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The thing is Enjolras really didn’t think this through.
Not the proposing bit. That bit he’s been sure of since the day he won his MasterChef title but had still been unable to focus on anything except Grantaire. He knows he loves Grantaire, and he knows he wants to spend the rest of his life with him. That’s not the problem.
The problem is with his method of proposal. They’d met because of MasterChef and bonded over their mutual love for cooking, and it’d seemed right to Enjolras that he should try to reflect that when he proposed to Grantaire. It would be a Gesture. Grantaire loves Gestures.
So Enjolras signed Grantaire’s copy of his newly published cookbook, right under the dedication “to the man who made everything worth it”, with the words Will you marry me?, thinking that Grantaire would notice it the moment he flips the cookbook open.
It’s been two days since Enjolras presented Grantaire with the cookbook, and…nothing.
Grantaire’s looked through the cookbook when the publisher first sent a copy over to Enjolras. He’s already cried over the dedication once, laughed at many of the photos featured in the cookbook (he’s in a few of them too, always grinning at Enjolras, and those are the pages that Enjolras loves the most), and tried cooking Enjolras’ signature pasta dish, and it’s completely understandable why he isn’t pouring over the pages of the cookbook again.
Again, Enjolras really didn’t think this through.
—
The first problem that Enjolras identifies with his plan is that he has his own copy of the cookbook, one that he places in the kitchen for when he can’t be bothered thinking about what to cook, and just wants to flip a page to settle on what he wants to have for dinner. Grantaire, when he needs to check through Enjolras’ cookbook, would just flip through Enjolras’ copy instead of walking out to the bookshelf to pick up his own.
He’s identified the problem, and now he’s going to get rid of it. He removes the offending copy from the kitchen and leaves it by his bedside table in their bedroom.
It’s Grantaire’s turn to cook dinner tonight, and he’s seen the merit of Enjolras’ way of picking what to cook by randomly flipping a page. He puts his own spin on the dishes in Enjolras’ cookbook most of the time, and Enjolras kind of falls even more in love with him every time he does it.
“You’re acting all weird, Chicken,” Grantaire says when he goes into the kitchen to prep for dinner and Enjolras pads after him, settling onto one of the chairs at the kitchen island. “I’m calling shenanigans.”
“I haven’t watched you cook in a really long time,” Enjolras tells him, feigning innocence. “Maybe I miss watching you cook.”
Grantaire snorts, but circles over to peck Enjolras on the lips quickly. “You are very bad at lying,” he tells him, and turns to look for the cookbook. He frowns when it’s not in its usual place. “Have you seen The Book?”
Enjolras smiles at the way he can hear the capitalisation in Grantaire’s words. “Your copy is on the shelf.”
“But I want the chef’s copy,” Grantaire says, almost petulant, and Enjolras ends up tugging him in by the shirt to kiss him, biting on Grantaire’s lower lip gently before soothing it over with his tongue.
“Shenanigans,” Grantaire breathes out when he pulls away. “So many shenanigans. I’m going to figure it out, just you watch.”
Enjolras smiles. “Maybe try figuring it out a little faster.”
Grantaire harrumphs at him and leaves the kitchen, heading towards the living room. Enjolras cranes his head to look at Grantaire picks his copy of the cookbook up from the shelves. He’s holding his breath a little, grip on the handles of his chair a little too tight, but Grantaire just flips through to one of the middle pages and declares, “Clam chowder.”
“Flip again,” Enjolras says, insistent. He’s not sure what expression he has on his face right now —he might be scowling a little, which is ridiculous because he loves clam chowder— but it makes Grantaire arch an eyebrow.
“You were the one who said there were rules to this,” Grantaire says, and slots the cookbook back in place before walking back to Enjolras. He kisses him on the nose softly. “We’re having clam chowder tonight, Chicken, no re-flips.”
Enjolras sighs.
—
He ends up stress-baking the next night, because that’s a thing he’s picked up from Grantaire. He makes a batch of brownies, half a dozen muffins, and is working on icing his red velvet cupcakes when Grantaire comes home.
He doesn’t say anything when he sees Enjolras in the kitchen, just makes quick work of putting the groceries he picked up on his way back from work away before he presses himself to Enjolras’ back, arms a comforting weight around Enjolras’ waist.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Grantaire asks quietly.
Yes, Enjolras wants to say; he doesn’t. Instead he turns around and tells Grantaire, tone heavy, “I love you.”
And oh, he loves the way Grantaire’s eyes go soft and happy whenever Enjolras tells him that. He must’ve done so a hundred thousand times in the past year, but Grantaire evidently hasn’t tired of it.
“I love you too,” Grantaire says and drops a kiss to the corner of his lips. “Is that what’s gotten you baking, hmm? Because that’s ridiculous, you know I love you.”
“No, R.” Enjolras sighs. He could do it, he could ask Grantaire to marry him right now, he could, but it doesn’t feel right. “I really, really love you. I love you most.”
Grantaire laughs at that. “I know you do,” he tells Enjolras. “You won MasterChef for me. No-one else can say that.” He drops his head to Enjolras’ shoulder and turns so he’s nuzzling into Enjolras’ neck. “I really, really love you too. More than anything in the world. But you know that too. Or at least you’re supposed to.”
“I want to open a restaurant,” Enjolras blurts out. He’s been thinking about it for awhile now, and while it’s obviously not the thing that’s bothering him the most right now, it’s something that Grantaire needs to know too. “I want to open a restaurant,” he says again when Grantaire looks up to face him, eyes wide with surprise, “and I want you to do it with me. No, that doesn’t sound right, that isn’t it.” He frowns and tries again. “I want us to open a restaurant together.”
Grantaire kisses him, tugs him in closer by his shirt, lets Enjolras back him up against the counter and lick into his mouth, shivers when Enjolras reaches up to tangle his fingers into Grantaire’s hair and tug lightly, just the way he knows Grantaire likes it. They stay like that for a long while, trading kisses and lingering touches.
Eventually, Grantaire meets his eyes and says, “Yes, let’s open a restaurant.” He laughs at the way Enjolras grins at that. “Let’s open all the restaurants. Fuck, E, you’re going to be great.”
“We’re going to be great,” Enjolras corrects, and goes with it when Grantaire surges up to kiss him again, beaming like he’s never been happier.
—
The problem with it is that Grantaire doesn’t really need the help of Enjolras’ cookbook to cook. Enjolras tries to fix this one night when it’s his turn to cook dinner.
“R, can you flip through my cookbook a little to help me see which ingredients I forgot?” he calls out. Grantaire is in the living room, and the closest copy of his cookbook is Grantaire’s copy, still sitting on the shelf.
Only instead of flipping through Enjolras’ cookbook like Enjolras thought he would, Grantaire comes to join him in the kitchen instead, picking up a clean spoon on the way to Enjolras, and tries the stew for himself.
“More thyme,” Grantaire says, closing his eyes for his next tasting, and it makes Enjolras’ lips tip up slightly, even if his plan has been thwarted again. “Maybe a little rosemary? I would try some dried chilli too, but that wouldn’t be beef stew à la Chef Enjolras anymore.” Grantaire opens his eyes, and then startles at Enjolras’ proximity. “Hello, you.”
Enjolras kisses him, just a soft, quick press of their lips together. “Right,” he says, drawing away from Grantaire and trying his best not to grin at the dazed look in Grantaire’s eyes. “Thyme and rosemary, then. You can try it with dried chilli the next time you cook.”
Grantaire goes to the pantry and brings Enjolras his herbs. “You have this thing where you get oddly turned on when I do food tastings,” he tells Enjolras.
“I do,” Enjolras agrees easily, stirring his stew and not looking at Grantaire. “And you have this thing where you get oddly turned on when I get oddly turned on when you do food tastings.”
“Mine is a reasonable reaction to the situation,” Grantaire says and pokes Enjolras in the ribs. “Yours is just baffling.”
“Competency is really attractive,” Enjolras tells him and turns over to flash a grin at Grantaire. “Actually, scratch that. You’re really attractive.”
Grantaire groans. “How long can we ignore the stew for?”
“Ten minutes,” Enjolras says, and then frowns. “We are not letting the stew burn.”
“Ten minutes is a lot of time,” Grantaire says, and presses his lips to Enjolras’ shoulder, mouths along the line of it to his neck, sucks down hard, and pulls away, smiling. “I can do a lot in ten minutes. You can time me.”
The stew ends up burning, but neither of them care.
—
The words hang on the tip of his tongue a few times. It would be just so easy to turn over to Grantaire, to brush the pad of his thumb over the curve of Grantaire’s cheek and say will you marry me, R?, but every time he thinks of doing it, he remembers the words he’d written down in Grantaire’s copy of his cookbook, and hesitates. He’s maybe being a little ridiculous about it, but he thinks that Grantaire would like his original plan, and he wants to see if he’s right.
So every time he thinks about asking Grantaire to marry him, he settles for sighing, swallowing back the words, and kissing Grantaire instead. Grantaire must know something is up by now, but he doesn’t push, just trusts that Enjolras would tell him about it in his own time, and Enjolras loves him for it, he really, really does, but he also wishes that Grantaire would just go through his goddamn cookbook and agree to marry him already.
He sighs and tugs Grantaire closer. “I love you,” he whispers into the dark, and slots their lips together.
Grantaire lets out a pleased hum.
—
He tries again a few more times, switches his copy of the cookbook in the kitchen with Grantaire’s copy, hoping that Grantaire will do the thing where he sometimes flips through it when he hasn’t anything to do and is waiting for Enjolras to finish cooking dinner. Grantaire always skips to the middle without looking through the dedications, which, okay, is not surprising. Few people read the dedications, and Grantaire had been more than a little overwhelmed the first time he saw it.
He thinks he should maybe give up. Not on the proposing bit, but on the proposing using the cookbook bit. It doesn’t seem to be working out well for him at all, and every day he goes by without proposing is another day wasted. He thinks it would be nice to finally get that weight off his chest, to not have to guess what Grantaire’s answer would be, to —hopefully— be able to call Grantaire his fiancé.
But Grantaire loves clichés. His laptop wallpaper is still that photo of him hugging Enjolras the day Enjolras won MasterChef, and Enjolras knows that proposing with the cookbook is just the sort of cliché thing that would make Grantaire smile. He wants to make Grantaire smile, wants to try, at the very least.
Maybe one more time.
—
It takes more effort than he can remember, working his way out of Grantaire’s arms and untangling their legs, trying his best not to wake Grantaire up. He pads out of their bedroom quietly and picks up Grantaire’s copy of his cookbook before he goes back into their room. He stands at the door for a moment, just looking at Grantaire, eyes still closed and body relaxed in slumber, and feels his heart grow three times its size.
He really does love Grantaire a lot.
He flips the cookbook open to the page of the dedications, and sets it on his pillow, right next to Grantaire. There’s no way he can miss it now.
He leaves the room and goes about making breakfast. Now armed with the knowledge that Grantaire isn’t going to miss his proposal, he’s suddenly faced with a sense of nervousness because what if Grantaire says no? They’ve only been dating for a little more than a year now, what if Grantaire thinks it’s too soon?
He swallows his fear of rejection and sets about making scones, because it’s still ridiculously early, and Grantaire probably wouldn’t be up for another two hours or so. Also, Grantaire loves cranberry scones, and Enjolras loves making food that Grantaire loves.
He’s just put the scones into the oven when Grantaire comes into the kitchen, wide-eyed, clutching Enjolras’ cookbook tightly in both hands. Enjolras’ heart starts racing.
“I turned over, and you weren’t there, and the book was poking my face, and I was going to be so annoyed, because it’s a weekend, E, I’m not supposed to be awake before eleven on weekends, but this.” He stares at the book for a moment before he looks back up at Enjolras. “I’m not entirely sure I’m not still asleep right now, Enjolras, so please, god, please, can you say it?” Grantaire says in a rush, coming closer so he’s standing right in front of Enjolras.
“I love you,” Enjolras says, and takes the oven mitts off, dropping them onto the floor carelessly before he reaches into his pocket for the ring he's been carrying around with him for weeks now. He takes Grantaire’s hand in his and drops onto one knee. “I love you. I’m pretty sure I’ve been in love with you since the first time you stole tomatoes off my cooking bench back on MasterChef, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I’ve never wanted anything as much as I do this. I love you, Grantaire, will you marry me?”
“Fuck,” Grantaire breathes out. “Fuck, Enjolras, are you sure?”
Enjolras smiles at him. “I’ve never been so sure of anything.”
Grantaire drops down onto his knees, sets Enjolras’ book down by their side, and says, “Yes, of course I’ll marry you. God, I love you so much, Enjolras, of course I’ll marry you.”
Enjolras slips the ring onto Grantaire’s finger, and then tugs him in close, and kisses him. They’re both smiling too widely for the kiss to be anything but ridiculous, and they should really fix that, but Enjolras doesn’t really think he can stop smiling even if he tried. They eventually just settle for pressing their foreheads together, Grantaire’s hands framing Enjolras’ face and Enjolras’ hands gripping tightly at Grantaire’s waist, still beaming at each other.
Grantaire laughs.
“What?” Enjolras asks.
“Catering is going to be so difficult when all the chefs we like are going to be part of the wedding party,” Grantaire says, full of mirth, and Enjolras can’t help but to kiss him again.