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Enjolras didn’t care about Valentine’s Day. He never cared about Valentine’s Day— for one, Enjolras was annoyed by the prevalence of Christian martyrs in society, not to mention that it was just another day that took money out of the pockets of the people and into the palms of the one-percent. His history of loneliness had nothing to do with it, no matter how much Courfeyrac insisted it did.
When he was dating in college, he rejected Valentine’s Day with a passion. It wasn’t just because he was a broke college student, or at least, that’s what he insisted. Anti-Valentine’s had almost become a thing for him, replacing store-bought gifts with nights in, watching pirated movies, and eating at the dining hall— but a lot of things had changed since then.
Since he detested Valentine’s Day and everything it stood for in late-stage capitalism, it had slipped his mind. He had never had to worry about it, and it didn’t matter.
His students were buzzing all throughout class that day. He had mostly shook himself of the gen-eds that semester, but he still had to teach one composition class. For some reason. It wasn’t a bad class; the students were attentive and talkative, but they loved to shy away when it came time to actually discuss the material. Poetry analysis shouldn’t be the enemy of the people, but God, if they didn’t act like it was. The class had been lively until he had cast a poem up onto the board. Whatever conversations everyone had been having quickly died down; e.e. cummings isn’t even that bad, Enjolras thought.
“Dr. E,” A student said, “What does syntax mean?”
The future is fucked , Enjolras thought, but quickly reminded himself that it was actually his job to unfuck the future.
“Syntax is kind of like how something is structured. So when cummings is talking about syntax here, he’s referring to-”
“Oh, I get it,” Another student interrupted, “He’s talking about structure.”
“Would you guys rather look at another poem?” Enjolras asked them. Their eyes were all either glued to their phone, which they were poorly hiding in their lap, or absolutely glazed over. They really didn’t care.
“Thumbs up if you’d rather look at another one,” Enjolras commanded, after the class didn’t react. A wave of thumbs flashed in front of him. “Alright, I’ll pull something else up. Sound good?”
More silence. He sighed, pulling up another webpage while they stared blankly.
“Okay, this is actually one of my favorite poems, so if y’all hate it, I may have to retire.”
No response, once more. Fuck comp classes , Enjolras thought, Fuck the first-year writing program. He decided that he was going to have to start cold calling, and nobody— including him— was going to like it. He couldn’t wait to complain to Grantaire about it later. He fought through the last thirty minutes of class, tooth and nail, until it was finally over.
“Bye, Dr. E,” Someone said, “Happy Valentine’s Day!”
“You too,” Enjolras responded, “Wait— what?”
A gaggle of students stopped on their way out of the classroom.
“You didn’t know it was Valentine’s Day?” One of them asked. “What was all of the love poetry about, then?”
“Oh God,” Enjolras groaned. “Leave. Have a good weekend. I may never see y’all again.”
His students left the classroom, not caring. They wouldn’t care about anything, would they? Not cummings. Not Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Not literary analysis, and definitely not if Enjolras lived or died— that was how it felt. Not all of that could possibly be true, but Enjolras felt like at least most of it was. But none of that mattered; Grantaire was going to kill him.
Comp II having been Enjolras’s last class for the day, he booked it off campus as fast as possible. This was a situation to remedy. Enjolras didn’t particularly know how Grantaire felt about Valentine’s Day, but given the fact that Grantaire was the type to gift Enjolras handmade trinkets on random Wednesdays, Enjolras knew that he had fucked up. Everywhere is probably booked, Enjolras thought. How the hell am I supposed to do this right?
It had been a long, long time since Enjolras had properly celebrated Valentine’s Day with anyone, meaning he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. He tried every supermarket in town, every gas station, every florist— nobody had the flowers he wanted, the ones that he had learned were Grantaire’s favorite. He was absolutely doing it all wrong, he absolutely had zero idea what he was doing, and Grantaire was going to hate him forever.
Sexy Beast: lover
Sexy Beast: apollo
Sexy Beast: baby
Sexy Beast: angel
Sexy Beast: my darling muse
Sexy Beast: enjolras
Sexy Beast: alex
Sexy Beast: answer me
angel: Using my first name is… out of order.
angel: Please don’t hate me.
angel: I’m the worst ever.
angel: Like actually.
Enjolras arrived at Grantaire’s apartment nearly empty-handed; his search efforts had turned out to be fruitless, save for a single cheesy card he found at Dollar Tree. No flowers, no chocolate— two things he knew R loved. If he was going to win any awards for boyfriendry, it would be a Razzie. He knocked, and heard Buffy meow in response, but nobody came to get the door. He knocked again. Nothing. Well, Enjolras thought to himself, Maybe I’m not the worst. He knocked one more time, ready to give up, and Grantaire finally opened the door. He had paint smeared on the tip of his nose, his hair was unruly, and he… wasn’t wearing a shirt. Enjolras would ogle later.
“Hello,” He said, awkwardly, “I wasn’t expecting company.”
Enjolras pushed his way into the apartment, kicking off his shoes and collapsing onto the couch. He was much more distraught than Grantaire, who seemed to have absolutely no idea what was going on.
“Please don’t hate me,” Enjolras said bemoaningly, “I’m the worst.”
“What are you on about?” Grantaire asked, shutting the door before Buffy could make a run for it. “Did you hit your head or something? Do I need to call someone?”
“What?” Enjolras said, sitting up. “I forgot Valentine’s Day. That’s why I’m the worst.”
“It’s Valentine’s Day ?” Grantaire responded in disbelief. “Fuck.”
“Did you… also forget?” Enjolras asked, scratching his head. Grantaire couldn’t stop staring at him, all flustered and deranged. Enjolras always looked perfect, but Grantaire thought it was worse when Enjolras was stressed. When Enjolras was stressed, Grantaire could come up behind him and rub his shoulders, he could play with his hair, he could kiss the stress off of his face; anything he could do to touch Enjolras, he would do. Stress was just a great excuse.
“Yes,” Grantaire replied, “I did.” Enjolras stared blankly back at him, blinking.
“How did you forget?” Enjolras asked. Grantaire made a face reminding him that he had forgotten too, so he wasn’t in a place to judge. “That’s not what I mean, R. I just mean that, um, you’re a very giving person.”
“And?”
“And you being a very giving person made me realize earlier that you probably love Valentine’s Day, and you probably wanted us to go out and do something, and I had no idea because for so long, I considered this holiday to be a thinly veiled marketing tactic for kindergarten teachers at T.J. MAXX—” Grantaire kissed him, cutting him off, shutting him up.
“Enjolras,” Grantaire said, pulling away. “Baby. Lover. Alex— I don’t give two shits about Valentine’s Day.” Enjolras stared back once again, his brow furrowed in confusion. Grantaire ran a vaguely paint-stained hand through Enjolras’s hair. Grantaire had begun using his first name sometimes, something that was probably going to throw Enjolras off for as long as he lived. It was another functional way for Grantaire to disarm him, something both of them were keenly aware of. Grantaire knew how to get under his skin, but he also knew how to quell his fire.
“I don’t need a reason to give you gifts, you know that, right?” Grantaire said. “And if I did care about having a reason, like a holiday or something, then I would wait until then. I don’t need to give into capitalism and celebrate this T.J. MAXX holiday just to tell you that I love you.”
“Oh,” Enjolras replied, “Then you don't want to do anything today?”
“Do you want to do anything?” Grantaire asked. “I mean, if you want to, we can. I just didn’t realize what day it was— February is getting away from me. Shit, January seemed to drag on for ten months, I don’t even think I know what day of the week it is today. I kind of feel terrible now, too—”
It was Enjolras’s turn to shut him up.
“R, we don’t have to do anything. I just thought you might want to.”
“Baby,” Grantaire replied softly, “I celebrate loving you every single day of the year. And I hate going out to eat. I mean, yeah, I love good food, everyone knows that, and everyone knows I know every good spot in this entire county, but I hate going out to eat.”
“We don’t have to go out to eat, then,” Enjolras replied, almost defensively, “But we can still spend time together.”
“Well, yes,” Grantaire said, “I planned on it anyway. I always plan on spending my Friday nights with you.”
“So you do know what day of the week it is.”
Grantaire rolled his eyes, of course Enjolras was ready to pick a fight. It didn’t matter, though; Grantaire had figured out how to disarm him.
“You pick and choose when you want to be scary, Enjolras,” Grantaire reminded him, “And you have to choose now ?”
Enjolras’s almost-defensiveness went full-blown for a moment, his eyes momentarily fiery, before he remembered it was just Grantaire. If anyone else ever accused him of picking and choosing when to feel emotions, he would absolutely tan their hide, but not Grantaire; never Grantaire.
“I just feel bad,” Enjolras said back, “And I don’t think I’ve ever really… celebrated Valentine’s Day at all. Or ever, um, had a valentine?”
“Baby,” Grantaire crooned, “So you’re just throwing a tantrum so I’ll ask you to be my valentine?”
Enjolras turned bright red and only huffed in response, avoiding making eye contact with Grantaire. Maybe , Enjolras thought. Well, are you? Grantaire gently rubbed Enjolras’s shoulder. He was clearly very stressed out.
“What’s going on?” Grantaire asked; it felt deeper than Valentine’s Day.
“I feel pecked by a hundred chickens,” Enjolras lamented, scrubbing a hand through his hair and sighing with every inch of his lungs, “I am losing my mind every time I teach this comp class. They hate me, they hate writing, they hate reading, and I think they kind of just… hate the world. And everything in it.” He was so defeated, deflating into the couch.
“Would it make you feel better if I asked you, the prominent, notable, well-documented opposition to capitalist holidays, to be my valentine?” Grantaire responded. He moved his hand to softly brush Enjolras’s hair with his fingers; Enjolras leaned into his touch and tried to let the stress melt away. His head was spinning, he was stressed beyond belief, and Grantaire was making it all go away, even if he was still pressing Enjolras’s nerves.
“I don’t know,” Enjolras squeaked, “Would it sound stupid if I said yes?”
“Stupid?” Grantaire’s brow furrowed and he brushed Enjolras’s hair a little bit softer, reminding them both that it didn’t matter if it sounded stupid or not. “My love, kisses are a better fate than wisdom.”
Did I tell him what poem we were discussing in class today?
Enjolras melted against Grantaire’s hand. He didn’t need to explain today’s lesson to Grantaire, because Grantaire actually cared.
“Then the answer is yes,” Enjolras muttered tensely. He felt like a teenager.
“The answer to what?” Grantaire taunted, softly brushing his lips on Enjolras’s neck. Enjolras shivered.
“Yes, I am having a conniption because I think I would feel less insane if you asked me to be your valentine, even though I staunchly oppose holidays that are rooted in late-stage capitalism and I literally forgot that the entire holiday existed. I would like to be your valentine. It would make me feel better if you asked me.” Enjolras’s tone shifted from stressed, to robotic, to gentle.
“That was more of an answer than I was expecting,” Grantaire smiled. Enjolras still looked tense, almost uncomfortable at the open sharing of his emotions, something that Grantaire had grown used to. The days that Enjolras had to teach his gen-ed class always left him feeling tense, and sharing complicated emotions made it worse.
“Well?” Enjolras huffed. Grantaire wanted to laugh— Enjolras, who could probably take down entire countries if he could focus for long enough, who starched and ironed every pair of jeans he owned, who used debates as foreplay, looked defeated and frustrated. All because Grantaire wouldn’t give in to asking him a deeply arbitrary question that was rooted in concepts they both despised.
“Alexandre Enjolras,” Grantaire said, leaning against him. “Would you do me the fine honor of being my valentine?” Enjolras smiled and suddenly, everything in Grantaire’s world that wasn’t Enjolras just disappeared.
“Yes,” Enjolras replied, all traces of angst having slipped away already. “I would love to be your valentine.”
“How shall we celebrate this momentous occasion?”
“You pick,” Enjolras said, “You did ask me to be your valentine, so that means it’s up to you.”
“Is that how it works?” Grantaire asked. Something about it felt heteronormative.
“That’s how it was at home, I’m pretty sure,” Enjolras responded, confirming Grantaire’s suspicion of the underlying heteronormative agenda. “But we don’t have to do it that way.”
“No, we can,” Grantaire reassured him, “We can get takeout and eat it on your couch, watch a movie on your giant TV, eat overpriced chocolate, and bone. If you want.”
“ Bone ,” Enjolras echoed, “Bone sounds so juvenile.”
“Fine,” Grantaire responded, “We can make love , engage in heavy petting, bang, screw, knock boots, copulate, fuck— ”
“Grantaire,” Enjolras replied, “Shut up. Put a sock in it. Stop.”
“You’re so prudish,” Grantaire said, “What’s wrong with a good euphemism? And what does put a sock in it even mean?”
“It’s Southern for shut the fuck up.” Enjolras’s face went stern again, if only for a moment, before Grantaire joined their hands together to calm him. He pressed a kiss to Enjolras’s hand, holding his lips to the skin for a moment longer than he meant to.
“But what’s wrong with a euphemism?”
“What’s wrong is that if I have to hear another goddamned literary device today, I’m going to hold my face down onto your gas stove.”
“How romantic.”
Enjolras rolled his eyes and leaned his head on Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire, who was still shirtless and paint-splattered; Enjolras was exercising Herculean trial levels of self-control. Grantaire’s chest was rising and falling as he breathed, and Enjolras was having trouble focusing on anything else. He had to distract himself.
“I have something for you,” Enjolras told him. “A card.” And it feels so stupid.
“Well, what are you waiting for? I’ve already asked you to be my valentine, angel.” Fuck, I definitely don’t have anything.
Enjolras reached into the pocket of his coat, which he was still wearing because him and Grantaire were on the couch and not somewhere else, and grabbed the card he had gotten. He had scrawled an extra message inside of it and crossed out the price on the back. Grantaire smiled as he softly tore open the envelope. His eyes quickly scanned the card and the corners of his mouth quirked into a smile.
“Thanks, Enjolras.”
Grantaire couldn’t manage much more than that. He wanted to rip Enjolras off of him and hide, he wanted to run away, but there was no use— Enjolras was baring his heart to him, and he was going to bare his heart in return. There was nothing to run from, no love being held over his head. It was just the two of them, and Buffy, in the living room, staring at the card. Grantaire could let himself be loved. Enjolras had written words he could probably never say out loud on the inside of the card, poetic things that made Grantaire want to crawl out of his skin.
“I love you, R,” Enjolras whispered into Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire kissed him softly on the head, pulling him closer. “I’ll happily be your valentine for as long as we live. And after.”
Grantaire wanted to cry.
“I love you too, angel. Now come on, get up off of me,” He said, gently pushing Enjolras from his shoulder. Enjolras groaned— he never wanted to leave the curve of Grantaire’s neck and never wanted to smell anything other than Grantaire’s aftershave for as long as he could before it became sensory deprivation. “Baby, come on. I’ve got to finish working on this painting. They wanted it done already.”
Enjolras wouldn’t budge.
“I want to die here,” He whined.
“Nope, you can die in bed later. You can come lounge around and stare at me while I paint, but I’ve gotta work, love.” Enjolras grumbled out an incoherent response as Grantaire got up from the couch. Enjolras trailed after him, feeling silly in his coat, button down, and slacks, while Grantaire was wearing nearly nothing.
“Can I change?” Enjolras asked, poking through Grantaire’s drawers for a t-shirt.
“Mhm,” Grantaire replied, “Mi closet is tu closet, or whatever they say.” Enjolras rolled his eyes, but sourced a t-shirt and some lounge pants anyway. Grantaire had already turned around to his work station and hit play on his music before Enjolras even changed, so Enjolras threw himself down dramatically on Grantaire’s bed, burrowing a spot in his pillows. The shirt that Enjolras had nabbed was incredibly soft, Grantaire’s bed was incredibly cozy, and smelled incredibly like him— the ultimate recipe for Enjolras to relax. Grantaire’s music blasting didn’t bother him; something about the noise relaxed him. He wanted to watch Grantaire work, see the painting come to life, but sleep seemed to be beckoning him as his eyelids grew heavier. He could let himself sleep for a few minutes— it wouldn’t kill him.
“Enj,” A voice said, rustling him. “Enjolras. Baby.”
Enjolras opened his eyes, squinting at the lamp on the nightstand. What time is it?
“Angel, you gotta get up,” Grantaire murmured.
“I’m fixin’ to,” Enjolras said, “Give me a second.”
Grantaire plopped down on the bed next to him and poked his face a couple of times for good measure, just to make sure he was really awake.
“Fixin’ to,” Grantaire responded in a deeply exaggerated Southern accent, “Bless your heart.”
“Don’t make fun of me,” Enjolras groaned, “I’ll go right back to sleep if you keep it up.”
“Mhm, I bet,” Grantaire said, “I don’t know what I’ll do if my hot boyfriend goes to sleep in my bed— I might just have to fall asleep next to him, I think. Wouldn’t that be so fucked up?”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Enjolras replied, “You’re adorable, come be adorable right here, under the covers, please .” He reached for Grantaire, who quickly dodged.
“Nuh-uh,” Grantaire said, “We’ve got a date to get to. I already ordered the food, we’ve just gotta go get it.”
“Are we going to my apartment?” Enjolras asked. Grantaire nodded.
“Eponine said something about having Combeferre over for dinner, so, um, yes. Is that okay?”
“Of course, I just… need to wake up.” Enjolras sat up and blinked aggressively for a moment, trying to come back to life. “I’m still worn slap-out, ugh. Today was awful.”
“You’ve gotta stop speaking like you’re the prettiest belle at the ball,” Grantaire told him, “I’m falling in love with you more and more every second. It’s bad— the doctors are telling me it’s terminal.”
“Bless your heart,” Enjolras responded flatly. “It’s bad for me, too.”
“Come on, baby, get up. We have a date with butter chicken and a shitty movie at your place.”
Grantaire rubbed circles on the small of Enjolras’s back, silently pleading for him to get up and out of bed, which actually served the opposite purpose.
Enjolras grumbled, but obliged. Thankfully, Grantaire promised to drive, so Enjolras didn’t have to worry about being too awake until they got to his apartment. When they got around to pick up their food, Grantaire disappeared into the restaurant. Enjolras checked his phone; he hadn’t been on it since he’d left campus, and he hadn’t realized how late in the day it had gotten. He had arrived to Grantaire’s around three, and he knew that time had passed, but he didn’t realize that it was almost eight o’clock. He had been asleep for a long time, but Grantaire hadn’t bothered to wake him up.
Grantaire also seemed to be taking forever to come back to the car. Enjolras wondered what was taking so long.
angel: ?
Sexy Beast: are u not using your words anymore?
angel: Why would you use “u” and “your” in the same message?
Sexy Beast: because.
Sexy Beast: i’ll be back soon
Sexy Beast: hang tight dear
angel: I won’t go anywhere.
angel: You have the keys anyway.
Sexy Beast: be back soon my darling
angel: I’ll be here :)
“Did you know that Saint Valentine was the patron saint of mental illness?” Grantaire asked, finally returning to the car. Enjolras didn’t look up from his phone, which wasn’t going to be a problem as Grantaire rustled some things into the backseat. He handed Enjolras the takeout bag, and Enjolras suddenly realized how hungry he was. He didn’t remember the last time he had eaten that day.
“I didn’t know that, no.” Enjolras didn’t care about the saints, he was tired of hearing about them. Studying literature would do that to a person.
“So you’re right, I really should care more about Valentine’s Day. It’s like my day.” Grantaire said, kicking his car into reverse, the forklift-esque beeping grating at both of their ears. Fuck these safety features , Grantaire thought.
“I guess you’re right,” Enjolras said, “Should we try harder next year?”
Next year, Grantaire thought, turning up the stereo. There’s going to be a next year . And maybe a year after that. And maybe another.
“We can try,” Grantaire replied, “Try to try.”
Enjolras laughed, knowing how silly it felt for both of them, but it was comically on brand for the both of them to have forgotten Valentine’s Day.
“I don’t know the last time I did an actual Valentine’s Day with someone,” Enjolras told him, “I actually don’t know if I ever have.”
“Dude, are you serious?” Grantaire asked. “Like, ever? This is your first real Valentine’s Day and we’re blowing it.” Maybe we’re both the worst, and it’s not just me.
“We’re not blowing it,” Enjolras replied, “We could be doing much, much worse. We could be in a holding cell right now, you know.”
Grantaire turned to look at him. Thank God for red lights.
“What?” He asked. “Have you…”
“Uh,” Enjolras hesitated, “Maybe.”
“You’re joking,” Grantaire said, “Right? You have to be joking. You didn’t, uh, actually? Right?” Grantaire was in full disbelief mode, but simultaneously would not be surprised if it turned out to be true.
“Um,” Enjolras squeaked. “I plead the fifth.”
He turned neon red, and it wasn’t just the glow from the traffic light.
“ How? Actually, no. Scratch that— how have I not heard about this?”
The light turned green.
“Hm,” Enjolras hummed, “I’ll tell you one day.”
Grantaire laughed. What else was he missing in the Enjolras puzzle?
“I just can’t believe you somehow managed to get arrested on Valentine’s Day. How did that even happen?” Fist fight. Chaining himself to a building in protest of something. Setting something on fire? No, that didn’t sound like him.
“Well, uh, it was a protest. Obviously.” Obviously .
“You were… protesting love?” Grantaire asked, clicking his turn signal on to turn into Enjolras’s parking lot.
“Not really. We were protesting people protesting love.” Enjolras’s voice was mildly clinical, almost like he was ready to launch into a new political tirade.
“And it was a date?” Grantaire replied, feeling vaguely pressed by that information. He used to get arrested on dates. What?
“I mean, um, kind of? I don’t know. We kissed, but it wasn’t a date—”
“Before or after you got arrested?” Grantaire was starting to hate this conversation, despite the fact that he had started it. Look at that, we’re here. Thank God.
“Um,” Enjolras said uncertainly, “I feel like you probably know the answer to that.”
“You are so predictable,” Grantaire said, “Of course getting arrested gets you all hot and bothered. Do you want to go get cuffed tonight? I mean, I’m pretty sure we could make it happen, like, I bet we could go somewhere and start a fight. If you wanna get arrested together, oh baby, let’s go. Come on snake, let’s rattle. Imagine if we get arrested and they cuff us together, oh man, that would suck wouldn’t it? What would we do—”
“Grantaire,” Enjolras said, warningly, “Grantaire.”
“Oh, but wouldn’t it be so romantic? You and me and fifteen other guys locked up in a holding cell, and maybe they’d lose the key to our cuffs and we would just be stuck together—”
“R,” Enjolras said, firmly and domineering, “Put a sock in it.”
Grantaire immediately shut up. His mouth had a way of ruining things.
“I don’t want to get arrested tonight,” Enjolras told him, “Because that would ruin my first real Valentine’s Day with my first real valentine.” He sighed. “Can we go inside now? Are you done?”
Grantaire nodded, turning the car off.
“And just so you know, getting arrested does not get me hot and bothered,” Enjolras said, unbuckling, “But being handcuffed does .”
Oh, Grantaire thought, Oh. He swallowed and filed that thought away for later— way, way later.
“Good to know, good to know,” Grantaire replied, trying his hardest—and failing— to play it cool. Enjolras got out of the car with their food, closing the door gently and trying to locate his house key on his keyring, while Grantaire fumbled around for something in the back of the car. Enjolras successfully located his key and unlocked the door, straight-to-business as always, not bothering to check behind him. Good, Grantaire thought, He’ll actually be surprised. Enjolras reached down to pet Alfie and set the food on the counter, finally turning around and spotting Grantaire.
Grantaire stood in the entryway with a teddy bear, a card, chocolate, and a mini-balloon that read Happy Valentine’s Day. Enjolras didn’t know how to react, so he smiled.
“Grantaire,” He said softly, stepping towards him, “Thank you.”
Enjolras’s smile was soft and caring, like the small version of him that he only showed Grantaire, and his eyes had lost any grit they had around their edges. He brought Grantaire in, slowly and gently, for a kiss, probably the most romantic one they had ever shared. Grantaire, who still had Enjolras’s gifts in his hand, dropped them to the ground to pull him closer.
“Anytime, baby,” Grantaire replied, trying to maintain his chill, “I hope you like chocolate.”
“I do,” Enjolras said, leaning to pick them up from the ground, “I do have a sweet tooth, you know this.”
Grantaire leaned down to grab the rest of the gifts he had dropped and set them on a more acceptable surface before pushing Enjolras against the door, leaning in closely. He had to distract Enjolras enough that he wouldn’t question him, and pinning him against a door was a tried-and-true tactic to put him in a daze.
“Pick something for us to watch,” He said, pulling away and trying his hand at being seductive. “I’ve gotta do something really quick, alright?”
Enjolras nodded, ever the obedient soldier, and Grantaire stole away to Enjolras’s bedroom, determined to make his plan work. When he went into the restaurant to get their food, he knew Enjolras would be too tired and distracted to realize if it was really taking too long, so he snuck off to the CVS next door. Of course, the real flowers they had there at eight o’clock in the evening on Valentine’s Day were absolutely slim pickings, but he managed to find the last dozen red roses they had in store. They were among the bags that Grantaire had hidden in the car and managed to surprise Enjolras with at the door. While Enjolras was distracted with the television, Grantaire began to execute his plan:
Step one: Light the candles.
He plucked out the small set of scented candles he had found at the store, set them in spots he felt wouldn’t light the entire room on fire, and lit them. He had made a great choice— the candles smelled great.
Step two: Do the whole flower petal thing.
Grantaire began plucking the petals off of the dozen roses he had bought, and prayed Enjolras didn’t have allergies. He tried arranging them in a pleasing pattern on the bed, but it ended up being a horrifically lopsided heart— so much for being an artist. Enjolras wouldn’t care.
Step three: pretend like he hasn’t done anything.
That was the hardest part. He prayed to whoever he believed in that the candles wouldn’t set anything on fire. He returned to the living room, where Enjolras had settled into the couch with Alfie, his butter chicken, and… Brokeback Mountain .
“Is this… a Valentine’s Day movie?” Grantaire asked, “If I remember correctly, which I likely don’t because I’ve only ever seen the memes, this movie is, um, devastating?”
Enjolras nodded.
“I just think it’s a great movie.”
“I see,” Grantaire said, “Well, shall we?” He sat down next to Enjolras, who had already gotten Grantaire’s food on a plate. “Thank you for spending tonight with me.”
“Mm,” Enjolras smiled, “Anytime.” Grantaire leaned against him as they ate their food, hoping that the apartment wouldn’t burn down. The weight of their shoulders against each other was enough to calm whatever anxieties Grantaire had, so he let himself settle in and enjoy the movie.
“What the fuck,” Grantaire said tearfully, about two hours later, “What the fuck, Enjolras?”
“I know,” Enjolras responded, wiping a tear from Grantaire’s face, “I know.”
“Why would you make me watch this on Valentine’s Day? You are one twisted person, man.” Grantaire had not been prepared for the movie. The memes did not explain the plot. He was shattered and would never be the same man ever again.
Enjolras pried Grantaire’s lips open with a piece of chocolate to make it better. Suddenly, Grantaire remembered that he was supposed to be putting moves on Enjolras. That was the next step of his plan, so he yawned and stretched an arm around Enjolras’s shoulder.
“Man,” Grantaire said, not obviously playing at anything at all, “I’m getting kind of tired, angel. What about you?”
Enjolras looked at him suspiciously. I know you’re up to something .
“Yeah, I guess. I mean, I could stand to stay awake a little longer.”
Damn him , Grantaire thought. Damn the nap I let him take.
“Well, uh, I think you might want to go make sure your, um, room is. Still. Um, intact? Yeah.”
Way to play it cool , Grantaire thought, I am so bad at this. Romance is not as easy as they make it look.
“My room… is still… intact?” Enjolras repeated, looking at Grantaire with a raised eyebrow. Grantaire nodded.
“You never know, Enjolras. You have been gone all day.”
Enjolras rolled his eyes, shrugging Grantaire’s arm off of him. Grantaire shot him his saddest puppy dog eyes, but they did nothing to Enjolras’s marble demeanor.
“I’m gonna put these plates in the dishwasher,” Enjolras said, grabbing their plates and standing up. “You’re being so weird.” Grantaire frowned in response and followed Enjolras to the kitchen.
“Baby,” Grantaire said, running his hand through Enjolras’s hair to get his attention, “I really think you should go check out your room.”
“Oh my God, R,” Enjolras whined back, “You’re being so weird .”
“Is that all you have to say?” Grantaire asked, leaning in and softly kissing Enjolras’s neck. Enjolras shivered against Grantaire’s lips.
“Fine,” Enjolras agreed, “I’ll go check my room.”
He closed the dishwasher and padded over to his bedroom, Grantaire trailing close behind. Enjolras stopped right before he opened the door.
“I’m not about to find a pair of fuzzy handcuffs in here, am I?” Enjolras asked, eyeing Grantaire.
“I didn’t have time to get them, you only told me when we got home,” Grantaire said, “But I can run and grab some—”
Enjolras cut him off with a kiss.
“I’m joking,” Enjolras said, “It was a joke.”
“I always forget you can do that,” Grantaire replied, dazed, “It throws me off.”
Enjolras hummed a laugh in response before opening his bedroom door, which he opened silently, and then still did not say anything. He looked around, observing the bedroom, observing Grantaire’s hard work and probably judging it, he probably hates it, this is the end of me.
“Do you like it?” Grantaire asked nervously. “If you don’t, um, it’s fine, I can clean it up and then maybe just leave, and uh, fake my death and move countries, you know? It’s fine if you—”
Enjolras once again cut him off, digging his fingers into Grantaire’s hair, holding him close, eating him alive.
“I love it,” Enjolras said, finally, dragging Grantaire into the bedroom and closing the door. “I love you .”
“Heh,” Grantaire managed, his breathing heavy. “I love you, too.”
“When did you get all of this stuff? You said you also forgot about the whole holiday,” Enjolras said, eyeing Grantaire suspiciously. “Was that all a lie?”
“No, I’d never lie to you,” Grantaire reassured him, bringing him in for a hug, “But I went into CVS when I grabbed our food. I figured you wouldn’t notice.”
So that’s what took so long, Enjolras thought.
“I thought that the girl at the counter locked you into a conversation again, I had no idea.”
“Yeah,” Grantaire beamed, evidently very proud of himself. Enjolras loved how he looked when he was happy, he loved seeing Grantaire glow.
“And I had no idea you were such a romantic,” Enjolras admitted, “I’m kind of… obtuse when it comes to this kind of thing.”
“I know my way around wooing someone,” Grantaire said, “I mean, not really. But I’ve seen rom-coms before, you know.”
Enjolras smiled in response, the soft smile he reserved only for Grantaire. It was the smile that made Grantaire want to launch a thousand ships, burn cities down, write love poems, and devote himself to worship. It was the smile that made Grantaire remember who he was, where he was, and how far he had come. It was the smile that made Grantaire stay. Grantaire brushed a wave behind Enjolras’s ear and let him out of the hug, but Enjolras didn’t seem to want to move away from him. Grantaire was fine with that.
“So,” Grantaire said, “How about we put some music on?”
Enjolras nodded against him. Grantaire reached for his phone and pressed play, thanking God Enjolras’s that speaker recognized his phone. Soft music filled the room and Grantaire could feel Enjolras’s face growing warm against his skin.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Enj,” Grantaire whispered, “I love you.” They swayed for a moment.
“I love you,” Enjolras said back, “I have no idea what I would do without you. Thank you for everything. Not just today. Thank you for everything .” Thank you for arguing with me, thank you for letting me make you dinner, thank you for not leaving after. Thank you for cleaning me up after I got too drunk. Thank you for not hating me forever when I missed your gig. Thank you for diner breakfasts. Thank you for birthday cake and movie nights. Thank you for love songs. Thank you for love. Thank you for everything.
“Anytime,” Grantaire reminded him, pulling him back in for a kiss. Enjolras’s lips were soft, and they always tasted slightly like vanilla and mint, something Grantaire savored. Grantaire moved clumsily, trying to navigate their bodies elsewhere, until Enjolras’s legs hit the bed and they both fell.
“How does wonderful, romantic, Valentine’s day boning sound, my dear?” Grantaire asked, trailing more kisses down Enjolras’s neck.
“Perfect,” Enjolras said, not arguing with Grantaire’s use of the word boning . “It sounds perfect.”
“This sex is more than sex, under the will of the God of sex,” Grantaire quoted, hovering over Enjolras, both of them still unreasonably clothed.
“Stop quoting Gerrit Lansing and let’s just bone ,” Enjolras said.
“I win,” Grantaire bragged, “You said bone .”
“Oh my God,” Enjolras groaned, not because Grantaire was bragging but because Grantaire was mouthing at his collarbones through his—Grantaire’s actually—shirt and he was going to die. “Please. Please .”
“Let me think about it,” Grantaire said, pulling away and pausing. He looked closely at Enjolras, who seemed like he was about to explode or scream or cry. “Yeah, alright.”
“You said you’d tell me the story,” Grantaire said afterwards, interrupting whatever silent bliss Enjolras was reveling in.
“Are you serious? You want to talk about it now ? It almost sounds like you’re jealous,” Enjolras said, gently shoving Grantaire off of him.
“I’m just curious,” Grantaire defended, but he was also kind of jealous, even though he hadn’t known Enjolras when this happened.
“Fine, okay. I’ll tell you.”
Enjolras rolled over to face Grantaire, propping himself up on the pillows.
“It was freshman year,” Enjolras began, “And there was this student org that I had gotten involved with. There was another student org that just, like, couldn’t stand us? We were too, you know, liberal .”
“This is how all things begin with you,” Grantaire said, “You liberal beast.”
“I am not a liberal,” Enjolras responded, “Don’t insult me like that.” Grantaire laughed.
“Anyway, it was Valentine’s Day. And there was this guy that I kind of had a crush on in the student org with me, and he told me that the other group had some sort of anti-same-sex marriage or anti-same-sex attraction thing happening that day.”
“Interesting,” Grantaire replied. So he has a history of using these groups as a dating app .
“I don’t know what you’re thinking right now, R, but you’re wrong,” Enjolras said, dragging Grantaire from his thought, which was probably for the better.
“I was just thinking about how you use these little activist groups as a gay bar,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras smacked him lightly on the chest.
“Don’t minimize these into little activist groups ,” Enjolras retorted, “They’re more than that.”
“I don’t see you protesting the gay bar portion of that,” Grantaire pointed out. Enjolras shot daggers at him, forcing him to back down.
“He invited me to a protest against their protest, um, a counterprotest, and it was all going fine, until it wasn’t? Basically, one of their guys really didn’t like me, probably because we had slept together, and so he came right up to me and started arguing with me,” Enjolras continued, “And I said something that he didn’t like, so he decked me. Crazy solid right hook.”
“You used to just sleep with people? Man, I wish I had known College Enjolras.”
“No, you really don’t,” Enjolras told him, “I was kind of insufferable.”
“Worse than now ?” Grantaire asked. Enjolras laughed.
“Quit pushing your luck, R, you’re running out of time to claim your snark as affection.”
“Whatever,” Grantaire said, moving closer to Enjolras and settling against his body, “You love me.”
“I do,” Enjolras agreed, his voice softening. “For better or for worse.”
“Richer and poorer and all of that.” Grantaire smiled at him, savoring the moment, not worrying about anything other than Enjolras in bed with him.
“Are you going to let me finish my story?”
“I guess,” Grantaire relented. “I’ll take a thirty-second oath of silence.”
“But yeah, this guy just straight-up hooked me, so I um, punched him back? Way harder than I knew I could. Like, I went whole hog on this guy. One of the members from the other group saw me hit him and called the cops, and that’s pretty much it.”
“Where did the kiss happen, though?” Grantaire asked, dying to make fun of Enjolras’s tendency to be horny for a cause.
“Oh my God, you’re not gonna drop this, are you?”
“Nope,” Grantaire said, emphasizing the ‘p’. “I just think it’s a story that aligns very well with your personal brand.”
“Okay, fine. The kiss,” Enjolras began, “The kiss happened after the cops came. That guy punched me, I punched that guy, and then the guy I liked punched that guy. So we both got cuffed— the cops got him first, then me. They were like, dragging us away from the crowd, and he leaned towards me and we kissed. While handcuffed. On Valentine’s Day. And then we were in the holding cell, and then we got let out, and then, uh, I literally never spoke to him again.”
“You never spoke to him again? What? Enjolras— that could have been a crazy love story, right? I mean obviously, it wouldn’t have worked out and you and I would still be here, together, but still.” Grantaire was vaguely stunned.
“Well, he kind of insinuated that it was my fault that we were in there and that he never wanted to see me again,” Enjolras explained, “It was a weird time in my life.”
“Oh,” Grantaire said, “So it wasn’t a date, then.”
“No,” Enjolras said, “I don’t suppose it was.”
“Which means that we don’t have any competition,” Grantaire said, “You know, about like, making this the greatest Valentine’s Day ever.”
“Is that what this is about?” Enjolras asked, his voice somehow cross and soft at the same time. “You wanted to scope out the only other date I’ve had on Valentine’s Day?”
“Would I sound desperate and crazy if I said yes?”
“Grantaire,” Enjolras warned. “You know that you are the only one I want—I wake up alone and I miss you. I go to work and I miss you. I’m haunted by how much I love you when you aren’t around.”
“I know,” Grantaire said weakly. “I just want to be the best I can.”
“You are the best,” Enjolras reassured him, “I don’t want you to compare yourself to anyone. Or anything. None of it matters anymore, you know that?”
“Baby,” Grantaire said softly. “I just—”
“When my soul touches yours a great chord sings/How shall I tune it then to other things?” Enjolras quoted, taking his turn to punctuate his words with drop soft kisses all along Grantaire’s face.
“Oh my God,” Grantaire replied, “You’ve been reading Rilke.”
“In our veins, all becomes spirit.”
“Do you have good health insurance with the university?” Grantaire asked. “Because if you’re going to keep quoting Rilke to me, I need to know more about your health insurance so I know what doctors to go to when we get married.”
“Shut up,” Enjolras said lightly, “I would never give in to the institution of marriage.”
“Not even as a bit? Not even as a fuck you to heteronormativity?” Grantaire joked, biting down on Enjolras’s exposed chest. Enjolras swatted him away.
“Maybe as a fuck you . Maybe.”
“Mhm, I bet,” Grantaire replied, “But everything that touches you and me/Welds us as played strings sound one melody.”
“I’d consider it,” Enjorlas said, “For you.”
“For me,” Grantaire echoed, struck. “I can take that.”
“Happy Valentine’s Day, R,” Enjolras whispered, pulling Grantaire as close as physically possible. “I love you. Thank you.”
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Apollo.” Grantaire wilted into Enjolras’s touch, and all was well.