Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Throughout New York, windows rattled against the wind; as a storm blew in through the buildings and clouded the chrome skyline.

It rained and everything in the city was damp, turbulent and depressed. Especially Enjolras.

Enjolras, who had just returned from an ill-advised walk, that had meant to clear his head and to expel the moodiness he was sure to be radiating. Enjolras, who's 'moodiness' was caused by an argument. Grantaire, of course, was the cause of said argument.

Looking back on it this far meant that Enjolras could blame Grantaire, which consequently made Enjolras feel that much better.

'Because just everything leads back to that bastard', Enjolras thinks. His mood dips again.

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Enjolras lay upside down on his sofa once he had dried himself and found a red blanket to wrap himself and his problems in- tight. He looked like a very angry and very blond burrito.

He expected to be allowed to wallow in his self-pity and view the world from the wrong way up just a little longer than Courfeyrac actually allowed him to. Courfeyrac, unfortunately, obviously isn't that perfect a friend by being unable to read Enjolras' thoughts and leave him the fuck alone just a moment longer.

When Courfeyrac plunks down on the floor cross-legged to face Enjolras' hanging head he makes a grab for the hair. Enjolras can't find the energy to even grunt his objection.

Enjolras' brown-wet hair is brushing the floor now. In a few hours it will be restored to it's golden glory, but still Courfeyrac entwines his fingers in the damp strands like they are his prayer beads.

Courfeyrac wears a thin neon green vest that will definitely be the cause of a cold later in the week, and was currently the scapegoat for the headache right behind Enjolras' eyes (neon is an abomination, Enjolras will be sticking to red thank you).

Courfeyrac drew in a breath, the only warning of the impending conversation.

"Y'know" Courfeyrac began, brown eyes fixed on his busy hands, avoiding Enjolras' own narrowed blue.

"You still owe me that favour" Courfeyrac mused.

"What favour?" Enjolras asked, grateful for the distraction even if he would rather be staring at a wall for a few hours, instead of engaging in conversation with the bundle of enthusiasm that is Courfeyrac.

Enjolras almost felt trapped in by the hands in his hair, and the proximity Courfeyrac always felt the need to have when talking. Courfeyrac's nose was practically touching Enjolras', and he couldn't help but breath in the designer cologne Courfeyrac always insisted on wearing.

"Errr, remember when I was drunk, like reaaally, hella drunk and I was singing 'The Schuyler Sisters' and you said that I'd be your best friend in the entire world if I shut up?" Courfeyrac recounts.

Enjolras doesn't quite remember this happening, but it seems exactly like something Courfeyrac would do and the kind of lengths Enjolras would go to in order to stop Courfeyrac being - well, Courfeyrac. So who was to say it didn't happen? No one, by Courfeyrac's logic.

However, surely Courfeyrac knew that he already was Enjolras' best friend in the entire world. Along with Combeferre, who was suspiciously absent for this talk.
"Huh", breathed Enjolras, confusedly asking "but, I didn't say I owe you any favours because of that, right?"

Enjolras crossed his arms, in defiance, but it probably looked a little skewiff from his uncomfortable hanging-off-the-sofa position.

Courfeyrac obviously wasn't put off.

"It was implied, best friend. You didn't have to say anything." Courfeyrac promised with a comical tap to his nose.

"Okay, what do you want?" Enjolras asked, unimpressed and impatient. He flipped back round to lie on the sofa into his 'I Mean Business' pose.

Courfeyrac suppressed a disappointed yelp from the loss of Enjolras’ hair as his plaything, and then he remembered himself.

“Okay, so you know how you love me?” Courfeyrac starts, batting his lashes. He pauses until Enjolras gives in and nods.

“Well, alas! I love another!” He wails and falls backwards in mock shock.

“Combeferre.” Enjolras agrees, eyebrows risen in the obvious.

Courfeyrac freezes mid-wail. His reply comes too delayed to hold any significance or real honesty behind it. The blushing and spluttering is also kind of an indicator of the truth behind Enjolras’ words.

“What-no! No! How did you-? No!? Wait, back to my point. Another person I love, platonically, other than you. Oh! Oh and Combeferre of course, which is by the way completely platonic—“

Enjolras coughs and taps his foot, urging Courfeyrac onwards.

“—Is Grantaire!” Courfeyrac finishes with a flourish, and gasping for air.

Enjolras is feeling quite breathless too, but that may be because he just took two seconds to select a cushion off the couch and plunge his face into it. The other possible explanation as to why his lungs forgot to do their fucking job is one which Enjolras isn’t quite ready to accept just yet.

“No” Enjolras says, and although the sound is softened, the cushion’s fabric does most definitely not muffle his anger. “Anyone but him” he demands, face still buried deep and out of view.

Courfeyrac whimpers. Bloody theatre kids.

“Just do this one thing for me? Please? Just teach him some French. For me?” he pleads.

This is a shocking enough request to make Enjolras look up from his pillow-face-plant to see Courfeyrac on his knees.

“What?” Enjolras asks, confused. At least this provided more than enough distraction from sitting there still seething from the argument the night before.

Courfeyrac beamed up at him. “I knew you’d be intrigued!” he exclaims and then goes on to explain whatever the hell was happening.

“Look, Grantaire is doing some ridiculously artsy thing up in the City of Love, also known as Paris, in two weeks, and a little birdie by the name of Eponine revealed to me- and prepare yourself Enjolras, this is fucking shocking- Grantaire doesn’t speak a word of French! Catch me--I may swoon!”

Enjolras watched horrified as Courfeyrac flailed on the rug before him. From his view on the sofa, he could still see the Cheshire grin on his friend’s face.

Enjolras’ brows twitch and he rests his chin on his steepled fingers, contemplatively.

Courfeyrac suddenly stops his writhing and shoots back up from the rug to meet Enjolras’ eyes, standing proud but still tiny enough to be level with a sitting Enjolras.

“Oh—and here’s another thing, I already said yes for you” He whooped. Courfeyrac leant close to Enjolras, planting a kiss on the cheek to cut off the inevitable snarky reply.

“I thought,” Courfeyrac begins, “that since Grantaire is just like any other poor bastard, beaten down by the shitty American schooling system into believing that the US of A is the world central, you’d like to take a stand and change that. Teach him the basics. You’re welcome my friend. I wrote down the dates of the ‘sessions’ in your diary-thing. I hope you two have fun, disregarding the school system by learning anew and branching out culturally!"

So much for distraction. Enjolras’ mind wonders back to the argument the night before.

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Grantaire is actually having an okay night.

By that he means that he hasn’t been punched yet, and he has a number (probably a fake, unfortunately) of some hairy motorcyclist scrawled on a crumpled napkin in his coat pocket.

Oh, and he’s drunk enough that he’s not thinking about the argument he had with Enjolras. The mortification of that last meeting was all he needed to decide to get fucking wasted tonight.

So drunk, that Grantaire finds himself walking about in the pissing rain in some back alley street in Manhattan.

He doesn't know quite how he managed to find the Musain whilst ambling about aimlessly. It hadn't been the plan, honestly. Grantaire doesn't want to go in. He really doesn't want to retrace his steps back to the actual scene of the argument. There's no way he would be that pathetic.

So Grantaire goes in. Fuck dignity.

Why is the Musain open at this ungodly hour? Grantaire doesn't know. Is he regretting this decision already? Hell yeah.

He regrets it even more when he sees Combeferre sitting at the bar. Staring.

Combeferre is quite literally the only person in the café. He looks as tired as Grantaire feels.

Combeferre pats the stool beside him and turns back around. Somewhere in the café a radio is playing a Taylor Swift song.

Grantaire can't help but wonder the age old question: 'is this a dream? Or am I high?'

He walks over to the bar and when he stumbles into a few tables, Combeferre doesn't make a show of his judgment.

Grantaire warily sits on the stool next to Combeferre.

Combeferre still isn't looking at him when he slides a glass of water towards his cold hands.

"Grantaire" Combeferre says, sliding a hand over his brow. He sends Grantaire a quick, withered look.

"Before I begin I apologise. This was Courfeyrac's idea and I take no responsibility for the mess he's made. Or is about to make. In the foreseeable future."

"What?" Says Grantaire, clearly confused.

Combeferre sighs deeply and continues.

"Grantaire. Courfeyrac told Enjolras that you're going to Paris-"

"Okay?" Grantaire manages, taken a little aback by the mention of Enjolras.

"Well, Courfeyrac may have encouraged -nay, forced- Enjolras to teach you French. Over the next two weeks. And then, Courf brought me into it. And now, I'm telling you ." Combeferre breathes out quickly.

His eyes are squeezed shut. It almost looks like he's in pain. Grantaire should really give him a hug because--wait--what.
"Okay? What?" Grantaire whispers. Why is he whispering? They're the only two people here.

Combeferre looks exasperated.

"Okay. So, how drunk are you? Because if you're not going to remember this in the morning this'll probably be even more embarrassing if I go over it again. Embarrassing. For us both." Combeferre says.

"Dude. Just say it. With all the detail. I'm sure I can manage" Grantaire groans.

"Okay. So, actually I take 9% responsibility. I really, really like Courf and he was asking about my opinion on something he was going to do. And I said yes because I didn’t hear what he said and I was daydreaming which is really unlike me by the way, and also, as I've said ' I really, really like him'." Combeferre throws a quick, desperate, glance to check if Grantaire is following.

"Well, turns out that Courfeyrac was planning to set you up with Enjolras, which I accidentally agreed to take part in. So now, Enjolras will be teaching you French for two weeks, only—Grantaire are you okay?" Combeferre asks, as Grantaire's head slams down onto the bar. A heartfelt groan is emitted from underneath the mop of inky curls surrounding his head.

"Two weeks. Of sitting with Enjolras. Can I get out of it?" Grantaire asks, raising his head a little to make sorrowful eye contact with Combeferre.

"It's Enjolras, so no you can't unless you want to be interrogated for the two weeks instead. I don't know if that's something you'd enjoy because some people find angry Enjolras quit ho--" Combeferre tries.

"Ugh" cries Grantaire. He really wished he had some not-soaked cigarettes right now.

"It's only two weeks at least. Then you go to Paris for a month. By the time you return, you'll have forgotten about the whole ordeal." Combeferre places a gentle hand on Grantaire's shoulder.

Grantaire realises that's the only human contact he's had in a week.

He groans again.

"Enjolras is your best friend, and I thought it would be against your code to lie to him" Grantaire accuses lightly, a sad smile on his chapped lips betraying him.

"I don't count it as lying. He's just teaching you French." Combeferre remedies.

"But he has a fucking pretentious Parisian accent when he talks." Grantaire whines.

"How would you know, R? You don't even have to listen to him or actually learn. Just please. I have to live with him when he's grumpy as fuck." Combeferre pleads.

"Dude". Grantaire yawns. "You know I'm fluent right? In French. So you're lying to him. And I'm lying to him."

"You're what?"

Grantaire rubs his eyes lazily, tired. "Fluent. In French, you moron. How could you not know that? Oh wait, you don't talk to me. Unless, you've made a big mistake, AKA this situation right here."

"I try, you know. You're usually arguing with Enj at the meetings so I can't exactly cut in, interrupting the void of sexual tension between you two." Combeferre counters, yawning and cracking his back.

Combeferre stands and takes the sole hat and coat left on the coat hooks. He looks back with a distant smile to Grantaire before he exits into the storm outside.

"Ha, whatever."

Grantaire leans across the counter to take a bottle of half-empty whiskey, before he goes back outside to wonder the streets of New York alone.

Chapter Text

Grantaire was soaked through by the time he landed on Eponine’s sofa at dawn.

Gavroche poured him tea after being begged for a solid five minutes, and Eponine found some frayed blankets and towels so he ‘doesn’t increase the damp problem’ in her apartment.

It was still raining, as it always did in late spring, and Grantaire couldn’t tell if he was crying or if the rivulets were just falling from his soaked mop of hair. His eyes were red with drink and his knuckles white from cold.

‘Enjolras.’ Eponine had guessed when he collapsed in through the door of her apartment at an ungodly hour.

She knew, Grantaire told her everything, always. And she would sit there, never to interrupt, never to remind him that she always suffered worse.

Grantaire fell asleep finally, in Eponine’s now wet lap.

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Grantaire woke again to the passive aggressive smashing of pots and pans and the pressure of a small hand going through his pockets.

‘Mornin’’ Gavroche blinked, hand still rummaging for Grantaire’s wallet despite having being caught.

‘Sis is making breakfast. Not for you though. Just for us two.’

Gavroche smirked, pulling out a handle of worthless shrapnel and dollar notes as his prize.

‘You little shit’ Grantaire moaned as he pushed himself upwards. His clothes were on the floor and he was wearing only underwear. Underwear that didn’t belong to him.

‘What the fuck’ Grantaire gestured at his outfit. ‘Please tell me these aren’t Montparnasse’s because that would truly be disgusting.’

He groaned heavily and looked towards Gavroche, hoping for a morsel of sympathy.

The reply was a toothy grin and ‘Language you fucker. That was my idea. We didn’t want you to catch a cold and stay with us any longer than you had to.’

‘Lovely.’ Grantaire reasoned before moving into the kitchen.

‘’Ponine’ He sighed at her tactfully turned back.

‘I would tell you how sorry I am but I’m currently involved in using all of my grief to fuel my own self-pity’ Grantaire groaned in poor apology.
Eponine glared back in response, sipping her tea as she tried her best not to break into a mocking grin.

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Grantaire was in-between places. By that, he meant he was virtually homeless and living off the pity and kindness of friends and strangers.

Only a few days ago he had stayed in Feuilly’s cramped one room lodging whilst the host was working his endless two-shift days. Today he just so happened to be at Eponine’s.

Elsewhere, Grantaire’s canvasses were divided equally between residing under Bahorel’s bed, a cupboard in the Musain, behind doorways in Eponine’s clumsy apartment and on the floor of abandoned or strangers’ homes. All weakly protected from the relentless polluted dust that hangs over New York.

To be an artist is to hardly survive, Grantaire remembered weakly the harsh words from some art professor from that university he had to drop out of two years ago.

When Grantaire was finally alone (Eponine and Gavroche had disappeared with little warning for a few hours) his cycle of crushing thoughts was unfortunately abandoned with the buzzing of his phone.

It took a while for Grantaire to find it behind the back of Eponine’s sofa, but even then he could feel the dread of the message that had obviously just arrived.

15.39 from Unknown Number

Grantaire, this is Enjolras. Please text back to confirm its your number and not some ridiculous agency that Courf has given me the number to.

That was it then. Grantaire huffed out a laugh. It seemed that their most recent argument was not being breached by Enjolras.

In fact, he could imagine Courfeyrac and Combeferre observing Enjolras as he typed so that he didn’t frighten poor Grantaire away, Enjolras hitting the keys of his phone with compliant anger.

Not for the first time, Grantaire was at a loss to what to say in response. Grantaire procrastinated by saving Enjolras’ number to his phone hesitantly.

15.45 to Blond Social Justice Worrier

Hello, thank you for signing up to the Donald Trump Campaign newsletter. You have been added to our mailing list.

Grantaire pressed send and imagined the horrified face Enjolras would pull in reading it with immense pleasure.

Kidding. Grantaire at your service, what do you want today, Apollo?

Grantaire paused and retyped.

15.46 to Blond Social Justice Worrier

Grantaire here. ‘Sup?

Grantaire wished he could see the inevitable eye roll that Enjolras would perform any second now, on the other side of the rainy city.

15.46 from Blond Social Justice Worrier

Right. Well, this is a bit of a weird question. Will you please accept some French lessons from me? Free of charge, I mean I guess the payment would just be the fact I’d be spending my time doing something valuable. Combeferre is making me do this.

15.47 from Blond Social Justice Worrier

Wait that sounds really bad. Combeferre wants me out of the house I mean. I would like to spend my time doing something more ‘worthwhile’ than apparently me staying inside getting angry and shaking my fist at the world, according to you.

15.48 from Blond Social Justice Worrier

Look Grantaire, they won’t let this go. I think it would be good anyway. Can you please answer? This will benefit both of us.

Grantaire closed his eyes. This would be far more trouble than its worth. Enjolras’ had many other priorities than destressing in a lie with someone he absolutely cannot stand.

Grantaire made a mental note to tell Courfeyrac he was seriously disillusioned. Or demented. Either will do.

God he couldn’t believe he was actually going to do this.

15.52 to Blond Social Justice Worrier

I would be mad not to rush to your side in this time of need. Count me in. BTW the only French I know is curse words so good luck and all.

Jesus Christ what am I doing. Grantaire did a very Oscar Wilde impression of collapsing onto the sofa in desperate frustration with himself, the world and fucking Enjolras.

Chapter Text

Grantaire had to actually be scraped off the floor and shoved out of Eponine’s apartment the next day.

Apparently everyone had heard about Grantaire’s impending torture sessions, and impromptu and vaguely irritating ‘good luck xxx<3<3’ texts had been sent by Jehan, Courf and ‘Chetta.

Grantaire had no clue of what evil he could have done to warrant this. Bar the obvious: terrible moral character, gayness, drug and alcohol abuse and being an all-round terrible guy; all of which may have put him out of favour with some celestial being or other.

Besides, Grantaire was pretty sure that hell was equal to one of Courfeyrac’s colourful parties.

So it was fair to say that Grantaire had absolutely no idea what kind of underworld it was where he found himself sitting, waiting for Enjolras to arrive and be taken the piss out of for the next hour or so. (Technically he was actually sitting in a sweet, fair-trade-of-course café in the east quarter, that Enjolras had somehow found).

What was worse, he wondered aimlessly, facing Enjolras alone for an hour whilst he spoke in that bloody Parisian accent, or abjectly lying to him for the sake of Combeferre’s seemingly tragic love life?

Just thinking about Enjolras made Grantaire’s skin flame with anger and his own self-hatred that most definitely was a long-term cause for this disaster of a situation.

Grantaire didn’t need to look up from his wringing hands to tell him that Enjolras had just arrived. The unpleasant slamming of the café door and the subsequent whole-hearted apologies to the shocked wait staff made it quite clear who had entered. The flashes of red approaching the back of the café would be seen even to the eyeless fates it seemed.

Grantaire stuck still at the sight of rain-drenched Enjolras standing above, blond hair plastered to his ears and red clothes darkened with damp.

‘Good morning’ Grantaire said, eyes sliding to anything else than Enjolras sitting down opposite him.

Enjolras squinted at Grantaire.

‘Its seven at night Grantaire’ he chided incredulously as he set…several...fucking folders and laminated cards onto the table, and oh sweet baby Jesus this was actually happening. Grantaire couldn’t breathe for a solid ten seconds. And by holy shit was Enjolras involved.

Part of Grantaire craved to snort at this, the other fought to give a patronising ‘awwwww’ at the effort Enjolras was putting into this. This time Enjolras was giving up for someone who was at worst a distant enemy, and the best a friend of a friend to teach effing…Française.

The side that craved to huff a laugh won, this time.

Enjolras ignored Grantaire as he swept his long fingers over the card, elegantly underlining certain words out of Grantaire’s view.

‘So, what exactly do you already know?’ He began, no time for niceties then.

‘I know how to say: fuck, shit, whore, long live the revolution, and cun—‘

‘Stop. Please’ Enjolras pleaded, dragging a hand through his mane of hair.

Grantaire hated how endearing it was when Enjolras pulled it back absently into a red ribbon.

‘That’s probably not going to come in useful for a two-week long business trip to Paris’

Grantaire snorted at the use of the word ‘business’- much to Enjolras’ despair.

‘Maybe let’s start with a greeting. Basic stuff. Go ahead.’ He amended slowly, smiling despite.
 
An awkward minute and vacant stare later Enjolras leaned back into his chair groaning. Grantaire sure tried not to stare as opposite him the hem of Enjolras’ shirt tugged upwards with the movement.

Enjolras thoughtfully started for him; ‘bonjour, je m’apelle Grantaire’. That’s all you have to say.’

‘Bon drawer. Je me apple Grant bear.’ Grantaire tried back, fake innocence twinkling in his provoking stare.

‘Just try Grantaire.’ Enjolras bit back.

‘Hello. I’m Grantaire. We’ve met before but we only ever talk if I am being a dick and you are being a tad too optimistic about the world! Or you know, if one of our mutual friends forces me to take French lessons with you apparently.’

The words were said slightly too sunnily for the sarcasm to have the wanted effect on Enjolras.

‘You weren’t forced. You asked.’

Enjolras’ stare bore into Grantaire and made his skin cool over. Oh. Oh of course he asked. Because that’s definitely what Courfeyrac would have told Enjolras, would have suggested be the reason for this debacle. Because Grantaire just so desperately wanted, nay, needed Enjolras’ personal help.

Grantaire made a mental note to gently beat the crap out of Courf later.

‘Besides, Grantaire. I think this is a valuable use of time. I’ve been working for that homeless centre for so long they’ve forced me to take leave’ Enjolras seemed angry at this, Grantaire observed. ‘They said that I should take a break from real problems. Help some fri…. Look Combeferre thought this would help settle our differences.’

Grantaire raised his eyebrows, a casual display of the crushing inner turmoil and confusion inside. Great. So Enjolras would be pretty mad then if he gave up his real aid work in order to provide French lessons to a guy that they both probably hate.

Enjolras leaned forwards as though he expected a reply.

Grantaire shrugged.

‘My oh my! What differences? The only difference between us that I can name is the fact that I’m far more realistic when it comes to your little revolutionary escapades whilst your world views are slightly more convoluted and Disney generated’ Grantaire chased back.

‘I’m as sure as you are that there are far better uses of your time than teaching me French Enjolras.’

Enjolras sniffed haughtily and stood, not taking the bait to delve deeper into their feud.

‘Until next time’ Grantaire promised.

Enjolras rolled his eyes and walked back out into the dark, knuckles white and clenching his coffee cup in diverted anger.

Grantaire laughed sadly as he watched the retreating yellow and red figure.

‘Merde.’

Chapter Text

Grantaire had tried to avoid Enjolras after that embarrassing first session, but, of course, Eponine decided that very day after to descend upon the Musain for one of her infrequent visits. With Grantaire as her ‘chaperone’.

It was raining today, Grantaire could hear the droplets hitting Eponine’s iron fire escape, separated by a damp wall from outside.

‘You can’t not go Grantaire. Imagine how that would look for you.’ She rubbed her hand through his hair.

Grantaire hated the fact that he couldn’t help to lean into her hand.

‘Besides, I want to see Cosette and Marius’ She mused, quietly. Avoiding his eyes as he sent her the same questioning and mocking look that he could always count on her to give him if he ever mentioned Enjolras.

‘And you think I aim too high’ Grantaire huffed.

Eponine flinched and removed her hands. He stilled and looked up.

‘Shit I didn’t mean anything by that ‘Ponine.’

‘Sure you fucking didn’t.’ She sighed, still looking away.

Now was a good time for a change of subject.

‘Where’s Gavroche?’ Grantaire asked, standing up and scrubbing the stubble taking over his face.

‘Mont’s’ She replied, haughtily, not even waiting to check for the disapproving glimmer that flashes across Grantaire’s face.

‘Sure.’ Grantaire amended, offering Eponine a lukewarm beer that had been sitting on the coffee table since yesterday’s evening of Grantaire drinking away his sorrows after the ‘session’ with Enjolras.

She reluctantly swallowed it down, since Grantaire had demolished the rest of the supplies, and this is the last drink they’d be able to afford until next month. They were already surviving on two-years-expired cans of spaghettios and never-used canned olives.

Eponine shrugged on her jacket, as Grantaire shoved a beanie that he had found under a sofa cushion onto his matted curls. They sighed as they left the apartment and entered the cold linoleum tiled foyer.

They walked to the Musain, despite the spitting rain and ominously dark streets. Grantaire secretly hoped they’d be mugged and have to turn back around to go home.

Unfortunately, they arrived safe and sound (if not a little cold) at the creaking Musain.

It should have been demolished years ago, and Grantaire didn’t know how it had avoided destruction.

It was now a relentlessly hipster setting down some alley, Edison bulbs, converted wooden bar stools, brick walls, fair-trade food; the like.

Every time he entered, Grantaire rolled his eyes. Previously, it had been in response to the interior’s pretentious design, which of course had attracted the Amis (as they were known for god knows why- Hipsters like French apparently). Now, it was just a tradition, finally becoming used to the clouds of vape and tremendous beards of the occupants, and oh my god, is that a unicycle?

‘Eponine!’ Cosette rushed through the crowd towards her, grabbing her into a hug. Eponine stood stoic as Cosette pressed enthusiastically up against her, but only Grantaire would notice her ears were turning red, and not from the cold.

Cosette and Eponine were such opposites. Eponine was literally tall, dark and handsome (if he wasn’t practically considered Grantaire’s sister he’d definitely go for her). Whilst Cosette was small, bright and fearsomely enthusiastic, her pastel hair perfectly coiffed, where Eponine’s fell in a rugged heap. Eponine was sharp, Cosette was round and soft, and they melted into each other as they hugged.

Marius also came along to greet Eponine, dragged by Cosette. He blushed furiously as he was pulled into the awkward hug.

Grantaire left them to their strange greeting and wove through the crowds of strangers until he reached the back room.

It was poorly lit, smelled of damp and creaked with every breath, but it was where all the meetings were held. Since Musichetta had a job there it had been their space to occupy every Friday and Tuesday night.

Joly sprang forward from a chair to pull him further into the room. His eyes gleamed through his large glasses despite the dull lamps.

‘Grantaire! Did you see my unicycle?’ He cried, barely containing his glee as he shook with unexplained laughter.

‘That thing’s yours?!’ Grantaire asked, knowing that by now he really shouldn’t have been surprised.

‘Joly, how are you even going to ride it?’ Grantaire asked, gesturing at his friends leg, and the patterned cane beside it.

‘Chetta’ said she’d push me about and hold me! Isn’t it brilliant!’
Grantaire couldn’t hold back the smile that was creeping into his features.

Bahorel also came over, arms wide open to envelope Grantaire in a hug as though they hadn’t seen each other in years.

‘My favourite bisexual’ He mocked as he easily lifted Grantaire off of the floor (a feat in itself, for Grantaire was not a small man).

‘My favourite Circus Strongman’ Grantaire replied, struggling to steady himself back onto the floor.

Bahorel took him to their usual table, by which time Cosette and Marius came inside holding hands, as Eponine looked after them longingly.

From their little table, Bahorel and Grantaire watched on as Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Combeferre rose for their usual address.

‘Hey guys, thanks for coming tonight, I know this week has been a strain-’Courfeyrac nodded to Jehan before continuing, ‘and it really means a lot that we are all here. Over to you Combeferre’.

Courfeyrac mimed passing a mic, and when his eyes met Combeferre they stayed there for a little too long.

Bahorel giggled quietly beside Grantaire as Combeferre stuttered after that look from his ‘friend’.

‘Um- Okay, so we all know that last week we completely ran out of those nude calendars we were selling for the women’s shelter, so great work guys, and we have been allowed a free drink as a result-‘

This brought cheers from everyone. Combeferre looked down smiling in laughter before he could continue.

‘-But, the work isn’t over yet. I mean, we still haven’t quite reached our target, but we are only $678 away from it.’

Enjolras stepped forward now.

‘We’ve got to figure out the next step. We need to raise this money as quickly as possible, before the holidays, so that we can best help the shelter in the deepest and busiest winter period.’

His eyes skimmed the room, and passed over Grantaire the same as anyone, passive and stony.

Grantaire couldn’t help but feel disappointed at the lack of a glare, however not quite wanting to know why (he knew. He wasn’t oblivious to his situation).

Most of the evening was spent with him reading into Enjolras’ expression as he talked on, discussing tactics, answering the questions presented and figuring out solutions to convoluted problems.

He remained seemingly unaware of Grantaire’s presence.

Grantaire felt a hand grip his shoulder.

‘R, you haven’t said anything all night. You stoned?’ Bahorel hissed into his ear.

Grantaire kept his eyes to Enjolras as he shook his head.

‘Sore throat is all.’

Bahorel snorted at the excuse, and whacked him over the back in an overzealous show of affection.

By the end, Grantaire had to pry Eponine away from the others in order to leave. She had been sitting with Marius and Cosette the entire time, watching them hesitantly every time they got too close or kissed or did anything vaguely romantic.

Grantaire’s heart ached for her. Despite her courage, when it came to romantics she was awful. Any and all of her relationships were bound to be awful, he felt it was time enough for her to be happy.

Grantaire pried her away from them, kissed Jehan’s cheeks, hugged Feuilly and Joly before leaving them all and walking back outside. He prayed she wouldn’t reprimand him when he was outside, but she just walked onwards silently, playing with the gloves Marius had knitted her two Christmases ago.

Chapter Text

THE MONTH BEFORE

Winter had only really just begun to settle over the skyline, the frost had only just started to coat fire escapes and trash cans on the crowded streets.

According to Courfeyrac it was perfect ‘fluffy sock weather’.

Enjolras was less keen about the change. You see in winter; people are always worse for wear. The homeless freeze, the vulnerable do whatever they can just to find shelter.

The positives of getting to wear fluffy socks (which Courf did all year round anyways) just couldn’t balance out all the terrors that Enjolras knew would come along with the season.

When Enjolras wasn’t busy working at the shelter, he was drinking his own body weight in instant coffee. He was becoming increasingly irritable, paranoid and well, exhausted. The signs were showing, his usually flushed skin darkened grey with lack of sleep.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac were becoming increasingly worried. Hell, everyone was. Even Feuilly, who was constantly in no better a state than Enj himself.

Their little alone time with Enjolras was spent coaxing him to sleep or eat anything.

It had been getting worse. Especially because of Grantaire.

Combeferre could understand why he riled Enjolras up as much as possible. Heck he even felt sympathy for R, who had to resort to brutal jibes just to be acknowledged. But god, R was blissfully ignorant.

In Grantaire’s eyes, Enjolras was perfect as he was. Sure he’d noticed that yeah, Enj is looking a little not-himself, but Grantaire wasn’t doing too good either.

It was hard to be nice to Enjolras when Enjolras was so cruel to him anyway.

It was a circle of viciousness that trapped them to self-destruction.

Eponine had texted everyone last week to tell them that they needed to refuse giving Grantaire any alcohol or other substances that he could possibly wean off. Their group of friends were too sympathetic to the point of enabling him unintentionally.

But God knows Grantaire hunts for challenges, including sniffing out booze, his pining for Enjolras too good a piece of evidence.

Everyone was at a loss. They had no idea how to help. Showing any sympathy would destroy what little confidence Grantaire still had, and only further enrage Enjolras.

Courfeyrac reasoned that in order to get through it they had to enlist both of them to settle their differences.
Combeferre and everyone else thought it was a terrible idea. It was a terrible idea.

‘Combeferre, I love this movie and you aren’t even looking at the screen. I’m disappointed, and I’m starting it from the beginning as punishment’ Courfeyrac groaned, sitting as far away from Combeferre as possible because otherwise he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the glowing screen.

Combeferre sighed and looked at Courfeyrac sarcastically. ‘Sorry, Courf, but I have a lot on my mind right now.’

‘We were meant to have a break from all that.’ Courf strained. He wanted to lean forward into his friend like they usually did. Courf was a hugger, but he was scared that Combeferre might think he was being more than friendly after a while.

Combeferre blushed when he realised Courf was staring at him, and looked down at their matching fluffy socks.

Enjolras’ pair were on the table, ready if he came home before the movie ended.

Courf shifted closer to Combeferre, no longer able to resist and hating the quiet that came without Enjolras.

‘This is meant to be our night together’ Courf huffed, leaning into Combeferre’s chest.

Combeferre tried not to tense himself against his warm friend, pushing thoughts of Courfeyrac as far out of his mind as possible. He hesitantly ruffled his hand through the hair now taking over his chest.

‘I know, I’m sorry. He said he was busy tonight. Hopefully next week…’ Combeferre trailed off, as Courfeyrac looked upwards, staring straight at Combeferre hopefully.

Combeferre gulped as he looked into Courfeyrac’s eyes, as dark, warm and mischievous than any others he’d seen, or at the least the most beautiful.

‘Ferre, I have an idea’ Courf whispered over the blur of the movie.

Combeferre nodded. He hadn’t even heard whatever outrageous plan Courfeyrac had summoned from the most random and twisted parts of his mind.

Courfeyrac just talked, and Combeferre nodded. Lost in the depth of his friends eyes.

Courfeyrac grinned suddenly and kissed Ferre on the cheek in triumph.

‘I knew you’d agree! We won’t regret this. I’m going to go and tell everyone! This is absolutely fabulous, the most romantic and stupid thing ever! It’s gonna work I swear it on the gay greek gods!’

Courfeyrac bounded out the room, leaving Combeferre in a complete state of shock. Warmth migrating from his cheek to everywhere else, and then cold realisation. What the fuck has he just agreed to.

He stayed there for aprox four minutes before he could break out the stupor to go and investigate Courf, who was bouncing off the walls in excitement, leaving ‘10 Things I hate About You’ blaring out obnoxious nineties music.

Chapter Text

‘I just wish he’d take it seriously, Courf, that’s all.’

Enjolras groaned as he clung onto his best friend’s scarf, wrapping it around his freezing fingers.

‘Be careful with that, its Prada. Oh he can’t be that bad, surely. You only have what, three sessions left? And after that you can continue being your grumpy self’ Courf smiled sympathetically into his hot chocolate.

They were on their way back from class, hoping to start organising the meeting tonight at the Musain.

‘Enj?’ Courf hesitated, stopping short of the entrance, frowning.

Courfeyrac stared into the centre of the square, eyes fixed on the limestone fountain piece, a tall limestone beauty (ripped and chipped, as Feuilly had named him) and still wearing the jumper they had put on him drunkenly last week. It was covered in moth holes, and soaked from recent rain.

‘Yeah? Are you okay?’ Enjolras examined his friend.

‘Uh yeah, never mind.’ Courfeyrac quickly pulled a shy smile and booped Enjolras on the nose; ‘Well, we’d better go in then’.

As they walked inside, Courfeyrac received a glare from the barista.

‘Traitor’ they gestured at the paper cup gripped between Courfeyrac’s gloved fingers.

‘I promise I’ll make it up to you, Floreal’ Courf winked at them, and they blushed heartily.

Combeferre was watching them from the doorway to the back room, fiddling with his glasses distractedly.

‘Hey dearest’ Courf smiled, tiptoeing to kiss his cheek. Courfeyrac pulled away a little soon as he felt Combeferre tense beneath the thick jumpers separating them.

Combeferre pulled his glasses on awkwardly, Courf reaching up to adjust their skewwhiff position.

They locked eyes silently before Enjolras quickly hugged Combeferre, spilling Courf’s drink as he jumped forward.

‘Let’s get this started.’

‘Enjolras! My scarf!’

Enjolras had already left them alone in the doorway.

Enjolras cracked his knuckles smiling, and Combeferre glanced at Courfeyrac, gleaming.

Clearly, both of them had recognised Enjolras’ colourful mood today. But it didn’t make anything less awkward as they argued over who would enter first, Combeferre refusing politely, Courfeyrac not so much, insisting Combeferre may go ahead. Needless to say, resulting in an unnecessary amount of touching.

------------------------------------- 

The meeting had gone…array.

I mean, first of all, Joly had had the silliest of tiffs when he wasn’t allowed to wear his flower crown (‘you’re already a basic bitch- Bahorel). Then there was the drinks, everyone ganging up against Feuilly who wanted to buy them, everyone insisting that he didn’t have to if he was struggling. And then, well. Then… Marius had found his girlfriend of 2 months’ tumblr. In the description it read ‘Cosette, 24, bisexual queen, dom, photography’. Marius could not understand what that had meant- meaning everyone burst into distracting laughter as Cosette sweetly explained.

Marius was still red faced now. And he wasn’t the only one.

‘Jesus Christ would you out the bottle down? For once? Can you not see what we are trying to do here?’

‘I can see perfectly fine; perhaps it’s your vision that needs cleansing’ Grantaire battered back, teeth scraping across his bottle as he smiled.

Enjolras grit his teeth.

‘Grantaire do you have no idea what we are doing here, because as far as I can tell you’re here only to take advantage of everyone else. Where are you sleeping right now? Huh? Is it Eponine’s or Bahorel’s, Marius’, or hell, a dealer of yours?’

Grantaire was still smiling, but Eponine had grabbed his arm, warning him against trying anything.

‘We are trying to help people. You are making everyone’s job to do harder, you’re ruining everything, scrounging off us? Don’t you have some alley to be in right now instead of taking from the people who were trying to help? You just abuse everything, and it’s no wonder why you’re a fucking drunk mess- but if I had it as bad, I’d be able to fucking do something about it.’

Enjolras was terrific like this. So volatile, violent. But not physically. It’s almost like he was taking all the world’s anger at using it himself, directing it to Grantaire.

Grantaire let it wash over him, the anger, listening to the words that stung so terribly. It was so pretty like this, he thought. So very pretty and warm. He didn’t want the attention to go away.

‘I’m weak, you’re right, but at least I’m experienced, rich boy. You’ve had it so hard, haven’t you, and I’m sorry if I ever doubted your loving, white middle class home, where you had the freedom to not turn to drink, darling. But maybe if you weren’t so fucking naïve sjw all the fucking time, you’d turn out to be exactly the same as me.’ Grantaire stood, challenging Enjolras, though he could fall any moment.

‘I will never be anything like you.’

Enjolras snatched up his coat and stormed out.

Jehan rushed over to Eponine. It was hard to hear what he was saying now, and Grantaire’s ears were ringing happily. He heard the word ‘home’ and laughed.

‘What a silly concept’ he whispered.

‘What was that?’ Eponine asked, pulling the hoodie over his shoulder’s, obviously not listening to a word her drunk friend said.

‘Come on, get up, we are leaving. Combeferre, make sure Enjolras is okay, sorry for all this.’

--------------------------------------- 

Ironically, it was the first dry night in weeks.

‘R.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Can I do your makeup?’

‘Why not? Go ahead, but only if it’s outrageous, I don’t want any of that au-natural bullshit.’

Eponine, saying nothing crept around her brother’s small wheezing body to the bedroom.

Grantaire had sobered up a little now, he hadn’t even had that much anyway- his body was used to dangerous levels of alcohol- and there was nothing to feed his need here anyway, or if there was it would be kept under lock and key.

This was the first time Eponine had left him out of sight, saying it was because not knowing how he could’ve possibly found drinks earlier made her anxious. Which was bull. Eponine was only anxious about two things: the past, her brother.

Maybe occasionally also cats. Adding to Gavroche and R’s theory that she was indeed a witch.
‘R. Can I use the cheap stuff?’ She hissed from the open door.

Grantaire hesitated as observed Gavroche for any movement.

‘I’m honestly offended Ep. No you most certainly cannot. I am a high quality drag queen, not just anything goes on this beauty.’ Grantaire huffed. There was no point in whispering, Gavroche slept like the dead. He looked the part too, spread dramatically across the floor as though he was the victim of a budget murder mystery movie.

School of Rock was playing on mute behind the black and white battered screen across from the couch. Eponine sat down with a bundle of horrific neon colours and glitters, leaning in to litter his face.

‘You need to stop.’ She said, pulling at his brow.

‘Stop wha-‘

‘Stop moving’ Eponine clamped his mouth shut roughly.

‘You’re an idiot Grantaire. And you need to stop. Please.’

'AWW, you care!' Grantaire smiled at her, before she twisted his face. Grantaire instead utilised humming as his response to her rare share of emotions.

‘I said stop moving, dickhead.’ Eponine pinched his nose and lifted his chin to draw on a crude beard.

‘I guess nothing changes then- OW’ Grantaire laughed before blinking at the next contraption coming close to his eye, he tried to wriggle away in mock fear before actually getting worried about his eyeball’s safety. Eponine was smiling sadistically.

‘Oh, hell no.’

This time he got slapped.

Chapter Text

It was a Monday morning when they next met, though Enjolras was late.

Grantaire sat awkwardly glancing at the people sitting around him as he waited.

He wondered airily if Enjolras would have ditched him in lieu of Friday's misunderstandings.

It took ten minutes before his phone buzzed.

10:39, From Blonde Social Justice Worrier

there in Five. E.

It took another ten before Enjolras arrived, red faced and smiling to himself, though his mouth was partially obscured by scarf that was obviously Jehan's handiwork.

He looked flustered, not at his own lateness, but almost with a previous joy.

He plonked down, jumped back up when remembering he needed coffee and then sat back down with an espresso between his gloved hands a further few minutes later.

Grantaire couldn't complain. He'd been enjoying the people watching, and he stared at Enjolras' pink face as he quietly slid his sketchbook into his rucksack under the table.

'Sorry about that. 'Was at the shelter.' Enjolras started, but he was still smiling despite himself.

'Er, don't worry about it. Excuse to daydream.' Grantaire offered, trying to continue the unusually cordial Smalltalk.

It had been a weekend since they had last met, and argued, but there was little to no perceptible tension in Enjolras' voice. Trust me, Grantaire was trying to find it.

'Do you have paper, I thought we'd go hard at it today.' Enjolras began.

Grantaire's eyebrow reflexively lifted at 'hard', but Enjolras wasn't watching; shuffling his many cue cards across the table, flipping them over with his long fingers.

Grantaire wondered if this would be that rom-com moment when one fell under the table, they'd both bend down, and when they fumbled, their hands would touch out of view, just for a second. And then they would fuck, and be happy, and get married.

One card did fall off the ledge, but Enjolras, lightning quick snatched it mid-air.

Grantaire nodded, then realised that he hadn't any normal paper, so pulled out his book to avoid any unnecessary asking of favours. He turned it to a clear page and traced his fingers across the margin.

He didn't want to write in it, the page was so clean.

Enjolras began, with basic grammar lessons that would be little use for a 2-week trip, but were characteristically ambitious.

'(Grantaire, tu es bavardes) -- Grantaire, you are talkative. Try saying that.'

Grantaire cleared his throat as cocky as he possibly could, 'Je suis bavage'.

Enjolras sighed, but smiled. 'You've got the 'I am' correct. But instead of saying 'Bavardes', which means talkative, you said 'Bavages'.'

Grantaire blinked so obviously that it hurt.

'Bavage, means dribble. Like, spit. Grantaire, you are dribble.'

Grantaire lent back, twisting his face to lengthen the supposed confusion he was experiencing.

'I don't see anything wrong with that. I can self-identify as dribble if I want to.' Grantaire decided.

Enjolras shot him a weak glare. It was clear he was in too good a mood to reprimand him. Grantaire so wanted to ask what happened this morning that he was so happy. He wanted to start a more domestic conversation. Away from France.

Grantaire hated France. He hated America too, but that's beside the point. The French were so... Okay so he didn't quite have a named reason for his loathing. Perhaps just the association of the country with a family or the art it was famous for housing was enough to push him away.

He took a sip of his coffee. It would be so much nicer if it had a splash of whiskey.

The lesson went swimmingly, almost. It was strange for either of them to be so pleasant in each other’s vicinity.

Usually, they got on like a house on fire. In the bad sense, with lots of screaming, and what Bousset would affectionately call ‘sick burns’.

Grantaire actually found himself needing to reply to Enjolras’ French, driven to such obscure distraction. He ignored the café, the crying child two tables away, and he wasn’t able to disconnect anymore.

The more he thought about it- the way he couldn’t tear himself from reality, the more panicked he became. Enjolras was amazed at Grantaire’s change in ability, expecting more refined French each time and Grantaire indulged him, focusing on the label sneaking out of Enjolras’ collar.

He wasn’t sure if he was being overly paranoid, but it seemed Enjolras knew, that he was on one of those ‘Prank’d’ shows. Where everyone would suddenly stand up and laugh and point at them, and Enjolras would stand up and tell them all, even the viewers at home, that this was an elaborate joke. That Enjolras was here for a joke, and would leave as soon as the applause ended. That Grantaire would be left here, alone, unable to stop Enjolras from going, never to talk to him again now that this shared moment was over.

‘Grantaire, this is really quite good. I mean the progress you’ve made. You should be proud.’ Enjolras offered a smile, breaking Grantaire out of the strange situation he was creating in his head.

‘Oh, me? It must have been the French Dictionary I used as a pillow last night, absorbed it all into my head.

Enjolras gave him an odd look at that and stood up. Grantaire hadn’t noticed that everything was already packed away, that Enjolras was all too ready to go.

The glanced at each other before huffing a ‘goodbye’. Grantaire stayed a while longer, thinking about the blond eyelash that was stuck to Enjolras’ cheek before he left, wondering if the wind would blow it away before he would notice.

God he was tired; he wasn’t even making sense anymore.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Courfeyrac startled as he heard the key fiddle in the lock. It had been three hours since Enjolras had left for the shelter work, and then his lesson with R.

He had expected Enjolras to storm in a while ago, their meeting cut short due to some petty argument Grantaire had started.

“How was it?” Courf.

Enjolras laughed and hugged his friend, dropping his satchel to the ground.

“It was amazing, time well spent I’m sure you’ll agree. Where’s Combeferre, and is that coffee I see?”

“Sure is.”

Courf settled on a stool by the counter.

“So…I’m guessing He was well behaved today?” He was picking at the burs in his jumper: glad that Enjolras seemed happy, fulfilled. He always understood the need for satisfaction that drove him.

“What? Who?”

Courf stared at him. Was he joking? No. Enjolras was deadly serious, a picture of confusion.

“Er, Grantaire. R.”

“Oh. That. Yeah that was fine. Have I already told you about what happened outside the shelter today…?”

Enjolras trailed onward with his recollection, nonchalant.

Courfeyrac groaned internally at the stupidity of his best friend.

The plan obviously wasn’t working if Enjolras couldn’t, or hell, chose, not to remember his time spent with Grantaire that morning.

Enjolras snapped his fingers.

“Courf? You okay? You’re staring.”

Enjolras came forward hesitantly to envelop him in a fierce hug.

Courf couldn’t remember the last time he had had such affectionate physical attention with the man clutching him with so much strength. He shook himself out of it.

“Sorry, there was an eyelash on your cheek, Enjy. Nothing to worry about.”

Chapter Text

‘Cosette’s coming round.’

Eponine gave strict instructions for Grantaire to take as long as possible taking Gavroche out.

Eponine had twiddled with her thumbs, absentmindedly kicking trash under the sofa. It had taken the three of them to move the mattress out the middle of the floor. The apartment (if you could even call it that) was still a junkyard, but it was a vast improvement.

Eponine had even bought ingredients for baking, ignoring the stares as she wandered into the never-used kitchenette.

One of the knobs of the oven was hanging off and there was mould in one corner. On the fridge there was a half torn photograph.

It was all of les amis. If anyone else saw it she would have cringed into a hole and never come out. But she didn’t move it this time. Not for Cosette.

__________________________________________________________________________

‘What kind of kid doesn’t like the zoo?’ Grantaire asked dubious as he bought another ice cream for Gavroche.

His mitten-clad hands took it gladly.

‘I don’t know’ Gav shrugged, ‘It just doesn't seem fair. How would you like to be stared at and caged up?’

Grantaire rubbed his hands together. It was getting colder this time of year, last week it had snowed.

‘Sometimes I just feel that way in life anyways, Gav.’

Gavroche grinned up at him

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Can I get another one?’

‘Sure’

Grantaire bought Gavroche his fourth Ice cream that morning.

____________________________________________________________________________

Enjolras had prepared a last-minute session before their usual tuesday meeting.

The Musain was oddly empty as they settled in, and Enjolras looked quickly at Grantaire’s empty wallet on the table.

‘Do you want something?’ He asked, leaning in as if there were people around to judge Grantaire’s pity party.

‘Ugh, yeah sure. Anything warm and cheap. Thanks.’

Grantaire slid his bag off the table to give Enjolras room.

Surprisingly, Enjolras had no worksheets today, and his crossed arms filled the space instead.

Grantaire gripped the hot chocolate Enjolras had bought him, sipping often as he could in Enjolras’ line of sight, marking his appreciation of the gesture so that he wouldn’t have to speak.

‘Okay, so, hear me out. We’ve been doing this for a few weeks now, even though Courf told me it was 2 weeks that we’d be having these sessions. I’m aware that we still have a few more before you actually leave, but I’m impressed. If you didn’t want to continue I’d understand, and besides, your improvement means you’d probably survive in Paris now.’

Grantaire couldn’t help but be shocked, but Enjolras was deadly seriously, his eyes focusing on the wall beside them. Despite his public speaking skills, Enjolras was never particularly good at making eye contact.

Grantaire scratched under his beanie, figuring out how he’d react.

He shouldn’t be upset, he wasn’t. But he didn’t mind spending the time with Enjolras. Like small doses of a drug that’s great every now and then, when he’d have to walk away from it he’d find himself...addicted was too strong a word.

But Enjolras was warming up, like the shallow beams of the sun that filter through his studio and warm his hands as he worked. And Grantaire almost didn’t want to lose that.

Something bad must have been written all over his face, because Enjolras got fiddly.

It was one of the quirks that Grantaire had realised over the sessions, if Enjolras was worried he’d glance all over to check your body language. Like a twitchy cat. It was as weird as it was endearing, but a terrible analogy: Grantaire was allergic to cats.

‘Wait, wait.’ Enjolras mumbled, ‘I didn’t mean this was dragging on. I don’t want you to think that-’
‘Never’ Grantaire grinned forcefully.

‘Look I can tell you’re anxious about your ability, and this is all up to you, R. Can I call you R? I notice everyone else does, and you have nicknames for me so...Anyway. I meant that this is your choice, I know we haven’t gotten along in the past, but it’s been kind of, dare I say it, nice. I understand if you would just rather leave it there…whilst its still nice.’

‘You speak kinda fast when you’re nervous’ Grantaire laughed. Because what you do when you have no idea how to respond is laugh.

‘I’m not nervous..merely worried. It’s come to my attention that I can be a bit of a ‘dick’ sometimes, according to everyone.’ Enjolras said.

The bell at the front of the shop clanged.

‘Tell me what you want to do after the meeting, okay...R’

Enjolras’s chair scraped backwards, and his pale hands reached down to gather the non-existent paper. He huffed a laugh as he corrected himself, retracting back into the smaller back-room of the Musain.

Grantaire wondered if he should thank Enjolras for the drink, but all of the energy had suddenly been drained from him as he sank backwards into the wooden chair.

____________________________________________________________________________

The end of the meeting brought forth ‘secret gift giving’ slips. Joly had given them out, but it was Chetta’s writing on them.

He’d accidentally seen Combeferre’s slip as he frowned at it. Courfeyrac.

Grantaire had received Bosuette’s name and already planned to buy the accident-prone man some personalised plasters.

He managed to find Cosette on the way out, making sure Eponine’s day wasn’t a disaster before he got home to hear about it.

Apparently it was lovely, Cosette had fixed the oven (she’d dabbled in mechanics once) and they’d watched mean girls. After designating Cosette the new ‘Rosie the Riveter’, Grantaire made his way out.

He’d barely left the door of the Musain and it’s annoying bell before he was ambushed by Enjolras.

The cold had made his face cherry-red and his jacket was inside out, like he’d run out in a hurry.
‘So?’ He asked

Grantaire pulled a lighter out of his jacket before he chose the words.

Chapter Text

“But I thought you hated it?” questioned Eponine, still blushing from the text that had appeared on her phone. When he tried to peer it at it she’d quickly turned it away from his view.

“Yeah, I hate it, but I don’t hate him.” Grantaire explained.

"Then why continue it? Just spend time with him any other way, like friends do." She advised, indifferent to his blank look.

Grantaire fished out another nicotine-gum strip from his pocket. Enjolras suggested that his accent would be much improved if he didn't sound like a he was grating his throat every time he spoke. Of course, Enjolras had said it far more eloquently.

He offered a piece of gum to Eponine, she replied with a dismissive glance as she lit the cigarette already between her gloved hands.

“Smoking Kills.” He threw at her.

Immediately she smiled around the cigarette, smoke filtering out as she replied “Tobacco’s for whackos”

Grantaire snorted so hard that the gum fell out his mouth.

____________________________________________________________________________

Enjolras walked into The Musain and was surprised to find a woman sitting in his usual chair, her hair moving along with her as she laughed at Grantaire.

Enjolras’ jaw clenched as he walked awkwardly over, long strides and ducking so he didn’t headbut the notorious low-hanging beam in the centre of the room.

(Bousset had once ran into it with such force that he
A) Knocked himself out.
B) Had to get three stitches where his eyebrow had caught the brunt of the damage.)

Grantaire hadn’t noticed him quite yet, but the girl he was with ominously turned as if expecting his arrival any second.

Enjolras recognised her vaguely, she came to the meetings sometimes, but not enough for them to have been introduced.

Grantaire looked up in surprise and dragged a chair over as soon as he realised he had yet more company.

‘Uh, Enjolras, you already met Eponine right? Cool, she was keeping me occupied in case you were late again. Sit down, you looking fucking freaked, you okay?’
Enjolras’ eyes glanced at the clock behind Grantaire’s mass of curls. He was late.

His heart was also thrumming unusually in his chest. He watched as R flicked his eyes towards Eponine and back towards him.

It occured just then, that he hadn’t said a word yet.

‘Oh hi, I’m Enjolras.’ He held out a pale hand towards her. She shook it awkwardly.

‘Yeah, we’ve met..’

‘Right..’

Grantaire clapped his hands, causing Eponine and Enjolras to jump out of their skins.

Eponine pulled on her coat as Grantaire leant towards Enjolras, almost asking if Enjolras was indeed going to respond to his previous question.

Eponine’s chair made an awful squeak as she pushed away, and Grantaire smiled as she offered a sympathetic thumbs up as soon as she was out of Enjolras’ sight.

‘So... is she your girlfriend then?’

Grantaire genuinely did a spit take.

‘Ew, god, no. You know that! That’s Eponine, my roommate, my sister by all but birth. She also sometimes takes the position of my conscience, which most days is vacant.’

‘Oh yeah, sorry, I’m not great with faces.’ Enjolras leant over to help Grantaire mop up the spilt coffee.

Despite the sheer awfulness of the encounter so far, Enjolras was somehow relieved. He felt his heart rate slow as he pulled out the laminated cards. God knows why.