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Grantaire, Combeferre, Joly, and Marius were gathered around a table in the Café Musain, sharing a bottle of wine. There had been a meeting earlier on, where Enjolras had discussed the injustices and cruelties of the world, before passing out pamphlets detailing the histories of various French monarchs. He’d said, before storming out dramatically, that they all had to educate themselves on the past if they wanted to change the future.
“I won’t have time to read this,” Marius commented, looking down at the thick hand-written pamphlet. “I have a date with Cosette tonight.”
“Where are you going?” asked Combeferre, the only one polite enough to feign interest in Marius’s never-ending stories about Cosette.
“I’m taking her to the theatre,” Marius said, taking a sip of wine, “we’re seeing a production of Notre-Dame de Paris. It’s a story about a frightfully ugly hunchback who falls in love with a beautiful girl.”
“Sounds nice,” Combeferre said, without much enthusiasm.
Grantaire wondered what Enjolras would think of such a play. He wondered what Enjolras would do if he asked him to go. Probably ignore him. Or, if he was feeling particularly generous, bother to make up some excuse regarding the revolution and his inability to rest until the people are free.
“Cosette has never been to the theatre…” Marius went on, apparently lacking any ability to tell when his friends couldn’t care less.
Suddenly, Courfeyrac ran over to them, his face flushed.
“Guys,” he said, he was clutching a pamphlet in his hand, “I just made a terrible mistake.”
“Did you spill wine on your pamphlet?” Grantaire asked, “don’t worry, I did the same thing.” Actually, he’d been using his as a coaster.
“No,” Courfeyrac said, and he looked nervous. “I forgot to grab a pamphlet at the meeting…and I thought Enjolras had taken them all with him…until I saw this one sitting on the desk.”
He paused for dramatic effect.
“And?” Grantaire said, wanting to expedite the story and get back to drinking.
“I think,” Courfeyrac said, “I found Enjolras’s journal.”
There was zero reaction from the amis.
“It must be incredibly dull,” commented Grantaire, “what does Enjolras have to write about? Which furniture he thinks is best to build a barricade?”
“You don’t understand,” Courfeyrac said, taking a seat at their table, “he writes about his emotions. His insecurities. His thoughts.”
“You found his diary?” Combeferre said, taken aback.
Grantaire fought the urge to snatch the pamphlet out of Courfeyrac’s hand.
“And you read it?” Joly asked, incredulous. “Isn’t that a little rude?”
“I didn’t realize what it was!” Courfeyrac shouted, defensively.
“You didn’t realize after the first page,” Grantaire said, “that it wasn’t the history of various French monarchs.”
Courfeyrac sighed, guiltily. “I guess I was a little curious. We hardly know anything about Enjolras.”
“Give me that,” Grantaire said. “Enjolras is spilling his heart and soul onto this pamphlet, and I don’t think we should be reading it.”
“Oh please, Grantaire,” Courfeyrac said, “you’re not curious? Maybe there’s something written about you in here.”
“Is there?” Grantaire asked, before he could stop himself. And then quickly added, “I’m sure it’s nothing except: Grantaire is annoying. Grantaire came to a meeting again, drunk. I wish Grantaire would get run over by a horse.”
“Uh,” Marius said, uncomfortable. “Is there anything about me in there? About Cosette?”
“Why would Enjolras write about Cosette?” Courfeyrac asked.
Marius looked utterly stumped.
“Just give it to me,” Grantaire asked again, reaching for the pamphlet. Courfeyrac held it out of his reach.
“R, you’re the last person Enjolras would want reading his diary,” Marius said, showing zero discretion for uncomfortable truths.
Grantaire knew that he was right. Enjolras would probably punch him if he knew Grantaire had read his diary. But, on the bright side, Enjolras would have to talk to him. It was almost worth it.
“So what did it say?” Joly asked.
“Okay, guys,” Courfeyrac said, “I’m just going to read the first page, and then we have to stop.”
They all agreed, having had just enough wine to make this seem like a good idea.
Courfeyrac began,
“Today, I paced the length of my apartment and contemplated which furniture I could dedicate to the barricade when we start building.”
“You made that up,” Combeferre commented.
“I didn’t!” Courfeyrac said.
“I told you Enjolras would write about furniture,” Grantaire said, feeling ridiculously proud of himself for guessing the details of Enjolras’s diary.
Courfeyrac continued, “I spent the night writing up pamphlets on the history of the French monarchy. I hope that my friends will find the information as interesting as I did. Sometimes, I worry about them losing faith in the cause. I worry that they’re only here because I asked. That I’m leading them to their deaths.”
Grantaire suddenly felt guilty for resting his wine on the pamphlet that Enjolras had apparently lost a night’s sleep over. He picked it up and took a long drink.
“We should stop,” Combeferre suggested, “how would any of us feel if Enjolras read our diaries?”
“I don’t have a diary,” Grantaire commented, “but if I did, and Enjolras read it, he would probably issue a restraining order.”
No one decided to comment on that.
“I fear I’m coming down with a cold. I have a slight fever and I can’t stop sneezing. I want to ask Joly about my symptoms, but last time I went to him for medical advice, he said I probably had tuberculosis and should immediately quarantine myself.”
“I remember that,” Joly said, “lucky he didn’t end up having it. Tuberculosis is no joke.”
Grantaire was thankful he never went to Joly for medical advice; he had enough hypochondria as it was.
Suddenly, the door to the Café Musain opened up, and Enjolras was marching in, his gold hair tousled slightly from the wind.
Courfeyrac jumped nearly six feet out of his chair and threw the diary at Grantaire who immediately shoved it down his shirt, knocking over a glass of wine with his elbow in the process.
Enjolras approached the table just as Grantaire was attempting unsuccessfully to remove the red wine stain from his white sleeve.
“I see you’re educating yourself on the country we’re fighting for,” Enjolras said, disgust heavy in his voice.
Grantaire felt absurd covered in wine, and guilty for having Enjolras’s deepest insecurities and fears shoved in his shirt.
“I can hardly wait to read it, Apollo,” Grantaire said, smiling up at him, “I’m saving it for tonight, so I dream about French Kings and Queens.”
Enjolras scoffed, and turned to address the rest of the group,
“Listen, I left something here…a sort of, journal…did any of you see it?”
The amis all looked at each other, their expressions practically screaming their guilt.
“Uh, journal?” Courfeyrac asked, nervously.
“I haven’t seen any journal,” Marius said, loudly and with far too much conviction.
“I would tell you if I’d seen a journal,” Joly said, “but I haven’t.”
“No diaries around here,” Combeferre said.
Courfeyrac smacked him lightly on the head. “He didn’t ask for a diary, ‘Ferre. He said a journal.”
“Well, that’s what I meant,” Combeferre said, staring down into his wine, “I meant journal.”
Grantaire didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at his friends’ complete inability to lie, when Enjolras turned towards him.
“What about you, Grantaire?” he asked.
“Uh, no, Apollo,” Grantaire said, and he felt horrendously shitty for lying to Enjolras. He contemplated just pulling the diary out of his shirt and handing it over. After all, Enjolras already disdained him and that wouldn’t change even if he never found out that Grantaire had read his diary.
“Well,” Enjolras said, “let me know if you see it, it’s very important.” Enjolras paused for a moment before bringing his hand up to his face and sneezing dramatically.
His face was flushed when he pulled away, and he immediately reached into his coat pocket to grab a handkerchief and wipe softly at his nose. When he was finished, his nose was bright red and he looked utterly embarrassed by the whole preceding.
Grantaire thought it was quite possibly the cutest thing he’d ever seen in his life.
“Looks like you’re coming down with the flu, Apollo,” Grantaire commented.
“Or the plague,” Joly said, “I’ve studied several cases in medical school.”
Grantaire rolled his eyes. The last thing Enjolras needed right now was the added stress of thinking he had the plague.
“I have a small fever,” Enjolras admitted, as though all the amis weren’t already aware from reading his diary that he’d been sick for at least two days.
The idea of Enjolras sitting in his apartment alone, shivering and sneezing and throwing up from the flu, was too much for Grantaire to handle. He took a long drink of wine before saying, quickly,
“Let me walk you home.”
Enjolras looked at Grantaire like he’d just offered to lead the revolution himself. The other amis had matching looks of dismay.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Enjolras commented.
“You’re sick, Apollo,” Grantaire said, “you need someone to hold back your hair when you puke.”
Enjolras looked offended. “I haven’t puked.”
“Yet,” Joly said, “you’ll probably start soon. Followed by tremors, rash, insomnia, delirium, and finally, death.”
“For the love of god,” Courfeyrac said, throwing his hands up, “he doesn’t have the plague!”
Grantaire got up from his chair, and walked over to Enjolras.
“Let me help you.”
Enjolras was looking at Grantaire as though he himself was a disease. Suddenly, Grantaire felt more self-conscious than usual and wondered why on earth he thought for a second that Enjolras would want to be around him when he was sick.
“Or,” he quickly amended, “anyone could. You just shouldn’t be alone.”
“I can’t,” Marius quickly said, “Sorry, but I have a date with Cosette.”
“Your friend is more important!” Courfeyrac said, shocked.
“It’s fine,” Enjolras said, sniffling. “It’s fine. Grantaire, if you wouldn’t mind, I suppose it would be…nice. To have company.”
He said it like each word pained him. Grantaire quickly gathered all of his belongings, drained the rest of his wine, and was rushing out of the door alongside Enjolras when he heard Courfeyrac’s voice call to him,
“Uh, R,” he said, nervously, “anything you maybe want to leave with us?”
“Like what?” Grantaire asked, innocently.
“Like, you know,” Courfeyrac said, without meeting his eyes, “anything.”
“No, I’m good, thanks, Courf,” Grantaire said, and nudged Enjolras out of the café.
Grantaire and Enjolras walked hurriedly to Enjolras’s apartment, which thankfully was only about five minutes away. Enjolras pulled the keys out of his pocket and fumbled with them, his fingers red and cold from the wind. Finally, he opened the door, and allowed Grantaire to go through first.
“Thank you, Apollo,” Grantaire said, in an exaggerated voice, pretending that they were on a date and Enjolras was opening the door to a fancy restaurant.
Grantaire heard Enjolras sigh behind him, and moved aside as Enjolras lead the way down the hallway before arriving at his room.
When Grantaire entered, he looked around, taking in Enjolras’s apartment. This was where Enjolras lived. Where he ate, and slept, and wrote pamphlets. Where he thought, and dreamed, and stared at the moon. Where he cooked, and sang songs, and danced. Where he wrote in his diary.
Grantaire guiltily felt the papers that were still in his shirt. He thought about Enjolras singing and dancing. Enjolras went to sit down on the couch, looking exhausted. Grantaire tried to gather his thoughts. He wasn’t here because Enjolras wanted him to be, he was here because Enjolras was sick and Grantaire was doing him a favor.
“Do you have any medicine?” Grantaire asked.
“In the cabinet,” Enjolras said, waving his hand in the direction of the bathroom. Grantaire wandered in there, and opened the cabinet, taking out a bottle of pain killers. He took a moment to look around, noticing the wide array of hair products shoved into a shelf next to the bathtub. There was a small jar of rose petals next to the bath. He imagined taking a rose petal bath with Enjolras and struggled to erase the idiotic smile from his face before going back into the main room.
“Here, take these,” Grantaire said, handing Enjolras a few pills. “They’ll help bring your fever down.”
“Thanks,” Enjolras muttered, and swallowed the pills.
“You should probably lie down,” Grantaire suggested.
Enjolras leaned forward and rested his head in his hands. Grantaire could see that he was trembling slightly, and wanted nothing more than to go over there and wrap his arms around him and tell him that everything was going to be okay.
“Uh, Apollo?” Grantaire approached, and was in the process of kneeling in front of the couch when Enjolras suddenly lifted his head up and vomited all over the floor.
Grantaire flinched back involuntarily, only barely avoiding getting puked all over by the love of his life.
Enjolras looked shocked at what he’d done and quickly stumbled into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
Grantaire set about washing the puke from his hair and from the floor, before knocking gently on the bathroom door.
“Enj?” he called, “are you okay in there?”
There was no response.
He went into the kitchen to fill up a glass of water, before knocking on the door again.
“I’m going to come in,” he called, softly.
Grantaire heard a groan from the other side. He opened the door to find Enjolras dramatically thrown over the toilet, one hand resting against his forehead, keeping himself propped up. His face was covered in sweat and he had tears running from his eyes. He looked at Grantaire and somehow still managed to look incredibly annoyed.
Grantaire hesitantly entered the room and knelt down beside Enjolras.
“Here, try to drink this,” he offered, in a soothing voice.
With Grantaire’s help, Enjolras was able to sit up and lean against the wall, drinking the water in small sips.
He looked up at Grantaire when he was finished, his face messy with tears and sweat. He looked adorable.
Grantaire found a towel hanging up in the bathroom and wet it with cool water before bringing it over to Enjolras. He held it out, but Enjolras didn’t take it.
“This will help bring your fever down, Apollo,” he said.
“Stop calling me that,” Enjolras muttered, and he sounded upset.
“Let’s get you into bed,” Grantaire suggested, because he thought Enjolras looked incredibly uncomfortable sitting on the floor.
He helped Enjolras up, which wasn’t easy as Enjolras was taking every opportunity to push away from him, and lead him into the bedroom.
Grantaire pulled back the covers, and nudged Enjolras gently into the bed, before pulling the blankets over him.
“Just try to get some sleep, okay?” Grantaire said, gently placing the wet towel down on Enjolras’s forehead and turning to leave the room.
Enjolras just scowled at him, his face red from fever.
Grantaire shut the door behind him, without closing it completely. He went out into the main room and sat down on the couch, feeling exhausted.
Although he loved the idea of taking care of Enjolras, he felt an incredible amount of responsibility. The flu was dangerous, and Enjolras could be getting worse and worse. Grantaire had no idea what to do. He heard a soft coughing coming from the bedroom and had to fight the urge to run in and grab his hand and ask if he was okay.
In order to distract himself from his thoughts, he brought out the diary that was still resting in his shirt. It was crinkled and stained a slight red from the wine he’d spilled earlier.
He knew he shouldn’t read it. These were Enjolras’s private thoughts, and he had no right. He glanced down at it and saw his name. He couldn’t resist.
“Today we discussed the possibility of protesting at a local court. Innocent people are convicted every year and forced into slavery for petty crimes. I thought it would be a good idea to show our support for the people. Grantaire interrupted and said that the courts would be highly guarded by police, and we’d have a better chance surviving by throwing ourselves off of a bridge.”
Grantaire couldn’t remember saying that, but thought that he probably had a point. He continued reading,
“I could tell he was drunk because his lips were redder than usual, and he was slurring his words.”
Grantaire paused for a moment to take in the fact that Enjolras not only noticed the color of his lips, but also took time to write about it afterwards before reading,
“Although R was probably just being spiteful, I had the exact same thoughts the previous night. It is dangerous, and some of us could get hurt. R is cynical and generally useless to the cause, but I feel often that he has the better interests of the amis in mind, perhaps more than I do. I am selfish, single-minded, and it is hard for me to see past the greater goal. I am sure that this is why Grantaire dislikes me.”
Grantaire stared down at the diary, unbelieving of what he’d just read. Enjolras thought that Grantaire disliked him? Grantaire had previously believed that Enjolras was perfect in every single way, but now realized that he was, in fact, incredibly oblivious. Honestly, why did Enjolras think Grantaire even attended these meetings, if not for him?
That ended the entry. Grantaire skimmed back a little more and read,
“Today I was offered some advice from Feuilly. He suggested adding olive oil to your shampoo in order to create a shine in your hair. So far, seems to be working. Hair is very shiny.”
Grantaire rolled his eyes before scanning through the entry on Enjolras’s hair routine. Which he had to admit he found absurdly cute. Finally, he found another passage with his name,
“Today I noticed that some of the amis were eating oysters. I love oysters, and haven’t had them since I was a child. I went over to ask them if I could have one when Grantaire pushed the plate away. I thought at first he was just being mean until he said that they had gone bad. He commented that oysters made his hypochondria set in, but in a way that was exaggerated and distinctly ridiculous. I thought it was funny, and also touching that he saved me from poison oysters.”
Grantaire couldn’t stop himself from smiling. He remembered that day, and those disgusting oysters. He remembered Enjolras coming over and trying to eat one. He’d been so drunk and told Enjolras that he despised humanity, and that even the oysters were bad. He’d ended the night feeling pretty shitty about himself, and thinking that Enjolras probably thought he was acting stupid. Turns out, Enjolras thought he was funny, and was touched by his concern.
Suddenly, Grantaire heard another fit of coughing coming from the bedroom and decided he should go check on Enjolras.
When he entered the room, it was obvious that Enjolras’s fever was worse.
“G-Grantaire?” he said, and his voice was slurred. He seemed to have trouble focusing.
“Hey there, Apollo,” Grantaire said, and moved to sit on the bed next to Enjolras. He removed the towel from Enjolras’s forehead and felt that he was burning up. Yes, he was in way over his head.
“Let me get you some more medicine,” he said, more to himself. He was about to get up off the bed when Enjolras grabbed his arm. Grantaire froze and stared back at him.
“Wait,” Enjolras said, his voice was harsh from coughing, “you’re leaving?”
Grantaire would have laughed at the worry in Enjolras’s eyes if it wasn’t so heartbreaking.
“Just for a minute,” Grantaire explained. “You need more medicine, your fever is really high.”
Enjolras reluctantly let go of his hand, and Grantaire hurried into the kitchen to grab the bottle of pills before heading back into the room. He saw that Enjolras had somehow managed to sit himself up on the pillows and was struggling to take off his shirt.
Grantaire felt his heart speed up.
“Enjolras,” he said, walking over, “stop.” He put a hand on Enjolras’s arm to still him. Enjolras looked up at him with bright blue eyes, and let his shirt fall back into place.
“I’m hot,” Enjolras said.
Grantaire bit back a colorful innuendo and instead said,
“That’s the fever, take these pills,” he handed him two more pills, “you’ll feel better soon.”
Enjolras was staring at Grantaire like he didn’t really believe that he was there.
“Grantaire?” he asked, and he grabbed his hand.
“Yes, Apollo?” he said in a shaky voice, looking down at their hands.
“Are you…” Enjolras said, looking around the room, and over Grantaire’s shoulder, before focusing back on his face, “are you drunk?”
Grantaire couldn’t help but laugh. Typical Enjolras – practically dying from a fever and still concerning himself with Grantaire’s level of inebriation.
“No,” Grantaire said. “Although I wouldn’t mind a drink.”
“I’m sorry,” Enjolras said, and he coughed a little before adding, “I’m sorry you’re stuck looking after me.”
“If you remember,” Grantaire said, gently, wiping the sides of Enjolras’s face with the wet towel, “I volunteered. I practically begged you.”
“Why?” Enjolras asked, “it can’t be fun cleaning up my puke.”
“On the contrary,” Grantaire said, smiling, “I can think of no better way to spend my time.”
Enjolras tried to smile but was interrupted by a loud sneeze. Grantaire passed him a tissue from the bed stand.
“You must hate me,” Enjolras muttered, under his breath. Grantaire dropped the towel into his lap and stared into Enjolras’s eyes. They were clouded with fever and pain medicine and Grantaire knew that he probably had no idea what he was saying. He wondered if he’d even remember this in the morning.
Enjolras continued, “You think the revolution is pointless.”
Grantaire didn’t respond. Enjolras looked so sad sitting there, his eyes shining with unshed tears, that Grantaire didn’t have it in his heart to tell him that yes, he thought the revolution was pointless and yes, he thought that Enjolras and all his friends would die needlessly for a cause they couldn’t win.
“If I believe in anything,” Grantaire said, trying to be encouraging. “I believe in you.”
Enjolras looked up and blinked, causing the tears to fall down his cheeks. Enjolras was beautiful, even when crying. Grantaire reached over and brushed the tears away before he could stop himself.
“Don’t cry, Apollo,” Grantaire said, giving him a sad smile.
“Where is everyone?” Enjolras said, suddenly.
“Everyone…?” Grantaire asked.
“Did you read it?” Enjolras asked, and his gaze was fixed on Grantaire’s.
Grantaire stammered. How did he know about the diary? Oh my god, he was going to be so pissed.
“French history is important to know,” Enjolras continued, and Grantaire let out a breath. Of course, he was talking about the pamphlets he’d spent the entire night writing up, even though he was sick and needed sleep. “We’ve had a lot of failed revolutions.”
“I suppose we have,” Grantaire agreed, trying to slow the beating of his heart.
“You’re right, you know,” Enjolras said, and his eyes were drifting closed.
“About what?” Grantaire asked.
“Me,” Enjolras said, and he sat up suddenly, looking at Grantaire with wide eyes, “I can’t do this. I can’t lead the revolution. I’ll get everyone killed.” He reached his hand out to grab for Grantaire’s shirt but instead ended up grasping air somewhere to his left.
Grantaire grabbed his hand and leaned in close.
“Listen to me, Enjolras,” he said, mustering up a seriousness that sounded foreign in his voice, “why do you think I attend the meetings?”
“To make fun of me?” Enjolras said, innocently.
“No,” Grantaire rolled his eyes, and also felt a stab of guilt. “Because I believe in you. If anyone can win this revolution and give the people freedom, it’s you.”
Enjolras looked like he was going to cry again. “You mean it?”
“Of course I do,” Grantaire said, giving Enjolras’s hand a squeeze.
Enjolras leaned in close, until Grantaire could feel his breath dancing along his lips. Enjolras pushed away from Grantaire suddenly and leaned over the bed, vomiting on the floor.
Grantaire was running out of puke-free places in the apartment.
“Let’s move you to the couch, I guess,” he said.
“Sorry,” Enjolras muttered, and he willingly pushed himself up from the bed and leaned against Grantaire.
Grantaire walked him out to the couch and was about to sit him down when he saw the diary sitting there. He froze. He could either sit Enjolras down, grab the diary and hide it, or put Enjolras down on the couch and hope he didn’t notice.
Enjolras looked ready to pass out and Grantaire decided that his health was more important than any incriminating evidence. He gently laid Enjolras down on the couch, next to the diary.
“R, thank you,” he said in a weak voice, coughing. His eyes fell to the diary and Grantaire fought the urge to run.
“Oh,” he said, picking it up, “I was looking for this earlier. I thought I’d left it at the café.”
“What is it?” Grantaire asked, hoping he sounded convincing.
“It’s nothing,” Enjolras said, before tossing it on the ground.
Grantaire had taken the pillows and blankets from Enjolras’s bed and set them on the couch, creating a makeshift bed. He laid Enjolras down and tucked him in, brushing back his sweaty hair.
“You know, all this time,” Enjolras said, with a feverish smile, “I thought you didn’t like me.”
“I like everything about you,” Grantaire said, “except maybe your lack of self-preservation.”
Enjolras laughed a little before losing himself to another coughing fit. Finally, he caught his breath. “Someone has to fight for the people.”
“I wish it was anyone but you,” Grantaire said, sadly. He wanted to tell Enjolras how much his life meant to him, how much he loved him. He wanted to confess that the whole reason he thought the revolution was pointless, was because Enjolras was going to die for it, and there was nothing Grantaire could do or say to stop him. He wanted to ask if Enjolras ever thought he could bring himself to love Grantaire too.
He looked back over to Enjolras and saw that he was staring at him, his blue eyes deep with emotion. For a moment, Grantaire was afraid he’d accidentally said some of his thoughts out loud. Enjolras reached his hand out to touch the side of Grantaire’s face before letting it drop to his side. He closed his eyes and fell into a fitful sleep.
Grantaire let out a breath when Enjolras’s breathing slowed. He took the diary from the floor and brought it into his room, setting it on the side table. He grabbed a few towels from the kitchen and cleaned up the vomit, before rejoining Enjolras in the main room. He sat on the floor beside the couch, taking one of his hands, and resting his head down on the couch, falling asleep. He woke frequently throughout the night to guide Enjolras to the bathroom when he was sick, or wipe the sweat away from his face. He felt tired and groggy by the time the sun was up, and wished he had something to drink. He wondered if Enjolras felt this crappy after he’d stayed up all night planning the revolution or writing out pamphlets. Grantaire wasn’t surprised Enjolras had gotten sick; he took on way too much responsibility.
“Good morning, Apollo,” he greeted in a tired voice.
Enjolras blinked at Grantaire. He was still sick but Grantaire could tell from a quick touch of the forehead that his fever had gone down considerably. Grantaire never felt so relieved.
“You’ll be back to overthrowing governments in no time,” he remarked, earning an amused scoff from Enjolras. Grantaire thought that was considerably better than the annoyed scoff that he so frequently received.
“Thank you for taking care of me last night,” Enjolras said, his voice sore. Grantaire just smiled and went into the kitchen to find something that they could eat for breakfast. He opened one of the cabinets and found a few radishes. He opened another one and found olive oil. The rest were empty.
“I guess you haven’t been to the market lately, huh?” Grantaire remarked.
“What?” Enjolras said, he was sitting up now, running his hands through his hair self-consciously like he expected it to still look perfect after a night of throwing up and sneezing.
“Your hair looks fine,” Grantaire said, “very shiny.”
“You think so?” Enjolras asked, before realizing what a ridiculous comment Grantaire made. He raised an eyebrow and continued, “I just went to the market two days ago.”
“You only have radishes.”
“I like radishes.”
Grantaire took them out of the cabinet and stared at them. He had no idea how to cook radishes, he couldn’t remember if he’d ever even had them before. He took the olive oil out of the cabinet, finally deciding he’d try to make something resembling a stir-fry. The saddest stir-fry in the history of the universe.
“Wait,” Enjolras said, and he was up now, making his way into the kitchen. His clothes were all disheveled and wrinkly, and his hair, despite being very shiny, was matted to his face. Grantaire was beside himself – he was so cute.
“Wait, don’t use that,” Enjolras said, snatching the olive oil, “that’s for my hair.”
Grantaire laughed before he could help himself, causing Enjolras to look mildly offended.
“I think Feuilly might have been messing with you when he suggested olive oil, Apollo,” Grantaire said, putting the radishes back in the cabinet. He would just go buy them breakfast at this point.
“Feuilly has great hair, I trust his opinion,” Enjolras said, and then paused. “How did you know Feuilly suggested the olive oil? I told him to keep it a secret.”
“Uh,” Grantaire stuttered. Fuck, he’d totally read that in the diary. The diary that he was supposed to be pretending he’d never seen before. He was worse at this than the other amis and that was saying something. “He told me he’d suggested it to you.”
“He did?” Enjolras looked betrayed.
“Why was it a secret?” Grantaire asked, honestly curious.
“I know it seems silly, but…” Enjolras looked down, a small blush gracing his cheeks, “I wanted to give off the impression my hair is just naturally shiny.”
Again, Grantaire couldn’t help but laugh. Enjolras was just so precious. Who would have thought that the great revolutionary would be so concerned about what others thought of his hair?
“Last time I trust Feuilly…” Enjolras muttered, and he grabbed a radish out of the cabinet and bit into it.
“Wait,” Grantaire said. He knew that he was horrible at keeping secrets. He knew he couldn’t let this one fester between them, not when it seemed like Enjolras was just starting to like him. He took a deep breath before saying, “Feuilly didn’t tell me about the olive oil.”
“Oh?” Enjolras said, chewing his radish.
“I read it in your diary,” he admitted, looking down. He wondered if Enjolras could even hear him over the beating of his heart.
“You…read my diary?” Enjolras said, his eyes were wide and he looked about to run away.
“I didn’t mean to,” Grantaire hurried to explain, “Courfeyrac found it at the café and we just sort of, I mean, we wanted to know about you, you’re our friend and—”
“You all read it?” Enjolras looked mortified.
“Not all of it! Barely any! Just entries about your hair!” Grantaire said.
“You’re way too defensive for just having read entries on my hair,” Enjolras said, and he put the half-eaten radish down. He looked about to burst into tears and Grantaire couldn’t stand knowing that he’d caused this.
“I’m sorry, Enjolras,” he said, “I know it was a total betrayal of your trust and I wish I could take it back. But there was nothing in that diary that made me think any less of you.”
“Stop calling it a diary, would you?” Enjolras said, exasperated. He brought his hands up to his face like he was trying to hide.
“I am so sorry, Apollo,” Grantaire said, quickly.
“And stop calling me that, Grantaire.” Enjolras was holding his gaze now. “I’m nothing special. I’m no better than you. I’m just like everyone else.”
“You’re not,” Grantaire said, “not even close.”
“Why not?” Enjolras said, and his voice was high, his face red with a combination of fever and blush. “What makes me so special, besides my ability to fight for a cause you’ve said time and time again is pointless?”
“Everything about you is special!” Grantaire said, picking up a radish for emphasis, “before I met you, I didn’t believe in anything! I thought the world was a hateful place filled with people who didn’t care about anyone but themselves. I hated living when it wasn't worth anything. I still believe that the world is cruel, but you—” He paused, taking a breath, willing Enjolras to believe him. “You make me believe that maybe there’s a chance for humanity. You want to help people. I believe that you will change the world, or die trying.” He added quickly, “But please, don’t die.”
Enjolras stared at Grantaire, his blue eyes wide. “You think too highly of me, Grantaire. I’m certain I will let you down.”
“You haven’t yet,” Grantaire said smiling, and he set down the radish. “What do you say we get some breakfast?”
“You don’t like radishes?” Enjolras asked. “They’re very healthy.”
“I’m sure they are, Enjolras,” Grantaire smirked, “but I heard you like oysters.”