Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Grantaire’s job is, officially, the best.

Not always. He’s not delusional. Most of the time it sucks being an artist, photographer, travel blogger, and everything else he has the vague ambition in the direction of being good at and that sometimes pays (his friends have made it a point to assure him that it is impressive to make money off dancing, boxing, and fencing tournaments, but since he doesn’t stick to any one thing professionally, what’s the point?) .

The point is, when something does work it can be fucking awesome. How many people can brag that their client is flying them out to a location so they can do accurate promotional material for their seasonal events and for tourism? That shit doesn’t happen in real life. That shit only happens in movies. 

His train of thought gets cuts off and he tunes back into the phone conversation with the client, ears perking at keywords being dropped. “...holiday offer at the hotel, so you can bring a plus one. We’ll cover the flight, too.”

“That’s great, thank you,” says Grantaire, fist pumping the air discreetly and hoping the man on the other end of the line - one Jean Valjean - didn’t hear it.

“It’s the least we can do, considering we’re stealing you away for Valentine’s day. It’s a good destination for it- well, I’m sure you’ll find out for yourself. We do want you to be honest with your materials. If there’s anything you need, Euphrasie, my daughter, is about your age, and can show you around.”

“Noted!,” chirps Grantaire, opening the sticky notes on his computer and taking down the contact information Valjean gives him. “We’ll fly in Monday evening and stay ‘til Wednesday morning, then?”

“That’s right. I just got the tickets confirmed, I’ll send them over in a moment.” Valjean’s voice is pleasant to listen to, like a warm hug. Grantaire decides he likes the man even before meeting him in person. He’s no Courfeyrac, but he has a knack for reading people.

“Thank you for this,” Grantaire says, more seriously. “I appreciate the trust you’re putting in me.” The artist wouldn’t trust himself that much, if he were honest, but he doesn’t plan on fucking this up.

“I’ve seen your work, and people have vouched for you. I know you’ll do well. I’m not worried.” Seriously, if this keeps up Grantaire might ask the man to adopt him.

They end the call shortly afterwards, and the brunet stares at the details he’d jotted down, taking a sip of room-temperature coffee from a mug carefully (read: in quick strokes of a permanent marker) labelled ‘NOT PAINT WATER.’ He looks at the calendar. He looks back at the sticky note. He opens the server he has with the Amis.

It takes a few hours for everyone to respond, and it’s disappointing news. Almost everyone has already made plans for dates, or can’t take time off work. He’s half-given up when he gets a ping in his DMs.

If the mug hadn’t been so clearly labelled one might suspect Grantaire had been drinking paint water, considering how fast he spits out his drink once he reads the message. By the time he finishes hastily wiping the desk, there’s another ping.

Speaking of trips, this is tripping him out. The last conversation he had with Enjolras, the timestamps helpfully provide, was four months ago when he’d sent over the final versions of the rally posters for printing. And even a few months before that, it was a simple exchange on what snacks and drinks to bring to the movie marathon Enjolras had been helping Courfeyrac organise. And now they’re organising travelling together. ‘ Getting ahead of myself.’

‘Don’t fuck this up, Grantaire,’ he tells himself, having a bit of an internal crisis. ‘Don’t fuck this up.’ His crush on the blond is the worst-kept secret in their group. It started when he’d walked into their highschool club meeting and picked a fight with the leader with the sexy stupid hoodie, and just never stopped, all through college with the stupid glasses and now the workforce with stupid ties and stupid tailored suits and-

Point is. There’s a good chance the blond knows he’s coocoo for cocoa puffs over him, if the occasional knowing looks were any indication, but neither ever said anything. This might be the closest they’ve ever come to addressing it (he’s been assured drunken ramblings don’t count). ‘Don’t fuck this up.’

He sees Enjolras is typing. He deletes his message. Types again. An excruciating, minute-long pause follows. Grantaire makes the most pathetic and dramatic noise he can remember ever making. There’s a notification from the server.

And then, ping.

Oh, so this is how they’re playing it. Grantaire will take that sexy silence any day. He takes a moment to react with a dancing skeleton on the server message, and returns to the DMs.

Enjolras grills him on the itinerary for the next hour, and by the time the conversation ends Grantaire feels like he knows more about their travel plans than even Valjean. Stretching a little, he checks the server.

Chapter Text

Monday late afternoon sees Grantaire outside the airport, bleary-eyed and clutching at a paper cup full of coffee. He had been hit by a burst of inspiration the night before, his mind jumping from Enjolras to their impending flight to the sensible conclusion of giving the man wings to soar through the sky with, and he ended up spending his time in front of a canvas until the early hours of the morning. 

It’s not the first time he does art of his friends by any means. Over the years he’s done pieces ranging from serious (there’s an art nouveau mural in the flat of Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta depicting them that Grantaire thinks turned out alright - and that they think turned out fantastic) to absurd (the office that they now kept for their organisation featured a set of portraits of cats done up to resemble their group that they somehow unanimously voted to put up in the back).

But this is different. He’s usually happy to gift the pieces to his friends when they’re the subjects of them (and, hell, even when they’re not; at least someone likes the things he makes) but Enjolras isn’t just a friend. He’s the crush of Grantaire’s life, the man he’s been in embarrassing love with since high school, who definitely knows about his infatuation even though neither have addressed it. 

So, cool. The painting (in a Renaissance style, no less, I can be such a pretentious fuck sometimes ) can join its brethren under lock and key in Grantaire’s studio. He does take a picture of it for posterity first, adding it to his private portofolio.

All in all, the results of the night were: a completed work that would never see the light of day given its subject, the remnants of paint on his hands that were too stubborn to go even after many washes, and the bags under his eyes as he only caught a cat nap before having to pack. At least the latter two were not uncommon as far as he was concerned.

Grantaire yawns and leans on the retractable handle of his suitcase, squinting at the arrivals. Eventually it pays off, and his back straightens as Enjolras approaches, his own suitcase trailing after him.

“Good afternoon, Grantaire,” says Enjolras, tone polite. A part of Grantaire can’t wait to see how long that lasts.

“It is good indeed, for our illustrious leader graces me with his presence,” he blurts out. “It almost makes up for you wanting to meet up this early.”

About ten seconds, then. A frown tugs at the blond’s eyebrows. “Two hours is reasonable. It gives us time to deal with anything that might cause a delay.” 

“I know, I’m just fucking with you.” He finishes his coffee and throws away the cup in the recycle bin nearby, starting to lead the way inside. They’re so close their hands keep brushing, and Grantaire’s brain power is split very unevenly between making sure he has their tickets and their check-in information on hand, and thinking about the teased date. The date is winning.

They breeze through security with nearly military efficiency, having their equipment ready to be taken out and put on their trays, and it goes to show the lengths to which he’s willing to go that he doesn’t make the comparison to Enjolras. 

It doesn’t take them long to find their gate either, and then there’s an hour to waste in the overpriced shopping area. Enjolras barely gets to sit for a second on one of the benches by the gate and start messing with his suitcase to retrieve his laptop before Grantaire interrupts him. 

“Woah, what are you doing?”

“I want to check on my emails. I sent out the order for the pamphlets this morning, and they’re supposed to get back to us.” The laptop is now out and about to be booted up.

“On the Amis email?”

“Yes?”

“Yeah, no,” says Grantaire, and takes his chances with being rude by closing the lid, making sure not to catch his fingers. “Courfeyrac’s got it.”

Enjolras makes a face. “This isn’t work. It’s just an email.”

“Which everyone is more than capable of doing. Come on, I’m buying you an overpriced dessert.”

He’s playing dirty. Enjolras’ sweet tooth is a mean thing to hold over him, and the blond seems to agree, glaring up at him for a moment before reluctantly putting the device away again.

As promised, he covers the (ridiculous) cost of the desserts without so much as a peep, watching Enjolras adding extra toppings to his crêpe just to spite him. The blond, as a rule, is not petty, or childish, and doesn’t take pleasure in letting his friends cover his costs. If this were any of their other friends, Enjolras probably wouldn’t do it. Their decade of (usually) friendly rivalry has set them up for a different sort of dynamic, though. 

So here’s Enjolras, a challenging look in his eye as he adds one more serving of Nutella to the monstrosity. And Grantaire only smiles, and extends his card to the POS when prompted. Let none say that he skimped out on their first date. 

They spend a few minutes in silence at the empty table they have found, enjoying their respective treats. Grantaire is on the last bite of his croissant when his eyes chance upon a photo booth, and though he says nothing, he’s nearly buzzing out of his skin waiting for Enjolras to also finish.

The blond, for his part, takes his time. He throws the wrapper and tissue away before finally addressing his friend’s impatience, the very picture of saintly benevolence and patience - ironic, given the artist knows better. “Yes, Grantaire?”

The brunet grins (all scrunched nose that’s been broken thrice and crooked teeth, not conventional by any means), and leads the charge, pulling back the curtain to let Enjolras step inside when they get to the booth. It earns him a dubious look, but it seems the indulgences will last a little while longer today, as the blond complies. 

Grantaire pays for the photos, two strips with four panels, and they’re given a countdown. Enjolras waits until the last moment to act, putting his arm around him and leaning in for the shots, pressing their cheeks together. The artist’s surprised look is forever immortalised in that first take, though by the third one he has put himself together enough to give Enjolras a pair of horns with a v-sign behind his head. 

Enjolras checks his phone and relays their friends’ well wishes for their flight as Grantaire takes the photo strips, putting one in his wallet and handing the other off to the blond who does the same. They end up strolling around the area a little longer before their gate opens, and the tension visibly seeps out of Enjolras’ shoulders when they’re finally seated and waiting to taxi.

“I must admit time did go by faster while looking around,” says Enjolras, begrudgingly.

Grantaire laughs, looking up from where he’d been fiddling with his camera to record their takeoff. “Even with the inflated prices and the effect they have on people who can barely afford to travel?”

It’s a clear bait, and Enjolras gives him a warning look. Grantaire smiles, and settles in as the engines rumble and the plane lines up to the runway. Focused on getting the footage, as he had promised Bossuet, he misses the soft gaze Enjolras sets on him. 

The blond no longer feels thrilled when travelling by plane, the novelty having worn off years ago, but he can tell no such thing has happened for Grantaire. The artist hadn’t grown up flying as Enjolras had, and even though he more than made up for it as soon as he had the funds to do so, that excitement never went away. 

Enjolras noticed it in the suitcases stacked by the closet, out and in plain sight, when it would be Grantaire’s turn to host their group’s unofficial get togethers. He saw it in the tickets kept in scrapbooks that Grantaire would doodle on during meetings, and pinned up on the corkboard by the photos of their friends in their small office. 

As soon as Grantaire mentioned the trip on their server, Enjolras knew he had to see this in person, his mind made up even before sending that first DM. Grantaire does have passion, shows it in their arguments, in his hobbies, in his friendship, all of which he denies and underplays. Here, though? The façade of the cynic dissipates before his very eyes.

The plane levels out at ten thousand metres, and the blond waits for the camera to be put away. “What will it be,” he asks after a moment, “aliens or the electoral system?”

It startles a laugh out of the brunet, and the blood rushes to Grantaire’s face in splotches across his cheeks and up to his ears. “Save the aliens for the trip back, and tell me about how much you hate FPTP.”

The discussion carries them through the rest of the flight. Grantaire is just as frustrating as ever, flipping wildly between playing the devil’s advocate just to watch Enjolras’ fuse shorten, and skirting dangerously close to what sounds like his actual views, much as he denies having any. He has never backed down and played nice just for the sake of it, something which Enjolras has always appreciated, but the bite is taken out of the exchange even as the bark remains.

The debate is only paused for their meals, and for their arrival, camera once again expertly recording their descent and the kiss of their landing gears on the tarmac. It was already evening when they departed, and now that it’s night they see the city lights glowing in the distance like fireflies. 

By the time they pile into a taxi they’ve somehow reached a consensus on a modified Borda count being the superior choice in certain cases, inherent flaws mitigated through additional procedures and thresholds. The ride is short, and Grantaire makes small talk with their driver, curious about the place they’re going.

Apparently it’s a smaller city or a big town, depending on how you want to look at it, with a population of under fifty thousand people. It’s picturesque, particularly with the late winter snow still coming in and adding to the idyllic charm of the old buildings. The cogs in Grantaire’s brain are already turning as they go along, planning his route for the next day and already lining up shots he wants to take.

Eventually, they get to their accommodations. Enjolras pays for their taxi this time, pressing the money into the driver’s hand before Grantaire can even reach for his wallet, much less protest. Luggage in hand, they hurry inside to escape the cold night air, heading for the reception. There is a young man behind the counter, seemingly teaching himself how to do coin flipping tricks, but he stops and greets them with a smile as they approach. His name tag reads Gervais.

“Good evening,” greets Grantaire in turn. “We have a reservation, made by Monsieur Valjean?”

“Ah, yes, Grantaire I presume? And your plus one?,” says Gervais, tapping away on his laptop. “We’ve got your room, biggest suite and all that. I’ll get your key in a sec… Here. Enjoy your stay. Let us know if there’s anything you need.”

“Thank you,” says the brunet, accepting the key.

They look around the place on their way to the elevator. It’s well decorated, and Grantaire recognises some of the paintings on display. 

“Look, your favourite, Liberty Leading the People . Well, a replica obviously. Bit of an odd choice for a hotel. And is that,” the artist stops and squints, “is that an illustration by Pierre-Édouard Frère? In a hallway? What is this place?” He sounds oddly delighted. “There’s Théodore Géricault!”

Enjolras looks around at the paintings pointed out, surprised that they don’t clash with the place. There’s an elegance to it without being too ostentatious. He should know, given the places his parents frequented as a child. These are tasteful, even if he’s a little lost as Grantaire continues flinging names of pieces. He was never one for conventional beauty, though he can appreciate the work that people put into it.

His noncommittal noises clue Grantaire in, and he stops midstep. “Enjolras, have you been to the Louvre? Actually been?”

“I went with my class once, back in school.” The blond presses the call button for the elevator, nonplussed.

“So no. Right, that’s it. I’m taking you when we get back. Never been to- well, you’re going to have to suffer through the annotated version of the tour now.” His head shakes, curls tumbling like a halo for a moment. “I’ll add plenty of political commentary for your palate, don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll have plenty of opinions on the subjects, artists, and the origins of pieces.”

Enjolras pulls a face at the mention of the art theft, and Grantaire laughs. Though they’re both thinking it, the thought of that being counted as their second date goes undiscussed. Par for the course, really.

They get through the elevator ride and up to their room in a tired and comfortable silence. The suite turns out nice, with plenty of space, first entering a small living room connected to the bedroom, with a good view of the square where the festival is being held. Even now Grantaire sees plenty of people milling about, enjoying their evening with cups of mulled wine.

“Grantaire?” And, oh, no, there’s the long-suffering tone, making a rare appearance when there’s nothing seriously wrong enough to warrant alertness or anger but also something that requires dealing with with an emotion stronger than apathy. It’s telling that Grantaire recognises the difference.

“Yeah?,” prompts Grantaire, already speedrunning the five stages of grief. Of course something goes wrong when Enjolras is here and I’m trying to impress.

“Which side of the bed do you want?”

“What.”

“The bed. Which side do you want?”

Grantaire steps into the bedroom, and is greeted by the sight of one bed. A gigantic one that could easily fit three people, larger than even the one Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta share, but there’s only one bed.

“I can sleep somewhere else,” he offers, though immediately he’s kicking himself for suggesting it. Particularly when the blond doesn’t seem uncomfortable, even though he was clearly dreading the conversation for this exact reason, judging by the dry look he gets for what came out of his mouth.

“Don’t be ridiculous, we can share,” says Enjolras. “I’ll take the left, if it’s all the same to you.” The blond moves his luggage to the side closer to the door, and takes out his laptop, settling down on the bed.

“Yeah, go for it,” replies Grantaire distractedly, and leaves Enjolras to it, making his way back to the reception. 

The least he can do is ask about a pullout couch, and hope that his sanity will be spared and he’ll get some sleep before having to work. And really, that’s what it boils down to. Sleep is not something that looks like it could be in the cards, not with Enjolras mere centimetres away, warm and sleepy and keeping the top buttons of his sleep shirt popped open, knowing him. 

If this were an actual holiday, Grantaire would take all the sleepless nights, in whatever ways Enjolras would be willing to grant him. 

Gervais is still there, and he’s on the third pass of the coin along his fingers when Grantaire reaches the desk. He keeps going even once he turns to look up at the artist. “Hey.”

“Hey. Just a quick check, is the suite supposed to only have one bed? Is there a chance of a second one being added? A pullout couch, maybe?”

Gervais seems a little surprised, and checks his laptop. “Yeah, sorry, didn’t mean to assume. It looks like everything else is booked, and I don’t think we could bring a couch. We’d have to take it out of storage, and don’t get me wrong, you look like you could suplex me, but I’m a twig. There’s no way we’d make it up all those flights of stairs.”

“That’s fair,” says Grantaire, aiming for nonchalant. “Thanks for checking.”

“No problem. Sorry again.” 

Grantaire gives him a smile and goes back up to the suite like a man headed for the gallows. He locks the door behind himself, and goes to the bathroom to shower and change before bringing the suitcase back into the bedroom. 

Enjolras has apparently done the same while Grantaire was gone, his curls still damp and, predictably, his chest half on display and winning the war on buttons. 

There are glasses perched on his nose, and he’s replying to an email, finishing it up and sending it before looking up at Grantaire, who’s plugging in his equipment to charge for tomorrow.

“I let everyone know we got here safely.”

“Cool,” says Grantaire, throwing himself onto the right side of the mattress and groaning when his back stretches out. His hand fumbles for the phone on his nightstand, and he squints at the screen.

Grantaire and Enjolras studiously ignore each other while the former catches up with the texts and taps out a reply.

They put their phones away in silence, alarms set, and get comfortable under the comforter on their respective sides of the bed. It has been a long day, especially for Grantaire who was already sleep deprived. And even though he was worried over losing even more sleep, the cause now within kissing distance, the brunet is too tired to do much else other than yawn and let his eyelids droop steadily, watching Enjolras’ do the same. 

“Good night.”

“Night.”

Chapter Text

Enjolras’ alarm goes off first, the chimes ringing loudly in the quiet of the morning. Grantaire is slow to wake up, burrowing deeper into the warmth of the blankets with a groan, and the blond isn’t far off behind, reaching over blindly with an arm to grab at the phone and silence it.

The movement jostles them both enough to take stock of their limbs. In the night, with the cool of the outside gradually seeping in, they instinctively moved closer. Grantaire’s head rests on Enjolras’ bicep, and his other arm had been similarly preoccupied if the loss of warmth across Grantaire’s chest is any indication. Their legs are undisturbed, pressed and tangled together.

Neither says anything for a long moment, and though Enjolras pulls away enough that his hips are no longer pressed against Grantaire’s (and the shuffle brings the brunet’s attention as to why it’s happening, causing his already buffering brain to break at the thought of Enjolras’ morning hard-on having been up against his ass), they’re still very much spooning.

“Good morning,” grumbles Enjolras in a rasp, free hand moving to rest on Grantaire’s shoulder.

“Morning,” says Grantaire. It’s all he can manage.

There are a few minutes more of silence, an unspoken truce in place to wait for the second alarm to ring. They’re both keeping unnaturally still, and though they’re comfortable, the nerves keep them from being able to catch a little more sleep. When the alarm does go off it’s the artist's turn to reach over and handle it, rolling away from the middle of the bed where they had both migrated.

“Busy day,” he mumbles, squinting at his screen. They’re due to meet Valjean in a couple of hours, after which they’re off to take photographs and gather information about the festival. Against Combeferre’s express wishes, Grantaire had offered Enjolras the day to do with as he pleases, be that holing up in their hotel room to work on his laptop or wandering freely and experiencing the place without having to wait for the artist.

To his surprise, the leader had declined, and now he’s getting out of bed and gathering his toiletries to go take his turn in the bathroom. Grantaire surreptitiously takes his chance to admire the view down his shirt when he leans over his suitcase, and the way his legs draw the view to his ass when he walks away. He thinks he’s being discreet, but if the hint of amusement he sees on Enjolras’ face as he goes to shut the door behind himself is any clue, his stealth needs working on.

They don’t address the cuddle for the rest of the morning, and go back to normal. Breakfast is a quiet affair in the restaurant of the hotel, after which they’re off to see the mayor. 

Jean Valjean is just as lovely in person as he was on the phone. Enjolras seems especially interested in meeting him, since the city had cooperated with the Amis on some of their charity and awareness projects over the years. His husband, Javert, gives them both suspicious looks the entire time, looking very much like Valjean’s guard dog, inadvertently endearing himself to Grantaire. 

Apparently Euphrasie, their daughter, is running a charity project today. Upon a little prodding, Valjean admits she could probably use an extra pair of hands some time after noon, and Enjolras is instantly agreeable. Grantaire, ever in his orbit, is right behind. 

Sightseeing objectives marked on their phones, and three pages full of brainstormed ideas safely tucked away in Grantaire’s notes for the materials he’ll be delivering and clearer guidelines for what the client expects of him, they make their way out and go around the place.

Their first impression the previous night turned out to be right. The place is idyllic, and it somehow manages to charm them both; Grantaire, who could go through Paris with his eyes closed and still take someone to the most beautiful sights, and Enjolras, who has never been the type to take time and appreciate said sights. 

Though neither would leave Paris behind, they have to admit there’s just something about the small narrow streets with sweeping archways towering over their heads, and the cobblestone square with its impressive clock tower. 

Something other than the company.

It takes Grantaire a few hours to take the photos. They take turns carrying the additional backpack full of equipment that the artist has brought; though he’s more than capable of carrying it himself, he’s loath to set it down in the snow while he’s busy adjusting the lighting props, setting up shots, taking quick sketches of potential posters, or messing with lenses.

Enjolras is happy to step up and offer his aid. It’s the first time that he can recall seeing Grantaire truly in his creating element. He’s seen him doodling during meetings, and has been to his various competitions along with the rest of their group to cheer him on, but the paintings and photography have been a jealously guarded secret.

Now, watching him, he can see why. The cynic, devil-may-care front does not survive contact with the ultimate focus he devotes to his crafts while they capture his attention, every angle carefully selected, every stroke of the pencil on the page meticulously subjected to review. There is a chaos to it, inherent to his wildness, but it’s aimed with a precision which speaks of years of dedication. 

It’s like meeting him again for the first time, in a way.

By noon, Grantaire has noticed, and is raising his eyebrows as they head to the market to procure some lunch. “What’s up?”

Enjolras knows better than to expect him to react well to compliments, but he’s never been anything less than upfront. “You’re very passionate about your art. It’s… refreshing to see.”

The bark of laughter Grantaire lets out is slightly less mocking than predicted, though for some reason, Enjolras feels like he’s missing something in the conversation. “I can be,” admits the artist, shuffling his feet and sticking his hands into his coat pockets. “Depends on what I’m doing for it.”

“Such as?,” prompts Enjolras, turning to give him his full attention and giving up on trying to catch a glimpse of the stall they’re queueing for. The smell of baked products alone would’ve enticed them, if the impressive line hadn’t. They’ve got nowhere to rush, and though it would be faster to grab something from a less busy vendor, the whole point is trying everything the market has to offer. 

“What I’m painting,” says Grantaire with a shrug. “ Whom I’m painting. Why I’m taking the pictures.” With the blond’s gaze zeroed in on him he’s doing his best not to visibly fidget, using the cheery jazz music playing from the suspended speakers throughout the market as a distraction.

“And what’s the reason this time? It’s not because it’s a job.” It might come across as cruel, but they both know better than that. It’s the truth. Jobs have never motivated the artist enough. He does good work, but he loses interest fast, and puts tasks off. Even ones Enjolras assigns.

You’re going to think it’s stupid. It’s right there on the tip of Grantaire’s tongue, and he bites it back, feels it sticking to his throat. Not only can be feel Jehan’s disapproving stare from so far away, the gentle reminders not to put himself down through his friends when he knows they wouldn’t want to be accomplices to it, but there’s also the fact that he’s not about to do Enjolras the disservice of putting down the esteem he has placed on Grantaire’s intelligence, for whatever reason, no matter how much Grantaire himself doubts.

“...This place is beautiful. In its own way.” He tilts his head back, and sticks his tongue out to catch a snowflake before continuing. “It’s small, overlooked. But it’s got its charms; have you seen the architecture? It’s an art student’s wet dream. And everyone we’ve met has been nice, it’s fucking disconcerting . I almost want to give up on the job, hide it away like a small corner of Eden never to be reached by the cruelty of the world and the spoiled and demanding tourists… But it’s not my choice to make. So I’ll be the vessel to the message and pass on the fruit of knowledge, as best I can. If I’m to design the postcards and posters, it has to look its best.”

Enjolras gives him a nod as he ends the explanation. Their values are not that different at their cores, much as the man protests to the contrary. He may not relate to it precisely, but as far as the leader’s concerned, Grantaire is acting upon the will of the people, and finding passion in doing so. 

Enjolras would prefer if Grantaire showed as much fervour during their meetings and the organising of events, but he has never had cause to complain about Grantaire’s designs, always delivered on time and hitting the nail on the head. His contributions may not be the same as the others’, but there is a new level of understanding now. This is how Grantaire shows his beliefs. If not in their causes, then in the people who uphold them. 

He’s about to reply when Grantaire’s head turns towards the stall, now closer to the front of the line, and his jaw drops. “No way.” Enjolras follows his line of sight, and his eyebrows rise of their own accord. “No fucking way,” continues Grantaire, with incredulous laughter now in his voice.

There, behind the counter, are Cosette and Marius, bundled up against the cold and handing out pastries and other baked goods left, right and centre. Cosette looks a little more frazzled than usual, though no less delighted. Marius is his usual mess, clearly overwhelmed by the situation and by the lack of time to make calf eyes at his girlfriend. 

They knew Cosette was off to her hometown, Marius in tow, but they hadn’t suspected this would be it, of all places. Suddenly, a lot more seems to make sense as far as she’s concerned. 

They're spotted by the time their turn is up, and both of their friends greet them with large grins. 

“Hello,” says Enjolras. 

“Hello,” replies Marius warmly, reaching forward to shake their hands. 

“It's good to see you! What are you doing here?,” asks Cosette, kissing their cheeks in turn. 

“Hey! I got a photography job, I'm supposed to check out the place.” Grantaire's grin is large under his green beanie, his eyes crinkled at the corners. “What about y-”

“-You're the one my Papa hired?," laughs Cosette. "I knew he'd see it once I showed him your work!”

It's their turn to be surprised. “You're Euphrasie, then?,” asks Enjolras, stepping forward. 

“Yes, that's my birth name. I don't blame you for not knowing, I don't really use it.”

Marius doesn't seem surprised by this, and he wraps an arm around Cosette with a soft smile. Enjolras and Grantaire exchange a look and a shrug, and turn back to the two. 

“Then we're here to help. What do you need us to do?” 

Grantaire watches as the leader steps into his element, shoulders pulled further back and heavy brows drawing together in concentration. It's a struggle, tearing his eyes away to face Cosette as she begins to explain. 

“All the money from this sale goes directly towards one of our local charities. We baked a lot this morning-”

“-Cosette did, I just helped, she's fantastic- ”

“-thank you, you did help, so much - and now we're in the selling phase. The problem is that we're already running low. We can't close the stall while we bake more, and I need an extra set of hands for the quantities we need.”

Grantaire frowns at the dejected slump in her shoulders, and steps up as well, now side by side with Enjolras. 

“I can help you with the baking. I’m not exactly a Masterchef , but I can follow instructions.”

Enjolras turns to him with a challenging look. “All our friends love your cooking. Out of everything you’ve ever made for the events run by the Amis, we have never had leftovers.” To Cosette, he says, without looking away, “Grantaire is more than capable of helping you. I will stay here with Marius.”

There is the feeling of being pinned in place. Being once deemed incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, and of dying is an old wound, one that came at a dark time in his life and in their rapport. Even now, it feels like it had been deserved at the time. His own reply, you will see, had not meant to be prophetic in this way. He had thought he would fulfill the last condition. 

Now, those days seem so far away. He's gotten better. They've gotten better. It's not all rosy, and they have times where relapses are a close call, days where they push the wrong buttons. But as a rule? Enjolras seems to believe Grantaire is capable of a great deal more than the artist himself does.

Though he wants nothing more than to argue, if only for the sake of arguing, Grantaire takes the faith placed in him and tightens the straps of his backpack. “I'm ready to go. Lead the way.”

There is soft understanding in Cosette, and gentleness as she takes Grantaire's arm and heads off down the street, looking for all the world as if they're on a stroll, and chattering about how she showed his photography to her father when talks of tourism came up. 

Poor Marius seems lost, eyes going between the leader and the artist even as the distance grows. 

Enjolras enters the stall, dons one of the aprons, disinfects his hands, and puts on gloves. He then hands the box to Marius to prompt him to also change his own, remembering their handshake. “Show me what to do.” 

That's all the guidance Marius needs before he's off, showing Enjolras where the bags are, where they keep the change, and how to handle the items. He seems to flourish, keeping his head up like a sunflower at noon. 

The queue has grown larger, but not impatient. Even their break to chat and switch out the staff was treated with kindness. Still, Enjolras takes his duty seriously, stepping up to the task with single-minded focus. 

It takes a couple of hours for Grantaire and Cosette to return, just in the nick of time as the last few units of each baked good was about to be handed out. Grantaire is pushing a large wooden cart with tiers upon tiers of pies, pastries, and sweets, hoodie sleeves rolled up to his elbows and coat nowhere in sight. 

“It’s cold,” he says, helping Grantaire unload the food and transfer it to the stall. Cosette has gone ahead and joined Marius, looking entirely too innocent while passing them by. “Where is your coat?” If there is a slight strain to his voice, he blames it on the lifting, and not on the way the boxer’s forearms flex while moving the crates as if they are several times lighter.

Grantaire thinks it’s fair play for that morning, judging by the smirk he’s sporting now. “At the bakery. I have one more batch to take out of the oven. Come with me.” Before Enjolras can protest, he holds up a hand. “I know you, Enjolras, and I know you forget to take breaks. I can’t have our leader passing out from skipping meals. I have something set aside for us.”

The blond bites back the protest, and nods, though he’s by no means pleased. It’s a brisk walk, and they skip chatter in favour of getting there faster. Enjolras runs a hand through his curls as they step inside, brushing off any remaining snow.

The place is small, and warm. As promised, Grantaire had set aside a meal for them, and they stop to dine. At least, Enjolras does. Grantaire is nearly spinning around the kitchen, switching from workstation to workstation with surprising ease, considering he’s new to the space.

Enjolras was right, of course. There is an interest and an aptitude in the tasks the artist is performing, making sure that the goods are more than up to standard and continue drawing the crowd in. His gaze lingers on the little touches added to the pie, the decorative swirls precisely lining the margins. He may not appreciate them, but he appreciates the care and effort that goes into them. He appreciates Grantaire.

“Do you still paint?,” he asks. “As a hobby, I mean. For yourself.”

Grantaire turns to give him a curious look from where he’s stocking up the final crate. “I do, yeah.” There’s that self-deprecating smile again. It almost makes Enjolras wish he hadn’t asked. “Nothing that will go into an art gallery, but I do.”

“Could I see?”

A pause. He can see the moment Grantaire’s frame freezes up.

“Sure, yeah. Here.”

The artist unlocks his phone and hands it over. Enjolras cradles it between his hands as if it’s something precious, and not an old model with cracks on its protective glass screen and even a dangling phone charm. 

“There’s an album in the gallery.”

The leader opens the indicated app and finds the album in question, squinting at the thumbnails.

“You don’t have to pretend to like them, or get them, or anything. I know art’s not your thing.”

Grantaire closes up the cupboards, and works on cleaning up the space.

“Can you believe Cosette owns the place? I mean, yeah, her dad’s the mayor, but she works here whenever she’s home, and wants to do it full time when she’s done with her studies. Her business MA makes so much more sense now.”

He’s used to having his rants ignored, but they’re usually at least afforded a noncommittal grunt of some kind.

“Enjolras?”

There, on the screen, in splashes of red and marble white, with gold foil glowing in the morning sun, is Enjolras. He’s not some Botticelli angel - no, Grantaire wouldn’t do him that disservice. No, he’s David, his expression twisted into righteous anger, he’s Justice exacting its judgement, wings swooping behind him as if drawn back to attack. 

And Enjolras may not know much about the things Grantaire does. But he knows the act of doing them has passion. Has love.

Every inch of that canvas was done with love.

Oh.

Oh.

Enjolras slowly looks up, and their gazes meet.

It’s not some sudden realisation. It’s not a discovery. It’s not even surprising.

No, this is a long overdue discussion. 

Grantaire squares his shoulders, stance defiant even as he looks like he’s expecting a death sentence. 

Enjolras, by contrast, is quiet and contemplative, eyes soft as they look into Grantaire’s.

Even a few years ago, if faced with this situation, Grantaire would have closed off, his shoulders hunched, making himself as small as possible. And Enjolras, still learning exactly how much his words sting when they lash out, would have probably spoken thoughtlessly.

Perhaps it’s better that it had to wait this long. The song remains the same - they’re still the same two people at their cores - but now they’re playing in harmony rather than in dissonance.

“You’ll have to tell me about this one.”

Grantaire squints, unsure if he’s being mocked. Enjolras remains serene.

“When you take me to the Louvre. We’ll have to stop by your studio.”

“...I don’t have a political context to give to you.”

“Sure you do.” The blond looks back down at his likeness, immortalised in oils. “You have a visual memory. I’m sure you associate this with some meeting or rally.”

“...Yeah.” 

He nods. “Besides, I’m more interested in the process.”

Enjolras holds out the phone, offering it back. Grantaire reaches to accept, and their hands touch. Enjolras’ is soft from desk work but holds firm, and Grantaire’s is calloused and rough and trembles slightly.

Enjolras presses it with a smile. 

The phone is nearly dropped as it starts vibrating, “Cosette’s boyfriend” lighting up the screen with a call.

“I should take that.”

“Probably, yes.”

Grantaire presses the green button and pulls the device up to his ear. “Yeah?” Marius’ voice is tinny and muffled through the damaged speakers, so Enjolras can’t make out much of what is said. Grantaire seems to have no issues, though. “Yeah, we’ll be right over. Just finished loading up the crate. Yeah, see you soon.” The screen darkens.

Enjolras stands up and grabs Grantaire’s coat, holding it out to him. “If you catch pneumonia you’ll upset Joly.”

The words are out his mouth before he can think twice, shrugging his arms into the fabric. “But not you?”

The blond gives the thought the merit it deserves, pausing for a moment. “No, I’m just as likely to catch it myself.”

Grantaire laughs, which sets Enjolras into soft chuckles as well. The artist doesn’t have much time to marvel at the view, though, picking up the crate. “My backpack- could you-?”

“Of course,” agrees Enjolras, shouldering the equipment and helping him close up.

The rest of the afternoon and evening go smoothly. There’s even time for Marius to steal Cosette away for a dance or two, waltzing around the market. The honeymoon phase of their relationship, even after a few years, seems there to stay.

Grantaire helps out, all teasing charm and exaggerated epithets to push the products forward, seeming more driver with every addition to the donation fund. Enjolras thinks of all the times Grantaire has helped their causes in his own way, perhaps less obviously than the rest of the Amis. He’s thankful to have joined him here, even on a whim to prove himself right, as if catching him red-handed.

And when Grantaire takes his break, sipping on a cup of mulled wine, he steps back and watches their leader deal with the tasks with ruthless efficiency, answering questions about the charity the proceeds are benefitting with near encyclopaedic knowledge when asked. It’s no surprise to him that Enjolras has taken to it, interested in change no matter where it takes place, no matter how small or large. It’s what has drawn him in since that first meeting years ago, like a moth to the flame.

Their eyes meet a few times, but no words are exchanged. Somehow, though, they’re on the same page. Maybe these are their discussions. Maybe they have been so all along.

The notifications from their server go ignored when they get back to their hotel, too tired to do much other than change into their sleep clothes and tumble into bed, seeking warmth after so many hours in the cold. Their alarms are set for an hour that they both consider disgustingly early, though Enjolras refrains from agreeing verbally as Grantaire mutters complaints.

They haven’t ironed things out yet, and there is a hint of awkwardness when they look at each other across the large bed, lying back on their own sides. But it’s been a long time, and they’ve been friends for longer yet, even when they didn’t know it. That sort of familiarity has always come with affection, as far as Grantaire has been concerned, and though this may not be platonic, they’ll get there when they get there.

Grantaire stretches an arm out, palm up in offering. Enjolras accepts, lacing their fingers.

But Enjolras is a man of action, and never does things half way.

The brunet makes a soft noise as his arm is pushed up and around Enjolras’ frame, hands now clasped over the blond’s ribs, the steady thumping of his heart inadvertently calming the erratic pulse of his own. 

“Good night,” says Enjolras, the vibration of his voice, loud as thunder when delivering a speech, now soft against Grantaire, his breath breezing around his neck, barely there but enough to choke.

Grantaire stares up at the ceiling, and wonders how he might be able to sleep.

“Night,” he replies eventually, and the gentle squeeze of his hand is somehow enough to calm him.

His anxiety is a powerful beast, but it’s docile now, lulled to sleep by the warmth against his side and the long day they’ve had. 

Chapter Text

This time, when the alarm sounds out, it’s met by a pair of groans. It takes them a few seconds to take stock of their limbs, and though Enjolras untangles himself enough to turn off the incessant ringing, he returns to the middle of the bed with ease.

Grantaire cracks an eye open, and unabashedly looks at the way the column of the blond’s neck slides down to meet the edge of the shirt, still unbuttoned at the top. He’s itching to sketch the way his curls stretch out against the pillow, and- ah. The sleepy frown that’s aimed at him.

“Stop staring,” says Enjolras, his voice like gravel, “or we’ll never make our flight.”

It surprises Grantaire enough that the other eye opens as well, and he’s still trying to compute the information as Enjolras burrows down to catch a few more minutes of rest. 

He’s not about to disturb him, and they can afford to stay in bed a little longer, so the brunet grabs his own phone and preemptively silences the upcoming alarm. 

The readback through the previous day’s chatter is slow, but he does catch up, and thanks their friends for wishing them a safe flight back. The only one online is Jehan, who pings him not long after his text.

That gives Grantaire pause.

The artist sets the phone down for a moment, and looks at Enjolras, curled up and still asleep. The break has been nice, and he could use the extra research time. Maybe even save a day or two to just explore, as he likes doing on his own time.

Except this time he wouldn’t be on his own. Enjolras would be there, and therefore away from his laptop. 

And they would have more time to sort their… whatever out before first contact with their friends.

Grantaire opens his bank app, and checks his account, wincing a little. The suite seems expensive, and changing their plane tickets would definitely tack a zero on, but he would probably handle the cost. Or, at least half of it, if Enjolras is interested. He knows the blond would never let him pay for the whole thing by himself.

That startles a laugh out of him, and he can’t find it in himself to protest even when Enjolras retaliates to the disturbance by putting a hand over his mouth.

The seed of the thought that Jehan implanted in his mind takes root, and Grantaire continues considering it. Every time he opens his mouth to suggest it, though, he chickens out, and Enjolras has caught on if the concerned look he’s giving him during the cab ride is any indication.

They get to the airport with plenty of time to spare. The cold is seeping through their coats, and it leaves them shivering even with the added scarves and mittens. Grantaire has stopped to pick up coffees from the vending machine outside, and they’re sipping at them slowly as they approach the entrance.

They’re headed for the first security check when Grantaire opens his mouth again.

This time, Enjolras doesn't let it go.

“What is it?,” he demands, far more serious than the artist anticipated.

“We could stay.”

“...Stay?”

Grantaire looks like a deer in the headlights as he looks up at Enjolras, but he thinks, in for a penny, in for a pound, what the fuck.

“Yeah, stay. For the rest of the week. Switch our flight to Friday.”

Enjolras frowns, and Grantaire’s heart is about to sink, when- “Thursday.”

“Huh?”

“Thursday. We can go to the Louvre on Friday, they’re open until late.”

He’s lightheaded, and about to float away. “Just like that?”

The leader smiles. It’s barely there if you don’t know him, if you don’t know what to look for. To Grantaire, it’s brighter than all the stars in the sky.

“Just like that.”

And maybe it’s not the most graceful first kiss; their noses bump into each other, and Grantaire has to hold on to Enjolras’ lapels to ground himself due to their height difference. His suitcase hits his ankle as it rolls over, and they’re in a busy airport, with people milling all around. 

Sure, it’s not the stuff of movies.

But it’s theirs.

Theirs as they get a cab back.

Theirs as they change their reservations.

Theirs as they help Cosette deliver the proceeds.

Theirs as they suffer the teasing of their friends.

Theirs at a hole-in-the-wall, over a candlelit dinner.

Theirs as they lie in bed, so close they can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

Theirs, and theirs, and theirs, and theirs.

Fin.