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"Don't wanna take it, because I fucking hate it."
Enjolras groaned and rolled over, glaring at his phone. It could only be one person calling at this hour, because there was only one person who held such disregard for Enjolras' personal bubble that he went and regularly changed the ringer on his phone. And then called him in the middle of the night to startle him awake with whatever new song he wanted to torture Enjolras with for the week.
He should just be happy that Grantaire personalized it to only his number instead of making it his default ringtone.
"Why do we talk when all we do is argue?"
He couldn't help it. Enjolras laughed. At least this time Grantaire picked a ringtone that fit.
The last time Grantaire had changed his ringtone on him had been the day of a debate team meeting. Enjolras had turned bright red when Lady GaGa had suddenly began crooning about their bad romance from his pants. It wouldn’t have been that bad, only Valjean had paused the meeting and made him take the call while everyone listened in. Grantaire shouting in his ear that he was claiming Enjolras’ favorite blue button down as his own, because Enjolras had torn the shoulder of his green shirt during their latest tussle (and will Enjolras please get rid of the Beckham poster in his bedroom already, it was killing his buzz) certainly hadn't helped to quell the rumors that they had some kind of torrid affair going on.
Enjolras scoffed at the very idea. Ridiculous, every silly remark. He and Grantaire didn’t even like each other.
"Nothing to be said, except you make me wish I was dead--"
Enjolras snatched the phone from his nightstand and brought it up to his ear, halting the angry wailing before it could wake his parents.
"Do you have any idea what time it is?" he groused as he curled up on his side, pulling the covers over his head to try and muffle his voice. "If you're drunk and need a ride home from the city again--"
"I fucking hate you, you know that?" Grantaire interrupted abruptly. Enjolras snorted.
"Trust me, the feeling is mutual."
Silence greeted his words. Enjolras pulled his phone back, staring at the display. No, the call hadn't dropped. Grantaire probably just fell asleep in the middle of his train of thought again, the lush.
"What do you want, knave? I swear, if you woke me up only to fall asleep--"
A groan came through the line and Enjolras narrowed his eyes.
"Are you injured? Answer me, or else I'm hanging up and leaving you to bleed out in the streets like the miscreant you are.”
“She was perfectly lovely,” Grantaire slurred. Enjolras sighed, bringing his other hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Of course Grantaire was drunk again; it was a day that ended with a ‘y’. “Her hair was like spun gold, and her skin was smooth and pale, and she spread her legs so easily--”
“Must I remind you that I don’t care to hear of your conquests?” Enjolras spoke over him. Grantaire ignored him, as he was wont to do.
“--and I hope you’re fucking happy, up there on your pedestal, judging everyone else who actually knows how to use the tool between their legs that God gave us--”
“Hey!” Enjolras snapped, stung. He’d only admitted to his virginity in a moment of weakness, of a feeling of obviously misplaced camaraderie, when he’d believed Grantaire to be too drunk and sloppy to remember. He’d assumed that Grantaire had forgotten about it, seeing as how his sometimes-friend-mostly-enemy (he refused to use the word ‘frenemy’, even though Courfeyrac insisted it was the appropriate name for their strange relationship) had never brought it up again. Of course, Grantaire could have just been waiting for the most inappropriate time to bring it up. Like a one am drunk dial. On a school night.
At least it was only between them, though, and not the entire student body.
“--with your fucking perfect hair, and your beautiful eyes, and your stupid, long neck.” Grantaire paused to hiccup violently, and Enjolras blinked at his sheets.
“Grantaire, listen to me. Take some aspirin, drink a glass of water, and go to bed. You’re going to be wasted tomorrow otherwise.”
“‘M wasted now,” Grantaire mumbled. If Enjolras let the corners of his mouth curl into a smile, well, there was nobody there to see it.
“That much is obvious, my friend.”
“Oh, so I’m your friend now?” Enjolras could picture the sneer on his face. “It sure is convenient that I’m your friend only when you need a ride to the library, or how I’m your friend when you need a mule to carry your things for you.”
“Or when you wake me up at one o’clock in the morning to blather on about girls?” Enjolras asked, weary. It was late, and he was tired. Grantaire let out another hiccup and Enjolras chuckled under his breath. “Because that’s pretty much the definition of friendship, you realize.”
“You bastard, you have the most beautiful laugh, even when it’s me you’re laughing at. Especially. Damn you,” Grantaire muttered, his voice as sharp and raw as cut glass. “Do you enjoy torturing me, is that it? I don’t want to be your fucking friend, you blind bastard.”
“You’re a ridiculous human being,” Enjolras snapped, unhappy over being called the reason for one’s unhappiness. Even if it was only Grantaire’s. “You torture yourself.”
“I know,” Grantaire agreed, groaning. “I’m doing it right now.”
“Torturing your liver you mean, you drunken fool,” he agreed. Grantaire laughed, deep and hearty and a little breathless. “What do you want, Grantaire, if not my friendship?”
“Oh, if only you knew.”
“Well, why don’t you tell me, so I can get back to sleep? I’ve a debate match tomorrow, you know.”
“My, your voice gets deep when you’re vexed. And I do know,” Grantaire agreed. His voice was still breathless, and Enjolras wondered if he was maybe running. Probably away from some scandal. Likely from the police. “It’s the third Friday of the month. You always have a match every third Friday.”
“I do.” Enjolras furrowed his brow, wondering why Grantaire knew that. He’d probably memorized his schedule for the sole purpose of showing up and torturing him during said matches from the front row, trying his best to throw Enjolras off his game. Enjolras would never forgive him for the Pink Glittery Shirt Debacle of 2010. “If you’re planning to show up tomorrow--”
“I’ve already glittered my ‘Vote for Pedro’ sign all up,” Grantaire countered.
“Well, good luck getting there,” Enjolras told him sternly, “because it’s an hour away. If you insist on coming you’d better not land in detention. Again.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, love,” Grantaire told him. Enjolras shifted to his back, throwing the covers back off of his head. It was getting hot under there, that was all. It had nothing to do with the warm curl of... something he felt in his stomach when Grantaire called him those ridiculous pet names. Enjolras wished he would stop with those already, or at least tone it down. It wasn’t proper. “Wouldn’t want to miss out on watching you do your thing. You turn the best shades of red when you argue. It’s hilarious.”
“It’s not an argument,” Enjolras snapped. It irritated him how Grantaire belittled his passion. “It’s a civilised debate, not a shouting match. You don’t argue during a match.”
“Because you only argue with me, right?” Grantaire asked in a tone of voice that, on a woman, Enjolras would be forced to call needy. He shook his head free of such a silly thought and scowled.
“Yes, Grantaire,” he growled, heated. “You’re the only one who can rouse me enough to turn into a complete neanderthal and wish for a lethal weapon. Congratulations, you’re the bitchiest princess of them all.”
“That may be, but I’m your princess, dearest.”
“Your tiara is in the mail. I had it special ordered from Tiffany’s. Was there something that you actually wanted to talk about, you jackal?” Enjolras asked. There was a soft rustle over the line, as though Grantaire had shoved his phone down his pants. Enjolras made a face at the mental image of him speaking to Grantaire’s penis, especially considering that it had recently been inside of a young woman. “If you were merely calling to brag about a conquest, I assure you that it can wait. Possibly forever.”
“Don’t be jealous, darling,” Grantaire drawled, “you’re the only one I want to argue with, too.”
“Grantaire,” Enjolras groaned, rolling over and pressing his face into his pillow. “The reason.”
“She was perfect!”
“You mean she was gracious enough to let you stick her hand in her pants, yes. That much I got,” Enjolras said grouchily into his pillow. “Focus, Grantaire.”
“She was on top of me and she was making the best noises and I couldn’t fucking come!” Grantaire shouted. Enjolras winced and held the phone away from his ear.
“And that’s my fault, somehow?” he asked under his breath. He wasn’t really expecting a reply, so when he pulled the phone back in he was surprised to hear that Grantaire was still talking.
“Haven’t you heard a fucking word I’ve said all night? Yes, it’s your fucking fault! I was thinking of you!”
“Well, I humbly apologize that you were thinking of me while you were putting it to somebody else and the thought was so horrifying that it made you go soft!” Enjolras growled quietly. He squeezed his eyes shut on the mental images his traitorous mind had conjured up of Grantaire in bed with an anonymous girl, laid out on his back with his hair splayed out, his eyes shut and his mouth slack with pleasure, thinking of Enjolras as the unimportant girl moved slowly over him--
Enjolras shook his head angrily. Damn that impertinent sonofabitch. “Next time maybe try not to think of me at all in the middle of sex! What is wrong with you? Does your depravity know no bounds, Grantaire?”
“Jesus, keep talking. The way you say my fucking name, you just-- nng.” Grantaire let out a pained grunt and a muffled thump came across the line, as though Grantaire had dropped his phone. “Enjolras,” Grantaire moaned, his voice far away and small. Enjolras felt his stomach clench up. That didn’t sound good.
“Grantaire?” he asked, worried. There was nothing but silence on the other end of the line. Enjolras sat up quickly. He eyed the floor, searching for where he’d kicked off his shoes. “Grantaire! Answer me, idiot.” When no response came Enjolras pushed back his sheets and threw his legs over the edge of his bed, imagining Grantaire slumped in a back alley somewhere, muggers and thieves rooting through his pockets. He wondered if he would be able to hack Grantaire’s cell phone GPS on his computer on his own.
Enjolras glanced at his desk, where his computer hummed quietly, and sighed. Who was he kidding? He hadn’t the faintest idea. He was going to need to call and wake Eponine to enlist her help. Enjolras rubbed his forehead with his free hand. Her services weren’t cheap, and he already owed her one for the last time he’d had to track down the drunk bastard. Good grief, keeping company with Grantaire was going to cost him a small fortune in the end.
“So help me, if you’ve managed to concuss yourself somehow and are lying in a ditch somewhere, bleeding out--”
“Keep your pants on. I’m here and I’m at home.” Grantaire said finally, his voice quiet yet once again reassuringly close. Enjolras relaxed, falling backwards into his sheets again. He ran his free hand down his face as his heart slowed down. “I just... dropped the phone,” Grantaire breathed out.
Enjolras swallowed. “Well, be careful,” he snapped, but his heart wasn’t in it, “the last time you broke your phone your father took it out on your hide and you missed a football game.”
“Don’t remind me.” There was a moment of silence where Enjolras could hear more rustling. He wondered what the hell Grantaire was doing, then he decided he didn’t care.
“Is that it?” Enjolras asked, irritated. “You called to yell at me for being unable to... finish?”
“You can’t even say it, can you? Come. Jizz. Spurt. Orgasm. C’mon, just say it once. I won’t tell, I promise.” Enjolras grit his teeth and said nothing in reply. Grantaire laughed in his ear. It wasn’t a happy sound.
“Yeah. That’s it,” Grantaire said in a resigned voice. Enjolras didn’t know why he sounded that way; he certainly had nothing to do with Grantaire’s... shortcomings, so to speak. “The mere thought of you made me soft, everything’s your fault, blah blah blah. You needed to share my pain.”
“Well, that’s lovely,” Enjolras said, dry as the desert, “but if you don’t mind I’d like to go to bed.”
“Yes,” Grantaire choked out. “Yes, to bed with you. Big match tomorrow. I’ll be there with bells on.”
“Please, no bells,” Enjolras said, already picturing Grantaire taking the expression to heart and showing up with some sort of godawful bracelet made of actual bells. “If Valjean kills you I take no responsibility. I might even do a jig. In fact, you know what? Wear the bells. I insist.”
“You would mourn for the rest of your life should something happen to me. Admit it. No one else holds your favor the way I do.”
Enjolras rolled his eyes to the ceiling, refusing to own up to the smile that was trying to force its way over his mouth. Grantaire might’ve been a pain in the ass, but life sure wasn’t dull when he was around.
“I’ll admit to no such thing, you vicious liar,” he said quietly. Grantaire chuckled breathlessly.
“You would wear black every day.”
“Grantaire, please,” Enjolras pleaded. “I am begging you. Let me sleep.”
“Alright, alright. And you think I’m the princess in this relationship. Back into the arms of Morpheus you go.”
Enjolras waited a moment, but Grantaire didn’t disconnect. He grunted.
“Well, goodnight.” Enjolras pulled the phone away and it lit up in his hand, the picture Grantaire had taken of himself holding up an empty bottle of wine flashing bright in the darkness of the room. Enjolras’ thumb hovered over the ‘end call’ button, for some strange reason unable to hang up just yet.
“Goodnight, Enjolras.”
Grantaire’s voice once again had a resigned tone to it, and Enjolras hit the button quickly before he could read into it too much.
He stared at the phone for a few moments, before he put it back on his nightstand and settled back in bed.
He’d change the ringtone back later.