Work Text:
The moment Grantaire steps foot into his place of work, he internally groans and fights the urge to turn right back around. Instead, he demands, “Did you seriously erase the pumpkins?”
“Of course,” Enjolras replies, smirking infuriatingly. “A small business such as the Musain doesn’t need to support such commercialized holidays.”
Never mind that the pumpkins in question were drawn so carefully and meticulously and were incredibly time consuming. Grantaire sighs. It’s not like his colleague would care about how much time he puts into decorating the café anyway. He dreads going to work these days because there’s always something that’s inevitably fucked up, nothing huge but definitely enough to get on his nerves, and it’s always Enjolras’s fault.
And it’s not like Enjolras ever denied being the one to swap out the letters on the cash register or leave coffee beans on the otherwise pristine counter or stack the cups too high when Grantaire confronted him about it. Especially that last one. The only employee at the Musain that’s tall enough to reach those goddamn cups is Enjolras, and at this point, he’s just making fun of Grantaire’s height. Not to mention that he is also the only person who is insane enough to clock into work hours before the shift officially starts while somehow managing to be a mostly functioning human this early in the morning. Maybe riling Grantaire up is equivalent to drinking a nice cup of coffee to Enjolras because he is such a fucking menace-slash-enemy and has been since day one.
“I don’t get why you insist on making the place as dull as your personality,” Grantaire mutters as he marches into the back to grab his markers. He turns around, glaring. “Nobody said that pumpkins had anything to do with Halloween, and we sell pumpkin spice lattes, for fuck’s sake!”
If there’s a metaphorical thorn in Grantaire’s side, it’s definitely Enjolras. However, he doesn’t care enough to gauge Enjolras’s expression as he redraws the pumpkins and adds a pair of black kittens for good measure. Should Enjolras have the audacity to erase the kitties, he would be instantly demoted from an annoyance to straight up awful.
Enjolras scoffs, but he leaves the board alone, so Grantaire considers that a win in his book. When the first customer walks in, they both plaster their best customer service smiles onto their faces, creating the perfect image of coworkers that at the very least tolerate one another. It’s a pity that the Musain sources its pastries elsewhere because Grantaire would much rather take his anger out while kneading dough and make muffins and croissants than concoct vaguely coffee-related drinks with Enjolras, but he doesn’t really mind the relative silence with only the whirring of the machines in the back and the light chatter of customers punctuating it.
The peace only gets disrupted when someone’s clumsy kid manages to knock a drink onto the counter and the floor. Grantaire can feel his eyebrow twitch in irritation, and it only grows when Enjolras asks in a saccharine sweet voice, “Can you clean it up? I’ll take orders for you.”
Fuck him for knowing that Grantaire would do anything to avoid making a scene in front of others. He purses his lips and exhales through his nose before smiling so widely that his cheeks bunch up and his eyes curve into crescents. Anything to maintain that perfect image in front of customers after all. “Yeah, sure.”
Despite being subjected to mopping up the mess, Grantaire finds something therapeutic about cleaning. He drowns out the sounds in the background and focuses on the smooth back-and-forth of the rag and the brown liquid disappearing and leaving the surfaces sparkling clean. It’s always him who cleans up after the messes that Enjolras creates anyway, so this is nothing new. He just wishes that they weren’t created in the first place.
“I think you missed a drop,” Enjolras snarks without even looking away from the cash register. Nobody is paying any attention to them at the moment.
“I think you need to get your eyes checked,” Grantaire returns without missing a beat. He lowers his voice to whisper, “Asshole,” and then whips out his marker of revenge to add another kitten to the board.
Perhaps he should decorate the walls as well, just to irritate Enjolras back. No, he thinks, I shouldn't humor him like that. I'm better than him.
Grantaire feels like he can finally take a breath of fresh air when Éponine comes to relieve him for the afternoon shift, so he shoulders his backpack to take off without sparing Enjolras a second glance. He has class to get to, and he plans on erasing this morning from his memory, like how Enjolras erased the pumpkins from the whiteboard earlier.
But maybe if he did glance over his shoulder at the counter—the counter that fucking sparkles because of how vigorously he scrubbed it earlier—he would catch a glimpse of Enjolras staring after him with the most longing expression… as another cup gets added to the precariously teetering stack.
•───────•°•🎃•°•───────•
“Marshmallow!” Grantaire cries as he dramatically throws open his apartment’s front door. After such a long day, all he wants to do is faceplant into his pillow and cuddle his cat or faceplant into his cat and cuddle his pillow. He’s not very picky.
A cute white fluff comes padding into view, and Grantaire has been cured. All the stress that accumulated from this morning and then from his classes has disappeared. He makes cooing sounds as he scoops his cat up before burying his face in her soft fur. Marshmallow meows at him and softly boops the top of his head in return.
“I can always trust you to make me feel better,” Grantaire mumbles. “Enjolras is such an asshole to me.”
“Mrow.”
“I know! And I don’t even know what I did to deserve such terrible treatment! It’s like he hates my very existence or something, or he can’t stand me being remotely happy while working.”
Marshmallow only blinks at him.
Grantaire sighs. “And now I’m rambling to my cat, who likely doesn’t even know what I’m saying nor will respond to me in a manner that I’ll understand. Anyway, how does Enjolras even have any friends when he acts like that, or is it just me that gets this kind of shitty attention? Is he really so miserable that he has to take it out on someone as adorable as me?”
“Mrrp.”
“Okay, maybe you do understand me,” he says, smiling a little as he scratches behind Marshmallow’s ears. What a cutie. “I’m done whining about Enjolras. What are you going to be this year for Halloween?”
Last year, Grantaire painstakingly crocheted a pumpkin costume for Marshmallow, who was surprisingly docile when he put her in it. Perhaps he’ll bring pumpkin Marshmallow back for his friends who loved her so much. Speaking of his friends, he has yet to complain to Joly and Bossuet about what conspired this morning. They should be sick of hearing his woes in regards to Enjolras by now, as it’s been months of suffering since the beginning, but instead, they seem to think it’s amusing.
In fact, Joly has insisted that the constant taunting and teasing are signs of a crush. Grantaire scoffs to himself. As far as he knows, nobody has ever harbored a crush on him or expressed feelings for him in the past, and Enjolras would be no exception. He’s just rude to Grantaire for the sake of being rude and an asshole for the sake of being an asshole. There’s nothing else to it.
“Ugh, I need to stop thinking about him!” Grantaire screeches, inadvertently startling Marshmallow, who bats at his nose indignantly. “You’re right, sorry.”
Tearing himself away from his pillow, he shuffles over to his closet to change into his comfy pajamas and dig through his meticulously organized drawers for Marshmallow’s pumpkin costume. Putting it on her will definitely make him feel better. He also considers printing pictures of his cat out and putting them up all over the Musain just to piss Enjolras off in return, but he quickly decides against that.
Grantaire might cry if Enjolras ends up ridiculing his cat, and someone that annoying and terrible doesn’t deserve to be graced by Marshmallow’s majestic presence in the first place. Enjolras can insult Grantaire as much as he does—he is far past caring—but a single word against Marshmallow is already too far.
He hugs Marshmallow a little tighter, and when Marshmallow puts her paws around his neck, he internally sobs, thinking that they really are one another’s emotional support.
•───────•°•🎃•°•───────•
“I’m going to buy pumpkin plushies, and you can’t stop me,” Grantaire announces when he marches through the back door of the Musain. He glances at the whiteboard, smiling to himself when he sees that his little doodles are still there, just as they have been every day for the past week.
Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Do what you want, but if they mysteriously disappear, don’t complain.”
“You’re terrible,” Grantaire shoots back in a heartbeat, already whipping his phone out. Rush hour has long since passed, so he has no qualms with browsing online while waiting for more customers.
He leans forward, propping his elbows on the counter as he scrolls for Halloween and fall-themed decorations while instinctively sticking his butt out. It’s not really on purpose or anything—it’s mostly just comfortable, but it certainly does not call for Enjolras to reach over to tug on the knot holding his apron in place.
“Seriously?” Grantaire mumbles, straightening and glaring at his coworker. As he redoes the apron strings, he asks, “What’s your problem?”
“You,” Enjolras replies simply. He has an unreadable expression on his face, which is too irritating for words. Grantaire can never tell what’s happening in that dumb head of his.
For far too long, he has been absolutely terrorized by Enjolras in ways he never thought were possible, but he’s too stubborn to talk to the manager about it or resign. It’s just his luck that he’s a broke college student, who happens to be in possession of sufficient latte art skills.
“Oh, fuck off,” Grantaire grumbles right as the door opens and a customer walks in. Immediately clamming up, he puts on a sweet smile. It only drops when he turns to prepare the order and realizes that the cups are stacked above a reasonable height again. Internally screaming, he coos, “Enjolras, darling, would you be so kind as to hand me a cup?” and bats his eyelashes a couple times for good measure.
Grantaire expects Enjolras to scoff at the pet name and ignore him because that man is so fond of scoffing and ignoring his requests and complaints, but to his surprise, he watches a barely noticeable flush rise to Enjolras’s cheeks as he’s wordlessly handed a cup. Huh, interesting. Perhaps he should consider catching Enjolras off guard with pet names more often if it means some peace of mind.
“I’m not that petty,” Grantaire mutters under his breath, hands going on autopilot as he makes the customer’s drink. “Pumpkin plushies.”
“What’d you say?”
“Nothing, honey.”
Okay, maybe he is that petty, but he should quit before Enjolras becomes immune to it or, God forbid, begins to use pet names against him too.
“You two are such a cute couple,” the customer suddenly gushes, startling Grantaire into nearly dropping their drink.
“What?!” the two of them chorus in unison before side-eyeing each other with no small amount of hostility.
“Ah, you misunderstand,” Grantaire splutters as he hurriedly hands the drink over with a forced smile, and he just knows that his face is flaming red with embarrassment. “We’re just coworkers.” Not to mention that they aren’t even friends. “Have a nice day!”
Gulping down a couple deep breaths, he presses his hands to his cheeks. Unsurprisingly, they’re warm to the touch. Enjolras isn’t looking at him, at the very least, so he inhales and exhales in hopes of cooling them down. He quickly forgets everything that conspired in the last few minutes when a sudden flow of customers arrives.
The pumpkin plushies will have to take a backseat for now.
And all things considered, Enjolras and Grantaire admittedly do work well together when no words are being exchanged or thrown, rather. How Enjolras is able to keep a cool air while taking orders from that many people without fumbling is beyond Grantaire, but it doesn’t matter. Grantaire prefers making drinks because of how therapeutic pouring coffee and milk and drawing cute autumn-themed designs can be anyway.
It’s not like Enjolras can comment on how bats and pumpkins are symbols for a commercialized holiday when they’re already on the lattes. Grantaire even hums a little to himself as he busies himself with the machines, deft hands quickly pouring cream and doodling small kittens on the paper cups. He enjoys seeing the customers’ wide smiles when they receive their drinks, unlike a certain demon coworker.
Things only begin to gradually slide downhill when Grantaire slips on a small pile of stray coffee beans, undoubtedly placed there by none other than his lovely coworker-but-actually-archenemy. His eyes fly wide as he blurts out, “Holy-!”
Fortunately, he isn’t holding any hot coffee to potentially spill onto himself, but the hand that quickly reaches out to support his back burns a metaphorical hole through his sweater.
“Tch. Don’t embarrass yourself more than you already do,” Enjolras grumbles, snatching his hand back as though the mere idea of touching Grantaire disgusts him.
“What, are you afraid I’ll make you look bad or give you secondhand embarrassment?” Grantaire snaps in return. “Don’t worry, I’m self-aware enough to know that I’m nothing special in the first place.”
For the rest of the shift, he avoids any sort of eye contact or interaction with the bane of his existence, instead choosing to wallow in his own misery. He needs to stare and coo at some pictures of Marshmallow in her pumpkin costume before class to recharge his social battery. Cuddling with her would be ideal, but he can’t exactly do that at the moment.
Too engrossed in cat pictures, Grantaire doesn’t notice Enjolras hovering around him, completely unsure of how to reassure him that he’s not useless at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. Words usually fail Enjolras when he’s in the presence of his cute coworker, much to his endless frustration, but this time, he doesn’t immediately regret what comes out of his mouth.
“Is that your cat?”
Grantaire glances up from his phone and nearly bumps his forehead against Enjolras’s after startling from being in sudden close proximity to an admittedly attractive face. One that he dislikes, that is. It’s unfair that Enjolras is such an objectively handsome guy who is built like a fucking statue, yet he chooses to be an asshole by leaning over Grantaire’s shoulder.
“Is my privacy nonexistent?”
“I asked you first,” Enjolras reminds him in a voice full of mirth as he practically breathes against Grantaire’s ear. The action makes him feel eternally grateful that his curly hair is long enough to hide the tip when it rapidly reddens.
Grantaire glares at him and scoffs to disguise how flustered he is, and he isn’t sure what compels him to mumble, “Yeah, this is my cat.” He knows he sounds a bit defensive, but, to be fair, conversation—or bickering, rather—with Enjolras hasn’t exactly warranted anything otherwise.
“Cute.” And that’s all Enjolras says before he wanders off to pour some grounds into the coffee machine and separates the Leaning Tower of Compostable Cups in two, leaving Grantaire more confused than anything.
He thought their hatred was a mutual thing after all.
•───────•°•🎃•°•───────•
Unfortunately, Grantaire doesn’t stop thinking about that little interaction, not even when he’s out with his friends. He squeaks when Joly snaps his fingers in front of his face.
“So what’s got you sighing with your chin in your hand?” Joly asks, smirking a little. “Or should I ask who?”
“I’m not thinking about Enjolras,” Grantaire replies a little too quickly. Only then does he realize his mistake, and he utters a quiet, “Fuck.”
“I mean, you’re always thinking about him. I don’t even know why I asked.”
Bossuet snorts and leans over to feign a whisper into Joly’s ear. “I’ve never seen him with that expression on his face when he complains about Enjolras though.”
“What expression?” Grantaire squawks, indignant.
Both of his friends immediately gaze at each other with the most disgustingly lovestruck looks on their faces before turning back to him, eyebrows raised as if challenging him to deny it. Grantaire pouts and crosses his arms as he slumps further down into his seat. He knows his friends mean well, and he knows that they know he’s a romantic through and through. After all, he has given them hell by constantly and loudly gay yearning for someone to give him hugs and kisses since forever ago.
According to Joly, he’s simply too cute to lack a significant other, whatever that means.
“Exams are coming up,” Grantaire says, expertly swerving the conversation topic around. “I haven’t even begun studying yet.”
“And we all are aware that you won’t until the night before anyway,” Joly retorts. “Have you decided what you’re going to dress up as for Halloween? ‘Chetta, Bossuet, and I have yet to find a sufficient throuple costume to wear all day.”
“I have work that afternoon, so I haven’t thought about it,” Grantaire admits. He feels a little ashamed because Halloween is his favorite holiday, and he’s put way more thought into his cat’s costume than he has his own.
“Dress up as a slutty cat,” Bossuet offers. “It’ll be a step up from your cat onesie from last year.”
Rolling his eyes, Grantaire mutters, “Right, I’ll just walk into my classes in fishnets and a leotard. What a great idea, scarring my TA’s and professors for life.” Scarring Enjolras for life does seem rather enticing though, but he is definitely not brave enough to pull that off, especially in front of customers. “I’ll just be a barista.”
His friends boo, but it’s all in good fun.
•───────•°•🎃•°•───────•
Grantaire is in a decidedly foul mood when he clocks in one afternoon.
When things just stack up on top of each other, he inevitably accepts that it’s not going to be a good day. He only got two hours of sleep after staying up to finish his classics essay, Marshmallow refused cuddles in the morning, which is bizarre because she loves being cuddled by him, and then he got his midterm results back during lunch. The email announcing his subaverage score was immediately followed by one from his manager, asking him to work the closing shift at the Musain today, when he should be taking his allotted hours off and away from his archenemy. And just to really rain on his already abysmal day, his contacts ripped in the afternoon, and he didn’t bring a backup pair or his glasses, so he couldn’t pay attention to his last lecture at all.
So instead of coming straight to the café, he had to rush home, discover that he needs to order more contacts, and practically run here to make it on time, glasses askew and hair flopping over his sweaty forehead.
It’s no surprise that Grantaire feels absolutely exhausted without having to deal with Enjolras, so the moment he sees his beloathed coworker’s face, he fights the urge to turn around and walk right back out. Enjolras, on the other hand, simply glances at him when he approaches the counter and then immediately does a double take, expression still as unreadable as ever.
“What?” Grantaire asks, venom lacing his voice. He hates being under the scrutiny of others.
The silence that follows is so awkward that it’s almost suffocating. At last, Enjolras breaks it and responds, “You look terrible.”
Mentally counting to ten, Grantaire pushes his glasses up his nose and wills away the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. When his vision clears, he notices the whiteboard, and his eyes immediately well up again without his permission. “T-the pumpkins…”
He really hates himself for crying in front of the last person he wants to appear vulnerable in front of over something as trivial as the pumpkins he doodled—or the lack thereof—but he’s tired, and there’s only so much he can take before the metaphorical dam breaks. His only saving grace from further embarrassment is the absence of customers.
“Shit, are you crying?”
Grantaire sniffles and turns his face away. “No, my contacts are making my eyes burn.”
“But you’re wearing glasses?”
“Oh, just leave me alone!” he snaps, tears streaming down his cheeks now. “Isn’t seeing me like this enough to fulfill your fucking sadistic tendencies? I- I don’t even know what I did to you to deserve such hell in the first place!”
Enjolras stiffens, clearly not expecting Grantaire to finally lash out. Wordlessly, he shuffles away from the counter, leaving him to furiously wipe his tears in vain. And then Enjolras does something completely unexpected: he flips the sign indicating that the café is open and locks the door.
“What are you doing?” Grantaire demands in between hiccups. “It’s nowhere near closing time!”
“There’s nobody around,” Enjolras responds, rolling his eyes. “Besides, how are you supposed to work when you’re crying too much to do anything else?”
“And- and whose fault is it?”
Enjolras does look a little guilty, and he probably feels guilty too if the way he goes and fetches the marker is any indication. Grantaire watches, bewildered, as Enjolras carefully traces back over the faded lines on the whiteboard. He doesn’t even need the stool that Grantaire usually has to fetch in order to reach the top edge, and one by one, little lopsided pumpkins appear along the border.
Quite frankly, they’re the ugliest pumpkins that Grantaire has ever seen, but there’s something so charming about them. And when Enjolras makes a hastily drawn cat sit on top of one, Grantaire gives into the urge to burst into tears again.
“Jesus fuck,” Enjolras curses, startled, when a loud sob escapes Grantaire’s throat. “That was supposed to cheer you up, what the fuck… shit, do you need a hug?”
Enjolras is just about the last person that he would willingly accept a hug from, but seeing as his coworker from hell is the only other person in the room, he will take what he can fucking get. Nodding and furiously swiping at his cheeks with his sweater paws, Grantaire stands up from his pitiful little crouch so fast that he gets lightheaded before diving straight into Enjolras’s open arms, not even minding when his glasses get smushed against his nose.
It’s no secret that Grantaire loves hugs and any sort of affectionate physical contact. His friends never shy away from him when he throws his arms around them, and they return his hugs equally as enthusiastically. Joly always pats his head, and Bossuet runs a hand along his back in the most comforting way. Even Bahorel’s headlocks are appreciated—Grantaire would never mind being trapped by those biceps—and Feuilly isn’t really one for hugs, but he always allows Grantaire to cling to him or cuddle up to him. Éponine loudly complains, but she doesn’t hesitate to pull Grantaire into her lap and tighten her hold on his waist.
Enjolras hugs like he has never hugged anyone before.
But even with how stiff he is, his arms do admittedly provide some semblance of comfort. It’s nice. With his glasses carefully placed on the counter, Grantaire’s face is practically mushed in the fabric of Enjolras’s T-shirt, and despite the chilly autumn weather, Enjolras is just so warm. He smells like a soothing combination of espresso and citrus shampoo when Grantaire inhales deeply too.
When Enjolras eventually relaxes and hugs him a little tighter, enveloping him fully in his delicious—delicious?—warmth, Grantaire feels his heart beat erratically. Why is he allowing Enjolras to hug him? More importantly, why is he actually enjoying this?
“Do you, ah, do you feel better?” Enjolras asks quietly when the sniffling dies down.
Still a little choked up, Grantaire can only nod, effectively rubbing his cheek against Enjolras’s chest. It’s a well-defined chest too, not that that’s really of any importance, never mind that his brain is simultaneously producing so many thoughts and no thoughts at all as he reevaluates his opinion on his coworker being an asshole.
Perhaps tomorrow, they’ll go back to insulting each other and shit, but Grantaire is sick and tired of it. On the other hand, this nice version of Enjolras is just a bit unsettling, and it’s apparently enough to make Grantaire develop a small crush on him. Mostly, he wants to shove his nose into the crook of Enjolras’s neck and just stay there.
“Uh, we can look at pictures of your cat until the afternoon rush?”
Voice muffled, Grantaire mumbles, “What makes you think I want to show you pictures of my beloved Marshmallow?”
“Marshmallow,” Enjolras whispers almost reverently. “That’s fucking adorable.”
“Hm?”
“Nothing! I thought that maybe looking at cat pictures would make you feel better. I’m obviously absolute shit at comforting others, if you can’t tell.”
“It takes practice,” Grantaire says, still clutching at the front of his coworker’s shirt. It’s soaked with his tears and snot, and that’s just embarrassing for him. “And, um, maybe not insulting me whenever I feel the slightest bit happy? I can tell that you’re not the awful person I thought you were, so I have no idea if it’s me that’s so easy to poke fun at or…”
“Maybe initially,” Enjolras admits when Grantaire trails off. It’s quiet for a moment, making it clear that he’s trying to gather his words. After months and months of working with him, Grantaire knows that there’s nobody quite as emotionally constipated, which means he waits patiently.
They stand there behind the counter, wrapped up in each other. Grantaire has never experienced anything as weird as hugging his sworn enemy, so he also takes a moment to process everything.
At last, Enjolras says, “I think I was jealous of you-”
“What?!”
“Let me explain, dummy.” He flicks Grantaire’s forehead, which, ow. “You’re just effortlessly charming with customers, and you’re skilled at, uh, making drinks. Yeah. I’ve been working here for over a year before you started, but my latte art will never hold a candle to yours.”
“The pumpkins already told me that,” Grantaire interjects. “But a coffee is a coffee is a coffee, and as long as it tastes good, nobody’s really complaining about what it looks like unless they’re a Karen or some Instagram influencer. Fuck them.”
“A coffee is a coffee is a- literally what the fuck. Anyway, before you so kindly interrupted, I thought I knew my way around the place, and then you came in with your pretty smile and basically tilted everything on its axis. I used to work shifts with Combeferre—he stopped to focus on his studies—and he never had a problem with how high the cups were stacked, et cetera, but that’s probably because he’s almost as tall as me, and you’re… tiny.”
“Bitch.”
“Fun-sized,” Enjolras amends. “He also knew that I’m absolute shit at keeping the place clean. As for the pumpkins, we work in a café that sells pumpkin spice everything, as you pointed out that day, and I swear, I have nightmares every autumn about pumpkins coming to life and telling me that I’m not doing well in classes while laughing at me.”
Grantaire blinks. “I don’t even know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything then. But basically, we already established this cat-and-mouse workplace relationship at that point-”
“Please tell me I’m the cat.”
“No fucking way. Stop interrupting. As I was saying, it would’ve been weird to suddenly stop, y’know? Uh, that wasn’t an invitation to answer,” Enjolras quickly adds when Grantaire opens his mouth. It closes with a snap and transforms into a sad little pout. “See? You’re infuriating and slightly intimidating because you have everyone wrapped around your finger, and you don’t even know it.”
“You could’ve just talked to me,” Grantaire says softly, pulling away from Enjolras to hug himself tightly. “I’m, like, the opposite of intimidating.”
“Until I erase the pumpkins.”
“Until you erase the pumpkins.”
“And I swear that I’m not usually an asshole,” Enjolras confirms, and Grantaire thinks it’s kind of stupid to feel a huge weight lift off of his chest after such a simple statement. “Well, I know I look unapproachable and that I can be a real asshole sometimes—I’m self-aware enough to say that—but with you, it was mostly cute aggression?”
He sounds so unsure that Grantaire flaps his arms, entirely lost. This conversation has taken so many turns that it should’ve fallen off a cliff, like, ten minutes ago.
“I don’t even know what that means, but we can strike a deal,” he suggests. “I’ll show you pictures of my baby, and you’ll do anything I tell you to. And we can forget about everything that happened up until now unless it’s to make fun of it.”
Enjolras rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He must be so beautiful when he smiles fully, Grantaire thinks absently, eyes widening in disbelief that he even thought such a thing about his enemy-slash-coworker-turned-possible-former-enemy.
“Deal. Anything for Marshmallow.”
Grantaire shoves his glasses back onto his face and whips his phone out faster than he ever has and pulls up a picture of his cat in her pumpkin costume for the sake of a little revenge. Enjolras looks properly exasperated after glancing at it, but the expression on his face melts into one of such shining fondness that Grantaire has to turn away for a moment to hide the sudden redness in his cheeks.
And Enjolras was right. Pictures of Marshmallow do make him feel better.
•───────•°•🎃•°•───────•
“... he definitely has a crush on you.”
“He definitely doesn’t have a crush on me, Joly.”
“Well, now that we know that Enjolras has been pulling your metaphorical pigtails all this time, you should reconsider denying it.”
•───────•°•🎃•°•───────•
A week before Halloween, Grantaire practically skips into the Musain in a good mood because he has a package. Joly made fun of him earlier for obsessively checking his phone for shipping updates during his last lecture of the day, but he doesn’t care. He has a package, and Enjolras will love its contents.
“Enjolras!” Grantaire calls out after hurriedly tying his apron around his waist. Lately, he has enjoyed coming to work more often than not, gracefully accepting the light jabs and teasing now that he knows there’s no real malice behind those words and returning the favor.
Enjolras pokes his head into the break room. “What’s up? The line isn’t getting any shorter, by the way.”
Quickly snatching the cardboard box off of the table, Grantaire ushers Enjolras back out by flapping the fuzzy sleeves of his pink sweater. “I have a package.”
“I can see that?”
Grantaire deftly opens the box as his coworker takes the next few orders. Eyes sparkling at the contents of the box, he barely holds back his squeal and instead pulls out a pair of pumpkin plushies.
“They’re so cute,” he coos, squishing one.
“Grantaire, can you please make drinks- what the fuck is that.” It’s phrased more like a statement than a question. “I swear…”
Clutching the pumpkin plushie with both hands, Grantaire spins around to stare at Enjolras. Wordlessly, he passes it over and tilts his head to observe as Enjolras accepts it, grasping the stem with his long fingers in an undignified manner, looking utterly bewildered. Grantaire leaves him there and begins making drinks.
After a minute, Enjolras rejoins him, still holding the plushie. He plops it on the counter next to his register and leans over to mutter, “I can’t believe you were so excited about a pumpkin plush.”
“I bought one for Marshmallow too,” Grantaire simply responds. “I took some pictures too. If you wanna see, that is.”
“Suddenly, I love pumpkin plushes, and I never questioned your decision to begin with.”
“Hah!”
The pumpkin remains there until the afternoon rush peters out, and Grantaire discreetly takes note of how Enjolras pretends to ignore it but doesn’t stop himself from occasionally reaching over to give it a little squish, almost like it’s a stress ball.
Oh, please do that to my butt- NOPE.
In fact, he’s so occupied with Enjolras that he doesn’t pay attention to the cup that he’s currently pouring coffee into.
“Fuck me in the ass,” Grantaire mutters under his breath when the liquid begins to drip down the sides of the cup and onto the counter.
Enjolras raises an eyebrow at him and asks, “Is that an invitation?”
“Fuck off after you get me a towel.”
“Of course.” Sketching a sarcastic little bow, Enjolras does as he’s told, but not before giving Grantaire’s ass a pointed look.
Grantaire hates that a shiver runs up his spine as his cheeks flush pink. He hurriedly wipes up the mess and makes the drink again, handing it off with the best smile he can muster while receiving one in return. Perhaps Enjolras is correct about Grantaire’s ability to keep customers happy.
“Oi, flirting at work?” a familiar voice pipes up, and Grantaire whips his head around to see Éponine approaching as she ties her apron.
“Nope,” he responds at the same time that Enjolras says, “Uh-huh,” without even glancing away from the register.
Éponine glances between them and snorts as she waves them off. “Sure, whatever. As you were.”
It’s probably just a joke because things like that always end up being a joke, but Grantaire can’t stop thinking about how Enjolras so nonchalantly accepted Éponine’s ridiculous accusation. He just stands there dumbly until Éponine swats his shoulder and raises a pointed eyebrow.
“Work now, stare later,” she whispers. “And you’re gonna tell me everything after we clock off.”
•───────•°•🎃•°•───────•
It’s not exactly a surprise that the Musain is busy on the weekend before Halloween, but Grantaire is taken aback when he sees the sheer number of people gathered inside the café. Most of them are in work clothes but there are a few in vaguely Halloween themed outfits and costumes.
Grantaire is satisfied to see them taking pictures with the pumpkin plushies and the whiteboard that has not been erased—and only added to—since that fateful afternoon, save for the daily drink highlights.
Wordlessly, he hands Enjolras the bundle in his arms and mumbles, “I estimated, so if it doesn’t fit, well, just deal with it.”
“What is it?” Enjolras asks. To the customer, he says, “That’ll be three euro, fifty, thanks.” What a multitasker.
“See, if you just look at it, you wouldn’t even have to ask,” Grantaire snarks, and feeling nice, he sighs. “It’s your Halloween costume.”
Only when there’s a lull does Enjolras take the bundle from him and unfold it. He stares at it for a long moment before giving Grantaire a long and flat look. “A pumpkin sweater.”
“Wow, such enthusiasm! Such gratitude for my hand-knit gift!”
Grantaire has the pleasure of watching his coworker-turned-maybe-friend’s mouth drop open.
“How long did this take?” Enjolras demands.
“Not long,” Grantaire says, lying through his teeth. He labored over it for hours if not days after making one for himself. That doesn’t even include all one hundred times he had a crisis about whether Enjolras would like it at all or not and just barely stopped himself from taking it apart stitch by stitch. In the end, he settled on finishing it, if only to see the abhorred look on Enjolras's face. Or that's what he told himself.
It didn’t help that Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta all took one glance at it when they came over yesterday and chorused in truly frightening unison, “Yeah, you’re never beating the couple-slash-dating allegations.”
Grantaire shudders at the creepy memory, despite how befitting of the season it was. But he does feel warm and fuzzy when Enjolras tugs the sweater over his head, making his hair frizz up, and it has very little to do with the matching sweater that he himself is already wearing.
It might have to do with the way it stretches so sexily- Grantaire internally slaps himself.
“Thank you,” Enjolras mutters, though there’s more than a hint of sincerity in his brusque tone. That makes Grantaire fuzzy inside too.
He can’t help but beam. “No problem. Now let’s kick this line’s ass.”
The customer patiently waiting at the counter meekly pipes up, “Please don’t kick my ass.”
•───────•°•🎃•°•───────•
“Holy shit,” Enjolras gasps as he and Grantaire slump against the table in the break room. “You can really go at it.”
“Stop making it sound like we just had sex!” Grantaire squeaks while his ears rapidly redden. Taking a few deep breaths to gather himself, he says, “I don’t need to exercise anymore for the rest of the week. Yoga can go fuck itself.”
“Yoga…” Enjolras trails off, and his eyes glaze over.
Grantaire gapes at him and reaches over to smack his shoulder. “Oi, stop thinking about me doing yoga, you pervert! I know my ass is fantastic, but we’re technically still at work!”
They are at work, yes, but when Enjolras gives him the most forlorn puppy eyes known to humankind, Grantaire folds so fast he gets whiplash. And Enjolras has the audacity to complain about Grantaire getting what he wants.
“We’re taking a break, R. Éponine and Cosette are at work, not us, and your mind is just as dirty if sex was the first thing you thought of,” Enjolras explains slowly as he rubs his eyes and leans over until his head is all but pillowed in Grantaire’s lap. “Ugh, I wanna take a nap.”
A month ago, Grantaire would shove him off in a heartbeat. Right now, he drops a hand into Enjolras’s golden hair and starts petting it like he would with Marshmallow. Softly, he replies, “Go ahead.”
Enjolras mumbles something incoherent, turns over until his face is smushed into Grantaire’s tummy and his arms lazily wind around his waist, and promptly drops off. It’s actually very comfortable to have such a warm weight in his lap, again, not unlike an overgrown cat, and Grantaire also feels calmer when the tense line of Enjolras’s broad shoulders relaxes.
Grantaire doesn’t recall dozing off, but he blinks, disoriented, when Éponine pokes her head through the entrance, and gestures vaguely at the man currently keeping him locked in place. Éponine simply smirks at him, waves back at him in a don’t worry about it manner, and leaves him to deal with the crick in his neck.
He feels a startlingly tiny bit of dismay and large amount of fondness when he notices that Enjolras drooled on his pumpkin sweater.
To occupy himself, Grantaire counts Enjolras’s pale eyelashes from where they’re fanned out against high cheekbones, and when he gets to the fiftieth, he simply accepts that he does indeed have romantic feelings for his coworker-slash-enemy-turned-friend. He doesn’t realize that he hasn’t looked away from Enjolras’s face until he stirs.
“Keep staring at me like that,” Enjolras murmurs, voice husky from his nap. His eyes aren’t even open, so how the fuck does he know?
“I’m not staring at you,” Grantaire splutters.
“Don’t even try to deny it. I could feel your giant blue eyes burning a hole through my head.”
“You’re delusional.”
“You love me for it.”
“Ye- no. No way.”
Enjolras grunts and gently rubs at Grantaire’s back through the wool of his sweater. “Okay.”
It must be Grantaire’s imagination convincing him that he hears a hint of dejection colors Enjolras’s resigned acceptance.
“Anyway,” Enjolras says, clearing his throat as he sits up. His usually immaculate hair is delightfully mussed. “We should get back to work.”
Neither of them move to do that for at least a minute as they sit in silence. Enjolras plays with Grantaire’s fingers while slowly blinking at him, and Grantaire pretends that the action isn’t remotely sweet at all.
It’s nearly closing, which just means that they have to shoo away the remaining stragglers and clean up. Éponine looks properly exhausted, and Grantaire flaps his hands at her when she insists on staying.
“Go home, ‘Ponine,” he says for the tenth time. “You’re about to keel over.”
Gaze flickering between Enjolras and Grantaire, Éponine finally nods. “I should go home before I suffocate from the sexual tension in the room.”
Before Grantaire can screech at her, she quickly flees the café, yelling a hurried farewell.
Enjolras wordlessly grabs a rag and begins wiping the counters, much to Grantaire’s surprise. He still looks adorably sleepy, and Grantaire has to force himself to mop the floor to avoid leaping into Enjolras’s arms and expecting to be caught. Blushing, he mops a little harder until the singular tile is squeaky clean.
“Are you going to show the other tiles that much love?” Enjolras asks, voice a lot closer than Grantaire anticipated. It makes him jump, and he cautiously turns his head to stare his coworker in the eyes.
“Are you ever going to stop surprising me like that?” Grantaire retorts, grateful that the question doesn’t come out as an embarrassing squeak. “And all the tiles get equal parts love from me, thank you very much! I’m almost insulted that you sound so skeptical.”
Then Enjolras does the unexpected. He simply smiles, flashing his dimples, and leans forward to hook his chin over Grantaire’s shoulder—tall bastard—and turns his head a little to kiss the apple of Grantaire’s flushed cheek. It’s not abnormal for a French person to do that, but it is abnormal for Enjolras to suddenly act so affectionate, almost like they’re a couple, and then pull away to nonchalantly continue putting up chairs, leaving Grantaire in a state of shock and feeling significantly colder.
He feels a bit like the mouse with the flower in that one particular video of the cat nuzzling it and then leaving it wanting more, so perhaps Enjolras was right in his comparison.
“R, I thought you were going to show the floor some proper love,” Enjolras whines playfully, and a cheeky smile plays at the corners of his lips. Fucking- “Why are you just standing there?”
“I’ll show you some proper love,” Grantaire mutters under his breath as he flings the mop aside and marches over, crowding into Enjolras’s personal space. He has the pleasure of watching Enjolras’s eyes widen before narrowing like he’s being challenged.
Usually, Grantaire would never have such audacity to get so up close and personal with anyone he’s remotely interested in, and he certainly hopes his cheeks aren’t radiating as much heat as it feels like they are. But his coworker-turned-friend’s hands are hovering near his hips, and he wishes that Enjolras would just fucking commit to it and do something about this obvious mutual interest so he doesn’t have to.
“Why, Grantaire,” Enjolras drawls in that infuriating(ly attractive) manner, “if you wanted to kiss me so badly, you should’ve just said so.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Grantaire tells him, tangling his fingers in the front of Enjolras’s pumpkin sweater. “How was I supposed to know that all I had to do was ask?”
Enjolras’s gaze softens, and Grantaire is simultaneously burning up under it and being wrapped inside of it like it’s a fuzzy blanket. His hands finally make contact with Grantaire’s waist, simply holding it and allowing the pads of his thumbs to brush against the sliver of skin between the hem of his sweater and the waistband of his jeans. Grantaire shivers and glances away.
“I thought I was being obvious, for one, but I guess not. Maybe you’re just oblivious-” Enjolras briefly lets go to flick Grantaire’s forehead to get his attention again and then tenderly cup his jaw, “-so I’ll just ask instead. May I kiss you?”
Despite having just been insulted, Grantaire huffs and pulls him closer before nodding. His eyes slowly drift closed as he feels a soft pair of lips land on his cheek and then trail to the corner of his mouth and then finally, finally slot against his own in a proper kiss. Grantaire briefly thinks that this would be a seduction if not for the gentle nature of the kiss, but Enjolras is moving away far too soon, eliciting a needy sound that can’t be held back.
Enjolras studies Grantaire’s face for a few seconds that feel like forever before leaning in to kiss him again, getting his hands under Grantaire’s thighs to carry him the short distance to the counter.
“This can’t be sanitary,” Grantaire gasps, nearly knocking a pumpkin plushie to the floor when Enjolras moves to press his lips to his jaw and then to his neck.
“Hm, you’re right.”
“Damnit, I should’ve recorded you saying that to have some sort of leverage over you.”
“We’re probably moving too fast too,” Enjolras says, conveniently ignoring him. “We should go on a date first.”
Grantaire scoffs and crosses his arms across his chest, still a little miffed that he isn’t going to get any more kisses anytime soon. “What makes you think I’m going to agree to go on a date with you?”
He regrets the taunt when Enjolras’s expression wavers. Enjolras is rarely ever hesitant, which really shows just how deep he’s in this. “Well, I assumed, but if you don’t want to, that’s, um, fine too. I can close up, so you can leave if you want… you’re probably tired-” He moves to leave his place between Grantaire’s legs, and that just won’t do.
Wordlessly, Grantaire refuses to continue his role as a mouse chased by a cat by yanking Enjolras back in to kiss him as sweetly as possible. “Yeah, I’ll go on a date with you.”
“God, you’re so pretty- I mean, that’s great. Yeah, cool,” Enjolras babbles, but he’s smiling again, and that’s going to be burned into Grantaire’s memory for the next three to five business days. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to sleep tonight.
The compliment has him blushing, however. Enjolras takes the opportunity to tease him about it, claiming that he’ll lay the compliments on thick just to witness his cheeks redden over and over. Grantaire whines in embarrassment and buries his face in Enjolras’s shoulder, but he’s actually so happy that his face kind of hurts from smiling.
“I like you so much,” Enjolras murmurs, squeezing him and then pressing a kiss to his cheek. He peers into Grantaire’s eyes and grins. “I like you so much that I’ll consider not stacking the cups so high.”
Flustered, Grantaire blurts out, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Hm? Like what?”
“Like I- I shit the galaxy or something! I like you too, by the way!”
Enjolras laughs and squishes Grantaire’s cheeks, making them bunch up before leaning in to kiss his puckered lips. “You’re so cute.”
“Mmph!”
•───────•°•🎃•°•───────•
“It’s a tiny pumpkin!”
“I’m breaking up with you, R.”
“But… Marshmallow cuddled with it last night!” Grantaire protests, widening his eyes and pouting the way he knows his enemy-turned-(boy)friend will definitely cave in to. He even stretches onto his tiptoes to kiss Enjolras’s cheek. “She also said hi.”
After holding his pleading stare for all of one second, Enjolras pinches the bridge of his nose and allows Grantaire to cuddle up to him. He sighs and curves a possessive hand around his hip to pull him closer. “You’re such a menace.”
“Mhm.”
Enjolras bends down to drop a brief kiss onto Grantaire’s lips. “And you’re lucky I love you. Happy Halloween, sweetheart.”
“Mhm, happy Halloween- wait, what?”
“Oi, get back to work, you two!”