Chapter Text
“Grantaire, holy shit!”
Grantaire slams the shot glass back down on the table with a grin on his face. Everyone cheers. He’s not entirely sure who most of these people are, but he knows that they all love him. He also knows that he’s really fucking drunk.
He lifts his hands up and everyone cheers again, which makes Grantaire start giggling. Someone hands him another shot, which he downs in a second. They’ve been handing him shots since the start of the party, and that one was probably his 15th. Or 20th. He lost count.
The last one makes him feel woozy, and he rests his head on the table for a second. Some guy he knows from practice appears next to him, patting him on the shoulder.
“You okay, buddy?” he asks with a smirk. Grantaire doesn’t like the way his voice sounds, so he just bats him away clumsily. He needs to find Courfeyrac.
“I need to find Courfeyrac,” he slurs, his voice muffled by the music. The guy from practice scans the room. “Hey Courf! I think R is looking for you.”
“Oh my God, what have you guys done to him?!” Grantaire hears Courf groan from the other side of the room. He lifts his head to grin at Courfeyrac but the movement makes him feel woozy again.
“Come on R, let’s get you home.” Courfeyrac sighs, lifting Grantaire by the armpits. Grantaire wraps his arms around Courfeyrac’s neck, squeezing him tight.
“You’re such a great person, Courf,” he smiles against Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “So small.”
Courfeyrac pats the back of his head, trying to keep them both upright. “You’re drunk, Grantaire.”
That makes Grantaire laugh. “Yeah.”
“No offence, but if you puke on my uniform I’m never going to forgive you.”
Grantaire tries to move back to glare at Courfeyrac for even implying that Grantaire can’t hold his liquor, but nearly topples over in the process, which makes him start laughing again. He reaches a hand up to ruffle Courfeyrac’s hair. Courfeyrac looks really cute when he’s in his cheerleading outfit. People used to give him shit about wearing the skirt, but damn, he pulls it off. He’s got really nice...thighs. Fuck. Not that Grantaire would ever notice that about another dude, because that’s gay as hell.
“I’m not gay.” Grantaire mutters to himself absently. He can see Courfeyrac grinning.
“I know you’re not, baby. Now come on. I’ve had enough of this shitty quarterback party.”
“I’m not a quarterback, I’m a flyhalf.” Grantaire frowns, but he lets Courfeyrac lead him out of the party.
Courfeyrac has this old battered up car that his parents passed on to him after they got a new one, and Grantaire lets Courfeyrac strap him into the passenger seat. He presses a kiss to Grantaire’s cheek to annoy him, and Grantaire wipes at his face. “Gross.”
Courfeyrac just laughs and skips around the car to slide into the driver’s seat. His socks are really white. That’s what Grantaire notices.
Grantaire presses his face against the cool glass of the window while they drive - mostly in silence, just the sound of Courfeyrac singing under his breath.
“Do you think your Dad’s gonna freak?” Courfeyrac asks after a second.
Grantaire groans. “He’s not my Dad.” He says against the glass.
“Well whatever he is, he’s fine as hell.” Courfeyrac mutters to himself, earning a halfhearted punch in the arm from Grantaire.
Courfeyrac cuts out the engine a few houses down from Grantaire’s. “Give me your keys,” he instructs.
“You give me your keys,” Grantaire snickers, his breath steaming up the window. Courfeyrac just rolls his eyes and digs around in Grantaire’s pockets until he finds them.
It takes a while, but he eventually manages to get Grantaire out of the car. They walk down the street with Grantaire draped around Courfeyrac, stumbling clumsily and laughing every time he trips. Courfeyrac holds his finger up to his lips while he opens Grantaire’s front door, and Grantaire mirrors him. ”Shhhh!!!”. It comes out loud, and Courfeyrac is sure Javert is going to hear them.
He gets Grantaire up the stairs and into his bedroom without too much damage, and Grantaire immediately crashes down face-first on his bed. Courfeyrac pulls off his shoes and pulls a blanket over him, earning one last sleepy giggle from Grantaire.
The clock on his nightstand says that it’s 3:34am, and Courfeyrac is way too tired to drive home. He nudges Grantaire over and curls up next to him, under the blanket. Grantaire wraps an arm around Courfeyrac’s waist. Courfeyrac isn’t going to mention that in the morning, and Grantaire probably won’t either. But it’s nice.
This is definitely going to crease Courfeyrac’s outfit.
*
When Courf wakes up on Sunday morning Grantaire is completely wrapped around him, and Courfeyrac is pretty sure he’s drooling on his uniform. Plus, Grantaire is a ridiculously hot sleeper, and his skin is sticky with sweat. Well, Courfeyrac hopes it’s just sweat.
He manages to peel him off just enough to slide out of the bed and onto the floor. He frowns down at his uniform. “I’m so sorry baby,” he whispers, running his hands over the creases in his skirt. “I’ll take care of you.”
Grantaire and Courfeyrac have known each other since preschool. They weren’t always friends, but since Courfeyrac became a cheerleader and Grantaire became flyhalf they sort of… fell into the same clique. So Courfeyrac knows Grantaire’s house pretty well. He also enjoys spending time there because honestly, Grantaire’s foster dad is pretty hot. He’s the chief of police in their town, and he’s always showing up in his uniform. Courfeyrac totally has a thing for uniforms.
Speaking of which, Courfeyrac needs to find a washing machine. He grabs a spare t-shirt from Grantaire’s wardrobe and pads downstairs, running a hand through his hair.
“Good morning, Courfeyrac.”
Javert is sitting at the kitchen table, coffee cup in hand, reading the newspaper. Sure enough, he’s wearing his uniform. It’s pristine. Courfeyrac is suddenly acutely aware of how rough he must look. “Good morning, chief.” He gives Javert a mock salute.
“You boys came in late last night.”
Courfeyrac bites his lip. “Yeah, sorry about that. You know how it is, it’s kinda hard to get people away from Grantaire sometimes.” He laughs sheepishly. “He’s pretty worn out from the match yesterday…”
Javert looks at Courfeyrac over the rim of his glasses. “Yes. I’m sure the match is what did it.”
Courfeyrac just chuckles, shifting awkwardly. Javert clearly isn’t going to ask him to sit down. Courfeyrac is pretty sure he has a problem with the whole cheerleader thing. Well, it’s probably the gay thing that really bothers him, but the cheerleading doesn’t help. As hot as Javert is in uniform, he’s a bit of a prick.
It’s not that Courfeyrac isn’t used to getting shit. He only managed to become a cheerleader because he threatened to sue the school for discrimination (which he admits, was a bit of a dick move). And the only reason he’s popular is because he’s on good terms with everyone. Even the assholes on the rugby team who still call him a ‘fag’ behind his back. But he’s cool with it. He’s happy.
“Could I maybe borrow your washing machine?” he asks Javert after a second. Javert just grunts and nods in the direction of the laundry room, so Courfeyrac takes that as a yes.
He strips off in front of the machine, throwing his uniform in and pulling Grantaire’s t-shirt over his head. It’s got some dumb rugby logo on the front of it, but it smells clean, so Courfeyrac is grateful. After some rummaging he finds the detergent, and throws in a colour catcher for good measure. “I’ll see you later,” he tells his uniform, blowing it a kiss before closing the lid of the machine.
What? It was hard enough to get the school to agree to let him wear a skirt. He’s very attached to his uniform.
He spends the rest of the morning sitting on Grantaire’s couch in his boxers waiting for his uniform to dry. Javert goes to work around 8:00am, which gives Courfeyrac plenty of time to steal food and watch shitty morning cartoons.
It’s almost noon by the time Grantaire finally stumbles down the stairs. He looks like shit. Courfeyrac bursts out laughing the second he sees him.
“You look like a zombie!” he snorts, waving his spoon in Grantaire’s direction.
“Is that my cereal?” Grantaire croaks, massaging his temples. “And my shirt?” Courfeyrac just nods, patting the couch beside him. Grantaire grabs a beer from the fridge before flopping down on the couch.
“Are you seriously drinking right now, dude?”
“Shut up, everyone knows that drinking is the best hangover cure.”
Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. “Well, tomorrow’s Monday. So don’t get too drunk again. I’m not always gonna be here to mother you, dumbass.”
Grantaire just groans, sinking down into the couch. “Fucking Mondays, man.”