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One hour.
That’s it, just an hour. One hour of chatting and eating with Combeferre, of working out what exactly he’s going to say, of calming his nerves.
It shouldn’t feel like the longest hour of his life.
The truth is, Grantaire has crept under Enjolras’ skin. He’s found his way inside and now Enjolras just can’t shake him, can’t get him out of his head.
Although, Grantaire was always rather in Enjolras’ head, wasn’t he? He was always the one Enjolras was most adamant to convince, always the one that most frustrated him when he couldn’t. For god’s sake, even Marius, who is an idiot, has never infuriated Enjolras the way Grantaire does.
And Enjolras never actually thought he hated Grantaire. He always knew he cared about the man, but he’d thought…
Well, whatever he’d thought, he’d been wrong. And it took that night, a month ago, when he very nearly kicked Grantaire out of the group, to tell him. He didn’t hate him. In fact, he really cared about him. But Enjolras is the pure, just, model of faith. And Grantaire is not the kind of person he is supposed to fall for. And maybe he was trying to change him into something acceptable. But he was wrong.
He didn’t want something acceptable, he wanted Grantaire.
And that was a revelation that had taken some severe getting used to.
Finally, an hour passes, and Enjolras takes his leave of Combeferre, texting Grantaire that he’s on his way to the “other” cafe (the one the group only goes to when they’re on that side of town) and will meet him there (and then he sends another text, this one to Jehan, telling him in no uncertain terms that he is not to help Courfeyrac clean the apartment with his fucking woodland creatures or fairies or whatever it is he carries around with him that make him so ethereal — Jehan replies with a snarky comment about faerie folk because Jehan is not afraid of Enjolras). He’s already installed with his coffee (black) when Grantaire comes through the door.
He looks good today. His hair is kind of perfectly unruly and Enjolras is pretty sure Grantaire didn’t have time to shave, but he sort of likes it better that way. He sees Enjolras almost immediately upon entering the cafe and the smile he offers looks a little hesitant.
Enjolras smiles back. He’s sure now.
Grantaire stops at the table to say hello before he goes to order a drink. When he comes back, Enjolras has forgotten entirely all the things he planned to say.
“I guess you got home all right, then?” he asks instead, hyper aware of how fully awkward he sounds.
Grantaire flashes him a little nervous smile. “Yeah,” he says. “Combeferre even tucked me in, I think. I should probably thank him later.”
The corner of Enjolras’ mouth twitches as Grantaire sips at his coffee. He won’t thank Combeferre later.
“So did you kill Courfeyrac, or what?” Grantaire asks him lightly, but he won’t meet Enjolras’ eyes.
Enjolras pulls his hand away from his scone because he’s just realized he’s been crumbling it to pieces and places that hand on his coffee instead. “I did not kill him,” he answers calmly, even though his pulse is racing.
Grantaire still won’t look at him. “I mean, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you did,” he mumbles, his own fingers twitching on his coffee cup and doing highly confusing things to Enjolras’ nerves. “He was being an ass —”
“Grantaire,” Enjolras interrupts because he’s doing this now, he can’t take any more of this dance.
Grantaire’s eyes rise up to meet Enjolras’ and he looks almost frightened.
Enjolras feels a strange urge to reach out and touch him — to communicate with him that way instead, to tell him it’s all right with a hand on his arm instead of having to do this words thing. But words are important, here, and Enjolras knows that, so instead, he straightens in his chair and takes a breath.
“I think we should consider the merits of having relations with each other on a regular basis,” he says simply.
Grantaire lets out a sort of surprised half-laugh, then says, “What?”
Enjolras just raises his eyebrows a little. He thought he was clear.
“You mean —” Grantaire sputters, “— like…sexually?”
“I had that in mind, yes,” Enjolras replies, nodding.
Grantaire looks like he might pass out. Or scream, maybe. Possibly both.
“But — why?” he gasps, completely freaking out here. “Why…me? Um — Fuck, Enjolras, look at yourself you could have any manner of people who aren’t — fuck.”
Enjolras watches him. “Can you explain to me why you’re freaking out?” he asks gently and Grantaire drops his coffee to run both hands violently through his hair.
“God, Enjolras,” he gasps. “Fuck.”
“Grantaire.”
“You know how I feel about you, right?” Grantaire finally demands, staring straight at Enjolras now, his hair sticking up in all the wrong places.
Enjolras nods a little. “I think so,” he says so softly.
Grantaire’s breath is ragged. “Then maybe you’ll understand — and god, I can’t fucking believe I’m fucking saying this — but I don’t think I could do just casual…sex…with you.” He looks and sounds now like he might cry, and Enjolras suddenly gets it, but he lets Grantaire finish. “I’m a fucking idiot and I’m going to be kicking myself for the rest of my life for this, but I — I think it might kill me to be so close and not…”
When it looks like he’s not going to continue any time soon, Enjolras leans forward over the table and actually does place his hand on Grantaire’s arm this time. “Grantaire,” he says quietly, with all the gentleness in his heart. “I don’t want that. I want you.”
There’s half a moment’s quiet pause, and then the arm is ripped from under him as Grantaire leaps to his feet.
“Oh god,” he’s saying, almost to himself. “I have to stand. I have to…”
“Would you like to go for a walk?” Enjolras asks him kindly and he nods, pressing the back of one hand to his mouth, the other hand in his increasingly mussed curls.
Enjolras picks up both coffees as he stands, and leads Grantaire out of the cafe. It’s really just a matter of trust that Grantaire is following him.
Which of course he is. There’s a park across the street from the cafe and they end up wandering the green paths. Enjolras hands Grantaire back his coffee.
Grantaire has managed to calm down marginally and sips at it, then asks carefully, “I mean, do you mind explaining how you got here?”
Enjolras glances sideways at him. “How I reached the conclusion that I want to be with you?” he asks and ignores the way Grantaire’s breath catches in his throat.
“Um, yeah,” Grantaire answers. “That would be a good place to start.”
Enjolras nods and thinks for a moment. He wants to be thorough. “I’ve really enjoyed our text conversations,” he begins. Grantaire raises an eyebrow at him, but he just continues. “Once I got out of my own way, I really started to see what I’ve been confused about.”
“Shit, Enjolras, can you maybe try to make some sense, please? I’m dying over here.”
Enjolras smiles and glances at Grantaire again. “Would it be completely unacceptable for me to say that I don’t know?” he asks. “Not entirely, anyway.”
For some reason, this seems to make Grantaire sad, and his face falls.
“What is it?”
Grantaire shakes his head and stares at the path at their feet.
“Please tell me?”
He sighs. Then finally, “Listen, I…get that you think you like me, I guess. But this isn’t going to last.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, if this is one of those Lets See If We Can Fix Grantaire By Loving Him things, that’s…well, it’s not really how life works. And maybe you think you like me now, but in a little while — or maybe tomorrow, hell if I know — you’re gonna wake up and realize you made a mistake. It was a whim. Or a crush or something. I mean you know I’m kind of desperately in love with you, right? That’s not — Anyway, that doesn’t last.”
He sounds bitter and hardened. Enjolras frowns. “If I wanted to fix you, I wouldn’t want to be with you,” he says firmly.
“Then I don’t get it,” Grantaire says. “Why?”
Enjolras stops walking at that and reaches out to stop Grantaire too. He needn’t, as Grantaire shadows his every movement, but his hand is on Grantaire’s arm again and this time, Grantaire doesn’t pull away. There’s some of that fire back in Enjolras’ eyes, but it isn’t frightening now.
“I may not entirely get it either, Grantaire,” he says, his quiet voice full of passion like he’s making one of his speeches. And he is, to the person he always wants to convince the most. “But I want to feel every aching, violent, tremulous thing that I feel when I’m around you. And I know that this is not going to be like what Courfeyrac has with Jehan, or what Joly and Bossuet have with each other. This will be messy, and I doubt all of our fights will be suddenly solved, and you’ll infuriate me and I’ll probably hurt you, and if you don’t want all of that, I would not hold it against you. But I feel things around you that I want to feel, and in all of your worst moments, I still want to be around you. And I think we could be good for each other. I think you could be good for me. I want to find out.”
Grantaire just stares at him for a moment, completely struck speechless. His lips part a little, then he blinks and adopts a half-hearted smirk. “What, you just figured all that out?” he breathes in an attempt at joking. “Where was all of this while I was pining after you like a puppy for the past three years?”
Enjolras doesn’t speak. He’s said what he needed to. He just gazes at Grantaire, waiting. And he won’t let go of his arm.
Finally, Grantaire lets out a little huff. “I mean —” he starts, the wets his lips, shrugging. “I’m in love with you. You already have me. I’ll take whatever you give me.”
Enjolras smiles and his hand slips down Grantaire’s arm to take Grantaire’s hand. His eyes slip, too, to glance over Grantaire’s open lips.
Grantaire sees this. His breath catches again. His other hand reaches an inch out into the space between them and he hears himself breathing out, “Do you mind… ?”
Enjolras’ answer is to lean in to him, to catch his lips with his own. Grantaire’s shaking hand finds Enjolras’ arm and he clutches him like he needs something solid to remind him that he’s real, because Enjolras iskissing him and through all the texts and the little secret smiles and the fact that Enjolras literally pulled him out of a burning building, Grantaire never really allowed himself to think this would actually happen.
And then it’s a little too much — his golden god is kissing him — and Grantaire feels himself jerk away, hears his own voice rasp out the words, “Oh my god,” but Enjolras is taking his face between his hands and gently pressing their lips together again. And Grantaire’s arms have snaked around Enjolras’ waist, and their coffee cups have fallen to the ground at their feet, and their bodies are matching, pressed against each other as they kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss each other.