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“How’s the research paper going?”
Enjolras glanced up from his laptop to blink at his mom, who was leaning against his doorway, looking almost as tired as he felt. “Fine,” he said noncommittally, before sighing and amending, “Ok, actually it’s going terribly. JSTOR’s great and all, but not being able to access primary source documents directly…”
He trailed off and his mom nodded understandingly. “Well,” she said bracingly, “hopefully it’s just for the rest of this semester. Once COVID calms down, you’ll be back on campus and able to look at all the primary sources your heart desires.” She paused. “And, you know, you’ll get to see your friends again, plan more protests, get put on academic probation again…”
Enjolras laughed lightly. He couldn’t pretend that he’d always gotten along well with his parents, rebelling in a million ways throughout high school and moving all the way across the country for school. But with COVID shutting down campus, he had reluctantly returned to his parents’ house, and he was surprised to find it wasn’t as bad as he remembered.
Maybe absence really did make the heart fonder.
Or maybe it was because, on his second day back, his mom had casually dropped into conversation at the dinner table, “By the way, we’re taking in a foreign exchange student this summer. You’ll like him – he’s a non-traditional student from Poland who got a grant to come do research on populist uprisings.”
Enjolras’s mother worked with the Office of International Study at the local university, which meant as long as Enjolras could remember, there was always some random student or another who stayed with the family, normally when their own study or living arrangements got disrupted. But rarely had the student in question so perfectly matched just about every single one of Enjolras’s interests – even if he had to feign disinterest.
“Populist uprisings?” he had scoffed. “Here? Might as well come here to study Bigfoot.”
But as the days had gotten closer to the student’s – to Feuilly’s – arrival, Enjolras grew more eager. So it was with a genuine smile that he asked his mom, “Is Feuilly getting here soon?”
His mom’s smile faltered, just slightly. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” she said, and Enjolras’s smile faded.
“He’s not coming, is he?” he asked dully, already able to see where this conversation was going.
His mom shook her head. “No, he’s not – his university canceled all study abroad because of COVID.”
“Oh,” Enjolras said. “Of course.”
“But there is some good news!” his mom continued, in that forced way she had when she was trying to get him to agree to something she knew he wasn’t going to want to do. “There are a number of foreign exchange students stuck here who can’t go home, so you will at least have some company, for a few weeks, anyway, until we’re able to safely get them home.”
Enjolras perked up, just slightly. “So who’s coming to stay with us?” he asked, trying not to sound so excited at the prospect of any company that wasn’t his capitalism-loving parents.
“His name’s Grantaire,” his mom, sounding relieved that he seemed open to it. “You’ll like him,” she added quickly. “He’s Canadian! You can practice your French!”
Enjolras considered it for a moment. “Well,” he said hesitantly, “I suppose it could be worse.”
“Oh, sorry,” Grantaire said, somewhere in between bored and awkward. “I don’t really speak French.”
It was the second thing Grantaire said to him, right after “Hi” and right before, “Oh, I don’t really care about politics.”
Needless to say, Enjolras did not like him.
Grantaire was an art student, and slept until 2 in the afternoon most days, and sat out on the back porch smoking cigarettes while scrolling idly through his phone, and openly laughed whenever Enjolras tried to engage him in any kind of political conversation, and seemed to have absolutely no interest in going anywhere or doing anything.
It was hard to say which Enjolras liked least.
Granted, in the era of COVID there wasn’t exactly a whole lot to go do or see, but even outside of the immediate, Grantaire seemed to have no ambition towards doing anything. When Enjolras asked, a little stiffly, why he had bothered to study abroad when he clearly didn’t care about expanding his horizons, Grantaire just shrugged, ducking his head to light the cigarette in his mouth. “Free trip, I guess,” he said, blowing smoke out of his nose and grinning at Enjolras lazily.
Enjolras was not amused.
His mom didn’t help matters, encouraging him at every given opportunity to spend more time with Grantaire. “He must be homesick,” she reasoned.
“I’m not entirely sure that Grantaire cares enough about anything to miss it,” Enjolras muttered, and she gave him a look.
“Imagine being stuck in a foreign country during a pandemic with no knowledge of when you’re going to be able to go home,” she said. “He needs our understanding, and I’d hazard that he also needs a friend.”
But every attempt Enjolras made towards conversation – he wouldn’t go so far as to say friendship – was met with mockery at worst or disinterest at best, so Enjolras gave up, figuring they were better off ignoring each other.
At least until one night, when Enjolras was up even later than usual, sprawled out on the couch with his laptop balanced on his lap and books spread around him. He jerked upright when the door banged open, though he settled back down again when he heard Grantaire swear to himself. “Oh,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras didn’t bother looking up at him. “What’re you doing up?”
“Studying,” Enjolras said, pointedly vague, but Grantaire didn’t seem to take the hint, leaning down to rest his elbows against the back of the couch as he peered down at Enjolras’s computer screen.
“Thought your semester was done.”
“It is,” Enjolras said with a scowl as he shifted his computer so that Grantaire couldn’t read it. “I’m not studying for school, I’m trying to draft a bill to create criminal penalties for racially-motivated false police calls.”
Grantaire snorted, straightening and heading into the kitchen to grab a beer from the fridge. “Of course you are,” he said derisively.
On any other night, Enjolras might have ignored him, but that night, he couldn’t quite bring himself to, instead closing his laptop and sitting up to glare at Grantaire as he settled down at the kitchen table. “Something wrong with trying to bring a little bit of justice into the world?” he asked, his voice brittle.
Grantaire just shrugged. “Not at all, but if you think that’s what justice looks like, you’ve got another think coming.”
Enjolras scowled. “What are you even talking about?” he snapped.
“I’m talking about the irony of someone who I’m sure espouses the need to abolish the the police and the criminal justice suddenly being ok with using said criminal justice system to punish the local Karens.”
Enjolras stared at him. “I don’t know—”
“Yeah, I’m sure you don’t,” Grantaire scoffed, a small smirk lifting the corners of his mouth.
Enjolras ground his teeth together, irritation making his blood boil. “What, and you’re suddenly an expert in criminal justice?”
“Not even remotely,” Grantaire said breezily, draining his beer and standing. “But when I say Fuck 12, I don’t intend to turn around and say that they’re ok when they’re enforcing my agenda.”
Enjolras opened his mouth to retort before closing it again, the sinking feeling in his stomach telling him that, as much as he might want to deny it in the moment, Grantaire might have a point.
He hated him more than a little for that.
It took him a moment to push the feeling aside. “I didn’t realize you cared,” he said stiffly, and Grantaire paused on his way out of the kitchen.
“I don’t,” he said with a shrug. “And it’s not like Canada’s much better when it comes to police brutality against Black and brown folks, especially indigenous folks.” He paused, his expression unreadable in the dim light “But I just figured someone like you should probably think through all the sides of things.”
Enjolras eyed him warily. “I don’t know whether to be grateful or insulted.”
Grantaire scratched his neck and shrugged. “Honestly, it’s a crapshoot either way.”
Enjolras couldn’t help but laugh lightly at that as he opened his laptop again. “Well, you’ve at least given me something to think about.”
Grantaire made a mocking bow. “My legacy, monsieur,” he said, turning to go upstairs to his bedroom.
“My mom thinks you might be homesick.”
Enjolras didn’t know what possessed him to just blurt that out, and he couldn’t help but hold his breath slightly as Grantaire froze before turning back to him. “Does she,” he said noncommittally, more a statement than a question.
Enjolras jerked a shrug, staring down at his laptop as if he couldn’t care less if Grantaire was homesick. “Yeah.”
“She’s a nice woman, your mom,” Grantaire said, leaning against the doorway and crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I get why you probably don’t get along with her or your dad, since they’re, you know, the bourgeoisie that you with your upper middle class upbringing disdain so much, but she is nice.”
Enjolras nodded slowly. “Are you homesick, then?” he asked.
“Oh, no,” Grantaire said with a laugh, and Enjolras blinked up at him. “You haven’t leveled up far enough to access my tragic backstory or find out if I’m missing home.”
Enjolras scowled. “I wasn’t aware that asking you basic facts about your emotional state counts as unlocking a tragic backstory.”
Grantaire winked. “That’s because you don’t know anything about my emotional state.”
“Well, am I allowed to ask you about something else?”
“Sure,” Grantaire said easily, and Enjolras was taken aback for a moment. He hadn’t expected Grantaire to agree, so he fumbled for a question to actually ask.
“Where do you go?” he asked abruptly, and it was Grantaire’s turn to look taken aback.
“Where do I go?” he repeated.
“When you go out,” Enjolras said impatiently, waving a vague hand in the direction of the door. “When you disappear for hours on end – where do you go?”
Grantaire grinned. “That’s a good question,” he admitted, rapping lightly on the doorframe with his knuckles. “Good enough that you should ask me again sometime.”
Enjolras frowned. “Why?”
“Because one day I just might show you.”
He disappeared, leaving Enjolras staring after him.
Something after that changed between them. It wasn’t like they were suddenly friends or anything like that, but Enjolras was beginning to sense that maybe they could be.
Underneath the cynicism, Grantaire actually seemed to share most of the same political beliefs as Enjolras – even if he chalked up said political beliefs to ‘wishful thinking’.
That used to piss Enjolras off, but somehow, it didn’t anymore. He told himself that it was because he now realized there was actual substance beneath the scorn and dismissal.
He also told himself that it had nothing to do with noticing the way that Grantaire’s eyes sparkled everytime he said it, as if it was somehow an inside joke between them.
Enjolras found that his usual late nights staying up, studying and working into the early hours, were now interrupted by Grantaire joining him, usually with a beer in hand. But it was becoming harder to see them as interruptions because somehow, Grantaire had a knack for finding ways to make Enjolras’s arguments better. Sharper. As if the teasing the torment was always intended to get him to this point.
Now that Grantaire wasn’t interrupting him, the only person that was when Enjolras’s mom would come downstairs to shush them for arguing too loudly. After one such time, a couple of weeks after that first night, Grantaire leaned back against the couch and remarked casually, “Your mom is nice.”
“You’ve said that before,” Enjolras said, highlighting something in the article he was reading before glancing up at Grantaire. “I’ll take it that your mom isn’t?”
He asked it casually, and for a moment, Grantaire looked like he might deny it. But then he just shrugged, staring moodily into the distance. “She was never cruel,” he said, something almost cold in his tone. “She and my dad didn’t beat me, or abuse me. They just—” He broke off, his expression darkening. “I dunno. Kids can tell, I think, when they were never really wanted.”
He said it plainly, matter-of-factly, and that somehow made it so much worse. Enjolras wasn’t sure whether to say something – or what to say, for that matter – but Grantaire saved him from having to. “My parents had me as an attempt to keep their marriage together. It didn’t work. And after that, I don’t think either of them was ever really that interested in being a parent.” He made a face. “Save for telling me how disappointing I was.”
“I’m sorry.”
Enjolras winced as he said it, but Grantaire just waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t be,” he scoffed. “It’s not a tragedy in the grand scheme of things. And all things, I’ve been lucky. I grew up with food on the table, a house over my head, excellent schooling– Well, until university, that is. They cut me off when I told them I was planning on getting an arts degree instead of something useful.”
He made another face and took a long pull from his beer before forcing a smile. “And there you have it, my tragic backstory. Congratulations on leveling up.”
Enjolras laughed, but only because it seemed expected of him. Grantaire relaxed slightly at that, though he froze when Enjolras added, in what he hoped was a casual way, “Neglect is still abuse, you know.”
“Maybe,” Grantaire acknowledged before smiling again, this time a genuine smile. “But honestly it may have been for the best. After all, regardless of whether it was a tragedy in the grand scheme of things, somehow or another, it still got me here.” He paused, his grin widening. “Where I can annoy you until all hours of the night.”
“Aren’t I lucky,” Enjolras said dryly, and Grantaire laughed, the moment between them ending almost as quickly as it had started.
But something about it lingered with Enjolras, and it took him a few days to realize what it was: he did feel a little bit lucky, all things considered. He was surprised to find that he liked Grantaire, liked spending time with him. Grantaire made him laugh, and rage, and on occasion, scowl and sulk when Grantaire knocked down one of his arguments.
Grantaire made him feel what previously had always been reserved for his causes.
And even though Enjolras knew Grantaire would have to leave eventually, when once he would’ve given anything to get rid of him, now he was surprised to find that he didn’t want him to go at all.
“What are you doing tonight?” Grantaire asked abruptly, and Enjolras didn’t even look up from his computer.
“Same thing we do every night, Pinky,” he murmured. “Try to take over the world.”
“Hilarious,” Grantaire said dryly. “But I meant it.”
Enjolras sighed and looked up. “Well, I’ve got about a half dozen articles I need to read, not to mention there’s some really interesting case law coming out from Clay County, Illinois, regarding suing a governor over executive powers, and—”
“So nothing important, in other words,” Grantaire interrupted with a grin.
Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “And what more important thing did you have in mind to do tonight?”
Grantaire’s grin widened. “Ask your question from before,” he said, and Enjolras stared at him for a long moment before remembering.
“Where do you go?” he asked, and Grantaire’s grin softened.
“Let me show you,” he said, holding his hand out to Enjolras. “With your permission, of course.”
Enjolras hesitated for only a moment before taking Grantaire’s hand and allowing Grantaire to pull him off the couch and out the door, face masks in hand.
The answer to Enjolras’s question, it seemed, was everywhere. Enjolras had grown up in this town, but he had never seen it like this, following Grantaire down alleys and through neighborhoods he didn’t even know existed. Their first stop was a little corner liquor store that Enjolras must’ve passed hundreds of times without every going in, and Enjolras even drank some of the wine Grantaire offered him, shifting their masks to drink straight from the brown paper bag-wrapped bottle as they made their way across town to some dingy dive bar.
But instead of going in, Grantaire led him over to a man selling tamales by the front door. “Best tamales in the city,” Grantaire assured Enjolras, who found that he didn’t doubt him.
From there, they crisscrossed the entire town, it seemed, pausing in a back alley to listen to a band playing some tiny venue Enjolras had never heard of, or swinging past the local movie theatre, which was projecting old films on the side of the building, turning their parking lot into a mini drive-in.
Enjolras didn’t say much, other than to comment a few times on mask compliance and social distancing, but he didn’t feel like the silence between them was uncomfortable, mainly because there wasn’t much silence. Even with a pandemic, there was still people on the sidewalk, talking loudly with each other, and cars crowding the streets, and even the sound of cicadas turning the quiet night into a cacophony.
They ended in a park, where Grantaire helped Enjolras over the temporary fence set up to block access to the playground, and they sat down on the swings, Enjolras facing one direction, Grantaire facing the other. “So this was…” Enjolras started, trailing off as he searched for the right word.
“Stupid?” Grantaire suggested, with a self-deprecating laugh.
Enjolras looked over at him sharply. “The opposite, actually,” he said. “I think I saw more of this city tonight than I have in my entire time living here.” He shrugged, glancing around them. “I’ve spent almost my entire life here, and I’ve never seen it like this.”
“You should try sometime,” Grantaire said, and there was something serious in his voice, so much so that Enjolras looked over at him, searching his expression. “Sometimes I think that you’re so focused on what needs fixing that you don’t stop and see the beauty in the brokenness.”
“Well, that’s your job,” Enjolras said, aiming for a joke but falling flat. “As an artist, I mean.”
“I knew what you meant,” Grantaire said quietly.
For a moment, they both sat in silence before Grantaire told Enjolras, “I’m leaving in two days.”
“What?” Enjolras asked blankly.
“Your mom told me today. I finally got cleared by my university to return to Canada.”
Enjolras’s entire chest felt like it was being squeezed. “That’s—” he started, his voice coming out a croak, and he swallowed, hard. “I mean, that’s what you’ve been waiting for, right?”
Grantaire jerked a shrug. “I guess.”
There were a million things that Enjolras wanted to say to him, but none of the words seemed to come. Instead, he asked, hesitantly, “Is that...is that why you decided to show me this? Because you’re leaving?”
“No.” Grantaire shook his head, something almost urgent in his tone. “I wanted to show you this because you needed to see it. You are so focused on changing what’s out there that you don’t take the time to stop and see what’s right here.”
“And you do?” Enjolras asked.
“Maybe.”
Enjolras was suddenly aware of how close they were, brushing against each other in the dark as they had twisted in their swings to face each other. “And what do you see?” he asked softly.
Instead of answering, Grantaire leaned in and kissed him.
It was somewhat of an answer in its own way, and judging by the chaos of packing that followed the next day, it was the only answer that Enjolras was ever going to get. He wanted desperately to talk to Grantaire, to talk about what had happened in that park, or about the millions of other things he had just assumed they would have time to talk about, but time was the one thing they didn’t have.
Not during the day, anyway.
But in lieu of their usual late night bantering, Enjolras crept into Grantaire’s bedroom after his parents had gone to bed. “Enjolras?” Grantaire asked, sitting up. “What are you—”
Enjolras kissed him, a little desperately. “I wanted to do that,” he said, his voice breathy.
Grantaire’s hands dropped to rest against his waist. “Is that all you wanted?” he asked, his voice low.
“I also wanted to talk.”
Grantaire groaned softly. “Of course you do,” he said with a sigh, dropping his hands and flopping back down on the bed. “Let me guess, about what this means, or what this is between us?”
Despite himself, despite not wanting to ruin what little time they had left, Enjolras scowled. “Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?”
“It’s not, it’s just—” Grantaire broke off with a sigh. “It’s predictable. Remember what I said about you being too busy trying to fix what’s out there to focus on what’s right here?”
Enjolras’s scowl deepened. “I don’t think this—”
“No, but I do.” Grantaire sat up again, his expression serious. “Look, if you can honestly tell me that talking about this will make the fact that I am leaving tomorrow easier or better, then I’m happy to spend this entire night talking.” He paused as if waiting for Enjolras to attempt exactly that. “But if you can’t, then don’t make me waste this night.”
Enjolras bit his lip. “Well, then what do you want to do?” he asked, hastening to add, “Besides, you know, that, because that’s not happening tonight.”
Grantaire half-smiled. “All I want is to hold you,” he said simply, holding his hand out to Enjolras. “Can we do that?”
The breath seemed to catch in Enjolras’s throat. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’d – I’d like that.”
He let Grantaire pull him onto the bed, curling reflexively against him and tilting his head up so that Grantaire could kiss him, slow and sweet.
True to what Grantaire said, that’s all they did, lying there together, wrapped up in each other and in the millions of unspoken could-have and should-have-beens. Enjolras rested his head against Grantaire’s chest. “‘M falling asleep,” he murmured, and Grantaire smoothed the hair away from his forehead.
“Then sleep,” he said, his voice low in Enjolras’s ear. “I’ve got you, I promise.”
Enjolras believed him.
And as he drifted off into sleep, he could’ve sworn he heard Grantaire whispering into his ear, “L'amour s'en va comme cette eau courante, L'amour s'en va, Comme la vie est lente, Et comme l'Espérance est violente.”
Enjolras only just made it back to his own bed the next morning before his parents woke up, not that it mattered in the chaos of getting Grantaire’s stuff packed into the car so they could drive to the airport. Enjolras and Grantaire sat in the back seat, neither seeming to want to break the silence, though once, when Enjolras’s parents weren’t looking, Grantaire grabbed Enjolras’s hand and raised it to his lips to kiss Enjolras’s knuckles.
Still, the reality set in after Grantaire checked his bags and rejoined Enjolras and his parents, who tactfully gave them some room to say their goodbyes. “I spent most of my summer counting down until you left,” Enjolras told him, and Grantaire laughed.
“You sure know how to make a girl feel special,” he teased, but Enjolras didn’t smile.
“But now that you’re actually going—”
“I know,” Grantaire said softly. “But I have to go. Besides, someone’s got to be ready with a place for you to stay for when you inevitably try to overthrow the government and need to flee the country.”
Enjolras half-smiled. “Depending on how November goes, that may be sooner rather than later.”
Grantaire shuddered. “Don’t even joke about that.”
“Sorry,” Enjolras said, before adding, a little desperately, “I’m going to miss you.”
Grantaire ducked his head. “Who knows,” he said, “maybe I’ll look into transferring schools.”
“Really?”
Grantaire shrugged. “Yeah, it’s not like I have much to look forward to back home.” He nudged Enjolras with his elbow. “But I do have a really compelling reason to come back here.”
Enjolras shook his head, his throat tight. “Don’t transfer just because of me.”
“Don’t you have a high opinion of yourself,” Grantaire said mockingly. “I was referring to the tamales.”
But Enjolras didn’t laugh. “I mean it.”
Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “You and I both know that you need me, too. So it’s only half for me.”
Enjolras did smile at that, a little reluctantly. “Maybe.”
Grantaire nodded, and glanced towards security, his expression darkening. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “I guess I should be going. And I’ll, uh, see when I see you, I guess.”
Enjolras nodded as well. “Yeah,” he said, his voice thick.
Grantaire hefted his bag onto his shoulder and turned to leave when Enjolras said, “Oh, and Grantaire?”
“Yeah?” Grantaire said, turning back.
“Always joy comes after pain.”
Grantaire blinked. “Beg pardon?”
“From the poem you recited to me last night.” A slow grin spread across Grantaire’s face, and Enjolras said, mock-accusatory, “You said you didn’t speak French.”
“I lied,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras shook his head.
“And what else did you lie about?” he asked, putting his hands on his hips.
Grantaire didn’t hesitate, closing the space between them to kiss Enjolras. “Well,” he said, “I said I wasn’t going to do that, for starters.”
“I think I can forgive that,” Enjolras whispered, kissing Grantaire again before asking, “Anything else?’
Grantaire grinned. “Let’s save that for the next time we see each other.”
Enjolras smiled as well. “I’m gonna hold you to that,” he warned.
Grantaire pulled him into a hug, one that Enjolras was only too happy to return. “I hope to God you do,” Grantaire whispered in his ear before kissing his cheek once more.
“I will,” Enjolras promised, and this time when Grantaire turned to head into security, Enjolras didn’t stop him.
He didn’t have to, because for once, Enjolras saw things exactly as they were right in front of him.
But he also knew he’d find a way to fix it, and for them to be together again.
One way or another.