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Enjolras hates Grantaire. No, that isn’t quite true.
Grantaire is an irritant; with his slouch, his cocky grins and his endless parade of useless talents. Because Grantaire is exceedingly talented, Enjolras would never think to deny the fact that Grantaire is more than capable at many things. And this, in Enjolras’ mind is incredibly annoying.
Enjolras finds that he has to think over every word, he can’t transpose the thoughts in his head with casual ease; he’s been told that he comes off as abrasive and aggressive, too unmovable, but it’s the only way for him to express himself properly. But Grantaire, Grantaire never seemingly struggles with anything. He can recite poetry from memory, delighting Jehan as he responded line for line, flitting from Julia Alvarez to John Milton to Langston Hughes. Grantaire keeps pace with Enjolras’ developing argument, all the while keeping pace with the round of beers that Joly just challenged him to down. He can sing, which Enjolras learnt at Courfeyrac ‘s birthday, which descended into karaoke and shots quicker than even Enjolras suspected it would. And while most of them can collectively hold a tune, Grantaire was good, even as he staggered against Bahorel’s side. And he can dance.
Off all of these things, this is one of the reasons Enjolras dislikes Grantaire the most.
Grantaire is confident. And Enjolras doesn’t want Grantaire to be bashful, he knows that Grantaire’s self-confidence and swagger has been carefully crafted out of a dark past, which he has only shared tentative references to. But Grantaire’s confidence when he dances is magnetic. People who would normally turn away from his lopsided grin or discoloured skin would suddenly smile and move in closer.
Enjolras never used to accompany the rest of them to which ever club Feuilly was a bouncer for on weekends, or that Grantaire had found with its half-price cocktail menu, but he finds himself watching Grantaire dance at least once a month.
He doesn’t know why he watches, seeing Grantaire; fluid and powerful makes Enjolras feel clunky, and plain.
Grantaire melts into other people.
He wants it to be him.
Combeferre had once asked him, while Enjolras propped up the bar and Combeferre was ordering something extravagantly fruity with a twinkle, if he was jealous of Grantaire or the people dancing with Grantaire.
Enjolras had huffed into his glass - gin and tonic, his second and final drink of the night – and continued to watch Grantaire charm one of the young people who had previously kept their backs to the group.
So it continued.
And then Marius proposed to Cosette. There was no surprise in anyone’s mind that she said yes, although it was a surprise that the first person Cosette launched herself at after telling them all the news was Éponine , and elicited a promise of being her ‘best lady’. Courfeyrac’s designation as Best Man was a badge he wore with pride; Marius had created a very literal badge, which he proffered to Courfeyrac almost shyly. Courfeyrac had pinned it to his lapel immediately, and pressed a wet, dramatic kiss to Marius’ forehead and then to Cosette’s, who laughed. Marius’ shyness made Enjolras wonder how he’d managed to pluck up the words to propose to Cosette, but they all seemed happy.
Enjolras was pleased for them. He was less pleased when Marius eagerly announced that they’d be having a group waltz, just for close friends and family, after the first dance between bride and groom.
“You all know how to dance, right?”
Enjolras couldn’t help his eyes flickering to Grantaire, who was leaning against the back wall of the Corinthe, not even pretending not to smoke. He winked back at Enjolras, and reactively pursed his lips together, before looking back towards Marius’ keen face.
A week later Enjolras was supposed to be finalising a report for Lamarque. His coffee was going cold by his laptop, and while he normally worked well listening to the quiet buzz from the Musain, today he wasn’t getting anywhere. His booth, while not officially his, was tucked away in the back of the coffee house was just close enough to a plug socket for him to charge his laptop without causing a trip hazard. As his laptop blinked at him in alarm, instead of unravelling the wire, he simply folded his laptop away, dropped his loose change into the tips jar, and swung his bag onto his back as he stepped out onto the street.
It was quiet, the light drizzle scaring away the majority of the faceless crowd of who would normally loiter on the streets in the interlude between rush-hour and lunchtime.
If Enjolras is honest with himself, he’s unsurprised to find himself standing at the foot of Grantaire’s building. Grantaire lives close to the Musain, although this is no guarantee of the promptness to meetings which are held there, and Enjolras must have subconsciously remembered the way. He has never been a coward, so he presses the intercom button labelled ‘R’ and waits.
Grantaire’s voice is rough, as though he’d been smoking – or sleeping- when he crackles through the intercom that it’s open. And then only a short flight of steps later Enjolras is standing outside Grantaire’s door.
He knows that the handle is going to be open, Joly and Bossuet have reprimanded Grantaire enough times publically for leaving his flat unlocked, but he knocks anyway; fingers drumming the doorframe as he waits.
Grantaire groans as he throws the door open, as though the light beyond his merge flat is too much to bear.
There’s stubble across his face and the crease from the pillow still against his cheek. So, he had been sleeping. There are scars raised against the gooseflesh scrawling up his bare arms, and Enjolras is suddenly acutely aware that Grantaire is shirtless. Oh, oh.
He can feel the flush rise up his face, even as his eyes unconsciously drop down. Grantaire is clad only in boxers, body thick and solid in the doorframe, but somehow it’s the shirtlessness that is causing Enjolras mouth to go dry. He’s sure that he’s gawping uselessly for longer than is traditionally considered acceptable.
“What is it Enjolras?”
“I- I…”
Grantaire is shirtless and scowling, casually itching his throat, bringing attention to the redness their and the Latin script circling his collar, and seemingly unaware that something in Enjolras’ brain has just ruptured.
“Teach me to dance?”
It’s more of a command than a request, even with the hastily added inflection at the end, but Enjolras is proud of himself for managing to say anything sensible at all.
Grantaire frowns for a moment, hand still at his neck.
“For the wedding? Sure, how bad can it be?”
As it turns out, it can go very badly wrong indeed. Not only had Enjolras managed to disgrace himself six ways to Sunday in front of Grantaire, but dancing with the man appears to Enjolras to be an elaborate form of torture.
As if watching Grantaire dance in hazy clubs, or sweeping up Jehan into a foxtrot on the street was difficult before, now up close, with the music playing out through Grantaire’s speakers and the laughter and the closeness, it’s almost painful. Grantaire is painful to look at now, painful to touch, but Enjolras doesn’t want to stop. It isn’t peculiar for Enjolras to feel attracted to people, but for him to want Grantaire.
Grantaire just keeps dancing, as though Enjolras wasn’t having a crisis in his arms. And Enjolras keeps standing on his feet.
After the third lesson Grantaire made Enjolras take off his trainers, and threatened him with a truly hideous pair of Christmas slippers unless he could keep his toes to himself.
Enjolras has several thoughts about the chosen music, but Combeferre has suggested that he perhaps keep them to himself, as this is not his to critique, but he’s come to grudgingly enjoy the piece that he and Grantaire are practicing too. Marius and Cosette had wanted something fun for their friends and family, so it’s the clichéd parody of heteronormativity. But one week Grantaire starts singing along in a passable faux-Italian accent to Dean Martin, and Enjolras can feel himself blush.
It’s a fun song, it’s not suggestive, and certainly not truly romantic, but Grantaire croons in his ear on the ‘lucky fella’ and Enjolras stumbles to a halt. He hopes the redness of his face can be put down to the dancing. He is worrying certain that it can’t be.
Life continues as normal, and Grantaire carries on attending meetings and making grand proclamations across whichever café they’re frequenting that evening. They go out as a group, and Grantaire still dances. With strangers, with their friends, dances alone, but never with Enjolras. Once Enjolras catches Grantaire staring at him, before making an abortive motion back towards the bar; the image of Grantaire momentarily frozen before him stays with him for the whole evening.
Combeferre and Courfeyrac are not sympathetic to his plight. He has no hope from keeping anything from his best friends, even as he hasn’t explained the situation in full.
One afternoon, still red-faced from Grantaire encouraging him to ‘loosen up’ before ‘stiffening up’ – sometimes Enjolras thinks that Grantaire is doing it on purpose, to tease him – he collapsed face first on the sofa.
He nearly jumped out of his skin as he heard Courfeyrac’s voice over his shoulder and Combeferre’s amused reply.
“What wrong with this one then?”
“Grantaire’s teaching him how to dance.”
“Ah.”
“Bless.”
Pointing out that he was perfectly able to hear their conversation was pointless, so Enjolras threw the cushion that he’d been resting on in the general direction of Combeferre’s voice. The laughter told him that his aim had been far from true.
They order pizza the week after. They’ve both worked up a sweat, and Enjolras hadn’t thought that the waltz would require this much effort or this much time. They’ve slumped out on Grantaire’s sofa, thigh to thigh and Enjolras can feel Grantaire breathe next to him.
Grantaire maintains that that it’s in the spirit of the dancing, and croons the relevant lyrics, and pats his plump belly accompanied with a wink and a plaintive whine to Enjolras that he’s starving. Despite Grantaire’s jesting Enjolras knows that he has been on his feet all day, and Enjolras is more than aware of how much of Grantaire’s free time he’s been using up. He’d come straight from his morning shift to teach Enjolras, and he can’t have eaten in the interim.
Grantaire volunteers everywhere; while he can’t seem to hold down a full time job, he volunteers at the Youth Centre teaching self-defence, and acts as a tour guide, as well as busking and barkeeping. Enjolras has effectively hijacked his only free afternoon each week to teach him how not to embarrass himself in public. When he tries to express this Grantaire only laughs, and tells him that he can pay for the pizza.
The next week Grantaire is only wearing a vest and cut off shorts, both of which are threadbare and stained; it’s not exactly a good look. They’re clothes designed for comfort, rather than fashion and they draw attention to Grantaire’s bad posture, to the paunch of his stomach and the hunch of his shoulders but Grantaire looks how Grantaire is supposed to be. And Grantaire continues to withstand Enjolras standing on his toes, because Enjolras doesn’t want to look away from his face for long enough to check his feet.
It’s becoming a problem. Enjolras can do nothing casually, especially not this, and he doesn’t want this wedding to happen. Because once Marius and Cosette are happily wedded and away to the South of France for their honeymoon then Enjolras isn’t going to have reason to see Grantaire like this. Things will return to how they used to be, to the step between friendship and acquaintanceship, nothing will have changed. But to be there, to be in Grantaire’s home, to have Grantaire’s undivided attention, to have his eyes and his hands on him. Enjolras isn’t sure he can give that up. He’s sure that he doesn’t want to.
They hadn’t really talked about the wedding, or about the dancing. Grantaire had given instruction, and Enjolras had attempted to learn from him, but they’d not discussed anything related to the wedding. They’d bickered and Enjolras had discovered that Grantaire blushed when teased about his terrible music taste, but they hadn’t talked about what they were doing, or when it was ending. With only a week before the wedding, and arrangements for everyone going haywire it had been, somewhat awkwardly, agreed that this would be their last session.
And Enjolras is nervous.
He doesn’t know what to do; he’s learnt how to dance, at a passable standard, whoever he’ going to get landed with won’t be thoroughly embarrassed by having him as a partner. He’s taken more time than he ought to have learnt as well, a waltz is simple, it shouldn’t have required months. Shouldn’t really require one final session.
Grantaire had been oddly stiff when he’d let him in, all of the suave confidence Enjolras had grown used to in these sessions melted away into something else, he’d smiled awkwardly before turning his back to his iPod, and Enjolras had fought the urge to start twisting his fingers together in the unexpected silence.
A different piece of music filters through the speakers as Grantaire turned to face him. Over the last few months they’d been over all the wedding music that’d been set. Enjolras knows that Marius and Cosette are having their first dance to the piece from Dirty Dancing, and Enjolras only hopes that Marius doesn’t attempt the infamous lift, and he knows that the set list descends into cheesy 90s pop after the formal set has run its course, predicated by the friends and family waltz. But none of that music is playing now.
It’s something different, a female sounding voice, and Enjolras is frowning, then Grantaire is right in front of him as though this was the same as ever. He’s gesturing for Enjolras to drop his bag – which Enjolras hadn’t even realised that he was still clutching- and to put his hands on Grantaire’s hips, and Grantaire’s hands are on his shoulders.
This is more like the dancing that Enjolras has seen Grantaire do in clubs, although it’s more intimate. Maybe that’s because of the lighting, the music, or the fact that it’s just the two of them in Grantaire’s cluttered living room.
He doesn’t know when he closed his eyes but he did, and he can feel Grantaire’s sides under his hands and can picture Grantaire’s face under his eyelids, can picture him happy and content, as though he wants this. He stepped forward, in the warm darkness towards where he knew Grantaire stood. And then he could feel lips against his own.
The sudden pressure pulsed through him, and in the moment that he registered quite what was happening Enjolras’ eyes sprang open and he dropped his hands from Grantaire’s hips, letting them fall loosely by his sides.
“I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.”
Enjolras barely resists the urge to lick his lips, to find some trace that he hadn’t imagined that. He couldn’t have willed it into happening.
Grantaire looked so unhappy before him, pulling at his lanky curls and an expression of pure misery on his face. Enjolras doesn’t know how to stop that. Everything was happening too fast.
“I shouldn’t have…”
But one of the strangest lessons that Grantaire had imparted about dancing was instinct – which at the time had seemed like an excuse for Grantaire to toss tennis balls at Enjolras and expecting him to catch them- so Enjolras acts on that now. He isn’t thinking when he places his clammy hand against Grantaire’s cheek.
Grantaire stills as though Enjolras’ touch is electricity itself. His eyes are red, his face is blotchy, his nose has been broken changing the whole angle of his face, and not for the better.
But Enjolras wants him, Enjolras wants him in so many ways and Grantaire had kissed him.
“Grantaire, kiss me again.”
Everything is still and Enjolras isn’t even sure if he’s still breathing. He can feel Grantaire’s pulse under his skin. The music is still playing in the background; he idly considers that it must be on repeat, because this moment has lasted so long already. Grantaire doesn’t answer, and Enjolras’ confidence wanes, maybe he made a mistake?
“Unless, you don’t want to?”
If Enjolras’ touch had shocked Grantaire into silence, this time his words spur him into action, and Grantaire is mumbling his affirmation even as he presses his lips against Enjolras’ again. This time Enjolras has his eyes open, sees that this is real and he sees Grantaire’s uneven eyes close in bliss.
Enjolras smiles into the kiss and feels Grantaire’s arms snake around his back. He holds on tighter still, and it is as though everything is as it should be.
They don’t dance any more that evening. At least, not traditionally.
Enjolras cries at the wedding, but so does Grantaire, and Combeferre. In fact the only people remaining dry eyed were Éponine and surprisingly, Jehan.
The dancing goes off without a hitch.
Marius does not attempt to lift Cosette, Cosette spins elegantly and Grantaire offered Enjolras his hand with an extravagant bow.
They’ve been practicing this dance for so long now that Enjolras doesn’t need to worry about stepping the wrong way, or making polite conversation with a stranger, doesn’t need to do anything but stand close to his- to Grantaire, to hold him in his arms, and dance. Grantaire sings along quietly into his ear, the crooning lyrics imparted with some deeper meaning, and Enjolras smiles; aware that he’s blushing, aware that he’s doing something that he’d never thought possible.
Enjolras really, really likes Grantaire. No, that isn’t quite true.