Chapter Text
Grantaire was happily half-curled around Enjolras, their fingers interlocked and legs a confusing tangle, when a sharp knock at the door made him groan melodramatically.
“I didn’t know we were expecting guests.” he stated accusingly, glaring at Enjolras.
“We’re not, really. I mean, we are expecting them, but Courf and ‘Ferre are hardly guests.” Enjolras reasoned. “They practically live here.”
“Trust me, I know.” Grantaire grumbled as he untangled himself from Enjolras and staggered towards the door, unlatching it clumsily. “What can you three possibly have to discuss that you didn’t cover last night? Or the night before?”
“We must stop thinking of the individual and start thinking about what is best for society.” Enjolras replied smoothly.
“Is that your poetic way of telling me that our date night has been rescheduled for the cause?” he asked, rolling his eyes as ‘Ferre and Courf followed him inside.
“No.” Combeferre interjected. “He’s quoting Hillary Clinton.”
Grantaire didn’t even have time for a snarky reply; the three of them had already disappeared into the kitchen. With a sigh, he followed.
Serves me right for dating an activist, Grantaire thought tiredly. He’s just lucky, ‘cause if I didn’t love him so much, I’d have killed him by now.
Grantaire had become very used to the these gatherings, where Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac would crowd around the table in their tiny apartment kitchen, discussing upcoming society meetings and events with fervid enthusiasm whilst he lurked about in the background. Frequently these discussions would run late into the night, especially leading up to important protests, and in these instances R would make a show of his occasional domesticity by refilling their mugs with coffee after almost every sip. The three young men were usually too deep in conversation to notice, and it was in such moments that the old stabs of jealousy would creep back into his chest. No matter how irrational he reasoned it to be – they were dating, after all, and had been for months - seeing Enjolras so animated and fervent with someone other than himself still made him clench his jaw as though in pain. If people were chameleons, he thought drily, his envy would make him as green as grass.
Aside from this, Grantaire had no quarrels with the trio’s meetings. On the contrary, for the most part he found them intriguing, like someone listening to a language they don’t understand purely for the beauty of it. He was a moth, drawn to the light given off by the three young activists. Their excitement was contagious, their enthusiasm uplifting. Each of them was utterly different in personal philosophy, but they complimented each other like well-balanced spices. Enjolras, the chief, Combeferre, the guide, and Courfeyrac, the center, formed the triumvirate of the ABC Society. Grantaire personally preferred to call them ‘the three queer, slightly aggressive, politically-active musketeers’, a phrase he used whenever possible.
As time drew on, Grantaire become bleary-eyed and delirious. He had almost fallen asleep leaning against the counter when he caught sight of the clock.
“It’s 1AM, are you almost done for the night, my dear little revolutionaries?” he yawned, knees almost buckling from exhaustion.
“Almost, yeah.” Combeferre replied, no indication of finality at all in his voice. “Oh, that reminds me, I was going to ask: are you up for a rally this weekend? One of the other societies wants some extra numbers, looks like it’s going to be a big one.”
“Sounds possible. What’s the cause?” Enjolras returned.
“Anti-corruption. Apparently there’s a delegate in the National Assembly whose intent is a little worse than questionable – “
“I daresay there’s more than one of that nature.” Courfeyrac interjected with a smirk.
“Yeah, well, this guy is right up with the worst of them.” Combeferre continued. “Only problem is, he doesn’t seem to have a limit on his bribe allowances. Reliable sources suspect him of insider trading, blackmail, money laundering, civil conspiracy, the works, but he’s untouchable in the Assembly. What do you think?”
“Sounds like our sort of event. I’ll text the group.” Enjolras affirmed, whipping his phone out of his pocket and typing fervidly. “When and where?”
“Saturday, kicking off at midday. The address is someplace over in the 16th arrondissement. It’s at the house of the delegate in question, Monsieur Charles de Choiseul-Praslin.”
Enjolras almost choked on his coffee.
“Fucking pompous name, I know.” Courfeyrac agreed. “I’ve never heard anything so bourgeois – “
“No, it’s not that.” Enjolras gasped, his tongue burnt from the scalding coffee. “Did you say Choiseul-Praslin?”
“Yes.” Combeferre answered slowly.
“We – or, well, I – can’t go along.” Enjolras stated shortly.
“But you said you were free.” Courfeyrac protested, frowning.
“I can’t, not him, and at the house… I’m sorry, I-I can’t go.” Enjolras stammered, uncharacteristically tongue-tied.
“Okay, alright. I’ll tell Claude we’re already booked for that day.” Combeferre said gently, staring in bemusement at Enjolras, whose face had turned a chalky white. Grantaire could see him tapping his foot underneath the table – his nervous habit. Combeferre surveyed him with a worried glance, but knew Enjolras better than to pursue the issue.
“It’s past 1AM and I’m working tomorrow, do you guys mind if we call it a night?”Grantaire interjected with a forced yawn. “I am literally about to fall asleep standing.”
“Of course, sorry. We ought to keep a better eye on the time.” Combeferre rushed apologetically as he stood, pulling the blazer off his chair.
“We’ll catch you Wednesday morning?” Courfeyrac added as Grantaire steered them towards the door.
“Yeah, definitely.” Grantaire confirmed enthusiastically, without having any idea what Courfeyrac was talking about. “We’ll be there.”
Grantaire waved them off, leaning on the side of the doorframe to continue his facade of tiredness, and waited until the two men had rounded the corner before he closed the door. At once Enjolras sprung free from his grip, staggered a few strides, and collapsed face-down onto the couch.
“How’d the meeting go?” Grantaire asked innocently, sitting down on the floorboards beside him.
“Fine.” Enjolras replied, his voice muffled by pillows.
“I couldn’t help but noticing you got a little, uh, uptight when they mentioned that rally on the weekend.” Grantaire added casually. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Honestly? No, not really.” Enjolras answered with cold bluntness, and Grantaire raised his eyebrows in surprise. Sensing that he had been too brusque, he rolled onto his back so that he could look at R and added:
“I’m sorry, that was rude. And I’m grateful for you getting rid of Courf and ‘Ferre like that, because I can’t explain it to them, and honestly, I’m not really sure I can explain it to you either.”
“What, you don’t trust me?” Grantaire asked, only half-jokingly.
“Fuck off, no.” Enjolras returned, rolling his eyes. “I mean, yes, I can trust you. It’s not that. It’s just that… “
He sighed heavily.
“There are some things that you don’t know about me – that no one knows about me. I guess I would sort of like to keep it that way.”
“Ah, I see.” Grantaire said slowly. “You want to keep up an air of mystery. Well, I’ve gotta say, I think you’ve been having around Montparnasse too much – “
“Shut up, you idiot.” Enjolras interrupted, a reluctant smile playing at his lips.
“Okay, fine. I get it. You think that, if I were to know certain things about you, it would change my perceptions of you. Am I right?”
Grantaire took his silence as a yes.
“Just so you know, there’s nothing that you could tell me that would change what I think about you. Or, as I guess is more important, how I feel about you. I don’t care about your shady double life or your criminal record or your weird fetishes – “
Enjolras snorted.
“ – because none of those change the fact that I am in love with you. I am in love with the way you are inhumanly grumpy in the mornings and the way you virtually ignore me for days on end when you’re preparing for a protest and the way you swear at me when you find out I’ve been drinking. ‘Cause I don’t love you in spite of your, shall I say, shortcomings. I love you because of them. Just, uh… so you know.”
Enjolras leant over the side of the couch and seized Grantaire by the collar, pressing their lips together. Enjolras’ touch was gentle, but there was an urgency in his breath, and R could feel his heartbeat hammering in his neck. A moment later Enjolras pulled away, slumping back onto the couch with a groan.
“I’ve never seen you this edgy.” Grantaire exclaimed, sitting up on his knees so that his head was level with Enjolras’. “You’re not even this anxious when you’re preparing for speeches, and that makes you pretty fucking moody.”
The comment gained no response, and Grantaire dropped the false cheerfulness from his voice.
“It’s something about that Praslin guy, the politician, isn’t it?” he asked quietly. “You lost your head the moment you heard his name.”
Enjolras remained silent,
“I might look like an idiot to you, but I assure you I’m not a complete imbecile.” Grantaire snapped, incensed.
“I never said – “ Enjolras returned defensively.
“You didn’t have to, I can see it in your face. You’re an awful liar.” Grantaire said shortly. “I know when you’re hiding something, and you are now. If you trusted me at all, you would tell me what it is that’s tearing you to bits.”
Then, perhaps realizing the forcefulness of his tone, added more gently: “You know him, don’t you?"
“I should hope so.” Enjolras replied, with a laugh that was absent of any amusement. “Charles de Choiseul-Praslin is my father.”