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Enjolras is just locking up his apartment when the phone rings and he holds it up with his shoulder as he juggles the keys and his bag.
“So, we’ve hit a slight snag,” Combeferre says over the background noise that sounds like cats wailing or Courfeyrac singing.
“Define slight.”
“Bahorel’s car finally gave in, maybe forever. Marius already left with those who were going with him, that leaves us in Courf’s, and since Gavroche decided to come after all...”
“It’s fine,” Enjolras nods, fumbling for his keys again and attempting to open the doors. It has a regrettable tendency to get stuck. “I can take the train in the morning, it could actually give me some time to work on...”
“No,” Combeferre says firmly. “We’d come back in a week to find you still buried under the papers. It’s all figured out, R is going to pick you up in half an hour.”
“Grantaire?” Enjolras asks to clarify, frowning.
“The one and only,” Combeferre tells him, sounding amused. He also sounds like he’s waiting for Enjolras to argue with the idea, which means he’s prepared counterarguments, which means Enjolras should quit while he’s ahead. He has, at times, won an argument with Combeferre, but that was about politics or philosophy, never about logistics and organisational details.
No, really, he knows better.
He thanks Combeferre and gets back inside, dropping his bag in the corridor and heading straight for the desk, firing up his computer and draping his coat over the back of the seat. If he has half an hour, he might as well use it well.
He’s barely into his second paragraph, however, when his doorbell is pressed insistently and creatively, someone forcing it to play a tune it really wasn’t designed for. “Come on in,” Enjolras calls out, because that can only be one person, and sure enough, there’s Grantaire, leaning against the living room’s doorway, pulling off one of his glove with his teeth.
“You’re early,” Enjolras says. It comes out sharper than intended, but he was just getting started with the article and, well.
“Usually you complain about the opposite,” Grantaire reminds him.
“Punctuality is a virtue,” Enjolras says primly, saving the file and clicking to shut the computer off. “You might look into that.”
“I’m more at home with the vices,” Grantaire says, shrugging. He turns something in his hand absently, tossing it up and catching it. Car keys, Enjolras supposes. “Whenever you’re ready, Apollo.”
Enjolras grimaces at the nickname, but complaining about it usually only increases the frequency with which it will be used and they have a long drive ahead of them so he bites his tongue and picks up his things again.
He laughs when they reach Grantaire’s car, because it looks nothing like it had the last time he’s seen it, and yet he would have recognised it anywhere. Grantaire has been driving the same old Ford since he got his driving license, but every once in a while he gets bored and goes to town on it, attacking it with paint and decals. It’s bottle green now, with delicate pink flowers along the side and framing the back window.
It’s a bit different from the last design. “Got bored of the shark already?” he asks and Grantaire shrugs. “I like it,” Enjolras offers lightly and tosses his things into the trunk, save for his laptop bag, which he stuffs as much into the space under the passenger’s seat as he can. He ignores Grantaire’s amused look and seats more comfortably, fastening his seatbelt. “So, how you’ve been?” he asks.
“Small talk, from you?” Grantaire shakes his head, still grinning. “I didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”
“I’ve been practising. It seems like ninety percent of what I do these days,” he sighs. The job isn’t quite as he imagined, but he can’t find it in himself to truly complain, he’s done some good. “But truly, how you’ve been?”
He does want to know, it’s not simple politeness. (And also, he and Grantaire had rarely bothered with politeness to begin with, which Grantaire is probably well aware of.) He hadn’t seen Grantaire since... he has to actually think about it, that’s how long. They’ve all drifted apart after graduation, that has been to be expected, with no meetings to keep them together, no shared lodgings and no classes, no study meetings and very few parties.
He sees Combeferre at least twice a week, of course, and they enable their mutual coffee addiction. Cosette works two blocks away from his office so they meet for lunch sometimes and so he sees Marius almost as often. Jehan texts him a lot and calls if Enjolras forgets to respond and Courfeyrac invites himself over to ‘lighten up Enjolras’ dreary life.’ his words of course.
It’s not the same, though, and this is what this trip is all about, a week in Marius’ family’s cabin (which, given Marius’ family, is more of a mansion) to catch up and, knowing Courfeyrac, wreck some chaos. It’s been his idea, of course, but Enjolras for once couldn’t find a single fault in it.
Which brings him back here, sitting in Grantaire’s car, and Grantaire is looking at him out of the corner of his eye, looking surprised at Enjolras’ question. At his apparent interest. Which is...
He hasn’t seen Grantaire in a while, longer than most of his friends. Grantaire doesn’t force his way into Enjolras’ apartment to make him watch bad movies and distract him from his work. Doesn’t work or live close by, they’re not running into each other anymore, the city streets far less obliging in that regard than the quad had been.
It’s not that they actively avoid each other, obviously, but circumstances are against them. Last time Enjolras invited everyone over Grantaire had a deadline and never made it. Before that was Courf’s birthday party but Enjolras was in Libya at the time. And the time before that... Enjolras doesn’t even remember.
So, is it so strange as it seems in Grantaire’s eyes that he might be interested in news that are not secondhand?
It takes Grantaire a while before he answers, and either he’s mulling over the words or he’s genuinely engrossed in maneuvering in the traffic. They stop at a red light with Enjolras still waiting, considering letting the question go, when Grantaire shrugs.
“How I’ve been. Busy, mostly. The gallery sold two of my paintings and they actually ordered more, apparently thinking it wasn’t a freak accident. I got that illustration gig too, so that’s going on. My new landlord hates me and might be trying to kill me, jury’s still out. Oh, and two months sober yesterday,” he adds, like it’s an afterthought.
He immediately turns his attention to the road ahead, purposefully not looking at Enjolras. It’s hard to tell whether he’d prefer Enjolras not to comment on it at all, or if he’s afraid of a particular reaction... God knows Enjolras has had his moments of frustration at Grantaire’s drinking, stemming from different anger at different times, but always pronounced a bit too sharply, a little too unthinkingly.
Now, he shrugs back at Grantaire, letting his lips curl up in a rueful smile. “I’m not familiar with the protocol, does one offer congratulations?”
“Fuck if I know. Probably.”
“Congratulations, then. I’m glad,” he says and then tacks on “for you.” The words come out a little shaky and he isn’t even sure what he meant to say.
“Don’t get too excited, Apollo, it’s just two months. You might remember, I’ve gone longer before and still managed to fuck it up,” he says, almost philosophically, his tone deceptively light again. “Now, your turn, what’s new? I hear good things. Great things if that story about the UN observers is true.”
“I’m never telling Joly anything again.”
Grantaire laughs. “So all true, then. It’s the best shit you’ve pulled since the junior year and the DC thing.”
“We’ve agreed to never talk about the DC thing,” Enjolras mutters, even though his frown is mostly for show. He’s enjoying the smile on Grantaire’s face, warmth spreading through his chest. He unbuttons his coat absently and tries not to question why the warmth only flares up into low-boiling heat when Grantaire glances to the side, following the movement of his fingers. “I’ve been busy, mostly,” he echoes Grantaire’s shrug.
“That’s not exactly new,” Grantaire points out.
“You really don’t want to listen to me talk about my job for hours on end,” Enjolras says, because he knows pretty damn well that once he starts it’s very difficult to stop and he’s also pretty well aware not many people can stand a prolonged exposure to that.
Grantaire, however, laughs; startled into a snort that turns into actual laughter as he shakes his head. At Enjolras’ bemused look he only seems to laugh harder. “Sorry, it’s actually funny if you know...” he shrugs and doesn’t continue, but takes his hand off the wheel to wave at Enjolras encouragingly. “I’d love to hear all about it. Start with the UN thing and don’t skip over details.”
And he sounds completely earnest, like he does want to hear all about that. So Enjolras starts on that story and then moves to another one and then another. It doesn’t take long for Grantaire to interject and question and mock and go off tangent and make Enjolras defend his actions and his beliefs, because that’s what Grantaire does, what he’s always done.
Enjolras missed it more than he can express, and definitely more than he realised.
It took him a long while to stop being angry at Grantaire when this happened (and it happened all the time, so the anger was truly counterproductive), to learn that the exasperation was useful, that the irritation was the fuel and the impulse he needed to get better. That Grantaire’s needling was helpful, his arguments helping Enjolras hone his own.
It took him even longer to come to enjoy the discussions, to feel excitement and exhilaration when arguing with Grantaire, but it all happened eventually and yes, he knew he was missing it ever since the regular meetings stopped, their university organisation disbanded once their graduated and their paths moving that much apart.
But the thrill he feels now, the lightness in his chest and the way his words are quick and easy and the damn elation at the back-and-fro; that’s still a little unexpected.
“Honestly, you need to stop smiling, Apollo, it’s disconcerting,” Grantaire tells him, but he’s grinning right back, like he’s missed this too. “Careful, one might think you’re enjoying yourself.”
“Laugh it up, but this has actually been more productive than the sum of my meetings last week,” Enjolras says, still smiling, but he’s not even joking.
Grantaire gives him a long look, one that probably would last longer if he didn’t have to turn his eyes back to the road ahead. The look borders on disbelieving, almost suspicious, like he’s gauging Enjolras’ honesty and doesn’t quite know what to do with it.
“If that’s the case, I truly worry about the future of this country. Nay, the world,” he says, and smiles ruefully before Enjolras can comment. “And as you know, I don’t even care about the world that much.”
“Could have fooled me, with your perfect attendance at meetings, not to mention that time in DC.”
“I thought we weren’t talking about DC,” Grantaire shoots back easily. “It’s not my fault your merry band of bleeding hearts and idealists seduced me with your baked goods and puppy dog eyes and a chance to spend my nights in a jail cell every once in awhile.”
“Baked goods?”
“Half of us started coming to the meetings because of Musichetta’s pastries and you know it.”
“And puppy dog eyes?”
“Courfeyrac.”
“Point,” Enjolras admits.
“It’s interesting that you don’t feel the need to question the jail cells aspect.”
“Weren’t those the best times?” Enjolras deadpans, startling a laugh out of Grantaire.
They fall into comfortable silence after that, Grantaire leaning back in his seat, eyes on the road, and Enjolras resting his head against the window, dividing his attention between the road and the glances at Grantaire he can’t help but sneak.
He looks well. Relaxed. Not happy, maybe, but content, settled into his own skin.
It’s true that Grantaire has attempted sobriety at a few points in the past and the best he had managed was a few months tops. Enjolras desperately hopes it will last this time, because Grantaire has so much potential to be brilliant, and never is that so clear as when he’s like this; his eyes bright and his wit still sharp but not bitter.
And... it’s true that Grantaire could never be described as handsome, not in the way people use the word, but some of his features are striking; his eyes, the mop of his hair, his hands. The blue veins under pale skin on his wrists. The line of his neck. Enjolras has been drawn to them before, found himself looking before, in the quiet moments during the meetings or lost during the loud parties.
He remembers his fascination quite well, but he doesn’t think it has been accompanied by the warmth coiling in his stomach and the itching in his hands. He doesn’t think he felt the ache, the want before, deep under his skin.
Or maybe he just didn’t notice. Things like that have an appalling tendency of happening to him.
“Well, I’d be damned,” Grantaire mutters, his tone full of wonder. Enjolras shakes himself out from the half sleep he’s fallen into to look at him. “For once the weather forecast was right on the money,” he adds and Enjolras looks to the road, where the sky has turned gray already. It has, indeed, started to snow, puffy white clusters of snowflakes clearly in it for the long run. “And I told Marius all his skiing gear will go to waste.”
“It will anyway,” Enjolras shrugs. “Ten bucks says no one ventures further than ten feet away from the cabin, and that only will be when Jehan wants to get a bowl of snow to eat with sprinkles.”
“Please, it’s like you were born yesterday. Ten bucks says that second day in, Courfeyrac orchestrates a snowball fight even you will be dragged into.”
“I don’t think so,” Enjolras says, aiming for dignified. He doesn’t quite manage, probably, because Grantaire smirks at him.
“I think you’re underestimating how seriously competitive you get. Not to mention your mean streak. This is why no one wants to play Mario Kart with you anymore, Enjolras,” he adds mournfully.
There’s a teasing note in his voice and it’s hard not to smile back, but mostly, Enjolras just likes the way his name sounds in Grantaire’s mouth.
His actual name, for once, too.
“How far away are we?” he asks, trying to make some sense of where they are, but there’s nothing outside but the road and trees and snow, so he’s out of luck. He honestly hopes Grantaire is a little more informed.
“Shouldn’t be more than an hour to get there,” Grantaire says and that’s exactly when the engine stutters and coughs and Grantaire frowns and guides them into the side of the road before they come to a stop with a few more worrying sounds from the car. “Fuck, I jinxed us, didn’t I.”
“You can’t honestly believe in jinxes,” Enjolras mutters and Grantaire ignores him, running his hand over the dashboard and practically cooing at the car, sweet-talking and pleading for it to work.
It’s... This shouldn’t be appealing, should it? Enjolras shakes his head at himself, because honestly, this is getting ridiculous and he remembers having some sanity left at least few hours ago, but there’s something about the slow, soothing movements of Grantaire’s hands, and the way his voice gets really low and soft and, well.
Enjolras busies himself with fishing out his cellphone from his pocket. “Guess what,” he mutters.
“No range,” Grantaire guesses easily, not even looking up. “Yeah, figures,” he mutters and tries to start the engine again, with no luck. He keeps on trying until Enjolras reaches out and covers his hand over the keys, stilling him.
It’s eerily quiet around them, with no noise of the engine whirling, with the darkening skies and the snow still falling heavily. Grantaire’s hand is warm, his fingers curling a little under Enjolras’.
Grantaire looks up at him, expression unreadable, and Enjolras lets go, frowning at his phone again. “I’m gonna...” he starts and unfastens his seatbelt, already opening the doors. Snow spills inside immediately, from the side road, and falling from the sky, stark contrast to Enjolras’ dark coat. He manages two steps out before his feet go in way deeper than he thought they would and he’s not wearing the right shoes for this, not at all.
His phone is still out of range, of course.
“Was that really necessary?” Grantaire asks when he gets back inside, getting even more snow in.
“Worth a try,” Enjolras shrugs. He’s pretty sure his socks are already soaked through and it’s only getting colder.
Grantaire shakes his head at him and frowns upwards, in the general direction of the skies or at the higher power he doesn’t believe in. “Here goes nothing,” he mutters and tries the engine again. It starts.
They’re still going nowhere, the wheels whirring in the snow and the car not even budging forward.
“At least it’s warm,” Grantaire says philosophically.
“For now. Can’t keep it running long. How long till they start looking for us?”
“They won’t expect us for at least an hour, then one more before someone, and my money is on Joly, starts panicking. Combeferre will start calling and after he doesn’t get through he’ll alert the authorities. Some more time before they find us... better settle in, Apollo, you’ll be stuck with me for a while,” he offers, his tone teasing but there’s a false note under the humour, like he thinks Enjolras will be inconvenienced by his company as much as he is by the whole stuck in the snowstorm thing.
It’s only when Grantaire frowns at him that Enjolras realises he must be staring. He offers a small shrug and a smile. “At least the company’s good,” he says and he would have missed it if he wasn’t watching Grantaire, but there it is; surprise, disbelief, quickly schooled down into a lack of expression and then a smirk forced up onto his lips.
And there’s a nagging question in Enjolras’ mind, one he doesn’t want to consider but can’t not; has he missed this before? They’ve exchanged harsh words before, they’ve quarrelled and argued and stormed out and all too often their blows hit too hard, too close, he knows that. But Enjolras never doubted in Grantaire’s friendship, and to think that Grantaire might doubt his, might think Enjolras doesn’t want his company...
That cannot be borne.
Enjolras moves to shed his coat, swearing under his breath when the sleeves prove difficult and he has to twist a little to get it off.
“What are you doing?” Grantaire asks as Enjolras turns the garment in his hands, already shifting closer to the middle of the car, to the edge of his seat. It’s not the most comfortable position, but it’ll have to do for his purposes. “Enjolras,” he adds when Enjolras makes an impatient gesture at him and starts covering them both with the coat.
“It’ll work better if you put your left arm into the sleeve.”
“Are you seriously turning your coat into a fucking slanket?” Grantaire asks but does as instructed anyway.
“You’ll have to get closer,” Enjolras tells him and waits expectantly until Grantaire is pressed flush against his side. Grantaire’s arm is stiff and tense, and he hurries to get his hand out of the way, elbowing Enjolras painfully in the side in the process. “Too close,” he jokes and holds onto the coat, not letting Grantaire move away like he seems ready to.
Enjolras has to only turn his head a little and he would be burying his face in Grantaire’s hair. It’s more tempting than he expected.
There’s a scent of cigarette smoke trapped in Grantaire’s hair, mixed with a lingering scent of a shampoo that reminds Enjolras vaguely of rain and forests. He shifts under the coat and his fingers tighten on the material.
Grantaire is close and warm, and that’s the whole point of this; to keep warm, but that’s just such a small part of what Enjolras is feeling. It’s a strange mixture, new and familiar at the same time, some things he has already came to expect around Grantaire but... It’s peaceful and disturbing at the same time. Comforting, and yet makes his heart race. When Grantaire turns his head, his breath is warm on Enjolras’ neck, and yet he shivers at the sensation. He wants to hide and wants to never move.
Contrary to popular opinion, Enjolras has moments of uncertainty, and this is one of them. Except, at the same time, he’s never felt as sure as he does of at least one thing: he needs Grantaire and has needed him for a long while, and he’s only figuring out why.
He can be slow sometimes, tell no one, and especially not Courfeyrac.
Enjolras doesn’t even realise that he’s nodding off, lulled into half-sleep by Grantaire’s breathing and comforted by the steady presence at his side. He’s jostled back to consciousness when Grantaire shifts and mutters something about the car, Enjolras doesn’t catch what exactly, but Grantaire is moving away and untangling his arm from under the coat and that’s wrong, and not just because Enjolras is cold again.
He makes a noise of protest and Grantaire hums somehow soothingly. “Just a moment, Apollo. Five minutes should do it,” he says, starting the car and turning the heating up to maximum.
“You know the first time you called me that?” Enjolras asks and he might still be half asleep, so he shouldn’t be held responsible to any sentimental nonsense that comes out of his mouth.
“There’s no way you could remember that,” Grantaire tells him, frowning. “I’m not even sure when...”
“Jehan’s poetry reading, that was the second time we’ve met or so. You were talking about muses and got carried away with the whole Greek thing,” Enjolras tells him flatly and rather enjoys the shocked look on Grantaire’s face, the way he breathes in and the way his mouth goes slack for just a moment. “But this is not the point I was making. The first time you called me that, I should have sprayed you with water. Negative reinforcement.”
“A, I was too old to train by then and also B, not a house pet.”
“Your feet twitch when you’re asleep,” Enjolras says. It’s neither here nor there and he wishes he could take it back, but here they are.
“It’s creepy to watch people sleep,” Grantaire mutters, then frowns. “When have you even...”
“You’ve slept on our couch a dozen of times.”
“Some people don’t get up to make coffee at four am and you know what, they are the healthy ones.”
“Oh, health and safety lecture from you, great,” Enjolras says and he thinks he’s grinning. Grantaire definitely is. “Tell me the one about the use of fireworks inside.”
“That was one time. And also, it was Bahorel, not me,” he mutters, clearly lying, and turns the engine off again, burrowing back under the coat unprompted. His hand brushes Enjolras’ under the coat and it’s cold, too cold for Enjolras’ liking, so he catches Grantaire’s fingers and holds on, running his thumb over Grantaire’s knuckles, trying to warm it up.
It takes Enjolras a long moment to realise what he is doing. Grantaire’s fingers twitch, but he doesn’t move to take his hand away, and he seems to be taking great care in not looking up, his head bowed, hair obscuring his eyes.
It’s cold enough that his uneven breathing manifests itself in the air and this is a bad idea, it has the potential to be the worst idea Enjolras ever had, because not only he could fuck up everything between them but he’s also going to do this when they’re stuck in a car in the middle of a snowstorm, but he just can’t not. It’s physically impossible not to lean in and cover Grantaire’s lips with his, light and almost chaste.
Grantaire makes a surprised sound, his fingers squeezing Enjolras’ hand hard, even as his entire body goes perfectly still.
He’s not moving away.
He’s not doing anything more encouraging either, so Enjolras isn’t quite congratulating himself just yet. He should move away himself, he thinks, dismiss it somehow (not as a joke, he couldn’t do that, definitely can’t pass it off as an accident, but temporary insanity brought on by cold, is that a thing?), but Grantaire isn’t, isn’t doing anything at all.
His lips are soft and his hand is still in Enjolras’, so unless he’s frozen with panic, this isn’t a complete disaster. And if all Enjolras gets is this one kiss, he better step up and make it a good one. Something to convince Grantaire that this is worth a try (please) or at least something to remember when it’s over (please, not this).
Then something shifts in Grantaire and his mouth opens, letting Enjolras kiss him properly, still gentle but purposeful. Enjolras disentangles his free hand from under the coat and buries his fingers in Grantaire’s hair, tugging to tilt his head, to get better access.
“Enjolras,” Grantaire mutters, sounding frustrated, and then he’s kissing back, like he wants this.
He kisses Enjolras like he’s annoyed with him, somehow, impatient and insistent, and it’s amazing and Enjolras can only try and retaliate and something in his chest is unfurling in elation, like when they’re arguing, like when all of Grantaire’s attention is on him, like when Grantaire’s gaze is heated and dark and only for him except this is a thousand times better.
Grantaire is breathing heavily when he pulls back, his eyes closed and his hand on Enjolras’ chest, steadying him. His palm covers Enjolras’ heart and he knows Grantaire can feel it racing, trying its very best to break out of its prison.
“You have the worst timing,” Grantaire tells him, not sounding displeased at all. He might be smiling, in fact, his lips swollen and curled up in the left corner, twitching slightly as he’s fighting a losing battle against a grin. “Honestly, of all the times. All the times, Enjolras.”
“I shouldn’t have...” Enjolras starts and bites the words back. “Should I apologise?”
“That really depends where you were going with this,” Grantaire says honestly and he looks tired, but he sounds curious, expectant. His hand is still on Enjolras’ chest and he runs his fingers down the line of buttons on his shirt, an absent-minded caress, and it’s not quite the answer but it’s close enough.
“Anywhere you want,” Enjolras tells him.
“The car broke down and we’re stuck in the snow,” Grantaire offers, purposefully misunderstanding. “We’re not going anywhere any time soon.”
“I can work with that,” he says and leans into a kiss again and this time Grantaire responds immediately and freely, tugging him close and taking control of the kiss in a way that makes Enjolras actually dizzy.
He loses the track of time. To be honest, he loses the track of everything except the way Grantaire is kissing him and touching him and all but crawling into his lap, swearing into Enjolras’ mouth when he hits the steering wheel painfully and muttering apologies when Enjolras’ head hits the glass with a thud and he groans. It doesn’t even hurt that much and he’s preoccupied by the way Grantaire is mouthing down his jaw.
There’s at least a confused second or so when he attributes the sudden light in his eyes to his own reaction to Grantaire’s hand skidding the waistband of his pants, but he realises it’s someone shining a flashlight into the windows of the car.
He’s actually a bit annoyed at that.
Grantaire pulls away and rolls down the window, and there’s a concerned looking middle age man squinting at them. “You boys need some help?” he asks and Grantaire is clearly holding back a laugh, and the trouble is that Enjolras can easily follow his line of thoughts to the place in which that sounds like a line from a porno and the fact that Enjolras is almost painfully hard is not helping.
He musters up the rest of his dignity (not much left) and they quickly decide on ditching the car and driving up to the cabin. Enjolras remains quiet for the most of the drive, bundled up in his coat again, embarrassed at being caught making out in a car like a teenager.
Except he hasn’t done things like this when he was a teenager.
He didn’t know Grantaire back then, his mind supplies helpfully.
And yeah, he might be embarrassed and flushing red, but he’s still not letting go of Grantaire’s hand.
They get to the cabin soon enough, and Grantaire exchanges e-mails with their rescuer, because his daughter is apparently looking into art programs and Grantaire promises to send them some info, of course he does.
“We’ve been ready to send out the search parties,” Combeferre tells them when they get inside, and sure enough, Bahorel and Feuilly are in the middle of kitting themselves up in a thousand of layers for the rescue expedition.
“Car broke down,” Enjolras says shortly and reluctantly lets go of Grantaire’s hand to dispose of his shoes and coat. “Come on,” he says impatiently and realises pretty much everyone is giving him weird looks, including Grantaire, who is really taking way too long to take off his jacket.
“Car broke down,” Courfeyrac repeats. “And then?” At Enjolras’ look, he shrugs. “There’s more to the story, you’re not fooling us, especially since you’re not trying very hard,” he mutters, glancing down when Enjolras tugs on Grantaire’s sleeve impatiently. “I’m offended, you should be trying harder to fool us, honestly, what are you thinking.”
Enjolras ignores him. It’s that or flipping him off, and that would be undignified. And he’s holding Grantaire’s hand. And he might be regressing to the haughty petulance of his early college years, he doesn’t care.
Grantaire is grinning at him, vastly amused by the situation. “Where is our room?” Enjolras asks and Combeferre gives him a look.
“You are in the second one on the left, with Feuilly. Grantaire is...” he trails off when Enjolras nods and heads for the room, dragging Grantaire behind him. He pretends not to see Grantaire giving everyone a cheerful wave, or Eponine laughing into her sleeve, or the thumbs up that Bahorel is giving them.
No, he does a double take at that one, because Bahorel is wearing knitted yellow gloves with badgers on them, and seriously?
“I’m going to have to redo the sleeping arrangements, aren’t I?” Combeferre says mournfully and Jehan pats him on the shoulder.
Grantaire disentangles their fingers once the doors close and leans against them, arms crossed over his chest. “This has been fun, but don’t think you’re not explaining yourself,” he tells Enjolras.
He’s about to answer, and it’s honest enough if light, and on the flippant side, and Grantaire would probably let him get away with that, but there’s wariness in his eyes that Enjolras hadn’t seen before, and he can’t give him anything but the truth and he has to offer it without hedging his words, without hiding.
“I think I’m in love with you.”
“You think?” Grantaire says on a sigh and Enjolras nods.
“There’s no baseline to work from.”
Grantaire shakes his head at him, clearly holding back an exasperated smile. “This is not a social experiment, Enjolras.”
“I’ve figured that much, but thanks,” he nods. He takes a step forward and tilts his head at Grantaire. “You kissed me back,” he points out. If he needs to answer questions like these, so should Grantaire.
“Yes, but I’ve been in love with you for years,” Grantaire says simply, like that’s common knowledge. Like everyone knows that already. Like Enjolras should know that. “Enjolras?” he asks, concerned, when Enjolras keeps staring.
“So, I should be apologising after all,” he mutters and Grantaire’s face smoothes and he steps in closer, shaking his head. He’s close enough to touch again, and Enjolras has a hard time not pulling him in.
“No,” Grantaire mutters. “Never for that. Especially not when you got here, after all,” he says, and then he’s the one reaching out, tugging Enjolras close and smashing their lips together. They stumble towards the bed blindly and Enjolras stubs his toe against a suitcase that probably belongs to Feuilly and Grantaire grunts when his knees hit the bed a bit too abruptly.
“You’re absolutely losing the bet,” Enjolras mutters and takes some satisfaction in the way in takes Grantaire a long while to focus his gaze. “There’s no way anyone will be able to drag me out and into the snow for the next few days.”
“Days,” Grantaire says, sounding like he’s questioning that statement. Enjolras gives it some thought.
“Possibly weeks,” he amends and Grantaire grins against his collarbone.