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So the first thing you have to know about this… situation is that it isn’t Grantaire’s fault, it’s Bahorel’s. The second thing you have to know is that Bahorel is a piece of shit.
(Feuilly would later remind Grantaire that without Bahorel, he probably wouldn’t have a place to live. But Grantaire isn’t focusing on that now.)
Grantaire and Bahorel had been friends for a long time. They were at secondary school together, but Bahorel’s a year older, and that meant that he hit the legal drinking age first (not that that stopped Grantaire).
When Bahorel left for university, he met Feuilly - a hard-working man, who dances and makes fans as a hobby and is patient where Bahorel is not - and punched things in the face even more frequently. Grantaire used to whine when Feuilly called him up to complain about Bahorel's punching habits, but he can't honestly say he minds.
(He wishes he still had someone that would care about him enough to stick around.)
(The alcohol washes away the hollow feeling in his gut.)
Grantaire stays with Bahorel and Feuilly during the holidays. His parents won't notice, and his sister's away at their grandparents' house in France. He feels more at home in their cramped studio apartment than he ever has anywhere else, but he still declines their offer for him to stay with them.
"As if I'm not enough of a pain," he laughs. "And do I look like I want to hear you guys having embarrassingly loud sex all the time?"
Feuilly flushes slightly, but Bahorel smirks. "Seriously though, you're going to have to look for a place to stay, R." Feuilly says, holding Grantaire's gaze steadily. "I think I know someone looking for a roommate, actually. First year, just like you. A group of them seem to have claimed the Musain as their territory."
Feuilly works in a cafe called the Musain. He works there because he loves the atmosphere, because he loves talking to the students as he makes their coffee, because he loves taking care of the people that love the Musain like he does.
"You mean Courfeyrac? The Irish dude that hits on everyone?" Bahorel asks, and Grantaire raises an eyebrow.
Feuilly rolls his eyes at Bahorel. "Yes, I mean Courf. And he doesn't hit on everyone."
"He probably doesn't hit on you 'cause he's afraid Bahorel will smash his face in," Grantaire pipes up, and Feuilly blinks in surprise.
"Oh," he says quietly.
"He seems like a nice guy," Bahorel continues. "We'll go down there tomorrow, see if we can talk to them or something."
"Jesus Christ, dads," Grantaire laughs, a little too loudly. "I don't need you to baby me with all this "we" talk. I can ask the guy myself."
Worry lines etch themselves into Feuilly's forehead at Grantaire's tone, but Bahorel just nods.
"Sure, man. Whatever you like."
It’s not until the next week until Grantaire goes down to the Musain to talk to “the Irish dude that hits on everyone”. He’s peaking through the glass, and he can see Feuilly chatting to a couple of pretty girls while wiping down their table. Feuilly looks up, and immediately catches his eye, waving him in.
The bell tinkles brightly as Grantaire pushes open the door, and he’s hit with a burst of warmth and the smell of coffee. Feuilly smiles a goodbye to the two girls and walks over to greet him.
“Hey, R!” He says, grin stretched across his face. “You want a drink?”
“Yeah, just a beer,” Grantaire replies, and there’s that grin again. Feuilly’s ever-present smile is infectious, and soon, Grantaire is smiling back. “Thanks.”
“No problem!” Feuilly says over her shoulder, and Grantaire heads to an over-stuffed armchair in the corner and begins to make himself comfortable. The door tinkles again, and Bahorel ducks in, hair wet from rain.
“Well,” he says loudly, but the customers, save for the two girls, barely look up. “It’s just started raining.”
“No shit,” Grantaire laughs, and Bahorel deliberately shakes his wet hair at him.
“Hey!” Feuilly says, walking over. He hands a beer to Grantaire, and a cup of coffee to Bahorel. “I knew you would be here soon enough.”
Bahorel grins hugely at Feuilly, and Feuilly leans in to peck him on the cheek as Grantaire makes gagging noises behind them. Feuilly turns to glare half-heartedly at him, and Bahorel flips him off over Feuilly’s shoulder.
Grantaire grins at them both.
The door opens, and Feuilly straightens up to go back to the bar. “Oh,” he says, “That’s the guy I was talking about. Go over and talk to him eventually, all right? Or you’ll never get a place to stay.”
Grantaire nods, but still doesn’t move once Feuilly’s gone.
“You’re not gonna go talk to them, are you?” Bahorel asks, amusement evident in his voice.
“Why would they want me to stay with them anyway?” Grantaire says, throwing his hands up. “You know me, not even my goddamn parents wanted me to stay with them.”
Bahorel does know Grantaire, so he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. He just nods, and looks over to where Feuilly is talking to Courfeyrac at the counter.
Feuilly and Courfeyrac both talk animatedly, loudly, and with their hands. They’re like goddamn children, too. Combeferre once left Courfeyrac in the Musain for two hours and by the time he had come back, Courfeyrac and Feuilly had established the back corner of the café as “Fort Awesome” and he hadn’t even noticed Combeferre had left.
“Who was the guy you were talking about, Feuilly?” Courfeyrac asks. “The one looking for a flat?”
Feuilly jerks his head towards Grantaire, who is now sprawled sideways on the armchair lamenting to a laughing Bahorel. “The one with the dark curly hair getting his shoes all over my chairs.” Feuilly replies.
Courfeyrac nods, looking over. “So, what’s he like?”
Feuilly tilts his head slightly, contemplating the question. “Well,” he says slowly, “There are a lot of things about Grantaire that I don’t know. But I know that he values the people he cares about more than he values himself, and that he paints when he’s sad and when he’s happy but he’ll never paint for no reason. He’ll be your best friend and he’ll always listen to you but he’ll always make a joke about it because he’s afraid of caring too much and–” Feuilly takes a deep breath, “He’s a really good guy.”
Courfeyrac blinks, and his face breaks out into a grin. “Jesus, if he can make you come up with that on the spot then you must be a nice guy.”
Feuilly grins sheepishly, and looks back over at Grantaire who still hasn’t moved.
“He’s also stubborn as shit and I highly doubt he’s going to come up here and actually talk to you.” Feuilly says, loudly enough that Grantaire can hear him and look up.
Courfeyrac laughs and shakes his head. “Nah, it’s alright. I’ll go and talk to him. The other guys should be arriving soon anyway, and ‘Ferre’s bringing his new roommate.”
Feuilly nods. “Good luck,” he says, glancing at Bahorel, who moves to get out of his seat.
Grantaire looks up, and sees Bahorel stand up. “Wait, what are you…?” He strains his neck to look over the side of the armchair, and can see Courfeyrac walking towards him.
He falls off the chair trying to grab Bahorel’s arm.
“Come baaaaack…” he wails, and Bahorel grins toothily over his shoulder at him. Courfeyrac merely raises an eyebrow as Grantaire flips Bahorel off as he takes Bahorel’s seat opposite him.
“Hi there,” Courfeyrac says with an easy smile. “I’m Courfeyrac.”
“I’m Grantaire,” Grantaire says, picking himself up from the floor. “You can call me R. Do you think I’m weird yet?”
Courfeyrac regards him, leaning back in his chair. “Purely on your dramatics, no. I’m sure you could do much better.”
“Well, I can’t say you’re wrong. But I’m sure dramatics are more your thing, hmm?”
Courfeyrac shrugs. “Based on the multitude of complaints I’ve received from my friends, exes, random people on the train, I’d say yes.” The easy grin is on his face again. “Feuilly tells me you’re looking for a place to stay for university.”
“Yeah, I am.” Grantaire says shortly.
Courfeyrac doesn’t wait for the pause to become awkward before launching into a set of questions. “Well then do you want to see my place? What are you studying at uni? You don’t have any allergies right because you’ll have to cook for yourself. Also there’s another guy looking to stay in the other spare room if you’re comfortable with it I mean the more the merrier, right?”
Grantaire stares blankly at him. “How the hell did you not have to breathe through that oh my god? Also: if it’s all right with you, history of art, nope, and that depends on who you’re asking.”
Courfeyrac nods slowly, as though Grantaire had just presented him with some miraculous theory and he was contemplating the meaning of life and okay sure, this guy was more dramatic than Feuilly when he’s drunk.
“I’m free all day tomorrow if you want to stop by then? I’ll give you my number and I’ll text you the address. It’s not too far from campus so it’s not that much of a walk.” He finally says, holding his hand out for Grantaire’s phone.
Grantaire hands his phone over and when he gets it back, he has Courfeyrac’s text within seconds. “That was quick.” He comments, and Courfeyrac laughs.
“You get used to it. In our little group, if you don’t speak first, you don’t speak at all.” He pauses suddenly, and continues, “Or if your opinion’s really stupid.”
Grantaire snorts. “Sounds like fun.”
“Well, with me there, of course it is!” Courfeyrac exclaims, throwing his arms out, and catching Feuilly in the stomach.
“Oh Christ I’m so sorry!” Courfeyrac says, hand on Feuilly’s arm. Grantaire can hear Bahorel’s guffawing from across the café, and Feuilly glares at him.
“It’s fine, really,” Feuilly says, ruffling Courfeyrac’s hair. “Your friends are here, by the way. Try not to injure them as well.”
Courfeyrac throws Feuilly a kicked puppy look, and Grantaire chokes on a laugh. This guy could get away with murder if he pouted enough.
“’Ferre!” Courfeyrac says, waving over a tall bespectacled man. “Is this your new roommate?”
“Hey, Courf. This is Joly, and who’s this?”
“I’m Grantaire,” Grantaire says, holding out his hand. The man takes it with a smile. “You can call me R.”
“I’m Combeferre, it’s nice to meet you,” Combeferre replies. “Are you the guy that’s looking for a place to stay for university?”
Grantaire blinks, and turns to look at Feuilly, who’s totally not listening in to the conversation and totally did not look away sheepishly once he noticed Grantaire looking at him. “Yeah, I wonder who told you.”
Combeferre laughs warmly, pulling a chair towards the table to sit down next to Grantaire. “So what are you studying?”
“History of art. Thrilling, I know. You?”
“Ah, I will be studying medicine along with Joly here. That’s why we’re roommates, actually.”
Grantaire looks over at Joly, who’s deep in conversation with Courfeyrac. He has wide eyes and is clutching a handkerchief like a lifeline. Suddenly, he sneezes with such force that Grantaire almost jumps out of his seat.
“Oh I’m so sorry…” He mutters. “I just knew I had a cold, or the flu, or the plague–”
“Joly,” Combeferre laughs. “You do not have the plague. Are you forgetting that it’s allergy season?”
“Oh,” he says, looking up and starting as he sees Grantaire, as if he’s only just noticed he was there. “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t realise you were sitting here! I’m Joly, and I would shake your hand but I’m sure you don’t want whatever germs I’ve got on me.”
“It’s cool, Jollllly,” Grantaire says, rolling the ‘l’. “I’m Grantaire.”
Joly smiles widely, a nice toothy smile, and sneezes again.
Combeferre wordlessly hands him another sheet of tissue paper.
“So,” Courfeyrac starts, rubbing a hand across Joly’s back. “Where’s our fearless leader? He’s not late, is he?”
The sound of someone clearing their throat comes from behind Courfeyrac, and Grantaire looks up to find the source.
And his world shatters around him.
There is a man – or a Greek god fallen from Olympus, or an angel from the ceilings of cathedrals, or a mythical being that only exists on story books and fairy tales – standing behind Courfeyrac’s chair with an expression of playful exasperation on his face. His brow is held loftily, full lips curled slightly around the edges, and all Grantaire can think of is what they would feel like against his own. His curly blond hair shines in a halo around his head, soft looking and just long enough to grab hold of and tug and now Grantaire can’t stop thinking about what he would sound like. He’s tall too, almost as tall as Combeferre, probably, and he’s wrapped in a fucking red leather jacket and his waist to shoulder ratio is probably illegal in about 20 countries and his dark wash jeans are practically sinful and wow, Grantaire should probably stop staring but he can’t and that’s when he knows he’s completely gone.
This man standing before is going to change his life. And Grantaire is going to willingly hand it over.
“I’m Enjolras. And you are…?”
Totally, and utterly, fucked.