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The thing is, Grantaire likes his job well enough at the small yet popular cafe down the road from the university. The fact that he’s irrevocably in love with his boss has nothing to do with it, or so he tells himself— he enjoys the peaceful, yet bustling atmosphere during rushes, the smiling customers and the smell of coffee and vanilla beans and soft, chocolate brownies which Combeferre chides him from snacking on throughout his shifts but he does so anyways. He rarely has to deal with any disrespect, their customers usually too tired or stressed or old to even offer anything but a smile and gentle ordering. Grantaire wishes them all the best as he takes their order, not one for socialising but always managing to find a way to make them his newest friend, and himself theirs.
He doesn’t even care that Enjolras insists he take the order and move on to keep things pacey— he’s grown to not give a shit what the goddamn angel says, anyways. At least, that’s what he tells himself. Talking to customers is the best part of his job, and he genuinely looks forwards to his shifts, especially closing ones. In his experience, all the best stories come with the closing shift, and R loved stories.
Which was why, when he arrived at his closing shift on Friday feeling like he might’ve cried at the idea of doing anything, /anything/ other than sleeping, it didn’t take his coworker and best friend Jehan long to notice something was up.
“You good, mon petit chou?” They greeted, in between customers. Their strawberry blonde hair, which looked more ginger in the golden rays of sunset shining though the glass doors, was braided into a crown that would have made Grantaire smile, had it been any other day, had he been feeling any better. He didn’t quite manage a smile this time, however, merely offering a small wave as he hurried out the back to tie his apron and pull himself together.
It was fine, he was fine. Uni had just been a lot, and Enjolras was, well, Enjolras, and it was nothing really— they’d gotten into a debate during class, as always, but it was nothing worse than usual, and it wasn’t like they’d talked anyways, just— he was tired, that was it. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning, hadn’t had time. There was a million unopened emails in his inbox, including his grades from last semester that he was yet to check. He had one hundred and ten reasons to stress, but at least he had a closing shift, and then he could go home and sleep, or maybe paint, or maybe tag along with Jehan for cuddles with their cat, Aslan.
He tied his apron, taking a few deep breaths which did absolutely nothing to make him feel any better, and went out to the counter to give Jehan a little relief so they could take their break.
He wiped down the counter as Jehan finished taking the orders of the last three customers in the queue of parents grabbing coffees in between work and picking up their kids from school. R smiled at the faces he didn’t know, waved at the ones he did, grabbing a few cups with shaking hands to start their drinks.
Jehan sidled up next to him, also working on an order.
“Grantaire,” they hummed softly, knocking their hips together. “You’re shaking. Do you want me to call Ferre, have him find someone to cover your shift?”
Grantaire shook his head, adding a shot of caramel to his drink. “I’m fine. It’s been a long day. Have you taken your break yet?”
“No, we were too busy earlier for me to leave Éponine to herself.” They studied him briefly, making their own drink purely from muscle memory. Grantaire glanced at their order form, a vanilla mocha— he could probably do the same. “Will you be alright if I take it now, or would you rather I wait a bit for everything to settle?”
“No! No, you’re good, you need a break— Jesus Christ, Jehan, didn’t you start at 10 today?”
“I don’t mind!” they persisted. “R, really, it’s not a big deal. You’re more important than a forty-five minute break.”
He sighed, putting a lid on the iced caramel latte he’d been making. “Really, it’s fine. Go on your break, it’s not gonna be busy until like five anyways.” It was currently quarter to three. “I’ll probably just stack some cups and fluff some pillows, or something.” Holding the drink, he moved to the pick up counter, leaving Jehan at the prep bench. “Ally?”
The customer made his way there, a smile on his lips. “It’s Ali.”
Grantaire’s cheeks burned, despite his being used to this. Names weren’t his strong suit. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
Ali shrugged, telling him not to worry before heading off with his coffee. Grantaire returned to Jehan.
“Don’t start,” he warned, noticing the worry shining in their eyes. “Have a good break, I’ll see you soon.”
“I—“
“Jehan, I love you. Please leave.”
They rolled their eyes. “Curse you and your inability to accept help when it’s offered to you,” came their response, and Grantaire laughed softly at it as they left, untying their apron as they did so.
And so it began.
It was only forty-five minutes, and Jehan was nothing if not precise with their timings in spite of their forgetful tendencies, but already Grantaire felt as if the little coffee shop felt colder as they left, more hostile. He didn’t like it, missing the homely feel they all worked so hard to maintain— Enjolras would have his head if he was anything less than cheerful, lest he drive away customers, and they really couldn’t afford to lose any profits at this rate, not in this economy.
Today was just not his day. That’s what he put it down to, actually, as he finished off the rest of the orders and started to wipe down the inside counters. There was a student studying in the corner, an elderly couple on a date by the window, but other than that it was quiet save for the soft tones of music coming through the speakers Courfeyrac had insisted upon. It would be fine, he could be chill. Perhaps a brownie would help.
Making his way towards the cake display, Grantaire selected for himself a brownie to snack on. The cafe made good brownies, Cosette was a good baker, though he loathed her 3am wakeup for a 4am start every day, even on weekends.
The bell on the door chimed, signalling the entrance of a customer, and Grantaire plastered on his best customer service smile through a mouthful of brownie, swallowing quickly before greeting them.
“Salut, welcome to l’ABC, how are you today?”
The customer smirked. Grantaire fought hard to keep his smile on as his stomach dropped. Of course today would be the rare occasion they got one of /these/ ones, right as Jehan left too. He supposed it was for the better— better he cop it, than the poet.
“Aren’t you a pretty face for a barista?”
“Thank you, sir.” Grantaire’s cheeks began to hurt. Politeness was key, even if he wanted to deck him. Enjolras would have his head. “What can I get for you today?”
“How old are you, baby?”
Yuck. “Your order please, sir?”
The man scratched at his chin. Grantaire wanted more brownie.
“Yeah, alright, can I get... a dirty chai. One of them. And do me a favour, sweetcheeks, write your number on the cup,” he added, with a drawl so sickening it made Grantaire want to throw up. Preferably all over that off-brand designer top.
He ended up just ignoring it. Musichetta would be proud. “Sure, that will be $8.50.”
The man’s card tapped the scanner. The scanner beeped. Grantaire offered him a smile, and went to make his drink.
What he wasn’t expecting was for the man to follow him, standing just behind the counter next to the coffee machine.
R tried very hard not to look at him, pouring all his focus onto the drink. Froth the milk. Add the chai mix.
“You did it the wrong way round.” The man’s voice cut through his focus like a knife. Grantaire grit his teeth.
“I promise you’ll love it,” he replied, as Combeferre told him to when he first started work. Stir the chai into the milk. Prep the coffee beans.
“The customer is always right.”
Christ on a cross, Grantaire really wanted to tell this man to fuck off. Damn his dedication to positive customer service, damn it all— he was tired, and upset, and he didn’t need to deal with this right now.
“Sir, please trust the process. All our employees undergo a training course for our first three months with a focus on making the right drinks, I ask you to respect that and wait over there until your order is ready.” He fought hard to keep the tremble from his voice.
The man rolled his eyes, but fell silent as Grantaire thanked every deity he could name, walking off to the waiting area.
He finished the drink in silence, breathing shallower than he would have like to be but also not wanting to break down in the middle of the cafe.
The man was right at the counter before Grantaire could even wave him over, drink in hand. The cup was snatched from him, a sip taken. Grantaire turned to clean up.
“This is disgusting.”
Maybe he was being too hopeful when he turned to clean up, he thought, as he slowly turned around to face the customer yet again. Fuck.
“I— pardon?”
“It’s disgusting,” he repeated, taking the lid off the cup. Shit. “Make another.”
“Sir, I’m terribly sorry, but protocol doesn’t allow it.” Actually, Grantaire had no idea what the protocol said about this sorts of situations. Though he’d done the training course, he’d done most of it drunk. He didn’t know why Enjolras, Courf and Ferre kept him around. “It’s not up to me.” It completely was, and Grantaire chose no.
“I’m gonna write a complaint about the fucking terrible customer service, and you’re gonna get fired, and it will be your own stupid ass fault.”
And suddenly, there was a still quite hot dirty chai dripping down Grantaire’s apron, and a cup rolling on the ground, and the slamming of a door.
The elderly couple barely stirred, the student looked up once, frowned, and went back to studying.
Grantaire hiccuped, going into the back room for a second to change his apron. It was time for more brownie, he decided, wiping up the spill before heading back behind the counter to eat another mouthful.
A group of women chose that time to walk in.
There was about five or six of them and Grantaire withered internally, noticing their peroxide bobs of hair and mom jeans. Jehan still had another half an hour of their break left. “Fuck me up the ass,” he muttered, taking another bite of his brownie before swallowing harshly and turning to smile at the ladies.
Before he could greet them, the first in line beat him to it.
“I hope you paid for that brownie there.” Her voice was affronted, nasty. Fucking Karens.
“I assure you, madamoiselle, it’s covered. What can I get for you?” It had not, in fact, been covered. Combeferre told him all the time to stop eating the brownies. Cosette ended up having to bake extra just for him. He didn’t feel as bad as he should about it.
She let out a little ‘hmph’. “An Iced latte with a—“ vanilla swirl. He knew. “Vanilla swirl.”
“Of course, ma’am, and would that be the same for your friends?” Positive customer service. Grantaire smiled through gritted teeth. Positive. Customer. Service.
The lady rolled her eyes. “Well, sure, but don’t add them to my tab.” She studied him. “You do know how to do a vanilla swirl, don’t you?”
Did he know how to— of course he knew how to fucking do a vanilla swirl. What the fuck. “I do,” he assured her. He was going to need another brownie.
He took her name, wrote it on a cup with her order, and moved on to the line of women, all managing to look identical with their glares. All of them got the same thing, all of them had their own opinion on his uniform, his hair, the cafe. He was so done, a lump painfully tight in his throat, and he was still to make their drinks, six iced lattes with a vanilla swirl. At least they didn’t all choose different milks, Grantaire sucked at remembering milks.
It wasn’t much, but it was something to focus on other than how much he wanted to just stop existing for a moment.
He made the drinks, set them out on the counter for pickup. “Ka— uh, Amber?” He called out, forcing a smile as they all moved like a herd of sheep after the first one.
They took the drinks. He tried not to flinch as one took a sip and threw out the drink into the bin next to the door. It didn’t work.
The elderly couple stood up to leave. Grantaire thanked them, they smiled. The student carried on studying.
Grantaire was trying very hard not to cry as he ate the last of his brownie, unable to do anything else that was productive. It was fine. He’d stay behind late after they closed to clean up. He could do with the quiet time.
Jehan never came back from their break. Grantaire checked his phone. He had three missed calls and a near incoherent apology from the poet, something about Aslan throwing up. It was fine. He could close alone.
Except he couldn’t, not really. It took another two customers for him to fully start crying, only just managing to escape into the back room before any customers noticed. What started as a stream turned into a rapidly flowing river, and it hurt to breathe, and Grantaire didn’t understand what was so /wrong/ today, but there was something definitely wrong.
Everything was just so bad. He didn’t know how else to describe it, he didn’t even know what was so bad. But it was awful, and his throat hurt, and he had to be careful not to cry too loudly because the walls were thin, and he couldn’t risk the customers hearing, and he had to be ready to serve anyone that came in, Enjolras would be so mad if he lost any customers— he leant against the cold metal sink, trying his very hardest to stay afloat, to not succumb to the panic he could feel.
Instinctively, he reached for his phone, hitting a random speed dial in the hopes of reaching Éponine or Bahorel or Joly. Without realising it, he’d stopped breathing in an attempt to stop the tears from flowing. His mascara would run, and the customers would leave.
“Grantaire?”
Shit. He fumbled to hang up, he hadn’t meant to call Enjolras, but his eyes were so blurry he couldn’t fucking /see/.
“Grantaire, what’s going on? You’re supposed to be working?”
He could hear Combeferre in the background, probably asking about Grantaire.
“Shit, sorry, yeah, I—“ he gasped softly, trying to disguise the sound as a cough. It didn’t work, and only served to break his voice. “Sorry, it’s fine, there’s no— no orders. Didn’t mean t-to call you. Pocket—pocket dial.”
“Grantaire.” On the phone, Enjolras’ voice was softer, worried. Against his will, Grantaire let out a little whimper, fighting to keep his breaths steady without success. “Talk to me.”
“It’s nothing, E, I’m just— just tired.” He shook his head, scrubbing a hand across his face. Thank god Enjolras couldn’t see him right now. He really ought to hang up, actually. There was still cleaning to be done, preparation for the 5-6pm rush before they closed at quarter to seven.
“Is Jehan there?”
Wordlessly, Grantaire shook his head.
“R?”
Shit. “Um. No, they’re— Aslan’s sick, they had to go in a rush. Said it was fine.”
Enjolras cursed. “Okay. I’m on my way.”
“What?” Grantaire began to tremble harder. The place was a state, he couldn’t just let his boss see it— no one was supposed to know but him.
“There’s gonna be a rush soon, right? You can’t do that alone.” The ‘not in your current state’ went unspoken, but clearly heard anyways.
“Enjolras—“
“See you soon.”
The bastard hung up. Fuck. Grantaire couldn’t help it, he crumpled to the floor, hating the fact that in less than ten minutes a literal god was going to come in and see his employee on the fucking floor, his cafe unkept, a filthy apron dripping with cold dirty chai scrunched up on a shelf. Or maybe, instead of hating all that, he hated himself for letting all that happen. Yeah, actually, that was more like it.
He couldn’t help it, either— Grantaire was well used to the fact that he was the problem in literally every issue that arises. And if he wasn’t the problem, he was the cause of it. It was just his life, most of the time he could get by with it— but every now and then he’d go and fuck up more majorly than his usual, and this would happen. And here it was, happening.
He didn’t know if any customers came in during the ten minutes he lay in the corner of the back room, shaking violently. Every breath he took hurt the lump in his throat, he felt too warm, and all he wanted to do was to /not/. But soon enough, the door was opening, and a head of golden curls was coming in.
“Shit, Grantaire.”
He watched Enjolras take in the sight of him on the floor, the sight of the dirty apron, still dripping.
And then he watched as he fucking left, walking back outside to the main part of the cafe. Grantaire had just enough sense to look up at the CCTV screens, to watch Enjolras mention something to the student in the corner, watch Enjolras go to the door and flip the sign to ‘closed’.
That wasn’t right. There was at least two hours, still, until they closed, and Enjolras was the last person who would close early, especially for Grantaire’s sake.
He couldn’t think about it, though, fighting too hard to keep his emotion at bay even without much success to really think about anything... other than the broad, golden arms that were suddenly around him, shifting them so they were both leaning against the wall.
“It’s alright, R.”
He couldn’t find it in him to reply, feeling Enjolras run his fingers through his hair, gently working through the knots.
“It is, I promise. It’s over. You can stop, now.”
It was like his boss had murmured the magic words, the key that unlocked the door barely holding up against a rush of mess. Grantaire properly, finally, broke, the tears turning into sobs and his shallow breaths turning into violent hiccups. He was so, /fucking/ tired, but it was okay. He wasn’t alone anymore, there weren’t any customers. It seemed so miniscule, and perhaps it was, but at that moment, it was a weight off his shoulders.
Enjolras held him firmly through it all, and Grantaire would have to be embarrassed later, but not now. He was a bit busy to be embarrassed now.
If he listened really hard, he would have heard Enjolras’ constant apologies for what he’d said earlier that day, for not checking up before the shift, for not sending someone in after Jehan texted him. For everything. But he wasn’t listening really hard, so. It would have to come another day.
Eventually, everything got a little easier. Enjolras was rubbing gentle circles on his back, Grantaire was crying quietly into his shoulder— it wasn’t quite /nice/, but it was better. He wasn’t panicking anymore, he was just tired and sad. It was better. Not nice, but better.
“Can I walk you home?” Enjolras asked quietly, after Grantaire’s shoulders had stopped shaking. “Or drive, however you got here?”
“Bus,” he managed. “It’s fine. I’ll get by.”
“Absolutely not. I’ll drive you. L’avenue B, d’accord?”
“Enj—“
“R,” he replied, softening. “Let me do this, let me help you.”
Grantaire frowned, not moving from his spot in Enjolras’ arms. It’s not like he could’ve, even if he wanted to, his limbs too heavy. “I don’t need your pity, Apollo, I really don’t.”
“Jesus Christ, Grantaire, it’s not pity. You’re so fucking stubborn.” Enjolras sounded equally exasperated as he did worried.
And— and Grantaire couldn’t help but smile a little bit, actually. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Yeah,” he echoed. “Just this once, stop it. Please, let me help you, it’s really the least I can do, after what you’ve had to put up with.”
Grantaire didn’t remember filling him in on everything, but apparently he had. He didn’t have enough in him to care, in all honesty, and a drive home instead of the two buses he’d usually take did sound a lot better than what Grantaire had planned. Above all, he just wanted to sleep— preferably in Enjolras’ arms, but he was too used to the unrequited feelings to let it get to him. It maybe added on a bit, however, like a cherry on top of a huge sundae.
“Whatever,” he mumbled, feeling a little tension release from Enjolras’ broad arms around him. The blonde smiled, a smile that Grantaire should really be illegal, but at the same time he was glad it wasn’t because that meant he was able to paint it without any legal repercussions. Just as he was calculating the perfect response to being convicted of such a crime in this alternate universe, Enjolras stood up, and Grantaire didn’t think twice before taking the offered hand to stand up.
Maybe it was nice.