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Twenty dings. His phone had gone off twenty times, and that was twenty times too many. Enjolras grumbled, trying to ignore the incessant noise as he turned over in bed, attempting to put the ceaseless ringing from his head. He could turn the sound off, but that ran the risk of his alarm not going off. That couldn’t happen- it’d cause nothing but trouble; he’d be late to his internship, and then late for lunch with Feuilly, et cetera. Nothing but trouble. One the twentieth text, Enjolras sat up in bed with a heavy sigh. Honestly.
His eyes squinted at the bright light of his phone, the time blinking up at him. He had to be up in four hours. Enjolras unlocked it with a vigorous frown, pulling up his messages.
{2:47am}
Grantaire: Ponine help hes driving me insane
Grantaire: he is so nanoying eponine
Grantaire: his annoying ass curls are going to KILL me
Grantaire: but i love it when he sometimes wears those glasse s? you know?
Grantaire: i think i cried a lil when he wore that sweate r vfest the other day
Grantaire: hes so annoying tho hes alwaus so DISTRACTED
Grantaire: his curls ponine
Grantaire: i want to tug
Grantaire: hes always studyin tho thats annoying too
Grantaire: ponine his eyes are so blue
Grantaire: he hates me
Grantaire: i love him so much epponine and he wont give me the time of day or the time of night
Grantaire: he wont even look at me but i wouldnt look at me either
Grantaire: hear ye hear ye: i am a piece o’ shit
Grantaire: i just want him so bad ponine but he is so too good for me
Grantaire: wait
Grantaire: oh my god
Grantaire: OH MY GOD
Grantaire: oh my gOD I wasn’t supposed to send yo u those messages fuck
Grantaire: Goodnight Apoolo
After his eyes had scanned through them all, Enjolras was acutely aware of his face flushing, pulse quickening and it seemed the tightness in his throat was no longer due to exhaustion. In the wake of the relentless sound, the room fell silent and Enjolras was all too aware of his heartbeat, pounding out a rapid rhythm against his ribs. In spite of his usual immune system of steel, as Joly called it, he felt faintly nauseous.
Enjolras was largely a man of thought; a man of intellect and reason. He did hold the passion and fervor that spurred Courfeyrac, but also the sense that ruled Combeferre so wisely. That’s not to say that emotions were something he did not experience- he endured them deeply; further than most. Empathy was a close friend of his.
He had a process he went through, when he felt like this. It was a cognitive process he picked up from Combeferre.
One: assess the emotion . What was he feeling? Enjolras thought for a long moment, his blankets twisted between his legs, his chest heaving as he looked up towards the dark ceiling. He absorbed the information that rapidly moved into his mind: his swift pulse, the curling nervosity in his stomach, and the way his teeth clenched without his permission, inciting a potential migraine. Anger, his mind supplied, another emotion Enjolras was well acquainted with.
Two: assess what the emotion is aimed at. What was he angry about?
This took a longer moment of thought. It was always difficult with Grantaire- emotions became easily warped; the anger and frustration that curled low in his stomach felt too much like the feeling he got when he was alone at home, his hands wandering despite his best judgement. It was confusing, but sortable, if he thought through it hard enough. He wasn’t angry at Grantaire for keeping him awake- no. He’d probably be lying here awake anyway, assessing another situation of sorts.
So what was he angry about? He had no right to be angry about Grantaire feeling things for someone else. That wasn’t his place.
‘He won’t give me the time of day…’ Enjolras read again, eyes quickly sliding over the screen. That’s it- he was angry at this man; at the idea that someone could be so cruel and that that brutality had such a strong effect on Grantaire.
Grantaire was so kind to his friends; so respectful of Jehan and Bahorel, so loyal to Joly and Bossuet. He was an excellent friend; even if that sentiment wasn’t exactly directed at Enjolras. Enjolras could see it, though- in the way Grantaire treated the people around him. He was reverent; treasuring these friendships. And who could ignore Grantaire? Even at their most hostile, Enjolras could admire the man’s fire. He could commend the way Grantaire’s lips curled around every shouted word; around the mouth of a bottle. He appraised the way Grantaire threw his head back when he laughed, exposing the long line of his neck- oh god.
“You really shouldn’t wait.” Combeferre’s words rang through his head.
“You’re gonna lose him if you keep dancing around like that.” Courfeyrac’s, as well.
Years of underhanded comments all seemed to echo through Enjolras’ head, the words on the brightly lit phone screen blurring as he focused on his thoughts. Four years of anger, of tension and shouting that dissolved to a simmering heat low in Enjolras’ stomach. Years of heated glances that seemed so much more than angry- the times he caught himself watching Grantaire carefully when he was around other people. Enjolras always seemed angry when Grantaire was trashed- but there was invariably an undercurrent of worry that he’d never been able to pin down. Not to mention the bewildering blind rage Enjolras had had to choke down on New Year’s Eve; watching a stranger drink in Grantaire’s mouth at midnight.
He wasn’t angry. This was jealousy at it’s finest; apparently always had been. It seems his best friends had been correct and he’d waited much too long.
{2:58am}
Enjolras: It’s fine, Grantaire. Do you need a ride home?
Grantaire : Non o. Bahorel got it.
Enjolras: I hope so. Lay off the liquor, Grantaire.
Grantaire: How did you kno
Enjolras: …. ’Apoolo’
Grantaire: … right. Goodnight. Sorry.
Enjolras: It’s alright, R.
Enjolras tried not to think too hard about this being his first time addressing Grantaire with that monicker. It had always seemed too fond for their strained relationship. Here, in the dark of his bedroom, it felt safe to use. Though he supposed he would probably regret it in the light of the morning. Enjolras stole another glance at his clock before succumbing to the reality that sleep wouldn’t be a plausible option any time soon.
By the time the sun had risen, Enjolras hadn’t slept a wink; instead taking to his office. He read over what he had written as the first rays of dawn fell over the page in front of him. It was a list, and it read:
- A man (he/him pronouns)
- Curly hair
- Blue eyes
- Sweater vests (occasionally?)
- Glasses (only sometimes?)
- A student (lot of good that does)
- Often distracted (by other people, perhaps?)
The Musain was a bustle of post-meeting activity; the usual flurry of laughter and conversation filling the room. Everyone was feeling light, still in good spirits after a successful protest the week before. The only person not partaking in the jovial atmosphere was Enjolras, who, as Courfeyrac worded it, seemed to be
pouting.
Enjolras sat at the head of the long table, Grantaire sitting at the other end, hand curled around a dark bottle. R was talking with Bossuet and Jehan- having a lively conversation to update Jehan on Bossuet’s latest accident. Enjolras watched him carefully, his lips curled into a tight frown. Combeferre had given up after a few attempts at conversation, instead turning to talk to Courfeyrac. They excitedly discussed their upcoming date night, but Courfeyrac sent him the occasional frown. Enjolras knew he was being difficult and yet he couldn’t bring himself to lighten up. His chest felt tight with stress as he watched Grantaire burst into a fit of effervescent laughter.
Enjolras leaned forward, pulling The List from the large notebook in front of him, curling his arm around it as to block Combeferre’s nosy gaze. Everyone was focused on each other and their drinks, and now was as good a time as any to figure this out. He would work through everyone in the room, starting to his left.
Combeferre. Sweater vests? Yes. But he didn’t have curls, and his eyes were a hazel color. Besides, Combeferre was never distracted from anything . So it wasn’t Combeferre.
Courfeyrac made him pause for a moment, lips pursing as he thought. Yes on the curls and occasional glasses, but no- Courf had brown eyes and wouldn’t be caught dead in a sweater vest.
Feuilly? Oh. Well. Feuilly was wonderful. Feuilly was amazing and kind and talented and had curly hair and- no. He and Bahorel were too in love and, as a couple, were too close to Grantaire to even breach that line. Besides, Feuilly wouldn’t ignore Grantaire; wouldn’t ignore anyone. Definitely not Feuilly.
Eponine, Musichetta, Cosette and Jehan were out, seeing as none of them were men. And Grantaire had very obviously used he/him pronouns in the messages. Grantaire respected them all too well to get that wrong, even when trashed. That considerably narrowed the choices.
Bahorel? No- most definitely not.
Bossuet? Curly hair. Absolutely not.
Joly? No, Joly would never ignore Grantaire. Who could, anyway? Enjolras watched Joly speak to Grantaire, watching R’s eyes and nose crinkle with laughter- a glint of mischief sparkling in his green eyes. Watching him laugh was like watching a movie in slow motion; the bottom of Enjolras’ stomach seemed to drop, and his cheeks heated carefully. Focus.
There was only one more… Oh. Curly hair. Sweater vests? Yes . Blue eyes, a student… Constantly distracted, but he would never-
“Oi, Grantaire! Hush a moment, Cosette is about to say something lovely!”
Oh shit. Marius. It had to be Marius. Of course he was always distracted- Cosette existed! And he didn’t purposefully ignore Grantaire but, the man tended to have quite the case of tunnel vision.
Grantaire is in love with Marius. Fuck.
“Marius. How about we let everyone speak equally, in turn.” Enjolras’ voice sliced through the noise, tone icy and gaze just as sharp. Marius’ face heated immediately, freckles disappearing under the intensity of the flush.
“That’s really not necessary, Apollo.” It was the first thing Grantaire had said to him all night. His gaze jumped to R, who was staring down at a spot on the table, avoiding Enjolras’ striking stare. Enjolras’ focus slipped for a moment, taking in the way Grantaire’s jaw tightened and a curl fell from the bun his hair was in. The room quickly quieted, everyone watching the terse exchange. Combeferre sighed loudly, and Enjolras could see Eponine’s hand curling into a protective fist.
“Yes, I do believe it is.” He countered, mouth curling into a sour frown. “Marius- don’t talk over Grantaire. Let him finish what he was saying.”
“It’s fine, Apollo. Really, I was done.”
“Oh. Alright.” The room was stiff and there was a palpable tension in the air. Grantaire’s shoulders were tight and drawn up around his ears, his gaze still focused on the invisible spot on the table.
Marius’ voice cut in again, his tone light as he tried to brighten the mood of the room. “Besides, R was only talking about tonight's drinking plans.” Marius teased, or, at least he attempted to.
“And? Does that mean you can speak over him?” Enjolras asked, face heating with anger. Honestly , he talked over Grantaire and then after already being chided for it, had the indecency to trivialize Grantaire’s words? Pathetic.
Everyone stared at Enjolras; a few jaws dropped open at the sudden defense of Grantaire. It took a moment for Enjolras to realize how cruel he sounded and he briefly panicked at the thought of him accidentally exposing Grantaire’s crush. Or- whatever it was. “I’m going to get some air.” He said flimsily, standing and moving towards the door. He briefly heard Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s exchange of ‘I got this, babe’ ‘Oh, thank god.’ before the door shut him outside into the cold night air, Courfeyrac following closely behind.
Enjolras paced furiously, his face flushed with anger despite the chill of the air. “I mean he said he was repeatedly ignored- and I didn’t see it before but I definitely see it now. I mean- Marius has absolute tunnel vision! For Cosette. Who is lovely, of course, but he does have a tendency to brush off-”
“Enjolras, honestly, what the fuck are you going on about?” Courfeyrac groaned, reaching a hand out to still Enjolras’ pace. Enjolras looked at his best friend, his head tilted to the side as he thought for a long moment.
“I received text messages last night.” Enjolras stated simply, reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone, handing it over to Courfeyrac.
"Yes, Enjolras, we all have phones and receive text messages. It's a common occurrence." There was a very long moment of terse silence as Courfeyrac opened his messages, pulling open his conversation with Grantaire.
Courf’s reactions were interesting- and Enjolras watched stonily. There was a soft chuckle before Courfeyrac’s face broke into an open smile, and he grinned up at a very angry Enjolras, who promptly snatched his phone back.
“You traitor- why are you grinning?”
“Enjolras, you’re an absolute idiot.”
“You know I’ve been called many things but not once an idiot.”
“Yeah well you’re being an idiot. And a prick, at that.”
“Shut up, Courfeyrac.” Enjolras was silent for a moment, his heart thumping wildly as he watched Courfeyrac’s delighted expression. “I don’t suppose you want to explain how exactly I’m being an idiot?”
“Do you really think it’s Marius?” Courfeyrac’s eyes widened dramatically, mouth expanding into a soft ‘o’ of surprise. “Oh my god, you’re jealous.”
“I am not jealous.”
“You are!”
“Am not.”
“Are too!”
“Am not!”
“Are too!”
“Am n- okay fine, Courf. I may be jealous.” He admitted, nervous energy curling low in his stomach at the admission. Now it was out- spoken into the open air with anger, weariness heavily lacing the words.
“I knew it.” Courfeyrac whispered, more so to himself than to Enjolras, who was looking at him with a tense, unamused pout.
Courfeyrac leaned back on his heels, throwing his head back as he shook it side to side. And he- he was giggling. Giggling!
“What are you laughing about?” Enjolras snapped- feeling embarrassed.
“Hush, Enjolras. I’m taking in the moment.” Courfeyrac looked at him still, continuing to laugh. “Combeferre will want a perfect play by play of this conversation. Actually I should go get h-”
“Courfeyrac!” Enjolras bit out, chest heaving with anger. “What. Is. So. Funny?!”
“DID YOU REALLY THINK IT WAS MARIUS?!” Courfeyrac practically wailed, his small frame vibrating with laughter.
“It fits!” Enjolras defended himself, holding out the paper he had unwittingly crumpled in his tense fist. “Look at my list!”
“You made a- oh my god.” Courfeyrac snatched the crumpled list from his hands, eyes scanning it greedily. His lips were curled into a blinding grin, nodding a bit at his own written conclusion. “You’re right, I wouldn’t be caught dead in a sweater vest.” He mumbled, pursing his lips as he reached the bottom of the list.
“Enjolras. I’m going to say this once.” Courfeyrac took him by the shoulders, suddenly very serious. “Marius is the straightest person we know. Actually, I think he is the only straight person we know.” He thought for a long moment before continuing carefully. “Do you think R would get caught up with someone he knows could never ever love him back?”
“He seems pretty convinced that this man never could, so it’s plausible.”
“Enjolras, that’s not a matter of ‘this man’s’ opinion of Grantaire. That’s just R being R.” Courfeyrac countered, his smile faltering. He loathed acknowledging Grantaire’s low opinion of himself; everyone did.
Enjolras came to the only conclusion that was left. “Then it’s someone we don’t know.” His lip curled at the thought of that, of someone he didn’t know touching Grantaire. He hated the idea. At least, if it were someone he knew, he could keep an eye on the situation and keep his feelings in check. He would be jealous, of course, but he would respect the relationship. But if it were someone he didn’t know…
“No- it’s- oh my shit- ” Courfeyrac released a long whine, the pitch growing higher in absolute frustration. He stomped his feet for a moment, not unlike a child. “Enjolras. Do you have curly hair?”
“I mean, I like to think of them as ringlets-”
“Ssh!” Courfeyrac stepped forward into Enjolras’ personal space, fixing him with a glare. “Do you wear glasses?”
“You know I get headaches if I don’t wear them when I re-”
“Did you wear that hideous crime of a sweater vest last week?”
“Hey- I like that vest-”
“Do you ignore the shit out of R when he tries to talk in meetings?”
“Well, it’s only because he interrupts and I’m trying to f-” Enjolras cut off with a small yelp, eyes widening as he realized the point of this little exercise. “Oh. Oh! Oh shit. Fuckfuckfuckfuck-”
“There it is.” Courfeyrac sighed heavily, an impressive imitation of his boyfriend’s trademark exasperation.
“Oh my god.. It’s me? I’m jealous of myself?”
“Indeed. Something only you could manage.”
“What am I supposed to do? What do I say?”
Courfeyrac thought for a long while, his lips pursed carefully as his eyebrows threaded together in thought. “Give him a list of his own, Enjolras.” He left Enjolras with a smile, sliding back into the door of the Musain, taking his seat with Combeferre.
{9:53pm}
Enjolras:
“He’s driving me insane.”
Enjolras:
“His eyes are almost as stunning as his smile.”
Enjolras:
“I can’t really breathe when he smiles at me, which isn’t often.”
Enjolras:
“Sometimes when he wears tank tops, his chest hair shows a bit and I can’t focus in meetings.”
Enjolras:
“Especially when there’s paint smeared on him.”
Enjolras:
“I want to put my hand in his curls.”
Enjolras:
“He thinks I don’t think about him- when he IS my time of day.”
Enjolras:
“And no, this isn’t meant for Combeferre.”