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I
They’ve been dating for two weeks and four days - two weeks and four days in which have passed as a hazy timeless honeymoon phase, and Grantaire has been biting away the smile from his lip when he catches himself grinning, unprompted into mid-air - when Enjolras all but launches himself onto the small leather seater in Grantaire’s flat.
In doing so he drops himself into Grantaire. Grantaire has been studiously napping on his sofa, having made the executive decision that the time for studying has past and the time for terrible reality television cooking programs is very much here. Enjolras lands with a quiet oopmh into the cushions, and swings his feet into Grantaire’s lap.
Enjolras’ smiles could always slay him, and now they’re offered freely and readily, as though they weren’t a valued commodity.
"Hello," says Grantaire, as though the one word could express it all. And perhaps it can, Enjolras has always been uncannily perceptive when it came to ascertaining hidden meanings.
"Hello," he echoes. Enjolras looks bashful and delighted in equal measure, and Grantaire is glad that Enjolras’ feet at in his lap grounding him. It would be bad form to be so enamoured with one’s boyfriend that you floated away. He doesn’t think that he’s light enough to leave the ground, but Grantaire is giddy enough with tired happiness to wrap a hand around Enjolras’ ankle to keep himself down.
Enjolras wears ridiculous boots. Not all the time, he’s got his fair share of loafers and slippers; he thinks that Grantaire doesn’t know about the baby blue crocs that Courfeyrac bought him on a whim, but Grantaire knows, but the boots that he’s wearing today are his favourite.
Everyone knows this, Enjolras wears his clothes like armour, like protective talismans, and days which set out to be particularly trying, or long, Enjolras wears these boots. Grantaire’s fingers play over the well worn faux-leather.
Grantaire is pretty sure that they’re from the ladies section, not that he’d ever say so, and not that there’s a problem with that. They’re more ornate, fancy, with tabs and zips and the subtle lift of a heel - as though Enjolras needed to be taller. Enjolras seems content just to lie back, already on the outskirts of sleep, with his feet propped in Grantaire’s lap, still smiling softly.
Grantaire’s fingers are too asleep to start unhooking and unlacing his boots, so instead he just lays his hands back over Enjolras’ leather clad shins, feeling the contrast between cooling metal buttons and muted warmth of faux-leather. Enjolras is unlikely to have traipsed through mud, his feet can rest, booted, in Grantaire’s lap. He is as good for that position as any.
They might be Grantaire’s favourite boots too.
Enjolras sighs.
Grantaire lets the television buzz in the background as he traces idle patterns over Enjolras’ tired feet.
II
Feuilly is moving house, and without even having to ask all of Les Amis have assembled at his old apartment in the early hours, with only a few complaints from Joly and Bahorel about how the sun hasn’t quite risen yet.
Combeferre has brought his car and Marius has his bicycle, but the majority of them are armed with rucksacks and heavily soled shoes.
Feuilly’s face flushed with gratitude at their presence, as though any one of them would have allowed themselves to let him down.
Grantaire is being powered entirely by coffee and the sight of Enjolras bending down to pick up various boxes. Joly has already berated him once for bending from his back rather than from his knees, but Grantaire can’t fault the view.
Feuilly new studio flat is only a twenty minute walk away, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac are ferrying the heaviest items, supervised by Feuilly, leaving the rest of them to amble along at their own pace.
Jehan is humming out of tune, Bahorel is whistling, and Joly and Bossuet are bickering good-naturedly. Enjolras is leading their merry band, weighed down by boxes of crockery.
Grantaire’s got off lightly with the bin-bag full of cushions and the rucksack full of CDs. Out of the corner of his eye he can see that Enjolras’ shoe lace has come undone. Sometimes Grantaire wonders how Enjolras exists as an adult; he might be superb at making a stand for other people’s rights and liberties, and he blazes with righteous fury in the sunshine, but he’s a terrible example of a well-rounded twenty-something.
"Look, okay, stop, stop, Enjolras."
That Enjolras freezes immediately makes something lights up in Grantaire’s chest. Grantaire drops the bag of cushions and dropped to his knees.
"You, ridiculous man. Just don’t drop that box on my head."
Enjolras is wearing red hightop converse, and he cocks his head and watches passively as Grantaire ties the laces.
"Who even wears converse anymore? What if you’d fallen? You could have broken Feuilly’s plates; you’d have felt bad about that, even worse if you’d broken your neck. Right, done, there you go."
It’s an unusual angle to look up at Enjolras from in public, and their eye contact - and Enjolras’ growing blush- is broken by Bahorel’s snigger.
"Oh, get a room you two."
The giggling continues, but there’s just them.
"Your shoes need a clean."
Enjolras just shrugs, and then presses a thank you peck to Grantaire’s cheek.
"Meh, it’s nothing."
But he nudges Enjolras with his shoulder amicably before catching back up with Joly and Bossuet.
III
Enjolras wears old man slippers. Which Grantaire would find amusing if it wasn’t so endearing. Enjolras sniffily calls them moccasins, but they’re tan and slip-on with a little tassel on the front of them; they’re old man slippers through and through.
Enjolras normally toes them on the moment he walks in, easing his way out of which ever brogues or boots he’s been wearing for the way day and completely the old man image by sighing obscenely as he sits down, feet bedecked in his slippers.
Grantaire doesn’t quite know what’s happened, whether Enjolras tripped or whether they’ve just been worn down by age, but one of the tassels has snapped off.
Enjolras either hasn’t noticed, or is pretending not to care because he thinks that its churlish to care so much about material things. But Grantaire can fix that.
Enjolras’ internship is keeping him out until the late hours, and it feels strangely domestic for Grantaire to be planning meals for two or sorting out papers so Enjolras’ doesn’t have to. They don’t even live together, this is Grantaire’s shitty flat, but he can’t begrudge Enjolras’ presence, he wouldn’t dare to demand it if it wasn’t freely given. But it is freely given, and sometimes Grantaire can’t believe his luck.
All he needs is a thick needle, some thread and then hopefully they’ll look as good as new. Or at least they’ll have been put back together again.
It doesn’t look perfect once it’s done, the tassel isn’t straight and the stitching is evident, but Enjolras loves these slippers, and finds them comforting even when he pretends that he’s above such things, so Grantaire thinks that he’s done a good job.
Enjolras doesn’t notice immediately. Instead later that evening he slips the newly mended moccasins on at the door and drops his bag on the sofa, and presses a kiss into Grantaire’s lank curls as he’s bent over the bubbling pasta in the kitchen.
He notices when they’re curled up on the sofa, which really isn’t strictly big enough for two of them but neither of them minds, and Enjolras’ feet end up in Grantaire’s lap. They often end up there. Grantaire can’t say he objects.
"You fixed my old man slippers for me?"
Enjolras sounds surprised, which just won’t do, so Grantaire snakes a hand around his naked ankle. Enjolras’ starts a little, Grantaire has very poor circulation at the best of times. He has cold hands and Enjolras is so wonderfully warm.
"I told you they were old man slippers."
He can feel Enjolras’ laugh reverberating through his skin. It feels like home.
"Yes, you did, didn’t you."
IV
Enjolras has been panicking over this job interview for days.
He claims that he’s perfectly calm about it, but he’s even snapped at Combeferre, in public. So Grantaire knows that he has no chance; if he rearranges Enjolras’ papers then he’s wrong, is he plays devil’s advocate as the interviewer then he’s wrong. If he stays at university late, or if he comes home early, either way Enjolras’ brows knit together stubbornly.
Grantaire knows that it isn’t really about him. Enjolras holds his passions close to the surface, and his tensions about this job are bubbling over. It stings a little to witness this side of Enjolras, which he hasn’t experienced since before they started dating, but he always knew that this was how Enjolras was. Enjolras is quick to passion and quick to temper, and between his interview and his internship deadline he’s at his wits end. And Grantaire loves him.
Enjolras’ interview is in mid-afternoon, he’s been unable to reschedule, so he’s going to have to rush from his lecture to get changed. Enjolras has very begrudging left his interview suit at Grantaire’s flat because it’s closer than his own.
Grantaire doesn’t know why he has shoe polish, but it’s the least he can do to make Enjolras’ day run smoother.
He’s already ironed Enjolras’ trousers and is moving onto his shirt when his phone buzzes - he keeps it on vibrate these days because he hates to think what song Joly has set his ringtone to these days- and he very carefully puts the iron down. The last thing he needs is to put a clichéd iron mark on the back of Enjolras’ red stripe shirt.
sorry for how I’ve been acting lately, I’ll make it up to you, promise. x
There’s something repetitive and soothing about ironing, most of his own clothes don’t need ironing, so he doesn’t bother, but he doesn’t mind doing it for Enjolras. He’d do it anyway, but it doesn’t hurt that Enjolras has texted him, with a kiss.
Grantaire knows he’s blushing, but he’s alone in the house, and even if he weren’t it wouldn’t matter.
no worries R x
Grantaire is significantly better at ironing than he is at blacking shoes, and his jeans have a faint caking of polish on them and his fingers are faintly tinged black but Enjolras’ shoes are shining, which Grantaire counts as a win.
He leaves them next to Enjolras’ suit, which he doesn’t want to touch with his darkly stained fingers.
Grantaire has a lunch date with Cosette, so he’s not there when Enjolras gets in from lecture and turns about to his interview, instead the flat is empty when he gets in and Cosette’s laughter is still echoing in his ears.
He turns to the door when he hears Enjolras’ rattling the handle hours later, muting whatever nonsensical program he’d been watching to while away the time.
"How was your interview?"
Enjolras’ full smile is all the answer that he really needs; seeing Enjolras calm for the first time in weeks feels like a weight being lifted from Grantaire’s shoulders too, and he smiles back.
Enjolras doesn’t answer, instead he leans over the back of the sofa, resting his weight on his forearms and leaning close. Grantaire can feel his breath.
"You’ve got bootblack on your face, thank you."
But Enjolras kisses him anyway, and when he pulls back there’s black smeared on Enjolras’ cheek too.
V
Courfeyrac’s monthly movie night is a mandatory event. They all know the amount that Courfeyrac need’s his friends around him, need the reassurance and their love; he is the text book extrovert, who loves everyone and everything. Courfeyrac gives up so much of himself into his friends willingly that none of them would refuse him a night, once a month that he can rely on to be shown love too in return. Of course, none of them phrase it that way, except perhaps within the holy trinity. Grantaire suspects that there are secrets that will go to the grave between those three. But once a month Courfeyrac gets to fuss over his friends, and his friends get to fuss over him, all set to take-away and over dramatic films. It’s a heavenly night.
And this month Grantaire is running late.
He’s already texted ahead, explaining the situation with his tutor and Courfeyrac had replied with a plethora of emojis that Grantaire took to mean that he understood and that it was okay. Still he felt guilty and had slipped into the nearest corner shop to buy a couple of bags of instant popcorn to make up for his late arrival, which should help to sweetened, or salten the mood. Grantaire finds himself amusing, and he’s lucky that most of the time his friends and loved ones do to.
Courfeyrac’s door is propped open, and it takes his eyes a few moments to adjust to the sudden darkness of the house. At least ten of them are bundled up into Courfeyrac’s tiny living room, hanging over each other on chairs or curled up together on the floor. The light of the television screen isn’t enough to reveal everyone’s faces, and Grantaire thinks that Bahorel might have finally bought his girlfriend to meet the group, but if he has then she’s lost amid the group.
He recognises Enjolras in the darkness. He couldn’t not recognise Enjolras, and even in the muted colours of the room, illuminated by the television, he can see him beckoning, can see his smile.
Enjolras is squashed up against the arm of Courfeyrac’s sofa with its multicoloured knitted throw, flanked by a beaming Marius who in turn has his fingers interlocks with Cosette’s. That explains his smile.
Grantaire isn’t about to sit down on Enjolras’ lap, even as Enjolras looks down almost expectantly, he’s end up with his feet in Marius’ face at any rate - so instead he sidesteps the various limbs and bodies of his friends, apologising all the way, and drops down to lean against the sofa between Enjolras’ legs.
The floor isn’t overly comfortable, but Enjolras drops down a cushion for him even as Courfeyrac presses play on the film again and the popcorn is distributed.
Enjolras swings his legs over Grantaire’s shoulders, caging him in, as well as allowing Grantaire to lean his head against Enjolras’ knee. It must be more than a little uncomfortable for Enjolras, to have his legs hooked over Grantaire, but he’s not moving, and loops his arms around Enjolras’ shins. Enjolras still has his boots on for heaven’s sake.
But it’s been a long day, and Enjolras is threading fingers through his hair as he idly traces patterns over the faux-leather, and before he knows it the low hum of companionship in the room has deadened to the tranquillity of sleep.
+ I
Grantaire’s right arm is in plaster, and his left is in a split. It’s all very inconvenient. He’d been cycling, already late for his seminar when a car door had opened in front of him and he’d gone straight over the handlebars. Instinct had called him to put out his arms to halt his fall. It had worked, but with a sickening crunch.
The noise of Enjolras’ crying had been far worse than hearing his bone shatter from within. But he’s fine, he’ll live another day, and it’s the day-to-day existence of getting by with one of his arms in a cast and the other firmly strapped to his body which is coursing the most problems. Enjolras has taken on his role as dotting and helpful boyfriend with almost military precision, and while an attentive Enjolras is a loving one, it’s just an embarrassing situation to be in. He needs helps getting dressed, assistance getting about and generally he’s overly reliant on his friends.
University has been surprisingly adept to his needs, no doubt helped by Combeferre having a word with the office and Enjolras’ patent glare. But, now, faced with his own front door that he can’t open, it’s all too much. It’s been a long day; having to record his lectures, unable to make notes. It’s embarrassing, It’s a nightmare.
Enjolras answer the door with a frown, since Grantaire had taken his slinged hand out of its noose to deign to knock on his own front door rather than risking his wrist to turn the key. But he face lightens a little when he sees that Grantaire is in no mood to be lectured, and he tugs him into the hallway.
Enjolras’ touch is more comforting than helpful, as he pulls away Grantaire’s jacket and bag, long, smooth motions over his shoulder and back, and Grantaire could just melt into the action.
"Feeling better now?"
Enjolras’ hands are resting on his shoulders, brushing off invisible lint, and Grantaire can’t resist the opportunity, even as he knows it’s callous. “Feels like I’ve been hit by a car.”
Enjolras’ hands still on his shoulder, and Grantaire feels the guilt that he knew was coming.
"That’s still not funny Grantaire," even as Enjolras sounds disappointed he still leans in to hug him. And Grantaire only knows what it felt like to be the one hurt, not the one watching.
"I know, I know, I’m sorry."
He can’t exactly hug back in his position, which makes Enjolras draping himself across Grantaire’s back slightly awkward, but he nuzzles his hair as best he can, smiling into the crook of Enjolras’ neck.
They stand like that for a long moment, just breathing in tandem. The hallway is
"Right, okay. Come on, let’s get you sorted," and with that Enjolras kneels.
He’s tugging at Grantaire’s boots; pulling each foot individually into his lap undoing the laces and easing them from his feet, adding the discarded shoes to the pile of mismatches footwear in the hallway. There’s Enjolras’ boots and Grantaire’s work shoes, all sorts from both of them, all thrown together haphazardly.
Then he kneels up, hands moving slowly up his legs to end up bracketing Grantaire’s hip, and then Enjolras smiles.
Enjolras’ smirk is lethal, a feral and beautiful thing and Grantaire knows, just knows what he’s thinking. He wants to hold onto something, to the wall, to Enjolras’ hair, anything, but he’s trapped by plaster and casing and is at the mercy of Enjolras whims. Enjolras seems to realise this too, and his smile widens, and his fingers crook into Grantaire’s waistband.
"Well, while I’m down here…"
And he leans forward.