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Louisiana, Enjolras was quickly learning, was not for him. The heat, the way the air felt like you were swimming through it, the sheer number of mosquitos (though the irony did not escape him that he here was, a few centuries old and still loathing the little bloodsuckers), all made for the most unpleasant trip he had taken in a while. But it’s not every day your werewolf boyfriend turns two hundred, so he supposed he could suck it up (pardon the pun) and head down to Grantaire’s home state for a few days.
Sometimes it still baffled Enjolras just how big the United States could be. Sure, he had spent the last few centuries backpacking in a sort of way across Europe, staying with friends here and there, but he had most definitely spit out his drink all over Courfeyrac when he had casually mentioned in conversation that the state of Texas alone was bigger than most of central Europe.
He had never had a taste for warm climates, he stayed away from southern Italy and most of Greece if he could help it, and prefered more northern, bitter climates to balmy ones. At least, that was true until he met Grantaire.
Grantaire loved warm weather. He lounged around in open shirts and low-hanging sweatpants, showing off his array of scars, tattoos, and necklaces that trailed their way down his torso. He drank sweet tea and sunbathed on the porch, using his large wide brim hats to cover his face while he napped, ignoring the growing number of shirtless photos of him asleep that Enjolras was amassing, and hardly left the delicious patches of sunlight during the day if he could help it. They had spent the last few days in an old manor house Grantaire called home, and Grantaire had spent almost all of the daylight hours trying to coax Enjolras out there with him despite the steadily increasing humidity.
The property was a good fifteen minutes outside of the closest town, and sat on the edge of a large bayou. It had belonged to Grantaire’s family, when he was still human, and now belonged to him, once his few remaining descended relatives had passed a few decades ago. The manor itself was in fairly good condition, considering its age, and the minor fixes here and there that Grantaire had done over the years to keep it up to his standards of living.
“How often do you come down here?” Enjolras had asked when he discovered that the house had not just electricity and modern plumbing, but wi-fi as well.
Grantaire shrugged. “Enough.” And went back outside without much more to say on the matter.
Enjolras felt out of place in the old house, his sleek new appliances felt at home in their apartment in New York, but here they made him feel all the more an outsider. His clipped accent, muddled after too many years speaking too many languages that weren’t his own, stood out against the slow, sweet drawl that slipped from Grantaire’s lips, and made him feel uncomfortable speaking to anyone from town on the few occasions they had ended up at the closest grocery store to pick up more supplies for sweet tea and beignets.
“Sugar,” Grantaire called out from the porch. “Come out here for a minute, would you?”
Enjolras put his laptop away and reached for his cold glass of lemonade to bring out with him; because try as Grantaire might to get him to drink iced tea, he hates the feeling of drinking something so sweet it rots teeth one by one.
He pushed open the screen door to find Grantaire standing, buttoning up his shirt and trying to keep his hat from sliding off his head with the set of his shoulders and sheer power of will.
Two people were standing with him, one taller than Grantaire with shoulders that reminded Enjolras of birds wings with tattoos of bones crawling up her arms, and the other shorter and far curvier, with short hair tied back in two buns on either side of their head.
“Honey, meet Eponine, she’s a good friend of mine from a while back.” Grantaire smiled and gestured in the direction of the taller one. “And her partner, Cosette.” Cosette smiled and waved a little. “This is Enjolras.”
Eponine raised an eyebrow and spoke before Enjolras had a chance to comment on the lack of a descriptor. “You’re not as white as I thought you’d be,” she said, her eyes raking up and down Enjolras’ body. “Especially when he said he found you somewhere in the middle of Bavaria.” Her accent was different than Grantaire’s, her vowels sounded sweeter and Enjolras could immediately tell she wasn’t from around here either.
“I’m going to take that as a compliment.” Enjolras pushed down the bubbling of irritation that began to set in his stomach and reached for her hand. “Mademoiselle.” He kissed the back of her hand, careful to avoid the silver rings that rested there.
He turned to Cosette. “Not a mademoiselle,” they responded, still smiling. “But I appreciate the sentiment.” Enjolras reached for their hand all the same, and smiled inwardly at the small giggle that left their lips.
“Won’t you come inside?” Grantaire looked amused at the exchange as he pulled the screen door aside and ushered them all into the colder air. The air conditioner wheezed in the corner of the living room, in its dying days. Eponine flicked a lazy wrist towards it and it began whirling with a force; Grantaire was delighted.
“And that is why I refused to replace it each time you complained.” He said, turning to Enjolras. “Ep’s the best witch I know.”
Enjolras hummed noncommittally; knowing Grantaire’s friends, he wasn’t surprised. The seelie had thrown him for a curve, because even he didn’t believe in fairies, but he had learned to just roll with whatever Grantaire threw his way.
“Got a problem, vampy?” Eponine asked, her head rolling to the side as she narrowed her eyes at him.
Enjolras snorted at the nickname. “Only a little,” he looked over at Grantaire. “I thought you told Combeferre that he’s the best witch you know just last week.”
Grantaire barked out a surprised laugh. “Well darlin you’ve got me there. But I’ve got to take it back, Ep’s my number one, always has been and always will be. Sorry, sugar.”
He grinned and leaned over to pull Eponine in for a sloppy kiss on the cheek. “Grantaire, get off of me.” She shoved him away laughing and all but ran for Cosette. “There is room for one puppy in my life, and it most certainly isn’t you.”
“That’s alright, I think R’s fixin to bake a cake out of his cute little boyfriend over there. Maybe just toss in some flour, and a couple eggs. Some milk too, now that I think about it, and you should be all set.” Cosette pipped up, laughing and pulling Eponine closer to her. “Sorry sweetheart,” she said, turning to Enjolras, “nothin on you, of course, just callin things as I see them.” Enjolras snorted and went to stand closer to Grantaire, resting his head on the Grantaire’s boney shoulder. The closer they were to the full moon the less human he felt, and that always worried Enjolras a little, and took away from some of the lighthearted conversation.
“So, I was thinking,” Grantaire started.
“Oh god, you’re thinking. Please spare us.” Eponine deadpanned.
Grantaire rolled his eyes and continued. “I was thinking, maybe you could keep Enjolras company while Cosette and I go out tonight?”
Oh, Enjolras thought, that’s why they’re here. Grantaire needs someone to go running with him during the full moon.
“I would appreciate the company?”
Eponine pursed her lips and thought about it for a moment. “Fine, but we’re not coming to pick up your sad asses when you get lost and sad and covered in dirt.”
“Wouldn't have had it any other way Ep, love you too.”
Later, after Eponine had spent the evening alternating between interrogating Enjolras, pacing groves into the sitting room floor, and casting bones to gleam what she could about Cosette’s whereabouts, Enjolras falls asleep on the porch, in Grantaire’s favourite chair. He let Eponine braid his hair to busy her hands while she worked herself into a nervous frenzy, and shucks off his shirt in the muggy evening chill.
In precious few hours between moonset and sunrise, Grantaire and Cosette drag themselves home. Covered in mud past their elbows and knees, they lean on each other, pushing themselves just a little bit farther to get home.
“Next time,” Grantaire calls weakly as they stumble up the front steps, just as the sun is beginning to rise. “You're coming to fucking get us.”
He doesn't wait for her response, just grabs his hat and all but crawls over to his favourite chair. It takes no thought at all to prod Enjolras enough to make space for him, mud and all, and curl up under his boyfriend.
(If Eponine took a photo of them later on before she left with Cosette that she fully intends on circulating at whatever commitment-esque ceremony the two of them decide to have, well that's nobody’s business but her own.)