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“What the fuck,” Enjorlas says when he gets into the car. “That’s not Tulio and Chel.”
From the front seat, Robin (which Robin, Enjorlas has no clue) looks over at Superboy (again, no idea) and shrugs. “You explain.” The car peels away from the curb.
“Ferre, don’t be like that —“
“Hush, love. I’m driving.” Combeferre honks immediately at a pick-up truck that failed to use its turn signal, violently swinging the hatchback into the vacated lane. Courferyac in the passenger seat sighs and twists around.
“What the fuck, Courf,” Enjorlas repeats in a flat tone. Oh, he should have expected this. “I watched that movie for this group costume.”
Courferyac nods. “And you thought the movie was anti-indigenous propaganda.”
“Because it is!”
“And you’re right! So, fearless leader, we changed our costume.” Courferyac’s eyes narrow. He jabs an accusatory thumb at Enjorlas in the back seat. “You were supposed to be Red Robin.”
“Who the fuck is Red Robin.”
“If you ever read my comics,” Courf continues with fake woundedness, “you’d know.”
“How the fuck was I supposed to be Red Robin.”
“You already had the red shirt!”
“The hell was I supposed to do with the fake hair?”
Courferyac twists back to face front, turning up the Mika playlist on his phone. “It was Ferre’s idea.”
“Driving,” grunts Combeferre, speeding through a red light.”
“Fuck off,” Enjorlas mutters, because what the hell. It was too late to go and change, for they were already late enough. Jehan was going to kill them — or rather, their partner was. Montparnasse had never struck Enjrolas as one to be a stickler for punctuality until Jehan became the hottest drag performer in town. To delay the Emcee — Courf — from arriving fifteen minutes early would be to earn ‘Parnasse’s ire. Enjorlas sunk deeper into his seat. “Just wish you told me.”
“We did, didn’t you get my text?” Courf says, all innocent.
Enjorlas spends the rest of the drive checking and double checking his texting app settings, because there is no warning text from Courf to be seen.
The threat of rain looms over the whole event. It is why, Joly explains to Enjorlas backstage, they are having the show in LaMarque Square to begin with. The block is bound on it’s north and south side by huge glass buildings, one side retail, the other the city conference centre. Above them is not open sky but concrete and stone, where the two buildings are joined together. The covered courtyard is huge, with more than enough room to fence off space for a thousand dancing gay people and also allow passage to the businesses on both sides.
“The rain cover is just a bonus,” Musichetta chimes in for the brief moment she’s not on radio comms with security. “It’s great for the light fixtures too. We got a disco ball.”
Enjorlas wants to know how a disco ball fits with Halloween, but bites his tongue. Joly presses a bunch of tokens into his hand. “Free drink tickets. Trust us. We got this. Just go have fun.”
Have fun? Enjorlas wants to laugh. This fundraiser party would have been fun, perhaps, if he hadn’t been excluded from every aspect of planning (for reasons of ‘being a party pooper', as Jehan had so gently put it) as well as the group costume. He rolls his eyes — Joly punches him lightly in the arm. “Try, anyway.”
Enjorlas wonders how the fuck he’s supposed to try and have fun out there, when all his friends will be backstage or onstage, but he goes anyway.
Jehan has finished their first performance when Enjorlas notices them.
There are maybe five of them to start, five drunken men staring over the fence. Enjorlas thinks nothing of it at first, except that it’s a little odd they are still watching now that the DJ has returned and Lil Nas X is blaring over the loudspeakers. What is there to watch? People are just dancing.
He tries to ignore them. They will move on soon, he tells himself. He goes to get another drink.
He finishes another drink. They’re still there.
Their number has grown, now. One of them is trying to climb the fencing. Enjorlas cannot hear them over the blaring music, but he can see them. One is filming two girls making out near the edge of the crowd. The longer he watches them watching, the more he is sure they are not watching out of envy. The longer he watches them watching, the more Enjorlas feels like a zoo animal on display. The longer he watches them watching, the more incensed Enjorlas becomes.
The can of Palm Bay crumples in his hand. Enjorlas chucks it into a recycling bin and marches over. He’s preparing his speech in his mind — How dare you, we are not your entertainment, if you want to watch the show donate to the bail fund and get a ticket like everyone here, our community is not for your entertainment as much as RuPaul might make you think otherwise. It’s a decent speech, given that Enjorlas is tipsy and drafting only in his head.
“…And you can see here, the wild heterosexual. He looks on at the gay mating dance and wishes he was part of it, but because he’s too repressed he resorts to shouting slurs over the fence as a self defence mechanism.”
Someone has beat Enjorlas to the fence. A short man, with short curly dark hair and a soul patch, dressed in a blue button down shirt and brown vest, holds his phone up to the fence, getting into the faces of the gang gathered there. In his other hand, an open cooler sloshes a little liquid onto the concrete. “You’re live on Instagram, babes, say hi to everyone!” There is a sway in the man’s step — he, like most people here, is not sober — but his eyes are aflame. Blue Shirt suddenly lunges at the fencing. The nearest observer flinches back, to Blue Shirt’s amusement. “Afraid of catching the gay, man? Didn’t seem to be when you were filming those girls without consent.”
Enjorlas is in awe. There seems to be no preparation, no planning of de-escalation in the man’s technique — it’s all escalation, actually, and it’s working. The most aggressive of the gang backs away from the fence, mutters something low to his companions. Slowly, slowly, but certainly, they begin to move on.
Incredible, Enjorlas thinks.
Blue Shirt turns. “You flatter me, sir.” Enjorlas hadn’t realized he had spoken out loud. His cheeks get hot — it must be the alcohol. Blue Shirt waves his phone. “The power of social media. I should have dressed up as cancel culture. Would have really gotten the point across.”
Enjorlas looks over Blue Shirt again — there is something familiar about his costume. In a sea of Wandas from Wandavision and Cruellas from Cruella, this costume is understated and simple. Much like Enjorlas’ own.
Understanding dawns. “You’re Tulio. From Road to El Dorado.”
The Tulio looks down, as if seeing his costume for the first time. “Ah. I hadn’t noticed.” There’s a joking curl to his lips — Enjorlas suddenly feels a rush of heat under his spirit-gummed beard. “And you —“ Tulio’s eyes widen, the curl of his lip pulling the rest of his face into a mischievous smile. “Miguel, my partner in petty theft and colonialism.”
Enjorlas wants to deny, but what is the point of it? He sighs instead, leaning against the fencing. Shakes one absurdly loose sleeve in the vague direction of the dance floor. “It was meant to be a group costume.”
“Meant?” One eyebrow twitches up.
“I was abandoned last minute.”
The Tulio huffs a soft little laugh. “What are the chances — my friends pulled the same bullshit with me.” His dark eyes flick up and right. “See Han Solo and Chewbacca?” Enjorlas looks over his shoulder — Chewbacca he can see easily towering above the others, but for Han he has to squint until he spies a short young woman dancing with him. “No one told me we switched to Star Wars. I ruined Ep’s Insta story, I think.”
“That was very rude of them.”
Tulio shrugs. “It’s very common for us to be rude. We don’t come to these parties to be polite.” He points up at the banners streaming down from the ceiling — Kill your inner homophobe, reads one, and Not Gay as in Happy, Queer as in Fuck You is dripping in blood red ink on another. Enjorlas is not sure how this is supposed to be haunted or spooky in anyway, but he agrees with the message.
“I am not one for politeness, either.”
Tulio snorts. “I know, Apollo.” Apollo? “I’ve seen you at rallies. How you haven’t been sued for libel yet is beyond my mortal knowledge.”
Enjorlas tugs at the crepe hair plastered to his chin. “So you know me.”
“Of course I know you. You’re Monsieur Enjorlas, leader of the anarchists as much as you insist otherwise. You rally and organize and lead the marches until your friends pry the bullhorn from your hands. You’re at every fundraiser and jail support rally, every tent city and soup kitchen.” Enjorlas thinks he should feel stalked — he instead feels overwhelmingly flattered. “And tonight, you are also Miguel. How you have been brought so low as to be my animated partner in crime, I have only your friends to thank.” Tulio’s eyes lift to the crowd. “Point them out to me I’ll buy them beer later.”
“Best of luck on that.” Enjorlas points, not into the crowd but above their heads, to the Robin and Superboy gyrating on stage with Jehan and the DJ. “I don’t know how to get them off the stage.”
Tulio presses his lips together. “That does seem challenging.” A pause — Enjorlas looks up at Tulio’s eyes, finds Tulio’s heavy gaze on him. Enjorlas looks away. “Do you have any friends down here among the masses? You should be dancing.”
“Most of my friends are the organizers.”
“So on or back stage,” Tulio fills in. “No one to dance with awkwardly in a circle with, then?” Enjorlas shakes his head. Tulio frowns, nods, and slams back the rest of his drink. The can gets lobbed at a blue bin, nearly careening off the side before settling in the bag. “Then you simply must dance with me.”
“What?”
“We are already in a couple’s costume,” Tulio continues, voice just a touch frantic. “And my friends love to dance with anyone. Surely I am not so offensive to you that you won’t come dance.”
What? This one Enjorlas only thinks. “I did not object.”
Something lightens in Tulio’s face. He reaches a hand for Enjorlas.
Enjorlas hesitates, then takes it. Where they touch he feels light, buoyed along as Tulio pulls him into the thrumming crowd.
They dance for what feels like hours and also only minutes. It’s something closer to forty minutes, all told, before Courferyac stops the DJ in his role as Emcee and introduces Jehan’s second set of lip-syncs. It’s incredible — Enjorlas feels himself scream not for justice but for joy with every move. Tulio and Han Solo and Chewbacca scream with him, hands fluttering in the air as they cheer for Jehan.
It’s well after this, well after Jehan has lead the crowd in singing and signing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Feuilly the sign language interpreter, that Enjorlas excuses himself to get water. He’s only just cracked open the bottle when Tulio is at his side.
“Have I upset you, Apollo?”
Enjorlas furrows his brows, wipes his lips with the back of his hand. “I was just thirsty.” This doesn’t seem to satiate Tulio. Enjorlas sips some more water. “I had fun. Thank you for dancing with me.” Tulio still seems ill at ease — Enjorlas offers the water bottle to him. “You should drink too.”
“Anything you ask,” Tulio says, not soft but still hard to hear over the music, and takes the bottle. Enjorlas watches his Adam’s apple bob for a moment before he realizes what he doesn’t yet know.
“Tell me your name.”
Tulio’s eyebrow hikes up. “My name is Tulio.”
“No, your name, the one you would have me call you.”
“You have already called me Tulio, so I am Tulio.”
“You would have me call you a cartoon character’s name?”
“I would take whatever name you would give me.”
“I don’t want to name you, I want to know you.”
This, finally, seems to get Tulio to hush. He slumps against the fencing for a moment, expression darkening. Enjorlas feels a curl in the pit of his stomach, a sinking feeling; had he upset him? It’s not silence, not with the Måneskin remix throbbing through the air, but the lack of sound here stretches into discomfort anyway.
“Grantaire.” The name comes soft, so soft he can barely hear it even this far from the music. “Grantaire is my name. R to friends.”
“Are we friends, R?”
“Do you want to be? You said you wanted to know me,” Tulio — Grantaire, Enjorlas corrects himself, Grantaire, the name earthy and grounded and comfortably weighty in his mind — says.
“I do,” Enjorlas finds himself saying. “So I will work to earn the nickname.”
There’s more splotchiness in Grantaire’s cheeks. Enjorlas straightens up, moves back away from Grantaire. “I didn’t mean to upset you —“
“Why do you think you upset me?” Grantaire’s hand darts out, grabs the front of Enjorlas’ shirt in one (warm, callused) hand, goes to pull him back. The motion is aborted halfway through, so they are just standing there in front of the fence, Grantaire’s hand fisted in his shirt.
“Your face.” The scowl, the darkening, the splotchiness. Enjorlas knows what anger looks like.
“What about my face?” Now Grantaire does seem hurt, face falling in a way that makes Enjorlas’ stomach curl.
“You just — seem,” Enjorlas begins, one hand dropping over Grantaire’s fist. “I don’t know.”
“You can say I’m not your type, Apollo, and I’ll go.”
“No, that’s not it —“ Enjorlas tries again, “there’s redness in your face, aren’t you —“
“Does the great Enjorlas not know what a blush looks like?” Grantaire’s fingers pull tighter at his shirt. Will he punch him? Enjorlas doesn’t know.
Wait. Blush? Enjorlas looks Grantaire’s face again, follows the line of his dark pupils to his own chin, looks at Grantaire’s chin and then to his lips, red from the cold air —
— and, oh. Enjorlas’ hands curls tighter around Grantaire’s. “Apparently not,” he says at last. “Perhaps you should show me. Closer.”
Now Grantaire pulls, with strength well hidden underneath the ill-fitting shirt. There is hardly a hands width between them now. Enjorlas is too aware of the rise and fall of his chest, especially where Grantaire’s hand is still so close. “Can you see now, Miguel?”
“No.” Enjorlas leans his head down. Grantaire’s breath smells of cheap beer and cheaper candy — delicious and intoxicating. “Show me,” he murmurs, before closing the distance between their lips.
When they finally stop kissing, the party has ended, leaving them only with security for company. “Come home with me,” Enjorlas says, and Grantaire races to hail them a cab.
*(Ep —> Courf:) Baz says R didn’t come home last night.
*(Courf —> Ep:) his shoes are here. So are E’s.
*(Ep —> Courf:) lmao, mission accomplished
*(Courf —> Ep:) so when do we tell them we set them up?
*(Ep —> Courf:) uh, whenever Grantaire actually watches the damn movie.