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“Remind me again why I’m doing this.”
Combeferre and Courfeyrac look at each other and answer in turn.
“For the cause, Enjolras.”
“Because you’re hot and we need more sign-ups.”
Enjolras fights off the urge to sigh until his lungs give out and cards his fingers through his hair, foreign and tacky with pomade. He doesn’t miss the way Combeferre winces behind the camera.
“Crap. Sorry,” Enjorlas says, clipped and not at all sorry that he unconsciously undid an hour’s worth of Jehan wrestling with his hair and wasted about fifty metric tons of hair product.
“Just. Smile?” Combeferre offers.
“No, ‘Ferre. It’s a recruitment poster, not Teen Vogue,” Courferyac counters.
Grantaire snorts from the other side of the room, hefts himself off the couch and makes his way towards the three of them: Enjolras leaning on the wall, Combeferre fiddling with the tripod, and Courfeyrac holding a make-shift light reflector. How long Grantaire’s been there, Enjolras has no clue.
“May I?” Grantaire makes a general sweeping motion towards Enjolras, eyes flitting from Combeferre and Courfeyrac.
“Go ahead.” Combeferre says.
Grantaire takes a few long strides and the next thing Enjolras knows he’s assaulted by impossibly blue eyes and a mess of dark curls. He’s standing close enough that Enjoras can tell Grantaire hasn’t been drinking and something inside him clenches at how close they are. Grantaire looks immersed in thought— teeth raking over his lips, chapped and pink-bitten and Enjolras has to think if he’s ever noticed the soft way the corners of Grantaire’s lips tilt up even when he isn’t smiling.
“Hey,” Grantaire murmurs and Enjolras coughs, catches himself, and draws his eyes away from Grantaire’s mouth.
“Hmm?”
“I think he should do ‘The Look’,” Grantaire turns away from Enjolras and cranes his neck to look at Combeferre.
“Ahh. ‘The Look’,” Courfeyrac parrots back and Enjolras can hear the air quotes.
“Brilliant, R,” Combeferre nods.
“What,” Enjolras asks no one in particular.
“You know,” Grantaire’s attention is back on Enjolras, head tilted and appraising, “That look you get when I say something to piss you off.”
“I don’t—”
“Yes. That one,” Grantaire smiles and Enjolras needs him to take one step back because they’re still standing toe-to-toe and he can see exactly how long Grantaire’s eyelashes are this up close.
“Something’s missing though,” Grantaire steps back and turns to Combeferre and Enjoras lets out a whoosh of breath and notices his heartbeat is slowing down, close to normal.
“Maybe he could point at the camera?” Courfeyrac suggests and Combeferre hums in assent.
“Definitely,” Grantaire says his gaze is sweeping across the empty cafe.
Cafe Musain became the de facto headquarters of The ABC (second only to their designated club room at the university) and Madame Hucheloup had no qualms in letting them have this photo shoot a few hours after closing.
“Here,” Grantaire says, reaches for Enjolras’ hand and fits a cue stick into his fist, “A prince needs his sword, does he not?”