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When he enters Café Musain precisely twenty-three minutes late for what must be the very first time in years, Grantaire approaches the back room almost sheepishly. He thinks idly of a time when late was his normal and punctuality was surprising, but this feels like another lifetime altogether. Back then, back at the very beginning, Grantaire didn’t instinctually wake up whenever one of his partners had to leave early for work. He didn’t kiss Enjolras goodbye as he got out of bed, all rumpled and clumsy yet doing his very best not to wake Combeferre, who was getting his first day off in what felt like centuries, Grantaire didn’t warn him that he’d be held up that night by marking assignments and parents’ evening. Back then, he didn’t leave a note on his pillow for Combeferre to find when he woke up, just in case Enjolras forgot. Nowadays, he gets to do all these things; he feels great about them, the stability and domesticity, and he feels bad for showing up late. And today, when he silently pushes the door open, poking his head in, he is reminded why he doesn’t stroll in loudly anymore.
Long gone are the days when Les Amis de l’ABC meetings were attended by just a dozen members and the occasional curious onlooker. The room is now filled to its maximum capacity. It is large, and yet, the new tables take up most of the space. At each table, chairs, all occupied, are squeezed together as tightly as comfort allows. At each table, faces; some older, greying and well-known to Grantaire. They’ve changed, just like his own; some need glasses to see, though their eyesight was perfect when they first started meeting in this very room; some had more hair when they all started, but then again, some had none to begin with. What truly matters remains, however. Their smiles when Grantaire walks in are warm as ever, and they turn to him for a split second before returning their attention to Enjolras, standing at the front, who also stopped to greet him with a crooked smile of his own.
Some other faces aren’t old, but they’re familiar and well-loved. Madeleine, Marius’ and Cosette’s daughter is here, along with her girlfriend of three years. Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet’s teen, Camille, sits by Jehan —they took a special shine to their resident Romantic, and the feeling is very much mutual— and Feuilly’s and Eponine’s twins, Pauline and Amélie, sit in the back. Amélie stays close to the bathroom in case her own daughter, Céleste, the youngest member and very first Les Amis grand-baby, needs a change.
And all around Grantaire’s family, new people —some he’s seen here before, university friends of Madeleine, Pauline and Amélie, some he’s never seen in his life, maybe friends of friends, or complete strangers who heard of this group that is finally gaining traction.
It’s a very good turn out, undoubtedly their best one in the three decades of Les Amis’ existence, and Enjolras is obviously pleased with it. He stands that much straighter, the jut of his chin that much more determined, the tone of his voice clearer, his words decisive. When he comes in, Grantaire has to refrain from a snort and a loud, teasing comparison to the symbolic French rooster. Grantaire has matured, and he knows better; he’ll keep that particular jab until they get home, where Enjolras will be able to see it as their usual loving bickering, where it will end in a good-natured nudge, a scoff, and a soothing kiss that will land at random on Enjolras’ chin, ear, temple, or shoulder. Grantaire lets him preen for now, bask in the attention and enjoy the results of years of hard work. He deserves it.
As discreetly as he can, Grantaire goes to sit to his usual spot with a quick wave to the group and a whispered “Hi everyone”, but he stops just past Enjolras when he realises that his seat, the very one that he’s been occupying for so long he’s sure it carries the imprint of his butt, is currently occupied by Amélie’s partner. He freezes for a second, quickly assessing the room, which is, indeed, filled to the brim. There isn’t a single chair left free, and now that he looks more closely, Grantaire notices that a few people are even sitting on the floor.
He’s unsure where to go until Combeferre beckons him over. Grantaire is confused — even the front by Enjolras and Combeferre is crowded— but he follows without a word. No one can say no to Combeferre’s commands, and Grantaire is weaker than most where his partner is involved —he even finds enjoyment in them, though that isn’t something he’ll tell any of those in attendance here aside from Enjolras, who is already very well acquainted with that fact. Enjolras is still speaking, so Grantaire walks behind him, stopping by Combeferre to drop a hand onto his shoulder and throw him an inquisitive glance. Just as wordlessly, Combeferre pushes his chair back from the table with his feet, causing a loud scraping sound. It goes to show quite how enthralling Enjolras is and how engaged their new recruits are, because very few heads snap towards them. Most don’t even seem to notice there was a sound at all. Grantaire feels a swell of pride, at that —on Les Amis’ behalf, not on his own. He still fails to believe anyone who tells him he has been a valuable asset to the group. Decades of arguments and provocations only to admire Enjolras’ worked up flush and Combeferre’s unshakeable equanimity do not make an activist.
Grantaire watches Combeferre, as puzzled as ever, when Combeferre gives his lap an expectant pat, and Grantaire one of his amused, closed smiles. Understanding takes a long moment to dawn. Combeferre’s lap, much like Enjolras’, are well-known to him, but he realises quite how long it’s been since he’s sat on either in public. At home, and it comes to Grantaire as a surprised wonder, they still are all over each other; the others’ touch, proximity, affection haven’t grown stale and mundane. They are known and somehow thrilling, still, but they’re also private, increasingly so; they don’t quite feel the need to show and prove anything to the world, anymore. This choice of seat in public is odd now, and Grantaire suddenly feels very old, but Combeferre pats his thigh once more, gesturing towards Enjolras with a jerk of his head. Grantaire is indeed still standing up like a fool in the middle of a meeting and likely robbing the view of Enjolras to a few people behind him. While he could possibly argue that this particular view is reserved to Grantaire and Combeferre alone, even Grantaire knows that depriving someone of Enjolras is a crime. With his hair wild from how he runs his hands through it—he always does that when he stops to think about his next point, never managed to shake off the habit— skin ruddy and eyes bright with passion, Enjolras is a sight the world doesn't quite deserve to see, or so Grantaire thinks, but he'll allow it anyway.
Grantaire sits, and he feels stupid the second he does so. He still sticks out like a sore thumb, made taller from Combeferre’s thighs —and in all his fifty something years on Earth, Grantaire has never felt tall.
Thankfully, his self-consciousness is short lived. Combeferre, whose hands have always been surprisingly restless to try and keep up with his active brain, wraps his arms around Grantaire’s middle. One of his hands rests on Grantaire’s stomach, the other on his thigh, as chaste as can be. He also gives Grantaire’s shoulder a short peck, then one to his neck that lingers, likely to get a quick inhale of Grantaire’s scent —Combeferre is very sensitive to smells. The way Combeferre comforts him never fails to surprise Grantaire; Combeferre, with a single squeeze, kiss or caress, always puts Grantaire’s roaring, loud and dark mind at ease. His thoughts aren’t nearly as somber and negative as they used to be, and this change in his thinking, Grantaire can acknowledge, was deserved, after all the work he put in. This is his own doing, his very own reward, but Combeferre’s peaceful touch, much like Enjolras’ fiery eyes, make everything this much better.
With a gentle scratch to his chest, Combeferre draws Grantaire’s attention back to Enjolras. He is getting to the climax of his speech —Grantaire knows, he helped him practice two nights prior, because in spite of Enjolras’ natural fluency in public speaking, he believes in hard work and skills perpetually honed— and it would be a shame to miss its finale. Grantaire is also more than a little fascinated by how well he’s come to understand Combeferre’s wordless language, how in sync the three of them are now.
Though he can’t quite shove off the odd feeling that he looks like an enamoured, PDA-inclined teen, all moon-eyed and nestled as he is in his one of his lovers’ lap, Grantaire listens properly to the last five minutes of Enjolras’ speech. His voice, even when loud and determined, is of great comfort, as are Combeferre’s anchoring hands and the presence of their old friends all around them.
By the time Enjolras is done and the room has politely clapped, Grantaire has let himself sit back and relax against Combeferre’s solid chest; he is at home once more. And he knows he will only be more so now that his very favourite part of Les Amis meetings are starting: the debates. Grantaire smirks; he’s got much practice, bettered by years with some of the best word-fencing partners an inveterate eristic like him could dream of, and Grantaire cannot wait to see what the new generation of Les Amis has in stock. Grantaire may not do a great job of attracting new members, and he certainly doesn’t excel at making them want to stay, but if there’s one thing he knows, it’s how to sharpen them. Now that they’re here, Grantaire’s work begins.