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Grantaire was not a conventionally attractive man. He did not say or acknowledge this in a demeaning way, to put himself down, but in a way to exist with the fact.
It wasn’t his features, that made him this unappealing to most, people would say. He was an argumentative person, deep-rooted in a family that had grown up broken and he had never learned to love, let alone love himself.
So, maybe it was a bit based in a demeaning way, when Grantaire said he was unattractive. He tried some days, to put mousse in his untamed black curls, to fix the way his mouth sat on his face, and he did shave normally, never letting it get past a stubble, but he looked even worse being clean.
He wasn’t a particularily good student, having almost failed secondary school and somehow managing to get into Art School with his shitty portfolio, with no friends and no money.
They approved his aide plan, thank god, and he made enough on commissions to get by. That, or the street races.
It was a bad habit that started young, back when his sister was still alive, and he would hear the mufflers of the cars fly past their sad little house with walls as thin as his mother’s hair.
He had often gotten involved in bad ideas as he got older and grew more alone, the drinking the most. It gave him more of a buzz than any of the drugs people could scavenge up. When one of the boys he hung around stole a car and let him drive it, it really started going downhill.
Grantaire had only been 16 at the time, not exactly young or naive, but desperate for attention and always a bit drunk, and when someone remarked he should join the street races because in their words; “You’re like, really good. You shouldn’t be.”; which was all the motivation he had needed, though looking back it was probably an attempt to get him killed. They would have found it funny.
But then he started winning. Not just in Arles, but in the neighboring towns too. Mind that he was still under the legal age to be driving, but the police themselves were at the races sometimes, and some of the other men who he raced taught him how to hide a car if they did decide to give chase.
It started going uphill from there, for a bit. Grantaire left, leaving the stolen car behind and moving up into Paris for college, where he met new people, who seemed to genuinely care, however new a concept that was to Jehan.
Jehan, who studied Art History had a few of the same classes as Grantaire, and they became close friends practically instantly.
The street racing didn’t stop, however, and nobody tried to stop him. Jehan told him to be safe, and Eponine, who started harassing him after she found out he had the answers to the World History teachers quiz, told him to give her some of the money if he wins.
The only difficult part about it was that he didn’t have a car, and he certainly didn’t have the money to spare for one.
Musichetta, another racer he had met when he had first started showing up to scope them out, said that you could get fast cars for cheap with a local gang called the Patron-Minette.
Grantaire was only human, and he did really need a car.
He did, eventually, get one, with a few close scrapes from Babet who seemed to be insistent on Grantaire stealing from them, but it was in the past. They were good men, Grantaire decided.
Montparnasse, the smaller rings leader seemed to less scary than the stories made him out to be. He was also younger than Grantaire, who was by now 21, and the man seemed barely 19 or 20 at best.
Grantaire valued his life, and did not point this out.
And so it was found, where Grantaire was stood on la Rue de la Paix, leaned against his green car obtained through practical and legal means, talking to Musichetta, who had a fire burning bright in her eyes and Grantaire knew she was going to win then, and Jehan was somewhere out in the crowd, ready to cheer him on.
They’d have to settle for Grantaire getting second.
Dahlia, a young woman that looked so much like a man she was often mistaken for one, though she had told Grantaire she preferred it that way, and Fameuil are both racing as well, though Grantaire likes neither of them very much, and can tell himself now they’ll lose. Against Grantaire alone they’d lose, let alone both Musichetta and Montparnasse, who are racing as well.
Montparnasse’s car, the black with the glints of red reflect in the dim streelights of Paris sits at the far end of the row, practically completely untouched. It was out of character, for him, but Grantaire brushed it off. Guelemer is probably somewhere around, hidden, if Montparnasse isn’t with the car himself.
Glorieux comes out, still wearing that tracksuit everyone had told him not to get, and it’s the signal to get in their cars.
Musichetta kisses Grantaire on the cheek before sliding into her spot, and Grantaire slides across the car’s hood in a small trick to get into his.
It takes several minutes after that, to get started. Montparnsase is still not seen, until Glorieux and Babet shout his name and he comes jogging, and slides in as well.
After that, they’re off in record time. Shot fired, ringing in Grantaire’s eardrums as he shoves his foot down as far as it can go, and his car takes off. Montparnasse swerves in front of Dahlia and Fameuil, blocking them from getting further, and Musichetta pushes up as they round the first corner.
Montparnasse is the first one of them to get in front, Grantaire dropping two places at once to third, but he’s going 200 kilometers an hour and it’s exhilerating, and this, this is why he does this.
He chokes out a laugh, lost in the loud sound of the streets and tires screeching and people swerving.
Grantaire pulls in front of Musichetta.
Montparnasse sputters for a second, dropping. He picks back up. Grantaire is concerned, partially, but he’s back and he’s coming for Grantaire as he is overtaken by Musichetta once more, and they’re still going too fast to think properly.
It continues like this, the three of them switching in an out like its a race of three, despite the other two drivers, until they come around the last corner and the final stretch is in sight.
Musichetta is in the lead by a few seconds at least, and Grantaire was right because she was going to win. She was going to win with that look in her eyes, she always did.
He was in third, he was fine with that. He had good competition here, but then Montparnasse was stuttering again and Grantaire had pulled ahead of him and he was across the line, braking hard enough to give him another does of Adrenaline before his car slid to a stop.
Montparnasse was not far behind, and Musichetta was already out of her car, celebrating as her boyfriends that she spoke of rushed down from the stands.
Fameuil and Dahlia came in 5th and 4th respectively, and both were angry about it.
Grantaire personally didn’t give a fuck. Not his circus, not his monkeys.
He crawled out of his car to see Jehan coming out to greet him, and he smiled. Jehan was wonderful.
He readjusted his clothes, tight from where the dark green skintight turtleneck sat on him, but it was all fine.
“How’d I do?” Was the first thing he asked, and Jehan smiled in return.
“It was great, Grantaire” They remarked, and Grantaire beamed. Jehan lied, but not unless it was in a situation where it would benefit them, and not to Grantaire.
But there was something else on their face and Grantaire picked up on it quickly, slightly confused and slightly intrigued.
“There’s something else?” He asked, and Jehan snickered before pushing themselves up on their platform converse to reach Grantaire’s ear.
“Do you know the man in the black car?” And Grantaire smiled deviously.
“Montparnasse? Hardly well.” Grantaire lied through his teeth. “He’s one of the guys who helped me ‘pay’ for my car.”
Of course, Grantaire knew Montparnasse better than he’d admit. He was closer with Eponine, which in turn meant that Grantaire was dragged along to events where they begrudgingly sat, and there was no doubt in Grantaire’s mind that Montparnasse either knew who Jehan was or had heard of him. Montparnasse was too curious for his own good.
But Grantaire had also seen the way Montparnasse’s pupils dilated just slightly when the topic turned to the lightly shared mutual friend between Eponine and Grantaire, and there was something afoot here that Grantaire wanted a hand of.
“Is he… on the road to el dorado?” Jehan asked, hushed like they were at an event that wasn’t mostly comprised of homosexuals, but Grantaire answered anyway, lying again.
“I’ve seen him far and few between, but hardly without a man or woman of the sort. You’ll hit it off.”
Grantaire saw Montparnasse a few times, at clubs he frequented, but if he was with someone it was a man and it never went further than a dance or a drink. Without Eponine’s complaining, Grantaire would have assumed the man was asexual, or aromantic of the sort.
Jehan blushed, but not shyly. Yes, Grantaire thought they’d be good for each other. Probably.
Then they seemed to remember something, and tugged on Grantaire’s leather bomber jacket.
“Oh! Do you see that blondie in the red behind me?” They asked, and Grantaire peeked over their shoulder, and holy shit was that man beautiful.
He turned away when Grantaire looked at him, having clearly been staring and was trying to act like he wasn’t, but he was something the greeks would have worshipped.
“The one that looks like Apollo reincarnated?” He confirmed.
Jehan nodded.
“Yes, that one.” Grantaire was confused. Why was Jehan pointing him out? “He’s like. Super into you. And also I promised him you’d talk to him, so you should probably do that. His tall friend would probably kill me if you don’t.” They remarked with a laugh, and Grantaire was losing his mind. There was no way Jehan was talking about him.
“Me? As in, Michel-Réne Grantaire, me? R, me?” He pointed at himself, sounding strangled.
Jehan sighed, and shook his head.
“Yes, you, R. You and all your bumbling bisexuality, go fuck him, or something, so I can hit on Mr Gang behind you.”
Grantaire flipped him off as Jehan shoved him towards the direction of newly appointed Apollo, but Grantaire was no coward and he wasn’t going to waste a chance like this.
Of course, this was all to say that Grantaire was about 10 seconds from screaming.
The man was extraordinary. There was a variety of words Grantaire could use to describe him, half stolen from books of old. Part of Grantaire wanted to just drop to his knees and beg the man in red for a chance, if Jehan was telling the truth.
His eyes were blue, Grantaire could tell this much even in the dark and cold night of Paris, and they went wide as they saw Grantaire walk towards him, and he looked half about to flee, but he didn’t.
Two of his friends who stood beside him turned around and saw Grantaire at their friend’s reaction, giggling before the shorter grabbed the tallers wrist and pulled him away.
His approached ended when Grantaire was no more than 3 meters away from him, both staring at each other. He really was beautiful, up close, more than further away.
Neither said anything.
“Hello.” Grantaire spoke first, and the man’s soft pink lips opened slightly, but he didn’t say anything, and the streetlight caught on him and Grantaire was surely losing it.
More than a minute went by, with no response, and Grantaire was wondering if he had maybe crashed and died and this was some sort of weird purgatory.
He let out a soft curse word from under his breath, placing his hand inside his pocket to drag out a flask.
He popped the cap off with practiced ease, and the man’s eyes immeadiately drifted to it.
Grantaire was confused. If he wanted some, he could just ask.
A tanned and scarred hand of warm olive outstretched towards the blonde, flask of silver wrapped in it.
The only response was;
“You shouldn’t drink and drive.”
Grantaire paused, thinking and processing it, before laughing. It was raw, and hurt his stomach, and it was clear the man hadn’t expected it, but Grantaire gave a long swig of his wine before placing it back into his inside lapel, and the man was still frowning.
“Sun, just about everyone at this event is a bit drunk or high, racers especially.” He informed the other man, who scowled even deeper. “You didn’t hear this from me, but I think Fameuil and Dahlia did so bad they weren’t.” He shared like it was a deep secret, and it was clear this man wasn’t having it.
“It’s insanely dangerous! It impairs your critical decision making skills, and you can’t process things the way you would if you were sober!” He threw his hands up, like they had had this arguement a thousand times, and Grantaire decided he really liked the way this man looked when he was angry.
“A lot of things impair my critical decision making skills, Apollo. Drinking is hardly one.”
“And pray tell, what might those things be?” He was asked in return.
“Pretty men who I’ve heard were interested in me, for one.”
It was a good line, Grantaire would be sure to admit. He was almost entirely confident it would work.
It didn’t.
“I’m sure you say that to all your… flings, or whatever.” The man said, but he shoved golden curls behind his ears and his face was red, giving him away, despite the scoff that accompanied it.
Grantaire laughed again, his words a completely outrageous suggestion. No, in all of Grantaire’s years of racing, and simply just existing, nobody had ever been the one to call him pretty first.
“Considering I’ve never had any except you, if you count, I guess that would be true.”
The god looked dumbfounded.
“No-one?” He pronounced each syllable like a seperate word, and completely unbelievable. Grantaire nodded. Then he suddenly moved forward, grabbing Grantaire’s face in his hands quickly, turning him back and forth even though Grantaire was sure his stubble must have been hurting his lithe hands. “But you’re so pretty..” He spoke quietly, like he was talking to himself more than Grantaire.
Grantaire was about to explode, he decided.
The man suddenly realized what he had been doing, and pulled his hands away, hiding one behind his back and the other forming a fist to cough into.
“Sorry, excuse me. It was rather rude to do that.”
Grantaire was far from complaining, but he still said nothing anyway, taking another drink before putting his flask away. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he drew it out, because Grantaire had no manners, and the man in front of him didn’t seem to care.
Nobody really texted him anyway, unless it was important.
‘The PoPo (Eponine)’ : At 1:36
- The police r on their way.
- get out of there
Grantaire read the messages in quick succession, and cursed audibly this time. It caught the attention of Blondie.
“What?” He asked, and Grantaire told him bluntly.
“The police are on their way. We gotta dip.” He made the way back to his car quickly, trusting the man to follow him. He didn’t.
Grantaire paused, turned around at the man with a newfound fire in his eyes like Grantaire had just mentioned his mortal enemy, and he smiled.
“Are you coming, or should I find your friends and let them know to bail you out of jail.”
Which hurried him along quicker, an easy relief to Grantaire.
Grantaire opened the door for him, and he slid in with less grace than he originally proposed by existence, but Grantaire minded nothing at all.
He crossed to his own side, and entered.
“What about Je.. han.” The blonde asked, pronouncing Jehan’s name slowly like he wasn’t sure if he was saying it right. Grantaire laughed.
“Jehan will be fine.” Grantaire switched gears.
The sound of sirens started in the distance. Grantaire slammed on the gas, taking off at a speed high enough to kill a person if he hit them.
There was a yelp as the other man was pressed firmly back against the seat, hands gripped the center console and door handle so hard his knuckles were white.
There was a dramatic screech as the car sped away, and Grantaire laughed his ass off as he looked in the rearview mirror to get a glance at his new passenger princess, who would likely not be getting in a car with him again.
The chances of the police catching up to them specifically were low, with the tip-off from Eponine, so Grantaire took the chance to have some fun.
He switched gears as they pulled further out of Paris, into an abandoned street at this hour, did a donut in the middle of the intersection before turning left and pressing down hard again.
“You are going to KILL us!” His companion shouted, hair mussed and eyes impossibly wide in fear.
“That makes it half the fun!” Grantaire shouted back, driving the streets he knew well to get to the garage.
Technically it was the Patron-Minette’s garage, but they let him use it, and Grantaire had this inkling feeling that Montparnasse and the rest might be a bit preoccupied for a while.
Halfway down the street with no streetlights there was a tug on his jacket and when he turned his head slightly, there was less fear in the man’s eyes and more nausea.
“Shit,” Grantaire said as he slowed and pulled over. The blonde almost lunged out of the car and started throwing up immeadiately, and Grantaire moved over with him to the side of the road, pulling his hair back, long enough to get any bile in it if it wasn’t held back.
Grantaire, luckily, was an expert with puke after so many hungover nights and days and rubbed his back gently, even though it was more speed distorted nausea, rather than a drink.
A red sleeve came up to wipe the man’s mouth, and he turned to glare at Grantaire, who gave a sheepish smile.
“I hate you.” He spoke, and there was no more fear in his voice nor eyes, and Grantaire took it as a sign he was alright.
“You don’t even know my name.” Grantaire replied.
“I hate you nonetheless.” He said again, before he paused and stood up, Grantaire by his side to make sure he was steady on his feet. “What is it. Your name, I mean.” And there was no malice in his voice, Grantaire cracking a grin like a love drunk fool.
“Grantaire, but you can call me R.” In return, he was given a look that said ‘A pun? Really?’, so Grantaire shrugged. “It’s my nature.”
A shake of his head and a gentle shake of R’s muscled arms as he moves back towards the green vehicle.
“Enjolras.” He said, opening the door, and closing it before Grantaire had a chance to reply.
It was a pretty name, Grantaire did think. It didn’t fit him near as well as Apollo did, but it was good enough.
Grantaire got back in, and turned to him with a glint in his eyes that meant nothing good.
“I will go at a reasonable pace for your sensitive body.” He spoke slowly, like he was adressing a child, and Enjolras scowled.
Hence, Grantaire went 30 kph. He could feel Enjolras staring at him with a dumbfounded expression from the corner of his eyes. By some miracle, the only other car on the street was right behind them, blinding them in the rearview mirror.
Grantaire turned to Enjolras.
“Something wrong?”
“R.” Enjolras pronounced slowly, like a warning. Grantaire grinned.
“Yes? Is there something I can do for you, Apollo?” A deeper scowl.
“Grantaire.” Enjolras tried again.
“Yes, that is my name. I told you it, did I not?” He was entirely ragebaiting this man.
Enjolras snapped.
“GodDAMN it, Grantaire, would you please just shut up and DRIVE?” He asked, and well, Grantaire could only oblidge, could he not?
Grantaire pressed down violently hard again.
There was still a noise of shock elicited, but it was smaller and less afraid, and when Grantaire took a peek over, Enjolras’ cheeks were red and flushed. Grantaire chalked it up to adrenaline.
They hadn’t been very far from their destination when they had stopped, and so it wasn’t a very long drive at all. The large garage door was already open, although the lights were off, courtesy of Eponine, who had stolen a key a long time ago.
Grantaire slid in with practiced ease, speed having since dropped, and parked quickly. Enjolras exited after him, and Grantaire moved to turn the lights on and shut the door, shutting in the light and becoming inconspicious from the outside.
He was watched, but neither of them said anything, and so Grantaire took the intiave once more.
“Water? I didn’t have any to give you at the time.” He asked, moving to the small and slightly dysfunctional kitchen near the back, full of half eaten convience store snacks and things of dried ramen.
Enjolras nodded, and Grantaire both flipped on a kettle and grabbed a cup from the cupboard, double checking it was actually clean and hadn’t just been put there because Babet was too lazy to wash it.
He took the mug greedily, drinking like a dehydrated man, before moving to spit some back out in the sink. Grantaire understood too much to phrase.
Enjolras’ blue eyes flicked around the place with curiousity that hadn’t been there before, and a slight tinge of something Grantaire couldn’t place.
“Do you live here?”
Grantaire laughed.
“Oh god, definitely not. Belongs to some… friends.” Phrasing the last bit more as a question earned him a perfect eyebrow raise.
“You say that like you’re not sure.”
“I’m not.”
No response.
Grantaire had no fucking idea what to do. He had brought men and women home before, sure, but never one he was genuinely interested in past a quick fuck. The romantic was Jehan, not him.
Enjolras cleared his throat, looking red again. Grantaire frowned.
“Are you sick?” He asked, concerned. He wasn’t going to let some god get sick, or whatever. He respected both Enjolras, The members of the Patron-Minette who would probably not appreciate a sick man in their garage, and himself too much to let this get any further, or whatever, if he was.
Enjolras looked confused.
“No? I just felt nauseous because I’m not used to going 225 kilometers an hour.”
Grantaire didn’t believe him, moving forward and touching his forehead, pulling back the curly bangs to do so. He was uncomfortably close to Enjolras, whose eyes had widened upon his approach, and practically bugged out when Grantaire moved closer to touch his forehead.
He felt slightly hot, not much like a fever though.
“I don’t have a fever.” Enjolras frowned.
“Are you sure? You look red. And you feel kind of hot.” Grantaire doubted.
Enjolras bit his bottom lip hard, breaking skin slightly, and Grantaire hated the way that affected him. It was unfairly hot, although, everything with this man was unfairly hot.
“Look, Apollo, I like you but I really don’t want you to be sick or anything- least of all because of me-” He starts, but never finishes.
Enjolras jumps up from where he has propped himself, shoving Grantaire back against the hard brick wall harder than you thought he would have been able to, with a figure like his.
Then, it was Enjolras’ turn to press his body to Grantaire’s, less than an inch away, that small height difference not really making much of a difference in the end.
“I’m not sick, you idiot. I’ve never done this before and I don’t know what to do but seeing you drive that car and do… whatever the fuck you were doing has fueled me enough that I’m going to be dreaming about it for weeks and I am red because I cannot stop thinking about it.”
Grantaire went red, unable to say anything in return.
“I am going to kiss you now, because I assume there is no one else here, and if there is I might have to consider changing my identity.” He joked, and Grantaire would have laughed but then his mouth was pressed crookedly against Enjolras’ and it was the best thing on earth.
He tasted like sweat, and maybe he was sick, but Grantaire found himself unable to care about anything past Enjolras, Enjolras, Enjolras.
His arms wormed their way around Enjolras’ soft curls and sweater that he was partially sure Jehan also owned, but Grantaire really didn’t want to think about Jehan right now, so he bit Enjolras’ lip where he had earlier, the metallic tang of blood filling his mouth and a small gasp that was partially a moan and god, was Grantaire glad he had chosen to work out so much.
Shifting his arms to Enjolras’ waist, he picked up him up and put him on the counter, the shattering of the mug dropping to the ground, but neither cared as they went back to kissing. Enjolras was assuredly taller now, but Grantaire found himself in no desperate need not to look up at him, the angelic beauty that he was.
They kissed harshly, and un-loverlike, like they were running out of time and this was all they got, until Enjolras broke away first, breathing hard and even redder than before.
“Is there… a bedroom. Here.” He spoke, going the colour of his sweater if he wasn’t already, and looking away. Grantaire smirked.
“No, sadly. But I do have a car, if you want to go for a drive.” Enjolras’ head snapped back his mouth frowning and still bleeding but his eyes betraying him anyway.
There was only a small response in the end;
“Maybe.” Hushed so quietly that only Grantaire could hear it.
And maybe Grantaire was more attractive than he previously thought.