Archive of Our Own

It's a Thursday, and he's drinking. That's not unusual, considering it's a Thursday. It wouldn't be unusual if it was Monday, either, and certainly not if it was a Sunday. It would be only really unusual if it was a Wednesday. Wednesdays are for Gav and Az and Ponine, they're not for him, and so there's no drinking on Wednesdays. 

But it's a Thursday, the second ABC meeting of the week, and Grantaire's drinking, because there's nothing else for him to do. If he drinks, he doesn't talk, and that's good for the overall mood of the meeting and especially of Enjolras. Grantaire has passed dignity a few years ago and will shamelessly admit to living for their fearless leader's attention, but he hasn't had a good day, and he isn't sure he'd survive his unfiltered focus tonight. 

He sold a painting today. That should be a good thing. The customer was pleased, paid well and brought a new commission and another interested potential customer with him. Éponine is happy, he knows, there's no need to worry about rent for the next month anymore. But there's no changing that the picture wasn't good, worse even, wasn't as good as it could have been, didn't feel completed. Knowing that he won't have the chance to do anything with it anymore makes him sick in the stomach, and he doesn't think that he can look into Enjolras’s eyes today and find his own lack of worth recognised, confirmed. 

So Grantaire doesn't say anything, just drinks, because it's Thursday, because he sits as far away from their fearless leader as he can and he still hears the nuances in Enjolras’s voice, still sees the way his mouth moves while he's not speaking, sees the angles of his body and the way his eyes crinkle when he's satisfied with one of their friend's reports. 

It's alright. Their Group For Social Justice and Social Drinking, as Grantaire likes to call them, has found a cause of the month - a social centre, created for single parents and recently migrated families, where there is education and relaxation offered to both children and parents, has been old and moldy for years and is now going to be torn down and replaced by a Starbucks.

Enjolras is so angry, it's almost hilarious. 

"They already think they've won", he says, during the motivational part that is always followed by the distribution of work, "they think they can do this to our community, that we won't fight back. They won't know what hit them. Give me two, maybe three weeks of focused work and we'll have enough people to create a sitting protest. If need be, we'll occupy the building. They aren't going to replace the opportunity for free education with sugary coffee. They won't."

"You do realise this is not about good versus evil, don't you", Grantaire says because he... he just can't not. "The city council is not sitting there thinking about how they can be most effectively despicable. Fact is, the building is old and the community can't afford a centre. We need money to save it, not conviction. And nobody will want to occupy a building if it's threatening to break down. Which it is."

Enjolras narrows his eyes and opens his mouth, doubtlessly to say something soul-crushing, but Combeferre cuts in. "Not a bad thought. Ideas how to collect money?"

"We could look for a sponsor", Enjolras says, looking thoughtful. "Maybe a company looking to better their reputation. Someone new, trying to establish themselves locally."

"That would only work if you could guarantee a spot for them to advertise themselves. Nobody does anything without a personal gain", Grantaire cuts in. 

Enjolras glares at him. "There's no need to publicly establish your thoughts on humanity, Grantaire. We're all familiar with them. Do you have anything productive to add or are you content with judging the ideas other people come up with?"

"We could offer courses in the center that people pay for. Maybe organise a few sales", Marius cuts in, voice louder and more high-pitched than usual. He has always been rather addicted to harmony, but since Cosette broke up with him, he's gotten better at preventing its disturbance. 

Grantaire smiles. "That would only work if we make it into A Good Cause, publicly if possible."

"We will upload the project on the website of l'ABC", Enjolras says. "I'll write the article tonight."

Grantaire wonders idly what it might be like to have that much energy, what it might be like to not feel the need for a break every time one does something that could only barely be counted as productive. He'll never find out, but that doesn't mean he can't admire the effects. He yawns. "Nobody reads that website who isn't already halfway involved in the project."

Enjolras closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

"Feuilly", he says, with a carefully controlled voice that makes Grantaire grin wider, "you could post something on Twitter and Youtube, couldn't you? Your fanbase is mostly local."

Feuilly nods, looking at Enjolras carefully. 

Grantaire shrugs. "Cute, but most of Feuilly's followers are minors. They don't really have the spending power we would need." Feuilly has a V-log that mostly appeals to teenagers trying to keep on top with the news without wanting to skim several different news websites for complete information. It is really successful and Grantaire knows that the concept makes Enjolras cream his pants whenever he thinks about it, but it doesn't change the fact that even the most well-intentioned kids only have limited pocket money. 

"Maybe we could ask Cosette", Marius thinks aloud, and all present members of Les Amis put on their Sympathetic Faces as if on cue. "Just... She has a huge Instagram following", Marius says, and doesn't look up from his knees. "She even knows famous people here in Paris, I think."

There is a beat of silence in which everyone is trying really hard not to give him pitying glances. It has been six months since Marius proposed to Cosette, and came back from the evening with red rimmed eyes, as his now ex-girlfriend had decided she wanted to see the world rather than settle down. 

Cosette is now running a rather famous fashion and travel blog and is to release her own fashion collection in a few weeks.

Marius is now lonely, though less miserable than he was a few months ago.

"I'll ask Éponine to talk to her", Grantaire says. Enjolras’s brows furrow, and Grantaire involuntarily lowers his eyes. "Unless Apollo objects, of course."

Apollo does not object, just scowls a little harder. "If we do courses, we need to rely on our own resources", he finally says. "We can't afford to pay people to help with the centre. I thought maybe Joly could give some first aid courses, maybe Jehan could teach yoga. I could maybe give some training of public speaking. That's just from the top off my head, we'll discuss this later on in detail."

"I could maybe teach a few painting classes?", Grantaire suddenly hears himself say. "I don't know, there probably won't be anyone really interested, but maybe if we make them really cheap... It's money, too." Enjolras scoffs, and Grantaire can't look at him right now. "Or, you know. Not", he mumbles, and Combeferre clears his throat. "We'll make a list later on, but the idea sounds really nice, R." 

Grantaire grimaces. The occasions in which others in the group would try to cover for Enjolras’s rudeness used to be rare, but it happens more and more often now. 

What is interesting is that Grantaire is not getting better at handling it, either. One would think that after what - four years? - he would be used to disdain. Instead, he feels sore, like the protection he built for himself has been rubbed off over the years and what's left is raw and open. It's odd.

Enjolras looks at Combeferre and nods reluctantly, and then they start discussing the legal aspects that might help keep the centre and Grantaire drinks and listens but not really. He does that sometimes, just listen to the cadence of Enjolras’s voice as it rises and falls methodically, determined but without agitation when he's not talking to Grantaire, and it's soothing in ways that actual drugs have failed to be.

... 

Enjolras isn't fucking around now that he's got a tangible cause to fight for. 

They have a week plan with tasks and dates for each ABC member and Éponine and Cosette, accessible and visible online for every one of them. It's a bit ridiculous and very Enjolras and Grantaire loves it. It's pathetic, but he adores to have a visible connection between Enjolras’s time table and his own, and he would be lying if he said that he hadn't learned Enjolras’s tasks and meetings along with his own without trying. 

Éponine catches him staring at the thing on his phone once and promptly starts humming a string of sad love ballads. Grantaire lets her do it for four whole minutes before asking about Marius, because she actually did end up asking Cosette to share their project with the Lovely People From The Internet, even though she had to watch the entire Conjuring trilogy to calm herself down afterwards. 

The thing about Cosette, Marius and Éponine is that Grantaire doesn't understand it. He knows a thing or two about the importance of sanctuaries where no questions are asked, and Éponine tells him little even when he asks. He knows that both Cosette and Marius keep in touch with her, though not each other, regularly. He doesn't know if they do it for her or each other. 

He knows that Marius sometimes leans his head against Éponine's shoulder when they talk - he came into the living room once and saw them talking for a second before they reacted and scrambled apart - but he doesn't know if he needs to beat Marius up for it. (Well. Give him a very stern talking to. Marius is sometimes annoying and often daft, but he's Grantaire's friend and actually hitting him would be like kicking a misbehaved puppy.)

He doesn't know what to take more seriously - the mornings after a good date when Éponine is pulled together and smiling or the nights when they get drunk and scream-sing White Flag five times in a row. 

He also knows he has his own shit to worry about. Like the fact that he stares at digital tables with something that's probably worryingly close to longing. 

Thing is - this one is a project where Grantaire can actually do something. Usually it's things he doesn't know a lot about, things where he can do nothing but make posters, and drunkenly march with the others, if Enjolras isn't too overwhelming or kicks Grantaire out. 

But here - he wasn't kidding about the art classes. They actually go rather well, make as much money as Jehan's yoga classes. He even sells some of the paintings and sketches he makes in class and donates parts of the money to the account Combeferre created for the centre project. Also, he sees Enjolras more often than he used to, which is nice. 

Unless it isn't.

...

See, at the beginning, it's good. It's never comfortable, exactly, being around Enjolras, in the same way that heart attacks, epiphanies or orgasms are not, per se, comfortable. Grantaire doesn't stop acting like an ass altogether just because he has now periods of usefulness and Enjolras doesn't suddenly stop detesting him. 

But, and Grantaire supposes it's entirely due to the fact that Enjolras is too principled to be outright impolite to Grantaire when Grantaire is only mostly and no longer entirely being a waste of space, Enjolras has moments of being... not nice, exactly, but... softer.

They have moments, in the late evenings, after courses and university, where Grantaire watches Enjolras looking through folders and talking quietly to Combeferre. He's content to watch the way the blond boy's neck tilts, the way his nose and cheeks are visible when he turns his head, the way his movements turn a little slower once the clock declares Cinderella's dancing time over. But once in a while, Enjolras will turn and meet Grantaire's eye, and he won't smile, exactly, but there will be a tilt of his mouth and a look that makes it possible for Grantaire to pretend that he and Enjolras share more than a ton of friends, that maybe they could be something like friends as well, something more than distant acquaintances.

They don't stop arguing, of course. It's not so much that Grantaire likes to see Enjolras riled up - sure, he's stunning when he's angry, but then, he's always stunning, and honestly, Grantaire could do without being looked at like he's a disabled insect on a regular base. It's more that Grantaire is physically incapable of being anything else than brutally honest to Enjolras, even if his truth enrages the guy. He can't say nothing when Enjolras waxes on about hope for humanity despite all evidence to the contrary. He can't watch Enjolras try to burn himself out for something that will never work out without giving words of warning. 

But now he at least attempts to make up for all the times he makes Enjolras yell at him in the little ways he can. And he's not gonna lie, even beyond the man's not-even-potentially-existent good opinion of him, it's nice not to feel like a waste of oxygen for a few hours a week. There's a kid in class who reminds him of Ponine when he met her, before the shit with Marius started and the shit with her parents blew up. She's sassy and talented and so smart it's scary, and she's genuinely funny in the way that ten-year-olds usually aren't. She's also unapologetically ambitious, and Grantaire finds himself showing her shading techniques after class is over, even fills in an application for an art school with her. 

Enjolras catches them in that, actually, and frowns and glowers so determinedly that the girl - Emma is her name - leaves the room and the application form behind. Grantaire puts it in his bag and looks at Enjolras, whose face does a complicated but generally displeased thing when he looks right back at Grantaire. 

Grantaire thinks that maybe Enjolras objects to him using the rooms of the centre privately, without there being a contribution for the Common Good TM, and so he says, rather lamely: 'Hey, you never know, if we have an artistic child prodigy in our centre, we might get publicity.' Enjolras doesn't answer, just nods slightly and leaves the room.

So Enjolras is Not Satisfied with Grantaire's contributions. What else is new? At least Grantaire is trying.

And there are nights, well-

Grantaire is not a regular smoker, exactly - one fatal addiction per ruined, ragged body is plenty, thanks - but he does like to step outside for a few minutes sometimes, during crowds and gatherings, and he usually takes an alibi cigarette with him. 

Normally it goes like this - Grantaire steps outside, lights a cigarette, looks out over whatever part of the city is before him, closes his eyes, enjoys the relative silence made more prominent by the muffled noise tugging at his brain from behind closed balcony doors, and thinks of nothing at all (good days) or Enjolras (most days). 

Now there are nights, between the socializing and the planning and the courses, where he has company during his breaks from people. 

The first night it happened was in the first week on their Four Month Project Towards Communal Happiness, and it had been after one of Enjolras’s more flaming speeches, the kind that leave him standing with his hands on the table, panting, looking at everyone in their group as if they're not enough but Enjolras is willing to fight for them anyway (alright, fine, Grantaire is probably projecting here).

He'd been devastating, more so than usual in contrast to the comparative gentleness he'd shown talking to the children learning in the center earlier that evening. So during the looser part, where suggestions are made and people gather in smaller groups to talk about past and future weekends, Grantaire had needed a moment and slipped out. 

Out had, in this case, been a dark courtyard with a large oak in its middle, surrounded by nothing but crooked, old houses much like the one Grantaire had just stepped outside of. He had taken out a cigarette but not yet lit it up, content to just sit and enjoy the relative quiet for a moment, when the door behind him opened. Grantaire had turned around and could see nothing but a dark figure against the light in the windows, and for a second he had been able to fool himself into thinking that he only saw Enjolras because he had been thinking of him just a moment ago (and the moment before that one, and the moment before that one, and then the moment before that one.) Then the dark figure had moved, and there was no room for doubt in the way he tilted his head, in the angles of his shoulders. Grantaire would have recognised it blind, is able to draw it from memory.

"Smoking can kill you, you know", Enjolras had said and walked towards him. Grantaire had turned away, not sure if he could bear looking at him in such intimate a situation without crying or maybe randomly kissing him, and lit up the cigarette. 

"I once read that if you eat the liver of a polar bear, you die of Vitamin C poisoning. Everything kills you. We are literally slowly dying from just breathing. Don't judge me for choosing to inhale the stuff that is a little more poisonous than the poisonous stuff we need to inhale in order to live, Apollo."

"If you eat the liver of a polar bear, you deserve death", Enjolras had said, and Grantaire had snorted. "Of course you'd focus on that." Enjolras had stepped beside him, his shoulders brushing Grantaire's, and put out a hand. 

"Do you have one for me, too?" 

At that, Grantaire had looked at him, expecting judgement or sarcasm or at least exhaustion, but Enjolras had looked back calmly, coolly expectant. Grantaire had given him his own cigarette, thinking his mouth will be where my mouth has been, and said: 'Only got the one.' 

Enjolras had taken a drag, blowing out smoke with a little cough that betrayed every untrained smoker, and given the cigarette back to Grantaire. Grantaire had taken it and smiled, focusing on even breaths, wishing to be drunker, wishing to be sober. My mouth is where his mouth has been. 

They had finished the cigarette between them in silence, and then Enjolras had stepped back inside, leaving Grantaire silent and shaky.

They spend about half of Grantaire's smoking breaks together at night, no matter if they argued or ignored each other in the discussions beforehand, and Grantaire thinks it's... Well, it's something. It's not something, it's not a meaningful something (except for how it means the world to him, but really, details), but it's a break Enjolras grants them both between their battles (except Grantaire wouldn't call it battles, humans are not fighting animals peeing at their shoes, they're just, well, pissed.) It's easily possible that Enjolras is just taking the 'all-included' mentality he expects to be applied by and to everyone in the group a little more seriously than before. Or maybe he needs the occasional quiet breaks like Grantaire does. That one's a dangerous notion, because not only does it make Grantaire fall even more in love with him than before, it also betrays weakness. An Enjolras in need of not talking - and that's what they do, apart from smoking, they Do Not Talk - is an Enjolras less than unbreakable, less than divine. Vulnerable. Human. Touchable. 

They work better in silence. 

Grantaire is very focused on telling himself that Enjolras and him now being able to spend minutes alone with each other without there being any blood, figurative or otherwise, doesn't mean anything.

He's so focused on it, in fact, that for a time, he doesn't even think about the possibility that the others could maybe notice. Therefore it's four weeks of shared smoking breaks before he realizes it's a little bit odd that neither Courf nor Éponine have said anything about it, even if just in private. He knows that Éponine has noticed - even if she still avoided meetings, which she doesn't anymore, now that Cosette has left - his art is a study of hands and parted lips and dark courtyards and smoke against light, against cold, against darkness. He still does the obligatory commission work, but other than that, he works more than he ever has, filling canvas after canvas with studies of grey, blue, reddish orange and cream. There’s an upcoming national art competition that he wasn’t going to take part in, but now he has material. 

The longer Éponine says nothing, the more wound up Grantaire feels, but that's what the drinking is for, after all.

...

Wednesdays are Grantaire's favourite days of the week, even when the kids aren't there. Ponine and him are having an empty Wednesday four weeks into Project Community, because Az is invited to a classmate's birthday party and Gav is on a field trip with his class. The two leftover adults decide, after a short debate, that though maybe board games and puzzles are less fun without Az and Gav, movies and ice cream are definitively still on. They end up tangled in sheets and each other around midnight, after having seen the three Lord of the Rings movies in one sitting, and are fighting about the ultimate ranking of the best characters ("I'm very sorry, dear, but there never was and never will be a more iconic character than Eowyn. We can discuss any other ranks, but her being number one isn't negotiable."

"R, I love you, but you're wrong. Eowyn is cool, no doubts, but she has barely any screen time. Sam has had way more time to fuck up, and he stayed amazing through literal Mordor. We can make her number two."

"Can we just appreciate that none of us are trying to argue for Arwen or Frodo here?"

"Ugh, I know. I'm so glad we're friends."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

"Doesn't change the fact that Eowyn should be number one, though."

"Grantaire.") when the doorbell rings. 

Grantaire rolls from the couch, groaning, and walks over to the door, while Éponine grins at him. 

"R! It's nice to see you." Grantaire takes an involuntary step back and Marius follows, causing Éponine to go very still on the couch for a second. 

"What's wrong", she asks, before Grantaire can say anything at all. She sounds exhausted, all the laughter that was in her voice just a moment ago gone. 

Marius looks at Grantaire, and, hey, Grantaire is maybe not great at reading situations, but he is familiar with the concept of being not wanted around. 

He would leave, too, except... Éponine gives him a hard look and a nod. Grantaire looks back, tells himself that he isn't the person to kick puppies, and leaves the living room. 

...

The next day, he finds Marius before the ABC meeting. He isn't really sure what to do, knows Éponine will probably murder him with a tea spoon if Grantaire attempts to relieve Marius of his obliviousness, but he's very certain that whatever is going on, it cannot continue like this. Marius had left at 2am, Grantaire had heard Éponine cry in her room until 3.30. A few hours later at the breakfast table, her eyes had still been wet and she hadn't said a word to Grantaire all morning, had answered all his questions with silence. 

The worst is that Marius would be horrified should he ever find out, he would be horrified that they all let him do that to Éponine. 

Grantaire doesn't know what to do, so he tries to gather more information. 

He puts two bottles of beer onto the table, slides one to Marius and sits across the ginger boy. When Marius looks up, Grantaire sees that his eyes are swollen, too, though no longer red. Jesus, why does he need to deal with emotional people all the time?

"So, what happened last night", Grantaire asks, fully expecting Marius to evade the question and change the topic. They are friends, but not that kind of friends. 

Instead, Marius takes the beer and downs what Grantaire guesses to be one third of the bottle in one go. 

"Cosette is coming back. Presenting her... You know." Marius makes a vague gesture with his bottle and takes another few long gulps. When he puts the bottle back down, it sounds empty.

"Jesus", Grantaire says. And: "are you okay", because he can't yell at Marius without Éponine's permission.

"I used to be", Marius said. He's looking down at his hands. "Or at least I was getting there. I even thought I might..." he breaks off. Swallows. "Ponine is being amazing. I just... I feel like I might not know how to love anyone but Cosette."

Grantaire wants to punch him, but the man looks miserable. And it's not like Grantaire can't emphasize. He doesn't know how to love anyone but Enjolras, either. He barely knows how to do anything but love Enjolras. 

Grantaire knows Éponine can emphasize, too. What is it with this group and people persistently pining? 

But God, does Grantaire want to punch him. 

"Marius", he says. His voice sounds colder than he intended, and Marius looks up quickly. "You have to figure it out. Without Ponine. I know you would never intentionally hurt anyone. But Éponine deserves a thousand times better than to be someone’s second choice. And she can't be the one with whom you figure out your ability to not be obsessed with Cosette. She's your friend, she's our friend, and she's one of the very best people I know. Maybe the best. So don't... She's not for you to try out. If you need someone to experiment with, don't do it with Éponine. All right?"

Marius looks stricken. Grantaire is terrified that he has said too much. It's not his secret to tell, and when has him getting mixed up in things ever done anything but make things worse? He gets up, taking his bottle with him. It's still unopened. "If you ever need someone to talk... I'm not really in a position to judge", Grantaire says. Marius looks small and very miserable, and for a brief moment, Grantaire hates himself fiercely. 

Therefore, it's absolutely no surprise at all that when he turns around, Enjolras is standing in the doorway almost next to them. He's frowning at Grantaire, and Grantaire has no skin left to absorb anything he might say, so brushes past Enjolras without a word. Brushes-- literally; his bare arm touch Enjolras’s arm, his hand Enjolras’s hand, for less than a second. The tingling sensation where his skin touched Enjolras’s skin stays for the rest of the night.

... 

Two weeks later, Marius shows up with a girl called Amalie, who introduces herself as Marius’ new girlfriend. Marius grimaces, but doesn’t correct her, and Éponine goes home that night and stares tearlessly at the kitchen wall for three hours until Grantaire tells her about the conversation he and Marius had. Then, Éponine simply stops talking to him. Last time she did that, Grantaire had been so drunk Tuesday night and so hungover Wednesday afternoon that he'd left the liquor cabinet unlocked and the then eleven-year-old Gav had gotten so smashed on vodka they had to go to the hospital, suspecting alcohol poisoning. (Since then they do the sober Wednesdays, and mostly the sober Tuesday nights.)

Grantaire stops apologizing and trying to explain himself after a day and a half, not because he stops being sorry, but because there are other things to think about. 

The city council has declined to leave the community centre in case of being able to prove financial safety, which means that all their courses and all the donations - all the work - was really for nothing. 

Grantaire is disappointed, but not surprised. Enjolras is... Well.

"Enjolras has been on the phone with members of the council, the press and the government literally since yesterday", Courf tells him before the emergency meeting Enjolras has called.

Grantaire is early, for once. He has dropped off a part of his series of paintings for the competition two hours ago, and now he's at the Mussain, feeling restless and anxious.

Enjolras looks simultaneously furious and dead on his feet, and Grantaire sits on his hands to keep them from doing something stupid, like reaching out and touching Enjolras’s hair, or his arm, or his neck. Marius is sitting across of Grantaire and very determinedly doesn’t look at him, while Éponine sits a few chairs away from both Marius and Grantaire and casually looks at neither of them. Grantaire, reminded of what happens when he attempts to contribute, lets the meeting pass by without speaking up once, not even when they agree that a house occupation is a legitimate last-resort option in order to keep the centre from being torn down. It’s the first time in a while he’s said nothing at all during meetings, and though about half of the notions his friends come up with are completely ridiculous (it’s not possible to sue Starbucks for this and Grantaire knows Bahorel knows that and still doesn’t say anything when Joly suggests it; another newspaper article won’t help more than the two that already aired have, but Combeferre writes it down on his to-do anyway), he is surprised by the amount of enthusiastic energy existing in the meetings when he isn’t working to destroy it. They are desperate, yes, they are clinging to straws, but they are also bouncing, willing to act. He realises, suddenly, why Enjolras keeps being so angry with Grantaire for interrupting in the way he does – though Grantaire does try to help (he does, he does), what he really achieves is to suck out the strength of the entire group.

Go figure.

When they distribute work for the planned protest, Grantaire agrees to design a few banners, but also lets Combeferre know that he won’t actually join in. He tries to do it quietly, without drawing attention, but of course Courf overhears and dramatically claims Grantaire a traitor, until Enjolras stands next to them to ask what’s going on. “I’ve got a lot of work to do at the moment”, Grantaire hears himself say and though it’s the truth, it sounds lame to his own ears. “I’ll do the posters, that’s always my only real contribution anyway.” Reluctantly, Combeferre nods, and makes a note on one of his many lists, while Courf pouts. “You abandon us to fail on our own?” Éponine snorts before Grantaire can say something. “R does have the tendency to give up on things without trying if they might work.”

Grantaire knows that Éponine doesn’t really mean it, judging from her face she’s sorry already, but it stings anyway. Criticism from her almost hurts as much as Enjolras’s judgement.

“Maybe I just have a better idea about when it’s time to give up”, Grantaire says, and then he leaves before he can see Éponine’s face. He leans against the wall next to the back door of the centre and thinks about pulling out his flask, but instead pulls out a cigarette. He hasn’t had a drink today yet, and it doesn’t feel great, but it’s not unbearable right now, and he figures he can stay sober until it is.

He blows out smoke into the dusky sky, and when he hears steps beside him, he realises he expected Enjolras. When the hell did that happen, and what will he do once Enjolras decides to stop bothering with him? Grantaire holds out the cigarette, but Enjolras doesn’t take it. He doesn’t stay silent, either. Instead, he says in an accusatory tone: “You’ve never skipped a protest for work before.”

Grantaire answers more honestly than he had planned to, as always when Enjolras is involved. “I’m not skipping for work this time, either.”

“Why, then?”

And what the hell is he supposed to say to that? That he can’t watch them fool themselves but doesn’t want to be a killjoy? That it’s noticeable that they do more when he shuts up, so god knows what will happen when he doesn’t show up at all? It sounds whiny and pathetic if he just says it in his head, so instead he opts for the safe route: Be an asshole about it.

“Because you’re wasting your time. You know you’re wasting your time. If the city council has decided they don’t want immigrants and single mothers and poor people to spoil the atmosphere of the quarter with their presence, they’ll find reasons. If you need to keep spending your time on this until the building is gone in order to sleep at night, I won’t stand in your way. But I actually have better things to do.”

“Like what”, Enjolras says, looking angry. “Drinking?”

Grantaire feels like he’s been punched, and he’s sure it’s written plainly on his face. “Yeah”, he agrees tiredly. “Drinking. That’s all there is to me, anyway.”

Enjolras lowers his head. He doesn’t disagree. “You’ve never believed in our causes before”, he says quietly. “But you usually come for your friends.”

Grantaire thinks of Éponine. “Turns out I’m not a very good friend, either, then. Between you and me, who do you think is less surprised?” He looks up at Enjolras’s face and is locked in his gaze for a few seconds. Then Enjolras rubs his temples with one hand, and Grantaire breaks away, leaving the site without turning back.

He takes his time to get home, taking turns in small streets and going down to the river to see the last daylight disappear before he goes back home. When he opens the door of his apartment, Éponine is sitting on the floor of the corridor, one steaming mug in hand, one placed beside her. She looks up at him and her mouth does something tired that looks vaguely like a smile. She gestures at the mug beside her. “I made us tea.”

Grantaire sits down beside her and lets his head sink against the wall. They sit in silence for a bit, warming their hands against the warm mugs. Then Éponine says: “Sorry for being a bitch.” Grantaire nods. “Sorry for speaking to Marius. I didn’t mean to. I just couldn’t not, I guess.” Éponine smiles mirthlessly. “I used to have to hold back not to punch Enjolras in the face”, she says. “So I guess I get it. But your boy suddenly loving you back doesn’t give you the right to judge my love life.”

Grantaire gapes. “My what doing what now?”

She rolls her eyes. “Come on. I’m not stupid. You two take regular snogging breaks, everyone has noticed, I just told them to not pester you about it. And I can take it, you know. You should tell me those things. I can be happy for you, even when I’m not happy myself.”

He needs a moment to work through the sentences. Then he sits up straighter and says, very quietly: “Smoking breaks. Not snogging. Not even talking. Smoking.”

“Huh?”

“We don’t… good god, Ponine, do you really think I would have neglected to mention it if I had started kissing Enjolras on a regular base?”

She stares at him. “Enjolras isn’t a smoker.”

Grantaire makes a helpless gesture. “Fuck if I know. Apparently he’s more of a smoker than he’s someone who kisses me.”

Éponine starts laughing, the patented Ponine laugh that is essentially just her shaking wildly, soundlessly, until she’s violet in the face. She’s laughing even harder when Grantaire says: “Wait, what do you mean, everyone has noticed? Is everyone thinking that we’re…?”

Éponine drops her head onto his shoulder, still shaking, and Grantaire lets his head sink back against the wall.

…

Grantaire skips the next two meetings as well as the protest. He hasn’t quite worked through how to face his friends, knowing what they think. If he misses Enjolras, well. The next painting in his series is dusky colours, smoke, as usual, and a red hoodie under which long fingers appear.

…

Cosette throws a dinner party for their group the day after her fashion show, and everyone shows up. Éponine as well, who, to everyone’s surprise, had also been at the show itself. She and Marius have rarely been talking since the appearance of his new girl, but apparently, Cosette is no longer a problem.

Grantaire catches them laughing together in the kitchen of Cosette’s father, who has graciously offered his house and disappeared to be with friends for the night.

Grantaire asks if they need help, but Cosette kisses his cheek and tells him to relax, while Éponine grins and tells him to save the energy for their apartment, and then they turn back towards each other, Cosette's head bowed over a pot while Éponine's shoulders are still shaking over a joke Grantaire hasn't caught. He salutes sloppily, and is on his way from the kitchen to the toilet when he catches sight of Enjolras, Feuilly, Jehan, Combeferre and Courfreyac crouched together on one of the five balconies that Valjean’s house has.

Enjolras is slumped lazily against the balustrade, legs stretched out, eyes half-closed, relaxed. The sight makes Grantaire smile. He almost never gets to see this Enjolras, it’s a version of him that’s reserved for his friends. He doesn’t make himself known, instead stays half-hidden behind the wall next to the balcony door. If someone catches him, he can say that he was simply on his way to the loo.

“I really do think he enjoyed it”, Feuilly says and Courf laughs.

“Of course he did! It’s Bossuet.” “Doesn’t change the fact it shouldn’t have been necessary”, Enjolras grumbles lowly. “It was a lawful protest.”

“Ah, you know how it is”, Courf says cheerfully. “We are well-known.”

“Rather the point though, isn’t it”, Combeferre cuts in. “We have an excellent track record, and we were only about 150 people. There was no need for that many policemen.”

“They wanted to intimidate us.” Feuilly again. “Provoke us. And they succeeded, didn’t they?”

“That wasn’t Bossuet’s fault, though”, Jehan protests firmly.

“Of course not.” Courfreyac sounds soothing.

They’re talking about the protest, Grantaire thinks, the one to which he was not present. There had been about half as many policemen as protestors, and almost at the end of thing, one of the policemen had said something demeaning about Jehan and his giant, flowery, floppy sunhat. Bossuet had to have been held back and yelled a few rather colourful somethings at the policeman. There wouldn’t be any charges pressed unless they wanted to explain why a man in their ranks could be discriminating without reserve while occupying the function of the government’s executive branch, but it was enough for some negative press covering.

There’s a bit of silence, then Feuilly says: “I still think we should ask Grantaire about the flyers and the posters for the house occupation. If Enjolras asks tonight, he still has five weeks to get it done.”

“There’s no need to ask him, we can do them ourselves.” Enjolras answers, allowing no protest. After a second, he adds: “He doesn’t care about us or about what we do, anyway. I’ve never been sure why he’s in this group.” Grantaire feels himself freeze.

The silence is more uncomfortable this time. “That’s wildly unfair, and you know it.” Combeferre sounds firm. “R is an amazing friend to all of us, and you know he loves you.”

He wants to leave. Grantaire wants to leave. This, right here, is his worst-case scenario. He’s had nightmares less terrible than this. He can’t move though, and then he hears Enjolras laugh.

Laugh.

It’s a harsh sound.

“Grantaire is far too apathetic to love anyone, and he certainly doesn’t love me.”

And the moment Grantaire thinks ‘right, that’s it’ and makes a careful step away from the balcony, Bossuet turns around the corner, and in his booming Bossuet-voice calls: “R, are you waiting for the loo to get free? You do realize they have more than one bathroom in this house, right?”

Enjolras’s head snaps up and he looks right at Grantaire. The colour is draining from his face. Grantaire doesn’t know what to say. He feels like he maybe should defend his snooping, but there aren’t any words in his head. He forces a smile and claps his hand on Bossuet’s shoulder as he brushes past him, to the bathroom in the ground floor.

Once he locked the door behind him, Grantaire leaves cold water running over his lower arms and splashes his face.

Too apathetic to love anyone.

It’s not… it’s not a surprise, now, is it? Grantaire knew that this is what Enjolras thinks, always has thought, about him. And yet. And yet it really, really fucking hurts to hear that Enjolras thinks him too lazy to have feelings, that he brushes away the idea of Grantaire being in love with him as ridiculous because he’s too passive to love at all. It hurts.

When he walks into the dining room, Courfreyac and Jehan attempt to get up, but luckily settle for shooting him worried looks when he shakes his head. The silence in the room lasts long enough that Grantaire can't doubt that everyone has been informed, but his friends know him well enough to pick up the conversation again before it can get too awkward. Bahorel and Joly don't miss a beat when Grantaire sits down between them, Bahorel filling Grantaire's glass with wine unprompted and Joly quickly launching into a story about one of the professors in his clinic. It’s ten minutes before Grantaire relaxes enough to look at Enjolras. The man is still white as a sheet and stares at his untouched plate, not talking to anyone, and absurdly, Grantaire feels a rush of pity. He says: “Does Enjolras have any plans about this house occupation yet, anyway” vaguely in the direction of Bahorel, who promptly asks the question loudly and engages Enjolras in a conversation.

After dinner, Grantaire follows Cosette out onto the balcony attached to the dining room. They haven’t spoken yet today, and they sit with their backs against the balustrade, looking through the glass doors into the illuminated room.

They both heave a deep sigh in chorus, and then start laughing.

“So”, Grantaire says, looking at Éponine and Marius and Enjolras, sitting all apart from each other at the table, “how have you been?”

Cosette talks for a long time – about how much work it is, about how she is barely able to get any sleep, about how lonely travelling gets, about how she’s happier now than she’s ever been before.

“I did love Marius”, she says after about forty minutes, looking down at her bare feet. “I think I maybe still do, in a way. But I don’t want the life he had planned for us. I couldn’t stay in this city forever. The world has so much to offer, it’s absurd not to try some of it.”

“Éponine used to say the same”, Grantaire says. Before Marius. How odd it is, that one person can shift all priorities so much. Cosette chuckles. “I asked her to come, you know? To New York. We both know she is at least as talented as I am when it comes to fashion design, even if for now, she mostly makes stuff for herself.”

Grantaire stares at her. There’s something heavy in the pit of his stomach. “What did she say?”

“She said she’d think about it. Maybe in a few months.”

Grantaire nods. This day just keeps getting better. He is happy for Éponine, always, but what the hell is he supposed to do without her around?

“Do you think Marius is okay?” Cosette looks at him doubtfully and Grantaire chuckles.

“Sorry to tell you this, but you broke his heart. Ruthlessly. You don’t just get over something like that.” He watches Marius talking to Musichetta, gesturing, laughing, though not as unabashedly as he used to. “But he doesn’t have the kind of disposition to not be okay. He’ll get over it, in time.”

Cosette nods thoughtfully. “That’s what I figured.”

Cosette gets called in just before she can turn the conversation around to him, and Grantaire can see Enjolras getting up and walking towards the balcony. He stands up and hurries into the room before Enjolras can reach him, announcing his goodbyes loudly without looking at Enjolras. He gets a few hugs and a few quips about leaving early and agrees to meet Cosette for coffee the next morning, and then he goes downstairs to get his jacket. Grantaire is only two meters away from the entrance door when Enjolras’s voice calling his name stops him.

When he turns around, Enjolras is walking towards him. He looks both miserable and determined, and Grantaire feels sick to the stomach. He speaks before Enjolras can.

“There’s no need to say anything. Really, it’s fine. It’s nothing I wasn’t already aware you think. We both know you only tolerate me at meetings because the others like me – for what reason ever, eh? – so let’s not pretend that we’re something other than reluctant acquaintances. And I know you probably don’t forgive yourself for being anything less than perfect, but we all have people we just can’t help being a little mean to. That makes you nothing more than human. And at least it’s just me. I sort of deserve it, anyway.” He looks at Enjolras. “So don’t feel bad. We’re as okay as we ever were.”

Enjolras’s voice is very quiet and very rough. “I didn’t mean it.”

That makes Grantaire laugh. “Of course you did. You don’t say things you don’t mean. You’re not wrong, either”, he continues when he sees Enjolras opening his mouth. “I don’t care enough. I’m lazy. I drink too much. I always see the worst in everything. It’s all true. And even if I try to work on it, it will never not be true. And it’s not like I don’t notice, you know? I do realize you’re all having more fun planning when I’m not ruining it by talking, but I just can’t help myself most days. But I’m working on it. I’ll still occasionally come to meetings, to see my friends, but I’ll shut up from now on. I’ll be out of your hair.”

Enjolras is silently shaking his head, looking as if he is going to throw up any second. He opens his mouth and closes it again without having said something. Grantaire wants to comfort him, somehow, and so he says: “I’m not angry at you, honestly. You didn’t really do anything wrong”, and then he walks the last few steps to the entrance door and leaves the house.

It’s not quite the truth, but it’s also not all a lie, either.

…

The next day, he gets a letter from the IAC. His paintings – together with the works of twelve other artists – have been chosen to be displayed in a gallery six weeks from now. There will be a ceremony on opening day revealing the three winners, and Grantaire is invited.

He keeps the letter and the invitation but decides not to tell anyone. It’s not really that big a deal, and he really isn’t sure how he would handle any further attention from the group right now.

…

Grantaire stays true to his word, as much as he can. He skips about every second meeting, feigning work, and sees the other members of the group about once a week outside of meetings, so nobody has reason to complain about it.

When he is there, he sits in his usual spot at the back and shuts up, not exactly able to blend out the discussion – it does include Enjolras talking, after all – but he can let it wash over him, focussing on the things being talked about after the official part is over instead. He stays silent when they agree to do a house occupation, doesn’t argue for Joly when he mentions safety issues (granted, they all have occupied this house for months, but there are parts they all know they don’t want to enter, like the attic or the balcony facing the street) and even bites his tongue when Enjolras suggests they try to win over more people for their last stand. They want to spread the word about an illegal house occupation  – only among friends and trusted allies though, of course – and not even Combeferre is really arguing against it, likely because he doesn’t want to imply that their friends aren’t trustworthy. Grantaire doesn’t know whether to laugh or to cry, and so he gets drunk instead.

Enjolras doesn’t seem to appreciate Grantaire pulling back any more than he appreciated Grantaire being present, which is surprising in how unsurprising it is. Instead of scowling at Grantaire whenever he says something mean and negative, he scowls at him during the brief silences that turn up in place of the unnecessary interruptions. It’s unfair. Grantaire wants to cry; mostly he just wants Enjolras to smile at him, just once, outside the cigarette breaks they are no longer having.

He does offer to help with the posters for the sitting protest, just to Combeferre, when nobody else is listening. Combeferre sighs and cleans his glasses. “God knows we can use some help.” He massages his temples, murmuring: “Not getting involved, not getting involved.” Before Grantaire can ask, Combeferre looks up, giving Grantaire an accusing glare he isn’t entirely sure he deserves. “I really just want to send him to therapy sometimes, you know? That’s a terrible thing to say about a friend, but the man is even more likely to die lonely than he is to become president at some point.” Grantaire doesn’t know what to say to that, isn’t even sure if they are talking about Enjolras or Courfreyac here, and so he claps Combeferre’s shoulder and promises to deliver the posters in four days.

He doesn’t come to any of the meetings for the next three weeks.

…

It’s the night before the house occupation that Éponine tells him she’s thinking about leaving town. Had the timing been any different, Grantaire doesn’t think the next day would have happened the way it does.

As it is, it’s between two bites of pizza that Éponine says: “Cosette asked me to come to New York with her.” Grantaire doesn’t think to act surprised and just looks at her, waiting to continue. “She asked me last year already, right before she left.”

"What did you say?"

"First time around? That there was no way."

"And now?"

Éponine shrugs, focussing on her pizza. “I wanted to know what you think about it.”

“About you leaving Paris, about you moving to New York, or about you leaving Paris to move to New York with Cosette?”

“About us leaving Paris to move to New York.”

“Us”, Grantaire states blankly.

“You’re an artist, you can work anywhere.”

Grantaire laughs. “I’m not a very successful artist. I’ve barely started to develop a reputation in this city.”

She gives him a deeply unimpressed look. “You are one of twelve people in this country who have a chance to win the Gromaire prize. You’re free not to tell me things, but don’t you dare treat me like I’m stupid.”

Grantaire is flooded by a sudden rush of shame and awkwardly clears his throat. “How did you find out?”

“Jehan read your name in a flyer for the gallery. Asked me if I knew if you wanted the group to be there.”

The thought of Jehan, ever-supportive Jehan with his tight hugs and hilarious poetry slam entries, being unsure whether he was welcome at Grantaire’s… whatever, he can’t even think of an appropriate term and really, that’s half the reason he didn’t tell anyone, makes Grantaire sick. He really is an arsehole sometimes. “What did you say?”

Éponine gives him a small smirk. “I said you’d be delighted.”

“Guess I deserved that.”

“You really did.”

Grantaire takes another bite of pizza. Chews. Swallows. Asks: “What about Gav and Az?”

Éponine sighs. “Gav is fifteen. He doesn’t really… I told him. He said he and Az would come to me during all their holidays. And that I should get the fuck out of this place.”

Grantaire nods. It’s really the only honest thing he can think of, as well. Éponine deserves to get the fuck out.

“It’s selfish to even think about it, isn’t it?”

He shakes his head. “You’ve been there for everyone but yourself for the past ten years. You have earned a break. And I can keep up the Wednesday dates with Gav and Az until you're back home.”

Éponine gives him a smile, half grateful, half apologetic. “It wouldn’t be for long. Six months, maybe, just until I have space in my head.”

Grantaire doesn’t think she’s lying, but he also knows she’s not telling the truth. Once you start finding ways to get away from yourself, it’s hard to stop. Éponine isn’t him and travelling isn’t drinking, but he thinks he knows what she will do once she realises how different from now her life could be. They will never live together again.

Grantaire swallows past a lump in his throat. "When are you leaving?"

She laughs, pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. “Can’t wait to have the apartment to yourself, eh?”

He suddenly realises that he actually can afford the thing by himself, right now, he doesn’t need to take on another roommate. When the hell did that happen?

When he doesn’t answer, her laugh dies down. “Cosette is leaving in two weeks. I figured I’d maybe follow in a month or so.”

“And then you will work together?” The thought is so, so strange. Three years ago, Éponine would barely talk to Cosette.

She shrugs. “Cosette’s idea. She keeps calling it a collaboration.” The way she says the last word, with a tilt of her mouth that says ‘ridiculous’ and a fondness in her eyes that says ‘lovely’, hits Grantaire. The thought is absurd, and yet. He clears his throat.

“Ponine. You and her…?”

Éponine avoids his gaze. "I don't really know", she says. "I like her. She makes me laugh. The sex has been good so far. That should be enough for a start. I've spent so many years trying... It's just nice to be wanted, for once."

Grantaire shakes his head. "Éponine Thénardier. I never would have guessed", he grins. "All those years mooning over a boy, and now you just pull that?"

“Some people are bi, Steven”, she replies, the corners of her mouth twitching. "Get over it."

Grantaire throws his head back laughing.

…

It’s much later, after they finished their pizza and then finished two bottles of cheap red wine, when Éponine has gone to bed and Grantaire is staring at the mass of dishes and glasses he will clean tonight or maybe tomorrow night, that he thinks that if Éponine is able to just get up and leave Paris and Marius behind, maybe Grantaire should at least try to leave Grantaire behind. Not in the mind-numbing, self-destructive way that really only leads him back to the fucking failure that he is, but in a healthy way. A way he can be proud of.

Starting tomorrow.

…

The next morning, Grantaire oversleeps, which sums up his relationship to plans in general.

When he arrives, an hour late, unshowered and uncaffeinated, there’s a huge crowd assembled around the centre – much larger than there ought to be today. They expected policemen and spectators tomorrow, when the house was supposed to be torn down. Today was supposed to be just them, getting in position.

Instead, there’s a group of policemen surrounding the house, and all of the Les Amis, sans Éponine, trying to get inside. When Grantaire gets closer, he can hear Bahorel yelling: “This is unlawful, you have no grounds to close the building before tomorrow, you can’t simply-” before his voice is cut off by other voices, more screams. By the time Grantaire has fought himself through the crowds to stand next to Feuilly, he has worked out what happened. “So one of the allies wasn’t as trustworthy as we thought?”, he says into Feuilly’s ear, who nods. “Not that unexpected, in hindsight”, the man answers, and Grantaire wants to answer ‘not just in hindsight’ when he realizes that this is, essentially, his fault. He knew this would happen. He could have at least tried to prevent this, and he didn’t, because – what? He was pouting? He didn’t want Enjolras to be mean to him?

Christ, he is pathetic.

Enjolras is actually completely right about him – he is too apathetic to actually love anyone or anything. He may claim to believe in Enjolras, but he really is just scared of the man.

Grantaire turns around. There are no people inside the house, none of his friends are even close to it. He can see Enjolras standing a few meters away with Combeferre and Courfreyac, all three having white rolls stuck under their arm, which Grantaire knows are the banners he made. All three of them are discussing with the policemen, words Grantaire can’t make out, and for a brief moment he wonders why none of them have just tried brushing past the policemen, until he understands that none of them is as close as he is. There are two policemen between him and one of the large ground floor windows of the building. Grantaire isn’t optimistic enough to try the front door – anyone with an ounce of sense would know to lock it – but the windows are old and brittle and he is sure he could break the glass if he had a tool. He looks around to find absolutely nothing – except his own backpack, which isn’t very heavy but does have a metal thermos bottle containing coffee inside.

It’s a bit insane and almost definitely not going to work, but both of the policemen are distracted by noisy spectators and even noisier demonstrators and the gap between them is big enough he can just brush past them. Either he is going to do it now, or he isn’t going to do it at all.

Grantaire slips between the two policemen, not taking the time to turn around and see if they noticed, and smashes the thermos against the window pain with all his might. The glass cracks on the first try, but he actually needs three more attempts until the window is mostly free of glass. By now, there are hands trying to hold him back, but he manages to shrug them off, half jumping, half climbing through the window. He feels his skin cut in several places where it is touched by glass shards, but he doesn’t pay attention to it. 

Grantaire is aware that there is no way any of this will work. They will get him out of the house, eventually, likely by force, and he will very likely be persecuted for this. In this moment, it doesn’t matter. If he can do this, if he can show that he is willing to actually fight for something other than himself, if he can make Enjolras look at him just once like he isn’t a disappointment – then maybe, after this, Grantaire can move on. He can. He will.

He runs up the stairs towards the balcony on the second floor facing the street, and calls out “Throw me the banners!” For a second, it’s quiet – not actually quiet, it’s a lot of people in a Parisian street, but quieter than before, no screaming, just mumbling – then Bahorel starts to laugh and Combeferre throws the roll under his arm towards Grantaire. Grantaire catches it, barely, and puts it down on the floor next to him. “Next one”, he yells, and Courf is better at throwing than Combeferre, it lands on the balcony. “Enjolras”, Grantaire calls, and as usual, Enjolras stiffens when Grantaire speaks to him, even though he has stared at Grantaire for the past thirty seconds. “Come on”, Grantaire urges. But now the police, surprised into stillness for half minute, starts moving again, and Enjolras, held back by two officers, can’t do anything but lift his arm a little so the banner he kept falls down on the street. Before any of the policemen can get a hold of it, Jehan grabs it and hurls it up, directly into Grantaire’s arms. Grantaire grabs the three posters and runs up to the third floor. Two of the posters he fixes between window frame and glass of the two large windows facing the street, inadvertently darkening the rooms a little. The third one, he ties onto the balustrade of the balcony with his shoe laces. There are no policemen with him yet, and so he allows himself a moment of triumph and a wide grin, standing on the balcony and looking down at the spectators.

A policeman has taken a megaphone and words, electronically amplified, reach Grantaire. “Come out of the building, otherwise we will have to remove you by force. I repeat: Evacuate the building, or you will be removed.”

Grantaire grins and sits on the balustrade, dangling his feet. He looks directly at Enjolras, who seems mostly shocked, but then, suddenly, gives him a tiny smile. It’s something. It’s all he ever get, likely, so he drinks in the quirk of Enjolras’s mouth and the brightness of his eyes and looks at the officer with the bullhorn.

“Gentleman, if you want me to come down”, he says, leaning back a little, smirking, “I’m afraid you’ll have to carry me.”

That, of course, is the moment in which the balcony crashes down.

…

Grantaire wakes up in an ambulance. He has, by some miracle, not broken anything, just a light concussion, a few sprained joints and a cut on his upper arm. He is out of the emergency room and in his apartment by midnight, where Éponine, Joly, Bahorel and Feuilly yell at him for half an hour.

He was right about likely being prosecuted for this. Bahorel tells him that there is a trial in his future, for civil disorder and, ironically, property damage (“The building is being torn down tomorrow”, Grantaire cries out, “how does a broken window even matter?” “It doesn’t”, Bahorel says, unimpressed, “but that doesn’t mean it’s not illegal.”).

The others, he is told, are going to come over to see him tomorrow. Feuilly tells him that tonight, the three of them were allowed to come because Combeferre argued practical over emotional reasons: Joly, as a doctor, could make sure if there was anything Grantaire needed, Bahorel was going to be Grantaire’s lawyer (“unless you’d rather have someone else”, Bahorel had said, giving Grantaire a look that said ‘you better not want someone else or else’, making Grantaire smile) and Feuilly was there to inform Grantaire about the media coverage. “It’s not going to be a big deal”, he says, while Grantaire is drinking tea that Éponine had shoved at him with a glare. “I think they’re rather going to write about the balcony breaking down and somebody being hurt than our attempted house occupation.” “So they are actually gonna tear the building down?”, Grantaire asks, thinking about the fact that he spent the largest part of past four months in that building, thinking of the people he met, Jehan in his flowery yoga pants, children painting skies, Emma and the art school. Enjolras and cigarettes in the dark. Feuilly nods darkly. “Starting tomorrow at seven. I think the bulldozers are already there now.” Grantaire swallows. “How is Enjolras”, he asks, even though he doesn’t really need to. Furious. Sad. Disappointed, though for once hopefully not disappointed in Grantaire.

The faces of his four friends darken instantly.

“Combeferre got him out of jail a few hours ago”, Bahorel says. Grantaire freezes, then groans. “Oh god, he punched someone, didn’t he?” Joly nods. “You were unconscious, the officers wouldn’t let him or any of us check on you.”

Grantaire’s face suddenly feels very warm. He doesn’t know what to say, so he just nods as if that made any sense. “He must be upset”, he says quietly. Éponine snorts. “You’re the one who fell down three stories. I wouldn’t worry about him.” “We lost the centre”, Grantaire argues. “He spent months on that.”

“We all spent months on that”, Bahorel says, giving the two of them a very odd look. “But yeah, he’s upset. Less about the centre right now though, I think.”

Grantaire wants to ask, but Joly cuts in before he can. “We’re all pretty done with the day. We should sleep, and then we’ll talk tomorrow, alright?”

Nobody is in a position to disagree with the possibility of sleep right now, and within ten minutes, they have all hugged each other about five times and Éponine has agreed to wake Grantaire up again at four and then at eight, to see if he’s alright.

She hugs him once more before she goes to bed, tightly, and whispers: “If you don’t want me to move away you don’t need to jump from balconies Grantaire, goddamnit.” He chuckles and clings back.

And then Grantaire is sitting on his bed, so tired he could drop, but also feeling restless. He can’t stop thinking about Enjolras being somewhere, miserable because they failed, about Enjolras in jail, and before he can think twice about it, his phone is in his hand. He hasn’t texted Enjolras in years, since they all still went to university, but has made sure that the number is always updated. Grantaire stares at the completely blank Whatsapp chat and slowly types: ‘I’m sorry things didn’t work out like you wanted them to. Hope you are okay.’

He sends it before he can change his mind and regrets it almost immediately. They aren’t friends. Enjolras doesn’t like him, he probably feels guilty – bless his perfectionist little heart – and, on top of everything, is likely already asleep. He’ll read the text in the morning and will realise that Grantaire had literally nothing better to do in the middle of the night than to compose sentimental little texts. Way to be obvious.

Not that it matters.

Grantaire brushes his teeth and checks his phone, more out of reflex than anything else. There’s no reply (of course there is no reply, it’s 1am, what does he expect) so he curls up under the blanket and closes his eyes.

…

Ten minutes later, somebody is knocking at the apartment door.

Grantaire isn’t yet asleep, which is why he hears it at all, and he stumbles out of his bedroom quickly, before Éponine is woken. He figures that if someone wanted to break in, they wouldn’t bother to knock, and if there was an emergency, there would be ringing.

When he opens the door, Enjolras is standing there, looking at him.

Grantaire could swear his heart stops for half a second and then picks up again with higher speed. He takes a step back, opening the door wider, and Enjolras steps into the half-lit corridor, closing the door softly behind him.

When Grantaire speaks, it’s almost a whisper, as not to wake up Éponine.

“Did something happen?”

Enjolras shakes his head, then shrugs. “Nothing apart from the obvious.” He doesn’t offer anything else, and after a minute, Grantaire looks at him questioningly. “So…” Enjolras sighs. “I’m sorry. You sent the text and that meant that you were still awake, but it’s probably too late. I shouldn’t have come. We can talk some other time.” Grantaire nods, still stunned, but catches himself when Enjolras actually turns to leave. “Or we could just talk now, since you’re here anyway.”

Enjolras pauses, turns around. Rubs his face with a sigh. “I’m not even sure what I wanted to say.”

Now that he is over the first shock, Grantaire is suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that he hasn’t showered in days and he wonders, panically, if Enjolras can maybe smell it from where he stands, and Grantaire takes a step back, leaning against the wall of the corridor.

It’s surreal, having Enjolras here. It’s not even something from a dream – his dreams tend not to be wildly unrealistic – but Grantaire already knows it’s going to be, knows the dim lights and the corridor and Enjolras are going to feature in his nights from now on. He looks tired and worn down, with bags under his eyes and messy hair. Grantaire wants to touch him.

“I guess I just… I just wanted to say thank you”, Enjolras says eventually. “What you did today was-“ “Really fucking dumb”, Grantaire interrupts, while his brain is screaming at him to shut the fuck up, to stop spoiling good things. But for all that he has longed for Enjolras’s approval for a good part of the past decade, he isn’t sure if he could actually cope with getting it.

Enjolras sighs. “It was brave. And selfless. And kind.”

It wasn’t, is the thing. It hadn’t been. It hadn’t been for any of the people that Enjolras cared to care about so much, not for the greater good, not for an ideal. He’d been in the house because he’d had the opportunity and because he’d wanted to be more than just the pathetic personification of passiveness. And he thought it was bad to have Enjolras think badly about him and be right about it, but it’s actually worse to have him think well of him and be wrong about it.

So he rolls his eyes. “There are no selfless acts, Apollo. I keep telling you. And I may be many things, but kind isn’t one of them. We lost and I knew we’d lose, but I fell off a balcony for it anyway. That’s not bravery, that’s stupidity.”

Enjolras takes a step back. He looks furious all of a sudden, his hands curled up into fists.

“Do you think this is funny?”, he asks. His voice is quiet, but all the more intense for it.

“I know you think yourself smarter than anyone else, and I know you consider me a naïve fool, but is this really just a joke to you? Do you think I am so stupid I don’t notice?”

Grantaire blinks. “Huh?”, he says unintelligently and Enjolras scoffs.

“You do this-- all the time! All the time. You permanently contradict yourself, and then you look at me, and I know you think I don’t notice you scanning my reactions, but I’m not as dumb as you think I am.”

Grantaire squints at him. “Okay, okay, first things first: What in the hell gives you the idea that I think you’re stupid?”

Now Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Grantaire. Every time I say something – every. Single. Time. You make fun of it. You point out every flaw in every plan I come up with. You always know better.”

Grantaire shakes his head. “That’s not-“, he begins, but Enjolras interrupts him.

“And I understand that I do not give you enough credit for what you do to help, but you have to understand that it is a little humiliating to have someone sit across of you and know they could point out every single thing to criticise about you or what you say, but sometimes just won’t bother. And you stopping to talk in meetings – I know this is my fault, and I have talked to Combeferre and Courfreyac about somebody else taking over the leadership of this group, trust me, I’m aware I failed – but there wasn’t any need to rub in how much we need your contributions. We’re aware. I’m very aware.” Grantaire opens his mouth, needing to say something, he has so many questions right now, but Enjolras just continues. “So I understand I’m not perfect, but there is really no need to insult my intelligence like that.” Now there’s a pause and Grantaire could say something, but all he can really think of is: “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. What exactly is it you think I’m doing?”

“You permanently argue for one thing and then do the other. Come on”, Enjolras says, when he sees Grantaire gaping. “You know what I mean. You know.”

“When have I ever – no, seriously, Apollo. Examples. I don’t know what you mean.”

“Examples”, Enjolras says flatly. His hands are still curled up into fists and his voice could cut glass. “Alright then. You always, always argue like the worst of humanity is natural and everything good I see about it are just things that I’m interpreting wrong or exceptions to very ugly rules. Am I incorrect?”, he asks, Grantaire shakes his head. He still isn’t sure where this is going.

“And then your actions are constantly proving yourself wrong. You are permanently contradicting yourself. You tell me some bullshit”, Grantaire notices absently that he has never heard Enjolras swear before, he is either really tired or just really done “about how people are never helping anyone unless it gains them something, every single time, and then every single time, you go out of your fucking way to help us, with art or advice or just your presence, and it gains you nothing. You talk about how all of humanity is only about materialism and greed, and then you donate what money you can spare to our causes, refusing to even take credit for it. Yes, I know about the money for the centre”, he says when he says Grantaire opening his mouth, “and I also know it wasn’t the only time you did this. I know. You give art classes to children for free, having a flock of kids at your feet, to help something you claim not to believe in. You say that dreams are for people prepared to be disappointed, yet you help a little girl with an application to an art school. You go on about how people are unable to take responsibility for their actions, yet you are the first to claim fault before your friends when anything at all goes wrong, even if you weren’t even involved. You give Marius the talking to that has been necessary for years and that none of us have been brave enough to do, and then you turn around and tell me that you are not a particularly good friend. You argue that it’s impossible to get people with a grudge together because of people’s ego and because it isn’t human nature to forgive, and then you overhear me saying the most cruelly unfair, most blatantly wrong, most detectable things about you that I have ever said about another human being, and you tell me that there isn’t any need to be sorry and that you aren’t even angry. You get almost killed in an attempt to make a stand about something you say you knew would fail, and then you have the audacity to tell me that there is no such thing as selflessness. You say the worst about yourself all the time, and then you just leave before anyone can call you out on it. You are exactly the kind of person you argue doesn’t exist, and you keep acting like that isn’t something anyone notices. And I don’t get it. I understand that you don’t like me, but I don’t see why you keep trying to convince me to think the worst of you when at the same time, you don’t bother even attempting to make the truth less obvious.”

Enjolras takes a deep breath, his voice is slightly hoarse even though he never raised it above a low murmur. Grantaire stares at him, head spinning. He has no idea what to say about this, about any of this. None of the things that Enjolras just said are anything less than absurd, and Grantaire is making a list of things that need to be cleared up.

“Okay, first of all”, he says lowly, “what the hell do you mean you talked about somebody else leading l’ABC?” Enjolras stares at him. “That’s what you got out of this?”

“That’s the most important thing. We’ve got a lot to talk about, but first things first. So, what the hell?”

Enjolras face does something. In the low light, Grantaire can’t tell for sure, but he thinks that he’s blushing. “We both know that I’m not ideal when it comes to being a leader. I imagine you’ve known for longer than I have. I’m dedicated, yes, and I believe in what we’re doing, but if this group had been lead by anyone less hard-headed, less… less short-sighted, none of today would have happened. If Combeferre or Feuilly were the ones making the executive decisions, the group might operate more effectively.”

Grantaire stares at him. “Enjolras”, he says slowly, “if you weren’t the head of us, this group wouldn’t operate at all. Do you think that people are convinced by flyers, or because Feuilly makes Instagram posts? Hearing you speak, it does something to people. Do you think someone like me would just follow any old idealist into jail?” He smiles weakly but gets serious again when Enjolras doesn’t return it. “What exactly happened today that was so terrible”, he asks, bewildered. “We’ve lost before. You know you can’t safe everything. We’re not new to trying and failing, but I don’t think that ever made you question the group dynamics before.”

“You could have died”, Enjolras says. His voice is completely blank and hardly louder than a whisper, but it makes Grantaire’s stomach drop anyway. “We thought, for minutes, that you died. For minutes. And it would have been my fault.” He closes his eyes for a second, then continues. “And it’s not just that. I’ve managed to scare you off the group. I said this, this terrible thing, that I didn’t even mean, and then you stopped talking and now you don’t even come to meetings anymore. And we need you there. You proved your point.”

Grantaire feels dizzy, and he forces down the hysterical laughter that threatens to bubble out. “I thought I was doing you a favour”, he blurts out. “I didn’t… there was no point. Every time I say something, you look at me like it’s my personal vendetta to torture you or something. I thought it was just better if I shut up.”

Enjolras looks like Grantaire just punched him, and what the hell, that had been supposed to be reassuring. So Grantaire continues, quickly. “I don’t think you’re stupid at all. And I definitely don’t think that I’m smarter than others, what the fuck. And what you said… it wasn’t untrue. It was unkind, but you are, sometimes. It wasn’t untrue. I am lazy. I’d rather feel good about being right with my criticizing than actually do something. I do care about my friends, that’s true, but most of the time, I’m too passive to show it.”

“You show it all the time”, Enjolras says quietly. “I didn’t mean it. That’s not an excuse, but please stop saying that I was right, because I wasn’t and I didn’t mean it. Courf and Combeferre have teased me about the two of us for ages and I was uncomfortable with it. I was trying to get them off my back. That’s all.” Grantaire’s stomach drops. He has always known that his infatuation was pathetic and obvious, but he hadn’t thought that it actually bothered Enjolras. He thought the man simply didn’t care, like he didn’t care about Grantaire in general.

“I’m sorry”, Grantaire says, realising that at some point during their argument, they have walked towards each other. Grantaire is a lot closer to the other man than he was three minutes ago. He can smell his deodorant and his jacket, if one of them lifted their hands, they could touch each other. Enjolras’s eyebrows shoot up and he looks ready to argue again. “That you were uncomfortable, I mean.”

Enjolras laughs quietly. “It’s hardly your fault.”

“And… just for the record. I’m not trying to… contradict myself. It’s not… I’m not mocking you. I wouldn’t.”

“If you say so.”

“You have a lot of expectations from all of us. Even me, I guess. And nobody can live up to you. I think you will understand that at some point. Random acts of kindness are not the same thing as being kind. I mean, I try, inconsistently, whenever I can be bothered. But trying doesn’t equal succeeding.”

Enjolras opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, the overhead light is switched on. Éponine stands in the corridor, arms crossed, and squints against the light.

“Grantaire, what the hell”, she murmurs, and then, colder: “Enjolras. What are you doing here?”

Enjolras looks taken aback, taking a few steps away from Grantaire. “I was just… I had something I needed to tell Grantaire.” Éponine pulls a face. “And? Did you tell him?”

Enjolras looks at Grantaire and slowly shakes his head, making Grantaire’s stomach flip. After all this, it was hard to imagine anything left to say. Éponine yawns. “It’s 2am, Grantaire is concussed. Tell him tomorrow.”

She walks back into her room, closing the door behind her. Grantaire watches as Enjolras walks backwards toward the entrance door. “She’s right. I shouldn’t have… I should leave. We can talk some other time.” He turns back towards Grantaire, and suddenly, there’s dedication in his features. Before Grantaire knows what’s going on, the other man has pulled him into a brief, tight hug. For a second, all he can feel, see and smell is Enjolras, and then they are apart again, leaving Grantaire immediately colder. Enjolras says: “Goodnight, R”, and before he can say anything, the apartment door has been closed from the outside and Grantaire is alone in the corridor, staring dumbly at the door, whispering a constant string of “what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck”.

It takes him ten minutes until he is aware of himself enough to walk back to his room and lie down on his bed. On his pillow, his phone is signalling an unread message, and without thinking, Grantaire opens it.

It’s from Enjolras, sent three minutes ago.

‘I’m not sure what kind of expectations you feel you have to live up to, but since you once asked me what makes me believe in humanity so much: It’s people like you.’

Grantaire falls asleep wondering what the hell he can reply to something like that.

…

The next day, Éponine wakes him up at noon with coffee, giving him time to shower before they meet in the Square des Batignolles, ten minutes away from where bulldozers are currently tearing down an old, half-decayed building that once meant very much to a few people. The atmosphere isn’t glum – Courf makes as many jokes as usual, Marius has turned up without his girlfriend and they all tease him for it, Bossuet and Bahorel are in an arm wrestling match that has them all shouting and whistling – they all just have to try a little harder for it. Enjolras isn’t there, and Grantaire lasts exactly 45 minutes before he asks Combeferre after his whereabouts. “Please tell me he isn’t watching the building being torn down on his own.” Combeferre smiles. “Enjolras is working. He’s already trying to open a new centre three streets away. We do still have a lot of money we never had the chance to use, it could be something to think about.” Grantaire escapes a sigh of relief. It is reassuring to think that Enjolras has, apparently, come down from whatever weird self-doubt-trip he had been on yesterday. Combeferre gives him a look. “He told me he talked to you yesterday”, he says, his tone very neutral. Grantaire grimaces. “More like today, really”, he answers, forcing a chuckle, and stopping at Combeferre’s serious expression. “It was weird. I never thought that he actually listens to me, you know, beyond what he decides is useful”, Grantaire says. “He told me… it’s absurd, thinking of Les Amis without Enjolras being the leader.” Combeferre gives him a small smile. “Enjolras tends to forget that he is human more often than not”, he says wryly. “But that doesn’t mean we should, as well.”

…

Grantaire spends the next two days re-examining about every conversation he ever had with Enjolras. That’s something he usually does without meaning to, playing and re-playing his personal highlights, and every time until now, he has come to the rather depressing conclusion that Enjolras merely tolerated him for the sake of common friends. Now, with the large quantity of new information he has, what his new findings amount to is that Grantaire has been a huge fucking arsehole. By assuming that Enjolras thought too lowly of him to give any weight to Grantaire’s words, what he has, apparently, managed to do, is hurt Enjolras’s feelings.

He feels worse than the time Gavroche drank the vodka.

And among all the things that he keeps coming back to – comments that in hindsight sound frustrated rather than annoyed, moments that could have been peace offerings if Grantaire hadn’t been too caught up in self-pity to take them – there is one sentence that sticks out.

…

Grantaire decides to wait to talk Enjolras until after he’s through with the gallery-prize-thingy. He will talk to him, at this point doesn’t know who of them he owes it more, Enjolras or himself, but there are no l’ABC meetings until Monday, and since the award shit is happening on Sunday night, he figures he can wait another 36 hours and do it all in order.

He tries to talk himself into not being nervous. There is no way in hell he’ll win anything and so there’s no point in getting his hopes up. The fact that he is included in the gallery could bring him a good amount of new clients, and that alone makes it a good thing to happen. It would be insane to expect more.

So Grantaire doesn’t fuss. He doesn’t wear a blazer, even though Éponine tries to talk him into one, instead sticks to a white button up and jeans that aren’t stained or holey, and when they arrive at the gallery, he takes Éponine’s arm and is determined to enjoy the night, drink free wine, maybe talk to a few potential clients, and let his friends be happy for him.

When he gets into the entrance hall, all of Les Amis are standing together, holding green and golden balloons. He feels his face split to a grin as Bossuet cries “there he is”, and a second later he is wrapped in a fierce group hug. When they let go, Jehan says: “Just for the record, we are deeply offended you didn’t tell us about this.” “And therefore, we have decided to completely embarrass you today”, Courf grins. Joly and Bossuet hold up a whole pack of A3 cardboards. “Those are fan posters. We are going to hold them up, and there’s nothing you can do about it”, Musichetta says, smirking.

“And if they should decide you don’t win”, Courfreyac says, “we are just gonna scream until they change their mind.” Grantaire laughs. “There’s security here, you won’t come far.” Courf gapes at him. “Guys, he’s underestimating us again. We need to act.” Feuilly laughs. “We can embarrass ourselves in public later. First things first: show us your stuff, Picasso.” Grantaire rolls his eyes and turns around. “I don’t know where it is yet. But I’m curious about the other things, anyway.”

For the first time, he allows himself to look at Enjolras, and promptly finds it difficult to look away again. The man is smiling at him, not saying anything, but giving him a proper smile, the kind that until now, only his friends have been subjected to. Grantaire smiles back, can’t help himself, and it’s only when Éponine clears her throat that he remembers the others. He clears his throat, awkward, and says: “Alright then, let’s see what they’ve got.”

There’s a flock of people following him around as if he’s got any idea what’s going on, and it’s odd, but soon it’s also a lot of fun. Jehan finds little leaflets lying around, in which a floor plan of the gallery and the artists included in the exposition are printed, and to his delight, Grantaire actually recognizes three of the twelve artists – one because they went to university together, and two from actual galleries he himself has been to.

Since nobody from the gallery is trying to explain them anything, nobody in their group holds back when they comment on the paintings and sculptures that they find in different corners and alcoves of the room, which is structured through added curtains and folding screens.

To Grantaire, it is genuinely interesting to see the different techniques and concepts, some of which are applied consequently, some of which are mixed, but it is also hilarious to hear his friends’ commentary. “This reminds me I still got a case on my desk I need to work through tonight”, Bahorel murmurs when they are in a small alcove that is covered from floor to ceiling with tiny sniplets of paper in different colours, strongly resembling the Métro, and when they get into an area that is crowded with several paintings of naked women and furniture, giving the impression of a brothel, it is Marius of all of them who lowly whistles and says: “They should have made us pay a higher entrance fee”.

Grantaire leads them around the room and past his things twice, not because he wants his work to be the grand finale, but because he hopes that maybe the ceremony will start before they have time to look at his things. He isn’t sure how he’ll feel about seeing his paintings in such an environment, and he is very certain that he’d prefer it if his friends didn’t see it at all. Apart from one, they won’t be able to make much sense of it, and he can still hope that the things will be too abstract for Enjolras to make any sense of it. But there’s no guarantee, and so he’d honestly postpone the showing, indefinitely if possible.

But alas, they are done with the twelve other artists and another fifteen minutes to spare before the ceremony starts, and so Grantaire decides not to make a big deal out of it and just get it over with.

His work, too, has its own alcove, which he finds odd, as his paintings are far from being as conceptual as some of the other artists’ stuff. He had been offered to arrange his work himself but had declined. He hadn’t wanted to make up a plan where there wasn’t one, and he had also quietly suspected that he might have some sort of anxiety attack once he saw his work in the gallery.

Turns out he doesn’t have time for an anxiety attack. He has barely finished the sentence: “And this is mine”, that his friends have already split up, standing in smaller groups in front of single paintings. Joly is taking photos of the little plate on which his name and the title of the series is written.

“Romance Inexistante”, Musichetta reads and pinches Grantaire in the side. “R, that’s so… melancholy.”

Grantaire can feel himself blush and he refuses to look at anyone, his eyes fixed on the largest of his pictures, a grinded cigarette on wet cobblestones, all in shades of dark blue. “I needed to give a name to the thing in order to partake in the contest, and I still hadn’t thought of one until, like, two minutes before I had to deliver it. Was the first thing that came to mind”, Grantaire answers. It’s the truth, too. It had been the first thing that came to mind because it was related to Enjolras, and Enjolras is always the first thing that comes to his mind.

Grantaire tries not to watch them looking, but he can’t really help himself. Jehan coos softly over every painting he stops in front of, Bossuet, Courf and Bahorel promptly start naming every single one of the pictures and write the names down on Courfreyac’s hand, while Joly quietly whines about how unhealthy it is to write with marker on skin. Éponine walks by quietly, a smile on her face that makes Grantaire grin himself. Enjolras… Enjolras is frowning. Grantaire knows better by now than to take this immediately as disapproval, but it there is still something cold in his chest as he sees the man walk circles around the pictures, his face growing darker by the second. Combeferre sees it too, Grantaire can tell from the way the dark-haired man is shooting looks between Enjolras and Grantaire, but before anyone else can notice or worse, say something about it, Feuilly reminds them of the time, and that there’s an award to be given out.

…

Grantaire walks out of the gallery three and a half hours later. In his phone there are eighteen new numbers from potential new clients and four new numbers from galleries interested in displaying his work.

In his bag, he carries a laminated piece of paper declaring him the second best out of roughly 1000 participants and his friends’ cardboards, on which everything, from supportive slogans to suggestive puns to the very straightforward: ‘R, have my babies’ (this one had been held up by a brightly grinning Marius who turned out to have been handed the poster and held it up, oblivious to its content, and Grantaire had almost fallen off the stage from laughing) are painted on. He’s going to keep them, he decided, maybe make a slide show with them.

His friends have all begged off hours ago, after some hugging and some champagne, when it became clear that the People From The Parisian Art Scene^TM were not interested in letting Grantaire talk to his friends for longer than thirty seconds. Grantaire doesn’t mind. His head is too confused to mind anything much at all right now, a little drunk but mostly dizzy with a mix of happiness and disbelief and restlessness, an anxiety that makes him wish dearly that it was already twelve hours later and he could just talk to Enjolras.

The man was the first to say goodbye, giving Grantaire a small smile and a short wave over the shoulder of a man talking commissions at him, and Grantaire could do nothing but smile back, helplessly, and tell himself that tomorrow, tomorrow they’ll talk.

But it’s not tomorrow yet, and Grantaire is walking along the mostly empty street, thinking about whether he should take a cab. He takes out his phone to consider google maps, and smiles when he sees five new messages from his friends. He scrolls through them quickly, resolving to answer them once he’s home at the very latest, and grins at four messages offering congratulations and promising drinks. The fifth one is from Combeferre, sent 90 minutes ago, and Grantaire squints at it, willing it to make sense.

‘Grantaire, you are my friend and I like you very much, but if you don’t talk to Enjolras soon, I will have to kill one of you. Please. I’m begging at this point.’

Grantaire looks up from his phone, staring blankly into nothing for a good half minute before he looks down again. He supresses the urge to just call Combeferre despite it seeming like the obvious solution, knowing enough about the man to be sure that if he had intended to let Grantaire know what needed to be addressed, he would have. Instead, he makes a split decision, walking around the corner and luckily actually seeing five empty cabs parked in a row. He gets into one of them, and only after he has given the driver the address does he send a text to Enjolras:

‘Are you still awake? Do you mind if I come up for like five minutes?’

There is no reply, but Grantaire gets out of the cab at Enjolras’s apartment anyway.

He tells himself that this is stupid. This is, in fact, insane. There is no good reason for him not to wait until the morning, and just because he won’t be able to sleep he shouldn’t prevent Enjolras from getting some rest. This is stupid, and impulsive, and insensitive, and exactly the kind of thing he didn’t want to do anymore.

Grantaire rings the doorbell, and after three minutes, a figure appears behind the tilted glass of the entrance door. Grantaire’s heart beats faster, expecting Enjolras, and he has to pinch himself to let out a sigh of disappointment when it’s Combeferre who opens the door. Combeferre doesn’t ask him what he’s doing here, and so Grantaire returns the favour. It’s been a few years since Enjolras and Combeferre have lived together, but he figures that if he can spend entire weekends drunk on Feuilly’s floor, Combeferre can stay until 1 am at Enjolras’s place, doing… whatever. Preparing world peace, probably.

Comebeferre is holding his bag and wearing a jacket, and he just shakes his head when Grantaire asks him if he’s coming up again. “I didn’t mean tonight, R”, he sighs, rubbing his face. “But you know what? That’s for you to deal with, now.” He gives Grantaire a smile that is not very like Combeferre, not the patented patient, gracious look, but something that is a little mean and a lot relieved. “Tell Enjolras to call me tomorrow.”

And then he’s out of the door before Grantaire can say anything more than “alright”.

Enjolras’s apartment is located on the sixth floor, and there isn’t an elevator. By the time Grantaire is up there, he is breathing heavily, and even though the door is just ajar, he takes a moment before he enters.

Enjolras is sitting in an arm chair with back towards Grantaire when Grantaire walks inside, and he says, quietly: “So, was it Gabriel again?” Grantaire feels creepy, but he can’t help but savour the tone of his voice for a second, without any strain or tautness, just tired and maybe a little sad. Then, because he is at least not actively trying to be weird, he answers: “Not sure who Gabriel is. Combeferre let me in and himself out. Told me to tell you to call him tomorrow.”

It breaks Grantaire’s goddamn heart to see how Enjolras’s shoulder automatically tense at the sound of his voice, how he whips around, looking at him like it’s the phantom of the opera in his living room instead of a man he’s known for eight years.

Grantaire walks around the arm chair so Enjolras doesn’t have to twist in order to look at him, and points at the floor. “Can I sit?”

Enjolras nods, and after a second, wordlessly throws him a pillow from his chair.

Grantaire chuckles, places his ass on the worn, blue thing, and takes a moment to just look at Enjolras.

The man has managed to place his entire body in the chair, his arms wrapped around his ankles and his knees tugged under his chin. His face is half-covered by his hair, but what Grantaire can see of it is tired and pale. Grantaire feels shame bubble in his stomach. He can’t believe that he came here, at half past midnight, because he literally couldn’t wait sixteen hours to say something entirely selfish.

But he’s here now, and if he’s being completely honest he’s rather terrified of what Combeferre would do to him if he just left at this point, so he runs a hand through his hair and tries to think of a good way to start this conversation.

“Combeferre threatened me with homicide if I didn’t talk to you”, is what he lands on, and that’s a terrible thing to say for a great many of reasons, but mostly for the way Enjolras’s face closes off a little further. “If he’s uncomfortable, Combeferre has Courfreyac and himself to blame”, Enjolras answers coldly. “I told them not to overdo their teasing.”

Grantaire blinks. “What teasing?”

Enjolras sighs, pulling his feet further towards him. “Grantaire, don’t. They kept going on about us for months. Courf wrote a song. Don’t pretend you didn’t knopw.”

“They… Courf did what?”

Enjolras squints at him. “They seriously didn’t do it in front of you?”

Grantaire shakes his head. “I mean, Éponine told me at some point that all of Les Amis thought you and I were sleeping together or something, but I honestly thought she was maybe joking? Nobody said anything to me.”

Enjolras rubs his face. “Lucky you.”

Grantaire is inclined to disagree but holds his tongue. Explaining that the reason none of his friends find it funny to tease Grantaire with a potential entanglement with Enjolras is because Grantaire is embarrassingly obviously in love with the man is a conversation for another time, like judgement day for example.

Enjolras still looks unhappy, though, and Grantaire is sick of not being able to wipe that look off his face. “So why the name then? If not a reference to our friends’ inability to recognise your lack of romantic interest, why title it ‘Romance Inexistante’?”

Grantaire stares at him. Your lack of romantic interest. Not ‘a’ lack. Not ‘our’. Your. There is something this should tell him, he’s sure, but his brain isn’t ready to catch up with it. Enjolras, however, seems to misinterpret his silence. “Or weren’t the paintings…? I’m silly. Sorry. I thought I saw my pullover. One of the hands had a scar like mine. I thought what you painted was us, in the centre. Sharing cigarettes.”

Grantaire isn’t really surprised by the fact that Enjolras recognised the content of the pictures. What does surprise him is that Enjolras is naming those quiet moments of theirs. It’s the first time any of them speaks about it, and it feels odd, like trying to explain a dream.

“It was”, he states. There’s no point denying it now, but he still has no idea how to explain the title without explaining all of himself.

Enjolras nods and looks down at his hands, and Grantaire decides to move on, even if the topic isn’t quite tackled yet, because he did come here to say something and he’ll say it before he’ll leave again.

So he takes a deep breath. “I wanted to clear something up”, he mumbles, then clears his throat. “I keep… I keep thinking about our last few conversations, and there is something that is bothering me. Has been bothering me for weeks, actually, but I didn’t really know how to say it, I guess? Anyway, there was something you said in Cosette’s house-“ Enjolras sits up a little straighter, face schooled into a blank mask. He looks like a soldier ready to be shot. “You said that I was too apathetic to love anyone, and I certainly didn’t love you.” Enjolras closes his eyes. “Grantaire, I-“, he begins, but Grantaire interrupts him. “No, no, I know, I’m not trying to… just… certainly not you. I keep coming back to that. What did you mean, certainly not you?”

Enjolras frowns. “Isn’t that rather straight forward? I mean, I know I’m not exactly your type.”

Grantaire laughs. He can’t help it. He presses his fist against his mouth but it doesn’t work, and there’s another giggle escaping from him before he can hold it down. Enjolras blinks and swallows. “I really don’t see what’s funny about that.”

“Enjolras”, Grantaire says, slowly. He takes even breaths to force down hysteria and mostly succeeds. “What, exactly, do you think is my type?” 

Enjolras looks rather bewildered. “I don’t know? Funny, sociable, creative, laid-back? A little like yourself, maybe?”

There’s no helping himself now. Grantaire laughs loudly, wildly, without being able to reign it in. The thought is so ridiculous it’s either laughing or crying at this point. “What in the world makes you think that I would want someone like me? I mean, seriously? If there’s an alternative, like people who aren’t like me?”

Enjolras pushes his hair out of his face and crosses his arms. “There’s no need to make fun of me. It’s not like I’m particularly familiar with your dating habits. And it hardly changes the core of the matter. We’re not interested in one another like that. I’m not exactly the type to feature in romantic ideas anyway, not once you get to know me, at least.” He gives Grantaire a thin smile.

Seconds are passing by in which Grantaire tries to force the words down that are threatening to surface and loses.

The thing is: He gets what Enjolras means. He does. Enjolras doesn’t come across as a particularly emotional person, not on an interpersonal level, at least. He is passionate, and loving, but he has never appeared to be susceptible to romantic notions, or to be interested in them. If one had asked Grantaire a week ago, he would said with certainty that Enjolras doesn’t mind that, even prefers this to be what people think of him, but now he’s not so sure anymore. An Enjolras who thinks highly of Grantaire and doubts his own leadership potential is no less absurd than an Enjolras who might want to at least be considered in a romantic way. Combeferre had said that they shouldn’t forget that Enjolras was human. Humans, generally speaking, crave connection. Who is to say that Enjolras doesn’t, hadn’t, wouldn’t at some point? Thinking that Enjolras doesn’t want anyone makes it easier to know that Enjolras doesn’t want Grantaire, but that doesn’t make it true.

Moreover, though: Grantaire knows what it is like to feel excluded from rituals that appear to be a general common ground between people, to feel different in a way that isn’t good, just lonely. And it makes him sick to even just consider the possibility that this might be something that Enjolras can emphasize with.

What the hell, he thinks. What the hell. His best friend is changing the continent. He recently fell off a balcony onto another balcony onto a concrete street filled with policemen and survived. He can live with Enjolras knowing that Grantaire’s in love with him if that offers even just a bit of a chance that Enjolras stops curling in on himself like that. In Grantaire’s experience, someone you don’t love being in love with you is still better than thinking that nobody is in love with you, and if what Enjolras needs an ego boost, then damn him, Grantaire will give him one.

He leans forward and says, as gently as he can: “Enjolras, I’ve been in love with you for eight years.”

Enjolras doesn’t answer. He looks at Grantaire, unblinking, lips slightly parted, and Grantaire promptly starts rambling. “Don’t worry, this isn’t… I’m not expecting anything. I just feel like it is getting ridiculous at this point. I sort of always assumed you knew, because everyone else knows, but apparently you didn’t. And I know that, knowing this, the whole painting thing in the gallery seems probably really creepy, but it was just… it was the first time you didn’t seem like you hated me, and I needed to do something with that. It’s not like I’m, I don’t know, going on and on about you during pyjama parties with Éponine, or something. I swear I’m not going to make you uncomfortable with it. I mean, you didn’t even notice until now. If it’s not too weird, I’d still like to try to be your friend. We could-“

“I do”, Enjolras says suddenly. Grantaire snaps his mouth shut. “You do what?”

“I go on and on about you. Have for months now. I’m rather sure that at this point, Combeferre is thinking about simply changing his number and not telling me.”

Grantaire stares at him, then shakes his head. “No. Sorry. Stop. Wait a second. What? You just said that you were embarrassed about people teasing you with the possibility of us being involved.”

“Not embarrassed. But it’s unpleasant, if people keep joking about something…” he breaks off, takes a deep breath, and looks Grantaire straight in the eye. “Something you want to be true.”

Something in Grantaire’s mind clicks into place. “They kept saying that I’m in love with you, didn’t they.” Enjolras nods and Grantaire starts laughing again. His brain still hasn't caught up with what Enjolras appears to be saying, but right now, he isn't kicked out of the apartment or directly insulted, and he's gonna deal with one miracle at a time.

“Enjolras, they weren’t teasing, they were telling you! You were… you must be the only person who has met both of us and didn’t know!”

Enjolras gives him a long, hard look, then gets up from his chair and stretches out his hand towards Grantaire. “Would you get up for a second, please?”

Grantaire grabs his hand without thinking and Enjolras pulls him up. “Okay”, Grantaire says, breathlessly. Enjolras’s face is only about two inches away from his. “Why am I standing”, Grantaire asks, and smiles back involuntarily when Enjolras gives him a grin that is wider and brighter than anything Grantaire has ever seen on him before. For the very first time, he notices that the other man has dimples. God help him.

“Because”, Enjolras whispers, “we have been absolute idiots for years, and even if we make a mess of everything else, I want to do our first kiss properly.”

…

Grantaire is woken up by a text message from Combeferre about ten hours later. ‘Is Enjolras okay? Are you okay? Do I need to worry?’

He looks to his side, where Enjolras is curled up under a blanket, hands stretched out in Grantaire’s direction, and feels himself grin wildly.
He simply texts back: ‘We’re good.’

And yeah. They are, they really are.