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Chapter Text

Enjolras needs to get about nine hours of paper-writing done in the next four hours, and his whole apartment building is suffering an extremely ill-timed power outage. He would possibly be less irritated with the situation if the power hadn't cut out in the middle of his shower, leaving him to wash the conditioner out of his hair and grope around for a towel completely blind.

He has work to do, and something as petty as a power outage isn't going to stop him. But no power means no wi-fi, no way to charge the battery in his ailing laptop, and perhaps worst of all--no coffee-maker. His best options, as he sees it, are the library or the coffee shop, and the library won't provide him with the caffeine he needs to make it to the afternoon.

But the morning's interruptions have thrown him well off his usual schedule, and by the time he gets to the coffee shop, there's a line twenty people deep. He glances at the chalkboard on the counter, wondering if it's someone new, and does a silent double-take.

The little chalkboard that's intended to have the barista's name and the daily special written on it has a stick-figure and a message instead.

TODAY YOUR BARISTA IS:
1. Hella fucking gay.
2. Desperately single.

FOR YOUR DRINK TODAY I RECOMMEND:
You give me your number.

Enjolras has never once taken the advice of the little chalkboard sign, but that doesn't mean he appreciates someone making a mockery of it. Not that he doesn't support civil disobedience--he certainly does, but there has to be a point to it. This is one step above scribbling for a good time call: on the wall of a bathroom.

He looks up towards the counter, past the heads of the twelve customers still in front of him, but all he can make out is an unruly mop of dark curls and a sleeve of bright tattoos as the barista hands a paper cup across the counter. Enjolras sighs and fishes his phone out of his laptop bag, checking the news as he slowly shuffles towards glorious caffeination.

"What can I get you?"

Enjolras looks up into a pair of absolutely shocking blue eyes. The shadows beneath them only make them seem brighter, and the first unwelcome thought that crosses Enjolras' mind is how in the hell is this man actually single? He looks like someone who likes his coffee well-whiskeyed, someone who's more accustomed to the night-shift. Someone who was apparently dragged out of bed this morning long before his accustomed hour, if the stubble lining his jaw is any indication.

All right, so he's not exactly hard to look at, but if the sign is anything to go by, his attitude leaves something to be desired.

"That's not exactly professional," Enjolras says flatly.

"Sorry?"

"The sign."

"Oh, yeah." He grins, sharp and bright. "Worth a try, right?"

"Not really."

"Ooh, someone's grumpy this morning. Are you going to order, or just whine about my lack of professionalism?"

He is not grumpy, but it's impossible to protest a point like that without proving it in the process. Enjolras settles for rolling his eyes. "Triple-shot latte, please."

The barista raises an eyebrow. "Not fucking around today, are we?"

And now he's swearing in front of the customers. It's like a customer-service trainwreck. "No, I'm not," Enjolras says.

"Okay, then. Triple-shot latte coming up."

The thing is, Enjolras doesn't care about the barista's name--he's never seen this guy before, and he probably never will again. But the fact that it isn't on the sign annoys him. The barista is measuring out the second shot when Enjolras' curiosity finally gets the better of him.

"What is your name, anyway?"

He glances up, eyes shadowed by impossibly long lashes. "If I tell you, will you promise to scream it for me later?"

"This is sexual harassment," Enjolras complains mildly.

"Is it? I thought it was flirting. Damn. I'm really bad at this."

"Possibly that's why you're still single."

The barista flashes a grin. "Yes, but the day is young! There's still plenty of time for the sign to work its magic."

"So it hasn't yet."

"The day," he repeats significantly, "is young. Four-fifty, by the way."

Enjolras hands over the money, and the barista makes change quickly, turning back to layer milk foam over the latte.

"Here you go," he says at last. "One heart-stoppingly-caffeinated beverage, just for you. Careful, you're hot."

"What?"

"It's hot. The coffee."

Enjolras wraps his hand around the paper cup, but the barista doesn't let go. Enjolras looks up, frowning, and meets a warm, disconcerting smile.

"My name is Grantaire," the barista says, finally letting his hand slide away from the cup. "Have a good day."

Enjolras tucks himself away at a corner table and gets to work. He takes a sip of his latte, accepting that he's going to burn his mouth because he never has the patience to wait for it to cool.

But he doesn't. The latte is the perfect temperature, and it's good. Impossibly good. Laced-with-cocaine good. Jehan would write sonnets to this coffee. Bahorel would put Grantaire in a headlock and demand to know how he made it. Feuilly might actually weep, if he was in the midst of an all-nighter. It's the Platonic ideal of a latte, and Enjolras would be lying if he said that he wasn't impressed.

The coffee is gone too soon--it's too good to pace himself. But the caffeine kicks in, and he gets eight pages written in three hours, complete with properly-formatted footnotes and citations. He has a class to attend, but first he thinks he deserves another magnificent latte, after all that work. He shuts down the laptop and slings the bag over his shoulder before approaching the counter again.

By now, there's no line at all, and Grantaire is wiping down the counter, nodding his head to the beat of the quiet electronica that's playing on the sound system. Now Enjolras can see that his tattoos are abstract swirls of color, shifting with every flex and twist of his forearms.

Enjolras is not staring, he's just waiting for Grantaire to look up and notice him standing at the counter. It's pretty awful, from a customer service standpoint, but Enjolras can't find it in him to mind.

Finally Grantaire looks up, dropping the rag with a muttered curse. "Shit, sorry, didn't see you there."

"That's all right," Enjolras says magnanimously. "Can I get another, to go?"

"Another triple-shot?" Grantaire asks, wide-eyed, and Enjolras is almost flattered that he remembered.

"Please."

He shakes his head. "No way. Dude, you'd be twitching all afternoon. I can maybe justify giving you a double, but that's it."

"Excuse me? We are not bargaining here."

"Bargaining would imply that I could be swayed. My offer is a double-shot--take it or leave it."

"But that's not what I ordered." Enjolras has never been thwarted in his pursuit of caffeine, and he's not about to let it happen now.

"Sorry, I'm making an executive decision to cut you off before you start having palpitations."

Enjolras can hear his own teeth grinding. "I asked you for a triple-shot latte."

"Double."

"Triple."

"Give me your number."

"Trip--what?"

Grantaire shrugs. "That's my trade. Give me your number and I'll give you the triple-shot."

"So we've moved from bargaining to extortion."

"Yeah. You'd better hurry up and agree, because I don't know where this is going next, but I'm pretty sure it's all downhill from here."

This is ridiculous and unprofessional and if it goes on any longer, Enjolras is going to be late for class. He does not have time to be flirting with a ridiculously attractive smartass barista--

Jesus Christ. He's flirting with the barista. He closes his eyes and rakes a hand through his hair.

"So what'll it be?" Grantaire asks. "How desperate are you for that extra shot?"

Enjolras levels his best glare at him, to no discernible effect. "All right," he says at last.

Grantaire blinks, and his mouth goes round and soft in a way that does not make Enjolras want to lean across the counter and kiss him. It's clear that he didn't expect to win the argument. "I--you--really? Okay, hang on..."

He turns around to make the latte, and Enjolras dutifully scribbles his number on a scrap of notebook paper. He slides it across the counter along with his money and waits.

Grantaire stares at the piece of paper while he makes change. "So, um, is this real? Because I'm telling you right now, if it turns out to be the number of a pizza joint in Penobscot or something, I'm going to be heartbroken."

It's possible that this coffee is even better than the last one. Enjolras sips it rapturously and smiles at Grantaire. "Call it and find out," he says, and he walks out the door.

He's just sitting down in the lecture hall when his phone buzzes. Enjolras pulls it out to see a text from an unfamiliar number.

Unknown: You never told me your name.

Enjolras grins and adds the number to his contacts. If Grantaire thinks he's the only one who can tease, he's going to learn otherwise very quickly.

To Grantaire: If I tell you, will you promise to scream it for me later?

Chapter Text

To Grantaire: if I tell you my name, will you promise to scream it for me later?

When Enjolras gets out of class, there's a message waiting for him. It's just two words: I promise.

He smiles. My name is Enjolras, he sends back. He doesn't have to wait long for a response.

Grantaire: How in the hell do you say that?

To Grantaire: It takes practice. I could teach you.

Grantaire: I'll hold you to that. Or hold you to something, anyway.

Enjolras is sure that normal people don't stop in the middle of campus just to stare at their phones and blush. If that's the case, then he's left normality behind somewhere. He doesn't really miss it.

His phone buzzes again.

Grantaire: But not tonight, unfortunately. Working late--don't wait up for me, darling.

* * *

He's not disappointed to see Eponine at the coffee shop the next morning. Really, he's not--he likes Eponine. She's the co-owner of the shop, so it would behoove him to play nice anyway, but luckily it isn't difficult. She's even shown up at a few of the Student Advocacy meetings, though it's mostly because she has a thing for their mutual friend Marius.

Enjolras is happy to see her. He just might have been a little happier if she had a certain tattooed assistant this morning.

"Morning, Ep," he says.

Normally, she makes his triple-shot without even waiting for him to order, but this morning she pauses, her lips curling in a devilish smile. "So. Meet anyone interesting yesterday?"

"Maybe." Enjolras frowns. "Why, did...anyone interesting say something about me?"

"He called me and rambled for like twenty minutes about Greek gods fallen to earth, which made no sense until he mentioned the triple-shot latte, at which point I figured he meant you."

"I did tell him my name."

"Yeah, but your name is impossible. He says he won't even try it until he hears you say it yourself."

"Then we'll have to arrange that, won't we?" Enjolras murmurs, mostly to himself. "Who is he, though? Is he a student? How have I not seen him here before?"

Eponine leans forward, resting her chin in her hands. "Hm. My tip jar's looking awfully empty for someone who wants to play twenty questions..."

Enjolras rolls his eyes and pulls a five-dollar bill from his pocket. "This is the second time in two days I've been extorted at this establishment."

"You love it."

Enjolras dangles the folded bill over the tip jar and gives her a pointed look.

She grins. "You already know that his name is Grantaire. He's a third-year art student, and I hear his work is incredible. You haven't seen him here because he usually doesn't work here--he picked up my shift yesterday because there was a...thing."

Enjolras watches her eyes go cold at the end of the sentence. "A family thing?"

"Isn't it always? Anyway, he bartends at a couple of places, mostly closing shifts, so he'd only had like three hours of sleep when I called and begged him to cover for me. He said I owed him 'the world's biggest favor,' but I'm going to assume that causing the two of you to meet has fulfilled my obligations on that front. Happy?"

Enjolras lets the money drop into the tip jar. "Very," he admits. "So...will he be covering any more shifts here?"

"We'll see. I got like six complaints about customer service, but so far this morning twenty people have asked me where the cute one with the tattoos went. You might have competition."

"Or maybe he just makes a better latte than you do."

"Excuse me?"

Enjolras shakes his head. "I'm sorry, but it's true. If it had just been the one, I would have thought it was a fluke, but the second latte was even better."

Her eyes narrow. "I should give you decaf for that insult."

"You wouldn't." He's eighty percent sure she wouldn't, anyway.

Eponine relents and starts making his drink. "No. I'm pretty sure denying you caffeine is the sort of cruelty that's outlawed by the Geneva Convention."

"If it's not, then it should be." Enjolras looks up and sees the chalkboard that Grantaire had so creatively edited the day before. It's blank now, but the vaguest outline of the stick-figure remains.

"So you like him, huh?" Eponine asks.

Enjolras jolts and turns back to her. "What?"

"Dude, you were staring at a blank chalkboard and smiling. That's pretty far gone, in my book."

Enjolras can feel his face turning red. "Can I just have my coffee, please?"

"You sure you want it? Grantaire could make you a better one," she says dryly.

"Grantaire's not here, though."

"You wish he was, don't you? You'd shove him up against the wall and do things to him that would cause the health inspector to shut the place down."

Enjolras takes a moment to appreciate that thought, with a few creative alterations on his part. Grantaire could bend him over the edge of the counter--or there's that sofa in the back room, they could jam the door with a chair, and Enjolras could find out just how far those tattoos extend...

"Hellooo?" Eponine says, waving the coffee cup in front of Enjolras' face. He takes it hurriedly, passing Eponine another five and turning to go without waiting for the change.

"Hey," Eponine says.

He turns back.

"You should call him, you know. Or text him. He's worried that he'll annoy you and drive you away."

"What do I say?"

Eponine rolls her eyes. "That," she says, "is definitely not my problem."

So Enjolras pulls his phone out on his way to class and sends the first, awkwardly honest thing that comes to mind.

To Grantaire: I miss your lattes. And your tattoos.

He puts the phone away resolutely and keeps on walking. He tells himself not to expect a response anytime soon--Grantaire could be in class or at work or still sleeping. He doesn't know what kind of schedule art majors have, especially not ones who usually work the night-shift.

It takes less than a minute. Enjolras picks up the phone as soon as the text-alert goes off and slides out of the flow of students across campus to lean in a little alcove by the English building.

Grantaire: Funny, I miss your wet hair and your sass.

Enjolras finds himself replying without thinking, without weighing the consequences or the phrasing.

To Grantaire: It seems we have quite a dilemma.

Grantaire: What shall we do about it?

Enjolras is on the verge of answering, but the time in the upper right corner of his phone says that he's been standing in the shadows of the English building for too long. He now has three minutes to make the six-minute walk to class, and he takes off at a run, tucking the phone away without replying.

Then it's two classes back-to-back and a students' advocacy meeting, a whirlwind of activity that leaves him with no time for thoughts about his personal life. He's been described as single-minded, and it isn't always a compliment. But when he latches onto a subject, he's focused completely on the matter at hand, to the exclusion of anything that might pose a distraction--especially his personal life.

He remembers Grantaire's question on his way out of the student center, and his stomach does a giddy sort of swoop that's almost entirely unfamiliar to him.

But when he reaches for his phone, it's gone.

Chapter Text

The first thing he does is retrace his steps. There's no reason to panic. He probably left it on the table at the student center. Or at his desk in one of the classrooms. Or maybe the phone is buried so deep in his laptop bag that it only seems to be missing.

He empties his bag and comes up with four pamphlets, sixteen cents, and a paperclip, but no phone. It's not at the student center. It's not in either of his classrooms. No one has reported finding a lost phone.

It's just gone.

Now he's feeling a little edgy. He needs his phone. It's important, and not just because of Grantaire.

Okay, mainly because of Grantaire. But there's a lot of sensitive information on that phone, or in accounts that can be accessed on the phone. He jailbroke it as soon as he got it, and Combeferre's encryption is probably better than the federal government's, but it's not uncrackable.

Still, cracking it would take time--it can wait. What can't wait is Grantaire. It's already been four hours since Grantaire's last message--why hadn't he responded as soon as he got the message?--and Enjolras can practically feel the window of opportunity slipping away.

He sits down on a bench outside the political science building and opens his laptop to check, but Grantaire has no web presence whatsoever: no Facebook, no LinkedIn, not even a Twitter account. Or if he does have those things, they're not connected to the name Grantaire. He slams the lid of the laptop and stuffs it back in his bag. If it wasn't for Eponine, Enjolras would be afraid that he'd hallucinated Grantaire entirely.

Eponine.

She has Grantaire's number. She said she called him to cover her shift, so she could call him and explain Enjolras' predicament, too. Enjolras makes his way up to the coffee shop and pushes past the line of people to the counter.

"Eponine!"

The girl behind the counter--who is remarkably unlike Eponine--gives him a cool look. "Dude, chill. If you need something, get in line."

Enjolras ignores her pointed glance towards the door. "I'm looking for Eponine. Is she here?"

She shakes her head. "She worked the early shift, and then she had to go. Some kind of family thing, I guess? Said she might be out of town for a few days."

Not for the first time, Enjolras silently curses Eponine's awful parents. "Can you get in touch with her?"

The girl shakes her head. "I tried earlier--the delivery guy didn't want to take my signature on the decaf shipment. But it went to voicemail. I don't even think she has the phone on."

"Shit," Enjolras mutters. "Can you leave her a message? It's important."

She opens her mouth to respond--probably not in a positive manner--and then the guy at the counter chooses that exact moment to spill an entire macchiato over her and the counter and the floor. She swallows what was probably going to be a curse, and Enjolras knows he's lost any hope of convincing her to call Eponine for him.

* * *

He goes back to the apartment. He knows he didn't leave the phone there, but there's a chance that one of the others found it after the meeting and dropped it off with one of his roommates.

Courfeyrac's still out, but Combeferre is sitting on the sofa, squinting at minuscule lines of code on his laptop screen. His glasses are pushed up on top of his head.

Enjolras kicks the door closed and tries not to let his anxiety leach into his voice. "Combeferre?"

He looks up, blinking. "You look like hell. What's wrong?"

So much for playing it cool. "You didn't find my phone, did you? After the meeting?"

"No..."

Enjolras slumps onto the couch. "Shit."

"You lost it?" Combeferre closes his laptop, puts on his glasses, and turns to look at Enjolras, entirely focused now.

Enjolras nods. "I had it before French, but I haven't seen it since. And before you ask--yes, I retraced my steps, emptied my bag...it's not there."

"Well, it's encrypted; it should stand up to most hacking attempts. Is the data backed up?"

"Most of it, yeah." Just not, oh, the last three or four days, including one extremely important phone number.

"Then it's not the end of the world. Change all of your passwords just in case, but you should be all right."

He sighs and combs a hand through his hair. "I know, it's just...I was supposed to call someone."

"Here, use mine." Combeferre's already pulling his phone from his pocket and holding it out, because Combeferre is an actual saint.

Enjolras shakes his head. "No, it's--thanks, but I don't have the number. It was in my phone, he never wrote it down. Eponine might have it, but she's out of town and nobody can reach her."

"No email?"

"Not that I can find. No web presence at all, as far as I know."

"What is this guy, a hermit?"

"Maybe," Enjolras admits. A digital hermit, at any rate. If he ever gets his hands on Grantaire again, the first thing he's going to do is--

Okay, there are actually a lot of things he'd like to do if he gets his hands on Grantaire. But one of them is going to be making sure he gets Grantaire's email address. And memorizes his phone number.

"Is it somebody we know?" Combeferre asks. "Maybe we've got his contact information in one of the Advocacy spreadsheets."

"No. It's not a group thing, it's...a personal thing," Enjolras says, fidgeting with the cuff of his sweater.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"I'll make tea," Combeferre says, as if that's a logical response. Enjolras follows him into the kitchen and sits backwards on one of their rickety chairs while Combeferre fills a kettle and plugs it in.

They don't talk while the water heats; Combeferre is serious about his tea, and Enjolras appreciates the chance to gather his thoughts.

The tea, when it's finished, is poured into a pair of mismatched mugs. Combeferre holds one out to Enjolras.

"Thanks." He curls his hands around the mug and takes a careful sip. It's something herbal, sweet and fragrant in a way that's probably meant to be calming. Enjolras appreciates the intent, even though it doesn't seem to be working.

Combeferre sits down across from him with his own mug cradled in his hands. "So when did this happen?"

Enjolras sighs. "Yesterday, at the coffee shop. He was covering for Eponine, and he was--well, actually he was a complete asshole but he made me the best latte I've ever had in my life."

"And that's the way to your heart, is it? A bad temper and a good coffee?" Combeferre takes a sip of tea, but Enjolras can see him smiling over the rim of the mug.

"Apparently," Enjolras mutters. "It doesn't even make sense, but...you know when you're almost asleep, and you half-dream that you're falling, and your whole body just jolts you awake?"

"Yes."

"It felt like that. Only in a good way."

Combeferre raises an eyebrow, looking at Enjolras over the thin steel rims of his glasses. "Can I say something you're not going to like?"

"Always," Enjolras replies, a little sharply. He welcomes Combeferre's honesty, but now is really not the best time.

Combeferre gives him a wry smile. "Weren't you making fun of Marius for the exact same thing last week?"

A week ago, Marius had come bursting into the student center in raptures over a girl he'd literally run into while crossing the college green. Enjolras might have said something along the lines of No one has time for your romantic exploits right now, Marius. And he'd looked a little like a kicked puppy after that.

Enjolras winces. "Okay, so I'm an enormous hypocrite. I'll work on that. Can we address the problem at hand, now?"

"All right." Combeferre adjusts his glasses, a gesture that invariably means business. "What do we know about him?"

"His name is Grantaire--or that's the name he goes by, at any rate. He has dark, curly hair and blue eyes, full-color tattoo sleeves...Eponine says he tends bar around town, but she didn't say where."

"Oh. A bartender with tattoo sleeves. I'm sure we'll have no trouble finding him with that description." There are deserts less dry than Combeferre's voice.

"They're not normal sleeves. They're abstract, like--watercolors, or something. I don't know. He's the artist."

"He's an artist?"

"An art major, according to Eponine. But I bet lots of them have tattoos, too."

"Probably," Combeferre agrees. "In the Venn diagram of tattooed bartenders and tattooed art students, we'd find him somewhere in the overlap."

"Yes." Even though it sounds flippant and unhelpful, Enjolras knows that things like this are part of Combeferre's process--data visualization. Enjolras has never had a lot of patience for computer-science jargon, but if it helps them find Grantaire...

The front door slams, and Courfeyrac brings a rush of cold air inside, dropping his bag in the kitchen doorway. "What's going on?" he asks, eyeing the steaming mugs with something like suspicion. Tea is another part of Combeferre's problem-solving process, and they all know it.

Combeferre waves a hand towards the kettle. "The water's still hot, if you want tea."

"Okay." Courfeyrac ambles over to the kettle. "Seriously, though, what's up? Enjolras looks like somebody died." He pauses, frowning. "Nobody died, right?"

"No," Enjolras sighs. "Nobody died."

Combeferre summarizes the situation. "Enjolras met a hot punk guy at the café yesterday, got his number, and then lost his phone, which is terrible because he's in love with the guy's lattes."

Enjolras rolls his eyes. "That could not be more inaccurate if you tried."

Combeferre raises an eyebrow.

"Okay, it's maybe forty percent accurate. I did have his number and I did lose my phone. And he is hot."

"And he makes a good latte?" Courfeyrac asks.

"Better than Eponine's."

"I'm calling bullshit," Combeferre says calmly.

Enjolras shakes his head. "I swear. I'll have him make one for you, if we ever find him."

Courfeyrac ignores the empty chair at the kitchen table and perches on the counter instead. "So Enjolras met and lost his one true love in the space of forty-eight hours? Tragic."

Enjolras groans and drops his head onto his folded arms. "Courfeyrac, you are not helping."

"Sorry, it's just so cute. You have feelings," Courfeyrac teases.

Enjolras looks up long enough to glare at him. "It is not cute. It's awful. I just abandoned him in the middle of a conversation. By now he thinks I hate him, and he's probably decided to hate me too, just to make things fair."

"So we're going to mope about it?" Combeferre asks.

Enjolras turns his grim look on Combeferre, but Combeferre has always been immune to intimidation. "No, I am not going to mope about it. But there isn't much I can do, as we haven't come up with a decent way of finding him."

Courfeyrac shrugs. "Legwork. Go pound the pavement."

"Excuse me?"

Combeferre, as always, takes up the translation. "You know that he works at a bar somewhere in town. So--go find him."

Chapter Text

Enjolras has a mountain of work to do--papers to write, rallies to plan--but he's made an executive decision to put it off for one day. He has an obligation to find Grantaire and try to explain, and that takes precedence. He shuts down his laptop, pulls on a coat, and turns to go.

He's a little bit surprised to find Combeferre and Courfeyrac waiting for him in the hall.

"Um, hi?" Enjolras says, glancing between them. "I'm going out to see if I can find Grantaire."

"We know," Combeferre replies. "We'll come with with you."

"What? I can't ask you to do that."

Combeferre smiles. "You didn't."

"Anyway, what kind of friends would we be, if we let you do this on your own?" Courfeyrac demands. "Besides, this way we can talk to three bartenders at once, and we'll cut the time it takes to find him by like two-thirds."

Enjolras is pretty sure that the time and money spent getting three people into and out of the bars instead of one will probably bring any effort saved to an even draw, but if it helps him find Grantaire, he'll give it a try. And it's nice to know that he has friends willing to do something like his for him.

"Okay," he says. "Thanks."

They make their way up to Court Street and stop outside the first bar they come to. Enjolras takes a deep breath. "All right. The goal is to find him as quickly as possible, so if we don't have any luck at a bar, we move on. Don't get too comfortable. Just ask if they know a guy named Grantaire who tends bar around town."

"With obsidian locks and sapphire eyes," Courfeyrac adds rapturously.

Enjolras eyes him grimly. "You know what, if mineralogy talk is what turns you on, then go for it."

It's surprisingly crowded inside, considering it's Wednesday, and there's a cover charge. Enjolras pays for all three of them--it's only fair, since he's the reason they came--and they split up to make the rounds, talking to bartenders, bouncers, and wait-staff. Anyone who might know Grantaire, or where he could be found.

The plan is efficient and well-organized, and yields absolutely no results. They have no luck at the first bar. Or the sixth. Or any of the ones in between.

At the seventh bar, after receiving a shrug and a headshake from the girl mixing drinks, Enjolras turns away to find Combeferre standing in front of him. His heart leaps. "Did you find out anything?"

"No, sorry."

"All right. We'll go on to the next bar, then--"

"Um, about that. It may have escaped your attention, but Courfeyrac has been ordering shots at every bar we've been to," Combeferre says.

"What?"

"He used it as an icebreaker. He ordered, and then asked the bartender about Grantaire, on the theory that they'd be more willing to talk to an actual paying customer."

"And then he drank the shot," Enjolras finishes.

"Yes."

"Did it work?"

"No--not yet."

"And now he's drunk."

"Yes."

Enjolras rakes a hand through his hair. "Okay. How bad is he? Do you want to take him home? I can try another couple of bars and meet you back at the apartment..."

Combeferre winces. "I didn't say he was ordering a shot at every bar. I said he was ordering shots. Three at each bar--one for each of us."

Enjolras' plan for the evening collapses. In all likelihood, Combeferre's had as many as Courfeyrac, and Enjolras hasn't so much as touched a shot glass all night. "What happened to the ones for me?" he asks, suddenly suspicious.

"If I'd let him drink two shots at every bar, he'd be unconscious by now. We took turns."

"Oh." Come to think of it, Combeferre has been enunciating very carefully. Enjolras does a silent round of math--seven bars in two hours means they've had around eleven shots apiece. Wasted would not be an inaccurate term.

"Sorry."

"No. It's...fine," Enjolras says, resigned. He's not going to let his two best friends walk home drunk while he keeps chasing a pipe dream. "Let's go home."

Combeferre leads him back to the bar, where Courfeyrac is sitting on a bar-stool and regaling a group of girls with an escapade that is at least sixty percent ripped off of a Timothy Dalton Bond movie.

"--of course, we were cornered by then, but luckily I had my--Enjolras!" he says brightly. "You finally came for your shot!" He turns back to the bar. "Oops. You're too late, I drank it."

"That's all right, I'm not thirsty. Come on, we're going home."

His expression brightens. "Oh my god, did you find him?"

"No, but it's late, and we all have class in the morning. I'll try again tomorrow."

"Class cannot stop true love," he intones. "All it can do is delay it for a while."

"All right, Dread Pirate Courfeyrac. Let's go home." Enjolras tries to bury his fondness for his two best friends under his irritation at having to cut his search short, but Courfeyrac slings a heavy arm over his shoulders, and he can't help but smile.

The walk home from the bars is much slower and more cautious than the walk up. Cobblestones and brick paths have become treacherous for the majority of them now.

Halfway across the green, Combeferre stops. Enjolras takes another dozen steps before pausing to take a headcount and realizing he's one short. He turns back. "Combeferre? You coming?"

He looks up at Enjolras. "I'm...I'm going to call Eponine," he says slowly.

"Yes!" Courfeyrac crows, his shout echoing off the walls of the darkened buildings. "Call her and tell her you love her. Tell her you want to have all her babies--or wait. That you want her to have all your babies, and--"

Combeferre frowns at Courfeyrac. "That's inappropriate," he begins, and Enjolras uses the momentary distraction to pluck the phone out of his hands.

"Enjolras."

"Sorry," Enjolras says firmly, sliding the phone into his coat pocket. "Five-drink rule."

The rule had been Combeferre's idea, actually, after Courfeyrac had knocked back half a dozen shots and then called his current paramour to proclaim his love.

It had not gone well. Since then, it had been a solid rule that no important phone calls--or text messages, or emails--were to be sent after more than five drinks.

"Please?" Combeferre asks, sounding far too rational for anyone who has consumed nearly a dozen shots over the course of the evening. "You know I won't say--anything that Courfeyrac said. I just want to say hello."

"She's dealing with a family thing. She doesn't even have her phone on," Enjolras says gently.

Combeferre's face falls. "Oh."

"But I'm sure she'd be glad if you left a message for her. Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Combeferre echoes reluctantly, and he follows Enjolras back to the apartment in silence. Enjolras unlocks the door to let them all inside.

So the first night ends with Enjolras shepherding his more than slightly intoxicated friends into the apartment, plying them with three glasses of water apiece, and falling into bed to stare at the ceiling, mired in self-recrimination.

Frustration wells up in him, so strong that he nearly gets up to go back uptown and keep looking. But he needs to be here, in case Combeferre or Courfeyrac needs anything. After all, this would never have happened if he hadn't gotten them involved.

Eventually, he drifts off.

* * *

He gets four hours of sleep and winds up at the kitchen table at seven in the morning, catching up on the reading he should have done the night before. He makes a pot of coffee, even though he plans to stop at the café on his way to class, to see if Eponine is back yet.

"Are you pre-gaming coffee?" Courfeyrac demands an hour later, not nearly as hungover as he deserves to be. "That's just wrong."

"Is it better or worse than turning a fact-finding mission into a bar-crawl?" Enjolras asks wryly.

Courfeyrac grimaces and helps himself to a cup of Enjolras' coffee. "Sorry about that, by the way."

"No--it was a good idea, buying drinks to get the bartenders to talk to you. I never think of things like that."

"Which is why you've got me," Courfeyrac says, punctuating the statement with a loud slurp of coffee. "Though, in my defense, I didn't think it was possible to hit that many bars that quickly. You were a man on a mission."

"Not that it helped."

"Not yet, maybe. There are still like fifteen more bars to try."

"I guess so," Enjolras replies, turning a page in his textbook even though he hasn't registered a word on the previous pages.

Courfeyrac frowns. "You're not giving up, are you?"

"No. I owe Grantaire an explanation. I'm just realizing that, even if I find him, it's probably not going to go the way I'd like it to."

Courfeyrac nudges his shoulder. "Hey. I bought you seven shots last night. You're not going to let that go to waste, are you?"

"You drank half of them."

"That's beside the point! You are going to find your Grantaire, and you're going to get a date with him, and kiss him, and live happily ever after. Or else. Understood?"

Enjolras offers him a wan smile. "Understood."

"Great. Now I'm stealing the rest of your coffee and going to class." Courfeyrac pours most of the pot into a thermos and leaves.

A few minutes later, Combeferre comes out of his room, frowning. His hair is damp, and he's twenty minutes behind his usual schedule, which might account for how harried he looks. "Enjolras? Have you seen my phone?"

"Right here." He reaches into the pocket of his coat, which is hanging over the back of a kitchen chair, and hands the phone back to him.

Combeferre's shoulders slump in relief as he checks for messages. "Oh, good. Did I give this to you last night?"

"I took it, actually. You wanted to call someone--I had to invoke the five-drink rule."

"Oh, right." He doesn't look up from the phone, but the tips of his ears turn pink.

"Eponine, huh?"

"I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that I may incriminate myself."

"You know she's got a thing for Marius, don't you?" He doesn't want Combeferre to get hurt--Combeferre is his best friend, and the idea of him heartbroken makes Enjolras feel ill.

"I know. It's stupid..."

"It's not stupid."

"It kind of is," Combeferre insists. "Anyway, thanks for not letting me make an ass of myself."

"Any time."

Combeferre chuckles. "So I assume you're going to go out again tonight. Do you want help?"

Enjolras shakes his head. "Thanks, but I think tonight I'll go alone. No reason to drag you all out with me again."

Combeferre nods. "Well, if you change your mind, call us, and we'll meet you."

Enjolras raises an eyebrow.

"Oh. Well, leave us a note or something. Or send a carrier pigeon."

"Thanks," Enjolras says. "For offering--and for last night, too. I appreciate it."

"Any time," Combeferre replies. "I mean it."

* * *

Classes are a mess, relatively speaking. He functions well enough to answer questions when asked, but his notes are a disaster. His normally ironclad concentration is shattered, and he's resigned to the fact that he isn't going to feel right until he's had some kind of closure to the Grantaire issue. Even if it's just an apology call from Eponine's phone (if she ever gets back to town--she hasn't yet, he checked).

Everywhere he goes, he's scanning the crowd around him, hoping to see a head of unruly curls pass by. He's not yet to the point where he's hallucinating Grantaire, though once he spots an almost-familiar profile in the crowd and his heart slams against his ribs before he realizes that the person in question is too tall to be Grantaire.

When he gets back to the apartment after his classes are done, there's a brand-new phone sitting on the countertop with a note. Good luck! it says in Courfeyrac's hurried script, followed by ten digits that must be the new phone's number. Enjolras turns it on and syncs it to his email, watching the contacts transfer themselves onto the phone. Everyone important is there--except one, of course.

Thanks, he sends to Courfeyrac. He smiles and pockets the phone, and then heads back up to Court Street with a new determination in his step. He's going to make this right if it kills him.

Chapter Text

The trouble with college towns, Enjolras decides, is that there are so many bars.

By any logic, he should give up. The window of opportunity has long since passed. But he’s never been the kind of person to quit anything, and he’s determined to find Grantaire. Even if he’s too late to do anything but apologize.

He’s only been to a third of the bars along the main drag, so if nothing else, the scenery promises to be different on the second night.

It isn’t, though. Oh, some of the bars have DJs and dancing, some serve food, and a few have themes that range from clever to cheesy, but the dim lighting, loud patrons, and cloud of cigarette smoke wreathing the front door never seem to change. If it weren’t for the notepad he’s keeping in his pocket, crossing off the names of the bars as he goes, he’d start to think he’s going in circles.

He makes his way into the Cantina just after midnight, frustration and exhaustion threatening to overtake him. The Cantina is not Star-Wars-themed, a fact that he knows is a continual source of aggravation to Jehan.

He pays the cover charge without blinking, even though he won’t be staying long enough to drink, and he elbows his way up to the bar with a skill born of too many riots. Even after thirteen disappointments, he still catches his breath when he looks behind the bar, hoping against hope that he’ll see Grantaire.

He doesn’t.

What he does see is a familiar mountain of a man, with his hair tied back and a literal handful of bruised and taped knuckles. He’s been involved in a few of Enjolras’ more interesting protests, claiming that he always appreciated a chance to bury his fist in a deserving face.

"Bahorel?"

He breaks into a bright grin, the kind that you’d probably see on a tiger right before it swallows you whole. “Enjolras! What are you drinking?"

"I’m not, actually. I’m looking for someone."

"A general sort of someone, or someone in particular?"

"Someone in particular. Eponine says he tends bar around town, but she neglected to mention which bars. His name’s Grantaire? He has dark hair, and tattoo sleeves that are kind of—" He breaks off.

Bahorel isn’t listening.

Bahorel is laughing. “Fuck me, are you the pretty blond hipster boy he wouldn’t shut up about the other day?"

Pretty? Hipster? Enjolras will address this later, but he can’t focus over the sudden pounding of his heart. “You know where I can find him?" he asks, trying to keep his voice level.

"I’m not his fuckin’ babysitter. But try the Gator."

The Red Gator is off the main street—it would have been ages before Enjolras’ search got that far. From what Enjolras has heard from Courfeyrac, it’s primarily a locals bar, but the drinks are good enough to risk starting a college-town turf war. "Bahorel—thank you."

He waves a hand. “Don’t thank me. Just don’t break his heart, or I’ll be contractually obligated to kick your ass."

"If I break his heart," Enjolras says grimly, “I might let you."

* * *

The Red Gator has an astronomical cover charge, but Enjolras barely even registers the money changing hands. He’s already craning his neck, looking up and over the crowd to see if he can spot a familiar face at the bar.

There’s a blonde girl slicing limes with a vicious-looking knife, a kid probably too young to legally set foot in the bar busing tables, and there, commanding the attention of half the room, is Grantaire.

Enjolras had sort of forgotten how breathtaking Grantaire is. The shift of his shoulders beneath his worn t-shirt should be illegal, and the curls of his hair are toeing a thin line between artfully-disheveled and post-sex-bedhead.

In the coffee shop, he’d been sleep-deprived and unshaven, and still gorgeous for all of that. Here, he’s in his element, laughing with the patrons, spinning cocktail shakers and pulling beers from the taps that line the bar. His smile is bright and alive and possibly the most beautiful thing Enjolras has ever seen.

While Enjolras watches, Grantaire pours a line of trick shots for a group of frat boys, layering 151 over the top of a row of shots. He pulls a lighter from the pocket of a pair of indecently tight jeans—it’s a Zippo so battered that Enjolras can see the dents from here—and holds the flame to the first shot.

The whole row of shots catches fire at once, blue flames dancing over the table.

Grantaire’s audience members are shoving at each other, trying to goad one of their number into drinking one of the burning shots. Finally Grantaire rolls his eyes and picks up a shot-glass, tossing it back himself before slamming the empty glass down on the bar.

It’s a neat trick. Enjolras almost misses the sharp exhale that extinguishes the flames just before Grantaire downs the shot—but it still must have been hot as hell.

Actually, hot as hell is a convenient descriptor for everything Grantaire is and does.

(The frat boys are all careful to blow out the flames before they throw back their shots.)

As soon as Grantaire steps away from the group, Enjolras begins pushing his way through the crowd to the bar. By the time he gets there, the girl is the one taking drink orders, and Grantaire is at the far end of the bar, checking the taps. Enjolras changes direction to get closer to him, sidestepping people’s wide drunken gestures and couples swaying to music that only they can hear.

Finally he’s there, close enough to crawl over the bar and kiss him, but Grantaire hasn’t even noticed him. Enjolras takes a deep breath.

"Grantaire?"

He looks up and sees Enjolras, and his expression shuts down. He looks back down at the bar. “What can I get you?" he says evenly, his voice empty and toneless.

He’s upset. He’s upset and he has every right to be, because he was on the verge of proposing a date two days ago, and he thinks that Enjolras has been ignoring him ever since.

"I lost my phone," Enjolras says in a rush.

Grantaire’s forehead wrinkles, like this is some strange cocktail he’s never heard of.

"I lost my phone," Enjolras repeats. “That’s why I haven’t called you."

"It’s fine. You don’t have to lie about it, I get it."

"No, I’m serious. I was late for class, I didn’t have time to answer you, and when I went to text you back my phone was gone. I have a new one now, but your number wasn’t synced. And Eponine’s out of contact, and the only thing she told me was that you tended bar sometimes, so for two nights I’ve been going from bar to bar looking for you, or for someone who knows you."

He looks up, suspicious. “Really?"

Enjolras nods. “I didn’t know you knew Bahorel."

“You know Bahorel?"

"He shows up at rallies sometimes. Usually the ones that are about to turn into riots."

"That would be his scene," Grantaire says. Silence falls, awkward and oppressive.

"Do you hate me?" Enjolras asks quietly. “You have every right to hate me, honestly. I left you hanging for two whole days, which is awful of me. I mean, it would have been rude enough anyway, but it’s worse because I thought you were on the verge of asking me out." He takes a breath and lets it out, and it’s like the weight of the past few days has all come crashing down on his shoulders at once. Because he’s here, he’s found Grantaire, and it isn’t going to make any difference. "I really, really wanted you to ask me out," he says finally.

Instead of replying, Grantaire picks up a bottle from the shelf and splashes half an inch of amber liquor into a glass, then pushes it across the bar.

"What is this?"

"Brandy. You’re supposed to give people brandy when they’re in shock, I think."

Enjolras doesn’t drink much, but it doesn’t seem like a bad idea at the moment, so he lifts the glass to his lips and takes a small sip. The burn is steadying, even though it’s clearly psychosomatic, and he pushes the glass back with a nod of thanks.

Grantaire picks up the glass and finishes it, fitting his lips to the same spot where Enjolras drank. It’s half a step away from a kiss, and Enjolras’ fingers curl on the edge of the bar. He wants—something. Something more than a parody of a kiss on the rim of a drinking glass. Something that would probably get them both thrown out of the bar, and Grantaire fired in the bargain.

He can’t remember the last time someone had such an effect on him. He kind of wishes he’d drunk the rest of the brandy.

"I was," Grantaire says at last.

"What?"

"I was going to ask you out. But then you stopped replying, and I figured you weren’t interested."

"No, that’s not—"

He holds up a hand. “I know that, now."

"I’m really sorry. About the phone thing." Enjolras is pretty sure he’s repeating himself now.

"Yeah. I kind of got that. I won’t hold it against you."

"You can if you want," Enjolras says, cringing because that doesn’t even make sense. He doesn’t even know if they’re back on a level where he’s allowed to flirt, though apparently that doesn’t matter because he’s absolutely hopeless at it.

Grantaire doesn’t seem to mind. Enjolras is leaning on the bar now, his elbows braced on the scarred wood. If Grantaire decides to lean forward just a little…

Grantaire’s gaze flicks down to Enjolras’ mouth and seems to catch there.

“R!"

Grantaire jerks back, looking down the bar to where the blonde bartender is standing with a cocktail shaker in her hand. “Please quit flirting and pour some drinks," she says sweetly, but the look she gives Enjolras is sharp and considering.

"Sorry, Cosette."

"Did she call you R? As in the letter?" Enjolras asks.

"Yeah, it’s what I go by when I’m working. You wouldn’t believe the mangle a drunk guy can make of Grantaire."

"I probably could," Enjolras murmurs. No wonder nobody recognized Grantaire’s name when he asked.

"I...I really have to get back to work," Grantaire says reluctantly.

Enjolras nods. “I know. When do you get off?" God, what a pathetic line. What’s gotten into him?

Grantaire shakes his head. “Late, and that’s too…I don’t know. I just don’t want to rush this. Anyway, I was going to ask you out, remember?"

"I remember."

Grantaire smiles. “So. Are you doing anything tomorrow night?"

"No," Enjolras says. It might not be true at the moment—he hasn’t checked his schedule—but he will make it true, by canceling or rescheduling anything necessary. He’s not going to screw this up again.

"Then meet me at the coffee shop—at seven?"

"Okay."

"Okay," Grantaire echoes. “Here, give me your hand."

"Why?" he asks, but he holds out his hand anyway, palm up. Grantaire cradles Enjolras’ hand in his own, an act that sends shockwaves tripping up Enjolras’ arm. If Grantaire’s expression is anything to go by, it feels the same to him.

He pushes Enjolras’ sleeve back and uncaps a black Sharpie that seems to have materialized in his hand. Then he writes his number in a ticklish line along the inside of Enjolras’ wrist. “Since you can’t be trusted to hold onto a phone," Grantaire explains, smirking.

Enjolras ducks his head guiltily. “If I lose this one, I’m really going to be in trouble, huh?"

"You have no idea," Grantaire says, his voice a low rumble. He’s still holding Enjolras’ hand in his, stroking his thumb along the lines of Enjolras’ palm.

Enjolras takes a deep breath. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow," he says. Grantaire nods and reluctantly lets Enjolras’ hand fall.

Enjolras takes two steps away from the bar, and then abruptly turns back. “Oh, and Grantaire?"

"Yeah?"

"It’s pronounced Enjolras, in case you were wondering."

The noise in the bar rises then, but he can see Grantaire’s lips move, curling around the syllables. He smiles, warm and lopsided and pleased, and Enjolras would probably walk through hell just to see that smile again.

He steps out into the cold, tucking his hands deep in the pockets of his coat. Tomorrow night. He can wait that long.

Chapter Text

The next day, by all rights, should rush past in a blur of anticipation. Instead it crawls, one hour dragging into another until Enjolras is sure that he's trapped in some kind of real-world Zeno's paradox wherein his date with Grantaire gets closer and closer but never actually arrives.

Finally classes are over, and he goes back to the apartment to unload his books and try not to spend the ensuing two hours panicking. Planning a rally is less nerve-wracking than this. Hell, getting arrested is less nerve-wracking than this.

After staring blankly at his closet for fifteen minutes, he opens the door and shouts down the hall.

"Courfeyrac! What do I wear?"

It's like he's a superhero who's waited his entire life for this call. He stops in the doorway of Enjolras' bedroom and regards him through narrowed eyes. "The tightest jeans you have. Your red button-down, but leave off an extra button at the top, and your Converse, because you don't want to look like you're trying too hard. Wear the black pea-coat, because it looks good with the red. Is the date going to end in bed?"

"Is it what?" Enjolras splutters.

"I guess that's a no. In that case, I'll save the underwear advice for a future date. But wear a scarf, just in case."

"In case of what?"

"Scarves are versatile. Very handy for all your impromptu bondage needs."

Enjolras feels his face going hot. "Thanks, Courfeyrac," he says as firmly as he can manage.

"You're welcome." Courfeyrac disappears, leaving Enjolras feeling like he's just been caught up in a very stylish tornado.

Enjolras gets dressed according to Courfeyrac's directions. Grantaire's number is still inked on his arm; he hasn't made an effort to scrub it off. You couldn't even see it beneath the sleeves, but he's glad it's there, anyway.

He has to admit that Courfeyrac's advice wasn't bad. Close enough to normal that he's comfortable, but just a little more pulled-together than usual.

Then he spends entirely too long on his hair before he remembers that the first time Grantaire saw him, his hair had still been wet and half-frozen from the walk to the coffee shop. It's an enormously relaxing thought.

Now he can move on to worrying about absolutely everything else. Like what if the coffee shop is too crowded, what if Grantaire thinks he's boring, what if Grantaire doesn't even show up--

He thinks about the look in Grantaire's eyes when Enjolras was leaving the bar. No, he'll definitely show up.

At six-thirty, he picks up his coat, even though it's a fifteen-minute walk to the coffee shop at worst. He tries to leave without drawing any further attention, but Courfeyrac and Combeferre are both on the sofa in the living room. Combeferre is actually working, but Courfeyrac is not so much sitting as lying in wait.

The first thing he does is wolf-whistle. Enjolras rolls his eyes. "Thank you for the advice," he says. "I'm going, now."

"Wait. Do we need to talk about being safe?" Courfeyrac asks sweetly.

Enjolras closes his eyes. "I swear to God, Courfeyrac--!"

"No, but seriously. Do you have something in case you can't resist tearing each other's clothes off?"

Enjolras feels his face going hot for the second time tonight, and he hasn't even met up with Grantaire yet. "...Yes," he mutters.

"Good for you. Now. Not that I think it's going to be awful, but do you need us to make a fake emergency call in case it is?"

"I am perfectly capable of extricating myself from an awkward situation," Enjolras says, wondering if Grantaire is setting up the same thing, just in case. "I don't know why you're acting like I've never been on a date before."

"Oh. You mean you have gone on dates?" Courfeyrac asks.

"Yes."

Without looking up, Combeferre says, "Since we met you?"

Enjolras pauses. "Oh. Well, no."

"Q-E-D," Courfeyrac says smugly.

Enjolras could give a rousing speech on the many ways in which Courfeyrac sucks, but he doesn't have time. "Whatever. I have to go," he says.

"You kids have fun," Courfeyrac sings out. "We won't wait up."

Combeferre elbows him, finally looking up from his laptop screen. "He's not wrong, but...let us know if you're going to spend the night with him, would you? So we'll know he hasn't murdered you or anything."

"Why does everyone think I'm going to spend the night with him?"

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. "Wishful thinking?"

"We're just covering all the options," Combeferre says, digging an elbow into Courfeyrac's side again. "And you do look very nice," he adds. "Have a good time."

Enjolras can't quite keep from smiling. "Thanks. I think...I hope I will," he says, and then he closes the apartment door behind him.

It's cold enough outside that Enjolras can see his breath, so he walks quickly to the coffee shop, his hands tucked deep in his pockets. He should have brought gloves, but he'll be late if he goes back for them, and besides--Courfeyrac borrowed his black leather pair for undisclosed reasons last week, and Enjolras isn't entirely sure he wants them back.

He still gets there a few minutes early, but when he turns the corner he sees Grantaire standing outside the coffee shop, leaning against the red-brick wall. He's wearing a red knitted hat and a black leather jacket, and he looks like he's trying hard not to look like he's waiting. Like maybe he wants to keep his expectations low.

"Hi," Enjolras says.

And Grantaire--there's no other word for it--lights up. His eyes widen, his lips curl into a smile, his face turns pink. Enjolras wants nothing more than to push him back against the wall and pin him in place with his hands and his mouth and his hips, but Grantaire's holding out a paper cup.

"Here."

Enjolras possibly makes an embarrassing noise as he curls his hands around the cup of coffee.

"It's only a double-shot," Grantaire warns. "I don't want you calling me at four in the morning because you're too fucking wired to sleep."

Enjolras ignores the comment, because he's fairly sure that Grantaire would love it if he called at four in the morning. For any reason.

The coffee is as good as it was the first time, perfect temperature, perfect balance, just--perfect. "Thank you," he says. "I didn't, um. I didn't bring you anything. Sorry."

Grantaire waves a hand. "You didn't know I was going to sneak behind the counter and make you coffee. And actually that little noise you made when you saw it was a gift all by itself."

"Oh." Enjolras considers being mortified, but he takes another sip of coffee instead. "It really is perfect."

Grantaire grins. "So. About that name of yours."

"The one you promised to scream for me?" Enjolras asks, pretending his pulse doesn't speed up at the thought.

He nods, very seriously. "At that volume, it would be terribly embarrassing if I got it wrong. Can I hear it one more time?"

"It's Enjolras," he says.

"Enjolras," Grantaire mimics, his breath fogging in the night air. "Enjolras, Enjolras, Enjolras."

"It's not like Beetlejuice, you don't have to say it three times," Enjolras says dryly, to cover the fact that he wants to catch hold of Grantaire's jacket and kiss him until he can taste his own name on Grantaire's tongue.

Not for the first time, he wonders what's gotten into him. He obviously needs supervision to keep from doing something incredibly stupid. "Do you want to go inside?" That's where coffee dates are supposed to happen, right? In a coffee shop?

"Only if you want to have Eponine making moony eyes at us all evening."

"She's back?"

"Yeah, as of this morning. I filled her in while I was making your coffee, and I have to warn you--I think she's actually going to coo at us if we walk in together."

"That's not exactly optimal. Do you have any other ideas?"

"Let's go for a walk."

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. "It's dark and it's freezing."

"You have coffee, and I have a hat. We'll be fine. And it's pretty," he adds, gesturing at the old-fashioned streetlamps that cast a hazy light over the brick streets.

"It is," Enjolras admits. Still cradling the cup of coffee, he sets off, Grantaire at his side.

They don't seem to be going anywhere in particular, which is fitting since neither one of them seems to be actually leading the way. Enjolras can't quite resist the urge to glance over at Grantaire from time to time, to reassure himself that he's actually there, that this is happening.

The third time, he catches Grantaire looking back at him, and he almost trips over the sidewalk in front of him.

As they walk on, the sidewalk grows crowded with people going up the street towards dinner or the bar scene, but Grantaire and Enjolras are going the opposite way, moving against the flow of people like a pair of salmon. People in party clothes push past them, around them, between them, and Enjolras thinks now would be a good time to turn onto a side street.

Before he can suggest it, someone shoves between them, knocking Grantaire off-balance. He stumbles off the edge of the sidewalk and into the street. Enjolras drops the coffee cup and grabs his arm, pulling him back onto the curb as a car passes by.

The car wouldn't have hit him. Probably. And it wasn't even going very fast--you couldn't go fast, on streets like this--but Enjolras' heart won't stop pounding. "Are you okay?" he asks tightly.

"I'm fine," Grantaire says, sounding slightly breathless himself. "Um, thanks for that."

Enjolras forces himself to let go of Grantaire's arm. "You're sure you're okay."

"Yes. Are you?"

He nods and swallows hard. "So does every date with you involve deadly peril? Because that seems like something I might need to be prepared for."

"Just the first one," Grantaire says seriously. "I like to keep my boyfriends on their toes."

Boyfriend. Enjolras absolutely does not thrill to the sound of that. And his face isn't heating up, isn't turning red, it's probably just the wind...

"Oh no, you spilled your coffee," Grantaire says, crestfallen.

"Forget it. It's not the worst thing that could have happened. I mean--" He waves a hand. "I can always get another coffee, right?" I can't get another you, he doesn't say.

Grantaire gives him a shaky smile. "Always."

Enjolras scoops up the empty coffee cup and drops it into a trash-can on the edge of the sidewalk. It's cold out, and he didn't bring gloves, so he goes to put his hands in the pockets of his wool coat.

Instead, Grantaire reaches out and catches his hand, and Enjolras curls his fingers around Grantaire's. It feels natural somehow, even though they've barely spoken since they left the coffee shop.

They turn a corner, and the crowds begin to thin. Grantaire takes a deep breath and lets it out, a stream of fog in the cold air. "Okay, now that we've averted disaster, let's get the boring stuff out of the way. Is Enjolras your first name, or your last name?"

"Last."

"Am I ever going to get any more than that?"

"This from the guy who goes by a single letter while he's bartending."

Grantaire laughs and waves his free hand. "Okay, fair point."

"And I hate my first name."

"You know, you're really not doing anything to make me less curious, here."

Enjolras sighs. "I was named after a French king, and I disagree categorically with monarchy as a form of governance. Can we leave it at that?"

"Yes, sir. Okay, your turn. Ask me something boring."

"All right..." Enjolras doesn't think there's anything about Grantaire that could be considered boring, but he tries. "You're an art student, right? What year?"

Grantaire coughs a little. "Um...fifth," he mutters. "Probably looking at six, before I'm done. It took me a little while to settle down."

"There's nothing wrong with that," Enjolras says, a little sharply. Does Grantaire think he'd judge him on something as superficial as that? "What kind of art are you studying? I mean--what's your focus?"

"Studio art. If I get off my ass I might even manage to get a teaching certification."

"What would you teach?"

"Elementary school," he says immediately.

"Not high school? College?"

"Nah. At that point it's all about technical skills and making 'good' art. Kindergarteners just want to fuckin' paint, you know? They don't care about composition--it just makes them happy. There's joy in it. I think I could get up every morning at six a.m. if I was doing something like that."

Enjolras can't find the words to say how endearing that is, so he settles for smiling like an idiot. "I think you'd be good at it," he says.

"Really? Thanks." He looks genuinely touched by the compliment. It's a good look on him.

"Your turn," Enjolras says, because it's probably inappropriate to kiss someone in the middle of the sidewalk.

"Okay. What's your major?"

"International Relations and Political Science," Enjolras answers.

Grantaire snorts. "So what do you want to do when you grow up--rule the world, or save it?"

"Save it," Enjolras says automatically.

Grantaire laughs. In contrast to the other times Enjolras has heard him laugh, it's not a very nice sound. "Oh my god, you're actually serious, aren't you? You really believe in all that crap."

"All what crap?"

He waves his free hand. "Truth, justice and the American way--life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness--all that bullshit."

"Of course I do," Enjolras says sharply. "Don't you believe in anything?"

"I make it a point not to," he says. "Life's a lot less disappointing that way."

Was it only a minute ago that Enjolras couldn't keep a smile off his face? This isn't what he expected from someone who makes coffee just to surprise him, someone who wants to work with children because of the joy they take in creation. How can someone like that believe in nothing? How can he have no faith in principles, or people, or anything at all?

This isn't going to work. It just isn't. They don't just want different things, they want opposite things. Enjolras' heart sinks like a millstone. "Maybe I should just go," he says quietly.

He starts to pull his hand away from Grantaire's, but Grantaire tightens his grip, tugging so that Enjolras turns towards him, and they stop walking. "Wait, please. I'm sorry," Grantaire says, his eyes wide and soft. "I didn't mean to insult you, I just--I don't understand how you can think the world's ever going to change. Lots of people think that, and the world just gets worse and worse."

Enjolras shakes his head. "That doesn't absolve us from trying."

"The world isn't kind to people who try to change it," Grantaire says, and even in the dim light Enjolras can see every fear he's ever had reflected in those blue eyes--every assassinated leader, every failed rebellion out of the past. Grantaire is mocking him because it's easier than being afraid for him.

"I know," Enjolras says softly. "But I can't live with myself if I don't try."

Grantaire nods and takes a deep breath. "Well, I guess if anyone could change the world, a person determined enough to trawl through every bar in town completely sober just to find someone...that might be the kind of person to get it done."

"Are you calling me stubborn?" Enjolras asks, arching an eyebrow.

"Yes."

Enjolras laughs, and they start walking again.

Grantaire smiles, crooked and anxious. "Look at that--our first fight. And we survived."

"So we did." Enjolras can't help but return the smile, because of the way Grantaire said first. Like he anticipates having more of them, like this is something more than a passing mutual crush. He takes a deep breath, squeezes Grantaire's hand reassuringly, and changes the subject. "Did you get any more numbers during your shift at the coffee shop?"

"No."

"What, none?" Enjolras refuses to believe that.

Grantaire shrugs. "I took the sign down after you left. When you've won the lottery, there's no reason to keep buying tickets, you know?"

Enjolras feels his face heating up, and he's glad of the early winter darkness. "I--don't flatter me."

"I'm just saying. If you hadn't given me your number, I was going to see if I could trade shifts with Eponine so I could see you again, even though I hate literally everything about mornings."

"Everything?"

"Everything. Except, of course, foul-tempered Greek gods with wet hair and gorgeous eyes. Those, I'll get up early for."

"You caught me on kind of a bad day. I'm not usually that bad in the morning."

"Good. I might need to know that someday."

Enjolras frowns, replaying Grantaire's comment. "Wait. Which god?"

Grantaire covers his face with his free hand. "Um...Apollo?"

"The sun god."

"And god of music and medicine, if that makes it any better?"

"It really doesn't."

"Sorry," Grantaire winces. "I got a little carried away."

"Oh, it's all right," Enjolras says, with a sly smile. "It's still better than 'pretty hipster boy.'"

Grantaire sucks in a startled breath and chokes on it. "I never called you that! Did Bahorel say that I called you that? Because he's taking liberties with the source material. I may have used all three words, but definitely not in succession."

"I'm going to gloss over the 'pretty' part for a second and just ask--hipster? Really?"

"Dude, you showed up at the coffee shop in skinny jeans and plaid. You were one pair of black-rimmed glasses away from terminal hipster-dom."

Enjolras elects not to tell him about the contact lenses, and the glasses he keeps on hand for emergencies. The ones with black plastic frames.

By now, they're wandering past the edge of town and onto campus, along the tree-lined paths that cross the college green.

There are benches along the way, with bright lamps illuminating each one. But Grantaire pulls him over to one with the light burnt out, and they sit down together in a near-darkness that could hide a whole multitude of sins.

The metal of the bench is freezing cold, even though the wool of Enjolras' coat. He can't imagine how Grantaire feels, just wearing jeans and a jacket. He sits cross-legged, turned sideways so that he can look at Enjolras. Enjolras mirrors him, facing Grantaire in the near-darkness beneath the trees.

Grantaire leans forward, and Enjolras thinks that he means to kiss him, but instead he just rests his forehead against Enjolras', their mouths only a few inches apart. Enjolras' heart is pounding in a way that has nothing to do with the coffee.

"I have no idea what to do with you," Grantaire admits. "I've never--when you stopped texting me, I was a mess. At first I was convinced that you'd died or something, and then I figured that you'd just lost interest..."

"It wasn't much better on my end. I was frantic. All I could think was how cruel it was, to leave you without an answer...and how I'd probably missed my chance. I think Combeferre was afraid for my sanity."

"But we still found each other. That's got to mean something, right?"

Enjolras lets himself smirk a little. "If that's what you want to believe," he says slyly.

Grantaire rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean. This is more than, I don't know, lust at first sight. Isn't it? Because I'm not lying, there's lust. There's definitely lust, but I feel like there's...more to it than that."

"Me too." Enjolras huffs out a laugh, his breath fogging in the chill. "This is ridiculous. We don't even know if we're going to get along, really."

Grantaire smiles. "Oh, we won't. We're going to argue all the time, about important stuff and stupid stuff and everything in between, and when we get done we're going to kiss and make up, and then argue some more, and then finally we'll wind up having fantastic sex just to shut each other up for a while. How does that sound?"

"Perfect," Enjolras breathes. "It sounds perfect."

Then he closes the last of the distance between them, and they don't talk any more after that.