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Grantaire always has snacks on him. He’d chalk it up to being responsible or some bullshit like that, but Courfeyrac knows better than that—hell, at this point, all of Les Amis knows better than that. Also, the snacks usually include processed sugar. And sometimes artificial dye. Which is to say that Grantaire is always in possession of candy. If he’s not sucking on a lollipop, he’s chomping on a bag of Sour Patch Kids or crunching M&M’s. Once, he even resorted to licorice, the long ends hanging from his mouth like cats’ tails as he argued with Enjolras over fridge magnets. (Courfeyrac, surprisingly, had vehemently taken Grantaire’s side: fridge magnets were a sign of taste, thank you very much, and no, Jehan hadn’t put him up to this; while his magnetic poetry was about as captivating as chia pudding, it at least was very Jehan. Or something. Enjolras had burst into laughter at that, eyes sparking and cheeks a faint pink, and why would Grantaire open his mouth when nothing so beautiful as Enj’s laughter would spill out of it?)
But what Grantaire really loves is Snickers. He won’t indulge often—he’s just a little bit allergic to peanuts, nothing serious but enough to warrant only occasional consumption—but when he does, he doesn’t share. Never mind the fact that his splurging means more than enough to feed Les Amis for five dinners at a time; Grantaire’s Snickers are his and his alone. Everyone knows this by now, with the exception of Eponine, who will, without fail, smirk and snatch one every time they are within a five foot radius of her body. Or, well, she probably is aware of his territorial possessiveness over his Snickers at this point. Grantaire tends to let her get away with it because he can’t really justify stealing them back from her, and keeping them from her would be about as effective as keeping stationery from Jehan.
It’s one of those days where Grantaire is emotionally afflicted enough to cave on his Snickers craving and physically unafflicted enough for it not to matter too much. Or rather, he caved last night and today, his pockets are laden with caramely, peanut-stuffed, chocolate-covered sin. He’s humming as he walks into the meeting, a tune Jehan had blessed him and Courfeyrac with—and therefore subsequently the entirety of Les Amis, because Courfeyrac and Grantaire are incapable of keeping anything to themselves—in a 3 am voicemail. Just as he gets to the excessive swearing part, Courfeyrac nails him with a paper airplane and Grantaire rolls his eyes, pulls out a Snickers, and tears into it with his teeth, pretending not to notice Joly’s wince at that last part.
“Nice to see y’all too,” Grantaire says through an obscene mouthful of candy. “I swear, you could at least muster some excitement when I walk into the room.”
Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. Beside him, Combeferre sighs.
“Damn, Snickers. I was counting on you not to fall asleep this meeting.”
“Ferre, if you decided drinking coffee wasn’t beneath you and instead on par with your morals or some shit, I swear you’d feel so much freer.”
“Or you could help everyone feel freer,” counters Enjolras, “and contribute rather than falling asleep in the meeting.”
“Kind of missing the point, both of you,” Combeferre grumbles, and then turns to Eponine—scarfing down a chocolate bar in a familiar brown wrapper—hopefully. She grins and shakes her head, already folding the wrapper into some sort of shapeless bird. Grantaire checks his pockets and mentally curses Eponine, then sees Marius kissing Cosette on the forehead. Poor girl probably needs it.
Enjolras starts the meeting, and Grantaire is finally able to absorb him—to be absorbed in him. Enjolras is enchanting any day, but the meetings are ramping up now that the annual uni gala is approaching, and he’s particularly amped up about it; and so, therefore, is Grantaire. He interrupts and retorts and challenges, and he’s in the middle of a particularly heated defense when suddenly the sunlight is beaming through the window, catching on Enjolras’ hair and lighting his eyes—oh. His eyes.
Eyebags sit low and heavy underneath them, which means, damn him, the fucker hasn’t been sleeping properly again. It’s not an uncommon occurrence, given how dedicated Enjolras is to his work, but it’s just another thing about Enjolras that irritates Grantaire.
“Remind me again why you find clementines sexy?”
“You’re kidding! Do you not find—Ferre, have you seen their fucking albedo?”
“Their—I swear to God, Jehan, if there is a term for the sex drive of fruit—”
“Oh, and you don’t possess it?“ Eponine mutters.
“Albedo, not libido, it’s the white stringy stuff—you know, after you peel—“
“Now you’re just making shit up, Mar, no way you’re with Jehan on this—Courf! Get over here—“
“One sec, Ferre—Enj, go talk to R, he’d—yes he fucking would, go tell him.”
Grantaire is startled when Enjolras actually starts walking towards him. And so, he does what he typically does when he’s panicked: he reaches into his pocket, grabs a piece of candy, and then Enjolras is right there and the light illuminates his tired eyes and really, Grantaire can’t do anything but what he actually does, which is blurt “Are you allergic to peanuts?” and simultaneously shove the Snickers in Enjolras’ face.
There’s a short pause. Grantaire is looking really hard at Enjolras’ shoulder, and so he notices when it tenses and Enjolras says: “I don’t believe these are actually edible.”
Grantaire startles into a laugh. “What?”
“I can’t believe you actually eat these,” Enjolras says. He picks up the offering, turns it in his hand. “Snickers. What the hell is in a Snickers, anyway?”
“You… don’t know what’s in a Snickers.” Grantaire is in disbelief. He has been eating Snickers since he was old enough to know what thievery was, which is to say since he’s been born. Enjolras simply cannot not know what is in a Snickers.
“And you do?”
“Yes, I do, I—Enj. I love Snickers. I have been in love with Snickers since the day I have been born. They are my ultimate guilty pleasure snack.”
“I thought that was Courfeyrac.”
Grantaire chokes. He honest-to-God splutters. For someone so passionately smart, Enjolras is also infuriatingly stupid.
“You think I hook up with Courf?”
Enjolras’ cheeks are a lovely pale pink. Like a tulip, or something. Oh God, he sounds like Jehan.
“I—you know, I just thought—“
Grantaire clears his throat, decides to put him out of his misery.
“No, you know what, we’re not going into that right now. Have you never had a Snickers?”
“No, nor touched one.”
“...right. Okay. Well, I’m going to need you to do that before—“ Grantaire stops himself from saying before I fall even more stupidly in love with you, but only just.
“Before?”
“Before you pass out from exhaustion. I swear, Enj, you’ve been overworking yourself again.”
“It—it’s important. The work.”
“Yeah, and so are you, and taking care of yourself includes getting enough rest. Go on. Eat.”
“You still haven’t told me what’s in it,” Enjolras remarks after a pause.
“Are you still hung up on that?” Grantaire cuts Enjolras off before he can say anything. “Right, never mind, it’s got… caramel, and peanuts, and nougat, covered in chocolate.”
“Nougat. I’m convinced no one actually knows what the fuck is in nougat,” Enjolras mutters, but he unwraps the Snickers—delicately, so fucking delicately Grantaire might explode—and takes a bite.
“…Aire?”
“Yes?” Grantaire pretends his ears aren’t red from the nickname.
“Why the fuck do you eat this shit?”