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Grantaire was confused. That, in and of itself, wasn’t anything exceptional. Grantaire was generally quite confused about himself, life in general, his own place in the world, what the fuck Jehan was up to today, why he couldn’t get over his years-long crush on Enjolras, why people were nasty when they could be nice to one another, why he himself had been gratuitously nasty for so long when he could just not have been .
So, confusion was hardly a new feeling for Grantaire, but this time, Grantaire thought that he might have encountered the world’s greatest mystery. ‘World’ was a bit of a stretch, at the very least, but considering that Grantaire had let his own world revolve around Enjolras for long enough that he couldn’t remember it ever being heliocentric in the first place, it felt accurate enough. And that was it. The mystery. Enjolras . Namely, Enjolras’ recent change in behaviour.
It had come on smoothly enough that Grantaire had nearly missed it, at first. Just a slight change in the tone of his voice, in his habits, perhaps even in the way he dressed, too —Grantaire was quite certain he had never seen Enjolras in a deep V-neck before, and come to think of it, he hadn’t since either, for Enjolras had seemed much too embarrassed by his own revealed chest. The frequency of his smiles had increased too, especially the ones thrown in Grantaire’s direction (gods know that they used to be a rarity). And eventually, so had the time Enjolras spent willingly in Grantaire’s company.
Grantaire was confused as hell .
So when Enjolras had first invited him for dinner, Grantaire had embraced the opportunity to lead a bit of an investigation and study his subject better, with less variables thrown into the mix (it was a well-established fact that Enjolras’ general happiness was consistently increased when he was around Courfeyrac’s sunny disposition, Combeferre’s brilliant mind or Feuilly’s everything). This free one-on-one time was, thus, a boon to Grantaire’s research.
Now, as well as Grantaire’s general confusion in life, it is relevant to point out that Grantaire had never been good at picking up on the right elements, and was, in fact, a terrible researcher. In weeks and weeks of altered behaviour, Grantaire had reached no other conclusion than the long established: “damn, Enjolras’ hair is flawless.”
Enjolras’ odd behaviour culminated roughly four months after that first dinner-disguised investigation.
“Would you like to meet my parents?” Enjolras asked one evening around a massive, shared bowl of phở.
Grantaire had, in fact, no desire to meet Enjolras’ parents, whom he remembered as stuck up from the few times he had seen them in passing throughout the years. But this was a new opportunity to investigate on ‘what the fuck is Enjolras on these days?’, so Grantaire nodded and said “sure” in between two loud slurps of broth and noodles. Enjolras smiled, and Grantaire chalked it up to the fact that one stray noodle had stuck itself onto his beard. He’d opened his mouth to show its half-chewed content to Enjolras who laughed, and this was that.
It was not “ that”.
Grantaire would however be hard-pressed to define what the hell this was supposed to be. Enjolras was dressed up, his parents were too, and Grantaire stood out like an ugly, sore thumb in the middle of this continent’s winners of the genetic lottery.
Grantaire had both expected and hoped Enjolras’ parents to give him some insights as to what had been making Enjolras so odd and relaxed and happy recently. Maybe some good family news? A newborn? A wedding? Some long lost relative found again? A new puppy? Instead, Enjolras’ parents grilled Grantaire for half the evening about his job, his family, his hobbies, their friends, and spent the other half throwing forced smiles in his direction, until Enjolras’ mother asked her son to come with her to the kitchen because “I think your father wants to talk to your boyfriend.” She’d even had the gall to wink .
Grantaire, who had been halfway through taking a sip of wine, dropped his glass entirely, spilled the content on his t-shirt and received the wine glass’ foot straight in the nuts.
“Fuck, my balls!” he screamed, both in pain and surprise.
The rest of the evening was a blur of embarrassedly patting his napkin on his ruined shirt, of shuffling awkwardly on his chair, trying to accommodate his bruised modesty and ego, and spacing out and wanting to drown into the custard of his île flottante. Enjolras’ mother’s plan was thoroughly shot and forgotten in the awkwardness of it all; they all finished dinner together in stilted conversation.
Grantaire and Enjolras barely talked at all the entire way home. Enjolras looked confused as ever and Grantaire wanted little less than having whatever shit-show of a conversation awaited them aboard the Parisian metro. Both seemed to understand the tacit and tenuous agreement that whatever was going to transpire could and should be kept until they reached either of their flats.
The moment Enjolras shut his front door behind him, he called, “Are you okay?”
“What the fuck was that?” Grantaire interrupted.
“What?”
“Why would your parents think we’re b— boyfriends?”
Enjolras, the great and eloquent Enjolras, stuttered. “Because— Because we are?”
“What?” Grantaire repeated dumbly. He had to sit before he keeled over; he nearly tripped on his way to one of Enjolras’ kitchen stools. Enjolras followed him and sat on the other side of the table. “Since when?”
“Since we started going out together on a regular basis?” Enjolras said, so overwrought and surprised it came out as a question. He breathed out and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Grantaire, you’re aware that we went out for dinner on Valentine’s Day, correct?”
“Which, may I remind you, you insist on calling ‘Single Awareness Day’,” Grantaire pointed out.
Enjolras had the decency to look sheepish. “Right… But this was a date! Like all the other times!”
“And I was supposed to guess?”
“Yes!” Enjolras exploded. He was red in the face, his hair in disarray, and he looked frantic and even a little pained. Immediately after, he looked guilty, too, and embarrassed. “I— I’m sorry. That’s not right.”
“It’s—” Grantaire tried, but he had no idea how to continue. He was still struggling to process the fact that Enjolras (and his parents, and who knows who else?) thought that they were dating. He was still miles off computing that Enjolras must have wanted to be dating him. So, he thought he could be excused for being at a loss for words.
Enjolras looked down. For the first time, possibly ever, he appeared unable to meet Grantaire’s gaze. This was odd, for Enjolras had always made a point of meeting Grantaire’s eyes and holding them trapped in his own. At first, it had been defiant, a dare to see what blunder Grantaire would destructively saunter into. Of late, it had been… joyful. Perhaps even victorious, and peaceful, too.
“I shouldn’t have assumed you knew, I’m sorry,” he said. “For all that it matters, I really thought you knew and you were— you were on board with it.”
Grantaire blinked. “But we haven't kissed at all in four months? Or even fucking held hands?”
“Not everyone is into PDA.” Enjolras shrugged. “I’ve also never seen you date anyone in all the years I’ve known you.” That much was true, but not for the reasons Enjolras had imagined. Grantaire had indeed not dated anyone seriously in some five or six years —roughly about the time he had met Enjolras. After some time and sobering up, he had also stopped boasting about greatly exaggerated and enormously disappointing sexual encounters, for they had grown rarer and much more perfunctory. Enjolras continued, “I kind of assumed you were just a discreet person, happy with simple companionship.” He blushed, gaze still down. “I would have been happy with it.”
“But—” Grantaire said, tripping on his own words. “But I’m me!”
Enjolras scoffed. “Yes, that’s rather the point.” And how dare he laugh it off as natural, when Grantaire felt knocked over in all ways but physical —and come to think of it, his knees felt decisively weak. Had he not been sitting already, he would have dropped to the floor. “Listen,” Enjolras said, “I’m really sorry I assumed. Clearly I was wrong to, and wrong about the situation. You can just disregard the past few months and count them as good moments spent with a friend, hopefully?”
“No!” Grantaire blurted out. Thoughts were spinning around confusedly in his mind. His balls were also still smarting a little.
Enjolras chaffed. “I understand this is awkward for you,” he articulated stiffly the way he did when Marius said something ignorant enough that not even Combeferre could be bothered to correct him —Combeferre, as grand and perfect as he may be, remained human and had off-days, too. “But believe me, it’s just as awkward for me. I can’t go back in time and take it back, so you’ll have to believe that I’m sorry and get over yourself.”
Grantaire could have kicked himself. There had been too many misunderstandings already.
“No! I mean, that’s not the ‘no’ I meant,” he said. “I just— You thought we were dating?”
Enjolras sighed, visibly pained. “I thought we’d gone over it.”
“Yeah, yeah, of course, but— That would mean that you like me? Like… ‘like’ like?” Grantaire, who had a solid past of wild and self-destructive habits, had quite a few crazy stories to tell, many of which a sceptic like himself could easily assume were made up. But this , Enjolras liking him, was easily the most unbelievable thing to have ever happened to him.
“I do,” Enjolras said shyly.
“But— but—”
“No ‘but’, Grantaire,” he interrupted. Enjolras was smart, and could likely tell that Grantaire was not quite done devolving further into confusion. But somehow, in the midst of this fiasco, he started looking a little hopeful, too. “I do like you, as a friend, and romantically, too. And I thought that my feelings were reciprocated since, well, we’re us . But it’s alright if they’re not. I’ll get over them, eventually.”
“No no no, stop here and rewind!” Grantaire looked wildly at Enjolras’ face. He looked as truthful as ever, and so very vulnerable in a way he rarely afforded others to see. “They most definitely are! Your feelings. Reciprocated, I mean. The fuck?”
Enjolras blinked. His mouth hung open, somewhere between an ‘o’ of surprise and a slow stretching smile. “They are?” His brows furrowed as a somber thought visibly crossed his mind. “Grantaire, you can’t take the piss about that. You’re not just saying it to mock me, or because you feel sorry for me, right?”
Grantaire spluttered. “I should be asking you that! I’ve been in love with you for so long, it’s stupid! That’s why you never saw me date —I felt like a dick leading people on, and they were just… not you.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I was little more than an inconvenience to you, back then,” Grantaire confessed. Before Enjolras could contradict him, because he would have been wrong, and because Enjolras and Grantaire’s conversations had always mainly consisted of contradicting one another, Grantaire continued, “I also thought you knew. Everyone and their grandma knows.”
Enjolras pushed his stool back, scraping its feet loudly against his kitchen floor; he was smiling fully, then, and a ruddy, joyful blush covered his cheeks. He walked around the table in a quick step to stand by Grantaire, still frozen on his own seat. Enjolras’ hands reached out tentatively and wrapped around Grantaire’s.
“Let’s be clear this time, then. This is me holding your hands. Romantically ,” he added for emphasis, threading their fingers together.
“Right,” Grantaire said, dumbstruck. This was something he’d ached for for so long, yet something he’d never thought he would ever get to have. The thought that he did get to have it now emboldened him. “And uh, thoughts on kissing? Romantically .”
Enjolras’ smile stretched out wider. It occurred to Grantaire that the sight was familiar. This was the smile he had studied for so many months, now, the smile of comfortable, peaceful companionship and affection. The smile he had directed at Grantaire this entire time.
“Very positive,” Enjolras said.
It turned out, so was Grantaire.