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Enjolras approaches the end of his sophomore year with dread. There are too many things to do—planning for l’ABC. Renn Fayre. Papers. Reading week. Finals. His flight to Paris in August. But it’s hardly that, he knows—he isn’t the only signator of Les Amis de l’ABC, and his papers are mostly finished. He’s done Renn Fayre before. Reading week is fine. Finals will be fine. Paris will be fine. His French is fine—it’s hardly that.
This anxiety is nameless.
Enjolras dreams about his teeth falling out.
“That means you’re afraid of losing something,” Jehan tells him over breakfast. They bite into a marionberry scone. “Gosh, I swear, these scones are the only thing Commons does excellently.”
“It’s just a stress dream,” Enjolras mutters. He takes a gulp of coffee. He’s already had a cup this morning (he has a machine in his room, it’s necessary—), but that was two hours ago and he can still feel the shadows under his eyes like bruises. It wasn’t even homework that kept him awake this time, just dreams.
“You should make a counseling appointment at the HCC,” Joly suggests. “They’re good at handling stress. I mean,” he laughs dryly, “this is Reed College.”
“Not possible.” Enjolras’ voice is smooth and collected, which he’s proud of, since the mix of sleep deprivation and caffeine is making his brain buzz. His phone pings quietly to remind him that it is Passover, all day. Enjolras turns it off quickly. Enjolras has had notifications for each day of Passover ever since Courf accidentally bought a croissant on day five the year before and made Enjolras promise to keep him accountable. But Courf has already sat down with a bowl of fruit.
Joly sighs. “For goodness’ sake, Enjolras—you’re not losing anything by going to the HCC. Even if you think their medical services are lacking, their counseling is good. And,” Joly drops his gaze but there’s a touch of venom in his voice, “it’s not weak to need to talk to someone.”
“That’s not what I—I don’t think that, you know I don’t. It’s just that—” Enjolras rubs a hand over his face—“If I go to a counseling appointment, at all, ever, before I study abroad, then I’ll have to go back for another one just so they can make sure I’m okay—which is not bad, it’s good that they care about people’s mental health—but I just don’t have time for an appointment, let alone two. And I know I already got checked off for health, but I’m sure they’ll change it if I suddenly go to a counseling appointment. I just don’t have time.”
Actually, he might. He certainly has the time between classes, but an hour not spent in the HCC means an hour extra for his paper finals, or an hour more to study for his single sit-down, bluebook final. (Or an hour spent tapping his pen against the cover of his bullet journal, staring into space, not thinking about the future, thinking only that he wishes this semester will never end.)
Joly sighs, but doesn’t push the point.
Just then, Grantaire stumbles into Commons.
(Enjolras’ stomach flips.)
“He-ey!” Courfeyrac shouts. “How’s the thesis going?” The question is playfully suggestive, like he’s interrogating Grantaire about his love life instead of his senior thesis; though, Enjolras’ sleep-deprived brain notes, one is a much more serious, time-consuming, life-defining commitment than the other, and it’s not how many people Grantaire is kissing. (Enjolras studies his eggs, which are tasteless.)
Grantaire slumps down in the last open chair. “Almost done, I think.” He laughs, but it’s largely composed of exhausted sighs. “Almost done. Christ.” He rubs his scalp viciously, black curls going this way and that. (Enjolras wants to still Grantaire’s hands with his own, wants to say don’t treat yourself so harshly, wants to run his fingers gently through those curls.)
“Eye on the prize,” Coureyrac encourages. “Look to the end.”
At that, Jehan squawks and throws part of their scone at Courfeyrac. “We do not speak of Hum 110 at this table.”
Enjolras opens his mouth.
“Or at least not in pleasant conversation,” Combeferre says pointedly. Enjolras closes his mouth. “How much sleep have you gotten?” This is directed at Grantaire.
“This week?”
“Oh God,” says Joly.
“It’s almost over,” Grantaire says hastily.
“Just promise you won’t go to Thesis Parade on no sleep,” Combeferre says.
“Of course not.”
“Wouldn’t wanna fall asleep when it’s your turn to burn things!” Courf grins. “And kiss lots of people,” he adds as an afterthought.
Grantaire smiles wanly.
(Enjolras feels sick.)
It’s Grantaire’s Thesis Parade. Grantaire isn’t their only senior friend—Musichetta is currently in the library, hacking away at some last edits—but somehow that’s what it’s become in Enjolras’ head, despite Musichetta, despite the theme reveal. Grantaire’s Thesis Parade, Grantaire’s Renn Fayre, Grantaire’s orals during Reading Week, Grantaire’s commencement. Enjolras isn’t even sure if Grantaire is going to his Thesis Parade. He’s been sub-free since the middle of fall semester, and had disappeared during Spring/Fall. Enjolras and Grantaire are sub-free for very different reasons, but it’s still never a position Enjolras expected to share with Grantaire, of all people. (But he had been, just a tiny bit, relieved.)
(Or a lot.)
This year has not always been kind to Grantaire, and Enjolras feels strangely warm and proud that Grantaire is here, tired but smiling softly, and almost done with his thesis. It’s not a feeling he should have—it’s not Enjolras’ accomplishment, after all.
“How are your after-graduation plans?” Combeferre asks.
Courf groans at Combeferre, but Grantaire just glances around, then down, and says, “They’re coming.”
(There’s a moment when his eyes land on Enjolras, and Enjolras’ heart skips.)
There’s two minutes left before Enjolras’ phone will ping again to tell him he has a meeting with his advisor, Professor Lamarque in the Political Science department, in ten minutes, but Enjolras stands anyway. “I have to go,” he says needlessly.
Combeferre frowns. Courf murmurs, “See you.”
“Think about what I said at least?” Joly says while Enjolras packs up.
Enjolras nods, but knows he won’t.
“Hey.” Jehan grabs Enjolras’ wrist. “Text me,” they say, “if you ever need to talk.” Their eyes flick meaningfully down the table, but Enjolras refuses to follow their gaze.
“I will.” (He never intends to need to talk.)
Enjolras slings his messenger bag over his shoulder and strides out of Commons. He does not glance at Grantaire as he passes. He does not.
* * *
After the meeting with his advisor, Enjolras has two classes (a solid three hours of his time) and a total of seven hours until the last ABC meeting of the semester. He works nearly on autopilot. Four out of his five classes have paper finals, one due tomorrow, one due the Friday Renn Fayre starts, and the other two during finals week. Enjolras has already finished the two due this week and he plans to get another done before Renn Fayre so he can have most of Reading Week to study for his sit-down final. It’s a good plan.
Enjolras has been staring at his paper for his French Enlightenment class for twenty minutes.
He grits his teeth and scrolls through the essay. He still has to finalize his citations and bibliography, but he can’t think of anything more to add the paper itself. It’s on the longer side of the page length requirements and it’s only a small research paper, but he still feels wrong declaring it done. Which means there must be something wrong with his French. He begins to read it backward, sentence by sentence.
“Whoa, you’re here early.”
Enjolras jumps.
The door to the Info Shop slams shut behind Grantaire and he saunters over to the ring of couches at the center of the room. (Enjolras feels like he’s been woken brutally from a midday nap.)
“So are you,” Enjolras observes.
Grantaire shrugs. “I had the time.” He stretches out on a couch to Enjolras’ right.
“Is that the only reason you come?”
Grantaire sighs. “Yes, before I started coming here, I just had an hour from 5 to 6pm on Wednesdays that I didn’t know what to do with. Non-activists have so little to do, you see.”
“You know what I meant,” Enjolras snaps.
Grantaire smiles at the ceiling, shaking his head a little. His legs sway over the arm of the couch.
Enjolras takes a deep breath. Courf has told him how to do this. “I’m sorry,” he says.
Grantaire stills. Looks at Enjolras.
“What?”
Enjolras glares at his computer screen. “That I implied you have nothing better to do. I know you have a lot of work, that everyone does, including art majors.”
Grantaire sits up. “Oh.”
Enjolras should have said “And especially seniors,” he thinks, but it’s too late now. He never says exactly what he should when it comes to Grantaire. He’s constantly revising with no place to resubmit. Enjolras chews on his lip, staring fixedly at his paper. He’s no longer reading it, more aware of Grantaire still watching him in his peripheral vision than the screen right in front of him.
(It’s not like Grantaire never watches him. He does it quite a lot, actually. It’s just, just—
Enjolras has been avoiding this.)
“You didn’t reply,” Grantaire says after a while. “To the text I sent you.”
Enjolras looks up in surprise. “That was last week.”
(Enjolras looks at the message each time he texts someone else, unable to bring himself to reply.)
“Christ, it was, wasn’t it?” Grantaire drags a hand through his hair. “My sense of time has gone out the window.”
“You’re not getting a lot of sleep,” Enjolras says.
“Neither are you.” Grantaire raises in eyebrow pointedly.
(Enjolras’ heart flutters, a small bird trying to fly, and his sleep-deprived brain suggests that the obvious solution is for Enjolras to go lie on the couch with Grantaire, tangled up, until they both fall asleep.)
“I’ve been busy,” Enjolras murmurs.
“You’ve never been too busy to argue, especially when I’m wrong, which is,” he assumes a playfully thoughtful look, “all of the time.”
Enjolras feels a harsh reply on his tongue, he is busy dammit, but all that comes out is, “Don’t do that.”
Grantaire blinks at him. “Are you alright, Apollo?”
(This is why Enjolras doesn’t want to see Grantaire. They still fight and bicker, but recently there’s been…something different. Softer. And sometimes it hurts more than the fighting ever did. There will be so many awful things when Grantaire is gone—no sarcastic comments during ABC meetings, an empty chair at their table in Commons—but this might be the worst, the absence of this softness that makes Enjolras think of things like Grantaire’s eyes and holding hands.)
“Don’t call me that.” This time he does snap. (If only because he’ll miss that stupid nickname too.)
The door bursts open.
“¡Hola, mis amigos! I come bearing matzoh.” Courf prances into the room, Jehan and Combeferre in tow.
Though Courf is technically the only Jewish person in l’ABC, the entire group eats matzoh when Passover comes around. Even if they still eat other bread and unanimously agree that matzoh is tasteless, why are we eating this?, it still happens. Grantaire has already stood up to pull a piece from the box Courf is carrying.
“How’re the WMD preparations go-ing?” Courf sing-songs at Grantaire.
Grantaire grins. (Oh no, says a small, absurd part of Enjolras’ brain.)
“They’re going well, I think.” He casts a glance at Enjolras.
Enjolras snaps his eyes away like he was never looking. He focuses on Combeferre, who sits down and picks up the whiteboard they use for the agenda from where it lays on the small coffee table. He writes Introductions with a small asterisk, in case no one but the core group shows up, in which case there’s no point. Then he writes Finalize summer reading list and End of semester wrap-up + fall announcement and that’s it, there’s nothing more. The year is practically over.
The door opens again. This time it’s Feuilly, Bahorel, and Joly.
“Chetta sends her love from the library,” Joly says. There’s a collective empathetic murmur. “Bossuet will be here soon.”
They wait a few minutes more for others to arrive. It’s the end of the year and people are expected to be absent. Finally, Combeferre says, “Right, let’s begin,” and they do.
* * *
The meeting finishes early. They’ve mostly agreed on the summer reading already, and wrap-ups never take long. (Grantaire was quiet for the most part, and Enjolras is simultaneously relieved and disappointed.) The only announcement is that there will be a signator position for l’ABC open in the fall semester, since Enjolras will be away. (Enjolras says he’ll Skype in, to which Joly replies, “It will be two in the morning, Enjolras.”)
Enjolras resents the feeling of ending, even if everything’s wrapping up alright. It’s all coming at him too fast. Papers. Renn Fayre. Reading Week. His flight to Paris in August.
He gets a text from Courf after dinner.
R wants if he did something to upset you.
Enjolras ignores it, rearranging yet another sentence in his French paper.
Enjolras?
This is about him leaving, isn’t it?
Enj.
ENJ.
I’m calling you.
Enjolras doesn’t pick up.
(Maybe if he never finishes this paper, this semester will never end.)
He’s not gone yet, you know, Courf’s last text says.
The next morning, Grantaire comes to breakfast wearing laurels.
* * *
Renn Fayre hits Enjolras like bomb.
A bomb filled with glitter, rose petals, and champagne.
He spends the time from his last class to Thesis Parade with Jehan, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre, which is how he ends up with flowers woven into his curls (Jehan), a crop top (Courfeyrac), and a bag full of matzoh and wallets (Combeferre). Enjolras became the Holder Of Stuff almost by accident last Renn Fayre, and the role has been reassigned to him this Renn Fayre. (There is an expectation that he will not lose things.)
(Enjolras receives a text from Éponine that says Don’t kiss him during Renn Fayre. He won’t believe you and I will never forgive you.)
Thesis Parade is a mess of screaming and dancing and fire. The theme of this year has been painted on huge sheets of paper that hang on the outside of the library’s main entrance. Above that, another banner reads “Are you practicing good consent?”
“Can I kiss you?” Courfeyrac has to raise his voice to be heard. He’s already quite tipsy.
Enjolras nods and turns his face to catch his lips on Courf’s. The kiss is sloppy and affectionate and short. Courf skips over to Feuilly next and repeats the question. Courf kisses everyone during Thesis Parade.
Many of the others have disappeared into the thick of it, following the seniors who are drained toward the bonfire, thesis drafts held high. Bossuet is somewhere near the library entrance with the rest of Drum Corps, Joly and Musichetta beside him. Musichetta had been one of the first to the bonfire, screaming triumphantly as she burned page after page of thesis drafts. There’s a concentration of laurels near the bonfire, but Enjolras can’t see very well, can’t see if—
“He’s here,” Combeferre says.
Enjolras glowers at him. “I wasn’t—”
“You knew who I was talking about.”
Enjolras feels himself flush.
“Why is everyone being so, so—” Enjolras can’t think of a good word suddenly. It’s an unpleasant feeling.
Courf sidles over to Enjolras and wraps an arm around his shoulders. “Crushes look cute on you,” he stage-whispers.
“Courf—!”
“Dance with me, darling!” Courf grabs Enjolras’ wrist and drags him into the mess of dancing bodies.
There’s glitter, and champagne spray, and rose petals falling from the library. Grantaire’s Thesis Parade.
Enjolras sees him then, across the bonfire, which he’s near to suddenly. Grantaire.
He tosses pages into the flames, then turns and bends down to receive a kiss from Éponine, accompanied by several friendly punches. When they pull apart, she dumps some of her champagne on his head. He’s laughing, and he’s beautiful, and Enjolras wants to walk around the bonfire, wants to grab Grantaire by his belt loops, wants to lean his head close to Grantaire’s, and ask May I kiss you? just loud enough for the two of them. It would be so easy, because it wouldn’t be serious, it wouldn’t be two years of arguments and quickened pulses, of endless messaging and hidden smiles and wishing, of relentless trying not to be like this leading to inevitable being like this. It wouldn’t be I’ve wanted to kiss you since the night you stayed up with me until 3am even though you were done with your work, just because you knew how anxious I was about mine. It wouldn’t be I love when you text me while I’m working, I love when we argue, I love when we don’t, please don’t stop sending me messages. It wouldn’t be Remember that night when you were drunk and you almost kissed me but you didn’t and we argued and you didn’t and we didn’t speak to each other for weeks, remember that night? It wouldn’t be I wish you had kissed me. It wouldn’t be Remember when you scared us so badly we called an ambulance? It wouldn’t be I was so scared I didn’t sleep for days. It wouldn’t be Let me be gentle with you. It wouldn’t be I think I might be a little bit in love with you.
It wouldn’t be anything.
Grantaire will be gone in two weeks.
Enjolras is going to Paris for a semester.
In Enjolras’ bullet journal, there’s an incomplete and unstarted task that says Just ask. There were always more urgent things to do, or the physical distance during the holidays, or the nervous twisting in Enjolras’ gut, or the insistence that he didn’t have time, or the memories of all the real, awful, yelling arguments. A few weeks ago, Enjolras put an X through the task. He'd missed the deadline, he’d decided. He'd lost a chance to space and time.
Grantaire’s Thesis Parade, Grantaire’s Renn Fayre.
Enjolras just wants some time back.
* * *
Enjolras doesn’t intend to go to the last WMD show, but he does. He’s seen Grantaire perform before, he reminds himself. (He’s rewatched some of Grantaire’s performances on YouTube, he reminds himself.) But he still finds himself out on the Great Lawn at 10:30pm, watching a small girl twirl a flaming rope dart to Sia’s “Fire Meets Gasoline.”
The audience screams when she’s done and Jehan comes forward to announce the next performer. Jehan isn’t performing this time, since it’s Renn Fayre and this show is for the seniors. The next dancer begins, this one with a staff.
It’s mesmerizing to watch the fire-dancers. The darkness is so complete, they’re almost all that’s visible. The atmosphere is consuming. The fire, the music, the cheers. There’s a weight of melancholy in the air, though. This is, after all, a goodbye.
“Our next performer,” Jehan says, “is an art major.” There’s a small cheer and one whistle. (Enjolras’ heart picks up.) “His name is Grantaire,” a cheer, “and his thesis is entitled Let Me Do What I Want—Colon—Everything I Imagine is Real.”
The audience laughs as Grantaire holds out his poi to be lit. Enjolras feels the corner of his mouth tilt up. He knows Grantaire’s thesis is actually about street art (at its simplest), but the fake titles are a tradition.
The music starts.
Grantaire moves.
Enjolras has seen Grantaire dance before, but it always takes his breath away. The poi spin ceaselessly in his hands, his arms leading his body, each movement so fluid it almost seems careless. He dances shirtless, in long pants, the fire illuminating his tattoos as it passes. (Enjolras is slightly breathless.) He tosses the poi, catches them, twirls them behind his back, breathes on them so the flame soars high above his head. He is a wildfire. The dance molds itself to the music, a song Enjolras hasn’t seen Grantaire dance to before, something melancholy that matches Enjolras’ heartbeat, something about Paris.
Grantaire dances like he’s losing something. (It’s a goodbye, Enjolras thinks.) The fire lights up the edges of his curls, the gold of his laurels. (Enjolras’ heart is breaking.) Apollo, Grantaire had called Enjolras from the moment they met, but surely Grantaire, too, is some sort of god when he dances.
He’s leaving, Enjolras thinks. He’s leaving, he won’t be at Reed, and Enjolras will be in Paris, and everything is going in opposite directions, and this won’t work, it won’t work, but Enjolras wishes. He wishes.
He thought damage control would work, but he was wrong, he was so wrong, because Enjolras has hardly talked to Grantaire in two weeks and he’s still standing here breathless. Enjolras misses him. He misses him already (and he isn’t even gone yet). Enjolras hadn’t wanted to see him, if only to keep himself from grabbing Grantaire’s hands and begging him to say he never, never has to leave.
(Oh darling.)
Grantaire’s song has ended and Enjolras is moving before Grantaire has put the fire out. He goes around the circle to the speakers and meets Grantaire just as he steps out of the center.
“Hi,” he says.
“Enjolras.” Grantaire looks surprised and a little wary. The glow of Jehan’s torch casts sharp shadows down his face. He smells like smoke.
“I need to talk to you.”
“I thought you were avoiding me,” Grantaire mutters. He watches the next dancer begin, face out of Enjolras’ view.
“Only avoiding saying goodbye.” The words are rushed and jumbled, but he’s started it and he can’t go back now.
Grantaire faces him. He takes a deep breath. “And you’re ready to do that now?”
Enjolras shakes his head. “I’m not ready now more than ever. I—” but the words catch in his throat because I love you is too big for people who haven’t been on official dates and I like you is too small for how terrified Enjolras feels when he thinks about losing Grantaire. “I adore you.”
Grantaire’s eyes go wide. Enjolras bites his lip. He sounds like Marius, just after meeting the Night Owl Angel who turned out to be Cosette. Ridiculous and lovesick. Crushes do not look cute on him. He thanks the darkness that hides his blush. “I’ll miss you” is what he should have said, but he always messes up with Grantaire, always.
“I got an internship in Paris,” Grantaire says.
It’s so abrupt that it takes Enjolras a few moments to process what Grantaire said.
(His heart thumps.)
“You…”
(Something like hope crawls up his throat.)
Grantaire begins talking a mile a minute. “Well, you know how I went abroad to Paris two years ago, before you were here, well, I had connections, and it’s a good opportunity, for art, and….and shit, and I swear I wasn’t just following you to Europe, though I had hoped—well, actually, it’s just that—I wasn’t really thinking straight, and I thought you, well, but then you started avoiding me, so I thought I must be wrong, but I still had the internship, and I wasn’t sure how to say something, because it would be so obvious that I wanted to go to Paris because you’re in Paris—will be in Paris—and I didn’t think you’d like that I…..I adore you, too. But you do. Um.”
“I do,” Enjolras echoes dazedly. “You’re coming to Paris.”
“Leaving before you, actually.”
Enjolras feels like he’s swallowed the sun.
He reaches out to pull Grantaire toward him, finds skin (oh), and is leaning up to Grantaire when he remembers—
"Shit.”
Grantaire frowns.
“Éponine told me not to kiss you during Renn Fayre,” Enjolras pouts.
Grantaire laughs, pulling Enjolras closers. (Enjolras’ stomach does somersaults and his heart beats like a hummingbird’s wings.)
“She didn’t tell me the same thing,” Grantaire murmurs. He looks happy and shy all at once. Enjolras bites his lip and feels stupidly giddy.
“Didn’t tell you what?”
Grantaire lets his mouth hover over Enjolras’. “She didn’t tell me not to kiss you.”
“Oh.”