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The new guy comes from money and looks like a Paris Fashion Week model. He has also a great ass and his charming personality is this side of disgustingly adorable. He goes by Enjolras and has made his way into everyone’s good graces during the first five minutes he has been in the diner.
Grantaire is not sure whether he is amused or insulted. Don’t get him wrong, he loves the eye candy, but he has serious doubts regarding this guy’s working experience. Specially when it comes to waiting tables.
“He seems good enough,” Courfeyrac says.
Grantaire rolls his eyes and mumbles, “That’s your dick talking.”
Courfeyrac laughs and gets back to work. Grantaire refills the ketchup bottles and watches Enjolras taking the order of what looks like a wild hipster tribe born in the darkest corners of Paris. Grantaire sighs. If he sees one more hipster, he is going to murder someone.
“Hey, ‘Taire, are you staring at his ass?”
Courfeyrac goes first.
*
Grantaire is not a good person. He is broke, he drinks too much and he has a cat named Cat because he is too lazy to give the thing a proper name. He takes advantage of charity, but never offers it back, and he never ever gives things for free.
“So,” Enjolras asks while looking at the money on the table, “is that all?”
Grantaire swallows a sarcastic comeback, but only because this guy is really handsome and has quite a scary frown when he is not smiling at old ladies. He sighs and counts the euro coins again. Well, shit.
“We have to split the tips,” Grantaire informs him. Which is not exactly how things work here (or how he has made them work after dealing with six other inept waiters), but he takes pity on this Greek god.
Enjolras looks troubled for a second.
“Well, it should be enough for the motel,” he mumbles.
And that’s how Grantaire offers him his couch.
*
The thing about Enjolras is that he loves social justice. His family is wealthy, but he doesn’t want any money he hasn’t earned. Hence, the running away from home and choosing his own path thing, or whatever. Apparently, nobody told him that life was a bitch and that waiting tables at a not-quite-fancy USA-inspired diner infested with hipsters was not a good idea. Grantaire has taken quite a beating from life himself, but Enjolras is new to all this.
He is also new to sleeping on a couch. And to alcohol. And weed. Not that Grantaire cares if Enjolras approves or not of his life choices. They are both broke and they can’t afford to complain. So together they manage to pay the rent, and buy food, and survive. It’s an amazing arrangement. Grantaire is even thinking about getting Enjolras an actual mattress to sleep on because he is that generous.
(He also stares at Enjolras’ ass when he isn’t looking, but then again who can blame him, right?)
*
“So, you have adopted this hot blond guy,” Bahorel laughs.
Courfeyrac is hitting on the bartender, while waiting for their drinks. Grantaire wants to go over there and slap him for taking so long.
“Leave him alone,” Jehan sighs and Grantaire knew Jehan was his friend for a reason, “We all have our weaknesses,” he adds with a wink. Okay, forget about the friend part.
When Courfeyrac gets back, Grantaire grabs his drink from his hands and swallows most of it in one go. He cannot believe this is his life.
*
He suffers from insomnia sometimes, and by sometimes he means when he isn’t really fucking drunk. He does a lot of things when he can’t sleep. He draws, he reads, he drinks (which usually works, thank you very much), he smokes, he steals his neighbour’s wi-fi and laughs at funny cat pictures... A lot of things.
He also bakes.
That’s what he’s doing when Enjolras wakes up. He is making cupcakes at three in the morning. He sucks at almost everything, except at making cupcakes.
“Okay, wow,” a voice says from the door, rough from sleep.
Grantaire looks up from where he is decorating his carrot and cinnamon cupcakes (yes, carrot and cinnamon, shut up). Enjolras looks beautiful half-asleep, his eyes softer and his hair tousled. Grantaire wants to paint him naked and then get his way with-- okay, stop.
“Did I wake you?” he asks.
Enjolras starts to shake his head, but then changes his mind and nods. “Yeah,” he answers, followed by, “You bake?”
Grantaire doesn’t do self-conscious. Apparently his brain has forgotten that. “Sometimes,” he shrugs, “when I can’t sleep.”
Enjolras takes a few steps forward and looks at the cupcakes. He seems quite interested which is a new look on him. Grantaire is used to disapproving frowns and harsh words towards his drinking habits. “May I?” Enjolras whispers, pointing to a cupcake. Grantaire nods and sees how Enjolras grabs it, turns it around and takes a bite. Three seconds later he’s blushing because Enjolras has decided to have a culinary orgasm in his kitchen, if the sound he makes is anything to go by.
*
Grantaire cannot afford to buy fancy clothes or new books. That’s why he visits exchange stores every time he needs something. If he just happens to buy a few extra things for Enjolras, it’s only because he doesn’t want to hear him bitch about it all week.
Because, man, Enjolras can bitch.
*
They don’t talk about that time when Enjolras walks in on Grantaire having sex with a complete stranger. They don’t talk about that time when Enjolras comes home after a riot with a bloody nose and a split lip. They definitely don’t talk about that time when Grantaire locks himself up in the bathroom while absolutely wasted, and cries during one of his self-deprecating sessions.
(Except they do)
(It never ends well)
*
“You should sell them.”
Grantaire is feeding Cat.
“What?” he asks.
Enjolras drops his book on the coffee table and leans forward. “Your cupcakes,” he clarifies. Grantaire looks at him while Cat licks his fingers, meowing for more tuna. Enjolras is wearing a red T-shirt. Actually, Enjolras has a thing for wearing red. Not that Grantaire has noticed or anything. He isn’t a creeper, mind you. Enjolras smiles, “You know, some friends of mine and I have this social justice association...”
He doesn’t even know how, but he ends up baking a hundred cupcakes and selling them at a charity fundraiser organised by Les Amis. He drags both Courfeyrac and Bahorel for moral support, but those traitors end up joining Enjolras’ club (it’s not a club, ‘Taire).
“I hope you’re happy,” Grantaire complains on their way back home. He hasn’t made any money because Enjolras convinced him to donate everything to charity. They can’t even afford a cab. Grantaire lights up a cigarette and growls. “I hope you are so damn happy you start puking rainbows and choke.”
Enjolras only laughs.
“Not everything is about money, you know.”
Grantaire blows the smoke his way. “You won’t say that when we starve to death.”
Enjolras rolls his eyes at him, and Grantaire knows he is fucked.
*
They argue all the time. They argue about Grantaire’s drinking habits, about Enjolras’ optimism, about literature, about History, about the couch, and work, and toothpaste. No matter what the occasion is, they argue. Grantaire cannot understand how they haven’t ripped each other’s throats out yet.
They’ve got a system, and it goes like this: something goes wrong, Grantaire gets all passive-aggressive, Enjolras shouts harsh words, Grantaire tells him to fuck off, Enjolras storms out, and Grantaire drinks himself to sleep. They cool off, talk with their friends, and exchange apologies.
Today is no different, except that it is. Grantaire is baking when Enjolras gets home, and he knows his friend is angry the moment he sets foot in the kitchen. It’s about Les Amis, and the government, and whatever law against French citizens they have decided to pass. Enjolras is making a speech about it, his eyes shining and his cheeks blushing with anger. He is the most beautiful person Grantaire has ever seen and it hurts so fucking much to watch him. He has a well-hidden sketchbook full of Enjolras’ face, and hands, and eyes, all of them trying to catch how he shines with passion. The truth is Grantaire would voluntarily burn under Enjolras’ light if he were to allow it.
But he is who he is, so he says, “Then, quit.”
Enjolras stops, almost as if he’s been hurt. Here we go, Grantaire thinks. And there they go indeed. Enjolras’ anger turns to fury, and he directs it at Grantaire. He accuses him of the usual: of being a cynic, of being a drunk, of not believing in anything (and that’s a lie, I believe in you). And Grantaire snaps back because he may hate himself, but there’s a little dignity left under all the alcohol.
Just before he knows what he’s doing, he marches towards Enjolras and paints an uneven brushstroke of frosting across his face. Enjolras shuts up, his eyes wide with surprise, just as Grantaire’s.
“Huh,” he murmurs eloquently, “Oops?”
Enjolras looks mesmerising when annoyed. He goes to the kitchen counter, grabs the bowl full of frosting, and gives a devilish smile. Well, shit.
The frosting ends up everywhere, but on top of the cupcakes. It’s an open war, and suddenly Grantaire throws the remaining mixture to Enjolras face, messing up his blond curls. He laughs and Enjolras whispers oh, no, you did not right before throwing a baked cupcake at him. Unable to stop laughing, Grantaire grabs Enjolras arm and tries to physically overpower him. They are struggling, knocking spoons, and bowls, and chairs.
That’s when Grantaire smirks and licks Enjolras’ cheek, tasting the frosting, and the mixture, and Enjolras. And then everything seems to stop, the argument forgotten.
“Did you just...?”
Grantaire's smile slips, and he blushes, looking at his feet. He waits for his mind to come up with some kind of excuse, because licking your flatmate’s cheek is not that weird after practically seeing each other naked. But he can’t think of anything, his silence betraying him, and shit.
“‘Taire,” Enjolras murmurs, fondly.
Grantaire risks a glance at him, and Enjolras’ expression is so intense Grantaire might catch fire. That’s when Enjolras leans, and kisses Grantaire’s lips. It’s Grantaire’s sweetest kiss ever.
*
What follows that is less sweet and more desperate. Open-mouthed kisses, moans, and heat. They end up in Grantaire’s bedroom, palming each other over (and under) fabric, calling out names and obscenities. They make a mess, and manage to wake up the neighbours.
Enjolras doesn’t sleep on the couch that night.
Or any other night for that matter.
*
Life is a bitch, especially if you are broke, and work as a waiter in a fake diner full of hipsters in Paris. It doesn’t get any easier if your boyfriend (or whatever, we don’t like labels, fuck off) is an activist leader who likes rioting against the oppressive social system. Or when your friends text you inquiring about your sex life (which is amazing, thank you), or the drinking problems you are trying to solve, or the arguments with your ridiculously handsome boyfriend.
But Grantaire can take a beating (ha! Fuck you life), and so he bakes. And yeah, he bakes the best cupcakes in France because he is a fucking artist.
(If he also happens to discover that accidentally ingested Marijuana cupcakes make Enjolras really horny, can you blame him for enjoying himself?)