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Enjolras has never really thought of himself as a secretive person.
He's spent his entire life making a point of being up-front about the things he wants, unapologetic in his aims and goals. He lets his opinions be known, shouts them at rallies, lists them in methodical order in arguments, lays them out in proposals written and oral. Virtually everyone who knows him knows what he's about, what he stands for, quite soon after making his acquaintance.
That being said, there are the odd details that perhaps don't get shared quite so often. Or ever, really.
Like that, while his friends may reminisce about viewing certain holiday films as part of their miscellaneous traditions while Enjolras keeps silent, he does, in fact, have a particular movie he watches every year. He watches it in private, when he's sure no one else is around, and he often does it in his pajamas, or wrapped up in his comforter, and there is almost always hot chocolate involved.
Also, he may or may not view it more than once a holiday season.
…Mostly may.
But it's something he doesn't share, won't share, because it dovetails along with another of those details he doesn't share, that no one knows about him, and he'd really rather it stay that way. That detail is actually a secret, because the truth is not only embarrassing, but is also something that he's aware seems out of character, and he generally likes his image just fine the way it is.
But deep down, hidden so well no one would ever find it, and Enjolras himself is even able to often forget it, is the truth: Enjolras wants a meet-cute.
No one would ever seriously describe him as a romantic, in any sense. And it's true that he's had very little in the way of relationship experience. Very early on, he came to the realization that his goals, his causes, were the strongest passion he could ever hope to have and serve, and living toward that end has worked well enough for him. There's no room in the way he lives for a meet-cute, not really. There might have been that one time, during the protests three years ago, when he and that police officer had shared a long gaze, even through the riot gear helmet visor and the sweat dripping into Enjolras's eyes, but then there had been tear gas and bean bags, and that had more or less been the end of that.
Besides, even if he ever did have a meet-cute that evolved into something like a date, or a relationship, Enjolras is quite aware it would only be wasted. No one ever wants to stick around as more than friends or political allies once they see what he's really like when he's not on his best behavior. And it's just as well, really, because he knows he could never be happy with someone who wanted him to change, wanted him to always be on his best behavior—or worse, settle down, mellow his attitudes and dampen his passion. There is no one out there willing to put up with everything he is, all the terrible bits of him embedded so deeply within the layers of activism and loyalty and everything else the world sees at a glance.
Still…that desire is there, hidden like a small, bright gem in a mountain of pebbles. And Enjolras will keep it there, never to be discovered, till long after he's dead and gone.
Which is why he keeps his mouth shut, yet again, when talk turns to personal Christmas traditions.
It's two days before Christmas, late at night in the back room of the Café Musain and, though most members of Les Amis are still hanging around, their meeting has long since ended. Enjolras is prone to arriving early and leaving shortly after business is concluded, but it's the time of year when it's harder to focus on work, and the spirit of friendship is brighter than usual. So he stays longer than he might otherwise, accepts a mug of hot cider when it's offered (if only to have something to do with his hands), and sits at the table his friends are currently occupying.
It's Cosette who begins the conversation, Enjolras thinks later, when trying to recall how exactly everything got started. She's perched prettily on Marius's lap, as if there aren't chairs enough for all of them and some to spare besides that. "Every year, we'd do Midnight Mass," she's saying to the group at large, "but after we'd get home, if I could keep my eyes open, I'd get to open one present before bed, and the rest would wait until after breakfast in the morning." She turns her attention to Marius. "And this year, Marius is joining me and my father for church."
Marius is, as usual, gazing up at Cosette with utter adoration on his face. It's something Enjolras has scoffed at in the past, thought of as weakness, folly, or just childishness. And part of him still thinks that, now and then, though it's much easier to allow in other arguments since he's gotten to know Cosette and seen them as a couple. There is absolutely no denying the two of them make each other happy, even if they're so sweet together others have joked about getting cavities or needing insulin shots. Even Grantaire, the cynical bastard, has toned down his mocking since meeting Cosette. He still mocks, of course—because Enjolras is fairly certain it's physically impossible for Grantaire to stop that sort of behavior altogether—but there's a lighter note to it these days. "And I'm honored to get to join in with your tradition," Marius tells her, taking one of her hands in his, and Enjolras is torn between trying not to roll his eyes, being thankful he'll never have to suffer the indignity of acting this way in front of others, and ignoring the fleeting little ache that says he'd like to have the option, anyway. "I don't…really keep up with any of my family's old traditions. What about you, Courfeyrac?" he asks, eyebrows raised a little when Courfeyrac snorts softly at the mention of Marius's family.
Courfeyrac shrugs. "More when I was a kid. Presents at midnight and all that. But most of the traditions were things like my parents putting on old records and singing along while we all had hot chocolate and decorated the tree." He glances at Jehan, seated close beside, and nudges him with his shoulder. "Now I mostly just do the ones he has."
Jehan blushes faintly, but the smile on his face is wide as he nudges Courfeyrac back. "It's not like I make him do anything ridiculous."
"You made me go caroling last weekend."
"You said you were okay with singing!"
Courfeyrac sighs. "It was way below freezing this year. I couldn't get through a single song without coughing because my lungs were trying to freeze shut."
Jehan lets out a little huff that's part laugh. "All right, fine. We'll only carol on years where the weather's nicer, okay?" Courfeyrac looks somewhat appeased by that and takes a drink of his cider. "What about the rest of you? There have got to be actual traditions in place, here."
The others chime in their own little celebrations and details—Eponine takes her brother to deliver toys to a local orphanage, Combeferre always goes ice skating with his sisters the night before Christmas, Feuilly usually helps his uncle find and chop down a Christmas tree the day after Thanksgiving, though he doesn't do much on Christmas, itself ("other than lie around in pajamas, nap, and relish the day off"), Bahorel sits on his couch with a glass of whiskey and watches Die Hard--but Enjolras keeps quiet. He doesn't have much in the way of actual symbolic traditions, unless you count the years he relents against his mother's nagging and goes home for one of their ridiculous, over-the-top parties. His one tradition is one he's not going to cop to. Across the table, Grantaire looks like he'd also rather not play this particular game, and Enjolras wonders for the first time if he even celebrates holidays in general, other than to use them as an excuse to have a drink. He's always just assumed the general answer would be 'yes,' even though the look on his face says he isn't much thrilled about the current topic of conversation.
Their silence doesn't go unnoticed, either. "What about you two?" Cosette asks, taking a cookie from the tin Combeferre had brought with him, apparently mailed by his aunt and received this afternoon. "Don't you do anything in particular as part of a Christmas tradition?"
There's a small snort off to Enjolras's left. "There's always Love, Actually."
Enjolras freezes. He's never told anyone about that. In fact, he's tried so hard to keep that particular guilty pleasure a secret that he'd actually sprained his ankle four years ago, diving over the coffee table to get to the remote before Courfeyrac had walked in, in order to turn it off.
He never had gotten the hot chocolate stain out of the rug, either, come to think of it.
"Oh, I didn't know anyone else knew about that," Eponine says, as she leans forward, chuckling, and takes a cookie of her own. "I thought it was supposed to be some big secret."
This time, Enjolras can feel himself go pale. He has no idea who found out first, or how, but he's obviously not been careful enough, and this is really not a conversation he wants to be having. He can barely look around at all of his friends, for fear of their facial expressions. The one face he manages to look at is Grantaire's, and he's surprised to find there's no mocking look there, no expression of derision or amusement.
In fact, Grantaire's face is more than a little red, and he's giving Eponine death glares that she is quite obviously oblivious to, almost like he's angry or embarrassed on Enjolras's behalf.
And that makes no damned sense at all, but it's better than the perpetual teasing Enjolras had counted on, once Courfeyrac had opened his mouth.
Bahorel snorts loudly, and his tone when he speaks is more than a little disgusted, which is much more what Enjolras expected. "I don't know why anyone would watch that stupid movie, let alone have it as a tradition."
"Just shut up about it already," Enjolras mutters, at the same time Grantaire turns his dirty looks to Bahorel from Eponine and mumbles something Enjolras can't make out.
Bahorel shrugs. "I'm just saying, it's a ridiculous movie, and no one with any sense likes it."
Enjolras has been attacked for all manner of things before, but somehow, it's that taunt that stings more than any of the well-deserved ones he's received in recent history. "Well, why's it so awful?" he says, snapping a little more than he means to. He's heard arguments against it before—everyone's entitled to their opinion, he supposes, especially regarding such objectively trivial things—and braces himself for the most common ones—the argument that virtually no one who supposedly falls in love in that movie actually knows the object of their affection all that well, if at all, or that the women are more or less just property or pretty prizes to be attained, and the two women who flout that rule don't get their supposed happily-ever-afters. This isn't some great cause of his, but he still doesn't feel like he can let it go without at least a little defense.
He gets a shrug in response. "I've never seen it. I just know it's terrible."
"Take it back, it is not!" Grantaire half-snarls, a half-second before Enjolras exclaims, "How would you even know, if you haven't seen it?" And then, before either of them apparently really hears the other, they speak in unison: "It's cute!"
The room goes silent for about five solid seconds. In that time, Enjolras has time to, one, berate himself for arguing that something was cute, and using that as a selling point, two, hear what Grantaire's said, and three, realize that he and Grantaire have actually agreed about something.
Judging by the stunned look on his face as he slowly turns to look at Enjolras, Grantaire's also realized at least the last of those points.
He's basically just staring back at Grantaire, still feeling confused and a little ashamed, when someone finally breaks the silence. "Well, shit," Bahorel mutters. "Hope you're all right with whatever deities you worship. It looks like Armageddon's upon us, because these two just agreed about something." He sighs, snags his bag from the back of his chair, and moves to the doorway. "I'm going home to my bottle of whiskey. Have a happy holiday, everyone, if the world doesn't end before then."
"…I think heading home is probably the right move, given the hour," Jehan says after another moment, his voice a little dim in Enjolras's ears. He can see Jehan tug at Courfeyrac's wrist, pulling him until they're both standing and slipping on their coats, but that's in his periphery. Somehow, he's still not managed to look away from Grantaire, who is now openly gaping back at him, like he's grown two heads, one of which is pink and fluffy or something equally unexpected.
He hears and sees his friends move around, but doesn't actually register that they're the only two people still in the back room of the café until Grantaire speaks. "…You've seen Love, Actually."
Enjolras can feel color start to rise to his cheeks, but he's not one to go back on his earlier statements and beliefs. "Yes."
"And you like it?"
"Yes," Enjolras snaps, before he remembers that Grantaire had defended it, too. "Yes," he says again, more quietly, trying to will himself not to be embarrassed about it.
Grantaire looks at him a moment longer. "What's your favorite part?"
Enjolras hesitates. His favorite scene isn't actually the one he identifies with most, or anything of that nature. It's simply his favorite because it's light-hearted and silly, which is some of the point of that movie. "Hugh Grant's dancing."
Grantaire nods, then pauses for a moment before speaking again. "Mine's probably the look on the kid's face at the concert towards the end, when the girl he likes starts pointing at all those different people."
He can't help but crack a small smile, because he knows exactly the moment Grantaire means. "Who's your favorite couple, then?" It feels weird to be having this conversation. Weird because he'd never planned on admitting he enjoys the movie well enough to own it, but also because, while he and Grantaire have had conversations on a regular basis, they rarely end up being about nothing, and more rarely still don't involve arguments. Enjolras isn't against it, really (and, in fact, would like that not to be the case), but it just never seems to turn out that way.
"Favorite as in I enjoy their interactions most, or favorite as in I identify with one or both of the characters most?"
Enjolras shrugs and puts on his own jacket, waiting for Grantaire to do the same before he starts moving towards the door, backpack slung over one shoulder. "Either. Both."
"I don't know," Grantaire replies in a tone that very clearly says yes, he does know the answer to both those questions. "John and Judy, I guess. They actually sort of get to know each other as people, even if they don't get much screen time."
Enjolras considers this as he steps outside into the frigid night. It was drizzling when he came into the café three hours ago, but now it's much colder, with a wind, and all that rain has started to freeze over, coating everything in ice. He sees Grantaire's point, but knows it's also the easy answer. "What about which couple you identify with more?" Because he's fairly certain it's not the body-doubles who see each other naked a lot of the time, unless he's missing some pretty significant details of Grantaire's personal life.
"Nope." Grantaire shakes his head and draws his jacket a little tighter around himself. "You answer first."
"Fine." Enjolras jams his hands into his pockets and laments his lack of foresight regarding gloves or boots. "Hugh Grant and Martine McCutcheon."
Grantaire laughs, even as he shivers. "Figures you identify with a world leader."
"That's not who I identify with," he says, rolling his eyes. There's a bit more of the Grantaire he knows, expects. "It's the one I like watching the most."
"Oh? Then who do you identify with?" He apparently sees the look on Enjolras's face, because he holds up his hands. "I'll answer the same question, Apollo, don't look so pissy."
Enjolras forces himself not to rise to the bait of the nickname, nor the small chastisement. Part of him is actually really tempted to see just how long he and Grantaire can carry on a conversation that doesn't involve arguing, and just…spend time in the other's company, as friends. Granted, it won't be long in any case, because they're going to have to go their separate ways in about two or three blocks, when their paths will diverge. He only has the vaguest notion of where Grantaire lives, but knows it's east of here, and a good distance away, and Enjolras is more north-west, but far closer.
On another day, in other circumstances, Enjolras might just make something up, or refuse to answer the question at all. But hell, it's Christmas, and it's nice to know he's not alone in his appreciation for a silly little holiday rom-com, and it's nice to have company for even just the first part of the walk home in this shitty weather. "Sarah."
Grantaire slips, his footing getting away from him for just a second before he recovers, looking at Enjolras with his brow furrowed. "Why? She doesn't even get a happy ending."
Enjolras lets his breath puff out in a plume in front of him as they wait for the crosswalk signal to change. "Never mind, it's stupid."
"No, tell me," Grantaire insists. "Trust me, it's not going to be any worse than my honest answer."
Enjolras really kind of doubts that. Still. "She's always…busy, I guess. Other things take precedence over her love life." He doesn't add that it's more than that—that she does get her chance at being with someone, only for that someone to see she's obligated or devoted to other things outside of potential romance or sex and decide she's not worth giving another shot, or seeing if something can't be worked around it. That's something that can go unsaid for tonight, and probably forever.
Grantaire nods, stepping carefully into the street when the signal changes, indicating they can cross. "I guess I could see that," he says slowly. "Now, which answer do you want to hear from me, regarding the same question?"
"The honest one," Enjolras replies immediately, because that's true. He's actually quite curious, especially since Grantaire's asked that way.
"They're both honest," Grantaire says, and something in his smile is a little bitter. "One of them's just more likely to make me want to not wait for the crosswalk to give me permission before I step out into the street the next time." When Enjolras only raises his eyebrows, being completely unable to figure out how to follow up that line of comment, Grantaire makes a face. "Fine. I'll give you both. But no questions about my answers. Enjolras nods, now more curious than ever. "Mark. Andrew Lincoln's character. The best man at the wedding." And before Enjolras can say anything—because he almost asks as a reflex—Grantaire shakes his head. "And the other one's Bill Nighy." He makes that bitter-tinged grin again. "Although maybe that's wishful thinking, because at least that cynical asshole gets to spend Christmas with someone who knows him and still doesn't leave him to rot."
Enjolras frowns. He's never really thought of Grantaire wanting something like—well, wanting anything, really, other than to get Enjolras worked up about something. They're casual friends, and the friendship they do have is unconventional at that, but still, Enjolras wouldn't say he doesn't care about anyone in Les Amis. Also, it's not as if he's the only one who's going to be spending Christmas alone. Enjolras is right there, in the same boat. He's about to open his mouth to say so when his feet go out completely from underneath him and he's crashing towards the sidewalk, trying to catch himself and utterly failing, because his hands are crammed in his pockets for warmth.
"Shit!" he gasps at the same time he hears Grantaire let out a surprised-sounding "Fuck, Enjolras," just a second before something catches in his armpit. He's kept from probably breaking his face or his ankle or his coccyx by whatever he's caught on, and looks up to see Grantaire's face close to his, one of his arms shoved under Enjolras's arm and the other hand fisted in the front of his jacket. "Thanks," he says, trying to calm his heartbeat as he staggers back upright.
And maybe it's the knowledge that he and Grantaire are both without plans on Christmas, and maybe it's the fundamental wrongness of knowing that fact coupled with the Christmas spirit, mixed in with Grantaire's comment about identifying with Bill Nighy's character, maybe it's the fact that they've actually managed a coherent, non-argumentative conversation, or maybe it's just the way Grantaire's looking at him, genuinely concerned and full of something else Enjolras has only really seen on movie characters (and Marius and Cosette and maybe Courfeyrac and Jehan) as he slowly unwraps himself away from Enjolras, looking just a little embarrassed as they step away from each other, but Enjolras opens his mouth without overthinking it. "I don't have plans on the twenty-fifth. Or tomorrow, either. So, if you want some company, we could always get Chinese food?" Grantaire blinks at him, looking confused and really, really surprised, and Enjolras kind of wishes he'd thought it through at least a little, after all. "I mean, you don't have to—"
"No, I—" Grantaire stammers, before he slips himself, reaching out to catch himself on whatever's nearest to avoid hitting the ground. Unfortunately, what's nearest is Enjolras, who's already reached out to catch him anyway, and they both hit the ground rather ungracefully. "Ow, fuck."
Enjolras kind of agrees with him there. Ice-covered concrete is not forgiving. Still, he musters a smile, even if it's awkward. "You don't have to land yourself in the hospital just to avoid grabbing lunch or dinner with me."
Grantaire shakes his head wildly. "No! I mean, I was about to say yes to Chinese food, actually, before I—before we—" He sighs loudly. "Never mind. Just leave me to limp the rest of the way back home and preserve whatever tiny shred of dignity I have left."
Enjolras snorts a little as he climbs back to his feet, helping Grantaire on the way up. "I'm pretty sure I lost whatever dignity I might've had for the night the second I snapped at Bahorel."
Grantaire rolls his eyes. "Right. Like you're ever without dignity."
This time, Enjolras's snort is louder. "Shut up, it happens." He pauses. "Actually, now that I think about it, I still have no idea how Courfeyrac knows I watch that movie at least once a year. I've been so careful."
Grantaire shrugs. "You two roomed together for a long time. Shitty, thin, apartment walls?"
"Maybe."
"Oh, shit, wait. It wasn't you he meant. It was sitting on my couch the other day when he came to return a book. I was going to watch it, but forgot once he showed up." Grantaire looks abashed. "Sorry. Figures. This whole thing was my fault. He meant me, not you. And I know Eponine meant me, because she caught me sniffling into my drink with it on two years ago. Shit. I'm sorry your secret's out because of me. Fuck."
He actually looks completely, sincerely apologetic, which actually makes Enjolras more willing to just forget the whole thing. He's pretty sure Grantaire isn't exactly thrilled at everyone knowing he's a fan of romances, too, especially not those usually delegated to things like date-night fare. "Don't worry about it."
"No, I really am—"
"Yeah, I got that," Enjolras says, rolling his eyes, but he smiles when he says it. And then something in the back of his head, and something else deep in his chest seems to whisper softly, and he speaks without considering the arguments against them. "If you're not opposed, you could always watch it with me, tonight."
Grantaire does that sort of slow, gaping thing at him again. "What?"
Enjolras laughs, just a little. "You said you haven't watched it. I haven't either. It was actually sort of on my agenda for tonight. And honestly, you live about three times farther away, I know you walk, and after seeing just how graceful you are on the ice, I don't really want it on my conscience if you fall and break your neck on the way to your apartment."
Grantaire raises his eyebrows. "Yeah? Well, let me remind you, oh fearless leader, you slipped first." He takes a step closer, pokes at Enjolras's chest, and slides just a fraction on the ice beneath them. "…Although, I am willing to take you up on that offer, as it happens, if you're serious."
"I'm serious." He gestures to his left, indicating where they're heading once they reach the next corner. "Besides," he says, one corner of his mouth quirking up. "We surprised Bahorel enough when we agreed on something tonight. How much better will his reaction be, do you think, if we meet him before New Year's with a jointly-compiled list of reasons and arguments as to why viewing Love, Actually is a completely acceptable holiday tradition, whether or not it's a great piece of cinema?"
Grantaire's face breaks out in a wide grin, and his eyes sparkle in a way that's both familiar and brand new, and it does something weird to Enjolras's chest. Weird, but not bad. "He'll have fucking kittens. I'm in."
Enjolras laughs again, pleased when Grantaire only grins wider, and thinks that maybe he doesn't really need a meet-cute in his life after all.