not necessarily looking like she is suffering less but with slightly less discolored bags beneath her eyes. “Have you come to demand your tin container back?”

“I have come to make you relax.”

Grantaire’s eyebrows climb right up to her hairline, and then a formidably cocky grin that Enjolras loathes comes over her face. True enough, she walked right into that one, but that doesn’t stop her from hating Grantaire just a bit for the words that follow.

“Bit early in the day for that kind of proposition, isn’t it? I thought those visits had a strictly-past-midnight policy? Not that you’d know, I concede. Carry on.”

“Shut up,” Enjolras pushes past her into the apartment, pleasantly surprised at the state of it and then remembering that Joly lives here too. There’s a cleaning regimen that hangs in the kitchen, with an abundance of either happy or frowning stickers. She’s hardly ever been in here, mostly because she sees Joly and Bossuet at university and their apartment is not exactly what you would call conveniently accessible. “I bought face masks. Joly approves of all the ingredients, they shouldn’t make your skin react. Apparently you’re allergic to a lot of chemicals.”

“You’re shitting me, right?”

“I am not at all shitting you. Do you always have to speak so crudely?”

“One, I am in immense pain, so yes I do. There are actual studies proving the mediating effect of cursing on pain. Two, you hate it when I pontificate. It’s always ‘Oh, Grantaire, do shut up’ or ‘Grantaire, was there a point in all that?’ Now I keep it short and to the point and you’re not happy either. Make up your mind about what you want from me. Actually, scratch that. Why would you want anything from me, what a ridiculous notion.”

Enjolras stares at Grantaire a while longer.

“Take a shower. Wash your face if you’ve got a cleaning regimen.”

“Bold assumption.”

“There was an if in there, and it wasn’t by accident,” Enjolras arches a brow. “I know how you walk around.”

“Why are you here?” Grantaire crosses her arms. For a second Enjolras considers apologizing, because she looks genuinely annoyed. Admittedly it wasn’t very polite or thought through. She can do better, usually, she isn’t a bad friend, but apparently not where Grantaire is involved.

Because Grantaire is sitting under her skin, where Enjolras can’t get to her. It’s frustrating.

“You’re sick. I’m trying to help.”

“Why?”

Excellent question. Courfeyrac had asked something similar and Enjolras had stammered something about friendship. That doesn’t cut it now.

“You hate me.”

“I do not-”

Enjolras stops herself from finishing that sentence. True, she never could fully convince herself that she hated Grantaire, but that didn’t mean she went out looking for reasons to dismiss the notion of hatred. Lying would taste foul on her tongue now.

(How does she feel about Grantaire, if she’s so ready to declaim the feelings she has as Not-Hate when put to the test?)

“No? I was throwing up blood outside of the Musain and you told me to go sleep off my drunkenness.”

They’ve both realized her mistake, then. Trust Grantaire to interpret malicious intentions into it where there had only been resigned exasperation.

“Were you drunk?”

“That is so far besides the point I’m not even going to acknowledge it.” Grantaire rolls her eyes, then proceeds to acknowledge it anyway: “Yes. Of course I was drunk. I’m always drunk at the Musain. That’s what got me an ulcer and it’s a fucking surprise it hasn’t made my liver self-destruct yet. Everything is right in the world, I was drunk, you can absolve yourself of your good-person guilt. Point being, you have no reason to show up here and I will not hold it against you if you drop the act now and just leave. I will hold it against you if this is some misguided but well-intentioned attempt at pity because you were ‘being mean’ and you’re lying to me about it.”

It’s rare to see Grantaire angry, but now she is unmistakably on the brink of being supremely pissed off.

“I just...want to help you feel better. That’s it, I swear.”

“You’re unbelievable.” Grantaire shakes her head, but trots off towards the bathroom. Enjolras sets to lighting the scented candles Jehan gave her specifically for tonight. They’re supposed to promote healing. Enjolras is skeptical of their power, but they can’t exactly do harm, she decides. 

Wet footsteps lead Grantaire back into the room after not even ten minutes have passed, dark hair curling around her ears and below her chin, red towel wrapped around her body. Enjolras has never seen her look that clean, and it is both a revelation and profoundly disturbing. She’s also never seen her with that little amount of clothing.

Grantaire has tattoos. She’s got incredible tattoos, in fact, they curl up from her back to her shoulders over her clavicles, licking their way into her cleavage. Enjolras averts her eyes. Hadn’t Feuilly mentioned designing some with Grantaire’s help and approval, once upon a time? Feuilly’s work always fascinates her, but ogling it on Grantaire doesn’t feel right.

Unfortunately she still can’t stop herself from glancing over once or twice.

“Candles?” Grantaire croaks. There is something vulnerable in her eyes that Enjolras can’t quite make out. It looks foreign on her.

“With compliments from our resident poet.”

Her face falls back into a more familiar arrangement. It is odd how easily her features turn sardonic, the slight smile around her mouth always a mockery of something sincere. Close to the real thing but uncomfortable upon closer inspection. 

“Alright. What’s on your relax-the-ulcer-patient schedule?”

“Face masks,” Enjolras says, determinedly, “And I have a documentary Combeferre says you’ve been gushing about for weeks now.”

Grantaire cringes at the concept of face masks, but reaches for the DVD and lets out an appreciative whistle. “You want to curl up on the couch with me and watch The History of Televised Boxing?”

“I enjoy learning,” Enjolras shrugs, settling down on the couch. Documentaries are something she can definitely enjoy, even if the topic itself doesn’t spark much interest. She’d have more trouble getting into action movies, or worse, comedies. “Maybe you should put on something that isn’t a towel before we put the masks on.”

“Right,” Grantaire says, lips a thin line. “Do you want something more comfortable too? Not that those jeans don’t hug you right in all the best places, but they can’t be comfortable.”

Such words aren’t uncommon from Grantaire, but for perhaps the first time, Enjolras wonders if Grantaire isn’t actually mocking her, suspicion confirmed when Grantaire reddens in the face and averts her eyes from where they’d been looking her up and down. Fair is fair, Enjolras considers, she’d been watching Grantaire earlier. She can’t exactly scold her for that. So instead she nods.

Grantaire disappears into her room and comes back wearing sweatpants and a tank top that shows an overly generous amount of side-boob. She’s got tattoos there as well. “Belongs to Muse. He left it here a few months ago and he isn’t getting it back, ever. You can have these.”

Enjolras has been caught staring, she realizes when the words sink in. Grantaire takes a seat next to her, face turned towards the TV determinedly, selecting subtitles and getting everything set up. The situation feels slightly off, and so Enjolras gets up to change. Her hips have always been slim, and she has to roll up the waistband twice for them to sit. The fabric is delightfully fluffy though.

“Here, I’ll put it on you,” Enjolras offers, waiting for Grantaire to turn her face towards her once they find themselves silently sitting next to each other again. It’s an old couch, the leather worn and roughed up in the shape of several buttcheeks. Enjolras trails a hand across it, distractedly taking in the texture. It’s comfortable, familiar.

The notion that Grantaire has very pretty brown eyes arrives in her mind uninvited, waving wildly and making itself a permanent resident without consulting Enjolras for approval first. Her eyes are framed by thick lashes and really quite lovely in their shape when you take the time to look at them. Enjolras almost says as much, but then the previously studied eyes close and she shakes her head to berate herself.  Beneath her fingers, Grantaire’s skin feels soft, almost as though the woman just exfoliated. Perhaps she did. Enjolras smiles to think Grantaire might have actually followed her instructions.

“Alright, all done.”

“Want me to do you?” Grantaire asks, and both of them pause for a fraction of a second before unanimously, wordlessly deciding to pretend there was no double entendre to be heard for miles.

“It’s good that you’re taking time off to relax as well,” Grantaire breaks the ensuing silence quickly, and Enjolras feels her breath tickle her face as she speaks, agile fingers spreading the face mask easily. “I’d have thought that out of everyone in the group, you’d have taken the crown for ‘most likely to give herself an ulcer stressing out’.”

“I don’t really drink. My risk is significantly lower.”

“Sure, that’s one part of it. But what about the stress you put yourself through? Having the weight of the world on your shoulders can’t be easy.”

“Careful, Grantaire, that almost sounds like you care,” Enjolras attempts to tease when she feels that pounding in her head again. She opens her eyes, reluctantly, because Grantaire says nothing in response. The woman is looking at her, eyes uncertain and mouth twisted.

“I do care. Of course I care. God, Enjolras.”

Oh.

(She’d try dismissing those words, but the truth of them is so painfully obvious in Grantaire’s eyes that it chokes Enjolras, forbidding a reply. And Grantaire is sober. This isn’t a drunk Grantaire sidling up to her in the Musain and crying: ‘You’re so lovely, Enjolras, I hate it.’ It’s honest.)

A strong feeling of shame rises in Enjolras’ gut, that while, up until a few weeks ago, she had considered the woman insignificant enough not to even be a noteworthy blip on her radar, Grantaire might have viewed their relationship in an entirely different light.

“You do?”

She’s taken way too long to respond, but how could she not?

“Yeah. I care a lot.”

“Oh.”

“Come on, Enjolras, mistress of eloquence, you knew that. Don’t give me an ‘oh’ like you’re surprised to hear me say it sober.”

“I promise you I didn’t...I…”

“And here I thought I wasn’t embarrassing myself at all because no one could have missed how obviously I venerate you. Trust me to get it wrong every time.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire confirms with a nod, taking a deep breath, “Not what you were expecting?”

“I thought you hated me, honestly.”

“Now that’s what we call projection, ice princess,” Grantaire manages a smile that looks intensely uncomfortable. She wipes the residue of the face mask onto her already stained sweatpants without a second thought and Enjolras chokes back a comment on that. Now she’ll have to wash them all over again. It’s just not practical.

“I thought we established that I don’t hate you.”

“Honestly I would probably prefer it if you did, pathetic that I am. Hatred, at least, is an emotion that burns and nourishes. Indifference is so cold and empty.”

Enjolras doesn’t know what to say. Grantaire seems to be done speaking, and turns her head firmly towards the screen. Fifteen minutes later they go to wash their face masks off, still silent. This evening is not turning out as relaxing as she had planned. At all. She trips over a stray shoe on the linoleum, but Grantaire has her by the elbow, murmuring: “Careful.”

“It’s hard to establish a regular routine, but I do take care of myself when I can,” Enjolras says, because she doesn’t know how she could possibly keep the can of worms Grantaire threw at her open. They’re crawling out too quickly for her to deal with it respectfully. Because this has to be handled with respect, Grantaire deserves at least that. Fuck, how had she not picked up on the woman’s feelings at all? No, it is much better to pick a different subject altogether and this just so happens to avail itself.

“Look, I’m not wearing the stupid high heels my job has in the dress code for women right now. That’s already a form of self-care.”

She wiggles her toes, and Grantaire laughs for a brief moment. It sounds like she’s barking, so fast does she cut herself off.

“Bet those are a pain in the ass.”

“A pain in my foot, more pressingly,” Enjolras sighs, “Some days I think my feet will never be right again.”

Grantaire slides off the couch, to Enjolras’ confusion. She kneels in front of her, eyes determined.

“What are you doing?”

“Relaxing you,” Grantaire says as she takes Enjolras’ left foot into her hands. And - Oh, she’s got strong hands. They’re lovely. “Can I?”

“You’re the one that’s supposed to be relaxing,” Enjolras protests, more out of politeness than anything else because it feels heavenly. Grantaire knows what she is doing and there’s something about that which makes the pounding in her head turn from unbearable to pleasant as it spreads out across her body.

“Serving a purpose can be relaxing as well,” Grantaire’s lips quirk, her thumbs dig in. Enjolras sighs, sinking into the couch. “Does that feel good?”

“It feels excellent,” she admits. “Don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning on it - harder?”

“God. Yes, please.”

There’s no pretending they didn’t just say what they said, but Enjolras still gasps softly when Grantaire’s hands travel up the back of her calves. She opens her eyes to find Grantaire looking up at her as though worshipping at an altar, and guilt overcomes her.

How had she never caught that look before? If this is how Grantaire has always looked at her she has been so utterly inept at noticing, it’s almost shameful.

“Grantaire,” she starts, to apologize, to do something to make this right.

“If the next words out of your mouth are about the unfortunate confession I walked myself into tonight, I will throw you out with no regrets at all and a kick up the ass.”

“But-”

“Look, Enjolras, I get that guilt is tearing your righteous soul into little white shreds right now, but the truth of it is that I’m in this whole...thing...with you precisely because I don’t know you at all, there’s nothing you could have done to prevent it, you didn’t even give me false hope or anything. I know your passion, I know the goodness in you, I know how impressive you are, and it’s enticing and you draw me in. But there’s a pedestal element to this whole obsession precisely because you’re so untouchable and it’s not your fault, nor is it your responsibility to comfort me now that you know, if just to make me feel better. It won’t even work, it’ll feel like pity and that’d make me even more pathetic -”

“Grantaire, really-”

“Save it, Ice Princess. I never expected you to even notice me as anything but the nuisance I try very hard to not always be and I really don’t want to hear you try and justify your lack of feelings, though I’m sure you’d try your very best to let me down easy. I know, you know - both of us know. Let’s just enjoy tonight for what it is and write it off as temporary insanity on your part tomorrow.”

Enjolras doesn’t try arguing again when Grantaire’s hands continue their work.

//

“Courfeyrac?” Enjolras asks when she catches the other woman in the kitchen, way past midnight, eating strawberry jam with a spoon. (She has no room to judge, really, they’ve all done it, Combeferre had even made a joke about this being the only instance in which she’d approve of germ parties, on the condition that Joly would never find out.)

Courfeyrac jumps three feet into the air. “Fuck me sideways, Enj, what are you doing up?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Her head is too full of Grantaire, the confession bouncing around like it’s the only thought her mind still has room for, making her dizzy. It’s exhausting. Grantaire cares. Grantaire cares about Enjolras. An unkind part of Enjolras wants to doubt that Grantaire is capable of caring for anyone, much less anything, but there was no doubting the sincerity of it all.

And truthfully, if she had been making a joke, Enjolras is sure Grantaire would have overdone it, would have rambled forever about the exact shade of blue of Enjolras’ eyes, would have likened her body to one goddess or all of them, possibly. She’s done that before, and precisely because of that Enjolras had put it down to mockery.

Now she knows better, and now she has seen Grantaire honest, eyes open and entirely vulnerable. Now, she feels an awful need to re-examine every interaction she has ever had with Grantaire. When did Grantaire start feeling this way? When did she look past the mutual dislike to discover something worth loving? Enjolras wants to ask her, but even if the question weren’t terribly rude, it still wouldn’t get a proper answer, most likely.

There are a lot of things Enjolras wants to do, but sleeping is at the top of that list. And precisely that is what eludes her.

“Yeah and I’ll never be able to sleep again now that you’ve made me shit my pants.”

“Literally or figuratively?”

“I’d have to go and check to confirm 100%, but I think we’re talking in metaphors.”

“Good. Is Grantaire in love with me?”

Stupid question, maybe, given how obvious Grantaire hinted at being, but Enjolras desperately wants to hear that she isn’t the only one that had never noticed, had never stopped to even consider that Grantaire might not feel for her exactly what Enjolras feels.

(What does Enjolras feel? Not hate, that can’t be it. That would be wrong. So what is it?)

“Yeah. You know that though, right?”

“She didn’t put it in exactly those words, but that was the sense I got from her confession. What do I do?”

Courfeyrac blinks at her, saying nothing, until Enjolras gives her an expectant look.

“You don’t do anything. I’m sure she told you as much.”

“But…”

“Listen, babe, I get that it’s uncomfortable knowing people feel all that deep shit for you when you don’t reciprocate, but she’s never made a move, has she? Are you planning to prevent her from orbiting you like she’s been doing the past few years? If that makes you uncomfortable then of course that is your prerogative but I always thought you just tended to forget she even exists. You can’t keep doing that?”

“I don’t want to keep pretending she doesn’t exist. It never worked anyway, Courf, I couldn’t not notice her. She’s impossible.”

“Ah,” Courfeyrac nods, sagely, “Well there’s nothing you can do that won’t make things more uncomfortable, even just temporarily.”

“Shouldn’t I at least talk to her about it?”

“The day Grantaire wants to have serious conversations about the depth of her feelings is the day the world will first rejoice and then shudder in fear at the prospect of the sheer volume of everything she’s been holding in. There’s no conversation to be had. You don’t love her back, so what? Trust me, she knows. You’ve made it very clear over the years what you think of her. Enough said.”

“I feel like I should apologize,” Enjolras sighs, about ready to tear her hair out.

“What, for not loving her? Enjolras that’s a shitty thing to do.’”

“For being awful to her,” Enjolras corrects, sliding down the fridge door to sit on the kitchen floor.

“I mean, I can’t talk you out of it, but she wouldn’t like that. The mind has a funny way of interpreting intentions, and she would think you’re apologizing out of pity. No one likes pity. Why not try just not being awful, in the future?”

“And she won’t take that as me walking on eggshells around her and be unhappy either way?”

“She might,” Courfeyrac acknowledges, offering Enjolras a spoonful of jam.

“This sucks.” Enjolras pouts, sucking on the cool metal of the spoon thoughtfully. Courfeyrac seats herself firmly in Enjolras’ lap and wraps her into a hug.

“You’ve been sheltered from the woes of romantic drama for too long, babe. Time to face the music. People are going to fall in love with you, it’s kind of inevitable. Everyone is a little bit in love with you.”

“Grantaire is a lot in love with me,” Enjolras sighs. Courfeyrac acknowledges that with a hum.

“From where I’m sitting - and where I’m sitting is really comfortable - there’s really only one thing you can do.”

//

On Friday she hears Grantaire’s raucous laughter before she has even reached the top floor of the Musain. It’s loud, and when Grantaire is loud it means one of two things: freshly laid or freshly paid.

And there she is, hair still wet, eyeliner hastily applied, beer firmly in hand.

“Really?” Enjolras doesn’t hesitate addressing her once she’s found her way across the room, ignoring the voice in the back of her mind saying that she never does this, she doesn’t seek Grantaire out, in fact they avoid each other if they can. At least that’s what Enjolras used to do. It’s hard remembering that something you took as cold hard fact is completely wrong.

“Your ulcer isn’t fully healed yet and you’re back to drinking? Do you even care what you’re doing to yourself?”

“Thanks, Grantaire,” Bahorel plucks the beer from Grantaire’s hand as she exits the bathroom, one hand still busy doing her fly back up as she empties it in one go. Oh.

Bahorel lets out a truly fear-inspiring belch, then moves to greet Enjolras, ruffling her hair.

“Anything else you need to get out?” Grantaire asks, one eyebrow raised.

“Sorry,” Enjolras blurts out. “I was-”

Grantaire accepts a glass of water from the bartender, raising it in toast. “That’s a novel sentiment. Cheers, ice princess. I think Combeferre is anxious to start, you better get to her.”

“You look like you’re dying to say something,” Bahorel catches her after the meeting, giving Grantaire the perfect opportunity to disappear down the stairs arm in arm with Jeanne.

“I need to talk to Grantaire,” Enjolras sighs.

Bahorel considers her for a long time.

“Grantaire’s got a match in two weeks, her first one back from ulcer-recovery. By then she’ll have cooled down about what you found out. Give her some time to come to terms with it. Actually, give yourself some time to come to terms with it, because you still look like you’re about to be sick.”

“I thought she hated me, Bahorel,” Enjolras sighs.

“Let me ask you this, Enjolras, would that have made you more or less uncomfortable?”

“I would have felt...less guilty. We could have worked on becoming friends. This makes everything harder.”

“It isn’t just hard for you. Keep that in mind. You’re usually so good at picking up on when someone is struggling.”

“I don’t understand Grantaire, I never have,” Enjolras pouts, “If I understood her I would have noticed.”

“She’s not impossible to get, Enjolras. Grantaire isn’t a complex puzzle you need to brain yourself trying to figure out. You can just talk to her…”

“I’m trying-”

“...After you’ve given her some time.”

//

(Enjolras takes a walk with Courfeyrac and Combeferre along the campus and they run into Grantaire with a gym bag over her shoulder.

Enjolras watches Courfeyrac hail Grantaire over to them, watches Grantaire’s smile falter for a second when she spots Enjolras as well, and watches as Grantaire fixes it back onto her face. She wonders, briefly, if this is what it’s always going to feel like between them now, if she is to be perpetually riddled with guilt and all these inexplicable sensations. Combeferre draws her back into the conversation and Enjolras forgets about Grantaire again, until she’s in bed and her thoughts run wild again.)

//

Grantaire doesn’t notice her presence at the match until she stands, victorious, her opponent on his back, breathing heavy and eyes lit up by adrenaline. She pumps her fist in the air and Bahorel picks her up when she stumbles out of the ring, seeming moderately dizzy. Enjolras feels the sudden urge to drag her to a doctor to check for a concussion. Grantaire won spectacularly, but she didn’t get off scot-free. That can’t be good for someone who is still healing.

Should Grantaire even be allowed to fight? Has she been cleared? Bahorel says so, but Bahorel isn’t known for following even the most well-meant doctors notes with anything resembling diligence. Still, she doesn’t mess around when it comes to her friends. Probably a little dizziness is just expected, what would Enjolras know?

(Enjolras knows practically nothing about boxing, but she has just had a very belated discovery about how mesmerizing it is to watch.)

Bahorel sets Grantaire down, and then Grantaire’s eyes land on Enjolras.

“What are you doing here?” She asks, but she doesn’t sound angry. No, Grantaire sounds really, really surprised. She blinks a couple of times, as though Enjolras might be an apparition - Grantaire seems to know that she’s taken damage.

“You were really good,” Enjolras says, because she does not have an answer for that question. She never does. Why does she keep seeking out Grantaire? Why does she keep going out of her way to see her? She couldn’t say. Enjolras is sort of looking for the answer herself. But Grantaire, drenched in sweat after having put a dude twice her size on his ass is a good sight. She looks more confident here than Enjolras has ever seen her - outside of conquest boasting, though she thinks even that is tinged with a form of insecurity.

“Enjolras, what are you doing here?” Grantaire repeats, voice softer.

“I want to get to know you better,” Enjolras says, which still isn’t a good enough answer, but it is all she’s got right now.

“Is this because of what I said…?”

“It’s not. This is just what I said. Me wanting to know more about you. I know disturbingly little. I didn’t even know you box, and you’re really good.”

“Us getting to know one another? That’s what you want?”

“Okay, listen, I know you want me to never bring it up while we both draw breath, but you said yourself that you’ve built me up as an ideal in your head and that’s why you can’t move on. Knock down the ideal, Grantaire. Get to know me for me.”

“As a way to move on, you mean?”

“It might be for the best, yeah. You can’t be happy living like this.”

“That’s cold, Enjolras.”

“You don’t want to move on?” Enjolras wonders, crossing her arms.

“You don’t understand,” Grantaire sighs, stopping to smile gratefully at someone coming to congratulate her. The smile slides back off when she meets Enjolras’ eyes again. A pity, Enjolras thinks, because for a second she could imagine what being on the receiving end of a genuine Grantaire-Smile looks like, and it felt nice.

“Clearly I don’t.”

“Look, Enjolras, it’s hard to explain to someone that has never been in love. Loving you is painful, yes, but it’s also arguably the best thing I’ve got going for me in my life. By loving you I become...worthy...again.”

“That’s sad.”

Enjolras has about a tenth of a second to regret saying that before Grantaire’s face changes to show such deep hurt that Enjolras has to stop herself from taking her into her arms.

“Honestly, fuck you so much right now,” Grantaire says, eyes turned heavenwards, voice soft. She turns away. Enjolras stops her.

“Listen to me, Grantaire. Your worth as a human being is not dependant on who you love, that’s ridiculous. Maybe you think that, but you have a lot of things going for you that are entirely the product of your own person. You box like an absolute champion, Courfeyrac tells me you dance, Combeferre says there’s no one else she trusts more to go over her philosophy papers, you’re compassionate, you clearly care a lot about your friends, you’re incredibly smart, you’ve got a talent for art…”

Enjolras pauses before she begins talking in circles, gathers herself enough to say: “Don’t define yourself by people that aren’t you, me or anyone else. You are worth so much all on your own.”

“Agree to disagree,” Grantaire says, eyes shimmering. She’s blinking rapidly, gently prying Enjolras’ hand off her wrist. “I really need to leave.”

Bahorel looks at Enjolras wearily, shaking her head.

//

“Yeah, she was great. I had her begging for it until I opted for mercy after round six,” Grantaire laughs, while Joly and Bossuet look torn between amusement and disbelief. That’s the first thing Enjolras hears out of her all evening. It’s the first time she’s raised her voice. Enjolras can’t help glancing over to her table at the back of the room, where she proudly presides over a court of semi-drunk friends.

“Six rounds?”

“Ah, you doubt me,” Grantaire’s eyes narrow, full of mirth, raising her glass of water to toast them. “I know you’ve beat that number many times.”

“Yeah, but we’re three people, we can tap out and rotate if necessary, at some point any friction is too much, even for us hardened sex veterans,” Bossuet grins, getting up to retrieve more alcohol for everyone else.

“Well shit,” Bahorel looks up from her phone, “R isn’t lying, I just confirmed it. Yvette says she felt like ‘her soul exploded’.”

“I take my cap off for your prowess,” Joly mimics doffing a cap she isn’t wearing, and Grantaire grins, self-assuredly.

“I could have told you that,” Courfeyrac grins, blowing Grantaire a kiss across the room that Grantaire catches and slaps onto her cheek.

“Are you going to see her again?” Bahorel wonders, back to texting rapidly.

“I might. She was lovely. It was about time I tried dating again. It’s been years.”

Enjolras’ stomach cramps up, and she almost drops the files she only just finished sorting through. The pain is sharp and sudden, flowing up her bloodstream until her chest aches something awful. Come to think of it, she feels a little dizzy. 

“Combeferre, how likely is it that I’ve developed an ulcer? They aren’t infectious, right?” She wonders, tugging at her best friend’s vest, concerned. Combeferre cocks her head: “Are you bloated?”

“No, but I feel so nauseous, you wouldn’t even believe it.”

“Hmm…” Combeferre reaches for her stomach, pressing down a couple of times, repeatedly checking if something hurts. “I think we can rule out ulcers for you. Grantaire squealed like a pig when we diagnosed her this way.”

“Then why am I feeling so awful?”

“We can go and get you checked out at the hospital, if you like, but my guess is that these symptoms you’re experiencing are less organic than you might think.”

Combeferre squeezes her hand sympathetically, as Enjolras scowls at nothing in particular.

//

When she’d left the apartment today, she had envisioned a brief walk up and down the block to clear her mind. By the time she spots Grantaire through a café window, she has been walking for over an hour, and her mind feels no less cluttered for it.

Grantaire looks thoughtful, one knee bouncing to a beat Enjolras can’t hear, the rest of her body entirely focused on the laptop in front of her. Enjolras has stepped inside of the café before she has even considered if Grantaire would want to see her. The last time they spoke - really spoke, that is - was at her boxing match.

“Hey,” Enjolras catches her attention, offering a smile when Grantaire only manages to look stunned for a few heartbeats. Grantaire’s eyes are very big.

“I’m about to get a drink,” Enjolras says, after a noise left Grantaire’s throat that could be interpreted as a greeting, “Can I get you anything?”

“How about fifteen shots of espresso? I’m dying here.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Enjolras says, then thinks better of it and brings her decaffeinated tea. “Let’s not give you a heart attack right after your stomach forgave you for tearing it to shreds. This is green tea and chamomile blend. Drink up.”

“I had no idea you’d be so dominant,” Grantaire teases, then pretends to think about it some more, “Actually, that’s a lie - what else would you be? Pardon me, I’ll take the tea. Thank you.”

“Can I sit? Feel free to say no if you’re busy.”

“It might be wise for me to take a break, actually, or I will eventually burst out crying, and three times in one week is setting a pattern. Why are you here?”

This time Enjolras has an answer. “I took a walk to get some sunshine and saw you sitting in here. I thought I’d say hi.”

“Yes, but why are you here?”

Ah, turns out Enjolras doesn’t have an answer after all.

“You always ask me that.”

“And you never tell me why. I’d stop asking if you did.”

“I don’t know, Grantaire,” she sighs, rubbing her eyes, “I wanted to see you. Can that be enough of an answer?”

“Could have looked at a photo,” Grantaire points out, but she’s smiling a little, closing her laptop to rest her chin on one hand. “How has life been treating you, ice princess?”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” Enjolras frowns instead of giving an answer, mostly because she does not want to. Life has been confusing. Nothing makes sense anymore and she’s already given herself countless headaches trying to sort through it. Right now her head feels alright, for once, so she’s disinclined to throw that to the wind.

“You object to anything I call you,” Grantaire dismisses.

“I wouldn’t object to my name,” she volleys.

“You hate your name,” Grantaire raises her eyebrows, clearly taken aback. “You made the Pontmercy girl cry for calling you -”

“You know which name I mean.”

“Alright, Enjolras.” Her voice is just on the right side of mocking to make Enjolras’ skin prickle with anger.

“Was that so hard?”

“You should know by now that if I ever don’t do something, it’s not because it is too hard.”

“The actual reason being...?”

“I’m just a very unreliable person, you’ve said so yourself,” Grantaire shrugs, gesturing towards her laptop. “Exhibit A: My professor offered me a chance to showcase my work and instead of getting something done I sleep around to stop feeling sad.”

Enjolras frowns: “Did it work?”

“Does it ever?” Grantaire sighs, “I feel sad, so I get drunk and find someone to hook up with, then I realize sleeping with strangers doesn’t make me feel better once I’m done seeing stars, and then I try drinking more, and then I get nothing done, and I feel shitty about not getting anything done, and the cycle only strengthens itself.”

Once Grantaire finishes she focuses intently on her fingernails, cheeks crimson.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Enjolras says. 

“I imagine you would be. Please don’t think anything of what I just said is your fault. You said you wanted to try being better friends, and I’ve annoyed all our mutual friends half to death with my ways already, it’s what I do, get drunk and complain or stay sober and mope. Call it an initiation ritual.”

“You’re doing something about it now,” Enjolras points out, after she finishes sorting through the layers of cynicism. It takes a while.

“So I am,” Grantaire nods, carefully, “Not that I get anything done even when I actively try to aim for productivity.”

“Would it kill you to believe in yourself just a little bit?”

“Unfortunately I know myself too well for that. It’s nice of you to try and cheer me up though.”

“I’m not doing a very good job of it, am I?”

“It means more coming from you than it does from other people,” Grantaire reveals, closing her eyes, “It shouldn’t, but it does.”

When her eyes open again, they’re more closed off.

“I really should be getting back to this.”

Social cues can be hard, but that she has overstayed her welcome today is obvious even to her.

“Let me know when you do finish something. I’d like to see it.”

Grantaire’s answering expression makes Enjolras smile. She does have a capacity for surprising people, it seems.

//

Bossuet’s birthday rolls around as the days start getting warmer, and everyone, except Bahorel, who is running late, and Pontmercy, who is sick, is gathered in her apartment. When Enjolras enters Grantaire is already gesturing wildly, which means she’s drunk.

“Should you be drinking?” Enjolras clears her throat behind Grantaire, who is glassy-eyed. Inexplicably she feels her stomach twist and her heart squeeze in her chest, and then it turns into anger that Grantaire is fine just putting her health on the line.

“It’s a celebration, ice - Enjolras,” Grantaire blinks up at her. Man, her eyes are something else, even in this state. 

“Her Doctor cleared her as healthy,” Feuilly says from next to Grantaire. Enjolras realizes that she just rudely burst into a conversation she had no part in, and apologizes. Feuilly lifts her bottle in acknowledgement. They’ve had so many conversations about Feuilly and her experiences of feeling talked over all her life. And now Enjolras has done the same.

“Drinking’s still a bad idea,” Enjolras huffs.

“No, tonight drinking is a very good idea.” Grantaire says, and promptly snatches Feuilly’s bottle to empty it in one go. She presses it back into Feuilly’s hand and stumbles off.

“What’s wrong with her?” Enjolras asks, then cringes at how that must have sounded. Feuilly sighs.

“I can’t tell you.”

Which means it must have something to do with Enjolras. Maybe alcohol is a good idea, tonight. “Excuse me, Feuilly, the kitchen beckons.”

She’s in the midst of knocking her third punch glass back when a well-meaning hand at her elbow stops her. Courfeyrac frowns up at her, not very sober but very concerned. “You alright there, Enj?”

“Peachy,” Enjolras responds, shaking the arm off and drinking more, before setting the cup back onto the counter a little more forcefully than necessary. “Grantaire told me it isn’t my fault that she’s sad but today she’s super wasted and I think it is because of me. Am I wrong?”

“That’s... a lot to unpack, first of all, but let’s start with why you suddenly care about Grantaire’s feelings.”

Enjolras frowns. “No. I’m not touching that right now. That’s hard and I feel very soft tonight. Squishy.”

“Fine, then we can talk about why you aren’t staying away from her if you suspect being friends with you makes her sad. Do you like that better?”

“No,” Enjolras frowns harder. She can feel the vertical line between her brows deepen, the one that Courfeyrac always teases her for. “I want to be friends with her.”

“Friends respect each other’s boundaries, I know you know that, Enj, because you respect mine without being asked. If her boundary is maybe not getting all that close to you before she has moved on, knock on wood for that to happen at some point, are you going to force a connection anyway?”

Enjolras stares at the little brunette a while longer. A lot of what she’s saying is making sense, but: “I want to go talk to R.”

“What, right now? Is that a good idea?”

“Tonight it’s a very good idea,” Enjolras, uninspired, borrows from the expert of intoxicated word-smithery.

“Tomorrow morning, when I come into your room with coffee and maybe Ferre as backup, you’re going to ride my ass so hard for allowing this to happen. She’s on the balcony. Don’t fall off. You’re so tall you’d flop right over.”

“Bossuet fell off when they moved in and she was fine. It’s not very high. Thanks, Courf.”

She presses a kiss onto Courfeyrac’s nose and then tries to figure out which direction the balcony is. A compass would help so much right now.

(A compass appears in the form of a very drunk Jehan and pointy fingers on her shoulders.)

//

Grantaire is sitting bent forward, elbows on knees, legs comfortably spread, possibly people-watching on the busy street below. Enjolras flops down next to her, uncertain when everything started spinning. Grantaire reaches out to steady her before she even realizes who just joined her.

“Enjolras are you drunk?”

“Of course I’m drunk, R, I’m usually very lithe. My vision doesn’t spin either, most of the time.” There have been all-nighters spent cramming that have come close to feeling like the earth is off-axis.

“Maybe you should go lie down.”

“I’ll be fine, just need to sit for a bit.”

“And the best place to sit is out here?”

“Fresh air,” Enjolras feigns inhaling deeply and uses it as a way of gathering courage, “And you’re here. That makes it a very good place to sit.”

“Haven’t heard that from you before,” Grantaire muses, looking much more sober than she has any right to be, considering Enjolras feels so awful. It’s not just in her stomach, though the queasiness has increased since Grantaire looked up at her with those awful, distracting large brown eyes of hers. She feels tired and like she should crawl into a bed and hold on to Grantaire while they both sleep. She’s about to suggest as much when Grantaire sighs and says: “Why are you here, Enjolras?”

“I hate that question. I can never answer it. Not in a way that will satisfy you.”

“You do a fine job of satisfying me already,” Grantaire snorts.

“Don’t drag it to that level,” Enjolras narrows her eyes.

“Sorry.”

“Haven’t heard that from you before,” Enjolras shoots back.

“I constantly apologize just for existing, that isn’t new.” Grantaire nudges her with an elbow, then raises her brows. “Holy fuck you’re cold. Are you alright?”

“I don’t feel cold.”

“Take it from an expert, drunk people never do. Doesn’t mean they aren’t. Take it.” She’s holding out that green hoodie she always has with her, the one that she’s had longer than Enjolras has known her. It’s very comfortable when Enjolras snuggles into it. The fabric softener they use at their place must be the stuff of dreams. Grantaire is laughing at her, and cuddling into the warmth of her clothes almost makes her ignore it. Almost.

“Your hair is all poofy,” Grantaire explains, and reaches out to smooth it down, one hand hesitating for a second, until she sees Enjolras nod. “Figures you’d be an adorable drunk.”

“I’m too tall to be adorable,” Enjolras yawns in protest. The sweater really is comfortable. “Courfeyrac says it would be like calling a panther adorable.”

“Courfeyrac is a wise woman, but has she seen you snuggle into her favorite sweater before?”

“Courfeyrac’s favorite sweater belongs to Combeferre, so probably not.” Enjolras feels the earth tilt a bit again, and then her head is in Grantaire’s lap. She feels the woman inhale, and then a careful hand in her hair that she wants to press into. Her eyes close.

“You don’t wear Combeferre’s clothes?”

“She has a very minimalistic wardrobe, I wouldn’t dare take something out of that, she’d have nothing to wear. Courfeyrac is more intrep - intrepeed?”

“Something like that,” Grantaire chuckles. “You almost got it.”

“This is nice,” Enjolras says, “Everything about this, the evening in general and your hand in particular. Why don’t we do this more often? We should.”

Grantaire is quiet for a long time, but Enjolras doesn’t notice as sleep overtakes her. The hand only stops it’s movements for a brief second anyway.

//

The thing about Courfeyrac is that she keeps her word, even when you aren’t aware she made one to you in the first place. When the small woman blusters about it being a matter of honor it quietly reminds Enjolras of a barking chihuahua, but she has never voiced that thought.

When Courfeyrac wakes her up at 7:30 with a cup of coffee Enjolras is sorely tempted to share her observations. It would probably just make her laugh though. Behind Courfeyrac, Combeferre is leaning against the door frame.

“Hangover?”

“No,” Enjolras shakes her head, blinks a couple of times, “Only a little bit. I had three drinks and I drank a liter of water before I fell asleep.”

“Before you fell asleep the second time,” Combeferre corrects, unhelpfully.

(Enjolras remembers waking up in Grantaire’s lap, staring up at the woman’s chin for a while until she’d stopped laughing quietly at whatever joke Joly had been making, only to say in the softest tone Enjolras has heard her use: “Sorry, did I wake you?”

Enjolras has been replaying those words ever since. Something about that moment has burned itself into her brain.)

“So you like Grantaire, huh?” Courfeyrac jumps right into it, and it’s a small miracle that Enjolras doesn’t spill hot coffee over herself.

“Grantaire is confusing me,” Enjolras corrects, “Through no fault of her own, admittedly. I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Elaborate,” Combeferre says, head tilted to the side, curiosity emanating from her.

“Do I like her or do I like being liked? Do I tell her? Would that be unfair? I don’t want her to think that I only like her because she likes me.”

“Do you?”

“No,” Enjolras frowns, “I don’t know. I never considered her until I found out she likes me. This whole situation is awful. Now I can’t stop thinking about her. Not always in a good way. She’s still very frustrating. But she’s got nice eyes. She also knocked out a guy twice her size once.”

“Love is pain,” Combeferre says, wisely. Courfeyrac snorts.

“No need to be melodramatic.”

“Courf, what happens if I do like her?”

“I can’t tell you that, love, you’ve got to figure that kind of thing out yourself.”

“This is awful.”

“You maybe liking someone that isn’t a cause is not the end of the world, babe. You might even find it refreshing, if you give it a little time.” Courfeyrac gives her a firm kiss to the forehead and leaves her with coffee steam filling her nostrils.

//

Two months after Bossuet’s birthday, the thought strikes Enjolras that it has become commonplace for her to spend time with Grantaire, just the two of them. And it’s really good.

Her days are filled with snippets of Grantaire, as she laughs, leaning against the railing of a bridge, wind in her hair, eyes closed in the breeze, taking a break as Enjolras walks her to class. They get coffee together, they have conversations, actual conversations.

(Enjolras finally finds out what her friends mean when they say Grantaire can argue with the best of them, and it feels like a privilege to listen to the woman ramble now, when months ago she’d have rolled her eyes. The thought scares her. The question of what she feels for  Grantaire is no closer to being resolved.)

Grantaire has a fantastic laugh when she isn’t bragging. When Enjolras genuinely makes her laugh it makes Enjolras feel like the funniest person in the universe.

When she picks Grantaire up from the class she teaches on sundays - something Enjolras knows about her now - she arrives about ten minutes early, which may not be mere happenstance she likes to pretend it is. Grantaire is covered in sweat, in one of her tank tops that dip low at the sides, and is correcting some guy’s stance on the mat. Enjolras works hard to resist the urge to sigh when the guy lands on the mat not ten seconds later. Grantaire grins and offers him a hand to get back up again, hands already widely gesturing about what he did wrong as he nods thoughtfully.

“Your little girlfriend is here,” the guy points out and Enjolras flinches at how Grantaire stiffens. Enjolras waves at her, content to pretend she hasn’t heard.

“Trust me, she’s not little,” Grantaire says, and her students seem to take that for the foul joke Enjolras hopes it isn’t. “We’re done for today.”

Her dark curls are matted and her skin is flushed and Enjolras never expected to want to pull her close while she looks like that, but she does want. Oh my god, she wants.

“God, I could watch you beat up guys in the ring forever,” Enjolras sighs wistfully instead of acutely embarrassing herself by saying the alternative thought turning over in her head. ‘You smell good and I want to inhale you’ is hardly ever appropriate, but even less so when you’re saying it to the friend who is in love with you that you can’t stop thinking about.

“That’s why you keep coming back? Living your radical anti-fascist fantasies vicariously through me?”

“That’s a vile accusation,” Enjolras huffs, and it makes Grantaire laugh. “I don’t live vicariously through anyone.”

“I could teach you, if you wanted. If I know anything about you it’s that not being able to do things yourself makes you itch.”

It’s true Enjolras doesn’t like delegating very much.

“Maybe I’ll take you up on that, if you promise to go gentle on me at first,” Enjolras smiles, and wonders if this is what flirting is supposed to feel like, and then wonders if she’s supposed to be flirting. Is that allowed? Her chest feels fluttery and it’s kind of thrilling, but judging by Grantaire’s face it is also too much.

“I can do gentle,” Grantaire says, in that soft tone of voice that always takes Enjolras back to Bossuet’s party. Then she excuses herself to the showers. Enjolras waits nervously, wondering if she’s overstepped, if she’s about to lose Grantaire.

It is that notion that finally makes everything snap into place.

The thought of going back to what things used to be like is painful. She’d miss Grantaire, she’d -- Oh god, she really likes Grantaire. 

There is scarcely any time to process the epiphany she has just had, because Grantaire returns, towel slung over her shoulders and locks curling against her skin, metaphorical guns blazing: “Okay, listen, ice princess - sorry, Enjolras - there is a conversation we still have to have. I know I’ve been putting it off, but if you really want to be friends we have to talk about boundaries, and getting my hopes up, you know, that kind of thing. This won’t be a comfortable conversation for either of us but I can’t do this otherwise. I know, I’m not normally the poster child for healthy communication or healthy anything, but spending time with you has been so wonderful and I don’t want to lose that. But I am in love with you, and you know that. We both know, and we both know it’s about time I worked on getting over you. That complicates things in this already complicated dynamic, but I’d still like to try, I guess? If that’s cool with you.”

“Absolutely,” Enjolras chokes out, swallowing down any undue confessions and her pain that now Grantaire is ready to move on, “Let’s talk. How appealing does food sound to you right now?”

//

“Courf,” Enjolras whispers, filing away the way the woman jumps into the air again to serve for amusement at a later time in favor of addressing the issue at hand. “I’m in love with Grantaire.”

“Jesus, Enj, why are you awake?”

“Why are you awake?”

“Because I just spent the last two hours helping Pontmercy deal with her heterosexual problems and what I heard will haunt me for the rest of my earthly life. She sniffed her crush’s t-shirt, and apparently it didn’t even belong to him, god - wait, fuck, you’re in love with R?”

Enjolras slides onto the floor, Courfeyrac joins her there, one arm already pulling her in close.

“It was awful. We had a whole conversations about boundaries today because she’s finally ready to move on right as I come bursting in with feelings that are no longer wanted.”

Combeferre’s door opens, and she steps out, wearing a robe and likely nothing else. Her hair is sticking up in every direction, her glasses are dangerously balanced on her nose. “Why are we on the kitchen floor at four in the morning?”

“You’re not,” Courfeyrac points out. “Enjolras is in love with Grantaire.”

“That does warrant floor-sitting,” Combeferre sighs and joins them. “Oh, Enj, what are you going to do?”

//

When she comes up the stairs for the meeting, early as usual, Grantaire looks up from her laptop and smiles at her, beckoning her over.

“You said you wanted to see if I finished something, right? You don’t have to look at it, of course, but I wanted to show you.”

It feels almost symbolic, to cross the room into what had so long been written off as Grantaire’s territory, to be avoided at risk of otherwise exploding. Now she crosses willingly, feels herself drawn there, gratefully accepts the cup of coffee Grantaire got for her. Grantaire knows her coffee order, which seems such a trivial thing, but it makes Enjolras want to cry.

“I want to see,” Enjolras nods.

“Don’t go gouging your eyes out if you don’t like it, alright?”

Now she’s no art critic, but the picture, abstract though it is, is something she would hang in her bedroom.

(Inevitably, in the months that they’ve gotten to know one another, they’ve talked about art. Grantaire said that what was most important to her was that her work made people feel something - “In the case of my professors the feeling is usually rage or frustration, but that’s alright too. You know me, I take what I can get. Waste not want not, all that.” - and Enjolras definitely feels something. Warmth, mostly, like she’s finally burning up from something other than anger in Grantaire’s presence. Grantaire is still under her skin, she sits there incessantly, and Enjolras still can’t reach her.

Combeferre likened it to a split abscess on their kitchen floor, the best she could come up with that early in the morning, and Courfeyrac had thrown an apple at her for that comparison, but it fit. The poisonous, hateful emotions that used to plague her bled out and what remains is raw and tender, healing skin. That’s why there is still pain despite the love she feels now. It’s a process.)

“It’s amazing,” Enjolras says, when it becomes apparent that Grantaire is anxiously waiting for her response. “What did your professor say?”

“I think he was close to weeping because I deviated so strongly from his suggestions, but he nodded and said he thought it’d do well, so there’s that.”

It’s impulsive, sure, but Enjolras can’t resist pulling Grantaire into her arms and pressing close to her. “I’m so happy for you, R.”

Grantaire’s hands hesitate at her waist, and then they wrap around her back and pull her in.

When they pull back, they’re staring at one another.

“R…” she begins, only for Bahorel to jog up the stairs whistling some tune no one recognizes. Grantaire steps back, and lets Bahorel sweep her into an embrace too.

She doesn’t get a chance to talk to Grantaire that day.

But she has to, soon.

//  

Grantaire is home alone when she lets Enjolras into her apartment, no questions asked at her sudden appearance. She’s already on the way to make tea when Enjolras takes her hand.

“Enj…?” She asks, and there’s that sudden vulnerability in her voice again. “Why it’s the middle of the night...oh, wait, no, my watch just stopped, apparently. Sugar? I know we’re almost past your time limit for caffeine but I only have green tea if you don’t want Bossuet’s decade old strawberry-vanilla...”

“Ask me why I’m here.”

Grantaire swallows, meeting Enjolras eye bravely.

“Why are you here, Enjolras?”

The words roll off her tongue easily. Enjolras feels no foul aftertaste - only a sort of relief to finally be able to get it off her chest.

“Because I love you.”

Struck, Grantaire turns away with a gasp. Enjolras puts a hand on her shoulder. “R are you okay? Wait - are you pinching yourself?”

“I plead the fifth. Shut up.”

“Would it help if I said it again?”

“I mean, I heard you the first time, but...really?”

“I love you.” Enjolras confirms, holding Grantaire’s stare when the woman turns back around. “It’s a sucky thing of me to say, I know, and it’s worse of me to just spring it on you, but I - I’ve only been keeping it in for a month, and it’s already tearing me apart, I have no idea how you…”

She clears her throat. Now her mouth feels dry, of course. “Either way, how’s that for a satisfactory answer to a question I avoided for months?”

“It’s a really good answer.”

“Is it?” Enjolras wonders, hesitating for a second. “You told me you wanted to move on. You should get the chance to do that if you want to. Just because I had a revelation doesn’t mean you’re obligated to do...anything, I guess.”

“I never wanted to move on from you. I wanted you to love me, but that sentiment wasn’t healthy while I -well, while I thought there was no chance, essentially. So I tried, you know? You really love me?”

“Yes,” Enjolras nods.

Carefully, very carefully, Grantaire interlaces their fingers and smiles.