Work Text:
“Come with me,” Grantaire says, his outburst loud and unexpected.
Prouvaire looks up from his book, his blue eyes narrowing. “Come with you where?” he asks. It is a frigid Wednesday in February, just three days before Valentine’s Day, and the two roommates are hanging around their drafty apartment -- Prouvaire is huddled under two duvets on the couch, and Grantaire is bundled into a hooded sweatshirt and thick woollen socks.
“To South Beach,” Grantaire offers. He starts pacing around the room, clearly getting more and more enraptured with his idea with every step. “The hotel’s not refundable, so I’m paying for it anyway. And I don’t want to go down there by myself.”
Still confused, Prouvaire lays his book down on his lap. “You want me to go with you on your romantic weekend instead of Enjolras?”
“Yes,” Grantaire says, flopping onto the couch beside Prouvaire. “Joly’s working all weekend so you’re not doing anything for Valentine’s Day except moping around and reading your morbid poetry crap,” he scoffs, snatching Prouvaire’s volume of Auden from him and ignoring his protests.“So come with me and we’ll spend the weekend lying on the beach, getting shitfaced and checking out hot guys in bathing suits. Honestly, it’ll be more fun than I would have had with him.”
“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” Prouvaire asks, concern written all over his face. Grantaire and Enjolras had broken up at the end of January, after dating for about nine months -- and by all accounts, neither man was handling it very well.
Grantaire snorts. “Probably not. But has that ever stopped me before?”
“Point taken,” sighs Prouvaire, knowing resistance is probably futile -- he has never been able to say no to Grantaire’s various schemes. “So when do we leave?”
**
“Come on, Jehan, we’re going to miss our fucking flight,” Grantaire says, knocking on Joly’s car window insistently.
“I’m coming,” Jehan grumbles as he staggers out of the car, his lips reddened from his farewell kisses with his boyfriend.
“We’re only going for three days, for Christ’s sake,” Grantaire says, as Prouvaire picks up his suitcase from the curb. “He’ll still be here when you get back.”
“It’s our first Valentine’s Day as a couple,” Prouvaire sniffs, waving to Joly as he drives off. “And I’m spending it with you instead. So we had to make up for lost time.”
“Sounded like you were doing plenty of ‘making up for lost time’ last night,” Grantaire teases, enjoying the sight of Prouvaire’s face turning as red as his lips.
“As if I never had to listen to you and the golden boy,” retorts Prouvaire, although he carefully omits Enjolras’s name from his remark. “Clearly he had a dexterous tongue in more ways than one.”
Grantaire blanches at the memory. “Okay, one rule: we’re not going to talk about him, okay? It’s over, and that’s it, and I’m past it.”
“You guys just broke up two weeks ago. I doubt you’re over it,” Prouvaire says, as they join the line to go through security.
“He’s over it, clearly. Bahorel told me he saw him out last night with Combeferre and Courfeyrac,” Grantaire points out.
Prouvaire shakes his head and takes a drink of his latte, trying to finish it before they reach the screening area where he’ll have to dispose of it. “That means nothing. He’s out with his two best friends. Why wouldn’t he be? You’re going on vacation with me -- does that mean you’re over it?”
“Enough,” Grantaire growls. “I said I don’t want to talk about it.”
Sighing heavily, Prouvaire finishes off his coffee and pitches the cup into a nearby trash can. “As you wish,” he says -- but his blue eyes betray his concern for his best friend.
**
The flight to Miami is uneventful -- Grantaire is sorely tempted to buy a couple of small bottles of whiskey, but under Prouvaire’s watchful gaze he abstains, so instead he spends the flight gazing out the window as the bleak white landscape of the North gradually transitions to the lush green of Florida. Neither of them has ever been to Miami -- Grantaire has never even been south of Virginia, although Prouvaire recalls a traumatic trip to Disney as a child -- but Grantaire had booked the trip for himself and Enjolras, thinking that some time away from home in a temperate climate would solve some of their problems.
Clearly he had been wrong.
But the sun and the warmth are invigorating, and as he pulls the car onto Ocean Drive, he cannot help but to gawk at the sheer beauty of the restored Art Deco buildings -- he is a visual artist, after all, and the sleek lines and colorful stucco appeal to his aesthetic.
“Gorgeous,” he breathes as they sit a stoplight.
“Indeed,” Prouvaire murmurs, watching a couple of young men in nothing but their bathing suits walking along the sidewalk on the other side of the street.
Grantaire laughs. “Prouvaire, you have a boyfriend,” he exclaims.
“That doesn’t mean I can’t look, right?” Prouvaire says, half-indignantly.
They continue to appreciate the beauty on both sides of the car as they inch their way up the road toward their hotel on the north end of Ocean Drive. When they pull up in front, they are both gawk, in awe of its old school grandeur.
“Shit,” Grantaire mutters under his breath, feeling distinctly out of his league.
“How did you manage to pay for this?” whispers Prouvaire.
“Remember that painting I sold last year?” Grantaire says, as a bellman comes out to take their luggage and the keys to their car. “All right here. Two nights of luxury with the man I thought I loved.”
“Oh Grantaire, let me pay for some of it,” Prouvaire offers, knowing his family money could pay for this -- and then some.
“No,” Grantaire says, ever prideful -- he always hates feeling like he was taking advantage of Prouvaire’s wealth. “Enjolras paid for the plane tickets, so I guess we’re even.”
“I thought we weren’t talking about him,” Prouvaire points out.
“Talking about who?” Grantaire says with a shrug. “I haven’t a clue who you’re talking about.”
**
As soon as they get to their room, Prouvaire goes right to the windows and opens the shutters, letting the warm breeze off the ocean in, while Grantaire picks up the bottle of Prosecco that came with the romantic package he had booked. He’s quick to pop it open, pouring it into two crystal flutes.
“Shouldn’t we have lunch before we start drinking?” Prouvaire asks as Grantaire hands him a one of the glasses.
“This seems like a good lunch to me,” Grantaire says, downing the entire glass in one shot, then pouring himself some more, enjoying the heady feeling of forgetting it gave him. “And dinner, too.”
“Let’s not,” Prouvaire says, peering over his glass disapprovingly. “You need to get something in your stomach first. Did I see they have a restaurant up by the pool?” He starts unpacking his overnight bag, pulling out his bright pink swim trunks. “We can have something terribly fattening for lunch and work on our tans.”
Grantaire starts to protest, but he knows resistance to Prouvaire is never easy, so he downs the last of his drink and starts emptying his duffel bag in search of his own bathing suit -- a subdued and slightly ratty green piece he’s had for years. He strips off his wintry clothes, wincing at his pallor, and puts on his suit and an equally ratty gray t-shirt.
“Ready?” Prouvaire asks. His shorts are almost obscenely short, and his tank top only barely covers up his chest; in contrast to Grantaire’s ghostly appearance, he looks as if he lives in a place with endless summer.
With a chuckle, Grantaire grabs the bottle. “Lead on,” he says.
**
The pool deck overlooks the Atlantic and is mostly devoid of people, so they easily find two adjacent chaise longues and order lunch: a huge Kobe beef burger and a beer for Grantaire, a shrimp salad and a bellini for Prouvaire. They spend the rest of the afternoon out by the pool, relaxing and reading -- and taking a dip in the pool.
In the evening they go out and explore the town, taking a long walk down Ocean Drive. They grab some dinner at an Italian restaurant, where they sit outside and drink wine while they engage in a good game of people watching: it is South Beach, after all, with lots of interesting scenery.
Ultimately they end up at a nightclub -- thankfully Grantaire has brought his one decent outfit, so they manage to get in without any trouble. As the music throbs, he finds himself watching Prouvaire as he floats about the dance floor, swaying to his own beat. A couple of men come over to ask Prouvaire to dance, but Grantaire can see him shake his head vigorously, his loyalty to Joly never in question.
“Why didn’t you dance with anyone?” Grantaire asks Prouvaire as they stagger home, their ears still ringing from the loud music.
“Because I have a boyfriend, silly,” Prouvaire says, his words slurring drunkenly. “Why didn’t you?”
“Because no one ever asks,” Grantaire answers -- a statement he thinks should be engraved on his tombstone.
**
The next morning is Valentine’s Day, and the two men don’t rise until noon, when Prouvaire’s phone rings with Valentine’s Day greetings from Joly. As Prouvaire starts talking to him, Grantaire drags himself to the bathroom and turns on the shower, hoping to drown out both the sound of Prouvaire’s loving chatter and his own despair. When he emerges, Prouvaire is off the phone and sitting cross-legged on the bed. “How’s Joly?” Grantaire asks, trying to be polite as he towels off his unruly dark hair.
“He’s fine. Working hard, you know -- the usual. But I’ll see him tomorrow night,” Prouvaire replies, a dreamy smile on his face.
“Good for you,” Grantaire says in a clipped tone. “So what do you say -- beach?”
“Sounds good,” says Prouvaire, although he furrows his brow in concern. “Is everything okay?”
“Never better,” Grantaire lies.
**
Once they’ve found a satisfactory spot on the sand and spread out their towels, Prouvaire asks Grantaire to put suntan lotion on his back, raising an eyebrow when Grantaire refuses his offer to reciprocate.
“Joly is always very concerned about melanoma,” Prouvaire tells him, stretching out on his stomach and pulling out his book. “He insists on examining me whenever come in from the inside.”
“I bet he does,” Grantaire snorts, balling up his t-shirt to make a pillow for his head. “I’m sure he’s quite thorough. The benefits of dating a doctor, I suppose.”
“He does have a good grasp of anatomy,” Prouvaire says dreamily.
“Better than Combeferre did?” Grantaire teases. Prouvaire and Combeferre had been a couple for a long time -- until Combeferre had realized his true affections lay with his best friend, Courfeyrac. “I remember those days pretty well, when you used to rhapsodize about his great hands,” he continues, conveniently ignoring the fact that Prouvaire is glaring at him over his sunglasses. “All that talk about how he was the love of your life--”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, will you just fucking call him?” Prouvaire snaps at him. “You’re never going to be over this, that much is clear. Why the fuck are you bringing up my exes? So you can feel better about your own failures? ” He stands up, tosses his book aside, and peels off his tank top. “I’m going swimming,” he says. “Just because you’re completely miserable doesn’t mean I have to be.”
Grantaire watches him walk down the beach -- knowing his words wounded him, knowing he should apologize -- but stubbornly resisting the urge to go after him.
And they barely speak the rest of the afternoon.
**
Grantaire had made reservations months ago at the expensive restaurant in the hotel -- and with it being Valentine’s Day, they don’t have very many other dinner options, so he and Prouvaire get dressed up and go down to the dining room together, still not on speaking terms. The awkward silences are legion, and Prouvaire is obviously still angry.
It takes Grantaire the entire bottle of wine and the first two courses of the prix fixe dinner before he gets up the courage to speak. “I’m sorry,” he finally says as dessert arrives, a rare show of contrition. “I shouldn’t have brought up the whole Combeferre thing. I remember how hard that was on you--” he trails off, recalling how Prouvaire spent weeks not eating or getting out of bed, and how he had to take incompletes in all of his classes that semester when he found out his love for Combeferre wasn’t returned.
“Oh, Grantaire,” Prouvaire sighs. “I just want you to be happy. I never thought I’d find someone, but then Joly happened. You and Enjolras -- I know you get on each other’s nerves, but you should at least try to talk to him.”
“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want to talk to me,” Grantaire says, playing with the napkin in his lap.
“You don’t know that,” Prouvaire points out. “Call him,” he urges. “Wish him a happy Valentine’s Day. Tell him you wish he were here.”
“I’ll think about it,” Grantaire replies.
“Do it,” Prouvaire urges. “I know you don’t believe it, but you do deserve to be happy, Grantaire.”
Honestly, Grantaire doesn’t believe it -- but as they dig into their desserts, he cannot help but to silently start composing a message to Enjolras.
**
After Prouvaire falls asleep that night -- lying on his back, snoring lightly -- Grantaire picks up his phone, which he hasn’t touched since their arrival. He opens up his contacts and stares at Enjolras’s name for a long time, gazing at the picture of him that accompanies his number, remembering how good it felt to be with him -- and completely forgetting whatever it was that drove them apart.
After a long while, he types a lengthy message to Enjolras: about how sorry he is, about how much he misses him, about how much he wishes he was there beside him. He weighs the phone in his hand for a moment, reading it over several times -- then presses send.
And then he closes his eyes, awaiting the reply he is sure will never come.
**
Their flight back home is an early one, and both men end up slumped in the gate area, coffees in one hand and their phones in the other. Prouvaire is texting back and forth with Joly, trying to plan their romantic Sunday night dinner, while Grantaire pages through his Facebook page, torturing himself trying to figure out if Enjolras has been online since he sent his message.
“You messaged him,” Prouvaire says as they stand in line at the gate -- a statement, not a question.
“Yeah,” Grantaire admits. “But I never heard back.”
Prouvaire wraps an arm around him, pulling his best friend close. “You will,” he assures him. “I’m sure of it.”
When they land, Prouvaire texts Joly to let them know they’ve landed, while Grantaire checks his own phone, where his only message is from Bossuet, inviting him to join him and Bahorel at the Musain later for drinks and trivia. As they exit the secured area, Grantaire spots Joly instantly, standing just beyond the barriers with a ridiculous sign with their names written in barely legible script.
And beside him is Enjolras, wearing a red hooded sweatshirt and a sheepish smile.
As Prouvaire rushes into Joly’s arms as if they have been apart for months, Grantaire approaches Enjolras with trepidation. “Did you get my message?” he says, staring at his sneakers.
Enjolras nods. “Come with me,” he says simply, reaching over and taking Grantaire’s hand.
And Grantaire follows him out to the car, ready to embark on yet another journey.