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It’s no secret, among their friends that Enjolras gives the best gifts. It’s simply a fact of life, like Prouvaire’s sticky note poetry ending up in and on everyone’s stuff, Courfeyrac’s habit of sitting on anyone’s lap, if available, and Grantaire’s knuckles being busted after every protest.
While it’s no secret to them, anyone new to the group would be shocked. Enjolras can spend hours upon hours condemning the evils of capitalism and commercialism. He lives in a shabby apartment, works for a human rights law firm that does pro-bono work, and donates as much time and money as he can spare to various local organizations. That he even has the time to learn what the members of the ABC hold dear seems a miracle, and, given his brusque demeanor, that he would bother to learn them seems even more so.
The first time Marius had received a gift from Enjolras (on his birthday), he had been shocked.
“Oh! Thank you, Enjolras! This is amazing!”
Enjolras had nodded, and Marius had unfortunately continued speaking.
“I didn’t even think you knew when my birthday was, much less that I’ve been looking for this book for ages—did Courfeyrac tell you?”
Marius hadn’t noticed the wide, concerned eyes behind Enjolras, or his roommate shaking his head aggressively. Enjolras was frowning, somewhere between hurt and affronted. Combeferre stepped between them, and spoke quietly into his ear until he stood down and went back to his laptop, then turned to Marius.
“Enjolras takes gifts very seriously. Takes friendship very seriously.”
Enjolras had proceeded to give Marius the silent treatment for almost two weeks.
All this is to say that Grantaire is more surprised by the watercolor set in his hands than he has any real right to be. He’s gaping at it, really. He’s been eying it for weeks in his favorite fancy art store, so he’s not surprised Enjolras knows so much as he’s surprised that Enjolras would spend that kind of money on him.
“Holy shit, Enjolras,” is what comes out when he can finally speak. “I know how much these were, you really shouldn’t have.”
All he gets is a shrug and an almost smile. “It’s your birthday,” Enjolras tells him simply, before walking away. Grantaire continues to gawk.
Grantaire, being as stubborn as he is, refuses to do holidays normally. He makes everyone small gifts of increasing complexity for each of the eight days of Chanukah, and then does a gag gift at Christmas. When he throws a ball of wrapping paper and something at the back of Éponine’s head, she laughs at him and throws a ball right back at him. He lets it hit him in the face before falling into his hands in penance for attacking her, and opens it to turn the ball of black socks into a shape that he can actually put in his bag.
A shadow falls over Grantaire’s table while he’s in the middle of trying to knit with two pencils and strips of wrapping paper, and he looks up.
“Apollo!” He grins, and goes to dig into his bag. “Didn’t want to throw this at you. Here,” He hands him the small shape, about five inches by five inches, and smiles as Enjolras pauses to take in the wrapping paper (a custom print Feuilly had made for him of a card Grantaire had given him that read “Happy Fucking Chanukah, And A Merry Fuckmas Too” in artsy calligraphy) before pocketing it and handing R a letter, smiling, and heading off. Grantaire blinked after him, holding the letter gently.
“The fuck?”
When he reads it, eventually (after latkes with Éponine and Gavroche) he finds it to be a beautifully written note about how glad Enjolras is to have him as a friend, how much he enjoys Grantaire’s input and hard work (and how it shows despite his attempting to act like he doesn’t care). He cries a little, at the end, when Enjolras says that he’ll show Grantaire the wonder of humanity; that there is beauty and power in the mass, but that the truly wonderful lies in the individual, and you, Grantaire, are truly one of the most wondrous people I’ve had the pleasure to know.
When Éponine notices, she comes to read over his shoulder and smacks him lightly upside the head. “And you told me you thought he hated you.”
Enjolras is fiddling with something. Grantaire couldn’t see what, exactly, but he was fiddling, and it was out of character. He was shifting foot to foot, and it was strange. He squinted at the blond to try and figure him out. Bossuet tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned towards him.
“R have you seen this video?” A phone is shoved into his nose and he takes it, raising an eyebrow and rubbing the spot on his nose it had hit. He watched the minute long video and huffs a laugh.
“Amusing.” He turns to go back to trying to figure out Enjolras’s behavior, but when he turns, Enjolras is standing in front of him, hands behind his back. Grantaire blinks.
“Hi?”
Enjolras looks nervous.
“Grantaire—R—I really enjoy being your friend and spending time with you, and I hope you do too, and…” He trails off, then pulls a single, red peony from behind his back, and shoves it at Grantaire. “R-will-you-go-out-with-me?”
Grantaire blinks, looking between the flower (red peonies—passion, love, honour, and bashfulness; a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Jehan informs him) and Enjolras, whose face is a delightful shade of pink.
Grantaire feels his own face heat as he reaches out and takes the flower. “Passion, love, honour, bashfulness. Do I make you bashful, Apollo?”
Enjolras makes a noise that sounds as if he’s in pain. “It would be much more appropriate for me to call you Apollo, here,” he says, strained. “But yes, I suppose. Only with you, though. Only ever for you.”
Grantaire raises a hand to cover his mouth, and nods, watching Enjolras break into a sunny grin. He reverently puts the flower down, his mind already filling with plans to photograph it so that he can paint it and press it, maybe get Feuilly to preserve a petal in resin for him.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks.
Enjolras, bashfulness apparently forgotten, smirks. “Come here and find out.”
Grantaire rolls over, stretching, and smiles when he hits another warm body. His boyfriend of (holy shit) five years to the day laughs at him. “Good morning, sunshine.”
When Grantaire yawns, then blinks up at him, Enjolras leans down and gives him a peck on the lips. “I love you so much.” Grantaire says, a moment later. Enjolras chuckles. “I haven’t started the coffee, I figured we could,” he leans down and kisses him again, and this isn’t a peck, it’s as filthy as it is slow, “take our time this morning. We don’t have to be anywhere at any particular time, and the museum doesn’t even open until eleven.”
Grantaire glances at the alarm clock. Nine.
He sits up and grins at Enjolras, then throws a leg over his hips and leans down into him, pausing a hairsbreadth from his lips.
“Happy anniversary, Apollo.” He whispers.
(They don’t make it to the museum until well after lunch.)
Enjolras watches Grantaire look at the art, and he feels something warm bloom in his chest. They’ve known each other for twelve years. He smiles, kisses Grantaire’s curls (getting a grin before the shorter man goes up on his tiptoes to give him a peck on the lips) and feels very sure of his plan.
When they get to the restaurant, they’re seated quickly on the back patio, and Grantaire goes inside to talk to the barkeep (who he had worked with at some point, Grantaire knew everyone). Jehan appears as soon as Enjolras texts them, with the flowers, and Combeferre a moment later with the ring box (which Enjolras very carefully nestles into the flowers). They grin at him, and head off, their silence bought with the promise of Enjolras’s famous chocolate chip muffins.
When Grantaire returns, he lights up at the sight of the flowers.
“Did you know, when you asked me out, that peonies are my favorite flowers? Or was it a lucky guess?”
Enjolras grins. “Neither. I asked Jehan about what flowers were best for expressing my intentions. They gave me a single red peony, and well.” He scratches the back of his neck, ducking; just a hint of bashfulness, even after so long. “It worked, didn’t it?”
Grantaire just smiles at him fondly. “I suppose it did.”
Enjolras takes a breath. “Tell me about these? What do they mean?”
Grantaire snorted and shook his head. “There’s all kinds of ways to read flowers. Pink peonies—” his face flushes, but he soldiers on. “Pink peonies can mean a couple things. Love at first sight, or the beauty of marriage are particular to the color, and all peonies also mean shy or bashful, as well as honour. You can also count the number, in a single flower bouquet, although the number thing is most often done with roses.” He shrugs.
Enjolras smiles. “How many are in there, what does this one mean?”
Grantaire leans up on the table to count them, pushing them around gently. “Twelve. It means—” his eyes catch on a deep green box held up by the stems. He pulls it out of the arrangement, very gently and carefully, and looks over to where Enjolras is—christ on the cross, Enjolras is down on one knee next to him, his eyes sparkling with mirth at the way Grantaire’s hand that isn’t occupied with the ring box is over his mouth, like some sort of romance movie protagonist.
“Be mine?”
It’s all Grantaire can do not to break down into tears as he throws himself into his fiancé’s arms.
(The ring fits perfectly.)
On their third wedding anniversary, Grantaire gives Enjolras a scrapbook he’s been working on. It has, among countless drawings and diary-like entries, a letter and two pressed peonies—one red and one pink.