Chapter Text
“What did you say? I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening,” Courfeyrac stops pressing the suit to his torso before he twirls to face Enjolras. “How do I look?”
“Um, great, yeah. Dashing.”
“Do you think this looks better than that D&G one? I think the sleeves are too wide…”
“No, no. It’s fine.”
“You keep saying that,” Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. “Well, the sleeves can be fixed…” Courf hums and Enjolras watches from his place in the elegant chair. Courfeyrac has been trying on suits for over two hours now. Jehan was supposed to pick them up any minute now so they could make it to the Musain on time. “Enjolras, I need you to be completely honest with me right now.”
“Sure, yeah.”
“How does my ass look? I mean, does it look better in these trousers, or in the other ones?” the hallway is silent. “Enjolras?”
“Seriously, Courfeyrac?” Enjolras sighs and rubs his eyes. “Yeah, um, it looks nice. I can’t dance.”
“What?”
“That the trousers look fine.”
“Nonononono;” says Courfeyrac incredulously, “what do you mean you can’t dance?”
“Although, I do think the Dolce & Gabbana ones looked slimmer. Isn’t that what’s ‘in’ on suits lately?”
“Enjolras…”
“I… don’t know how to dance? I’m sorry?”
“And you didn’t bother taking lessons?”
“You know I have no time.”
“Then you should have told me that before you accepted your post as best man,” Courfeyrac said accusingly.
“I know; I should’ve told you sooner, but –”
“The wedding’s in less than two months, Enjolras!”
“I’m sure that’s time enough to learn some basi –”
“Basics? You want to know the basics for my wedding?”
“Courf, it’s not like I –”
“Like you want to look like circus elephant? Because that’s the message I’m getting here.” Enjolras opened his mouth, but Courfeyrac didn’t let him even peep before continuing. “We’re supposed to be your best friends. You’re supposed to want us to be happy. How are we supposed to be happy when one of the best men can’t dance?” he spins on his heels and presses his palms to his eyes as he talks. “Shit, this is a disaster –”
“Besides, it’s not like dancing is my principal duty as a groomsman.”
“No, yes. It is,” he turns to the blond again. “It is because you’re the best man, not a simple, common groomsman, Enjolras. They’re supposed to dance with everybody while the groom and other groom are too busy with each other.”
“I know; that can be easily fixed. I’m sure Jehan –”
“You’re the ambassador of the wedded couple, the representing party,” Courfeyrac flushes in annoyance. “You’re supposed to look graceful and godlike, and like you’re enjoying the party, and you won’t look like you’re enjoying yourself at all, not only because you simply don’t know how to enjoy yourself at a party – no offense, but also because you won’t be dancing.”
“Alright, that’s enough,” says Enjolras. “Stop being so melodramatic. I’m not even your best man; I’m Combeferre’s, and I’m sure Combeferre won’t mind that I can’t dance.”
It looked like Courfeyrac was about to shout at him, but then the man of the hour opened the door and walked into the suit store, with Combeferre in tow. Courf swore and hastened to hide behind the row of suits he’d tried on.
“’Ferre, don’t look. Close your eyes. Don’t even look in this direction. Jehan, make sure he doesn’t see!”
“Relax, love. I’m not looking,” smiles Combeferre.
“Why can’t he look?” Enjolras asks, bemused.
“The groom isn’t supposed to see the gown until the wedding,” explains Jehan while browsing through the brunet’s selection, and then gasping dramatically. “Courfeyrac, did you try this one on?”
“But this isn’t a dress…”
Courf raises his head so that it’s visible over the suits, looks at the item in question and beams. “I did! Isn’t it great? It looks brilliant. That’s the one, Jehan; the one.”
“Oh, Courf,” Jehan coos dreamily and babbles on. Enjolras walks over to Combeferre, who is pointedly browsing through a magazine, looking opposite to where the other two are, and blushing slightly.
“Hey,” Enjolras greets. “You got here just on time. You saved me.”
“From?”
“Oh, you know, Courfeyrac’s antics.”
Combeferre smiles. “So how’d it go?”
“I couldn’t tell the difference between any of them, to be honest,” Enjolras admits. Combeferre laughs and picks up another random magazine from the coffee table. “He’s chosen one, though, if their conversation is anything to go by,” he motions at Jehan and what’s visible of Courf’s head. “And you’re blushing.” This comment makes Combeferre blush harder. Enjolras waits for him to say something, but nothing comes.
He’s driven out of his reverie by a particularly loud giggle – he couldn’t tell from whom it came from, which was alarming. “Prouvaire, Courfeyrac, hurry up!” he called.
Twenty-five minutes later saw them walking into the Musain, where most of their friends were already waiting for them. They greet everyone and sit down in their usual places. As everyone starts going back to their chatter, Combeferre takes Courfeyrac’s right hand in his left under the table, which was answered by his fiancé with a squeeze of hands, nosing to the left side of his face, and a little kiss on the cheek. They both smile privately. Meanwhile, Enjolras tries his best to avert his gaze, looking at the door and incidentally spotting an arriving Grantaire before anyone else. Disconcerted as he was by doing his best at not looking, he called the newcomer’s name loudly.
He raises an eyebrow. “Afternoon, Enjolras,” he walks in sits on his usual place slowly. “If you’re opening to a discourse on how it’s my fault that you had to spend hours with Courf’s most narcissistic side,” a chuckle from the man himself, “you’ll have to make an appointment. I’m rather exhausted right now.”
“You made it,” grins Courf. “Man, you’re not getting out of this that easily. You’re going to come with me tomorrow.”
“Of course.”
“You’re going to be the final vote. Enjolras is shite at best manning.”
“I don’t doubt that in the least,” Grantaire smirks. Enjolras didn’t even have it in him to be offended. “Really, though. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it, it’s just that –”
“Don’t worry, R; I know this competition was important to you. Being my best man doesn’t mean you have to give up on your personal life.”
“Thanks, man,” Grantaire raises an invisible glass to him. Enjolras observed him closely. The man looked exhausted, indeed, but not mentally or even physically; it was more of a relaxed kind of exhausted, like the one you felt after accomplishing something that took a lot of work. After weeks of looking at him closely (for whatever reason as unknown to him as could be), he could tell when Grantaire was tired, spent, or just having a bad day. “I’ll gladly be your best man tomorrow, after a good night’s rest.”
“Speaking of best men;” says Courfeyrac loudly, getting the attention of everybody else, “Enjolras is a shit and just today, he told me he can’t dance. My wedding is ruined.”
“Has anyone seen Marius?” says Enjolras loudly, trying to divert the conversation. Only Joly takes the bait.
“He had a date wi –”
“Enjolras, you’re the best man,” says Bahorel. “You must know how to dance.”
“Grantaire is the best man, too; surely he can make up for it,” he suggests; it’s met with blank stares. Grantaire laughs.
“I am aghast! Apollo, our fearless leader, who will jump to dangerous situations in no time, can’t dance?” Enjolras blushes. “And he’s obligated to dance. This is better than a soap opera.”
“Just take some lessons,” shrugs Bossuet.
“Yeah,” agrees Feuilly. “Actually, the workshop I used to work in had a really good view to the Zumba room in the gym.”
“I am not going to Zumba,” Enjolras deadpans.
“I have to agree,” Bossuet says, “they might actually do you some good.”
“Plus, it wouldn’t hurt to do a bit of exercise,” adds Joly. “You know, it’s really important to exercise at this point in your life. I was reading the other day that –”
“I am not going to Zumba,” insists Enjolras.
“Who said what about Zumba what?” Éponine said from the door. “Sorry, I got hung up at work,” the Amis greeted her. “So, what’d I miss?”
“My best man doesn’t know how to dance,” says Combeferre. Enjolras looks at him, betrayed. The other man shrugs. “You are supposed to dance at your best friends’ wedding.”
“I love you,” Courfeyrac says, climbing atop his partner’s lap. Combeferre accepts this gracefully.
“Aw, you two don’t get any less adorable with time,” speaks Jehan.
“So Enjolras can’t dance and absolutely nobody is surprised,” repeats Éponine before she drops down on the seat next to the cynic. “Grantaire can dance,” she says as she rolls back her shoulders, which pop loudly. Joly flinches. Jehan looks up from his poetry book and to Enjolras, who observes his surroundings silently.
“That’s right. R knows how to dance,” he looks at his friend, and Grantaire seems to realize what his friends are getting at, if his expression is an indicator.
“No,” he says hurriedly. This strikes Enjolras as weird. He’s rarely seen Grantaire panicky. Then he plays back what Éponine said and blinks in shock.
“Yeah… you took ballet for twelve years, didn’t you?” says Jehan.
“And learned how to waltz for Azelma’s Sweet Sixteen,” adds Éponine.
“Nope, no,” Grantaire holds his hands towards both his friends, placating. “No-uh.”
“Waltz? I didn’t know that one,” Jehan comments curiously and the girl grins.
“Yes, Azelma wanted one of those grand parties with a waltz and a court, and Grantaire was her partner. He danced beautifully, actually.”
“You dance?” Enjolras manages to ask, incredulous. The image of Grantaire dancing with Azelma pops into his mind, uninvited, and his curiosity grows.
“He could teach you how to dance!” says Jehan merrily.
“My best man is better than yours,” Courfeyrac teases Combeferre, and the man smiles and looks at Enjolras with a funny look on his face.
“I think it’d be great,” he agrees. Enjolras can’t find his words.
“Whoa, whoa, wait,” speaks Grantaire, “hold on –”
“I’m in favor of this being implemented,” says Bossuet. Bahorel stands up, grinning.
“Those in favor of designating Grantaire as Enjolras’ dancing instructor…”
“What? No, wait,” hastens Enjolras, looking from one side to the other.
“… For the benefit of the wedding of our friends Combeferre and Courfeyrac…”
“Hey! What if Grantaire doesn’t want to teach Enjolras how to dance?” the dancer implores. “Aren’t you going to take my voice into account? What happened to democracy?”
“… And for a better execution of Enjolras’ duties as best man…”
“This is democracy, R,” smirks Bossuet. “The word you’re looking for is ‘consensus’.”
“Fuck you and your dramatic pauses, Bahorel!”
“… Say aye.”
“Aye,” a synchronized group vote.
“Those opposed, say no.”
“No,” Enjolras said, albeit a bit dazedly, not really following what was happening.
“No!” Grantaire exclaimed, arms raised in exasperation.
“That’s seven of us and two of you,” noted Joly, smiling wickedly. “Whoops.”
“The motion has passed.”
“Go to hell, Bahorel.”
“See ya around, then, R.”
“I’m not taking dancing classes from Grantaire,” Enjolras says quickly.
“I am not giving Apollo dancing classes,” Grantaire agrees.
“I am not marrying Combeferre until he has a decent best man.”
“I have some leotards that will fit you, Enjolras!”
“No, Jehan; I am not wearing leotards for this.”
Their friends organize a schedule for Tuesdays, Fridays (much to Grantaire’s despair) and Sundays.
Enjolras’ History class is over just as Grantaire’s Art History Professor lets them out. They meet at the main courtyard at four in the afternoon and silently head to the parking lot. Grantaire’s hands fidget with his sleeves as they walk. Enjolras glances curiously at his friend every once in a while, wanting to talk to him, but unwilling to initiate the conversation. But you know what they say: until you try, you’ll never know.
“How was class?” Well, that was stupid, he mentally facepalms as Grantaire looks at him with an eyebrow raised.
“Fine.”
Right. “Right.” Both decide that silence is less uncomfortable than an attempt at a conversation. Grantaire keeps doubting, though…
“This is stupid,” he stops walking and Enjolras halts and turns to him. A student bumps into him and scowls. “Are we really going to do this? Are you willing to spend time with me? Because I know you don’t really like me, and trust and willingness is really important here.”
Enjolras looks at Grantaire in his baggy jeans and grey hoodie, at his unruly black curls that look like dramatic brush strokes, which, Enjolras thinks, fit the man so well; he looks at the tight lips, at his eyes, which shift and move with nervousness, possibly reluctance; he looks at the way his stained hands – because Grantaire’s hands will always be stained, regardless of when the last time he painted was – won’t stop moving, and he wonders how the man can think that he doesn’t like him. “Why wouldn’t I like you?”
Grantaire snorts with his whole body. Enjolras doesn’t know many people who express themselves so openly. It only fits that one of those people should be both an artist and a dancer. “Come on then, Apollo,” he says and starts walking again. Enjolras follows.
“You know, I don’t really like it when you call me that.”
“Tough.”
They stay silent after that, but this time, the silence is more comfortable. Not enjoyable, exactly, but still comfortable. Grantaire takes out his keys when they get close to the car and holds open Enjolras’ door for him. The blond looks at him in question and he responds with a shrug. “Old habits die hard.” He gets in and turns on the car. Immediately after, Frank Sinatra fills the air and Grantaire struggles to turn it off, flushing bright red. “Well, shit, that was embarrassing.”
Enjolras is trying very hard not to laugh, but lets out a small chuckle. “‘New York, New York’, really?”
“Stop.”
Now he stops trying and outright laughs. Grantaire tries glaring at him, but the effect is ruined by his heavy blush. “I hadn’t pegged you as a Frank Sinatra fan.”
“What had you pegged me as?”
“I don’t know, I guess Rock, maybe. I’m not sure.”
“What kind of Rock? Metal, Trash, Punk, Alternative…?”
“I don’t the difference between those.”
“Just as you can’t tell the difference between two different suits,” Grantaire grins. Enjolras looks at him. “Courfeyrac told me about your grand contribution to his suit-picking.”
“So you went with him today?”
“Yeah, to see the thing and buy it,” Grantaire took a left turn. “His rear looks delectable. Combeferre is a lucky man.”
“Is he?”
“Well, he’s marrying a funny, responsible, romantic, smart, hot young man with a nice ass and impressive stamina in bed,” Enjolras just stares at him, “what else could he possibly want?”
“Well…” I can’t believe I’m having this conversation, he thinks, “you can’t know for sure about his, ah, behind. Maybe he just buys good clothes.”
“He has a nice ass, though. I’ve experienced the Courf Ass experience firsthand.”
“Oh. Right. That is not something I needed to know.”
“You practically asked for it.”
“I did not. You assumed.”
“I’ve also experienced his stamina firsthand.”
Enjolras says nothing, growing pricklier by the second. He briefly glances at the rear mirror and sees that Grantaire is barely containing himself. Enjolras flushes.
“You weren’t serious,” he states.
“Oh, no, I was; that’s all true,” he laughs, “but your face is hilarious. You pinch your nose and I don’t know if it’s in disgust or annoyance, but it’s priceless.”
“It’s just that I don’t usually think about Courfeyrac doing anything sexual.”
Grantaire turns to him for a second with an inquisitive look. “Dude, Courfeyrac is always doing something sexual. Are we talking about the same Courfeyrac?”
“I know he’s the most –”
“Like, I don’t know about you, but I constantly regret living with Courfeyrac. Sometimes I’ll come home and I swear, the noise coming out of his bedroom –”
“Oh, my god, stop. Combeferre – oh, my god. No.”
“So they never go over to yours? I guess they know which roommate has a higher level of tolerance, then,” Grantaire laughs joyously, and if Enjolras wasn’t so disturbed at the moment, he might’ve had the head to pay attention to it. He rarely heard Grantaire like that. “You do at least acknowledge that Combeferre has a really vast sexual life, right? And all of Les Amis? Because pretending they’re all as prudish as you is not healthy.”
“I’m not prudish!”
“No?”
“I just don’t constantly think about my friends’ sexual lives; unlike you, apparently.”
“No, I don’t think about their sexual lives all the time, I’m just aware that they’re there. Even Marius has sex, like…” he shakes his head in amazement as he takes another left turn. “Plus, you can’t just ignore it when it gets constantly shoved in your face – scratch that: ears…”
“We’re here!” Enjolras gets out of the car quickly and looks around. He’d never been to Grantaire’s before, so he’s surprised to see that the area he lives in isn’t at all like he imagined – and then promptly admonishes himself for having such expectations.
Grantaire looked at Enjolras over his shoulder cautiously as he opened the door to the apartment complex. “You coming in?”
Enjolras is quick to obey. Grantaire closes the door behind him. The cream-colored walls and light wooden flooring gave the room a light, airy feel. There were comfortable-looking couches and colorful mats strewn around; there were numerous ceiling fans and several paintings decorating the walls. The big window on the back gave view to a neat garden, where sparse chairs were available for use. All in all, the place was nice and homey.
“This is nice,” Enjolras voiced out loud, not being completely able to hide the surprise he felt. Grantaire took it swimmingly.
“Yeah, thanks,” he smiled and guided Enjolras to the elevators. They get in and Grantaire presses number four.
“Why hadn’t I been here before? This looks like a great place to hold meetings.”
“Because you had no reason to come before, maybe?”
“Courfeyrac lives here, too,” reasons Enjolras. “Now that I think about it, I didn’t even know where he lived. He always just… comes over.”
“Yeah, I get it,” Grantaire laughs. “When he and Marius lived together, I didn’t know where he lived, either. He’d just come over to mine all the time. I think he moved in with me way before we got this deal; moving here just made it official.”
“And what are you gonna do, now that Courf and ‘Ferre are looking for a place of their own?” Enjolras looks at Grantaire, who smiles sadly.
“I’m not sure.”
The doors open. Enjolras closely trails behind Grantaire until he stops in front of apartment 409, and suddenly, neither of them feels as comfortable as they were not a minute ago. Grantaire hesitates, keys in hand, before turning to Enjolras.
“Listen, it’s just a wedding, you don’t need to know all that much about dancing. If you want to, we can just watch YouTube videos on it and get it over with.”
“I’m fine with this if you’re fine with this,” Enjolras shrugs. Grantaire studies him for a moment before his shoulders slouch and he turns around to open the door. This time, he doesn’t verbally invite Enjolras in, and just leaves the door open for him. Enjolras closes the door softly and looks at his friend, who is moving a couch out of the way. He walks over and helps with the sofa.
“What do you even dance at weddings?” Enjolras blurts out. Grantaire looks at him amusedly.
“I’m just gonna help you with some basic waltzing, so you can dance with the old ladies appropriately.”
“Old ladies?”
“You know, old ladies who think you’re hot and go to you. And cougars. And gay relatives, and possibly young girls who totally want to have sex with you,” shrugs.
“I sincerely hope that doesn’t happen,” Enjolras says alarmed.
“Okay,” Grantaire claps once and perches himself on the center of the square they cleared up. “So there’s the box –”
“The box?”
“The box step, which is the most basic, easiest step I’ve ever learned, so I’m sure you’ll manage,” he drags the blond, who is staring at him blankly, to his right. “Okay, remember waltzes are in ¾, so, in your head, just count one, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three. Rhythmically. Please tell me you have rhythm.”
“I guess.”
“That’s a relief,” he rolls his eyes. “So you start with your feet closed. Now, on ‘one’, you’re going to move your left foot forward,” he does so, and Enjolras follows. “Good, now try to make it smoother. Ease into it, or you’ll step on your partner. You know what? We’ll take care of that later; you can start by memorizing the thing. Sorry, I’m babbling.”
“No, it’s alright,” Enjolras says and repeats the motion. “So, will there be no music for this? Because I feel stupid.”
“Music? What do you want music for? You need to learn the steps first,” Grantaire raised his left eyebrow. “What kind of music were you thinking of?”
“I don’t know, The Blue Danube?” he shrugs. Grantaire laughs loudly. “Waltzes. I don’t know. Stop laughing.”
“No way, oh, my god,” he keeps laughing. “Enjolras, you’re not gonna dance to that kind of music. Plus, that’s way too fast for you, and not the kind of waltz I’m trying to get you to learn.”
“Okay, then. Whatever,” Enjolras blushes. “So what goes after left foot forward?”
Grantaire snorts out one last laugh and watches as Enjolras’ face colors more heavily. “Sorry, okay, I’m done,” he giggles and takes a deep breath. “Okay, on ‘two’, your right foot will slide forward and inwards, and then divert to the right,” he demonstrates. The other man nods and imitates the movement. “And for ‘three’, your left foot joins your right.”
“That isn’t so hard,” Enjolras notes.
“It isn’t,” smiles Grantaire. “Do you want to try it from the beginning?”
“Yeah…”
So Grantaire starts again and counts as he moves his feet; Enjolras follows.
“One: left foot forward. Two: right foot inwards and to the right. Three: left joins right.” They repeat the pattern a few times until Enjolras can do it fluently. “Awesome. Now we just repeat the pattern backwards; that’s the second half of the box.”
“What?”
“On ‘one’, your right foot goes backwards. On ‘two’, your left –”
“My left foot goes backwards and to the left, and on ‘three’, right foot joins left?”
“Yep,” Grantaire nods. “This is much easier than I thought it would be.”
“You thought I’d have more trouble?”
“Let’s just say feet coordination is not your strong suit.”
Enjolras opens his mouth and then closes it. He realizes he is quite clumsy. “Just because I trip constantly doesn’t mean I have no coordination.”
“So, basically,” the dancer continues, “that’s pretty much the box step.”
“It can’t possibly be that simple.”
“Oh, no, that’s just half of the feet routine; you usually turn to the left on the second beat of each measure while doing the box step,” Grantaire dismisses. “And there’s still the posture, the arms, twirls, et cetera,” he sees Enjolras’ wide eyes and backtracks. “No, don’t worry; you just have to learn the box step without the rotations and how to handle your arms.”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Do you want to try the full box?”
“Sure,” Enjolras takes a step back and waits for Grantaire to do the same.
“You ready?” Enjolras nods, so Grantaire starts counting. He keeps pace while the both of them sway side by side, without music, in the middle of Grantaire and Courfeyrac’s messy living room. Grantaire stops counting after a while, but they both continue with the steps.
After a full two minutes, the both of them move more swiftly. Silently, Grantaire, still dancing, walks so he’s in front of Enjolras and facing him. The man regards him curiously, but says nothing. Grantaire grabs Enjolras’ right forearm, which hangs lax and lifeless at his side – that’s when Enjolras stops dancing.
“What are you doing?”
“Teaching,” he replies simply, his hand still around Enjolras’ right forearm. He raises it so he can take the hand and place it on his shoulder blade from under his arm. When it’s clear that Enjolras won’t move his hand, he gingerly takes the blond’s left hand in his and raises their joined hands so they’re at eye level. Then he slowly raises his own left arm and carefully places his hand just under Enjolras’ shoulder. “You lead,” he tries to say in a normal voice, but it cracks a little and he has to clear his throat.
Enjolras stares at Grantaire. They’re not overly close – Grantaire made sure there weren’t contact points other than their hands and their arms –, but he still feels too warm, and his palms have started to sweat. He realizes he’s still staring at Grantaire, who is staring right back, and so blinks and looks down at his feet. He moves his left foot forward, and Grantaire is right there, moving his right foot backwards.
It’s that simple, unpracticed little move that makes Enjolras realize how beautiful waltzing is.
He has to pause completely. He takes a deep breath and moves his right foot inwards and to the right and watches mesmerized as Grantaire’s left foot slides backwards and to the left in time with him. After a few seconds, he moves again and joins his feet along with his dancing partner. He takes another deep breath and starts repeating the pattern backwards, Grantaire following seamlessly. Enjolras keeps his eyes trained on his feet. They have no rhythm, they only move when Enjolras feels ready to move, and they are completely silent.
After a few rounds, and with a bit of incentive by Grantaire, they find a comfortable rhythm. One, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three. They start moving more naturally once the tempo stabilizes, and even if there’s no music, the music of the tempo can be heard in the air. Enjolras realizes just how fluently they’re moving and grins, looking up – which proves to be a big mistake, because Grantaire is looking at him, and his eyes are so blue.
He loses his rhythm and trips. Grantaire steadies him, and then takes two steps back, looking away. It’s that simple, gone-wrong little move that makes Enjolras realize how lovely he finds Grantaire’s eyes.
“Well, that was… very good,” Grantaire mumbles, “um.”
“Yeah,” he replies dazedly.
“For a first waltz, I mean.”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t think you’ll need many lessons more.”
“Yeah.” What?, Enjolras thinks as he follows the man walking about with his eyes.
“You can, like, practice the steps at home, so you can do it more naturally,” Grantaire starts scratching the back of his head.
“Right.”
“And, like, maybe practice with me again in like, two weeks? Or something like that. If you’d like.”
“Sure.”
“Just so you don’t, like, forget where to put your hands, and stuff.”
“Yeah.”
“So, um, there you go. Waltzing 101.”
“Huh.”
“And, er, you can see yourself out?”
“Yeah. Sure. Yes. I’ll just, um,” Enjolras grabs his bag and walks to the door, where he hesitates. He looks at Grantaire again, who’s rubbing his eyes with his back to the door. “I really enjoyed this,” he says, before leaving and closing the door behind him as softly as he did when he first came in.
He looks at his watch and figures that if he runs, he’ll make it to the bus station on time. But he doesn’t feel like running.
He opens the door, which is always unlocked, and the first thing he sees is Combeferre sucking the living shit out of Courfeyrac’s face on the loveseat. Usually, he would complain until they stopped what they’re doing, but at the moment he feels… weird; so he ignores them and goes to the kitchen, opens the fridge and scans its contents quickly. A disgusting wet sound comes from the living room, and Enjolras doesn’t even grimace. He grabs an apple and doesn’t bother washing it. He then walks into the living room and flops down on the couch as he takes a bite, and watches the lovers who, clearly, haven’t noticed his presence.
He wonders what’s wrong with himself as he follows the path Courfeyrac’s hands trail down Combeferre’s back. He wonders why he hasn’t stopped them – why he’s actually curious about what his friends are doing, when usually he would be screeching like an upside-down scared cat gripping the roof. He takes another bite off his apple and grabs today’s newspaper, which someone, probably Courfeyrac, left on the coffee table. A minute later, there’s the sound of shifting, of breath catching, and of sucking once again. Enjolras risks a glance over the paper and sees that, indeed, they’ve moved so that Courfeyrac’s head rests on the arm rest closest to Enjolras, with Combeferre completely draped over him, legs intertwined. Their heads move in sync, like the kiss is a perfectly choreographed dance, and Courf’s hands lovingly caressing his partner’s nape and stubble make it seem like it’s also adoration. Combeferre slithered his right leg between the other’s and gently rubbed the now obvious erection that Enjolras hadn’t seen before; Courfeyrac makes a very soft noise. That’s when he gets scared.
“Please don’t stain the couch.”
“Holy shit!” Courfeyrac knocks his forehead on Combeferre’s and they both groan in pain. Enjolras observes impassively from his seat. Combeferre, with a hand rubbing his forehead, sends him an annoyed glare that says ‘what the hell, Enjolras?’ more clearly than words would; he then returns to his post as Courfeyrac’s blanket, and hides his face in the crook of the other’s neck. Courfeyrac covers his eyes with his right forearm, and places his other hand on Combeferre’s back “What the fuck, Enjolras?”
“What?”
“Um, how long have you been there, maybe? And seriously, what the fuck, Enjolras; we were busy. So busy. You have ruined it.”
“Yeah, Enjolras, really,” grumbled Combeferre from Courf’s neck.
“Well, nobody told you to do it here. You have a room, which has a door that closes and locks.”
“Fuck, Enjolras.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Courf,” Enjolras rolls his eyes and picks up the paper again.
“He has a point, actually,” Combeferre says, still with the annoyed tone. “Fucking hell,” he breathes out.
“Whatever,” he rolls his eyes. “It not like you won’t continue with it tonight. Or like you don’t do it almost daily.”
Nobody spoke for a brief moment. “Something’s wrong with you. Did Grantaire break you? Oh, shit, he’s totally a bad influence on you; this was a bad idea.”
“How was it, then?” Combeferre asked, his bad mood apparently forgotten.
“Peachy.”
“Oh, c’mon,” pushed Courf. Enjolras glanced up briefly.
“He’s a good teacher. I think I did quite good. He said it wouldn’t be necessary to meet frequently.”
“He’d say that, the bitch. Too lazy.”
“I’m serious,” he said. “I’m going to bed.”
“It’s really not that late,” Courfeyrac frowns, “and you can’t be that tired.”
“Early night.”
“It’s not even eight o’clock yet,” notes Combeferre.
“I’m going to read, then.” He stands up and closes the door to his room once he’s inside. He stops at a clear patch of floor and tries the steps he learned, and smiles as he finds that he still can do it. Then he remembers how exhilarating it felt dancing with Grantaire, and how pleasantly surprised he was with his company, and how open he was, and how blue his eyes were. He stops smiling and he throws himself onto the bed. He remembers how easy and natural it felt to be with him, and then realizes how much he wants to repeat the experience. If he could throw himself onto the bed again, he would. Four hours later, he’s still struggling to fall asleep.
Courfeyrac and Combeferre do end up finishing what they started, but they make sure not to stain the couch.