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For a long time Grantaire doesn’t realize Enjolras is falling in love with him, nor does he realize that the man is in love with him once he has completed the act of falling. Grantaire doesn’t even realize he’s been in love with Enjolras for a long time. Well, that is true only in the strictest definition of the word ‘to realize’ - verb: become fully aware of (something) as a fact. Grantaire clued into that fact about a year or two after he first met the guy.
(“Better late than never,” snorts Enjolras. He blinks once or twice. As he stretches his unfairly long legs he steals a glance at the sheets slipping down Grantaire’s naked stomach. “Speaking of late - why are we awake at three AM?”
“You’ll see why in a second, my angel.”
“I take it this is of the utmost importance?”
“Oh, absolutely.”)
Before that he definitely noticed something was off. Anyone would. A year or two of confusing symptoms including but not limited to a fluttering stomach - put down to alcohol - and an accelerated heart rate in Enjolras’ immediate vicinity - put down to alcohol as well as some drugs less efficiently propagated by the industries behind them - later, Grantaire ran a very accelerated gauntlet of the five stages of grief and soon accepted that he would likely always love Enjolras, and would likely always find his feelings unrequited.
He’s always been rather slow on the uptake, is the point. That’s what his father was in the habit of saying, anyway, and for the longest time his authority seemed to Grantaire to be beyond questioning. If one does not become fully aware of one’s own feelings in due time, how could anyone expect differently concerning the feelings of others towards oneself? Exactly.
So Grantaire does not notice when Enjolras falls in love with him. It’s not like the guy sits him down and talks about it, God forbid!
(“Objection,” Enjolras yawns, trying to wrestle the sheets of paper from Grantaire’s hands. He does not put much effort into it.
“Withdrawn.”
Enjolras has little respect for legal proceedings outside of his day job and none at all when Grantaire tries to hold fast to court etiquette in the middle of the night. “How do you think you would have reacted if I had sat you down and told you I loved you?”
“Relevance?”
“You would have run away screaming if I had told you outright,” claims Enjolras.
“I disagree,” Grantaire says.
“Make your case then.”
“Gladly, your Honor.”
“For the last time, Grantaire, I’m not a judge.”
“Oh, but you'd look so good in those wigs, wouldn't you?”)
First things first. To give thorough testimony the full story, or at least the full story of their beginning, must be elucidated. They meet during Enjolras' freshman orientation. Grantaire, aged twenty and appropriately cynical for a rebellious soul of that age, supervises a group of first semesters with Bahorel and Bossuet. He spots Enjolras, still seventeen - though only for two more days - and tries to cajole the frowning blond boy to go next on the keg.
“I don’t drink,” the blond frowns all the harder for being addressed unexpectedly. Two seconds later his jovial friend, the one they initially recruited into their freshers group and with whom the perpetual frowner tagged along, comes up next to him and offers him a vodka-cranberry-hold-the-vodka-please.
“Added a little bit of a kick with a splash of lime. Culinary school here I come,” says the friend.
“You burned toast yesterday,” retorts the blond. Much later Grantaire finds out that the friend is in law school with Blondie and never for a second considered the culinary arts to be for him.
(“I told you the very same day, Grantaire. You asked what I was studying.”
“Hush, now.”)
“Hey, if you don’t want to imbibe that’s totally your choice, man.” Grantaire shrugs. Blondie’s frown eases in fractions. “There’s no reason for you to back out on holding up your friend while he chugs it down in the name of higher education though, is there?”
Blondie’s friend - Courfey? Something like that, hey, Grantaire is not the sober one in this situation - grins, rubbing his hands in anticipation. “Whaddaya say, old sport? I’m feeling inspired to break my record today.”
(“Objection.”
“Oh, now he plays along? What is it, then?”
“Misrepresentation - Courfeyrac would never say old sport.”
“He absolutely did.”)
“You are the architect of your own destruction as always, Courfeyrac.” He gestures for Courfeyrac to lead the way. Grantaire distinctly remembers being moved to pity for someone with such a horrific name, momentarily forgetting that his own name is what it is. He is about to turn away and goad more freshmen into alcohol-induced excesses when a firm hand fists into his sleeve, stopping him short.
“Courfeyrac has a good 30 pounds on me since he started working out. You better help me hold him up.”
He really has no business being this handsome, especially when he is red in the face from holding his friend up. Their eyes don’t meet - that will be a recurring theme in the years following, but that is solely because Grantaire runs the risk of giggling when he looks Enjolras in the eye long enough to see the little vertical wrinkle of irritation appear between his brows. But that’s the future, this is Enjolras’ freshman year, when he is still blond and unknown to Grantaire. Frankly, he never stops being blond.
(“I was about to say, Grantaire-”)
Grantaire does get to know him much better though, over the years.
Blond boy is drenched with sweat and looking up at his chugging friend, concern mingling with awe on his face. Courfeyrac, for his part, makes a very admirable attempt that could give Grantaire a run for his money. But in those days Grantaire is still the uncontested champion of the keg. Several trips to the doctor will later put an undignified, abrupt end to his potential career in competitive drinking.
(“You’re doing it now,” Grantaire needles. He wrestles the pillow away from Enjolras’ face, tracing a finger over his frown-line. It’s more prominent now than in university, but lovely all the same, if very imposing.
“Shut up.”
“Very unprofessional, Monsieur.”)
“Ridiculous,” Blondie breathes out when Courfeyrac regains his feet only to stumble backwards into a tall, bespectacled man. He sounds fond, in a way Grantaire does not quite recognize but one day will.
“Med school, huh? You want to have a look at what end-stage liver cirrhosis looks like?” Grantaire asks the tall, bespectacled man when he joins their group and introduces himself as Combeferre.
“Ask me again in a couple of years, you’re still too young.” Grantaire does not see Courfeyrac leave Combeferre’s arms for the rest of the day. And, truthfully, Courfeyrac doesn’t leave Combeferre’s bed either, contrary to a bold statement made earlier in the day that he intended to milk the opportunity for exploration university had to offer to everyone bold enough to try.
“More cranberry juice?” Grantaire asks and receives a very pleasantly surprised look in return when Blondie holds out his cup expectantly.
“I don’t think I introduced myself,” he says when Grantaire returns with the promised beverage and some pretzels thrown in for good measure. He even has the decency to look somewhat contrite. Who wouldn’t, in the face of Grantaire’s underhanded but well-intentioned attempt to bribe him into conversation with carb-laden snack food? That’s only right. It does not occur to Grantaire that Blondie might be re-evaluating every assumption he made about Grantaire for the past half hour. Enjolras later tells him he did, that he found Grantaire ridiculously attractive and even tried flirting for the first time, but who would believe anything Enjolras says about freshman year? He’d been a recluse, unpractised in interacting socially with anyone but Courfeyrac and his aging grandmother.
(“How many pages did you write, Grantaire?”
“Take a guess, dear. How many pages do you think it takes to appropriately relate your schemes?”
“My schemes?”
“Help me lift my drunk friend, said with an intense frown, does not hold up as proof of flirtation in any internationally recognized court, your Honor.”)
“I don’t think you did, either,” Grantaire retorts. One overly-firm handshake later that grievous mistake is remedied and the foundation is laid for Grantaire to fall hard. And - might he add - a handshake does not really count as flirtation, either, no matter what British period dramas might try selling to the masses.
(“Objection.”
“Huh?”
“A handshake is something that can actually be so personal and romantic.”
“Okay,” concedes Grantaire, scribbling an addendum. “It does not count after the fifties, shall we say?”
“Proceed.”)
Two weeks later he runs into Enjolras on campus. Enjolras hands him a flier, and Grantaire shows up to the first meeting of Social Justice Club, though they have a more pretentious name that Grantaire is ashamed to repeat. Social Justice Club it is, then.
(“Les Amis de L’ABC?”
“Les Amis de la Bussy, you mean?”
“Jesus Christ.”)
Seven years later Enjolras still looks surprised to see him when he arrives at the café. “You’re back from South America?” Ah, yes, admittedly this time Enjolras has good reason to be surprised. It has been a while.
“Holograms aren’t good enough yet to fool my boss,” Grantaire responds. It’s the least snide thing he can think of . He’s making an effort. “Give it a few more years and then I’ll be gone for good on company time and dime.”
“How was it?” Oh, that’s new. Grantaire had been prepared to settle down in his corner and quietly enjoy some cranberry juice with bubbles before the rest of the group arrives, but Enjolras seems genuinely prepared to make conversation despite clearly having stuff to do. It’s unusual, yes, but even if it has not been the rule for their interactions, Enjolras frequently converses with his friends. How is Grantaire meant to know this is what Enjolras looks like when he is falling in love with someone?
(“The defendant has a question, your Honor.”
“Yes, Grantaire?”
“Oh good, I see you’re getting into it. Told you you'd enjoy roleplay.” He earns himself a swat with the pillow. “It occurs to me now that you might have actually prepared a line of conversation, that day.”
“No comment.”
“Wha- Enjolras! You never did! Scandalous!”
“No comment. Misleading. Derailing. I object.”
“But-”
“You’re on a clock, Grantaire. Use it wisely.”
“Fine, but we’ll revisit this later.”)
“Pretty great, yeah,” Grantaire says. He could go into great detail about the history of South American cultures and their art - he did go on a work trip, after all. It wasn’t just an extended vacation. Enjolras doesn’t really know anything about art, though, so he sticks to “beautiful continent, beautiful scenery, though nothing to rival the sun one is used to reclining under.”
There! He throws in a compliment, even. He points this out because he would like it noted in the record that, despite what Enjolras will later insist, Grantaire did in fact give him every opportunity to flirt. That Enjolras either did not pick up on it or chose not to only lends further credence to Grantaire’s case; he cannot truly be faulted for being oblivious over the years.
Enjolras arches a brow at him. “I don’t recall ever seeing you recline beneath anything, let alone myself.” Would you look at that? The man developed a sense of humor in Grantaire’s absence. Still - a bit unfair, that statement.
(“Recline beneath me wasn’t on the nose enough for you?”
“Well, if that was what you had said verbatim-”
“Oh, please. You couldn’t read the subtext in that?”
“Anyway-”)
“Beneath a table, surely? Once or twice in college?” More than once or twice, all told, but Enjolras is good enough to leave the assertion uncommented. “Consider this: I may have been talking about the literal sun, just this once.”
“Doubtful,” Enjolras snorts. It turns into an actual laugh in a heartbeat, possibly in response to Grantaire’s comical expression. “When you mean the weather you’re more likely to complain about burns than make garishly poetic comparisons.”
“Touché.”
Enjolras takes his victory in silent stride and goes back to sorting stacks of paper with a faint smile still playing around his mouth. A mouth which, as he aptly put it, Grantaire has made numerous garishly poetic comparisons about. He’s tempted to add some novel ones to the list. “How were the undoubtedly calm meetings you held in my absence?”
“I’m sure you’d like me to say they were very boring but truthfully they were productive enough to make up for years of lost time.” Ouch, his fragile heart. As he said: how is he to know that this is what Enjolras says when he is in love with someone? How is he to know that this is Enjolras teasing him when the man always sounds dead serious? For all he knows they dismantled capitalism in the five meetings he missed. That he can still see the flashing sign of the newest Starbucks across the street, threatening the Musain’s continued existence, means nothing. Enjolras could have dismantled capitalism quickly enough that Starbucks hasn’t even noticed yet, your Honor.
(“Did I ever tell you about the time Courfeyrac threw a brick through the Starbucks window?”
“Courfeyrac told me you cast the first stone.”)
“Ha. I might just stay away indefinitely then.” See how he likes that.
Not at all, it swiftly turns out. “No need to be quite so drastic, Grantaire.” That, too, is unusual, but hardly cause for accusations of tender feelings. By nature Enjolras cares about everyone and everything, he cannot help it. That he would soothe the sting of previous words so outright is new when speaking to Grantaire, yes, but he has made the odd apology for his words to shared friends in the years since the kegger. “Do you have anything planned on the 29th?”
“Presumably I now have a rally planned?”
“We’re not that much of a one-trick-pony, are we?” Enjolras gathers his hair at the nape, quickly tying it off into a ponytail more at home in an 18th century army camp than the year of the Lord 2020.
(“I resent that,” Enjolras whispers into the nape of his neck, having previously nestled close to Grantaire, giving up and giving in to the the night’s legal proceedings.
“Do you deny that you look like Toussaint Louverture’s paler cousin when you tie your hair back like that?”
“No, I guess not.”
“Thought so. Pay attention.” )
“There have been sit-ins, and bake sales… that one club event Courfeyrac organized last year?”
Grantaire says nothing. The evidence, your Honor, speaks plainly for itself.
Capitalism, it turns out, still exists. Drat. “The rally is a week afterwards,” Enjolras admits, ducking his head sheepishly. Grantaire turns his amused snort into a well-timed cough. His elbow bears the brunt of it. But Grantaire is a model citizen, and it is no more polite to cough in someone’s face than it is to laugh at them.
“Then pray tell what mysterious event must I now stencil into my nonexistent calendar?” He tries to get a glimpse of the papers Enjolras is forever shuffling. It seems to him that they must have been organized thrice over in the span of this conversation. Enjolras is not usually one for nervous tics. Grantaire, fool that he is, puts it down to a general disinclination to linger in conversation with him. Their friends, he notes, are still conspicuously absent. And how is he to know that Enjolras told them the meeting would start a quarter of an hour late that day?
(“Who told you?”
“I don’t have to answer that.”
“I think you’ll find it in your best interest to answer when a lawyer cross-examines you.”
“Feuilly.”
“Knew it.”)
No one tells him Enjolras is in love with him, though. He has to figure it out for himself, gleaning one little hint after the next until he has a complete enough picture to see clearly. That day is not the day he does. “I’m all for surprises, but if it requires a modicum of preparation I would prefer to be warned.”
“They’re showing an artist you talked about in one of the smaller galleries,” Enjolras reveals. “Donation-based admission. You should check it out.” Enjolras hands him a flyer. La Gardia. He has indeed gone on about this one at length, not that he expected Enjolras to retain that information in his Trivia-about-friends folder. He supposes he might be taken to task for not considering that the Trivia-about-man-I-love folder might be much thicker. That’s on him, but again: he doesn’t know he is the man Enjolras loves.
(“Who told you about the folders?”
“Courfeyrac.”
“Hm.”)
“Huh.” Grantaire makes an appropriately surprised face, pocketing the flyer. “Thanks for the rec, man.”
“I heard a lot of good things about her, not just from you,” says Enjolras, by the by. Has he now? “Bahorel of all people said he appreciated what she did to a good pair of pants.”
“Yeah, she’s gonna be very famous in the mainstream this time next year. Get in while the getting is good and all that. Hot tip for your grandma’s art collector friends, free of charge from yours truly.”
“I’m saying I’d like to see it as well.”
Be still, Grantaire’s beating heart! Does it beat, still? Maybe. This means nothing. How many art galleries has he gone to see with Feuilly? Grantaire does not know, but he is sure there has been at least one.
(“At least a dozen, I think,” yawns Enjolras. “That was our thing in university.” He presses a tender kiss to Grantaire’s throat. “Don’t look so smug.”
“You’ve proven my point, is all.”)
That is the type of thing one does with friends. Somewhere along the way, somewhere between that first keg stand and Grantaire’s trip to Brazil, they must have become good enough friends for this. Okay, he can deal with that like a mature person. He’s grown up some since university. No matter his romantic disposition, he can and will act like Enjolras’ good friend. That’s a good enough thing to be.
“Oh?” It comes out pathetically off-pitch, this syllable. Never mind, Enjolras won’t notice. Doesn’t notice.
(“Of course I noticed.” Enjolras’ index finger pokes him sharply, right in the bellybutton. “It was quite dramatic. I thought you might choke.”
“A hit! A palpable hit! Mercy, I beg.”)
“I’m saying I want to go check it out with you.”
“Okay,” says Grantaire, the fool. “Yeah, yeah… we can do that, sure.”
“Great,” Enjolras smiles, “I’ll meet you out front at around 6?” He said the 29th. It’s the 27th. Two days - less than that - to prepare for an evening alone with Enjolras. That’s feasible, that’s cool, right?
“I’ll bring the sparkly cranberry concoction.” Grantaire raises the glass already containing such a mixture to underscore his point.
“Don’t forget the lime,” Enjolras adds. This constitutes a finished conversation in his book, apparently, so he puts down the over-shuffled papers and takes to pouting at his laptop. Joly arrives and puts the final nail in the coffin of a conversation between two friends that has long outlived all its predecessors.
Here’s the thing: they’re friends. Grantaire doesn’t doubt that. They’ve been acquaintances since Enjolras’ first day of university, albeit reluctant ones at first by virtue of their friend groups merging into one heap of morally righteous manliness. As he opined before, they must have become friends along the way. He’d go as far as to say they’re good friends, these days, going off of the evidence that was previously submitted. As the only two of the group to swear off of drinks one of them usually provides their choice of beverage for the evening when the group goes out. By virtue of that they tend to sit together while Joly encourages Bossuet to try freestyle acupuncture at the dart board and Bahorel challenges Feuilly to a drink-off. Conversations have happened. At long last a few subjects were unearthed upon which they agree. Camaraderie was established.
This, however, they do not do. Grantaire does not think he has ever spent more than five minutes alone with Enjolras before today. But is there probable cause to suspect a romantic inclination? No. No, there is not.
(“Objection.”
“What?”
“You’re reaching,” Enjolras claims. He kisses Grantaire’s jaw. “We used to walk to class together all the time when you took that polisci elective with me in your final year.”
“I think you’ll find we weren’t actually alone in that class.”
“We may as well have been for how much time we took up arguing in it.”)
All of Grantaire’s worrying turns out to be pointless. There was, nonetheless, a copious amount of worrying in the 45 hours between Enjolras' issued invitation and the first greeting on the steps of the gallery, done as silently as possible in the apartment he shares with Bahorel. Which, in itself, was pointless, because Bahorel had been out and would not have taken note of any worrying, loud or quiet. Still, the neighbors might have complained about Grantaire’s pacing wearing a hole in the floor. So he did not pace. Grantaire unpacked, then Grantaire called his father, and then Grantaire went to bed for twelve hours to kick jet-lag’s ass. And he worried a lot.
At five minutes past 6 on the 29th Enjolras greets him with a smile and a wave that looks stupidly endearing. Seconds later Enjolras is pulled to the side and instructed to hide the bottle of cranberry stuff in the stupid red coat he insist on wearing when the weather drops below twenty degrees. It’s nineteen degrees; the first cold day of the season and so the first coat day of the season.
(“Oh, fuck off.”
“Language, your Honor!"
“It’s a great coat.”
“A greatcoat, yes. You look like you’re an extra in a Dickens adaptation when you wear it. Which - don’t get me wrong - there’s a time and place for that, but it’s not what one might consider fashionable.”
“But that knit cap you always wear is the height of fashion, of course.”
“Naturally.”)
“I spoke to one of the wait staff while she was out smoking. They’re getting paid minimum wage but a bottle of water goes for the same rate. No way am I supporting that,” Enjolras whispers hotly. “Even if I have to smuggle in a hundred cranberry juice bottles.”
“How much did you tip her?” Grantaire asks.
Enjolras’ shit-eating grin is answer enough, but, “twenty,” he says anyway, ducking his head.
“Are you going to do that with all the wait staff?”
“I’d have to go to the ATM,” Enjolras considers Grantaire’s mostly joking comment with more earnestness than it merits.
“There’s still time.” Grantaire, an enabler of Enjolras’ impulses by nature, teases. Normally, he enables in a manner of reverse psychology, needling Enjolras with the notion of his life's work's futility. Today, however, he puts that aside in the name of friendship. He does not realize he is being loved, but he does realize that it is much better to be on the receiving end of a conspiratorial smile as he enables rather than an exasperated sigh. Makes a note of it, for the future. Progress? Perhaps, but Enjolras does not help it along much.
(“Are we speaking of the dictionary definition of to realize again, here, Grantaire?”
“If we are?”
“Then if it pleases the court, I’d like to state that you should have known for a fact that these smiles are superior to my exasperated sighs long before that day. I’ve thrown many a conspiratorial smile at you in my day.”
“Such as?”
“Hmm.” Enjolras sticks his tongue in Grantaire’s ear, laughing when it makes him squirm. “That time you distracted the policeman so I could get Courfeyrac’s handcuffs off?”
“I see your point.” Grantaire makes another addendum.)
“Let’s go then.” Soon several twenty euro bills the poorer, Enjolras spends more time on the lookout for wait staff he has not tipped than looking at the art on display. It’s fine, they came here for one artist featured among a dozen others that neither of them cares much about. Grantaire spends the evening watching him threateningly tip one waiter after another with undisguised amusement and considers it an evening well-spent.
That, he supposes, might have been the end of it if they were only friends. But Enjolras is at this point already in love with him, even if Grantaire does not yet have a hunch about it. And so, as these things go, Enjolras soon contrives other ways for them to spend time with each other. In hindsight - for hindsight truly is everything - Grantaire can allow that it should have been obvious after the fifth improbable accidental meeting between the two of them, the seventh last-minute cancellation of a third party initially invited along, the tenth accidental mishap in meeting schedules that meant the two of them were early at the Musain. Objectively speaking it should have been obvious, yes.
(“Gracious in defeat,” Enjolras says. His hand wanders up Grantaire’s thigh. “Good of you to make that allowance.”
“You might have simply told me you were in love with me.”
Enjolras’ hand stops wandering around. “You might have done the same.”
“You already knew .”
“And I thought I made it rather obvious that I reciprocated. Did I not just hear you say something about it being objectively obvious ?”)
No one walks through life with an objective view of things, however. Grantaire is inclined to believe that Enjolras is his friend, that he is - by now - more than just tolerated by the man. It’s a good feeling. He basks in it and thinks himself quite a happy young man. What more does he need? Come to that - why should he expect more?
(“Because I repeatedly contrived ways to spend time with you one-on-one, as you said.”
“Pish, posh!”
“Is that a legal term in your book?”
“This is a special court.”
“Yeah,” Enjolras snorts. “I can tell.”)
That Enjolras might be interested in more than friendship seems too outlandish to consider, and so Grantaire does not consider it. Occam’s razor. Sometimes, yes, the most simple-slash-obvious explanation is wrong. But how is one to know?
(“Occam’s razor? ” Enjolras pushes himself up onto his elbows. “Are you serious right now?” He stares at Grantaire. Grantaire stares back defiantly. Laughing, Enjolras collapses back onto his chest. “You’re the worst. Jesus, I can’t with you, sometimes.”
“Are you done laughing?”
“Mhm.” Enjolras shakes his head, contradicting himself and continuing to laugh a bit more. Grantaire feels long blond hairs tickle his chest. “Carry on.”)
Submitted to the jury for further review: “You are a godsend,” Grantaire gasps when Enjolras stands on the other side of the apartment door, some weeks later. He says this because Enjolras is waving takeout in his hand, eco-friendly packaging and all.
“Bahorel said he was out for the night,” Enjolras says, as though that were reason enough to explain his sudden presence. “I thought you would prefer not to cook.” What he should have said, and what Enjolras claims was imbued in the subtext of his words, was hello, Grantaire, I’ve come to spend the evening with you because I am in love with you and at this point I think we have a chance of making this into a really good thing for the both of us.
(“Grantaire, I’ve come to spend the evening with you because I am in love with you,” Enjolras whispers into his ear, pitching his voice high and breathy. “I think we have a chance of making this into a really good thing for the both of us if you would just stick your dick in me already.”
“Foul play.”
“Is that not what you woke me up for?”
“Would I have gone to the trouble of writing thirteen pages just for sex?”
“Thirteen, really?”
“Not important. I repeat my previous question.”
“My answer is yes, you would.”
“Okay, fair point, but factually untrue-” He slaps Enjolras’ hand away from the inseam of his pants. “That line of questioning will not be tolerated, your Honor.”
“Special court, special tactics.”)
The words he does say, it must be noted, are open to various interpretations. For example, they might just as easily have meant: I have brought food for my good friend Grantaire who is a lousy cook when the fridge is not filled to the brim with ingredients.
(“And of course that’s a very normal, platonic thing to know about someone.”
“Swear under oath that you don’t know Courfeyrac’s cooking habits any better and you’ve won your case.”
Enjolras gives a great sigh and waves a desolate goodbye to Grantaire’s tented pants. He folds his chin on his hands. “Carry on.”)
“You thought correctly!” Grantaire invites him in, no questions asked. Better not to, isn’t it? “That gets you bottomless cranberry juice for the evening. On the house.”
“Lucky me,” Enjolras muses. Grantaire has to either turn away or be blinded by his smile. Easy choice, even if he is always quick to return to steal another glance. A worthy spot to recline beneath, those sunrays. As they sit on the couch Bahorel insisted on purchasing for double its probable market value simply because he decided the already present wine stains added to its 'character', Grantaire marvels at how his life turned out. At twenty, before he met Enjolras, he was of the opinion that by twenty-seven he might have already joined a certain club relating to the number, judging by the way his life was going then.
(“Grantaire-”)
That is not to say Enjolras is the reason his life headed in a drastically different direction. He only means to say that he is glad for it, glad that it did. Glad that he can sit on a couch with a good friend - yes, yes, Enjolras is in love with him at this point, and he with Enjolras, but they are just friends - and eat overpriced takeout. Simple pleasures. Why should he question it? Enjolras gives him no reason to.
Enjolras stays over. They share his room but not a bed - he’s twenty-seven and gets to reap the benefits of having his life somewhat together by being in possession of a pull-out sofa on which he can host friends. Grantaire thinks nothing of the friendly sleepover - the metro late at night is unreliable at best with the strike going on - until Bahorel gives him the old wink wink nudge nudge routine in the morning.
(“Did he now?”
“You were there, Enjolras.”
“Must have missed it. By the by: wink wink nudge nudge does not hold up in court either. You may want to edit that.”)
Grantaire laughs into his coffee until he is hoarse. Slow on the uptake, as he said. As they all said. Yes, he is slow, but Enjolras does not even give him a kiss on the cheek. He thanks Grantaire for the coffee, says “do you want to catch that film Feuilly mentioned? They’re showing it in the Latin Quarter at seven on Thursday.” A friendly invitation.
(“Stop laughing.”
“A friendly invitation. You’re ridiculous. The sheer amount of nudity in that film-”
“By all means, Enjolras! Let’s argue about the inherent sexuality of nudity. I’m all for it.”
“No, that’s not-”
“Aha! Quiet, you. Listen to my testimony. We’re nearing the end.”)
When it does hit him Grantaire doesn’t panic like he might have expected to. It’s more of an intense oh which settles into every last crevice of his body. It comes when Enjolras picks him up from work, citing being in the neighborhood as his reason, and asks to walk him home.
The streets are filled with people. They’re enveloped by so much noise that Enjolras has to shout to be heard, has to shout for them to have a proper conversation. Grantaire shouts something in turn, and it is the answering smile Enjolras gives him that unleashes the oh.
(“Poetic.”)
Asked later, Grantaire does not even know what they were talking about. Odds are split fifty-fifty between politics and art. Enjolras swears they were talking about the weather. Grantaire concedes he might have made a comment on the stupid red coat and the way it made Enjolras’ eyes - bloodshot from a late meeting and too much coffee the previous night - look really very ghoulish.
(“Really? Again with the coat?”
“I’d like to burn it.”
“I’ll burn it if you burn the cap.”)
“Are we friends?” he asks, stupidly.
“Yeah,” says Enjolras. Which is the only right thing to say, because even though they are very much in love, that love, Grantaire supposes, was built carefully on years of friendship, even if somewhat unconsciously. Until they talk about what else they might be, the fact remains that there is no other truthful answer Enjolras can give. So he doesn’t begrudge him that knowing smile and the “yeah, Grantaire. We’re friends,” he tacks on.
“Okay,” Grantaire says, turning away with a smile. It’s ten degrees in Paris, Enjolras has added a stupid black scarf to his stupid red coat, and Grantaire - previously shivering along bravely in a leather jacket that should have long been tossed out - feels warm all over. His heart is pounding and he doesn’t have any drugs to blame. Go figure. It might give out, still.
(“I like that leather jacket.”
“That’s something, at least.”
“I also like you.”
“Even better!”)
“Do you want to be just friends?” He turns back over his shoulder in surprise. Enjolras has stopped walking, no longer keeping pace. His skin is tinged red by a traffic light. Grantaire briefly thinks about reviving his short-lived career as a painter. Oh , it rushes through Grantaire once more, but this time it’s more of an oh, really? You’re doing this now?
“Do you want to get run over?” Grantaire asks in the same tone, pulling him out of the way of a speeding car. Honestly, what an idea, to stand stock-still in the middle of Parisian traffic! He wonders what excuse Enjolras might give for that, when asked.
(“And?”
Grantaire doesn’t really get an answer, only a pinch to his buttocks.)
“Grantaire.”
“No, Enjolras,” he says, to the point. “I’m in love with you. You know that.”
(“So succinct. I seem to recall there was quite a bit of stammering involved.”
"Objection!"
"Yes?"
“Relevance?”
“It’s important to give an honest and complete account, Grantaire.”)
“I do know that,” Enjolras admits, chuckling. Grantaire pulls him the length of the final step left to the sidewalk, putting a middle finger up at the honking motorbike which tries to cut across the pedestrian street, swerving to avoid traffic on both sides of the gutter.
“Were you going to tell me you’re in love with me, too?”
("That's not what you said."
"Sure it is. This is my testimony."
"Well it's not truthful, Grantaire. What you said was what about you, Enjolras before having the coughing fit of your life because you choked on your own spit."
"And how would you know that?"
"I was there.")
“Not in as many words,” Enjolras says. “I thought it might be best to let things run their course naturally. Thought you might be startled otherwise.” Grantaire can’t ever hope to have that optimism, that notion that things will work themselves out if one only lets them. For one who is normally so intent on changing the course of the world in a day, it’s surprising Enjolras would, come to that. It’s also no small amount of flattering that Enjolras seems to have more confidence in progression of their relationship than he does in The People as a concept.
(“That’s debatable.”
“Not tonight, it isn’t.”)
“That’s very good of you.”
“I thought so too, yes.” They’re still holding hands.
“So,” says Grantaire, kicking his foot so he doesn’t put it in his mouth. “How long has it been?”
“A while,” Enjolras laughs. “Does it matter?”
“No, I suppose it doesn’t,” Grantaire allows. Not now that he knows. It might have mattered up until this very moment.
“It was fairly obvious,” Enjolras teases him. “Courfeyrac noticed years ago.”
Oh , it’s been literal years, has it? For a moment, Grantaire is baffled by that carelessly thrown out claim.
(“Fact check, Monsieur Enjolras?”
Enjolras pinches him again.)
“It was absolutely not obvious.”
“I maintain that it was.” Enjolras squeezes his hand. He pulls Grantaire closer by their clasped hands, places the palm of Grantaire’s nervously shaking, sweaty hand on his stupid red coat. Grantaire hopes it stains. It’s so very ugly.
(“Hardly a factual statement, I know, your Honor, but so very necessary to make.”)
“Are you going to take me to court, lawyer-man?”
“You don’t have a case,” Enjolras teases, using his free hand to pull Grantaire’s very fine, not at all wonky handmade cap off his head, exposing his newly shorn head to the horror of ten degrees Celsius.
("The greatest proof of my love is that I still loved you after you shaved your head."
"Hm, but did you tell me?"
"I'm telling you now."
"Too little, too late. It's grown back. Should I shave it again?"
"Don't you dare.")
“On the contrary!” Grantaire protests. “I have a very fine case-”
Hardly makes for a fair trial, the way Enjolras cuts him off. Still, Grantaire is willing to give over talking for the day if Enjolras means to kiss him until the court is back in session.
("So," Enjolras says, "you wrote thirteen pages to prove a point?"
"What says he to my testimony, then?"
"I’m inclined to adjourn once more," Enjolras laughs, pulling the blanket over both of them. "We'll go over my testimony in the morning, shall we?")