Work Text:
It starts when Courfeyrac rushes into the Musain with a copy of Taylor Swift’s latest album, Red. Of course, Grantaire has a scathing response to the man’s excited squealing all ready on the tip of his tongue when Enjolras beats him to it.
“Goodness Courfeyrac, why do you listen to such utter crap?”
Affronted, Courfeyrac hugs the CD to his chest and glares at the blond leader. “Just because you have no taste whatsoever and zero knowledge of pop culture, doesn’t mean you insult Taytay.”
“Taytay?” Enjolras asks, looking torn between being amused and horrified. Thus, his face ends up looking like a face-mash done by a five-year-old. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Courfeyrac, I won’t argue with you about your frankly horrible choice of music, but we do have a meeting to concentrate on.”
And with a last disgusted glare at the CD case, Enjolras turns towards the rest of their group just as a decidedly evil idea forms in Grantaire’s mind. This should be fun.
*
It’s the first meet-and-greet the Amis are holding this semester, and the group has been instructed to spread out and mingle with the main purpose of attracting as many people to their cause as possible. True to form, most of them are socialising with various possible-members and following Enjolras’ orders in general, with the glaring exception of Marius and Grantaire – the former being busy mooning over Cosette from a distance as Eponine shoots him exasperated looks, the latter because he’s more interested in the bottle in his hands than the doe-eyed idealists milling about.
“Grantaire,” hisses Enjolras, appearing out of nowhere to hover by his elbow. “Why aren’t you doing as I told you to?”
Grantaire straightens from his slouch. “Because, dear Apollo, I’m not who you’d want preaching the merits of your little society to the newbies.”
Enjolras’ face smoothens out into that of a charming smile when a girl who looks like a freshman approaches them. He shoots Grantaire a quick look as if to say behave before launching into his memorised spiel.
The girl is nodding along to every word coming out of Enjolras’ mouth, expression enraptured. She also looks almost overwhelmed at the sheer beauty of Enjolras, something Grantaire is acquainted with due to personal experience.
“Wow!” she exclaims, when Enjolras allows her to get a word in. “You’ve really got a lot of plans – but, if I may ask, aren’t you a little too young to be thinking of changing the world? How old are you, anyway?”
Enjolras opens his mouth – to reply with something along the lines of ‘age is mind over matter’ no doubt – but Grantaire beats him to it. His face is completely serious as he sings: “I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling twenty-two!”
Immediately, Enjolras’ face goes bright red and his jaw tightens. He asks the girl to write down her contact information before thanking her for attending and leaving.
The girl turns towards Grantaire, raised eyebrow inquisitive. “You’re a Swiftie?”
A surprised laugh rips its way out of his mouth. “God, no! But memorizing a few of her songs is definitely worth seeing the expression on our fearless leader’s face.”
*
Once again, Grantaire is slouched against the wall of the Musain. Enjolras is delivering a speech on his little makeshift stage; it is as impassioned as usual, except now he has a larger audience seeing as several people from the meet-and-greet have chosen to sit in on a meeting before deciding whether or not to sign up with the group.
Enjolras is still angry with Grantaire for singing Taylor Swift to a possible member and is therefore ignoring him. He doesn’t react to his jibes, nor does he provide rebuttals when Grantaire points out the rare flaw in his reasoning, choosing instead to field questions from the new members before continuing with his speech.
When he’s done, a smattering of applause breaks out along with some wolf-whistling from Courfeyrac and Eponine. There’s a slight lull when the noise dies down, Combeferre getting ready to deliver his own (much shorter and way less intimidating) speech, and in the sudden silence everyone can hear a quiet voice crooning.
“And he’s long gone, when he’s next to me and I realise: the blame is on me!”
If anyone hears Enjolras’s small, strangled cry, it’s lost in the roar of laughter as he hides his face in his hands.
*
The next week, Enjolras is late to the meeting. Most of them aren’t worried, however, because as uncommon it is for the blond student to be late to his own meetings, it does happen occasionally. He tends to leave a warning, though, and Combeferre is checking his watch at thirty-second intervals that are giving Grantaire grey hair just to watch.
The doors of the café suddenly swing open to reveal a disheveled and harried-looking Enjolras. He strides towards the tables they have pushed together, golden hair flying every which way and appearing as though it hasn’t seen a comb in a couple of days. The red jacket he favours is slung across his shoulders and buttoned all the way, fitting his torso like a glove. Despite how unkempt he appears, Grantaire has to swallow hard at the delectable sight. He also wisely ignores the voice that whispers here comes your wild Antinous at the back of his mind.
“Sorry I’m late,” Enjolras is saying, his hands trying in vain to tame the wild curls at the edge of his vision. He is obviously unaware that he looks like a fucking Bernini statue and that the mere sight of him is making Grantaire grow hard. Seriously, it should be illegal for one person to look that good. “Traffic was crazy, and I barely had any sleep last night trying to finish the first draft for Lamarque’s assignment-“
He’s cut off by Grantaire’s melodious voice, a dreamy expression on the artist’s face as he rests his face in one hand. “I knew you were trouble when you walked in…”
Enjolras’ glare is diluted by the fact that both Jehan and Courfeyrac are giggling like idiots. “So shame on me n-o-o-ow,” they continue, voices high and squeaky from their barely-contained laughter.
Eponine smirks at Enjolras. “When your saddest fear comes creeping in, that you never loved me, or her, or anyone, or anything!”
“Yeah ah!” conclude all four of Grantaire, Jehan, Courfeyrac and Eponine at the loudest volume they dare to use inside the café without risking getting thrown out.
And it’s true that Bahorel laughs so hard that he falls out of his chair and bangs his head on the edge of the table, but that’s another story.
*
“You have no work ethic!” Enjolras is saying calmly even though his eyes betray the extent of his emotions. “All you do is laze about and disturb our meetings – why do you even come if all you’re going to do is tear us – me – down? Either do us a service and leave or start helping us with the cause!”
Anger is evident in every line of Grantaire’s face, along with heartbreak Enjolras can’t see because he is the King of Obliviousness. “You don’t get it, do you? You’re never going to achieve anything. The world is a fucking cruel place, Enjolras, and the sooner you realise that, the better!”
Something seems to snap inside Enjolras. “If that’s what you think, then leave! You believe in nothing, so just go and never come back!” he screams.
Grantaire, instead of fighting back, slumps as the fight goes out of him. He picks up his things to stuff in his backpack, feet carrying him almost reluctantly to the door. “I do believe in something, you idiot; I believe in you. But fine, I won’t bother you anymore.”
Jehan grabs him before he can step out of the café. “Don’t leave, R, please. He didn’t mean it!” He ignores Enjolras’ indignant spluttering of ‘I did too’ and focuses on the artist instead. “Please.”
The tears choking Jehan’s voice are audible to everyone, and Courfeyrac glares at Enjolras for making the sensitive poet cry. Grantaire smiles sadly at Jehan before kissing the top of his head. He opens the door, swiveling around to look at Enjolras one last time before leaving.
“We,” he murmurs, voice broken and raw. “Are never, ever, ever getting back together.” The chuckle that accompanies the toneless words is humourless, hanging poignantly in the air as the door slams shut behind Grantaire.
*
Five days later, Enjolras has been appropriately berated for kicking Grantaire out and is filled to the brim with guilt and worry. None of the Amis have heard from the dark-haired man since he left the Musain, and Jehan has been so worried that he’s eaten next to nothing since his best friend disappeared. Enjolras shudders to think of what’s become of Grantaire since the last time he’s seen him, his own treacherous mind offering up image after image of what Grantaire looked like lying in a hospital bed after an alcohol binge two years back. Which is why he finally breaks down on the morning of the fifth day after the Houdini act, reaching or his phone to send off a quick message to the artist.
Enjolras: Combeferre told me I should give you space to cool off, but at least give us some indication that you’re still alive. Jehan’s going crazy with worry.
He’s not above guilt-tripping Grantaire, and throws Jehan in the text simply because he knows that Grantaire would never intentionally try to upset him. Because he is right as usual, his phone pings with a message alert a few hours later.
Grantaire: u go talk 2 ur friends, talk 2 my friends, talk 2 me
When a confused Enjolras shows Combeferre the reply, the bespectacled man barely manages to contain his smile. “Trust me, he’ll be fine.”
*
Enjolras lets himself into Grantaire’s apartment with the key he borrowed from Jehan – well, he says borrowed, but he’d better replace the damn thing before the poet finds out. He’s met with the blaring of the sound system, Taylor Swift’s voice loud and grating on his ears.
He finds Grantaire in the spare room-turned-studio, dressed in paint-spattered shirt and jogging pants, a paint brush in his hand and an easel set up in front of him. He’s wailing along with the singer, hips moving to the rhythm.
“Fighting with him is like trying to solve a crossword and realising there’s no right answer,” his voice bounces around the room. “Regretting him was like wishing you never found out love could be that strong.”
Enjolras watches for a while as he moves the paint brush along with the words, making wide slashes across the canvas when the music called for it. He is silent as he observes a figure take shape on the canvas, dressed in red and golden-haired and impossible not to identify.
Is that supposed to be me?
And indeed it is. Enjolras is smiling grimly at some unseen thing or person just outside the canvas, face dirtied and bloodied even as his eyes are soft, filled with some emotion he cannot put a name to at the moment. A red flag is held proudly in his right hand, left arm extended as though he is holding someone’s hand.
It is a beautiful painting, extremely lifelike. The colours all but jump of the page, and Enjolras finds himself transfixed as he stares at his counterpart of paint splashed across Grantaire’s canvas.
Grantaire’s voice breaks as he sings the next few lyrics, prompting Enjolras to focus on the words to understand what has the other man so choked up.
Losing him was blue like I’d never known.
Surging forward, Enjolras grips Grantaire’s shoulders, turns him around, and smashes their lips together.
Immediately, a burst of fireworks erupts behind his eyes, and Enjolras only has a moment to think wow, cliché, before Grantaire is kissing him back, all lips and tongue and teeth. His hands immediately dig into Enjolras’ hair, fingers wound tight around the golden strands and causing a most delicious pain to shoot through his scalp.
When they break apart for air, Enjolras doesn’t let Grantaire go far. He leans their foreheads together, both breathing heavily as they try to regain their breath. Taylor Swift is still blaring through the speakers, however, and despite his shortness of breath, Grantaire attempts to sing along.
“Forgetting him was like trying to know somebody you never met,” he gasps, voice ragged and not as melodic as usual. “But loving him was red.”
Here, his voice drops as he pulls away to stare at Enjolras with wonder. “Oh," he breathes, “red-“
“Grantaire, would you stop singing Red, I’m trying to kiss you!”
So Grantaire shuts up, choosing instead to spend his time memorising the taste of Enjolras’ lips.